Let the Bon Temps Roulez

The first song Martin McCormack and I set out to write together was a thing called "Banshee Gumbo." This song was written over 20 years ago in the first apartment that my wife Maggie and I occupied early in our marriage.

The apartment was located in a building that my father and my brothers had bought next door to their club FitzGerald's in Berwyn, IL. At the time we lived there, my German friend Otto had a small appliance repair shop at the rear of the first level of the building. The front of the lower level was occupied by my Korean friends who had a dry cleaning business complete with seamstress.

In a concerted effort one night, Marty and I set out to write "Banshee Gumbo." The song describes an Irish band attempting to perform Irish music after having ingested Cajun food. A gastronomical mayday ensued, "from 'Saddle the Pony' to 'Galway Bay,' it all came out bon temps roulez."

On August 13, 2011, Marty and I along with my siblings and their spouses attended a surprise birthday party for my eldest sister, Mary. Mary has been a long-time supporter of Switchback, having hosted us in her home when she lived in Florida and also traveling with us to Ireland twice. In fact, she is planning to join us on our trip to Italy next year. With seven of the nine children born to Margaret and Chris FitzGerald in attendance, it was a good sized group at Quartino, a downtown Chicago Italian restaurant, that awaited Mary's arrival. When Mary arrived she was accosted by the sight of her oversized, Irish Catholic family. Mary's husband Matt and daughter Madeline led her like a lamb to slaughter.

The restaurant was noisy and crowded. We wondered how we could converse over such a din. After a few drinks, the noise level at our table insulated us from the noise from surrounding tables. Thanks to Marty, I didn't mix the grape and the grain. He also gave me a quick elbow when it was time to stand and give a toast to Mary. For dessert, a large platter of cupcakes was passed around. These were of the decadent variety. They were all so uniquely tempting, which one to eat? Well if you're me, you can only eat one. Marty somehow finished off two.

After dinner we all headed over to FitzGerald's in Berwyn to catch C.J. Chenier and his Red Hot Louisiana Band. C.J., an old friend of the family, once explained to me how musicians in Louisiana go about "sitting in." C.J. said, "Back home when you want to sit in you just go on stage and tap the guitar player on the shoulder." That is exactly what Marty and I did that night. We performed "Banshee Gumbo" and dedicated it to my sister Mary on her birthday on a stage a stone's throw from the apartment in which the song was penned.

~Brian FitzGerald

Click here to listen to an MP3 of Brian telling the story of how he and Marty wrote Banshee Gumbo.

Click here to view the live performance of Banshee Gumbo.

Click here to view another live version of Banshee Gumbo including trumpet player Kevin Gallagher

Lyrics to Banshee Gumbo

On a rainy night not long ago
We were doing some cookin' before the show
Of sick boiled potatoes and cabbage greens
Had a taste for somethin' from New Orleans
Like a bolt of lightning and a thunder clap
Les haricots we began to snap
The Queen whipped up a mighty roux [1]
While humming a bar from the "Foggy, Foggy Dew"

Verse 2
A pinch of this and a dash of that
De cayenne pepper et le cochon fat [2]
Fill me up with the rice and beans
Add to the fire of the sweet poteen [3]
We were feeling good when we hit the gig
The crowd was ready for an Irish jig
But from "Saddle the Pony" to "Galway Bay"
It all came out a bon temps roulez [4]

Verse 3
They were kicking tables and shovin' chairs
Folks were dancin' everywhere
No stack of barley, no dosey doe
Et mon cher c'est le Banshee Gumbo, et mon cher c'est le Banshee Gumbo [5]

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[1] The Queen was a nickname for Mary McDonough, the fiddle player for the Wailin' Banshees.
[2] Cochon is French for pig.
[3] Poteen is Irish for moonshine.
[4] Bon temps roulez means "let the good times roll."
[5] "And my dear it's a Banshee Gumbo."

http://www.waygoodmusic.com/ 

Why Rondy?

In a few days we will be holding the 9th Annual Haybarn Rendezvous. When Brian and I first started the “Rondy” we wanted to create a festival that would draw Switchback fans from all over. Our first attempt was at The Natural Gait grounds. It was early fall and though it was warm enough during the day, it really got pretty cold at night. Still we had a great time with fans coming from as far away as Tennessee.

The next year we moved the Rondy closer to Chicago to the farm of our friends and Switchback Team members Mary Anne and Jerry Duve. There it started to grow, gathering in more fans and also serving as a chance for Switchback STeamers (our volunteers) to meet and greet. Many of them only knew each other through email, so it was a real pleasure to get to see them meet in person for the first time. STeamers like the legendary Soupbone and Monica, who are both blind, rode the Greyhound all the way from Cincinnati so they could be part of the fun.

We started inviting musicians like singer-songwriter Karen Reynolds of Tennessee and Prairie Home Companion veteran Dave Moore to play for the audience. Who could forget Dave’s famous harmonica solo done with the harmonica completely in his mouth and resonating on his abscessed tooth? Probably one of the best solos ever.

Pretty soon a sound man was needed and Mike Sharp from FitzGerald’s nightclub ventured out in his 1964 station wagon, crammed with the necessary gear to turn a home-grown event into a real festival. One day wasn’t enough, and so it became two days and threatened to turn into three.

Sure, there were some mishaps, like the time I stayed up past 3 a.m. with the Chardonnay gals the night before the Rondy and found out the hard way why they are called that. I didn’t know tents could spin. Or the time my buddy Norm got lost and had to ask for directions at a rural cross-roads gentlemen’s club called Heartbreakers. He said they were the worst directions he ever had. It took him four hours to cover a mere five miles! But it never rained and we always had a great bonfire to celebrate the end of summer.

