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The weekly musings of one kErrY kOMpOsT, (financially) struggling musician, freak, whatever.

Thursday, August 11, 2005

Daaaaaammmmmnnnnn, boyeeeee, it’s been one hell of a while since I posted a blog-proper. I’ve got some news, blues, and schmooze to tell ya’ll about, so settle in, grab yourself an ice-cold chocolate milk, and relax. This is a “quick” update so, sadly, I’ve no time to add links or pictures. We’ll survive.

I think it’s Future Floor Wax-clear that I have been on somewhat of a fly fishing/backpacking binge of late, and why the hell not? The massive – MASSIVE, I tell you – amounts of rain we received here in Sunny Southern last winter has resulted in a veritable explosion of the local wild trout populations. The fishing this year has been absolutely remarkable, and I’d be a fool not to take advantage of it. So, that’s the bottom (fly) line for ya. Plus, fly fishing – as opposed to spin-casting, which I have done all my life – is a total blast, a complete trip, a mind-f*ck of the highest order. I love it.

In between fishing gigs, I managed to squeeze in a rare solo guitar-n-vocals performance at the 8th Annual International Pop Overthrow festival -- my seventh overall (in various and sundry capacities). This year, I brought out some of my “golden oldie” songwriting nuggets – old songs that basically no one has ever heard -- as well as a sort of fake-jazz-improve piece I spontaneously dubbed “All the Tea in China”, and played to a packed crowd of a dozen or so people. Not bad for an early Saturday afternoon. Later that same day, I strapped on a bass guitar and joined my house-mate and musician buddy Don Mogill in a rockin’ Power Trio format – featuring the fine drumming skills of playa-hater John Borack – effectively reinstating the two-years dormant The Dons. Good fun! I had my bass up so loud that the DI box vibrated off the top of the bass rig during the first song, rendering me soundless – mustn’t have that. It took me a gawd-awful long time to untangle the cords (I actually had to remove my bass) and get plugged-in again, but, hey, that’s rock-n-freaking-roll, right?

A couple-few weeks before that, The Abe Lincoln Story played a FUN FUN FUN show at The Steve Allen Theater as house band/masters of ceremony for the ongoing Cabaret Voltaire show, an evening of comedy, music, performance-art, and burlesque. We had an absolutely spectacular time, and the packed house (the place seats 150 people, a very nice and quite intimate space) seemed very entertained and appreciative. Highlights included The World’s Oldest Accordian Player (damned if I can remember his name now, but the dude – an Old-Skool Polish immigrant – was captivating and very cool) and solo performances by Abe’s Babes Melodee Fernandez (singing an operatic piece about a codfish and a whale) and Deena Rubenstein, who played a couple of her sparkling folk-pop tunes accompanied by an electric cellist, if memory serves. All in all, it was one of the best live performances I’ve ever had the pleasure of being involved with. Forgive me if I’ve already written about this show – the last few months have been a blur.

The Abe’s also played Bob Moss’ and Gus Hudson’s annual Fourth of July party, where our outgoing – okay, crazy – leader Steve Moramarco scared the SH*T out of the band by falling HARD during not one, not two, but several of his trademark David Lee Roth-style stage jumps (imagine the Michael Jordan “flying slam dunk” logo that used to be plastered everywhere: a man aloft, legs spread wide, straddling air – Steve’s always doing those, and hurting himself, I might add!). The party was insane with a capital F, and we rocked as hard as possible, although, personally, I thought it was one of our weaker shows. However, the band that followed us – ably led by my jazz-rock-ultra-cool-geeky-in-the-best-possible-way brother in music Carey Fosse – kicked total, utter @ss. Calling themselves Ghidorah, the band – featuring my new bro Pat Hoad on bass – were amazing, covering all sorts of cool old tunes (Crimson, Johnny Winter, etc.). Good times!

Remember my ultimate pop band The Ultra Suede? Well, we’re still around, but, for some reason, momentum for the project has slowed to a crawl; since our drummer moved to Orange County it’s been a bitch scheduling rehearsals. However, we’re planning on playing a party on August 27th, so check back here closer to that date for more details.

