Culinary adventures with Andre
glas...@yahoo.com
Andre used to be a pretty good cook already when we shared an apartment
in grad school. Looks like he hasn't given it up.
Regards,
Gray
Jon Yaeger
glas...@yahoo.com at glas...@yahoo.com wrote on 5/15/05 11:52 PM:
Glass,
Say, did you have anything to do with that awful, boring film, "My Dinner
with Andre?" Shame on you.
Glad you qualified that you shared an apartment "in grad school." I
suspect as a sockpuppet you shared more than that.
;-)
Bruce C. Miller
I like those wooden plates. Where can I get a set of those? What kind
of red wines does Andre Jute drink with fish or all-vegetable meals?
I noticed in some pics he has two glasses poured. Are they different
types of red wine or does he just pour two glasses so he doesn't have
to reach for the bottle in the middle of his meal?
Anyway, nice looking meals...
Fabio Berutti
edible to me, too, or at least well presented, colourful and free from
typical UK/US "dressings" (like grilled salmon with hot ketchup or
overcooked spaghetti with lemon curd... I've seen things You losers cannot
even imagine..).
Would it be a good idea to grill kebabs between a PP pair of 211s? Or would
it give a fatty sound? Microwave cuisine is "tubed", but the results are
not amazing IMHO. For this application silicon is better (in the form of the
SiO2 refractory bricks of a real, wood-fired oven).
Ciao
Fabio
<glas...@yahoo.com> ha scritto nel messaggio
news:1116215568....@o13g2000cwo.googlegroups.com...
Ian Iveson
>I can hardly believe mr. Jute is a Briton... his pasta dishes look
>quite edible to me, too, or at least well presented, colourful and
>free from typical UK/US "dressings" (like grilled salmon with hot
>ketchup or overcooked spaghetti with lemon curd... I've seen things
>You losers cannot even imagine..).
Oi! US and UK food have very little in common.
Good food is good everywhere, or rather everywhere except central
Europe, in my opinion.
cheers, Ian
fiu...@yahoo.com
> glas...@yahoo.com wrote:
> > http://members.lycos.co.uk/fiultra/FOOD.html
> >
> > Andre used to be a pretty good cook already when we shared an
> apartment
> > in grad school. Looks like he hasn't given it up.
> >
> > Regards,
> >
> > Gray
>
> I like those wooden plates. Where can I get a set of those?
I imagine we got those in Bali, an Indonesian island with amazing surf,
when in 1981 we stopped off there to acclimatize on our way to
Australia for six months. (The government was paying. At my own expense
I acclimatize after I arrive by living directly under an air
conditioner, not in exotic locations. More's the pity!) Turn
perpendicularly from Kuta beach up the main drag, go to the top where
the tourist traps end, explain to the four policemen in the jeep that
you are not lost (it helps to speak the local Javanese dialect but in
any event be very, very polite), and cruise the shops for the locals
until you find the plates made with the woods you prefer.
>What kind
> of red wines does Andre Jute drink with fish or all-vegetable meals?
I don't let people who want to argue rouge or Rouge, or who capitalize
champagne when not talking about the region, tell me which colour wine
I should drink with which kind of food or which region of France my
wine should come from. I know more than they do about wine. (A branch
of my family has owned and operated vineyards for centuries. I used to
work in an industry which uses a table in a three-star restaurant as a
workbench and I had an unlimited expense account, so I have drunk all
the wines of great repute.)
Today I just drink what catches my eye at the supermarket. "Oh, yeah, I
had a wonderful bottle of that outside Palermo in 1968." Mostly these
days I like the Chilean, South African, Australian and Californian
varietals, some of which were always underrated and some of which I can
remember when they weren't so fabulously well-finished. It is truly
amazing that some of these regions have come in only thirty or forty
years from producing bulk llama peepee to being a wholesale threat to
the very sophisticated French and Italian wine industries. Notice that
I don't prefer the products of these new vineyards for any trendy
politically correct reason; if you're gullible enough to want wine made
only by underdogs, insist on the vinegar tenderly--but pretentiously,
of course--squeezed in a British vineyard or any other place where the
sun doesn't shine.
But yeah, I do drink more red than white, for a very good reason.
The key to a healthy heart is to take plenty of exercise in quite short
bursts (a brisk 30min walk twice a day is four times as good for you as
one 60min walk a day), eat little or no red meat, consume 75mg of
aspirin and a glass of red wine every day. Notice that it is *red* wine
specified, not just wine, and only one glass. You don't have to put the
aspiring in the wine, or even consume it at the same time.
Red wine breaks up the fats clogging your arteries, white wine doesn't.
Spirits and beer are not good for you, though I did once when I worked
for the liquor industry calculate that 8 pints of stout a day contains
all the nutrients a grown man requires; my board suppressed the rest of
my findings, which were that the government if they heard would
probably perpetrate eugenic engineering by giving every layabout lout
an entitlement to 8 pints of stout a day, so causing endemic brewer's
droop and thereby solving the population explosion once and for all.
Mind you, it is much easier to find a great red wine by taking potluck
on the shelves than a superb white wine. Grab the liquor manager of any
big supermarket and ask him which of the wines you don't know was on
introductory offer last year. Those are the good ones. People bought
them cheap to try, then enough customers asked for them and were
willing to pay a higher price to make it worth the shelf space. Or buy
one bottle each of all the wines on special offer, ignoring those you
already know won't make the cut and are being sold off cheap because no
one wants them. The rest are new wines trying to break in by below-cost
selling. When you find one you like, buy a case or two while they're
cheap. Some of these go off again, as they put their best foot forward
for the introduction and when they take off buy in all kinds of
recycled sheepdip from lesser wineries or eurowine lakes to stick
behind their suddenly valuable label.
It is even easy to find a super red by accident. I discovered
Erazzuriz, a superb Chilean winery, by saying carelessly to a young
waiter in Isaac's, my favourite Cork restaurant, "Bring me a bottle of
the red the Aboriginal spat in," meaning a bottle of Hardy's
Coonawarra, maybe it was called "Old Eucalyptus"; we still have a
couple of bottles but I'm too slack to walk downstairs and get dusty
finding them. The kid went away, confused aboriginal piccies and trees
on labels, and brought me the Chilean instead of the Australian wine.
After I tasted it I said, "You got the wrong continent. Show me the
label," and made a most pleasing discovery. Last Christmas I opened a
bottle of Erazzuriz Reserva cabernet sauvignon beside a nicely aged
Chateau Neuf dP and noted of which people chose to have a second
glass... it was the Chilean wine.
It is far, far more difficult to find a nice white I don't already know
about. I still drink Nobilo White Cloud and Rosemount Chardonnay and
any old nouveau bordeaux blanc (hard to get in Ireland because it is
simply too cheap to be worth the transport). But the white or rose
wines I found in recent years that I liked were a French rose which
stormed into Ireland as a loss leader but is now priced like its weight
in gold, an ancient Rose d'Anjou dessert wine available on order from
specialist wine shops which I generally replace these days by the full
red grenache Mas Amiel which is available off the shelf in my village
at ye olde trendy food shoppe (which started up year before last), and
a Californian white grenache presumably aimed at teenagers as it is
called "Blush" which makes a super spritzer on hot days, just the right
taste and a very attractive pale apricot colour too. But even in summer
when drinking lambrusco (a most refreshing Italian sparkling wine) out
of a tumbler like soda pop, I prefer the red to the white.
