sandman's music - "sandman" sandy allen - News http://sandmanmusic.net/news.html "sandman" sandy allen: News Jannis' PHPRss class - http://www.jannis.to/ Thu, 29 Jul 2010 01:49:37 -0700 13 SANTAS... http://sandmanmusic.net/news.html#79 That's right. In Iceland, they have 13 Santas. I learned this tidbit yesterday, while preparing for a commercial shoot in Manhattan. I say "preparing" - let me define, refine, and further explain.

Last Tuesday morning, I got an email from my friend Todd (he not only plays fiddle and sings a mean "high lonesome" tenor in the band Hellbent & Heartbreakin' - he's also an actor). He forwarded a "casting call" from an agency looking for a lap-steel guitar player, the client being Icelandic Air. Todd thought of me right away, and suggested I reply to the agency and advise them to look at my website to check out my "look" and credentials. I did. What the hell, it's worth a shot (the pay was considerably more generous than what I'm accustomed to making from music work. Don't get me started...).


My email elicited an immediate response: "Is the full beard your present look?". I heard my father's voice: "Why don't you shave that goddamn beard - you look like a bum". I won't say my heart sank, but I figured I wasn't getting the gig (the ad said "20-50 years old", so I knew I was pushing it anyway, being a tad outside those parameters). I replied, "Yes. The beard is permanent", adding hopefully, "They paid me extra for it when I worked in 'Amistad'". Another quick response: "I'll be in touch later today - may need to see you Thursday for an audition.".


I checked my email periodically - okay, it was every ten minutes or so - over the course of the day. Nothing. Wednesday morning, a little after 9:00 (like 9:03) I sent a message saying, in essence, "I guess you don't need me, but in case you do, I have a gig Thursday, and have to be back up here by 5:00...". Within a few minutes, I was pleasantly surprised by a reply saying " We do need you - can you come today?". I called the number and spoke to my correspondent, confirming an appointment "between 3:00 and 5:00". I took care of my homey obligations and hit the road.


At the audition, there were half a dozen or so guys. I was surprised and curious that half of them were black - the ad had specified "caucasian" (granted, I'm outside the age bracket, but this was really a stretch...). I wondered if perhaps it was a protest, and silently applauded them. Then I thought, "I bet these guys are good". Just as I was forecasting my diminishing odds, one of them took out a saxophone and began quietly - almost silently - noodling. I found myself back in a familiar universe. "God's in His heaven...", I thought, as I turned my attention to my real competition, using the "book-by-its-cover" method: 1) Crewcut with a beautiful instrument ("... must've given up some serious coin for that", I thought), beside him, what looked like a brand new black straw WALMART cowboy hat. He wore sneakers; 2) Potbelly with a rumpled black western shirt, which I guessed he'd slept in more than once (maybe last night), ruing that he'd left his gear in New England, and hoping they had a steel he could use; 3) Porkpie hat with a tiny goatee, confidently sliding what I took for blues licks (couldn't really hear, unplugged as he was); 4) Nervous fella, also "sans gear", listening through the door and quizzing those who emerged from the audition, trying to get an edge. I opted to wait until I was "on deck" to get my steel out. I felt surprisingly relaxed, and, I guess I should say, very white. The country & western bar scene from "48 Hours" with Nick Nolte and Eddie Murphy played in my head, as I filled out the card with sizes and vital statistics. I was stumped by one. "What color would you say my hair is?", I asked the young receptionist.


"Gray". She said it without a trace of hesitation. I began to protest, grabbing a handful of my prized ringlets.


"I mean this hair - not the beard".


"Gray", she smiled.


"It's finally catching up to my beard", I thought. "My SILVER beard".


About then, Potbelly emerged, complaining that the amp provided was awash with weird effects, which he'd been unable to subdue. We learned that no background music was provided. "You just play somethin'", he offered. Crewcut was next. He donned his stiff hat, took a deep, loud breath, and went in. I got out my ax and started warming up, making sure it was in tune. Crewcut came out, "King Bee" went in. I knew I was next. Crewcut admired my steel. I admired his, and we exchanged some shop-talk. As he packed up, he sighed, "You should get this. You look the part". I'd opted for the full faded denim look, complete with hole-in-elbow, my older, more beat-up straw cowboy hat, and snakeskin boots (I was going to wear my everyday weathered leathers, but had spilled about half a cup of coffee in one during my hasty departure). He headed for the elevator as King Bee bopped out from the "hot seat".

