This is a confession: I know Mike Ball, of a local trio going by the tag Dr. Mike and the Sea Monkeys. I know Mike pretty darn well. I've watched fireworks from his back deck, cruised the lake in his boat, and I blush every time he tells people how fantastic I am. I've heard nearly all the songs he'll be playing tonight with the Sea Monkeys, Scott Clauser and Bert Franco.
He's the only person who has ever written a song for me. Well, sortof for me. Granted, it's called the Slushnugget Blues, and it's not about me at all—it's about the things you find when the snow melts. Like boxer shorts and lipsticked phone numbers. Still—I have my own song, and Mike promised to play it for me tonight.
So I might be a little bit biased when I say that Mike puts on a good gig. Here’s the trick, though—what I’m writing isn't about Dr. Mike and the Sea Monkeys being extraordinary musicians, or impossibly funny. It's not about Mike's column, 'What I've Learned So Far,' which inspired a number of his tunes.
It's about kids.
Incarcerated kids, actually, and a program called Lost Voices. Lost Voices takes roots music to incarcerated kids—kids who have done some truly horrendous things—and by having them examine what's on their minds and putting it to music—hey presto! we’ve got personal growth and healing. It’s not as simple as that, but changes in a body’s life and direction never are.
Mike’s telling the audience about Lost Voices as an introduction to a song that was written by the kids he’s worked with, a blues tune that turns his voice growly and broad. It’s a change from the light John Prine tune he started with—something about peaches and level-headed dancers. He’s moved into a unified vision of a what-happens-next world, where kids that have spent time lined up in yellow shirts are stepping out and thinking,
In and out of locked doors
Same old song and dance
This time’s gotta be different;
Ain’t gonna be another chance.
It’s a story—the story, maybe—that a lot of the incarcerated kids live. It’s scruffy and painful—it’s the story that should bring you to the Concert for Lost Voices next week on August 27th, because before the ending of a story can change, there has to be someone that sees another way out.
It’s a point Mike returns to throughout his concert—but not where he stays. With Bert Franco standing solidly on the bass line, and Scott Clauser on mandolin or second guitar, Mike works his way through classic tunes like ‘The Weight’ from The Band, and ‘Sweet Home Chicago’ from Muddy Waters. He throws in tunes he’s written, about still having most of his hair, or about dogs and husbands being there to stay. The favorite—or the most offensive—is a tune he wrote about getting a colonoscopy (“It’s a polyp, not a trollop!”). His voice switches between the gravely tone he took with the first Lost Voices tune and a clown-y, higher-hanging voice that twangs.
I’m laughing and clapping and mouthing along with the words (remember, I’ve heard these all before). That is, until Mike is saying, “Here’s the last tune, thanks for coming out tonight, I hope I’ll see you at the Concert for Lost Voices next Friday,” and he hasn’t played Slushnugget Blues for me. People are folding up their chairs and leaving, or shoving their pontoon boats away from the shoreline, and I’m still waiting for that song. I’m giving Mike a look that makes him reach for his guitar and sing me a song. Everything around us is being packed up, but Bert picks up a second guitar to slide out some chords behind Mike—we’re standing on our own square footage of music, and it’s being played just for me.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Monday, August 9, 2010
Rooted Deeply
I’m up in Whitmore Lake tonight, catching a performance of Cats and the Fiddler at the Northfield Township Area Library. It’s an always favorite place, spiced up tonight by a spot of bluegrass music on the lawn. Cats and the Fiddler is an unexpected group—a trio of fifteen-year old musicians.
Fifteen-year old musicians playing bluegrass—bluegrass!—and playing it with skill. They’re rooted deeply into an older America, evoked by their instrumentals and traditional folk tunes. Even their own tunes, where a man might spend his life shoveling coal, or Jezebel is sinning again, have a feeling of being older than the years these musicians can lay claim to.
Photo courtesy of Mike Ball.
