Tag Archives: pandemic

Musical Possibilities and Innovations

Used With Pixabay License

Y’all remember the Black Death? It was also known as the Plague and the Pestilence, and that particular pandemic peaked between 1347 and 1352, killing anywhere between 75 million and 200 million people. Not having the scientific tools that we have today, there were no means for coming up with an accurate number of those who caught it and passed away, but the US Census Bureau maintains an historical estimate of the world population over the centuries based on various sources, and in that time period, which also includes the Great Famine, it appears that the population dipped from 475 million to 350 million people in just one hundred years.

As pandemics go — and please don’t take this the wrong way or consider me insensitive — our COVID-19 is a cakewalk compared to what those poor souls went through. Italian poet Giovanni Boccaccio wrote, “At the beginning of the malady, certain swellings, either on the groin or under the armpits … waxed to the bigness of a common apple, others to the size of an egg, some more and some less, and these the vulgar named plague-boils.” According to The History Channel, “Blood and pus seeped out of these strange swellings, which were followed by a host of other unpleasant symptoms — fever, chills, vomiting, diarrhea, terrible aches and pains — and then, in short order, death.” As neither Clorox injections nor tanning beds had yet to be invented then, physicians used bloodletting, boil-lancing, superstitious practices such as burning aromatic herbs, and bathing in rosewater or vinegar to treat their patients.

 

 

That lovely piece was written by the French poet and composer Guillaume de Machaut, who went into isolation during the plague and began experimenting with new sounds and rhythms.

While clearly affected by what was happening in the world around him, he refused to let the Black Death seep into his work. “Music is a science which asks that one laugh, and sing, and dance. It does not care for melancholy, nor for the man who is melancholy.” I read that quote in an article from The Guardian, which speaks of music surviving for 2,700 years through all sorts of catastrophic events. Dr. Chris Macklin, a former professor of musicology at Mercer University and an authority on plague music — yes there is such a term — has written “Music was not a luxury in times of epidemic uncertainty — it was a necessity.”

As we fast forward to 2020, an entire community of musicians and those who support them must feel as if they are in free fall. As social media is bursting at the seams with home-based concerts and larger platform streaming, and with new music continuing to be released with no option to tour, sell, and earn a return on investment, let alone a profit to pay for basic needs, it’s no wonder we see daily headlines of doom and gloom. But is there something on the other side, something that when we do come out of this is even better than what we had before?

 

 

English singer-songwriter Laura Marling’s latest album, Song for Our Daughter, had been scheduled for release next August. Changing course and with only a week’s notice, she decided to release it immediately. “In light of the change to all our circumstances, I saw no reason to hold back on something that, at the very least, might entertain, and at its best, provide some sense of union. … An album, stripped of everything that modernity and ownership does to it, is essentially a piece of me, and I’d like for you to have it.”

During her time in isolation, Marling has been very active on her social media account. Not only does she perform songs from home, but her guitar lessons are exceptional. As someone who has been playing for many decades, I am surprised that I never explored DADDAD tuning, and it’s allowed me to pass hours lost in my own creativity. Instead of sitting on the sidelines, Marling announced the first major geo-blocked concert of this year and sold it out within days. Ticket holders will watch the show via YouTube, using a private link they’re receive just before showtime. According to a Variety writeup, a small number of staff and crew will help produce the show. Out of despair, comes opportunity.

For more thoughts on that, look no further than right here at No Depression, with musician and The Long Haul columnist Rachel Baiman’s latest piece, titled “Stepping Back, Taking Stock.” I think it’s a must read for any touring musician who may be pondering a path forward. Her words really struck me, and I shall leave you by sharing her final paragraph.

“I heard once that an interruption of routine is the best path to innovation, and never have I felt that to be the case more than now. Touring being canceled for the foreseeable future may just be the tipping point we musicians need when it comes to realizing how much we’ve been cheating ourselves financially this past decade. I still love live performance above all, and I will be thrilled when I can hit the road again. But I’m going to make sure I do it on my terms this time — when and how I want to, and in a safe and sane way.”

 

This was originally published as an Easy Ed’s Broadside at No Depression: The Journal of Roots Music’s website.

Many of my past columns, articles, and essays can be accessed here at my own site, herealeasyed.com. I also aggregate news and videos on both Flipboard and Facebook as The Real Easy Ed: Americana and Roots Music Daily. My Twitter handle is @therealeasyed and my email address is easyed@therealeasyed.com.

