Michael's Woodsongs Blog

Michael Martin Murphy and Tom Rush

2009-04-09T12:40:00.004-04:00

I remember the very first WoodSongs show.

It was in Kevin's old studio behind Flagfork Farm on Broadway in Lexington. We could barely seat 15 people. My friend Rob "The Beatnik Cowboy" McNurlin was the only artist on the show.

Times have changed.

We now pack a 400 seat concert hall every Monday no matter who is on the show. The audience comes regardless. Blind Boys of Alabama, Jakob Dylan ... or 11-year old Almire Fawn. The Kentucky Theatre fills up. To stand on that stage before the show starts remains a moving experience for me, I feel the same rush each week as I walk up from behind the curtains and see so many that support the WoodSongs idea.

And speaking of "rush" ...

I recall being in junior high when "Wildfire" first came out. I would crank up the radio each time it did .... I loved that song. So you can imagine what a total blast it is that Michael Martin Murphy would come on the show, not once, but twice so far. Each time, he and I would have dinner afterward and I would get to know this very kind hearted, true-to-the-core artist that I've admired for so long. And we talk good-cop, bad-cop politics, which is a lot of fun. MMM is a tremendously intelligent man who cares very much about society and music and who almost single handedly reintroduced the music of the American west to an entire generation of young people.

And speaking of "Rush" ...

Tom Rush has been a musical mentor for me in many ways. His passion for the unknown artist and for using his fame as a stepping stone to introduce artists like Jackson Browne, Joni Mitchell and James Taylor ... not to mention Shawn Colvin, Susanne Vega and Dar Williams ... to the music public is a template for generosity not seen since Pete Seeger's early days. It was Tom Rush's example that gave birth to my phrase "... you don't have to be famous, you just have to be good" that I use on the show each week.

Imagine the rush ... Tom and MMM on my stage at the same time.

... and who ever said folk music was boring :)

mj

The Dimensions of Art

2009-03-02T09:16:00.007-05:00

It is the difference of seeing a Van Gogh online, verses seeing it in a museum. It is hearing the album in your earbuds, verses watching the concert onstage. It's viewing the song on YouTube, verses singing the song to your family gathered in the living room on a winter night.

It's two dimensions vs three ... the great artistic war of the new century.

Years ago, all art was three dimensional. It captured all of your senses and immersed you in the baptism of another artists life and spirit. It wasn't reproduced, it was experienced. That is what art, true art, is for.

This changed with the advent of two wonderful inventions: the photograph and the record player. Let me repeat: they are wonderful. But only when they and their resultant offspring are kept in their proper place.

The photograph, which morphed into television, computer screens and iPods, captured a three dimensional soul ... whether a person or a mountain or a flower in a vase ... and relegated it down into the two dimensional world. In perfect form, this would inspire others to go out and experience the mountain, meet the person and smell the fragrance of that beautiful flower.

The same with records and radio. These musical arts that, one time, thrived in a three dimensional world of small stages and clubs and courtyards, front porches and living rooms. Soon, the art was was captured and relegated down into the two dimensional world. In perfect form, and this often worked, the record and the radio would motivate the audience to learn that song or go see that artist in person.

Not any more.

We are, for the first time in human history, dealing with a generation who experience art and music primarily in the two dimensional world.

And that's a shame. Kids today experience art and music in cheap $15 earbuds, computer speakers, iPods, computer screens, TV and a couple of speakers wired to their stereo. It has become a very rare thing for kids and families to see music performed in person. venues, in this economy, are closing by the dozens and America is becoming venue starved. The opportunity for three dimensional art is becoming harder to find.

Even the "star system" is designed to remove art from you, selling you on the insane idea that only the "Star" is truly qualified to play music, therefore you are relegated down to a two dimensional participant. Your role is to buy the record. The farther the music industry can push you away from your own music, the better customer you become.

As the audience surrenders to the two dimensional world, and artists loose their ability to capture their attention as two dimensional art saturates people with an endless bombardment of mundane artist efforts, we must look to other artists who figured out a way to marry the two worlds together.

Pete Seeger comes to mind. Pete released his records, went on TV when he could, got played on radio ... all in an effort to get the three dimensional world, his audience, singing. And it worked.

The finest, truest role of the two dimensional media is to get real people involved with real art.

I try to do that on WoodSongs. The two dimensional media platforms are, as I said, wonderful. And a very powerful tool to inspire. But not replace. At the end of every show I try to encourage the audience eto use what they just heard as inspiration to play their own music.

And that's what I hope you do. Use WoodSongs, successful as it is on radio, public television and online, as a wellspring of inspiration to turn it all off and play your own song. Sing to your children. Play for your friends. Re-baptize your heart in the magnificent world of three dimensional art.

It is like a wonderful paradise of music and art.

Michael

Poppy

2009-02-04T20:15:00.007-05:00

It is snowing as I look out my farmhouse window tonight.

The woods feel so silent and still, the wind is just barely there, pushed away by the soft sounds of a fireplace in the next room. Without the kids here, the house is very still, very pensive. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting for their return.

But I am torn with a lot of feelings tonight. A confusing tsunami of disappointment, regret, resignation ... and loss.

My mind is vivid with a technicolor memory of when I was still living in New York, long ago. Seventeen years old. Sleeping on a cot in the attic of a friends house by myself with everything I owned in a brown paper bag.

I had a part time job at a grocery store. I would change the prices on shelf items. They gave me a can of Lysol and a steel wool pad and I would scrub the ink off and then stamp the new prices on. A few years later that was all replaced by bar codes. But I was at my job this afternoon, an angry and ripped-to-shreds teenager that was put in a position to have leave his home.

I remember forcing myself to stay busy at my job. I needed the money now. I promised my friend I would pay rent for the little attic room. The feeling of that empty, hollow hurt in my chest is still there when I think back. I remember it very clearly. I was mad. I was scared. I was fed up.

And I was still just a kid.

And I remember looking up and seeing the tall, husky figure of him as he walked down the store isle to me. I called him dad, but he wasn't. I found out just a few years ago that I had another dad who died before I was born. That little piece of information answered a lot of things for me. I could never figure out why I was always treated differently, why I never fit in, why I didn't belong there. Then I found out. Dad wasn't my dad. And I carried this man's name publicly, but it wasn't really mine. I had two names. A public one and then a secret one that I could never say out loud. It made me not know who I was, or who I belonged to, or who I was supposed to be.

So I handled it all like I was still a kid.
Because I was.

And he walked up to me and asked how I was doing. And I said OK, too proud to ever look up. And he put his hand on my shoulder ... I don't ever recall he ever touched me before or after this day ... and said, "Let's go to the diner next door for a hamburger."

So, I put down my can of Lysol and my steel wool pad and left the store with him. That was OK, because, after all, this was HIS store and he gave me this part time job. And we sat at the diner counter and he didn't say much. I didn't say much. But he wanted to know if I was OK and he handed me some money in case I needed it. And then he left.

That was the closest I ever felt to him. I wanted to run out of the diner and grab him and hug him. I knew he cared about me. I knew that, in his heart, he didn't see a difference if I was his or not. And if left to his own inclination, he wouldn't treat me any different than my brother, who was his actual son.

But he wasn't my dad. And I wasn't his son.
And it mattered to me that I was reminded of that from others constantly.

And so I left. I left New York and went as far as I could without leaving the nation and landed on the Mexican border in Laredo, Texas and began a search, a journey that finally led me through trials and errors and stupid mistakes. I would have given the world to have a father to help me navigate through it all.

