Seward Square. New York City. April 11, 2011

Napa Valley, CA. March, 2011.

Selected shots of Sonoma, St. Helena and Yountville, CA. Taken March 3-6, 2011.

Abandoned Tobacco Farm. Matthews, NC. January 30, 2011

Here are a few more shots of the barn from the "Wide Open Sky" shoot. I'm fairly certain that inside the barn is where they would dry out the tobacco leaves, although his farm could have supported livestock or alfalfa or anything else for that matter. How the hell would I know. I have no idea how long the place has been abandoned, but it's years, at least. I'm surprised it's still there and not razed in the service of building yet another insipid neighborhood. Most likely only a matter of time.

My version of how the farm met its end changes each time I pass by. One version involves the shitwad great grandson of an honest farmer who sells out to a shifty real estate developer, hoping to make a buck instead of somehow finding a way to preserve his family's legacy. I  hope the real story is more interesting and more noble than that. But probably not. Still, the farm remains, fighting for it's place in the world. So there's that.

The Wide Open Sky

As a novice songwriter, I am always fascinated to read about what successful artists say about the subject. More often than not, even prolific writers like Paul Simon and Neil Young have trouble putting their finger on exactly how songs get written. One thing is for sure, there are no rules and there are no shortcuts. Songs either come to you or they do not. And while there are software programs and books that can help you organize your thoughts and provide tools such as rhyming dictionaries, thesauri and the like, there are no templates or machines, even in these app driven times, that can spit out hit songs. Tools are one thing. Striking gold is quite another. In the words of the great Tenacious D, it's about finding "Inspirado."

As a frustrated writer, I submit that songwriting is probably the most challenging and intimidating kind of writing. Typically, the subject matter is incredibly personal and not only do you have to find words that fit an idea or an image in your head, it also has to fit into a specific musical and lyrical form. Then you have to play it in front of people. Baring your soul in front of a room full of strangers can be a bit intimidating, and has probably cost the world more than a few great songs.

Also, writing styles are amorphous. There are those, like Robbie Robertson, who are “outside in” writers. That is, who write about other people (The Weight), historical events (The Night they drove old Dixie Down), or an entire exodus (Acadian Driftwood). When done well, as in Robertson’s case, they create a certain imagery and convey color and emotion that can be truly transcendental - like little movies. I am envious of songwriters who can do this well. Others write about themselves and their feelings and experiences. This style of writing can be easier due to the access to the subject matter, (provided of course, that you are able to self examine and have traveled and/or experienced things) but they can be intimidating to share if the songs cut too close to the bone. Most write about love, some write about food. It’s a dodgy craft. And whatever the style or subject matter, the muse is elusive. Some songs may take years and years to write, edit and complete and some reveal themselves to you all at once – complete the minute it pops into your head. And sometimes inspiration comes from something completely unexpected. I thought I would share the following songwriting experience in the hopes that it would perhaps help other writers shake off some cobwebs. 


The song below was inspired by the above photograph I took this winter. As I was driving around one day, I noticed a huge condemned haybarn and farmhouse not far from my house. I couldn’t take my eyes off of it, and when the light was better (around sunset) I returned with my camera and took a bunch of pictures. One of them came out sort of blurry and out-of-focus. (Mostly because I had no idea how the camera worked) But something about the blurred picture of the old farmhouse spoke to me. Not sure if it was the structure, the memories locked within, my ideas about it’s demise, this idea of rebirth that I had in my head, or the fact that I was battling some internal demons at the time, (most likely all of the above) but four words popped into my head – The Wide Open Sky - and I wrote the following song based on that idea.

The chorus and refrain came first, then verse one and two, then verse three about two weeks later, after I had a demo. As far as the music, I had a simple I-V chord progression I was messing with in G that I liked, but there was something that didn’t quite fit. I couldn’t put my finger on it. Then, I heard a version of the Neil Young song, “Words (Between the lines of Age)” by Chip Miller on a Harvest tribute album. I began to play around with the chord progression, transposed it to B minor, and it fit perfectly for the verses. So I wrote a few simple embellishments and played with a few different arrangements until I got something I really liked. 

