Click for a screen-sized poster for the March 26th show in Everett:
Full-sized high-rez here.
Print them out! Give them away! Collect and trade!
March 26th Everett show poster
Fun with pixels
I’ve been doing a bunch of graphics work for the band lately. Last night I installed about a million new fonts. I was working on a poster for our March 26th show with Wes Weddell, so I was looking for fonts that might give strangers an indication of the kind of music Wes and we play.
I also found some fonts that I thought would be totally *wrong* for that purpose. So, after the jump are the Top Several Rejected ThorNton Creek Logo Fonts…
Continue reading
Frank
Tonight while much of the world listened to newscasters report the woes of the world, or made dinner, or finished up meetings about website re-designs, or waited for re-runs to begin, Frank Preston exhaled his final breath. In a world sardined with people it couldn’t have been the only death. But for one family, it was.
I don’t know all that much about Frank. He was a cousin. His mother, Mabel Combs, was my great aunt and the inspriration for a song I cleverly called “Mabel.”
Mabel was one of 5 (I think that’s right) sisters and at least 1 brother (Bill Bowman, who was down right nasty as I recall). There was Aunt Elizabeth, Margaret, Rosanne, Ada, and Mabel. Maybe there were more. Mabel was one of the smart ones and I thought she was great.
I never knew her husband. She lived in a magical little country home where Tenessee just kisses Virginia. She always had a ham hanging in the smoke house and there was a grape vine with the best grapes I ever ate on the side of that smoke house.
It was there, not more than 10 feet away from that smoke house, where my 2nd cousin, Melinda May Young, and I swore that when we reached the ancient age of 18 we would have a red Corvette, a speed boat, and live happily ever after. Yes, I am from the South.
My 16th summer was probably the best summer of my entire life. I went to London, Brussels, and Paris. Judy Grantham took me to a field to smoke marijuana for the first time. Robert Campany and I played music at the Barter Playhouse. I met a dear friend, Alicia, who would change my life. And, in the parking lot of Green Springs Presbyterian Church, one hot summer day, Mary B. Preston, daughter of Frank and Eleanor, planted one of the juciest, most memorable kisses a boy could ever dream of getting on my pubescent lips. Heaven was much closer than a stones throw away and all memories of that other cousin vanished in a puddle of sweat and tongue.
Ages passed. Mabel and the rest of us grew old.
One day Mabel, who by now was living in a “retirement village” in Florida (I think it was Florida), decided she needed to get back home to do her spring planting. She didn’t make it.
Frank and Eleanor took residence in her old home. The land had changed by then. The street was busier. No hams hung in the smoke house. But they made it their home.
Frank was a preacher. If you’re the type who believes in a Christian god, it would be easy enough to believe that God gave Frank vocal chords especially designed to call out the Good Word so that everyone within 5 states could hear it. That man was loud. Loud with humor, loud with purpose, loud with life.
I never heard one of his sermons. My experience is that Presbyterian sermons go on for days. And if it’s all pre-destined anyway…why would I want to sit through that? But Frank, Frank was a good man.
Funny, he couldn’t hear very well. He needed hearing aids.
He grew tomatos in whiskey barrells.
Before my own mother died, my father and mother grew tomatos. They began a ritual of making tomato juice and green tomato relish every year. That tomato juice was the key ingredient in the best bloody Marys ever!
After Mother died, Dad kept the practice up for a time, but then he tired of planting and harvesting. Frank would have none of that. He brought pounds of tomatos to my dad and demanded he make something out of them.
That’s real preaching.
Almost 5 years ago my father had a serious stroke. He should have died. I think he wanted to die. But when he lay there on the floor trying to make his body cooperate, he called Frank and Eleanor. They were supposed to be on vacation but they came back early.
I don’t think they got the phone call. But they came by to check on my dad. They took him to the hospital. Today my father lives in a “retirement village.”
Frank died tonight at 7 PM Tennessee time. My dad was probably watching CNN. I was in a website re-design meeting.
