1.7.11
Daniel Black and the New World
a novel by DB Leonard
FIRST VERSE
2. Mountain of Mashed
Not once in all the years that Daniel had kept watch over his father had he ever seen him cry. He never quite knew where he stored this information, (yes he did) but Daniel vows to be no different. It had been a Southern man that had raised him with just his burly arms and he wasn’t about to tarnish his hard-won lessons by turning into a sniffling little girl.
Out of all his things, the starburst blue Regal is the one most connected to Earle Gray, and so, the only thing he carries to Aunt Edna’s house. The plan is for him to stay there awhile until things got sorted out.
‘That’s all you got?’ She asks in amazement.
What else was there? His parents were dead.
If Daniel Black had written the obituary.
Earle Gray’s only son liked to call him Pops. He enjoyed some good years and some not so good years in his adopted hometown of Tupelo, Mississippi, but was said to have never left a glass empty or a bill unpaid, bless his tumbleweed spirit. He claimed that his time on the road with his band the Valentine’s was well worth it, though his only son preferred to have him home, drunk or not. Mr. Gray was known to call women he’d never met, baby, and also to have been smacked for such flirtations by his wife Marla, who in the end, left him for outright stupid behavior. All donations can be written expressly to his son Daniel Black, who’s going to need all the help he can get.
If there had been a funeral.
It would have been nothin’ more then a pine box lowered beneath the grass line and the townsfolk coming close with their sniffly tissues and their presumptuous hands that would naturally assume that Daniel wanted them in his hair and on his back. Never before would he have received so much attention and he’d think the townsfolk hypocrites for taking a funeral to recognize his father’s beauty.
A hatred would have surely welled up inside his heart for these people that suffocated him and the boxes in which they lived and that superficiality in their voices and he would have sworn to the heavens above that he wanted nothing more than to join his Pops. During the eulogy, the preacher would have kept his hands on the boy’s slight shoulders as if he was the last of his father’s mistakes.
Instead, there are two vases on Aunt Edna’s mantle, one beside the other.
The entire village knew the family’s story, made even more poetic by its Hollywood ending. It even made the papers, and not just the obituaries. Full paragraphs on the life of Earle Gray- luckily all the bad parts omitted with the excuse of post-mortem poetic license. Granted, there wasn’t much happening in Tupelo. And though Earle Gray had proven by example the sordid nature of following one’s dream, on paper his life did make for a colorful story. The obituary spoke of natural causes.
It is Daniel’s first lesson in how the media could spin a story. In this case it served Earle’s purpose, but this was a first. After years of abuse by the pens of strange men’s hands, Earle had already warned his son.
‘Ain’t no such thing as the news. You got to decide it for yourself.’
For a time, the kids at school are nicer to Daniel Black, much nicer in fact, but they never outgrow their initial distaste for him. Three days after all the hubbub dies down, he is returned to just a slightly lighter shade of wallpaper.
So it doesn’t take long for Daniel to drop out. Not officially, mind you, he just stops going. Once the bed is set up in the spare room, with added attention to sheets that somehow smelled of lavender, more pillows than his neck had ever bore witness, he finds it nearly impossible to leave. The covers are warmed by his breath, and after several hours beneath them, he remembers. It becomes equal parts comfort and sorrow, impossible to vacate. For it had been in the identical position that he’d been moved to discover his father’s note. If only he remained still, monitoring his breath for any strange coincidences, surely there would arrive another message.
Edna, taking a protective stance, allows him to do as he pleases.
She’s soft at the start, made even softer by her nephew’s situation. She hid the chocolate and the potato chips from her husband, yes, but this had been the extent of her program. She was fully aware of the loose hand with which her brother had managed his home after his wife had left him. Now that they were both gone, she doesn’t have the heart to place any restrictions on the boy. Besides, he was a teenager and didn’t need some old fuddy-duddy telling him what to do.
Edna and Vic had already made their tough choices, the most monumental, leaving the temple for the church. Jews for Jesus, is what they now claimed to be, and because they were nearly the only ones in Tupelo, the Episcopalian Church took them in like lost souls.