"Sandman?". I'd boldly put my nick-nickname on the sign-in sheet. I gathered myself and headed in.


"Hi, I'm Donna". She smiled and gave me a firm, friendly handshake and directed me to a chair. "Make yourself comfortable. I'm going to take some photos, then we'll do the taping". I looked at the camera. "Great. Can you push your hat back a little and give me a big smile". I did. "Great", she said again. "Far out", I thought. I looked at the amp, plugged in and strummed a little. "Yipes!". I couldn't help it. "That sounds pretty horrible". I began searching for the elusive control to eliminate the phase/flange/reverb/delay/you-name-it that was emanating from the thing, hoping I hadn't been too uppity and insulted her somehow.


"Take your time", said Donna."It's your audition. You should be comfortable". That made me feel better, and I spent a minute finding a decent sound. "Smile, introduce yourself, play something...". There followed a brief discussion of how I should introduce myself, with the usual explanation that Daniel is the name I use on official documents, etc., but, "when I answer the phone, if they ask for Daniel I know it's probably someone I don't want to talk to". She laughed. We settled on Sandman. I played a little, basically "Your Cheatin' Heart", with some artistic license. Donna waited until I stopped, then said, "That's great! But, I'd like to see more of your face".


"You're gonna run into that problem with steel players", I said. "We bow our heads a lot".


She laughed, and grasping the dilemma right by the horns, offered a compromise: "You pull your hat back a little and I'll lower the camera". I played again, a little better this time. "Play some more". I did a little bluesy thing for a minute. "That's great", she said.


"Thank you. Sandman, at your service". I gave a slight tip of the hat. I wondered if I'd come across too hokey. Before I had time to worry about it, she was thanking me profusely, and explaining that they'd know "probably by the weekend...". I returned her thanks, adding that I hadn't been to the city in a few years, but used to live there. "Where did you come from?".


"Rhode Island". She thanked me even more, obviously realizing I had a long, tedious drive ahead of me. All-in-all, I thought it'd gone well, but one can never really tell - people can be polite and very friendly. I walked the block and a half back to the car, took off my boots and began the drive home. It was just before 5:00 p.m. The drive was, for the most part, long and tedious.


I got a call on Friday afternoon: "You're one of the favorites. Can you commit to next Tuesday and Wednesday?". "Absolutely".


"We'll let you know as soon as we've made the decision" (or something like that - I admit, I was giddy). I spent the weekend in anticipation. The few folks with whom I shared my possible good fortune were unanimous in there positivity; "Of course, you'll get it. How could you not...?". Their confidence bolstered my own, and made me love them even more.


The call came Monday morning; "Daniel?". Her voice was friendly.


"Well, yes", I hesitated. "Call me Sandy, please. Or Sandman, if you like". She laughed.


"This is Lisa at (the) casting agency. You've been chosen for the part".


"Far out". It's my default response to surprising or good news. It's all I could say when I came face-to-face with Joni Mitchell in 1972.


Lisa continued, "Your shoot is scheduled for 10:45 tomorrow morning. Can you do that?".


"Yes, ma'am". Once again, I worried briefly about hokiness.


"O.K.", she went on. "I'll email you the script. And let's see... Can you come in for a wardrobe fitting at 4:00 today?".


"... Bit of a problem there. I live in Rhode Island".


"Oh, wait! There's a note here. You're supposed to wear exactly what you wore for the audition".


"Cool". I say that about as often as "far out".


"O.K. So, we'll see you tomorrow. I think that's it. Oh - keep Wednesday open, just in case...".


"O.K. Thank you Lisa".


The email arrived immediately. I admit her reference to "the script" had made me a little anxious. There was a series of 5 or 6 scenes, with an international (New York ethnic-rainbow) cast, including an Indian taxi-driver, a Jamaican (Trinidadian?) steel-drum player, a retired professor playing chess with an adolescent schoolboy, a pretty woman (Icelandic, and very pretty, I learned when I met her), a sax-player ("King Bee"), and me, the "lap guitar" player. In each scene, someone had a line, essentially a greeting to the people of Iceland, with an invitation to visit New York. A second "optional" line included "Merry Christmas". I could handle that. In addition to the line, in my scene was the instruction to play "JOLAS VEINAR EINNE OG ATTA". Was I supposed to be familiar with this tune? I shot off a quick email asking for help, and immediately received a reply with an mp3 attached. I was relieved to hear what I later learned is an old traditional Christmas song, sung to the tune of "Darlin' Clementine". I went on about my day, and just before going to bed, I took out my lap-steel and worked it out.