A Tuba Player Lives Upstairs

Photo from Pixabay

In my biography that I posted on my website many years ago, there is one white lie. While it is indeed true that I live in the Lower Hudson Valley of New York, I do not have an apple orchard that I tend to. In fact, I live in a 70-year-old apartment building and despite my living space lacking any flora or fauna, there are several large windows that overlook dozens of beautiful tall trees that run along the train tracks across the street.

On days when I’m not at work or out and about, I can see and hear the trains that normally carry thousands of people each day into Manhattan, a mere 29 minutes away if you catch the express. The station is a five-minute walk into our village, which has the distinction of being classified as the “richest town on the East Coast” according to Bloomberg’s 2020 list. Neither my fellow neighbors nor I were included or calculated into that statistic, as we live two blocks outside the official boundary.

The 80 apartment units in my building are occupied by the elderly, several young families, those who are divorced or widowed, and working stiffs trying to keep our heads above water. The wonderful labyrinth of New York rent control laws has allowed many of my neighbors a roof over their heads for 20 years or more, paying far below market value in comparison to others in this area. I moved here almost eight years ago from California, and while I know several of my neighbors by name and we say hello in the lobby, parking garage, or as we pass each other in the halls, there is also a certain detachment that exists. For example, I do not know nor would I recognize the people who live in the apartment above me.

They moved in a year ago, and judging only by sound and schedule, I would guess the occupants to be an adult male and female, with a child I would place in middle school. He or she is a musician, occasionally playing improvisational pieces on an electric keyboard in the living room. Sometime after last Thanksgiving, this person also began practicing the French horn in the bedroom above mine. The same song every night for at least one hour.

It was the Lee Mendelson and Vince Guaraldi tune from A Charlie Brown Christmas holiday special, a show and song I never grow weary of. For a month, as he or she played it over and over, it got better and better. I imagine it was for a school program or concert, as I have not heard it since. And there are times I miss it.

A month into the COVID-19 lockdown, the French horn was replaced by a tuba. As the schools have been closed since March, I’ve not been able to sort out in my mind how a new instrument has made its way into the hands of this young person, let alone the time or space for learning how to play it.

Could it be a once-played instrument that has been resurrected in these troubled times out of boredom or passion? Are there online lessons they may be taking? And although I imagine there is a particular song they practice, the tuba is like a bass guitar. No melody per se, but progressive notes working lockstep with percussion to create the tempo and rhythm. Unless you are Oren Marshall.

I have enjoyed the mystery of whomever is the source, and have zero interest in walking up a flight of stairs, knocking on a door, introducing myself, and inquiring. While I know some might find it annoying and would be banging on the ceiling for them to stop, I have come to look forward to hearing the tuba sessions each day. As someone who is surrounded at this moment by a mandolin, banjo, lap steel, mountain dulcimer, six guitars, and a box full of harps in various keys, and who tries to play for at least an hour each day, I hold in high esteem anyone who chooses to play, practice, or rehearse music.

This week will mark two months of lockdown for me, and like many of you I am missing the concerts and gatherings, the sidewalk buskers, and the chance encounters of incredible talent one finds underground at Manhattan subway stations. I can watch livestreams for hours, yet I find them flat and cold, despite emanating from the warmth of someone’s home. I’ve come to appreciate the dynamic that distance creates between audience and performer in the concert environment, and am fearful I may never experience it again.

For now, I will focus on my own playing and enjoy the once-in-a-lifetime tuba extravaganza each evening, live from the apartment upstairs. I shall leave you with two things: a quote by the late Sir Terry Pratchett, the English humorist, satirist, and author, and a song called “Cakewalk Into Town” by the great Taj Mahal. Stay safe, y’all.

“And the people next door oppress me all night long. I tell them, I work all day, a man’s got to have some time to learn to play the tuba. That’s oppression, that is. If I’m not under the heel of the oppressor, I don’t know who is.”

This was originally published at No Depression: The Journal of Roots Music’s website as an Easy Ed’s Broadside column. 

Many of my past columns, articles, and essays can be accessed here at my own site, therealeasyed.com. I also aggregate news and videos on both Flipboard and Facebook as The Real Easy Ed: Americana and Roots Music Daily. My Twitter handle is @therealeasyed and my email address is easyed@therealeasyed.com.