Knowing full well the feeling of an orphan, it isn’t any wonder they feel responsible for Daniel. He is family, there’s that, but they also see in his frail frame a soul to save. O Father who art in Heaven. The inevitable, God works in mysterious ways.
But nobody, not Edna nor Vic, nor the Episcopalians, nor the Jews nor Jesus, nor the Jews for Jesus could save a boy from the Department of Social Services, whose unannounced visits soon evolved into a weekly affair. Daniel Black might have been a man in the eyes of his family, but at sixteen years of age, according to the state of Mississippi, he still required a legal guardian.
It took the better part of a year for Vic to gather the courage and raise his glass of red wine. (Since he had moved in, his relations had taken to drinking with a newfound thirst.)
It was curious, their reckless abandon, because previously they were bound only by the church and by God. Perhaps with the boy’s addition they were reminded how important it was to feel good once in awhile. In place of Sundays, they seemed to look forward to the moment the sun sank behind the cotton field to give them their excuse.
Daniel didn’t think anything of it at the time, other than it being just another toast. To the government, the fire department, the mayor or the Lord have mercy upon our souls. After one or two glasses, there was always someone to be spoken about.
‘I think we should be thankful.’ Announced Vic.
Which was suspect enough, coming close to a grace that had been abandoned near after their church services had. Who could believe in a God that took not one, but both their breaths away? Once Vic finished his sentence, Edna shook her head and kicked him under the table, as if there was supposed to be more.
Daniel manages to raise his glass of sparkling apple juice in the air without snorting, a consequence of the only rule that Edna held fast.
‘I know my brother was a floozie.’ She’d told him.
‘And when you’re of age you can be one too. But I’m sorry, it’s the one rule in this house I got to stand by, and that is, you got to stay off the silly sauce until you’re of age.’
Not that he’d needed to, but Daniel had already mastered the fine art of watering down bottles of booze. It was only a slim line of a pencil, a simple pour, and then a burst of tap water. Thinking about it now, surely his father had known- the one precious commodity in the house that was savored with such enthusiasm. Uncle Vic continued.
‘We’re thankful for this very good bread and this very good wine.’
‘Amen,’ says Daniel.
Edna kicks her husband again but the act doesn’t seem to provoke any more from Uncle Vic who comments instead, as he often did, about the heat this time of year.
They proceed around the dinner table as always. Please pass me this, please pass me that. Once Aunt Edna’s meatloaf took center stage, there was rarely any discussion about politics or religion or anything, for that matter.
Edna raises her glass. Daniel cringes, focusing on the steaming slice of meat.
‘Godamnit, Daniel. We want to adopt you. We want to make it official, and that’s that.’
Daniel nods his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the gravy that runs down his small mountain of mashed.
2.9.10
DREAMLAND (Times Herald Record)
Record production has been virtually nonstop since Dreamland reopened its doors two years ago. Roughly 50 records have been created during this time.
“A lot of times an artist comes in and we don't know who they are, and then six months later they're the biggest thing,” said Caigan.
The secret might very well be an old-school approach.
Marotta moved to Woodstock in 1986 and has maintained a home and studio, Jersville, ever since. Caigan began engineering at Jersville in 2000.
“I was trying to discourage him from opening a studio of his own,” cracked Marotta.
Caigan built his own Flymax Studios, which ran for five years before he joined forces with Marotta in an official capacity at Dreamland. As partners, the two contribute much of their energies to supporting the local music scene. At Dreamland, local artists are embraced and feel a human connection to their music. In that vein, Dreamland has teamed up with local artists Ben Vita and Mike and Ruthy to create two critically acclaimed records.
Expanding their scope, Marotta and Caigan have branched out into band development, working with local twin brothers, the Mones Brothers, on their debut. The twins are students at the Woodstock Day School.
Marotta's experience serves as a natural draw to Dreamland. His is a career that spans decades and crosses musical genres, one that has left a formidable imprint on the industry, with lasting musical contributions to artists such as Orleans, the Indigo Girls and Tears for Fears.
“I did a Ron Sexsmith record here,” Marotta said, the list growing by the week. “And then that Suzanne Vega record.”
28.8.10
Bob's House of Mead
In Costa Rica.
