The word “whiskey” derives from the Gaelic “uisce (or uisge for the Scottish version) beatha” (pron. ish or wish-ga-ba-ha) and means “water of life.”  Scotch whisky–the “e” is an Irish/English addition to the word–takes  5 basic ingredients and five distinct steps to make but each distillery creates widely varying flavors from the same basic building blocks.  How does this happen?

Water, barley, peat, yeast, and wood casks:  that’s all you need to make Scotch.  Well…that and some distillation equipment.  The process is fairly simple.

First you malt your barley.  Malting consists of taking the barley seeds and adding water and heat until they begin to sprout.  In effect, when you malt barley you germinate the seed under controlled conditions.  The resulting malt contains a higher concentration of sugar than the dry grain, a critical factor in making spirit.

In order to proceed, the malting process must be halted.  Other beverages use different methods (air drying for beer, for example) but Scotch whisky dries the malt by roasting over a peat fire.  Here’s where things get interesting.

Each region of Scotland produces differently flavored peat.  The smoke from the peat fires infuses something of that flavor into the malt.  A significant portion of Scotch’s flavor derives from the peat used to roast the malt.  Highland peats tend to pass on a lighter, more fruity and heathery taste.  Islay peats impart a more smokey, salty, and earthy flavor to the whisky.  Slight variables in this process produce wide ranging flavor differences.

Once roasted, the malt is ground, and steeped in hot water.  The mash, as this mixture is called, allows the barley malt to convert to a sugary mixture called the wort.  Cool the wort in another vat, add yeast, and allow to ferment.  Now we are well on our way.

Once the wort attains 5-7% alcohol, you are ready to distill the mixture.  To become Scotch requires–with a few exceptions–two distillations.  Distilling removes impurities and solids and concentrates the flavors.  The resultant liquid contains somewhere between 60-75% alcohol.

Whisky makers use oak casks to age the spirit and the tannins of the wood impart flavors just as the peat did.  The type of casks used varies immensely.  Some distilleries use oak casks that previously held sherry, bourbon, or another beverage.  These holdover flavors in the cask also impart subtle finishes to the whisky.  Some become fruitier, some take on a hint of wine, some become sweeter, some become woodier.  Some whiskies begin their aging in one type of cask and finish in another.  Small variations in the casking process lead to a broad spectrum of flavors.

Once casked, each whisky ages for a period of time.  During the aging process, a small percentage of alcohol evaporates and is known as the “angel’s share.”  The flavors of peat smoke, wood, and barley settle together and blend, creating each brand’s distinct flavor.  Some whiskies age for 5-10 years, others for much longer.  Twelve years is the norm.  Once aged, the whisky is bottled.

Bottling technique varies widely as well and effects the flavor of the final product.  Some whiskies combine many casks of a single run in a vat, add water to reduce alcohol to roughly 40%.  Some bottle without diluting, the resultant whisky dubbed “cask strength.”  Sometimes different whiskies are combined and then bottled to become “blended whiskies.”  Some bottle directly from a single cask.  Each method results in a flavor difference.

Those of us who enjoy Scotch in all its myriad flavors spend a great deal of time trying different brands and bottles.  We enjoy the smell, the taste, the finish.  We taste–or pretend to!–the subtle differences imparted at each stage from the peat to the bottling.  One of my favorites is Longrow, a Campbeltown whisky in the Islay region.  For more clickable info, check out my Links Page.

Those who don’t enjoy Scotch taste one thing and that unpleasant at best.

Similarly, roots music either strikes a person as either infinitely varied  and subtly complex or as an endless stream of the same thing over and over.  Sure, I over-generalize but…hey, it’s my blog.

String music fascinates me for many of the same reasons I enjoy Scotch.  A single fiddle tune may sound different if it comes from Kentucky versus Georgia; Canada versus the U.S.; Europe versus North America and so on and so forth.  A twelve-bar blues sounds different in the Piedmont area of North Carolina than it does in the Mississippi delta.  Even the simplest of folk songs represents only an instant of the ever-evolving life of that song.