By 2009, it became pretty obvious that we were outgrowing the space at the Duves’ farm. So with heavy hearts we pulled up stakes and set out west again to start anew at The Natural Gait grounds. By this time, the Gait had more rental cabins and a path was cleared to the cave. With over 500 acres and the Yellow River meandering gently through the middle, it offered amazing campsites and a chance to kayak the river. Even a small band of wild elk is rumored to have returned to the land. It just felt right. The Rondy had found its home.

This year, we’ve taken on some wonderful sponsors who believe in the Rondy. We especially wish to thank Weis Buick and GMC of Decorah as well Dale Vagts and his insurance company of Cresco. They’re local businesses in Iowa that backed our pleas for support with cold cash. For that we’re deeply grateful.

Why should you come out to the Rondy? I think it is a chance for you to attend an event with your family at a place that is still natural, beautiful, and just far enough to make it feel like a vacation and not just a long weekend. Over the years we have brought in musicians from Canada to Hawaii to provide a diversity of music. This year will also please everyone with music ranging from Czech polkas by the Jim Busta Band to the musical storytelling of James McCandless. And you’ll be thrilled when you experience the precision of the Kosier Studio, performing everything from clogging to modern dance.

Unlike other festivals that have the same acts and are basically carbon copies of each other, just in another town, our festival prides itself on being small and unique. We aren’t looking for a huge mass of people but folks who enjoy being in nature and listening to great music. We offer unusual settings, such as the Cave Concert that takes place in a Paleolithic overhang that is a natural acoustic wonder. After the concert, you can relax under the stars as we treat you to an amazing pyrotechnic display!

You can wade, fish, or kayak the Yellow River. We even have kayaks for rent. For those wishing to get in the right vibe, we have a Yoga session led by the well-known yogi Shiva Singh Kalsa of Spirit Rising Yoga of Chicago. He along with Kundalini Yoga Instructor Surinder Jeet Kaur will be leading us in what is called a “gong-bath” which is a sonic meditation that actually helps tune the body. Chinese and Western herbal expert Anne de Courtenay of Imagine Health, Chicago and native flower expert Howard Bright of the Ion Exchange will lead people on a prairie walk to identify medicinal plants, prairie flowers, and the rare ones that are both.

Another great reason to attend the Rondy is that, unlike Lollapaloozing, we encourage kids and adults to mix and mingle. Take your children over to the puppet show or give them a chance to watch a horse demonstration called “I Love Horses!” (The only horse at Lollapalooza and other such hot and crowded events has a baton waving cop on its back.) This is the environment that will fire your kids’ imaginations and create wonderful memories. You will have a chance to let your child be a child with face painting and pinata whacking to collect some candy.

We have some of the best food available, including the well-known and highly anticipated “Aunt Linda’s Breakfast” featuring heavenly flapjacks and sausage served in an honest to goodness cowboy dining hall. And our campsites offer wonderful views as well as a short walk to a lodge that has real showers and real toilets. That alone should make you want to attend the Rondy.

There’s the great fire ring and the Chinese lantern launch with music and professional fire dancers. It will be the culmination of a day’s worth of entertainment. Sunday morning will bring more music with the Rondy jam, in which all the musicians get on stage together and perform.

The final reason is that Brian and I realize that you have had a busy summer and that gas prices are high, and in order for you to attend an event, it better be an event. We, together with the Natural Gait and our fine STeamers, have put together one of the best Rondys yet. We want you to come out and be part of the family gathering. We hope you will call 877-776-2208 and join us from Friday, August 19 until Sunday, August 21. Or better yet, go to our website and follow the prompts to sign up directly for the Rondy.

 

We welcome your comments here about our blog!

Watch for Deer

Our friend and fellow songwriter John Lamb has a song called “Watch for Deer” and I’ve always enjoyed it because watching for deer is something that we’ve had to do for years. Like small airplanes, deer and musicians just don’t mix. And in the Midwest, deer are the predominant life form, even making their way downtown to the heart of Chicago and happily eating every tulip and tree in Millennium Park.

Every deer secretly has a death wish, I believe. They sense when a musician is driving and will make a kamikaze run toward that musician’s vehicle, whether it’s a van, tour bus, or bicycle. It is one of the unwritten rules of life on the road for musicians. I don’t know when this struggle began, but it is there. As a musician, you have to be ready for deer and have a taste for venison because they have a taste for heavy metal and I don’t mean music.

Over the years, Brian and I have had our run-ins with wildlife. Sometimes even during a show, a critter or two will steal the stage for a while. One time, we had just finished a set playing at the Rolling Ground in Wisconsin. We were perched on the side of a hay wagon stage talking to our friends when out of the sky came tumbling a sparrow-sized gypsy moth. Attached to it was a brown bat and they were caught in a life struggle. They rolled across the stage for several moments. We all could see the bat trying to eat the moth and the moth kicking the bat off with its tremendous wings. In a flash they both took off into the air and were gone. Nobody said a word. It was one of the most bizarre encores we had ever had for one of our shows.

Another time the insects were our opening act. In this case, we were driving into Austin, Minnesota to play a show in September. Brian had his mother-in-law’s Honda Civic that he kept strewn with half-consumed cans of pop, perfect for the little meat-eating hornets that come out at that time of year. The show was an outdoor party for seniors and their families at the residence and several hundred people were waiting as we rolled onto the grounds. Little old ladies were waving at us as we headed toward the band stand. At that point, two or three little hornets made their way out of these pop cans and up the legs of my pants. Immediately I was stung and started pulling my pants off in front of the crowd, slapping my legs and butt and flailing around in jerks and spasms. Brian quietly exited his side of the car and started taking out equipment as a silence descended upon the festivities and heads turned to watch. It was quite a show.

