The CJO decision continues to weigh on me, and I’m not sure whether I’m going to reconsider it. It left me in a world of hurt, a place I don’t want to occupy and one I’m struggling to pry myself out of. Sorry for the grammar, sorry for the circumspection. It’s a matter of calibrating the proper balance between personal and professional.

As for Katy, it was difficult to leave her so far away in beautiful Colorado, but word is she’s adjusting, though not without challenges. Our trip there en famille was stressful, though Boulder’s very attractive.

Ties do bind. Sometimes they fray. Sometimes they break. The last is when repair becomes the operative word. September will be a month of repair.

Other random thoughts: I’m reviewing/working in/on jazz a lot, writing reviews and features for Jazz Times and doing some marketing work for the Cleveland Jazz Orchestra. I’m also listening to rock again. I love the new Tom Jones CD “Praise and Blame” and Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers’ “Mojo” and am intrigued by The National, a New York group running Bowie circa “Low” through a fuzzadelic blender on “High Violet,” their dourly beautiful new album.

Also must direct you to the blog of my wife, Karen Sandstrom, who has crafted a portrait of me at my summeriest, wearing “jorts.” What a drag it will be to wear long pants again. It’s almost time.

What’s great about her first world credit as Lylah Rose Wolff is she hit it age 15. I didn’t go global until the ‘80s, when I was in my late 30s and writing for Goldmine, a record collectors’ magazine. My wife, the amazing multimedia artist Karen Sandstrom, hit the world in 1995 with a preview of the art that would go into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum in Cleveland. That ran in Art and Antiques.

Lylah’s way ahead of the curve. A whiz at Photoshop, she’s wired for contemporary media. She has a Nikon, she’s beginning to turn her bedroom into a studio, and she’s creative and ready to learn. All she has to do is keep on keeping on with her camera, get over any squeamishness that stands in the way of getting a powerful picture (much is distasteful to my very girly girl) and press her case. It’s a powerful one.

Carr is an ambitious kid. He’s going into ninth grade at University School and spent nearly two years on the project. It’s a little crude, kind of like rock itself, and it’s the “official” Cleveland rock story in that it doesn’t mention anything underground or alternative.

But it has some cool footage, including some very raw AC/DC and a clip featuring Southside Johnny and Bruce Springsteen from an Agora concert. Check them out on YouTube:

Click here to view the embedded video.

Click here to view the embedded video.

I miss my parents lately, particularly now that I’ve read The Orientalist, Tom Reiss’ biography of Lev Nussimbaum, a tortured intellectual and prolific writer who lived while the great empires—the Ottoman, the Hapsburg, the Russian—died and totalitarianism took over. Nussimbaum was also known as Essad Bey and Kurban Said; he was a Jewish Orientalist whose greatest talent was self-invention.

Nussimbaum was born five months after my mother, in Baku, Azerbaijan, a city where there were oil fires above ground when he was a child. Baku, in Reiss’ telling, sounds like it came from The Arabian Nights.

My mother, who was quite a party girl, might have known Lev in the ‘20s when both were living in Berlin, a city Reiss captures with extraordinary vividness. Berlin in the Weimar period must have been a delight. If time travel were possible, I’d be there.

Nussimbaum’s is a story of displacement and exile. The book unearths history I had never imagined and helps explain why my parents, like the fascism-prone, Bolshevik-hating Nussimbaum, fled Germany for Italy in the early ‘30s (Italy wasn’t officially anti-Semitic until 1938, the year of the Anschluss, when Germany annexed Austria and Hitler and Mussolini formalized their alliance).

One of the most original works of history I’ve ever read, Reiss’ book—which he developed because he’s the “child of German-speaking Jews trapped in Nazi Europe” (I’m the son of German Jews who got out just in time)—documents a fantastic man negotiating perilous, challenging times. We live in interesting times now, with the world collapsing economically, forcing political accommodations that will be strenuous indeed. But Nussimbaum’s short career—he died, gangrenous and in great pain, in 1942—celebrates a degree of ingenuity and inventiveness rarely called for these days.

It also makes me very happy my parents made it to America, where you can breathe relatively freely. I wish I’d recorded more of their stories.

Also, visit Tom Reiss’s website.

Antonio Gaudi's Sagrada Familia in Barcelona is Catholicism on LSD.

I’m with friends on a hotel trip that’s deeply wearing but stimulating, on a continent that seems to be imploding but is still vital, authoritative and elegant. Here, trains are high-speed, cars are efficient, you can walk the cities, health care isn’t a fight. Shows you the U.S. has a long way to go.

A week later, however, Europe’s troubles are dragging down the world, stymieing what looks like an embryonic U.S. recovery. I don’t understand how a continent so apparently progressive can be in imminent danger of collapse. Too much community, it seems. It’s great to be all for one and one for all when the economy is on the way up, but one drags down all when it’s tanking.

But I ramble. The trip went from April 22 to May 1. We visited Belgium (Brussels was much more attractive than I expected), France (a day in Paris was expectedly delightful and Provence was ravishing), Spain, and Munich, Germany. I spent less than two hours at Dachau Concentration Camp, just long enough to chill at the recognition that it’s not just the evil the Nazis did, it’s how systematic and efficient that was.

Dachau was the first Nazi concentration camp, a model for all the others.

I hope I go back. Each major city I visited—Brussels, Paris, Marseille, Barcelona and Munich—is a world of its own. I’m a Europhile.

I’ll be in Brussels, Barcelona, Toulon, Marseille, Chantilly and Munich. More train than plane is in the plans; it’ll be interesting to see how Europe handles its travel in the shadow of the volcano.

It’s been a while since I wrote. One of the highlights of the past few weeks was Karen and I going to dinner with Bob Hoover, books editor of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette; his wife, Kathleen; our friends Ron Antonucci and Sarah Willis; and the star of the event, Kay Ryan, Poet Laureate of the United States.

Dinner with the Poet Laureate of the United States was something to chew on.

