Scot Sier’s “Heads or Tales” Album Playlist
Songs from my up coming album, “Heads or Tales” on Tonedog Records.
Scot Sier’s Americana Roots Playlist
Americana and Folk Playlist:
“There Goes The Neighborhood” – Scene Two, Act One
Overview: There Goes The Neighborhood” is a beat opera that I wrote and recorded while I was living in Glen Ellen, California in 1994. It is a gritty Faustian tale that pays homage to William Burroughs and the beat writers and junkie poets of the 60′s and 70′s.
SCENE 2
SETTING: OPENS AGAINST STREET BACKDROP ON CORNER WHERE TANYA TRICKS.
AT RISE: TANYA IS BEING TAUNTED BY A COUPLE OF STREET PUNKS AS SHE WALKS BY.
BRO1: UM, UM, LOOK AT THAT SWEET POTATO PIE COMIN’ THIS WAY, AINT SHE FINE! (TURNS TO PARTNER) LOOK AT THAT BOODIE, WOULD YA. (TAUNTING TANYA) HEY BABY, WHY DONTCHA’ GIVE A LITTLE TASTE OF THAT, GIVE ME SOME OF THAT SUGAR, UM, UM…
BRO2: (DRUNK) SHE LOOK LIKE ONE OF THEM 5TH STREET JUNKY HOS, O.D. IN MID STROKE AND END UP CHOKIN’ ON YOUR DIC. THEY PUT YOU IN JAIL FOR ATTEMPTED MURDER! (LAUGHS AND TAKES A SWIG OFF
OF BROWN BAGGED BOTTLE)
BRO1: SHE AIN’T ABOUT TO O.D. WITH MY DIC IN THE BITCH! THIS MOTHER FUCKER BEEN KNOWN TO REVIVE A FEW LADIES IN IT’S TIME. GOT SOME GUICHEE RIGHTCHERE! (GRABS CROTCH, LAUGHING) HEY BABY, I GOT TEN DOLLARS SAYS YOU EAT SNAKE MEAT.
TANYA: (SARCASTIC) YOU ABOUT AS UGLY AS A SNAKE AND SKINNY AS ONE TO!
BRO1: LOOK WHOS TALKIN’!
TANYA: WHY DON’T YOU GET YOUR MAMMA TO SUCK YOUR DIC! AINT’SHE THAT HO DOWN ON THIRD WITH THE BIG ASS? (STRUTS BY AND FLIPS HIM OFF) I GOT CLASS FOOL.
BRO2: CLASS, WHAT YOU TALKIN’ BOUT, CLASS, YOU A HO!
BRO1: AINT NOTHIN’ BUT A TEN DOLLA’ HO TO! (HE WALKS UP TO TANYA HAND IN THE AIR PREPARED TO SLAP HER AS SHE TURNS) YOU BEST BE WATCHIN’ HOW YOU TALK TO ME SISTER, I’LL SLAP YOU DOWN TALKIN’ ABOUT MY MAMMA LIKE THAT.
(JAZZMAN WALKS ON TO STAGE AND INTERRUPTS ALTERCATION)
JAZZMAN: (GRABS BRO1 AND PUSHES HIM OUT OF THE WAY) HEY COOL OUT BROTHER, SHE AINT DONE NOTHIN’ TO YOU.
BRO1: FUCK SHE AINT! THE BITCH SAID MY MAMMA WAS A HO! (LOOKS OVER AT BRO2) YOU HEARD HER.
BRO2: YEAH, SHE DID, THAT WOMAN GOT TO SHOW SOME RESPECT. (TAKES ANOTHER SWIG FROM BOTTLE)
TANYA: (RUNS OVER AND HITS HIM OVER THE HEAD WITH HER PURSE) I’LL SHOW YOU RESPECT, FOOL!
BRO2: HEY, HEY! GET AWAY FROM ME BITCH! (DROPS BOTTE AND IT BREAKS) SHIT! NOW LOOK WHAT YOU DID!
JAZZMAN: (GRABS TANYA) OK, GIRL! COOL OUT, BABY! (LOOKS AT BOTH BROTHERS) YOU FUCKIN’ WITH THE WRONG GIRL! (LAUGHS TO HIMSELF)
TANYA: YOU TELL EM’, JAZZMAN! I’LL WOOP EM’ UPSIDE THE HEAD SO HARD, THEIR HAIR GONNA STRAIGHTEN. NAPPY-HEADED FOOLS! (LUNGES AT THEM WITH HER PURSE AGAIN)
BRO1: (QUESTIONING) YOU HER PIMP OR SOMETHIN’?
JAZZMAN: DO I LOOK LIKE A PIMP? NOW GET THE FUCK OUT THE WAY, BEFORE I KNOCK YOU OUT THE WAY! (GETS IN THE HIS FACE PREPARING FOR A FIGHT) GO WHICH YOURSELF, SHE AIN’T WORTH FIGHTING ABOUT ANYWAY.
(BRO1 TURNS AWAY AND MUMBLES) CRAZY MOTHER FUCKER!
TANYA: THAT’S RIGHT, YOU STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROME ME YOU GOT THAT, OR JAZZMAN GONNA KICK YOUR ASS, AINT YOU, BABY! (WALKS UP TO JAZZMAN AND PUTS HER ARAM AROUND HIM)
BRO1: NOW YOU GONNA TALK SOME SHIT CAUSE YOU GOT SOME FOOL TO BACK YOU UP. I BEST NOT SEE EITHER ONE OF YOU AROUND HERE AGAIN. (MUMBLES TO HIMSELF) I’LL CUT YOU MAN.
JAZZMAN: (GRABS BRO1 BY SHIRT COLLAR) GET THE FUCK OUT MY FACE! (THROWS HIM TO THE GROUND)
BRO1: (GETS UP AND DUST HIM SELF OFF) YOU AINT HEARD THE LAST FROM ME, FOOL!
(BRO1 AND 2 WALK OFF STAGE, CURSING)
BRO2: (TURNS TO BRO1) YOU GONNA LET HIM DO THAT TO YOU? SHIT! I WOULDA’ KICKED HIS ASS!
BRO1: (LAUGHS) YOU? SHIT!
THEY EXIT STAGE
JAZZMAN: DAMN GIRL!
TANYA: DON’T YOU DAMN ME, JAZZMAN! I WAS MINDIN’ MY OWN BUSINESS WHEN THOSE TWO FOOLS STARTED IN ON ME. (PUTS ARMS AROUND JAZZMAN) SO, WHAT YOU BEEN UP TO LATELY, JAZZMAN?
JAZZMAN: LOOKIN’ OUT FOR YOU GIRL, YOU SEEM TO ALWAYS FIND TROUBLE. YOU STILL RIDIN’ THE TRAIN?
TANYA: YEAH, YOU GOT ANY? I GOT TO FIX REAL BAD.
JAZZMAN: NO BABY, I’M CHILLIN’. I AIN’T COPPED SINCE ME AND THAT WRITER OF YOURS GOT INTO IT.
TANYA: YEAH, HE SAID YOU BETTER HAVE NINE LIVES, CAUSE HE GONNA’ WOOP YOUR ASS! (LAUGHING)
JAZZMAN: WHIP MY ASS? SHIT, WAIT TILL I SEE HIS WHITE ASS! HE THE ONE GONNA WISH HE HAD NINE LIVES, AIN’T HE A TRIP!
TANYA: YOU SEE BOBBY T ROUND?
JAZZMAN: NOPE, I AINT SEEN HIM SINCE I CLEANED UP.
TANYA: YOU? CLEAN”,! COME ON, NOW.
JAZZMAN: I AM GIRL, HEADIN’ DOWN TO THE METH CLINIC TO SEE REVEREND JONES, YOU WANNA’ COME ALONG?
TANYA: I DON’T NEED NO PREACHER, I NEED A FIX BABY!
JAZZMAN: YOU NEED SOME GERI CURL BY THE LOOKS OF YOUR NAPPY HEAD! LOOK AT YOUR HAIR! (RUNS HIS FINGERS THROUGH TANYA’S HAIR) AND THEM BAGS UNDER YOUR EYES. UM, UM, YOU LOOKIN’ TWICE YOUR AGE AND YOU LOSE ANY MORE WEIGHT, YOU GONNA DISAPPEAR!…..
TANYA: I GONNA DISAPPEAR ALRIGHT…. FROM YOU, YOU KEEP TALKIN’ ABOUT ME LIKE THAT!
JAZZMAN: YOU LOOKIN’ LIKE SHIT GIRL!
TANYA: FUCK YOU, JAZZMAN! LEAVE ME ALONE.
JAZZMAN: COME ON, TANYA! (PUTS HIS ARM AROUND HER) YOU KNOW THE ONLY REASON WHY I SAY THAT CAUSE’ I CARE ABOUT YOU.
(BREAKS INTO “LITTLE SISTER” SONG)
(SOUNDTRACK ) LITTLE SISTER
LITTLE SISTER WHERE YOU BEEN
YOU LOOKIN’ TIRED GIRL YOU BEEN USIN’ AGAIN
LITTLE SISTER WHERE YOU BEEN
HANGING ON THE CORNER GIRL SELLIN’ YOURSELF AGAIN
EVERYBODY’S GOT A REASON WHY THEY’RE USING
THEY DON’T UNDERSTAND WHAT THEY ARE ABUSING
KEEP IT UP GIRL AND YOU WILL SEE
YOU’VE BEEN BURIED ALIVE, ONE TWO, THREE
TELL IT LIKE IT IS FOR SURE
YOU GOT THE FIX BABY AND THEIR AINT NO CURE
TELL IT LIKE IT IS FOR SURE
YOU GOT THE FIX BABY AND THEIR AINT NO CURE
LITTLE SISTER WHERE’S YOUR PRIDE
IT AINT YOUR COLOR GIRL THAT MAKE YOU LIVE THE LIE
LITTLE SISTER DON’T YOU CRY
THE CRACK INSIDE YOUR MIND WILL LEAVE YOUR WORLD DEPRIVED
EVERYBODY’S GOT A REASON WHY THEY’RE USING
THEY DON’T UNDERSTAND WHAT THEY ARE ABUSING
KEEP IT UP GIRL AND YOU WILL SEE
YOU’VE BEEN BURIED ALIVE, ONE TWO, THREE
TELL IT LIKE IT IS FOR SURE
YOU GOT THE FIX BABY AND THEIR AINT NO CURE
TELL IT LIKE IT IS FOR SURE
YOU GOT THE FIX BABY AINT THEIR AINT NO CURE
WELL YOU GOTTA’ LOOK CLOSE AS TO WHO YOU ARE
TEMPTATIONS ON THE STREET WILL GET YOU SO FAR
YOU CAN LIVE YOUR LIFE LIKE A JUNKY ON THE BEAT
WITH A MONEKY ON HIS BACK THAT IS ALWAYS IN HEAT
CHANCES ARE IF YOU CHOSE TO TAKE THE LATTER
YOU’RE GONNA FIND YOURSELF SWIMMIN’ IN HOT WATER
WITH THE SHARKS AND THE PIMPS AND THE BLOODS AND THE CRIPS
SIX FEET WHOLE IS WHERE YOU’RE GONNA SLIP
WITH YOUR WINE AND YOUR WOMEN AND YOUR FANCY CLOTHES
IT WILL DO YOU NO GOOD SIX FEET IN THE HOLE
LIVE FAST DIE YOUNG THAT’S THE TOOLS OF THE TRADE
TRIGGER MAN HAPPY GONNA MAKE HIS DAY
NO RESPECT FOR LIFE OR OTHERS ALL AROUND
INNOCENT DEATH AS HE FIRES OFF A ROUND
HE’S A MAN WITH POWER HE’S A MAN WITH GREED
HE’S A LOW MOTHER FUCKER WHO CAN HARDLY READ
HE’S A USER AND ABUSER OF THE MONETARY WEALTH
HE WILL YOU SET UP THAN GO DOWN HIMSELF
TELL IT LIKE IT IS FOR SURE
YOU GOT THE FIX BABY AND THEIR AINT NO CURE
TELL IT LIKE IT IS FOR SURE
YOU GOT THE FIX BABY AINT THEIR AINT NO CURE
(TANYA PUSHES JAZZMAN OUT OF THE WAY)
TANYA: I AINT’ LOOKIN’ TIRED MOTHER FUCKER, GET THE FUCK OUT MY WAY!
