Volume 5 – #1 – January 2002

As you know, the old clock on the wall says it’s a brand new year. It’s a chance to wipe the slate clean and try again; to correct past mistakes and put the pain of 2001 behind us, or at least create enough distance to have a new perspective. 2001 seemed lopsided from the beginning. Even before September things felt out of balance. I don’t want to trivialize the events of September 11, so I’ll just say “Happy New Year!”

I guess 2002 is getting off to a pretty good start for Brave Combo. Both of our releases from last year, ALL WOUND UP (children’s musical album) and KICK-ASS POLKAS (polka album) have been nominated for Grammies, and we combo boys are pretty psyched. It means that we get two medallions from Tiffany’s this time. Cool. I need to do something proper with those things. Should I wear them occasionally? I’m not into jewelry much, though maybe I should be. I could start dressing like a pimp or an insecure cowboy. This is Texas. We have pimps and cowboys all over Texas. And we have lots of pickup trucks roaming the streets and highways. One time a German filmmaker I was working with thought it was hilarious that lots of guys at polka festivals wore cowboy hats. I responded with, “What? This is Texas.” This is the land where Tejano meets Bohemia; where the Guadalupe flows through New Braunfels. Conjunto legend Tony de la Rosa used to get inspiration from the Texas/Czech bands that played around Corpus Christie. Accordions and horses make sense here. So let’s open our eyes and polka.

Speaking of cowboys and jewelry, I’ve noticed that lots of cologne and/or after-shave lotion usually goes with that combination.

Did I mention in an earlier newsletter that I’m working on a recording project called HYMNS FOR ATHEISTS? I start recording this month and some really talented folks will be there with me. It’s about the music. More on this later.

A lot of people are telling me that they’ve been eating too much lately. I think there are many reasons. Of course, almost everyone goes overboard during the holidays and then it’s hard to eat less when January kicks in. Also, winter, even if it’s mild, is a time to hole up, get cozy and pig out. There’s nothing quite like sitting by the fire with something pleasant on your tongue, followed by that satisfying swallowing sensation. It’s an antidote for many things, including depression, despair and boredom. It’s immediate and often colorful. I’ve always found that buying fast food was a sad process, though. You go up to a counter and look at an unimaginative menu on a wall and tell your order to an aloof machine in teenager’s clothing. Then, a few minutes later, you’re handed something hot, wrapped in fresh paper, tucked in a brand new sack. You anticipate the joy of opening the sack, reaching in, pulling out the warm prize, looking at the food with hope, and eating. This all happens so quickly, it’s practically nothing. I mean, before you know it the food is history and the paper and sack are undesirable garbage. Yet the TV commercials would like us to think differently. They apply so much significance to the same old, almost non-existent thing. Strolling down a cafeteria line staring at the attendant scooping out food can really make me uncomfortable too. Life is hard and sometimes it feels like we depend too much on these shallow little perks to get us through. Convenience stores are almost totally geared to quick-fix temptation. No wonder people sell recreational drugs around them so often. Okay, there’s no more to be said on this topic. I wonder if I have an eating disorder? Hmmm.

When I was in high school in Texarkana I often hung out with my friend, Cliff. His father, Mr. Garner, died recently. As I was looking at his picture in the obituary, a flood of memories swept over me and I remembered how much I enjoyed him and his family. When Cliff and I would cruise T-town in his Dad’s car the music pouring from the 8-track player would become the soundtrack for my living travelogue. And Mr. Garner’s tapes were great. Included in our choices were lots of recordings by Bob Ralston, Lawrence Welk’s organist. The sound of his organ was light-hearted and creepy at the same time. And the song selections could be a Brave Combo set list. There was lots of vibrato and reverb on the melody, which was beautifully draped over crisp rhythm tracks. Let me tell you, nothing could compare to gazing into the lobby of the old Grim Hotel at midnight while listening to “Tico Tico.” Oh the mystery, the unknown, the forgotten. This was definitely not cookie cutter stuff. I always wondered why the desk clerk at the even funkier Hotel Holman had a quarter-sized hole in his forehead. And the sign at the top of the stairs at the Ross Hotel that said “Bath – 50 cents” just blew my mind. I think there were prostitutes at that hotel. The small, discreet neon sign at the bottom of the stairs filled me with a peace I can’t describe. When Brave Combo first started touring around the country, before we had everything so efficiently figured out, I was perfect for this job and it was perfect for me. Every exit on the Interstate meant a potential adventure, at least in my head. These days we’re so chic and worldly and sophisticated and, as I said, efficient, that predictability usually rules. And the times have changed considerably as well. We now have a comprehensive highway guide that tells us if there’s a McDonald’s or a Taco Bell coming up, but never mentions if there are any mummified beggars.

