Sometimes I Feel...

I was visiting family when I learned of his passing. Its significance didn’t have a decent opportunity to gain traction in the swirl of grandchildren, dog management, and the complexities of Chicago traffic patterns. Life raced on.

Here, a few days later, I’m back in my patch of warm southern woods. Catching up. Today that included a run into town for groceries, the pantry looking bare after our long absence. A mundane task, but I enjoy the trip. As almost an afterthought, I grabbed a CD. Fillmore East.

The Allman Brothers, to me, were always about the soaring six-string interplay between Duane and Dickey. Always will be. Fillmore East defines them. But with Duane’s loss and Mr. Bett’s departure, the band carried on and continued to carry southern rock’s water. It's not like Haynes and Trucks were slouches, but the band didn’t miss a beat and the bedrock was Gregg. You could be carried away with incredible guitar solos for long stretches, but someone had to hold it all in place. Gregg’s gravely voice and powerful blues vibe was that anchor. He made everything else possible.

Statesboro Blues, Done Somebody Wrong, Stormy Monday. I immersed. You Don’t Love Me, Hot ‘Lanta, In Memory of Elizabeth Reed. I was home, musically and spiritually, as I sped along the twisty back roads of my rural refuge. The band had found me in my most formative musical moment and when you scrape everything else away they are my rhythmic foundation.

Then, the climax. Whipping Post. The radio’s volume found it’s way to 40, a number I’m not sure it’s ever been turned to, and I howled, and I growled, and felt the harsh, deep grind in the back of my throat. Satisfying. ...like I’ve been tied…

And I cried just a little for all that I’ve lost and for all that I’ve been given, this being the music of my life. It felt good, both the crying and the howling, and it felt bad that he was gone. That so much was gone and will continue to leave me as time wears on.

I’ve been run down. I’ve been lied to. But I’ve lived. And the soundtrack, for the better part of my life, has been the Allmans. From Blue Sky to Whipping Post. Through good times and bad. The music’s been there for me.

Thank you Gregg. For it all. May you rest in rockin’ peace.

The 6wt E

At the intersection of passions there often lies magic. Overlapping devotions compound and exponentiate in weird and wonderful ways, lifting each to stimulating new heights. But, just as often, at those same crossroads lies madness and the sad truth is, when in the throws of passion, it’s hard to tell the difference between the two.

My love affair with fly fishing is well documented. But those who know me best are also aware that I have been recently consumed by another old flame. The guitar. I’ve owned a trio of acoustics for decades, sentimental pieces more than musical, but the fire was reignited with the purchase, last November, of a Fender Telecaster and Blues Junior amp (electrified devices, for those of you uninitiated in modern six-stringed instrumentation). Our quiet hide-away in the woods has become a little less quiet and a little less fishing has been going on.

And while the Telecaster has gotten the most attention, the increase in musical interest has blown back on my acoustics. I pick them up much more often now, especially when the urge to make noise surfaces and there’s too little time to set up the electric, or when Mary has the girls over and I must be sonically restrained.

Such was the case yesterday as Mary and Susan and Sherry were downstairs, working on their basketry. I picked up the quietest thing I owned, my Yamaha G-231 classical, a box that I hadn’t played in a while, and gave it a good strum. But, with that single rake of the pick, the top nylon E-string pinged at the bridge and I was down to five, the final string left hanging loosely from the headstock like some poor tenkara offering.

At that point, I could have easily set the Yamaha aside and picked up another guitar, but it’s not in my nature to leave things in such awkward states. My OCD won’t allow it. And a quick rummage in the case failed to produce the new set of D’Addarios that I was certain had been there. I had replacements for the Fenders, my steel-stringed acoustics, and a variety, 09s-to-11s, to try out on the Telecaster, but none for the 231’s nylons.

If the strings were not in the case, then they had to be in my toy closet - that cluttered hole in the wall filled with guitar accoutrements, camera gear, and all things fly fishing - and it was there that the passions overlapped. Once the nylon set couldn’t be found, my eyes fell on the carefully stacked boxes of fly lines.

Do you think...