To write a song in that manner was a revelation. Maybe it’s the evolution of my songwriting or maybe it was just one of those bolts of lightning. But however it came together, the process just felt right. It's as if a huge door has opened for me, and it happened by chance. It's bizzare how that works. Wonderous, even, One thing is for certain, I’m going to take a few more pictures to see if it happens again. 


And so I would encourage any songwriter to try to seek out inspiration and dabble in other art forms to inspire you. Try painting, writing prose, taking pictures, whatever. The biggest lesson I learned during this process is to always keep my eyes open. The living world is awash with inspiration.

Learnings:

• Seek out inspiration
• Play your instrument often, jam as much as you can and try to find a groove. 
• Listen to the greats and when appropriate, appropriate. (Or, as T.S. Eliot said, "Immature poets imitate, mature poets steal.")
• Look at other forms of art, especially photographs, for inspiration.
• Write everything down and record practice sessions if possible. A lost idea can be devastating.

The Wide Open Sky

Capo II (Bm)

Intro: Bm-A-Bm (3x)

Bm – G – A - Bm

I can’t shake this feeling, things aren’t what they seem

Sure enough surprise you, Like waking from a dream

Days growing together, Links in endless chains

Losing all of my soul, changing up my names

Answered to the wrong things, beckoning to me

It was on the table, a simple mystery

Swinging from the rafters, ‘til my arms were numb

Falling to the floor, I scraped up every crumb

Surely slowly melting, from the inside out

Forgetting who I was, what it’s all about…

PRE- CHORUS

Bm-G-A-Bm

Always another train

Rolling down the line

Get me to the station

Before I run out of time

Bm – G – A – Bm

Stare…Stare

at the wide open sky

See the sun. Rise.

In the wide open sky (Bm-A-Bm)

          A                  Bm

In the wide open sky….repeat

Trying to remember, it was like before

You darkened up my doorstep, busted in my door

Out flew all the innocence I tried so hard to keep

And I became an older man while I was fast asleep

Pre Chorus

Chorus


Solo (in B)

Chorus then out.

Playing with the King

Me and the King. Bay Hill Men's Grill. November 2009

Two heroes. My Dad and Arnold Palmer.

Playing a round of golf with Arnold Palmer and my father at Bay Hill was far and away the highlight of my golf career. My father introduced me to the game at a young age and I have played more rounds of golf with my dad than anyone on this planet. And I always enjoy being on the golf course with him. I have played Winged Foot, Shinnecock and Augusta by his side, but we both grew up hacking around munis like the Sleeping Giant Golf Club in Hamden, CT and the now defunct Laurel Oak C.C. in Voorhees, NJ. For both of us to play with Mr. Palmer at Bay Hill was something way beyond special. He had met Arnold months earlier at the Bay Hill invitational to discuss a business opportunity and ended up hitting it off with him. And so here I am on the practice tee at Bay Hill, pounding left handed 8 irons into the breezy November morning. It is unseasonably chilly, but the sun is out and it is a glorious day. My dad is next to me, warming up. He is left handed, too, as is Art Sanchagrin, our generous and affable host for the day.

I keep glancing back towards the clubhouse, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man. He finally appears in a custom golf cart, complete with chromed out wheels, full leather seats and headrests festooned with the familiar multicolored umbrella logo that is and will always be the visual representation of the Arnold Palmer brand. It adorns almost everything at Bay Hill. Tee markers, shirts, cups, ball marks, glasses, airplanes, ties and lapels. Folks around him sport the symbol proudly, as if it marks inclusion into a secret society.  He is 80 now, and it shows, his body racked by years in the sun, chasing around a little white ball. But his mind is sharp and he doesn’t miss a thing. Shaking his head, the first thing he says as he watches us warm up is, “Are you kidding?” He groans, “We’re playing with three lefties?!” His eyes sparkle and his face breaks into a warm grin as I shake his hand, a catcher’s mitt of an appendage. He is in the final stages of destroying a hot dog from the starter shack (Mustard/relish, in case you care about that stuff) and he chews purposefully for a few seconds then says, “OK. Let’s go…” 