JAZZMAN: COME ON TANYA, YOU DESERVE BETTER THEN THIS. WE GOT TO STICK TOGETHER LIKE OLD TIMES. WHEN’S THE LAST TIME YOU SEEN THAT LITTLE GIRL OF YOURS?
TANYA: YOU KEEP HER OUT OF THIS.
JAZZMAN: OPEN YOUR EYES GIRL, THAT HERON’ DONE MADE YOU BLIND.
TANYA: I AINT BLIND! YOU’RE THE ONE WHO NEEDS GLASSES. YOU GO TELL THE WORLD HOW CLEAN YOU ARE TODAY, NEXT WEEK YOU BE BEGGIN’ FOR A TASTE. I KNOW YOU JAZZMAN, (TALKING TO HER SELF) GETTING’ ALL HIGH UP ON ME LIKE THAT.
JAZZMAN: I AINT THE SAME JAZZMAN BABY, I GOT ME A HOUSE GIG ON 25TH, PAY IS GOOD TO, AS LONG AS I STAY STRAIGHT.
TANYA: YOU ABOUT AS STRAIGHT AS A PUBIC HAIR! NOW, YOU GO ON ALONG AND TOOT THAT HORN OF YOURS SOMEHWERE ELSE. I GOT TO FIND BOBY T.
JAZZMAN: GO ON, THROW YOUR LIFE AWAY GIRL!
TANYA: LEAVE ME ALONE JAZZMAN – (PUSHES HIM AWAY)
JAZZMAN: YOU TELL THE WRITER I AINT SETTLED UP WITH HIM EITHER. HE KEEP CUTTIN’ HIS SHIT LIKE HE DO, HE GONNA END UP WITH A BULLET IN HIS HEAD SOMEDAY! I’LL PUT IN A PRAYER FOR BOTH OF YOU WITH THE REVEREND. (SHAKES HIS HEAD)
TANYA: YOU DO THAT AND TELL HIM I’LL CUT HIM A DEAL NEXT TIME HE COMES AROUND LOOKIN’ FOR SOME!
JAZZMAN: YOU TALKIN’ CRAZY!
(SHERELLE WALKS ONTO SCENE)
SHERELLE: HEY, JAZZMAN
JAZZMAN: HELLO SHERELLE, MAYBE YOU CAN TALK SOME SENSE INTO THIS WOMAN.
(JAZZMAN WALKS OFF STAGE)
SHERELLE: WHAT THAT ALL ABOUT GIRL?
TANYA: NOTHIN’, HE IN ONE OF HIS RIGHTEOUS MOODS AGAIN.
SHERELLE: OH YEAH, I HEAR HE’S TRYIN’ TO KICK AND THAT PREACHER GOT HIM FEELING GUILTY.
TANYA; GOT HIM FEELIN’ SOMETHIN’!
SHERELLE: SO WHAT’S UP GIRL? I AINT SEEN YOU IN A COUPLE OF WEEKS. YOU WORKIN’ UP TOWN THESE DAYS?
TANYA: I WORK ANYWEHRE I CAN, BABY.
SHERELLE: YOU STILL HANGIN’ OUT WITH JOHNNY?
TANYA; WHAT BUSINESS IS THAT OF YOURS? YOU GOT’S THE HOT’S FOR MY MAN AGAIN?
SHERELLE: SHIT!….COME ON TANYA, THAT WAS A LONG TIME AGO. WHAT YOU SO WORRIED ABOUT ANYWAY, YOU JUST LOOKIN’ FOR A LITTLE SUGAR DADDY TO GET HIGH WITH, I KNOWN YOU TOO LONG.
TANYA: I AINT GETTING’ HIGH AND I LOVES MY MAN, SO DON’T YOU BE SPREADIN’ NO ROUMORS, YOU HEAR! JOHNNY GONNA GET MY ASS OUT OF THIS GHETTO, YOU WAIT AND SEE.
SHERELLE: YEAH, AND THAT MAKES YOU THE AFRICAN RIVER QUEEN, RIGHT?! YOU FOOLIN’ YOURSELF HONEYCHILD, NOT GETTIN HIGH. (LAUGHS TO HERSELF) JOHNNY GET ANY MONEY FROM WRITING, HE SURE AINT GONNA TAKE NO BLACK HOOKER ALONG FOR THE RIDE,. YOU WON’T BE FITTIN’ IN TH WHITE MANS WORLD ONCE HE GET A TASTE OF THAT RICH WHITE PUSSY.THROWN AT HIM! YOU GONNA BE NOTHIN’ BUT A MEMORY, GIRL!
TANYA: YOU’RE JUST JEALOUS CAUSE YOU AINT GOT NO MAN AS GOOD AS MINE. SHIT!…(LOOKS AT WATCH AND ASKS HERSELF) WHERE’S BOBBY T, DAMN!
SHERELLE: WHAT YOU WANT WITH BOBBY T? I THOUGHT YOU SAID YOU WASN’T GETTING’ HIGH?
TANYA: HE OWES ME SOME MONEY.
SHERELLE: MONEY, MY ASS! YOU LOOKIN’ FOR SOME JUNK AND FOR YOUR INFORMATION I DO HAVE A MAN AND HE DON’T BE MESSIN’ WITH NO SKANK. THAT SHIT AINT GONNA HELP GET YOU OFF THESE STREETS!
TANYA: AND THEY GONNA NAME THE STREET AFTER YOU SHERELLE, YOU BEEN TRICKIN’ HERE SO LONG!
SHERELLE: NO WAY! I HOOKED UP WITH CLARENCE, HE A GOOD PROVIDER. HE GONNA GET ME OFF THIS FUCKING CORNER SOON.
TANYA: CLARENCE! HE AINT NOTHIN; BUT A GAMBLIN FOOL1
SHERELLE: SO, HE PLAY A LITTLE CARDS EVERY NOW AND THEN, THAT DON’T HURT NOBODY.
TANYA: IT DO WHEN YOU OWE TAYLOR FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS!
SHERELLE: HE DON’T OWE TAYLOR FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS!
TANYA: THAT AINT WHAT I HEARD. TAYLOR SAY HE GONNA GET A GUN AND BLOW AWAY THAT NIGGA IF HE DON’T GET PAID!
SHERELLE: TAYLOR AINT NOTHIN’ BUT A LOT OF TALK. IF CLARENCE OWE HIM FIVE HUNDRED, HE GONA PAY. HE GOT MONEY, LOOK AT THE RING HE BOUGHT ME. (SHOWS TANA RING)
TANYA: (SARCASTC) THAT’LL PAWN REAL NICE WHEN TAYLOR COME AFTER HIM WITH THAT GUN!
SHERELLE: SHUT UP GRL! YOU TALK TOO MUCH SHIT! (TURNS AND SEES BOBBY T WALKING TOWARDS THEM) WELL, LOOK WHOSE COMIN’, AINT HE A SITE! THE CANDY MAN COMIN’ TO FILL THAT SWEET TOOTH OF YOURS, BABY! SEE YOU ROUND SISTER. (BOBBY T WALKS PAST SHERELLEE AND SHE REMARKS) YOU KILLIN’ OFF ALL THE NIGGA’S WITH THAT SHIT!
BOBBY T: FUCK YOU SHERELLE! AINT YOU GOT SOMETHING TO DO TODAY? I PUT YOUR ASS TO WORK, MAKE YOU ONE OF MY GIRLS, WHADDYA SAY?
SHERELLE: YOU THINK YOU OWN THIS TOWN BOBBY, SHIT!
BOBBY: I DO! SO, DON’T YOU BE CRYIN’ TO ME NEXT TIME YOU NEED TO MAKE BAIL. I HEARD LARRY LET YOU SPEND THREE DAYS DOWNTOWN LAST WEEK. I’D NEVER DO THAT TO ONE OF MY GIRLS.
TANYA: THAT JUST LIKE LARRY!
BOBBY T: LISTEN TO HER SHERELES, THAT GIRLS GOT SOME SENSE.
TANYA: THAT DON’T MEAN I’M GONNA WORK FOR YOU BOBBY! I JUST DON’T RRUST LARRY, NEVER HAVE.
SHERELLE: AT LEAST LARRY DON’T BE SHOOTIN’ HIS GIRLS UP WITH JUNK.
BOBBY T: I DON’T SHOOT MY GIRLS UP, THEY ON IT CAUSE THEY LIKES TO GET HIGH. GO ON WITHYOURSELF SHERELLE, LARRY DON’T LIKE LAZY GIRLS.
SHERELLE: FUCK YOU BOBBY! (WALKS OFF STAGE AND TURNS TO TANYA) SEE YOU LATER GIRL.
BOBBY T: (WALKS UP TO TANY AND PUTS HIS ARM AROUND HER) WHAT YOU LOOKIN’ FOR GIRL? YOU LOOKIN’ FOR A LITTLE SUGAR WITH ME? (GRABS HER ASS) YOU ARE ONE PRETTY MAMMA, LET ME TAKE CARE OF YOU. I TREAT YOU LIKE A PRINCESS.
TANYA: QUIT PLAYIN’ BOBBY, I DONE WITH YOU ALONG TIME AGO. YOU’RE TOO ROUGH, MAN.
BOBBY: I AINT ROUGH.
TANYA: BULLSHIT! HOW MANY TIMES YOU HIT ME, FOOL?!
BOBBY T: I SAID I WAS SORRY.
TANYA: SORRY, MY ASS!
BOBBY T: I HAD TO KEEP YOU IN LINE FOR CHEATIN’ ME ON YOUR TRICKS.
TANYA: I DIDN’T CHEAT YOU.
BOBBY T: YEAH YOU DID, BABY! TRYING TO KEEP UP ON THAT VEIN OF YOURS GOT YOU INTO TROUBLE. I KNOW YOU WAS HOLDIN OUT ON ME.
TANYA: I NEVER POCKETED NO TRICK MONEY. YOU ALWAYS GOT YOUR CUT!
BOBBY T: YEAH, YEAH, IVE HEARD THAT A MILLION TIMES. SO WHAT YOU WANT, I HEARD YOU WAS LOOKIN’ FOR ME. AND I GOT BUSINESS TO DO.
TANYA: ME AND BUGMAN LOOKIN’ FOR A FIX. I GOT’S TWENTY ON ME,, YOU HOLDIN?
BOBBY T: YOU STILL WITH THAT CRAZY FOOL WRITER?
TANYA: HE ANIT NO CRAZIER THEN YOU.
BOBBY T: HE GOT TO BE CRAZY TAKIN’ ON A NAME LIKE THAT. BUG MAN! I HEAR HE SHOOTIN’ UP COCKROACHES TO! (MAKES CRAZY GESTURE AROUND EARS WITH FINGER) YOU SHOULD BE HANGIN’ OUT WITH YOUR OWN KIND, TANYA. WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU? YOU TRYIN’ TO BE WHITE OR SOMETHIN?
TANYA: I AINT TRYIN TO BE WHITE, I’M CHOCOLATE BABY AND DON’T YOU FORGET IT!
BOBBY T: YEAH AND YOU FORGETTIN’ WHERE YOU CAME FROM TO. AINT A BLACK MAN GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU, GIRL?
TANYA; I AINT GOT TIME FOR YOUR SHIT BOBBY, YOU GONNA SQUARE UP WITH ME OR NOT.
BOBBY T: SHOW ME THE MONEY.
(TANYA SHOWS HIM THE TWENTY SPOT)
TANYA: HERE! I AINT HERE TO FUCK AROUND, YOU GOT THE SHIT OR NOT. I NEEDS TO GET HIGH!
BOBBY T: YEAH, I GOT IT. BUT, BEFORE I KICK YOU DOWN, I GOT TO ASK YOU A QUESTION.
TANYA: I AINT GOT TIME FOR GAMES. BOBBY!
BOBBY T: IT AINT A GAME, TANYA. YOU WAS ONE OF MY BEST GIRLS AND I TOOK CARE OF YOU REAL GOOD. SO WHY DID YOU SPLIT?
TANYA: YOU KNOW WHY, YOU FREAKED ME TOO MANY TIMES BOBBY, SHIT! THAT LAST JOHN ABOUT BROKE MY FUCKIN’ JAW.