Late one night, about three in the morning, we were driving along the Mississippi south toward Lansing while listening to Art Bell on “Coast to Coast” AM. For those who have never listened to the show, there are usually stories about aliens, ghosts, Armageddon, or asteroids due to hit the planet. That night they were talking about ghosts as I was starting to doze on the passenger side of the car. All of the sudden, right as a ghost hunter was to play a tape-recorded sound of a ghost “talking,” this huge shape came across our windshield. Wham! A big barn owl flew straight into us and knocked the rearview mirror right off. Brian slammed to a stop and we stumbled out to see what had hit us. There in front of us the unfortunate owl lay dead. We were totally wide awake and I was never so scared in my life. The owl had left a dusty, ghostly image of its last flight on our windshield. It was a sad, but adrenaline-filled feeling.

One fall afternoon, Brian and I were driving across Allamakee County in Iowa, heading to a body shop to get some work done on our van. We had bought the van after it was hit by a deer and repaired at this shop. A young guy came speeding up behind us. Now, we have learned that it just isn’t worth speeding to any place. Getting there in one piece is the way to survive out on the road. But this young fellow was not going to let our van delay his getting wherever he had to be. He started passing us on a curve, and at the same time a huge deer came running from a field. You guessed it. The young guy passed us going full force into the deer, smashing the right side of his car. About ten minutes later, he slowly passed by us with his right wheels pathetically wobbling as we sat at the body shop. There was some sort of poetic justice in it all, but no justice for the deer unfortunately. Of course, I think it was aiming for us.

We have luckily never had a serious collision with a deer, but we came very close on our way back from Colorado recently. It was about 5 am and I was driving near Ogallala, Nebraska on our way east when in the early dawn light came a mule deer. I instinctively slowed down as I watched it cross the road about a quarter mile ahead. It ran across the eastbound lanes of I-80 and into the median. I kept my eye on it as I slowed down and looked to see if there were any other deer nearby. Usually where there is one, there are two. So far so good -- it looked like it was going to cross the westbound lanes. But then it saw two approaching cars. Suddenly it swerved and I could see little puffs of dust from its hooves as it circled back toward me. I knew what happened: It smelled musicians and took off after our van. By now I was slowing down to about 25 miles an hour. The deer came out on the road and ran right into our right headlight. “What was that?” said Brian, popping awake in the passenger’s side. “Deer,” I said, pulling the van over to the shoulder and expecting a grisly scene. Miraculously, the deer was standing off to the side and looking at me. I looked at it and looked at the headlight it had knocked out. The headlight looked like someone had taken a hammer and expertly knocked the glass out. I looked up at the deer again. It gave me an angry look, like “Next time you come through, it will be the whole car” and hopped the fence, trotting perfectly across the field.

The final wildlife story came as Brian and I were down near Alton, Illinois. We were at a family party and staying overnight in the state park. Everyone was asleep when I heard the sound of happy little chattering. I sat up and as my eyes adjusted, I saw a whole family of raccoons on top of our van. We had left the driver’s side window open, and they had managed to get inside and start feasting on trail mix that was in a container on the floor. It was a party. One raccoon was up on the dash, sort of swaying as another one was grappling with the window. It looked like it was trying to open up the door. A couple more were singing up on roof, little peanut M&M’s clutched in their hands. I got up and dashed out there in my underwear. I banged on the window and immediately the whole fiesta dispersed. I rolled up the window and looked in our van. Luckily they didn’t do anything more serious that mix up the trash that we already had from days on the road, but they had almost eaten all of our trail mix. As I fell asleep, I could hear them complaining as they tried to get the window open. They worked on it for about ten minutes and then they took off. I swear I heard one say. “Screw these guys. Let’s get the deer.”

Making It

The day after the great Chicago blizzard of 2011 came roaring through, I found myself in my office working on my guitar when I heard the television in the other room blaring out that unmistakable theme song for American Idol. Now that Steven Tyler was on the show, my wife Annie liked to watch. The show centered around the auditions in Austin and of course was edited perfectly to be entertaining while still tugging at the heartstrings. The contestants were all jittery with excitement. They were around 19 years old and some of them had real talent and some of them didn't. There were tears of joy and tears of rejection and of course some fantastic tantrums too.

I could identify with all of them in that they wanted to "make it" in the music world. Here is a fast track to the top -- or so they think.

Let's be generous and say about four contestants make something out of this show each year. That leaves quite a few people who don't. What happens to those people? Do they keep going? Or do their dreams sputter, lose steam, and slowly become lost?

Back in 1985, I graduated from college and had no idea of what I was going to do. I knew I wanted to be a musician but had no idea of how to get there. There was a show on television at the time that was very similar to American Idol called Star Search, which was a more upscale and dignified version of The Gong Show, its crazy 70's cousin. Ed McMahon was the host of this talent contest and like Idol there were cattle call auditions for talent. My mother saw an ad for it in the paper and encouraged me to give it a try.

So I found myself in line outside the Park West one chilly October night with thousands of other hopefuls for Star Search. I remember my brother Colin came along to keep me cheerful and awake. We all shivered as it got colder, waiting for the doors to open. My big army jacket that I kept on all night kept me warm and under that I had a sharkskin neon blue blazer that my Uncle Bob Dunn wore to his prom back in the 50's. I was ready. The hours crept by and with it the unrelenting cold. It was a real character builder.

The rest of the story is pretty easy to tell. I slumped along with other people in a long line. As I neared the door, I could feel my heart starting to pound. My hands and feet were numb, but so were everyone else's. I was granted a 15-second chance to sing. The tech guy bungled my tape of "I Only Have Eyes for You." It started at "I don't know if it's cloudy or bright" and was barely audible, but I sang my heart out through the 10 seconds. I remember one of the judges looking at me. She definitely liked my 1950's sharkskin jacket. But that was it. By the time I finished, I heard the words "thank you" from some guy not much older than me. It sounded more like a derogatory expletive. I was ushered out of a door and back onto the street. I felt used in a way, but I also felt like I had let everyone down, including myself. I had won awards and scholarships for singing and all I got was a "thank you" from the judges. It left a bad taste in my mouth, but I shook that off and figured I would find a way to "make it."

