Saturday, January 26, 2013

SOULFUL TRIP REVIEWED: PANAMA DOES NOT PLAY THE AURA LOUNGE

Murfreesboro, TN January 26 @ 3:22 am --Well, I didn't achieve my lifelong dream of playing the Aura Lounge in Murfreesboro, last night, but it's understandable.

Blame it on a lack of communication. Blame it on the Bossa Nova. Nobody involved was Wrapped tightly enough to make a difference. I include myself.

I booked myself through the owner's putative agent, while my friend Ryan booked himself through the owner directly.

So I don't know. The guy who owns the bar was back in Gatlinberg or someplace for a short while, and no conversations ensued between his august self and his putative (I love that word, but it just means “reputed”) agent.
(This is more than somewhat speculative on my part. It's only a possible scenario.)

So he books Ryan. She books me. Nobody notices this until Wednesday night.

So it came down at the Wednesday songwriters' thang at 3 Brothers, that they wuz a conflict. Of dates. Ryan, who has the upper hand (quite rightly, per musician rule #21), having booked directly says we'll work something out. Well, he also says he needs the bread. Like, hello? Who doesn't? I think, but despite the Facebook boring effortful stuff, I figure, what the hey?, probably ain't my kind of joint anyway, trust in it and let it go.

The lord will provide.

Except that yesterday, Ryan called and said the owner, see?, he still doesn't have a name to me. He asked him (Ryan) to text him my number so that he could ring me up. Blame it on a bad intelligence apparatus or on I don't give a shit, it don't matter.
I figured if the guy wanted to talk to me he'da given me HIS number so I could call HIM.
It's an amazing trip these guys who own bars and these guys who play guitars get on. Always gotta have a drama. It's like any initial contact has to be like psychological arm-wrestling....

So of course I never did hear from the guy (if you know him, tell him I said Hi) who owns the club.

Tomorrow, Saturday, Jan 26 \ WMTS, your local, sometimes extreme, sometimes hip college radio station right here in Mumblesbury, Yay! Is having a benefit at 3Brothers2-nite. Bring a small negotiable donation.
I go on at 8, and I'm gonna do a whole set. Please leave your weapons at home.

3 Brothers. On the north or west side of Main Street certainly not the south or east at least I don't think. They're really bubbas to each other, too. A nice buncha beers. Best dang sangwidges in town. Three Brothers...they have the art of hospitality and good food flows through their life...

It simply is not hard for you to find 3 Brothers. Get on West Main. You'll figure it out. Corner of walnut I think
panama

Saturday, January 12, 2013

Remembering Liberace

Panama Remembers Liberace
 

The other night Patty introduced me to a film I'd never seen: “Shining Through”, starring Melanie Griffith and Michael Douglas. It's a good flick and you should see it, but that's not why we're here today. In the movie they used the song “I'll Be Seeing You” a couple of times. I was thinking about that song and remembered that it was Liberace's closing number on his syndicated TV show in the Fifties.

Back in the 50s, when most of you had yet to arrive from Tralfamador, there was a daily afternoon television show starring Liberace. It was fifteen minutes long, and came on just after the afternoon soap operas and game shows, and just before Dad came home from work.

It's hard for you to comprehend, I know, but there was a time in America when most moms stayed in the house while Dad brought home the bacon. That is, there was once a glorious time in America when one salary could support a whole household. So that there were a lot of moms watching the afternoon shows while cooking, cleaning and the other things that moms did back then. Not that they don't do this stuff now, bless them, for they still do, but back then they didn't have to work for 75% of the money that men make for doing the same jobs. But I digress into socialism, feminism, and the disappearance of the American middle class, and we're not here for that, either...

