Doing the Math: A Review of Keeping the Dream Alive

By Patrick J. Walsh

Bob Dylan once said writing songs is mathematical, intimating that at its highest level, songwriting is mostly a process of working out how things go together (or come apart) to create a finished work that makes sense. And in some ways, figuring out why you like the music you like is a pretty similar process.

When you look back at the music you've liked for a long period of time, you'll probably find some little surprises among the big hits and well-known artists. Looking ahead is always a bit trickier, though, when you try to project how you'll feel about a current favorite somewhere down the road.

In many cases, the common denominator will be pretty simple: the music that sticks around is the music that sounds best. And in the case of Keeping the Dream Alive, it's the distinctive nature of the sound that gives this collection of bluesy, driving roots rock its unique character.

The opener, "Lotto Dust," is a classic blues parable about the power and peril of dreams gone wrong. The narrative draws poignancy from the counterpoint of Walsh's strong, quiet tenor and the warm chorus of backup vocals — a good example of how the mix supports the theme and coloring of the songs.

As the signature song of the group, the driving uptempo instrumental "Keeping the Dream Alive" is a good summation of the artist's influences and interests. While carefully controlled, in keeping with the overall production, it also gives free rein to elements of the classic and progressive rock that permeate a great deal of his musical heritage, and which are also evident in his live performances (where he's been known to roll out deep-catalog covers such as Jethro Tull's "One Brown Mouse," for example).

"Hurtin' Up My Heart" features a bright multi-tracked rhythm vamp and the sort of heavy lead guitar that distinguishes classic funk and soul. The song's simple blues structure anchors a retro tone that's accentuated by its "old soul" lyrics, and the buoyancy of the rhythm creates an end result that is actually dance-friendly, in an old school reggae sort of way.

For me personally, as familiar as I am with the artist and his musical interests, the most revelatory song of this collection is the instrumental "Aloft." Straying from the core blues of the other compositions in the group, this foray into a sort of short form progressive rock is a definitive statement of sophistication and maturity by someone with a deep understanding and appreciation of the influences that have shaped modern popular music, and which have also informed his own musical journey.

"Every Day She's Gone" is another straight blues, and also serves as a good example of how the artist's careful attention to detail, in lyric and melody, helps to fully express the intended sentiments of the song. There is a stony finality to its theme of accepting loss while still remaining connected to the emotions that make memories meaningful in the first place, and as such, it serves as a fitting, dignified valedictory to the collection.

In each particular expression of its overall themes, and particularly in the careful crafting of the distinctive sound of the recordings as a whole, this long-awaited collection is every bit the compendium of musical styles and technical skill that fans have come to expect, and to cherish, from this excellent singer songwriter. It is music well worth having, and quick to join your short list of favorite recordings.

A Dream Comes 'Round at Last

by Patrick J. Walsh

Fragments from a life-long friendship with the
artist behind the new CD "Keeping the Dream Alive"

• • •

I remember talking with my cousin Kelly when he was in the midst of seeking out expert advice to help him achieve the sound he wanted for what would become his first CD, Keeping the Dream Alive.

I had heard some of the songs he was talking about, and they sounded great. Exasperated, I gave him my own advice:

"Just get it done and put it out there."

That was about two years ago.

• • •

Lately, as I've been working toward the reboot of my portfolio website EchoesAmongtheStars.com, I've had occasion to revisit the large amount of music journalism that I've written over the years.

As I read through many of my old clips, I realized that I am afflicted with the reporter's occupational hazard of being able to recall the circumstances of virtually every interview and performance that I've covered, as well as the particulars of how I went about writing each article.

At the heart of all those details, though, it is my personal memories of the people and places and music that remain most vivid.

Interestingly, at the same time that I've been experiencing this musical and emotional rewind, I have been listening to some new music — the first CD released by my cousin Kelly, who I've known for virtually my entire life.

