Hairy Situation

OK, first of all -and I’m talking especially to you fellas out there, and I hope you get this message before it’s too late -it turns out that the word “hirsute” doesn’t mean “devastatingly sexy” after all -quite the contrary! Apparently, what it actually means is “hairy”, so it’s probably not appropriate to a romantic context at all, and should be avoided at all costs on occasions like Valentine’s Day, Christmas, birthdays, and both golden and silver wedding anniversaries; in fact, there’s reason to believe that the holiday hasn’t yet been invented that the word “hirsute” would actually be welcome at. Girls don’t like it -period. Neither do guys. No one likes or uses this word, ever, and there’s a good reason: it means “hairy.”

I certainly hope none of you got punched, divorced, or disemboweled over this slight slip-up of mine last week. For some reason, I thought “hirsute” sounded kind of obscure and romantic, rather fragile, kind of flattering -practically French, I thought maybe! Unfortunately, plenty of evidence has turned up in the interim that it really isn’t the kind of word that should ever be used to describe anything that isn’t hairy. So... sorry if I mis-led anyone on that one. From now on, I’m sticking to words I know the meaning of. (Speaking of which, another word you might want to steer clear of when you’re trying to establish a sensual, late-night mood is “inguinal.” Just trust me on this one.)

Suffice it to say that I attended the bars solo last weekend, the lone wolf, big fatso reporter on the prowl, searching for melodic gristle, when instead I happened to catch the debut of the Mayocks at Mahoney’s in Orleans. I wasn’t alone, either -there were many musicians on hand, including Link Montana, Randy Frost and Shred from Boom Boom Baby, Feral Dogs, drummer Rikki Bates (who sat in), and Eastham’s P.J. O’Connell, who provided the night’s rockin’est moment when he sang “Please Give Me Something” with the Connecticut trio.

They were doing fine on their own, though, with the brothers Mayock doing some nice sibling harmonies and drummer Marshall Grossman keeping a nice, relaxed (yay! no rushing!) beat on an interesting looking-and-sounding version of cocktail drums (in this case using a floor tom as a kick with the pedal attacking from beneath; what will they think of next?) Marshall had also just completed his first run in the Boston Marathon (!!) and was still out of breath.

And, by the way, who ever thought it would be a great idea to get thousands of people to run 26 miles together? I mean, OK, apparently it is a good idea, on some level -certainly, Marshall was thrilled. But in my opinion, the original idea was ridiculous. Why would you run more than fifty yards if you hadn’t done anything wrong? I have problems with the basic concept, in part due to my ever-evolving status as a fat, nearly immobile load of reporting know-how.

By the way, I keep meaning to mention that I recently heard the most sarcastic version of “Old Cape Cod” ever rendered (at least in my vicinity) by Carol Wyeth and her trio at the Ocean House Lounge in Dennisport. The Ocean House is a rather large, slightly upscale/country-clubby restaurant that is, nonetheless, quite cozy and right on the beach (see the listings), and Ms. Wyeth and the trio are jazz guys, cool yet warm, smooth and mellow for the most part (including a lovely version of “The Nearness of You.”)

Their attitude toward getting another opportunity to plumb the depths of the Patti Page classic, however, was somewhat less than reverent, as saxophonist Ted Casher gave it his best Lawrence Welk swoon; even Ms. Wyeth warbled with a (to these ears, most welcome) hint of arsenic. There are few things more satisfying than seeing a dusty old standard get its just desserts, and I have a feeling that this is a tableaux that the band is more than capable of re-creating at any of their regular Saturday night or Sunday afternoon performances; so do drop in, order up a nice Bloody Mary, request “Old Cape Cod” and wait for the fireworks to begin -and tell ‘em Bill O’Neil from the Cape Cod Times sent you (which isn’t true, but will be a good joke on Bill.)

Captain Nemo

Whoops!

For some reason, I have actual events to report -some of them even pertaining to the local music scene. I left the house! I left the house! I went boldly forth, you know, to bars and stuff, on your behalf, scouring the globe for hip local music scene tidbits, soundbytes, news fodder and such, pretty much like I always do, vulture-like, clumsily but steadily circling in on the lowliest, last little bit of carrion; but this time, things happened. We went out! -It was wonderful.

Of course, I had to go first; one of my main functions with my wife, the devastatingly seductive yet hirsute Mrs. Kelp (actually, I’m not really sure what “hirsute” means -I just think it looks cool. I’m hoping it means, “devastatingly seductive”) has always been that of taster, anyway, and I do it mainly just to bolster her enigmatic and infathomable allure. Even with her shirt on, she wounds me. So, as I said, I left first for scouting purposes.