BOBBY T: I DIDN’T KNOW HE WAS A FREAK, MAN! WHY DON’T YOU COME BACK TO WORK FOR ME, BABY. I NEED YOU. YOU MY MAIN GIRL. (GRABS TANYA)
TANYA: COME ON BOBY. I GOT TO GO. (PUSHES HIM AWAY)
BOBBY T: (STARTS TO KISS HER) REMEMBER WHEN WE WENT UP TO CALUMET CITY AND HAD DINNER AT CARLISLE’S PLACE.
TANYA: THAT WAS A LONG TIME AGO.
BOBBY T: AND WE SPENT THE WHOLE EVEING IN BED. THAT WAS SWEET, BABY. YOU WERE THE BEST. I NEVER FORGOT THAT DAY. (KISSES HER DOWN HER NECK)
TANYA: STOP IT, BOBBY!
BOBBY T: (BOBBY GRABS HER HARD AND KISSES HER DEEPLY) COME ON BABY, YOU MY GIRL. WE HAD SOME GREAT TIMES.
TANYA: STOP IT BOBBY, (PUSHES HIM AWAY) I AINT YOUR FUCKING GIRL. I’M TIRED OF YOU SWEET TALKIN’ ME ONE MINUTE AND PUNCHIN’ ME OUT THE NEXT! I AINT GONNA TAKE THAT SHIT NO MORE. JUST GIVE ME THE JUNK, I GOT TO GO!
BOBBY T: NOBODY TALKS TO ME LIKE THAT BTICH! (SMACKS HER ACROSS THE FACE) YOU BETTER LEARN HOW TO SHOW SOME RESPECT. (THROWS PACKAGE OF HEROIN AT HER) I RUN THIS TOWN AND DON’T YOU FORGET IT.
TANYA: THAT AINT GONNA LAST FOREVER, THE WAY YOU TREAT PEOPLE! (GRABS HEROIN) AND TOUCHES EYE) SHIT, YOU AINT GOT TO HIT ME LIKE THAT!
BOBBY T: YOU BETTER LEARN HOW TO TALK TO BOBBY T! NOBODY TALK BACK TO BOBBY T THAT WAY! YOU GONNA BE WORKIN’ FOR ME AGAIN, SOON. GIVE ME THE MONEY.
TANYA: (TANYA HANDS OVER THE TWENTY) TAKE IT FOOL, YOU THINK YOU CAN PUSH ME AROUND LIKE THAT, YOU GOT ANOTHER THING COMING.
BOBBY T: YOU THE ONE GOT SOMETHING COMIN’ TANYA, YOU JUST WAIT AND SEE.
(TANYA AND BOBBY T EXIT STAGE)
END OF SCENE TWO
I am feeling blessed today, as I listen to my song, “Shining Light” playing on the air for the first time! Butterflies Radio, an indie rock station out of Florida picked it up after I submitted it to them for their playlist. They have a quality list of artists they promote, so it was nice to see my song selected for rotation on their station.
“Shining Light” was also featured on, KRCL’s, The Dirty Boulevard Show, hosted by DJ, Dr. Fever in SLC, Utah. It was cool to hear it played along with great songwriters like, Elvis Costello, Bruce Springsteen, U2, The Beatles and Leonard Cohen.
Hearing my song on the radio has inspired me to work harder at my craft and play more shows. Although, that may have to wait a bit, as I am writing this blog with a wrapped up sprained right hand and a left finger that I accidentally cut on a piece of glass. Ouch! Hope they heal before my show in Occidental in two weeks.. Jeesh, what a spite of bad luck I had.
But, in spite of the bad luck, there has been much good karma running through my life. Along with my song being played on the radio, I also sold a tune to Peter Streitman, an influential Bay Area documentary film maker who is producing a commercial for a Swedish company called, Teemo. In addition, I was invited to showcase my music on the Redbull soundstage website, where they promote and feature up and coming new indie artists. Pretty cool site, with some great bands. Good music month, so far!
I am stoked about the Teemo commercial and appreciative of my engineer/producer friend, Jim Mckee, who referred me and my songs to the videographer, Starr Sutherland. (Check out Jim Mckee’s) website, if you are looking for an accomplished, producer.) Starr, I found out is involved with the infamous, “The Resident’s” band from the 60′s. They are a very mysterious band, appearing in costumes, masks and with their signature giant eyeball heads on stage. I was unaware of who they were, until I Googled them and found their site and video’s. These guys were major pioneers in the early indie movement and fantastic musicians. Here is a description from their website:
“As The Residents are an American art collective best known for avant garde and multimedia works. The first official release under the name of “The Residents” was in 1972, and the group has since released over 60 albums, numerous music videos and short films, three CD-ROM projects, ten DVDs. They have undertaken seven major world tours and scored multiple films. Throughout the group’s existence, the individual members have ostensibly attempted to operate under anonymity, preferring instead to have attention focused on their art output. Much outside speculation and rumor has focused on this aspect of the group. In public, the group appears silent and costumed, often wearing eyeball helmets, top hats and tuxedos – a long-lasting costume now recognized as their signature iconography.”
To add to the mystery, my first meeting with Starr was in North Beach at a restaurant called, Naked Lunch. Perfect for the William Borrough’s in me and the event’s to follow. As I neared the restaurant to meet Starr, (whom I had never seen before), I didn’t recognize anyone there that would fit the description. So, I paid a visit to City Lights Books near by, to pick up something to read and buy a little time. When I was walking to the book store, I noticed a gentleman with long hair and dark sunglasses across the street waiting for the light to turn at the cross walk. But, I didn’t put two and two together until later. I went downstairs to the, “Evidence” section of City Lights (my favorite) and hurriedly picked out a book. When I went to pay, I noticed the same gentleman from across the street, glancing over at me, while perusing the store. He went about his business and I left for the restaurant, not thinking anything of it.
As I peeked into the restaurant, there was no one in line, so I popped outside, and at that moment, the gentleman that was shadowing me at the book store with the long hair came across and introduced himself. It was indeed, Starr Sutherland, the mysterious figure behind dark shades. How appropriate, the Kafka-ish serendipity of our first encounter, at a restaurant named, Naked Lunch. As we sat and chatted about music and the commercial they were working on, a procession of cars drove by along with the presidential limo. I speculated that it was our President, as the fleet of cars continued for what seemed like 5 minutes. I found out later on the news, that it was Da Prez, Barack Obama, adding to our interesting lunch meeting.
I found out at my meeting with Starr, that the original song they were using for the commercial was the “Whistle” song by, Roger Miller. I thought it sounded a little dated to me when I played it. I think Jim felt the same way, which is why he suggested to Starr that my tune might be a more contemporary approach for the commercial. I had cut this catchy whistle tune using Apple products a few years ago as a “testimonial”commercial for their products. And, just as mysterious as the Resident’s band are, so is trying to contact Apple and their advertising agency, Chiatt Day. They are about as easy to approach, as a worker at the Apple Foxconn plant. Never the less, I wasn’t able to make any headway with Apple, their loss and Teemo’s gain!
The producers of the app brought in Broadway and Indie darling, Nellie McKay to do the voice over and they are doing the final edits before the big launch. I am excited to see the final video, the pre-production excerpts from the video Starr shot with Peter I saw, are amazing!
Until next time, living the life of a San Francisco poet and songwriter in the city by the Bay….
Music of Mauritania
Mauritania is an ancient nomadic culture, with its musical roots influenced by the Moors and Berber people who inhabited the territory of today’s modern Algeria and Morocco. The Berbers lived in North Africa long before the arrival of the Arabs, and their culture dates back to more than 4,000 years. A vast barren desert country, most of its population is located near the cities, where wandering musicians and praise singers perform traditional and modern music forms, defined by the string instruments – the tidnit and ardin, accompanied by the tbal drum. Mauritania’s music is influenced by the West African music of Mali and by Arabic North African music. It plays an important role in preserving tribal heritage, by praising the glory of the tribal chiefs, carrying forth a tradition that exists to the present day.
A Nomadic People
Mauritania’s population is roughly three million people and its name is derived from the dominant ethnic group, the Moors. In general, the country is divided into two main groups, The Haratin, who are descendants of Arab slaves with black African origins from the Saharan and Sub-Saharan Africa, and the Bidan, whom claim ancestory from north of the Sahara and refer to themselves as white. The Haratin were traditionally slaves under the Bidan noble class, whose strict Moorish hierarchical class system continues to influence its culture and music.
The official language of the country is Hassaniya, a Berber-influenced Arabic dialect that derives its name from the Beni Hassan tribe, along with other tribal languages and French, who originally colonized Mauritania in the beginning of the 20th century. The country is primarily Sunni Muslim, descendents of Bedouin conquerors and Berber refugees from Morocco.
Mauritania is a stratified society, and until late in the 20th century, was governed by a strict hierarchical caste system. This system has been a source of conflict among its peoples, with slavery continuing to this day, mainly affected by the Haratin that are enslaved by the Bidan. Between these two groups, Mauritanian music has assimilated influences from both their northern Arab and Berber neighbors across the Sahara.
Traditional vocal and instrumental songs are an important part of Mauritanian culture. Solo singers are common, and they accompany themselves on tidnit and ardin, or sing with an instrumental ensemble. The vocals are powerful, resonating with the vastness of the desert and the staccato of the Arabic call to prayer. Traditional African musicians express life by taking natural sounds, including spoken language, and incorporating them into their music to tell the story of their people.
Traditional Forms
The Moors’ Influence
The ancient Berber and Moor culture is extraordinarily rich and diverse, with a variety of musical styles. Moorish society, like many Islamic societies, places a high value on poetry and music. At the same time, superstition among the Moors led some of them to fear poets and musicians, to whom they attribute occult and mystical powers. Accordingly, noble families often became the patrons of entertainers; thus, the nobles were able to demonstrate their elite status, while obtaining both entertainment and protection.
Oral Translators
Under Mauritania’s caste system, musicians were known as “Iggawin” and they occupied the lowest rung of society underneath the warrior class, merchants and others. Being a hereditary caste, their skills required elaborate study and were handed down through generations, from father to son and from mother to daughter. Since black Africa’s early history was unwritten, Mauritania’s musicians acted as newscasters and were responsible for translating the story of their peoples through song and music. The traditional music of Mauritania encompasses both the devotional aspect of Islamic life in North Africa, and the rhythmic energy of sub-Saharan “black” Africa. For centuries, Mauritania has functioned as a trading post where various African and Arabic cultures have met. These traditions have been kept alive by small bands of Iggawin musicians who travel from village to village, as they have for centuries, to entertain at weddings, parties, festivals and other social occasions with their songs, tales, and poetry.
Praise Songs
Primarily called by the noble class to perform, the Iggawin would entertain their patrons with praise songs about the great deeds performed by their ancestors. Moorish society is proud of its nomadic past, and music and poetry are distinguishing marks of high culture in Saharan desert society. In Mauritania, the Iggawin have long played a similar role to the griots of West Africa—historians, musicians, and poets who sing about the exploits of warriors and tribal leaders, past and present.
Today, the Iggawin are paid by anyone to perform, where affluent patrons sometimes record the entertainment and are then considered to own the recording. Due to the infusion of television and radio from the Arab world, Mauritanian artists and bands are experimenting extensively with traditional Mauritanian, Western, and Middle Eastern forms of music. The result is a unique blend of musical styles, exclusive to their country.
Instrumentation
The Sound of Mauritania—Tidnit and Ardin
Flora, (the types of trees available for instrument construction) and culture influence the dominance of certain categories of instruments in West Africa. There are three types of traditional instruments used by Mauritanian musicians. The men play the tidnit, a small hourglass-shaped, four-stringed lute, while the women play the ardin, a harp-like stringed instrument similar to the Malian kora, usually accompanied by the tbal, a large kettle drum.
The tidnit is a traditional stringed instrument common throughout West Africa. It is thought to have originated in ancient Egypt, and some believe it is the ancestor the American banjo. The wooden body is oval-shaped and covered with the hide of cattle. The strings originally were constructed from horsehair, and today are typically constructed of two or three tightly wound strands of low-gauge nylon fishing line. They are attached to the instrument’s wooden neck by long and narrow leather strips and to its wooden bridge by cotton strings. The instrument is fine-tuned by adjusting these strips. The tidnit has two long strings that are strummed with thumb and forefinger to play the melody, and two short, which are usually of a fixed pitch and provide a droning effect when plucked. The tidnit has three principal tunings, all of which involve tuning the two main strings a perfect fourth apart.