During this time my brothers and I formed the latest and last incarnation of our family singing group, the rock band Beyond Blue. We practiced in an ancient manual pin bowling alley that was converted into a rehearsal space by the Chicago band Ministry... at least that is what our landlord told us. At this time, five of us McCormack boys were living together at the corner of School and Greenview Streets.

We did the band thing that bands do. We courted jaded club managers. We mailed out postcards. We hauled our equipment up flights of stairs (I hated the now defunct Avalon nightclub for this reason) and down again after a 45-minute set on an evening shared with three bands. We drove out to Woodstock from Chicago during the winter, taking turns riding in the back of our pickup, the extra bundling not making any difference. We practiced in our parents' garage, with drifts coming in under the door. We begged our friends and family to come out on a Monday at 9 p.m., knowing that it would never ever start at that time. We put up handmade posters of ourselves all about town. And we made cassettes of our music that we mostly gave away. My brothers and I were paying our dues. But there was a hitch. All of them were either finishing law school or medical school. The pressure to "make it" was a bit more intense for me, I felt. I had decided to burn my bridges and not go on to any further schooling. My brothers worked as hard as could be expected. Now looking back, I am amazed they juggled medical school and law school and had a band. We hoped we could "make it," but time was ticking forward furiously toward their inevitable careers.

I forget who got it rolling this time, but we sent in a video tape of us playing and were accepted for the band portion of Star Search. I was gobsmacked. How could this happen so quickly and easily? Here was my second chance. One doesn't get another chance in this business. Surely God wanted me to "make it!" It was a sign that all our sacrifice was about to be rewarded. I was in a trad Irish band with Brian at the time and he wished me good luck. I could hardly concentrate while playing our gig that night. I remember thinking that I was soon to be out of a little Irish band and onto a big record label.

My brothers and I gathered after our last rehearsal and said a prayer together that we would "make it" on Star Search. And here, right on the cusp of fame, I found myself thinking as we prayed, "I don't know if I want to 'make it' this way." Immediately, I felt like I had let a genie out of the bottle. I backpedaled with God. "Of course I want to win Star Search and I want to be a full-time musician!" I pleaded.

Two days later, my brother Fran received a phone call from Hollywood. The producers regretted to tell us that due to falling ratings, Star Search decided to cut the band portion of the show. It was the most expensive part to produce and "we are very sorry" and "thank you." I don't remember if Fran felt that the "thank you" sounded like an expletive. But here we were again. And here I was again, sucker punched by the fickle business called music. And guilty that I had not conveyed to God my complete faith that we were going to "make it." I had betrayed everyone again, including myself and the Almighty to boot. I was a loser.

My brothers and I argued about what to do next. One studio wanted to record us and then pitch our music to L.A. Of course, it would cost some money. My brother Dave wanted to go into country music and just got a job offer with one of the top law firms in Chicago. My brothers Tony and Fran were full time medical residents, pulling 36-hour shifts. The writing was on the wall, and we quietly disbanded Beyond Blue. By now, I was working in marketing for a hospital to pay off my student loans. I continued playing in the Irish band with Brian. I felt even further from the goal of "making it."

I didn't realize at the time that I had been "making it" all along. There wasn't any one-shot or two-shot deal. The whole contrived contraption of the Star Search and the star-making machine had really, truly nothing to do with being a musician. I started writing with Brian. And we started at the very bottom, touring nursing homes and playing prisons. My marketing job was cut and I had a choice, find a new job and continue to stay in the business, or play music full time. I took the leap and moved full time into music, forming Switchback with Brian.

We continued down the path of adversity as we slowly built a fan base. And along the way, I found that "making it" was the joy of making music. "Making it" was being in the moment and had nothing to do with fame. "Making it" was really about touching souls. We did that, playing nursing homes and then clubs with the disgruntled and jaded owners.

My mother called me and said, "Are you going to play nursing homes all your life?" I remember telling her, "Perhaps that is what God wants me to do, to reach these people who have no music and very little joy left." It was then that I felt that a shift occurred. I was a musician and I didn't need a cattle call or a television show or a producer to validate me. My experience was enough.

Now, 25 years later, I look back and see that climb still taking place. We have specials on PBS. We have 13 albums. We tour Europe and North America. We've shared the stage with heroes like the Moody Blues and Leon Russell. We bring fans on trips to Ireland and Italy. We've made a career for ourselves in music. And yes, we still go and play the occasional nursing home.

I didn't know what I was looking for when I went looking for "it" all those years ago. I had no music person in the family, no professional whom I, as a kid, would be able to follow around as he or she hit the honkytonks. My story was completely white bread Midwestern middle class. But somehow, I managed in spite of myself and others to "make it."

So I will look at American Idol, but I can't really watch it. I cringe for the starry-eyed hopefuls who are rejected, and I hope that they realize that they do have the power to become the musicians that we as a society so desperately need. I certainly hope they don't allow their dream to idle because someone else felt they don't have what it takes. Even Elvis was told to keep driving a truck.

Yes, I "made it." And to those judges and gatekeepers? Why, "thank you."

~Marty

http://www.waygoodmusic.com/

Springtime in Paradise

May 21st was Switchback’s annual Spring Concert in a Cave, and it was pretty close to perfect!  When we arrived at the Ion Exchange there was a good sized group gathered to see how Howard’s pulley system would work getting Switchback’s equipment up the bluff to the cave. And I’m glad to say that it worked remarkably well! It was quite a sight to see the speakers, guitars, and everything else suspended in the air while being pulled up the bluff!

