T. Willy Rye's Desert Island Discs- 5 February 2012

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T. Willy Rye
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T. Willy Rye's Desert Island Discs- 5 February 2012

Postby T. Willy Rye » 05 Feb 2012, 06:31

My parents met at a polka dance in Southern California in the mid 1960s. I still haven’t received a proper explanation of why my mom was there (she couldn’t have been more than 21) but as for my dad, polka seems to be in his blood. He had played the accordion since he was a boy and he just dug it, digs it. Even today my parents often still plan their vacations around polka gatherings/ cruises, etc.

You want to go to Spain this year to see your daughter and granddaughter, Bob?

Nah, we’ve got a polka festival in June in Western Pennsylvania.

My earliest memory of music was a mix: the song stylings of the Ray Coniff singers, a little Tony Orlando and Dawn, some Elvis, Charlie Rich, Patsy Cline and of course the dreaded polkas of Frankie Yankovic and Joe Fedorchek. Such fare as “I Don’t Want Her You Can Have Her…She’s too Fat for Me.” left an indelible impression on my adolescence. I would eventually discount all of my parents’ music--there was something unforgiveable about my dad blasting polkas as we arrived at soccer practice--which was unfortunate for there were gems hidden among the minefields of shit. Our town, Hemet, California, was a retirement community/agricultural mecca and my grandfather had been the self anointed ”Potato King of the Valley” until mismanagement and feuds with his brother forced bankruptcy in the ‘60s. Today a shopping center that houses a Wal-Mart is the only thing that can testify to my family’s once flourishing agro-business. A sign reading “Page Plaza” lights up the night, next to a Dollar Tree and check cashing establishment. Outside of the annual Ramona Pageant there weren’t any cultural goings on, or none that I could discern.

After my parents, my older sister Shelly (born in ’67) was my next musical mentor which was not really fair to her or me. I remember watching the Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew show with her and of course she, like all girls of a certain age, pined away for Shaun Cassidy. I tell you this because it is at the heart of a very controversial Christmas. Allmusic is telling me that Shaun Cassidy’s record came out in ’77. As was our custom, we (my cousins, siblings, and I) were allowed to open one Christmas gift on Xmas Eve, and wouldn’t you know it, I--not Shelly--received Shaun Cassidy’s album. I don’t think it was my first lp, but certainly near the beginning. When I opened it in front of my cousins, 9 and 11 at the time, I immediately knew something was wrong. “Eric, did you ask for that record?” my cousin Terry challenged.

And I’m not at all sure I didn’t, but of course I said, “No, this is for Shelly.” Terry, an Aerosmith fan, sensed some intervention was necessary and spent the rest of the night spinning the B side of my reissue 45 of “Got to Get You Into My Life” which just happened to be “Helter Skelter.” I was 8 and freaked by the whole Charles Manson thing, but that night something changed for me. Though my sister and I had spent hours listening to music together, pulling our money and buying 45s from the Top 20 endcaps at K-Mart after church on Sundays, from that night forward I would consider what my macho cousins would think about what I listened to- they were my idols, I wanted to be good at football like them, not math. Gone were the days of Starland Vocal Band or Captain & Tenille. Shelly had a portable turntable and later a full blown stereo that would beckon to me. I often snuck into her room when she was gone to listen to FM radio or her copy of Dream Police or Billy Squier’s Don’t Say No, but for the most part I was at the mercy of AM radio--whatever KFI or the Mighty 690 would play. I started to become aware of AC/DC and Van Halen, two bands heavily endorsed by my muscled cousins. Around 7th grade I was able to acquire sums of money that would allow me to buy whole albums, and I would also ask for them for my birthday and Christmas. Some of the early albums I obtained were Queen’s The Game, Van Halen’s Diver Down, Asia S/T, and the Cars’ Shake It Up.

