Monday, July 15, 2013
MarkGTR: The Power of Youth
MarkGTR: The Power of Youth: The Power of Youth I know, another story about the abilities of young people. Yawn… Well, being a teacher I’m surrounded by it all day ...
MarkGTR: THE REAL LIFE BROADWAY:Nashville And Its Street Of...
MarkGTR: THE REAL LIFE BROADWAY:Nashville And Its Street Of...: THE REAL LIFE BROADWAY: Nashville And Its Street Of Dreams I'm walking towards the main drag, Broadway, in the heart of Music City...
MarkGTR: As the title and description of my blog tells you,...
MarkGTR: As the title and description of my blog tells you,...: As the title and description of my blog tells you, I'm all about working with students on music. However, it's impossible not to be...
As the title and description of my blog tells you, I'm all about working with students on music. However, it's impossible not to be aware of the issues these young people get into. This posting from a student says it all. I hope you all out there take a couple minutes to read and ponder. You just may save a young person from a hell they cannot escape.
"We are now living in a generation where kisses don't mean anything, holding hands isn't special & first dates aren't memorable. Trust issues are being passed around instead of reasons to trust.
Meaningful conversations mostly happen through texting or social networks now instead of being on the phone for hours or face to face lying next to each other.
Feelings are being expressed through phrases passed around all over the internet instead of something original that came from the heart.
Arguments between couples are being put out publicly online for everyone to see instead of keeping it private between the two.
Sex has gotten easier to have between two people who don't have to get to know each other or care about each other when before, people used to enjoy the wait,
Have something to look forward to & make sure that the feelings are there first."
If this doesn't open your eyes a bit to what social media has done to our children then you best get a reality check on yourself.
Sunday, July 14, 2013
THE REAL LIFE BROADWAY:
Nashville And Its Street Of Dreams
I'm walking towards the main drag, Broadway, in the heart of Music City. In Nashville, Tennessee on this warm Thursday night there is music everywhere. Tonight, there are also people everywhere. The streets are filled on both sides. Young people mainly, walking as if they've been here forever. Cabs blow their horns in their nightly battle for fares. The people are walking in and out of restaurants and clubs unfazed by what seems to me like the sound of 10,000 musicians playing at once.
As I get closer the music creates a vibe of simultaneous consonance and dissonance. I am overcome by a sense of wonder and excitement as I realize that I am about to experience something I'd never seen. I paused for a moment realizing that I'd been led here by a veteran of this street. A musician who was privy to a world I'd never experienced. We both walk to the corner and without missing a beat he turns, wishes me luck, and then vanishes into the crowd.
-As an aside, the "veteran" would appear to me four more times that night. Literally out of nowhere I would see him. He would check on me making sure I was okay, introduce me to a musician friend of his and then, he would be gone.
A young black man has a drum set on the corner. He's pounding out a beat and free-styling about the girls who dance in front of him. Across the street from him, a man, looking very much like Charlie Daniels, plays a distorted electric guitar. He chooses not to sing, but instead plays tortured notes and chords that resonate with the pain he carries around inside himself. His open guitar case containing maybe eight single one dollar bills. Most likely, most of them were put there by him.
With every step it's clear that I have entered a universe where music is the lifeblood of this society. Its inhabitants appear to be on a mission to drain every bit of its energy--an energy most of us will never experience. As you walk down Broadway, every restaurant and club has a band playing, or, at the very least, music playing with a purpose. A purpose far beyond so much background music that most of us have learned to tune out. This is music that clearly represents the "Nashville Sound." Jazzed up blazing country passages, swing rhythms with bass lines that never end, rock back beats with double bass pedals, and of course, the occasional solo singer with a guitar.
As for the musicians, well, they are a different breed. Drummers keeping time with a fury I've seldom seen before; bass players play on the beat, behind the beat, ahead of the beat, everywhere, with a technique that puts the bass in a whole new light. And of course, the guitar players. Not one of them played anything below a level that I'd expected. Hybrid picked chords and runs that confirmed in my mind that Nashville was not for the faint of heart or finger. Every one and everything is predicated upon one thing, maintaining the Nashville tradition.
Cover bands on Broadway are fully aware they must tow the line when playing on Nashville's most famous street. With reverence and care, the guitar players sport the famous Fender Telecaster models that were a staple of the players that haunted these few blocks in decades past. That respect goes a long way in assuring ones place in this world of virtuosic performers. Nashville musicians, each of them performing with a look of hopeful destiny and fear in their eyes, are constantly reminded that they are called by a higher power and an unspoken law to excel. This pressure is one that the majority of American musicians will never experience. To uphold the reputation of this city, one that loves and breathes music, is certainly at best, overwhelming.
The amount of talent in this city keeps everyone sharp. Death defying turns, stops, and accents are done with precision, even on the most basic old school country or swing tunes. Performing as if their very lives depended upon it, the pressure contributes to an across the board high quality of performance. Incredibly, these talented musicians, most of whom are at studio level, perform nightly for tips only. Playing for what amounts to handouts would be unheard of in most weekend gigs across the United Stares. However, here on Broadway, as the night turns into morning, the coveted tip jar is the true measure of the quality of their performance. The goal is to see the dollars overflow in the coveted plastic container.
