So this is called the Momotaro Modern Jazz Opera and it’s on YouTube and someone sent it to me. Of course, I don’t know what they’re saying which puts me at a disadvantage, but even then I’m watching and just making that jaw open frozen face look. Then there are moments that are just so funny that the face unfreezes and the laughter commences, followed by back to jaw open. This kind of artistic bizzarity cannot be planned. It has to result from the intersection of many disconnected things — a plan here, a perspective there, a Denny’s double chili dog platter after midnight, some time working in the equivalent of a lounge in Roswell, New Mexico. Whatever it is, it is an amazing natural phenomenon to behold and sometimes celebrated intentionally in art like that of Christopher Guest. All I know is, I’m grateful that it happens. It says to me that God has an enormous sense of humor.
I was elk hunting in Colorado with my dad, brother and a few others around 1970 when I learned how not to take care of wet Levis. We’d hiked in the deep snow all day and the Scotchguard Mom had sprayed on my jeans had been about as effective a waterproofing as a Glad sandwich bag would be for a deep sea diving mask. Back at our base camp with the big Army surplus tent, I got out of the soaking wet Levis and hung them just outside the tent door, thinking the afternoon sun would do its work in spite of the freezing temperatures.
I crawled into my sleeping bag later that evening and grimmaced as Dad ordered one of our German Shorthairs into the bag with me for extra warmth. Not only was Smokey a monster space hog of a dog, he was notoriously gassy. Sharing a sleeping bag with him would be something like pitching a beach towel on the slopes of a water treatment plant. I learned that night that I probably had great potential as a Philippino pearl diver.
During the night it snowed close to two feet, enough to collapse a corner of the tent on our host, the only one sleeping on a cot and away from the heater in the center of the tent. We awoke to his muffled cries for help. Soon he was released from his canvas cocoon and joined us for a few more hours of sleep. The next morning was icy cold, 0 degrees or below. I pulled my pants in from just outside the door and they were board-like, frozen solid. I thought a good whack against a log would break the ice off. It did, along with both legs from the knees down. They should put something about that on the tag.
The Dudes talk about the game, then we go in the yard to illustrate how the Texas O line broke down against Nebraska, and finish with an illustration of how we think they’ll do against Alabama. The action is ferocious, so please use discretion with your younger viewers or anyone on life support.
Chicken has been the subject of songs and humor since, at least, the advent of the blues. It’s even a funny word to say, especially when you go with a lazy, suthun pronunciation with more of a “g” sound in the middle — “chiggen!” Great New York sax player, Bob Berg, used to do a tune he called “Live at the Chicken Shack.” It was a totally groovin’ shuffle. Any song about chicken has to be a shuffle.
One of my favorite moments in chicken humor is the dinner scene in Blake Edward’s 1968 film, The Party.Peter Sellers is sitting low at the long, crowded table because they were out of chairs. As he struggles to cut into his Cornish game hen, his chin just above the table and elbows high in the air, the roasted bird slips off his plate, takes flight, and lands with a perfect perch just inside the tiara of the beehive-haired woman sitting across from him. She has no idea it is there, goes on with dinner conversation, and Sellers gazes on in horror. The first time I say that movie, and that scene, I laughed so hard you’d have thought I was choking on a chicken bone. It was the movie that ran after the evening news, back when that was common in the pre-cable and VCR days. My parents were asleep in the next room, and I laughed hysterically into a pillow so I wouldn’t wake them up.
During my college years I created a lot of silly phone answering machine messages with my brother, Doug, and good friend Paul McKee, a great jazz trombonist and Woody Herman alum. Seems we were preoccupied with chicken then as well, with half of our answering machine songs featuring chicken-inspired titles and lyrics. Rainbow Trout seemed to find its way in there a lot as well. I cannot explain this affliction, but here’s a sample.
The 4 Dudes recap Longhorns vs Aggies, do a roadtrip to DKR Texas Memorial Stadium and the trophy room with a stop a Freddy’s Steakburgers, and preview Longhorns vs Cornhuskers. This one is close to 10 minutes, but there was so much to see and talk about.