Later in 7th grade, my cousins passed Def Leppard’s “High and Dry” my way. They had recorded it from their 8 track so I’d get that fade during “You Got Me Runnin’” and “No No No.” Still, those inopportune fades didn’t interrupt my enjoyment. My friends, not me I swear, were beginning to smoke pot and the possibility that there was a world of excessive drinking and loose women just on the horizon was absolutely thrilling. I became metallically inclined after that. If I chose this music to get me chicks (and getting chicks factored into nearly all of my decisions from age 12 to 25) this was my first of many very poor decisions. My cousins recognized a convert or believed they played some crucial role in my musical development. They took me to many shows from ’83 to ‘86, when I could finally drive myself. I saw: Maiden, Priest, Ozzy, Van Hagar, Ratt, Dio, Dokken, etc., and for some reason KISS three times sans make-up.

[youtube]IHZyoKCOD9A&feature=related[/youtube]

This album inspired many wicked air guitar solos with a lot of attention to the tremolo bar and no, that’s not a euphemism for masturbation. My Catholic upbringing didn’t allow for such lapses in character, but my adolescent mind was able to justify the emphatic singing of lyrics such as: “I’ve got my whiskey, I got my wine, I got my woman and this time the lights are going out.” and know I was alright with the man upstairs.

At 16 I started to think that there might be something unseemly about approaching adulthood as a Judas Priest fan. Thirty year-old metal heads I had met gave off an aura of defeat or were in a state of complete denial. I decided that I may have other aspirations than twin jet skis for me and my amply-racked bitch and a keg in a custom built frig in our garage. Classic rock seemed safe. The Who, the Kinks, Led Zeppelin and the Stones were favored among my classmates that were college bound. My fellow metal heads were beginning to disappear and not just to the parking lot between classes.

I started at San Diego State in 1987, the largest college in California at the time, and though it was hardly the pace setter for intellectual endeavor, I noticed pretty quickly that I couldn’t throw a rock without hitting someone smarter, more charming, or better looking than myself. If I wanted to gain the attention of anyone interesting, I would have to put forth some effort. Music was the easy first move. 1987 might seem like a poor year to fling oneself into music obsession, but this is where things really began to take off for me. Everyone loved the Cure and the Smiths, so I would too, but for me this period will always be associated with the Mats. I know many of their detractors on here view them as a glorified bar band, but at 18 they were perfect for me. Their tunes got under my skin and just lived there, so that listening to Tim or Let It Bleed still feels like home. To think I drank like the Mats was romanticism at its most naïve, but Paul Westerberg seemed to phrase my inertia in ways that rang true; a “slacker’ well before the Linklater film. There are songs I would love more, but this is the one that got me thinking:



I rushed a fraternity and met Matt Wilson. At the time I didn’t have strong political or philosophical convictions and didn’t realize that what frats stood for would be repugnant to me later. But if you’re envisioning perfectly bronzed surfer types talking up vacuous blond sorority nymphs than you would be wrong about my frat. Your first clue would be a house that would take both me and Matt. I really don’t have much to add to your knowledge of Matt Wilson today. At 22 he was pretty well formed, mostly indifferent to us younger guys but I guess in me he recognized someone with at least a hint of his affliction. Matt and I would have these summits where I would try to steer him to indie music of the late 80s/ early 90s and he would castigate me for the many gaping holes in my knowledge of rock music. Some of his tips I was more than ready for and became favorites right off the bat. VU’s Loaded was pretty much on constant rotation in my college abode in ‘88, but it would take a dozen years until I came around to Pet Sounds. In short I learned a lot from Matt. I don’t think I was able to convince Matt of its greatness, but the indie record from this period that had the most profound effect was Surfer Rosa. It was a revelation, weird--with those distorted guitars delivered like an avalanche, vocals screamed sometimes nonsensical or in Spanish. I could pick any of the songs really, but maybe due to the haunting backing vocals I’ll go with:



Where is My Mind?

With the Replacements I came a little late to the party which was so often the case with me; a day late, a dollar short, but I hit the Pixies as they were rising. Even though their descent came quickly, for that brief time it seemed like something unique and important was happening and I was finally there. Doolittle came out in ‘89--Debaser felt like it was written for me as I’d just seen Un Chien Andalou months before and was on a quest to see as many Bunuel films as I could find. I still remember their UCSD show as a triumph for non rock stars. They delivered this blistering set, but with such humility. The Trompe Le Monde show a few years later was a glaring contrast where Kim Deal could barely manage to remove her cigarette to sing backing vocals; the band wouldn’t even look at each other. I’d dropped out of the fraternity, realizing it wasn’t going to provide me with like-minded friends (Matt had graduated) and started seeking out people from my jobs at bookstores or lit classes. San Diego’s beautiful weather inspired happiness in most, but I grew to hate its mixture of Reagan-worshipping politics and beach stoner culture. I actually witnessed the following come out of a student’s mouth as Steel Pulse blared from a fraternity house in the background,

Hey bra, are you going to get irie and if so may I partake?

