The Saving Grace of Jimbo Black is something I wrote during those couple of weeks on the road—think somewhere between Maryland and Montreal.  It will be posted shortly.

Some of you might be aware of the stage accident I experienced in Europe a little over a year ago, reeking havoc on my ears (eventually a whole lot more) These verses, soon to be in song form, refer to the incident, but more importantly, play on a universal theme. Jimbo Black, actual neighbor to my recording studio in Oregon, is a man misjudged and held in low esteem by others because of his appearance, mannerisms, and a banged –up old pickup tattooed with all kinds of ‘furious’ bumper slogans parked in plain sight. I would have to throw myself in with the lot who have a near-sighted view of Jimbo, though mine being more a sin of omission, not giving ol’ Jim any real consideration until coming to know him first hand. In this case, I come to know Jimbo by first seeking his professional advice regarding my ears.

There are messengers in our midst, disregarded for loud mouths, makeshift wears, loose dentures and backfiring beaters. If we give them half a chance to make themselves known to us we might come to see them in a completely different light. What’s more, we may profit from their wisdom or example.

-G

Arigatou gozaimasu

-Gino

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For a time I walked a dark road not knowing what the future held. 2012 seemed to be an all-time low in regards to health, both physical and psychological. There was no escaping the constant drones, squeals and boiling tea-kettle whistles in my brain. Sleep was no friend of mine. But as I walked, and kept on walking that inward road towards hope and healing, despite the nagging voice of doubt, somewhere in the deepest darkest woods, I met with the gracious light of Providence—that sweet inscrutable light of Wisdom that took the time and effort to comfort, school and point me in the right direction halfway along the path.

My first mission was to grope in the dark and feel my way to the right doctor. Dr. Anthony Esau, a man who once homeopathically cured himself of terminal cancer was my final stop after many. I can’t say enough about his empathy and scientific, albeit unconventional, methods.

My second mission was to practice with specially molded attenuating devices in my ears for months, only hearing myself through the confines of my skull, my ears remaining covered and totally out of the picture. It not only comforted and steadied me, but in time I slowly discovered hidden treasures that lay below the shell of a singer’s normalcy and every day life. With constant practice I discovered a different relationship between the chords and the vibrations in my skull—alternative vocal techniques that could have only been detected through those subtle vibrations in my cheekbones, forehead and temples, not relying at all upon standard methods of hearing. These discoveries have added up to an amazing education and have made singing even more effortless and fun than ever, especially now that the training wheels are coming off. The details are a bit too mechanical to describe herein, but I will do so in the coming master class series I plan to offer next spring.

There is no end to self-discovery. It’s as limitless as the inner eye is able to see.  Wisdom is out there—or in there, just dig, and dig deep, and go get it. Once again I have learned that the depth of inner space is no different than that of outer space. The stars in the night sky are no brighter and more plentiful than the stars within. Just how you reach them and penetrate the case-hardened skin of the accepted norm is the trick. The journey is a little bit different for every soul. There is no pat collective answer. We all have our own personal slants and particulars, but one fact remains applicable to all: never count Faith out.

I felt as though my chords had wings in Niagara. Less effort and more sound. It allowed me to not only better rise up to the occasion after so much time away from the stage, but just as importantly, take even greater pleasure in stepping into the spotlight—I mean, really being happy to be there. I guess I’m shamelessly gushing with gratitude. Can’t help it; I feel like a hand full of mush.  All I can say is that I am thrilled to be back on stage in earnest again after having given only a few concerts this year.

I feel like a wide-eyed kid tossing and turning on the night before Christmas, in this case, anticipating the next few concerts in Ottawa, Halifax and Tokyo this fall—some southern cities in the US and South America in spring.     To all those who attended in Niagara—to all those kind familiar faces, many of whom I know by first name: thank you, thank you so much.     And now . . . on to the next.

Love you

Gino

I’ll try not to make this too sentimental.  Today ( Sunday)  I find myself mysteriously fidgety, having no notes to mull over, mp3’s to re-listen to, and names to try and remember. I suppose I am still in the instruction-collaboration-pawn my philosophy-blab till I’m turning blue-mode.  I must say, it has been a very meaningful and gratifying four weeks for me. I want to thank you all for coming to Portland and attending. The different minds, voices, skills, objectives, music styles, frustrations, and deeply held beliefs and wishes, have brought me even better understanding of worlds beyond my own. In other words, the education has gone both ways.   So much has been my enjoyment of not only the classes, but the chats at lunch time and the Friday get-togethers at Brickhaven, that I am almost positive I will not only decide to continue with the Art of Song and the Art of Voice, but to add the Art of Production, and the Art of Harmony to the curriculum in the future.   I hope you all will continue the quest for mastery of your natural-born gifts—for whatever reason—because to master an emergent (or forgotten) gift is to master yourself.