Liberace's afternoon shows were not carried on any network. Rather, they were syndicated to scores of local television stations by Liberace's team of agents and publicists. Financially this worked out well for Liberace, because he was earning for himself what the stations would have had to split with the networks for carrying the networks' commercial-laden national programming. It worked out well for the stations, too, because they could cram some local advertising into the time slot and, except for what they had to pay Liberace, keep a whopping amount of this money for themselves.
Liberace was, for a time, the highest-paid entertainer in the world, selling out Madison Square Garden for a single performance which netted him $138,000 in 1954 dollars or about $1,200,000 today.

I can't talk about the Liberace television shows without talking about the Fifties in America. Liberace and the Fifties and America's housewives are seamlessly joined together in my memory. So you'll please forgive me.  I used to watch Liberace's daily afternoon shows with the same ardor I lavished on The Lone Ranger or Sky King on Saturday mornings. I was a fan. Well, not a fan, exactly, but even as a tad the young Panama was fascinated by pop culture. And Liberace popped. He was so far out there back in the Fifties that seeing his show was an open-mouthed event. Or something. He was fascinating is what I'm trying to say.

The other night I was talking to my wife about Liberace. Fortunately we are of a similar age and recall much of the same cultural phenomena. We will sometimes talk about the
summer (1957) that everybody was wearing pink and charcoal color combinations. Or the craze for madras that followed that. So that she is often a very effective sounding board for my unending (and unendurable she sometimes says) strokes of insight.

Today I want to return to those thrilling days of yesteryear and talk about Liberace. I want to make one thing clear: Liberace was gay. I mean he flamed. Yet no one who watched his shows and there were millions of us, ever mentioned this.
Why was this?” I asked Patty. “were people really that polite back then?”
No. It wasn't being polite. It was taboo. Nobody talked about it because it didn't exist. There was no such thing as being queer, or faithless marriages, and being born out of wedlock was, as you know Panama, an incredibly shameful thing. Best not to mention these things. So nobody did.”

Why was Liberace so popular with these Fifties moms?” I asked.

Because he was gentle and polite and soft-spoken and pleasant. Always dressed very well, always smiling, never needed a shave, and didn't put you on the spot for sex and stuff like that. He loved you for who you truly were. He was every woman's special friend.” I thought about this for awhile, remembering Liberace's shows. It seems to me that Liberace was to the moms of the Fifties everything that perhaps their husbands and their husbands' friends were mostly not.

He had a rigorous education in classical piano, spanning decades. As a concert pianist there were truly few who were his equal. Yet he realized that there was a much greater chance of personal and financial success in performing popular music. Quite often in all his shows, whether televised or live, however, he would feature a classical piece. For many of us, including me, he was the initial conduit to the finer aspects of music, while his performances displayed a joy in his music and love for his audiences that was lacking in the acts of many of  his contemporaries. He was a showman.

More than anyone else before or since, Liberace knew how to work television. He would look right into the camera, just as though the camera were a friend with whom he was spending a pleasant, small portion of an afternoon. And the effect was that he was looking right at YOU, and so happy to be there and especially to be in the company of such a special person as you. I mean the man was killer. Liberace would be playing along and singing and he would lean into the camera...you could see his flashing pearly teeth and his exquisite coiffed hair and his sparkling eyes, I mean it was like he was about two feet away from you. Yet he never violated your personal space.

And of course when the culture finally caught up with him and his type and he became merely camp,  a stock figure in a very tasteless joke, I turned away from him, as did so many others, mostly I think to spare him.   But there are still those of us who remember those wonderful afternoons in the Fifties, in a somehow better America when a smiling friendly wonderfully talented piano man would come onto our televisions and into our lives, and just for a little while, we would count, and we would be loved.

I'm not the only one who's been thinking about Liberace. Steven Soderbergh has directed a biopic of Liberace's relationship with his lover, toward the end of Liberace's life and career. Starring Michael Douglas(!) as Liberace and Matt Damon(!) as his paramour.

It'll be on HBO in February so they say. I can't wait.

Until then, I'll be looking at the moon, but I'll be seeing you...