My job as a receiver at B. Dalton Bookstore in the mall in San Diego allowed me to blare my music in the back room as I checked in the product that my coworkers would soon stock. One of the books I came across was Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung. My friend, Tony, who had turned me on to Television, Richard Hell, and the New York Dolls insisted I read it. Lester Bangs’ entries on Lou Reed and the NY scene were inspiring, but more influential at the time for me were his entries on jazz, in which I’d just begun to form an interest. I became a devotee of LB—my professors were not thrilled about my newfound enthusiasm for semi-colons, dashes and parentheses.

One of the records Lester touted, A Love Supreme was my gateway to more challenging music, but Black Saint and the Sinner Lady is the one I made everyone I came into contact with listen to. Mingus is so ambitious. I won’t even pretend to say I understand the narrative that he’s going for and I lack the understanding of composition to explain what the hell’s going on in it, but it feels like he’s trying to cram the history of jazz into this piece. The way the second part starts out in this lovely Ellington space and then the band completely destroy it with those sinful horns and that relentless pace before the motif from the first portion returns to reclaim the piece—it’s astonishing, that’s all.



I began working at the piss-poor Music Plus, a horrid music chain that existed primarily to push Top 40 fare. I’m sure I was one of those insufferable music store clerks who cast judgment from my lofty position of minimum wage chronicler of taste. I guess, too, I was feeling some embarrassment about my common roots and began overcompensating for them. After Coltrane and Mingus became frequent plays on my stereo, I started to explore more out artists such as Albert Ayler and Sun Ra while at work I would field questions about Another Bad Creation’s CD-single Iesha. I also met my friend, Dan, pretentiously English (in the best sense) who turned me on to chamber music. Much like my foray into jazz where I skipped many of the pioneers responsible for its establishment, I passed right over the likes of Beethoven and Bach for the twentieth century composers. While listening to guys like Bartok and Alban Berg we talked about a connection between those free jazz cats and post modern composers, the way they jettisoned traditional form and were able to create unique structures that were elusive yet often exciting or at least I was able to convince myself I saw this connection after reading Valerie Miller’s book As Serious as Your Life. I’m sure I overshot my intellectual capacity by miles, but Friday nights spent at my house with Shostakovich’s String Quartet no. 10 proved more rewarding than not being able to muster up the courage to chat up a girl at the Alibi (my local watering hole in Hillcrest). Dan started hanging out at stereo shops with crotchety old guys that had sunk thousands of dollars on their systems and introduced me to them. These men had a dismissive air about them and only came alive when talking about guys like Andrew Hill; they also spoke bitterly of ex-wives. I remember giving one guy a ride home; he paid me with two Elliot Carter string quartet records--they were the same record, but each had a flaw on a different part of the record. I guess I saw the writing on the wall: Welcome to your future. With one foot planted firmly in the at least somewhat co-ed ground of what was soon to be called alternative, I hoped some cute indie chick with thrift store flare and an unhealthy Sylvia Plath fixation might take an interest in me.

As my 20s pressed on, I noticed something that I had taken for granted in my life was all but disappearing. Many opportunities had presented themselves in my teen life for drunken dancing--high school dances where I pounded Schaefer Lights in some dark remote corner, waiting for the DJ to play Kiss by Prince or later at 20, house parties where after consuming several ounces of tequila, I pretended some expert knowledge of salsa to dance to David Byrne’s Rei Momo. But in one’s 20s drunken dancing was a pretext for hooking up, and while I wasn’t against the latter happening, such expectations almost always ended in disappointment (I’m kind of a sweater) and I was not going to face the humiliation of going to a Pacific Beach meat market like The Red Onion--its motto could’ve been: Fostering date rape since 1982. I suppose I felt that if I removed that last one percent chance of me bagging the shit-faced one, I could just relax and enjoy myself. The Flame, a bar that catered to a gay clientele, was just the spot—lesbian night was my favorite and so…