All my love and respect,

-Gino

Dear Tricia

At the book signing in Caserta, Italy (near Naples) a fan came up to me, entirely too close for comfort, especially in light of the fact that his breath reeked of an overflowing septic tank, and said, “Meeesterrrr Vannnnellliii, escooozza, batta iya mussss to tella  you datta I jooossa lav yew cheedeee, ” Bess n’ Behind.” Wonder if it was some Freudian slip. Young crowd tonight—some even in their late teens. Fell asleep trying to do the math in bed last night.  Love you
Sent from my iPod 

Dear B&T

My sense is that there were a lot of happy Norwegians last night in Larvik. Just about sold out, though I think too many post concert photos.  I can’t get the infernal smile off my face this morning…plastered on like a dried mud mask. Last night: big, big, I mean BIG, muscular men telling me how much they love me, after the show. If I were gay I would have had even a more spectacular night. A pretty Norski lady said ” I cannot believe you are 60”.  I whispered, “Me too.”The road is a crazy place where people say things they usually don’t say every day. I can tell a lot of folks are gonna have regrets in the morning, (including yours truly).    . . . .searching for words, knowing she had only a few moments to blurt out what she had been lugging around like a ball and chain for a long time, as she came up to the desk where I was signing books, a very nervous woman said, ” You know Gino, for many years, and even to this day, I dream of having your baby.”  I told her I was deeply touched, but she might have to clear the details with Tricia. Ciao amice -G -Sent from my iPod


Dear B&T

Liviv is beautiful—great food and warm people.After the concert a pretty young thing said she was sooooo in love with me.    Trembling a little, as we posed for the camera, she asked if would I consider having tea with her later. I said yes, on the condition I have a couple of prunes to chase the chai. (Don’t think she gets my blistering quick, disarming, self-effacing wit) -Sent from my iPod

Dear B&T

This is the view of the square where the Nobel Peace Prize winners give their speeches in Oslo. I am staying in the precise suite and at the moment on the balcony where winners give their acceptance speeches. (Nice touch by Stein the promoter).And guess what? My room truly smells of “peace”!! (the toilet is broken.)Right now I am only in my briefs—and damn! Nobody has as much as even glanced upward while I am taking this photo I am about to send you. Makes a man feel small, unappreciated and a little lonely. Off to sound check in a few. Mucho gusto G -Sent from my iPod

Dear Tricia

The hotel in Larvik is entirely over the top. My room juts out into the North Sea. Outside my windows is the sound of surf and sea gulls. (Helps dull the noise in my ears)The health club is a leap beyond co-ed. This morning the sauna was filled with happy old ladies and gents, baring it all, hangin’ loose, pendulous appendages bouncing high and low, swinging this way and that. A couple of accessories looked like shy little turtles hidden in their shells. I felt entirely overdressed, me in my bath towel. A sweet, very well-nourished lady decided she wanted to rise from the hot wooden benches and give it a good stretch. So she raised her palms high as she could, then headed due south for her toes. And by God! She did—with all four arms way past her knees. Kinda glad she was facing me. (I know, I know I’m bad). The fitness instructor asked me if I wished for his blood circulation treatment. “Why not,” I said, “I’m in Norway.” So he beat me with leafy branches till my hot and sweaty pink skin turned a deep shade of vermillion.Nothing like being whipped when you’re at a hot, live nudie show.Off to Naples in a bit. Love you
-Sent from my iPod

Dear Tricia

Love the Ukraine. Perhaps it’s just Lviv, but an outsider can’t help think how misguided his old impressions were. The Byzantine churches are in good tact: dark and scary but fascinating, larger than life blood-ridden crucifixes and spooky confessionals. The old city has this mysteriously vacuum-packed look to it, untouched by the bombs of the WWII. Considered buying an old beat-up Soviet war medal at a nearby flea market. Sundry acts of valor for sale—fifteen bucks. Sad when you think it through. Guess Nature doesn’t waste a crumb. . .     . . .Still find pleasure in singing that 7-minute treatise on getting old I composed eons ago.  (“Where Am I Going”) In the past few days I thought of changing “Will I be strong or barely keep alive, when I’m thirty-five”, to, “When I’m sixty-five”. But in the end, poetry won out over truth. Thus, I decided ‘thirty-five’ had an endearing, more hopeful quality to it, despite the complete absurdity. I thought, if I could sing the tune with eyes closed, deeply immersed in passion, and if the spotlights hit me just the right way, maybe nobody will notice the Cheshire’s crook at the end of its tail. All for now. Love you -Sent from my iPod