The world just changed a bit. It’s just that most of us will never know.
Frank was a good man.
TWBA questions
Way back in the dark ages shortly after I arrived in Seattle, I met Matt and Mary Beth Kite. They, along with a few transients comprised the band The Whole Bolivian Army. TWBA is rather like the Cranberries on speed with Mary Beth belting out beautifully and Matt (The Edge) cranking up the volume. Steve Miller used to play bass with them and it was Matt who insisted I let Don Miller play music with me. TWBA is very close to godliness.
Anyway, Matt contacted me and asked if I would answer some questions. “Whatever for?” I asked. “Why not?” replied Matt. He later confessed his plan was to post my answers on their website (very nice site by the way at www.twba.com as you might expect). I don’t know why he would do that or if he has, but because you’re you, I’ll give you the answers to his quiz right here. See you on March 26th at the Everett Theater.
Here are the questions and answers:
3 questions with Thornton Bowman of Thornton Creek
Q. We still remember seeing you at the Latona in the mid 90s, when you were a solo/duo act with Duane Taylor. Your music, not to mention your band, has evolved significantly since then. Could you tell us a bit about the changes that have occurred over the years? Were the changes conscious or spontaneous or … ? And do you have a favorite incarnation of Thornton Creek?
A. I remember shortly after that gig at the Latona I changed my diapers. All by myself. Ah, the Latona…now that was some place to play, especially with wet diapers. I was near there the other day and did not see a commemorative plague. Surprising. Not even any tartar. Or other raw meat.
Speaking of meat, mostly what has happened with the band is that we meatheads who play in it have aged. We’re a lot like fine wine now. Or rotting flesh. It depends (not to bring up the diaper theme again).
When I began playing I thought for sure that the adoring public would enthusiastically embrace me and my songs and send me down the road to fame and riches. I knew nothing about the reality of the music business, that it was, in fact, a business, and that people might tire of hearing me wax melodic if every song went on for a sobering 6-10 minutes each.
Of course the first big change was your convincing me to allow Don Miller to play music with me. Without Don most of what has happened would not have. You may recall he came in playing the Chapman Stick. It wasn’t until we were recording Songs From the Urban Watershed that he picked up the electric guitar to play a solo. He did it so sheepishly. And, yet, he was fantastic.
There were no conscious changes, only fortuitous ones. And when some of the changes seemed tragic (like when Duane left to pursue his life long dream of seeing how much honey he could fit between his toes, or when MJ left to – get this – to seek a life in Nashville making her living with music) things had a way of working out.
Mark joining the band turned out to be huge. It’s hard enough to find and keep drummers and bass players, but with Mark we not only got a drummer but an editor. Mark and Don have led the band in ignoring me. I thought I was above criticism because I wrote the songs the whole band played. But they have put me in my place, and now no song escapes edit and review. It’s a good thing. And, of course, having your old (my aren’t we aging?) bass player, Steve Miller, with us is amazing. And then Eric showed up, asked to play music, and *doesn’t* ask for money after a show – how great is that?
Regarding a favorite incarnation of the Creek, this one because it’s what’s happening. But I wish I still had MJ or that girl from Glee on backup vocals, and a horn section, and a fiddle player. Oh, and a beer wench and a piano player.
Q. How has fatherhood affected your songwriting? Do you approach the music — and being in a band — differently now that you’re a papa?
A. Fatherhood has been good for almost every piece of my life except for time alone and time with my wife. Every day is a lifetime. Some of those lifetimes are great, some awful, some okay, some both awful and great, but they’re all rich. The rugrats have introduced new ways to look and listen and create music.
I don’t approach writing music differently, and they even provide some material. I approach the music business a little differently because the children place a high demand on watching the purse strings. There are shows out of town I might have ventured to before the kids came that now I won’t fully consider because, as you know, most shows simply don’t pay for themselves.
