the infamous angel is coming home. Maybe Luke the drifter tweeted about it the other day. How she's got the bus fare home with a kickstarter campaign... or maybe I heard it in a song. Well I'd rather that than a picture of some Downy Woodpecker showing up in my mail.
     Either way we're standing at the crossroads of perception and reality. Who can even afford a nice little war anymore? Ain't no town no city can. Diddley Daddy may be singing who do you love, and all we can hear is a big echo chamber with all them assholes yelling into it. That's a lot of reverb. And if you got the money you might get a better microphone.
     We've bought a few, spewed upon them with enthusiasm, and dropped them with regret. But we never got that kind of volume. Not that we had anything more to say than Slurf or Doreen and I love you Yoshimi. Like I fell in love with Li'l Liza Jane because of Bob Wills until I heard Antoine Baptiste play it in Treme and then I round about got to remembering Huey piano Smith sang Hey li'l Liza for Cosimo Matassa back in the day. That makes you think, Whoa! we've got some good gumbo going in this country. These days it's on the stove but the stove ain't lit because they're arguing about who gets the credit for chopping down the tree that the match came from before they can even strike it.
   I wish it was funny or a littler deeper but at least there is something of value to this musical culture, this rich stew we've been feasting on all these years. If we can celebrate it and even get paid for participating in it we gotta feel lucky and then duck because you never know what' coming next...I'm just glad it stopped snowing and all the birds are singing. Is that a Yellow-Bellied Sapsucker?
 But nothing says summer like putting on your rose' buying shirt (if you need wine), or inviting a guy who plays ukele and writes songs about Salsbury Beach down to the lounge for a set. Melverne Taylor was dapper and sang smooth as butter (or coconut oil). He was alone again like Gilbert O'Sullivan and translated French for goodbye in a song inpsired by Pee Wee's Big Adventure. Wow. Jefferson was a man about town singing like a sparrow, and Laura marched us to the beat of a different drum. So we got no complaints as we saddle up the old Palomino. I can think of at least a 1000 reasons not to tweet about it so let the Thrushes and the Waxwings fly. We'll be on the road before the Grackles cry, trying to keep up with Kris Delmohorst and that new Cars cd she's got coming out this summer. We're playing together out there on the road. Who's Gonna Drive You Home, and some of her songs too. It gives Ry an excuse to break out the unitard er...Omnichord thing that makes those odd electronic sounds. We'll shake it up baby and listen to the birds of Belfast and maybe we'll see you out there too.