Many tidnit musicians constructed their own instruments for hundreds of years. The unique sound and syncopated playing style of the instrument adds a complexity to the rhythmic structure of Mauritania’s folk music. In recent years, the tidnit is being replaced by guitar, allowing contemporary musicians to innovate and redefine themselves in the midst of rapidly changing cultural shifts.
The ardin, principally played by the women, is made from a large skin gourd, carved in half and covered with a cow skin. It is similar to a kora, the traditional harp of Malian griots, and has a curved wooden pole inserted into the gourd, where anywhere between twelve and fourteen strings are attached with leather thongs. It is plucked with both hands like a harp and can also be used as a rhythm instrument by striking the soundboard. In combination with the tidnit, it creates a free-flowing landscape of polyrhythmic sounds for singers to perform to. This sound provides a vast palate for the passionate vocals performed by Mauritania’s singers.
To accentuate the syncopated rhythm of songs, the tbal drum, and occasionally the daghumma, a long hollowed-out gourd covered in beads, will accompany the Iggawin musicians.
Regional and Ethnic Forms
Ways and Modes
There are clear musical differences between regions and tribes exemplified by the three ways and five modes of Mauritanian music. Musicians in Mauritania are taught orally to play in one of three “ways,” the white way, (al-bayda) associated with the Bidan Moors of North African descent, the black way (al-kahla), associated with the Haratin Moors of Sub-Saharan descent, and the mixed way (i’-gnaydiya). According to the traditional conception, these forms of music relate to the social hierarchy and levels of worthiness to God. They also correlate to mood, in which the black way is considered more masculine, with an emphasis on roots, and the white way more soft and refined.
Rhythm and the key they are played in are critical in distinguishing the ways. Performing a way consists of five modes played in strict order according to traditional Arabic music theory. This sophisticated system derives as far back as the seventeenth century, as practiced by the Moors.
There are five modes, four of which correspond to a period in the life cycle, or to a mood and emotion. The fifth mode, is related to a higher state of consciousness and associated with the life cycle after death.
To further add to its complexity, the system is elaborated by sub-modes that qualify the main mode within the way. Within the traditional ways and modes of Mauritania’s music, women are not bound to the same rules as men and are allowed more freedom in the same piece of music.
Contemporary Currents
Dimi Mint Abba
One of the most famous and successful Mauritanian musicians to have emerged from the Iggawin/ Griot tradition is the female singer and ardin player Dimi Mint Abba. Known as the “Diva of the desert,” Dimi was born in 1958 to musical parents, accompanying them on tbal from an early age and later adopting the ardin. In 1976 she was invited to sing on Mauritanian radio, where she solidified her musical reputation as one of the world’s greatest Muslim singers. Dimi’s songs were influenced by North and West Africa, mixing Arabic scales and improvisation with traditional West African instruments. She died in June 2011, in Morocco, after suffering a brain hemorrhage.
Safekeeping and Updating Traditions In the Saharawi Refugee Camps
A crucial part of modern Mauritanian history is the war fought with the Polisario Front of the Saharawi Arab Democratic Republic. The Saharawi, descendents of Mauritania’s black African, Berber and Arab people, share Mauritania’s command of the ways and modes, but with less rigidity. Forced from their land by an annexation attempt by Morocco, these highly educated bands of people have developed an exiled refugee state in southern Algeria. Awaiting their return to Western Sahara, refugee life has brought about a diverse integration of the rules and instrumentation available to the people.
In Mauritania, where the Iggawin musicians are born into their caste, the Saharawi are a diverse group, playing music from many backgrounds. They play a particular style of music they call “Hawl,” where their expression of lyricism is open to interpretation in a democratic way. As a displaced people, the traditional instruments of Mauritania do not have as much an influence on Saharawi music, and the tidnit is being replaced by acoustic and electric guitar for a more contemporary edge. Modern Saharawi artists such as Aziz Brahim are fusing traditional and contemporary instruments with sub-Saharan African rhythms, to create a unique sound that expresses their years of suffering.
The New Voices of Mauritania
Mauritania remains one of few places in the world where traditional music is better-supported and more profitable than contemporary music. However, there are artists like Noura Mint Seymali who are exploring both traditional and modern forms of musc. She is carving out a style that is locally referred to as “tradi-moderne” music, warming up crowds by playing ardin accompanied by the usual ensemble of tidnit and tbal, followed by a modern rhythm section. Her unique fusions appeal to both traditionalists who want to experience new music forms, as well as younger audiences who want to connect with their Mauritanian roots.
Medeh is another form of Mauritanian music performed only by the Haratin. It is categorized by traditional Sub-Saharan drumming and represents the voice of a marginalized minority. The musical content is strictly religious and can be compared to American Gospel and Haitian Voodoo.
With the introduction of the electric guitar to the Sahara, a new popular style called jakwar was adapted and expanded across the desert. This music is popular among the Tuareg (nomads of the Sahara), and, due to its fairly complex rhythm, very few musicians are skilled at playing it.
Popular music like rap has found its way recently into Mauritania’s culture. Rap music was not a welcome choice in Mauritania’s traditional cultural environment, but it has become popular among the youth who wish to express their desire to transform the traditional caste bound culture and address Mauritania’s cultural development needs.
Mauritania Music Links
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mauritania
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Music_of_Mauritania
http://tinyurl.com/3v4ev2o
http://www.afgen.com/african_music3.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sahrawi_people
http://blogs.voanews.com/african-music-treasures/2008/01/23/the-music-of-mauritania-part-one/
http://www.itnsource.com/shotlist/RTV/2010/02/03/RTV275410/?v=1&a=0
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aziza_Brahim
http://www.encyclopedia.com/topic/Mauritania.aspx
http://encyclopedia.jrank.org/articles/pages/5437/Abba-Dimi-Mint-Benaissi-1958.html
http://sahelsounds.com/?tag=mauritania&paged=2
http://web.worldbank.org/WBSITE/EXTERNAL/COUNTRIES/AFRICAEXT/MAURITANIAEXTN/0,,contentMDK:22234754~menuPK:50003484~pagePK:2865066~piPK:2865079~theSitePK:362340,00.html
http://www.zamonline.com/browse_vidfeeders.php?tag=Mauritania+Music
http://worldmusic.nationalgeographic.com/view/page.basic/country/content.country/mauritania_655/en_US
http://africarts.org/Voam/Voam612.htm
http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p005y128#p007l53m
http://www.magharebia.com/cocoon/awi/xhtml1/en_GB/features/awi/features/2011/05/12/feature-04
http://spotlightonmusic.macmillanmh.com/music/teachers/articles/folk-and-traditional-styles/west-african-folk-music
“There Goes The Neighborhood” – Scene One, Act One
Overview: There Goes The Neighborhood” is a beat opera that I wrote and recorded while I was living in Glen Ellen, California in 1994. It is a gritty Faustian tale that pays homage to William Burroughs and the beat writers and junkie poets of the 60′s and 70′s.
ACT ONE – SCENE ONE
SETTING: OPENS IN ROACH INFESTED STUDIO APARTMENT DOWNTOWN GARY, INDIANA, WITH A KITCHEN TABE SET UP WITH CANDLE, SPOON, MATCHES AND SYRINGE IN PREPARATION OF COOKING HEROIN.
AT RISE: JOHNNY IS SITTING AT TABLE WITH RUBBER TUBE WRAPPED AROUND HIS ARM SHOOTING HEROIN. JOHNNY BEGINS TO READ EXCERPT FROM PLAY HE IS WRITING TO THE OPENING SONG WITH A RASPY VOICE OF TOO MANY CIGARETTES AND TOO MUCH ON HIS MIND.
SOUNDTRACK – State Tap Bar & Grille
JOHNNY: (CIGARETTE IN MOUTH) THE NEON LIGHT OF THE STATE TAP BAR AND GRILLE FLICKERED ON AND OFF AS QUICK AS THE LIVES DEPENDENT ON LOW LIGHT AND A SOFT CHAIR. TEMPORARY HOME FOR THE SO MANY THAT BUILT THIS CITY ON A SHOT AND A BEER AND THE DREAMS OF THE PROMISED LAND. THEY QUENCHED THEIR THIRST FOR LIFE OVER A TALL CANADIAN MIST AND STORIES OF THEIR PASSAGE TO THE LAND OF PLENTY. PROUD AND BOLD THEY WALKED THE STREETS AS THE SMOKE STACKS BILLOWED THEIR LABOR INTO DARKENED SKIES ABOVE. A HARDS DAYS WORK, WAS A HARD DAYS PAY, SPENT OVER CHEAP WHISKEY, EXPENSIVE WHORES AND THE SOUNDS OF POCKETS THAT WENT TO DEEP. THE GAMBLERS AND THE HUSTLERS THREW DOWN THEIR WARES AND ROBBED THE COMMON MAN OF HIS GUILT FOR LEAVING HIS HOMELAND BEHIND. ONE WEEKS PAY, WAS THREE MONTHS WAGES IN A LAND THAT STIFF BOOZE HELPED FORGET. THE BOILING POT OF FLESH AND SOUL SPLATTERED THEIR LOINS ACROSS THIS CITY, FASTER THEN GREASE SLIDING OFF A CHILI DOG ON 25TH AND BROADWAY, SPOUTING OUT A NEW GENERATION OF WORKER BEES USED TO A HEFTY ALLOWANCE AND A DAY AT THE BEACH.,,,,,
JOHNNY: YEAH, I WAS ONE OF THEM,…..SO WAS HALF THIS FUCKING TOWN! GARY, INDIANA, HOME OF US STEEL AND JANITOR IN A DRUM, TWELVE BUCKS AN HOUR FOR PUSHIN’ A FUCKIN’ BROOM AND SLEEPING ON THE MIDNIGHT SHIFT.
(JOHNNY PUTS OUT SMOKE AND GETS UP AND GRABS A BEER AND WALKS TO APARTMENT WINDOW)
TOASTS OUT WINDOW: I SALUTE ALL YOU PEOPLE WHO BOUGHT THE PLAN OF THE GREAT INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION, TWO CARS IN EVERY GARAGE AND FINE CORINTHIAN LEATHER TO FIT THE FAT ASS OF THE SO CALLED WORKING MAN, CHEERS!
JOHNNY: LIFE WAS GOOD BEFORE THIS PLACE SHIT THE BED.
(JOHNNY GRABS CHAIR AND SITS FACING AUDIENCE)
JOHNNY: PICTURE THIS, YOU’RE GROWING UP IN A MIDDLE CLASS TOWN WITH HIGH HOPES OF DOIN’ AS WELL AS YOUR OLD MAN DID, OR WITH ANY LUCK A TAD BIT BETTER. THE PROMSE OF AMERICA IS PLASTERED ACROSS THE TUBE IN THE FORM OF A TIDE BOX OF CLEAN LAUNDERED HOPES AND A RALPH CRAMDEN LIFESTYLE. WORK HARD, PLAY HARD, LAUGH HARD AND MOST OF ALL RESPECT THE BLIND STRENGTH OF THE PEOPLE WHO BUILT THIS CITY…..SURE AINT’ WHAT IT USED TO BE, HALF THE FUCKIN’ TOWN MOVED OUT FIRST SITE OF A BLACK MAN! EVERY OTHER WORD ON THE STREET WAS NIGGER AND HUNKY, AS TENSIONS HUNG IN THE AIR TIGTHER THEN THE KNOT OF AN EXCEDRIN BRAIN SQUEEZE. (SIPS BEER) YEAH, SOME BIG CHANGES WENT ON IN THIS CITY. THE 50’S AND 60’S SAW CAPONE RUNNIN’ THESE STREETS, THERE WAS MORE SPAGHETTI JOINTS DOWNTOWN CALUMET CITY THEN IN SICILY ITSELF! MY OLD MAN MADE A SMALL FORTUNE RUNNIN’ BOOZE FOR THE MAN DURING PROHIBITION. SAVED UP ENOUGH DOUGH TO OPEN HIS OWN JOINT AND A HOUSE IN THE COUNTRY. I CAN REMEMBER HANGIN’ OUT AT HIS CLUB LISTENING TO THE JAZZ CATS BLOW SOME MEAN HORN. (PAUSES AND SIPS BEER) THERE WERE SOME BAD MOTHERS, LIKE SHORTY WALKER AND CHARLES GATES RUNNIN’ THIS TOWN, TILL THE SHIT ALL BUT DRIED UP AND SENT EM’ OFF TO CHICAGO. I WAS WRITIN’ FOR THE UNDEGROUND PRESS DOIN’ REVIEWS ON THE CATS COMIN’ TO BLOW DOWNTOWN AND SELLIN’ A LITTLE DOPE ON THE SIDE. JOE, THE OLD SOPRANO MAN, INTRODUCED ME TO THE POWDER THAT DON’T HOLD A PREJUDICE TO THE COLOR OF YOUR SKIN. I’VE BEEN RIDIN’ THE LADY EVER SINCE. THAT SHIT HAD ME IN LOVE WITH ALL THE SUGAR AROUND ME, CHASIN’ EVERYTHING JOE DIDN’T GET FIRST, DAMN!