A couple of weeks ago, Nipper and I spent a wonderful long weekend with my family on a houseboat on Lake Mead, in celebration of my parent’s 50th wedding anniversary. We had so much fun, I can’t begin to tell you. The houseboat was way cool, with all the amenities of home, a great sun deck, a water slide, you name it. We spent 3 days swimming, fishing (of course!), listening to music, talking, and just hanging out, bonding. One of my favorite memories – one of many I might add – was of Nipper and I floating in the super-warm water at, like, 1AM in the morning, talking and laughing under a sky bright with stars and the milky-way, and with lightning flashing on the far eastern horizon from time to time. Absolutely spectacular. I had a fantastic time re-acquainting myself with my awesome sisters – Kim, Val and Kelly – and their spouses. A real treat was seeing my adorable 12-year old niece Morgan and my 11-year old nephew Barron, both of whom I hadn’t seen in a few years. It was also great to see my parents, whom I absolutely adore – they are truly remarkable people, and I love ‘em like crazy. My great brother-in-law Gary was “captain” of the houseboat, and he just rocked so hard it wasn’t even funny – you’d think he’d been piloting houseboats his entire life. What a great time, I’m feeling sad and empty right now writing about it, I miss everyone so much....

Which brings me to some pretty big news, for me, anyway.

A couple of weeks ago, it came to my attention that a certain well-respected prog-rocker was looking for musicians for his side project. I sent him an MP3 of a Tribeca song I had played bass on and expected that would be the end of it. Surprisingly, he called me within the hour, and we set up an audition for the following morning. SH*T! I had to get practicing IMMEDIATELY! Luckily, he called me back and said it’d be better to schedule the audition for a week later; damn, was I ever happy to hear that! Anyway that night, as I practiced the material, I decided that this project was WAY out of my league, musically-speaking, and decided to call him the next morning and cancel the audition, citing my reason as not wanting to waste his time. However, when we spoke the next day, he was very sweet and cool, and said “Look, I’m looking for musicians who are willing to learn; I’m the only “pro” in the band, I’m not expecting miracles, just looking for the right person with the right attitude. Come on over and hang out and don’t sweat it, let’s just jam and see what happens.”

So, over the Lake Mead weekend, I practiced and practiced the material until I had it down as cold as I’m able. He also had a great ballad that he wanted me to sing, so I practiced and memorized the lyrics and melody -- by the way, the lyrics, melody, and vocals on the recording were by one of my all-time favorite prog-rock songwriters EVER --- for that as well. Come the day of the audition, I was feeling much more confident about the whole thing.

Long story short, we jammed out – me on bass, him on SICK keys, his young son on slammin’ drums, and a hot-shot kid guitar-slinger, and we sounded pretty damned good if I do say so myself. We did some spontaneous jamming in various keys, messed around with some chord and time signature changes, made eye contact while playing, and just felt like a band. I tell you, to be playing music with this guy was nothing short of a dream come true. I about died every time he launched into one of his trademark outer-space mini-moog solos – WOW! I had to be extra careful not to let my attention from my bass parts waver as he solo’d; many times my jaw was on the floor – what a complete blast.

At the end of the session, he turned to his son and said “I think we have our bassist!”

Since then, I haven’t stopped smiling. We’ve already had two rehearsals, with six more scheduled over the next two weeks; I am working my @ss off for this but it’s going to be SO worth it! This guy has already recommended me as a vocalist (of all things!) for another one of his prog-rock projects, as well as inviting me to hang out with Steve Fucking Lukather (which, sadly, I had to decline ‘cause I was in the wilderness that weekend), so things are most definitely happening. This dude knows ALL the cats -- he’s worked with everyone from Aretha Franklin to Spock’s Beard, Eric Clapton to Phil Collins – so I am simply fastening my seatbelt and holding on! The main thing is I MUST KEEP PRACTICING this challenging material!!!!

Thus effectively ends ANY free time I might’ve had coming this fall. Hey, I’ll take it!

Thanks for reading, and lots of love, wildflowers and wild trout to you. Until next time....remember, architecture is frozen music; build yourself a white-trash mobile-home today. xoxox kErrY xoxox

Monday, August 08, 2005

Saturday morning, at precisely 5:30AM, LARiver, Sir Homey, Jake “The Rod Breaker” Halderman, and yours truly set off on a fly fishing/backpack adventure into one of the more spectacular Southern California canyons. The weather was very warm at that ungodly hour as the four of us set off on the trail, just as the first hint of morning light was beginning to illuminate the canyon and surrounding mountains.