At parties of the glitterati when I still could be bothered to go (very
few of them glitter intellectually--such parties are heavily weighted
towards brightly but carefully spoken bureaucrats of the arts from the
funding bodies) I would always separate the real people from the
poseurs by which colour wine they take. Those who take white wine are
conscious of their image, those who take red are choosing it for the
taste and consider substance more important than appearance. Guess who
has something interesting to say and who agrees sycophantically with
everything I say for fear that I wil expose their vacuity in public.
"You don't say, Professor Pincheek. Shaw and Swift and Wilde are
pillars of *British* literature? Hardly! They were Irishmen stolen by
the English. You really should use the language with more precision."
Or my favourite shit-stirrer when surrounded by a stunted army of
fashionable white wines, "The greatest moment in literature since
Johannes Gutenberg invented movable type was the day on which Virginia
Woolf drowned herself."
> I noticed in some pics he has two glasses poured. Are they different
> types of red wine or does he just pour two glasses so he doesn't have
> to reach for the bottle in the middle of his meal?
Nah, I'm not *that* organized. It's just convenient to serve and pour
in the kitchen if my wife and I will eat in easy chairs in front of a
movie or television.
> Anyway, nice looking meals...
Thanks. I meet all kinds of artists and I apply the same test to all of
them. Those who can cook have true talent, those who can't are suspect
and bear watching closely. Anyone who can't cook very likely can't
build a good-sounding amplifier either. It's a matter of wu.
Andre Jute
Jon Yaeger
If you seriously think the world is waiting to find out what you consume,
you are sicker than I thought.
Jon
fiu...@yahoo.com
Fabio Berutti wrote:
> I can hardly believe mr. Jute is a Briton...
Whoever said I was British? Just because I speak my fifth or sixth
language better than those for whom it is a mother tongue, that is the
British and the Americans, doesn't mean I am British.
You may take it as read that anyone with a real interest in food who is
presented to you as "British" is either a) more food historian than
cook (Elizabeth David), b)"honorary" British like a whole squad of
Irishmen (Keith Floyd) and continentals with good English or energetic
chappies who learned their business down under (Graham Kerr, anyway
more showman than cook), c) so recently British that his or her
parents, who weren't British, had a great influence on their outlook or
d) a minority of genuine British citizen so well trained in foreign
parts that all the nonsense have been knocked out of them. The only two
good actually British cooks I can think of among those generally
presented to us as "British" are Delia Smith and Rick Stein. Any food
you find in Britain that is not disgusting is influenced by those
trained in foreign parts or by foreign chefs. It is no accident that
Britons' two favourite meals are takeaway curry and takeaway fish and
chips (the only indigenous British dish worth preserving, except maybe
the Cornish pastie and Melton pie), the first from India and the second
inevitably better cooked by immigrants than by the British themselves.
Rick Stein, a great British cook, has for years spoken out against the
kitschification of food you object to.
> his pasta dishes look quite
> edible to me, too, or at least well presented, colourful
You can't trust a man who cannot cook a decent meal to build a decent
amplifier. In fact you can't trust a man who cannot cook a decent meal
to do anything right.
> and free from
> typical UK/US "dressings" (like grilled salmon with hot ketchup or
> overcooked spaghetti with lemon curd... I've seen things You losers
cannot
> even imagine..).
I had a meal with that fellow once. He pushed his food around on the
plate like it was alien slime. Actors tend to. The good storytellers
and boon companions tend not to be leading men or if they are soon
outgrow (pun intended) those roles.
> Would it be a good idea to grill kebabs between a PP pair of 211s?
Or would
> it give a fatty sound?
Svetlana's fabulous SV572-xx is a higher-power, smaller-envelope tube.
It becomes much hotter than a 211 or an 845. I used to roast
marshmallows between a pair of 845, and it certainly melted the cheese
on my sandwich one day when I put the sandwich down on the amp (the
cleanest place in my studio) and forgot about until the smell drew my
attention back from my computer screen. But I think for cooking meat
the SV572-xx will do better.
> Microwave cuisine is "tubed", but the results are
> not amazing IMHO.
We don't have a microwave.
> For this application silicon is better (in the form of the
> SiO2 refractory bricks of a real, wood-fired oven).
Common clay makes a good oven. Dig a hole in the ground, make a fire
with hardwood so there will be a lot of coals. Meanwhile cover your
(preferably dead) animal in a thick layer of clay without first
gutting, plucking or skinning it, working the clay well into the skin
covering. Now dig the selfcontained, self-ovened meal into the coals.
Let it bake for a few hours to a few days (a few trout or a biggish
salmon for at least an hour, a chicken or an armadillo or a large
hedgehog for a couple of hours, a pheasant or springbok a little
longer, a medium boar or a large capibara for eight to twelve hours, a
gemsbok or an eland or a buffalo for one and up to two days, etc),
refreshing the coals as required, then dig it out and crack the clay
casing. All the hair or feathers will come out in the clay. You can
either cut the stomach open carefully and tilt the guts out for your
dogs or carve around it. This is meat like you've never tasted it,
cooked in its own juices.
> Ciao
>
> Fabio
Nice to hear *someone* on RAT has culture.
Andre Jute
Next week: the iniquitous French
fiu...@yahoo.com
I was asked what I drink. Now compare what Yaeger sent without any
invitation:
On May 18. 2005 the hypocrite Jon Yaeger <jon...@bellsouth.net>wrote to
RAT:
> Dined at Taco Bell tonite. Enjoyed a crisp nachos grande served with
diced,
> ripened tomatoes, fluffy sour cream, and frijoles refritos, served
atop corn
> chips, known in the native tongue as "fritos."
>
> My delicious repast was accompanied by two regular beef tacos, with
sauce
> picante. The bubbly was a diet Pepsi, a naughty indulgence in this
> birthplace of Coca Cola.
>
> Subsequently, the digestive process was herald by a mellow and robust
belch.
> At the urging of signals from the nether regions I made my way to
their
> powder room, where I proceeded to . . . . .
>
> Narcissism's grand, isn't it? W.G.A.S.
>
> - The dishonest garage trader
Jon Yaeger
fiu...@yahoo.com at fiu...@yahoo.com wrote on 5/20/05 8:05 PM:
You're an idiot. You can't even tell when you're being mocked!
fiu...@yahoo.com
But my dear old dishonest garage trader Jono Yaeger, mockery is
supposed to be funny. Surely a grimacing fool like you, so crude he
requires to spray smilies and spittle all over the landscape to signal
his intention, will never understand the first thing about mockery.
Unsigned out of contempt
Patrick Turner
Jon Yaeger wrote:
Ah, these kitchen fights between you two are a relief to the spate of
troll postings telling us to ditch all our tubes.
Nothing like two grown men facing up each side of the kitchen bench, one
armed
with a large whisk, the other with large wooden spoon, and a referee woth a
large pot on his head
to prevent a stray blow disturburbing his scoring record.
Rules of engagement prevent use of meat cleavers and long carving knives,
and hurling any substance over 50 degrees C.
Fooling opponents by serving up chilli laced cook-ups and saying its "only
fukkin mild chilli"
will be rewarded with a bonus score.
Patrick Turner.
fiu...@yahoo.com
I don't imagine I would invite an immoral person like Yaeger into my
kitchen, Patrick. He might touch something. Nor would I enter his
kitchen without wearing gloves.