Karen and I went to the film festival for the first time in it must be 10 years last week, and didn’t hit a clunker. Here’s what we saw: “The Ape” (Swedish); “House of Branching Love” (Finnish); “A Matter of Size” (Israeli); “Fire in the Heartland” (U.S.); “Desert of Forbidden Art” (U.S.); “Marwencol” (U.S.) Each time we went downtown was more fun. The festival was packed, the standby lines long. Here’s a brief rundown of the flicks:

—“The Ape”: Intellectually fascinating study of paranoia and trauma that never resolved, remaining ambiguous and disturbing. The point of view was riveting.

—“House”: Bawdy, funny sex comedy about tribulations and rewards of marriage. Entertaining as hell and ultimately uplifting. The actor who played Wolfi could be a major star.

—“Fire”: About the May 4, 1970 National Guard shootings at Kent State. Well-documented and profoundly sad, it evoked the politics of the ‘60s with minimum preachiness and suggested there still are stories to uncover about that seminal incident.

—“Matter”: Emotionally my favorite flick, it’s a comedy about four giant misfits in a small Israeli village who channel their creativity into becoming sumo wrestlers. It’s a whole new way of seeing fat, too. A blast.

—“Desert”: A documentary about suppressed Soviet-era Modernist art in a museum in Uzbekistan. Great art, amazing story.

—“Marwencol”: From rural, upstate New York comes this documentary about a guy beaten nearly senseless whose “recovery” consists of creating a World War II-inspired community in his backyard, populated by dolls. The most provocative movie I saw, it makes you rethink your notions of art and “wellness.”

Saturday night, I saw John Zorn’s Masada Sextet at the Cleveland Museum of Art. Saxophonist Zorn, who channels what he calls Radical Jewish Culture, and his five co-conspirators played only a little over an hour, but how and what they played! Great, often romantic music with a Sephardic, Spanish coloration; even one highly abstract piece was a kick, because Zorn and Co. so enjoy each other and their shared discipline.

The film festival and Zorn show were breaths of fresh air in a community that often feels ingrown. Seeing crowds downtown was invigorating. Hearing Zorn’s music was similarly mind-expanding. Cleveland felt like an open city this past week. Maybe it’s spring rearing its desired head.

Today I got Martin Benjamin’s “Atomic Age” in the mail. I worked with Marty in Albany in the ‘70s and ‘80s at rock and roll shows, and he’s the best photographer I’ve ever worked with (dig into his website and you’ll find a picture of me—with more hair and way bigger glasses). His book—infrared photos of his wife; shots from irradiated sites; glimpses of remote cultures; startling closeups of what look like perfect strangers—is an event. Like words, but in different ways, images can move and shape and change the world. Marty’s certainly do.

I saw Erickson at the Beachland Ballroom last night, after catching him Nov. 14 at a Janis Joplin tribute in which he sang “You’re Gonna” and “Ooh! My Soul,” a Little Richard number perfectly suited to his primal scream. Could Erickson sustain a whole set? No problem. He was fabulous.

Not only did he end with “You’re Gonna” (no encore despite wild applause, whistles and the usual hoots), he stomped through a gang of other numbers from his work in Elevators and Roky Erickson and the Aliens, and he was fierce. This was hellfire rock ‘n’ roll snatched from the abyss and delivered by a master. In the beginning, the rock word was Sun Records. The second generation was the British Invasion and the American response spearheaded by the Beatles, the Byrds, Dylan—and misfits like Erickson, a leonine phoenix who works idiosyncratic hard rock as if he’d invented it. He’s on a brief tour with Okkervil River, a startlingly good young band from Austin, the liberal oasis in secessionist Texas, where Erickson made his first mark nearly 50 years ago. I can’t wait for “True Love Cast Out All Evil,” his first album of new material in more than 10 years. It’s due out April 20.

The show was cool for other reasons. Not only was it a highlight of the Beachland’s 10th anniversary, it also featured two talented Cleveland bands: Living Stereo, a sharp, new wave quartet with complex songs and stage presence to burn, and the Alarm Clocks, a Byrds- and Petty-influenced guitar band of chops, seasoning and occasionally interesting texture. Living Stereo was a hard act to follow (especially for an opener), the Clocks a nice bridge that got better as the mix settled in. Erickson, however, dominated as soon as he took the stage.

I wish I’d caught Pere Ubu the night before, when the storied and fractious underground Cleveland band recreated “The Modern Dance,” its 1978 breakthrough. Friends tell me the house was nearly full, the energy level high, Ubu mainman David Thomas in relatively high spirits. A frazzled-looking, withdrawn Thomas was at the Erickson show. He looked thin and weary, a shadow of his former self. I hope he enjoyed the Erickson revival as much as I did.

It’s still cold but it’s bright, the snow crunching less than it did even a week ago. It’s been a chilly winter, though the sun the past few days has been delightful if a bit illusory. Around this time of year in Cleveland, the mind turns to getting far, far away and warm, warm and sunny.

Karen and Katy are traveling to Colorado next week to look at the University of Colorado in Boulder. Lylah just turned 15 and got a Nikon for that milestone (you’ve seen some of her pix; you’ll see more). And I’ll be traveling to Europe in about six weeks on a hotel trip arranged by my good friend and highly prized professional colleague, Rich Roberts.

So the thaw seems real, there’s motion in the works, the freeze is breaking. Other signs: those wily socialist Democrats who want to plunder the country for their own takeover will pass health care reform, flawed though it may be; the economy is sputtering with a little promise; reason seems to be clawing its way back into public discourse.

Ask me for citations and I’d be hard-pressed, but that’s my feeling.

In mid-December, my wife suggested I e-mail as many people as I could think of to tell them I wanted to engage more. Being semi-retired can be lonely, even when there’s work at home; I’ve been looking for part-time work outside home for a while, and haven’t gotten that. Part of that is the economy; a bigger part is that when you apply online—the only way to search for a job these days—you’re very likely to disappear into the digital void. It’s a buyer’s market, an impersonal one. Anyhow.

I e-mailed about 100 people in my various circles and got a gang of invitations to lunch and coffee, some virtual get well cards (“sorry about your situation; I’ll keep my ears open”) and some good work. The best was an assignment to write the history of rock and roll in Cleveland from the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum for its website. I’ve already turned in my intro; it should be online in about a month. I think this will become an ongoing relationship. I might also get some museum-related work in the future. My outreach e-mail was a winner.

