http://lavapups.com/blog.cfm Sun, 26 May 2013 03:20:00 GMT http://bandzoogle.com http://lavapups.com/blog.cfm?feature=2176284&postid=4353867 During the penultimate practice preliminary to the KFJC Battle of the Surf Bands, the Kool Kat appeared to be looking over the “living room” of the Doghouse and our practice space.  He then walked to the kitchen area, grabbed a handful of almonds, and on his way back, surveyed the area again.  Clearly, he had something percolating under his mane of white hair. As I was congratulating the Pups for being within the KFJC Battle of the Surf Bands time limit, the Kool Kat began shaking his head.  That jogged me from any feelings of relief; my thought was, “Oh, oh, what’s going on?”  The Kool Kat stood rubbing his chin and said, “We don’t practice like we play live.  For our next practice, we need to move the furniture, line up how we line up on stage, and play.”  Sue joined in immediately, “Yes, that is absolutely right.  We need to do that for our next practice.”  Hearing no objection from Glenn, I knew what was in store for our next practice -- and possibly every future practice.  Multi-tasking!  Didn’t I flunk Multi-tasking 101 once already this year?  Rather than repeat the course, we agreed to do all things in moderation -- including moderation -- for awhile. The next practice came.  The furniture was moved.  We lined up like we might be on a stage.  I had switched back to a cord -- fluorescent yellow -- as visions of airport tower and radio talk coming across my wireless system filled my imagination.  “This is November six-five on approach, over.”  Squawk.  Urp.  ZZZ.  “What’s your zulu?  Over.”  Squawk.  Urp.  ZZZ! Alas, tripping over a cord would be better than that.  Then again, maybe I just should have a cord at the ready and simply risk a Spinal Tap moment. We played.  Robert perfected several well-timed jumps.  No jumps for me.  Grabbing air no longer is in the cards.  Actually, not much was.  When I went to my knees to play, Robert started laughing.  He knew that the odds were against my arising with any aplomb at all.  He was right! After that move, he joked, “You need to have Becky come out a put a cape over your shoulders, hand you a cane, and start to lead you off stage.  Then you can throw the cape off.  You know, like James Brown!”  Yeah, maybe some day after we practice that a bunch.  And maybe I can learn to do the Chuck Berry duck walk.  Fat chance! In the end, we did not come up with any slick choreography.  No coordinated leg kicks.  No playing leaning against each other.  Nothing at all other than proof positive that choreography is for Broadway productions.  Instead, we will stick to a healthy dose of moderation.  And that probably is best for . . . .  After all, didn’t I already tube multi-tasking badly?

During the penultimate practice preliminary to the KFJC Battle of the Surf Bands, the Kool Kat appeared to be looking over the “living room” of the Doghouse and our practice space.  He then walked to the kitchen area, grabbed a handful of almonds, and on his way back, surveyed the area again.  Clearly, he had something percolating under his mane of white hair.

As I was congratulating the Pups for being within the KFJC Battle of the Surf Bands time limit, the Kool Kat began shaking his head.  That jogged me from any feelings of relief; my thought was, “Oh, oh, what’s going on?” 

The Kool Kat stood rubbing his chin and said, “We don’t practice like we play live.  For our next practice, we need to move the furniture, line up how we line up on stage, and play.”  Sue joined in immediately, “Yes, that is absolutely right.  We need to do that for our next practice.” 

Hearing no objection from Glenn, I knew what was in store for our next practice -- and possibly every future practice.  Multi-tasking!  Didn’t I flunk Multi-tasking 101 once already this year?  Rather than repeat the course, we agreed to do all things in moderation -- including moderation -- for awhile.

The next practice came.  The furniture was moved.  We lined up like we might be on a stage.  I had switched back to a cord -- fluorescent yellow -- as visions of airport tower and radio talk coming across my wireless system filled my imagination.  “This is November six-five on approach, over.”  Squawk.  Urp.  ZZZ.  “What’s your zulu?  Over.”  Squawk.  Urp.  ZZZ!

Alas, tripping over a cord would be better than that.  Then again, maybe I just should have a cord at the ready and simply risk a Spinal Tap moment.

We played.  Robert perfected several well-timed jumps.  No jumps for me.  Grabbing air no longer is in the cards.  Actually, not much was.  When I went to my knees to play, Robert started laughing.  He knew that the odds were against my arising with any aplomb at all.  He was right!

After that move, he joked, “You need to have Becky come out a put a cape over your shoulders, hand you a cane, and start to lead you off stage.  Then you can throw the cape off.  You know, like James Brown!”  Yeah, maybe some day after we practice that a bunch.  And maybe I can learn to do the Chuck Berry duck walk.  Fat chance!

In the end, we did not come up with any slick choreography.  No coordinated leg kicks.  No playing leaning against each other.  Nothing at all other than proof positive that choreography is for Broadway productions. 

Instead, we will stick to a healthy dose of moderation.  And that probably is best for . . . .  After all, didn’t I already tube multi-tasking badly?

]]> Sun, 26 May 2013 03:20:00 GMT 2C63FC105A383EDA6E062140F41130A9 http://lavapups.com/blog.cfm?feature=2176284&postid=4324131 EDITOR'S NOTE: The photos in this post are courtesy of Leslie Bialik. You read earlier that the KFJC Battle of the Surf Bands made for a perfect afternoon.  With the back line in place, wired, and sound-checked for radio purposes in advance, the entire production ran like a well-oiled machine.  The show started right on schedule at 1:00 with Ferenc Dobronyi and his band, Frankie and the Pool Boys.  While they played, members of North of Malibu gathered their instruments.  At 1:12 or so, Frankie finished, and the transition was on.  At 1:15, North of Malibu commenced its set.  It finished within the allotted 12 minutes.  Once the precedent was set, every band followed course -- 14 more times.  Aloha Screwdriver finished at 4:57, leaving three minutes for Ferenc and Mary McDonald -- the KFJC dj in charge -- to thank the crowd, the bands, the Surf Spot, and each other. Of course, as you might expect, the Pups were not a well-oiled machine.  If we were, we no longer would be pups.  We would have graduated to dogs, canines, mutts, or hounds. My day began at 5:30 after a night of fitful semi-sleep that resulted from a cup of coffee at 8:00, visions of disaster, and raging rants by the Nagging Little Voice.  “Why did you have a cup of coffee at 8:00?  Between the caffeine and getting up to pee, you won’t sleep at all!”  Every time the Nagging Little Voice rested, Ray Davies’ words from “All of my Friends Were There” came to mind.  Then, when I got up to pass some coffee, the Nagging Little Voice started again, “See, I told you so.” By 10:30 or so, Sue, Glenn, guitars, bass, pedal boards, merch crate, and I were on the road to Pacifica.  Robert texted earlier that he and Lisa were going to enjoy the coast and planned to leave around 10:30.  He inquired about the name of the venue.  “Surf Spot on the PCH in Pacifica.  Next to the bowling alley.” Every time traffic slowed down, the thought that flashed was, “What if the traffic is like this from here on out?”  Fortunately, it never was.  After taking the wrong exit in Pacifica, getting directions from a mail carrier, and making another wrong turn, we arrived with time to spare. Despite a couple of wrong turns, this was going very smoothly.  Maybe too smoothly considering the potentially ominous text to Sue’s cell from Robert as we merged on to Highway 1.  “When do we go on?”  We debated, “Do we tell him 2:00 or 1:45?”  We voted for the truth. After Frankie and the Pool Boys played, Ferenc put on his producer’s hat and came over to see how we were doing.  “Fine, except we don’t have a bass player yet.”  As North of Malibu finished its set, still no Robert.  We were two bands -- 30 minutes -- from our assigned slot.  In the middle of the Buzzy Frets’ set, I started contingency planning. But rather than “what if” the thing too much, I dialed Robert on the cell.  “Where are you?”  “We’re just coming into Pacifica.  Where’s the venue?  How’s the parking?”  I looked out at the lot, and it was nearly full.  At least, they were only five minutes away unless they took the circuitous route that we had. As the Buzzy Frets finished and EL84 took the stage, Robert walked in.  Whew!  Simultaneously, Ferenc walked up.  “Are you going to be ready?”  “Yes, our bass player has arrived.” I slung my guitar over my shoulder, adjusted my Hawaiian tux jacket, and grabbed my pedal board.  EL84 was wrapping up.  Our three minutes to get on stage and set up began.  After plugging my fluorescent yellow cord and other cords into the pedal board, I looked back at Ferenc, who then turned up the volume of the amp.  I hit the strings.  Nothing!  What?  Then I looked at my guitar.  Flustered or just plain inexperienced, I had not plugged anything into it.  Duh! Ferenc moved to the mic, engaged in a little banter with the crowd and Robert, and asked me if we were ready.  “We’re ready.”  Ferenc announced, “And now the Lava Pups.  I hope they play as loud as Bill’s jacket!” “Thank you.  This is off of our CD.”  We launched “Link Man.”  Any jitters were gone as, in short order, I realized that I only could hear me and the drums.  What Sue and Robert were doing was an audio mystery.  “Squad Car.”  Robert motioned to me to turn up the volume.  I certainly was not going to do that on the fly.  So I hit the boost pedal.  Between “Squad Car” and “Lava Tube,” Robert asked me to turn up the volume.  As I headed back to the amp, somebody from the production crew said, “Don’t touch that.  The sound’s fine.”  Okay, we were going to do this by working off of Glenn’s drums and watching each other’s hands -- a totally new experience. We finished the Link Wray Medley.  Our 12 minutes were done.  A number of people said that we sounded great and congratulated us.  Robert and Sue repeated over and over, “We couldn’t hear anybody else.”  But the folks kept saying that we sounded good and were right on time and in sync as a band. Even our fans in D.C. -- Becky, my daughter, and friends -- who watched the streaming video, texted that we sounded great. Practice had paid off.  We knew the songs and each other well enough that we could play under new, unexpected conditions.  That meant we were one step closer to being a band.  But I needed a beer.  The time had come to relax and enjoy the rest of what would be a perfect afternoon.  Why do things easily when you can do them Pup style? EDITOR'S NOTE: The photos in this post are courtesy of Leslie Bialik.



You read earlier that the KFJC Battle of the Surf Bands made for a perfect afternoon.  With the back line in place, wired, and sound-checked for radio purposes in advance, the entire production ran like a well-oiled machine.  The show started right on schedule at 1:00 with Ferenc Dobronyi and his band, Frankie and the Pool Boys.  While they played, members of North of Malibu gathered their instruments.  At 1:12 or so, Frankie finished, and the transition was on.  At 1:15, North of Malibu commenced its set.  It finished within the allotted 12 minutes.  Once the precedent was set, every band followed course -- 14 more times.  Aloha Screwdriver finished at 4:57, leaving three minutes for Ferenc and Mary McDonald -- the KFJC dj in charge -- to thank the crowd, the bands, the Surf Spot, and each other.

Of course, as you might expect, the Pups were not a well-oiled machine.  If we were, we no longer would be pups.  We would have graduated to dogs, canines, mutts, or hounds.

My day began at 5:30 after a night of fitful semi-sleep that resulted from a cup of coffee at 8:00, visions of disaster, and raging rants by the Nagging Little Voice.  “Why did you have a cup of coffee at 8:00?  Between the caffeine and getting up to pee, you won’t sleep at all!”  Every time the Nagging Little Voice rested, Ray Davies’ words from “All of my Friends Were There” came to mind.  Then, when I got up to pass some coffee, the Nagging Little Voice started again, “See, I told you so.”

By 10:30 or so, Sue, Glenn, guitars, bass, pedal boards, merch crate, and I were on the road to Pacifica.  Robert texted earlier that he and Lisa were going to enjoy the coast and planned to leave around 10:30.  He inquired about the name of the venue.  “Surf Spot on the PCH in Pacifica.  Next to the bowling alley.”

Every time traffic slowed down, the thought that flashed was, “What if the traffic is like this from here on out?”  Fortunately, it never was.  After taking the wrong exit in Pacifica, getting directions from a mail carrier, and making another wrong turn, we arrived with time to spare.

Despite a couple of wrong turns, this was going very smoothly.  Maybe too smoothly considering the potentially ominous text to Sue’s cell from Robert as we merged on to Highway 1.  “When do we go on?”  We debated, “Do we tell him 2:00 or 1:45?”  We voted for the truth.

After Frankie and the Pool Boys played, Ferenc put on his producer’s hat and came over to see how we were doing.  “Fine, except we don’t have a bass player yet.”  As North of Malibu finished its set, still no Robert.  We were two bands -- 30 minutes -- from our assigned slot.  In the middle of the Buzzy Frets’ set, I started contingency planning.

But rather than “what if” the thing too much, I dialed Robert on the cell.  “Where are you?”  “We’re just coming into Pacifica.  Where’s the venue?  How’s the parking?”  I looked out at the lot, and it was nearly full.  At least, they were only five minutes away unless they took the circuitous route that we had.

As the Buzzy Frets finished and EL84 took the stage, Robert walked in.  Whew!  Simultaneously, Ferenc walked up.  “Are you going to be ready?”  “Yes, our bass player has arrived.”

I slung my guitar over my shoulder, adjusted my Hawaiian tux jacket, and grabbed my pedal board.  EL84 was wrapping up.  Our three minutes to get on stage and set up began.  After plugging my fluorescent yellow cord and other cords into the pedal board, I looked back at Ferenc, who then turned up the volume of the amp.  I hit the strings.  Nothing!  What?  Then I looked at my guitar.  Flustered or just plain inexperienced, I had not plugged anything into it.  Duh!