Music Without A Trace

 

Photo by Carol Highsmith/Library of Congress

The old Trace movie theater, refurbished (at least inside) into the Westside Theatre nightclub and meeting place in Port Gibson, Mississippi. The Trace burned twice, in 1948 and 1968 — the latter blaze putting it out of business for good. Abandoned theaters and concert halls, clubs left empty. The photo evoked thoughts of the future in the aftermath of the pandemic of 2020. 

It’s week number whatever here in New York and the social isolation experiment seems to be working. They say that thanks to our efforts, we’re flattening the curve. Unfortunately, the death count in this state sadly keeps hovering between seven or eight hundred poor souls each day, so I highly doubt that any friends or family of the departed are experiencing jubilation over this particular flattening episode. People are usually unable to say goodbye to their loved ones, but instead can see a daily video feed of the refrigeration trucks parked outside of hospitals holding the corpses or the mass burials on Hart’s Island.

I’m reminded of a recent Facebook post from a friend of mine that read:

January 1: It’s going to be a great year!!!
March 15: I wiped my butt this morning with a coffee filter.

Despite the spin from a certain somebody who is hawking an unproven COVID-19 miracle drug on his daily infomercial/campaign rally with the slogan of “What have you got to lose?” and receives his consultation from the guys who run wrestling and mixed martial arts extravaganzas, things aren’t looking too good. While some say we’re just days away from reopening the country for business, many government and public health officials are whistling a different tune. For example, this past week both the mayor of Los Angeles and the governor of California have indicated that mass gatherings, such as sporting events and music concerts, are likely not to start up again for at least a year. Let that sink in.

This past month has been a bonanza for livestream and online concerts, with most having no entry cost and a few that offer a virtual tip jar to leave a donation for the performers. I don’t know how that’s working out, but it’s likely not paying anyone’s bills. New albums, which are introduced along with plans for press, publicity, and tour dates, are still being released minus the exposure, support, and revenue. And we still haven’t figured out how the creative participants of the music industry can or will survive the streaming model, let alone with live performance opportunities now taken away.

I keep an eye on Chris Griffy’s biweekly ND column Crowdfunding Radar, and many of the recent projects he’s featured have been hitting their rather modest targets in a pre-COVID-19 world. But the question remains if it’s sustainable, and perhaps more important will be the public’s ability or appetite to commit to a monthly donation through a platform like Patreon. Given that we are on the edge of a full-blown depression, I must admit that I am not hopeful of this model.

Every few weeks I enjoy going to The Strand, one of the oldest and largest indie booksellers in the country. It’s three floors of incredible inventory and selection, and the last time I was there it was just a week before it closed down. It was oddly empty; the city’s fear was just beginning to take hold. The store, on the edge of Union Square and the NYU campus, is always bustling with people and now it stands shuttered. I wonder about its future in the same way that I think of record stores. These are tactile environments where we all touch, hold, and check out the product. I don’t think disinfectant wipes will work well on paper or cardboard.

Guess it might be a good time to offer my apology for wasting your time with all this doom and gloom. As is often the case when writing a weekly column, I try hard to seek out a topic of interest that may help expose new musical avenues for y’all to explore. That was my goal when I sat down and flipped open the Mac, but I’ve lost both my will and the way forward.

So here’s what I’m going to do. No Depression is a nonprofit entity and for my services, or lack thereof, I receive a small salary. (I’m reminded that ND’s co-founder Peter Blackstock once said that I was lucky to even be making a cent. Non-working music writers can be found for nearly a dime a dozen.) Anyway, when I get my check this month I’m going to drop it all into a few of those virtual tip jars, or perhaps support a project or two. It’s just a tiny drop in a big bucket, but I don’t know what else to do. I guess I’m helplessly hoping for better days ahead.

This was originally published at No Depression: The Journal of Roots Music’s website, as an Easy Ed’s Broadside column.

Many of my past columns, articles, and essays can be accessed here and at my own site, therealeasyed.com. I also aggregate news and videos on both Flipboard and Facebook as The Real Easy Ed: Americana and Roots Music Daily. My Twitter handle is @therealeasyed and my email address is easyed@therealeasyed.com.

Musicians, Fans and Mutual Support

Photo from Pixabay.