But, on the same amusing track as you are, Google Groups throws up next
to my other message about the wretched Yaeger (Dishonest hypocrisy No 2
from Jon Yaeger) this little lot of ads that may interest that little
man:
Stress Management
Affluent business leaders share how
they manage stress and priorities.
www.secretsofsuccess.com
Defeat Stress Easily
4 Ways to Be Calm and at Peace
Be Relaxed and Serene Any Time
HowToBeSimplySerene.com
Stress Management
I reduced my stress and so can
you! Find out how & beat the blues.
www.Be-Health-Smart.com
Maybe I'll write for one of those netsites if they pay enough. "The
therapeutic effect of adrenaline," "Mixing it on your bike with cement
trucks in narrow lanes," "Quashing netscum," "The quiet life at the end
of the rainbow".
Henry Pasternack
> But my dear old dishonest garage trader Jono Yaeger, mockery is
> supposed to be funny. Surely a grimacing fool like you, so crude he
> requires to spray smilies and spittle all over the landscape to signal
> his intention, will never understand the first thing about mockery.
Here's how it's done, Jon.
-Henry
-----
Henry Pasternack Jun 22 1998, 3:00 am
Newsgroups: rec.audio.tubes
From: hen...@nortel.ca (Henry Pasternack) - Find messages by this author
Date: 1998/06/22
Subject: Re: How many dBs do you have?
Reply to Author | Forward | Print | Individual Message | Show original | Report Abuse
Andre Jute (an...@indigo.ie) wrote:
> I'm going to eight days of chamber concerts with, among others, the
> Borodin, starting next Sunday. The concerts are being broadcast. I'll
> ask the sound engineer to take a reading from my seat, front row centre,
> within touching distance of the performers. Who wants to bet on what the
> peak reading will be
Gerstner and Welch were over at my place the other night. We were
listening to an album of Russian folk songs on my new "Real Chekov"
amplifier. My favorite track is titled "Objict Ahead Kiptin". It is a tragic
account of a Russian fishing trawler that ran aground in foul weather, and
the cruel fate of the crew.
All that emotion (Gerstner was close to tears by the end of "Kiptin") left us
a bit restless. Welch suggested we head out for a bite. We went to the
front yard where the GE corporate helicopter was idling. "Would you like
to take it for a spin?" Welch inquired nonchalantly. "Do you really have to
ask?" I responded.
The pilot pulled off his headset and hopped in back. I sat down in the pilot's
chair and belted in. Welch helped me familiarize myself with the checklist
while Gerstner fiddled in the back for a beer.
"Everybody ready?" I shouted over the din as I throttled up the engines.
With all the gauges showing green, I did a quick check for traffic overhead
and experimentally pulled up on the collective. With a bit of side pressure
on the stick to counter a yawing tendency, the helo lifted cleanly from the
ground.
Crunch! I accidentally slipped to the left and put a landing skid through the
windshield of Gerstner's BMW 850. "Sorry, Lou," I shouted. "No problem,
Hank," he chuckled. "You should see what I did to McNealy's P-51 at
Oshkosh last year!" Welch groaned. I didn't bother asking.
The sky was clear as I departed the ATC zone and headed south down the
Champlain Valley. "Clink" went another bottlecap in the rear. I stole a glance
back to size up the growing pile of empties. "Hey! Take it easy, Lou!" I said.
"Not to worry, Hank. Not to worry!". He had a twinkle in his eyes and
seemed rather in a jolly mood. "You're the boss," I replied, amused by the
pun, and turned back to the instruments.
I concentrated on my flying and soon enough the landing pad lights on the top
of Welch's Manhattan condo tower were coming into view. Determined not
to make a fool of myself this time, I came in carefully and nailed the landing
like a pro. "That's just fine, Henry," commented Jack. Coming from him, I
knew it was a genuine compliment.
Gerstner was still in a good mood. In the limo he told an extremely humorous
story about an experience he had had while still a junior executive on a sales
trip to Tokyo. He and his boss and several co-workers were entertaining their
Japanese counterparts in the restaurant of a posh downtown hotel. After several
rounds of rice wine, everyone was feeling a bit giddy. Gerstner's boss made a
comment to the effect that Japanese food wasn't nearly as challenging as he had
been led to believe. Carelessly, he got in a wager with one of the Japanese
account executives that there wasn't anything on the menu he couldn't stomach.
Gerstner was just finishing up the gruesome details when Welch burst out,
"Puhlease! Not before dinner!". We all laughed out loud.
"That's it on the left," Gerstner said to the driver, tapping on his shoulder and
pointing to a well-lit establishment just up the block. We pulled over and the
doorman opened the door of the Lincoln. Stepping onto the pavement the
humidity enveloped me. I palmed the doorman a fiver and we hurried into the
welcoming cool interior. It was a classy place, impeccable yet unpretentious.
We were escorted to Gerstner's usual table. Champagne arrived shortly.
"To mother Russia," toasted Gerstner, raising his glass. "To Kiptin Keerk," I
chorused and clinked my glass of Perrier. Scanning the menu, I decided on a
New York sirloin burger and fries. I gave my order and turned back to my
companions.
"I'm going to eight days of chamber concerts with, among others, the Borodin,
starting next Sunday," Welch commented. "Really?" I said. "Are the concerts
being broadcast?"
"Indeed," replied Welch. "GE is sponsoring a series of live concert broadcasts
from Lincoln Center. Would you like tickets? I can get you anywhere you want."
"Front row center would be fine, Jack. I really appreciate your generosity."
"Don't mention it, Hank. It's the least I can do to return the favor."
Gerstner mumbled something. "Pardon, Lou?" I asked. Just then the waiter
delivered my platter. The burger was fully two inches thick and the fries were
thin and crispy-brown. "You were saying?" I asked, popping a fry in my mouth.
"I was just wondering," Gerstner responded, expertly slicing his filet mignon, "how
loud the sound pressure level is at a typical symphony concert."
"I'll ask the sound engineer to take a reading from my seat," Welch volunteered.
"Who wants to bet on what the peak reading will be?"
"Not me," I said. "Not me."
-Henry
fiu...@yahoo.com
Henry Pasternack wrote:
> Andre Jute wrote:
>
> > But my dear old dishonest garage trader Jono Yaeger, mockery is
> > supposed to be funny. Surely a grimacing fool like you, so crude he
> > requires to spray smilies and spittle all over the landscape to
signal
> > his intention, will never understand the first thing about mockery.
>
> Here's how it's done, Jon.
>
> -Henry
> -----
My dear old Plodnick! Thanks for coming to help me patronize the
impertinent little man Yaeger. But you needn't have bestirred yourself
from your slumbers behind the moderated safety of your private asylum
as I have already given the little man an adequate example by turning
his own petty words into a mockery in the companion thread "Dishonest
hypocrisy No 2 from Jon Yaeger":
"I wonder how Jon Yaeger's status "as a sockpuppet" enables him to
discover that two people he never met share his disgusting habits,
whatever it is that a "sockpuppet" does with or for other men. (I
hesitate even to imagine...)
"Keep your sex life out of RAT, Yaeger. You're disgusting enough just
for your crookedness and hypocrisy without parading the open sores of
your perversions as well."
Let's see this little man Yeager, with his soundbite attention span
(1), sort out that welter of confusion! For brownie points, my dear old
Pompass, feel free to help him, since (in your own words) he's such a
bumbuddy of yours. God, you have as little luck choosing your friends
as choosing your enemies. If your little "accidents" weren't so
amusing, dear old Plod, you would be pitiable.
Andre Jute
PS While I never had the patience to read to the end of the crude
parody you reprint, I seem to remember that I asked you about the two
characters in the first line. You never replied. So, Pasternack, once
more: Who are Gerstner and Welsh and why should you assume I will know
who they are? If you want to drop names, you should first ascertain
that they are names your audience will know. If they are merely your
off-RAT mates (assuming you have any), why drag them in?
