Clean Cabbage in the Bucket

GUITAR GEORGE

2011-07-24T16:49:00.023-04:00

That's what I called him. "Guitar George" Ede. But unlike Mark Knofler's hero, our George was more than a rhythm player; he could make the guitar cry and sing, too; and he often did it with astonishing speed, fingers flying up and down the frets. He is the owner of Liberty Music in Framingham, Massachusetts, in business now for forty years or more. When I began to establish myself on the Irish folk circuit in New England in the late seventies I cast about for a store for the necessaries of a musical life. To a man, all my peers said, "Go see George at Liberty."

It was a fairly big shop and very friendly. And George was, in a manner of speaking, big and friendly himself. I'm not talking about size, I'm referring his warmth, integrity, sense of humor and professionalism that made him, yes, larger than life. (A fella named Steve worked with George, and Steve played saxaphone. No need to ask what nickname I gave him. They played some good music together in various aggregations.) They sold guitars of all makes, electric pianos, amps, strings, sheet music, et al - everything a musician could want. They also rented band equipment. It was not uncommon for any of us to drop in for a set of strings, or something more serious and stick around just to shoot the breeze with George, or any of the musicians that showed up; exchanging stories and leads to new clubs and gigs. It was that kind of place because George was that kind of guy. Bets are he still is.

I play a big Guild D 70 acoustic; have for thirty years now. It's been my one and only, and thus deeply associated with me in the minds of friends and fans. There were times when I would borrow a guitar to take on the road, just to play something different, to hear a different tone and color. And people would say, "Where's the big Guild, Denny? It ain't you without the big Guild."

I had a Guild D 35, I think, when I first started to patronize Liberty Music and struck up a friendship with George. Liam's Irish Tavern, also in Framingham, was a fairly regular gig for me then, and it was not uncommon for George to stop in and sometimes sit in. He had a keen ear and his comments about one's performance were always welcome and taken very seriously. One night he asked if I was coming to the store anytime soon and I replied that I was, indeed, headed in for some things the next day.

Coming out from behind the counter George greeted me with a sly smile and told me he had something special to show me, something I just had to see. We walked to the guitar display and he stopped in front of a very big and very expensive guitar case. "Uh-oh," I said. "Is what you want me to see in that case?" He just grinned and started to open the case. I took a step back. "Don't do this to me, George. Please. I just know whatever is in that case, it's beautiful, but way out of my price range. Don't torture me. I can't afford it. I don't even want to look at at, never mind play it."

Of course he ignored me, let loose a dramatic cackle and in a second the cover fell open revealing the most beautiful guitar I had ever seen. I groaned, "No, stop. Please. No, No. Absolutely not. Put it away." It was like that old Flip Wilson routine with Geraldine being tempted by the Devil with a new dress. George steered me toward a little piano stool, sat me down. He lifted the guitar gently out of it's case and placed it in my hands. I wrapped my arms around it and almost cried. Then I played a chord, strummed one chord, an E Major, I think it was; and I sat there and listened as the notes resonated through the big rosewood body and sailed out the soundhole. And the notes rang beautifully, slowly decaying, so slowly that it was hard to tell when they stopped.

I looked up at a beaming George. "You can do it," he said. "I'll give you a good deal. You need this guitar, Dennis. This guitar was made for you. We'll work something out."

He gave me more than a good deal. He took the old Guild and a small deposit, and we arranged a payment plan. And further, he let me take the guitar right then and there. Yes, friends, you read it right - he let me take it home. Musical instrument dealers do not do things like that. Still don't. Hell, retailers of anything aren't going to let you do that. But that was George. He put me and that guitar together.

And I paid him, I did, and on time. And I played that Guild for years, and I still play that Guild. It was with me in hundreds of clubs and a multitude of cities and states over thirty years. I wrote a great many songs on it, among them Honky Tonk Moon, a number one hit for Randy Travis. And it was with me last year, on two different cruise ship gigs; in the Baltic, the Mediterannean and the Caribbean. Fifty ports. Passengers remarked numerous times on the warm sound; warm because I mike the guitar. No pickup. With all that beautiful, aged wood invested with the music of hundreds and hundreds of gigs, thousands of hours of playing.....Why would I ruin that? And the amount of young and old folkie guitar players that shyly, hesitantly asked if they could play it? They were legion.