Take one I’ve been playing lately at the Rogers Farmer’s Market:  “She’ll Be Coming Round The Mountain.”  We all know this song from our childhoods.  We’ve all sung this one and couple probably remember three verses of it without trying too hard.  Indeed, I enjoy making making up verses to it on the spot as I play.

But the history of this song adds flavor and depth like peat smoke in Scotch.

Briefly told, “She’ll Be Coming Round The Mountain” derives from an African American spiritual called “When The Chariot Comes.”  That song refers to the second coming of Jesus and predates Emancipation.

So knowing a little about spirituals of this sort one imagines that for the enslaved singers of the time this spiritual likely connoted a coded hope for an end to slavery.  Aha!  A deeply fascinating backstory for this song emerges and flavors the current version differently.  How did this spiritual become the children’s song?

Since the melody is so simple and the verses may be easily made up, the song caught on wherever it was song.  And since it was simple and contained call-and-response elements, groups of workers took and it adapted it for their needs.  Work songs of the type sang by mariners, railroad workers, and other manual laborers make the time go by faster and help keep people focused.

Lyrics changed, the spiritual adapted to its secular role and spread far and wide.  I realize I’m condensing a great deal but I note this to show how much history, how much flavor, this music has once you scratch the surface.  The song ages well and carries with it hints and intimations of its creation.

Where it will be in another hundred years is anyone’s guess but to the right nose and palate, even the most common of songs or melodies still bears the bouquet of its creation.  And no–to paraphrase Joel Mabus–they don’t all sound alike to me.

But I’ve been busy!

The gigs go well albeit slowly.  Since most have been coffee houses–during the summer–I consider them to be successful auditions for a better slot in the fall and winter months.  I’m comfortable, even pleased with the quality of my playing which, as those of you who know me well, is saying something.  I wish for larger audiences but that will come when the weather turns cold.  Better slots and more work on my part will translate to better and better shows.  I’m looking forward to them.

The other news is that I can now add the title of Director to my name.  I joined a group some months ago which aims to turn an old but very functionally sound high school into a community arts center.  We met, we brainstormed, we even identified a person with directing and grant writing experience and asked them to lead us.  Unfortunately, family and life circumstances dictated other directions.  As a result I have been asked to serve as Director of the “Old School Arts Center” while we get ourselves up off the ground.

There’s no pay until I write the grant for that but the opportunity staggers me.  Some attainable dreams, to wit:  A 300+ seat theater waits only a few renovations and some sound baffling and reinforcement before it can hold shows.  The band room behind it needs even less work before it can host more intimate events.  An atrium that begs for art displays and an internet cafe, a library replete with shelves as potential display/sales room, classrooms large and small for music lessons, art studio space, hands-on learning.  Want to go outside?  Acres of ball fields are a step away.

Sandstone, MN, is a small town.  We don’t have a community center.  Our largest employer, the Federal Prison, lies out of town.  Our industrial park requires millions of dollars of improvements just to open it up for development.  Hinckley and Pine City develop before we do with good reason.  The opportunity to think globally and act locally strikes me between the eyes.  I’m excited beyond belief to have this opportunity.

Volunteers will be welcome, folks.  Care to sign up?  Drop me a line.  We need to be moving fast and I have a feeling next Wed, 8/11, we’ll hear the crack of the starter’s gun.

Another busy week since I posted.  Whew.

Last Wednesday I played the first Rogers Farmers Market of the year.  The day heated up to a solid 85 degrees and the setting was the Rogers Community Center parking lot.  Oh, and I decided to wear my full regalia:  long pants and shirt, a vest, and my fedora.  Not a wise choice on my part.

But I enjoyed my day.  Even though the attendance was small and the seating limited, I freed myself from the set list and discovered how much I could get away with.  Regardless of what I make in tips, this gig allows me to grow my repertoire and experiment with little to no pressure.  Thirteen more shows there over the summer and fall ensures that the set list will grow.