• • •

Separated in age by just a handful of months, each the youngest in a family of brothers, each having fallen in love with rock and pop at just about the same time — that moment when psychedelia first began to show up on "classic rock" playlists, and the first mention of the term "punk" as a music genre began to show up in the media — my cousin Kelly and I got along famously from the first moment we met, and have ever since.

Although our family situations were different when we were growing up, we were never at a lack of words or welcome whenever we saw each other.

Kelly always seemed a lot cooler than me, but in a way that never made me feel bad. He dressed cooler; his hair was longer; and he was easy to talk to, even for me, as quiet as I often was as a child.

Kelly (right) always seemed a lot cooler than me...

• • •

When we were little, our dads took us on a camping trip: Kelly and his two older brothers, and me and my older brother. Back then I was overwhelmed by being in the woods. Everyone seemed to know more about camping and fishing and cooking out than I did.

I remember being glad to find that our campsite had a wooden platform where we were to put up our tent — not for fear of what otherwise might find its way into our sleeping quarters, but simply because it reminded me of the platform my Dad had made in our backyard, where we had already spent so many happy times.

Even then, when I had yet so little of it, I was borne back into the past as surely as Fitzgerald's Gatsby.

For his part, Kelly seemed relaxed and at ease, enjoying the quiet of the woods and the company of his Dad and brothers and his beloved uncle and cousins. Gradually, I grew less anxious.

Ultimately, it was one of those experiences that form up in your heart and mind years later like a series of Monet landscapes, providing a window into the best parts of your connections with people you love, as those relationships evolve over time.

Years later, Kelly would take his own young family camping at the very same spot.

• • •

When we were a bit older, Kelly and I were at a party — one of those gatherings that would, over time, attain a sort of mythical status among my friends and family. It was the kind of get-together that resulted in people looking through the bushes in the yard the next day, trying to locate a misplaced family member who hadn't quite yet found his way home.

I have a friend who to this day delights in the memory of a discussion he had with Kelly at that party. He remembers how the two of them started up a flight of stairs while Kelly was deep in the midst of a point-by-point exegesis of the then-new Jethro Tull album, as a means of exploring the merits of progressive rock as a whole.

On a step about halfway up, Kelly suddenly stumbled and fell to one knee; then, hardly spilling his beer, he steadied himself, regained his balance, and continued upward — still calmly discussing Tull, and Ian Anderson's place in the pantheon of great rock songwriters.

By current standards, it was a crazy time. But as I look back, I realize that it was probably that period in the lives of our parents' generation when the last possible dreams of youth were still swaying just at the edge of the horizon; tantalizing, maddeningly close, but still just far enough away to cause even the wildest romantic to wonder if maybe, just maybe, those dreams would never slow down enough to be touched, or to be made real.

And for our generation, still so young, it was a time when all dreams still seemed on the table, just waiting to be put into motion.

• • •

Over the years, Kelly and I have shared similar career paths, a deep gratitude for (and devotion to) our family and friends, and a deeply held creative impulse that we each recognized in the other early on.

I became a writer, and I've been blessed to have been able to make my writing a key part of my life and career, as well as an outlet for my creativity. At the same time, I have also always loved music — whether I'm just listening, or composing, or writing about someone else's work.

Kelly has been a successful professional for a very long time, regularly expressing his creativity through the technical expertise and business sense that he puts to good daily use for the benefit of others. But he has also always loved music — and in his case, his long-held passion for writing and performing music has now resulted in the release of Keeping the Dream Alive.

• • •

Recently, as we chatted over dinner, getting caught up on family and friends and careers and yes, reminiscing, Kelly and I got talking about some of the technical aspects of music recording and production.

He tends to chide himself for having taken so long to finalize the recordings that have now become his first CD. In truth, however, it is the careful attention to detail that he devoted to their production that provides the finished work with much of its beauty and power.

He approached the task of recording and producing Keeping the Dream Alive with the same quiet, good-humored expertise that has long made him a successful professional: reaching out to family and friends for support and advice, seeking the help of experts where necessary, enlisting other creative artists where helpful.