Other catch-up: Lylah and I went to New Orleans in January, arriving the night the Saints beat the Cardinals. The city was cool; it’s great the Saints won the Super Bowl. Now the Cavs have to do something similar for Cleveland. Traveling with Lylah was fun; she had a blast photographing scenes from that very scenic place, one of the best in the country for architecture. It’s becoming one of my favorite cities; if you go, be sure to eat at Domenica, in the Roosevelt, and at Acme Oyster House, in the Quarter.

At the Cafe du Monde

A fellow New Orleans tourist snapped this for us

Pleasures of the season: the snow is beautiful but getting old, like the cold. Walking the dog is a pleasure; Pearl likes the snow, likes getting her coat frosted. In the next three weeks, Karen, Katy and Lylah all have their birthdays, so I’ve been busy assembling gifts and the money to pay for them.

Recommendations: Avatar in 3D; the Coen brothers’ A Serious Man (very Jewish, very weird, quite interesting); Crazy Heart (Jeff Bridges is better than the movie, which works despite itself); Jimmy McDonough’s biography of Tammy Wynette; The Nels Cline Singers’ Initiate, and Reclamation, by the Stephan Crump Rosetta Trio.

I parked in the Justice Center garage across the street from the plug-ugly Justice Center and got to the second floor in plenty of time for my 10:45 a.m. hearing. I put my name on the sign-in sheet and was eager to tell an officer why I thought the officer was out of line busting me, especially around Christmas.

Before my scheduled time, a woman handed me a sheet saying the charge had been dismissed. Maybe the cop never showed. Maybe just requesting the hearing did it. In any case, it was a worthwhile trip to downtown Cleveland, a place I’m leery of, a place so money-grubbing it’s the opposite of welcoming.

Then I paid $9 for my stay of maybe 38 minutes. The Justice Center garage charges $3 for every 15 minutes. That way they got you coming and going. Oh, well. One way to look at it is I saved $16.

T.J. Stiles, The First Tycoon (Knopf)
Hans Fallada, Every Man Dies Alone (Melville House)
Stieg Larsson, The Girl Who Played With Fire (Knopf)
Peter Kuper, Diario de Oaxaca (PM Press)
David Mazzucchelli, Asterios Polyp (Pantheon)
Anders Roslund and Borge Hellstrom, Box 21 (Farrar, Straus & Giroux)
Ken Auletta, Googled (Penguin)
Lorrie Moore, A Gate at the Stairs (Knopf)
Robert Goolrick, A Reliable Wife (Algonquin)
Elijah Wald, How the Beatles Destroyed Rock ‘n’ Roll (Oxford University Press)
Andre Agassi, Open (Knopf)
Steve Knopper, Appetite for Self-Destruction (Free Press)

We saw a cop ticketing my car. I yelled there was time left. He said I’d parked more than two feet from the curb. “Downright Christmasy,” I told him. I also told him I couldn’t believe him and said he’d had a choice: to ticket me or leave it be.

What’s your name? I asked. It’s on the ticket, he said. My $25 ticket from The Parking Violations Bureau of the city of Cleveland identifies him as “Cintron.” I told him the city does anything for money. I was furious. I took out my bile on Lylah on our way back east. That was unfair.

She wondered whether he’d had a yardstick to measure that legal 24 inches. I wish I’d had one with me and had the presence of mind to measure the distance myself. Didn’t look like two feet to me, so it’ll be my word against Cintron’s when I go for my hearing. I don’t intend to pay this fine.

Wonder what else the uninviting city of Cleveland plans to do to me and others willing to brave it? Its officials wonder why people don’t want to go downtown. People like Cintron are one of the reasons. So is a law that’s more than open to interpretation—and that feels especially capricious in a city with no traffic to worry about because nobody wants to go there.

When my wife gave birth to our daughter, I realized no man ever works as hard as a woman. When, nearly 40 years ago, my then-wife-to-be (she became my first) and I decided to have an abortion instead of a child we weren’t ready to parent, we had to go to New York, where abortions were legal. It was a painful and difficult and intensely personal decision. It always is.

I just e-mailed Nelson nailing him for his arrogance, his presumption that in the name of morality he has the right to control a woman’s body. I can’t settle differences people have on abortion, but it’s a private affair, a highly personal situation. Don’t have one if you’re against it. But don’t prevent those who want or need one. If you don’t like the show, change the channel. But don’t put a chastity belt on the TV.

I’ll let you know if Nelson responds. At least someone other than a Nebraskan can contact him; Bart Stupak, the Michigan Neanderthal Democrat in the House who shares Nelson’s primitive approach, doesn’t accept e-mail from outside his own state.

Don’t even get me started on Joe Lieberman, an opportunist who gives chameleons a bad name.

If health care reform survives, let alone passes, it will be a miracle. I used to think it should, because at least, despite lack of public option and Medicare buy-in, it would be a start. I’m not so sure anymore given the way Nelson, Lieberman, Stupak and the perpetually negative Republicans have used morality to bludgeon it into impotence.

Meanwhile, the Republicans have come up with a screed, 10 principles to live by. These are retro in the name of conservatism. The party says it won’t fund any candidate unless he or she swears by at least eight of these. What next? Loyalty oaths?

The cover of Cohen's newest live disk.

For more Leonard Cohen music, click here.

Audio CD (March 31, 2009)
Original Release Date: March 31, 2009
Number of Discs: 2
Format: Live
Label: Sony
ASIN: B001RTP3YQ

Acclaim is building for Milman's third disk.

For more Milman music, click here.

Audio CD
Original Release Date: June 2, 2009
Number of Discs: 1
Label: Koch Records
ASIN: B0026OIBQ8

Leonard Cohen: The mystic as fashion plate.

Cohen’s was one of two concerts (here’s John Soeder’s spot-on review from the Plain Dealer) I saw in the last week by Jewish musicians. Cohen’s was one of the best I’ve ever seen, and that covers hundreds of shows.

The other was by Sophie Milman, a 26-year-old Russian Jew who grew up in Israel and now lives in Toronto. A tiny blonde bombshell whose contralto-alto embodies the airy and the husky, she’s a true torch singer. Milman fronts an excellent band (Diego Rivera stood out on sax), scats like Sarah, and takes over Joni Mitchell’s “Be Cool” for her own smoldering purposes. (Here’s my preview from Cleveland Jewish News). The hottest Canadian import since Diana Krall, Milman is set to explode. Some paintings fell off the wall of Nighttown during her first set; might that have been a sign?