(1) Want to bet the dishonest garage trader Jon Yaeger never gets your
amp together again? Humpty mumpty glowered on the wall...
fiu...@yahoo.com
Henry Pasternack wrote:
> Andre Jute wrote:
>
> > But my dear old dishonest garage trader Jono Yaeger, mockery is
> > supposed to be funny. Surely a grimacing fool like you, so crude he
> > requires to spray smilies and spittle all over the landscape to
signal
> > his intention, will never understand the first thing about mockery.
>
> Here's how it's done, Jon.
>
> -Henry
> -----
Yo, Pompass, I am sure that now there are two of us pointing out his
place in the food chain, Yeager will see the irony of the original
title of this thread into which he stumbled with such entertaining
consequences: "Culinary adventures with Andre". Hee-hee.
[[[snipped, Plodnick's plagiarism which I have already dealt with
kindly in another post in this thread]]]
Andre Jute
Patrick Turner
"fiu...@yahoo.com" wrote:
Yeah, well, there has always been a lotta blather about managing stress.
Its like the situation with NFB.
If you have a very linear circuit without NFB, then you don't need
much applied NFB, or any at all, if you know how to enjoy
inneffient triode circuits without a Guilt Trip.
So if you have a life where you are not stressed, and can easily
think of 50 so called important social and other issues you just
simply don't give a fuck about, then you sure don't need any stress relief
program,
which is like NFB.
Badly applied, stress relief can cause personal instability, and lifestyle
oscillations.
People change their mind too often, and lose the fine detail of life, and
wonder WTF they are on about, and waste time moving to sunny beachside
resort towns
but where there is nothing stimulating except semi comatose old folks,
( with all due respect ). Why didn't they cultivate a group of friends
where they were,
and save all that expense and worry over a dream? Chasing a dream is often
a nighmare.
A philosophical change internally is cheaper than moving house,
and rarely the expensive therapists have any more to offer than
what one can work out oneself with the aid of friends.
I think I have got myself into the successful position I have got myself
into
without expense or effort or worry
while a large pile of other guys are puttin on the agony, and puttin on the
style,
which is of course is even more ridiculous at 50 than it was at 20, when at
least
you could look well, while being a dopey clod.
And surely the messages from the "Age of Aquarious " are all just as silly
as they ever were but come under new names.
I think I'll write a fukkin book soon.
'50 reasons why I never got laid last night'
Gord, that's an easy one to write.
A follow up book could be
'250 things one should never give a phark about'
Somebody said that your life was wasted if you have more than 250
possessions.
A broader subject for a book could be
' A Farnarklers Guide to Experiencing Existance without Bullshitting '
Time and bills will prevent me ever writing anything much.
Patrick Turner.
Patrick Turner
Henry Pasternack wrote:
snip a tale of tales,
Give my Love to Rachel when you see her again.
I didn't know you were friends with her.
She was pretty good back in 1980 when she spent a year here
as my gardner, and her up the ladder clipping a hedge was
a sight for sore eyes.
Regards,
Patrick Turner.
Jon Yaeger
> (1) Want to bet the dishonest garage trader Jon Yaeger never gets your
> amp together again? Humpty mumpty glowered on the wall...
I'd suggest you bet him Henry to make an easy buck, but I seriously doubt
our friend has the integrity to make good on his losses.
I am listening to a modified amp as I write. Both are working "in spite" of
the mods I've done thus far.
Wong again, Andre. As usual.
Lord Valve
fiu...@yahoo.com wrote: At parties of the glitterati when I still could be
bothered to go (very
> Anyone who can't cook very likely can't
> build a good-sounding amplifier either.
Listen to Derek Trucks with the Allman Brothers (anything less than two
years old) and tell me if I can cook. ;-)
Lord Valve
Tron Chef
fiu...@yahoo.com
Jon Yaeger wrote:
> [Andre Jute wrote to Henry Pasternack]
> > (1) Want to bet the dishonest garage trader Jon Yaeger never gets
your
> > amp together again? Humpty mumpty glowered on the wall...
>
>
> I'd suggest you bet him Henry to make an easy buck, but I seriously
doubt
> our friend has the integrity to make good on his losses.
Hold on, Yeager, your erstwhile bumbbuddy Henry Pasternack is no friend
of mine just because, in a fit of understanable pique (hee-hee), he
joins me in putting down your pretensions to being a human being.
However, I am pleasantly surprised that a slackarsed johhnycomelately
like you, Yaeger, should know that I already demonstrated several times
right here in public on RAT that Henry Pasternack is a welsher who
doesn't pay his bets.
Those who don't believe Jon Yaeger that Pasternack is a notorious
welsher can look it up in Google. The key word is Stanford because the
most notorious instance of Pasternack welshing on his bets was when he
bet I couldn't prove he bragged about his degree from Stanford. At that
time others listed the multiple occasions on which Pasternack welshed
on his bets. As long ago as 1998 Pasternack was already notorious for
welshing on his bets.
I must say, if I were Pasternack and my only friends were Yaeger, who
butchered my amp, and Pinkerton who is a public birdbrain, both of them
working hard to drop me into the shit all the time, I would rather have
them for enemies. At least as enemies they are worth the occasional
giggle as they stumble over their lower lips dragging the ground...
Andre Jute
Can you spell mockery now, Jon-John, who cannot even spell his own name?
Henry Pasternack
Andre Jute wrote:
How not to become a Timmie!
(Besides my novels, I write how-to books for other artists,
including standard references like Writing a Thriller which
Ruth Rendell described in The Times as 'a private godsend',
and about which others of you have been kind enough to write
me grateful notes. A few years ago I chaired an invitation only
meeting on 'How to protect yourself against fans and wannabes
over twelve hundred writers and illustrators sought invitations
and a scheduled single morning session was extended for
three full days and evenings, causing me to miss all the other
conferences. This is the draft of a chapter from my text book,
'How to be a Successful Wannabe', for which I got the idea
from recent correspondence on this board; a publisher loves
the idea, contracts are here, so here we go.
BE 'ANARTIST' WITHOUT EVER CREATING ANYTHING EXCEPT
DENUNCIATIONS OF YOUR LETTERS
I know one fellow who really wants to be an author Well,
actually, he'd like to be an artist of any kind. It doesn't
matter what sort. Understand, he doesn't have any creative
urge, or even ideas that itch for expression. what he really
wants to be is to be 'a somebody'. He's got this idea in his
head, perhaps because there were artists in his family,
perhaps because he sees pop intellectuals being interviewed
on the television, that artists are accorded respect beyond
that given to, say, council employees or accountants.
He wants to be an artist so badly, he has run the words
together, 'anauthor' .
Let's call him Timmie. Of course he has no talent. But that
is no inpediment to being 'anauthor' . Nor does he have the
discipline to write anything extended. But don't let that worry
you either. This chapter tells how even a Timmie can define
himself as an intellectual without the need ever to do any
intellectual work. First, get some kind of a career on the
fringes of the arts. Desktop publishing is good because you
can call yourself a graphic designer without bothering to be
trained or otherwise inform yourself. Public relations, especially
for television, is also good- Next, join some group where you
are likely to run into real intellectuals, preferably with achievements
to their name. Published books are good, as are plays, even musicals;
painters are okay but musicians insist on technical jargon that is a
bore to learn. Give architects a miss; most of them are unemployed
and unemployable. If you are short of ideas, check out Chapter 3
"Hanging Out Right, er,Left--PC Places and People"
Having chosen your forum, ingratiate yourself- Be a clown, tell jokes.