He kisses his second wife Kit goodbye and begins the arduous task of warming up. I watch, fascinated. He does some light stretching and gets right into it. Wham, wham, wham. His swing, which was never fluid, has not really changed much. It is a bit shorter - which, if I hadn’t witnessed myself, would have considered an impossibility. But there it is. Back and through. Wham, wham, wham. Mr. Palmer is positively striping golf balls off the practice tee. (I called him Mr. Palmer out of pure respect. Thankfully, he never told me to call him “Arnold” or “Arnie.” That was his show of respect back to me. A small effort of grace I will never forget)

Gone are the blades. His clubs are mostly hybrids now, except for the wedges. But what I notice immediately are the grips. They are leather and powdered with talc. Real cowhide. A bit oversized and hand wrapped. You never see grips like this anymore. Ever. It defines “old school” and is close to the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. He his a few more balls and the Bay Hill Shootout begins. It is a game that has grown to legendary status at the club. The Shootout is played weekly at Bay Hill. The golf course and club was opened in 1962, and this modified stableford format is probably as old. On this day, we have 30 players. Everyone is supposed to pony up $40 in cash at the starter shack. (Even Mr. Palmer) However, some don’t. News of the weak pot spreads amongst the players. After a wave of grumbling ensues about who has “alligator arms”, the usual culprits fess up, cough up the cash and we are off. (It’s always the same guys, I’m told)

After common golf first tee pleasantries, I am given the honor to tee off first; not noticing the small cabal of golferazzi that have now surrounded the first tee. Super. I get a target line from Mr. Palmer and try to hit it at the left edge of the fairway bunker, as suggested. There are several highly evolved cameras shooting full motion video, capturing every move in full 1080 HD. Expensive digital cameras are snapping away from all sides, images of this moment sure to be emailed around the globe seconds after impact. The ghost of every man, woman and child I have ever had the privilege to share a golf course with haunts my feeble brain. I waggle a few times, take dead aim, and proceed to completely quit on a 3-wood that had the potential to change my life. Like many times before, I watch aghast, as my brand new, freshly marked, state of the art, two-piece golf ball rockets out of bounds left. Smack in the middle of the driving range. A collective groan emits from the small crowd. For me, it is a death knell. I proceed to shoot a million. (Interesting note: the tee markers at Bay Hill are actually little iron umbrellas. When casually struck with a titanium driver after a complete block/snipe driver, it rings true in a perfect B flat)

We played the championship course, the site of the Bay Hill Invitational. It is a twisted affair. The wind is gusting at 20 plus and we were, after being lulled by the relatively benign first hole, punched in the face with hole after hole of flummoxing wind, tight, wet driving holes, and diabolical pins, with sloping Bermuda greens that made both speed and line a formidable challenge. Mr. Palmer had many little 12 footers all day. He didn’t make one. And he was mad. Really mad. He is a fierce competitor. He still expects to shoot 62 and he can’t anymore. This is the essence of the man. He can’t. And he’s pissed. There are probably three 80 year olds in the world that could break 85 in conditions like this. Mr. Palmer shoots a ho-hum 82. An 82 that absolutely could have been a 75, easy. Saw it with my own eyes. My dad and I manage to finish in the money (no thanks to me) and we collect our loot and have a few drinks in the men’s grill after the round. That’s when the real fun begins. Arnie only has one or two, but he gets the group going by questioning loudly, “Who’s drinking with me?!”

What a day. Like my dad, Mr. Palmer is one of the last real heroes. His life was his game, and his game was his life. He is, and will always be, a pioneer. As an aviator, businessman, author, designer, athlete and family man, he rose to the apex of each of these disciplines individually and with great integrity.  He invented the athlete/agent relationship, yet remains his own brand, with complete and exciting control. He accepted victory and fame with grace and humility, and paid respect to those that came before him. He surrounds himself with loyal and beautiful friends. He loves the game of golf and all that it is. He is a seven-time Major Championship winner, often winning in spectacular fashion. (1960 US Open at Cherry Hills comes to mind, roaring back from 7 down) In a word, he is Zeus. Yet, on those rare and epic occasions when he did not win, he did so with the same grace and humility. And this is perhaps his greatest lesson of all.