That journey led me to Melody. And Rachel. And my own son, MichaelB. And I learned from the things I missed, and try to be the best dad I can be for them. I tell them I love them constantly. They have a hug whenever they want, and when they don't expect it. I tell them that, someday, they will be in trouble. They might have done something bad that might even be their fault. They will be embarrassed or ashamed. And that's the day they will need their dad the most. And I will be there for them. No matter what. Always. And forever.

But tonight ... the snow is turning to ice tonight. And the cold is creeping into the farmhouse and I really need to put a another log in that fire. But I don't move, I don't leave this screen until I've finished writing.

Because Poppy died today.
And I didn't really know him that well. And he never really knew me. I saw him a few months ago and he was frail, no longer the husky Bull of a man I remember. I walked into the hospital room and he took my hand and he asked me how I was.

And for a moment, as I held his hand, I was seventeen again. And scared. Living in an attic and angry and alone. But only for a moment. Because I'm not a kid anymore and times and people change.

Poppy is gone, and I will forever miss the man that took me for a hamburger and sat with me that afternoon at that diner. And I will always regret that he and I never could get past what other people impuned on our relationship. I needed him, but could never tell him.

Instead, I put all that energy into my children. They are the life and light and joy of my life. And I sit here tonight, mourning my step father's passing ... a man I really never knew very well. Writing in this farmhouse thinking of my children ...

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting for their return.

Odetta

2008-12-04T08:02:00.007-05:00

She had a heart as big as the Universe ... and a voice that filled it.

Now, that magnificent voice is silent. And the Universe is almost still in tribute to the kind, generous, passionate woman that was Odetta.

My friend was a feisty, spirited lady. She treated a song with the dignity of a queen, yet presented herself to the audience with the humility of a princess. Never would she go onstage unless properly finished in dress and makeup, because "that is what the audience expects of her ... to care enough to look right for them."

I was a young, scrappy, energetic folksinger when I first met her. Oh, I knew who she was because of a Janis Ian record. At first, I thought "Odetta" was the name of some music gear that created these awesome, cosmic tones on the record. Then I found out that Odetta was a real person. One day, my agent booked me to open a concert at a dinner theater in Maine, named, oddly enough, Jonathans. I walked in for sound check and sitting on stage, positioned under a lone spotlight, dressed in white robes with a white headband, her guitar on her lap with a stick of burning incense positioned between the strings of her guitar tuners, was the woman named Odetta.

She looked like a black angel.

Odetta and I had a great time and, a couple of months later, she flew to meet me in a recording studio where we recorded Si Kahn's song, "New Wood." Oh, how her voice filled the speakers and the song and the room and my head. Later that night, we went to the Kirchner's farm to film the music video. It premiered on CNN of all places. I went to NYC and she and I taped an interview together that aired on CNN's Showbiz Tonight.

My point in all of this is simply to show that my friend gave more to me than I ever gave to her. And my little career didn't even register on the Richter scale of her world. The last we spent time together, she taped a WoodSongs special event in her honour (check out show #381 on my Archives page). The night before, we spent all evening at Portafino's Resturant talking and laughing and swapping stories of being on the road too much.

She fell sick recently, although she remained energized at the hope of singing for Barack Obama at the inauguration this January. That would have been a sight, so see Odetta stand and sing in front of four million people. The same Odetta who sang for Martin Luther King, Jr. at his civil rights marches all those years ago.

The woman who gave voice to the songs of slaves would have deserved that honour. And, darn, she would have made sure she looked great, too. Because that's what the audience would have expected of her.

Odetta was in fact a legend. She carried herself like a legend. She performed like one. But she never acted like one.

Yes, the Universe is a little less brilliant today. The stars reflect a little less light. The music that drifts in the clouds sound a little less sweet. And there is a silent place in any heart that loves the true spirit and passion of music.

I will miss you, my friend.

Richie Havens and the 500th Broadcast

2008-09-22T12:30:00.005-04:00

I guess the trick is simply not quitting ..eventually you can do 500 of anything so long as you keep showing up.

And so, on Monday September 15th we did the 500th broadcast of WoodSongs. And I think it went great. Our volunteer crew was sterling, the audience showed up all decked out, Joe Conkwright and Judge Ray Corns were dressed in tuxedos, Dorothy looked ravishing in her flapper girl outfit. The Hippy Chick Quartet looked smashing and played from the stage as the audience took their seats before showtime.

Me? I washed my jeans special for the night.

Anna Dickens, or "Anna the T-Shirt girl" organized the big WoodSongs cakes and the coffee pot and the tickets and the sponsor seats and did an awesome job. Here's her picture (taken by Larry Steur) with our guest of honor that night:

Richie Havens was our special guest for the entire broadcast. I've known Richie for a long time, he is a dignified, caring man. Humble to a fault. And very professional. He showed up on time, worked with our sound crew, loved the fact that they were all volunteers and really got into the spirit of the show.

I wanted Richie for the 500th show because in many ways he embodies everything we are about. Richie was one of the first big artists to leave the major record label world and start his own little company instead. Richie was way ahead of John Prine, Ani DiFranco, Arlo Guthrie and thousands of other artists who went completely independent. He always puts the music and audience first trusting that, in the end, the audience will respond to him and take care of him ... if he's good enough. And he is.

After the show, we had dinner together at Natasha's Cafe across from the Kentucky Theatre and, as tired as he was, he took care of any and all fans who came up to our table to say hi, get an autograph, snap a picture, ask a question. He never winced, never waivered, never expressed anything but pure appreciation for their appreciation.

And I guess ... when it was all said and done ... that's what we all of us are left with when the night was done ... total appreciation for the audience for making our whole WoodSongs adventure even possible.

Thank you!!!

Michael

Chuck Leavell and Marmalade Sky

2008-08-26T09:51:00.007-04:00

What a night.

What an earth shattering, volcanic-to-the-core, musical, magical, mystical night.

And that was just the lobby music. Chuck Leavell didn't even make it to the stage yet.

Let me explain:

As a musician and a dad, I am convinced that the best way to teach a kid to play music is to NOT teach them. Instead, give them the opportunity and freedom to really love something. To be excited and happy about it. I always wondered if my daughter Rachel would ever be interested in music. And until last year, she didn't really show any signs of it. Oh, we tried the ballet thing. We tried the violin lessons. It all eventually fizzled out and I didn't push it in any way.

Instead, I waited.

And then it happened. Rachel saw the Beatles on YouTube.
Done.
Over.
Finished.

From then on she dove into the Beatles with all the passion of a sixteen year old. She devoured every song and every chord and every record. She read books and put up posters and memorized John's harmony lines and picked Ringo as her favorite even though she would give the world to meet Paul. We watched the Beatles anthology DVD together and and ripped apart George Martin's productions. I took Rachel on a concert road trip and she packed up all her Beatles CDs and we had a real father-daughter love fest for a week.

And the next thing that happened was, "Dad, teach me the C chord ..."

After that, I never saw my Martin 00-21 again as it was held hostage in my daughter's room as she practiced and whispered and studied and tended to her sore but excited fingers. Rachel has a friend named Lauren, who also loves the Beatles and plays guitar and has a wonderful voice. They formed a duo and play, obviously, only Beatles songs. Rachel and Lauren practiced their guitar strumming and harmonies and laugh and sing and call themselves Marmalade Sky.

