Crackity Jones' Diary

Tour de Force

Working in newspaper sports departments for the past 11 years has turned me into a casual sports fan outside the office. I nonetheless felt compelled to turn out Outdoor Life Network this morning and watch Lance Armstrong complete his seventh consecutive Tour de France victory.

It's one of the great athletic achievements in my lifetime, and it's certainly going to stand as one of the greatest ever. Records are made to be broken, but it will be only an exceptional athlete with an iron will if anyone ever can surpass Armstrong.

Seven straight. I can't drive seven consecutive nails straight. If I picked up my guitar right now, I'm not sure I could play a scale correctly seven straight times. Armstrong not only won the races, he put in the hours of training, which always makes me think of the Nike commercial that addressed swirling rumors that Armstrong had to be taking drugs to be so good. In the ad, which shows Armstrong riding for mile after mile, alone, he says "Everybody wants to know what I'm on. I'm on my bike, busting my ass. Every day."

He did all of this after beating cancer.

I remember the day at the Lewiston Sun-Journal when I saw the Armstrong cancer story come across the wire. My first thought was that it was a shame. My second thought was, "Jesus, this guy probably doesn't have long left." How little I know.

Beating cancer could have been the defining moment in Lance Armstrong's life. But he went out and won the Tour de France seven straight times for good measure. I don't know if I can keep it up for seven straight minutes or seven straight years, but I think it's about time I dropped the phrase "I can't" from my vocabulary.

Band of Brothers (& Sisters)

The wife and I recently got a chance to attend a big-band concert featuring Washington-area groups The Brooks Tegler Big Band and the J Street Jumpers. A co-worker plays in Tegler's band, which was a great reason to get out and sweat to the oldies with the old folks on a muggy Friday night in D.C.

As we waited in line at the gate, my self-fulfilling prophecy was coming true (yes, I know they usually do; hence the term). Sharon and I appeared to bring the median age down to 75.

Don't get me wrong. I don't begrudge the old folks a night out, and I'm not embarrassed to be in their company. It's nice to see seniors interacting with the rest of the world instead of withering away in a home. Not to mention that it was their music way before it was mine.

After a while, as the seats filled in, we began to notice a change in the crowd. Suddenly we were among people of all ages. There were young adults, teens, preteens and even a toddler or two in the house. There even was a dude with a Mohawk, although I should mention that we know that guy so it wasn't a surprise to see him.

A lot of folks young and old headed down by the stage and danced in what I took to be period-correct styles. Watching them and the fun they were having at times was as enjoyable as the music. That is to say, considerably enjoyable.

The performances were first-rate, and so was the selection of material. The J Street Jumpers, whose music keeps them from being easily categorized, held down the ground between swing and jump blues during the middle set. Tegler's Big Band opened and closed the show, with plenty of emphasis on Count Basie, Duke Ellington, Artie Shaw and (no surprise since Tegler is a drummer) Gene Krupa.

After groups such as The Brian Setzer Orchestra and Big Bad Voodoo Daddy brought big-band back to the mainstream in the '90s, it's hard to imagine that some people might still regard it as the music of their grandparents and great grandparents. It's not, and the diverse multi-generational crowd at Carter Barron Amphitheatre proved it.

The music composed by Basie and Ellington (among many, many others) was put together with the precision of a Swiss watch. Whether you're talking timepieces or music, the good stuff is built to last.

Seeing so many people brought together, the young dancing with the old, the black dancing with the white, was good stuff indeed.

Taking it to Art

I had a sudden fit of inspiration on Sunday. While touring Baltimore’s outstanding American Visionary Art Museum, Sharon and I noticed a trend in the artists’ biographical information. Many of them started out in different careers. Some of them didn’t start until they were in their 40s (or even much later).

I don’t need much of an excuse to procrastinate. I try to take the newspapers to the recycling bin down the street before the pile gets so high that it tips over on the cat, but I don’t feel much need to take them before then (despite my in-laws pointing it out when they visit). I’d actually enjoy rolling out of bed mid-morning, if I didn’t feel the greater need to stay gainfully employed.

Actually, thinking about putting my art out in the world doesn’t even fall under procrastination. I really admire people who have artistic ability, like my friend Geoffrey, but I never figured I could do anything like that.

I have no illusions that it would be as good as Geoffrey’s work (if you’re reading, dude, you still owe us a painting. And we’re paying for it), but maybe at least there’s still time to try.

Check Mark

Another checklist bit the dust Sunday night when I saw Mark Knopfler perform at Wolf Trap in Vienna, Va.

Of my 10 favorite guitarists, I’ve now seen all of them that are still alive (as well as Stevie Ray Vaughan before his tragic death). When you're talking about an "all-time" list, six out of 10 ain't bad.