Don't for, god's sake, actually attempt any serious work; if and people
can use it to judge the quality of your mind, your career as an intellectual
will be finished before you have even started. Let it be known you
are working on a magnum opus but are too modest to let anyone see any
part of it. You will of course imply at every opportunity that one day the
world will be stunned by your brilliance.
After a while you will be a fixture. You will not have to prove that you
belong. Now, pick on some prominent fellow with real achievements.
Suck up to him with flattery before you launch your attack. Be absolutely
certain that there is no cause for the attack except your ambition; people
will be too embarrassed to point out you are acting from envy alone.
Above all you don't want to be involved in a real argument. The best sort
to pick on is someone too busy to fight back, preferably someone with
strong, consistent opinions- Dont for the time being attack the opinions,
instead pick on some personal aspect of the great man's feet of clay.
Does he lack modesty? Condemn him as a braggart. If he is modest,
attack him for hypocrisy. If he wears glasses, attack him for
shortsightedness. That is a good start.
Now demonstrate how ruthless you are by attacking without
provocation a member of his family, preferably a child. That should
frighten him badly enough to shut him up while you go your merry way.
If he is over thirty, attack him as 'an old tart' Now switch the attack.
If he has strong opinions, attack him for stubbornness. If he is always
reasonable, attack him for being indecisive.
If in selfdefense he makes an appeal to intellectual honesty in discourse,
immediately and repeatedly accuse him of being a snob.
You can pretend to find fault with his work. Read up some past criticism
bun don't get bogged down in serious argument. If he has solid achievement
it has survived criticism and you as a wannabe are by definition incapable
of bringing serious criticism of substantial work. The best compromise is
to find a set of criticisms so lightweight that the obvious lack of
enterprise is in itself an insult.
Tell a lot of brazen lies brazenly. Do not deign to argue the merits of
these lies when challenged. Simply think up some bigger lies and make new
charges. Or repeat old ones in slightly different words. Take a high moral
tone; claim to be making the charges as a public duty. Study the career of
Joseph Goebbels, Hitler's propaganda minister; Goebbels was the greatest
PR man of the century.
Make everything you say a personal insult. Nothing is more dangerous than
the facts. The minute you allow the facts to be discussed seriously, it will
become clear that you are in a card game where you haven't price of a
stake.
Now, of course sometimes you will pick badly and some intellectual
heavyweight will emerge languidly to maul your tender sensitivities. In
that case smile with boyish charm and say it was all a bit of a joke,
wasn't it. If he doesn't believe you, accuse him of lacking a sense of
humour.
Retire as gracefully as you can manage. Write a grovelling private letter
saying you were under stress because your mother is sick and you of
course apologize abjectly. Appeal to his decency to let it end right there.
That way you can survive to betray someone else upon another day.
Don't make the stupid mistake of attacking someone who has rolled
over you once a second time. Lie in wait for a softer touch. Sooner
or later you will find a weakling and you will by lying about him be able
to destroy his confidence. Then your name will be made. You will be
the man who destroyed X!s reputation. You will never have to do anything
so brow wrinkling and perspiration-breaking as creating something original.
For the rest of your life you can do what you are best at, pose as
something you are not.
CASE STUDY
Now let us take Timmie and spot the mistakes he made on the way to
perfection because he didn't buy my book and follow my rules precisely.
First, he picked on a fellow who had already demonstrated that he would
wipe his backside with impertinent snots. Next, the fellow Timmie picked on
has had so many careers, he cannot remember all his achievements
(he offers visitors an expanding rule to measure his hardcover first
editions
in shelf-feet, for instance) ; even a serious critical attack on some part
of
his work simply leaves him fall back on the prestige of the rest while he
brings the less than brilliant part up to scratch. This was insensitive of
Timmie. Wannabe artists must at least pretend to sensitivity, or if they
lack it be lucky enough not to be caught out this badly.
Timmie should have had the intelligence to pick on someone whose single
achievement or few achievements are treasured like children. It also helps
no pick on someone who doesn't already possess monumental self confidence.
Many artists of perfectly good achievement have poor self-image and they
are easier to reduce to snivelling wrecks.
Bad signs in your choice include high academic honours, high-level business
experience and competence; political experience; military experience;
sporting achievements at national or international level particularly in
contact sports but most especially in sports where people die like
auto-racing or competitive transocean yachting.
Don't let ambition lead you to fucking with someone utterly out of your
league, as it did to Timmie. You're not going to believe this: Timmie
picked on a guy to whom a government erected a statue in his own lifetime,
the most monumental confidence-builder imaginable. If by now you're
thinking Timmie is so stupid I must have made him up, believe me, I didn't.
he is real- And there are a multitude more like him out there. He's a
lowest. common denominator case.
Then Timmie picked on this heavyweight bruiser not once, but again after
he was warned off, three times in all. This is seriously stupid. You have
to finish the job the first time or give it up for good. Worse, he tried
his luck the last time after it had been cogently pointed out, and never
contested, that Timmie was acting purely from envy. Not too bright, our
Timmie, as you have already observed. But this is only where the nightmare
starts.
Next Timmie made the serious mistake of protesting too much. It became
quite clear that he was not acting from high-minded public duty but from a
desire to be precisely like the great man, or whatever his misconception of
this fellow was. He admitted as much through his attempts to vary his
attack. This is dumb. You must not try for literary excellence -if you had
any, you wouldn't be following this route--but ram the same simple message
home again and again.
Timmie made the appalling mistake of conceding that this fellow's
achievements were substantial and unassailable. Wrong! wrong
Wrong! A cleverer wannabe simply concludes that the works are in fact
assailable by someone of real talent but keeps quiet about it.
One trick all wannabes should learn before they try their luck is when to
shut up- Timmie was so impressed with his clever gush of meaningless
words he did not know there was a point where they would stop being
meaningless and start hurting him.
Timmie's list of criticisms was so slight they could not pass even as an
insult; it was too clear to everyone that he had tried hard and failed.
He made the worse mistake of panting eagerly to be thrown another titbit
from the table of the great man's creativity when the correct approach
would be avidly to devour in secret everything the great man made,
consumption to be announced only when serious shortcomings were
discovered. discreet secrecy otherwise to be maintained with a lofty
disinterest expressed publicly at every opportunity.
Timmie is of course a good argument for permitting genetic scanning
and abortion of fetuses too low on the food chain to be anything but
a burden on society, but even Timmie could have succeeded if only he
had followed rny guidelines carefully.
Don't be a smartass and end up like Timmie, a well-known arsehole
and butt of cocktail party sniggers, the original for the sneering
admonition
'Don't be such a Timmie. He used not to be invited because of his pushy
personality, now he is not invited because everyone knows he's a no-talent;
an arsehole and a three-time loser.
If you were smart enough to modify the rules you wouldn't need this book.
Trust me.
Andre Jute
Stewart Pinkerton
wrote:
>I must say, if I were Pasternack and my only friends were Yaeger, who
>butchered my amp, and Pinkerton who is a public birdbrain, both of them
>working hard to drop me into the shit all the time, I would rather have
>them for enemies. At least as enemies they are worth the occasional
>giggle as they stumble over their lower lips dragging the ground...
Jute, no one needs to drop you in the shit, you cover yourself in your
own faeces every time you attempt a 'technical' post.
--
Stewart Pinkerton | Music is Art - Audio is Engineering
fiu...@yahoo.com
Lord Valve wrote:
> fiu...@yahoo.com wrote:
> > Anyone who can't cook very likely can't
> > build a good-sounding amplifier either.