I grabbed an old RIO bass line, a 7wt that I’d had for a while and was likely not to use again, cut out a four-foot length of running line and strung it up. It easily tuned to an E and I got a soft, mellow note, but it couldn’t be held for long. After a bluesy Stormy Monday, it went flat as a Lefty Kreh loop. And I didn’t like the feel of the textured line or the “round-wound buzz” that I got as I slid between notes. That sound’s okay down low, but not acceptable in the upper registers. A four-foot length of the tapered head faired a bit better and had a bit more warmth of tone, but also quickly lost tune after just two bars of an acoustic Layla. That and it felt a bit bulky for the top end. All-in-all, the 7wt was unsatisfying, but the concept showed promise. A more scientific analysis was needed.

Tension was not an issue. Guitars are normally strung in the neighborhood of fifteen pounds tension and a fly line should handle that and more. I’ve broken off enough 20lb floro tippet on bonefish and reds to know that to be true. Size and texture were next to be considered and the possibilities that lay between 5wts and 8, especially when factoring in the tapers, would give me plenty of options. Perhaps a newer line would help address the tuning issue as well. But in the end it would all come down to tone. It’s all about tone.

So I started experimenting. I grabbed a fresh box, a RIO Outbound Short Freshwater 8wt intermediate sinking line, thinking the running weight would be about right. In addition, the untextured, slick finish should reduce the buzz and the sink line might add some weight for a fuller sound. I hacked a few pieces, strung them up, and saw improvement, but the tuning issue remained. One full play of Down By the River and it was flat again. Worse, the coldwater coating began feeling tacky as it warmed under my fingers. Great for avoiding coiling issues in cold weather. Bad for warm hands and hot licks.

A tropical line, then. Snipped up another Outbound Short, this time a 9wt intermediate, but with a saltwater coating. Better texture under my fingers and a decent tone, but the bothersome tuning issue remained. Didn’t hold up through Day Tripper. Barely got through the intro. It was beginning to look like a show-stopper.

Another look into the closet and the light bulb went off. The lines' core was the key. If I could find a more stable core, perhaps it would hold. RIO’s low stretch ConnectCore might be the answer and I quickly took the scissors to a new 5wt Xtreme Indicator line. The running line proved a bit light, but a length of the head – the cool orange front taper – seemed closer. A rousing ten minutes of twelve-bar-blues jamming, bends not normally heard from an classical guitar, didn’t budge the tension an iota so the tuning issue was licked, but I’d lost the tone with the lighter line.

A 6wt InTouch Grand, then. The trimmed out green front taper wasn’t quite as cool, visually, but the tone was better. Not just better. Fantastic. Buddy Guy’s upper licks never sounded so good. Downright buttery.

I’d hit the sweet spot. Beautiful sound. Tuning stability. Silky feel. I’d solved my E string problem...

(with $400 worth of fly line)

…and wondered how fantastic it’d sound if I replaced the G and B strings as well.

No Snivelling

Papa would have hated it. Tourists packed shoulder to shoulder through the halls of his home. His hangouts filled to bursting with folks who thought that it was cool to be there, getting sloppy. The haunts of his Lost Generation replaced by the likes of Burger King and Salt Life.

He'd have freaked as he moved down Duval, carried along like just another head of cattle in the herd of beefy tourists sporting all manner of Steeler paraphernalia. I swear to God, upon landing at the docks, the gargantuan mothership hovering in the harbor had disgorged half of Pennsylvania, clad exclusively in yellow-and-black. I'd probably have retched too.

(No hate mail, please, all you Pittsburgh fans and Keystone State residents. Some of my best friends are so afflicted, bless their hearts.)

Ernest would have chaffed at the noise and the glitz and the commercialization he'd encountered as he moved down the main drag (and I use that term quite explicitly - not that there's anything wrong with that, it's just not my thing) and I expect that he'd quickly have jumped over a block, west, probably no later than Eaton, to avoid the Duvallian circus. It's a bit more sane on Whitehead.

For those very same reasons, Mary and I took that route and, at the corner of Whitehead and Southard, just three blocks from Ernest's Key West home, found The Green Parrot. We stopped. Papa might have stopped too, wondering where the grocery store had gone.

Let me say, right up front, that the term parrotheads, associated with another Keys-based celebrity, was not generated here. That particular term, actually, originated in Cincinnati. Ohio. Enough said.

