Sweet Earth Flying

Marion Brown, 1931-2010

Read about Brown's life, in his own words, at AllAboutJazz.


Photo via rootstrata.com

Dedicated to You: Kodachrome

Mama, they're taking my Kodachrome away.

And the beat goes on.

Long Distance Dedication

For Peter in Ottawa. C'mere. Go away.

Dedicated to You: Cut Your Hair

"... And that's a pretty nice haircut!"

For Addy, on the occassion of her first (and probably overdue) haircut, a jaunty pageboy number that makes her face look rounder, but that's okay because, you know, she's a year and a half old.

You don't know Pavement, daughter 'o' mine, and if/when you do, they probably won't sound as good to you as they did to people my age. But take my word for it: they were kind of a big deal - especially to the boys who, decked out in full slacker regalia, would show up to the bar to drink Newcastle and dance to this band and this band only (an awkward dance that involved standing in a circle and looking at the ground). So, to you, sweet baby: "Cut Your Hair," off the seminal Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain.

I expect you'll like, and quickly start to sing along to, the goofy "Oooh-oooh oooh-oooh- oooh-oooh" refrain. That's okay; I sing along to that part, too. But like both the scraggly hockey hair you've left behind and those Pavement fanboys, who are probably family men like me now, let the song serve also as a reminder: don't forget where you came from. Silly as it all looks to us now, it's part of who we are.

Mysterious Traveller

Joe Zawinul, 1932-2007

Keyboardist, composer and member of some incredibly important bands, including the Miles Davis group that recorded In a Silent Way and Bitches Brew. Oh, and Weather Report, of course.

Dedicated to You: Tom Sawyer

It comes as no surprise that it is now standard practice at ballparks across the land to bombard fans with music at every opportunity (I blame basketball and MTV), and this includes the moment a player is introduced before an at bat. Typically, players on the home team enjoy the pleasure of hearing music they themselves have chosen. I imagine that once the team arrives up north from spring training, the stadium sound guy or a team representative goes around and polls the players. Usually you hear the same song for a given player all year long, every at bat, April to September, and in many cases the choices are fairly predictable. Latin players are largely smitten with Latin music, while Americans, both black and white, tend to favour hip hop, with the occasional nod to metal for some of the white boys (Metallica is a favourite, perhaps inspired by the near-nightly sight of Yankees closer Mariano Rivera charging onto the field to the strains of “Enter Sandman”). There are exceptions of course, but they are few and far between.

That’s why I appreciate Ottawa Lynx first baseman Gary Burnham – besides his ability to knock in runs, his no nonsense, head-down style (he’s a throwback, like Jim Thome with fewer homeruns), I appreciate Burnham’s leftfield taste in music. All this season, Ottawa’s first year as the highest team in the Philadelphia Phillies chain, and probably their last season in Ottawa (read about that here), I have enjoyed the moment Burnham comes to bat, usually with runners on, and usually with the sense that he will deliver them home. Because as Burnham’s name is called, and he knocks the ring-weights off his bat, then strides toward the plate from the on-deck circle, swinging his great bat, looking at the head of it, loosening and tightening his grip, eyeing the pitcher, the music blaring over the stadium loudspeakers, music presumably chosen by him, is “Tom Sawyer” by Rush. I love that. So I'm dedicating "Tom Sawyer" to Burnham and every other guy who didn't get the September call-up.

A secondary joy, beyond getting a feel for your favourite players’ taste in music (or glaring lack thereof), is the fun the sound guys have with visiting players, who do not enjoy the luxury of their own theme music. Favourite recent example: when Syracuse’s John Schneider came to the plate, the music? The theme from the Dukes of Hazzard, of course.

Freedom Now

R.I.P. Max Roach, 1924 - 2007

Dedicated to You: Take This Job and Shove It

Dear CEO,

I hope I never see you again. Here's a little Johnny Paycheck in your honour. Turn it up loud, okay?

Yours, etc.

/a

Dedicated to You: Atlanta Blues

There are tears today in Atlanta, figuratively speaking, as Hank Aaron’s homer total slides to number two on the all-time list. I am, as many are, conflicted over this. No doubt, Bonds is a skilled player. There are few who can put wood on the ball the way he can, and there is as yet no smoking gun as regards his apparent steroid use. Even if there were, it would reflect a graver indictment on baseball itself then on a man who took advantage of MLB’s blind eye as it wooed fans back into the fold after the Great Robbery of 1994. But Bonds is unquestionably a far less classy man than Henry Aaron, and his ascendancy reflects something the game has lost.

The question nags at me: how will I share this with my daughter?

And poor Hank. What must they have had on him to make him record that message? So to Hammerin’ Hank, I dedicate Sara Martin’s “Atlanta Blues,” and with it a wish that time produces a new home run king, someone with Aaron’s carriage and good grace, someone I can admire alongside my daughter.

Dedicated to You: Work Song

In honour (or is that sombre acknowledgement?) of my wonderful wife CC’s return to work, after a year of raising our most perfect and beguiling daughter, I present a musical dedication to CC.

Duke Ellington composed a “Work Song,” as did Nat Adderley. My personal favourite is the Charles Mingus tune by that name, which manages the not insignificant trick of sounding at once slinky and downtrodden. But I have a feeling that CC would prefer Adderley’s “Work Song” as performed by ex-Maniac Nathalie Merchant, so I’m sending that one out to her.

It can’t be an easy thing, putting your life on hold and completely revamping the way you do things in order to give birth to and then raise to toddlerhood a lively little girl, and then to put all that aside and reenter the work force. Today, surely the cruelest Monday of all, I know that CC is feeling a little less “Whistle While You Work,” and a little more aligned with the work song tradition of field hollers and the quasi-musical chants of chain-gangs.

If it means anything, CC, your efforts are greatly appreciated.