Friday morning, despite not feeling up to it, I dragged my carcass to Dan’s recording studio (aka his house) and put down two more tracks.  I record live–play the song exactly as I perform it–into a news-conference-sized array of microphones.  That way we have lots of choices for what sounds best.  After I finished recording, Dan burned me a straight-from-the-board copy of everything I’ve done so far.  I needed to listen to the performances and make sure nothing sounded tentative.  A mistake or goof I can accept provided the overall energy of the performance holds up.  But caution and tentativeness shall not be tolerated.

The verdict?  I believe I am done recording!  Stunned might not be too strong a word to use.  I am of course my own worst critic but I had to admit that, track after track, things held up.  I need to listen a few more times and maybe get some other ears on it (any volunteers?) but so far I don’t see a reason to ditch anything or re-record any tracks.

I’m seriously looking for an artist to do the CD art and a place to have it mastered.  I open myself up to your suggestions, folks.  Let me know.

And finally, Friday night I performed at Your Corner Coffee in Minneapolis.  I played third out of four acts and though the audience thinned a bit by then, the show far exceeded my expectations.  Mercenary that I am (hey, I want to make enough of a living doing this that I never have to go work in an office again), I believe I may offer that set as a live CD, available for purchase.  The good folks at Your Corner Coffee recorded the set and gave me a master disc.  I need to figure out the best way to market, both online and with a hard copy, but until I decide, feel free to contact me directly.  If you are interested, I will burn a small stack and one can be yours for $10.00 plus shipping (usually about $1.25 from here).

Want to know what you’re buying?  Here’s a sample!  (Don’t know what a Box Elder Bug is?  Here’s some info!)

Sorry to have left such a gap between posts.  I feel a bit guilty but I also struggle with writing when I don’t feel strongly motivated.  I’ll deal with it, I suppose, and do better as I continue with and expand this site.

So maybe I should tell you how things have gone so far and what’s on the horizon.

The past ten days or so have definitely taken me up one hill down the other.  Some day I may tell you all about it.  Some day I may have the skills to put it into music.  Not quite yet.  But I can tell you that I played a couple shows last week that truly make me grateful to be a musician.

The first, last Wednesday (June 9), I played the Pine City Senior Dining Center.  Sponsored and funded by Catholic Charities, the center serves meals daily and periodically schedules music.  I set up and got going around 11:00 a.m., just before lunch.

The place wasn’t terribly crowded but the folks that showed up were warm, friendly, and truly enjoyed themselves.  I didn’t know what to expect but I am learning to stop expecting and just put it out there.  If I perform what I love, people will love it.

And they did, obviously.  Folks actually moved tables so as to see and hear better.  I told good long stories about my songs, asked questions, engaged people, and played up a good sweat.  I even got folks into a good sing-a-long on “Mary Don’t You Weep Don’t You Mourn.”  I was, as we say in Minnesota, “different,” but that turned out to be a good thing.  Lois invited me to stay for dinner and talk and Missy and I did.  That struck home an important fact.

These senior center dining halls do not enjoy strong funding.  Imagine high school steam tray lunches.  Now imagine that’s as good as you’re going to eat for the week.  Might have to think about expanding my giving.

Thursday, June 10, I played my first ever public solo show at 42nd Avenue Station in Minneapolis.  Geno offered me the show on Wednesday and I snatched it up too quickly to second guess myself.  The opening act didn’t show so I started at 7:30 and went until about 9:15 and…

Killed.

I loved it.  The small but obviously appreciative crowd stayed the whole night and loved it.  I stretched out, told stories, talked with people, got my friend Joe Fishbein of the Temporary Stringband showed up with his lovely family and joined me for a couple tunes.  I finished and couldn’t believe how fast it all went.

I can’t wait to do it all again and I won’t have too for long.  This Wednesday I’m at the Rogers Farmers Market in Rogers, Minnesota.  I play from 3:30 p.m. until 5:30.  Stop by and mention the blog and I’ll put you down for some free mp3s when my CD is done.  Friday I play Your Corner Coffee with Erik Ritland, Matthew Griswold, and  Lifeless Satellites.  Should be a huge, fun night of cross-pollinated audiences.  Come and be pollen, folks!