Technically, I’d seen Knopfler before, when he was playing as a sideman on Eric Clapton’s 25^th anniversary tour in 1988. He was good then, but he was fantastic on his own.

Knopfler’s always had one of the most killer guitar tones around, some of which can be attributed to the use of his bare fingers rather than a pick. A word I hear often describing his sound is “burnished,” though I’m not sure that does it justice. I’ve never been able to come up with a word that I find adequate. I know this: at its best, Knopfler’s tone gives me goose bumps. It can be as thick and heavy as summer in Memphis but maintain an expressive, vocal quality ranging from screeching kid to clucking hen.

Knopfler’s former group, Dire Straits, was a mainstay of my local rock radio station when I was growing up. His solo work, which includes several movie soundtracks, has been mellower overall so radio listeners don’t experience the pleasure of his company much these days. That’s too bad, because his playing is the definition of taste.

The show more than lived up to my expectations. Though it was billed as the Shangri-La Tour (title of the new album), Knopfler drew much of the show from his Dire Straits material, playing “Walk of Life,” “So Far Away,” “Money For Nothing,” “Romeo and Juliet,” “Sultans of Swing,” and, my favorite, “Brothers in Arms.”

I’m still in awe of what an artist can do with wood, wire and electricity. Truthfully, most of it is in the hands. It’s inspiring yet discouraging, too. After seeing a great one such as Knopfler play, I can’t decide whether to quit or practice harder.

The more I think about it, though, I’d like to give myself goose bumps someday. I think I’ll go plug in. 

Eight Days a Week?

A conversation with another couple recently led me back to my on-again, off-again pipe dream of owning a nightclub that features live music. With a child on the way, it's likely to stay off-again for a long time.

I still like thinking about it anyway. One of the most enjoyable aspects of this dream is imagining what types of music would be featured. I could never settle on just one, so I got to thinking that it would be cool to feature different types on different days of the week.

I think rockabilly would be great for Friday night, with blues on Saturday night. Sunday morning seems like a natural for a gospel brunch.

What about you, dear readers? Does anybody have certain types of music or certain songs they associated with particular days of the week? 

Number 1 with a bullet

Sharon and I got to hear our baby's heartbeat for the first time this morning. I'm sure she will share her thoughts with those of you who know us. I can sum it up like this: of all the sounds that have changed my life -- the first time I heard Stevie Ray Vaughan on the radio, Eric Clapton's solo on "Crossroads," hearing Doc Watson play "Columbus Stockade Blues" -- The Peanut's (working title for the kid) heartbeat shot to the top of the list. It's trite but it's true; I'm a different man than I was yesterday.

The Old Man Taught Me Well

As predicted on this blog, Dan Wheldon has won the 89th running of the Indianapolis 500. I wish I could say it's because I have great skill at picking the winner of IndyCar races, but that would not be true. So many things can happen with 33 cars in a 500-mile race, but luck was on my side today. After the race was over, the first thing my Dad said to me on the phone was "did you have any money on him? You should have." His pick, two-time winner Helio Castroneves, finished 10th. Over the years his guy has come out ahead of mine more often than not, so I'm not going to toot my own horn too much. It's always fun to pick a winner, but I'd still trade it for being able to sit down with the old man and watch the race together.

In other Indy news: Unless you never watch TV or read a newspaper, you probably knew that there was a woman in the field. Twenty-three-year-old Danica Patrick was making her first start in the Indy 500, and news reports leading up to the race have mentioned little else. She had a great day, especially for a rookie. She became the first woman to lead a lap in the Indy 500 on lap 56, and after some late luck and brilliant strategy led again in the final 10 laps. Wheldon passed her with six laps to go on his way to victory, but Patrick still finished fourth, which is where she started the race. Now perhaps the media can focus on Patrick's driving skills rather than her gender. But after spending the past 11 years in the newspaper business, I doubt it.

Have a safe and happy holiday.

Gentlemen, start your nostalgia

Sometimes it's the little things you miss the most about home.

Believe me, there's plenty I miss about Maine: hunting and fishing, trees and my family, for starters. I always get a little extra homesick on Memorial Day weekend. Aside from the very important opportunity to remember those who gave so much so we could have so much, the weekend brings the running of the Indianapolis 500.

The Indy 500 probably isn't a real high priority for a lot of folks (aside from the hundreds of thousands who flock to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway each year). The average racing fan in America is more likely to be a member of NASCAR Nation. In the Moores house, we grew up with Indy. Dad always watched the race, and whenever it was possible, we watched it together. Since I left the state in '99, we haven't had the opportunity. We still talk before the race, to compare predictions (the race is in about two hours, but I'll go on record for you: I think Dan Wheldon will win) and during the race if there's a significant event (amazing pass, frightening crash, somebody's pick goes out). We always talk after the race to compare notes on whose predicted winner finished best (he almost always has the edge here).