(JOHNNY WIPES RUNNY NOSE)
JOHNNY: (GETS UP AND SCOOTS CHAIR AGAINST THE TABLE HARD)
WHO GIVES A FUCK ANY MORE! NOBODY GIVES A SHIT ABOUT SOME FOOL GOIN’ OFF ON HOW TIMES USED TO BE GREAT IN THIS CITY! I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHY I’M WRITING ABOUT THIS SHIT ANYWAY. A BIG WASTE OF FUCKING TIME! I’VE BEEN SITTING AT THIS TYPEWRITER FOR THE LAST THREE DAYS CONTEMPLATING JUMPIN’ OUT THIS WINDOW FOR LACK OF NOTHING BETTER TO DO. BUT THEN AGAIN, IT WOULDN’T MAKE NO DIFFERNCE WITH HALF THE MURDERS ON THIS BLOCK ALONE. (LIGHTS SMOKE) RUDY THE DOOR MAN SURE WOULD BE PISSED HAVIN’ TO CLEAN UP SUCH A MESS! (LOOKS OUT WINDOW AND TOSSES MATCH OUT) I CANT EVEN SPIT ON THE SIDEWALK WITHOUT CATCHING SHIT FROM THAT OLD FOOL/ (SPITS OUT WINDOW LAUGHING AS RUDY THE DOOR MANS YELLS UP TO HIS WINDOW, “HEY, WHO DID THAT?” …(JOHNNY ANSWERS BACK: “FUCK OFF!” (AGGRAVATED, JOHNNY WIPES BROW WITH SLEEVE) MAN, IT’S FUCKING HOT IN HERE, HOW CAN ANYONE THINK IN THIS GOD DAMN HEAT! (THROWS BEER AT COCKROCH ON WALL) GOT YOU LITTLE BASTARD!
(JOHNY WALKS OVER AND SITS AT KTICHEN TABLE)
JOHNNY: I GOTTA QUIT THIS SHIT MAN, (HOLDS UP BAG OF HEROIN AND SNIFFS LAST BIT OF DIME BAG) (MUMBELS) AT LEAST I USED TO GET A HARD ON DRINKING JOHNNY WALKER, NOW I CAN’T EVEN WORK A PISS BONER IN THE MORNING. I GOT THE DEVIL ON MY SHOULDER AND A WOMAN WHO KNOWS IT. (POPS ZIT ON SHOULDER AND BEGINS TO NOD OUT, MUMBLING “TWO TIMIN’ HO!”
(KNOCK AT DOOR)
JOHNNY: (WAKES UP) WHO IS IT”
(NO ANWSER)
JOHNNY: (IRRITATED) I SAID, WHO IS IT?
TANYA: IT’S ME, TANYA, LET ME IN.
JOHNNY: (MUMBLES TO HIMSELF) SPEAK OF THE DEVIL, IT’S THAT SNAKE VIPER BITCH COMIN’ TO COP MY SHIT. GO AWAY, GIRL!
TANYA: COME ON JOHNNY, LET ME IN, YOU SPINEESS PRICK! (BANGING ON DOOR)
JOHNNY OPENS DOOR (SARCASTIC SPEECH) YOU’RE TOO KIND, TANYA.
TANYA: SHIT, OPEN THE DAMN DOOR, YOU GONNA’ MAKE ME STAND OUT HERE ALL DAMN DAY! WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU? (PUSHES THE DOOR OPEN AND JOHNNY AT THE SAME TIME)
JOHNNY: ME? WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH YOU! AINT’ YOU GOT NO TRICKS TODAY.
TANYA: I’M TAKIN’ A BREAK.
JOHNNY: YEAH AND EVERY TIME YOU TAKE A BREAK, I GOTTA MAKE UP FOR IT. YOU BAD LUCK TANYA! GOT HOOKED IN A HEAD LOCK WITH FRANY SLIM, SELLIN’ THAT BAG LAST TIME! HE CUT ME GOOD, MAN. HERE, CHECK I OUT. (POINTS TO SCAR ON STOMACH)
TANYA: YOU STILL GOIN’ ON ABOUT JAZZMAN? (POINTS TO CUT) THAT DIDN’ T TAKE NOTHIN’ BUT A BAND AID TO HEAL! (LAUGHS AND PUSHES HIM OUT OF THE DOORWAY)
JOHNNY: SHIT, THE MOTHER FUCKER TRIED TO BURY ME, BUT, I SHOWED HIM DEATH KNOCKS TWICE AT MY DOOR. (JUMPS ON THE COUCH) POPPED THAT SUCKER TWICE IN THE MOUTH, SO’S HE COULDN’T BLOW HIS HORN FOR TWO WEEKS! (LAUGHS, SHADW BOXING THE AIR )
TANYA: YEAH, WELL, IF YOU WOULDN’T HAVE STEPPED ON THAT SMACK LIKE YOU DID, YOU WOULDN’T HAVE GOT CUT FOOL!
JOHNNY: BULLSHIT! (POINTS AT TANYA) YOU TELL JAZZMAN, I SEE HIM AGAIN, HE BETTER HAVE NINE LIVES, CAUSE THIS CAT GONNA WHOOP HIS SCRAWNY ASS!
TANYA: PLEASE, YOU BEST BE COUNTIN’ HOW MANY LIVES YOU GOT LEFT, BEFORE YOU GO THREATEN EVERYBODY! (GRABS HIS WORK FROM TYPEWRITER) I SEE YOU FINALLY BEEN WORKIN’! (READS SCRIPT) WHAT IS THIS SHIT, CHASIN’ ALL THE SUGAR JOE DIDN’T GET FIRST!
JOHNNY: HEY, GIVE ME THAT! (SWIPES WORK FROM TANYA’S HANDS)
TANYA:(SHAKING FINGER AT JOHNNY) I BEST NOT CATCH YOU CHASIN’ NO SUGAR WHEN I’M AROUND, BABY!
JOHNNY: IT’S A FUCKING PLAY, GIRL!
TANYA: YEAH, WELL I AINT PLAYIN’! I SWEAR YOU GONNA BE ONE SORRY WHITE BOY I CATCH YOU EVEN LOOKIN’ AT ANOTHER WOMAN!
JOHNNY: YEAH, YEAH…
TANYA: (HOLDS UP MANUSCRIPT) SO, WHEN THIS SHIT GONNA’ GET US OUTTA’ HERE, MR. GENIUS? YOU KEEP SAYIN’ THIS OUR TICKET OUT THIS HELL HOLE, (ROLLS EYES) THAT GOIN’ ON TWO YEARS NOW) (EYES COCKROACH ON TABLE AND SMACKS IT WITH THE MANUSCRIPT) AND WHEN YOU GONNA CLEAN UP THIS PLACE, ALL THESE DAMN ROACHES!
JOHNNY: HEY, GIMME THAT! (GRABS SCRIPT AND WIPES OFF COCKROACH GUTS)
TANYA: YOU CLEAN UP SOME OF THIS SHIT AROUND HERE AND MAYBE WE CAN FIND THE BED! GIVE YOU SOMETHIN’ REAL TO WORK ON! (SHAKES HER ASS)
JOHNNY: : I AM WORKIN’, GIRL. ( WALKS OVER TO TYPWERITER AND SMACKS IT) WORKIN’ MY ASS OFF! BESIDES, I CAN’T REMEMBER THE LAST TIME THIS MUTHA FUCKER WORKED! (GRABS CROTCH)
TANYA: YEAH, AND YOU AINT’ HAD MUCH OF AN ASS TO BEGIN WITH! SO, WHEN YOU GONNA’ TAKE ME OUT TO PARTY? I’M GETTING BORED.
JOHNNY: TAKE YOU OUT? WITH WHAT, MY GOOD LOOKS.,,,
TANYA: I KNOW YOU GOT MONEY, YOU JUST FIXED BY THE LOOKS OF THAT NEEDLE. YOU SAVE ME SOME?
JOHNNY: I KNEW YOU WAS COMIN’ AROUND HERE FOR A REASON. I’M ALL OUT GIRL, (SEES COCKAROCH RUN ACROSS THE FLOOR) WHERE YOU THINK YOU’RE GOIN’? (CRUSHES ROACH UNDER FOOT AND PICKS IT UP STARING AT IT INTENSLEY)
TANYA: WHAT THE FUCK YOU DOIN’ WITH THAT COCKROACH?
JOHNNY: I CUT MY HEROIN WITH THEIR BLOOD! I FIGURE ANYTHING THAT CAN REPRODUCE AND ADAPT TO THE WORLD AS FAST AS THESE LITTLE BASTARDS, WILL RENDER MY SOUL IMORTAL.
TANYA: YOU SHOOTIN’ UP COCKROACH GUTS? NOW, I KNOW YOU’RE CRAZY!
JOHNNY: YOU SHOULD TRY IT SOME TIME, TAKE YOU WAY OUT!
TANYA: THEY GONNA’ TAKE YOU WAY “OUT” TO THAT CLINIC WITH ALL THE NUT JOBS! THOSE BUGS GIVE ME THE CREEPS, LITTLE BEADY EYES AND SHIT AND YOUR SILLY ASS IS SHOOTIN’ EM’ UP LIKE SOME KINDA COCKROACH COWBOY.
JOHNNY: YOU WAIT AND SEE WHEN I’M DANCIN’ ON YOUR GRAVE.
TANYA: THE ONLY THING YOU GONNA’ BE DANCIN’ WITH, IS A CAN OF RAID! COME ON BUGMAN, WHOSE HOLDIN’ THESE DAYS? I GOT TO FIX, MAN.
JOHNNY: I DON’T KNOW, GIRL. I SCORED MY LAST BAG FROM CHARLES, MANNITOL CUTTIN’ PRICK! I HAD TO TAKE A SHIT, JUST LOOKIN’ AT IT!
TANYA: YOU HOLDIN’ OUT ON ME?!
JOHNNY: NO GIRL, I TOLD YOU I DON’T HAVE ANY! (SARCASTIC VOICE) HOW COME YOU DIDN’T SCORE WITH BOBBY T?
TANYA: DON’T YOU START WITH THAT SHIT!
JOHNNY: WHAT? I KNOW YOU GOT’S THE HOT’S FOR BOBBY.
TANYA:I’LL SLAP YOU I SWEAR! (MAKES A BACK HAND GESTURE)
JOHNNY: YEAH, WELL THEN WHY YOU KEEP TALKIN’ LIKE YOU GONNA GO BACK TO WORK FOR HIM?
TANYA: I AINT’ GOIN’ BACK TO WORK FOR THAT FOOL, NOT AFTER THE LAST TIME!
JOHNNY: SHIT! I THINK YO LIKE BEING BEAT UP BY THAT FOOL!
TANYA: YEAH, AND I DON’T SEE YOU DOIIN’ NOTHIN’ ABOUT IT!
JOHNNY: THAT’S CAUSE HE THE ONLY ONE GOT ANY GOOD JUNK IIN THIS TOWN! I TELL YOU TANYA, BOBBY BETTER WATCH OUT, I DON’T LIKE IT WHEN A MAN TRIES TO STEAL MY GIRL!
TANYA: (IRRITATED) HE AIN’T STEALIN’ NOTHIN”! NOW, GIVE ME SOME MONEY’S SO I CAN GET HIGH!