This pictures Sophie's newest disk.

Arizona State was gigantic—69,000 students at four separate Phoenix-area campuses—and the Tempe campus is very attractive. It’s the kind of place where you can create your own career, it seems. The facilities were excellent, the weather the week of Oct. 19 gorgeous. The Tucson campus was more logically laid out and more manageable; that city is probably a fifth the size of Phoenix, too, so the scale is easier to handle.

We must see whether Katy gets into either school or both; she has also applied to Ohio State University and Denison, a private school in southern Ohio. Our trip—our first together—was a lot of fun. We stayed in three different hotels—including two nights at a modern Best Western in Phoenix, where we wound up so I could cover a Best Western convention—and got along really well. My favorite memory is of stopping at the Tom Mix Memorial in Florence, where we met Jim and Mary, a motorcycle couple from Phoenix.

Never exchanged addresses but we did exchange kindly words. The encounter made the desert feels less deserted.

The music on this CD is priceless.

Voices bring you into a sunny marketplace in “Along the Crossroad.” For a contemporary strutter’s ball, try the funky, splashy “Omolareso.” For a sexy cha-cha (Robin van Geerke’s piano rocks), try “Le Nouveau Mande.” And if you want to step inside the rhythm? “Bosumede” will guide you. While the core of Fra Fra Sound is Africa, its sound and approach are decidedly, exhilaratingly international. Founded by bassist Vincent Henar, Fra Fra Sound’s latest spotlights the tunes of saxophonist Efraim Trujillo, who sparkles on soprano on “Nahawi,” the sweetest track.

Audio CD (February 5, 2008)
Original Release Date: 2008
Number of Discs: 1
Format: Import
Label: Phantom Sound & Vision
ASIN: B0012OVEHQ

For more on Fra Fra, click here.

This is the cover of Bobby Selvaggio's latest CD.

Selvaggio can get entangled in his own virtuosity, so there are times his brain outstrips his heart; having the more romantic Werner and the more brazen, charismatic trumpet player Sean Jones as foils helps. “Modern Times,” a very good, very rich CD, puns on rhythm and our turbulent times even as it signifies a step forward for serious, contemporary jazz saxophone.

Audio CD (May 26, 2009)
Original Release Date: 2009
Number of Discs: 1
Label: Arabesque Recordings
ASIN: B002AT8BGO

For more Bobby Selvaggio music, click here.

Willie Nile album art shows him in action.

Nile’s voice is as high and warm as ever, the guitars pop, and the rhythm section burns; Nile’s records never lacked for excitement. Touted as the next Dylan when he debuted in 1980, the Greenwich Village resident has turned into a master of the pop anthem. This is a great follow-up to his “Streets of New York” CD, affirming Nile’s command of territory grounded in those quaint qualities: heart and faith.

For more Willie Nile music, click here.

Audio CD (April 14, 2009)
Original Release Date: April 14, 2009
Number of Discs: 1
Label: R.E.D. Distribution
ASIN: B001TD1XW6

Willie is a great live performer, a true-blue New Yorker who celebrates the city, the young, the innocent, the dreamers. “Vagabond Moon” and the Stonesy “She’s So Cold” should have been hits when they popped out of his 1980 debut, but they weren’t. Later tunes like “Places I Have Never Been” (the title of his 1988 “comeback” album) and the soaring “Whole World With You” should have been, too. Willie spent most of the ‘80s in litigation with Arista, which released his first two albums. The limbo didn’t help. Neither did record-company disinterest.

Anyhow, Willie, who was once described as a “one-man Clash,” soldiers on, rocking hard and passionate as ever, and his writing has gotten even more rugged and true. Willie writes rock that deserves to be classic.

When Willie saw me backstage before his show, he didn’t miss a beat, called my name, we hugged, and it was as if no years had intervened. He’s still charmingly and rightfully convinced of his own talent, sure his writing is getting better. He gave me his latest CDs and a DVD and told me he’s doing really well in Europe, he just performed with Springsteen at Giants Stadium, and he’s about to drop a new CD even though “House of a Thousand Guitars” has been out for only half a year.

It’s a pleasure to hang out with Willie Nile. It’s a pleasure to catch his shows, too. He may be the best folk-rocker most people have never heard. Makes me wish newspapers still published reviews of club acts. They may not draw big crowds, but they can be mighty.

I’m also writing debut columns for a yet-to-be-announced, Cleveland-based news portal that will debut in November. My first two will be about the head of the Civic Innovation Lab and my friend Dave Pech, a photographer who happens to make Ping-Pong paddles.

I just returned from a trip to Phoenix for a lodging conference. I stayed at the Arizona Biltmore, one of the nicest hotels in the U.S. The conference was by no means upbeat—occupancy and rate are way down—but it was great to be warm for a few days after this chilly summer.

Oh, yes. Sunday night, Karen and I are going to be reading at Wise Up!, a benefit for the Cleveland Heights Public Library. I’m going to tell very short stories about jazz—fitting for Nighttown, where Wise Up! will be staged.

Clinton intimated tears when a woman asked her how she bore up under the campaign strain. Pelosi quivered when she compared today’s heated rhetoric over health care reform and other Obama moves to late November 1978 in San Francisco, when Mayor George Moscone and City Supervisor Harvey Milk, the city’s first openly gay executive, were assassinated.

Clinton and Pelosi have reputations for being hard and unemotional. Many credited Clinton’s unexpected vulnerability for her primary win against Barack Obama. I wonder whether Pelosi’s show of vulnerability over the meanness in today’s charged political atmosphere will pay a parallel dividend. What that might be is being played out daily.

Like many others at this get-together, Buddy figures in my book, “Cleveland Rock & Roll Memories.” He’s an affable host, a good drummer (his rhythms animated Rainbow Canyon, Charade and Quantrill’s Raiders) and a soulful singer who can still hit the high notes. On Sept. 14, the weather was gorgeous, the vibes good, and the food—the culinarily talented Carol is a generous hostess—was wonderful.