The Parrot was packed, but with a vibe unlike the cacophony of Duval. It was a happy buzz, generated, as it turns out, by a fun-loving mix of locals and "regulars" to Key West. Best blues joint on the island, the guide had confided in us as we sat up next to him on the front wheel well of the overpacked tour bus, getting the insider's scoop.

And while blues was not the musical genre for that particular evening, the band (Jeff Clark and the Rondo Rigs, an amalgam of local musicians, our bar mates knew the bass player) was a blast, full of unpretentious country and rock covers that they effectively and entertainingly made their own. Not an easy thing to pull off well. The crowd held a few first-timers, like ourselves, but it seemed many of the folks were regular island visitors who, like Papa and us, had learned to avoid the sightseer flash and landed here. A good crowd, at least the new best friends that surrounded us, and we happily drank and sang the evening away.

There were, of course, a few accommodations made in the name of tourism. Acknowledging the baby boomerish nature of the throngs that wash over the island, the band did two shows that night, starting at both 5:30 and 9:00. We old school rockers don't go as deep into the evenings as we once did.

The early show packs them in.

So after bitching and moaning all day over the state of Hemingway's beloved end-of-the-chain retreat, we finally found what we were looking for in Key West. Good folks and good times that filled the building and spilled out into the street. We could no longer complain, nor could have Papa, as it was plainly posted over the bar - there's no snivelling allowed at the Green Parrot.

None was warranted.

The Photo Bin - November 2015

In a forum far, far away, a group of outdoor bloggers are discussing the state of the medium. The spur for this deliberation was the question "Is blogging dead?" and the discourse has been lively. No consensus has been reached, but it's generally agreed that, at the very least, blogging has a pretty bad cold. The issue is not necessarily quality, but quantity. With a few exceptions, the rate at which folks are posting is dropping precipitously. Nowhere is there a better example of that than right here. Lots of excuses could be made, but there is no really good explanation.

And it occurs to me that, this year at least, these Photo Bins have been the barely-trickling life blood of this place. Without it, there'd have been long periods of nothing. The Bin keeps my feet to the fire, if even just monthly. Ironic, considering that this was just a throw-away post when first stared. That, and the obvious fact that I'm no photographer. But then it could be argued that I'm no writer either, so let's just get on with it.

This month marked the first anniversary of the passing of a dear neighbor and friend. At that time, honoring her request, we committed her ashes to the river down the hill, a place that she loved. In commemoration of that day and to keep her memory fresh in our minds, we gathered this month once again at the waters. The image above is of a few of the flowers that were sent to catch up with her, downstream, to where we will all follow, someday.

I chuckled at the unintentional placement of this Halloween image of hell after the previous solemn afterlife reference, but decided to leave it this way as it might very well be my downstream destination.

One of my favorite holiday events is the Bynum Bridge Pumpkin Walk, held each All Saints Day. The old quarter-mile Highway 15 span, now used only for nice afternoon strolls, is lined, end-to-end, with pumpkins carved in every conceivable manner. From simple kids' punch-outs to intricate works of art, the creations are great fun and it's a wonderful night out under the trick-or-treat stars.

You already know that I have a new toy. Been wanting another electric for many years now, but knew myself well enough to want a good one. Seemed a frivolous idea, given that I haven't played with any real seriousness for forty years.

But Fender pushed me over the cliff with the release of this quirky new limited edition double-cut Telecaster. I've thought for some time now that the Tele was what I needed, but couldn't get around its blocky look. (Yes, I'm that shallow.) The double cutaway swayed me and the absolute clincher was the ash blonde finish. I'm a sucker for blondes and have been ever since Lindsay Rosebrock's sweet wheat-colored Mustang, way back in my junior high days. That and Honey West.

There's no having a November picture post without at least one Autumn image. We had a run of spectacular sunsets, here on the ridge, and watching the evening sun spotlight a single, stubborn oak was magical. Shot off our back deck, this just illustrates how nice it is living out here.

Finally, an image not from this month, but one from November a-year-past that I stumbled upon the other day when looking for something else. I really miss this little guy so broke the rules to include it here.