I rose in the dark, around 5:00, planning to be on the road by 6:00 or so. After a somewhat abbreviated morning routine, I gathered my wardrobe, which consisted of two shirts, two pairs of jeans (one of which I wore), and my "snakes" (they'd suggested I bring a second wardrobe choice, in case the director didn't agree my audition look was perfect). I made sure I had a cord, my slide and finger picks. Once I was sure I had everything, I mounted up and drove off into...


... the morning rush hour. I'd allowed myself about four and a half hours to make the trip (I did it in a little over three last week for the audition). Rush hour is different - predictably unpredictable, to a degree, although delay is inevitable. Most of the trip I was doing less than 30 mph. The rest, I went... well, a lot faster. I was in stop-and-go, bumper-to-bumper somewhere near Norwalk when I got a call. It was a little after 9:00.


"Daniel? This is Nadia from the agency. How are you?".


"I'm O.K. - in a little bit of traffic, but I think I'll be on time".


"O.K. I just wanted to call to see how you're doing". I asked if there was any place I could park right near the shoot. She thought that would be difficult. "No problem", I said. "I know a place on 23rd, so I'll park there and take a cab, or walk if I have time".


"Don't sweat it. We'll see you in a while. Just call me at this number if you have a problem".


I arrived at the garage at 10:30, put on my boots, grabbed my stuff and hailed a cab at 9th Ave. I arrived at the designated place at 10:40.


 


Here, I must confess that I spent a good deal of time yesterday (5/29) completing this story. It was almost as good as the finish I wrote the day before. That one disappeared when I tried to publish it. It was a masterpiece of fluid eloquence, if I do say so myself. To be a bit more humble and honest, there were a few stand-out passages. I went on at some length regarding the scene on the street where I passed a little over two hours waiting for the shoot. I wrote a lot about the abundance of beautiful women, waxed poetic about springtime in NYC. You get the idea. The trouble is, I went on so long, that the damn thing vanished at publication. In decidedly non-tech terms, the computer (server?) got tired (bored?) and when I pushed the "publish "button, I was directed to the sign-in page, where I discovered my little disaster.


 


I was pissed-off, confused, dismayed, and disgruntled. I did some gardening. I got philosophical. "I'll do it over tomorrow. I'll write it again and it'll be even better". (Actually, some of what you read above was completed that afternoon). Yesterday, I sat down with my morning coffee and resumed. I got wordy. I remembered some of my favorite parts and characters, as I remember them now. I wrote for a couple of hours, and finally satisfied I'd told the story adequately, retaining at least some of the flourish from the original, I hit the publish button, whereupon I was redirected to the sign-in page. Yes, it was gone again. Now I know... something - I'm unsure exactly what. I think I'm supposed to write - if I'm planning to go on and on - in some other format, then do the old copy & paste. I'll try that... next time. That is, the next time I have a long story I deem worth telling. For now, I offer the following synopsis, as quickly as I can:


Greeted by Nadia (assaistant director). Treated like a STAR, by her and everyone else on the crew throughout the experience. Perched on the street near the entrance to the famous Flatiron building for about two hours, ogling women (some would say - I will defend my actions with the phrase "appreciating the eternal, awesome beauty and poetry of God's masterpiece"). Met some real friendly folks. Nadia escorted me to the nearby park at about 1:00 p.m. The shoot took about 40 minutes. I did good, by all accounts - "Very natural and relaxed...", Nadia said. She also said my shades were cool, and directed me to wear them for the camera. That's it. I had some really pithy dialogue in there, too. Oh, yeah - then I drove home, having learned, among other things, that there are 13 versions of Santa in Iceland, and in all likelihood, I resemble at least one... 