JOHNNY: DAMN, AINT WE SENSITIVE TODAY! HERE, (HANDS HER A TWENTY) GO COP US A DIME AND A HALF PINT OF BACARDI AND BRING ME BACK THE CHANGE.
TANYA: SHIT! (HOLDS UP TWENTY) THIS AINT NUTHIN’ BUT CHUMP CNANGE! I GET MORE FOR A BLOWJOB ON 5TH, BABY!
JOHNNY: HOW ABOUT A BLOW JOB ON EIGHTH? (GRABS HIS CROTCH)
TANYA: I THOUGHT YOU COULDN’T GET IT HARD THESE DAYS.
JOHNNY: I CHANGED MY MIND.
TANYA: YOU HAD A CHANCE FOOL. I GOTS’ TO GET BACK TO WORK. I’LL BE BACK IN A HALF HOUR, SO DON’T YOU BE TAKIN’ YOUR COCKROACH BUTT NOWHERE.
JOHNNY: (SARCASTIC) AT LEAST IT AINT NO BUBBLE BUTT LIKE YOURS!
TANYA: WHO YOU CALLIN’ BUBBLE BUTT? I’LL SLAP YOU UPSIDE YOUR HEAD! (SWINGS AND HITS HIM ON THE HEAD)
JOHNNY: QUIT PLAYIN’ TANYA, I GOT WORK TO DO. (PUSHES HER AWAY) AND DON’T YOU BE KICKIN’ DOWN TO BOBBY T. EITHER! I KNOW HOW HE LIKE TO HIT THE SHIT WITH YOU!
TANYA: (QUESTIONING TONE OF VOICE) SO, NOW YOU WANT ME TO SCORE FROM BOBBY T.? I THOUGHT YOU WAS WORRIED ABOUT HIM MAKIN’ MOVES ON ME. SHIT, I GIVE UP, BABY! (WALKS OFF STAGE)
JOHNNY:(YELLS OUT DOOR) AND YOU TELL HIM YOU AINT’ WORKIN’ FOR HIM AGAIN, AFTER THE WAY HE HIT YOU UP LAST TIME, YOU GOT IT!
TANYA: YEAH, YEAH…
JOHNNY: (SHUTS DOOR AND TURNS TO TYPEWRITER, MUMBLING) THAT GIRLS THE REASON I DON’T GET SHIT DONE!
(SITS AT TYPEWRITER AND LIGHTS UP A MOKE, DRINKING A BEER, HE READS FROM HIS JOURNAL THAT HE IS USING TO BUILD HIS SCRIPT FROM. )
JOHNNY: BEING A PRODUCT OF THE INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION HAS GIVEN ME TREMNENDOUS INSITES INTO THE WORKING MANS MIND, OR WHAT’S LEFT OF IT ANYWAY. HANGIN’ ON THE CORNER OF LIFE, I TAUGHT MYSELF HOW TO PLAY THE PART OF A BLIND MAN TO PREJUDICE AND THE DESPERATLEY POOR. BEGGIN’ A PAYCHECK FROM THE SCHOOL OF HARD KNOCKS, I TOOK UP WITH MADAM WONG, WHO PAYS ME IN DREAMS OF A FUTURE BEYOND THIS FUCKING GHETTO. SHE’S A NEW BREED OF HUSTLER, WHERE AN EIGHT BALL DON’T GET SUNK IN THE CORNER POCKET, BUT IN THE VEINS OF A BREED OF MACHINERY FUELED BY THE POISON OF A MINDSET THAT WASHES UP ON THE SHORES OF LAKE MICHIGAN LIKE THE AYLEWIVES DOIN’ THE POLLUTION SUN DANCE IN THE SUMMER OF 69! SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST, BABY (SMASHES HAND ON TABLE KILLING ANOTHER ROACH, PICKS IT UP CONTINUING CONVERSATION) GALAPOGOS INDIANA, DARWIN’S LOST THEORY OF EVOLUTION,. THE CHAIN GOT FUCKED UP ALONG THE WAY CHARLES AND I GOT STUCK IN IT. CHASIN’ THE SAME BREED OF WOMEN, PAYIN’ RENT ON THE LOWER END OF THE FOOD CHAIN. (PUTS COCKROACH IN A JAR WITH OTHERS HE HID BEHIND THE COUNTER) NOW, THESE LOVELY LITTLE CREATURES, (HOLDS UP BOTTLE OF DEAD ROACHES) HOLD THE KEY TO LIFE. SHELLS IMPENETRABLE TO RADIATION AND NO THICKER THEN THE SKIN ON MY SKULL. GOD LOVE EM”! THEY’LL ALL BE WHAT’S LEFT ONE OF THESE DAYS….(GRABS MORTAR AND PESTLE AND EMPTIES COCKROACHES INTO BOWL, CRUSHING THEM AS HE MUMBLES TO HIMSELF) THIS NEXT BATCH GONNA’ PACK A DOOZIE! (DIPS FINGER INTO BOWL AND BEGINS TO SING, JUNKIE MAN SONG)
SOUNDTRACK – Jazzman
END OF SCENE ONE
Shining Light – The Mystical Music Tour
It was a few years back, as I walked along a secluded beach in Jenner, California, that I experienced a calling that would change my life forever. It was an early fall evening and an especially foggy night on the northern California coast. As I peered out at the ocean along the shores of Goat Rock Beach, I sensed a presence near by. My senses had aroused a suspicion that someone, or something was following me.
Goat Rock beach is an especially mysterious place at night, with the heavy Pacific ocean waves crashing against it’s craggy mountainous rocks and shadowy shoreline. As I stood on the beach with my faithful dog companion by my side, the fog opened through a section of the sky and the moon suddenly appeared. The intensity of it’s light caught my attention and as I stared at it darting in and out of the fog, I felt an energy engulf me that was unlike anything I have ever experienced before. It was if I were transported to a meditative state full of clarity and focus that left me in a state of bliss.
As I reflected on this mysterious energy, all my fear and worries washed from my mind. I heard a calming voice in my head, repeating the mantra that “everything was going to be ok”. I was in the moment, one with the earth, the ocean and the elements. As I walked back to my car and drove to my home in Jenner, a few miles up the coast from Goat Rock Beach, I was completely enamored by this strange experience. All sense of time disappeared, as I basked in this pleasant and relaxing state, which lead to a deep and fitful sleep that night.
As I slept, I had a lucid dream in which I heard a very strange and mysterious song that was like nothing I had ever heard before. When I awoke that morning, I immediately grabbed my guitar and began to tune it to the music I had heard in my sleep. When I finished tuning my instrument, I realized I had come up with a very unique sound and a radical departure from standard tempered tuning.
I grabbed my tuner and wrote down the open string notes in my diary. When I strummed the open tuning, (d#, a#, d, g, g, d) the sound was atonal and completely incoherent. Playing any form of standard chord in their original position, was dissonant and harsh. To familiarize myself with this new sound, I had to develop new finger patterns to create proper sounding chords.
As I stumbled about on my fret board, the music and words to the song, “Shining Light” burst through me in a state of creative energy that flowed like water. I wrote the lyrics and the music in a couple of passes and realized something special had just occurred. I had completely relearned the guitar in a short period of time and transformed it into song.
As I played the, “Shining Light” song all the way through for the first time, I realized that the lyrics I had written for this song were for my mother who had passed away from an aneurism at the age of thirty-six. This tragedy had sent me on a path of spiritual discovery for most of my life, leading me to my current study of zen and shaman practices. As I contemplated the emotion and power of this song, it made me ask the question, “could this new tuning be my mother’s voice from the heavens”? Maybe the spirits, do speak through us in strange and mysterious ways..
Listen to the recording of, “Shining Light” here:
What struck me the most about this new tuning, was the unusual and ghostly sounding harmonics. To me, they sounds very ancient and Arabic in nature. The dissonant sympathetic vibrations of the lower strings, help create a drone like effect to the unison tuning of the high d and g strings. This creates a unique and complex tone that captures the ear of the listener, which I believe helps draw them into the story of the lyrics.
As a story-teller with social, spiritual and environmental leanings, this tuning led to a prolific writing streak. Inspired by the negative effects of Globalization, I began to write songs that dealt with the issues confronting the health of our planet. The futurist rock song, “Dark Star” is one such example, where I wrote about how mans disconnect from his environment has led to extremism and corruption in our world.
Listen to an acoustic version of, “Dark Star” here:
As I studied Buddhist philosophy, I began to accept that our passing was a natural transition between dual worlds. It is in this state of egoless unity, where we contribute our “soul stories” and energy to the collective consciousness in our universe. Our physical bodies return to the compounds of the earth, which lend their alchemic voice to future musicians through the elements of wood, metal and bone constructed in their instruments. Our consciousness becomes one with the library of souls that are regenerated into a creative energy that is tapped by the living.
As I embrace this tuning and the power of this spiritual experience, I believe that musicians are shamans to a sacred world. A place where our history is expressed in the form of story and song. We are tied to nature, and in many ways, our spiritual path embraces our planets elements and fauna, as we pass on tradition to future generations through the voice of instruments constructed from the earths resources. We bring together both the spirit and material world in the moment, and share it with the Gods responsible for our miraculous journey.
This strange visitor from the sea and celestial heavens has set me on a path to explore this cosmic gift and its mysterious workings. To celebrate this method of musical storytelling, I have named this new music genre I discovered, “Shine”. I dedicate it to the late Sonia Naumoff, an artist, explorer of spirituality and my mother, whose light set me on a path of creative exploration. “Your memory lingers in our minds”.
Musically Yours,
Scot Sier
Duende – A Short Music Film Story by Scot Sier
The blade sliced through the animals flesh, missing the spinal chord that would end the beast’s life. The matador stood rigid and was tense from the poor execution of her sword. The tempered steel hung heavily in her hand and her eyes were lit with the intensity of the dance with death. The voices of the crowd booing were a faint echo in her mind. She had more important matters to worry about, like the danger of a tired and aggravated bull, delirious from the loss of blood.
She knew what the crowd was thinking; “A man would have dropped the bull with one thrust”. She was used to this display of the male ego and she spurned them with a violent twist of her body, as if to say, “Let’s see you fight a bull, I don’t see you in this ring!”
The men continued their shouting, and she praised the bulls strength and courage. It had viciously attacked the picador’s horse during the second “thirds” of death, burying it’s horns deep into the underbelly of the horse, beneath the protective peto pad. She could still hear the scream of terror from the animal in her mind, as the horse buckled back and fell to its knees. She glared at the crowd and hid the blade under the fabric of her red cape. “You are one tough son of a bitch!” she mumbled to herself, staring down the four hundred pound bull kicking dust up with its hooves, as the bandelleros roped the mortally wounded horse and drug it out of the ring.
Panting with a fit of terror in its eyes, the wounded bull stumbled to regain its footing. The matador studied the bull closely, as the thoughts of her being gored last year, raced wildly through her mind. “I can’t make that mistake again”, she whispered to herself. She carefully followed the bulls footsteps, measuring the angle of the neck, where her sword would bring the animal down with one swift and clean thrust. The bull turned to her, snot running from its nose and blood trickling down its cheek from its neck and shoulders where it had been weakened by the picadors harpoon. The razor sharp barbs, danced across the torso of the bull, flurrying in time with the tempo of the death march.
The bull began to charge her in slow motion, like the stop image of an old silent movie. It was the same every fight, the charge of the animal seemed to slow down time. The matador wiped the sweat from her eyes and blinked to get her bearings. As the bull rushed towards her, a burst of white light flashed into the matadors eyes. At that moment, an image of Jesus appeared through the haze of the light. A premonition of death suddenly flooded her body, heightening her senses. She crossed her heart and grabbed the cross that hung around her neck. The bulls head twisted back and forth and like a prizefighter, it lowered its horns in preparation to strike its opponent. The matador knew that this was when the animal was at its weakest. Its poor eye site would allow her to pierce the animals neck, as soon as it lifted its horns in defense. She raised her sword from her side and focused her eyes on the spot of bull flesh that would end the beasts life. The bull rushed her cape and the crowd began to boo, when the animal turned suddenly and veered to the left. The matador swept the cape over the bulls body, jumping to safety from the pointed horn that nearly nicked her. She tucked the blade underneath the red cloth and spun around, cursing the animal. Frustrated by the bulls cunning maneuver, she jabbed her cape at the animal, taunting it to charge her.