The expedition was led by Sir Homey, who set a steady, quick pace, and who ably guided us throughout the many twists and turns of the trail. In some stretches, we hiked along a well-defined footpath high above the stream; in others, we were boulder-hopping alongside – and sometimes in – the gorgeous aqua-blue waters of the main fork. The quick pace found us at a certain landmark location by 7:30AM; another hour of hard-core bush-wacking and boulder-hopping lay between us and our final destination.

Soon enough, we found ourselves on a lovely, flat campsite not too far above one of the major forks in this most gorgeous canyon. After each of us set up our campsites, the fishing commenced. I decided to try my hand fly fishing the main canyon stream, along with Jake; Sir Homey and LARiver set off upstream on the beautiful crystal-clear tributary.

A generous benefactor had recently shipped me a Diamondback Diamondglass 6’6” 3-wt rod and Galvan reel; I had been planning on bringing this fine small-stream rig on this trip, but the 2-piece rod was simply too long to comfortably – and safely (Jake “The Rod Breaker” was on this trip, after all) – attach to my backpack. Instead, I packed the new reel and paired it with my trusty Cabela’s 7’6” 3-wt. The combination worked perfectly; I felt as if I were executing the best, most consistent casts of my fly fishing “career” thus far, with only three tree-snags the entire weekend, and about as many lost flies -- I can live with that!

Soon, Jake decided to head back to camp for a Guiness and a quick nap, so I had the main fork all to myself. After that, I saw not one single soul the entire time, saw nary a footprint, and noticed absolutely no other signs of human activity. Lots of deer hoof prints everywhere, and a little bear scat here and there, but not much else. Thunderstorm clouds began fulminating overhead, gathering strength, occasionally blotting out the sun, sometimes sending sonic booms of thunder echoing throughout the mountains. It was a beautiful and awe-inspiring; this picture is typical of the pools I fished:

Image hosted by Photobucket.com

Something inside of me kept saying “use a #12 purple beadhead wooly bugger”, so that is exactly what I tied on first. As I fished the first nice pool above the confluence, I felt a telltale strike. I re-cast and felt another strike. Third cast and BANG – fish on! As the wild beauty tugged at my line, I lifted my rod tip high and attempted to play the hard-fighting fish. Not ten seconds had passed – it felt like an eternity – before this feisty creature jumped completely out of the water and, with a few violent shakes of her head, shook the fly free, taking all of my hopes, dreams, and aspirations along with it. As the silver prize splashed back into the pool, I cursed myself for having lost her so easily. In hindsight, I realized that there was really nothing I could’ve done in this situation; the wild fish clearly had the advantage, and she took it. Survival of the fittest.

Undaunted, excited, and encouraged by the LDR, I continued to work the ever-clouding waters until late afternoon, which came much too quickly. Throughout the afternoon, the impressive storm clouds threatened rain, yet it never happened (in our immediate vicinity, at least), and the shade provided a welcome respite from the blistering summer sun. As the water slowly, almost imperceptibly, changed from ice-blue to milky-grey, it occurred to me that somewhere far above me, a thunderstorm must be raining fire and brimstone, it’s evidence clearly imprinted on the rising stream.

I tell you, I tried everything I’ve learned over the past two months to encourage fish to my net. After the wooly bugger stopped inducing strikes, I tried a #14 stimulator, to no avail. For the first time while fishing on my own, I tied a dropper below the stimulator utilizing a variety of nymphs and midges. Again, nothing. I tied on a strike indicator and added a split-shot for depth, and was unrewarded for my efforts. I became a kind of bizarre tying machine, switching patterns and approaches after every ten casts or so, slowly, methodically working my way though what seemed like my entire inventory of flies. “Maybe an EHC” I told myself. No dice. “How about an ant pattern drifted sub-surface under a Madame X as an indicator?” Again, the answer was no. “What about dead drifting a copper john?” Not today. And so on, and so forth, all with the same result: nada, nothing, zilch.