I'm watching Carmen Gibes. Her fingers are flicking out over the instantly recognizable sound of the banjo—pausing for a moment to let Shaun Richardson's guitar rest up against the sound of his twin brother James’s upright bass—the upright bass pulling the music along through the basic, constant patterns of chord changes—then her fingers are moving again, and her voice is rising over the sound of the instruments, joined in close harmony by both boys. They’re playing tunes with the tricky tumbling of the mandolin instead of a guitar, guitar instead of banjo, fiddle instead of mandolin, each instrument counterbalanced against the other. The licks pass quickly, but with space enough for a finger-flying solo, a change in color and tone and texture, a patch of walking bass from James instead of simple chord foundations.
And then—besides the mesmerizing, busy fingers plucking music from too many strings—James is singing lead, his voice loose and young against the crisp twang of the mandolin, Shaun and Carmen vining their voices around his. The tune ends—pause for a moment—here is Shaun with his fiddle. He’s got a clear toe-tapping sound for a train-whistle tune—and then again, faster!
We slow down for the story of the band told through the tune ‘Road to Nashville.’ It’s instantly relatable, sweet and singable (if only I knew the words!). They’ve told us their story between tunes, how they began playing music, making the switch to bluegrass at age six…how they’ve been a band ever since (the math on that puts Cats and the Fiddler at nine years old). Here, they’ve put the words to the tune, invited us to step closer and watch them grow.
They’ve got a few last tunes for us, including one of my favorite traditional folk-tunes, ‘The Fox’ (otherwise known as ‘The Fox Went Out On A Chilly Night’) and a gospel tune or two. Shaun is whispering to James and Carmen, and I’m surprised when they finish up with an instrumental—but with improvisation. The high, bright sounds of the mandolin spill from Shaun’s hands—Carmen goes at it with her three-finger picking style on the banjo while he switches out to guitar—James gives us a straightforward bass solo—and then suddenly, unexpectedly, the show is over. The air is bluegrass-less. I am holding on to my inner echoes, and my feet are taking me home.
This performance took place August 6, 2010.
Fifteen-year old musicians playing bluegrass—bluegrass!—and playing it with skill. They’re rooted deeply into an older America, evoked by their instrumentals and traditional folk tunes. Even their own tunes, where a man might spend his life shoveling coal, or Jezebel is sinning again, have a feeling of being older than the years these musicians can lay claim to.
Photo courtesy of Mike Ball.
I'm watching Carmen Gibes. Her fingers are flicking out over the instantly recognizable sound of the banjo—pausing for a moment to let Shaun Richardson's guitar rest up against the sound of his twin brother James’s upright bass—the upright bass pulling the music along through the basic, constant patterns of chord changes—then her fingers are moving again, and her voice is rising over the sound of the instruments, joined in close harmony by both boys. They’re playing tunes with the tricky tumbling of the mandolin instead of a guitar, guitar instead of banjo, fiddle instead of mandolin, each instrument counterbalanced against the other. The licks pass quickly, but with space enough for a finger-flying solo, a change in color and tone and texture, a patch of walking bass from James instead of simple chord foundations.
And then—besides the mesmerizing, busy fingers plucking music from too many strings—James is singing lead, his voice loose and young against the crisp twang of the mandolin, Shaun and Carmen vining their voices around his. The tune ends—pause for a moment—here is Shaun with his fiddle. He’s got a clear toe-tapping sound for a train-whistle tune—and then again, faster!
We slow down for the story of the band told through the tune ‘Road to Nashville.’ It’s instantly relatable, sweet and singable (if only I knew the words!). They’ve told us their story between tunes, how they began playing music, making the switch to bluegrass at age six…how they’ve been a band ever since (the math on that puts Cats and the Fiddler at nine years old). Here, they’ve put the words to the tune, invited us to step closer and watch them grow.
They’ve got a few last tunes for us, including one of my favorite traditional folk-tunes, ‘The Fox’ (otherwise known as ‘The Fox Went Out On A Chilly Night’) and a gospel tune or two. Shaun is whispering to James and Carmen, and I’m surprised when they finish up with an instrumental—but with improvisation. The high, bright sounds of the mandolin spill from Shaun’s hands—Carmen goes at it with her three-finger picking style on the banjo while he switches out to guitar—James gives us a straightforward bass solo—and then suddenly, unexpectedly, the show is over. The air is bluegrass-less. I am holding on to my inner echoes, and my feet are taking me home.
This performance took place August 6, 2010.
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