I am in here.

Posts tagged music

Leo Kottke

Leo Kottke (Photo credit: Five Low Notes)


Streaming into the Boulder Theater

And so a couple of nights ago, on an evening that was even for Boulder, Colorado, unseasonably cold, several hundred adults who all looked to be suspiciously and uniformly close to me in age converged at the entrance to the Boulder Theater for a concert by Leo Kottke and proceeded to wedge ourselves and our best woolens and goose-down into the old movie theater seats that the proprietors have yet to see fit to replace, as well as some ordinary stackable chairs down front, where we sat. At first, I waited in splendid comfort, eavesdropping casually since my iPhone’s battery died at that same moment I sat down. Then the waitress — there’s a bar in the back of the place — took a few last orders, the house lights went down, and a handful of some of the taller people in Boulder arrayed themselves carefully in the empty seats before me.

I am here to listen more than I am here to watch, I told myself. I don’t have to see to hear.

The man’s style is to talk for a while between songs, or possibly in the songs, almost a sort of living voice-over. There was a story about some young man of Finnish descent named (possibly) Peltoniemi who was the nephew of some guy named Peltoniemi who rented LK a canoe on the Snake River in Idaho once — and who (the nephew) had something to show him (LK) which turned out to be a dead bird on a windowsill. LK was up in Minnesota possibly — somewhere deadly cold and snowed over in winter — at a place where there was the largest privately-owned ball of string in the world. It was in the owner’s yard, chained to a tree. “And the strangest thing about this ball of string was that it was chained to a tree.” Another line from earlier in the evening: “The secret of life is to be easily amused.”

The theater itself is still proudly resplendent in its Art Deco interior decoration and I think was probably painted about ten or fifteen years ago at the latest. We sat close to the front on the ground floor — when we went to see LK last year, we were in the balcony. This might have been a good thing if I hadn’t been sitting behind all the tall, fluffy haired people in Boulder. Mostly, I could only see him by peeking in between and around people’s heads.

The set lasted an hour and forty minutes with one encore.

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Just digging through the odd bits of my iTunes list. Making discoveries. Here we have the innocence mission — folky and peaceful.

via echosonic

Of course, listening to the music in the previous post has started me going through an orgy of music listening, currently switching through various songs on Tommy.

I sit here with eyes half glazed over with one wish moving through my mind: I wish I was a DJ. Then and only then do I remember: I was.

In college, my extracurricular activity — other than Buck — was my job as a DJ at the college radio station, WRVU Nashville. Yes, it was the mid-seventies and female DJ’s were not really welcomed with open arms by the industry, but this was a college station down on the nether end of the dial, and besides, giving me my time slots for the year was the only time that the program director got to talk to a girl.

If you were to hear my voice, you would know right off that no, this is not a DJ’s voice. But, you work with what you are given. Thinking of putting up a channel on Spotify.

And now, we finally have February like it’s supposed to be in Ohio. I have been thoroughly enjoying the global warming and its effects on the local wintertime, what with its sun and its higher than normal temperatures. Yes, I would rather it were not so, and that the average temperature of the globe was wherever it’s supposed to be. However, as long as the good weather lasts, I shall enjoy it.

It did not last as far as today, and so I must soon venture out into the unpleasantness. This is the sort of day, I think, that was made with raincoats and boots in mind, even though there is no rain falling now.

To listen to today, as I have been doing all morning, Heroes Can Be Any Size, Jackie Leven:

Jackie Leven

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