The concert was fantastic – the acoustics in the cave are beyond belief, and with Nick Hirka and Takeshi both joining in on percussion, it was a magical night. The evening came to a close with some nearby campers sending up paper bag balloons which were beautiful little lights flickering in the sky. Next, it was time for one of Howard’s famous Timber Run truck rides. This is a ride through the forest, and even through the river, with a spotlight held out into the woods as you go. It was fun until it started storming and the truck stalled, then it became hilarious! The eight of us in the back couldn’t have gotten much wetter. We finally got back to the Ion Exchange and to our bunks for a good night’s sleep.

Sunday morning, we were up early and Marty and I did morning yoga up in the cave – it was beautiful…so peaceful with birds singing and a light breeze blowing as we did yoga among the treetops. As we climbed down the bluff, I realized how hungry I was and it’s a good thing too, because the whole gang was relaxing and cooking a beautiful breakfast on an outdoor stove when we got down from the cave. We enjoyed the fellowship of our friends, then it was time to use the pulleys again, and I went off to take some video of the beautiful grounds and river. As we packed up, I thought of the fun we’ll have at the Rondy there in August. I can’t wait to see our old and new friends again!

~ Chris Pardee

A Patient but Persistent Spring

When Spring finally comes, it often announces its arrival as we play at the Oak Center in Lake City, Minnesota. Driving along the highway from Minneapolis, I look over to see a slight greening of the rolling prairie. Here the hills are bare and the trees start hugging the limestone bottoms. It's the beginning of the great inland sea of grass that stretches to the Rockies. A buffalo herd is standing near a round bale in a field, feeding. The trees are still barren, not even a bud yet, as we are pretty far north.

It's hard to believe a stubborn, sticking snow came down the night before and Winter kept his grip until pushed back by a patient but persistent Spring. The melt off has choked the streams and the Zumbro River is high and gnawing at her banks. A couple more miles and there, on the curve of the road, sits the old mercantile where we will play tonight. An air generator twirls above it, easily moving in the strong north wind blowing from Saskatchewan. Under scurrying gray clouds, Brian and I pull alongside the building. The walls are peeling, the gray wood peeking out here and there as if the paint itself is being slowly melted away. We take out our cases and head up the wide steps to the second floor. The old basset hound slowly rises off his haunches near the wood burning stove and ambles toward us. He decides that we need to be announced and lets out a sound like a geriatric Chewbacca. Three woofs later and he's satisfied that we're announced. He ambles back to the wood stove and goes to sleep.

Brian and I have been playing every spring for almost a decade now at the Oak Center. Usually we're the last show of the season, which actually means the last show before the farmers get out planting their fields. As we open our cases, Steve, the owner of the mercantile and surrounding organic farm, emerges from his apartment after taking a late afternoon nap. He's a bit stooped from years of hard work but still has a warm smile. We all give each other a hug. There's an unspoken acknowledgment that we're together to witness another turning of the seasons.

Downstairs, a couple of young volunteers are at work in the mercantile. Like something that was kept in a pickle jar from the 1890's, there's a preserved feeling of yesteryear. The glass cases, the high tin ceilings, the worn pine floors. A closer look shows a variety of goods right from the 21st century: CDs, cards, books on peace and current events intermingling with oil lamps and farming implements. On the walls the decades unfold, from old buffalo skulls to 60's protest posters to the latest fliers for the next show.

Steve makes no bones about his liberal leanings. In fact, I think only a liberal-minded person could keep a place like the Oak Center going. It has an almost quixotic air about it as I set up my bass and smell the venison stew cooking on the wood-fired stove downstairs. The belief that the world can change if we do our part. That we can stay connected to the earth. That we can learn to live within our means and without the sprays, dyes, distillates and fertilizers that will soon be applied to the surrounding cornfields. Each year we return and it seems as if we are still in the grasp of Winter waiting for that patient but persistent Spring that eventually will come.

The audience arrives and they too are old friends, people coming slowly up the steep, worn steps to the second floor. Some come a bit slower than they had the year before, but they make it to the top and we sit around for a bit, catching up on each others' lives. A popcorn machine starts popping away and under the gleam of oil lamps there's a simple offering of deviled eggs and other homegrown and homemade food and desserts. They rest on mismatched platters and baskets upon a solid wooden table. Everyone nibbles at the food, talks a bit, and spends a bit of time with each other until Steve walks up on stage. The folks head off to claim their auditorium-style wooden seats. Brian and I head to the "green room," a tiny closet-like space to the left of the stage.

Steve starts talking to the audience. It's leaning a bit past center for most folks, but these are Minnesotans, used to such talk and even if they don't agree, they are too polite to raise an eyebrow. Steve winds things up, introduces us and we start playing.

The room becomes one living creature. The pine floor and walls reverberate with our music and the audience softly stomp their feet in time to the songs, sending out shoots of energy that twine around every note coming back at them. We take a light-hearted approach to our Midwest storms by singing "Twister in A Trailer Park." Everyone is in on the joke. The jigs and reels catch fire as the evening quickly rolls by.

I feel that here, in this second-story, worn down mercantile, a ritual as worthy as any sacred rite happens. We share stories, we pass the evening reaffirming to each other that all is still well, that we can still continue along with our aches and pains. Life doesn't have to be too serious after all. I feel that this evening marks the beginning of Spring for me personally, even if the wind outside is still cold.

We finish the night by playing a couple encores, ending with "Muintir Na Sidhe," the Fairy Folk. As I pack my guitar into its case, I glance up at the wood stage wall. On it are hundreds of names from hundreds of performers who have played over the years. I wonder how their evenings went. I wonder if next year, the buds will be out a bit earlier and will Winter be sent back up North before May arrives? Will we all be able to be back here, waiting to reach out and be embraced by a patient but persistent Spring?