Grey is one of my favorite colors.  I like its indeterminacy.  Grey implies shadow and mystery.  Grey can be inflected.  Grey absorbs the qualities of other colors and in turn diffuses and makes misty what it touches.  Grey changes.  To me, it’s the the color of the borders, of dusk and dawn; the color of possibility.

Musically speaking, I enjoy grey as well.  I love songs whose origins blur and fade to speculation.  I love songs whose history exists behind a veil of obscurity but nevertheless birthed forth a stream of wildly divergent but recognizably related strains.  “Alabama Bound” is such a “grey” song.

Probably African American in origin, I found these versions and offshoots on my hard drive:

Papa Charlie Jackson–I’m Alabama Bound 1925

Tennessee Ramblers–Preacher Got Drunk And Laid His Bible Down 1928

Jelly Roll Morton–Don’t You Leave Me Here , 1939

Doc Watson–Alabamy Bound, 60′s

Roscoe Holcomb–Boat’s Up The River, 1963

Tracing themes, lyrics, and melodies leads one to conclude that in this song we have something like Lake Itasca:  a small start but a broad, rambling, ever-widening stream of meaning.  I won’t detail the scholarship here.  You can read a fascinating thread here at Mudcat and get the potted version from Wikipedia here.  Paul Oliver has also written about it in his book Songsters And Saints which I heartily endorse.

From Blogger Pictures

What I find fascinating about the song is its pliability.  It resonates for both black and white musicians.  It works in proto-blues, blues, old time, jazz, and bluegrass styles.

It shines a tiny bit of light on a grey area of American music:  white and black musicians either actively worked together or sought out each other’s music.  Of course we know that black music informed white music and vice versa.  But we rarely see precise places where this happened.

Some time ago I heard Joe Thompson, the Carolina Chocolate Drops’ mentor, on MPR saying that he played white square dances and black square dances.  Bill Monroe played music with Arnold Schultz, an itinerant black laborer said to have been as good as Robert Johnson but unknown because he was never recorded.  Bill learned, though, and that’s one reason why bluegrass sounds the way it does.

These forgotten moments, these unseen, unacknowledged nexuses define American music.  All the magic happens in the grey areas.

Got any favorite versions of this song?  Know of any I forgot or am ignorant of?  I’d love to compile a list.  Drop me a comment or suggest some more grey areas for me to check out.  I can’t wait to hear what you dig up for me!

At 9:20 a.m. on 5/25/10, Bill Hinkley died leaving an enormous hole in Minnesota’s music community.  There is a Facebook page called Friends of Bill Hinkley and Judy Larson.  I encourage you to visit there for stories, pictures, reminiscences, and condolences.

I was going to follow up with another post about some of the odd, interesting music connections I find in old pre-war blues music but sadly, something else came up.

Thursday, May 20th, I saw an email posting from a guitarist down in the Twin Cities announcing that Bill Hinkley was in the end stage of life at the Minneapolis VA hospital.  This floored me.  I had no idea Bill was even sick.  The sickening feeling of my disconnectedness washed over me, that feeling of being so far outside–physically and spiritually–the community circle that I only hear garbled snippets of the conversation.

When I first took up the mandolin more than ten years ago I took lessons down at the Homestead Pickin’ Parlor in Richfield.  My first instructor?  Bill Hinkley.  I didn’t take more than one or two lessons with Bill as I was playing Irish music then and Karen Mueller focused on that more but I do remember his exuberance, his wide-eyed enthusiasm.  He actually sang notes at you.  Here, play this:  “laaaaahhh!”  I’d heard of Bill before that, seen his name on gig flyers, heard him mentioned on radio, but had never met the man or seen him in person.

My first lesson with him, he taught me some dirty lyrics to an old Irish tune called “Cunnla.”  Here’s a raucous pub session version of it

Here’s one of the least bawdy verses he sang to me:  Who is that there, taking the thighs of me? (3X)  You can interpolate the rest from there.