There are the now usual suspects of Falling Coconuts, Scorpions, Howler Monkeys and Coyotes. Please look up, people, is all I can say. And also down. And cut their tails off first, the ones that still squirm around after you cut them in two. Don’t mind the Howler Monkeys, though they sound like escaped Convicts, they really only want bananas. It’s the Coyotes you have to worry about. Take one image of a ghost. Now light that ghost on fire. That’s what they sound like, in packs of curdling screams. But this time in Cabuya, it wasn’t nature that was the problem. There were actually dangerous Humans to contend with.
I found this Pre-Colombian cemetery that turns into an island every day at high tide. It reminded me of a fairy tale so vivid that I was now bringing one to a close. So I put up in the haunted town. Not by spirits this time, not that I found, (though I was sort of looking). Just with some genuinely nasty characters.
Omar my landlord liked to shoot squirrels at random points in the afternoon in the garden directly behind my kitchen. Over time I grew to understand the signs, the ravaged barking of his dog for twenty or so minutes before the inevitable Pop! and then the Thud.
Almuerzo? I would ask. Lunch?
And my neighbors to my left, a couple of Israelis, were building an apartment complex the size of Williamsburg on a half an acre of land. First I thought it was only one house.
Es mucho? It’s a lot? I asked Omar, meaning the scope of the project.
Es bueno. It’s good. Said Omar. Not understanding the scope of the question.
But Omar’s little casita was cheap and painted purple and was set back off from the road far enough so that the pueblo would have to do some investigation before they robbed me. And I didn’t yet know that Omar took to shooting. I took the place. Two months. Dead plants and all.
But there was something missing.
Something missing here, in Costa Rica.
Ah, yes. I remember. Or at least I think I do. An indigenous population. They had gone missing completely. Unlike in Guatemala or Mexico or Honduras or Brazil or Chile, whatever tribes had once roamed these parts were obliterated so completely (collective memory included) the Ticos had now effectively sold the entire history of their neck of Paradise over to a couple of cocaine addicts running Surf camps.
I ranted and I raved but everybody was too busy buying and selling to notice a man ranting and raving. Thankfully, Bob listened to me. (Nobody else in the town seemed to.)
I ranted and I raved but everybody was too busy buying and selling to notice a man ranting and raving. Thankfully, Bob listened to me. (Nobody else in the town seemed to.)
‘I don’t own shit.’ He said.
And neither did I.
So I didn’t mind that he was old. And a Redneck.
‘Ain’t nuthin’ but Rednecks from where I come from.’ Bob explained.
There was something charming about his Willie Nelson headband, inability to speak Spanish, wrinkles, revolving bottle of lukewarm dark beer.
‘I love you, brother.’ He said.
‘I love you, too. Bob.’ I tried to say, but only got out the first word.
‘We are multi-dimensional, light energy essence beings.’ He said.
‘Thanks, Bob.’ I said.
At which point he went to find a bottle of Mead. He made the stuff himself, in a couple of jugs in his kitchen, put labels on the honey wine and sold it like moonshine.
‘You drink?’ He asked my first time at his table.
‘Yes, I do.’ I said, proudly.
‘You ever try Mead?’ He asked.
‘No.’ I answered. I had no idea what the old loon was talking about.
Then he poured me a glass.
And everything changed.
From the labels he pastes with glue.
Bob’s Mead
The nectar of nectars is the most natural alcoholic drink ever surmised by man. Imbued with legendary intoxicating and aphrodisiacal qualities talks abound of the joy, happiness and tragedy brought to its imbibers.
The ancient Greeks, Romans, Egyptians, Scandinavians and Assyrian people procured this legendary drink as a vehicle for Saturnalian revelry unmatched today. The Inca and Aztec Indians also brewed mead and held it in reverence.
Indeed Mead is a noble drink.
For more than 12,000 years the masters of the day such as Virgil, Plato, Beowulf, King Arthur, Queen Elizabeth all likened part of their enjoyment of life to mead.
Who would have thought that the bees, the moon and the magical brews of man would combine to add to the bliss and memories of weddings? Drinking Mead has been held responsible for fertility.
