We are. . .

. . . seven

—A simple child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
—Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little maid,
How many may you be?"
"How many? Seven in all," she said,
And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

"Two of us in the churchyard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And in the churchyard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven! — I pray you tell,
Sweet maid, how this may be."

Then did the little maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the churchyard lie,
Beneath the churchyard tree."

"You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the churchyard laid,
Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.

"And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

"So in the churchyard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven?"
Quick was the little maid's reply,
"O master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'T was throwing words away; for still
The little maid would have her will,
And say, "Nay, we are seven!"

(We Are Seven, by William Wordsworth)

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One of the many . . .

. . . problems we face as a society today . . .

(from THE TAO OF POOH by Benjamin Hoff, © 1982 by Benjamin Hoff)
". . . The hardheaded followers of the previously mentioned Party-Crashing Busybody religion failed to appreciate the beauty of the endless forest and clear waters that appeared before them on this fresh green continent of the New World.  Instead, they saw the paradise that was here and the people who lived in harmony with it as alien and threatening, something to attach and conquer-because it all stood in the way of the Great Reward.  They didn't like singing very much, either . . . "

". . . Anyway, from the Miserable Puritan came the Restless Pioneer, and from him, the Lonely Cowboy, always riding off into the sunset, looking for something just down the trail.  From this rootless, dissatisfied ancestry has come the Bisy Backson, who, like his forefathers, has never really felt at home, at peace, with this Friendly Land.  Rigid, combative fanatic that he is, the tightfisted Backson is just too hard on himself, too hard on others, and too hard on the world that heroically attempts to carry on in spite of what he is doing to it . . . "

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My math. . .

. . . skills were never really very good. . .

. . . but lately I've been encounter some math that, although I may not fully understand, I actually happen to enjoy and would like to spread the word.

(from MySpace) . . . "El Sledge (+) is the combination of Stephen Sroka on drums, and Matthew Graboski on guitar/vocals/keys. Their music is the aural sound explosion of rage and beauty, turning in on itself as it races through time and space. The duo has comprised a conceptual duality through their music, taking the form of an oncoming stampede ripe with harrowing echoes brimming with the unbridled certainty of pure rock force. . . "

And thanks to the magnanimous young Mr. Graboski. who is appearing this Wednesday, April 4 at (and here's where more math comes in) Joe Squared, Station North in Baltimore,   33% (I can't get away from it) of OHO will make a brief appearance that evening presenting a smattering of the fine compositions of the senior Mr. Graboski (Jay) for your dancing and dining pleasure.  Music begins at 6PM.  

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©2011 Raymond M. Jozwiak
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Heart, soul . . .

. . . warmth, grit, poetry. . . Mark McKay

But listen to what some others say. . .

"Surrealistic cowboy poetry. Springsteen on mescaline. Steve Earle on a literary jag. Wilco with grit. . . expansive, exotic Americana, urgent, whiskey-fed melodies topped with lyrics that often seem to consist of a string of vivid images and striking non sequiturs . . . "  - Jason Warburg , The Daily Vault

". . . punchy roots rock fit for prime time. In their incarnation on Hotel, some of these tracks displayed a raw beauty that tended toward sprawl. . . "  - Nick Zaino III , Paste magazine

". . . Combining many traditional American styles, including rock, bluegrass, country, and even a smidge of blues, Mark McKay, continues his style of mellow and melancholy acoustic (or acoustic-type) rock with heavy country influence . . . "  - Sarah Kantor , Emmie Magazine

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Simplicity

There is definitely beauty in simplicity. I had earlier found such beauty in country music. My earliest memory of thoroughly enjoying country music is kind of an odd story. My parents, for some unknown reason (and I don't accurately remember precisely WHAT they would purchase) went 'shopping' at a local discount store called TOPPS. They did this EVERY FRIDAY evening.
When I was younger, I would go, of course. In my later trips to Topps, I would spend the period in the record section of the store browsing through all the vinyl beauties that were available at the time, popular items of which retailed for $3.47. (I'm not sure why I remember that number. It may simply be due to the fact the I had little money and kept close tabs on how much I would need to purchase things that I found desireable. By the way, Luskins (another retailer of the time) sold record albums for $2.99 so needless to say, I visited Luskins whenever I could.) I found myself drifting toward country music record albums. It's now unclear what, specifically influenced this branch in my musical development, (I do remember my cousin owned the 45 of Ring of Fire by Johnny Cash, which MAY be the original spark to the country music fire that consumed me at the time.) but I do remember (and don't laugh PLEASE) that the television program "HeeHaw" came about before, during or shortly after this time, which undoubtedly provided another opportunity for exposure to country artists of the day.

So I spent my Topps evening looking at Buck Owens, Charley Pride, Porter Wagoner, Merle Haggard, Tom T. Hall and others popular country artists at the time. Later, when my parents embarked upon the weekly jaunt to Topps, I stayed behind to happily wash the dinner dishes. Why happily? Because in the other room, the 'ancient' (even back then) radio we inherited from an aunt was playing WBMD AM loudly enough for me to hear in the kitchen. The 'genre' of the playlist on WBMD at the time - Country Music.





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So management. . .

. . . says I should keep this blog focused on music and music-related things. . . and since I'M management, I know that they know what they're talking about!

So that's what I'm gonna do. At least I hope I am. (I can't promise that I won't stray occasionally just because. . . JUST BECAUSE.
That's what life's about.)

Springtime can be downright inspirational. Of course it would be much more inspirational if the rain would stop. A little warm spring air might be nice too. Hey, it could be much worse. We've been known to have snow in these parts as late as May, although rarely. So suffice to say that I shall take inspiration from the fact that spring (and subsequently summer) are within view and inevitable. I take my inspiration from wherever I can get it and am in the process of composing new things while editing and reworking some older things. Meantime, I can hear the birds singing outside.

Like Frank Zappa said, "Information is not knowledge. Knowledge is not wisdom. Wisdom is not truth. Truth is not beauty. Beauty is not love. Love is not music. Music is the best..."


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