THE END

]]> http://sandmanmusic.net/news.html#79 Wed, 26 May 2010 00:00:00 -0700 sandman's music - "sandman" sandy allen - News Old Days http://sandmanmusic.net/news.html#78
I'd long ago forgotten the name of the club, but never forgot the shoot, or the gig. I lost track of the pictures during my rambling youth, but thankfully, they were safe at my parents house, and I retrieved them during the final clean-out, leaving them, once again, to languish in their box for some years. I found them about three years ago, stuck together and slightly damaged, but retaining their essence. I made copies. I filed them away. Now, moved by a name I recognized, I dug them out.

I shouldn't be surprised by the impact these pictures have on me, but I am. The memory of the photo shoot is as clear as if it was last week, and the gig... well, that's a story.

It was, as I said, my first real gig as a singer/songwriter. I was something of a celebrity among my classmates, and in the community, having made quite an impression as an actor in school plays (acting got me into a prestigious drama school), as a player in several of the popular bands during my h.s. years, and as a PUBLISHED songwriter (I had a 6-month contract with Elektra records during my sophomore year). So, here I was, a golden boy of sorts, about to go off and get my training to become a famous actor, by most folks' estimation. Certainly, I'd continue to play music, and maybe write a song or two along the way. I was going to be a star. Everybody knew it. Well, almost everybody - my mother wished me well, having been in showbiz herself, although she worried I didn't have the chutzbah, the moxie. She made vague references to "the pitfalls". My father, the M.I.T. graduate/electrical engineer had serious doubts - afterall, he'd saved my mother from the wild life of showbiz, and his hope was that I'd come around, grow up, and find something productive to do with my life.

So, there I was, being chauffeured to the gig by a friend. He drove a VW bus. There were at least eight of us, cruising blissfully, the sunroof AND the sliding door open to the summer night air. I'm sure (although, for reasons soon to be apparent, I don't remember) we had some beer. He had some reefer. Really powerful reefer, I was warned. I was nervous. A toke or two and I felt more relaxed. I'll have another. Really powerful, I was warned again. Just one more. I remember watching the road fly by out the slider. I remember being at the microphone, eyes closed, in the zone. Suddenly, there are no words, just a muffled mumbling. Is that me? Eyes opened. Where am I? Who are these people? They're staring at me, their desperate eyes trying to give me the words I've lost. Oh, yeah - I'm singing. I'm singing something, but I can't remember what.

I guess I got through that song. I think I ended it abruptly, took a sip of coffee, mumbled something of an apology. After that, I may have sung another song, but soon I took a break, during which I went out for a cigarette and told the owner I was "nervous". Afterwards, I played a second set, which, though less passionate, was way more coherent.

The name of the place was the Condemned Coffeehouse. I just found out. Now I can sleep. I always wanted another shot at playing there, was sure I didn't get one because of my bad behavior. I went off to college, dropped out after a year, and began my wandering. My parents were disappointed and pissed off. The next few years were tough on our relationship. Thirty years later, my father still expressed his disappointment - it was kind of nice to hear he'd actually expected me to be a world-renown actor. Over the years, he'd come to appreciate (off and on) my talent and perseverance - I think, mostly, he saw my mother in me, and consoled himself with having two older, more "successful" sons.

Truth be known, I disappointed myself, and carried that burden for years - that failure thing. I perpetuated that stage persona - I did not perform sober (or "straight") for about twenty five years. In lucid moments, my mother's "pitfall" warnings would haunt me, but a drink or two would cure that. I did everything I could to please my parents, and when I failed, I rebelled even more, further distancing myself from their approval - a vicious cycle, if ever there was one. It's not their fault. I'm not blaming them (although I did, in my ignorance, for years). We all have a play. From time to time, I reckon we all let people dictate our part, our feelings. I'm glad I've lived long enough to get a second chance. I survived the push-and-pull of youth, success and failure, family and friends. Now I can do what I love, and I can make a fool of myself without guilt. If I "zone out" and forget the words, I can blame it on age, or being tired ("... missed my nap...").