If Mead was consumed for one moon after a wedding then in nine months a baby would be born and the Meadmaker congratulated. The custom of drinking Mead at weddings and for one month after initiated our present day custom of the honeymoon.
Interestingly, Mead drinking developed quite a reputation for its ability to increase the chances of bearing sons. So much that a special drinking cup, called the Mazer Cup was handed down from generations to generations. The couple who drank from the cup would bear sons to carry on the family name.
Who’s your daddy now?
Ingredients: Honey, water, yeast, time and love!
I added the part about Bob being the Daddy. Came up with an entire advertising campaign around it. Supermodels coddling gorgeous baby boys. Fade to a wrinkled seventy three year old Bob grinning widely and saying.
‘Whose your daddy now?’
‘Welcome to Bob’s House of Mead.’ The voice over would say, closing the scene.
Hey, we were going to build an enterprise.
‘You know Hooters?’ Bob asked.
‘Who me?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, you know Hooters?’ Bob asks again, now fondling his own tits.
‘Yeah, I heard of it.’
‘Bob’s House of Mead is gonna be bigger then Hooters.’
Sometimes things looked dark. Bob introduced me to the concept of Yin and Yang. Pointing to his rice and beans, he said.
‘Yin.’
Pointing to the three empty bottles of Mead, he said.
‘Yang.’
Though it was natural, these low tides, I became insecure about our relationship.
‘How do you know you love me?’ I asked.
‘I read your aura.’ Bob said.
‘You sneaky fucker.’ I said.
‘I read it twice.’ He said, a sneaky fucker.
‘How’d I do?’
‘You’re still here, aren’t you?’
‘I guess I am.’ I said.
‘I haven’t kicked you out.’ Said Bob.
‘It’s true.’ I said.
‘I kicked out Aya.’
(He sure did.)
‘So you’re doing alright.’ He said.
‘Alright.’ I said, feeling better.
‘Now I’ll show you a fucking guitar player.’ He said, unfolding his spry legs from their full lotus position to put in a Maddox Brothers and Rose cassette.
‘You know these guys?’ He asked.
‘Nope.’ I said.
‘Then you’re an asshole.’ He said and turned the thing up Loud.
(Please play at this juncture, the Root of it all, according to Bob at least, Maddox Brothers and Rose, ‘Move It On Over’.)
Professionalism for a Korean War Hero at the latter stages of life is lack at best. Let’s just say Bob’s House of Mead wasn’t exactly a military camp any longer.
‘Bob!’ I say loudly, leaving my sandals at the door.
‘I’m drunker ‘en shit.’ He says, without me asking. (Because it’s only nine thirty in the morning.)
I don’t care that Bob’s drunk, because I’m upset and need somebody to talk to. I start to tell Bob about Juan.
Juan had beat a woman so bad she became deaf. This was the story I heard.
I believed the story. It was a small, fucking town. And I had walked his dog.
‘Juan Pistola.’ Bob says.
‘Juan Pistola.’ I repeat, as if I was now now actually In one of the Telenovelas that ran from dawn to dusk throughout all of Latin America.
‘Yeah, shot a man in the face at about oh, four feet. Got away with it. Juan Pistola.’
‘Yeah, well. He doesn’t like me.’ I say. (Which is probably an understatement after the things I called him and the fact that I allowed his dog off the leash for a total of seven minutes, the time it takes to kill a neighbor’s duck.)
‘Not good.’ He says.
Then I tell him about Fu.
Fu had picked me up earlier and given me a ride in his big blue car with tinted windows. Now why a Gringo carrying a Machine worth more then the annual salary of most Ticos, along with his passport, credit cards and lucky charms would get into a very large Jeep with Tinted Windows, I am not quite sure.
Anyways, we’re having a grand old time. Me and Fu and the two young girls in the back seat. Fu is asking them questions. We’re all laughing. It’s good to be alive, I think, getting rides from friendly people. Fu’s about three times my size and he’s asking the girls, (who are quite pretty) how much they had made the previous night.
‘Not bad,’ says Fu in Spanish.
‘Well alright,’ I say.