Well. A certain segment of that cadre of Irish pub singers slowly drifted away from the Boston area, indeed, some from New England altogether. Seamus Kennedy went to Maryland, Frank Emerson to North Carolina, Robbie O'Connell down the road to Rhode Island, and I went to Nashville. I saw George last on a trip back to Massachusetts to play the Eagle Brook Saloon in Norfolk on Paddy's Day, oh, ten years ago or more. Time, you know.... But he was a good friend and will remain a big part of the beautiful mosaic of my life as a musician and an entertainer. He's right there in the audience everytime I set the Guild in my lap and start to play.

June 17, 2011

A Timely Story

2009-10-01T19:49:00.003-04:00

The flu is coming. I thought it fitting to post this story from the book.

THE CHECKOUT GIRL WITH THE FLU
Dennis O’Rourke

I was setting up the equipment in a club sometime ago, somewhere in New England, on a rainy, miserable Thursday afternoon. The music room was on the second floor of the building and was deserted at this hour, except for a waitress cleaning and readying the bar for the night. I was in the middle of a bad cold. She heard me coughing, sneezing, and grumbling, and she came over with a pot of hot tea, and urged me to sit down and take a breather. She waved off my warnings of possible contagion and sat down with me for a chat and a cup. It was of interest to her to know how entertainers were able to ignore the occasional malady, get on stage, and do the job. Waiting tables and slinging drinks, as she put it, was hard enough when she didn’t feel particularly perky. But at least she didn't have to stand in front of an audience and entertain.
Indeed.
“Well,” I told her, “in general, some folks, myself included, go to great lengths to avoid colds and flu. We religiously adhere to the standard, recommended rules of caution and prevention—we get plenty of sleep, exercise, eat fresh fruits and vegetables, and quaff bottles of water and citrus juices by the case. We double or triple our intake of Vitamin C. We wash our hands a dozen times a day, and we take care not to bring those hands, as scrubbed and sterile as they may be, anywhere near our mouths or noses. If the virus making the rounds is airborne, we do our best not to be too long in close proximity of those unforgivably careless about all of the above, and consequently allow themselves to ‘come down with something.’ We’ll meet this person in the course of a day, inquire politely as to their well being, and when told, ‘Oh, God, I’ve caught this awful cold,’ we will immediately back away, throw our hands up defensively, and say,
‘Well, don’t give it to me,’ as if the sufferer has some mystical power over the bug and can rein it in or cut it loose at will.”
The waitress enjoyed this little recitation. I expanded my discourse.
“When an afflicted person visits my home without first informing me of their cloak of pestilence, I will do my best to cut their visit short, and after they are gone, I will bombard the air and anything they’ve touched with clouds of Lysol spray, paying particular attention to the doorknob.”
“Lysol?” She raised an eyebrow.
“Indispensable,” I said.
I went on to assure her that for an entertainer, getting on stage to do a show while doing battle with a cold or flu can be a Herculean endeavor of will and stamina. I hate it. A hangover can be treated with the judicial application of the hair of the dog. But a cold? The flu? I want to be at home in my bed, sipping herbal teas, catching up on my reading, and being ministered to by a loved one. The last place I want to be with my fever, stuffy nose, headache, and chills is in a smoky, noisy bar filled with healthy, robust revelers pounding on the tables and pouring gallons of Guinness down their gullets. I begrudge them their health and happiness. I sadly recall when I, too, had this joy in my heart and booze in my blood, and I begin to fear that this state of bliss will never again be mine. I want to tell them how sick I am, but I know I cannot. They don’t want to hear it, and they don’t care. I want them to understand just how mighty an effort it’s going to be for me to get through the next four hours. This whine will not go down well with them or the club owner—especially the club owner. If he does not see a fresh shotgun wound anywhere on my body, he is unsympathetic.
When I privately confess my miserable condition to a fan or friend at the bar, looking for sympathy or commiseration, my heart will sink when they back up and say, “Well, don’t give it to me.” My mood darkens and sours even more. Then it’s nine o’clock, and the stage beckons. I approach it as if it was a guillotine. Once up there, my fevered mind turns the happy faces at the foot of the stage to a crowd of toothless, drunken, French harpies holding up straw baskets to catch my head.
“Poor dear,” she said. “But that’s some imagination you’ve got.”
For the entertainer, the singer, there is also the danger of an accompanying sore throat. How are you going to get past that? Robbie O’Connell once imparted a bit of advice to me during a discussion about the health perils of the road. You can sing and get through the night with a sore throat if, an hour before the show, you warm up the vocal chords with scales. Start low and soft and take your time. Massage the throat lightly with forefinger and thumb. Press a warm, wet towel over the affected area. To these perfectly sound suggestions I added one of my own—sing the songs in the first set in a lower key. Work your way up the ladder slowly.
“Sounds reasonable,” she said.
“Robbie had added another tip,” I told her. “Be careful what cold remedies you choose. Don’t mix them. Forgetting this warning, I once medicated myself on stage with antihistamines, hot tea and lemon, and several belts of cognac. All of these contrived to make me feel like a new man. Pseudophedrine is like speed to me. I sailed still higher on the wings of Remy Marten, and in my drug-induced euphoria, I belted out the songs. In truth, I had dried up my throat and sinuses and then shredded my vocal chords by singing with the wild abandon of an eighteen-year-old garage rocker.
“I rose the next morning with the expected hangover, but when I tried to speak, nothing—absolutely nothing—came out. After several attempts, a single syllable emerged, or rather, cracked itself loose from the baked, desert driveway that was once my throat. It began in the key of A and flew up into a high C without any conscious effort from me. When I was finally able to cause some words to emerge, albeit in this uncontrollable, croaking cackle, I had to call and cancel a well paying gig that night—a frat party in Atlanta. Any attempt to sing would have brought serious, permanent injury to my vocal chords. I had to remain quiet for forty-eight hours.”