They had their premier in the lobby of the Kentucky Theater last night, singing in the outer lobby right before WoodSongs began. Fans mingle together, pour themselves a free cup of coffee, enjoy some conversation ... and listen to real music while waiting for the theater doors to open. Yes, I felt like the proudest daddy in the world watching my little girl preparing to sing in front of people for the very first time. I stood in the lobby as they practiced and couldn't help but appreciate the irony ... Chuck Leavell was on the show this night and he was standing next to me, watching the rehearsal.

Chuck is one of the most successful and sought after musicians on the world of rock. He played on many of the Allman Brothers hits, like Jessica. He toured with Eric Clapton and is a major part of the huge UnPlugged album. He's been a band mate of the Rolling Stones for the last 25 years.

But none of that mattered to Rachel.

She wasn't impressed with his bands or his touring. She didn't care about all the historic records Chuck plays on. There was only one thing about Chuck Leavell that rattled Rachel to her core as she shook his hand in the lobby last night ...

He knew George Harrison ...
... in person.

Michael
tree hugger - folksinger - daddy

(Thanks to Ruth Adams for the above pic of Lauren and Rachel, and Larry Steur and Dr. Bob DeMattina for all the great photos)

Summertime

2008-08-11T10:10:00.005-04:00

It's amazing how frightening good things can be.

Most musicians head into every project ... whether it's a tour or album ... with a mental pre-nuptial in their head. We pre-plan if not expect the inevitable demise. When the stars line up and the sea parts and it actually works, most of us stand back in shear amazement and terror. We have that, "O lordy, what do I do now" look written all over us.

WoodSongs is like that. Sort of. When I started the show in a small recording studio with 18 people in the audience who we bribed to show up with apple cider and home made brownies and one radio station willing to air it, the idea of holding the reins to a broadcast of this level would have been ... well ... scary ... but exciting.

But it's been a great summer. We've had so many spectacular artists, the WoodSongs crew continues their incredible effort and work. Our affiliate base keeps expanding. Season 3 of the Public Television series launched nationwide and season 4 is being finished as I write. My daughter Rachel and her friend Lauren put together a little singing duo, they play only Beatles songs and call themselves Marmalade Sky. Listening to them reherse in the sitting garden at the farmhouse on Sunday afternoons is so priceless.

And now we zoom forward to the impending milestone of our 500th broadcast on September 15 with the great Richie Havens as our special guest. What a spectacular way to end the summer.

Part of my summer was doing a lot of fun things with my kids. I took them on the road to Little Rock and Memphis and Nashville and lots of other places while I was on tour. We saw Batman three times and even went to a big amusement park called Kings Island. They charged my 9 year old son as an adult because he was over 42 inches, but then he was barred from riding all the cool rides he wanted to go on because he was one inch too short. I didn't like that.

But any irritation I had with Kings Island management evaporated when I saw the looks on my kids faces as they came screaming down the roller coaster.

They looked scared.
Terrified.
Frightened.
Nervous.

... and very, very happy.

Michael

The Kentucky Theatre and Flying Monkeys

2008-06-26T10:26:00.006-04:00

So, last night I took MichaelB and Rachel to the Kentucky Theatre to see the 1939 film classic, The Wizard of Oz.

I don't often get to sit in the Kentucky as a fan. I'm usually onstage or working with either WoodSongs or the Troubadour Concert Series. And I must say, it was very nice to be in such a beautiful, old-school room for this classic film. The grand Theater was build only a few years before the film came out, so the setting and sound was perfect.

The audience was awesome. Over 800 people crammed into the theatre at 7PM on a Wednesday night to see Dorothy duke it out with that creepy Wicked Witch of the West. They booed when the nasty woman appeared on her bike to take Toto away, they cheered when the Lollipop Guild sang, they cried when Dorothy clicked her heels and repeated, "There's no place like home ..."

Another surprise was how funny that old movie was. It never really clicked until you are in a big audience and hearing the laughter from lines you've heard a hundred times but always took for granted. And for being made in 1938, this was a very adventurous and high-tech film. Of course, it never got it's due, as it was beat out at the Academy Awards for Best Picture by some flick called Gone With The Wind. I don't know, Clarke Gable didn't have anything over on the Tin Man. I guess that simply proves the old show biz rule: Timing is EVERYTHING.

I guess the best thing was seeing my kids enjoy something like this in a setting that most folks don't often get to enjoy anymore. Life sorta slowed down and moved backwards in the Kentucky Theatre last night. MichaelB turned into the same nine year old boy who watched the film back in 1939, all wide eyed and happy. There was no remote controls, no wide screen TV or DVD player, no cell phone ringing, no election, no global warming, no war, no recession, no terrorism. Just a good movie and a big bucket of the best popcorn made anywhere in Kentucky.

We got home as the sun set beyond the woods and took a walk down to the lower meadow where our big garden was, all tall and healthy and already yielding some of it's bounties. We picked a big ole cucumber and had ourselves a little snack as we talked about flying monkeys and how water can melt a mean old witch.

Later, Rachel clicked her sneakers together as she ascended the stairs to bed. All in all, a great evening ...

mj

Tree Hugger

2008-04-09T13:40:00.008-04:00

I must get 1,000 emails a year asking me, "What exactly is a Tree Hugger, anyway???"

Good question. I know to some it carries a bit of a political, eco-nazi image, but that is not what I mean by it nor is it my viewpoint. A heated argument about whether or not global warming is real or contrived is irrelevant to my views.

To me, a Tree Hugger is a peaceful, earth conscious person who enjoys a simpler, intelligent, artistic life. It’s about the artists and the music they make.

It’s about you ... and your music.

Tree Huggers are folks who choose people over money, family over careers, dreams over reality, home cooked meals over fast food, a fireplace, homemade music and those who listen closely to the dreams of their children. Who enjoy a hearty laugh, a good glass of red wine late at night, a hot cup of coffee in the morning. It’s for anyone brave enough to bring a dream to life.

Tree Huggers work in the hope of making you a little happier, to get you to sing, and draw, and create. I don’t care if it’s music, art or cooking, so long as you’re having fun. Life is too short to be worrying about half the stuff we fret over nowadays.

It’s a sense of nature, a log cabin you built yourself and a walk in the woods in October. It’s flannel pajamas on a snowy Appalachian night with the fireplace cracklin’ all warm and cozy while reading a good book. It’s a guitar, a poem, a song, a canvas, a sculpture, a dream and a vision all wrapped up together like a fresh baked batch of homemade cookies, ready to share.

Henry David Thoreau was a Tree Hugger, he just didn't know it at the time. Al Gore is a Tree Hugger that rides in limos and private jets. Me? I'm a Tree Hugger who lives with his kids in an old Kentucky farmhouse and loves to play old wooden Martin guitars and my banjo for folks.

A Tree Hugger simply loves planet Earth. I love what the earth is here for, I love what it provides and respects how it does it. I believe the earth has a purpose and that mankind (that includes women) have a purpose on it. And I believe that taking care of the earth, being a good steward of it, starts in your own hometown, in your own back yard.

So ... what kind of Tree Hugger are you?

mj

Garrison Keillor & The Finger

2008-01-22T10:41:00.000-05:00

Last night at WoodSongs we had a tribute to the music of A Prairie Home Companion with our friends Robin & Linda Williams and the great master instrumentalist Peter Ostroushko. Both have been on the legendary show for about 30 years, since the early days - before syndication when Garrison had a daily show on public radio and they played and sang in a little studio room.