And then — now — he has taken the final step in the long creative process, moving from dreamer to doer, taking ownership of his own music and sharing it with the world.

From dreamer to doer, taking ownership of his own music...

Both the process and the result represent a great deal of what is important to him, in music and in life. And in a very real way, the finished product honors all those moments through the years when any of us felt that little creative spark inside, calling for a pen and paper, a guitar, a microphone, to document the bits and pieces that form the first ragged outline of a dream.

He has now set that outline in stone, and set those dreams to music.

• • •

In addition to being justifiably proud — or at least, well satisfied — as he enjoys the initial reaction to Keeping the Dream Alive, I'm sure he will also be relieved to not have to deal with the impatience of those who have long encouraged him to "just get it done and put it out there."

At least until he starts work on the next one.

© Patrick J. Walsh

 Keeping the Dream Alive, 06.01.14

Available at Amazon.com

For A Good Time, Call Scoot Horton

by Patrick J. Walsh

As folksingers go, Scoot Horton is decidedly old school. His songs are smart and tight, and his straightforward stage presence puts listeners at ease even in the busiest venue.

Scoot Horton at The Peekskill Coffee House.

It's easy to have fun when Scoot is on stage — even if you don't normally enjoy singer-songwriters, or folk music, or stories with quirky characters and unexpected twists. All you need is a keen ear and a close listen, and you'll find yourself smiling and tapping along.

With the basic tools of the trade — an acoustic guitar and simple, unadorned vocals — and a batch of wonderful new songs, Horton is gathering fans from audiences liberally salted with his fellow artists as well as 'civilian' listeners, in venues local to his home area of Westchester county, New York.

In a recent opening slot for Fred Gillen Jr. at the Peekskill Coffee House, Scoot showed off his quirky take on the singer-songwriter genre with a short set that had to feel as good on the stage as it did throughout the house.

Simply put, you have to know you're doing something right when you've got the cook keeping time with a spatula and the barista singing along with your paean to Chicken Pot Pie.

And in truth, it is just damn difficult not to like someone who quietly begins his set with "Hi. I'm Scoot. Thanks for coming out tonight."

As amiable as he is on stage, though, there is a special magic to listening to his songs before or after seeing him play live.

The chance to follow along with every word as each song unfolds is sort of like watching a sculpture emerge from a block of granite, as Scoot the storyteller emerges from the hooky rhythms of his catchy tunes.

Again and again his writing displays a wonderful knack for simultaneously coining a phrase and turning it on its head — as, for example, in the song Life and Hope, where he slyly confesses both aspiration and limitation:

"I've got hope / that I hope stays strong /
I don't sing / I just talk really long"

Even deadly serious material like Horton's Billy McGill — a first-person set piece about love gone murderously wrong — becomes engrossing when meshed with his spare musical approach and straightforward earnestness, where a more elaborate rendering would likely push the song into maudlin territory.

He closed his Peekskill set with Broke Man Blues, another take on the singer-songwriter life that, like Life and Hope, inverts the whiny cliches that often characterize compositions in this genre.

Both songs feature a protagonist whose impish, understated exuberance leaves the impression that he is happy in spite of his circumstances — and that you should be, too.

And that's a feeling that is, thankfully, difficult to resist when encountering Scoot Horton, live or via his recordings.

• Find Scoot Horton at Bandcamp: http://scoothorton.bandcamp.com/
 
© Patrick J. Walsh

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This is a Moment: Julie Corbalis at MTK Tavern, Mount Kisco

By Patrick J. Walsh

Little flashes of images spark like photos tossed across a table, and sounds mix awkwardly as I try to focus on the topic at hand.

On the stage at the far end of the room, there is a vision, a voice, a melody; at a nearby table, the chatter and clatter of a small party enjoying a late dinner is punctuated by vigorous applause at the conclusion of each song.

At one point, an inopportune cheering erupts in response to a goal scored in an NHL playoff game, which is transmitted to the revelers at the bar via an overhead television screen. The spontaneous celebration is quickly cut off as abruptly as it begins, out of respect for the live performance taking place a mere few yards away.