“How much did you lose out on?”
“Four hundred bucks,” I said.
She flinched.
“There’s the rub,” I said.
I have had to take the stage in less-than-ideal physical condition on countless occasions. Colds and flu be damned. I’ll suck lozenges and gargle warm salt water between sets to ward off laryngitis. I will swill Vicks or Benadryl and pack my body with Ibuprofen. And why?
“The show must go on,” my waitress said dramatically.
“Well, there is that, certainly. An audience has congregated to hear you perform. They may be your friends and fans. They want your music and your wit. They want to laugh, to have a good time. Sing, Dennis!” (I waited for her to acknowledge the Jack Benny-Dennis Day reference. Now there’s a great metaphor for the relationship between a club owner and a performer! But she was too young.)
“Yes, the show must go on, and while I stand ready to pay homage to that tradition, I have to admit that my foremost reason for performing wounded is somewhat less noble. This is not an assured nine to five, forty-hour a week job. You take work where and when you can get it. There are no health benefits, and certainly no paid sick days. A club owner is not going to pay you for lying in a sick bed while paying another entertainer to take your place onstage. He who works gets paid.”
My waitress nodded in agreement. In that regard, our jobs were exactly the same.
Given all this, it is of paramount importance for a singer to stay healthy. Vigilance is required. Beware the occasion of sin, as the nun once admonished. To that, I add, “Beware also the lair of the virus, which is the infected person, the air surrounding that person, and the things they touch.”
She wanted an example, and I gave her one. “One conduit I long-suspected has been used by these pernicious, microscopic beasties to transfer themselves from one host to another is the supermarket checkout girl, who has a nasty cold or flu. She is going to be putting her diseased paws on every single item you have purchased and are about to bring into your home. If you allow this to happen, your only recourse is to submerge all the vegetables and fruits in water, wash them, and layer a coat of Lysol on all the canned goods before putting them away.”
“Again with the Lysol? You spray Lysol on your groceries?” she said.
I nodded solemnly. Her eyes narrowed.
“But this is time consuming and not always effective. You must go back to the beginning and figure out a way to avoid the ailing checkout girl altogether.”
“I’m all ears,” she said.
“I will tell you how I handle this potentially ruinous encounter, and I have a feeling that if he was still alive, this would carry the Howard Hughes stamp of approval. When you have completed your shopping in the cold and flu season, park yourself and your cart at the rear of the longest line you can find. This will give you ample opportunity to observe the checkout girl. Watch her carefully for any symptoms—coughing, sniffling, and sneezing or blowing her nose. Noting any of these, you must immediately walk briskly to the next longest line. Begin your observations anew.”
“Hadn’t thought of that,” she said.
“Keep in mind however, that the infectious checkout girl may be taking drugs that will prevent the symptoms from being apparent. You must be prepared for this possibility, and I recommend staying alert. Keep your ears open for any pleasantries exchanged between the customer and the checkout girl. Most customers will ask, ‘How ya doing today?’ Now, I have never met a person, checkout girls included, with a cold or flu, who will not immediately lay the ailment out for you in all its aching, feverish, phlegmy detail. If the checkout girl’s reply is inaudible, strain to catch what the customer is saying. No person without a cold can resist consoling another who has. If you hear the customer offering the girl his own unfailing, miracle cure for colds, depart the line, pronto.”
She nodded, impressed.
“But let us say the worst has happened. You’ve been fooled completely. You think your girl healthy until she has her hands on your broccoli, and then she suddenly rears her head back and unleashes a tremendous, watery sneeze, spraying spittle in all directions. As she wipes her nose with her sleeve and reaches for your carrots, you find yourself trembling with hope and prayer as you ask, ‘Oh, dear. Bad allergies?’ You will be horrified when you hear, ‘I wish. No, I’ve got this flu that’s going around. I was up all night throwing up, and I’ve had diarrhea all morning.’”
“I know that girl,” my waitress hollered. “What do you do then?”
“Back up, take a deep breath and keep your wits about you. This is one of those emergencies that cell phones were made to handle. If you are a woman, reach into your purse and press the cell phone so it rings. If you are a man and carry it hooked to your belt, reach down and surreptitiously do the same. Look around you apologetically, put the phone to your ear, say, “Hello,” and listen for a few seconds. Allow your face to gradually take on a look of deep concern while gazing at the folks in line behind you. Hold your hand up for silence. Then say in a loud voice, ‘Yes, Mr. President. Yes, sir. I understand completely.’ Wait a few beats, then say, “Yes, sir, I’ll inform the secretary immediately, and I’ll catch the next plane.’
“Mumble a distracted apology to the checkout girl, leave the contaminated groceries where they lie, and flee the store.”
My waitress laughed and shook her head. “Very interesting,” she said. She laughed, stood up, and pointed a finger. “You know,” she continued, “I’ve learned over the years that you crowd, you pub entertainers, are a very strange bunch altogether.”
She cleaned up our cups, went behind the bar, and began a loud rummage through the cabinets. I finished setting up. Twenty minutes later, I was on my way out the door, headed for the hotel to change. The audience would be here in a few short hours. I turned to wave goodbye, and found my waitress slowly walking around the room, winding her way through the tables. She held a can of Lysol high over her head, laying down a thick spray. She got up on the stage and turned to face me through the settling mist, aiming the can in my direction.
“You’ve a cold,” she said with a big grin. “I have to think of myself and my customers. I don’t want any of us exposed to your pernicious, microscopic beasties.”
I was not the least offended. As a matter of fact, I gave her a thumbs up. Smart girl.