There were the chronic no-shows, like Raspberry throat Eric Carmen, favorite Cleveland son Michael Stanley and the singularly reclusive Joe Walsh (who doesn’t live anywhere nearby anyway). But there were plenty of notables, like Raspberries lead guitarist Wally Bryson, James Gang drummer Jimmy Fox, and the redoubtable guitarist Billy Sullivan.

It’s a bittersweet event, and not because of the music, which, for the most part, is timeless. But the “reunion” itself shows how far the Cleveland music scene has shrunk since its glory days in the ‘60s and ‘70s, when clubs, arenas, radio and records were a seamless, powerful blend. It’s only at Buddy’s that all of those elements come together. It’s telling it’s by invitation only.

Woody Herman (Mosaic Select)
Woody Herman (Artist)
Audio CD (June 23, 2009)
Original Release Date: January 29, 2008
Number of Discs: 3
Label: Mosaic Select
List price: $83.99

Click here to order from Amazon.com.

At Fairmount Presbyterian, the petite, 45-year-old German phenomenon played for about an hour and a half, traversing a desultory blues, a few Latin numbers, and a finale that shook the rafters, blending Dennerlein’s volcanic flourishes with Bach’s “Passacaglia and Fugue.” At the Bop Stop, she delivered two sets, serving up deep groove with an homage to Jimmy Smith, a fabulous samba in honor of her half-dachshund, half-terrier dog, and a gang of other originals.

The reason I comment on Dennerlein’s performances is that the guy who sponsored her local appearances challenged me to review her. This is my substitute. There’s no regular outlet anymore for reviews that focus on the unusual artist, the artist who doesn’t draw megacrowds. Part of that is the withering of print. Part is the subsequent conservatism, meaning newspapers aren’t trying to cover everything anymore; they just want to hold on to what they’ve got.

The church show drew about 300, the Bop Stop show close to its capacity of 110 seats. The Bop Stop show swung more and was more conventionally jazzy, showcasing the room’s singularly accommodating design and outstanding acoustics. The place is for sale and opens only for special occasions, like the Dennerlein show. How sad that the best music room in Cleveland can’t do regular business.

By the way, I’m beginning to review CDs and preview shows for Scene again. Seems timely given the number of fine, new CDs by Cleveland-based or –originated musicians like trumpeter Josh Rzepka and saxophonists Mike Lee and Bobby Selvaggio. I’m willing to bet that a promoter willing to mix it up—spotlighting jazz one night, blues another and, God forbid, rock from time to time—could make a go of the Bop Stop. As it, the place is magnificent and shuttered. What a waste.

What’s happened to Obama, who as a campaigner was the best politician I’d ever seen? Apparently, he can’t lead, only synthesize, only accommodate. God knows I’m no fan of Republicans, but as Jon Stewart said, they had the discipline to sell the public on a disastrous war. Maybe Obama’s working health care reform like a wimp to appease the center right the polls say rule the country. Maybe he’s doing it because of a grander scheme he’ll unveil after midterm elections next year—if the Democratic majority holds, which it may not because of health care reform waffling.

I voted for Obama because I thought he was a liberal ready and canny enough to spearhead major social change, including health care reform that would result in a system similar to those in much of Europe and Canada. I’m not so sure anymore. I hope he pushes back Blue Dogs and ignores Republicans (except for those Maine ladies). I hope he has the spine to match his intellect and the will to move the country forward.

People complain he has bitten off more than he can chew. I hope Obama has the courage to bite down even harder.

On July 23, for my birthday the day before, Karen bought me an evening’s cooking course at Sur La Table at Eton Center. We joined 14 other people to prepare those scampi; pan-roasted (farm-raised) catfish with caper-butter sauce & green beans almandine; breaded crabcakes with red pepper aioli & celery root slaw; and grilled salmon with baby bok choy, wasabi mashed potatoes and lime soy vinaigrette; and key lime pie (we didn’t make that, only ate it). Chef Ky-Wai Wong of Lucky’s Cafe in Tremont supervised. I hope you can tell from the pictures that the scene was jamming.

The class lasted two hours; the kitchen at the back of Sur La Table was fully used, believe me, and the degrees of experience ran the gamut. I’ve always had good taste, a healthy appetite and an open-minded attitude, but I’ve been squeamish about preparing food. I don’t like my hands greasy, I don’t like the mess, and I’m probably leery because I’m an only child whose mom cooked for both my father and I and viewed the kitchen as her domain. What I learned above all is that cooking feels good, especially when you do it with your family. Next time, Katy will be on the set (she went to the Indians game). That should make it even better.

Only this one puts vendors and beggars into competition—in China, they were somehow separate—so the main feeling a spoiled western tourist like me has is of being put upon, harassed. I don’t want to buy a Taj Mahal snowglobe or one of those thick red bullwhips vendors keep thrusting at me.

I’m heading across a short bridge and the tour bus is in sight when I see a man on all fours with a hand out toward me. He’s on all fours because that’s how he’s built. I can’t really see the man. All I see is the deformity.

I don’t speak his language, I don’t know what to do, even though I have some rupees on me. I feel ashamed, privileged beyond my right. I wonder how the man got this way and what could be done/what he could do to change a condition so extreme it seems no amount of money in the world could fix it. Helplessness and anger and shame roil me.

I ask our tour guide why that man was that way. There were others in the area like that, too; one wasn’t on all fours but had similar stick, scuttling legs. It was phantasmagorical.

The guide told me it was about education; those men didn’t know enough to go where help, available under India’s system of free medical care, was available.

No matter. I can’t get the image of the man on all fours out of my mind. Taking a picture of him would have been blasphemous.

I got into India very early a.m. July 13 after nearly two days of flying and layover. That first day was a blur, largely consisting of meeting various Leela executives including its remarkable chairman C.K. Nair, who is in his 80s, has seen it all and remains enthusiastic.