Such is the warmth of the moment, and the benevolent mix of performer and venue on this cool night in spring.

And, after a long while in which I have found it difficult to write about music, I have found my way back to one of my favorite subjects.

 

The occasion: a string of special bookings, the "Women and Music Spotlight Series" at MTK Tavern in Mount Kisco, New York. On this particular evening, the artist is singer-songwriter Julie Corbalis, a long-time favorite in the local area.

The venue's furnishings bespeak its casual elegance: to the left upon entering, there is a long row of square shiny tables, each accompanied by four tall stools, all adorned with a gleaming ebony finish.

To the right, the long, fine-grained wood bar stretches from the entrance to the stage area; and above and behind the bar multiple large TVs are displayed like living fine art prints, each opening a window on a different sporting event.

One screen over from Sidney Crosby leading the Penguins past the Islanders in the NHL playoffs, the Yankees are winning early on the West Coast; on the set above the near end of the bar, my beloved Mets are losing at home.

On this night, though, the triumphs and travails of the games overhead are lost in the friendly, informal, inviting atmosphere of the place.

Julie Corbalis is an ideal performer for such a venue.

In her selection of songs and the smoothness of her presentation, she is well equipped for the challenges of the 'home crowd' context that characterizes intimate settings like MTK Tavern — a milieu that simultaneously ensures respectful support and the expectation of a first-rate performance.

The result is a winning mix of classic rock, folk standards and deep-catalog covers, all wrapped within a leavening blend of Ms. Corbalis' own original songs.

Her wide range of musical fascinations, so well expressed in her choice of songs to cover, is also amply displayed in the breadth of interest and diversity of approach that characterize her songwriting.

The emotional content of her own songs runs the gamut from sardonic admonition (the cleverly written "Should've Stayed Away") to flat-out protest ("Shame on You, Verizon") to loving pastoral ("Belgian Countryside").

Delivered in warm, resonant tones that invite friendly interest, in a setting conducive to active and attentive listening, these are the kinds of songs that shape those moments that brighten the spirit and offer a real hope for a vibrant, sustainable nightlife in these often-quiet suburbs.

•   •   •

Located at 30 East Main Street in Mount Kisco, MTK Tavern features a daily lunch and dinner menu and a wide variety of beverages. The "Women and Music Spotlight Series" continues on Wednesday evenings at 8:30 pm, featuring Kris Cambria on May 15; Ams Palmieri on May 22; and at 7:30 on May 29, a double bill featuring the Knox Sisters and Alison Shearer. Find the full schedule at www.mtktavern.com; 914-218-3334.

For more information about Julie Corbalis, see her official website at www.juliecorbalis.com.
 

•   •   •

Also by Patrick J. Walsh:
• Fred Gillen Jr.: Live in Peekskill and On Disc
• That Every Mouth Can Be Fed: Remembering the Extraordinary Desmond Dekker
• Earth Day Memories: Greetings From A Small Planet
• The Perfect Dive

About the Author:
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• Videos by Patrick J. Walsh
• Pat's Official Site: Echoes Among the Stars

The Perfect Dive

This weekend I found it: THE dive. The perfect dive -- a venue so complete in its craptacularity that it is difficult to imagine any other place combining so many elements of awfulness and still being open for business.

There was chlamydia in the air, adrift in the looming aroma of sweat and stale chicken wings. Even the gay people were unattractive.

I should note, in all the years I’ve been going out to see live music, I have been to a LOT of different kinds of places. Bars, clubs, shops, storefronts; theaters, concert halls, arenas; backyards and living rooms and churches. And oddly enough, some of the great shows I’ve seen were at places hidden in the dust and shadows of some pretty scary looking neighborhoods. Some of those venues could, I guess, be legitimately called “dives” in the informal dictionary definition; but in each case, the combination of great performance and earnest welcome so outshone the seediness of the surroundings, it hardly mattered that the place was a mess.

But this weekend I came across a bar that truly puts the “less” in “miserableness.”

