Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote The droghte of March hath perced to the roote And bathed every veyne in swich licour, Of which vertu engendred is the flour; Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth Inspired hath in every holt and heeth The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne, And smale foweles maken melodye, That slepen al the nyght with open eye- (So priketh hem Nature in hir corages); Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes To ferne halwes, kowthein sondry londes; And specially from every shires ende Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende, The hooly blisful martir for to seke That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seeke. GEOFFREY CHAUCER
Easter Sunday, rock the mass at Our Saviour Catholic Church in Cocoa Beach. African-American music director in pinstripe cream-colored suit and his son on drum set, also smooth dresser. Plus a dozen vocalists, two violins, guitar and piano. Everybody else pale-skinned or sunburned, many wearing jeans or shorts. No bonnets, few frills. Smiles. Babies. Kneeling. Some restrained rhythmic clapping. Not a word about the PPC (Pedophile Priest Cover-ups).
Right down on the A1A strip in Cocoa Beach, all-American surfer and space-coast HQ, is a place labeled "Gentleman's Club" with the catchy name "Cheaters." Not far from "Hooters." You decide.
Dog obedience lessons for human children of all ages. Maybe another self-help title: Fifty Ways The AKC Commands Can Change Your Life. Published already?
Chocolate Love is a reggae pans song composed just for us by a well-known California drummer.
"Pans" being steel drums. And "us" being Pans de Leon, my band of happy, gray-headed Sunday afternoon musicians. When the SoCal composer comes to town as a visiting artist, we'll present our interpretation of his new tune.
We are steel drummers (second year, so we must be intermediate) who meet on Sunday afternoons for two hours with Mike and Kendra, two sweet, hip 28-year-old musicians teaching a dozen 50-something students. We meet in the pans room (a portable classroom jammed full of steel drums and other percussion instruments) at Leon High School. Armed with pairs of small wooden mallets, we tap and bang beautiful melodies on shiny silver instruments derived from Trinidadian garbage cans.
Our talented leaders have day jobs teaching music to high school students. They are married to each other and recently moved to Tallahassee from Ohio, where Miami University is a hotbed of Caribbean steel band instruction and performance.
Mike and Kendra possess a matched set of academic degrees in music, with emphasis on percussion. (Living my life over, would definitely major in percussion.) They are brilliantly precise and demanding. Kendra gives us brief "warm-ups" to learn scales and rhythm techniques.
Next, led by Mike who keeps time for us on a snare drum and cymbal, we just play, which at first means stumbling through. We learn two songs at a time. Right now, our first hour is devoted to the reggae classic Jammin' and the second hour is for the brand-new, haunting Chocolate Love.
Last year I played lead tenor, a frantic brain-frying exercise with many fast-note changes in Hey Jude and Island in the Sun. I've switched to double seconds, which is two drums that I "strum," meaning hitting repetitive chords with occasionally melodic bars. Others play drums known as "guitars" (actually three drums), double tenor, and bass (six drums to a player).
Strumming chords is relaxing; hitting an occasional triplet and then a fast succession of melodic notes is a private thrill of achievement. And making our kind of ensemble music is truly hitting a groove. Incentive is our upcoming concert, on stage, with lights and cameras and a wild after-party.
We must be living out adolescent fantasies, the perfect band experience. Serious, intense, with hilarious bonding. No drugs, no drama. In touch with our inner John Lennon and Bob Marley. Peace and excitement of making music together. Soon we may load up the bus and hit the road.
And so it's spring again so what Leaves are leaves again no tree forgot.
-- Gregory Corso
Such a cold, lingering winter. Yesterday, March 22, snow fell (again) in my mother's yard in Asheville, N.C.
But hey, the trees have NOT forgotten. They're doing what they do . . leafing and budding. SUMMER FALL WINTER SPRING.
Next week might bring us something like the grand explosion of spring happiness felt way up north . . . in Copenhagen, Denmark. My winter there was extreme: brutal, long and dark. And spring also extreme: sweet, brief, with endless light.
Old man Chaucer's classic: "Wan that Aprille with his shores sotte, the dracht of March hath perced to the rotae . . . "
If your high school English teacher didn't make you memorize it, learn it now! You'll be a richer person for knowing the Prologue to Canterbury Tales . . in Olde English
Went out last night to hear an Irish fiddle jam by Jane and Gordon and five or six others. The musicians had gathered at a corner table in the back room of Beef O'Brady's, a neighborhood sports bar where where we used to go to Little League awards banquets. Beneath TV sets tuned to basketball games, a mismatched ensemble played jigs, laughed, sang, drank whiskey and beer. A young fiddler with curly red hair sat beside an older man playing an Irish flute. A tired mandolin player leaned back in his chair. A blue-capped fiddler, with bushy white eyebrows and grim thin lips, could have been an actor perfectly portraying an old Irishman.
Always somewhere to go on a Saturday night, even in a town where everybody complains there's nothing to do.