                                                                        -30-
             



Tuesday, January 8, 2013

The Legendary
Panama red ! @THE AURA!
Friday 9 pm
January 25
There are those, guitar in hand,
who still prowl the seamy outskirts
of greatness. Panama Red is one of them...
songs that remind you of Townes,
Billy Joe Shaver, and Blaze Foley in turn.”
---Dave Pilot, Outlaw Magazine

Genius Manifested...”--Big Jay Johnson,
Honky Tonk House Concerts, Cleveland, Ohio

AURA LOUNGE


114 South Maple Street Murfreesboro

Saturday, January 5, 2013

PANAMA SOLVES THE IVORY POACHING PROBLEM

PANAMA SOLVES THE IVORY POACHING PROBLEM

Rockvale, TN, January 5, 2013-------This is probably the kind of thing one is not permitted to do on the internet. I suppose I'll find out pretty quickly if it is one of those things. But I'm gonna spew my guts here and send this epistle out as far and fast as I am able, and with any luck some person with lots of money and the fortitude to do something with it will read this and take action.

Couple of months ago you may have seen the feature in National Geographic about the wholesale slaughter of elephants – 25 THOUSAND last year alone – for their ivory, and about how the ivory makes its way to China where it is carved into various trinkets by skilled craftsmen and then somehow gets to the Philippines where this jaded old Catholic cardinal, bishop, whatever, collects it and has a manse chock-full of the stuff in the form of Jesus-type items. There were some pictures, but apparently the photographer was dissuaded from taking an actual picture of the monsignor(or whatever)'s huge (life-size?) crucifix made of ivory. (Note to Pope Benedict: you should maybe look into this, papa)

This doesn't account for all the ivory poached each year, but it does go a long way toward explaining the level of jerkitude involved at the consumer end of the ivory chain. After the Philippines, which seems to be the main terminus and transshipment point of all the ivory swag from China, the ivory not converted to Holy use goes to other destinations...you can probably buy some in any large coastal city on the planet. I am of course shocked, shocked I say, at the non-involvement of the Chinese government in this matter.

Why do we let this go on and what can we do to stop it?” we bleeding hearts have been asking this question while making snowballs with our hands for the last twenty-five years. (October 7, 1988 "AFRICAN ELEPHANT CONSERVATION ACT” 16 U.S.C. 4201-4245, as amended 1992) Here at least and in most of the rest of the world as well.

The remedy has been the one that has worked so well with the preservation of the mountain gorilla. Send in some armed rangers to apprehend the poachers. Wait. That didn't work out so well, actually. Ask the 300 or so mountain gorillas left.

Today in the New York Times, the watering hole where we liberal antelope go to drink in the daily blab and become impotently infuriated, I saw this morsel:




The Price of Ivory

Deadly Risk for African Wildlife Rangers

By JEFFREY GETTLEMAN
As ivory poaching gets more militarized, with rebels and even armies slaughtering elephants across Africa, rangers are wading into the bush to confront hardened soldiers. (NY Times, Jan 5, 2013)