Much the way WoodSongs started.

As much as I looked forward to the day, it was riddled with disasters. After writing the script and putting the show concept together, I got an email from one of the folks who work with me. Her father passed away. So very sad.

Then Scott Napier, who played mandolin on the show with me for a year, was coming back to make an appearance and play a banjo/mando instrumental with me called the Pete & Woody Rag. But we are in the middle of a deep freeze and all the pipes in his log cabin froze up and burst, so he couldn't make it.

OK, says I. Pete's on the show, maybe he will play it with me. After all, he's one of the best of the best, it would be an honor.

I get to the theater and the lights in the grid are blowing out so the crew is distracted trying to fix it, our stage manager is stressed because his young wife is heading into the hospital, our TV director's wife is in labour and her contractions are 15 minutes apart, the theater is over sold and the audience is freeking out about seating.

No problem. A cup of hot tea and a quiet moment in the dark hallway backstage before I go on. I'm leaning against a door jam with my right picking hand and a crew member comes up without noticing and SLAMS THE DOOR ON MY MIDDLE FINGER.

Ouch! And I'm supposed to walk on stage and play the banjo in 4 minutes.

When you watch show #468 on my archive page, you will notice that my hand is shaking and I start and stop the song. Peter, good natured pro he is, hung in there with me. I decided to redo the song again after the taping during the encore. I think we got it, but I had to have my hand in a rag of ice for the entire show to keep the swelling down.

Well, we got it done. The show was a success. The audience was happy. Of course, now when ever I think of Garrison, my middle finger will probably start swelling.

... no offense GK.

Michael

Walden: Earth Day 2008

2008-01-21T11:37:00.000-05:00

Spring is coming.

Yes, I know at the moment it's freezing across half the north American continent ... but it will be here soon enough. And with spring come thoughts of green living, warmth, life, planting gardens, mowing the grass again.

And Earth day.

Last year, we launched the play "Walden: The Ballad of Thoreau" which is a four character, two act project about the final two days Henry David Thoreau spent in his cabin before leaving Walden Pond. The play, lesson plans, posters, director's notes and more were available free of charge to any school, college, community theater or home school that wanted to put on a show.

Over 4,011 schools registered for the play in nine nations. Including Korea, Egypt and Syria. Wow.

This spring, it is available again ... and this time in Spanish and French as well. Prisons have registered, a lot of home schools, and now the Radio Drama of the pay will be posted on the www.waldenplay.com website for any fan to listen to ... fully produced, great acting. And free.

The album, Walden: The Earth Song Collect is released and if you order it from the website you get a free T-Shirt. Not bad for $11, and the money is used to support the free performance of the play in schools.

Spring time. Earth Day. The Walden play ... and a free T-Shirt.
Not a bad way to head into summer :)

MJ

Start a WoodSongs Coffeehouse

2007-11-16T11:46:00.001-05:00

Pete Seeger used music to help clean up the Hudson River. He put a bunch of folksingers on a hand built sloop called the Clearwater, sailed up and down the Hudson and played concerts along the shore. The idea was "... get folks to the river for the music, let them see how dirty it is, and they will want to clean it up all on their own."

Pete was right.
Music works.

Music makes a community FEEL like a community.
Music makes a hometown IMPORTANT.

WoodSongs has great hometown project that is working in many cities right now ... Start your own hometown, local WoodSongs Coffeehouse. A few times a year, once a month, whenever you like you and your friends bring great music, great artists, poets, musicians, and great fun to audiences in your community. It a wonderful way to gather people together ... and share good things. When communities come together and sing ... good things will happen.

Music lovers turn living rooms, cafes, church basements, garages (the WoodSongs Coffeehouse in Las Vegas is in a converted auto shop called the "GarageMahal") into small concert venues and invite some brilliant artists in their region to stop by for music. Sell tickets or pass the hat and enjoy a pot luck supper. We show you how, step by step. All new WoodSongs Coffeehouses get a great start up manual that I wrote to help them get it going.

And it's all FREE.
Visit our page at woodsongs.com for details.

PASS THE WORD ON, and consider starting your own WoodSongs Coffeehouse!

mj

WoodSongs in Arkansas

2007-11-16T10:05:00.000-05:00

Music is part of the human celebration.

Art should always be this way.

It is a passion that trancends payment. It is love, heart, soul and spirit. I suppose, in many ways, WoodSongs stands for home, community and family. I believe in it, and commit to it at the end of every broadcast.

It was with this spirit that WoodSongs agreed to travel to Jonesboro Arkansas to produce a special event broadcast celebrating the deep, diverse musical history of Arkansas. We were hosted on the beautiful campus of Arkansas State University, the 1000 seat Fowler Center, Jerry Biebesheimer and partnered with our affilliate KASU-FM. Program Director Marty Scarbro even came onboard as a guest on-air announcer, with Stacey Brothwell.

The WoodSongs crew gathered on a Thursday evening and traveled in a nice coach bus and arrived in Arkansas about 2am. After a few hours sleep, this incredible group of people, my friends, created a multi-media stage (television, syndicated radio, XM Satellite Radio and complete online streaming, archiving and podcasting) to celebrate and spotlight the musical home that gave the world Johnny Cash, Charlie Rich, Levon Helm, Sonny Boy Williamson, Floyd Cramer and so many others.

And the spirit of WoodSongs was reflected in the talents of those selected from over 300 submissions to be on our broadcast. Blues legend Willie "Big Eyes" Smith, a 12 year old fiddle master Caleb Cobb and his dad, the award winning Apple Brothers, hard driving bluegrass of Runaway Planet and the sweet voiced Americana of Greenwillis.

I think the highlight of the show, for me anyway, was Thomas Nelson. I found him on YouTube, and he played the harmonica like Charlie Daniels played fiddle for the Devil himself. But Thomas is not your ordinary musician, he is a challenged individual and I had no idea if he would show up, or if he did, what shape he would be in.

The bottom line is that Thomas, like everyone else on the show, played brilliantly. They made me and Arkansas proud. And I even got to play a new song with a string quintet (pictured, photo by Ruth Adams) ... and who says folk music is boring :)

You can watch the celebration of Arkansas on the archive page of my website. Check it out, and hopefully, WoodSongs might come to your hometown in 2008.

Folk on,
Michael
www.woodsongs.com

My Father's Grave ...

2007-07-18T10:56:00.000-04:00

Children need the ones they love to love each other.

A family is like a strong tower. It protects and nurtures kids, makes them feel both loved and lovable. It teaches little boys how to love a woman because they see their dad loving their mom. It teaches daughters how to care for a husband and family ... and how to be treated by a man ... because they see mom and dad being loving with each other.

I talk about it on WoodSongs virtually every show. Moms and dads and families have got to find a way to stick together and make that family work.

Divorce affects a child much like the planes that slammed into the World Trade Towers. The damage is more severe than first observed. It burns their very soul - from the inside out. The horror is progressive, unyielding and moves onward beyond the observation of those who caused the injury. And eventually, often when the child is now an adult, the internal foundations that make them a whole person come crashing down into a massive pile of rubble.

My mom and dad didn't love each other. He was dying of cancer, they were separated and, five days before I was born, my dad died. The families polarized, didn't speak to one another and my mom quickly abandoned my father's side of the family after the funeral, ran off and remarried ten months later.

My mom and stepfather didn't love each other, either. And I grew up hiding my brother and sister under beds at night during huge and often violent arguments.