Jonathan Richman’s Dancing at the Lesbian Bar

If only I could see the world from Jonathan Richman’s perspective—experience the chemicals that provide that youthful enthusiasm and creative cleverness without ever falling victim to my two crutches: sarcasm and cynicism. In the half a dozen times or more that I’ve seen him, he’s always lost in his performance, grinning- it’s infectious for at least a night or so.

Alas, I knew one thing: I had to get out of San Diego.

And so I moved to San Francisco in ‘94 and things picked up immediately. The streets were teeming with 20-something music-junkie liberals. You really couldn’t avoid them and I certainly had no intention of doing so. I would make a deal to see Suede with a female friend at the Fillmore if she would accompany me to see Seam at the Great American Music Hall. Sun City Girls at the Bottom of the Hill and then free jazz on a Saturday night. It was my idea of heaven. And within a month of moving there, the woman who would become my wife called me.

I didn’t have what one would call moves; let’s just say I was persistent. One night I invited Margie to see Charlie Haden’s Quartet West (classy), but I didn’t think out dinner arrangements and we spent the time before the show chasing down some food for her in an area that shut down at 5 o’clock. She ended up eating an oat cake, something with the approximate shape of a hockey puck and roughly the same texture. Another night we ate at Le Mediterranee, a good Mediterranean place in the upscale Pacific Heights neighborhood of SF, but the movie we went to see later, Heavenly Creatures, well, if you haven’t seen it, let’s just say it ends badly. A few weeks later after ingesting fair amounts of alcohol, a group came back to my flat. I had the large front room of a SF Victorian that I shared with three other people and I put on Gang of Four’s Entertainment! A sort of Marxist disco erupted in my room—at least for Margie and me. Our asses shook as John King uttered “It’s Not Made By Great Men.” The others looked on, confused, but we began to see each other in a new light. I caught her leafing through my cds and records- hoping she might be admiring my Eric Dolphy albums. She informed me later that it was my large Led Zeppelin collection that helped her to see me as a potential mate. So if there are any kids reading this at home, I want you to listen closely: Don’t try so hard; Eric Dolphy will not get you laid. Somehow she managed to resist my charms for five and a half months, but in the end I prevailed.

It’s much easier for me to write about my miserable times, rather than my happy ones--I’ll try to steer clear of the nauseating. In ‘96 Margie and I moved into a tiny one-bedroom in the Cole Valley/Haight area of SF; this began the period of doing everything as a “we,” including determining what we would listen to together. Our apartment didn’t really allow for a lot of time spent alone. With the aid of headphones, I could’ve continued to pursue music by myself, but I didn't want to create a wall between us as I chased down those fleeting moments of truth that more avant-garde listening provided. I was more than happy to give up Cecil Taylor for Bill Evans. Margie had been working in publishing for two years when we moved in together and I vowed to get my shit together. No longer would I slack off as a directionless substitute teacher eschewing long term teaching tasks like lesson plans and grading papers. So I took a job teaching middle school history. The last thing anyone wants to listen to after spending the day with 175 middle school students is free jazz. And Margie liked Blue Note artists, even bought me my first Dexter Gordon album (Doin’ Alright).

One of the routines we settled into as a couple was Friday night at Radio Valencia where Ralph Carney’s band The Blue Room Boys played standards. There was no cover and we couldn’t believe our good fortune to see this guy who played on Remain In Light and was frequently employed by Tom Waits play regularly for paltry donations in the pass of a hat. I feel like we paid them back for those underpriced gigs when we hired them to play at our wedding in 98; they learned this for our first dance:



Chet Baker- Let’s Get Lost

I’m not sure what I did to deserve the affections of this beautiful, smart, and funny woman. Now getting lost is made up of the 1- 2 hours between putting the girls to sleep and conking out ourselves usually in front of the TV watching the Daily Show and Colbert Report, but at one point it meant a hike in the Muir Woods, a walk in Golden Gate Park or just staying in bed until noon. I love my daughters, really, but I miss those days.