An aside: sometimes I hate this business. You know the music appeals to some people in the world when people you don’t even know, people in other countries, write nice things about the music and even spend their money on it. But you still get asked from people who should know better, “Can I have 3 of your CDs? I want to come to your show; will you put me on the guest list?” And then the club owners say, “I love your music and it would work well here. I need you to guarantee me 50 guests. You’ll play at 1 AM and each band member may have 2 PBRs.”
Whew! Glad I got that off my chest.
So, yeah, kids. They’re awesome. Besides, if I hadn’t had kids I might never have listened to Casper Baby Pants or seen Phineas and Ferb. How dreadful a thought is that?
Q. Tell us about the new album, A Different Door. What was the inspiration for the new tunes? Any good behind-the-scenes anecdotes regarding the recording and production? This strikes us as your most traditional sounding album yet. Lots of old-school twang. But how do you hear it?
A. I think there’s a love hate relationship in the band with this project. The amount of love or hate varies with each cast member.
It came out of a personal desire, encouraged by MJ and some other singer/songwriter folks, to create a work somewhere in between In the Kitchen of the Blacksmith and Songs from the Urban Watershed. Moe Provencher at Jack Straw Studio (a fabulous songwriter, by the way) kept asking me when I was going to let her record some ThorNton Creek work. And then Mark began arranging the songs and, like that, we were recording.
We recorded with Moe until we ran out of money. Then Mark hooked us up with his friend Chris Spencer who had just almost finished his basement studio. That’s where we finished the work. It all cost way too much money, took too long, and emerged at a time when the consuming public is downloading songs rather than buying complete physical CDs.
You ask about anecdotes. There aren’t all that many. Along the way I consigned my gorgeous Larivee 12 string to finish paying for the project. The consigner found a buyer, and gave him the guitar on a lay-away play. I’ll write that again for emphasis. Gave him the guitar. Guitar gone. Then the consigner began bankruptcy proceedings. He still promises I’ll be paid. What was that line from Mary Poppins (so good to have kids)? “Promises are like pie crusts; easily made and easily broken.”
Outside of that, it was pretty uneventful. The drummer exploded 3 times, but he deflated again. Steve went crazy one day and began smashing his bass into an amplifier. Honestly, I can’t think of any more lies.
I enjoy the CD, especially Buzzard Out the Window, Roll Back Baby, Chocolate and France. I’m ready to record a more upbeat CD with all the material we didn’t record this last time. But I think it holds together and will surely cause the adoring public to enthusiastically embrace me and my songs and send me down the road to fame and riches. Some things never change.
Tings
Yes, I know. It’s been a while and you missed me. It hasn’t been because I didn’t have anything to say. No. I just couldn’t find the dedication to make the time or find the right words. And though that is completely my fault, I am perfectly willing to give someone else the blame if they want it. Any takers?
It’s been busy here at ThorNton Creek industries. Steve was sick. Mark was really sick. We ran out of beer. eric was gone and no one could find him. The CDs showed up and wanted attention. Don sanded his fret board. And I found a skin ailment that has eaten off half my face. Charming.
No, that’s almost true. And being the private person I am, I am only going to tell you about it.
(Warning, the following contains scenes of general yuckiness. So if that bothers you, Gentle Reader, fein offense now and pretend you’re no longer reading.)
I had an ear infection. I don’t know why I had an ear infection. One day it wasn’t there; the next it was. My standard response to illness is to say, “it will go away in time.” But this one took too long.
Eventually I tired of hearing my wife say, “Don’t you come near me with that thing.” She was, by the way, talking about my ear. You see, it has always been one of our jollies for me to chase her about the house, leading with my ear and…and…forget it. And I did what thousands of not very bright people do, I treated the inflamation with gobs of cortisone cream. The inflmation went away.
Or…did it?
After a time of relative calm when my wife would let me in the room near her, suddenly…(insert loud cannon fire sound here) my ears are hanging by bloody veins, my hair is falling out, my neck has grown 3 eyes, and my body is covered with microscopic green men constantly stabbing random places. Kids run screaming when they see me and life is generally a mess.