I didn't know about my real father till I was 12, during one of those wall-smashing fights. I didn't carry his name, I knew nothing about him. Who was this man? Who was this mysterious new father? And who on earth was this guy I thought was my dad all this time? I wasn't allowed to ask, so I let it go.

I stayed silent for several years and just lived my life. I have learned that kids who grow up like this often gravitate to the very drama and unhealthy personalities they desperately want to flee from. And the planes that crashed into me as a kid burned. And my towers fell and my first marriage ended in rubble. When my second marriage failed, very much against my hope and will, I went on a search for my real dad and his family.

I recently found my cousin Laddie, who as a young boy was very close to my dad. He has given me a wealth of photos and newspaper clippings and told me many stories that helped get to know my father better. And he showed me a copy of the family tree that listed all the brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles of my dad's family.

And when you come to the line of my dad and mom, to the part about me, there is simply a question mark and a note that says "... name and location unknown."

Wow. It wasn't intended to be that way, I know. But all I ended up being in my dad's life was a "question mark."

Laddie and his lovely wife, who have been very kind and supportive, took me to my father's grave for the very first time a couple of weekends ago. As we walked through the green grass past the headstones of hundreds of people in the cemetery in Forest Hills, NY my cousin finally pointed and said, "There, Michael. There's your dad."

This was the closest I have ever been to my father. I was six feet away from being able to hold his hand and hear his voice and watch his eyes as he spoke to me. And I knelt over the grave and ran my fingers across his name on the family headstone. And every image of every fight and every moment of confusion and desperate thoughts of wondering who I was and where did I fit and how much I completely needed this man crashed into me again.

MichaelB was with me, and Laddie took a photo of my Dad and his grandson at his grave (my dad's name is on the lower right of the stone, next to MichaelB.)

And everyone left and gave me a moment alone with my Dad. It was very hard and very emotional. And as I knelt down I took an oak leaf laying on the grass atop his grave as a keepsake of the moment and said my farewell. The wishful images of my dad playing baseball with me the way I play catch with my own son flashed through my head. The dream of my dad scuffing up the hair of my head with approval over something completely stupid I accomplished, the way I do for MichaelB, danced across my eyes.

My heart was very heavy for my own children. I don't want those emotional planes burning inside their hearts, too. They deserve, need, so much better. And as I walked away from my father, I was left wondering how different my life might have been if only the people I loved would have loved each other.

Ben Got Married and the Lightning Bolt

2007-07-02T10:59:00.000-04:00

It was pretty busy around here last week.

After the WoodSongs broadcast with the Governor, we had a lot of affiliate promos to record, I worked on the 2008 version of the Walden play, began the draft of the next WoodSongs III book, wrote a song for the next album, spent a lot of much needed Daddy time ... and our friend and band mate Ben Sollee got married.

It was a great wedding. The setting was 7:30PM, Friday evening at a historic home in downtown Lexington, in a garden surrounded by a 6 foot high red brick wall. Lots of plants and flowers and vines and trees and water falls. Abigail Washburn played her banjo along with Casey Driesssen on fiddle. It was all rather lovely, except for those thunder clouds roaming the skies in the distance.

I went with my 8 year old son, who was a perfect gentleman in his jeans and little suit jacket. We sat on a stone fence in the back of the yard as all the white folding chairs were filled. Ben and his bride walked down the garden path and took their place in front of everyone. To a person, most have watched Ben grow up and become a major talent on the cello, traveling the world with the likes of Bela Fleck and Abigail and Otis Taylor. He came to us on WoodSongs (that's Ben on the left of the pic) as a scrawny 17 year old over-playing hot dog ... of course, he's not 17 anymore :)

I watched my little son next to me and wondered what Ben's dad must be thinking at this moment. Time screams through us like a piercing bullet that we have no control over. Life is way too fast.

So it was Ben's moment of moments. The vows were being said. At the very second the bride said "I will" and Ben placed the ring on her finger, a lightening bolt struck in the distance directly behind them in full view of everyone. You could tell who was on their second and third marriage because all their eyebrows flew up on their foreheads.

An omen? I don't believe in such things ... until the fellow offering up the wedding vows forgot Ben's name.

Yikes!

Then, for some reason, I thought of that pretty brown haired girl shaped like my Martin guitar that I met this past Monday. I wondered what it would be like finding a girl like her, standing in a garden like this, seeing her across from me and vowing the rest of your days to loving and taking care of a girl just like that.

Now, there, my friends, was a lightning bolt :)

Bluegrass Music and WoodSongs

2007-06-26T12:57:00.000-04:00

Last night, we had a celebration of Bluegrass music on WoodSongs.

And today, I am very, VERY tired :)

Bluegrass of course, is a passion of mine. Although I make no claims to be a "bluegrass" musician, but I've enjoyed playing with and recording with many bluegrass artists. And I love the gentle, family, and community nature of the music. Folk music used to be that way. Good, down home music brings the very best out in people. Like Bill Monroe said, it draws folks together and makes them friendly.

I often thought that if Sadam played the banjo he would have been a much nicer man ... might even still be alive today.

But last night was pretty amazing. First of all, the WoodSongs crew, all volunteers, did an AMAZING job of putting that show together. They come in at 1 in the afternoon, assembled the stage, set up cameras, ran cables, set mics, did sound check, brought in dinner, took care of the artists, sold their CDs ... let me go on stage and stumble around for an hour ... then rip it all down and packed it away in about 40 minutes.

It is like watching a ballet without the tutus.

JD Crowe, Ronnie Reno, Cherryholmes, Scott Napier and a band of teenagers called Kentucky Sassafrass were all on the stage. It was a monumental exercise in mental organization to get that show done in 59 minutes and 30 seconds with no editing ... but we did it. Very few mistakes, other than the fact that most of the notes I had on stage were wrong. But I have that same problem in life no less WoodSongs.

Governor Fletcher was on the show and signed a declaration making bluegrass the official music of the Commonwealth of Kentucky. What a very nice guy. And he stayed for the entire show. At the end, he even came back on stage while I did the TV commercial, holding my banjo in his three piece suite.

Now, I'm not a political person ... I could care less whether you are Democratic, Republicratic, or Automatic ... but when a guy has a freaking ROOT CANAL in the afternoon and comes on an international broadcast in front almost 2 million people plus a theater audience of 400 without even mentioning it, well ... 'nuff said on that.

Of course, everything was going great until I met this heart-stoppingly beautiful woman in the lobby. Brunette hair, soft smiling eyes, an hour-glass figure to die for ... she looked like my Martin guitar - only it jiggled. She even came up and talked to me. And I'll be darned I couldn't stop thinking about that and it kept me up half the night.

That's why I'm so tired today.

Folk on, my friends.

Show 444 - John Platania

2007-06-20T11:21:00.003-04:00

Sometimes, WoodSongs is fun.

Don't get me wrong, it's always a great time. But after 444 shows, the routine becomes evident and you sort of go into "auto-pilot." Which of course, is the life of an artist. Musicians and songwriters must cultivate a very high tolerance for repetition in order to survive.

Think about it: they write a song. Practice the song. Rehearse the song. Record the song. Make a music video of the song. Release the song. Radio plays the song. They perform the song. It becomes a hit and they play the darn thing every night for the rest of their career.

Now, I've never had a hit song ... granted. But I have performed over 2,500 Earth Concerts in less than four years which meant that I was playing the same song-set two, sometimes three times a day for up to six days a week ... for four years. It may not have been a hit record, but it sure felt like one.

