May 2008 Archives

As if you poor people hadn't already had to read too much about my whole "return to Chapel Hill for reunion show" thing, you're about to get a whole new dose, because next Friday, June 6th, I'll be back in town--at the same exactly storefront where the Pressure Boys had their reunion--for the 25th anniversary of the Transactors Improv Company.

The only difference: this time I'll be one of the performers.

Yes, I'll be taking the stage once more, recreating my role as musical accompanist to the southeast's premiere improv theater troupe.  Though the Transactors had formed in 1983 as a children's theater group, they soon shifted to performing improv comedy, and by the time I was in grad school (1987-1990), they'd started to acquire a reputation as really good improv comedians.  I'm pretty sure the person who made me go to my first TIC show was the inimitable (well, actually, I do a pretty decent imitation) Peter Spruyt, who prodded me to go because our friend from our CHHS theater department days, Allison Heartinger, had joined the troupe.  I'm pretty sure that at that time, the quartet consisted of Allison, Tim Johnston, Stephen Cragg, and Mark Miller, but before long we had even more reason to go to Transactors shows, because Mark left and was replaced by yet another CHHS veteran, Dan Sipp.

Dan's obsessive study of film soon led him to create my favorite of his characters, a snobbish and even MORE obsessive film critic named Edward Comus.  Edward usually appeared in a scene Dan and Tim would do where each played half of a Siskel & Ebert-like team of critics reviewing movies suggested by the audience and acted out by Stephen and Allison.  Tim's character invariably loved everything and would give a movie two or even three thumbs up; Edward invariably loathed everything, but the humor lay in why he hated it.  He would choose the most obscure and ludicrous reasons--the wardrobe, the font in the credits, you name it--and then excoriate the film in the most withering tones possible.  My favorite was his dismissal of Casablanca on the grounds that "Bogart is just too thin in this movie.  He looks unhealthy."  And when he had to summarize his review, he would do so not by giving the film one star, but by giving it something tiny and unpleasant, like a rusty thumbtack, or the most negative acknowledgment of all:  "I give it a dry crumbly thing."

Stephen was hilariously creative, but it wasn't long before he decided it was time to move on to Hollywood, and Greg Hohn joined up.  Greg, originally from Minnesota, had been an English major at UNC, which of course made him a worthy individual in my eyes, and his supremely twisted sense of humor didn't hurt, either.  But with Stephen gone, the troupe had lost its one instrumentalist, so Dan suggested that they might want to pick up an accompanist on the side:  me.

Because I play almost exclusively by ear on both guitar and keyboards, I'm actually a pretty good fit for a group that depends on improvised music.  I spent most of my time at the piano, adding background music as necessary (the occasional mad-scientist chords to add suspense, for example) or playing a little entre-scene music while the audience applauded.  Once I made up a lively little sprig of a tune as Dan was coming out to introduce the next scene, and Dan smoothly said "Thanks, PC.  That's a little ditty we call 'Dan's Theme.'"  I promptly played it again, just to mess with him, and from then on he knew that I was going to play it--at least once per show--when he introduced a scene.

I also had to play more or less seriously during two sequences, "Blues" and "Musical."  In the former, I would play a standard twelve-bar blues while the foursome made up lyrics on a painful subject chosen by the audience, anything from dandruff to parking tickets; it wasn't terribly difficult, and in fact it demonstrated just how close to improvisation a lot of blues music actually is.  "Musical," however, was a real challenge.  The audience would suggest a problem, and Tim and Allison, who both had terrific singing voices, would create a scene based on confontring and overcoming that problem--one featuring three improvised songs.  With the blues, the form, melody, and rhythms are all pretty simple and obvious, but in a musical theater setting, we could end up doing everything from a lilting waltz to a steaming tango, and the singers and I had to be careful not to do anything really weird, as we might throw one another off-key or out of tempo.

In "Musical," typically, the problem would be something like "impotence" or "allergies," but one night, someone in the audience--in fact, I'm pretty sure it was Peter Spruyt--yelled out "Tone deafness!" and we were stuck trying to perform songs about a guy who couldn't sing.  Tim gamely started the scene at choir practice, with Allison as his director, and when it came time for him to sing a hymn, he attempted "Bringing in the Sheaves"--which I didn't know.  Nonetheless, while I played something stately and churchy, he delivered an ear-splittingly wretched vocal over the top, simply repeating the phrase "bringing in the sheaves" over and over, and then after a moment turned to the audience and delivered a perfectly sung soliloquy ("Is my voice that bad?  Why is she wincing so?" etc.) which I then followed.  It was a nice bit of work on Tim's part, and it served Peter right for being a smart-ass.

