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Easter, Emma & Clapton

It is Easter again. Another resurrection of the moveable feast.

Illustration of Eric Clapton by Emma Mary Mankin

And Emma likes Clapton.

Emma is my niece. She will soon be 14. Eric Clapton turned 68 yesterday. He is one of the world's greatest guitarists.

I saw Eric Clapton play "live" at some point during the 1970s. Went to the concert with a fellow who I remember was crazy about me, but at that point in my life, I had decided to remain clueless about anyone's ardor. When Clapton came on stage to play, the world fell away. We all know about flow, about losing yourself in your work, so much so that nothing else exists. Motorcyclists talk about the Zen of being one with the machine. When Clapton straps on a guitar, he is just who he is supposed to be.

The music.

At 11, I learned to play the guitar. It was spring, and I had inherited a red-and-black acoustic from my brother Kev, who received the instrument for Christmas, but held no interest in playing. I took a group class at the nearest YMCA. The first evening my teacher wore a rodeo dress with a big puffy skirt. She played a Hank Williams song, and hooted and yodeled and sang and danced around. It was then and there that I knew that that was what I wanted to do.

To learn how to become a song.

And Emma loves music. Not the latest popular sounds, but artists like the Beatles and Clapton. At 14, I wanted to go to Woodstock, a fact that caused my mother Dottie M. to believe I must be a drug addict. Music was the most important thing to me. I fell asleep each night with a square transistor radio in a brown leather case hidden under my pillow, tuned to the nearest rock station, a scratchy broadcast at best. But I learned what I thought sounded good and what was incredibly bad.

And Emma continues to teach me. I was there the moment she was born. As I have no children, she taught me what it is like to come into the world. I was kneeling behind her mother on the birthing bed. My sister leaned back against me, and gave a final push. There was Emma, eyes wide open, aware, with long Mohawk hair. She looked left, then right, pulled one shoulder out, then the other. Her mother simply reached down and pulled Emma up to her chest, doing what she was supposed to do. And I wept.

And Emma is an artist. She sent me an illustration of Eric Clapton she drew recently.

She has "the eye". Always has.

She sees the purple tinge in a Black Lab's coat, and knows how some pictures also need a story.

I can see her sitting at the dining room table, many layers down in her work. Lost to the world and anything else that is out there.

March 31, 2013 | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack (0)

Sound

Went to DC tonight, to the auditorium at National Geographic, to hear young musicians play traditional Irish music in a presentation called "An Irish Christmas in America."

Sound - celtic_writer - Everyday Lessons and Adventures

There were photos of Ireland splashed upon the wall behind the players as they performed. It was wonderful and mysterious, haunting and joyous. A gift. A whistle of old performed by the new.

The Irish recognize sound as their heredity. Proust said memory is in taste, but for the Celts, it is the pulse of the drum, the scream of the pipes, the shrill of a thin penny whistle. All a celebration of good, as well as what is painful. Notes contributing to the recognition of being.

This sound is in the blood, passed on through the genes. Music is story. And story is life.

Years ago, I read an explanation about people who live on islands. They feel they have no escape, so they take on the world as a chip on their shoulder, double-dog daring anyone to knock the block off.

And then they head west, towards heaven, a direction the Celts professed the unknown to be. And the journey brings knowledge. And softening.

It is past midnight here in Mason Neck. The sound is quiet. The crescent moon is gold.

They forecast freezing rain and sleet for tomorrow. I will wait it out.

December 15, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack (0)

Blues Man

Tornado warnings here in northern Virginia tonight. The Labbies are frightened by the thunder. They are under my desk as I write this. Guess they figure I will get it first if it comes through the window. Smart dawgs.

Got the CD machine goin' here in the office. Music. I cover my ears to the top-40 airwaves of today. It takes effort to find the good stuff...sounds that are earned. Heard some last week at a place called King Street Blues in Alexandria, VA. That sound is called Dan Stevens.

He's a blues-guitar-playin' fellah who grew up in a small town in central Pennsylvania, where he heard stories about the lives of traveling blues musicians like Mississippi John Hurt and Fred McDowell. Inspired by Woody Guthrie’s book, Bound for Glory, Dan hitchhiked and hopped freight trains, guitar in hand, across the United States five times, eventually covering over 100,000 miles. A full-time professional musician since 1991, Dan tours along the East Coast, U.S. Virgin Islands, U.K., and Germany. He has appeared with such artists as James Cotton, Charlie Musselwhite, Arlo Guthrie, Richie Havens, Charlie Daniels, Livingston Taylor, Ronnie Earl, and others. Home base is Old Lyme, Connecticut with wife Gail and daughter, Haley.

And he's good. I don't say that about many musicians. I used to play a folk circuit up in New England back in the good old days, and it is hard work. Wonderfully exhausting work.

Got his CD. Listening to it now, as the wind blows the blues and thunder is heard down the road somewhere in Prince William County, more storm heading this way.

I'll crank that slide guitar sound way up. Nice to hear someone who knows who Dave Van Ronk was.

Dan Stevens Road to Memphis CD design by Anderson Visual Solutions

April 03, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)

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