I know many people see the 90s as a musical wasteland, but SF was really jumping, people flocked there to get rich in the whole dot-com bonanza. Amoeba moved into the old bowling alley on Haight, a dangerously close three blocks away. At first I always felt guilty going there, like I was cheating on Monster Records (one block away). It was at Monster that I’d bought my first Lee Morgan album (The Rumproller), but soon it was impossible to resist the seemingly endless inventory of Amoeba. Monster was forced out of business soon after. And there were countless venues to see live music. Morphine, PJ Harvey, Built to Spill, Golden Smog, Sleater-Kinney; all bands that released records that we loved in the mid to late ‘90s; all bands we were fortunate enough to see live. We developed a shared listening life, even establishing a favorite Dylan record (Planet Waves). Margie even forced me to give up the deep seated bias that the Beatles were overrated.

We were grown up kids with reliable incomes. The album that epitomizes that time best for me is Beck’s Midnight Vultures, an album that feels as though the Dust Brothers assembled it with sound fragments from the garage sale of my pre-metal youth with the nodding approval of the Dazz Band, Beck in the center as sometime wigga gangsta but mostly as a convincing Purple One. Maybe the greatest Prince song ever…



Debra

The record was frequently featured in parties that I threw or attended. My buddy Tony had also made the migration from San Diego and felt the same way about Midnight Vultures. Always waiting until he was well liquored, I would then throw on the record. He couldn’t resist Debra and was soon contorting his six foot four inch frame into unnatural positions while he tried to coax his voice to an octave no grown man has any business going. I couldn’t escape his magnetic pull and almost always joined in. The party usually broke up soon afterward, people avoiding eye contact, knowing the less said the better.

Just as Tony’s interpretation of Debra put an end to our parties, so too did the new millennium end this phase of our life and we knew we had to leave our tiny apartment and also SF. After a brief flirtation with Austin and Providence, RI, we decided we were Bay Area lifers and relocated to the East Bay in ‘02. At first I was devastated to leave the city, but the East Bay offered more square feet/$. In addition to history, I began teaching English. I remember listening to English teachers bitch about grading and thinking, “Yeah, whatever,” but then I found out. Maddy was born in ‘03 and searching out new music took a back seat to domestic responsibilities and the grading of writing. I think everyone should have the experience of grading 75 seventh grader-penned persuasive essays, just once in their lives. New garden shears and bathroom fixtures were purchased rather than Blue Note reissues. Instead of searching out new music, I looked back to old favorites; the Replacements, the Pixies, all things Jeff Tweedy, the Blue Note catalog, particularly Mobley, Morgan and Grant Green, but maybe more than anything, Exile on Main Street. I remember the copy I had had for 15 years was stolen from my car the day we brought Maddy home from the hospital, perhaps it was the act of buying it again that renewed my interest; it must be the most-played album I own. There have been many different favorite songs from this one, but currently Let it Loose is it. I know Mick can be an unpleasant person, but even if this is the only record they ever produced, he would get a pass in my book. He hasn’t been able to locate it for over thirty years, but at one point he had a pretty deep reserve of soul. When he’s right, he’s my favorite singer.



As a father I’ve not always shown restraint in trying to steer my daughters to “the right sort of music.” It all started well enough and I was quite proud when a two-year-old Maddy could correctly identify T. Rex’s “Jeepa” from its opening guitar riff. She would go on to form enthusiasm for such eclectic fare as Beck, Son Volt, and Desmond Dekker, but after learning to read, she discovered she would rather pursue Harry Potter and voiced that she only liked classical when she started taking piano lessons. Corinne (born in ’07) would fare much better in a house that valued Lady Gaga, Britney, or Beyonce more, but she seems happy enough with our olive branches of ABBA, KC and the Sunshine Band, and Best Coast. Burdened with all kinds of responsibilities, I took stock of my life. I wasn’t happy that I could name more My Pretty Ponies than albums I had bought in 2008. When I joined facebook I thought it might be an opportunity to reach out to my friends who now longer traipsed through my life with boundless music suggestions and start a community of music lovers. I started a group called Music Swap which started out with some mild enthusiasm but petered out quickly. The last posts met with hostile silence, but about this time (in late ’09) I came across Matt Wilson again.