Fortunately, I've still got my father around. I'm hopeful that in the near future we'll even find a way to watch the race together. So many people this weekend are remembering traditions learned from their fathers (and mothers) who aren't here to share in them anymore. Take a minute to remember them, too, and all of those who sacrificed everything to preserve our way of life.

Crackity's Got a Brand New Bag

Good morning, dear readers. I've got good news for those of you who don't get enough music content here. Starting this morning I'll be contributing on Thursdays to a site called HickoryWind.org. It's a meeting place for fans of Americana, alt-country and bluegrass, and I'm pleased that they've asked me to help out. Over at HickoryWind, you'll find some other folks who you might have already met through this blog: Larry, the godfather of HickoryWind.org, and Stacy, who is my partner in music-consuming crime from way back. Even though I'll only be posting on Thursdays (for sure), HickoryWind is about the music 24-7. There's a real good vibe over there, so I hope you'll join us. If not, you can still find me right here.

Yours truly,
Mr. Jones

Declaration of Independents

If I didn't know better, I'd swear that Steve Jobs (the evil, monopoly-seeking prick that his is) has launched a massive conspiracy to make sure buying music the old-fashioned way becomes increasingly difficult for me. OK, members of the iCult, just simmer down now. Don't go flooding my blog with comments. I'm just saying that I'd find Jobs more likable if he showed interest in working with the other companies out there to make other players work with iTunes. Can you imagine a world where we only had one CD player to choose from? Besides, we have an iPod in this house, and my wife is very happy with it.

Even if Jobs isn't behind all this, it still ticks me off. The first assault is on my wallet. Today was the release date for the new Robert Cray ("Twenty"), the new Shelby Lynne ("Suit Yourself") and the new Son Volt compilation ("Retrospective: 1995-2000"). That's a lot of sweet, sweet music for one day. It's also a lot of sweet, sweet cashola to shell out of pocket in one day. In a way, I suppose it's my fault for having eclectic taste. But that dog's not gonna hunt. I need somebody to blame. The Man will do.

So I decided to bite the bullet and buy all three. I head off to Tower Records to make the purchases. I get off to a good start when I reach the top of the escalator and walk right into Shelby Lynne (I wish). You know, the Shelby Lynne CD. And it's on sale. Everything is going pretty well so far. Because I've been at this for a while, I know this all but guarantees a problem. I look over the rest of the "new release" area and there's no sign of Robert Cray or Son Volt. So I swallow my pride and to to the register to ask. The young lady at the register is nice, but obviously has never heard of Cray because she asks me to spell his name. The computer shows it's in stock, so she tells me I can check in new releases or go check in blues. Thanks, because I hadn't thought of that on my own. Fortunately, I find a cart loaded with CDs that are waiting to be put out on the shelves. After just a few seconds of searching I find the Cray CD. But still no Son Volt.

Just then, a guy with a bandanna on his head comes along and starts wheeling the cart off (probably to hide the CDs from the paying customers). I really want to start my question with "Hey, Aunt Jemimah," but think better of it and mind my manners. So I ask him if he's seen the new Son Volt in his travels. When he tells me he'll go check on the computer, I know it won't be easy. After I have to tell him that Son Volt is two words, he tells me that they have nine copies on order but none in the store. He then gives me a little education by telling me that "sometimes they push back the release dates." Thanks, bub. I guess I'd be more receptive to the tip if I hadn't had to spell "Son Volt" for you. Two out of three ain't bad for Meatloaf, but for me it's a less-than-satisfying trip to the record store.

In their defense, the nice young lady with the pierced lip and Uncle Jemimah tried to help me. It just seems like when I worked at a record store I made more of an effort to know what was out there. They certainly can't be held responsible for what the store had in stock. Either way, I had to have that Son Volt. So I drove to the local big box store. Don't worry, Stacy, it wasn't Best Buy; the boycott is still intact. Circuit City had the disc, and they had it for a good price.

There's not much of a point to this story, but it's one I could tell often by just changing the names of the CDs I was looking for. What I'm trying to say, if you're interested in my advice, is that it makes a lot of sense to go to an independent record seller if you have one near you. It will cost you more, but independents are usually staffed by people who love music. They'll also make an effort to have what their customers are looking for. It's well worth an extra dollar or two. I don't have a lot of stores I can recommend, but if you're in the Virginia Beach area definitely go see Barry at Birdland Music. If you live near Nashville, Grimey's, The Great Escape and Phonoluxe are all outstanding. For any Mainers that are reading this blog, it's pretty hard to beat Bull Moose Music. If you have an indie record store you'd like to recommend, by all means click on "comments" below and share the wealth.

I've only had time to listen to the CDs once, but the early returns are good. My early impression is that they range from very good (Lynne) to excellent (Cray) to out-friggin'-standing (Son Volt). They're helping me forget about the hassle it took to find them.