Ferenc moved to the mic, engaged in a little banter with the crowd and Robert, and asked me if we were ready.  “We’re ready.”  Ferenc announced, “And now the Lava Pups.  I hope they play as loud as Bill’s jacket!”


“Thank you.  This is off of our CD.”  We launched “Link Man.”  Any jitters were gone as, in short order, I realized that I only could hear me and the drums.  What Sue and Robert were doing was an audio mystery.  “Squad Car.”  Robert motioned to me to turn up the volume.  I certainly was not going to do that on the fly.  So I hit the boost pedal.  Between “Squad Car” and “Lava Tube,” Robert asked me to turn up the volume.  As I headed back to the amp, somebody from the production crew said, “Don’t touch that.  The sound’s fine.”  Okay, we were going to do this by working off of Glenn’s drums and watching each other’s hands -- a totally new experience.

We finished the Link Wray Medley.  Our 12 minutes were done.  A number of people said that we sounded great and congratulated us.  Robert and Sue repeated over and over, “We couldn’t hear anybody else.”  But the folks kept saying that we sounded good and were right on time and in sync as a band.

Even our fans in D.C. -- Becky, my daughter, and friends -- who watched the streaming video, texted that we sounded great.

Practice had paid off.  We knew the songs and each other well enough that we could play under new, unexpected conditions.  That meant we were one step closer to being a band.  But I needed a beer.  The time had come to relax and enjoy the rest of what would be a perfect afternoon. 

Why do things easily when you can do them Pup style?

]]> Wed, 22 May 2013 05:05:00 GMT 73861728B78AA6FCFFB25284E8F80C7D http://lavapups.com/blog.cfm?feature=2176284&postid=4308225 For this wannabe surf guitarist, the formula for a perfect afternoon is simple: Perfect Afternoon = Music + Venue + Weather + Fun = KFJC Battle of the Surf Bands As any reader of this blog -- whether casual or semi-regular -- knows, our posts are never that concise.  You are going to get the long form version. Music.  Sixteen bands presenting sixteen different adaptations of what we loosely call surf music.  Enough time for each band to convey its style and show off its talents.  Sonic diversity to refresh and vitalize the audience’s senses.  Visual variations to engage and entertain the audience.  Never so much of any one band, sound, or schtick as to overwhelm.  Each band leaving you wanting more.  A surf sampler of sorts. Venue.  Bring the sixteen bands together at an aptly-named venue, the Surf Spot, across the PCH -- Pacific Coast Highway for those not given to our West Coast shorthand -- from the ocean in Pacifica.  The outdoor stage is nestled into an embankment leading up to the highway.  The stage shelters performers and audience from the onshore breeze and eliminates any highway noise.  A hill to one side and a restaurant to the other combine with cabanas and a grassy play area opposite the stage to create a bowl where an audience can sit at picnic tables or on the grass.  Intimate, yet open.  No overpowering volume required.  Add ample parking, excellent and reasonably-priced food, beer, and margaritas, and you have an ideal all-ages venue for surf music. Weather.  Play and listen in the sun.  Two myths prevail about California coastal weather.  One is that the California coast is sunny and warm day in and day out drawing thousands of tanned, fit, and scantily-clothed bodies to the beach.  The other is that San Francisco and its adjacent coastal communities are shrouded in fog day in and day out.  The weather in Pacifica proved both myths wrong.  It was sunny, clear, and in the mid-60s -- in a single word, marvelous. Fun.  A surf music love fest.  Sixteen bands welcomed to the stage and supported by other musicians and fans who share a love of surf music.  Members of different bands communing with each other.  Band members and audience members communing with each other.  People exchanging fist bumps, hand shakes, and hugs.  Eagerly anticipating the next band while wondering where did he get that suit, the paint job on that guitar, or that color guitar.  More Fun.  The bands’ palpable enthusiasm for entertaining and caring about the audience.  North of Malibu's coastal chill attire.  Buzzy Frets in tailored black suits and masks.  Agency EL84 in sharkskin suits.  The Mighty Surf Lords displaying a hot pink bass.  Beachkrieg hitting the crash cymbal with a rubber chicken.  Brodaddy’s matching shirts with -- my personal favorite -- blue panels.  The Gillibillies’ southern surf played on a Gibson flying V.  Meshugga Beach Party’s choreographed dance kicks.  Trivalve’s rendering of “White Wedding” on a bright yellow guitar.  The Tomorrowmen in silver lame.  Audience members on stage dancing while Drifting Sand sang “Rockaway Beach.”  Aloha Screwdriver in jumpsuits and more silver lame. Still More Fun.  Seeing the future of surf music in bands with budding young talent like the Deadbeats and the Sneaky Tikis and in young fans.  As the Sneaky Tikis blazed through Miserlou, overhearing a father (or grandfather) imparting some history to a pre-teen girl, “That’s a Dick Dale song.” Even More Fun.  Being there, seeing old friends, meeting new people, and feeling the enthusiasm for surf music. Yes, indeed, the efforts of Ferenc Dobronyi, Mary McDonald, and KFJC resulted in the right mix of music and venue.  The bands and audience added the fun.  You can credit whatever source you choose for the weather.  The sum is that the KFJC Battle of the Surf Bands made for a perfect afternoon.

For this wannabe surf guitarist, the formula for a perfect afternoon is simple:

Perfect Afternoon = Music + Venue + Weather + Fun = KFJC Battle of the Surf Bands

As any reader of this blog -- whether casual or semi-regular -- knows, our posts are never that concise.  You are going to get the long form version.

Music.  Sixteen bands presenting sixteen different adaptations of what we loosely call surf music.  Enough time for each band to convey its style and show off its talents.  Sonic diversity to refresh and vitalize the audience’s senses.  Visual variations to engage and entertain the audience.  Never so much of any one band, sound, or schtick as to overwhelm.  Each band leaving you wanting more.  A surf sampler of sorts.

Venue.  Bring the sixteen bands together at an aptly-named venue, the Surf Spot, across the PCH -- Pacific Coast Highway for those not given to our West Coast shorthand -- from the ocean in Pacifica.  The outdoor stage is nestled into an embankment leading up to the highway.  The stage shelters performers and audience from the onshore breeze and eliminates any highway noise.  A hill to one side and a restaurant to the other combine with cabanas and a grassy play area opposite the stage to create a bowl where an audience can sit at picnic tables or on the grass.  Intimate, yet open.  No overpowering volume required.  Add ample parking, excellent and reasonably-priced food, beer, and margaritas, and you have an ideal all-ages venue for surf music.

Weather.  Play and listen in the sun.  Two myths prevail about California coastal weather.  One is that the California coast is sunny and warm day in and day out drawing thousands of tanned, fit, and scantily-clothed bodies to the beach.  The other is that San Francisco and its adjacent coastal communities are shrouded in fog day in and day out.  The weather in Pacifica proved both myths wrong.  It was sunny, clear, and in the mid-60s -- in a single word, marvelous.

Fun.  A surf music love fest.  Sixteen bands welcomed to the stage and supported by other musicians and fans who share a love of surf music.  Members of different bands communing with each other.  Band members and audience members communing with each other.  People exchanging fist bumps, hand shakes, and hugs.  Eagerly anticipating the next band while wondering where did he get that suit, the paint job on that guitar, or that color guitar. 

More Fun.  The bands’ palpable enthusiasm for entertaining and caring about the audience.  North of Malibu's coastal chill attire.  Buzzy Frets in tailored black suits and masks.  Agency EL84 in sharkskin suits.  The Mighty Surf Lords displaying a hot pink bass.  Beachkrieg hitting the crash cymbal with a rubber chicken.  Brodaddy’s matching shirts with -- my personal favorite -- blue panels.  The Gillibillies’ southern surf played on a Gibson flying V.  Meshugga Beach Party’s choreographed dance kicks.  Trivalve’s rendering of “White Wedding” on a bright yellow guitar.  The Tomorrowmen in silver lame.  Audience members on stage dancing while Drifting Sand sang “Rockaway Beach.”  Aloha Screwdriver in jumpsuits and more silver lame.

Still More Fun.  Seeing the future of surf music in bands with budding young talent like the Deadbeats and the Sneaky Tikis and in young fans.  As the Sneaky Tikis blazed through Miserlou, overhearing a father (or grandfather) imparting some history to a pre-teen girl, “That’s a Dick Dale song.”

Even More Fun.  Being there, seeing old friends, meeting new people, and feeling the enthusiasm for surf music.

Yes, indeed, the efforts of Ferenc Dobronyi, Mary McDonald, and KFJC resulted in the right mix of music and venue.  The bands and audience added the fun.  You can credit whatever source you choose for the weather.  The sum is that the KFJC Battle of the Surf Bands made for a perfect afternoon.

]]> Mon, 20 May 2013 00:05:00 GMT FDBBD0041DDCB1A8D1D563318F58D489 http://lavapups.com/blog.cfm?feature=2176284&postid=4276177 The way to get out of hyperdrive is to rely on Glenn’s drumming and the rest of the band.  After all, when timing is left to me, it goes to pieces.  Anybody who watches my foot knows that it is not keeping any semblance of a steady beat.  Isn’t that why a band has a rhythm section? Undoubtedly, we needed to run through our Battle of the Surf Bands set as a band.  On an intellectual level, I knew that with some rearranging we were between 9:48 -- my hyperdrive version -- and 12 minutes.  The Nagging Little Voice, however, reminded me that with some drum breaks and bass embellishments we still could be in jeopardy of exceeding 12 minutes.  Or a senior moment of trying to remember the name of a song or some meandering babble into the mic could push us over our allotted time. Band practice had to be both banter and playing.  From “thank you” at the beginning of the set to “thank you” at the end.  We had to rehearse like we were on stage and somebody announced, “And now, the Lava Pups!” Despite the goal of staying out of hyperdrive, I downed on a cup of coffee while waiting for everybody to show up at the Doghouse.  This old dog is not about to learn new habits. Once everybody was plugged in, adjusted, tuned, and in place, I said, “Thank you!”  And we started.  The first time through was a bit dicey.  “What are we playing?”  “Weren’t we doing [blank]?”  “What order are we playing the songs?”  Of course, thinking about not forgetting meant I forgot the name of the first song.  As we were building up to our big ending, I looked over at Robert and his coat was caught in the strings between the bridge and pickup on the Pup bass.  He was trying to free himself from his instrument. “How long?”  Becky looked up from her Kindle, did something to her iPhone, and responded, “12:01.”  That meant that we were fine.  Even with a couple of glitches, we were right on time -- okay, a second over.  Nobody will be able to get the hook out that fast.  I felt relieved. “Let’s do it again.”  No glitches this time.  11:41.  That meant we could shift into the no worry posture.  Playing the four songs and saying something to the audience probably was going to be under twelve minutes.  We had time to spare was confirmed by a couple of more runs through the set -- range 11:36 to 11:45.  The relief was real -- exhale. Let’s take a break.  The time had come to savor a moment when we were a step closer -- and one worry fewer -- to being ready for the KFJC Battle of the Surf Bands.  Oh, yeah, time to savor a Downtown Brown! The way to get out of hyperdrive is to rely on Glenn’s drumming and the rest of the band.  After all, when timing is left to me, it goes to pieces.  Anybody who watches my foot knows that it is not keeping any semblance of a steady beat.  Isn’t that why a band has a rhythm section?

Undoubtedly, we needed to run through our Battle of the Surf Bands set as a band.  On an intellectual level, I knew that with some rearranging we were between 9:48 -- my hyperdrive version -- and 12 minutes. 

The Nagging Little Voice, however, reminded me that with some drum breaks and bass embellishments we still could be in jeopardy of exceeding 12 minutes.  Or a senior moment of trying to remember the name of a song or some meandering babble into the mic could push us over our allotted time.

Band practice had to be both banter and playing.  From “thank you” at the beginning of the set to “thank you” at the end.  We had to rehearse like we were on stage and somebody announced, “And now, the Lava Pups!”

Despite the goal of staying out of hyperdrive, I downed on a cup of coffee while waiting for everybody to show up at the Doghouse.  This old dog is not about to learn new habits.

Once everybody was plugged in, adjusted, tuned, and in place, I said, “Thank you!”  And we started.  The first time through was a bit dicey.  “What are we playing?”  “Weren’t we doing [blank]?”  “What order are we playing the songs?”  Of course, thinking about not forgetting meant I forgot the name of the first song.  As we were building up to our big ending, I looked over at Robert and his coat was caught in the strings between the bridge and pickup on the Pup bass.  He was trying to free himself from his instrument.

“How long?”  Becky looked up from her Kindle, did something to her iPhone, and responded, “12:01.”  That meant that we were fine.  Even with a couple of glitches, we were right on time -- okay, a second over.  Nobody will be able to get the hook out that fast.  I felt relieved.

“Let’s do it again.”  No glitches this time.  11:41.  That meant we could shift into the no worry posture.  Playing the four songs and saying something to the audience probably was going to be under twelve minutes.  We had time to spare was confirmed by a couple of more runs through the set -- range 11:36 to 11:45.  The relief was real -- exhale.

Let’s take a break.  The time had come to savor a moment when we were a step closer -- and one worry fewer -- to being ready for the KFJC Battle of the Surf Bands.  Oh, yeah, time to savor a Downtown Brown!

