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The past few weeks/months/years have brought such unrest and unease.  Let’s face it: we lost all we knew.  I lost a career that was actually something. She lost posesstions relating to her father, who passed away a decade ago.  We all lost a home.

Relocating to Chestnut Hill was hard.  It was hard having to regress back to working a 9-5pm job.  There is an episode of The Office when Michael Scott has to take a second job as a telemarketer.  He is trying to explain to a telemarketing co-worker that he is the boss the rest of the time.  The co-worker, obviously had moved to the USA from India, pointed out that back home he was a neuro-surgeon.  Michael Scott then concludes that “back home” he would have been the boss of the hospital or something of the like. 

Today brought something different.  Something that lights that small fire within your heart.  The kind of thing that make’s Groucho raise his eyebrows. 

I was at Drake’s.  Carl and I were closing together.  I was emailing a catering client and got side-tracked by a customer.  Carl was finishing the e-mail I had started as I, metaphorically, fed the till.  A gentleman came into the shop.  He was wearing a beaten up (not “tattered” but definately “worn”) baseball cap that said “GOOFY” across the front and “Walt Disney” across the back.  He asked a few questions, I thought nothing of him, as he puttered around.  He inquired about the salmon that was uncooked in the kitchen.  After, incorrectly, saying it was “Pineapple Teriyaki” he rejoiced after my correction that it would eventually be “Maple Pecan” salmon.  He would be back in the half hour it would take for the salmon to be ready.

Upon returning our friend put together a few meals.  One for him and his son, one for his wife and mother-in-law.  Complete gourmet dinners from Drake’s Gourmet Foods: entrees, veggies, starch and a dessert (have you tried the Lemon Bars????). 

I went to ring him up.   He pulls out a credit card (thank God he pulls a credit card… otherwise this story would not exist).

I notice the A Broadbent on the credit card receipt.  The name jingled bells.  My brain pulled up the Bill Evans bio “How My Heart Sings” ( a great book).  I also thought of liner notes of a million albums I love..   Dianne Shuur, Charlie Haden et al…. 

“Excuse me, are you related to the pianist Alan Broadbent?”

“I am the jazz pianist Alan Broadbent.”

“NO WAY!” I exclaim.

After working a few things out I discover that Mr. Broadbent is in town for his mother-in-law and a concert.  Meeting him today has relit a light inside of me.  It can be related to my pre-teen discovery of Elton John and my late-teen discovery of Keith Jarrett.  All three events have reinvigorated my desire to play. 

Alan Broadbent is one of the most easily approachable humans I have ever met.  He is humble while still comanding his own genious.  I gave him one of my cards and maybe he will decide to email me. 

Wow.

I actually had someone try to control a gig.

I was playing with my new trio.  It’s modern jazz at the “hardcore” level.  Much more intense than my last attempt at this genre, Bradford Truby Trio, back in New Orleans.  (No disrespect intended.  Truby Trio was the schizzette.  This is just different.  I’m older and darker in style than I once was.)

We played first set.  Then some people showed up who were linked to a record label (including talent scout).  I had planned it perfectly.  The scout was interested in original material.  We played a bit and then, as I began the introduction to the third song of the set, my arm was shaken.  I turn and am greeted with:

“What is wrong with you three?  Did you not think I was serious?  There is a dance floor for a reason.  I will pull the plug if I hear one more ‘art house jazz’ song.”

As I watch the talent scout observe this the drummer says to me, “Did  you just get reamed out?”

1) I counted 37 ment in the bar and 4 women.

2) 2 of those women came to see the drummer.

3) If you were 2 women would you want to “dance” with 37 men?

4) I got more email addresses than I have ever gotten in one night.  Also: [Jason] sold more CDs than normal.  If people didn’t enjoy us, or would’ve rather we were danceable, it would be made obvious to us.

BOTTOM LINE:  I have been doing the music thing much much longer than you have been doing the “club owner” thing (if you can call it that).  Where the hell do you get off?  Who the fuck are you to even try to control what I play?

Garden Fest had it’s rain-date on Sunday the 17th. 

It was happening rain or shine…  And boy did I ever love waking up at 6:45am with a migraine.  Lying with a sleep mask and an ice pack I get the phone call an hour later that no music in Drake’s Garden.  Cool.  More time to recover.  After rolling out of bed, trying to choke down tea and realizing that maybe, just maybe, this migraine may just be a bad hangover I left to the Hill. 

Manuevering around the closed roads, tents, vendors, mediocre bands, crowds, rich over privileged underage moms is a talent most enjoyable.  Spending years trying to get in and out of Chestnut Hill during the Festivals (in addition to getting from one end to another for gigs) has put me in prime form.  No problem getting to Drake’s.  By 11:45am the sun is starting to burn through the clouds and it occurs to me that we could pull off the outdoor gig after all.  I make two calls, Katie and Drew.  I figure voice, drums and keys and voice would be a good starting point.  They are up for it, yet start to hate me for the wishy-washiness of this gig, and I go back home for all the gear. 

By the time we set up and start playing I notice Dave Cope arrived.  After hearing us from street he went home and got guitar and returned.  And look over there!  It’s Malcolm “the Raven” Sheppard, then Jason Fifield on bass.  Quite a band for two phone calls.