I went to a music convention -I don’t know why, I just did! It’s called the NEMO Music Showcase and Conference, and it featured about 250 acts playing for two nights in a bunch of clubs around Boston, plus a bunch of panels and seminars during the day with real music biz guys presiding. I’m not sure what “NEMO” stands for, and I’m too lazy to go to their stinking website (www.nemoboston.com), but I’ll bet it’s something like “North East Music Office” (orifice? orangatang? Ole? -maybe we’ll never know for sure.)

Probably the most valuable things these affairs provide are the schmoozing and networking opportunities, along with the fun all conventioneers have hanging out with their colleagues, drinking, and watching bands. Then there’s the panels, which can be spirited and fun -but rarely are. This year, the main thing I learned is that club booking agents love candy, so you should always include candy with any promo package, in theory. Personally, I say, screw ‘em -let ‘em starve. They’re booking agents, lower than vermin -no one feeds them, they find their food, they always have. They’re not getting any of my candy!

They also had booths with different services hawking their wares, the stand-out most amazingly bad idea coming from a company called Yellow Peppers.com, whose brainstorm it was to have a basket of yellow peppers with “Yellow Peppers.com” scrawled on them in Magic Marker. Their main service seemed to be converting rock songs into little beeps you can use for your cell phone ring -hallelujah! Can’t you people be happy with the theme from “The Flintstones”?

There’s nothing sadder than a bunch of musicians wandering around with notebooks and serious expressions -it’s even worse than when they’re on stage! Musicians need to remember that they were born to be happy, not rich, and the fact that so many of them got rich in the last half-century or so is just a temporary deviation from the norm. The very fact that people are starting to approach rock’n’roll like they would college lends a healthy, long-overdue dollop of doom to the whole enterprise -it’s OK, folks, show’s over; you can all go back to your houses now. Eventually, boys will find a different way to impress girls.

Needless to say, I played hookey on the second day of panels (well, golf, technically, which I’m no better at than hookey.) But I did go to a few shows, including longtime Provincetown legend Zoe Lewis’s set at the All Asia Cafe in Cambridge. Zoe’s set was exemplary, both of the kind of situations you find yourself thrust into at these music showcase conventions, and of making the absolute best of it. Zoe was presented with a bad P.A. system and a bunch of oblivious strangers, deep in conversation; but against all odds she turned the place around with pure vivacity, had ‘em cheering and buying CDs by the end -not an easy task, as the rest of the bill soon proved (among them Andy Pratt, who had a hit back in the seventies with “Avenging Annie” and was playing his first show in the area in years; besides the hit, he did a nice version of the Byrds’ lovely “I’m Goin’ Back”.)

Then I almost went to a hip-hop show by mistake. I was at the Middle East, being patted down for weapons, when I finally realized I don’t like hip-hop, and left, all my many weapons untouched. Saw a great NYC band at the Lizard the next night, too, called Vic Thrills (I can’t help it, that’s what they were called): extremely entertaining, high energy Devo-ish kind of riff (have album, will review.)

And then on Sunday, with my gorgeous satellite Mrs. K in tow, I attended the Boston Playwright’s Theater Marathon, which was a ton of fun. Crazy people from fifty or so Boston area theater companies doing ten hours of ten-minute plays, running consecutively in two adjoining theaters -wonderful! The few irritating plays are only irritating briefly, and most of it is amusing, well-acted, and well-staged -a fascinating display of how many different ways there are to kill ten minutes.

The highlights were many and varied, but I’m proud to say that the performance of the night belonged to our own Wellfleet Harbor Actors Theater’s production of Jesse Kellerman’s “Til’ Death Do Us Part”, and, in particular to W.H.A.T. veteran Laura Lee Latreille, whose performance as The Bride was insane, inspired, over-the-top, and hilarious. The Marathon is a terrific event -next year, I’ll pester you about it beforehand.

Speaking of advance pestering, this Saturday, April 20th will mark the debut appearance of the Mayocks at Mahoney’s in Orleans, the Mayocks being a Connecticut quartet that leans heavily on the pop harmonies of the Everly Brothers and the Byrds. Their self-released debut album “Around This Town” (for more info, call 860 653 4095) has its ups and downs, but cuts like “Wet Fall Night” and “Leaving From the Past” give one optimism for their follow-up, which is scheduled to include guitar work from NRBQ’s Johnny Spampinato. In any case, new faces are always welcome -especially ones that sing good harmonies!