]]> Wed, 15 May 2013 04:25:00 GMT 078122295768910FE71B90CF3DAF0F38 http://lavapups.com/blog.cfm?feature=2176284&postid=4254579 “You better slow down!  Baby, now you’re movin’ way too fast”?  No, that was not written by the Beatles or the Jam.  It is classic Larry Williams, who, as many may know, did not heed his own advice.  He lived fast and died of a gunshot to the head at age 44. At our last band practice, we had our set for the Battle of the Surf Bands down to 12 minutes and 56 seconds.  Four songs plus a bit of rehearsed banter with a pretend crowd.  The problem was that we were 56 seconds over the allotted time.  We considered the “ostrich approach” -- that is, stick our heads in the sand.  But the Nagging Little Voice would not have any of that, “The rules are 12 minutes or less.  You’ll look unprofessional if you go over.”  An impeccably logical response was, “Well, we’re not professionals.”  Of course, the Nagging Little Voice never was a big fan of logic and used the slippery slope come back.  “If you are 56 seconds over, what will other bands take?” Knowing that the Nagging Little Voice was not going to stop meant that we either had to go with a different set or rearrange some of the songs.  The set felt just perfect -- a couple of our originals, a surf classic, and a retro-garage favorite.  Importantly, all of the Pups agreed to the set.  That left rearranging by carving out something. On Sunday at the Doghouse, I rolled out the rearranged set for Becky.  No band mates.  Four songs.  Full-blown banter.  “One, two, three, start.”  Becky started the stop watch.  “Here’s one from our CD!”  I played and talked to the audience of one.  She kept time.  “We are the Lava Pups.  Thank you!” “How long?”  “9:48”  Wow!  Made it with time to spare. “So what did you think?”  Becky’s response made me realize that I must have been in hyperdrive -- too much caffeine, too much adrenalin, too much excitement, too much focus on playing fast, too much sounding like a pitchman issuing a disclaimer in television ad. Even though she was a baby at the peak of his career, Becky repeated the words of Larry Williams verbatim, “You better slow down!” “You better slow down!  Baby, now you’re movin’ way too fast”?  No, that was not written by the Beatles or the Jam.  It is classic Larry Williams, who, as many may know, did not heed his own advice.  He lived fast and died of a gunshot to the head at age 44.

At our last band practice, we had our set for the Battle of the Surf Bands down to 12 minutes and 56 seconds.  Four songs plus a bit of rehearsed banter with a pretend crowd.  The problem was that we were 56 seconds over the allotted time.  We considered the “ostrich approach” -- that is, stick our heads in the sand. 

But the Nagging Little Voice would not have any of that, “The rules are 12 minutes or less.  You’ll look unprofessional if you go over.”  An impeccably logical response was, “Well, we’re not professionals.”  Of course, the Nagging Little Voice never was a big fan of logic and used the slippery slope come back.  “If you are 56 seconds over, what will other bands take?”

Knowing that the Nagging Little Voice was not going to stop meant that we either had to go with a different set or rearrange some of the songs.  The set felt just perfect -- a couple of our originals, a surf classic, and a retro-garage favorite.  Importantly, all of the Pups agreed to the set.  That left rearranging by carving out something.

On Sunday at the Doghouse, I rolled out the rearranged set for Becky.  No band mates.  Four songs.  Full-blown banter.  “One, two, three, start.”  Becky started the stop watch.  “Here’s one from our CD!”  I played and talked to the audience of one.  She kept time.  “We are the Lava Pups.  Thank you!”

“How long?”  “9:48”  Wow!  Made it with time to spare.

“So what did you think?”  Becky’s response made me realize that I must have been in hyperdrive -- too much caffeine, too much adrenalin, too much excitement, too much focus on playing fast, too much sounding like a pitchman issuing a disclaimer in television ad.

Even though she was a baby at the peak of his career, Becky repeated the words of Larry Williams verbatim, “You better slow down!”

]]> Sat, 11 May 2013 16:10:00 GMT 828A61A67F161F06DD9D6FF4EB73FDFA http://lavapups.com/blog.cfm?feature=2176284&postid=4231701 Saturday, we went to Colfax for a showing of Jim Lee’s recent artwork.  Oceanic, surf, Polynesian, spiritual, mystical, ecological, and Buddhist themes dominate his paintings.  “Eclectic” probably best describes Jim’s style.  He moves easily from using shapes and negative space that define images to creating incredible detail with precise, fine lines.  His palette shifts between subdued or muted and vivrant and bright colors. With Sierra Surf Music Camp just around the corner, the showing was an opportunity to catch up on his latest work and renew our acquaintance.  Last year, while Glenn and I immersed ourselves in music, Becky and Jean spent good chunks of their camp days under Jim’s tutelage.  Those few days and a later bit of serendipity helped Becky sort through the cabinet full of art supplies in the garage and start art classes again. During the hour or so drive back, Becky and I discussed our friends who are real -- as opposed to hobbyist -- musicians and seek to make a living from music.  What got the conversation started is hard to say.  Maybe it was that nephew Dash recently played guitar with Linda Perry on The Talk.  They mentioned his name, and he was caught by the camera a couple of times.  No close ups; no full frame pauses; but even a brief pass-by on national television is more than most aspiring artists ever will have. Eventually, the conversation turned to how Paul the Pyronaut had remodeled Ferndale Music to include a stage.  His business model includes open mic nights -- the chance for students to perform and for parents and loved ones to see that the lesson money is not wasted.  We reminisced about how many of his shows promoted both The Pyronauts and his students.  Having fun with music is infectious. The opportunity to perform and stage presence seem to be missing from the SacTown music lesson scene.  Does any music store offer the chance to step on a stage and play in front of family, friends, and strangers as part of its lesson regimen?  What guitar instructors give lessons during which students sling a strap over their shoulder and play standing up?  Where do you learn how to walk out in front of a crowd and not look like a deer in the headlights or somebody trying to pass a kidney stone?  Where do you learn that sticking out your tongue looks really stupid?  Why should you have to wait until you screw up in a gig to find out? As we bounced these and other questions back and forth, I thought about an observation that Robert “Kool Kat” Kuhlmann made the other night at practice.  “We need to start working on how we look.  We need mirrors on the walls so that we can watch ourselves!”  Weren’t mirrors a staple of dance studios? As I pondered where to buy and where to put mirrors, the English Beat’s lyrics came to mind.  “Just a thousand reflections of my own sweet self, self, self . . . .”  Fortunately, Becky interrupted this flight into frivolity.  She shifted the conversation back to Jim Lee’s art.  “I really liked his Sea Cliffs Moloka’i.” Saturday, we went to Colfax for a showing of Jim Lee’s recent artwork.  Oceanic, surf, Polynesian, spiritual, mystical, ecological, and Buddhist themes dominate his paintings.  “Eclectic” probably best describes Jim’s style.  He moves easily from using shapes and negative space that define images to creating incredible detail with precise, fine lines.  His palette shifts between subdued or muted and vivrant and bright colors.

With Sierra Surf Music Camp just around the corner, the showing was an opportunity to catch up on his latest work and renew our acquaintance.  Last year, while Glenn and I immersed ourselves in music, Becky and Jean spent good chunks of their camp days under Jim’s tutelage.  Those few days and a later bit of serendipity helped Becky sort through the cabinet full of art supplies in the garage and start art classes again.

During the hour or so drive back, Becky and I discussed our friends who are real -- as opposed to hobbyist -- musicians and seek to make a living from music.  What got the conversation started is hard to say.  Maybe it was that nephew Dash recently played guitar with Linda Perry on The Talk.  They mentioned his name, and he was caught by the camera a couple of times.  No close ups; no full frame pauses; but even a brief pass-by on national television is more than most aspiring artists ever will have.

Eventually, the conversation turned to how Paul the Pyronaut had remodeled Ferndale Music to include a stage.  His business model includes open mic nights -- the chance for students to perform and for parents and loved ones to see that the lesson money is not wasted.  We reminisced about how many of his shows promoted both The Pyronauts and his students.  Having fun with music is infectious.

The opportunity to perform and stage presence seem to be missing from the SacTown music lesson scene.  Does any music store offer the chance to step on a stage and play in front of family, friends, and strangers as part of its lesson regimen?  What guitar instructors give lessons during which students sling a strap over their shoulder and play standing up?  Where do you learn how to walk out in front of a crowd and not look like a deer in the headlights or somebody trying to pass a kidney stone?  Where do you learn that sticking out your tongue looks really stupid?  Why should you have to wait until you screw up in a gig to find out?

As we bounced these and other questions back and forth, I thought about an observation that Robert “Kool Kat” Kuhlmann made the other night at practice.  “We need to start working on how we look.  We need mirrors on the walls so that we can watch ourselves!”  Weren’t mirrors a staple of dance studios?

As I pondered where to buy and where to put mirrors, the English Beat’s lyrics came to mind.  “Just a thousand reflections of my own sweet self, self, self . . . .” 

Fortunately, Becky interrupted this flight into frivolity.  She shifted the conversation back to Jim Lee’s art.  “I really liked his Sea Cliffs Moloka’i.”

]]> Wed, 08 May 2013 16:15:00 GMT 52D8A967DF1193A3C2D8A9EF1D541867 http://lavapups.com/blog.cfm?feature=2176284&postid=4207281 Did you ever get to that point where you just say, “I've got nothing”? Music and food filled last weekend.  Play through our set list on Saturday morning.  Dinner at Tuli Bistro followed by coffee, beers, and the fusion jazz of the Dave Lynch Group at Bows & Arrows that night.  The Sunday Surf Party the next afternoon chased by a platter of carnitas. By the beginning of Thursday night’s band practice, the afterglow of the Capitol Bowl was nearly gone.  It began to wane on Monday morning when a bit of extra stretching was needed to relieve the stiffness from spending Sunday on my feet.  From there, the afterglow continued to dissipate. Band practice required an early arrival to unravel cords, unpack pedal boards, and get the Doghouse back into some semblance of working order.  Set-up decisions centered on the minimal amount of work necessary to ready the Doghouse for practice.  The last plug was inserted as Sue walked in the door. Band Practice began with a brief critique of the show.  But we quickly moved on to discussing songs for the upcoming KFJC Battle of the Surf Bands.  What do we want to play?  What songs do we play best?  What songs typify us?  Are they the same?  How many songs can we play in 12 minutes?  What songs can we play in 12 minutes?  After about 15 to 20 minutes, we were ready to run through the songs. We started with five songs.  One right after another -- rapid fire succession.  “How long did that take?”  “I think 13 minutes.”  “Huh?  That can’t be because each is around three minutes long!”  As perpetual optimists, we played all five again.  Even though we really did not keep track of the time the second time through, we instinctively knew the next step.  “We need to drop one.”  Four songs.  One right after another.  “How long did that take?”  “I think about 12 minutes.”  About?  “Can we time it better than that?”  “Hey, my iPhone has a stop watch.”  “Let’s try it again.  Start the timer.”  Four songs.  Boom.  Boom.  Boom.  Boom.  No pretend patter with the crowd.  “How long did that take?”  “Oh, I forgot to start the stop watch.”  Is this a Three Stooges routine? “Again.  But this time, start the stop watch.”  One, two, three, four, and we were on the clock.  Four songs.  A little patter this time.  “How long?”  “12:56.”  “We’re a minute over!”  “Not if you round down.  Maybe they won’t notice.”  We agreed that we would try again next week, switched off the amps, and headed off into the night. As I locked the door to the Doghouse, I felt that every bit of creative juice was wrung out of my body.  But that 56 seconds was going to bug me . . . and bug me . . . and . . . . At that moment, I was ready for refueling.  Nothing was left.  Zero.  Zip.  Nada.  Bupkis. Did you ever get to that point where you just say, “I've got nothing”?

Music and food filled last weekend.  Play through our set list on Saturday morning.  Dinner at Tuli Bistro followed by coffee, beers, and the fusion jazz of the Dave Lynch Group at Bows & Arrows that night.  The Sunday Surf Party the next afternoon chased by a platter of carnitas.


By the beginning of Thursday night’s band practice, the afterglow of the Capitol Bowl was nearly gone.  It began to wane on Monday morning when a bit of extra stretching was needed to relieve the stiffness from spending Sunday on my feet.  From there, the afterglow continued to dissipate.

Band practice required an early arrival to unravel cords, unpack pedal boards, and get the Doghouse back into some semblance of working order.  Set-up decisions centered on the minimal amount of work necessary to ready the Doghouse for practice.  The last plug was inserted as Sue walked in the door.

Band Practice began with a brief critique of the show.  But we quickly moved on to discussing songs for the upcoming KFJC Battle of the Surf Bands.  What do we want to play?  What songs do we play best?  What songs typify us?  Are they the same?  How many songs can we play in 12 minutes?  What songs can we play in 12 minutes?  After about 15 to 20 minutes, we were ready to run through the songs.

We started with five songs.  One right after another -- rapid fire succession.  “How long did that take?”  “I think 13 minutes.”  “Huh?  That can’t be because each is around three minutes long!”  As perpetual optimists, we played all five again.  Even though we really did not keep track of the time the second time through, we instinctively knew the next step.  “We need to drop one.” 

Four songs.  One right after another.  “How long did that take?”  “I think about 12 minutes.”  About?  “Can we time it better than that?”  “Hey, my iPhone has a stop watch.”  “Let’s try it again.  Start the timer.”  Four songs.  Boom.  Boom.  Boom.  Boom.  No pretend patter with the crowd.  “How long did that take?”  “Oh, I forgot to start the stop watch.” 

Is this a Three Stooges routine?

“Again.  But this time, start the stop watch.”  One, two, three, four, and we were on the clock.  Four songs.  A little patter this time.  “How long?”  “12:56.”  “We’re a minute over!”  “Not if you round down.  Maybe they won’t notice.”  We agreed that we would try again next week, switched off the amps, and headed off into the night.