Of course, Peter was the inspiration for my favorite Transactors scene ever, so I shouldn't kvetch.  When asked for a "relationship," most audience members would yell "father and son" or "husband and wife," but one night Peter called out "chicken and egg."  Greg seized the moment boldly, pushing Allison out to center stage, and stood right behind her.  He then tapped her on the shoulder and said, "Umm...excuse me, but I think I was here first."

"SCENE!" yelled Tim at once, and we went to blackout.

I spent about a year and a half with the troupe, performing monthly at the ArtsCenter in Carrboro (which is where the reunion show will be next week) and taking trips to exotic locations such as Wilson, Sanford, and Jefferson, NC, as well as getting a nice weekend at the beach for the Piccolo Spoleto Festival in Charleston, but my show-biz career was, alas, short-lived.  Once Kelly was pregnant with Ian and we had to move to Fayetteville to do the whole start-a-family-earn-a-living thing, I had to step down from my lofty position as Transactors accompanist, but I'm happy to report that the foursome I worked with--current members Dan and Greg and former members Tim and Allison--will all be there for the reunion, so I'm hoping we can rekindle some of the magic.

Of course, not everyone believes in magic.  During my last weeks with the group, as we were auditioning replacements for me, one guy we'd invited to see the show met with us backstage afterwards.

"That was great!" he said enthusiastically.  He was an experienced musician, but he'd never seen any improv theater before.

"Thanks very much," said Tim.

"I mean, the illusion was complete."

"Illusion?" asked Tim.

"Yeah, it really looked like you were making it all up."

We all looked at each other, smiles fixed on our faces, and knew, just as clearly as we knew anything about each other as performers, that this guy was not going to be sitting on my piano bench.

But if you want to see my ass in it again, come on out next Friday!

Transactors Improv Company: "If you laugh, we're doing comedy. If you don't, we're doing drama."

*Holy crap.  It's May the What?  I haven't posted since the When?

*In my defense, I spent one whole weekend getting a newspaper out, have taken two advisee outings to Culpeper, took Kelly out for Mother's Day, took a weekend in Chapel Hill, and have had something like eighteen dorm duty dates during the past two weeks.  Okay, okay, I've actually had only five duties since May 1st.  But ordinarily I get them once every six days, not once every four days, so I'm feeling a little more put-upon than usual.  Still, it's only natural:  I had to trade two duties away back in January in order to get free for our production of I Hate Hamlet.  Alas that I accepted two dates in May for those duties.  I'll rethink that tactic next year.

*What is there to say about this story other than the subject?  Remote Control Flying Penis. 

If you don't click on that link, you have no sense of curiosity at all.

*Speaking of penises, big props to the California Supreme Court for ruling that the state has no business dictating whether a pair of consenting adults ought to be allowed to marry if the spouses possess two or zero penises between them.  The biggest surprise to me has been how relatively quiet the uproar has been over that eminently sensible decision.  I feel sure it'll be brought out during the general election when it becomes apparent that McCain can't beat Obama without playing the homophobia card, but I keep hoping that said card won't trump the Democrats' chances this time.  Please, please, please.

*Bright colors are back. Not on the Paris and Milan runways--not as far as I know, anyway--but in the rural Virginia area.  Last Tuesday I spotted a handsome pair of Orchard Orioles in a spruce near the Walker Building--male and female.  On Saturday I logged the year's first Scarlet Tanager (male) down by the river, and today I saw the first TWO Indigo Buntings (both males) on a wire.  Chestnut, yellow-green, scarlet, and bright blue--it's like the Seventies!

*I recently finished Michael Lewis's Moneyball, a sharply observed, passionately obsessive, and often highly amusing account of the Oakland Athletics' surprisingly effective attempt to build a great baseball team with the majors' second-lowest budget.  You'll learn more about market imbalances than you'd probably expect from a baseball book, and you'll meet a variety of odd and fascinating baseball executives and players.  If you're a baseball fan, you'll definitely want to pick this one up.  If you're not a baseball fan, you'll still want to pick it up.  Honest.

*I'm irked to realize that I have another bloody month to wait before the final collection of Y: The Last Man comes out.  I am vexed and ratty!

*On the plus side, I've logged 94 bird species so far this year.  With luck, I'll be at 100 before I head down to the Outer Banks this summer.