>
> Listen to Derek Trucks with the Allman Brothers (anything less than
two
> years old) and tell me if I can cook. ;-)
>
> Lord Valve
> Tron Chef
It works the other way round too, Valve. Someone who respects the
language and can cook besides is much more likely to build a good amp;
after all the electronics are not difficult to learn. Now if we could
only persuade a prime example of potential like you, m'lord, to give up
getting rich spending your time on pop musicians and instead waste the
rest of your life in hi-fi amps...
Andre Jute
Novice shitstirrer--just wait until I learn my trade!
Lord Valve
fiu...@yahoo.com wrote:
Rich?
From trading with musicians? ROFLMBFAO! Actually, having been
professionally employed as such for nearly two decades (and then
having come to my senses and deciding to open a retail operation)
I have a bit of a soft spot for anyone who can actually play, and I am
likely to reduce my bill accordingly. Fortunately, my criteria for doing
this would include scrutiny of the customer's technique, his taste in
music (subjective, true, but tough shit - my shop, my rules) and his
ability to play in tune, so I don't wind up letting too many of them slide
when it's time to separate them from their filthry lucre.
If I could afford it, Derek Trucks would get everything free. This
kid is 24 years old, and he's one of the best (electric) guitarists
on the planet. He's also married to Susan Tedeschi, one of the
finest people one could ever wish to meet and one of the best
singers around. I don't think either of them could be described
as a "pop" musician, though, unless one uses the word "pop"
to mean any genre other than classical. Most of the performers
(I hesitate to call them musicians) in the "pop" field are outright
posers. ("No-blowers" is what serious players call them.)
Derek is one of those eclectic cats who can play literally
anything, and he is almost single-handedly re-introducing his
young audience to names like Coltrane and Wes Montgomery,
nearly unheard of in the under-30 populace. He was recently
included on the Rolling Stones Magazine list of 100 all-time
best guitarists; his reaction was to complain that his inclusion
on the list bumped a more deserving player off, and he listed
several who weren't included. He's like that. Eventually, he'll
take his (well-deserved) place amongst the greats like
Wes Montgomery, Joe Pass, etc. You'll see. I completely
ignored the slide guitar until I heard him, treating it as a
curiosity rather than a serious instrument. Most people
know him from his work in the Allman Brothers Band, but
his work there is constrained by the "Southern Rock" corridor
that fans expect that group to remain within. (Although, with
Derek's influence, it is changing direction a bit.) His own
band (the Derek Trucks Band), which he travels with
when the Allmans are not touring, is much more representative
of what he's about. You may want to pick up his CD "Soul Serenade,"
if you have any interest in jazz at all. BTW, Derek is an avid
collector of vinyl, and he's one of those dudes who knows
*everything* about every recording he owns - which musicians
played on which tracks, what studio it was recorded in, who
the engineer was, etc. - and he has *thousands* of recordings
in his collection.
Just for fun, you may want to go to this URL:
http://www.archive.org/audio/etree-details-db.php?id=23099&from=browseRecent
Download "Feel So Bad." The lo-fi 64KBPS MP-3 is only 4.6MB,
so it'll download in a reasonable amount of time even on a dialup.
Bear in mind that it's an audience tape, so it's not up to pro
standards. (Surprisingly good in spite of that, though.) A certain
fat dude from Denver of whom you may have heard is playing
the Hammond B-3 on that cut. This was recorded at the
Gothic Theater on March 4, 2005. The Gothic is about two
miles down the street from my shop. I sat in cold on that
tune, having learned it the night before from his current double
CD "Live at Georgia Theater" (*highly* recommended, and
only $10 USD from his website) so any clam-hunters will
doubtless be rewarded if they listen closely. ;-) Sure was
fun. After a 22-year hiatus to raise my kids, I'm making
a comeback, and playing with cats like that certainly doesn't
hurt me any.
I must be fuckin' crazy.
Lord Valve
Organist
Sander deWaal
<snip>
>Sure was fun. After a 22-year hiatus to raise my kids, I'm making
>a comeback, and playing with cats like that certainly doesn't
>hurt me any.
>I must be fuckin' crazy.
>Lord Valve
>Organist
I take back every nasty thing I said about you in the past.
You're an OK dude, LV.
--
"Audio as a serious hobby is going down the tubes."
- Howard Ferstler, 25/4/2005
fiu...@yahoo.com
http://www.archive.org/audio/etree-details-db.php?id=23099&from=browseRecent
and discover this guy who pretends to be your twin brother, Fat Willie
Whittaker, playing the organ *very badly*, wrecking a really sincere
Derek Trucks number. Mr Hammond and Mr Lesley are both coming for this
impostor, I tell you. To paraphrase the glorious leader of the free
world, this fellow "strangulates" the organ. You're probably on the
Jazz Vigilante Society out there in the midwest where it happened, hard
by you in Denver, according to his internet map in a theatre like a
coupla miles down the road from you. I imagine by now you have caught
this impostor and dealt with him sternly. Stringing up is too good for
him. I hope you dragged it out. If by some accident he's still with us,
turn up the electricity to the gonads a couple of notches and say it is
from me.
Yours ever,
Andre Jute
I'd better read your letter about the culinary arts to calm me down.
Maybe I'll add a postscript at the bottom.
Ha! I see you already know about the impostor. Heh-heh!
And this guy Derek Trucks has several counts against him. He can
clearly play his instrument well and he has a feeling for real music,
so why doesn't he do real music, like the classics. Secondly, he plays
the guitar, in my opinion an abomination second only to the accordion
(unless handled by Andres Segovia or Julian Bream, of course). Third,
he plays the slide guitar, which is a particular irritation to me as it
is next the accordion and the banjo the instrument found most often in
Irish pubs where I just want a quiet toddy after I come off a
dangerous, cold and miserably wet mountain. I hope he doesn't play it
flat on his lap, as they do here, nancy boys and failed priest all.
(There are some pubs down in darkest Gaeltacht into which I do not
venture after I wrote that the marching bands should be fined for noise
nuisance...) I've already said that it is an added complaint that he
plays his guitar extremely well.
Seriously, I enjoyed that number. I dunno anything about jazz beyond
New Orleans trad (When the saints) and every time people give me modern
jazz discs I stop playing them after a number or two; I get real pissed
off at the bigtime jazz performers I'm occasionally shilled into
interviewing when they admit they play off sheet music. (One of them, a
renegade from the classics, said to me, 'Bach wrote down his notes,'
and I snapped, 'Yes, and when you played Bach you did just fine.') I
just talk to them because they're less boring than classical musicians
and some have been interesting places.
My idea of pop is Elvis and the Beach Boys. I also have a Roy Orbison
collection, and old Frank Sinatra and so on. But all that stuff
together accounts for one storage box, say 250 discs (and most of that
comedy), out of many, say 6000 CDs and box sets of classical music. My
key interests are choral and vocal music; on my stack to go on my
player next are Carver, Cardoso, Lobo, all of them early church
composers, to be followed by three box sets of Elgar settings, just
taken out of boxes in alphabetical order (Lobo is on the Cardoso disc).
I mentioned "popular music" once to Jim Reeves when I was a roadie on
his crew during a school vacation (which explains why it was still
"popular" and not "pop" and meant something entirely different to the
present meaning) and he explained very thoughtfully to me that there is
no such thing as "popular music", only music that people like, and that
they all like different kinds of music. He also explained to me who
were the audience for country and western songs, and the blues and so
on. He was a determinedly nice man but a bit dull; I discovered later
that he wasn't just talking, he knew all that stuff. But from some
throwaway remarks by John D Loudermilk, the novelty song writer, that I
overheard I learned much more that was later useful to me in writing
advertising jingles and doctoring stage musicals. I don't want to claim
I knew them; I was just a kid on a road crew who knew the roads and
could whistle up local help instantly over a 600 mile stretch of
countryside.