~Marty

An update from Takeshi in Japan

I visited the U.S. during the week of St. Patrick's Day and came back to Japan on March 24th, which means I've been back almost a month since the terrible disaster. As of today the paper reports that 14,133 were killed and another 13,346 are still missing, and the number of evacuees exceeds 130,000. In addition, it seems radiation from the damaged nuclear power plants is not under control yet, and they made a no-entry zone within 20 kilometers of the plant. The conditions are so tragic that I sometimes have a feeling that they are not real.

However, my place is far enough from those power plants and I'm doing all right. Life here is a little different from what it was before the earthquake and we still have aftershocks, but we don't have blackouts these days. The supply of most things is still limited but now I can buy batteries and bottles of water, which were very hard to find or get at stores a month ago. The damage was so extensive that I'm sure rehabilitating the nation's economy will take a long time and much effort.

I'm planning to visit the U.S. again in May. It's for Th' Gatherin', a very unique Scottish festival in WaKeeney, Kansas. If you go to their website (http://www.thgatherin.com/) and check the schedule, you'll find a detailed one with a note saying, "If you've ever been to Th' Gatherin' you know that there is really NO OFFICIAL schedule for this Grand Event." It sounds as though the festival is not organized, and this is true in a sense, but I always get a good feeling from it, something very spiritual. It has a unique atmosphere!

Though I lived in the U.S. from 2001 to 2006, I didn't know about this festival when I was here then, and my first one was in 2007. I've never missed it since then, making this year my fifth anniversary. And this year, Switchback will come with their original Song for Th' Gatherin', which people there have been longing to hear. Fortunately, I had the chance to play and practice the tune several times in March.

After Th' Gatherin', I'm going to Colorado with Marty and Brian, where they will have some shows. I'm looking forward to coming back to the US and seeing Marty and Brian and other friends. I can't wait...

Kanpai!
Takeshi

http://www.waygoodmusic.com/

And We Headed Off to Conjure and Write

The very first Switchback Songwriters Weekend was held at Four Mounds Inn near Dubuque on April 8 - 10. It was a great success and Marty and I found the weekend to be an invigorating and renewing experience. One of my oldest and dearest friends, Scott Momenthy, joined us. Scott and I have been friends since fifth grade. When we were in high school, he was way ahead in the songwriting game by producing his own LP. He was my inspiration. Since that time, Scott has continued to write and perform original songs and has become one of Marty's and my favorite songwriters with songs such as "Glorious Love." We were thrilled when, at the last minute, Scott was able to attend the Songwriters Weekend. When I asked him if he would be willing to share his weekend experience for this month's newsletter, he was happy to oblige.....

My name is Scott Momenthy. I have just returned from Switchback's first Songwriters Weekend. Now back in Chicago's bustling 'burbs, I reflect on a time spent among new friends atop high wooded bluffs of Dubuque, Iowa, overlooking the mighty Mississippi River.

It was tight quarters riding up in the Switchback van packed with musical gear. I wondered how Switchback could travel for years, packed like gumballs in the bottom of a kid's full pockets. Part of the secret quickly became clear as my driver Marty McCormack set me at ease with his easy laugh and homespun tales. Soon ordinary apprehensions faded as we passed by the historic river towns of Galena and Dubuque and through the stone gates of Four Mounds Inn. Cresting a hill, the enchanting mansion emerged from the winding wooded road, back-dropped by a soft uncertain sky which over the course of the weekend would shift blue and clear and at night fill periodically with magnificent stars.

One by one, our weekend companions arrived, found their rooms, and settled in for an evening snack and gentle mix-up. Slowly instruments were taken out, and we circled around the living room's fireplace. As the night settled outside, the room began to glow with songs from within. I have played in many circumstances, and yet I launched into my first song with nerves ajangling and fingers suddenly stupid. I wondered, as I set my guitar down shakily in conclusion, if anyone noticed that I had only an introductory verse. Round we went, each finding a voice. On one familiar tune, a chorus emerged with assistance, which is unique in my experience. An instrumentalist played and was joined vocally by two among us who quickly located the lyrics using our phones. Later in my cozy sleeping quarters, it occurred to me that compassion, courage, and good humor were the primary qualities which would define the nature and make possible the success of this first creative gathering.

From fields, cabins, and beds we gathered in the main dining hall for a wonderful breakfast of chilled fruit, fresh warm breads, and bacon and eggs. Full and at ease, we began our creative pursuit in earnest. Round the table one by one we offered response to a clever interview forwarded by our leader John D. Lamb, who has been conducting songwriting weekends for 16 years in Northern Michigan. Upon receiving our customized song assignments, we headed off to conjure and write. I began my note taking from a chair on a platform wedged into the bluff overlooking the river highway where I watched an entire train from engine to caboose stretching across the base of the bluff on the far bank. I followed the whistle until it faded into the sound of a moth flapping by my ear. A great circling eagle grew from a small spot in the sky, and I experienced a sense of space and perspective not possible back home. With such a fresh and dreamlike vista, imaginings quickly began to loosen and play in my mind. By lunch I was glad again for human voices.

In the afternoon, workshops were presented by Brian, Marty, and John. Brian introduced guitar techniques; Marty shared intimate tales of life on the road. John presented demonstrations of song form. I learned to view the neck of my guitar from a new perspective and play harmonics in familiar chord shapes. At one powerful moment in Brian's guitar presentation, he paused, eyes flashing electric blue, one hand suspended above his guitar, the other hand dangling from his raised arm, and index finger loosely raised as though to point toward something beyond the room walls. Leveling that distant gaze on his close listeners, he began to speak, almost somberly, of commitment. He confessed that, though knowledge and skill are cumulative, every performance remains a challenge. He spoke of incessant preparation to focus, express, and convey the inspiration and musicality of his songs. Unlike paintings and other art objects, songs are not stable. No matter how wonderful in conception, a song must be reformed and born again in the imaginations of each new listener.