As I locked the door to the Doghouse, I felt that every bit of creative juice was wrung out of my body.  But that 56 seconds was going to bug me . . . and bug me . . . and . . . .

At that moment, I was ready for refueling.  Nothing was left.  Zero.  Zip.  Nada.  Bupkis.

]]> Sun, 05 May 2013 16:40:00 GMT 4BAE6927A4C92343380101F871E29260 http://lavapups.com/blog.cfm?feature=2176284&postid=4177398 Have you ever thought about how to define yourself in a meaningful way in three to five sentences?  Would you go with who, what, when, and where?  Would you stick to shallow or dive into substance?  The Lava Pups pondered this conundrum recently. As a sign of recognition or -- possibly -- an act of desperation, the Pups were invited to participate in the KFJC Battle of the Surf Bands.  Recognition or desperation?  We really did not care.  We felt privileged to receive an invitation. Here’s the deal.  Four bands an hour for four hours.  That is 16 bands at 12-minutes a band with 3 minutes to get on and off the stage.  Plug-in, play the songs that we hope will knock the socks off of the audience, and unplug.  Spend the rest of the afternoon eating, drinking, and listening to 15 other bands trying to knock our socks off. We weighed the pros and cons.  Three plus hours of road time to and from Pacifica -- con.  The opportunity to play in the Bay Area -- pro.  Twelve minutes of playing -- con.  Not having to schlep equipment to a gig -- pro.  Risk of screwing up and forever foreclosing playing outside of SacTown -- con.  Strutting our stuff to a bunch of new folks -- pro.  The tiebreaker:  Having a great time!  We signed up. After the lineup for the show was solidified, we received an email addressed to “Band Leaders.”  It made a simple request:  “Could each of you please send me a blurb about your band. It doesn't have to be very long, 3-5 sentences. Describe your sound, where you're from, what makes you unique, how long have you been together, release history. This will go in the handbill for the show, and also be used for promotional press releases.” Thinking that the response was a couple of mouse clicks away, I went to our website.  The description there was really a non-description -- nothing that made us unique.  Nothing to differentiate us from any other surf band in Northern California.  Maybe the description on our Facebook page had the answer.  Like our website, we were a plain vanilla, nondescript influenced by all of the usual suspects. Shallow was what our descriptions were -- pure pablum.  We needed to go deeper and look at the substance of who we are and what we do.  Finally, the following emerged: Start with a traditional surf sound, blend in a healthy dose of Northwest garage sensibility, add a heaping spoonful of Link Wray edginess and a pinch of punk irreverence, and you have the Lava Pups.  Formed in late 2010 and hailing from Sacramento, the Pups play a combination of original songs and surf/retro standards.  Even though they do not take themselves too seriously, they released their debut CD, “Into the Flow,” featuring 8 Pup originals in 2011. Three sentences.  Did they capture the essence of the Lava Pups?  Who knows.  But a little self-contemplation made us change our website and Facebook.  Maybe we all can use a redefinition from time to time. Have you ever thought about how to define yourself in a meaningful way in three to five sentences?  Would you go with who, what, when, and where?  Would you stick to shallow or dive into substance?  The Lava Pups pondered this conundrum recently.

As a sign of recognition or -- possibly -- an act of desperation, the Pups were invited to participate in the KFJC Battle of the Surf Bands.  Recognition or desperation?  We really did not care.  We felt privileged to receive an invitation.

Here’s the deal.  Four bands an hour for four hours.  That is 16 bands at 12-minutes a band with 3 minutes to get on and off the stage.  Plug-in, play the songs that we hope will knock the socks off of the audience, and unplug.  Spend the rest of the afternoon eating, drinking, and listening to 15 other bands trying to knock our socks off.

We weighed the pros and cons.  Three plus hours of road time to and from Pacifica -- con.  The opportunity to play in the Bay Area -- pro.  Twelve minutes of playing -- con.  Not having to schlep equipment to a gig -- pro.  Risk of screwing up and forever foreclosing playing outside of SacTown -- con.  Strutting our stuff to a bunch of new folks -- pro.  The tiebreaker:  Having a great time!  We signed up.

After the lineup for the show was solidified, we received an email addressed to “Band Leaders.”  It made a simple request:  “Could each of you please send me a blurb about your band. It doesn't have to be very long, 3-5 sentences. Describe your sound, where you're from, what makes you unique, how long have you been together, release history.
This will go in the handbill for the show, and also be used for promotional press releases.”

Thinking that the response was a couple of mouse clicks away, I went to our website.  The description there was really a non-description -- nothing that made us unique.  Nothing to differentiate us from any other surf band in Northern California.  Maybe the description on our Facebook page had the answer.  Like our website, we were a plain vanilla, nondescript influenced by all of the usual suspects.

Shallow was what our descriptions were -- pure pablum.  We needed to go deeper and look at the substance of who we are and what we do.  Finally, the following emerged:

• Start with a traditional surf sound, blend in a healthy dose of Northwest garage sensibility, add a heaping spoonful of Link Wray edginess and a pinch of punk irreverence, and you have the Lava Pups.  Formed in late 2010 and hailing from Sacramento, the Pups play a combination of original songs and surf/retro standards.  Even though they do not take themselves too seriously, they released their debut CD, “Into the Flow,” featuring 8 Pup originals in 2011.

Three sentences.  Did they capture the essence of the Lava Pups?  Who knows.  But a little self-contemplation made us change our website and Facebook.  Maybe we all can use a redefinition from time to time.

]]> Thu, 02 May 2013 16:25:00 GMT 0005347D31A959D3DDB6EC7F33258118 http://lavapups.com/blog.cfm?feature=2176284&postid=4147118 We staked out a corner as a “stage” for the return of the Sunday Surf Party to the Capitol Bowl.  This was truly going to be a cooperative effort -- VibroCounts drums and bass amp, Lava Pups PA, DI boxes, mic, and lead guitar amp, and Retronauts small amp for rhythm.  Of course, that meant more people than usual bumping into each other. By the time that Paul of the VibroCounts set up, tuned, and tested out the drums and all connections were set, we were past the 1:00 start.  I was still in shorts and a tee.  But a quick trip to the Men’s room allowed me to emerge in a truly garish outfit -- yellow shorts, orange and yellow Hawaiian shirt, and wayfarer sun glasses with zebra-pattern rims.  Sue was in a bright yellow bowling shirt and colorful spandex pants.  The Pups were ready to put a jolt into the crowd. Despite marvelous weather -- suitable for gardening if you like that kind of stuff, nearly every chair and stool in the restaurant was occupied as was most of the seating in the lounge area.  We had a crowd that was ready to be jolted and party to surf music. The bands did not disappoint.  The Lava Pups filled the room with energy, lots of reverb, and an occasional bit of Link Wray-type attitude.   As usual, we engaged in a little foolishness, never took ourselves too seriously, and maintained an easy rapport with the crowd -- all in moderation, of course.  Lola -- the nearly 3-year old granddaughter of Weekend Wiki Warrior Carlos -- danced along as we played.  This is what surf music is all about -- energy, fun and frivolity.  By the time that the Retronauts brought on their brand of retro rock, Lola had headed home for a nap.  Stylistically, they are true artists influenced by the Ventures.  Less reverb than the Pups.  Music that is all about melody, harmony, and counterpart.  Their playing demonstrated a respect for the music.  It was a set of tight tunes delivered by four accomplished musicians. The VibroCounts closed.  Sometimes reverb-drenched surf.  Sometimes retro music bordering on jazz or psychedelic.  Always crystal clean and clear.  Always astounding musicianship.  Cliff Adams provided a bit of history as he introduced songs.  Calm and knowledgeable.  The three bands delivered more than three hours of instrumental music.  They presented three different styles of playing.  They exhibited three different energy levels.  They engaged the audience in three different ways.  But, despite their differences, all three bands showed their love for instrumental music with a melody.  Importantly, everybody in the crowd walked out of the Capitol Bowl feeling that they had been entertained.  They had had fun.  They ate, drank, and socialized.  Some even bowled. The cap for a day of packing, unpacking, setting up, taking down, playing, and schmoozing was a visit to our neighborhood Mexican restaurant.  As we walked in, an older woman -- well, probably my age -- gave my yellow shorts and orange and yellow Hawaiian shirt the once over, scrunched her nose, and leaned over to her friend.  She looked to be saying, “Don’t look now, but you ought to see the garish outfit that just walked in.”  As her friend tried to turn discretely, she did the “no, no, don’t be so obvious” move.  When we walked out, the two of them exchanged looks and simultaneously rolled their eyes. Becky stopped me from leaning over and saying, “Hey, I play in a rock ‘n roll band.  Would you like an autograph?” We staked out a corner as a “stage” for the return of the Sunday Surf Party to the Capitol Bowl.  This was truly going to be a cooperative effort -- VibroCounts drums and bass amp, Lava Pups PA, DI boxes, mic, and lead guitar amp, and Retronauts small amp for rhythm.  Of course, that meant more people than usual bumping into each other.



By the time that Paul of the VibroCounts set up, tuned, and tested out the drums and all connections were set, we were past the 1:00 start.  I was still in shorts and a tee.  But a quick trip to the Men’s room allowed me to emerge in a truly garish outfit -- yellow shorts, orange and yellow Hawaiian shirt, and wayfarer sun glasses with zebra-pattern rims.  Sue was in a bright yellow bowling shirt and colorful spandex pants.  The Pups were ready to put a jolt into the crowd.

Despite marvelous weather -- suitable for gardening if you like that kind of stuff, nearly every chair and stool in the restaurant was occupied as was most of the seating in the lounge area.  We had a crowd that was ready to be jolted and party to surf music.

The bands did not disappoint.  The Lava Pups filled the room with energy, lots of reverb, and an occasional bit of Link Wray-type attitude.   As usual, we engaged in a little foolishness, never took ourselves too seriously, and maintained an easy rapport with the crowd -- all in moderation, of course.  Lola -- the nearly 3-year old granddaughter of Weekend Wiki Warrior Carlos -- danced along as we played.  This is what surf music is all about -- energy, fun and frivolity. 



By the time that the Retronauts brought on their brand of retro rock, Lola had headed home for a nap.  Stylistically, they are true artists influenced by the Ventures.  Less reverb than the Pups.  Music that is all about melody, harmony, and counterpart.  Their playing demonstrated a respect for the music.  It was a set of tight tunes delivered by four accomplished musicians.

The VibroCounts closed.  Sometimes reverb-drenched surf.  Sometimes retro music bordering on jazz or psychedelic.  Always crystal clean and clear.  Always astounding musicianship.  Cliff Adams provided a bit of history as he introduced songs.  Calm and knowledgeable. 



The three bands delivered more than three hours of instrumental music.  They presented three different styles of playing.  They exhibited three different energy levels.  They engaged the audience in three different ways.  But, despite their differences, all three bands showed their love for instrumental music with a melody. 

Importantly, everybody in the crowd walked out of the Capitol Bowl feeling that they had been entertained.  They had had fun.  They ate, drank, and socialized.  Some even bowled.

The cap for a day of packing, unpacking, setting up, taking down, playing, and schmoozing was a visit to our neighborhood Mexican restaurant.  As we walked in, an older woman -- well, probably my age -- gave my yellow shorts and orange and yellow Hawaiian shirt the once over, scrunched her nose, and leaned over to her friend.  She looked to be saying, “Don’t look now, but you ought to see the garish outfit that just walked in.”  As her friend tried to turn discretely, she did the “no, no, don’t be so obvious” move.  When we walked out, the two of them exchanged looks and simultaneously rolled their eyes.

Becky stopped me from leaning over and saying, “Hey, I play in a rock ‘n roll band.  Would you like an autograph?”

]]> Tue, 30 Apr 2013 05:55:00 GMT CE084AC57F662994E9FD134490893502 http://lavapups.com/blog.cfm?feature=2176284&postid=4124765 Recently, the Kool Kat has taken to playing the Pup bass -- the powder blue Chinese cheapie, hybrid Jaguar-Jazz bass.  Lighter strings.  Brighter tone.  Thinner neck.  A semi-surf vibe. The bass is far from a “stock” Chinese cheapie.  Before entering the Doghouse, it made a stop at Buzzard’s Bass in Massachusetts.  There, it had a makeover of sorts.  Level the frets.  Shielding.  New electronics and bridge.  Change the nut.  Match the headstock to the body.  Tortoise pick guard.  The process was more than putting lipstick on a pig.  It converted the Chinese cheapie into an overpriced "custom" Chinese cheapie. For two years, it mostly sat in the closet.  It came out for Sierra Surf Music Camp last year.  But, as loyal readers know, it developed a buzz on the low C, which made it useless to me.  Back on the floor of the Sacramento Valley, the buzz disappeared. A couple of weeks ago, the powder blue (now overpriced but custom) Chinese cheapie came out of the closet again.  Robert showed up without his bass and asked, “Where’s your bass?”  “In the closet.”  “Can I use it?”  “If it doesn’t buzz on the low C.”  And out it came. We hooked a strap -- adjusted for me -- to it.  Robert threw the strap over his shoulder.  He looked like a punk bassist as the Chinese cheapie hung down around his knees.  A trip to my strap collection led to tiki strap which could be adjusted easily.  Robert shortened it up, and -- voila -- he was playing away.  No buzz on the low C.  No chattering strings bouncing off of the pickups. Wow.  The Chinese cheapie bass actually sounded really good! Pressing it into regular -- or semi-regular -- service required taking it to Guitar Workshop for an overhaul.  A trip to Guitar Workshop also was an opportunity to talk about music and guitars, bounce some ideas around, and watch professionals at work.  Any non-lesson time at Guitar Workshop centers around the workbench where Dave and Steve perform their jobs as master technicians and skilled craftsmen.  Usually, in addition to run-of-the-mill set-ups, some major project occupies the bench -- refretting a vintage Ric or refurbishing of a vintage Gibson.  But they treat a Chinese cheapie bass with the same care and attention. Enthusiastically, I promoted the upcoming Sunday Surf Party to Dave, Steve, and anybody else within ear shot.  Dave’s response was encouraging, “Surf music, beer, and bowling just go together.  You need to take it bowling alleys all over Northern California.” OMG.  The Beer, Bowling and Boogie Tour! Recently, the Kool Kat has taken to playing the Pup bass -- the powder blue Chinese cheapie, hybrid Jaguar-Jazz bass.  Lighter strings.  Brighter tone.  Thinner neck.  A semi-surf vibe.