FALL IN FAIRVIEW

2009-09-20T11:23:00.003-04:00

Well, it's on the way, no doubt, even though the temps are still around eighty. It's a cloudy, dark, cool and humid Sunday morning in Fairview, Tennessee. I'm in the kitchen looking out the big french windows at the silent, green forest. There are stories out there. Great imaginings. And a bobcat or two. Yes, the leaves are still green, but Fall tickles. She's out there and she's coming for an embrace.

I had mentioned to the songwriter Michael Snow that I love days like these. You can make your own colors. He liked that. I must remember to tell him that I got it years ago from an exchange between the poet Dylan Thomas and novelist Lawrence Durrell. Durrell was living in Greece and he wrote Thomas urging him to come and work in the sun, if you will. Thomas demurred, stating that if he went to Greece he would do nothing but sit in the sun, whereas in dark, gloomy England he could create his own colors.

I finished a new song last week and I quite like it. I was laughing through most of the work. It was a delightful ride. There will be more about it when I have a demo recorded. I can't afford a studio band so it's just gonna be me and the Guild. I think that will serve.

My last new effort is posted on my web site, an MP3 of a duet called SUNNY SKIES. www.dennisorourke.com Quite a departure for me. And yes, those are real steel drums. This is Nashville. Some of the greatest musicians in the world live here and you can find someone to play almost any instrument known to man, and some known only to the Balzaconians from Balzor. As a matter of fact, I believe that a few of these guys may very well be Balzaconians. I have a certain upright bass player in mind.

A literary agency in New York responded positively to my query about the book. They asked for a copy, and I sent one. They've had it for six weeks. I'm told by a friend in the publishing business that this is normal procedure. It could be another month before I hear from them. My friend adds that this is the time of the year when the big publishing houses are concentrating on the actual printing and distribution of new titles for the Fall and Holiday seasons. No one is really looking for anything new right now. He advises that a follow-up email at the end of this month would not be out of place. I'll do that.