Her mind raced back and forth, fueled by adrenaline and the fear of being gored again. She never forgave the press for spreading rumors that she had a nervous breakdown in the ring after her last goring accident. She cursed them in her mind and mumbled with anger, “It’s because of my asshole fiance, sleeping with that whore of a dancer in Madrid.” Her attention snapped back to the bull that was kicking and snorting in the corner of the ring, as she scanned the crowds reaction. They reminded her of the journalists who would gather every morning outside the veranda of her apartment with their long lens cameras and greasy, coffee stained note pads stiff in their hands after she was released from the hospital. They all wanted to know how she felt about her fiance sleeping with another woman and could care less about the goring that almost cost her life in the ring. This infuriated her, “what the hell do they think I felt about that puta!” she thought to herself, the anger welling up in her mind as the crowd booed her performance.
The banderillos sensed the lethargy of the bull and the disappointing jeers of the crowd and began to provoke the animal with jabs from their pointed sticks. They forced the bull to charge the matador before she had found her footing. This caught the matador by surprise and she quickly centered her body and took aim with her sword, “assholes!”, she yelled towards the banderillos dancing in the corner of the ring. She secured her stance with her left foot forward and struck the animal swiftly when it lifted its head, severing its spinal chord at the stem of the brain. She quickly withdrew the sword from the animal’s torso and it glistened with a smidgen of blood from the perfect strike that brought the beast down. The bull stumbled slowly to the ground, it’s rear legs dropping one at a time. First the left, then the right and it buckled under it’s weight, gently rolling onto its side.
The animals eyes rolled back into its head and the matador stood over the bull as the animals spirit left its body. She stared at the hump of flesh splayed out on the ground with its tongue hanging out of its mouth. This grotesque image, brought on feelings of guilt and she wondered if her goring accident was an act of God punishing her for this brutal profession. Her mind raced back to the image of Jesus and the slow motion charge of the bull she had experienced earlier in the ring. “I do what I am called to do, do not judge me for my strength”, she prayed and crossed herself, grabbing the cross at her neck.
Her thoughts were suddenly broken by the sounds of the crowds cheers. They showed their approval of the kill by waving and tossing white handkerchiefs filled with their sweat into the ring. She turned to them and bowed, proud of her work, as a pick- up truck drove towards the bull and two large muscled men got out of the vehicle and harnessed the animal carcass with chains and a hoist. As they drug the bull across the ring, the thought of her fiance cheating on her flashed through her mind. She could still taste the cigars and whiskey on his breath and she spit into the ring.
She bowed once more to the crowd, carefully crossing her legs with the grace of a dancer. She kissed her sword and waved it at them, starting from the left and working her way to the right. They applauded her courage, shouting out her last name, “Viva La Pinta!”. The stadium ring announcers voice came across the public address system, a static of noise that competed with the cheers of the crowd and the concession barkers yelling excitedly for one last sale of the day. The matador waved her cape towards the box where the announcer was seated. As she glanced up towards his box, a red rose fell to the ground in front of her. She bent to pick it up and fought back the tears in her eyes, knowing this would be her last fight. When she stood up, the image of Jesus and a flash of white light once again filled her eyes and she dropped heavily towards the ground. Her body began to shake and contort as she grasped for air, “I am not fit for the ring”, she whispered through clenched teeth.
As she raised her eyes to God, the bandelleros appeared before her as angels, entering with her into a golden white light. With a final jerk of her body, she breathed her last breath. She had tied the rope securely around her neck and her suicide was complete.
A vapor of energy left her body as the empty chair lay on the floor, knocked to its side. It rose towards the heavens, searching for the birth of the next matador and the glory of the ring.
“The Birthday Gig” A Short Music Story by, Scot Sier
The text showed up on her phone shortly after they spoke. He couldn’t believe that she didn’t understand that there was no way in hell he could drive to her mother’s birthday party the next day. He was in Phoenix, Arizona headlining a show with another Americana artist and to re-route the tour to Boise, Idaho would be impossible.
It would also put him in an awkward position with his band mates and roadies who had made plans with the current itinerary. Barbara was known to be unreasonable at times, but this was truly an act of treason as far as Spangler was concerned. She stared at the text, and it made her furious, “What is it about you and your mother that makes my life such a pain in the ass?” wrote Spangler. The glowing light of her phone seemed to exaggerate the words, and she found her self swearing at the screen, raising the curiosity of a couple pumping gas next to her at the Shell station she stopped off at.
She glared back at them with a, “don’t tell me you never found yourself upset by a text from someone” look. She scrambled with her phone and shot back her text reply”, “it’s not about me and my mother, I thought I told you I wanted you to be there for her 70th birthday party. “ She pressed the send button with a furious gesture, and the phone slipped out of her hand, crashing onto the asphalt pavement near a puddle of engine oil. She cursed her phone, Spangler and her mother all in one swoop, as the other patrons topped off and hurriedly screwed on their gas caps and drove off.
She wiped off her phone on her coat and finished filling up her car, watching a talk show host clamor on about the breakup of a Hollywood couple on the monitor screen above the pump. The sound of the incoming text bell ring tone on her phone shook her from the distraction of the host. She stared at the small screen where Spangler had written back, a short misspelled sentence, which she knew from experience, was probably because he was driving, “I told you how important this gig is, I cauldn’t chang the dates!”
She became furious, “He never told me that, he’s always putting his music before me”, she said to herself. “This is a big deal, why can’t he see that”. She grabbed her phone and shot back a reply, “No you didn’t, and even if you did, you should have tried harder”. A voice from the monitor asked her if she wanted a car wash, and to buy some time to think she pressed the yes button on the pump. She grabbed her ticket that was spit out with the car wash code and she jumped into her car and slammed the door. The reply text from Spangler appeared as she drove into the car wash, “Sweetheart, I told you this a long time ago, call you in a min, when we pull over/ lunch”.
She led out a frustrated, angry scream as the swoosh of the car wash brushes on her windshield, reminded her of the summer rain that used to beat against her bedroom window when she was a child back in Boise. She turned on the radio and a song by Eminem was playing. He always seemed so manic when he sang, “what is it he’s so pissed off about?” she wondered and flipped the channel, stumbling on the news that Gaddafi had just been found and shot dead in Libya. “Jesus”, she said to herself, what a crazy world we live in. The light had turned green in the car wash, signaling it was time to pull forward. Water spots beaded up on her windshield and car hood after the blow dryer had finished it’s cycle and she mumbled to herself, “8 dollars for a wash and there’s still water on my car, what a rip off”, when another text from Spangler appeared on her phone. “Where r u?” he wrote. She answered back, “Leaving the gas station, call me when I get home in five-k?”. She drove off and thought about what she should say. Her mother was turning 70 and she wasn’t that fond of Spangler being a musician in the first place, this would only exacerbate the situation. “Why is he always pulling this crap with me, maybe we should split up’, she thought to herself, as a driver in a Ford Focus pulled in front of her abruptly at the Freeway entrance. She hit her horn, cursing the kid who was behind the wheel as he flipped her off in his rear view mirror. “What a little bastard” she yelled, “this day is starting to get on my nerves”. She sped home, not the least concerned about getting a ticket, her mind racing with Spangler’s text and what she thought her mother would say once she heard he couldn’t make the party. She could hear her voice now, “I don’t see how you do it, he’s always gone, in some other town. You can’t plan anything and build a future with that kind of life”. She had heard it many times before, from both her mother and her father.
As soon as she pulled into the driveway, the ring-tone setting of a cow mooing that she had set for Spangler, distorted through the phone. “Mooooo, …..mooooo” droned the sound through the phones miniature speakers and she let it ring a few times before answering. “What is it with you?” she yelled into the phone, upset that he couldn’t make the party. “Wait a minute Barbara, please don’t start in on me. I told you this gig was important for my career, it’s a chance to get on a bigger tour and make some real money”, Spangler replied. Barbara shot back, “Is that all you care about is money, what about me?” Spangler beginning to get aggravated, replied in a short voice, “It is about you baby! Without the money, we’d be stuck in that shitty town for the rest of our lives”. Barbara, annoyed with his answer firmly replied, “But, my mom is turning 70, it’s a big deal Spangler and she wanted you to be there”. Spangler yelled out to his roadie in the back of the bus, grab me a chicken burrito and a horchata, thanks” and turned back to the phone, “That’s not true, that’s “you” saying that you want me to be there, not your mom”. You know she doesn’t approve of my lifestyle, you’ve told me that many times!” “Maybe if you didn’t spend so much time on the road, she wouldn’t think that way”, Barbara shot back.
Spangler’s roadie made a face, nodding and lip-syncing, “Barbara?”, as he rolled his eyes back in his head towards Spangler. Spangler pushed him out of the bus and sighed into the phone, “Don’t push it Barbara, you knew from the start that music is my life and that I would have to travel on the road. Tell your mom I’m sorry that I didn’t sign up for an office job where I could sit behind a desk and push papers around all day long”, he said in a sarcastic voice. “Come on, I love you and that is the reason why I am doing this, you think I enjoy being away from you as much as I do. You know I would go to your mom’s birthday party if I were home. Tell her I have an important show that will help me take better care of you, she can’t argue with that”.
Barbara, still upset, but appearing calmer after speaking her mind, asked Spangler, “Whose the artist again your supposed to go on tour with? Spangler replied, “John Prine, it’s a killer tour man, I’ve been waiting for this kind of gig for a long time!” “I forgot that it was Prine, Barbara said with a sense of defeat in her voice, “that’s a good tour, maybe you can get some of his fans to check out your stuff.” “I hope so”, replied Spangler, “I could use the publicity”. Barbara switched subjects and told Spangler she had heard on the radio that Gaddafi had been captured and killed today. Spangler answered back, “Yeah, I heard that to, what a crazy fucking world. Between that, Greece and Occupy Wall Street, we’ve got some pretty crazy shit happening on this planet”. The phone went silent for a while as they both stopped to grab their composure over their argument and reflect. “So, does that mean you can’t make it to my moms?” Barbara asked in a hushed tone. “I really wish I could” Spangler replied, “Please tell her happy birthday for me. I’ll pick up a nice gift to send her, let me know what you think I should get her.” He paused on the phone and spoke softly, “I really miss you Barbara, I really do, it kills me to be away from you this long.”
“I miss you to, I just wish we were closer together, it’s hard not having you here”, Barbara replied. The roadie came back to the van and handed Spangler his burrito, rolling his eyes back in his head again, as if to say, “You’re still on the phone trying to convince her of the importance of this gig!”. Spangler flipped the roadie off and peeled back the burrito wrapper as he spoke into the speaker phone, “I know hon’, but, I’ll be home in three weeks. When I get back, let’s all plan on getting together with your mom and celebrate her birthday then”. “Ok”, Barbara replied, “maybe we can take her out to lunch, or something”. “How about the Nob Hill Grille, she likes that place”, Spangler answered back. “Ok, but would you call her from the road and wish her happy birthday for me?”, asked Barbara. “Sure, Spangler replied, “I promise, text me her phone number again and the time of the party”. “I will”, Barbara said, still anxious about what her mother would say about missing the party.
Spangler set aside his burrito and grabbed his guitar from the seat of the bus. “By the way I wrote this song for you the other day that I think you are going to like. The guys in the band really dig it, it’s called, Miss Your Smile”. Do you want to hear it?” “Sure, play it over the phone for me”, Barbara replied. “Ok, check it out, it’s got this cool new guitar tuning I came up with. We played it at a gig the other day and the crowd really liked it. Spangler tuned his guitar to the strange new guitar tuning, (d# – a# -d -g –g- d) and strummed the first chord, waking up the guys in the band who were resting from the long drive from Albuquerque to Phoenix the night before. “I can’t wait to see you. Barbara”, Spangler whispered into the phone. “Me to” said Barbara, as she rubbed her eyes and tossed her head back into her car seat.
Barbara closed her eyes and listened to the melancholic sound of the new guitar tuning in the song. A teardrop fell onto her cheek when Spangler sang, “I miss your smile” in the chorus. She brushed it away with her coat sleeve, the smell of engine oil on her skin.