*I'm looking at the Tar Heel underclassmen who've declared for the NBA draft, and I'm thinking... not this year, guys.  I have a feeling Ty Lawson's gone no matter what, but as an undersized PG without a reliable outside shot or outstanding defensive skills, he's not what I'd consider a first-round lock; if it becomes apparent that he's a second-rounder, which means he's not guaranteed to make the team, we might get him back, but I'm not betting that way.  Wayne Ellington needs to get stronger and develop reliable to-the-hoop moves; I think he'll return once he sees how many teams look at him as the Next Joseph Forte.  Danny Green probably has the most NBA-ready game of the three, but his sixth-man status and consequently modest stats make him a very unlikely first-round pick, IMHO.  I think he'll return, but a smart GM might spend a late-first-round pick on him and pluck him away.  The transfer of Alex Stepheson will hurt a bit, but no matter what, we'll still have Hansbrough, Thompson, Ginyard, a healthy Frasor, and a bunch of blue-chip freshmen to keep us happy.

*And finally, in the Long Overdue Good News Department, we're moving!  Yes, the school has found us larger quarters at last; at some yet-to-be-determined point this summer, we'll be moving into the new digs, which will give us more square footage, a fenced-in yard for the hound, a washer and dryer on the ground floor, a walk-in pantry, a sun room, a carport, a gigantic finished basement and (drum roll, please) no fewer than THREE full bathrooms!  All it costs us is a bedroom, but I'll cheerfully put a bed in the basement and call it a good trade-off.

Granted, A Voyage Long and Strange would probably be a good title for what's been written in this journal lately, but in this case, it's the title of the new book by Pulitzer-winner Tony Horwitz, whose past works include the delightful, thought-provoking, and educational Confederates in the Attic and Blue Latitudes.

In this one, Horwitz spends his time following the trails of the early European explorers through America's various corners:  Leif Erikson in Canada, Columbus in Dominica, Coronado in the Four Corners, de Soto through the Southeast, and so on.  It's a fascinating trip, and his storytelling remains as strong as ever, so I was delighted to get the chance to a) read an advance copy of the book, and b) conduct an email interview with Horwitz himself for The Readerville Journal.

Here's the interview.  Enjoy!

It's damn near impossible to describe everything I saw this past weekend in Chapel Hill.  I know this because I've spent the last thirty minutes just listing some of the things I saw--the classmates, the ex-girlfriends, the bandmates, the people who were in my wedding (and vice-versa)--it just brings up once again how truly Gordian the knot of Chapel Hill is, and how hard it is to explain to those outside it.

Soon after I started dating Kelly, I tried to draw up an org chart of my connections to various people, and it wasn't long before I realized that two dimensions weren't enough to incorporate all the links; hell, I'd wager that three wouldn't be enough.  I mean, Mike Beard and Gilly Macknee and I shared something like four girlfriends, and both of them (and several of the girlfriends) ended up in my wedding party; add in the complications of our musical and dramatic connections, and things start getting messy very quickly.  I mean, Mike and I worked together in Great Wall of Doo Doo with Zingo, Zippy and Elmo; Elmo and I played in Elmo and PC, but only Zippy, Mike and I were involved with Rohrwaggon, which also included Rob, Burvis, Stacy, Marvin, Bill, Steve, and Taz, the last of whom I played in Terminal Mouse, which opened for the Pressure Boys, featuring Zippy, Elmo, Rob, Steev, Stacy, and Stafford, the latter two of whom were in the Rouch Cats, which opened for Great Wall of Doo Doo, and back around we go.  And I haven't even mentioned my stint in the John Santa band with Mike, or the fact that Burvis replaced Steev in the Pressure Boys, or my work with Zippy in Band Wailin', etc.

Clearly, the music scene in Chapel Hill in the 1980s was like a cross between Laurel Canyon in the 1970s and the royal house of Thebes in Oedipus Rex.

But this past weekend, the interwoven threads got tightened up around the Cat's Cradle like never before.  On both Friday and Saturday nights, hundreds of people were drawn into the club by the chance to see the Pressure Boys for the first time in twenty years, and on each night, I saw dozens of people tied to me by experiences of all sorts.  There were those I knew from school--mostly high school, but in some cases elementary or even nursery school.  There were those I'd played with in bands of all sorts, those I'd performed with in plays, and those with whom I'd worked backstage.  There were former co-workers from jobs in restaurants, record stores, and radio stations.  There were people who'd been at my wedding and three who'd been IN it--four, if you count Kelly--plus two whose wedding I'd been in.  There were two ex-girlfriends, two of my former compatriots in the Transactors Improv Company, and four people in my fantasy football league.  There were three people who'd invited me to perform in their clubs, and I'd performed in public at least once with every single member of the band.