All this from a picture. Imagine that. Check out the photo page.

love, peace & harmony...]]> http://sandmanmusic.net/news.html#78 Mon, 08 Mar 2010 00:00:00 -0800 sandman's music - "sandman" sandy allen - News Traveling Zydeco Circus http://sandmanmusic.net/news.html#77 http://sandmanmusic.net/news.html#77 Mon, 22 Feb 2010 00:00:00 -0800 sandman's music - "sandman" sandy allen - News Inspiration... http://sandmanmusic.net/news.html#76
If you've visited my little space here with any regularity, you may recall my previous musings on this particular time of year. In short, it is usually my most creative season. Forced by nature to spend a good deal of time indoors, I become more reflective. If I'm lucky and persistent (self-discipline comes into play now), I dig through unfinished writings (perhaps from last year at this time) and find the words I need to finish those works. During this process, something new invariably arises, and I'm off and running, or off and walking at least. In my quest of late, I have not been disappointed - a little overwhelmed. Let's say challenged.

I got news that a cousin of mine passed away last week. I've learned to take such news in stride. At the same time, I feel a sudden urgency to "get to work". I find myself asking, "What am I REALLY supposed to be doing?". The answer is, almost always, "Write it down". (Whatever IT is). So, I go looking for the essence. I get deep. It gets dark down there. I know there's a light - somewhere in this gloom. Let's see...

My train of thought staggers through main streets and alleys, corporate headquarters and war zones. There are disasters and scandals, scandalous exploitation of disasters, disastrous consequences..

I was recently reminded that I work for the company store. I say reminded, 'cause I think I felt it, knew it in my heart. The reality was explained to me by a guy who knows about such things - an economist who's been studying the behavior of banks and corporations his entire adult life. As I listened, it was as if he was relating an event from my childhood, in which I'd taken part but had forgotten. Now, out of a fog, I remember being there, doing that. And I'm baffled - How'd that happen? I feel some shame and guilt at my own vulnerability and naivete, but mostly I'm pissed off, and mostly at the machine.

And now, this machine, the company store, has made another big score; it gets to buy politicians. Not that this hasn't been going on, like, forever, but now it's law. Did I ask for this? Somewhere in the fine print, did I say "Sure, that's a great idea"? Did I somehow let it slip by during the commercial?

You may wonder where this ramble is headed. I write songs, remember? I'm looking for inspiration, watching for my muse, waiting for love to pierce my heart and move me to poetry. That's all I ask. And this is what I get? Oh, shit... I may, after all these years of avoiding it, have to write a protest song. Well, I'm sure I started a few. I just have to rummage through the old notebooks, matchbooks, and little scraps of paper (the ones that haven't blown in the wind) to see what I started, and see if I can finish it.

Now, there is good news; amid all the rubble, I have been finding little glimmers of hope and - dare I say - love. It is my excellent good fortune to abide among other creative folks, who have not been idle. In the last week, I've been treated to a heavy dose of inspiration from them. They remind me that I don't have to fix it all. I don't have to have all the answers. Maybe I don't even have to write a protest song. Maybe another silly love song. What's wrong with that?

As usual, I remind you to look at the calendar page here on my site. You'll find some diversionary suggestions, and even a good cause! Gee, maybe I'm doing something after all...]]> http://sandmanmusic.net/news.html#76 Mon, 08 Feb 2010 00:00:00 -0800 sandman's music - "sandman" sandy allen - News 2K10 http://sandmanmusic.net/news.html#75
Last night the R'gods played at the Bean & Leaf - first gig of the new year. If the rest of the year goes like this, we have some fun times comin' - loose, experimental, spontaneous, fun times... might even make a few dollars (thought we were taking donations for the hungry. Ben surprised us, announcing we'd use the proceeds from the basket to pay babysitters and put gas in our vehicles - nice surprise!). Don't get me wrong. I love helping those less fortunate, but we all have needs. As always, this annual concert (7th year) had a warm, casual feel. Thanks to friends and fans old and new.

As the days of reveling and reflection wind down, lots of new projects are in the works, news of which will appear in subsequent writings here, soon. All I can say for now is that everyone in my musical orbit is champing at the bit to get busy.