Well, this is not working out well. You got these underpaid but well-meaning, we'll assume, wildlife rangers confronting the “hardened soldiers” Africa has been turning out since, well, since post-colonialism actually, and the rangers seem to be getting the worst of it.
There are many reasons an African might turn to poaching ivory. Well, no. There's only one: Money. Africa is a hard place to live, there is no food, no drinkable water, Jim, and if killing an elephant will net me enough money to get by a little longer, to further my cause or feed my family, then chances are I'm going to take my AK-47 and go kill me a elephant. And anyone who tries to stop me.
So over here in the First World we've been shelling out dough to keep our rangers, our elephant shepherds if you will, going and they've been trying. But it ain't working out. Bust one poacher, up pops another to take his place. Because Africa is, as I just said, hard. But this has gone on for far too long.
What to do, what to do?
You can't do it from either end. You can't take out this looney archbishop (or whatever), because he's got more money than God, in fact it IS God's money, and further, there are many more heartless and selfish bastards like him out there, and you can't take out enough poachers to make a dent on the supply end.
The solution to the problem.
Since we can't get at the problem from either end, we have to approach it from the middle. This makes sense, as it is in the middle that the greatest crime actually occurs. And it is in the middle that the chain has its weakest link. Why do poachers poach? Money. Who pays them the money? Why, the broker sitting in Mogadishu or whatever eastern African port where this stuff flows through on its way to China. Take out the broker, and you take out the money. When the broker's brother-in-law shows up to take his place, take him out, too. Continue taking out brokers and it becomes too risky for them to continue buying ivory. The price of ivory becomes too high. The brokers hire guards. You buy a drone. They escalate. You escalate more.
Why, Panama, you say. This sounds like you're advocating murder. Why, yes. Yes, I am. But I'm advocating for elephants, too.
So if there are any well-heeled, ballsy liberals out there reading this, you know what to do.
Every week last year, 500 African elephants were murdered. This carnage can be stopped, and the only way to do it is what I've just said.
It's time for the activists to act.
                                                                            -30-

Friday, December 14, 2012

the right to bear arms

PANAMA EXPLAINS THE SECOND AMENDMENT
A long, long time ago in a place called Europe, there were basically two classes of people: Nobles and Peasants. The Nobles owned the land, which had been given to them by the King, who'd had it given to him by God. The Peasants worked the land and made it produce by the strength of their backs and the sweat of their brows. Then the Nobles gave some of the produce to the King, and as a reward to the Peasants, would sometimes let the Peasants come into the Castle and watch them eat.

You can see right away that every once in a while an especially bright Peasant would realize that the Peasants were getting the shaft, and perhaps foment a revolt.

The Nobles, no dummies they, either, could see this, too. So they figured out a way to keep the Peasants down. And here's how they did it: they decreed that no Peasant could own or even learn to ride a horse, and Peasants were not allowed to have weapons, such as swords, in their possession. So whenever the Peasants rose up, the Nobles would just ride them down with their horses and skewer them with their swords.

You still with me, NRA? Because here's where it gets interesting. Allowing Nobles to have swords and not allowing Peasants to have swords became known as “The right to bear arms”.
Nobles had the “right to bear arms” and Peasants did not have “the right to bear arms”. Because if they did have that right, there was a very strong possibility that the Nobles would get their asses handed to them on a platter, the Peasants would no longer work for them and the King would be very angry.

This situation persisted in this place called Europe for a very long time, several hundred years in fact, until some of the Peasants (and Nobles) came to the hallowed shores of America. They had a war...we call it the Revolution, but it was really a rebellion...no matter.

After the colonists had won their war and had their own country for a while, it became necessary to have a Constitution. That's the one that begins “We the People...”

Included in that Constitution was a section now known as The Second Amendment. And what it said, and still does, is that everybody had “the right to bear arms”. Simple as that. But what it meant is no Nobles, and no Peasants. Still does. It didn't mean, nor does it now mean, that everybody should run out and buy an assault rifle.


Thursday, December 6, 2012

PANAMA RECOUNTS HIS DAYS IN THE PORNO INDUSTRY

PANAMA RECOUNTS HIS DAYS IN THE PORNO INDUSTRY

There was a time when I found myself in desperate need of actual work…actually there have been somewhat more than several of those times, but I’m only going to discuss one of them today. 

Anyway, I had a friend of sorts, a prince of a fellow, actually,  who owned a string of theatres which showed what were called “dirty movies” back then, and he offered me a job as a projectionist at one of his places.  I jumped at the chance, frankly, because in addition to earning some money I actually would learn a new skill to add to my set:  operating a Hortzon 35-mm projector.
It was a complicated machine.