And then I start to thinking about why the passenger seat was free in the first place. Surely a man as shady as Fu would have preferred to sit next to his favorite prostitute? Curious.
He goes onto ask his girls in the rear view mirror.
‘Have you heard about the gringo with the guitar and the two thousand dollar computer?’
The girls giggle, and I smile politely, but I’m all of a sudden not having any fun.
‘Chew. You mean.’ Bob says.
‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘Second biggest Cocaine dealer in Montezuma.’ Says Bob. ‘Colombian. More dangerous then Juan Pistola. Not a man to be messed with. You know him?’
‘Sort of.’ I say.
‘Not good.’ Bob says.
‘He almost robbed me.’ I said.
‘He’s the biggest fence through to Colombia.’ Said Bob. ‘He can turn around a Porsche 911 in three days.’
Bob rises from his shoulder stand and brings me something.
‘If you’re gonna carry something, carry this.’ He says.
With that he flicks the switch and a sharp point is now pointed right at me. This 73 Year old Madman, high on his own Mead.
‘Take it.’ He says, handing it to me, re-assembling his legs into the Lotus position.
I hesitate.
‘Take it.’ He says.
By the pained look in his eyes I know I’m not going to like what comes next.
‘I’m a trained killer.’ He says. ‘They trained me how to kill.’
‘Who?’ I asked.
‘The fucking government. Now pay attention.’
I was paying attention.
‘I was a gunner in Korea. I don’t talk about it much. But I used to mow those fuckers down. I could see them fall like tall grass.’
‘Wow.’ I say, not knowing what else to say.
‘Look him in each eye. First left, then right.’ Bob says, looking me deep in the eyes.
‘Tell him, I love you brother.’
‘OK.’
‘Then tell him again.’
‘OK.’
‘Then if he doesn’t let go, gut the mother.’
‘Excuse me?’ I say.
‘Gut him like a fish, from East to West.’
‘Shit, Bob. I thought you were Macrobiotic.’
‘Don’t be a pussy about it.’ He says, getting back on his head.
So now I’m carrying a switchblade.
A far cry from my days as a Pacifist (every one of them until this very moment). The inherent belief that those who carried a weapon were somehow asking for an excuse to use it. But what if it had found me, first? And I was Undefended?
I had to defend myself. Both Chu and Juan Pistola lay in wait.
Bob stands on his head for twenty minutes every sunrise.
In Cabuya, his door is usually open and you can peek your head in, but he’s got the radio blaring and he’s thinking about two different story lines simultaneously.
I liked Bob. He taught himself Yoga. The head stand was on the last page. The author claimed that if you stood on your head for twenty minutes, it was the equivalent of doing Every other pose. Bob was no dummy.
I was carrying his knife now everywhere, tempting the hooligans of the town to try the magician’s new protégée.
‘That’s right.’ I would say out loud when they didn’t.
‘You can’t mess with Bob.’ I would say, holding his knife gingerly.
But quickly I grew weary of carrying a weapon.
In order to stem the madness that sits in one’s brain after seven hours locked in a small shack on the outskirts of nowhere, surrounded by a gang of Israelis erecting their version of Madison Square Garden, I took myself to the beach in the afternoons.
In Cabuya, there are rocks, so there aren’t many surfers. And because there aren’t many barrel chested boys, there’s not too many barrel chested girls milling about. Neighboring the first National Park of Costa Rica, Cabo Blanco, the beach of Cabuya was blessed with treasures on it’s sands every evening. Massive crystals and gorgeous pieces of driftwood, both of which I carried home to my little shack to place in all the right places.
I brought Bob’s knife to God’s wood. And found a process so similar to that I was endeavoring with the instrument. A patience necessary in whittling away the extraneous parts. I made myself a magic wand.
(Almost just like Bob’s, except for the snake engraved by a Mexican bruja some decades earlier.)
I became so attached to it, I began to fear for its life.
‘It’s heavy.’ Says the woman at the Border.
‘It’s a stick.’ I say, as she looks at it, over and over again.
Her partner laughs. ‘Yeah. Like they’re gonna let you take a stick and a guitar on the plane.’
‘I just got off the plane’ I say.