Some years later I was in his dressingroom when Fats Domino made the
famous remark, "One night an old white man in a Stetson sat in the
front row. Next to him sat this skinny boy with a big pompadour. The
Stetson was Colonel Parker. He'd brought his boy Elvis to learn his
business." Or maybe Mr Domino told that story to every scared white boy
down in deepest Harlem... I loved his show. Chubby Checker at the
Peppermint Lounge was sanitized, deodorized, a pale, pale shadow of the
real thing. The same guy who took me, an A&R man scouting talent for a
recording studio (MvN) my ad agency owned and of which I was supposed
to be in charge (I wasn't in charge of anything--I lived aboard my
plane and stuck my thumb in the next crisis), also took me to hear
Aretha Franklin sing in her home church but there we were far from the
only white faces and we dropped in on three barbeques to which we were
invited by strangers at the church. On those long plane and car rides
South I had it authoritatively explained to me how what we then knew as
Rhythmn and Blues grew out black music and the steps by which it
happened. I must have seen the last two gigs in which Ray Charles
played a) a storefront, maybe 200 people, a very tight squeeze (and the
music was so jiggly, some of them managed to dance, "orgasms on the
hoof" as I wrote for a glossy magazine), and b) playing on the back of
a truck. Mr Charles told us how (sometime in the 1950s -- I heard the
story possibly as much as ten years later) he had a new Buick and some
envious redneck deputy stopped the car somewhere (Texas, I think,
though one always wants such a thing to have happened in bad ole Miss),
arrested the driver and the car, and left Charles (he was blind, for
those who don't know) standing beside the road in the middle of
nowhere. My A&R man and I got locked up in Dogshitville, probably in
Georgia, because I gave some hick sheriff lip when he stopped us going
into a James Brown concert; this was before Brown was famous. The
sheriff went to the trouble of calling my chairman and telling him he
"saved the life of your boy" and to "keep better control of that kid
before he does hisself harm". I heard he dropped the phone when my
chairman told him what I earned for being a smartarse. I heard many
others, of course, whose names I never heard again, or if I did forgot.
Woulda been smart to keep a diary; not so much that I cannot recover
that time but that no one now can; a privileged experience just gone,
though of course none of us knew that it was privileged or that it
would pass.
That was real music, raw. Years later I wrote of the Beatles that they
were middle-class boys pretending to be working class because they
liked being overpaid for spraying second-hand sacharine over adoring
prepubescents. The people who howled that I didn't know what the fuck I
was talking about never heard American black music when it was at home
with its braces down. The Beatles came by their whitewashed tofu
version at about thirteenth-hand. Don't get me started on that. Or on
Springsteen, ditto.
Of course, when we sold the recording studio on (we only bought it
because I was pissed off with the bad time-keeping of the drug addicts
(1) who owned it when we cut ads and voiceovers and music tracks on
tight schedules; we shortly discovered that the producers and engineers
who paid attention to being on time for their appointments had no
effing talent), I went back to my own roots in classical music.
Andre Jute
(1) I don't want to sound holier than thou. It isn't only the recording
industry who took drugs. There were drugs in advertising too, though
not too many on my watch.
Lord Valve
fiu...@yahoo.com wrote:
> Yo, Valve, download a song called "Feel So Bad" from
> http://www.archive.org/audio/etree-details-db.php?id=23099&from=browseRecent
> and discover this guy who pretends to be your twin brother, Fat Willie
> Whittaker, playing the organ *very badly*, wrecking a really sincere
> Derek Trucks number. Mr Hammond and Mr Lesley are both coming for this
> impostor, I tell you. To paraphrase the glorious leader of the free
> world, this fellow "strangulates" the organ. You're probably on the
> Jazz Vigilante Society out there in the midwest where it happened, hard
> by you in Denver, according to his internet map in a theatre like a
> coupla miles down the road from you. I imagine by now you have caught
> this impostor and dealt with him sternly. Stringing up is too good for
> him. I hope you dragged it out. If by some accident he's still with us,
> turn up the electricity to the gonads a couple of notches and say it is
> from me.
>
> Yours ever,
>
> Andre Jute
Andre, you wizened flatus, you *almost* had me. ;-)
Heh heh my ample fundament. ;-)
> And this guy Derek Trucks has several counts against him. He can
> clearly play his instrument well and he has a feeling for real music,
> so why doesn't he do real music, like the classics. Secondly, he plays
> the guitar, in my opinion an abomination second only to the accordion
> (unless handled by Andres Segovia or Julian Bream, of course).
How about Wes? Sivuca? Joe Pass? A few more...
> Third, he plays the slide guitar, which is a particular irritation to me as it
>
> is next the accordion and the banjo the instrument found most often in
> Irish pubs where I just want a quiet toddy after I come off a
> dangerous, cold and miserably wet mountain. I hope he doesn't play it
> flat on his lap, as they do here, nancy boys and failed priest all.
No, he wears it on a strap, as do most.
He does, however, play it only with his fingers (no pick)
and he uses no effects at all - the only thing between him
and his amplifier is a cable. (Made by yours truly, I might
add.) He can make that amp talk. It's a '65 Fender Super
Reverb, with a few LV tweaks on board.
> (There are some pubs down in darkest Gaeltacht into which I do not
> venture after I wrote that the marching bands should be fined for noise
> nuisance...) I've already said that it is an added complaint that he
> plays his guitar extremely well.
If you're going by that live cut I sat in on, you ain't heard *nothin'* yet.
Get his "Soul Serenade" CD. On it you'll find the title cut (which morphs
into something called "Rasta Man Chant," which I could have done without),
Afro Blue (some of the best flute work you will *ever* hear on this, by
Kofi Burbridge, Derek's organist/pianist; the dude studied piano in
Russia, etc.), the only vocal on the album, a fairly soulful version of
the old Ray Charles standard "Drown in My Own Tears," with Gregg
Allman doing the vocal; "Bock to Bock," a Wes Montgomery tune
which you don't ordinarily hear 19-year old kids playing, as Derek
was when this disc was recorded, and a few others I can't think
of right now. It's worth whatever you might pay for it, trust me.
> Seriously, I enjoyed that number. I dunno anything about jazz beyond
> New Orleans trad (When the saints)
Trad is a little too rooty-tooty for my taste.
I'm more of a bebop freak.
> and every time people give me modern
> jazz discs I stop playing them after a number or two;
"Feel So Bad" would technically be considered as R&B.
> I get real pissed
> off at the bigtime jazz performers I'm occasionally shilled into
> interviewing when they admit they play off sheet music.
Big band players do it all the time.
Nothing wrong with reading a chart as long as you jam in
the middle of the tune; most players memorize the charts
anyway, and just have them on hand for referrence.
> (One of them, a
> renegade from the classics, said to me, 'Bach wrote down his notes,'
> and I snapped, 'Yes, and when you played Bach you did just fine.') I
> just talk to them because they're less boring than classical musicians
> and some have been interesting places.
>
> My idea of pop is Elvis and the Beach Boys. I also have a Roy Orbison
> collection, and old Frank Sinatra and so on.
Mr. Jute, I think you are a square.
This is distressing, since you are hip in other ways.
You may be redeemable, though. Take two
Coltrane sides and call me in the morning. If you
are still L7, I can suggest other remedies to knock
your corners off. Otherwise, it's off to the Home
for the Tragically Unhip with you.