Listen to,”Miss Your Smile”
Watch the video for, “Miss Your Smile”
Acoustic & Naked
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- Sier “N” Bloom “Acoustic & Naked” Cafe Royale
Cafe Royale is my new favorite club in San Francisco. It’s like hanging out at your best friends house, the one that always has a well stocked bar, a pool table, interesting people at parties. I wanted to light up a smoke and drink a martini in that place and pretend I was part of the rat pack, it has that kind of cache to it. But, alas, I don’t smoke, or play standards, so that dream came to a halt rather quickly. However, l do like the neighborhood, it’s in between the Tenderloin and Nob Hill, so I named it the, “Tenderhood”. Why they recently re-named it the “Ten”, is beyond me,….I like Tenderhood much better.
The bartender at Royale is great, the people interesting and the art deco space is truly worth a visit alone. When you walk in, the first thing you notice are the cool vintage ice cream parlor like bar stools and art deco tile on the floor. I had no idea there was a balcony with seating that overlooks the bar and stage. You wouldn’t know this from glancing at the outside of the building. It’s tucked away on the corner of Post and Leavenworth with dark windows tagged with a little graffiti, which makes it a little mysterious and engaging.
The acoustics in the room are really good for live music. With a large ceiling and lot’s of glass, you would think that it would be difficult to dial in a good mix. Not the case here, my acoustic guitar and vocals have never sounded better. The red stage curtain, which I later found out was hand sewn by the owner Les, adds class to the stage. The colored stage lighting adds a nice ambiance to the room, basking the stage in hues of reds, greens and whites to draw attention to the performers works of art. They have a basement in the club where you can warm up, hang out and store your gear. It’s nice to have that kind of privacy before a show, and basements are the best. You can hang out there, feel the ghosts of the past and really cop the vibe of the person who stores their junk there.
The club is generous and offers performers beer, or wine, which I gladly took them up on, being a lover of the grape. They have a nice selection of wines and offered a generous pour that lasted two sets. My kind of club..
I invited my friend, Ron Bloom to sit in and play guitar on this gig for a few tunes. Ron comes from a prestigious musical family (Al Jolson) and is a great guitarist, songwriter and producer in his own right having written a few hit singles, scoring action movies and founding a company with MTV V-Jay Adam Curry, that was the first to put the Grammy’s on the web. We didn’t bust out any “Mammy songs”, but I did learn Al was a champion of black musicians, leading the way for the likes of Cab Calloway, Luis Armstrong, the Duke and others! I met Ron’s mother not to long ago, who said that the boys got all the musical talent in the family and the girls got all the beauty. It was obvious by the way Ron manages his way around a fretboard and it was kind of surreal to be sharing the stage with an heir to the legend.
We did a quick sound check as the guests started loading in, finding a sweet spot for our guitars to sit in. It didn’t take long to dial in a pretty good mix that fit the room and we launched into one of my favorite fast finger pickin’ songs, “Harvester Grille”. This song is a tribute to my hometown of Gary, Indiana, the land of Michael Jackson, steel, basketball and corn. Oh, and let’s not forget fellow Hoosiers, Axl Rose, Hoagy Carmichael, John Mellencamp and VJ Records, the first black owned record label that pressed the first Beatles single in the US.
I used the intimacy of the venue to interact with the audience by telling story’s before each song, which everyone seemed to enjoy. People were sitting on the velvet covered couch in front of the stage and it only seemed natural to tell them a story. I enjoyed exploring this creative space, where you can run, but can’t hide when engaging an audience for two hours with just your voice, a tale and an acoustic guitar. I guess that’s why I called this show, “Acoustic & Naked”.
I was a little nervous at first, being used to hiding behind drums and bass, but, once I hit the guitar strings, I completely handed over the reins to my alter ego, whom proceeded to entertain the crowd, as well as me….
With the espresso I stopped off for before the show kicking in and with Bacchus by my side, I was off and running. I told the story of my growing up in Gary, Indiana near railroad tracks that rattled my bedroom window and shook me out of bed to let me know the train was heading down the tracks. My guitar rhythm took on the sound of the train, capturing the excitement of that steel bullet passing by, my fingers flailing across the fret board. I looked at Ron and he was riding the train with me, concentrating on finding the space in between the notes, careful not to step on mine.
The train is a theme throughout many songs I write and I guess it’s a metaphor for my wanting to travel and explore new worlds. “The smell of smoke trailing the skies, what a beautiful site” are part of the lyrics from, “Harvester Grille” that paint a picture of my experience chasing trains as a kid, which lead me to heading west and settling in California.
Inspired by the crowds warm enthusiasm, I dove into a fast gypsy punk song called, “Gypsy Punka”, which I dedicated to my enigmatic grandfathers, The Macedonian bomber and the South Side Mobster. Both of whom lived life large for the short period they graced this planet. The mobster was a bit of a tyrant, rearing a son who cut my brother and I out of his will, saying we would never amount to anything. I guess he was right, I went into the music business and my brother teaches underpriveledged kids in one of Chicago’s most dangerous neighborhoods…
I told the story of my mother’s father getting into the ring tipsy with a prize-fighter and getting his nose broke and my father’s father having a Chicago cop being bumped off in the Chicago river. I danced a gypsy style dance I learned from Alexi and Olga at the Russian Center called, “Kapushka” in their honor, my feet grabbing air in time with my guitar, Ron’s rhythm and the crowd clapping along. The only thing missing, was doing vodka shots and doing Kossack squats at the same time, but unfortunately Cafe Royale only has a beer and wine license and my health insurance doesn’t cover drinking and dancing injuries.
Continuing with the gypsy spirit, I busted into, “Cocktail for the Blue” a multi-rhythmic odd time signature tune that I wrote about Marilyn Monroe and the Femme Fatale’ character. I wrote this song in an old run down laundromat in Glen Ellen, California after a couple of vodka tonics at the Wolf House tavern, named in honor of the famous author, Jack London who lived there and in honor of my pistol packing, crazy ex-girlfriend who thought she was Marilyn in a past life.
We were rocking, flowing with the set and I launched into, “Ride Those Rails” a fast finger picking tune that has an Americana/Gospel meets claw hammer banjo type feel to it. I had no idea what a claw hammer style was, until someone from England emailed me and said I played that way. The crowd was grooving along, riding the train with us, as I double timed the tempo at the end, my fingers flailing across the fret board, full steam ahead. I like finger picking on the guitar, the combination of wood, steel and bone, offers a voice to the elements and our emotions.
It was time to break the set down, so we busted into “500 Miles” a cry in your beer, heartbreak, alt-country, Wilco meets Springsteen song, I wrote that Ron played along with beautifully. We traded some nice guitar solo riffs and it turned out to be one of my favorites for the evening.
Staying in the down tempo vein of the last tune, I played a song called, “Jenner” and told the story of my visit by a supernatural power that gifted me with a unique and original guitar tuning that came to me in a dream I had in the small hamlet of, Jenner on the rugged Sonoma Coast. (I always feel a little uncomfortable telling that story, for fear of being committed to the Napa State Hospital)…But, it’s true, I did experience something supernatural that night that I can’t put into words, it totally changed my thoughts and ideas about music and set me on a course to re-invent myself as a musician and songwriter. I once spoke to a neuroscientist about my ” audio hallucination” and she said that it was very common among artists, that her work as a poet came from that inner guiding voice. At least, I haven’t resorted to cutting off my ear yet, but I my wife does affectionately, call me Vincent Van Go-Go. Ron played bottle neck slide on this song, giving it a swampy feel, layered with old-time blues gospel licks. We tore it up, swapping extended solos with nice dynamics that fit the intimacy of the lyrics of the mystical journey. I am not a religious person per say, but when I play this song, I feel a connection to the beauty of nature that the Russian River and Pacific Ocean have to offer, their mysterious and enigmatic energy a source of inspiration for my songs.
We worked the room, having gone through a wide array of musical styles, from claw hammer banjo riff world pop, to gypsy, to bluegrass/gospel, to alt-country and it kept everyone guessing as to what was going to come down the pike next. It was time to move on down the tracks so to speak and into the world of melodic pop, so I sang a ballad I wrote called, “Alone in the Park” that has a Beatles vibe to it. I told the story of two people in New York, trying to make eye contact with one another in Central Park, only to be thwarted by the fast pace and sheer volume of people, so that they never connect. My acoustic guitar sounded great on this song, the chords ringing out, filling the room in a sonic blanket of beautiful tone. That guitar is a keeper, first year Santa Cruz D-87 that I picked up second hand back in the eighties.
After finishing that high energy set, I worked up a thirst and Bacchus was calling in the corner, so we broke for a fifteen minute break and I went around and introduced myself to the crowd. It was nice to be greeted by enthusiastic fresh new faces and old friends. I made the rounds and took my wine glass to the back basement steps where I caught my breath and took stock of my performance. So far, so good, I thought to myself, as I thanked Bacchus for his delightful warm fuzzy friendship, tipping my glass to the ghosts sauntering in the basement.
Ron and I opened the second set with, “Little Sister”, a song from a musical play I wrote many years ago called, “There Goes the Neighborhood”. Ron played nylon string guitar on this tune, giving it a Spanish flamenco feel and I took to the mic so that I could lay into the soulful nature of the tune and it’s tale of a junkie prostitute. I told the story of Gary, Indiana’s demise, the effects of, “White Flight” which lead to it crumbling into a burned out ghetto in a matter of a few years, which set up the intro to “Cowboy”, one of my favorite songs. It’s a cool, cynical tune that’s a blend of an old slave chain gang song, mixed in with rap, funk and blues, set to an alternate drop C tuning that puts a lens on racism and prejudice in America. ie., “The Birthers”…
To lighten up the show, we launched into “Island Girl”, a calypso style surf pop tune I wrote on the island of Holbox in Mexico. Holbox is a laid back, cool place sixty miles from Cuba where you can pretend to be anyone you want and nobody cares. The song has a bit of a laid back Jack Johnson vibe to it and Ron and I had fun busting out a reggae groove, trading licks, stopping perfectly at the turn around. Not bad, for one rehearsal the night before.
I got a request from the audience to play “Shining Light”, a song I wrote for my dear mum who passed away at the age of thirty-six. This song is special to me, being the first tune I wrote in the unique one of a kind dream inspired tuning I had in Jenner. I could tell hit the heart-strings of the listeners. I had many people come up to me after the gig and say that song made them cry and miss their family members that had passed away.
I then launched into “The Red Queen”, a progressive rock song based on a book by, Tim Ridley about sexual evolution and the conflict of nature, versus nurture. I tested it on the crowd and was worried that the odd discordant tuning might be challenging to listen to, (it certainly drives me crazy after awhile), but everyone seemed to enjoy it. I am still exploring the waters of this new tuning, testing these new songs out to see if they stay, or if they go.
The set was going as planned, the songs seemed to flow in an interesting and eclectic way and I decided to play a catchy little song I wrote called, “Broken String Serenade”. I was having so much fun whistling the solo, that I decided to do a second round, honoring the French composer and ornithologist, “Olivier Messiaen” as I blew along.
I got another request from the audience to play, “Tehama St”, a song I wrote about the homeless encampment near my studio. I told the story of ex-mayor Gavin Newsom’s, “Care Not Cash” program, where one of the homeless guys I got to know, got off the streets into assisted housing and earned his GED certificate. Not bad for a junkie vet, who had been written in the system long ago. This song is a fast, barn burner, so I turned on the juice and ended up popping a blister underneath my fingernail. Hurt like hell! I don’t use a pick, preferring the sound of flesh on string and to get my volume on par with Ron’s guitar, I had to strum like a demon. I ended the song twisting my guitars tuning peg, dropping the E string to C, vibrating it back and forth as the harmonics rang out in the club and as I watched the blood fill up under my fingernail..
Ron joined me on the last tune, “Shakey Jake” a gospel, funk rap song that I like to call, “crap”, (country rap) We threw down hard on this tune, giving it all that we had, rockin’ the house. I thanked Les, the crowd and Ron for the wonderful evening and I knew I did my job when a women from New York came up to me after our set and said that my songs made her laugh, cry and feel a wide range of emotions. My writer friend, Caitland was busy typing on her laptop and said it inspired her to write a story about her uncle Stan and I could see my artist friend, Howie drawing in the corner. It really was a fun gig filled with creative people and I am truly blessed to be doing what I love.
Excited that we rocked the house, delivering a kick ass set, we were asked back by Les as we set out into the night planning our next show.
Scot Sier