Speaking of mummified beggars, there’s a small town in Arkansas, a few miles north of Texarkana that was home to one of the weirdest things I’ve ever seen. The town was Prescott and the specific location was the Cornish Mortuary. I had heard that Dr. Cornish developed a system of embalming that was superior to all others (though his secrets died with him) and that a preserved man was standing, as testimony to that fact, in a storefront window at the funeral home in downtown Prescott. Well, of course, I had to check this out. So, my friend Roy and I took an afternoon trip to Prescott. Sure enough, there was a Cornish Mortuary, but no dead guy in the window. We went inside and inquired and the funeral director said they had to take “Old Mike” out of the window and put him in the back because he scared too many kids. Anyway, we were led down a couple of dark hallways and into a storage area full of caskets. In one corner there was a casket of sorts standing on its end. The funeral director walked over to it, opened it up, flipped on a light inside and there was Old Mike, standing erect with his right hand formed into an open fist as if he had been holding something. As it turns out, he had been. The inside scoop is that he was a nameless beggar who spent his days at a park in Prescott selling pencils for handouts. Most people knew of him, but no one really knew him. And one day, he died. I guess Dr. Cornish took him to the funeral home and experimented on him. The process obviously worked. Old Mike looked great. His skin had turned dark over time and was as tough as leather, but generally he was just fine. The only maintenance he required was to have his socks changed every so often because they would fill with oil. We were told that Dr. Cornish shaped Old Mike’s hand into the open fist and stuck pencils in it for the window display. He (Old Mike) didn’t smell bad at all.

One night, in Austin, in the early 80s, Brave Combo backed a singer named Arthur Brown, who’d had a big hit in the late 60s called “Fire.” I was excited to have the opportunity to perform with him, cause I loved that song and the album, THE CRAZY WORLD OF ARTHUR BROWN. I don’t know how we got the gig. All I knew is that Arthur had moved from England to Austin in the late 70s and had become a carpenter. Anyway, we met him at the club the night of the show and talked about what we would do together; improvise for 90 minutes. He didn’t want to sing “Fire” and we wanted to play some polkas. Everybody got their wish. I think the music we created was only mediocre, but it didn’t really matter. It was fun. Years later we were asked to do something similar with Screaming Jay Hawkins, who coincidentally was a major influence on Arthur Brown. They both wore flaming headgear as they performed. Unfortunately, Screaming Jay wanted to bring a gun with him from Los Angeles to Dallas, so the promoters cancelled the show. That was a shame, because when I was discussing the show with Screaming Jay he mentioned that he wanted our sax player to follow him into the women’s rest room during one of the songs. I guess that was Jeff’s loss. Whatever, Screaming Jay has since died and his body was transported to Prescott, Arkansas. The last half of that last sentence was a lie. I don’t know where his body is, though he often started his set from a casket on stage. I think I heard that Arthur Brown did as well.

Okay people, that’s enough music talk for one month. I hope the new year looks good up to this point. I would like to encourage everyone, including myself, to get in the moment and try to stay there for a while. It’s worth the effort. Tell your friends to go out and buy a copy of KICK-ASS POLKAS. It’s not just a CD of polka music, it’s an investment in your future and it’s also a cheap piece of plastic. Love to all, including the most despicable among us.