All these threads were soaked in nostalgia like an orb weaver's web is soaked with dew on a damp spring morning, but there are some images that stand out from the pervading misty atmosphere:

*Stafford and Je shaving the crowns of their heads in solidarity with their follicly challenged bandmates.  (Je very sensibly shaved off the rest of his hair for Saturday's show, but Stafford was still gamely clinging to his coppery sidewalls.)

*The show opening with a slow, thumping intro that I recognized instantly:  the Specials' "Nite Klub," as doctored back in 1986 by Rohrwaggon.  (Other covers from the P-Boys' early days: "A Message to You, Rudy" and "You're Wondering Now" by the Specials and Bad Manners' "Lip Up Fatty" and "Inner London Violence.")

*John Plymale.  I felt sure the band would manage to reconnect and get back to their usual level of expertise; they're too good a group of musicians with too much common experience not to.  And sure enough, they were as good as I'd remembered--except for Zippy.  He was actually better.  Since his days in the P-Boys, he'd become even more self-assured, even more aware of his surroundings, even more attuned to the audience.  I knew Rob's right foot wouldn't have lost its potency; I didn't know how good Plymale could be until Friday night.

*Former Veldt drummer and Rohrwaggon lead singer Marvin Levi (CHHS '83) introducing the P-Boys as one of the Eighties' most influential bands, along with Night Ranger.

*Gilly Macknee, my buddy of thirty-something years now, dashing down to the show from his farm in Ashe County despite the impending birth of a new calf.  He and his wife Brenda knew they might have to sprint back to the mountains as soon as the show was over, but there was no way Gilly could miss this.  He even sent me this photo from the show:

l-r: Greg Stafford (sax), Je Widenhouse (trumpet--in bg), John "Zippy" Plymale (vocals), Bryon "Elmo" Settle (guitar)

*Jack Campbell taking the mic to muse, "You know, I'm forty-six years old... I'm in the best shape of my life... and I'm playing in a rock band.  I'm living the dream."

*The almost alarming realization that we didn't all smell like cigarette smoke after the show.  The Cradle is now a no-smoking zone.  If my ears hadn't been ringing, I might not have believed I'd been to a club.

*Kelly wearing her old Air Jordans (long the preferred shoe of the Chapel Hill ska scene) and casting aside twenty years of responsible adult behavior in order to mosh furiously during the sax solo sections of "Is This Normal?"

*Rob Ladd drumming as he always does: as though this is the last thing he will ever play.  His body language during a song suggests that there simply isn't any energy left in him to go any further.  It's always vaguely astonishing to me when he actually manages to count off the beat of the next tune.

*A pile of black, burgundy, and pale blue Pressure Boys t-shirts the size of a cord of firewood being whittled down to a single cardboard box's worth by the end of Saturday's show.  Each sold for ten bucks--we bought four black ones--and all the money, like that raised from CD sales and the box office, is going to the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation.

*Hearing Bryon's son, Basie, who was standing behind me on Saturday night, bellowing "Radar Love!" for the last five minutes of the show, followed by a blazing hot version of the song during the encore.  I think he understands his dad in a whole new way now.

*Watching Dixon and Ian, wide-eyed and bobbing to the rhythm, on Friday night.  I think they understand their parents in a whole new way now.

And in the end, as much as it was about reconnecting with old friends and acquaintances, this weekend was really about the next generation:  not just Ian, Dixon, and Basie, but Mike and Kaethe's daughters, and Gilly and Brenda's three kids, and of course Allie Plymale, the face of the concert.  She's here in the reunion photo, and it's her fight against CF that inspired the entire weekend's efforts.  We came together for ourselves, of course, in hopes of better understanding what we've done and where we've been, but in many ways we came together to give the people we love a clearer understanding that we do in fact love them--both those who were there twenty years ago, and those who weren't yet anywhere--and that our shared experiences are part of the reason why.

Thanks for coming back to town, everybody.  See you in 2028.

I may be off-line this weekend, but I'll probably be seeing at least some of you in Chapel Hill.

I'll be skanking to the Pressure Boys beat at the Cat's Cradle tonight (and possibly tomorrow night as well). If you can't be there, download their new collection from iTunes or order it on CD--all proceeds go to the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation. 

Walking through familiar streets

I see what they mean when they say no man's an island

They're shaking by themselves today

And I seem to be casing the same old haunts...