The bass is far from a “stock” Chinese cheapie.  Before entering the Doghouse, it made a stop at Buzzard’s Bass in Massachusetts.  There, it had a makeover of sorts.  Level the frets.  Shielding.  New electronics and bridge.  Change the nut.  Match the headstock to the body.  Tortoise pick guard.  The process was more than putting lipstick on a pig.  It converted the Chinese cheapie into an overpriced "custom" Chinese cheapie.

For two years, it mostly sat in the closet.  It came out for Sierra Surf Music Camp last year.  But, as loyal readers know, it developed a buzz on the low C, which made it useless to me.  Back on the floor of the Sacramento Valley, the buzz disappeared.

A couple of weeks ago, the powder blue (now overpriced but custom) Chinese cheapie came out of the closet again.  Robert showed up without his bass and asked, “Where’s your bass?”  “In the closet.”  “Can I use it?”  “If it doesn’t buzz on the low C.”  And out it came.

We hooked a strap -- adjusted for me -- to it.  Robert threw the strap over his shoulder.  He looked like a punk bassist as the Chinese cheapie hung down around his knees.  A trip to my strap collection led to tiki strap which could be adjusted easily.  Robert shortened it up, and -- voila -- he was playing away.  No buzz on the low C.  No chattering strings bouncing off of the pickups.

Wow.  The Chinese cheapie bass actually sounded really good!

Pressing it into regular -- or semi-regular -- service required taking it to Guitar Workshop for an overhaul.  A trip to Guitar Workshop also was an opportunity to talk about music and guitars, bounce some ideas around, and watch professionals at work. 

Any non-lesson time at Guitar Workshop centers around the workbench where Dave and Steve perform their jobs as master technicians and skilled craftsmen.  Usually, in addition to run-of-the-mill set-ups, some major project occupies the bench -- refretting a vintage Ric or refurbishing of a vintage Gibson.  But they treat a Chinese cheapie bass with the same care and attention.

Enthusiastically, I promoted the upcoming Sunday Surf Party to Dave, Steve, and anybody else within ear shot.  Dave’s response was encouraging, “Surf music, beer, and bowling just go together.  You need to take it bowling alleys all over Northern California.”

OMG.  The Beer, Bowling and Boogie Tour!

]]> Sat, 27 Apr 2013 19:55:00 GMT 189ED120FE2553D0378B0A1E118FEFD7 http://lavapups.com/blog.cfm?feature=2176284&postid=4089065 The big picture items were done for “The Sunday Surf Party Is Back!”  We were down to getting what the Pups committed to do in order.  Topping that list had to be the PA and the equipment to put sound through it.  For starters, playing our instruments into and through our PA is totally new to us -- not done before.  In fact, when we met with the VibroCounts and Retronauts, the equipment was on backorder.  As they left, the Nagging Little Voice asked, “Were you just a bit too brash suggesting that in the first place?”  Fortunately, the equipment arrived.  But we needed to test out running our own sound through the PA.  After all, we are first on the bill.  We are setting the tone for the afternoon.  Screw up, and we possibly rain on everybody’s parade. As I was on my hands and knees hooking up mic cables between the recently-arrived electronic gadgets -- aka DI boxes -- to the PA, the Nagging Little Voice started up.  “Do you have any idea what you are doing?”  It continued, “What if this is a giant failure?  Do you really think that miking the amps will bail you out?  You really must like the taste of crow!”  I muttered something profane -- not even mildly profound, just purely profane -- under my breath. When the first connection was set up, I tried it with the Ocean Turquoise Jazzmaster.  The set up worked.  The Nagging Little Voice relented a bit, “Maybe I spoke too soon.”  That concession, however, was short-lived.  When I engaged the highly acclaimed “4x15 simulation,” the Nagging Little Voice and I exclaimed in unison, “That sounds like s**t!  Maybe this is not such a good idea.”  After a bit of debate, the Nagging Little Voice agreed that the sound was fine as long as we did not push the 4x15 button.  I thought, “Good thing these things were relatively inexpensive compared with the bag full of useless pedals in the closet.” The next step was to test this new-fangled gadgetry with the whole band -- at volume with drums.  We played, and what we heard was fuller and richer than before.  It deepened the tone from Sue’s uku-tar (guita-lele); pushing the 4x15 button provided even more depth.  Even the Nagging Little Voice seemed to like her new sound.  The Kool Kat, however, kept tweaking -- and tweaking -- and tweaking.  “I want to keep pushing the amp to break up the sound a bit.”  He would turn knobs on the amp.  “I need to get the PA to color this.”  He would twist knobs on the PA.  This went on from 7:30 to 9:30 -- two hours of tweaking.  As we called an end to our first practice session incorporating the PA, Robert said, “This is going to take some getting used to.  It’s still not quite right.”  The good news is we have one more band practice scheduled before the gig.  The bad news is that the number of knobs for him to tweak has more than doubled. Will the Kool Kat find THE tone by next Sunday?  Come on down to the Capitol Bowl and find out. The big picture items were done for “The Sunday Surf Party Is Back!”  We were down to getting what the Pups committed to do in order.  Topping that list had to be the PA and the equipment to put sound through it.  For starters, playing our instruments into and through our PA is totally new to us -- not done before. 

In fact, when we met with the VibroCounts and Retronauts, the equipment was on backorder.  As they left, the Nagging Little Voice asked, “Were you just a bit too brash suggesting that in the first place?” 

Fortunately, the equipment arrived.  But we needed to test out running our own sound through the PA.  After all, we are first on the bill.  We are setting the tone for the afternoon.  Screw up, and we possibly rain on everybody’s parade.

As I was on my hands and knees hooking up mic cables between the recently-arrived electronic gadgets -- aka DI boxes -- to the PA, the Nagging Little Voice started up.  “Do you have any idea what you are doing?”  It continued, “What if this is a giant failure?  Do you really think that miking the amps will bail you out?  You really must like the taste of crow!”  I muttered something profane -- not even mildly profound, just purely profane -- under my breath.

When the first connection was set up, I tried it with the Ocean Turquoise Jazzmaster.  The set up worked.  The Nagging Little Voice relented a bit, “Maybe I spoke too soon.”  That concession, however, was short-lived.  When I engaged the highly acclaimed “4x15 simulation,” the Nagging Little Voice and I exclaimed in unison, “That sounds like s**t!  Maybe this is not such a good idea.” 

After a bit of debate, the Nagging Little Voice agreed that the sound was fine as long as we did not push the 4x15 button.  I thought, “Good thing these things were relatively inexpensive compared with the bag full of useless pedals in the closet.”

The next step was to test this new-fangled gadgetry with the whole band -- at volume with drums.  We played, and what we heard was fuller and richer than before.  It deepened the tone from Sue’s uku-tar (guita-lele); pushing the 4x15 button provided even more depth.  Even the Nagging Little Voice seemed to like her new sound. 

The Kool Kat, however, kept tweaking -- and tweaking -- and tweaking.  “I want to keep pushing the amp to break up the sound a bit.”  He would turn knobs on the amp.  “I need to get the PA to color this.”  He would twist knobs on the PA.  This went on from 7:30 to 9:30 -- two hours of tweaking. 

As we called an end to our first practice session incorporating the PA, Robert said, “This is going to take some getting used to.  It’s still not quite right.”  The good news is we have one more band practice scheduled before the gig.  The bad news is that the number of knobs for him to tweak has more than doubled.

Will the Kool Kat find THE tone by next Sunday?  Come on down to the Capitol Bowl and find out.

]]> Wed, 24 Apr 2013 07:25:00 GMT 5353691A55205A14E5DD1C63AC4DD7B7 http://lavapups.com/blog.cfm?feature=2176284&postid=4063737 The Sunday Surf Party is a week away.  Three hours of family fun with no admission to pay.  No parking to pay.  You can spend your money on bowling, video games, food, and drink and have something left over to drop in the tip jar. But three hours of rock ‘n roll just do not spring out of the blue. Are you ready for more of what goes into a show?  You probably are thinking, “He doesn’t really care how I answer because he’s gonna tell me anyway.”  You are correct. A couple of Sundays ago, we sat down with members of the VibroCounts and the Retronauts to plan for The Sunday Surf Party Is Back! show.  Stacks of posters and fliers were ready and waiting.  “Take as many as you need.  The 11x17s look nice framed.  The postcard-sized fliers are great in purses.  Give them to your friends and neighbors.  Hand them out at the gym and at work.” Over beers, water, Diet A&Ws, and -- a constant for me -- coffee, we sat in the “living room” of the Doghouse, swapped stories, and agreed upon equipment for the show.  We will play through small amps and run the guitars and basses through the PA -- something new for the Pups.  The rationale for small was impeccible.  “We’re getting older.  We don’t need to haul 80 pounds of amp and speakers.”  Fender Twin Reverbs and large speaker cabinets are for folks with young and strong backs -- or roadies.  Besides we do not need to blow the doors off of the Capitol Bowl! Stage footprint and equipment were easy.  We then negotiated the order in which the bands would play.  Ego, familiarity, and experience all played a role.  Alphabetical order?  What the poster shows?  Years of experience?  Energy level?  Showmanship?  We finally came up with the Lava Pups opening followed by the Retronauts and then the VibroCounts. Working out set lists followed.  “Horse-trading” was inevitable.  Who would play which of the surf staples like “Surf Rider,” “Pipeline,” “Wipe Out,” “Penetration,” and “Miserlou"?  Retro standards like "Sleepwalk" and "Walk, Don't Run"?  The process involved more exchanging than negotiating. By the time we finished a couple rounds of refreshments, we had put together the logistics, schedule, and songs for the upcoming show. The guys from the VibroCounts and the Retronauts headed off into the afternoon.  What lie ahead for the three bands was practicing for and promoting the show.  And probably some emails from me the week of the show confirming final, final details. Yes, indeed, three hours of rock ‘n roll just do not spring out of the blue. The Sunday Surf Party is a week away.  Three hours of family fun with no admission to pay.  No parking to pay.  You can spend your money on bowling, video games, food, and drink and have something left over to drop in the tip jar.

But three hours of rock ‘n roll just do not spring out of the blue.

Are you ready for more of what goes into a show?  You probably are thinking, “He doesn’t really care how I answer because he’s gonna tell me anyway.”  You are correct.

A couple of Sundays ago, we sat down with members of the VibroCounts and the Retronauts to plan for The Sunday Surf Party Is Back! show.  Stacks of posters and fliers were ready and waiting.  “Take as many as you need.  The 11x17s look nice framed.  The postcard-sized fliers are great in purses.  Give them to your friends and neighbors.  Hand them out at the gym and at work.”

Over beers, water, Diet A&Ws, and -- a constant for me -- coffee, we sat in the “living room” of the Doghouse, swapped stories, and agreed upon equipment for the show.  We will play through small amps and run the guitars and basses through the PA -- something new for the Pups. 

The rationale for small was impeccible.  “We’re getting older.  We don’t need to haul 80 pounds of amp and speakers.”  Fender Twin Reverbs and large speaker cabinets are for folks with young and strong backs -- or roadies.  Besides we do not need to blow the doors off of the Capitol Bowl!

Stage footprint and equipment were easy.  We then negotiated the order in which the bands would play.  Ego, familiarity, and experience all played a role.  Alphabetical order?  What the poster shows?  Years of experience?  Energy level?  Showmanship?  We finally came up with the Lava Pups opening followed by the Retronauts and then the VibroCounts.

Working out set lists followed.  “Horse-trading” was inevitable.  Who would play which of the surf staples like “Surf Rider,” “Pipeline,” “Wipe Out,” “Penetration,” and “Miserlou"?  Retro standards like "Sleepwalk" and "Walk, Don't Run"?  The process involved more exchanging than negotiating.

By the time we finished a couple rounds of refreshments, we had put together the logistics, schedule, and songs for the upcoming show.

The guys from the VibroCounts and the Retronauts headed off into the afternoon.  What lie ahead for the three bands was practicing for and promoting the show.  And probably some emails from me the week of the show confirming final, final details.

Yes, indeed, three hours of rock ‘n roll just do not spring out of the blue.

