Wednesday, September 18, 2019

Guy, Music and String Theory: what music has done to him & what he's done to it.

Music to me, especially as it seems now in my late 60s, essentially amounts to singing. That's the sort of flappy generalization that drives my smartest friends wild. But really everything I do in life seems to be a species of singing. Exposition of this hypothesis follows (implicitly) with a homespun compilation of 15 songs and the first movement of a Max Reger string trio, performed last March with Rebecca Osborne (viola) and Kurt Behnke (cello). It all starts off before that, however, with a shot-from-the-hip homespun rambling verbal peroration in which for 5 and a half minutes I hope I’ll have done something in the way of justice to my flappy claim. That String Theory (mine anyway) really is true: it describes the basis of my existence anyway (okay, I'm mostly talking vocal and violin strings). Who knows, maybe this turns out to be my Legacy! Let's use a grand word like that for it, why not. It does all seem like a signal moment. But then what moment isn't? (My smartest friends don't like that question either. They think it's rhetorical.) Anyway, something happens when you're still musicking at 68: you relax and get freer at it, which maybe means better. I'm hoping something like that's happening here. And if so, that it's contagious and you catch it too.
15 songs sung are:

1. Free Man in Paris
2. Just in Time
3. My One & Only Love
4. A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square
5. Begin the Beguine
6. Come Saturday Morning
7. They Can’t Take That Away
8. Never Never Land
9. Twisted
10. If You Could Read My Mind
11. O Danny Boy
12. I’ve Got You Under My Skin (w/ a reprise of me live in Oakdale thanks to Catherine Green letting me sing at her gig at the Wild Side...)
13. Moonlight in Vermont
14. The Sweetest Sounds
15. River
16. First Movement, Max Reger String Trio in A minor. Guy Kettelhack violin, Rebecca Osborne Viola, Kurt Behnke cello.

Wednesday, September 11, 2019

I Might Just Do It, Too

I had a poem writ for me,
I don’t know where it went.
I paid the poet quite a fee,
Now all my money’s spent.
And so I’m seeing now if I 
Can write the thing moi-même.
A little français might imply
I’m just as good as them
Who say they be sophisticates –
Such fancy words they spew!
I’m probably ridiculous,
Don’t much care what I do.
But hey! I’m on another stanza,
Dancing double-time.
And though it’s no extravaganza,
Damn if it don’t rhyme!
Why not write a Stanza Five?
I’ve already done four.
Writing makes me feel alive!
I think I’ll write some more.
But nah: I’m tired, I’ve overstepped
My bounds. I’m feeling flat.
And who knows, after I have slept,
I might just make a hat.

Saturday, September 7, 2019

In Our Little God-Allotted Lot

I lack definition. I don’t have
much to do the world I used to
live in would have understood
as good, or in the least desirable.
So, true to my apparent taste
in what I think acquirable, today I
draw a naked sprite, whose gender
even I don’t know, who’ll grasp
a whirl of gauzes circling his or her
androgyny as if they were the sonic
waves of transverse flute – all
displayed on what, once I have
tagged and darted it with a morass
of vines and framed it raggedly in
quasi-stained glass lines, will seem
to be a stage. I recall another page –
where Eve and Adam can be seen
meticulously peering at each jot
and tittle in their little God-allotted
lot, multifariously naming them.
Is it this, not banished fruits, for
which we should be blaming them?
When I let anything know what I think
it should be called, it’s appalled.