Soon the rumbling thunder was echoed by the grumbling in my stomach and, as I checked my watch while eating lunch, I was astonished to find that it was almost 4:00PM. Once again, the intense focus of fly fishing had caused my day to transpire in the blink of an eye, and what did I have to show for it? One LDR and a couple of (imagined?) strikes. Somewhat discouraged, but proud of my efforts, I headed back to camp to meet up with the guys and swap stories.

And what stories they told! I will leave it to Sir Homey, LARiver and Jake to post their reports, but, suffice to say, their photographs and tales of triumph made my day look absolutely worthless. As I flipped through the photos on their respective cameras, drooling over their gorgeous photos of fat wild fish, I began to have serious doubts about not only my fly fishing abilities, but my very decision making process. Why had I chosen to fish the main fork, as silty and cloudy as it was? Why oh why didn’t I follow Sir Homey and LARiver up the tributary where, obviously, they had had themselves one heck of a fine day? Why did I make such a bad decision?

With a mixture of greed and good-natured resentment (as if there is such a thing), I asked LARiver what fly he had used to drive the trout into such a state of reckless abandon; he opened his fly box and quietly handed me a gigantic hopper imitation. I laughed, thinking he was putting me on as he so often does; instead, he simply smiled, sage-like, and nodded serenely. “Try one”, he said, and off I went, practically skipping along the non-existent trail up the tributary canyon. I ran into Jake returning to camp from his own productive afternoon on the tributary. “I got some nice ones, I don’t smell like skunk anymore”, he taunted; “Time for a Guiness, good luck man.”

Gee, thanks brother. =)

After a few minutes of hiking, I made my way down to the stream, tied on the absurdly huge hopper, cast it into a sparkling sylvan pool, and was immediately rewarded by a 10” wild trout jumping clear out of the water, missing my presentation by a cougar’s whisker.

Oh, wow.

I cast again, and yet another fish jumped clear out of the water in attempt to slam the fly. “Holy #&$, this monstrosity works!” I said to no one in particular, giggling uncontrollably. Needless to say, I spent the last hour of useable daylight intensely working a ¼ mile section of stream, inducing many a strike, along with a handful of delightfully violent LDR’s, but no fish brought to net. However, the sparkle returned to my eyes, the spring came back into my step. “I can do this”, I thought to myself, and life was good again, just like that.

All too soon, daylight failed my aging eyes, and I returned to camp, revitalized. As we all prepared and ate our suppers, I noticed the distinct taste of skunk in my mouth, while it was painfully clear that the others were savoring the sweet taste of success. I vowed to get up earlier than anyone the next morning and tackle the beautiful little tributary with a clear mind and spirit, hopefully to be greeted by well-rested, hungry fish.

As I fell asleep under the starry skies, I entertained visions of wild trout dancing on the end of my line.

At first light, I got dressed and gathered my fishing gear as quietly and as quickly as possible. I returned to the sparking sylvan pool where the fish has been jumping at my offerings the night before. I still had LARiver’s hopper tied on. With much anticipation, I threw the hopper into the fast current at the head of the pool and let it drift down, down, then down some more. SPLOSH! A fish slammed the hopper, I gently set the hook, and the fight was on! This time, the fish didn’t jump at all; she held deep and I kept the pressure on and gradually worked her close to the bank and, with much relief, into my net. I took a moment to thank the Creator of the Universe as I revived her in the net, then proceeded to snap a picture for posterity; here she is in all her hump-backed glory, all sweet eleven wild inches:

Image hosted by Photobucket.com

Suddenly, the taste of skunk was gone, replaced by...well, you know the story.

The hike out was basically uneventful; LARiver, ever the Seeker of Monster Trout, tagged along streamside, fishing here and there, catching and releasing a number of fish in the 8” – 10” range, shadowing me, Sir Homey and Jake as we trudged the long, incredibly hot hike back to the cars. We parted ways fondly, vowing to do another trip in the near future, talking gleefully about locations and good fishing opportunities. Goodbyes were said, and plans for lunch were hastily devised; LARiver and I chowed down on a well-deserved Mexican feast, and, from there, it was all hot showers, beer and naps.

A good time was had by all; thanks, guys, for a great trip! Can’t wait for the next time. And, as always, thanks for reading!!!

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