‘It’s hard too.’ Says the woman, looking through her brochure which clearly states anything checked Heavy and Hard could not, in any way shape or form pass through Customs. And there was a third category to which she was wondering if this object might belong.
Sacred objects, it was titled. Nothing religious or anything possibly with any meaning could be returned to American soil. Less any of the Natives get any ideas. If they had brought with them a Meaningful item, that would mean, by definition, they would not need to purchase another Meaningful item, and therefore would be of little use to the industrial complex. (A visitor should only bring cash and credit cards, three clean pairs of underwear. Explained the Customs brochure clearly, with pictures.) Welcome to America. The Home Of the Freedom Shopping Network.
‘Who packed your bags?’ He says now, with all of a sudden considerably more authority then before.
‘My mother.’ I say, equally rough.
‘No, really.’ He says.
‘No, really.’ I say back.
‘You whittled this thing?’ Says the other Agent.
‘Yes, Maam.’ I say, ready to kick her ass too.
‘With a knife?’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘You sure your Mommy didn’t do the whittling?’ Says her partner, loudly over her shoulder, so the entire line behind me can now in plain sight see that I was now officially engaged in a ‘discrepancy with the law’.
(Which is exactly the words I assume they will use as an excuse to pull me from this line into a back room, take away my American passport, refuse my right to make a telephone call, remove my pants and sniff my underwear looking for clues.)
‘Yes, it’s a stick.’ I’ll say, under the glare of the lights, damn their water torture.
‘I found it in the Ocean. It is meaningful to me. I like it very much.’
‘No. With my friend Bob’s knife.’
‘Yes. Drunk Bob.’
But my nightmare is interrupted by the clear gaze of an old man.
‘Get a hold of yourself, son.’
‘Yes, sir.’ I say, standing at attention.
‘We are multi-dimensional Light essence beings.’ Bob said.
‘OK.’ I said, bearing down. I was going to get it this time.
‘There is no death.’
‘OK.’
‘There is no time.’
‘OK.’
‘There is only love.’
‘Yes, brother.’ I said, maybe beginning to understand.
‘We are love.’ Bob said.
‘Hallelujah.’ I said.
‘And Love is infinite.’ Bob said.
I’m raising my hands to the heavens.
‘Encompassing everything, everywhere and everyone and therefore- perfect.’
I was starting to hear something else. A second Voice in my head, telling me something. The old man was doing something, while he was looking me in the eye. I could feel it now. He was reading my aura. That sneaky fucker.
‘The solid world is an illusion.’ He said, staring at me without blinking, making sure I wasn’t fucking around.
‘You listening?’ He bellowed.
‘Yes.’ I said, meekly, like a large schoolboy.
‘There is only love, which is still and magnificent beyond measure. Though the world is being divided, we are one, surrounded by light.’
‘Now let’s drink some fucking Mead!’ The growly man scrawls, turning up Link Ray as loud
as the machine can possibly go, topping off my shot glass.
11.8.10
Mike and Ruthy
Woodstock's Mike and Ruthy building a folk family
West Hurley's Mike & Ruthy branch out
'Our new record is about momentum," said Ruthy Ungar of Mike & Ruthy, whose new album, "Million to One," comes out today.
"And about building something positive," added Mike Merenda, her husband and writing partner.
"And about keeping it in the family," said Ruthy.
The album, recorded at Dreamland Studios in Mike and Ruthy's hometown of West Hurley, is a true DIY affair. The duo raised all their money on Kickstarter.com, a networking site that provides artists a streamlined template of offering incentives and rewards in exchange for contributions. The kicker being, if the artist doesn't meet the projected goal, all funds are lost. Mike and Ruthy set a goal of $5,000, roughly a third of the budget for the record's release. Incredibly, they raised that much in the first four days, and at the end of the campaign, they doubled their financial expectations.
"It really galvanized our fan base behind us," said Ruthy. "It established a two-way connection with our fans."
The duet formed more than a decade ago in New York City and established itself very quickly as a collaboration in every meaning of the word. Their son, Will, is now a living testament.
"Mike writes songs like he's rolling off a log," laughed Ruthy.