]]> Sun, 21 Apr 2013 17:25:00 GMT CE2C76C403C4C70A3FF959B1C9841298 http://lavapups.com/blog.cfm?feature=2176284&postid=3998737 Las Vegas and Rockabilly Weekend are in the rearview mirror along with a hectic week at work.  The time has come to turn to being a rock ‘n roller -- actually, promoting a show -- until the next flurry of real world demands comes. Sometime ago, we prepared a show promotion checklist.  It expanded as we learned of places to hang posters, websites that allow events to be posted, and media people who actually care about local music.  The list contracted as poster-friendly businesses closed or changed their policies or as media workers realized that the print medium is withering away.  In some instances, a contact went on to a better -- or a more-demanding -- day job.  Our checklist is an ever-morphing work in progress. Our goal is to get the message of instrumental surf music out to as many people as possible.  Probably back in Advertising 101, which I took before the internet was invented, some professor suggested that getting your message out would translate into “sales.”  With us, we are not making sales; we are hoping to put fannies in the seats. Sitting down with the checklist sparked thoughts of what goes into promoting a show before hanging a single poster, sending a single email, or posting an event on some website. Here is the short version.  Come up with a venue, the bands, and the theme for a show.  Design and work up posters and fliers -- in different sizes.  Get them approved by others on the bill.  Print up the posters and fliers.  Write copy -- something short but catchy knowing that, without a hook, we are indistinguishable from hundreds of other bands trying to get recognition on any day.  Gather photos, logos, and other artwork to accompany the copy.  Cross your fingers and hope that you have something that works. Preparing for the upcoming show, this copywriter came up with:  The Sunday Surf Party is back!  Surf and retro instrumental rock returns to the historic Capitol Bowl. Three bands will deliver different takes on a classic genre.  The afternoon will span the pure garage energy of the Lava Pups through the Venturesque clean sound of the Retronauts to the sophisticated stylings of the VibroCounts.  Eat, drink, and bowl in a comfortable and family friendly atmosphere. And listen to some really cool rock 'n roll! My fingers are crossed.  Only time will tell if the copy was catchy enough or had a workable hook. Maybe “Show Promotion 101” should be a session at Sierra Surf Music Camp this year.  After all, “Guitar Face 101” does not appear to be on the radar. Las Vegas and Rockabilly Weekend are in the rearview mirror along with a hectic week at work.  The time has come to turn to being a rock ‘n roller -- actually, promoting a show -- until the next flurry of real world demands comes.

Sometime ago, we prepared a show promotion checklist.  It expanded as we learned of places to hang posters, websites that allow events to be posted, and media people who actually care about local music.  The list contracted as poster-friendly businesses closed or changed their policies or as media workers realized that the print medium is withering away.  In some instances, a contact went on to a better -- or a more-demanding -- day job.  Our checklist is an ever-morphing work in progress.

Our goal is to get the message of instrumental surf music out to as many people as possible.  Probably back in Advertising 101, which I took before the internet was invented, some professor suggested that getting your message out would translate into “sales.”  With us, we are not making sales; we are hoping to put fannies in the seats.

Sitting down with the checklist sparked thoughts of what goes into promoting a show before hanging a single poster, sending a single email, or posting an event on some website.

Here is the short version.  Come up with a venue, the bands, and the theme for a show.  Design and work up posters and fliers -- in different sizes.  Get them approved by others on the bill.  Print up the posters and fliers.  Write copy -- something short but catchy knowing that, without a hook, we are indistinguishable from hundreds of other bands trying to get recognition on any day.  Gather photos, logos, and other artwork to accompany the copy.  Cross your fingers and hope that you have something that works.

Preparing for the upcoming show, this copywriter came up with: 

• The Sunday Surf Party is back!  Surf and retro instrumental rock returns to the historic Capitol Bowl. Three bands will deliver different takes on a classic genre.  The afternoon will span the pure garage energy of the Lava Pups through the Venturesque clean sound of the Retronauts to the sophisticated stylings of the VibroCounts.  Eat, drink, and bowl in a comfortable and family friendly atmosphere. And listen to some really cool rock 'n roll!

My fingers are crossed.  Only time will tell if the copy was catchy enough or had a workable hook.

Maybe “Show Promotion 101” should be a session at Sierra Surf Music Camp this year.  After all, “Guitar Face 101” does not appear to be on the radar.

]]> Sun, 14 Apr 2013 17:10:00 GMT 6F85B9A4AD1581D389B8728579BC354E http://lavapups.com/blog.cfm?feature=2176284&postid=3931099 Last weekend, we were in Las Vegas for an getaway and Rockabilly Weekend.  The cab ride from the Orleans back to our hotel was an opportunity to relax and reflect on our brief sojourn. Much about Las Vegas is just unreal.  You can spend 24 hours indoors under a simulated sky and lose track of what is real day or night.  You can visit casinos with themes of cities:  Venice complete with gondola rides, Paris with an Eiffel Tower, and New York with delis, neighborhoods, the Statue of Liberty, and a skyline that includes the Chrysler and Empire State Buildings.  Some casinos will take you on fanciful trips to Egypt or Camelot. In other ways, Las Vegas is surreal.  Elvises, showgirls, and other costumed characters are so ubiquitous that, after awhile, they do not warrant a second glance.  At times, you feel that you are in the middle of a carnival.  Las Vegas’ citizens and visitors can invent any persona they want, never really look out of the ordinary, and be either anonymous or bigger than life. A certain reality of Las Vegas revealed itself during our visit.  Abandoned building projects.  Vacant lots where casinos or hotels once stood.  Older casinos made obsolete by new ones, which inevitably will become obsolete.  Ostensibly down on their luck people asking for change.  Expressionless folks mesmerized by machines that take their money.  They are buoyed by the hope that they will be the lucky ones while knowing that the odds are against that. Sometimes, the city is a caricature of itself.  Easy, quick weddings and divorces.  Wedding chapels seem to be everywhere.  Many have drive thrus like fast food chains.  You can get married and then go have a Big Mac for a wedding dinner.  All without leaving the comfort of an air conditioned car!  On the flip side, billboard after billboard stand in vacant lots to advertise attorneys handling, among other services, divorces. On Fremont Street and along The Strip, you get a sense of Sin City as a multitude of folks hand out fliers that picture naked or nearly naked women who are available for private entertainment.  Newspaper stands offer more of the same.  Sign trucks cruise The Strip advertising “Girls, Girls, Girls.” Real, unreal, surreal, caricature, or Sin City?  No matter what you think, Las Vegas is bound to entertain you in some fashion along the way.  During the cab ride, Becky laughed as she recounted the story of the couple next door to us at our hotel.  As we walked by their room, they opened their door and asked, “Do you have a humming sound in your room?”  The man continued, “We were in another room.  It had this weird humming sound.  They upgraded us to here, but we are hearing the same weird humming sound.”  The woman motioned to a corner.  Becky went in and thinking the humming sound was coming from the cold air return, she asked Brett (our son and HIVAC expert) to come in and diagnose the problem. Becky pointed to the overhead.  Brett listened intently.  “Uh huh, I hear it, but it is not coming from there.”  He then reached down picked up the couple’s duffel bag, held it up, and said, “There’s something vibrating in here.  What’s in the bag?” The couple blushed simultaneously.  They thanked Becky and Brett and rushed them out of the room with a “please don’t tell anybody about this.”  They then avoided us the rest of their stay. Yeah, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas! Last weekend, we were in Las Vegas for an getaway and Rockabilly Weekend.  The cab ride from the Orleans back to our hotel was an opportunity to relax and reflect on our brief sojourn.

Much about Las Vegas is just unreal.  You can spend 24 hours indoors under a simulated sky and lose track of what is real day or night.  You can visit casinos with themes of cities:  Venice complete with gondola rides, Paris with an Eiffel Tower, and New York with delis, neighborhoods, the Statue of Liberty, and a skyline that includes the Chrysler and Empire State Buildings.  Some casinos will take you on fanciful trips to Egypt or Camelot.



In other ways, Las Vegas is surreal.  Elvises, showgirls, and other costumed characters are so ubiquitous that, after awhile, they do not warrant a second glance.  At times, you feel that you are in the middle of a carnival.  Las Vegas’ citizens and visitors can invent any persona they want, never really look out of the ordinary, and be either anonymous or bigger than life.

A certain reality of Las Vegas revealed itself during our visit.  Abandoned building projects.  Vacant lots where casinos or hotels once stood.  Older casinos made obsolete by new ones, which inevitably will become obsolete.  Ostensibly down on their luck people asking for change.  Expressionless folks mesmerized by machines that take their money.  They are buoyed by the hope that they will be the lucky ones while knowing that the odds are against that.

Sometimes, the city is a caricature of itself.  Easy, quick weddings and divorces.  Wedding chapels seem to be everywhere.  Many have drive thrus like fast food chains.  You can get married and then go have a Big Mac for a wedding dinner.  All without leaving the comfort of an air conditioned car!  On the flip side, billboard after billboard stand in vacant lots to advertise attorneys handling, among other services, divorces.

On Fremont Street and along The Strip, you get a sense of Sin City as a multitude of folks hand out fliers that picture naked or nearly naked women who are available for private entertainment.  Newspaper stands offer more of the same.  Sign trucks cruise The Strip advertising “Girls, Girls, Girls.”

Real, unreal, surreal, caricature, or Sin City?  No matter what you think, Las Vegas is bound to entertain you in some fashion along the way. 

During the cab ride, Becky laughed as she recounted the story of the couple next door to us at our hotel. 

As we walked by their room, they opened their door and asked, “Do you have a humming sound in your room?”  The man continued, “We were in another room.  It had this weird humming sound.  They upgraded us to here, but we are hearing the same weird humming sound.”  The woman motioned to a corner. 

Becky went in and thinking the humming sound was coming from the cold air return, she asked Brett (our son and HIVAC expert) to come in and diagnose the problem.

Becky pointed to the overhead.  Brett listened intently.  “Uh huh, I hear it, but it is not coming from there.”  He then reached down picked up the couple’s duffel bag, held it up, and said, “There’s something vibrating in here.  What’s in the bag?”

The couple blushed simultaneously.  They thanked Becky and Brett and rushed them out of the room with a “please don’t tell anybody about this.”  They then avoided us the rest of their stay.

Yeah, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas!



]]> Sun, 07 Apr 2013 16:55:00 GMT BB8839CC86214820654E2EBCC2BFA8EF http://lavapups.com/blog.cfm?feature=2176284&postid=3916528 The Rockabilly Weekenders were primed for Dick Dale.  At 4:30, the announcer who has his own internet radio program on Live 365 stepped up to the mic:  “And, now, Guitar Legend -- the King of the Surf Guitar -- Dick Dale!”  Cheers and enthusiastic applause. “The Wedge,” a double-picked, glissando-driven classic, opened the set.  Along the way, Dick played “Let’s Go Trippin’,” “Ghost Riders,” “Comin’ Home,” “Fever,” “Pipeline,” and “Twist and Stomp.”  Thousands of people danced, cheered, and applauded.  They sang along with “House of the Rising Sun” and “Bo Diddley.”  Dick Dale closed with “Miserlou” -- the song which Quentin Tarantino included in Pulp Fiction in 1994 and which revived Dick’s career.  Pulp Fiction took “Miserlou” from a semi-obscure surf song to an iconic surf anthem. As he left the stage, we realized how much energy the cancer, diabetes, and renal failure had sapped from Dick.  Those diseases were taking their toll on him, but he kept that from the crowd.  After all, the show must go on, and, after Las Vegas, Dick was on his way to Arizona on a tour that ends in Florida. Dick was not the same rock ‘n roll icon whom we saw just four months ago.  Rather, he looked tired and like a 75-year old who needed a hug from his wife, Lana. The chores of fame, however, remained.  The line for autographs, a minute or two of conversation with the legendary Dick Dale, and merchandise was four-people wide and 50 feet long.  The adoration and admiration of the fans were palpable as Rockabilly Weekenders waited patiently for their short time with him. We spent some time gabbing with Dusty Watson, who is -- altogether now -- the best surf drummer in the world.  Becky then said good-bye to Lana.  We left the “Arena,” walked through the casino, and joined a line of Rockabilly Weekenders at the taxi stand.  As had been the case throughout the afternoon, we appeared to be interlopers as we did not have the “look” even though Becky now owned a parasol -- a limited edition “Viva Las Vegas” model. Once doors to our cab were shut, Rockabilly Weekend was officially behind us.  Fortunately, we will have the memory of more than 20,000 celebrating a rock ‘n roll and car rebellion from some 50 years ago for years to come.  We headed back to the bright lights, crowds, and cacophony of The Strip.

The Rockabilly Weekenders were primed for Dick Dale.  At 4:30, the announcer who has his own internet radio program on Live 365 stepped up to the mic:  “And, now, Guitar Legend -- the King of the Surf Guitar -- Dick Dale!”  Cheers and enthusiastic applause.

“The Wedge,” a double-picked, glissando-driven classic, opened the set.  Along the way, Dick played “Let’s Go Trippin’,” “Ghost Riders,” “Comin’ Home,” “Fever,” “Pipeline,” and “Twist and Stomp.”  Thousands of people danced, cheered, and applauded.  They sang along with “House of the Rising Sun” and “Bo Diddley.”  Dick Dale closed with “Miserlou” -- the song which Quentin Tarantino included in Pulp Fiction in 1994 and which revived Dick’s career.  Pulp Fiction took “Miserlou” from a semi-obscure surf song to an iconic surf anthem.

As he left the stage, we realized how much energy the cancer, diabetes, and renal failure had sapped from Dick.  Those diseases were taking their toll on him, but he kept that from the crowd.  After all, the show must go on, and, after Las Vegas, Dick was on his way to Arizona on a tour that ends in Florida.

Dick was not the same rock ‘n roll icon whom we saw just four months ago.  Rather, he looked tired and like a 75-year old who needed a hug from his wife, Lana.

The chores of fame, however, remained.  The line for autographs, a minute or two of conversation with the legendary Dick Dale, and merchandise was four-people wide and 50 feet long.  The adoration and admiration of the fans were palpable as Rockabilly Weekenders waited patiently for their short time with him.