Musicians and fans are sharing common feelings in the midst of a pandemic: fear, anxiety, isolation, depression, sleeplessness, and daily visions of what potentially might be the worst-case scenario. And from my daily contacts with friends around the globe, it appears that we’re all waiting for the next shoe to drop. I suggest we let Leonard Cohen soothe our souls for a few minutes before we go forward. Why? Because that’s how it goes, everybody knows.

As a music writer I am in touch with a vast network of musicians, as well as those who run concert halls, clubs, festivals, and house concerts. Please pardon my language, but from all of the communiques and pleas I’m receiving, they’re all fucked. No other way to put it, but the fragile economy and supporting ecosystem of artistic creation in whatever form it takes has been shattered to pieces in a matter of days. From the most popular and successful musicians out on the road with a half-dozen 18-wheelers of equipment and luxury tour buses to the person who barely makes a living playing bar mitzvahs and weddings on the weekend, this viral scourge is completely indiscriminate.

Over the past week my inbox has been filled daily with requests to help support musicians. There are livestreamed concerts popping up with tip jars, websites to donate to money to non-working musicians, and of course reminders that you can and should buy merch. Our editor here at nodepression.com, Stacy Chandler, published a super helpful article titled “How To Help Roots Music Artists” that I would encourage y’all to read. Nevertheless, all of these solicitations and cries for help have left me feeling guilty for my inability to participate. I’ll share part of what I posted on my Facebook page after reading Stacy’s suggestions:

While people who are in the creative community have little or no safety net, there is an assumption that those of us with day jobs have the wherewithal to assist. The reality is that we too are hunkering down, worried if we can pay the rent, if we will get a paycheck next week, can afford food and medical care, and on and on. So I guess that while there are some things I can do — like not requesting a refund to a canceled concert, of which I currently have $350 invested — l simply can’t be made to feel guilty because I won’t buy your T-shirt.

My heart breaks every minute that I get a message or see a social media post from a musician who’s lost all their source of income, lost money on preparing for travel they can’t get refunded, or have invested every dime in a new project set to release when the world is too overloaded with worries on survival. So no answers here, and this article touches on significant ways to at least think about or consider.

If you thought that the headline of this column was insensitive or perhaps simply a grasp for clicks, you’re wrong. The roots music community is fortunate in that we’re small enough that musicians are close to their audience. Years on the road have created relationships and established bonds, and social media opens the door for personal communication. It’s not simply the music that connects us, it’s the spirit of being part of a community. And words matter.

Ana Egge, who recently released an album and had to cancel shows in Texas opening for Iris DeMent, posted this simple message that gave me some perspective as well as some comfort:

“While these are scary and crazy days, let’s not forget that these are also days that we are living to have more of. Especially those of us lucky enough to be stuck at home with the people we love. We can’t let ourselves be overrun by fear and anxiety and miss out on this time that we have together. To love each other and share our lives. If you’re not in the same house or apartment with those you love, call them and tell them.”

Jason Isbell tweeted: “Sitting here thinking of folks who might be stuck in a house that isn’t safe. Maybe if you have a friend who has a potentially aggressive spouse or parent, be as aware as you can right now. Check in.” and he posted the link for the National Domestic Violence Hotline. Brandi Carlile shared a helpful list of things people can do to protect themselves and their community, and Rosanne Cash wrote, “I got home off the road last night & am self-quarantining until the CDC gives the all-clear. I was on a lot of planes & in a lot of airports, hotels & venues. I don’t know if I’ve been exposed, & I don’t want to expose you. Let’s do this together, apart.”

These are just a few examples of musicians using their thoughts and words to help and connect with their audience, and I know there’s plenty more. Personally, it means a lot and touches me deeply when the people who enrich my life with their music take the time to let me know they are thinking about me as much as I’m thinking about them. Y’all have a big voice, and we all appreciate it when you use it in these troubled times. Stay safe.

This was originally published at No Depression: The Journal of Roots Music’s website, as an Easy Ed’s Broadside column.

Many of my past columns, articles, and essays can be accessed here at my own site, therealeasyed.com. I also aggregate news and videos on both Flipboard and Facebook as The Real Easy Ed: Americana and Roots Music Daily. My Twitter handle is @therealeasyed and my email address is easyed@therealeasyed.com.