Aloha, mahalo, and rest in peaceful ocean waves to our legendary Uncle Tony.
How lucky was I to spend an entire summer in the early 80s with him and Aunt Corinne. We explored Big Island backroads in his shaky-ass heap of a jeep. We did water things (he surfed; I waded by the shore). And, as we laughed about a million times over the years, we sipped martinis (my first ever!) during a special night out at a posh French bistro, even though I wasn’t quite the legal drinking age just yet.
A few days after Uncle Tony passed, I shared a few words at the start of my concert in at Tiny Telelphone recording studio in Oakland. He didn’t want a big send-off, and I can respect that, but I needed to pay tribute in my own way… and I know others will too.
OUT NOW. “Howling at the Moons of Saturn” – a spoken-word collection featuring original music by an all-world contingent of composers and musicians.
Huge thanks to everyone who played a part during the seven or so years it took to complete this project.
Theresa Calpotura John Vanderslice Jules Leyhe Robert Shelton Carly Bond Andrew Dixon Ryan Ross Smith Crystal Pascucci Mark Clifford James Riotto Jason Slota Danielle Goldsmith Jacob Winik
A car in the distance – on a gravel road. A cow. A rooster. A dog barks. Birds chirp. And I think back to yesterday at twilight, when hundreds of chicks clamored for food in the trees by the dining hall. Hungry. And alive.
The embers from last night’s fire still smolder in the firepit outside my room, where late-night revelers performed musical gems while sharing the last 10 cans of beer in the world. I exaggerate, but that’s how it felt when I learned the bar was closed for the night. Like the world ended and I missed out on my chance to stock up on reposado.
No, I wouldn’t do well in the zombie apocalypse.
Staring out at the lake, I feel the sting of smoke in my eyes. My clothes smell of char. And my beanie reeks like it fell into a bin of campfire ash.
I’m ready for breakfast, but I want to finish these notes first. What’ll I eat anyway? A bowl of fruit. A handful of raisins. Five sausages rolling around my plate like severed fingers. Now I’m thinking about and humming St. Vincent’s song “Severed Crossed Fingers.” I love that title. But we all know I have a dark streak, don’t we?
Anyway, back to breakfast. I wonder if we’ll be joined today by the army of kids. With their troop leader hollering on her megaphone.
“Raccoon girls, your turn for breakfast.”
“Squirrel boys, you’re up next.”
I never attended camp as a child, though there was that time on a high-school trip when I dropped acid in Yosemite. Somehow, I got locked out of my cabin and found myself wandering on a snow-covered path that transformed into a river of talking snakes – all under the shadows of El Capitan and Half Dome. Eagle Peak and Cathedral Rock.
Do you think Ansel Adams ever dropped acid while capturing his masterpieces?
A shooting star darts through the morning sky. Or a comet. Or an intercontinental ballistic missile. I’d like to reach out and catch it. I’d also like to sing and dance in the sea of Tranquility. And to use one of Saturn’s rings as an interstellar hula-hoop.
Here’s a bit of trivia I learned recently; Saturn has 146 moons!
Speaking of Saturn’s moons, come a little closer and I’ll let you in on a secret. I’m releasing a new spoken-word collection soon called “Howling at the Moons of Saturn” that features a group of amazing musical collaborators. Sssshhh, that’s just between us for now. More coming soon, but I hope you’ll give it a listen.
I spin the ring on my finger, remembering when we said “til death do us part” under City Hall’s Beaux-Arts dome. Near the Elvis groom and the others sharing their nuptial vows. We’re not dead yet, I think, but you’re working in Europe for a few weeks, while I’m humming about severed fingers, lamenting a missed a tequila run, and musing on the way of the world at a songwriting camp somewhere on the road between Yosemite and Fresno.