My hands and feet felt like mysterious, prickly appendages after half a day of cruising at 37,000 feet. I admit to being an air-traveling agitator and somewhat of a space invader; in this case, using the 767 aisles (irrespective of class) as my own private jogging path, sometimes severely pissing off the flight attendants pushing their duty-free trollies, hogging the empty bridge ways between aisles, squeezing in a few yoga postures; using the head just to say a quick hello to whatever bloodless entity is staring back at me in the wavy mirror. Twelve hours of inhaling three hundred people’s filtered sighs, moans, wheezes, snores, sneezes, sniffles, gasps, hacks and other noxious gases can do funny things to one’s think box. By the third hour I immediately threw away my no-exceptions dietary regimen and turned into a human trash disposal, devouring whatever little shiny square packet was handed to me, no matter how violently my better judgment protested. A thing of nothing to put on a few, just sitting there, mindlessly grazing on odds and ends masking as food fortified with a litany of multi-syllabic chemicals.Despite the latest Brad Thor page turner, Ayn Rand’s “We the Living”, or Thich Nhat Hanh streaming from my IPod directly into my drums rendering me a slightly more educated soul than I was twelve hours prior to the trip, I became worse than a restless tot in a high chair by the final hours. I blew out a deep sigh of relief the moment our rubber hit the hot Japanese pavement. (90 degrees with over 90% humidity) Who cared if the pilot was having a bad day and our tail got a bit squirrely. I don’t think I would have even minded much if the plane spun once or twice—terra firma felt great.

Flying long runs for many years, more and more I have come to the conclusion, the human body just wasn’t cut out for this kind of stuff, leastways not mine. But Nature is benevolent to we wandering minstrels, supplying us with only a fuzzy memory of our travails after even the most grueling trip—come to think of it, not unlike most women when it comes time to recollecting the unpleasant particulars of childbirth, ready to have another the second labor is over. Yep, give us a few footlights and a stage and all is forgiven and forgotten.I may as well have been baring it all, when I was asked to strike the shades for customs and immigration. My peepers narrowed like Dirty Harry, the face below felt like it was jerry-rigged by a couple of clothespins clamped to my temples with a strip of scotch tape from chin to brow to keep the mouth from gaping too wide. I slurred and fumbled over a few simple boilerplate questions posed by the woman in uniform. I was hoping my work visa would speak for itself, because left up to my performance, I thought I was certain to be incarcerated for some old crime I had just inadvertently confessed to.Then came the uneasy: hold-your-horses and brace-yourself-for-the-worst moment, waiting for bags. I watched the belt go round and round piling up with suitcases, everyone’s belongings but mine it seemed. My uneasiness turned to squirminess that gradually progressed into quiet panic as I suddenly had visions of performing in the same clothes I was wearing for the upcoming six shows at the Cotton Club. But just as I was about to abandon all hope, like a shaft of light beaming through a patch of blue, the darkness lifted and my threads appeared.

The hour and a half to the Hilton in Shinjuku, a ritzy section of Tokyo, was educational and surprisingly enjoyable. Rene, from the Cotton Club, an intelligent man of an interesting background, Japanese-Jordanian, had much to say in the way of saving the planet in a rather jam-packed ninety minutes. Our rapid-fire conversation about America—namely, the actual America versus the regurgitated America as seen through the eyes of most of the world, fogged up the Toyota Crown windows pretty good. (It struck me that second or third–hand information (more like infotainment) is like passive smoking: lots of stink and fume without the real tobacco taste). Praise God for treadmills and dumbbells. When it’s noon in Portland and 4am, the next day, in Tokyo, the lower road is the only road to travel. Forget poetry and navel gazing—get those bones to rattle and the muscles to ache so the brain can step aside and let the inner clock reset a lot faster.  So, I see this hole-in-the-wall hair salon, not too far from the hotel, and say to myself, “What the hell . . . live dangerously . . .take a leap of faith . . . think out of the box . . .steel your heart . . .gird your loins . . .beard the lion . . .” and so forth. I am still astounded that I allowed a perfect stranger in a foreign country to futz with the follicles and give me what ended up being a drastic re-do.