Hello to "old friend" Joan.
And that's it. D

The Hunt for a Literary Agent

2009-08-09T11:18:00.002-04:00

I've always believed that the stories in CLEAN CABBAGE were ready material for a screenplay - film or TV. To that end I have spent the last few days on a web site that lists literary agents and their submission guidelines. If I can interest an agent in representing us and then he or she can interest a major publishing company in distributing the book we stand a good chance of coming to the attention of the right people. Hollywood. New York. But the agent comes first.

I had spent a good deal of time researching agents long before the project was even near completion, utilizing the Writer's Market yearly edition. I recently stumbled on a web site -Litmatch.com- that has made the effort so much easier, and I have sent out thirty email queries and two snail mails thus far. We were immediately rejected by two emails, though one of them wrote that she was intrigued by the book, but that it was not her field of expertise. She then went on to insist we "not get discouraged. You will find an agent." I thought that was very kind of her.

Now. Murphy's Law. SNAFU. Call it what you will. In all the queries I directed the prospective agents to my web site www.dennisorourke.com there to find three sample stories, my bio, a link to this blog, etc. I had recently taken steps to change my Host for the site and thought it a done-deal. Nope. My new Host overlooked a minor detail for the transfer and consequently the site went down and remains down as of this writing. I'm told it should be up in 24 to 48 hours. It's the weekend so perhaps the queries will not be read till tomorrow and the link will be up. Nothing I can do about it and there is really no one to blame. But I am holding off on sending anymore queries for the moment. Oh, I'm still researching and writing, but I place the queries in Mail Waiting to be Sent.

And that's it. Maybe Lady Luck will shine on us. There is great material in the book. All the collabs contributed some mighty pieces. I am as proud of it now as ever.

Summertime, summertime, sum sum summertime

2009-06-30T19:43:00.003-04:00

Performed at the Chicago Irish American Heritage Center about ten days ago. Great fun. Good audiences. Thanks, Sheila, Frank, Caroline and Erin.
Sold several copies of CLEAN CABBAGE, and received the compliments and thanks of those that had bought the book on my last visit.
Met a happy couple that had been passengers on the Celebrity cruise ship HORIZON where I was once the "Under-the-stairwell, out-by-the-pool-deck, in-front-of-the-clean-towel-rack, beside-the-soiled-towel-bin, facing-the-recycled-trash-cans GIG!!!!
To their credit, they journeyed, once a day, to the main desk to register their complaint that someone of Dennis O'Rourke's caliber should be forced to suffer the indignities that accompanied this ridiculous "station" he had been given.
Didn't/Never do no good, but thanks, Tom and Sue.

I'm gonna post some of the diary I kept while performing aboard the Horizon. Why not? There's a laugh or two there, though I didn't think a damn bit of it was funny at the time. I'll post it soon on my web site: www.dennisorourke.com

That's it. I've been away a while. Bought a house. My very first. Year #1 anniversary tomorrow. I'm out in the country. There's 250 acres of forest out back. Course, only one of them is mine, but the rest might just as well be. Lookit that moon. AAAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!

New Website For CLEAN CABBAGE!

2007-08-04T18:42:00.000-04:00

Hello to all,
The website to purchase the book, with a link for credit card orders, is up!
www.cleancabbage.com
We have all been impressed by the enthusiasm with which the book's release has been greeted, and by the amount of initial sales. Thank you! Best of all, the feedback on the stories has been just terrific. Looks like we have a hit on our hands.
Dennis O
August 4, 2007

STAY TUNED

2007-07-17T12:30:00.000-04:00

We are setting up a CLEAN CABBAGE website with information on how to purchase the book. Our individual websites will also carry that information. Everything should be up and running by the 25th of July. Thanks!

Published at last!

2007-07-17T11:49:00.000-04:00

CLEAN CABBAGE IN THE BUCKET And Other Tales From the Irish Music Trenches will be published on June 19th, 2007. It's been a long haul. Six years ago I brought the idea to Robbie, Seamus, Frank and Harry. They were all enthusiastic. The first stories were written in early August of 2001. There were some bumps and detours along the way, as with any creative project, but we made it. And this is no slim, vanity volume. There are 400 pages of stories -humorous, touching, dare I say, poetic, and all true, so help me. We're very proud of this and we know you're going to enjoy it. All the best, Dennis O'Rourke

www.dennisorourke.com

What a funny title!!

2007-07-14T10:47:00.000-04:00

This is the blog for the soon to be released book - Clean Cabbage in a Bucket.