"You take Ruthy's harmony away and it just isn't magical anymore," said Mike.
Started out with the Mammals
Mike and Ruthy honed their craft on the road as members of folk group the Mammals, with Tao Rodriguez-Seeger at the helm. Billed as an old-time string band, the group shared the stage with such folk luminaries as Utah Phillips, Arlo Guthrie, Steve Earle, Ani DiFranco, Greg Brown and Bela Fleck. For seven years Mike played banjo, Ruthy the fiddle. Ruthy elaborates on her instrument: "Classical musicians play violin, folk musicians play fiddle."
Now seasoned in the art of the song, Mike & Ruthy are stepping into new musical terrain. "Since forever I've always been a fan of a catchy song," said Mike. "As a little kid those hooks really lived inside me. One of the goals for this record was to marry the melody with bringing something real to the table, to find a compelling story."
On "Million to One" the band succeeds again and again, leaning their folk tradition toward toe-tapping pop music, always thoughtful of the lyric. Their harmonies remind the listener of how utterly entrenched the couple is in each other's physical and creative world.
AT A GLANCE
Mike & Ruthy's album "Million to One" is out today and available at www.mikeandruthy.com.
17.6.10
Providence
The early morning hour, nearly the same as the late late night, just on different tips of the wheel. Such is the perspective on five in the morning, on anything perhaps, turned on its head.
Perhaps it is the quiet of the house, not just the house, the whole street. And not just the street but the whole neighborhood, extending to much of the city. The winter as a whole, in Providence (what a name), with the snow as catalyst, cleansing the spirit of the place with ice cold breaths.
Perhaps it is the quiet of the house, not just the house, the whole street. And not just the street but the whole neighborhood, extending to much of the city. The winter as a whole, in Providence (what a name), with the snow as catalyst, cleansing the spirit of the place with ice cold breaths.
He is thankful to be warm, as opposed to the deep cold that transcended in the mountains of upstate New York the past two winters, when he and three others adventurous (read, stoned) types were attempting to renovate single handedly a music club the size of Manhattan, near impossible to heat.
He is thankful for the words that come to him, sober, now that the smoke has shifted. Not because he wouldn’t if he could, but the money has run out and though there are a number of head shops selling massive glass pipes and bongs, the type that would take hundreds of dollars of the stuff just to make the machine work, he can’t seem to find enough of it to roll even one of the skinny jazz cigarettes he and his band mates used to be so fond of. (Used to be in the sense of the band, the fondness, in each of the members, surely remains.)
He is thankful for the adventure of a life he’s had and also mourns it, on a daily basis, with the new one dictated by pattering feet that excite the walls of the century old house, which are transparent through the hard wood, at exactly the same time every morning. Which are not threatening, nor violent, but bold enough to make it impossible to sleep. He feels old because of them, knowing he is no longer as alive, certainly not as motivated as he must have been at four or six years old before he had the bejeesus kicked right out of him.
He is grateful for the claw tub that fills easily with hot water, and the breakfasts he cooks of eggs and cheese and whole wheat tortillas warmed and rolled with hot salsa, and the plates he cleans in the large ceramic sink, older then he will ever get. Because in the massive hotel that he and his friends were renovating as a music club, the one in which they lived illegally on the third floor, one or two to a room, depending on the personality and the opportunity, there was no running water in the makeshift kitchen, and with the lack of it, for him at least, arrived the absence of any thoughts of cooking.
He is alone much of the day, immersed in the hows and whys he got to this place, when it was never on any map, never part of any dream, much like a divorce or any similar car accident, though it is quiet and serene, so not quite, though he can’t kick the feeling that he is being punished for misbehavior, that he has been handed some form of existential time out. If it had gotten any worse he would wake now to similar walls of white, though perhaps not as light, and not as alive, but more the kind that arrive with young clean nurses with their hair tied back, (less it could be used against them), carrying Styrofoam cups and handfuls of pink and green pills after which presented, one has to prove they have been put down.
16.6.10
Market Market by DB Leonard (Times Herald Record)
"It's always somebody's birthday," explained Jen Constantine, co-owner of Market Market Café in Rosendale, about her famous "Happy Birthday" cake that she bakes and offers regularly. Her baked goods, including muffins, burger buns and gluten-free bread, are only the beginning of a menu dedicated to "taking a deliberate step back and being simpler."