Kyoko looked modish, a bit futuristic. She was young, delicate but slouched towards the dangerous, even devilish; something of a “Kill Bill’s” Gogo Yubari vibe about her—sans pigtails and schoolgirl tunic. Kyoko was an all out, hot-off-the-spit, urbane fashion radical, over-made and over-civilized, dressed in primary colors as perky as a Japanese anime. She handled that pair of cold steel blades like a ninja warrior, tossing it back and forth from hand to hand without as much as a downwards glance. She was one of those latest-wrinkle techno-coiffeurs, in all probabilities not empathetic to my retro curlicues and loops—the perfect prescription for trying something new, I reasoned, as I bravely sat myself down in her chair. I’ll never know what came over me, as I closed my eyes, and sat there for forty-five minutes, handing Kyoko total creative control. I broke the silence only now and then with some polite small talk, figuring some personal rapport might ease any frustration with my web of tangles and temper any temptation Kyoko might have had to just throw up her little hands and give me a buzz cut.  She kept courteously nodding and replying, “Hai. . .hai,” so I took that to mean we might have been carrying on a two-way conversation after all, despite my nagging suspicions.My dad claimed I was the most uncooperative customer who ever sat in his chair. He called me a Mexican jumping bean on several occasions. So I did my damnedest to sit perfectly still, act like big people, and try my utmost not get a scissor in the eye.

When Kyoko was done, she smiled, quite pleased with herself, and handed me a big round vanity mirror for my personal viewing pleasure. I couldn’t bear any sudden shock to my system, in light of still being another three days away from time-adjusted, so I said, “Oh, that’s okay Kyoko . . .domo arigato . . .just tell me how much, rubbing my thumb and index together.” By the look on Kyoko’s face, America’s world image took another serious hit when I leaped out of my hydraulic chair and walked out of that salon without even so much as taking a peak at what manner of skill and artistry had just been heaped upon me. “Bye . . .Bye!” she waved briskly, as if she was washing a stubborn gnat off a window shield, her plum lips smiling, while the eyes peeping through her false lashes looking a little hurt, on the verge of contempt.“Bye . . .Bye!” I waved slowly, certain that a sudden look of concern had come over my face, as I sensed a breeze on my neck for the first time in a couple of years. Perhaps it was buyer’s remorse, but I didn’t stand before a mirror and check out the upshot of my adventure into Kyoko’s establishment for hours; and when I dared, just prior to hitting the hay, I did so at first as if I was peering through half-parted fingers during the scary part of a horror film. “What the hell did I go and do?” I said to myself.

I must admit Kyoko’s brainchild had thrown me off some, while I prepared for the first set at the Cotton Club. (Though I was happy all six shows were filled to capacity after not having played Japan in ten years) It had been a while since I had worn my hair so short. I felt a little self-conscious and over-exposed, like something was showing that ought not to show, as I looked into the cosmetic mirror bordered with bright bulbs. The bean looked rather Spartan—a pared pineapple, came to mind. Actually, Kyoko’s handiwork was precise, executed to a T–much too much to a T, I feared—definitely a coif that would ease up . . . given a week or two. But no such grace time was in the offing. Then suddenly, just as I was about to enter the spotlight feeling like a shorn lamb, as if the Fates conspired to do me a solid, some kid with an out-of-control fro, whose job it was to chaperone me to the stage, looked closely at my new do and enthusiastically claimed he wanted the exact same thing done to his own black ball of twine. “Mm, I’ll go with that,” I thought to myself, my stage legs suddenly returning to me. I blurted out the name of Kyoko, the demon barber of Shinjuku, to the young man, as I dashed to the stage and went into “Crazy Life”.

Because of the recording equipment available, there will be recordings made of each student as part of the curriculum. The recordings will serve to document progress made by the students during the week. The students are free to take the recordings home to continue to learn from and study.  There will be two separate classes offered: one concerns the art of song, a comprehensive demonstration of techniques of songwriting, both musically and lyrically. The art of song will also entail harmony, chord substitution, rhythmic regard, thematic content, and some musicology, in terms of understanding the birth and evolution of song writing as we know it. In the same class, there will also be a good measure of focus on the composition of lyrics: what role, words, in regards to texture, rhyme, rhythm, scansion, story, theme, and singability, play in the crafting of contemporary song.The second class will be devoted to the art of voice: an extensive course in singing, complete with vocal strength building, phrasing, and practical methods and necessities regarding vocal expression. Note, these are two separate master classes. The Art of Song will be scheduled for mornings, between 10am and 1pm. The Art of Voice will be scheduled for afternoons, between 2:30 and 5:30pm. A student is free to apply for both classes if he or she chooses.In order that the class be comprised of serious and dedicated applicants, Gino will personally choose students for this 2012 course, after listening to a demo or any recording, (Mp3 or Mp4) submitted by the perspective student. Once Gino has selected the students, he will personally contact them via skype or telephone.The price of the master class is as follows:$1,250 for 5 classes given over the course of a workweek (each class 3 hours—15 hours total) Recordings are included.Gino’s management is available to help guide and inform students in regards to hotel and transportation for their stay in Oregon. Applications are being taken as of this week.