Matt’s invitation to join BCB was a fortuitous one. The site seemed to be everything I was searching for, but also incredibly intimidating. In real life I’m that guy who is really into music, but I learned pretty quickly that I needed to shut up and learn a lot, take notes and come to find that I still really don’t know shit. I have to thank Balboa, Six String, and the other jazz cats for ushering me in BCB’s back door through the Jazz Workshop. I’m sorry if I’ve been a disappointment, but I fear my attempts to hijack the thread and turn it into a Blue Note gushfest about Big John Patton and Grant Green seemed to be trying the patience of some. Still I read the thread religiously; it is the best written one on the site. I also must thank the Fish for establishing Mix Club, an ever changing community that I feel lucky to be a part of. Thanks must go out to the JUOTA 10 (particularly Minnie the Minx whose fabulousness can not be qualified with Earthly measurements) and LA crews who were so welcoming to me. Too many individual posters to thank for helping me to regain my music compulsion, but two stand out: though he’s like 10 years younger than me, the Count has been an unsuspecting mentor in all things groove oriented. Also NolaMike deserves a nod for his professorial talents in New Orleans 101; my Amazon purchase history suggests I may be ready for some upper division credits. But if there’s one person who embodies what is great about BCB, that ability to connect with someone halfway (or more) across the world about some obscure track that may be out of print, that person for me is Ange. I hope that through some trick of the cosmos that you and your El Camino will be transported to this Pacific Coast. I know that passenger side is reserved for members of the fairer sex, but I’m thinking just this once you’d let me ride shotgun. I’ve picked out a stretch of San Pablo Ave where the landscape that rolls by your window reflects an aesthetic that still sees the opening credit sequence of Sanford and Son as the high-water mark for urban planning. And you know I will have put together just the right mix.

Though I’ve picked my eight songs already I’m taking another. That Def Leppard track was just for narrative purposes and my list is decidedly light on grooves. I have a reputation to uphold for the eight of you who are still reading or are interested in my musical pursuits, so…



Not sure if I found out about the funky tunes of West Africa from Billy’s thread, but I have become a full on convert. The Sweet Talks are about as groovy as any muthafuckas out there.

As for books, The Complete Works of William Shakespeare seems a boring answer but probably the best one. I’ve never really enjoyed anything as much as reading Kurt Vonnegut, but I did so in my 20s. Maybe a collection of his stuff.

Luxury item: If there were any justice in the world I would be forced to take my Yamaha bass that I’ve managed to almost entirely ignore for the last 19 years, but maybe I could upgrade to a six string, perhaps a Gibson SG? I don’t play so I’m going to need a book on basic chords. Does this mean I have to give up the Vonnegut collection?

Thanks to you that have stuck around to read this, remind me if we ever meet—I owe you at least one beer.
Last edited by T. Willy Rye on 25 Feb 2012, 06:08, edited 4 times in total.

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Re: T. Willy Rye's Desert Island Discs- 5 February 2012

Postby Minnie the Minx » 05 Feb 2012, 09:36

Sweetheart, that was a bloody wonderful read and it must have taken you ages. Great descriptions of a journey with music. Thanks for sharing!
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Re: T. Willy Rye's Desert Island Discs- 5 February 2012

Postby Count Machuki » 05 Feb 2012, 16:37

Nice one, man!

This bit made me feel kinda proud and sentimental and flattered...

Too many individual posters to thank for helping me to regain my music compulsion, but two stand out: though he’s like 10 years younger than me, the Count has been an unsuspecting mentor in all things groove oriented.


