A New Songwritingpalooza!
You could call it Austin City Limits meets American Idol. If you’re in the Madison, Wisconsin area– my home turf– I’m representing the Madison Songwriters Guild in hosting a new monthly event that will combine a performer showcase with a revival of MSG’s popular Song Showdown into one songwriter extravaganza. It will be held on Wednesday, April 4 at 7:15 p.m at the Bourbon Street Grille, 6308 Metropolitan Lane in Monona. Performing with me as featured artists are MSG stalwarts Rich Baumann and Dave Schindele.
Following their performances will be the Song Showdown, a chance for MSG members to perform an original song in judged competition for prizes and the opportunity to return for a runoff of monthly Showdown winners at the beginning of next year. The Showdown is open only to MSG members, but anyone can join on the spot. This new event will be held the first Wednesday of each month at the Bourbon Street Grille, a friendly restaurant/bar with great N’awlins-style food.
If you wrote it, come and perform it! If you didn’t, come and give us a listen!
Laissez les bon temps roullez!
Or as most of the non-French world says, let the good times roll! Yesterday was President’s Day, a holiday for much of the workforce. But freelance writers and musicians– especially those who happen to be both– are not frequent paddlers in the mainstream. The real holiday to me is today, Fat Tuesday.
Though few outside of New Orleans probably took the day off, today is the culmination of Mardi Gras and the last hurrah before Ash Wednesday, when we’re supposed to attone for all that debauchery until Easter. For me it’s been a performing night for almost 10 years with bands such as Grand Chien, John the Conqueroo and the Cajun Strangers, at venues ranging from a German restaurant (go figure) to Milwaukee’s Pottowatomi Casino. Tonight I’m sitting in with the all-female Prairie Bayou Cajun band (no, not in drag) at the very appropriate Bourbon Street Grille in suburban Madison. I’ll play some guitar, t’fer (triangle), frottoir (rubboard), sing a bit of broken French, and with any luck, suck some crawfish tails and slurp some gumbo. And for an evening, a group of Cheesehead revelers will be conveyed from the Snowbelt to the French Quarter. Hey Toi!
Welcome, Libby and Katie!
I’d like to welcome two new people to my ever-growing list from international commercial real estate leader Jones Lang LaSalle, my largest client for the past several years. One is Libby Thomas, who has engaged me to write presentation materials for the firm’s Property Management and Agency leasing businesses. The other is Katie Tiernan, who has taken an Americas sustainability marketing position once held by my longtime client Katy Pietrini, who has moved into other responsibilities with the firm. I look forward to working with both of you like the way some people allegedly used to vote in your home base of Chicago– early and often!
Seasons Bleatings
It’s Christmas morning, and I plan to enjoy the holiday later with my loved ones. But first I have a date with a different “family”—those attending the Holiday Dinner at the
Madison Senior Center. I’m sort of dessert, providing 45 minutes of song before Bingo, which might just be the biggest draw of all. Donations are encouraged, but I can tell from playing here last year that some of the diners at this hall in the heart of the city have no more in their pockets than in their stomachs. One man wore a bathrobe over his street clothes, evidently layering every stitch he owned trying to keep warm. It reminded me that the Christmas tradition started not at Macy’s or even a thermostat-controlled church, but in a feeding trough in a barn.
I’m guessing that most of the people attending today’s luncheon have nowhere else to go for the holidays, or they’d be there. I play a lot of senior gigs this time of
year, and see a lot of lonely-looking people. I try to rekindle happy memories and help them smile and feel connected with a world that has largely passed them by.
While I enjoy raising glasses with family and friends, watching the grandkids rip open packages and especially eating too much of my wife’s fabulous Christmas dinners, nothing moves me more than singing “Silent Night” with folks who might have first learned it during the Great Depression.
Like I tell them at the end of a show, I’d like to wish you a Happy Hanukah, a Joyous Quanza, a Rocking Ramadan and a Very Merry Christmas!
Travelogue: Nazare’, Portugal
My wife and I recently returned from three glorious weeks in Spain and Portugal. Far from the gloom and doom of economic reports from the EuroZone, both nations seemed to be vibrantly chugging along with a smile. The only frenzied behavior we saw came at happy hour at the tapas bars. And if happiness translates to helpfulness, then Nazare’, Portugal is one of the most cheerful spots on earth.
Nazare’ hugs the Atlantic coast with a sweep of golden sand, and is jammed with solar-seeking hedonists in the summer. October is still shirtsleeve sunny but the
beach blanketeers are gone, leaving what was once—and still is— a fishing village peopled by chain-smoking old salts and their tiny wives, swaddled in multiple petticoats making them almost as wide as they are tall. And accommodating? We ended up chanting, “Obrigado!”—“thank you” in Portuguese– like a mantra as the locals helped us navigate a street system designed like my intestines.
When simply pointing the way wasn’t enough—and it usually wasn’t for we clueless gringos—locals dropped what they were doing and escorted us where we wanted to be. A hotel bartender hiked us three blocks—uphill—to the beginning of a walking path. After futilely trying to tell us how to get to a restaurant, a middle-aged lady with an time-worn companion on her arm also conducted us to our destination. With the older matron’s blessing, our guide led us to our restaurant, then circled
back for her consort.
But the ultimate display of Iberian hospitality began before we reached Nazare’, on the bus hauling us there. After unsuccessfully manhandling my seat to find a prone position, an affable young man across the aisle pointed out a simple lever that did the trick. And that was it; or so I thought. Two days later, the same beaming
Samaritan ambled up to our table at an intimate local eatery. His father owned the joint, and proud papa Carlos spent the rest of the evening showering us with complimentary largess ranging from prawn appetizers to port toasts from a bottle that rarely left his grip. It was as though he was thanking us for allowing his son do us a kindness. Obrigado, indeed!