Contact: coapro@verizon.net for more details

There you were, full of hope and promise, destined to be Dave Clark, when in a twinkling, there goes the charming baby face, vanished into the cosmos, doomed to the black and white pages of the family photo album. Oh the heartbreak, as every once-doting aunt is suddenly loath to pinch your cheek, and inclined to keep a healthy distance from this newly spawned creature with a unibrow and a voice that keeps dithering between soprano and baritone midstream.

If not given to long stretches behind locked doors, questioning the bathroom mirror as to whether to part the do left or right, or in the middle, or not at all, it is a mysterious phase when one is prone to be idly dreaming away much of the day, rapt in self-tortuous, lyrical trifles and tidbits, jotting down profound inconsequentialities, trying to ape one’s favorite Lake poet; at the same time, having his   disproportionately grown, pimply nose, too often buried deep in girly magazines lying in shadowy corners of unfrequented household wings. Ah yes, the salad days of the tyrannical little head, lord and master of a boy’s universe, mad butcher of rational thought, otherwise known as puberty.  I had a job at Eaton’s, a department store in Montreal. On Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays I bused my way downtown to St Catherine Street and pitched socks and undies to the passing world. I was paid a whopping fourteen dollars for my fourteen hours of services every weekend. No windfall, but still a welcome sum for a man-child who just hit his teens. On one particular Saturday I remember trying to answer a couple of mind-numbing questions about whether a certain pair of Jockey’s was the appropriate size, while some short and round elderly lady, who mulishly insisted upon opening up every package in the department, spread a pair of white shorts across her pelvis, claiming she and her husband were blessed with the exact same measurements.

Suddenly, while the sunburst-coiffed, wobbly-ankled old woman in stilettos kept prattling on, soon veering off into protracted tangents about her Harry (medical nitty-gritties unfit for a boy’s ear), I found myself helplessly swept away by a certain sound in the distance—a bass run in particular.         F-C-C-D-F-F-D-C-D / F-C-C-D-F-F-D-C-D. . . best I could tell.  Of course the brass and guitar were shadowing the riff but the woofy sound system in the high ceilings made them secondary to the bass.  Besides, I could have bet, then and there, the run was the bassist’s own brainchild that any clever producer would have seized upon and handed over to the rest of the band.

Then came the harmonica followed by this piercing, high-pitched voice, singing, “I was born in Lil’ Rock / Had a childhood sweetheart / We were always hand in hand. . .I was made to love her/ Built my world around her. . .”“Young man”, cried the woman, posing in the three-way mirror, pivoting left and right at forty-five degree angles, spanning the shorts across her rather generous mid-section. (Now and then she would quit the pivoting, zoom in close, pucker her orange lips, bat a plastic lash, give herself a once over, moan a couple of words in some foreign language, then zoom out and merrily resume the pivoting.) With her thumbs locked in, stretching the elastic waste band to its limit, she continued, “Young man! Don’t you think these are a bit on the snug side?  My Harry might do better with a size forty-two, don’t you think? She paused and looked at me in disbelief. “Stop staring at the air, why don’t you, and fetch me a forty-two!” she snapped, clicking her tongue.  I couldn’t rightly make out the gratuitous commentaries beneath her breath that ensued.But, no earthquake, burning building, or falling sky, nothing in the world, be it earthly or divine, let alone a tetchy old girl posing in a mirror with a pair of Jockey shorts eagle-spread hip to hip, could have torn me away from that lovely rare air I was staring off into. Carol Kaye’s* licks seemed to be the perfect counterpoint and balance to Stevie’s voice, weaving this way and that around the drums, passing effortlessly through roots, seconds, thirds, fifths and dominants. It was all so harmonic, jazzy, rhythmic and sensual—something I hadn’t heard before, and a technique of playing that would be etched in my memory from that moment on.  Bass had suddenly become a voice and not just footing buried below the surface.“Kids today, I swear,” grumbled the old woman, flinging the shorts at my wide, unblinking eyes and bopping head, as she turned and walked away.