Why would such accomplished players settle for such a deal? Because they know that this "deal" is take it or leave it. Only the strong survive here on this street of dreams and there are hundreds more waiting to move in and take your place. If the pay is not up to ones standard, he or she can easily be replaced. Make no mistake, many play for pride, that intrinsic motivator that money can't buy. To them the praise from clapping and hooting Nashville patrons is worth far more than any dirty plastic tip jar is. Even better would be for a music industry type to happen into the club and and find you.
As it fills up with torn and tattered one dollar bills, the musician is keenly aware that a million dollars in that jar won't by him a shot at being a top-level Nashville Cat, only excellence will. After all, to be a musician on Broadway is a recommendation on a resume that can't be taken lightly. If it were only so everywhere...
I'm walking towards the main drag, Broadway, in the heart of Music City. In Nashville, Tennessee on this warm Thursday night there is music everywhere. Tonight, there are also people everywhere. The streets are filled on both sides. Young people mainly, walking as if they've been here forever. Cabs blow their horns in their nightly battle for fares. The people are walking in and out of restaurants and clubs unfazed by what seems to me like the sound of 10,000 musicians playing at once.
As I get closer the music creates a vibe of simultaneous consonance and dissonance. I am overcome by a sense of wonder and excitement as I realize that I am about to experience something I'd never seen. I paused for a moment realizing that I'd been led here by a veteran of this street. A musician who was privy to a world I'd never experienced. We both walk to the corner and without missing a beat he turns, wishes me luck, and then vanishes into the crowd.
-As an aside, the "veteran" would appear to me four more times that night. Literally out of nowhere I would see him. He would check on me making sure I was okay, introduce me to a musician friend of his and then, he would be gone.
A young black man has a drum set on the corner. He's pounding out a beat and free-styling about the girls who dance in front of him. Across the street from him, a man, looking very much like Charlie Daniels, plays a distorted electric guitar. He chooses not to sing, but instead plays tortured notes and chords that resonate with the pain he carries around inside himself. His open guitar case containing maybe eight single one dollar bills. Most likely, most of them were put there by him.
With every step it's clear that I have entered a universe where music is the lifeblood of this society. Its inhabitants appear to be on a mission to drain every bit of its energy--an energy most of us will never experience. As you walk down Broadway, every restaurant and club has a band playing, or, at the very least, music playing with a purpose. A purpose far beyond so much background music that most of us have learned to tune out. This is music that clearly represents the "Nashville Sound." Jazzed up blazing country passages, swing rhythms with bass lines that never end, rock back beats with double bass pedals, and of course, the occasional solo singer with a guitar.
As for the musicians, well, they are a different breed. Drummers keeping time with a fury I've seldom seen before; bass players play on the beat, behind the beat, ahead of the beat, everywhere, with a technique that puts the bass in a whole new light. And of course, the guitar players. Not one of them played anything below a level that I'd expected. Hybrid picked chords and runs that confirmed in my mind that Nashville was not for the faint of heart or finger. Every one and everything is predicated upon one thing, maintaining the Nashville tradition.
Cover bands on Broadway are fully aware they must tow the line when playing on Nashville's most famous street. With reverence and care, the guitar players sport the famous Fender Telecaster models that were a staple of the players that haunted these few blocks in decades past. That respect goes a long way in assuring ones place in this world of virtuosic performers. Nashville musicians, each of them performing with a look of hopeful destiny and fear in their eyes, are constantly reminded that they are called by a higher power and an unspoken law to excel. This pressure is one that the majority of American musicians will never experience. To uphold the reputation of this city, one that loves and breathes music, is certainly at best, overwhelming.
The amount of talent in this city keeps everyone sharp. Death defying turns, stops, and accents are done with precision, even on the most basic old school country or swing tunes. Performing as if their very lives depended upon it, the pressure contributes to an across the board high quality of performance. Incredibly, these talented musicians, most of whom are at studio level, perform nightly for tips only. Playing for what amounts to handouts would be unheard of in most weekend gigs across the United Stares. However, here on Broadway, as the night turns into morning, the coveted tip jar is the true measure of the quality of their performance. The goal is to see the dollars overflow in the coveted plastic container.
Why would such accomplished players settle for such a deal? Because they know that this "deal" is take it or leave it. Only the strong survive here on this street of dreams and there are hundreds more waiting to move in and take your place. If the pay is not up to ones standard, he or she can easily be replaced. Make no mistake, many play for pride, that intrinsic motivator that money can't buy. To them the praise from clapping and hooting Nashville patrons is worth far more than any dirty plastic tip jar is. Even better would be for a music industry type to happen into the club and and find you.
As it fills up with torn and tattered one dollar bills, the musician is keenly aware that a million dollars in that jar won't by him a shot at being a top-level Nashville Cat, only excellence will. After all, to be a musician on Broadway is a recommendation on a resume that can't be taken lightly. If it were only so everywhere...
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