On July 14, we went to the heart of one of the many subcities of Delhi, to old, old markets where I and another journalist on this fascinating press trip occupied a narrow, hard seat in a bicycle rickshaw. Our driver took us through the narrowest, busiest streets I’ve ever seen. I can’t recall ever being this hot ‘n’ sweaty (hey, the heat’s dry in Phoenix and Dubai) or as saturated by atmosphere. The streets were so tight no way anything motorized other than auto rickshaws (covered Vespas seating four thin folk) could work them. The cost of the ride was covered by the PR agency that sent me to India, but at the end, the driver, who pushed a sickly beggar kid off me during it, wanted a big tip. We gave him 300 rupees (about $6.25) when Pamela, my seatmate, added 100 to my 200, exceeding the norm. The guy was demanding and shameless and I didn’t like his attitude. Then I thought to myself, where the hell do I come off begrudging someone who just nearly worked himself to death pampering me? I want to kill my inner Ugly American.

The next day our band of 10, half of them journalists, rode four and a half hours south to the state of Uttar Pradesh, home to Agra, home to the Taj Mahal. Our bus driver was a hero, dodging bullets mechanical and animal over iffy roadway. We arrived around 11:30 a.m. and the sun was relentless as we entered the site, which is much bigger than I thought it would be. Like Beijing’s Forbidden City, it’s massive; that’s why it’s called monumental. It’s also dazzlingly white, even radiant, its calligraphy and gemstone marble inlay gorgeous, its shimmer and magnetism undeniable. I now understand the term “mogul” and am beginning to glimpse how complex and challenging are the area’s politics.

Before I descend into fatuousness, I’ll cut this short. India makes you reconsider your viewpoint, your conceptions, your preconceptions. I’ll write more about the trip to Agra next time I blog. I have to get ready for a trip to Atlanta today (it’s July 20) so goodbye for now.

In addition to his embryonic CJO career, he’s lead trumpet for the Lincoln Center Jazz Orchestra (word is he’ll quit that position, where he’s in the shadow of Wynton Marsalis), a professor at Duquesne University in Pittsburgh, and the star of a small jazz combo with which he’s recorded five albums for the Detroit-based Mack Avenue label.

His arrival on the local jazz scene late this summer will be dynamic, breathing fire into a field that’s shriveled in the past five years. I’m sure he’ll be featured in various publications, on TV and on radio, because he’s a complex, fascinating guy.

I interviewed him for the CJO web site. Visit it, scroll down to the bottom of the home page, and listen to our talk.

Didn’t sell a single copy, but I saw a lot of friends and enjoyed partaking in an event designed to push local writing, an ever more endangered species. The event also gave me an opportunity to check out Loganberry Books, a fabulous place I’m sure to revisit. Not only is the place cavernous, it offers a lot of used books (including rare first editions), the giant fiction room I show here, even a bindery.

It’s great to see a local concern thriving amidst dire economic news like the shriveling of the Telarc record label and the downsizing of Borders. I don’t know how Loganberry is doing, but its mix of ambience, inventory and locale is inspiring. It reminds me of the ‘60s in Cambridge, Mass., when I used to scour bookstores around Harvard University. Harvard Bookstore remains the best I’ve ever seen, but I also recall Pangloss and even Schoenhof’s, bookstores long gone.

Being in Loganberry got the intellectual juices going in a way chain stores don’t. I’m not sure why, but I’m happy about it.

It seems that when you call an icon a has-been—you could argue that that was true of Elvis after his initial burst in the mid-‘50s, and of the solo careers of Beatles Lennon, McCartney, Harrison and, particularly, the lightweight, charming Ringo—you threaten people’s memories. I remember dancing to Michael Jackson; how couldn’t you? I remember being a kid intoxicated by Elvis, and as a young man dancing and romancing to the Beatles. I even recall being moved by U2, whose inspirations have seemed largely formulaic for the past 15 years. Just because a band is still commercial doesn’t make it creative.

Michael Jackson will rule the news for about a week—tomorrow’s papers are sure to feature lengthy, heady editorial about his meaning—and then return to the tabloids, his natural home these past 15-plus years. Now, when I think of him, I think of his genius, his moves, his singular spirit. Too bad that’s clouded by the soap opera he generated that defined, and then ended, his life.

Marty’s Amish; his faith forbids him from having his picture taken, so I settled—happily—for a shot of one of his kids, Firman, in the rocker, a beauty made of cherry wood and oak and brass nails. Marty said Firman could pose because he wasn’t old enough to be a member of the church.

Firman tries my rocker on for size. His daddy Marty made the rocker.

It would be a lot more work than “Cleveland Rock & Roll Memories,” but I’m leaning toward doing it. A university press has expressed preliminary interest.

My book would examine what keeps various family-owned Orrville businesses, like Schantz Organ and Smucker’s, going. It would also look into the prevailing Amish and Mennonite culture of the area and see how such non-Amish, non-Mennonite businesses as Schantz interact with the Amish and Mennonites.

I asked Marty whether he’d be willing to talk to me about this for my book; Vic was trying to coax him, too. Marty said he’d have to speak to his bishop about it and would get back to me. Marty doesn’t have a phone or electricity. His faith forbids it. If he lets me into his world, I’m going to pursue this. I look forward to his letter, or a phone call from a neighbor’s. I already love his work.

It’s also fun to wear stuff I really like, particularly these days, when I spend a lot of time at home and there’s no need to dress up to go out. Putting on rock ‘n’ roll clothes is a special gas.

So is being part of a section that’s one of the liveliest in the paper; I thank Kim Crow, who puts together the Wednesday fashion section, for her words, Scott Shaw for his photo.

Although I no longer write for it, I still read the PD. Even though people routinely trash it, I value the good stuff it does. I value newspapers; I write for the Boston Globe, which is shrinking fast, like the PD.

The link to my spread will eventually die off. I’m glad there’s a hard copy in circulation, at least for now. I wish I had the answer as to how newspapers will evolve—if they survive.

I won’t review the album because I wrote the liner notes. But I can’t help telling you it’s a beauty, showcasing a woman I consider the best jazz singer in Cleveland and a guitarist whose gentlemanly approach renders a highly evolved, modernist harmonic sensibility unusually accessible. The album is sweet, often rueful and always highly personal. I hope it gets widespread airplay and brings Bob and Ki the acclaim—and the work—they so richly deserve.

For now, the website remains, offering readers a look at the kinds of articles the magazine specialized in: stories about various media, my City Therapy column, editor Sarah Sphar’s welcome to summer, a voluminous, mouth-watering gourmet guide by associate editor Ivan Sheehan. It’s good reading.