I spent the rest of the afternoon sunbathing on the lawn, walking in the woods, and conversing with some of my more disciplined companions who had finished early. The staff was available for consultations. I was hung up on a precious line and melody which were going nowhere. By counseling with Marty, I was able to let it go and pull together my song shards. Later that evening after a wonderful family style supper, torches were lit to form a backyard stage. Sitting low and deep in wood-slatted, flat-armed chairs, with a gentle breeze bending the flames and lifting Marty's long locks, we were treated to an intimate musical performance by our hosts, amplified only by the beauty of Four Mounds Inn.

I won't soon forget our final morning together. We gathered in our many colors, not unlike the multitude of birds which found refuge in the Four Mounds feeders, each with an individual pace, color and call. In turn, we took a place at the head of the cleared breakfast table, bravely presenting our songs. Though performance abilities were fresh, the thoughtfulness of our creations was clear. As I listened to the songs of my friends, it occurred to me wonderfully that songwriting is akin to pioneering, and there is a direction on my compass which points inward where compassion, courage, and good humor are the primary qualities of a successful journey. These I discovered in abundance among new friends at Switchback's first Songwriters Weekend. My heartfelt thanks to the staff at Four Mounds Inn; Jan, our unshakable Switchback volunteer; John D. Lamb for his wisdom, skill, and good nature; and Switchback for an intimate welcome into their rare and valuable musical lives.

~ Scott Momenthy

A note from Brian and Marty: The Switchback Songwriters Weekend will be held again next April. Watch our website and newsletter for details! A big thank you to Scott for writing about this year's weekend.

http://www.waygoodmusic.com/

All About the Song

Brian and I just came back from a road trip that took us to the Hey Hey Club in Columbus. Our Ohio fans are just fantastic! They brought out a lot of new folks to catch our show and really showered us with support and enthusiasm. We also had fans there who had traveled from Virginia, Wisconsin, and New York, which is always an honor. Soupbone came up from Cincinnati along with his wife Monica. Both Soup and Monica are blind, and they always manage to make the trek with no problem while the rest of us are counting on our GPS systems. Their arrival is a sign that the show is going to be a wild one. Soupbone once again brought the house down by playing brushes on an old whiskey barrel right at the foot of the stage. We stuck a microphone into the side of the barrel, and it was amazing to hear a full trap sound coming from a barrel under Soup's skillful hands.

One fan saw our flier for the Songwriters Weekend that is taking place next month. "But I don't write songs," she said. "I shouldn't go." "I bet you do," I replied, "but you just aren't aware of the songs you've written. You definitely should come to the weekend."

It would be wonderful if everyone could make it to the Songwriters Weekend. Why? My belief is that we all write songs. Each of us has some sort of soundtrack running through our minds, a personal radio station that plays some familiar songs, but surprisingly a lot of original material too. Being a songwriter is just taking those songs to the next level and perhaps preparing them to be shared with the world. It is a special opportunity to be able to spend time with fellow songwriters, even those who don't realize that's what they already are.

Why is it so important? Songs, more than poetry, books, movies or stories, are all about our daily, personal lives. They resonate with what we are doing, how we are feeling, and how we relate to each other. Sure, you can get 50 people in a room to read together from a book, or perhaps recite a poem. But 50 people sharing a song, singing a song, is a true connection, something that we don't have with Facebook or Twitter.

Songs can be funny to help lighten a situation. Songs can inspire people to great achievements. They can also correct injustices. In ancient Ireland, the bard who was slighted by a chieftain would sit outside the keep and compose a scathing song about the slight he endured. So powerful were the words that the people could lose trust in the chieftain. Such a humiliation was so feared that any chief would treat a traveling musician with great respect. The songs of the civil rights movement are a great example of the power of music to change the world.

When I was about five years old, I wrote my first song, Tallcorn Moose. I had been to Wyoming and had seen a moose and immediately fell in love with the animal. I created a story about a moose that was "faster than a motorcycle, plane, train, car, bus, or rocket." I would go around my house singing this for my family. Perhaps this is why my brothers staked me out in the backyard spread-eagled with croquet wickets. Thank God my songwriting has improved a bit.

I also wrote songs to show how I was feeling. When we moved to Woodstock and I hit my awkward teens, I would make up horrible love songs and sing them underneath an oak tree for a herd of cows that bordered our farm. They weren't that impressed. Thank God my audience has changed, too.

Songs can help heal. When Brian and I travel to Alzheimer units and play our songs for the residents, even the person hardest to reach smiles and breaks into song, especially when we play an old number that might jog a childhood memory. For a moment, sunshine comes through the clouds and that lost person is found.

Songs can connect generations and preserve history. It is amazing how Irish ballads written centuries ago are still played with as much passion as when they were first introduced. One of the most exciting parts of playing Celtic music is being connected to an ancient lineage where people wrote songs to express themselves. The songwriter is long gone, but the song remains and still resonates. That is powerful magic.

But the most important part of songs is the transcendent ability they have to unite on a level that is beyond our daily lives. It is a shared sense of being in the moment with each other, a truly spiritual quality. After 9/11 when the House of Representatives gathered out on the stairs of the Capitol, they sang "God Bless America," a simple song that truly touched the range of emotions that were experienced that day. Perhaps we need them to sing every day?

Getting in touch with your songwriter can be a deeply satisfying experience. You are exploring the essence of who you are and how you see the world. Hearing it in song, even if sung to yourself, is satisfying to the soul. The reward is that much sweeter when it is acknowledged by others. As I said to the audience at the Hey Hey, "Without you here, this show would have been---boring."

