Pinching the idea from another writer friend of mine who did this exercise at social media, I will be spreading these posts between others.
I’m not an OCD type per se, but I do alphabetize my music and comic books and worse, in sequential order of their release. More significant and tedious with music if you’re not an aficionado or a journalist, which I have been both.
At an older blog of mine, I actually began listening to every single album in my then 3,600-unit collection and posting one sentence comments on them. An arduous task, I made it to the middle of my B’s before my time grew tighter and frankly, readership interest waned. I was wanking, I own it.
So here, I will be picking one album for each letter of the alphabet, and I’ll drop a brief blurb about what the album of choice means to me.
Let’s begin with Fiona Apple’s 1999 album, When the Pawn…
Tori Amos and PJ Harvey opened my eyes to female angst rock, while Ani DiFranco showed me how imperative a knuckle down (pun intended) folk-punk approach to acoustic with blistering social commentary sounded. Fiona Apple sang in a jittery, sometimes unhinged key of depressive mania, and I adored it upon first contact.
I haven’t done one of these in a while, so here we go!
One: It’s been many moons since I’ve done open mike, but what a great return with my wife, TJ and our friend, Lauretta, who scouted us The New Outlaws poetry series at The Depot in Baltimore. Great crowd, sharp talent, new friends made in an old punk rock forum. I was a little choppy and speedy from years of inactivity in the forum, but my three pieces really hit home, and the audience reacted enthusiastically and laughed when I wanted them to.
It was the instant friendships made afterwards that meant the most. That’s how it happened back in the day of other open mikes I used to read at frequently in Frederick and Westminster, MD. TJ and Lauretta also delivered strong, TJ writing her third piece in the nick of time, pun intended. A deep and winding poem called “Time,” woven in the same timing and scheme as Poe’s “The Bells,” which she masterfully delivered as a guest reader at this year’s “Doomsday” 24-hour Poe reading event. My heart is singing.
Two: You know where I’m at and why I’m here. Georgetown, Washington, DC, at M and Prospect Streets. Those haunting chimes of Mike Oldfield’s “Tubular Bells” should be twinkling in your ears right now. I’m talking about 97 steps made notorious in The Exorcist, one of the many elements of horror going into my new collection, Behind the Shadows. I felt a little return pilgrimage with Shadows only a couple months away from terrorizing you felt appropriate.
Three: Fall is here! Pumpkin spice everything, cooler temperatures, Nature’s majesty truly revealed with the changing of palettes. A holiday festival for horror. A time of renewal and reflection with our ancestors at Samhain. Best of all, gorgeous hikes with the one you love.
Four: I’ve written 17 short stories this year, landed three thus far and waiting on statuses for many of the remainders. I finished a wild werewolf story (if I do say so myself) this week for an anthology seeking those specifically, but I also resumed work on my next novel. As you all know, I listen to a lot of film scores when I write, but you know the writing’s getting serious when I break out this audile artillery.
Five: Tonight, I am taking my son to his very first concert, the Marley Brothers, who are touring as a family to spin the gospel of their father, Bob’s immortal songs of freedom. My kid’s a gigantic Bob Marley fan, learned to play “Redemption Song” on his guitar all through video tutorials and tonight is gonna special. I got him his own Bob Marley shirt for the occasion, and I’ll be touting Rastacore legends Bad Brains across my chest. I’ve been waiting for my son to have his first live concert experience and I’ll be a little choked up tonight it’s with the Marleys.
Greatest bluesman ever? Probably, but one of the absolute first to be recognized for his sweaty Mississippi licks and an empathetic conjuring of Everyman’s drudgery through his tumbling odes to oppression. Johnson is the first figure you greet if you do the Rock ‘n Roll Hall of Fame on its correct trajectory. He is the foundation of Delta blues, juke joint, old school country, 1950s rock ‘n roll and the early whiffs of soul.
Robert Johnson was gifted beyond words as a maverick musician of The Great Depression. He only had two recording sessions in 1937 and 1938, originally pressed on the ancient 78 rpm acetate records of the times. Johnson died at the far too young age of 27, the same age as future rock legends Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin and Jim Morrison. Let that factoid sink in a moment. All of them, masters of their craft in the prime of their youth, snuffed out at exactly the same age. Conspiracy theorists may even have a go with the “J” factor in linking the freaky weird deaths of all four artists.
You may have heard rumors Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil himself to acquire his gifts, for which a brutal tender came due. Lighting in a bottle spelling immortality for history, if not a substantial lifespan. Johnson had hellhounds on his trail, after all. I bet the other “J’s” did too.
So this came in the mail yesterday, signed by the completely rad Melanie Kinnaman, one of the best Final Girls in horror history, not just the Friday the 13th series. Melanie brought a rare pedigree to the franchise already having aced it in Best of the Best, another of my favorite 80s flicks. Friday V may be rightfully maligned, but it also has bright spots, Melanie’s Pam shining above all.
I remember us all carrying on like lunatics at the theater for Friday the 13th Part V: A New Beginning, then people throwing stuff at the screen at the cringeworthy reveal. As I said on her page, however, it was the only time I recall people saying it was nice to see the only female character of class survive with young Reggie, whom we cheered for all movie long.
Funny what stories you tell each other sometimes first waking up. A scary story behind this treasured pic with the Queen of Metal, Doro Pesch. One from the road dogging files. I had been covering another show at The Nokia in Times Square, Manhattan the night before and didn’t leave the city until 2:30 a.m., driving home all the way and getting only a couple hours of sleep. I had an on-site interview with Doro and Chris Caffery of Savatage and Trans-Siberian Orchestra in Virginia the following day.
At this time of my life in 2006, I was covering 8-10 concerts a month and getting 3 to 3.5 hours of sleep a night after transcribing interviews and getting my copy turned in for deadline. Back up for my day job, which has been in the grueling title industry for 27 years. If you’ve been in it, you know it’s a business that kicks your ass constantly.
Eventually this dual lifestyle is going to take its toll, and sure enough, after leaving the Doro gig after a final chat with the lady, her way tour manager, Johnny Dee and Chris Caffery, I got back on the road on a work night at 1:30 a.m. with a 2.5-hour drive. I’ll never forget the absolute terror I felt finding myself at a complete stop in my old Ford Ranger pickup in the middle of the road. I’d passed out behind the wheel, beyond fortunate nobody had been coming.
The divine was looking out for me that night, and it would still be another year until my future son came to us for foster care, then adoption, before I slowed my roll and got more sleep. As with my entire life, I have pushed myself like a rabid dog to make my writing pursuits blossom and flourish. Responsibilities first, sensibilities, well…lol. Thankfully I’m still here to talk about it.
Roads Lesser Traveled 