I hope a publisher, former or new, resurrects Live and is willing to be patient and gamble on monetizing a medium that seems quaint but still is necessary: the leisurely, thoughtful read. The best example of that is The New Yorker, a weekly marvel that never ceases to astonish.

But every locale of any size needs such a publication. To me, Live always represented an opportunity to trumpet and safeguard and interpret what is best about Cleveland’s culture. I hope I don’t miss it too long.

Read this book. It's really cool.

I had a difference of style with a major newspaper the other day when the editors there sanitized my review of a book based on the work of Philip K. Dick, the science fiction writer. I punned on his name, and it wouldn’t fly. Funny how the gap remains between what people can joke about and what they can print.

Of course, as one wag wrote me, “You don’t know Richard” just doesn’t scan that well. But it sure reads clean.

It doesn’t take effect until May, but a group of African-American ministers is already mobilizing against the registry in the name of heterosexual, more conventional marriage. The Cleveland Coalition of Churches, the minister’s coalition, is saying the registry flouts state law; four years ago, the state of Ohio resoundingly and revoltingly passed a resolution banning gay marriage.

Weird that a prominent group of African-Americans would battle civil rights, particularly after the election of Barack Obama as the first African-American president.

I don’t pretend to know what it feels like to be African-American or gay—I’m heterosexual, though eons ago I skirted homosexuality once—but I’ve always felt civil rights are just that: freedoms available to all rather than privileges available only to a select few.

It feels odd to represent gays when I’m not. It also feels good. Those who call homosexuality unnatural and anti-family only betray their prejudices and fears. There is room for all kinds—of gender, shape, appetite, aspiration, faith—on the planet, particularly in the U.S., which is finally growing up.

The legalization of gay marriage in Vermont, Iowa, Massachusetts and Connecticut, and New York Gov. David Paterson’s putting his clout behind such a move in his state, put momentum on the side of civil rights. You’d think such rights were built in to U.S. culture and society, but no. Each breakthrough—they come particularly hard in Ohio, where yahoos often set the agenda—comes hard. Canvassing neighborhoods and organizing them to fight against forces that would repeal the domestic partner registry are key steps.

Penny Stetz

I’d write more for my blog if I could embed links in it, along with photography. I’d do more on Facebook if I knew how to work it better. If it seems I haven’t been busy for more than three weeks—the last time I blogged—that’s deceptive.
Here are things I haven’t written about:

• My trip to Burlington, Vermont in early March to see my old friend Eric Lazarus, pictured here sitting on his couch
• my trip to Hawaii for a La Quinta conference in February, and
• my trip last week to the Schantz Organ Company in Orrville, Ohio, a family business I’m considering for the nucleus of a possible book.

Writing a book is a commitment of time and thought and sweat, so I want to make sure that a book I write has an audience, fills a need—and tells a good story I want to tell. I think the Schantz-centered book has those elements: It would be about a fourth-generation, continuously family-owned business that has been one of the pillars of its community for more than 125 years (Orrville’s also home to Smucker’s). So it would be about family values, faith, and tradition.

Orrville is in Wayne County, which, like Holmes County to the south, is known for its Amish and Mennonite populations. These rural counties feature fast tracts of farmland, landscapes where you can see an Amish father and his son tilling the field with mechanical implements (the Amish don’t use electricity). Word is some of these people are very rich, which can happen if you work sunup to sundown, your crops fetch a tidy yield, your kids are home-schooled, and you buy only what you need. Vic Schantz, president of Schantz Organ, tells me it’s about keeping life simple. The society in Orrville (and to a greater extent, among the Amish and their more conventionally attired relatives, the Mennonites) is to a great degree closed. Not only does that preserve traditions and provide cultural continuity, it to some extent immunizes the area from the economic downturn affecting more urban populations.

I’m thinking this would be great material for a university press, but I’d like to think wider. I believe there’s a big picture here, and I want feedback. Would you read a book about family business and family values? Should it include “lessons” on how to run a business? I think not. I think stories about business successes, from a largely rural, faith-based point of view, will resonate on their own. I need input.

Cleveland Heights wrote me today saying I’d lost my driver’s license and car insurance because I’d failed to pay a $150 fine for driving 18 miles over the 25 mph speed limit in that despotically liberal city in mid-December; naturally, the cop didn’t let me go, despite my entreaties and the Christmas season. Then I lost the ticket, so today’s communication was my first since the transgression, of which I was indeed guilty. Still, the punishment and fine seemed unduly harsh.

According to the city, I owed $175 and as of receipt of the letter, would be driving illegally. So I got in my car and drove over to Cleveland Heights City Hall, where I grudgingly paid by debit card (the extra $25 was processing costs, I was told; like for what, mailing a form letter?), then got a receipt and directions to the regional Bureau of Motor Vehicles office in Parma, some 20 miles south. That’s where I had to fork over another $15 to get my license and insurance reactivated.

Thank God I’m retired so I could make the drive (illegal though it was). Thank God I had cash, the only way to pay the BMV, which tells you information about its regulations is available online though you can’t pay online. Thank God I had the money to pay these fines and fees, clearly ways to milk Ohio residents of money to prop up a failing state.

I’m venting, I admit. I shouldn’t speed (or do U turns or fail to signal, offenses a Westlake cop forgave just recently; why can’t Cleveland Heights cops show compassion?) or misplace tickets. Cleveland Heights should be more flexible and less punitive, and the state of Ohio should at the least update its technology and allow reinstatement fees to be paid at any of its offices. Satisfying legal requirements shouldn’t be so inconvenient, expensive and insulting.

Satellite radio brings me all the music I want, especially now that record companies don’t care (or have) enough to send me the very best, only compressed-data downloads access to which I have to arrange and negotiate for. Besides, writing for print media that still run “record reviews” never has been rewarding; one magazine I used to contribute to regularly actually reduced its rates in 2008, reducing motivation even more. I write book reviews these days for various “national” newspapers, which keeps my brain active. God knows how long that will last, but for now, at least, it’s more nourishing in pay and thought process. There isn’t much I can say about new music because a) I lack the energy to slog through new bands in bars like I did 20 and 30 years ago; b) new music is for newer people like my kids; and c) instantaneous media processing obviates the need for people my age to say—guess what—that good music from the dawn of rock through the ‘90s is still good. Redundancy is not the better part of valor.