Thankfully, this email came with an invitation to join in a big jam happening at 3:00 that afternoon in Bill’s honor.  I cleared my schedule, drove down, and arrived 30 minutes earlier than I thought traffic would allow.  I figured I’d have to wait for people to show, but I was right on time.  I walked in behind Tom Schaefer, Peter Ostroushko, and Bill.

Wow.  Dakota Dave Hull showed up a few minutes later and in short order the room we were in became a who’s who of Minnesota music talent:  Spider John Koerner, Willie Murphy, Poppa John Kolstad, Al Jesperson, Debbie Sorenson-Boeh, Craig “Frailin’” Evans, and on and on and on.  We were there to play, to pay honor to the man–and woman:  Judy Larson his spouse–who I consider to be the bedrock of Minnesota’s music scene.

But before we got started, I was able to tell Bill what he meant to me personally.  I told him about a time at the MBOTMA Winter Bluegrass Weekend perhaps three years ago.  I was playing a mandolin that Hans Brentrup had recently made.  It might have been this one .  I was playing a tune called The Wind That Shakes The Barley.  I didn’t know he was standing by, listening, until I finished up and handed the mandolin back to Hans.  I looked at Bill and he said “that’s the way that tune is supposed to be played.”    I glowed.  The single most wonderful musical compliment I’ve ever been paid came from a man whose playing, talent, and person I admire and revere though I only know him casually from a handful of meetings.  Bill was unable to respond but I know he heard.

At the jam, his influence was manifest in the musicians who kept arriving, playing, and milling about like ripples on a pond, Bill at the center.  Here’s one photo of the event You can view others here, at a Facebook page.  The jam went on for hours.  We were moved outside after 4:30 and though the music styles shifted–another testament to Bill and Judy’s legacy–the intensity and joy did not.  I took a few shots.  Here’s one I like of Bill and Judy listening 

And I leave you with a short, camera phone video of Bill listening to Tom Schaefer, Willie Murphy and others serenading him with “All of Me.”  So touching.  Despite the bad sound, the unsteady grip, my shaky emotions, and all the folks wandering by telling stories, you might be able to see Bill singing as best he can, a man thoroughly made of music.

Spent the afternoon elbow deep in the garden pulling out weeds.  No matter how many times I see it I stand in awe of the persistence, vigor, and tenacity of our native plant species.  The ones that truly impress me are the various plants that propagate by runners.  You dig that shove in, yank up a fistful of roots but there’s always a strand or two leading to another patch…and another…and another.  You stand back and realize that a significant portion of your garden consists of an underground highway of connected weed roots.

Drives me up the wall but you gotta admire them.  It also reminds me of what I find fascinating about the music I love.

Quite a number of years ago,  more than ten, I heard Dakota Dave Hull on KFAI Radio He played a song about the race of the two steamboats The Natchez and The Lee which happened in the late 1800′s.  When I heard it, I was still playing Irish music.  I enjoyed the song, the chorus stuck with me:  “you roust ‘em on the levee, you roust ‘em on the Lee…”  But I didn’t find it applicable to my playing so I let it fade.

Many years later I found myself steeped in old American music:  bluegrass and its predecessors old time, rag, the blues.  I remembered the story and the song but couldn’t find a copy of the right version (there are many).  I emailed Dave but he couldn’t recall, I dug around the internet, books, wherever I could.  Eventually I stumbled on an old National Geographic  record for sale on ebay. I bought it, fought like hell to remember how to hook up my turntable, and played the song.  Damned if memory didn’t trip me.  I thought “huh.  That’s a disappointment.”  But there was this other song…

Listed only as “Field Holler,” this haunting, unaccompanied song grabbed me by the musical short and curlies.  Click here to listen

Boat’s up the river
And its stuck in sand
If she don’t get deep water
Well you know she’ll never land

Oh, the boat come a-rockin’
Like a drunken man
My home is on the water
And I can’t stand land

Comes the big Kate Adams
With its headlights down the stream
And the side-wheels a’knockin’
Great God, I’ve been redeemed!

I intend to work this up on mandolin soon.  The melody really grabs me and even if some of the lyrics are the kind of floating folk lyrics you find in lots of other songs, I find them evocative.  And I recall having encountered the name Kate Adams before.