:)
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Re: T. Willy Rye's Desert Island Discs- 5 February 2012

Postby Jeff K » 05 Feb 2012, 16:45

Wow, that was a marvelous read. If there's anything 'disappointing' about you it's that you don't post nearly enough. It's also funny to see that Matt has never changed his ways.
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Re: T. Willy Rye's Desert Island Discs- 5 February 2012

Postby sloopjohnc » 05 Feb 2012, 16:49

T. Willy Rye wrote:Eric Dolphy will not get you laid.


My new sig.
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Re: T. Willy Rye's Desert Island Discs- 5 February 2012

Postby Nolamike » 05 Feb 2012, 17:36

Wow, that was fantastic! Thanks for the shout-out - I'm insanely flattered by it.
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Re: T. Willy Rye's Desert Island Discs- 5 February 2012

Postby Minnie the Minx » 05 Feb 2012, 17:49

Nolamike wrote:Wow, that was fantastic! Thanks for the shout-out - I'm insanely flattered by it.


Yeah.

He mentions the JUOTA 2010, and never mentions me once.
:x
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Re: T. Willy Rye's Desert Island Discs- 5 February 2012

Postby T. Willy Rye » 05 Feb 2012, 17:59

T. Willy Rye wrote:Thanks must go out to the JUOTA 10 (particularly Minnie the Minx whose fabulousness can not be qualified with Earthly measurements)

I'm not sure how you missed this. It's even in bold.

Thanks everyone for the kind words.

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Re: T. Willy Rye's Desert Island Discs- 5 February 2012

Postby Nolamike » 05 Feb 2012, 22:29

By the way, your polka-loving dad probably knows of my friend's dad, who was a bandleader and accordionist the polka circuit years and years ago. I (shamefully) don't know his first name, but his son is Mike Czech (and seeing as the guy gave his son that name, the guy was probably quite the joker).

And again, that was a great read, T. Willy!
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Re: T. Willy Rye's Desert Island Discs- 5 February 2012

Postby fange » 06 Feb 2012, 03:59

That was great, E, absolutely brilliant.

You’re like my Anglo-American doppelganger in so many ways it’s quite freaky, huh – similar ages, similar jobs, similar kids situations, and of course the many shared musical loves (Chet Baker's version of Time After Time was the second song i asked for at my wedding reception; the first was Etta James' At Last) – though I must say that when it comes to most 80s US Metal I wouldn’t really know my Ratt from my Poison (see what I did there though?) :)

And you just know I’m up for that drive, man. The El Camino is purring already. One day.
We'll make it a road-trip across the Big Muddy and pick up Mike and the Count, then point the El C towards Good Time City.
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fange wrote:I've got my quad pants on and i'm ready for some Cock.


By CHRIST you're a man after my own sideways sausage, Ange!

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Re: T. Willy Rye's Desert Island Discs- 5 February 2012

Postby copehead » 06 Feb 2012, 13:38

sloopjohnc wrote:
T. Willy Rye wrote:Eric Dolphy will not get you laid.


My new sig.


He will if you are courteous and slip him $20
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Re: T. Willy Rye's Desert Island Discs- 5 February 2012

Postby Corporate whore » 07 Feb 2012, 08:08

Great read, although the music confirms that I don't like Jazz!
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Re: T. Willy Rye's Desert Island Discs- 5 February 2012

Postby Magilla » 11 Feb 2012, 04:32

Bloody fantastic read T.Willy, really enjoyed it. Your fondness for your family, music and the Bay area really comes through.
"U2 routinely spent a year in the studio...I have a theory: if you put four monkeys in the studio for a year with Lanois and Eno and Lillywhite, they would make a pretty good record, too."

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Re: T. Willy Rye's Desert Island Discs- 5 February 2012

Postby T. Willy Rye » 11 Feb 2012, 15:58

Nolamike wrote:By the way, your polka-loving dad probably knows of my friend's dad, who was a bandleader and accordionist the polka circuit years and years ago. I (shamefully) don't know his first name, but his son is Mike Czech (and seeing as the guy gave his son that name, the guy was probably quite the joker).

And again, that was a great read, T. Willy!


I've been meaning to ask my dad about this Czech fellow, but he's been away on a cruise, I can't remember if it's polka-related or not.

Fangedango wrote:You’re like my Anglo-American doppelganger in so many ways it’s quite freaky, huh – similar ages, similar jobs, similar kids situations, and of course the many shared musical loves (Chet Baker's version of Time After Time was the second song i asked for at my wedding reception; the first was Etta James' At Last) – though I must say that when it comes to most 80s US Metal I wouldn’t really know my Ratt from my Poison (see what I did there though?) :)

And you just know I’m up for that drive, man. The El Camino is purring already. One day.
We'll make it a road-trip across the Big Muddy and pick up Mike and the Count, then point the El C towards Good Time City.