My first day on the job I spent under the tutelage of a projectionist at a theater other than the one I was hired for, in order to learn the duties of my job. My tutor was an actual bonafide member of IATSE.   My job was basically to keep something on the screen at all times. Which required two projectors, so while Reel #1 was unwinding off Projector #1, I would be loading up Reel#2 onto Projector #2, and when I saw that little square in the corner of the screen, it would signal that it was time to unleash Projector #2 onto the fevered viewers in the darkness below.
The movies then were not much different than those of today(I know because I accidentally stumbled across some internet pornography when I mistakenly typed “video porn” into the Google search box), though there’s a lot more anal fascination currently.  It’s a cultural thing, I suppose.  But basically they were of the same format:  a lame (and always blessedly short) plot line leading to displays of sexual activity….the French maid, the lady cop, the neglected housewife and the pool guy, the teacher who keeps a student after class, your basic juvenile fantasies enacted on the silver screen.  There were also “hippies” in some of the flicks, as the world at large was pretty sure that “hippies” had great sex.  Those “hippies” are respectable property-owning, tax-paying  AARP members now, so we’ll leave them alone, shall we?  
One thing about pornography that I discovered back then is that, after a few times of seeing the same movies while waiting for that little square to appear in the corner, well, it gets to be at first boring, and then tedious, and then downright aggravating. The same camera angles recording the same coital positions, the same “ummms” and “ahhhs” and “ohhhhs” on the sound track. Over and over and over and over and over.  I mean there’s only so many ways….even when new movies arrived each week, they turned out to be just as dull as those the week before.
Another of my duties was that, if a film should break, I had to throw the other projector into action and take the broken film off its Hortzon and into a little room off the projection booth, where I would splice it back together. I learned to splice a film really really well.  The usual reel was about 12 inches in diameter.  One day while I was back there splicing a broken film, I happened to look under the splicing table and saw that there were two empty 18-inch reels.  Think about this:  if a twelve inch reel holds, say, 40 minutes of film, then an 18-inch reel, using that math stuff, will hold a lot more, because of the ever-increasing length of film with each turn of the reel..
I had an idea.

While showing the first movie for the day, I would splice all the other movies for that day onto one 18-inch reel, set it up on the other Hortzon and when the first movie ended, let it rip.  When it had finally unwound, I’d turn on the other projector while I respooled the 18-incher.  Once I got rolling, I was actually working about 2 hours out of every eight.
Nobody ever noticed that most of the movies seemed to be coming from the same projection window.  I turned the sound in the projection booth down  as well, and at last had a complete perfect job: one where I had to do almost nothing.  I could read the New York Times, for instance, even do the crossword puzzle if it was before Friday and therefore easy enough to do in the two and a half hours the 18-inchers were unspooling.  I kept a film on the other Hortzon just in case one of my splices broke and I had to turn it on, and to run while I rewound the 18-incher.  At the end of my shift, I took the splices back apart and restored them to their 12-inchers.  Nobody caught wise. 

All went along just fine, the films never broke, the place never caught fire, nothing happened.  I admit that I got a little laissez-faire.  I started cranking up the 18-inch and lying down to rest my eyes a little from all that splicing. 
My last day in the pornography industry happened like this:  I was lying on the floor resting my eyes, when I gradually became aware of the "thlip thlip thlip” sound of a broken film slapping the projector.  One of my impeccable splices had given way.  I opened my eyes and the first thing they saw was a pair of elegant millionaire Miami Beach pale green alligator shoes, which I immediately recognized as belonging to my boss and benefactor.   “Panama, believe me, I know this stuff is boring, but you cannot go to SLEEP, so I gotta fire you.  As soon as you finish today, you’re finished, okay?”
And so I undid my 18-inch reel for the last time, put the movies back on their proper 12-inchers, collected my pay (there was even a little bonus – I told you the guy was a prince), and walked out into the wonderful, sultry Old Miami Beach afternoon, cleansed by the sun.
                                                    -30-