Hope y'all enjoyed your holidays. See you out there...]]> http://sandmanmusic.net/news.html#75 Sun, 03 Jan 2010 00:00:00 -0800 sandman's music - "sandman" sandy allen - News That's Showbiz... http://sandmanmusic.net/news.html#74
Case in point: Last year I had a gig on Christmas Eve - a party for the staff and regular, faithful patrons of a watering hole where one of my bandmates frequently relaxes. I had my family's blessing to do the gig, since I'd be home by 10:00 or so, in plenty of time to do a little tree-trimming and cuddle by the fire - the whole nostalgic thing. The money was good (it usually is, given the requisite generosity of the season - nobody wants to look like a Scrooge). I don't do a lot of shopping anymore, since there are no kids expecting ponies or bicycles, and my list has dwindled the natural way. I try to get cards to my sister and two brothers. I look for small tokens to wrap for the folks I live with, just so they know I care, and we all have something to open on the big day. Anyway, the "extra" money comes in handy. So, I do the gig. I get home and am faced with a classic dysfunctional family Christmas. A cloud hangs over the bare tree. I'm told they were waiting for me to decorate. I'm touched. Problem is; while they waited, two out of three got way too deep in the nog, and the third had to referee the festivities. Hence the cloud. Christmas morning comes - around noon sometime. Grandma stays in bed, nursing her self-inflicted wounds, refusing to have anything to do with any of us. Round two starts right after dinner (an anxiety-ridden affair. Talk about a silent night...). Junior decides to merry things up by joining Granny in a vodka-chugging contest. We convince him to go elsewhere to do his partying. He's gone for two or three days.

So, this year I promised - pledged to try, actually - to be home, flattering myself that it would make a difference. I perused my calendar. Slim pickin's. a gig the day after Thanksgiving, and - what's this? OH, my usual 4th-Thursday gig falls on T'day. Hmmm. I give my "band" the option to skip it. I'll go solo. Won't miss anything home. We'll be done with dinner by 4:00. Then a gig comes up Thanksgiving Eve. Good. Work is good. Then comes the possibility of a gig the day after Christmas. Too bad, that one's taken. Oh,well. I still have my 4th Thursday... Christmas Eve. Sorry, no-go. We're closed. It occurs to me I never asked about Thanksgiving. Closed.

It's nobody's fault. It seems to be my fate to stay home for the holidays. I do not intend to referee. Junior is on the straight and narrow these days, and Grandma has lost most of her bite (and a considerable bit of bark). I hope to enjoy quiet times by the fire with loved ones and dogs. The "extra" money just won't happen this year. That's O.K. Our needs are met, by the Grace... and that, my friends, is showbiz.]]> http://sandmanmusic.net/news.html#74 Mon, 16 Nov 2009 00:00:00 -0800 sandman's music - "sandman" sandy allen - News Don't Be Afraid... http://sandmanmusic.net/news.html#73
I have mixed feelings about Halloween. Several memories stand out; I remember clearly being dragged around as a little kid, at least once by my sister, who, with a friend, dressed as a pair of dice. I was probably a pirate, or a cowboy. I'm sure I was embarrassed and would rather have just stayed home. As a young teenager, I recall running around in a huge trench-coat, proportionally huge pockets full of eggs, a can of shaving cream, and cans of beer. There were three of us, close friends and drinking buddies (budding alcoholics) out for fun and adventure. We cleverly eluded the cops, after having pelted a few cars with eggs. I ran right into someone's fish pond during my escape, so spent the next couple of hours squishing around in my sneakers, drunk enough not to mind much. At least one egg had broken in a pocket, and the smell of raw egg permeated the coat and my hands. A few years later I went to visit one of those guys where he went to college. There was a Halloween party at an old farmhouse. Aside from my friend, I didn't know anyone. There was a full moon. Dr. John's "Gris Gris" album played. Some folks had driven from Philly, bringing some REALLY good acid. For obvious reasons, no more details of this event remain in my memory. I do remember being "weirded-out" - it was just too classically psychedelic. I'm sure I spent most of the night staring at the moon. Probably the next year, I was at my parents' house, where I grew up, the scene of my childhood Halloweens. My parents had gone to a party, or may have been away. In any case, I was alone. I turned out all the lights and hid upstairs, quietly drinking myself into a stupor, peeking out the window when I heard approaching gaggles of children, hoping they'd just go away without doing any mischief. I think this was the scariest Halloween I ever spent. It was being a responsible adult that scared me.

