Raven at San Jacinto

Friday, April 16, 2010

Friday Fribbitz

Europe grounded, Goldman going down, Republicans saving the common man from the Democrats and their nasty bank bailouts (and looking out for the welfare of the poor derivatives), cats chasing dogs, the world, my friends, she is standing on her head.


I was minding my own business, driving into work this a.m. when a persistent and annoying ringing sound started beckoning at me from my Chrysler's instrument panel. Critical engine overheating. Out of fluids. Managed to nurse it to my mechanic and the radiator is shot, being made out of plastic and will require replacement on monday. So I will have to utter the proper incantation and find a way to get here to there and back again from Del Mar to Fallbrook, throughout the course of the Antique Show this weekend. Must drive to San Francisco on Tuesday. Life is what happens to you while you are busy making other plans, as the wise sage once said.


Caught the amazing Peter Sprague playing guitar at the Roxy Restaurant in Encinitas on the way home last night. He is playing most thursday evenings and is remarkable. Lyrical, inventive and at times sublime. Last night he played through his new rendition of Oh Susanna, the Stephen Foster song. Foster wrote it in 1848. He had been working with some minstrel musicians.

The original lyrics: 

I came from Alabame' wid my banjo on my knee,
I'm g'wan to Louisiana, my true love for to see
It raind all night the day I left, the weather it was dry
The sun so hot I frose to death; Susanna, don't you cry.
Oh! Susanna Oh! don't you cry for me
I've come from Alabame'
Wid mi banjo on my knee.
I had a dream de odder night, when ebery ting was still;
I thought I saw Susana, a coming down de hill.
The red, red rose war in her hand, the tear was in her eye,
Says I, im coming from de South, Susana don't you cry.
I soon will be in New Orleans,and den I'll look around
And when I find Susana,I'll fall upon the ground.
But if I do not find her, Dis darkie 'l surely die,
And when I'm dead and buried, Susana, dont you cry.
The non p.c. second verse:  
              I jump'd aboard the telegraph and trabbled down de ribber,

De lectrick fluid magnified, and kill'd five hundred Nigga.
De bulgine bust and de hoss ran off, I really thought I'd die;
I shut my eyes to hold my bref -- Susanna don't you cry.

Anyhow, Sprague and the song were great. It traveled from a psychedelic inner space to a section where I felt like I was on the front lines of some confederate battle. Brilliant, really.  After Peter, I  traveled over to the E St. Cafe and heard my friend Joseph Angelastro and his jazz trio. Also very good. Lightning speed. Both of these guys play so well and so lyrically, faster than I can think. So I have been getting a nice dose of culture lately.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

political correctness aside, Stephen Foster was our first and, arguably, greatest songwriter; fitting that he was born on the Fourth of July (1826).