So much so that I finally gather up the courage to contact a doctor. Matt.
Doctor Matt (DM) is no ordinary doctor. More like a witch doctor. But a very nice witch. Yes, I took the plunge to venture into that ambitious world of pseudo-science called acupunture.
That was yesterday.
As involved as I’ve been in all things Chinese, I haven’t gone to an acupuncturist. But I was dying here and the CD release show was coming. I was frantic.
Matt is a wonderful person. One of those genuinely kind people who has probably never done anything crafty, dishonest or unforgiveable. Not a goody-two-shoes. Just a good person. People like that are an enigma to me.
I sat in his office, answered questions, laughed about laughable things and then got up on his table. He held my hand (I thought that was nice), squeezed my wrist, stared at my ears, and ogled my tongue. Then he made his diagnosis: wind heat.
Do you know what it feels like to be told you’re basically a walking fart?
Then the treatment began. Blood letting. WTF? Blood letting? Really? Are there leeches too?
He took blood from my right ear and then my left (ouch). Then he took blood from my left index finger. I offered him my middle finger, but he refused. Then he poked needles in my arms and legs and left the room saying, “take a rest.”
That was weird. But what was even weirder than that was that by the end of the session my neck was almost normal size, my ears reattached, and dozens of the green men had fled. I’m not healed, and so I still get to share any parts of my body that drop off at the show tonight, but I see a light at the end of the blood letting.
No chicken, no coffee, no alcohol for a while. Well… 2 out of 3 ain’t bad. Is it?
Ears looking at you, kid.
Posted in Uncategorized
Leave a comment
2011
Some of you may have missed it, but 2011 came around just like it was supposed to. I was sick and depressed at the time but heard all about the next day on the news.
I don’t know why new years has to come at this time. I was just at the point where I was prepared to undertake my resolutions from last year. Suddenly I’m supposed to come up with new ones?
When I was in third grade Mrs. Thompson was my teacher. I didn’t care for Mrs. Thomson. It wasn’t because she was a cousin and was at every family gathering (in the town where I grew up that meant everything from the church picnic to going to the grocery store). It wasn’t because of her moustache. I don’t know what it was really. Whatever it was, I really wanted to be in 4th grade.
When 3rd grade was over and we pre-pubescent hormones raced out into the sunshine of our summer dreams, all was grand and new. I lived through a year of Mrs. Thomson’s ministrations and the world was puddle-licious.
However, when the summer was over and we were marched again into the corridors of our scholastic retribution for being born uninformed, who was there to greet me at the 4th grade door? Yes, my moustached Mrs. Thomson. Disbeliving, I said something that earned me a quick ticket past “Go” and straight to the principal’s office. It couldn’t have been that bad since I knew so little, but it was enough.
I haven’t learned much more since then, but right now it feels like another year has begun and Mrs. Thomson is again at the door. I can’t wait until 5th grade.
Posted in Uncategorized
2 Comments
Avon Calling
It is once again that precious time in America when magazines hop out of the mailboxes addressed to Preferred Customer or Current Resident. “Pick me! Pick me!” they shine.
They sneak in through the cracks and fight for open spots in eye view. The dinner table is lost and coupons litter the floors. The kids oo and ah at the slick paper promises.
I feel like I should have some strong condemnation of all this, but I don’t. I want my shiney toys too.
But I have this vague sense that someone, somewhere (probably in New York in an office with a commanding view) has conscripted us all for their own monetary designs.
Our economy may be bolstered this year because savvy shoppers trampled each other for “black Friday” deals.
Happy Holidays
Posted in Uncategorized
Leave a comment
Don’s guitar corner IV
Not another bunch of Opry solos!
This was posted on Facebook by Fretboard Journal, and I had to watch it several times. Wow.