Now, it's all just fun again - a good excuse for a party, or to dress like a pirate or a cowboy (not really a costume for me, anymore), or maybe in drag (c'mon guys - you know you've thought about it). This year, two of the bands I'm in will be playing on the big night. Corina & the Wenchmen and The Hoolios will appear at the Knick as part of a show to benefit WCNI. I can't speak for the Wenchpeople, but you can expect some shenanigans from the Hoolios. With a line-up including some of the areas most eccentric performers, I'm sure there will be costumed frivolity in abundance - hopefully, the music won't be scary.

Friday, HB&HB;will do the BCHH at the Bank St. Cafe, then the Hoolios will be at Sneekers. I reckon there'll be some costumed characters out and about, warming up for Saturday.]]> http://sandmanmusic.net/news.html#73 Sun, 25 Oct 2009 00:00:00 -0700 sandman's music - "sandman" sandy allen - News Finding Friends http://sandmanmusic.net/news.html#72
A few years ago I joined the classmates site, just to see if I could locate anyone I might want to contact. I found a few people and reconnected. It marked a new phase in my life - I became acutely aware of the passage of time. My perception of these folks remained stuck in high school, a lifetime ago - it only took one correspondence to change that. Everybody's got a story. Divorcees, lawyers, millionaires and rocket-scientists...

More recently, myspace and facebook have accelerated the process, and I've been talking to a few people who still feel like friends, some from high school and some from my later, hazy days of early adulthood. It was the '70s, and for many of us, it was more "extended youth", I reckon.

On Friday, I went to the Garde to see Loudon Wainwright III and Richard Thompson. I was unfamiliar with Mr. Thompson, the Rich in "Loud & Rich", but Loudon and I have a connection; Although he went to private school, he lived in a neighboring town to where I grew up, and his brother was a classmate of mine. Andy and I were friends in high school and afterwards, early in my professional life. The thing is...

Whereas Loudon is the paternal head of a substantial musical dynasty - just google him, follow the links, and you'll find a passel of Wainwrights and McGarrigles and Roaches (oh, my) - you won't find Andy. I tried. Maybe he doesn't wanna be found. That's cool. I respect that.

Now, I wanted to see Loudon perform. I hadn't seen him since sometime in the 70's (at Carnegie Hall or Avery Fisher or someplace BIG like that, I'm told - it's that "hazy days" thing. I don't remember). I jammed with him a few times back then, drank with him more than once, hoped he'd remember me. Seeing him perform was, indeed, a treat and something of a flashback. (Richard Thompson's guitar work is awe-inspiring - but let's stay focused). The main reason I went on Friday was the hope I'd have a minute to talk to Loudon, which I did during his "meet & greet". He either recognized me or pretended to, until I asked him "How's Andy? I've been trying to get in touch for years". He knew me then, and said "He's great. I'll see him tomorrow...". So, I passed along my email address. "Please tell him I said 'Hey', and ask him to get in touch". "Sure!". Now I wait to hear from an old friend, having used the old-fashioned face-to-face to get my message through...]]> http://sandmanmusic.net/news.html#72 Sun, 11 Oct 2009 00:00:00 -0700 sandman's music - "sandman" sandy allen - News GOOD CLEAN FUN... http://sandmanmusic.net/news.html#71
A few dedicated folks spend weeks organizing the event; Preston Frantz, Ken Atkins, Ben Parent, Jim & Sherry Stidfole, Rich Martin, Rick & Candy - these are the names I know - there are people behind the scenes, volunteers who make the thing happen. It's a wonderful thing.

This past weekend we enjoyed the "2nd Annual...". I just wanted to take the opportunity to say "Thanks" to all those involved. I love being part of this creative community, the hub of which is the Hygienic.]]> http://sandmanmusic.net/news.html#71 Mon, 21 Sep 2009 00:00:00 -0700 sandman's music - "sandman" sandy allen - News Another one in the books... http://sandmanmusic.net/news.html#70
Messages came from all over, in all forms - an actual card in the mail from one brother, a phone call from the other, and one from the sister. We all agree we should get in touch more often, and promise to try ("When did life get so fast and busy?"). There were cyber-messages from friends old and new. thanks to all...

So, it's really just another day, undoubtedly the birthday of millions... Sandman is sure he's the luckiest, most blessed of the bunch - it's all about the company he keeps. Thanks again...]]> http://sandmanmusic.net/news.html#70 Thu, 10 Sep 2009 00:00:00 -0700 sandman's music - "sandman" sandy allen - News