Volume 14 – #2 – February 2011

Where are we going? By we, I mean, our species. This has become harder and harder to figure out as I get older. But maybe the purpose of one generation can never be the same as the next one or the next one. This is because one generation can’t understand, much less predict, what will motivate humans of the future. And just because I’ve been here way longer than a 25-year-old, it doesn’t make me an expert on anything other than what it’s like to be me. I have that down pretty well, usually, and don’t even want to think about what someone half or a third my age will be facing down the road. But being out there in the real world of entertainment all the time does force one to constantly consider the young person’s point of view, because most of this industry caters to only them. They’re the most impressionable and easily manipulated, plus they have access to their mom and dad’s money, who only want to please them, as well. And I can hear the music the kids are listening to and making, and I easily appreciate and often really like what I hear. But it takes a whole lot of specialness to make me seriously interested. It’s like there are a bunch of fresh-faced baby birds flitting about making sounds that I accept, even expect, but hardly ever command my attention. This is how I feel about almost anything that sits under that big ol’ pop umbrella, whether it’s rock, alternative, straight pop, hip hop, soul, country or anything else that fits oh-so comfortably, no matter what’s going on. Up to, and including, my parents’ era, progress-oriented cultures were only concerned, it seems, with wrangling down the big wild world and forcing it into submission for human pleasure. Build that dam, cut those threes, drill that hole, fight that war, put up another KFC! Then everything about that goal started to unravel. The world I saw as a kid, on shows like LEAVE IT TO BEAVER, would never go any further. That was pretty much it. Wally and the Beav and the majority of teens their age wouldn’t see the prosperity or feel the security that Ward and June experienced. The 60s came along and the establishment was brought to its knees. The dark side of the American dream was exposed. All of the problems with the system started to emerge and the fairytale began to fade away. Screw hope! The hope my mother and father embraced for the future, at best, has produced an environment that guarantees me a 24-hour convenience store nearby and more television available in one day than I can digest in a year. Their big dream only translated into more, more, more and fostered out-of-control greediness. It’s sorta sad, but for them it worked. Their dream was, indeed, realized until they got too old to appreciate any dream coming true, which is another topic worth analyzing. And my generation’s goal was to tear down most of their dream and build a new one that suited our desires more. Really, it’s just evolution. I can sit around and criticize my parents for being too class-conscious and determined to always improve their situation and turn around and look at today’s youth as empty-headed zombies, aloof, yet with a sense of entitlement that’s beyond ridiculous. I guess I can find fault and act like I know what’s good for them. I mean, it’s obvious that older people are prideful fools and the younger ones are irritatingly naïve personal-space thieves, right? See, I could find plenty to rag on about any generation, including my own, and I would probably be correct, as far as I was concerned, but who cares? This time, right now, is just the way it should be, based on all things, including physics and personal desires. We reap what we sow and we are what we eat. And, back to my original point, I’m not supposed to “get” what the old folks got, nor should I spend much time working the pulse of the with-it kiddos into into my veins. No point. Besides, students on Facebook and Twitter can bring down an entire country in a couple of weeks, which might never have occurred to me. I’m not on Facebook and I’ve never twittered. Apparently, it seems, youngsters in Egypt are not aloof as one might find elsewhere.

We were playing at Sam’s in San Antonio recently and a guy came up to me at the break and complemented the band. He said his name was Guitar Shorty, that he was passing through San Antonio, and wanted to check us out. I’d heard of Guitar Shorty and had even seen pictures of him. He gave me his card and it said he recorded with Alligator Records, out of Chicago. That made sense. It’s a blues label. So, we played a blues song for Mr. Shorty and the next thing I knew he was on the stage, holding his hands out for my guitar. So, I handed it to him and grabbed my accordion and we all jammed to “Get Close to Me Baby,” “Don’t Mess With My Toot Toot” and “She’s About a Mover.” Shorty’s style was very smooth and distinctive. He played some without a pick, at times turning chord manipulations into trancey solos. It was a nice surprise for us. I love spontaneous stuff like that and it’s fun to take the audience down an unknown path with you. Anyway, Guitar Shorty rocked the house and we all vowed to do this again and stay in touch. I need to send him something. His card has a mailing address on it, but no email address. No surprise.

Accordion monster, Guy Klucevsek comes to town in a matter of days and we are going to record some crazy songs with him. I’m just warning you. And by crazy, I mean crazy fabulous and just plain crazy. Lots and lots of notes. You are going to flip over it, I promise!

And speaking of accordions, the album Danny Jerabek and I have been working on is about ¾ finished. That means we have only about ¼ to go, which isn’t much, unless we decide to do more, which is likely, then the percentage will change and we will be less finished than we are now. Whatever, you’ll like this one, too. I bet you can’t wait.

So, the gigs continue and the day-to-day happy grind, known as Brave Combo, heads toward tomorrow with a confused look on its face, because that’s the way it is and always was. But in that confusion will be more discoveries that no one can predict. What’s wrong with that? Plenty, unless you have polka in your life. A life of worry and dread describes us all. How we break that vibe on occasion is what matters. Polka makes it easy. See you on the dance floor. I’ll be one of the people on stage not dancing, reading your inner soul. Here’s to everyone’s future, whether you want one or not.