Highlights: open-string harmonics throughout. Descending bass run @ 1:11. Cool boots.
Posted in Don's Guitar Corner
Leave a comment
Holograms
I don’t know if you’ve been keeping up with this or not, but there’s a scientist named David Bohm who’s been making waves…okay, maybe not waves, maybe splashes…well, maybe small ripples with a theory that at the crux the universe is really a fantastic hologram.
woooo.
In the 1980′s another scientist did some experiments proving that, under certain circumstances, some subatomic particles seemingly communicate precise information regardless of distance. 10 meters, 10 light years, no matter. I don’t know how they did this since I wasn’t one of the subatomic particles they surveyed so don’t ask me . The point is they did.
But that’s impossible, right?
Right. Because in our “known” rules nothing can travel faster than the speed of light. Eienstein said that and he was smarter than the average bear.
But communication over 10 light years implies speed faster than the speed of light. Hmmmmm
Bohm explains this inconsistency using the holographic model.
When you slice up a hologram you don’t get half of the whole, you get a smaller version of the whole. In essence they are the same thing, only percieved differently. Given that, there is no distance to travel since what you are dealing with is perception and not a reality that can be disected by time or space. It’s a different picture of the same thing.
Weird.
I lay awake last night thinking about my memories. I have lived more than a few days but I was wondering just how many memories I could reconstruct about my life. Maybe 365 days worth? Maybe.
And I began to count.
I began with that beautiful day walking on the beach, surely Florida, hand in hand with my mother. She told me about the horizon, how the earth is round, about ships and Christopher Columbus (he was still a good guy back then). And, like magic, a sail began to appear over the horizon. And I looked over that expanse of Atlantic ocean and watched the world open up to me.
I counted bee stings, bats, snakes, ponies, stone chimnies, fights, the smell of tobacco, my first real kiss. (I can’t recall her name but she was a foreign exchange student of deep mystery with secrets to share. She had on white pants. My second real kiss came during the same week. I gave up my desire to be a priest soon after.)
I counted. And I think maybe I could have made it well over 365. But even that doesn’t add up to much.
My father had a stroke a few years ago. One night while driving him back to his small room that now is his home he said, “I have forgotten more than I know.”
Ain’t that the truth? Ain’t it?
A long while ago I began to realize that truth is mostly perception. There are the facts of a story and those are fine, fancy creatures. But they are nothing compared with what people believe about a story. This is why parables work; they aren’t dependent upon the facts to validate their truth.
And I tossed and counted and the Existenialist in me fought with this idea that objective reality might not really exist. Then I fell asleep. Good dreams.
It makes me happy knowing that everything I’ve believed might be wrong.
Posted in Uncategorized
1 Comment
Don’s guitar corner III
This is another Opry video with guys trading solos. I didn’t want to post something so similar to the last one, but in addition to the spectacular playing, there’s a little guitar geekery and history in this one that caught my eye. Probably old stuff for serious dorks, but civilians might find it interesting. (Hat tip to Sara St. John for posting this on Facebook.)
The guitar Keith Urban is playing is a replica of the original pine-bodied Broadcaster prototype Leo Fender made in 1949, later renamed “Telecaster” after a trademark dispute with Gretsch. The prototype differs from the production model, most obviously in the head shape, with traditional 3+3 tuners vs. the 6-on-a-side production style. (I admit I had no idea Urban could play. Nice surprise!)
The guitar Marty Stuart is playing is famous on its own. It has a name, “Clarence”, after the original owner Clarence White of The Byrds. There’s a prototype bender system built into the body, which became known as the Parsons-White B-Bender. The strap is attached to a lever, so that when the player pushes down on the neck, the lever pulls the B string up a step, allowing pedal steel effects. You can see and hear him do it about 2:37, just before they cut to the grinning lady in the red dress. The Parsons-White bender system is still available, and Gene Parsons still makes and installs them. White died in 1973.
Next time, something completely different.
Posted in Uncategorized
3 Comments