It’s not so much that it was intrinsically worse than any other similarly appointed hole in the wall; it’s more the way in which this particular place managed to concentrate so much unpleasantness in such a relatively small space, over such a short period of time.

The biggest problem was the phony atmosphere -- the faux pub nonsense that so many bars now employ as a means of plastering over the unrelentingly dismal fraudulence of their decor. Here’s a clue: a veneer finish is supposed to overlay a patina of quality on a piece that is constructed of inferior material -- not just spread the shiny, plasticky awfulness around the entire circumference of the room.

But of course, in this particular case, that wasn’t the only problem. There was also the surly waitstaff; the lousy service; the stale foul smell of the food; the somnambulant bartender; in fact, there were really only two great positives: they book live music, and they have ample parking. Sadly, the second of these great attributes is only due to the fact that most of the stores in the sorry little strip mall where this place is located are already vacant -- and as I pulled away, I thought I could hear the empty retail husks calling out to the bar: “Join us, join us...”

There was a stage, and there were amps; there was a bar, and a few booths. A long wooden barrier separated bar from booth, and was designed to accommodate those who wished to stand and lean while listening to the performance -- or more accurately, to accommodate those who were asked by the waitstaff to vacate the booths if they were not ordering food, or finished with whatever food they had ordered.

It was an interesting approach, to toss customers who have paid a cover charge out of a seat because you assume they’re not willing to order food, and to then fail to direct them elsewhere.

Which, as things turned out, was just as well, given the oddness of the odors surrounding the eating area. It is difficult to delicately describe that peculiar scent; but let me put it this way: when you go over your notes after a show and find that you’ve written the phrase “Smells like urinal cakes” -- twice -- to describe the place’s ambiance, there is definitely something that is just not working in the venue’s approach to customer care.

But the mere odor and unfriendliness were just a start, as those in charge worked hard to live up to the sort of behavior epitomized by the motto Curly Howard spouts in the Three Stooges short “Movie Maniacs” (which just happens to be on TV as I write this): “If at first you don’t succeed, keep on sucking until you do succeed.”

With no clear delineation between the musical performance and the regular melange of bar customers, the sounds of each frequently mixed together in a clot of pure, beautiful song and shouted inanities of introduction and puerile banter. This could have been easily avoided by providing a dedicated area for the music, segregated from the bar, rather than pointlessly segregating the bar from the eating area. As set up, it simply demonstrated how clueless the management is about how to properly present live music.

Meanwhile, the guy standing next to me -- more accurately, in front of me, where he partially obstructed my view of the stage -- was wearing a shirt that sported a logo that seemed to attest to his “toughness.” Except that it was actually a trademarked logo, which I guess actually attested to the toughness of the corporation that had trademarked it. And it was in yellow lettering. And the guy continually, mockingly “threatened” his friend with pretend punches and phony stabs of his pen.

I have seen legitimately tough guys at concerts. I remember the Motorhead show I went to a few years back; the only guys more badass than the ones drinking at the bar were the ones on the stage. And as near as I can remember, none of them were wearing a corporate logo, or pretending to punch anyone.

Of course none of this really mattered, because I got to see what I went there to see: the music that I love, by local artists whose work I admire and respect. In fact, that’s why I decided, as I drove home musing about what I might write, that I would not use the name of the venue. Any place that’s willing to pay local artists to perform deserves some benefit of the doubt, no matter how dubious its hygiene, or rude its personnel, or tacky its decor.

When I’m at a place like that, standing quietly, trying to remain focused on the performer, I take comfort in the thought that as a writer, I always get the last word. Long after the last tone sounds and the lights go dim and the key is turned in the door in the early hours of the following morning, I think back and recount all the dismal little distractions, only to find myself arriving finally, as always, at the sheer gorgeous poetry of having been there to experience the performance. For the way that poetry rings in my heart and my head long after even the longest evening, I am always willing to surmount whatever obstacles might be in my way...

© 2011 Patrick J. Walsh