I hope that the imminent holidays are wonderful for you and yours and that the coming year arrives with promise and hope. And with any luck, these blogging sniffles will clear up and maybe things will liven up around here. Who knows, there might even be some fishing.

If not, I guess that there's always the Photo Bins.


What is a Photo Bin?

There's Always Rock 'n' Roll

Hate to tell you, but there's more to life than just fishin’. There's also rock 'n' roll.

It’s a familiar story. I was going to be a star. Got my start in a local band during the late sixties and early seventies. Rock covers, mostly, with a few heavy jams just for fun. I wasn’t the most competent of musicians, but volume and fuzz (with a modicum of wah-wah) can cover a host of technical inadequacies. Talent aside, I had the look. Long hair, hip-hugging jeans, a carefully cultivated aura of indifference. Most of all, I had the burning desire to stand up on stage and bathe the masses in power chords. Good times.

Too good. My pipe dreams, and the lifestyle that came with them, drowned out my first attempt at higher education like bad feedback. A degree in mathematics couldn’t hold an incense stick to Guitar Godliness so in three quick semesters I was out the university's back door, a coiled cord trailing behind me. No big loss. The only calculus I needed was the derivation of twelve bar progressions and integrations on the five positions of the minor pentatonic. Newton dug the blues.

But the band flamed out in a blaze of personality and the girlfriend became the wife, then the expectant mother of my child, at a pace that was truly terrifying. Adulthood reared its perverse, ugly head. The Strat and the stack were sacrificed on the alter of domesticity, pawned to pay tithe to the working stiff’s holy trinity; Carolina Power and Light, Southern Bell, and the blessed Piggly Wiggly.

Decades passed.

I must admit that I’ve not been completely fretless. Over the years I’ve been bestowed a pair of acoustics, a gift born of love and a bequeathment steeped in sorrow, and I cherish them each dearly for their origins. But I've played them sparingly, all this time, as I have always been more moved by their emotional resonance than their tonal. They've been strung with my heartstrings.

But for all of their unplugged joy, I’ve missed the hot smell of over-driven tubes and the crunch of Jensen paper. I’ve missed low action necks and sustain lasting for days. I’ve missed being coaxially tethered to enough raw power to rattle your bones and pop out your fillings and make your ears bleed. I’ve missed the noise.

So, last week, I wrote off getting that next couple of fly rods and new pair of waders to realize, instead, my neglected Fender fantasies. Beautiful things. Just the boogie-woogie kick in the pants I’ve been craving. Sure, my having this rig is like giving the keys to the Ferrari to Grandma, but goddamn it feels good. It's time to shake the house once again.

Have no fears, fly fishing is still my passion and I'll continue to write of it here for it holds a part of my soul and always will. But something older has retaken my gut and it won’t be set aside, ever again.

‘Cause, Son, even when the fish won't bite, there’s always rock ‘n' roll.

1971-ish

Summertime

Summertime, and the livin' is easy

Fish are jumpin' and the cotton is high

Oh, your daddy's rich and your ma is good lookin'

So hush little baby, Don't you cry

It’s stuck in my head and has been since Saturday before last. Tommy Edwards, a local bluegrass favorite, put it there as he crooned these languid lyrics to a small gathering of folks relaxing around a small stage and wine bar tucked comfortably in the back woods of Chatham County. Who knew that Gershwin spun so nicely from a Martin acoustic?

How does a song get so firmly affixed into one’s consciousness? It’s been over a week yet I still find myself humming it constantly, singing it in the shower, playing it in my head on an endless loop; open and soft as a gentle roll cast. Maybe the tune caught me in the just right instant, dovetailed perfectly with my sentiment, and was so perfectly timed, so synchronous with my state of mind, that it simply refuses to relinquish that peaceful place in my brain. Whatever the mechanism, I ain't complainin'.

So while this particular summertime has not always been easy, it certainly has had more than its share of moments of quiet contentment. And maybe the fish are jumpin', but I've not been on the water enough of late to tell you for sure. That's soon to change and maybe, just maybe, this blog will liven up a bit. But until it does, be sure to get yourself out into that high cotton and enjoy these lazy summer days while they're still around.

Tell 'em, Tommy.

So hush little baby, Don't you cry