We spent some time gabbing with Dusty Watson, who is -- altogether now -- the best surf drummer in the world.  Becky then said good-bye to Lana.  We left the “Arena,” walked through the casino, and joined a line of Rockabilly Weekenders at the taxi stand.  As had been the case throughout the afternoon, we appeared to be interlopers as we did not have the “look” even though Becky now owned a parasol -- a limited edition “Viva Las Vegas” model.

Once doors to our cab were shut, Rockabilly Weekend was officially behind us.  Fortunately, we will have the memory of more than 20,000 celebrating a rock ‘n roll and car rebellion from some 50 years ago for years to come.  We headed back to the bright lights, crowds, and cacophony of The Strip.

]]> Fri, 05 Apr 2013 15:50:00 GMT 0D15470CF2AF2E582715BCFC23E56F45 http://lavapups.com/blog.cfm?feature=2176284&postid=3894294 For four days, more than 20,000 rockabilly revelers gathered in Las Vegas for music and vintage cars and to celebrate a youth rebellion from over 50 years ago.  Viva Las Vegas! appears to revolve around three main ingredients:  Cars, music, and a “look.”  Of course, an event sponsored in part by Budweiser and Sailor Jerry involves alcohol. The majority of the celebrants had the “look.”  Clothes and accessories.  Hair.  Make-up for the women.  Not many civilians were in the vicinity of the “Arena” at the Orleans.  When the Rockabilly Weekenders were on The Strip or downtown on Fremont Street, they were readily identifiable by the “look.”  Even though readily identifiable, they did not necessarily stand out all that much in a city full of Elvis impersonators.  In fact, you can go to any number of wedding chapels, and an Elvis lookalike will perform the ceremony.  Nonetheless, some entire families had the “look.”  From young children to grandparents.  Parents and teenagers alike. Hundreds of vendors were available to help attain the “look.”  Thousands of different tee shirts were available.  Dresses, skirts, pants, capris, blouses, hair nets, bandanas, purses, accessories, zoot suits, shoes, pomade, other hair products, and make-up.  Vintage and retro-look clothing was big business on Rockabilly Weekend as were tattoos. Some celebrants came for the vintage cars.  This was not an Autorama with overly customized cars.  Instead, Rockabilly Weekend brought thousands of cars -- 1963 or earlier -- that people actually drive.  They were for daily or weekend driving.  Utilitarian.  Not museum pieces.  “Gritty reality” might be an apt description.  Many of the people who were there primarily for the cars did not have the “look.”  Rather, they wore denim pants and black tees emblazoned with some auto or hotrod logo or event.  Moon.  Hollywood Hot Rods.  Harley-Davidson (okay, I know, that is not an auto or hotrod). When I was young, cars, rock ‘n roll, and a “look” plus alcohol often meant fights.  But that was not what Rockabilly Weekend was about.  It almost seemed to be a love fest.  No sloppy drunks.  No belligerent drunks.  In fact, the more folks drank, the lower any barriers between them became. At 4:00, hundreds of folks began to gather around the main stage of the “Arena,” which really was a fenced parking lot, in anticipation of Dick Dale.  They were done checking the wares of vendor after vendor, who were in the parking lot and two ballrooms in the casino.  The Weekenders already had perused the hundreds of cars in the Arena area.  Some had heard rockabilly bands which played in three or four bars throughout the casino.  Some had listened to surf music at the Pool Party.  The Rockabilly Weekenders converged on the “Arena” and the main stage area.  The sun was dropping behind the building providing some relief from the 80 plus heat that had reflected off of the asphalt during the day.  A bit of breeze helped even more.  Despite an afternoon of free-flowing $2 Buds and the crowd’s pressing the stage, everybody was patiently waiting for the staccato, double-picked delivery of Dick Dale and the energy of his music. 

For four days, more than 20,000 rockabilly revelers gathered in Las Vegas for music and vintage cars and to celebrate a youth rebellion from over 50 years ago.  Viva Las Vegas! appears to revolve around three main ingredients:  Cars, music, and a “look.”  Of course, an event sponsored in part by Budweiser and Sailor Jerry involves alcohol.

The majority of the celebrants had the “look.”  Clothes and accessories.  Hair.  Make-up for the women.  Not many civilians were in the vicinity of the “Arena” at the Orleans.  When the Rockabilly Weekenders were on The Strip or downtown on Fremont Street, they were readily identifiable by the “look.” 

Even though readily identifiable, they did not necessarily stand out all that much in a city full of Elvis impersonators.  In fact, you can go to any number of wedding chapels, and an Elvis lookalike will perform the ceremony.  Nonetheless, some entire families had the “look.”  From young children to grandparents.  Parents and teenagers alike.

Hundreds of vendors were available to help attain the “look.”  Thousands of different tee shirts were available.  Dresses, skirts, pants, capris, blouses, hair nets, bandanas, purses, accessories, zoot suits, shoes, pomade, other hair products, and make-up.  Vintage and retro-look clothing was big business on Rockabilly Weekend as were tattoos.

Some celebrants came for the vintage cars.  This was not an Autorama with overly customized cars.  Instead, Rockabilly Weekend brought thousands of cars -- 1963 or earlier -- that people actually drive.  They were for daily or weekend driving.  Utilitarian.  Not museum pieces.  “Gritty reality” might be an apt description. 

Many of the people who were there primarily for the cars did not have the “look.”  Rather, they wore denim pants and black tees emblazoned with some auto or hotrod logo or event.  Moon.  Hollywood Hot Rods.  Harley-Davidson (okay, I know, that is not an auto or hotrod).

When I was young, cars, rock ‘n roll, and a “look” plus alcohol often meant fights.  But that was not what Rockabilly Weekend was about.  It almost seemed to be a love fest.  No sloppy drunks.  No belligerent drunks.  In fact, the more folks drank, the lower any barriers between them became.

At 4:00, hundreds of folks began to gather around the main stage of the “Arena,” which really was a fenced parking lot, in anticipation of Dick Dale.  They were done checking the wares of vendor after vendor, who were in the parking lot and two ballrooms in the casino.  The Weekenders already had perused the hundreds of cars in the Arena area.  Some had heard rockabilly bands which played in three or four bars throughout the casino.  Some had listened to surf music at the Pool Party. 

The Rockabilly Weekenders converged on the “Arena” and the main stage area.  The sun was dropping behind the building providing some relief from the 80 plus heat that had reflected off of the asphalt during the day.  A bit of breeze helped even more.  Despite an afternoon of free-flowing $2 Buds and the crowd’s pressing the stage, everybody was patiently waiting for the staccato, double-picked delivery of Dick Dale and the energy of his music. 



]]> Wed, 03 Apr 2013 15:45:00 GMT 47D1C3B06A162D2D3282270552B10328 http://lavapups.com/blog.cfm?feature=2176284&postid=3872828 What happens when reverb goes to Vegas during Spring Break?  This is not some nascent plot for an episode of CSI.  Instead, it was Rockabilly Weekend, and the King of the Surf Guitar -- Guitar Legend -- Dick Dale was performing on Saturday afternoon. One look at the bus stop on Tropicana Boulevard outside the New York, New York Resort-Casino told us that we were in the right place.  Several couples in readily recognizable rockabilly attire were in the queue waiting for the westbound bus.  The women wore sun dresses or tight high-waisted pants and cat eye sunglasses; their hair was done in curls or flips with bangs; polka dots were prevalent.  The guys dressed in denim pants, bowling style shirts or tees, chains to their wallets; pompadours and sideburns.  Some guys wore fedora hats.  Almost everybody displayed ink -- lots of ink. We were headed to the Orleans Hotel and Casino for the major event of Rockabilly Weekend -- the car show.  Cars (pre-63, no muscle cars, no VWs), vendors, and bands.  The headliners on the main stage of the car show were Rockats, Little Richard (no, he is not dead), and Dick Dale.  Over the four days of the event, more than 80 bands were scheduled to perform.  They came from all over including Europe, South America, and Australia. We joined the line and made our way on to the regional transit bus for the two-mile or so jaunt from The Strip across I-15.  We really had no idea where we were going.  So we followed the lead of our fellow travelers who were in proper rockabilly attire.  By the time we completed the walk through the parking lot and the casino and out to the “arena,” the ranks of properly attired had swollen to several hundred, if not thousands. We certainly were outliers.  Cargo shorts, Hawaiian shirt, retro Onitsuka Tiger shoes, and my modified 1962 dry-look surfer hair certainly stood out -- as in out of place!  Becky’s skirt was a ‘tweener -- either too loose or too tight or too long or too short.  Over the course of the afternoon, few couples, if any, in the 20,000 or so folks at the car show, wandering through the vendor displays, or in the casino matched our combined look.  Pin-up contestants and Budweiser or Sailor Jerry girls wore the shortest shorts.  The fashionable men in shorts wore Dickies to mid-calf.  We were quite out of the fashion of the day! Rockabilly Weekend celebrates the beginnings of rock ‘n roll when young people rebelled against the staid society following World War II.  The dress, hair styles, music, and fascination with cars of youth departed from the America that their parents had fought to preserve.  Post-War prosperity and opportunity were beginning.  Of course and as seems typical, some religious leaders and politicians viewed the changing youth culture and rock ‘n roll as threats to societal order or just plain evil.  Communities banned rock ‘n roll music.  Elvis’ performance on Ed Sullivan is remembered not only for its ratings but also for the decision to show him from the waist up.  Except for a possible lack of inclusiveness, however, that phase of youth rebellion was little different than the Beats before or the Hippies afterwards. On Easter weekend, more than 20,000 rockabilly revelers gathered in Las Vegas for music, vintage cars, and a bond shared with kids of more than 50 years ago. What happens when reverb goes to Vegas during Spring Break?  This is not some nascent plot for an episode of CSI.  Instead, it was Rockabilly Weekend, and the King of the Surf Guitar -- Guitar Legend -- Dick Dale was performing on Saturday afternoon.

One look at the bus stop on Tropicana Boulevard outside the New York, New York Resort-Casino told us that we were in the right place.  Several couples in readily recognizable rockabilly attire were in the queue waiting for the westbound bus. 

The women wore sun dresses or tight high-waisted pants and cat eye sunglasses; their hair was done in curls or flips with bangs; polka dots were prevalent.  The guys dressed in denim pants, bowling style shirts or tees, chains to their wallets; pompadours and sideburns.  Some guys wore fedora hats.  Almost everybody displayed ink -- lots of ink.

We were headed to the Orleans Hotel and Casino for the major event of Rockabilly Weekend -- the car show.  Cars (pre-63, no muscle cars, no VWs), vendors, and bands.  The headliners on the main stage of the car show were Rockats, Little Richard (no, he is not dead), and Dick Dale.  Over the four days of the event, more than 80 bands were scheduled to perform.  They came from all over including Europe, South America, and Australia.

We joined the line and made our way on to the regional transit bus for the two-mile or so jaunt from The Strip across I-15.  We really had no idea where we were going.  So we followed the lead of our fellow travelers who were in proper rockabilly attire.  By the time we completed the walk through the parking lot and the casino and out to the “arena,” the ranks of properly attired had swollen to several hundred, if not thousands.

We certainly were outliers.  Cargo shorts, Hawaiian shirt, retro Onitsuka Tiger shoes, and my modified 1962 dry-look surfer hair certainly stood out -- as in out of place!  Becky’s skirt was a ‘tweener -- either too loose or too tight or too long or too short.  Over the course of the afternoon, few couples, if any, in the 20,000 or so folks at the car show, wandering through the vendor displays, or in the casino matched our combined look.  Pin-up contestants and Budweiser or Sailor Jerry girls wore the shortest shorts.  The fashionable men in shorts wore Dickies to mid-calf.  We were quite out of the fashion of the day!

Rockabilly Weekend celebrates the beginnings of rock ‘n roll when young people rebelled against the staid society following World War II.  The dress, hair styles, music, and fascination with cars of youth departed from the America that their parents had fought to preserve.  Post-War prosperity and opportunity were beginning. 

Of course and as seems typical, some religious leaders and politicians viewed the changing youth culture and rock ‘n roll as threats to societal order or just plain evil.  Communities banned rock ‘n roll music.  Elvis’ performance on Ed Sullivan is remembered not only for its ratings but also for the decision to show him from the waist up.  Except for a possible lack of inclusiveness, however, that phase of youth rebellion was little different than the Beats before or the Hippies afterwards.

On Easter weekend, more than 20,000 rockabilly revelers gathered in Las Vegas for music, vintage cars, and a bond shared with kids of more than 50 years ago.