> But all that stuff
> together accounts for one storage box, say 250 discs (and most of that
> comedy), out of many, say 6000 CDs and box sets of classical music. My
> key interests are choral and vocal music; on my stack to go on my
> player next are Carver, Cardoso, Lobo, all of them early church
> composers, to be followed by three box sets of Elgar settings, just
> taken out of boxes in alphabetical order (Lobo is on the Cardoso disc).
Talis ruleth!
I must love Bach above all others, of course; being an organist,
admitting otherwise would get me lynched. But Talis may
very well be in second place.
> I mentioned "popular music" once to Jim Reeves when I was a roadie on
> his crew during a school vacation (which explains why it was still
> "popular" and not "pop" and meant something entirely different to the
> present meaning) and he explained very thoughtfully to me that there is
> no such thing as "popular music", only music that people like, and that
> they all like different kinds of music. He also explained to me who
> were the audience for country and western songs, and the blues and so
> on. He was a determinedly nice man but a bit dull; I discovered later
> that he wasn't just talking, he knew all that stuff. But from some
> throwaway remarks by John D Loudermilk, the novelty song writer, that I
> overheard I learned much more that was later useful to me in writing
> advertising jingles and doctoring stage musicals. I don't want to claim
> I knew them; I was just a kid on a road crew who knew the roads and
> could whistle up local help instantly over a 600 mile stretch of
> countryside.
>
> Some years later I was in his dressingroom when Fats Domino made the
> famous remark, "One night an old white man in a Stetson sat in the
> front row. Next to him sat this skinny boy with a big pompadour. The
> Stetson was Colonel Parker. He'd brought his boy Elvis to learn his
> business."
Actually, Elvis ripped off *everybody*, but no-one gave a damn because he was
such a cool dude about it.
And he *did* acknowledge his influences, and often. What Elvis
is actually famous for is being the first white boy to shake his ass
on television, which loosened things up for *everybody.*
> Or maybe Mr Domino told that story to every scared white boy
> down in deepest Harlem... I loved his show.
I never cared for him much.
I recognize his place in the lexicon, but he just didn't do it for me.
> Chubby Checker at the
> Peppermint Lounge was sanitized, deodorized, a pale, pale shadow of the
> real thing.
Naw, the Chubster was cool.
The real force behind that particular style was Hank Ballard, anyway.
> The same guy who took me, an A&R man scouting talent for a
> recording studio (MvN) my ad agency owned and of which I was supposed
> to be in charge (I wasn't in charge of anything--I lived aboard my
> plane and stuck my thumb in the next crisis), also took me to hear
> Aretha Franklin sing in her home church but there we were far from the
> only white faces and we dropped in on three barbeques to which we were
> invited by strangers at the church.
The Queen of Soul had a side people seldom saw...
She could belt out some *smokin* opera numbers, no way
you could tell it was her if you weren't watching her do it.
She simply wasn't known for it, but she could sing the
hell out of opera. I saw her do it once. I couldn't believe it.
> On those long plane and car rides
> South I had it authoritatively explained to me how what we then knew as
> Rhythmn and Blues grew out black music and the steps by which it
> happened. I must have seen the last two gigs in which Ray Charles
> played a) a storefront, maybe 200 people, a very tight squeeze (and the
> music was so jiggly, some of them managed to dance, "orgasms on the
> hoof" as I wrote for a glossy magazine), and b) playing on the back of
> a truck. Mr Charles told us how (sometime in the 1950s -- I heard the
> story possibly as much as ten years later) he had a new Buick and some
> envious redneck deputy stopped the car somewhere (Texas, I think,
> though one always wants such a thing to have happened in bad ole Miss),
> arrested the driver and the car, and left Charles (he was blind, for
> those who don't know) standing beside the road in the middle of
> nowhere. My A&R man and I got locked up in Dogshitville, probably in
> Georgia, because I gave some hick sheriff lip when he stopped us going
> into a James Brown concert; this was before Brown was famous.
Damn, you must fart dust.
That was back when Moby Dick was a sardine. By the first time
I saw him (at the Howard Theater in Washington, DC in 1962;
I was 14) he had already been famous for a few years.
> The sheriff went to the trouble of calling my chairman and telling him he
> "saved the life of your boy" and to "keep better control of that kid
> before he does hisself harm". I heard he dropped the phone when my
> chairman told him what I earned for being a smartarse. I heard many
> others, of course, whose names I never heard again, or if I did forgot.
> Woulda been smart to keep a diary; not so much that I cannot recover
> that time but that no one now can; a privileged experience just gone,
> though of course none of us knew that it was privileged or that it
> would pass.
>
> That was real music, raw. Years later I wrote of the Beatles that they
> were middle-class boys pretending to be working class because they
> liked being overpaid for spraying second-hand sacharine over adoring
> prepubescents. The people who howled that I didn't know what the fuck I
> was talking about never heard American black music when it was at home
> with its braces down. The Beatles came by their whitewashed tofu
> version at about thirteenth-hand. Don't get me started on that.
You might want to check out "Liverpool: The Fifth Beatle" by Prem Willis-Pitts.
Prem is a friend of mine, a Scouser, as they call themselves.
He's friggin' NUTS - the first time I ever met him he came
into my shop (on my birthday) to buy some valves for one
of his amps; a good friend had sent him, so I spent some
time chatting him up. I liked his style, and we began to take
the piss out of each other. He had his wife with him, and
I was tossing little asides to her during the match; he found
this irritating and finally whuffed, "Do ye wanna foight me,
Fat Willie?" I was laughing so hard I couldn't catch my breath;
he was *serious* about wanting to duke it out, and he
couldn't have weighed 120 pounds if he was soaking wet.
I told him I couldn't fight anyone on my birthday, it was
against my religion. He immediately insisted that I have
a gift, and he relieved his old lady of a 3M microfiber
cleaning cloth she had in her purse and presented it to
me with great ceremony. Tell me - is everyone from
Liverpool completely crazy like Prem?
I'm not much of a Beatles fan; that is, I don't care to listen to them much,
but I will occasionally use a song or two by them as a base for jazz
improvisation. A relatively obscure album entitled "John, Paul, and
All That Jazz" by a British outfit called the Roger Webb Trio was
one of the first jazz Beatles treatments; I believe it came out in
1966. Still holds up well today, in fact. If you can find it. ;-)
> Or on Springsteen, ditto.
You know, you should be a bit more careful about writing stuff like that.
I could have been eating. <puke>
> Of course, when we sold the recording studio on (we only bought it
> because I was pissed off with the bad time-keeping of the drug addicts
> (1) who owned it when we cut ads and voiceovers and music tracks on
> tight schedules; we shortly discovered that the producers and engineers
> who paid attention to being on time for their appointments had no
> effing talent), I went back to my own roots in classical music.
>
> Andre Jute
>
> (1) I don't want to sound holier than thou. It isn't only the recording
> industry who took drugs. There were drugs in advertising too, though
> not too many on my watch.
One of the three pillars upon which pop culture rests.
The other two are Sex and Rock'n'Roll. Any two will
get you arrested. ;-)
Lord Valve
Musician
Ian Iveson
> He does, however, play it only with his fingers (no pick)
> and he uses no effects at all - the only thing between him
> and his amplifier is a cable. (Made by yours truly, I might
> add.) He can make that amp talk. It's a '65 Fender Super
> Reverb, with a few LV tweaks on board.
Plumb pudding against the Hammond's strawberries and cream. A bit
rich for everyday maybe, but sets the plain voice off nicely.
What's the tweaks?
cheers, Ian