Geno

I am sorry to say that I bring bad tidings this week: Geno Haggerty, trombonist/singer/jugist/bon vivant of the famed Provincetown Jug Band, died last Thursday (March 28th) at the age of 64, as a result of complications that set in after an operation was performed to un-block the arteries supplying blood to his legs. It’s easy to speculate that he would’ve appreciated the ironic timing of his departure, just prior to one holiday celebrating a resurrection (Easter) and another celebrating general silliness (April Fool’s Day), and lending nice symmetry to a life that began on Halloween in 1937.

Among others, he was close to his sister, Janet Duggan (whom he called “Jazz”), who took care of him once his legs failed about a year ago, following heart surgery. (His last performance with the Jug Band was at the Portugese Festival in P’town in June of 2001.) She says that shortly before he died, after a long period when he was literally too sick to talk, he suddenly yanked the ventilator device out of his lung and, apropos of nothing in particular, delivered a loud, spirited version of “God Bless America.” She says that he always whistled at birds and talked to foxes (and that they responded in kind) -and that he was always patriotic.

Geno was not so much a musician’s musician as a person’s person -or maybe a legend’s legend, part rascal, part philosopher. I did not know him well (though we met on a few occasions), but I was always in awe of (perhaps only one of) his central accomplishment(s), which was a long-standing gig the Jug Band used to do at the Surf Club in Provincetown, where Geno played seven nights a week every summer for about twenty-five years (1967 through 1992, according to bandmate Tim Dickey.) Seven nights a week! Are you kidding? No one does that -that’s insane! Tim estimates that Geno -a founding member -must’ve played the Surf Club about 4500 times (including the weekends he did through the rest of the nineties.) If you got frequent flyer miles for playing there, Geno could’ve wintered on Jupiter. And this was not a dainty 2-short-sets-and- home-by-10 kind of gig, either -this was sock out the hits for three, four, five fatso noisy sets a night, every night for months at a time -no nights off! In effect, this made this the Ben Hur of all summer resort gigs. I don’t know how they did it, and I sort of have the feeling that without Geno, they wouldn’t have.

In addition to his musical talents, Geno was the master of ceremonies, a task which he relished and at which he excelled. Under his stewardship, the band reveled in corny by-play and boisterous singalongs, further enhanced by a ceiling covered wall to wall with silly hats, ready to be employed at a moment’s notice by band and patrons alike -a tradition that sadly passed a few years ago when the club was boringly remodeled.

Other prominent PJB members under those hats from time to time were guitarist Joe Bones, bassist Ed Sheriden, and keyboardist Dan Moore. The latter estimates that he “broke more piano strings playing the Big Bopper’s “Chantilly Lace” with Geno than any other song with anyone.” Sheriden says that Haggerty “said the things others would barely admit to thinking, and lived a life that stood as an inspiration to windmill chasers of all ages.”

The band had (and has) many fans, from far and wide, some of whom were rabid enough to try to keep up with their ridiculous schedule. One such fan, Dick Dorr of Wellfleet, related the following: “Weird things just seemed to befall Geno, and he appeared to embrace every one of them -good and bad -as a possible source of material for his "rap" on stage. After he fell and smashed his knee at the Truro Dump Dance a few years ago, I volunteered to take him to the hospital. In his typically gruff affectation of independent indestructibility, he stated that he just wanted to go home. ‘The two of us reached the house on Standish Street in Provincetown where he’d rented a couple of rooms, and realized we'd have to negotiate about 75 feet of back yard to reach his door. Now, Geno was a load -far too much for me to carry; and he wasn't even in shape to hop on one foot. Spying four picnic benches in the yard, he said, "String those together and watch." ‘Soon the four benches were placed end-to-end, in serpentine fashion among the gardens and trash barrels. Geno straddled the last one and proceeded to hitch his body along until he reached the next one, etc. When he'd finish with one bench, I'd run around and place it at the front of the lineup until we reached his door and he could struggle inside. ‘The most vibrant recollection of this episode was that, as Geno careened along the benches, he alternated between loud groans and equally loud laughter. "Boy, this'll be good for 15 minutes at the Surf Club," he croaked during one laughing spasm. I mean, this guy was really hurting; it later turned out the knee had been badly fractured. Yet, his immediate instinct was to translate the situation into a funny vignette that he could later use to entertain.”

There will be a celebration of his life in the form of a memorial service/party at the Surf Club this Sunday, April 7th.

Yup -we’ll miss him.