I reviewed two albums this year: Bar Band Americanus by Charlie Pickett and Wee’s You Can Fly on My Aeroplane. The first is an anthology, the second a retro, deeply obscure reissue. Their tropes are well worn, the execution fine. I bought and listened to the new Guns N’ Roses—once was enough—out of some kind of loyalty to what used to be a promising, occasionally great band. But what could I write about it that would be more interesting than the facts surrounding its gestation? Where would I publish that anyway? Why, again, would I or, for that matter, anybody else care?

Since file sharing took hold, people swap music easily and no amount of record-company control will work. Couple that with the sampling available through on-line music purchase and you wonder what the remaining function of the critic is, other than reviewing shows. I have read good critics since I can remember and will continue to do so, in fields that interest me. I will also listen to new music as it passes by and occasionally go to a show. Ones I went to this year—Neil Diamond, Roger McGuinn/John Sebastian, Neil Diamond, Nine Inch Nails, Nick Lowe—were nostalgia trips, including NIN. I had no interest in festivals, rap revues, the Disney gang (though I think the Jonas Brothers are OK pop). Taylor Swift is my younger daughter’s latest fixation and she’s good. But interpreting her isn’t for me or up to me.

Politics has supplanted my interest in pop. Since mid-2007, I’ve followed the campaigns and was deeply pleased by the election. I continue to soak up political news and am engaged in “change” meetings the Obama campaign spawned. I think a true third force may emerge in politics via the Internet. Grounded in the notion of community, it will be independent of figurehead and/or candidate and serve as counterweight to traditional political mechanisms like Congress, the Cabinet and the Executive branch. I want to be part of that process. Music seems secondary.

I’m trying to mediate between a friend who does a lot of work around our house and the rest of my family. He copped an attitude toward my oldest daughter and her boyfriend, spreading nasty rumors about them and the boyfriend’s parents. God know divorce is ugly, but there’s no cause to make it uglier, let alone shame the kids even more, but that’s what’s happening.

It came to a head in an argument between him and my wife when he, according to her, unloaded with the rumors after she asked him why he’d been so cold. She called me in tears asking me to come home after the blowout. Meanwhile, he’s done painting our family room and building a demi-closet off the kitchen, a good idea he came up with before this latest strain. Once that’s done, that might be the end of our relationship.

What’s sad about this is how it proves it’s all in the perception. There’s a closeness to the kids’ relationship that’s easy to inflate and distort; it’s crowded me at times. But it also seems genuine, if young; undying love of the kind they profess tends to mature and become more realistic. As for my state, it’s become more depressed. I fear we’ll lose the affection of a guy who really cared for my daughters when they were kids but, like some other adults in our circle, doesn’t seem to know how to grow up with them as they grow up.

Being an adult is hard. Being a parent is harder. God knows what being a kid feels like.

On Jan. 16, when I first heard of US Airways flight 1549 landing in the Hudson River off Manhattan, I called my wife into the bedroom to watch the news. It was good. She agreed, and she’s had fear of flying for years. Maybe from now on she’ll travel lighter in her head. I want to travel with her. No problem for me with travel.

 No need to recap the “miracle” of the plane that landed in the Hudson, in a perfectly executed maneuver with no lives lost. But there’s need to underline its significance, especially for Karen, who’s been scared to fly since 9/11. I suspect she’ll be better about flying after the story of flight 1549. Everything worked just right. What happened attested to competence, care,. concern, training and expertise.

 Which brings me to Tuesday, when Barack Obama becomes president. I watched Dubya’s “farewell address” and begrudgingly acknowledge his discipline and spine. But I’m so glad to see him go; I plan a double toast on Tuesday (at least), heralding Bush’s departure and Obama’s arrival.

 The Obamas and Bidens are on the train right now, reprising the journey Abraham Lincoln took to the presidency. God speed. God willing, they augur a fabulous administration. The cabinet choices are good (Geithner seems shaky, however) and what Obama has been saying about what he wants to do rings true. And he has enormous goodwill going into the job, which I’m sure he will do well, remaining human and accessible and true to himself and a family man and eloquent all the time.

The landing of  flight 1549 is perfect prologue to what I hope will be a time of uplift, progress, evolution. We’ve been backsliding for years, certainly during the Bush administration (and even, to some extent, under Clinton). Now it’s time not only to catch up but exceed, bringing health to all, an end to discrimination, meaningful work for those who need it, a meaningful, purposeful, environmentally responsible and politically impeccable life to all. Not to mention the closing of Guantanamo, the conquering of AIDS, the end of genocide, the transformation of our penal system…I could go on. I’ll be watching. And, hopefully, visiting the strange with my wife without fear.

To catch up since I last wrote. I just published my first piece about watches, a feature about RGM Watch Company in Lancaster, PA. I wrote the piece. The pictures are by Rich Roberts, my friend who took me to six countries (including Malta) in 2006 and to China in 2007. Rich is freelancing now, too. Here are links to International Watch (check out Archives for my story) and to RGM:

http://www.iwmagazine.com/
http://www.rgmwatches.com/

I’m planning to report on two other watch-related stories in Florida in the first week of January: a watch company named Krieger and the collection of R. Donahue Peebles, the noted African-American developer I’ve been reporting on for more than 10 years. Keeping busy has not been a problem.

As for 2008, it’s been turbulent. My family lost a lot of its wealth, as did everybody’s. The real estate market tanked, American cars went in the toilet (I’ll be reviewing them for Northern Ohio Live starting very shortly) and as for politics, it was bizarre. The greatest news—it’s still fresh, still moving—was Obama’s election. We’re having some friends over for the inaugural, which will be a time to party indeed.

We just visited Karen’s brother Mark and his long-time love, Sally, in Ann Arbor, an oasis in devastated Michigan. Quick trip; we took both girls, along with Katy’s boyfriend, Nick. Fast but fun, and longer than the Christmas week visit of Karen’s other brother, Eric, and his family. Family’s ever more important. So is keeping in touch.

Tonight, Karen and I are going to a friend’s house for what has become a New Year’s Eve tradition. I hope the conversation is lively. Hopes for 2009, after a year in which economics fused with politics to provide a feast for news junkies, sure are.