]]> Mon, 01 Apr 2013 18:55:00 GMT 5296C9B41E6480AA2ADB971CF83C6200 http://lavapups.com/blog.cfm?feature=2176284&postid=3862116 “Bright light city gonna set my soul Gonna set my soul on fire Got a whole lot of money that's ready to burn, So get those stakes up higher There's a thousand pretty women waitin out there And they're all livin devil may care And Im just the devil with love to spare” Of course, you recognize those lines which Doc Pomus and Mort Shuman penned in 1964.  Elvis Presley sang them first.  Many different renditions followed including ZZ Top, Wayne Newton, Engelbert Humperdinck, U2, Dolly Parton, Bruce Springsteen, The Killers, and The Dead Kennedys.  Given that diversity of performers, each of us probably has a personal favorite version of “Viva Las Vegas.” “Viva Las Vegas” also is the event title for Rockabilly Weekend.  In fact, when you google (is the verb capitalized?) “Viva Las Vegas,” Rockabilly Weekend is the first item that pops up on the computer screen -- at least on this week’s algorithm.  The Orleans Hotel & Casino has hosted the event the last couple of Easters.  This is the sixteenth year. The Orleans is west of The Strip but not too far by California standards.  We will have more about that and Rockabilly Weekend later. Las Vegas Boulevard (South) is The Strip.  To many, it IS Las Vegas even though it is south of the city limits.  Mega casinos.  Bright lights.  Flashing signs.  Snarled traffic.  Noisy and bustling.  Nightly fireworks at the Treasure Island.  Water displays at the Bellagio.  A semi-replica of the Eiffel Tower.  The Statue of Liberty, Empire State and Chrysler Buildings.  And people everywhere.  Swarms of people! Interestingly, The Strip has at least two distinct feels.  The north end where the Thunderbird, El Rancho Vegas, and Stardust once stood has little vitality.  The glitzy casinos upon which Las Vegas was built now are mostly vacant lots.  A renovation of the Sahara is to be completed by the Fall of 2014.  Circus Circus and the Riviera are antiquated and dwarfed by the newer high rise casinos built to the south.  The Stratosphere more or less anchors the north end of The Strip and is a bit more than two miles away from the bronze shimmer of Wynn towers, which stand on the site of the once iconic Desert Inn.  They are the line of demarcation between the old Strip and The Strip portrayed on CSI.  In between are souvenir stores, some nondescript non-casinos, the abandoned shells of half-constructed casinos, and buffet-style restaurants for just about every style of ethnic food you can imagine.  East Indian.  Mexican.  Korean.  Barbeque.  Sushi.  Kosher. The two-mile walk down The Strip from the Stratosphere to the Wynn allows you to see some of Vegas' humanity.  They are not the happy, well-dressed folks who appear in ads or whom the Chamber of Commerce wants to represent the city.  They do not seem to be having a good time.  Instead, they are people asking for change with hand-lettered cardboard signs expressing their poverty, bad luck, hunger, or need.  People looking for a bush or a semi-private place to urinate.  Women in form-fitting spandex that accentuates every roll of fat.  People handing out fliers for shows, strip clubs, adult entertainment, and restaurant discounts. That stretch of The Strip shows the throwaway nature of our society, Las Vegas’ continuing search for the latest and greatest gimmick to draw visitors, and how hard the 2008 recession hit a city built on tourism, gambling, and hedonism.  But it was not without humor.  One cardboard sign was neatly hand-lettered and read, “Aliens took my weed.  I need lots of money for drugs and booze.”

“Bright light city gonna set my soul
Gonna set my soul on fire
Got a whole lot of money that's ready to burn,
So get those stakes up higher
There's a thousand pretty women waitin out there
And they're all livin devil may care
And Im just the devil with love to spare”

Of course, you recognize those lines which Doc Pomus and Mort Shuman penned in 1964.  Elvis Presley sang them first.  Many different renditions followed including ZZ Top, Wayne Newton, Engelbert Humperdinck, U2, Dolly Parton, Bruce Springsteen, The Killers, and The Dead Kennedys.  Given that diversity of performers, each of us probably has a personal favorite version of “Viva Las Vegas.”





“Viva Las Vegas” also is the event title for Rockabilly Weekend.  In fact, when you google (is the verb capitalized?) “Viva Las Vegas,” Rockabilly Weekend is the first item that pops up on the computer screen -- at least on this week’s algorithm.  The Orleans Hotel & Casino has hosted the event the last couple of Easters.  This is the sixteenth year.

The Orleans is west of The Strip but not too far by California standards.  We will have more about that and Rockabilly Weekend later.

Las Vegas Boulevard (South) is The Strip.  To many, it IS Las Vegas even though it is south of the city limits.  Mega casinos.  Bright lights.  Flashing signs.  Snarled traffic.  Noisy and bustling.  Nightly fireworks at the Treasure Island.  Water displays at the Bellagio.  A semi-replica of the Eiffel Tower.  The Statue of Liberty, Empire State and Chrysler Buildings.  And people everywhere.  Swarms of people!



Interestingly, The Strip has at least two distinct feels.  The north end where the Thunderbird, El Rancho Vegas, and Stardust once stood has little vitality.  The glitzy casinos upon which Las Vegas was built now are mostly vacant lots.  A renovation of the Sahara is to be completed by the Fall of 2014.  Circus Circus and the Riviera are antiquated and dwarfed by the newer high rise casinos built to the south. 

The Stratosphere more or less anchors the north end of The Strip and is a bit more than two miles away from the bronze shimmer of Wynn towers, which stand on the site of the once iconic Desert Inn.  They are the line of demarcation between the old Strip and The Strip portrayed on CSI.  In between are souvenir stores, some nondescript non-casinos, the abandoned shells of half-constructed casinos, and buffet-style restaurants for just about every style of ethnic food you can imagine.  East Indian.  Mexican.  Korean.  Barbeque.  Sushi.  Kosher.

The two-mile walk down The Strip from the Stratosphere to the Wynn allows you to see some of Vegas' humanity.  They are not the happy, well-dressed folks who appear in ads or whom the Chamber of Commerce wants to represent the city.  They do not seem to be having a good time.  Instead, they are people asking for change with hand-lettered cardboard signs expressing their poverty, bad luck, hunger, or need.  People looking for a bush or a semi-private place to urinate.  Women in form-fitting spandex that accentuates every roll of fat.  People handing out fliers for shows, strip clubs, adult entertainment, and restaurant discounts.

That stretch of The Strip shows the throwaway nature of our society, Las Vegas’ continuing search for the latest and greatest gimmick to draw visitors, and how hard the 2008 recession hit a city built on tourism, gambling, and hedonism.  But it was not without humor.  One cardboard sign was neatly hand-lettered and read, “Aliens took my weed.  I need lots of money for drugs and booze.”

]]> Sat, 30 Mar 2013 19:05:00 GMT E92D287D5F6D6F6BA1C2EA44E71950F6 http://lavapups.com/blog.cfm?feature=2176284&postid=3846996 When we left the debate last week, the Nagging Little Voice was skeptical of the notion of a band manager.  “Isn’t that a bit grandiose?”  In disregard of that skepticism, the idea was broached to Becky.  “How about being our manager?”  Her response of requiring a written job description and proposal was unexpected.  A written job description!  Proposal! Now what?  How about the “l’ll get back to you with that but in the meantime” approach?    Maybe she could intern or start without a proposal and job description.  Or I could give up any control of the situation with “draft up a job description from which we can work.”  Will the proposal have to include vacations and holidays?  The internal debate was making my head hurt.  This was too much like a labor negotiation when music is supposed to be fun! So I rubbed my aching head and, absent a pithy comeback, returned to my whine, “What can you do when you do not have time to do the things that you need to do to do the things you want to do?” Fortunately, Becky did not drop the matter or sit around waiting for a written job description or proposal.  After all, she is a woman of action.  Within a few days, she confirmed a return to the Capitol Bowl, which had made peace with the ASCAP Police.  That meant the return of the Sunday Surf Party.  She also started to work on getting the Pups a spot at a charity benefit.  In short order, that was scheduled too.  Yes, indeed, she was taking care of some of the “band business” that had been neglected. Take that, Nagging Little Voice! Of course, the Nagging Little Voice always seems to manage the last word.  “How are you doing on the job description and proposal?” When we left the debate last week, the Nagging Little Voice was skeptical of the notion of a band manager.  “Isn’t that a bit grandiose?” 

In disregard of that skepticism, the idea was broached to Becky.  “How about being our manager?”  Her response of requiring a written job description and proposal was unexpected.  A written job description!  Proposal!

Now what?  How about the “l’ll get back to you with that but in the meantime” approach?    Maybe she could intern or start without a proposal and job description.  Or I could give up any control of the situation with “draft up a job description from which we can work.”  Will the proposal have to include vacations and holidays?  The internal debate was making my head hurt.  This was too much like a labor negotiation when music is supposed to be fun!

So I rubbed my aching head and, absent a pithy comeback, returned to my whine, “What can you do when you do not have time to do the things that you need to do to do the things you want to do?”

Fortunately, Becky did not drop the matter or sit around waiting for a written job description or proposal.  After all, she is a woman of action. 

Within a few days, she confirmed a return to the Capitol Bowl, which had made peace with the ASCAP Police.  That meant the return of the Sunday Surf Party.  She also started to work on getting the Pups a spot at a charity benefit.  In short order, that was scheduled too.  Yes, indeed, she was taking care of some of the “band business” that had been neglected.

Take that, Nagging Little Voice!

Of course, the Nagging Little Voice always seems to manage the last word.  “How are you doing on the job description and proposal?”

]]> Fri, 29 Mar 2013 01:10:00 GMT E56477113CCBC8AAEF833F60490A9186 http://lavapups.com/blog.cfm?feature=2176284&postid=3803114 “The dream police, they’re coming to arrest me, oh no.” Even though you may know Cheap Trick’s “The Dream Police,” you may not know the ASCAP Police.  Before you scramble off looking for some rare vinyl, this is not about a song or an album. “ASCAP” is the acronym for the American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers, which is a performance-rights organization.  It protects its members’ musical copyrights by monitoring public performances -- both broadcast and live -- of their music.  ASCAP collects licensing fees and distributes them to its members as royalties.  The licensing fees are paid by broadcasters, businesses, and venues that play music written by ASCAP members. The concept is simple.  Got music on the elevator, get a license.  Got background music playing over the public address system, get a license.  Offer live music, get a license.  Offer an open mic night, get a license.  ASCAP is aggressive in pursuing fees for its members. In fact, ASCAP can be so aggressive that, not so long ago, considerable debate existed about its possibly seeking license payments from consumers for ringtones played in public.  That possibility led to action by the federal government against ASCAP and a federal court decision clarifying that playing music in public without any commercial purpose does not infringe copyrights. The ASCAP “Police” periodically visit places where music is played.  They ride elevators.  Hang out in restaurants.  Go to grocery stores.  Stop by your local club, cafe, or bar.  They are on the watch for non-licensed performances.  Yes, the ASCAP Police may be in your town right now. Based on reports from its police, ASCAP demands licensing fees under threat of suit.  Many small business owners describe it more as a shakedown.  But a little research leads to the inevitable conclusion that the unlicensed public commercial use of copyrighted music is pretty much indefensible.  As “songwriters” with copyrighted music, we should receive royalties.  But the Lava Pups have not received a penny in royalties for plays of songs from Into the Flow. In the zealous protection of its members -- we are not members -- and as a result of the publicity generated from our promotion of last October’s Monster Mash, the ASCAP Police called the Capitol Bowl.  That put the fear that the full force of the federal copyright laws would be brought to bear on a small business owner in West Sacramento.  Wide-ranging damages and penalties -- $750 to $30,000 per infringement.  Costs and attorneys’ fees.  Just for letting some local bands play! So as we packed up after the Monster Mash, we were told that the ASCAP Police had called, that the cost of ASCAP did not fit into the current budget, that action by ASCAP was not a risk the business was willing to take, and that “that was your last show here until we figure out what to do.” To paraphrase Cheap Trick:  “The ASCAP Police, they’re coming to arrest me, oh no.”   Really? “The dream police, they’re coming to arrest me, oh no.”

Even though you may know Cheap Trick’s “The Dream Police,” you may not know the ASCAP Police.  Before you scramble off looking for some rare vinyl, this is not about a song or an album.

“ASCAP” is the acronym for the American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers, which is a performance-rights organization.  It protects its members’ musical copyrights by monitoring public performances -- both broadcast and live -- of their music.  ASCAP collects licensing fees and distributes them to its members as royalties.  The licensing fees are paid by broadcasters, businesses, and venues that play music written by ASCAP members.

The concept is simple.  Got music on the elevator, get a license.  Got background music playing over the public address system, get a license.  Offer live music, get a license.  Offer an open mic night, get a license.  ASCAP is aggressive in pursuing fees for its members.

In fact, ASCAP can be so aggressive that, not so long ago, considerable debate existed about its possibly seeking license payments from consumers for ringtones played in public.  That possibility led to action by the federal government against ASCAP and a federal court decision clarifying that playing music in public without any commercial purpose does not infringe copyrights.

The ASCAP “Police” periodically visit places where music is played.  They ride elevators.  Hang out in restaurants.  Go to grocery stores.  Stop by your local club, cafe, or bar.  They are on the watch for non-licensed performances.  Yes, the ASCAP Police may be in your town right now.

Based on reports from its police, ASCAP demands licensing fees under threat of suit.  Many small business owners describe it more as a shakedown.  But a little research leads to the inevitable conclusion that the unlicensed public commercial use of copyrighted music is pretty much indefensible.  As “songwriters” with copyrighted music, we should receive royalties.  But the Lava Pups have not received a penny in royalties for plays of songs from Into the Flow.

In the zealous protection of its members -- we are not members -- and as a result of the publicity generated from our promotion of last October’s Monster Mash, the ASCAP Police called the Capitol Bowl.  That put the fear that the full force of the federal copyright laws would be brought to bear on a small business owner in West Sacramento.  Wide-ranging damages and penalties -- $750 to $30,000 per infringement.  Costs and attorneys’ fees.  Just for letting some local bands play!

So as we packed up after the Monster Mash, we were told that the ASCAP Police had called, that the cost of ASCAP did not fit into the current budget, that action by ASCAP was not a risk the business was willing to take, and that “that was your last show here until we figure out what to do.”

To paraphrase Cheap Trick:  “The ASCAP Police, they’re coming to arrest me, oh no.”

  Really?

]]> Sun, 24 Mar 2013 17:05:00 GMT C50E43FD08708AE879966D3A37490180