I assumed she was another steamboat on the Mississippi and contented myself with that rather tame “discovery” for some time until I read a wonderful book called Songsters And Saints by Paul Oliver.  And right there on page 117 this line jumps out of the book and whaps me right up side the head:  “the Katy Adams was of a similar kind; known as ‘a woman’s boat on the water’ it was a mail boat…which leased out cabins to prostitutes for fifty cents between Memphis and Rosedale, Mississippi.”

The song sharpened into new focus.  Depths of history and experience opened up underneath it.  A vivid picture of real life on the Mississippi overlaid the quaint, two dimensional image I had held. I can’t wait to get this song brushed up now.  It has stories to tell.

And I stood back, amazed.   Doggedly following these seemingly innocuous threads and connections led me up and down the Mississippi of 100 or so years ago.  And I step back now and see how close to the surface history still is.  The power of music and lyrics to call the past, Lazarus-like, from its bed amazes and humbles me.

Next time, I’m Alabama Bound…

So I’ve played three solo shows now and passed the first milestones.  I’m excited and gratified but, to the dismay of those closest to me, not as celebratory as perhaps I should be.  While it’s true that I have done more to advance my music career the past three months than I’ve done the last three years, the height of my own expectations still casts a long shadow.

And that’s not a bad thing.  Unrealistic expectations…that’d be bad.  High expectations keep me motivated.

What have I accomplished then and what are my expectations?  Maybe if I spell them out I may find it easier to both enjoy what I’ve done and to find actions that help me proceed.

The milestones achieved so far include:

• Got this crazy website up and running along
• Social media sites
• Enough media and digital information to comprise a decent online promo pack
• Developed enough material for a few solid sets of playing
• Found great ways to use all three of my mandolins giving me three distinct voices to play with
• Garnered a small but growing number of mandolin students
• Developed a growing body of instructional material
• Played three solo shows, each over an hour’s length.  Each show was very well received and a joy to play
• Have booked my first solo coffee house show, have been asked back to each Senior Center, and have interest from other venue
• Two recording sessions down with maybe 2-3 more good ones to go.  I’ve got a solid demo already, now I’m shooting for a release I can sell.

Ok, that’s a decent list of accomplishments.  I do feel good about it.  There’s no doubt I’ve gotten good work done.  But here are my expectations.  Here’s what pushes me to do more, to work harder, and to keep from falling back into old patterns of complacency.

• Most of my material needs more rearranging to make it sound fuller and more interesting as solo pieces
• I need to write a lot more songs and tunes.  This gives me the best chance of making me stand out from the crowd.
• I want to be playing more shows each week or month.  My schedule has a lot of white space yet.
• I need to put in more hours each week working the phones, talking to venues, looking for shows
• In order to develop more possible revenue streams, I need to get creative and go after music work that doesn’t involve a gig or a student.  There’s grant money out there, educational opportunities, songs to sell.
• I want to get to the point where music pays my way.  I have no expectation of getting rich.  I only want to be able to realize enough to say that I am making a living.  This is a big one for me.
• I need to sustain it long term

Having expectations keeps me focused.  I will spend some time celebrating what I’ve done but I can’t get to self-satisfied.  There’s far too much to do and I can sleep when I’m dead.

Next time I’m writing about the music I’m playing and listening to.  I’ll be back in a day or so this time, not two weeks.

I head back to the studio in a few hours to try my hand at recording again. I had one fruitful session last week that led me to believe I don’t have to settle for considering this project “just a demo.” If I set my sights a little higher, there’s no reason this couldn’t wind up being a commercial release.

I hope to make a recording that sounds like my performance: not perfect, just let it fly. All my repertoire gets played, from the songs I’ve written to the oddball stuff I’ve learned over the years. All three mandolins play a part too. I’ve already put down some fiddle tunes and a song with the cross-tuned Gibson. Today I’ll probably work the commodium hard on some old blues, maybe use the Brentrup on an original or three.

I’ll keep you posted on the progress. So far so good. I’m eager to produce something. I’m ready to run with this.