I had a conversation a few years ago with a great songwriter who has had several global hit records. He described that, as much as he loves his songs and all they give him, it can be a bit of a struggle at times to stay interested in the moment of performance. Then he said something that really stuck with me:

"It must be horrible being Chuck Berry."

Please remember that we were speaking in the context of repetition. He wasn't implying anything about Chuck Berry personally, just the situation Chuck was in. You see, Chuck has a whole concert set of 2 1/2 minute hits, written in the same key of E with the same chord structure, and his audience and the promoters expect to hear every last one of those hits on stage that night. If he ever left out Johnny Be Good he would be booed off the stage.

"Massive hits" are awe inspiring events ... yet can feel like a bruise to your brain and vocal chords. It must be exciting at first, but after a decade or two and five thousand performances later it can't be all that interesting anymore. I guess that's why Arlo Guthrie stopped playing Alice's Restaurant for over a decade. He had to rest from it and he said so publicly. It didn't mean he didn't like the song or that he didn't appreciate how much the audience wanted to hear it. He simply needed a break. Obviously, he respects the song because he's playing it in concert again.

John Platania (pictured here) was on the show this past Monday. He is a brilliant and in-demand musician who toured with everyone from Van Morrison to Bonnie Raitt ... he toured with Don McLean for almost 15 years ... he made a living backing up these great songwriters with the huge hits that made those careers possible.

John has his own solo CD out. It really shows off his guitar style and voice and it becomes obvious why so many want to work with him. And he's a great guy. He's gone from side-man to front-man. And the sense of the repetition is different. It is no longer someone else's song. Now, he is singing his own songs. Every night. Every concert. Every performance. He was on the show with Chip Taylor, a wonderful songwriter and true gentleman who has seen several of his songs travel the years and go around the world. Chip plays Wild Thing and Angel Of The Morning every night. Every ... single ... night.

But here they are, traveling on and introducing their music to new audiences. Because at the very heart of them they are both artists, they both appreciate the audience, they both love what they are doing. And whether the next song becomes a hit or not, they choose to let the music live and breathe in the voices of the audiences they sing to.

And that is fun.

Michael

Tools of the Trade

2007-05-22T11:09:00.000-04:00

I get asked a lot about the guitars I use on stage. Which is nice, it means folks are listening and noticing. They look like pieces of art. To me anyway. I love my guitars. So here you go ...

All my guitars are Martin 12 fret, wide neck models. Why the wide neck? Because of tone and clarity. When you play a chord on a regular guitar, Martin or otherwise, you hear the wash of the chord. With a wide neck, especially these, you strum the chord and actually hear the individual notes that make up the chord. I love that. And I love the classic look of the slot tuners (pictured from left: Martin 00-28s, 000-28s and D-28s).

Specifically, I have a 1969 Martin 00-21s, a 1971 and 1974 Martin D-28s, a 2005 Martin 00-28 and two new Martin 000-28s guitars.

I use D'Addario phosphour bronze 80/20 medium guage strings on all of them. All have a McKinney capo that I leave on the nut of the guitar, I use .88 Dunlop ridged flat picks, .013 Dunlop steel finger picks and Goldengate large white thumb picks. I find the most convienient and accurate to be the Intellitouch Center Pitch tuner. Works great on banjos, too. I prefer a good, padded leather gig bag to a hard shell case. The best are made by Reunion Blues. I strap a small, leather Indian dream catcher to the B string tuner of the guitars. Always have and I don't know why. 'nuff said on that.

My favorite guitar is the Martin 000-28s. It is a perfect songwriter's tool. Let me rephrase that: it is a PERFECT songwriter's tool. The D-28s has a larger body which sounds awesome in a room but does not translate to mics very well. So the engineer has to EQ the bottom end down. Essentially, making is sound like the 000-28s. So why not just use the 000, I say?

Honestly, the real gem in my collection is the smaller body 00-28s. It sounds and records like an acoustic diamond, even more so than the 000. The 00-21s is the same body type and style, but the 00-28s has a deeper, richer tone. I can hear the wood. I used it throughout the new Walden album. The problem with the 00 is cosmetic. The smaller body makes the player (me) look bigger and every time I use it onstage I get a series of emails from fans suggesting I do something about my "sudden weight gain." Funny, but true. This is the strange road that always leads me to my Martin 000-28 slot neck, 12 fret guitar.

It is balanced, rich, easy on the eyes, different from the rest and DANG it sounds pretty. Back in the day, I would protect my Martin guitars at all cost. Even at big stages with union stage managers. I would stare them in the eye and say,

"There's my Martin - and over here is my wife. Don't EVER let me catch you messing with my Martin."

... at least I still have those Martins :)

I'm Baaaaaack ....

2007-05-11T11:21:00.000-04:00

Greetings WoodSongs Fans,

Yes, it's been a while since I've been on here. I guess I had a difficult time seeing my friend Homer Ledford drift down the page since his passing. It's hard to have someone that close pass on. But life, music and love move forward ... so I'm back.

There's a lot going on.
A LOT.

I just got back from performing at the Las Vegas Cable TV Convention with my music buds Ronnie Reno and Stan Hitchkock, from BlueHighways TV. I'll be telling you more about BlueHighways in the weeks to come.

Vegas was an awesome place but it made me miss my farmhouse. Aside from sweating through three songs of KC and the Sunshine Band (yeeks) A high point was sitting on stools in the middle of this convention center surrounded by all these huge Cable Network booths swapping old Pete Seeger songs on a Deering Good Time banjo (this is the pic: Ronnie Reno, Me and some corporate dude from a cable channel).

Anyway, WoodSongs has been making a major move onto PBS stations around the nation. It's already airing in millions of USA TV homes. I'm excited to fill you in - so check back often!

Folk on,
Michael

2006 Kentucky Star Award

2006-10-18T13:08:00.000-04:00

So, last night the community I live in awarded me a 2006 Kentucky Star Award. And it was very humbling. Others given this award are folks like Bill Monroe, Loretta Lynn, Rosemary Clooney, author Bobby Ann Mason, and Tom T. Hall. My little star of a career casts no light in the reflection of these other folks. I went to the theater and wondered out loud to my friend Bryan if they would spell my name right on the award. When I got the Stephen Foster Award earlier this year they spelled it wrong. It sits on my shelf, all important looking, but with my name spelled funny.

Sitting on stage during the ceremony I looked into the theater and saw so many of my friends in the audience. I was glad they were there. I needed them to be there. During my introduction I listened to the MC recount the road I took to get to this stage, this moment, this award. He talked about how I left New York at 19 and moving to the Mexican border to become a DJ in Laredo, Texas. Hearing Turn, Turn, Turn by The Byrds and noticing it was written by my neighbor, Pete Seeger. Deciding to leave Laredo and become a folksinger, moving into the little hamlet of Mousie, Kentucky. My daughter Melody was born there. Learning the Appalchian music and songs and traveling up and down the hollers learning the music. Starting touring and recording. The Troubadour Concert Series. The miles. The books. The songs. The records ... some good, some bad ... all the way to the WoodSongs Old-Time Radio Hour. Now the Evening Song album and the Walden play.

It was a nice introduction, very flattering. But I felt tired after hearing all we've done in such a short amount of time. Wow, it's a lot of work to do this thing we call "playing."