I'm not sure what you're suggesting up there, Ange, but I can assure you my father has never been to Australia, though my Grandpa Lou was quite the playa and if his path ever crossed your grandmother's, I'm sure he made his best pitch. That would make us-- cousins?

I'm thinking if we're picking up Mike and the Count for our fantastic voyage, better pick up the Gran Torino from the shop-- it would really suck for two grown men to ride bitch for 2,000 miles, even with the grooviest mix.

Thanks Magilla.

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Re: T. Willy Rye's Desert Island Discs- 5 February 2012

Postby Nolamike » 11 Feb 2012, 16:30

T. Willy Rye wrote:
I'm thinking if we're picking up Mike and the Count for our fantastic voyage, better pick up the Gran Torino from the shop-- it would really suck for two grown men to ride bitch for 2,000 miles, even with the grooviest mix.


The wife might let us borrow her Mini Cooper. The Count could ride on the roof. :)
Sir John Coan wrote:Nolamike is speaking nothing but sense here.


Loki wrote:Mike is Hookfinger's shill.

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Re: T. Willy Rye's Desert Island Discs- 5 February 2012

Postby Belle Lettre » 11 Feb 2012, 17:37

Well..wow!

I really agree with what you said about Jonathan Richman, that's just how he appeared both times I saw him, admittedly quite a while ago.

Great job.
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Re: T. Willy Rye's Desert Island Discs- 5 February 2012

Postby Six String » 11 Feb 2012, 20:52

Nice read and thanks for the props T. I have to say that the arrival of Ange and you gave the Jazz Workshop a much needed injection of invigorating youth.
I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy helping people discover jazz. It's the way I learned a lot as well. I''m grateful for my friends who helped point the way when I was younger and greener and hell I'm still learning from you and others here as well.
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Re: T. Willy Rye's Desert Island Discs- 5 February 2012

Postby fange » 12 Feb 2012, 01:23

Nolamike wrote:
T. Willy Rye wrote:
I'm thinking if we're picking up Mike and the Count for our fantastic voyage, better pick up the Gran Torino from the shop-- it would really suck for two grown men to ride bitch for 2,000 miles, even with the grooviest mix.


The wife might let us borrow her Mini Cooper. The Count could ride on the roof. :)



Fear not boys, i've made some minor alterations to the El C for extra passengers.

Image

The fridge is full but i think we need more Fritos.
Jonny Spencer wrote:
fange wrote:I've got my quad pants on and i'm ready for some Cock.


By CHRIST you're a man after my own sideways sausage, Ange!

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Re: T. Willy Rye's Desert Island Discs- 5 February 2012

Postby T. Willy Rye » 12 Feb 2012, 15:28

Fangedango! wrote:Fear not boys, i've made some minor alterations to the El C for extra passengers.

Image

The fridge is full but i think we need more Fritos.


Damn Ange, that's a fine looking ride. If I had any reason to doubt your commitment to this endeavor, those doubts have been vanquished. I can only imagine the nervous stares of the schoolmarms when you drop your girls off.

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Re: T. Willy Rye's Desert Island Discs- 5 February 2012

Postby Nolamike » 12 Feb 2012, 15:29

Fangedango! wrote:
Nolamike wrote:
T. Willy Rye wrote:
I'm thinking if we're picking up Mike and the Count for our fantastic voyage, better pick up the Gran Torino from the shop-- it would really suck for two grown men to ride bitch for 2,000 miles, even with the grooviest mix.


The wife might let us borrow her Mini Cooper. The Count could ride on the roof. :)



Fear not boys, i've made some minor alterations to the El C for extra passengers.

Image

The fridge is full but i think we need more Fritos.


Sweet!

Fuck fritos, I know a spot where we can get some killer cracklins!
Sir John Coan wrote:Nolamike is speaking nothing but sense here.


Loki wrote:Mike is Hookfinger's shill.


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