But before we get started, it’s time once again to plug one of my favorite bands of all-time— those crazy elementary school teachers who change into demonic rockers at night: No Small Children. Coming off of a successful run playing the title tune from the movie Ghostbusters II, they pluck another rocker out of the air and it’s a beaut! Lay back (if you can) and listen to what the percentage of us not tied to our iThings are hearing. I Feel Better!!!
Archive for No Small Children
Frank Gutch Jr: T Bone. Got it? He’s from T exas… Glenn Patscha To Release Ten Year Old Album Because It’s a Killer!…plus NotesPosted in Opinion, Review with tags All Fires the Fire, Alpha Band, Anna Cordell, Bob Dylan, Brian Cullman, Chet Flippo, Clive Davis, David Bullock, DBAWIS, Death Hoax, Don't Believe a Word I Say, Donovan Woods, Frank Gutch Jr., Gilmore Girls, glenn patscha, Guy Clark, Indie Artists, Indie Music, Lloyd Sachs, music videos, No Small Children, Obscura Hail, Ollabelle, Phil White, Radney Foster, Records, Rollin' Thunder Revue, Scott Fraser, segarini, Songs from the Jefferson Highway, Space Opera, Sweet Home Oregon, Sycamore Creek, T-Bone Burnett, Tamara Saviano, the curtis mayflower, Whistler Chaucer Detroit & Greenhill on February 14, 2017 by segarini
Frank Gutch Jr: John ‘Buck’ Ormsby: Maybe Out of His Tree, But Never Out of His League; Plus, Artists Who Should Have Made It (A Musical Roundup)Posted in Opinion, Review with tags DBAWIS, Dead Horses, Devon Sproule, Don't Believe a Word I Say, Five Man Electrical Band, Frank Gutch Jr., Indie Artists, Indie Music, Jim Post, Joe Lee, John 'Buck' Ormsby, John Hicks, Jr. Cadillac, Kink Ador, Lisa Joy Pimentel, Lisa O'Neill, music, music videos, New Method Blasters, No Small Children, Paul Curreri, radio, randy burns, River Rouge, Rusty Willoughby, Sage Run, segarini, Shaun Cromwell, Steve Young, The Dementians, The Fire Tapes, The Lisa Parade, The Sonics, The Wailers, Ticktockman, Toronto on November 1, 2016 by segarini
This morning was cold and wet with a chill that went to the bone, the clouds threatening, the rain off and on but somehow consistent. I knew it would be. Yesterday, my friend John Hicks had posted a message that Buck Ormsby had died. No way, I thought, because I had had contact only a few days previous— just a note, but contact. When I approached Hicks, he said that he had found out from Ormsby’s son’s page. He sent me the link and there it was. We are sorry to report… and the words became a blur. While it hardly seemed possible, Buck was gone. Is gone, for none of us will hear from him again and that is truly a sad thing.
I took a drive yesterday. I had been sitting in front of the computer screen too long and accomplishing little of anything at all and I needed a break. Usually when I hit the road I take music I need to hear for writing reasons but this time I needed time to myself. I grabbed one I had the urge to review by Town Mountain which when I pulled open the CD cover discovered was minus the disc. I had left it in my computer player at home. I have lost more than one disc that way. The other two were there though and I had heard neither all the way through for over a year: Lisa Parade‘s Finding Flora and Maxi Dunn‘s Edmund & Leo. I couldn’t wait.
…but I could never pull it together. Of course, when I was young I thought I was a musician, piddling with the tonette in fourth grade, drafted into the junior high band in the fifth grade because they badly needed a bass drum player, playing drums in what could be called a jazz band then (though we were really not good enough to be called that), playing drums in the high school band and in a couple of rock bands and carrying it on through college. I loved music and was always around it but I was never really a musician.
I used to have over 10,000 record albums. That is really not that many when you really look at it. More than you could listen to fairly in a year, I suppose. Deep enough to impress vinyl junkies, too many to impress anyone sane. Way more than enough to make my life desolate when it came to relationships.
The quote in the header is from Frank Secich‘s Circumstantial Evidence, a look back at a life which could easily have been one long stint at various penal institutions instead of sixties and seventies music venues. Secich (pronounced SESS-ich, by the way) admits in his book that he was on the cusp but never really made the leap, thanks to music and the people involved with it. One such person was Ray Chizmar, a musician and early idol to Secich who would always greet him with “What do you say, Ray?” to which Chizmar replied “Whatcha got in the bank, Frank?”
It’s that time of year again, sports fans. Santa has been on the radio for the past two months, robot disc jockeys and purveyors of everything muzak beating us senseless with varying renditions of Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree and Jolly Old Saint Nicholas, hoping to lighten our mood enough to loosen the old purse strings. Hallmark Channel have kicked into full Christmas mode, plastering their channels with their cookie-cutter movies which vary mostly by the changing of leading ladies (this year’s favorite, by far, is Hilarie Burton, whom I saw in an old Castle episode and was floored by not only her beauty but the fact that the casting could not have been more right). I wish they had more creativity over at Hallmark, their overuse of the five plots and rotating stars coming very close to consumer abuse. But, hey, I’m a sap.