He called my name and the audience stood up as I walked to the stage. Some of my friends made believe they were doing the wave as I came to the podium. I looked out and sitting in the crowd, about ten rows up right in the middle of the theater, was the most lovely and beautiful of sights ... Colista Ledford came all the way to Lexington to be there. Colista is the loyal, loving and magnificient wife of my friend Homer Ledford. The WoodSongs theme on the radio show is a tune called Colista's Jam that I began writing on the Ledford's couch one afternoon, long ago.

And I thought about my friend Homer, a sweet, gentle and humble man. Homer is a great bluegrass musician, a brilliant luthier. He married a woman full of joy and devotion and love and he, in turn, provided her with a life of family, friends, comfort, and music. Colita was Homer's second choice for a date one night after another woman he asked out stood him up. Till this day he says it was the "best 25 cent movie he's ever seen." Colista say's how happy she is "that crazy woman cancelled on Homer" so she could have her chance with him. Homer is a very lucky man. They have been married 51 years. Homer hasn't been feeling very well these days. He stopped working in his little wood shop and the music that resonated from his handcrafted instruments now drift through the air in the hands of other players, not his own. It took extraordinary effort for Colista to leave Homer's side for this occasion ... but she was there.

Homer is a real Kentucky Star. Not me. Homer embodies what an honor like this means. Not me. Homer is a Kentucky musical treasure. And there are others - like the brilliant John Jacob Niles - who deserve one and still waits from his grave for his Star. John Jacob Niles is a Kentucky Star. Not me. But there I was ... holding my award. After I said my Thanks, some pictures were taken and the audience stood up again. It was very sweet. Very moving. All so very nice.

And then, in the most fitting of ironies, I sat back down and looked at my award, awash in the glory of the moment, to find that: Yes, they mispelled my name. Again :)

Michael "JHonathon"
Kentucky Star

My Hometown

2006-08-29T16:18:00.000-04:00

An old European poet once said, "If everyone in the world simply took care of their own homes, you wouldn't have to worry about the world anymore." In the 1960s that phrase became a bumper sticker, "Think globally ... Act Locally."

I grew up in New York, a little town called Fishkill in Dutchess County. Pete Seeger lived nearby and I would go to his Stawberry Festival each summer and watch the folksingers play along the shores of the Hudson River. I liked that Pete had a national career but would be seen walking the sidewalks of his hometown, shopping at the Grand Union, attending his local Sloop meetings ... being part of a hometown with his family.

I don't live in New York anymore, obviously. I moved south into a land of mountains and music and garden tomatoes and coal mines. Aside from my family, the memories of my old home have been replaced by my new hometown. Now, I live in Lexington, Kentucky. It's a wonderful, friendly, beautiful, creative place full of good people, and families, and nice schools and a thriving artist community. There are not many places as wonderful as Lexington. Except, maybe, your hometown. But I love Kentucky. It fits me. I have been able to play music, write books, make records, create something as adventerous as the WoodSongs Old-Time Radio Hour and raise my children here. My hometown sits in a nice part of America, we are a short 6 hour drive to 32 million people. It sits at the foothills of the Appalachian moountains and the music, the art, the crafts and the spirit of that old way of life still lingers in the air.

But the past couple weeks have been hard for my friends in Lexington. There was a bomb scare that shut down several city blocks. A jet with 50 people, mostly from Lexington, crashed after taking off from the wrong runway. All but one perished. A friend of mine, Larry Turner, was on that plane. Two WoodSongs crew members, Dr. Bob and Mary DeMatinna, were at the airport and watched Larry's plane explode in a ball of fire as it crashed. A couple of days later, a mom and dad were arrested for killing their child and burning the body in the woods after claiming the child was kidnapped. Another mother got angry and drove her children into a lake. One of the kids died.

My hometown has been hit hard.

I mention all of this to show that every hometown is both wonderful and beautiful and yet still struggles like any another. Each hometown grapples to keep it's sidewalks clean and schools running and roads paved and workers working. I liked what Pete did, working on his national career but still paying attention to, and being an active part of, his own hometown. Each home town is made better by the involvement of those who chose to live there.

An artist can learn a lot from Pete by getting involved one way or another, through hard work or music, in their hometowns. Whether you sing at a homeless shelter or pick up trash along a creek bed ... it's part of the responsibility of a hometown, I suppose. After all, if you don't care about where you're from, why should anyone care about where you are going.

'nuff said.
Michael
Lexington, Kentucky

Artists & Krit-Icks

2006-08-08T14:19:00.000-04:00

My Blog entry today is a slightly edited letter I sent to a wonderful actress who got creamed in a review by her local paper. It really hurt her and she didn't deserve it. The review was, at the very least, rude. I hate it when critics, who can't accomplish much other than spewing opinion, publicly redicule those who are at least trying. I think artists deserve better. If you don't like something, ignore it. But for Pete's sake, don't strangle someone's spirit in public:

A few years ago, a critic reviewed by album, Dreams of Fire. I recorded it with a 61 piece symphony and worked my butt off on it for almost a year. The album was getting rave reviews all over the country ... and then this reviewer got hold of it and gave Dreams of Fire a horrible, personal, scathing review in print right here in my own hometown.

It rattled me. For a minute. A couple years later, a friend of mine in Ireland released a cassette of his songs and sent them to his local paper. The critic burned, tarred and feathered my friend's little cassette release of his songs. The review was so bad his mother didn't leave her house for almost 2 weeks. After my friend called me, in tears, to tell me he was quitting his music, my heart broke for him. Because I knew exactly how he felt.

So I wrote my friend a song, called WoodSongs. a song of victory of an artist's will over critics, became the title of my next album, which was turned into a book, that I turned into a radio show, that became a national tour, podcast, and now a national TV series on PBS. So much for the critic.

I write all of this because I think all of you, whether amateur songwriter, living room couch performer or professional, are an incredibly talented, brilliant and beautiful in sprit. Remember, the critic creates nothing. The artist remains the source of inspiration ... even if it means getting off your bloodied knees all the time. Some words for all artists to consider:

"Fear not the voice of the critic, for no man ever erected a statue in honour of a critic"- Finnish Composer

"It is much easier to tare down than to build, it takes less talent to scoff than to create, it is the essense of laziness to be critical ... than to be correct" - Benjamin DeSreali

"Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs even though checkered by failure, than to rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy nor suffer much because they live in the gray twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat." - Theodore Roosevelt

"Twenty years from now you will be more dissappointed by the things you DIDN'T do than by the ones you DID. So throw off your anchors. Sail away from safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore . . Dream . . . Discover." - Mark Twain

"In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit." - Albert Schweitzer

Daughters & Daddys

2006-07-09T14:04:00.000-04:00

I love my daughters.

I have two and I love them both equally and whole souled. This is a recent picture of Rachel when she got her face painted at Disney World.

Melody Larkin is a wonderful, brilliant and amazing young woman. Rachel Aubrey is fiesty and brash and blazing. Melody is exactly like me and yet so different my eyes spin just thinking about it. It has come to be my absolute belief that the greatest source of joy and of pain for any man’s heart is inflicted not by his lover . . . it is from his daughter.

In my heart of hearts, it is hard to "allow" them to grow up. I want Melody to be young still, needing me and worshiping the ground I walk on. The greatest boost to my self-esteem and ego that I have ever experienced is the wide-eyed look of shear joy in my daughter’s eyes when she would see me. I miss it ... I miss the "little-girl" her.