“You guys are the best music on the Avenue” is something we heard more than once during the Festival.  It is nice to be appreciated, but leaves us puzzled why others are getting booked for the stages.  Some of the acts booked are great.  Some are friends of mine.  Others are so bad that everyone, including the crowd listening, is making fun of how really terrible they are. 

After Drake’s was the Tavern on the Hill.  The Tavern is more or less my home base here in Philly.  It is what the Maple Leaf or Spotted Cat was in New Orleans.  People know now (as they knew then) if I didn’t have my cell phone they could call one of those bars and usually find me.  Whether I was able to talk or not…

Once again word on the street regarding the most recent CHCA meeting was not the most positive of rumors.  Luckily someone recorded this…

The following was written in reaction to the news of Ed Feldman’s move out of Chestnut Hill.  Time has shown us all that he still cares enough to stay involved. - CM 3/1/09

My first experience with Ed Feldman was seeing him on TV during my impressionable youth.  I had stumbled upon “The Furniture Guys” on PBS and was enamored with the use of Dick Van Dyke Brown.  That coupled with my recent discovery of Groucho Marx, his transition from local public television to the epitome of a cult icon went unnoticed. His intelligent, however wild, antics should not be overlooked or down-played, but acknowledged for what he stood for and accomplished.

Ed was a man who was easily loved and hated, as stated in the article in the Inquirer, and he joins the ranks of most people I’ve known in my life.  What makes him someone to hate?  He voices a view differently? 

Groucho,  having been declared Dean of a major University aptly states my interpretation of the mantra of Ed Feldman.  Having a title does not entitle one to be trusted.

Like Groucho, Ed is a performer whose true passion is an erotic obsession with the English word.  George Carlin pointed out peoples’ common misuses of basic English language, while the Marx/Feldman camp abused it purposefully as if everyone were in on the joke with them and enjoyed their misuse.  We were in on the joke because we had the ability to appreciate the joke.

Ed is what Ed is.  It could be turning left on Monday, then by Friday vocally proclaiming that turning right brings one less asshole, the currently suitable path to take.  At least he always knows where he’s going.  I can only hope that it is somewhere close to where I end up.  Ed is at his best when you choose to disagree, which, for me, is rare.

The evening unfolded with Kristen and I discussing money issues.  We were going to try and go out and meet up with my boss, and friend, Carl and his wife after they went out to dinner.  After we realized we were broke it was decided that going out was not in the near future.  Then Pres. Bush came on every channel we have (we are on one of those fancy antennas) to discuss the economic crisis.  (This post is not anti-Bush or anything political so let’s not make it that.)  After the speech sends us on a deep depression Kristen takes the ball and decides it’s time to leave. 

A block from our apartment we see Carl on the street, waiting for Claire to join him outside.  We move on to the Tavern on the Hill for a cocktail.  Once there we are greeted with a half-full bar, most people we know.  The patrons trickle out over the next half hour and we are left, almost alone, with a strange man.  Kristen went outside and came back disturbed that this strange man came up to her and rubbed her shoulder and arm in a way that is somewhat inappropriate.  Ten minutes later, while Carl is outside on the phone, Claire scoots a stool closer to me (taking Carl’s seat) pretending to read a sign and whispers that the strange man came up and rubbed her back in a way that wasn’t kosher.

I speak to the owner who informs me that this character (lets refer to him as A-hole from now on) has been in there all evening buying drinks for females that don’t know him.  The group makes the decision that A-hole is ruining the evening and it’s time to move on.  We pay our tab, at which point I notice that A-hole is getting his tab as well.

Half a block away from the bar it is realized that Carl and Claire’s car should be moved.  Claire volenteers to do it alone.  She crosses the street and I see A-hole exit the bar.  Carl, Kristen and myself stop walking to watch and A-hole looks at us and looks at Claire (across the street from him at this point) and he goes to follow her.  We promptly cross the street where we are to keep an eye.   Kristen then runs towards Claire (now a block away) and yells for that she wants to ride with her.  She meets up with Claire and they go down the alley of closed stores toward the parking lot.  Once they get out of our sight A-hole breaks into running and chases after them. 

Without missing a beat both Carl and I kick it up and run after him, Carl yelling a prominent, “HEY!”.  At this point (and afterwards Carl thought the same thing) I realize that I will keep running towards this guy but have no clue what I will do when I get there.  I then turn to my right and realize that Carl still has a lit cigarette.  That’s all we need to get some answers.  I am still on the sidewalk and Carl has made a shortcut through Border’s parking lot.  I then witness the man leap (in full original Super Mario Bros.-style pose) over the four foot wall at the edge of the lot. 

Turning the corner we are greeted with the pleasent image of Claire and Kristen already in Claire’s car backing out of a space.  When Carl and I reach the parking lot A-hole is off to the side in the shadows, realizing that the “boys” had chased after the “girls”.  He stood in the shadows and didn’t even have the decency to pretend he was urinating.

Good news is that the douchebag paid with a credit card and we have his name.  We went down to Campbell’s and Roger hooked us up.  All in all the evening was cool for all the wrong reasons.  On a side note, while driving away A-hole came out of the shadows on a sidestreet and Kristen gave him the finger and he returned the gesture.