So yes, I am encouraging you all to come join us for the Songwriter's Weekend. I also am extremely humbled when people can relate to my songs. Even Tallcorn Moose.

~Marty

Songwriters Weekend April 8-10, 2011

http://www.waygoodmusic.com/

School of Rock

A few weeks ago, my wife Annie asked me to go with her to see her friend Melissa’s daughter, Morgana, perform in the School of Rock tribute to Queen.

“What?” I said.

“You know, ‘School of Rock,’ like the movie,” she answered.

I did see the movie starring Jack Black. For those of you who didn’t, it’s about a down and out rock musician who lies his way into becoming a substitute teacher and the only thing he manages is to teach to his students is rock n’ roll. The parents find out, are incensed, come out to see their kids play at a battle of the bands and....wait...isn’t this the plot to “The Music Man”? Oh well, out of this movie has now come The School of Rock Chicago.

I see. My wife, who has worshipped at the altar of Queen and Brian May in particular since she was a kid, wanted me to see a bunch of grade-schoolers performing rock opera? Was she serious? Indeed she was, and so, here I was on a Sunday afternoon, driving down to Reggie’s Rock Club to see a most unusual tribute to Queen.

I walked in the club as the band was playing their first number. By band, I mean a rotating group of about 20 kids. Several of the boys were decked out in Freddy Mercury gear, sporting slicked back hair, sleeveless white t-shirts and yes, mustaches. At the front of the stage were groupies, grade-school kids who would high five the musicians and scream at the end of the song. Behind the groupies were the real groupies, the parents who would also scream at the end of the song. I was surrounded by them, all armed with cameras and cell phones, recording each song and jostling for a good angle. Some of the moms seemed smaller than the kids and I wondered if there was a height requirement to have your kid in this school.

These parents were mostly in their 40s with the occasional bewildered grandmother hanging off on the side of the club, looking morose. The moms and dads were happily singing along to “We are the Champions” and “Bohemian Rhapsody” while their kids rocked out on stage. It was something to see some of the parents partying down, drinking beer and acting like it was 1982 all over again. And like true club patrons, they proceeded to talk excitedly about their kids while their kids were on stage performing. So in a way, it was a very real club experience for these kids as anyone who has been in a club knows that a lot of the club noise is not from stage, but from the audience talking. But all in all, there was an honest vibe to the parents. I sensed that the majority were not seeking glory for their kid, rather a great experience. So I took a deep breath, relaxed and enjoyed the show.

Like the movie, each of these kids had some talent. Checking out the school’s website, each student gets four 45-minute lessons on the instrument of his or her choice, as well as group lessons, jams, rehearsals and of course the concert. All in all, 16 hours a month for $300. And what about theory and that stuff? Well, the school kind of dances around it, saying “Our teachers introduce music theory in the context of other learnings (sic) and we hold group classes to cover music theory concepts such as chord construction, harmony, rhythm figures and so on.” But come on, like the movie, the school is here to get kids to rock! No garage band kid ever cracked a book on theory until much later in the game.

And these kids did rock! I was extremely impressed by some of the talent I saw taking place on stage. Two drummers were exceptional in my book, a blond-haired girl wearing a cape, who did a great solo during “Somebody to Love”, and a little African-American boy who sat at the drums and played his heart out on “We Will Rock You.” The lead vocalist for the boys was a curly headed kid who dressed the part of a rocker, complete with leather pants, no shirt, a leather jacket, tie and some sort of checkered police cap. He nailed “Love of My Life.” Several girls were natural talents vocally as well as on keyboards. The little boy (a dead ringer for DJ on “Roseanne”), who played a bicycle bell during, what else, “Bicycle Race” turned out to be a great bass player. And our friend Morgana did a great job on her solo for that same song, mugging expertly and dramatically waving her arms, commanding a huge round of applause from the audience. Not bad for a kid of 10.

Even the sound man was dead on. I had to give him credit as usually there were four guitarists, one bassist, one drummer, one lead vocalist, six backup vocalists hovering around a mic and even the kid holding a bicycle bell. Sometimes a crack of feedback would rip through, but the sound man got it quickly under control.

What touched me the most was that the people who were running the school were obviously not looking for the next American Idol. There was a great deal of fun and cooperation with the kids. There were mistakes made of course, but who doesn’t shank a chord when rocking? These kids were learning instruments, they were on stage and for gaw-sakes they were doing some decent renditions of the band Queen! Brian May would have loved that they delved into some obscure material like “Liar” and “Is This the World We Created?” I felt like I was in some school play about a band, but here we were in a real club and parents were drinking beer in front of their jammin’ kids on stage. Pretty unreal. However, there was no acting in the way the kids approached their music. They were most serious. Kudos to the teachers.

Our band camps when I was a kid consisted of blowing the trumpet to “God Bless America” and some other obscure piece that I can hardly remember today. But it was those sorts of band kids that got the movie “School of Rock” going. Would I have enjoyed being in a School of Rock? You bet. Did I enjoy seeing these kids enjoy themselves? You bet. Did I enjoy the parents rocking out? Absolutely. Does this replace the group of kids huddled in a garage listening to albums and practicing on their own? No way. But perhaps, once these kids “graduate,” they can start those bands and continue down the road as musicians. Maybe this will be their one shot at rock and some of these kids will get it out of their system. All the better than to spend years to find out you really never wanted to be a musician. But for those kids who persevere and become true independent musicians? I hope these kids will stare the business mogul in the eyes and mutter Dewey’s famous quote from the movie: “I don’t wanna hang out with a bunch of wannabe corporate sellouts. I’m gonna form my own band and we’re gonna start a revolution, OK? And you’re gonna be a funny little footnote on my epic ass!”

We will, we will rock you.

Marty McCormack
Switchback
www.WayGoodMusic.com