Yet I am in awe and totally bewildered of the young, independent woman she has become. She draws me and confuses me. Nothingcan make me feel relaxed or less protective of her, even though I’m the very last person on this planet she wants to have tell her what to do. I guess it is a right of passage as young girls grows up: They discard the very things they needed when they were little to prove to themselves they are not little anymore.

And here is the brutal attack on my ego:

She’s doing a great job without me.
And here I hoped and prayed that I would be eternally indispensable. How dare she be so complete in her life without her dad.

Probably the most difficult adjustment I had to make in my viewpoint toward Melody was her first boyfriend. What a wanker. I wanted to ring the little jerk’s neck but, no, you smile and take them out for hamburgers instead. I think a father’s greatest fear is that another man will view his daughter the same way we know all boys actually think about girls.

Not my daughter you don’t. Not my precious, innocent angel that I would carry in one arm and cuddle up to on the couch and call “Monkey” because she would stuff a whole banana in her mouth all at once and who just finished high school and got through her third car wreck and keeps asking me for money all the time.

She is exempt from guys like him.

So what can I say about my little girls? You are both the very best of everything I wish I was and still yearn to be. You are everything I have worked for and lost and regained. You are the forgiveness and redemption of every mistake I’ve made and the blessing of everything wonderful I could ever ask for. My life is nothing without you in it. And I would give my life and my heart for you in an instant with absolutely no hesitation. And I struggle to grow with you and re-learn about you both. You are changing so fast and, in the lament of the little girls you used to be, I celebrate with great pride the young women you have become.

There is no greater hole in my heart, no brighter fire in my spirit, no more precious gem in my life than for you, my beautiful daughters.

Michael
folksinger - tree hugger - daddy
folkboy@woodsongs.com

Fathers & Sons

2006-06-05T09:54:00.000-04:00

Being a Dad means taking only the green icepops.

My father died five days before I was born. His absence created a huge, gaping hole my entire young life not knowing him, missing someone I never met and not fully understanding why. Wishing my dad was there, wishing he could talk to me or help me out of my mistakes. I wish he was there just to celebrate the good stuff and be proud of me when I did good.

Dads come in handy that way.
Fathers can validate the reason you exist simply by being proud of you.

My own son is seven years old. His mom decided to dismantle the marriage when he was just three months old. And, like his sisters, my world revolves around what he is, what he does, what he gets excited about. Which is, frankly, everything from Batman to baseball. He likes to jump off my bed to watch his super hero cape fly and he goes to sleep holding the baseball I caught for him at a Lexington Legends game. When I wrote my books WoodSongs I and WoodSongs II, alot was included about his sisters. I've written songs and poems about his sisters ... but never MichaelB. I think not knowing my father and then suddenly having a son, a male connection to my dad, had a volcanic impact on me. It left me creatively speechless.

This is a picture of MichaelB. He hates this picture because he thinks he looks goofy. I love it because it captures the cuddly, lovable, fused-to-daddy's hip little boy that he is. And I know this mini-me part of his life is drifting away quickly. So, I spend as much time with him as I can. Which is a lot. I think I missed that chance with Melody too much, so I might be overcompensating. Either way, what a beautiful, tender, innocent and amazing little person he is. If I could go to a store and select a child like we select a car or anything else, I would have picked exactly who he is. And Rachel. And Melody. I love them beyond my ability to express. Verbally or musically.

Last week, Rachel graduated middle school. There she was ... busy with her friends, full of her life and her future and how she looked and what I did and didn't do exactly right. Just like little girls turning into young women do to there dads. I loved every second of it.

And mom was there, too. Much to my surprise, she sat with me and the kids this time. And during Rachel's graduation ceremony, MichaelB reached for my hand, and then his mom's hand. And squeezed them both together and pulled them toward his chest. And it occurred to me that this beautiful, precious little boy never had his mom and dad tuck him into bed at night, never had his mom and dad together at a breakfast table, never played catch with his father while his mom made dinner in the kitchen at the farmhouse.

And I wanted to burst inside myself with frustration and failure. Isn't he worth that? Doesn't he deserve that? Isn't this little boy worthy of whatever sacrifice his parents should make to give him that?

Instead I sat there, silent as MichaelB had that rare moment of holding both parents hands at the same time. And I thought about being a dad. Missing my dad. Wishing I could talk about this and vent to my own father. And I thought about being a good dad and how I had to work really, really hard to be one for this little boy. I thought about the incredible joy of sacrifice these little souls need from their parents.

And I thought about those icepops.
How Rachel likes the strawberry.
MichaelB likes the grape.
That leaves Dad only the green ones.

... and I hate the green ones.

Folk on,
Michael Johnathon
folkboy@woodsongs.com

Roger McGuinn

2006-05-23T09:06:00.000-04:00

When I was 19, I left my home in New York. Actually, without going too deeply into it, I fled. And I ended up on the Mexican border in a dusty town of Laredo, Texas. What an adventure ... what food ... what music. And the people were so sweet and humble, a land full of incredible contrasts. The culture shock of going from a place like New York to the Mexican and cowboy communities of south Texas was jolting, to say the least.

I can still feel the intensity of 109 degrees in the afternoon sun, standing in the desert outside of Cotula, south of San Antonio. The sun was so intense it literally pounded up off the stone and rocks and you could feel it pulsating against your skin. And yet, that same furnace of a desert, come the winter rains, would burst into a carpet of yellow, purple and white flowers in January.

And the food. How can I describe a fajitas steak grilled over hot mesquite coals that are covered in raw onion? The steam of the onion broils into the steak with the nutty flavor of the mesquite. That, plus a hot flower tortilla, a cold Tecate beer and a hammock about 6 in the evening as the sun starts to go down ... it's heaven.

But mostly the people left the biggest mark on my young heart. They are so sweet and humble. And willing. And hard working. I know there is a lot of angst and discussion over those that come to America illegally right now. But when you're living there and meeting them in the streets ... not criminals or vagrents ... but family people, fathers and sons mostly looking for jobs, you're heart really goes out to them. All they want is an honorable chance to work.

And there are those that argue that America was built of folks just like that 200 years ago. And it's true. But this isn't America of the past, this is America now. America with 300 million people, and laws, and property, and economy. And this is America with strangers hijacking planes and slamming into buildings. My cousin worked in the 81st floor of the second tower hit on 9/11. It's a different America than it was 200 years ago.

I was just a kid, bathing in all of that new experiance. I found a part time job as a DJ on KLAR AM there in Laredo. One night, I played a song by Roger McGuinn and The Byrds called Turn, Turn, Turn. By the time the song ended, for some reason, I decided I would leave Laredo and become a folksinger, of all things. A few months later, I landed in the tiny hamlet of Mousie, Kentucky with my guitar and banjo.

Fast forward to 2006 ... Last night, Roger McGuinn was on WoodSongs. For the second time. And after the show, along with his amazing wife Camilla, we had dinner and talked for a couple of hours. He's an amazing man, a brilliant musician and artist, a loving husband. And a pretty cool hero to a young guy playing records at 4 in the morning in a dusty little town so long ago.

As Roger and Camilla left for the hotel at midnight, I couldn't help but relive the night that I played his song on that radio station. It changed everything in just two minutes and thirty seconds. And I can still see the desert. I can still taste the fresh flower tortillas. I can still hear the sound of frightened people walking past my house early in the morning as they made their way up from the Rio Grande and into the deserts outside of Laredo, searching for the hope of this place called America.

Folk on,
Micheal Johnathon
folksinger - tree hugger
folkboy@woodsongs.com