NOTE: It’s not playing in non-HD mode for some reason, so click play, then click HD and it will play.
Later today I’ll post the 4 Dudes Gameday Big 12 Championship preview on YouTube and in this blog. It is rendering as I type. We had a road trip to DKR Texas Memorial Stadium on the U.T. campus and had a blast. We peeked into that massive stadium, so much bigger than the already large one I remember playing touch football in back in the 80s when they would let you do that. The boys were blown away. Then we went into the offices at the south end zone and saw the trophy area — national championship crystal, Heismans, Big 12 and Southwest Conference titles, Thorpe and Davey O’brien and Lombardi awards. And Major Applewhite walked through the room while we were gazing at all of that history, just to bring it all into the present. It was a great day, punctuated with typically unique commentary from the Dudes, which you’ll experience in the video. My favorite line is probably Luke’s answer to what he thought of being there, looking into that awesome stadium. “In my whole life I’ve never layed foot on a stadium like this,” he said. “I’m gonna lay foot!”
Indeed. At some point, 4 Dudes Gameday and DKR are destined to meet on closer terms.
“TURN IT DOWN!” is the phrase every musician dreads. It’s expected at a wedding. When you hear it at a nightclub, something is horribly wrong. Something went horribly wrong this night at Cody’s– a ninth-floor fern bar in Houston that was once the place to hang for pop jazz and the singles scene. Our quintet was about one month into this dream booking which guaranteed each of us $500 for 5 nights per week “forever, or into the foreseeable future.” The foreseeable future would meet with the foreboding present on this forsaken evening.
Our leader, a local jazz keyboard legend, was an adventuristic fellow. Here he was on stage, only a few days after major reconstructive knee surgery. His hip-to-toes cast made it difficult for him to find a comfortable position on the drum throne that he straddled, located at ground zero amidst his impressive keyboard arsenal. Whatever painkiller he was relying on had apparently been administered in doses appropriate for a mature bull elephant, and the sensitivity of his hearing was in question.
As the evening progressed, so did the volume emanating from our electric jazz ensemble. Between our leader’s powerful stereo keyboard rig, the guitarist’s acre of amplifiers, and the bassist’s leaning tower of boomdom, we were easily pulling more wattage than allowed by code for the nine-floor building. The meltdown came during the middle of the second set after we had driven a large portion of the sparse population from the room. The percussionist and myself, both un-amplified, had lost all hope of competing with this typhoon of tuneage, and a sarcastic posture toward our work was beginning to settle in. The song Invitation was called – a la Jaco Pastorious, the great electric bassist whose recording of the song is legendary for its speed and intensity. Our version would attempt to make up in quantity what it lacked in quality. The tune got faster and faster, louder and louder. There were so many notes being played that I imagined there was a shortage at clubs up and down Westheimer Blvd with other bands having to mime their musical numbers. At any moment, the Justice Department would order an anti-trust investigation.
Our leader seemed possessed, slamming his electric keyboards with both hands as the metal grates on his speaker cabinets rattled wildly from the impact of 120-plus decibels of sound. The bartender was screaming something at us and shaking what appeared to be a deformed hand sporting a single finger. It was like a musical version of D-Day on Omaha Beach. I couldn’t take it anymore. So, I just stopped playing.
Usually, when drums drop out there is a noticeable hole in the music. Not so tonight. There was no discernible change in the volume or sound at all. I sat, amused for a moment. Then I attempted to attract everyone else’s attention by dropping drum bombs here and there – slamming this cymbal or whacking that tom without any regard for the rhythm of the tune. I did get our leader’s attention. He turned his head my way and yelled, “YEAAAAA BABY!!!” and continued on without dropping a decibel. I was floored. Apparently, sarcasm was ineffective in the twilight zone.
The next day, we were fired from dreamland. Our offense? Management said the drums were too loud.