Market Market by DB Leonard (Times Herald Record)
"They were very into the idea of keeping food in line with the seasons, from farm to table," Constantine said. "They emphasized local organic offerings. Using the whole animal. Just basic respect for the food. Not overprocessing."
The couple have taken this tradition further, developing a relationship with local farm Birchland Acres, which sells its organic meat exclusively to Market Market. With an incredible attention to detail, the couple roast their own meats, including turkey, ham and roast beef, and make their own chorizo, pickled jalapeños, green beans and ketchup.
Thompson is an abstract painter. Constantine earned a graduate degree from Pratt University in furniture design, studying industrial design principles and how to apply them three-dimensionally. This knowledge is evident in the aesthetic of Market Market, which Jen classifies as "eclectic modern," incorporating chairs designed by Michael Thonet — one of the first to bend wood industrially — and wallpaper by Fornasetti. The result is a welcoming space, one in which patrons are encouraged to linger and communicate. Free wireless Internet encourages local writers to gather, while evening performances range from indie rock bands to karaoke to multimedia events to their most popular evening, "Tributon." Every six weeks, they dedicate a night to the music of a specific artist.
Her philosophy pays homage to Diner in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, where she was a bartender and DJ before making the move upstate four years ago with her partner, Trip Thompson.
Market Market by DB Leonard (Times Herald Record)
"They were very into the idea of keeping food in line with the seasons, from farm to table," Constantine said. "They emphasized local organic offerings. Using the whole animal. Just basic respect for the food. Not overprocessing."
The couple have taken this tradition further, developing a relationship with local farm Birchland Acres, which sells its organic meat exclusively to Market Market. With an incredible attention to detail, the couple roast their own meats, including turkey, ham and roast beef, and make their own chorizo, pickled jalapeños, green beans and ketchup.
This summer will mark the fourth anniversary for the couple in the Hudson Valley. Like many artists negotiating a shifting real estate market in Brooklyn, they were confronted with enormous hurdles as the developers moved in.
"Our loft had changed owners. Before, it was a safe, protective environment," Thompson said.
"Once it changed owners, it got real sticky really fast," concluded Constantine.
With two sons, now ages 2 and 5, the couple sought a saner existence. They fell in love with the cavernous Rosendale space, which had housed the Springtown Green Grocer, and made it their own.
Though they miss the vibrancy of Brooklyn, it is exactly this quality that the couple has brought to Rosendale.
"The ethnicity is a huge influence of what we've decided to do with the food here," Thompson said. "We lived in a Spanish neighborhood, so we had access to lots of authentic Mexican food, with real corn tortillas."
In Brooklyn, the couple held a fascination with Korean food, particularly a rice bowl classified as a "peasant dish." "You take what you have and you make it available," noted Thompson.
So the couple's creativity is evident in every aspect of their space.
"We're artist people," Constantine said.
Thompson is an abstract painter. Constantine earned a graduate degree from Pratt University in furniture design, studying industrial design principles and how to apply them three-dimensionally. This knowledge is evident in the aesthetic of Market Market, which Jen classifies as "eclectic modern," incorporating chairs designed by Michael Thonet — one of the first to bend wood industrially — and wallpaper by Fornasetti. The result is a welcoming space, one in which patrons are encouraged to linger and communicate. Free wireless Internet encourages local writers to gather, while evening performances range from indie rock bands to karaoke to multimedia events to their most popular evening, "Tributon." Every six weeks, they dedicate a night to the music of a specific artist.
"'Tributon' is about having legitimate artists perform versions and interpretations and arrangements of the featured artist's song," Thompson said.
Thus far they have featured Madonna, Prince and David Bowie to an enthusiastic full house. Saturday, Elvis Costello is feted.
"It's charming to pack people in," Constantine said.
In part, the performances at Market Market were designed to accommodate the couple's new social calendar as parents. "The whole script has flipped," Thompson confirmed. "We started doing a lot of the things we do here because of the events that we miss," he said.
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