Going Beyond the Music

Last night’s rehearsal for our June 11 concert at the Buttermilk Jamboree with Ed Englerth, Alan Dunst, and Don Cheeseman was much more than a shared creative time with three of my favorite musical droogs. Life has been pretty intense lately–financial pressures, Mom recovering from a knee replacement, Lisa struggling with what appears to be a ruptured bicep, physical concerns of my own–and I’d be lying to say that I’ve born it all with a smile on my face. I haven’t. I’ve felt weary, discouraged, and depressed. So reconnecting with the band and working on Ed’s music gave me a badly needed release. I needed to just forget about the rest of life for a while and play my horn with some friends with whom I’ve shared a love of music for many years now under the auspices of Ed’s songwriting.

Speaking of which, the guy just keeps getting better and better, and so does the band. Ed’s upcoming CD may be his best effort yet, which is saying a hunk considering the benchmark set by his last CD, Restless Ghost. I hope to finally hear the final master tonight, and then I’ll know for sure which album is my favorite. What’s certain is that we pulled out a few extra stops in the studio with this project, including the use of multiple sax tracks to create the effect of an entire sax section. Also, in an unprecedented departure from my die-hard devotion to the alto sax, I played my soprano on a couple tunes. I may have even played it in tune; I’ll find out soon enough.

But I was talking about how much I needed to tune up, blow some notes, and forget about the rest of life for while. Music is as much a part of life as anything else. In my case, it’s a very good part and a very large part, and I needed to be reminded of that. When I forget what “normal” looks like, nights like last night help me draw back to the center of who God created me to be and reclaim some parts of myself that I sometimes lose track of.

It seems that I wasn’t the only one. Don and his wife have been going through a difficult, hugely demanding time with their new baby son, who has Down Syndrome and has struggled nonstop with acute allergies. Ed has been dealing with the advancing, age-related health problems of his beloved mother- and father-in-law, who reside with him and his wife, Panda. Alan was the only guy who didn’t seem to have heavy stuff going on in his life at the moment, or if he did, chose not to share. But he’s been through his own fires. We all have, and last night at least three of us were feeling the heat.

So it seemed that the right thing to do, after we had finished practicing, was spend some time talking and praying together. It’s so easy to just pack up the instruments and head home without ever thinking to pray. But there’s power and healing in the honesty, faith, earnestness, and hope of collectively conversing with our heavenly Father. I would go so far as to say that a band of Christian musicians that bypasses the opportunity to get real with each other and with the Lord is missing what may well be the most vital part of their time together, more important even than the music (though that’s important).

Real is what the four of us got last night, and it was good. I left feeling not only connected with God and with the guys, but also reconnected with myself. Something about standing humbly and openly in the presence of Jesus has a way of doing that, of reminding me who and Whose I really am. The gloom lifts, the lies and warping influence of the world’s nonstop millrace lose their grip, and I discover once again that quiet place where I can hear God speak. It is a place of peace and a place of power. When David spoke in Psalm 23 of God as the one who restored his soul, I understand what he meant.

I think, I hope, that all of us last night discovered the potential of prayer and our need to incorporate it into our rehearsals more often. More even than the songs we play and the creative passion we share, the Spirit of Jesus Christ draws us together, and it’s the thing that can take our band to the next level–possibly the next musical level, but more certainly the next level of what God has in mind for us.

Lord, I thank you for last night’s blessing of connecting with you and with my brothers Ed, Don, and Alan through the gift of heartfelt, down-to-earth, unpretentious prayer. Please look after each of my friends. You know their needs and you know mine. Care for us and our loved ones as a shepherd cares for the sheep of his pasture, for that is who you are: The Good Shepherd. Give us to hear and treasure your voice–for in it, and it alone, is life.

Low-Topped Supercell Images from Last Wednesday

Last Wednesday, May 11, in northwest Kansas was a bust chase as far as tornadoes were concerned. But the prairie sky offers compensations that are blue-ribbon prizes in their own right if you’ve got an eye for beauty.

Here are some shots of a couple of low-topped supercells taken in the Atwood/Oberlin area. These storms dumped some marble-sized hail and exhibited visible, though not strong, rotation. They were lovely to behold, sculptures of moisture shaped by the wind and lit by the light of the waning evening. Atmospheric dramas such as these are the true panorama of the Great Plains. Like a run-on sentence, the treeless landscape stretches off into limitless sameness, leaving the sky to provide punctuation, energy, and color.

Quick Summary of Wednesday’s and Thursday’s Chases

Five days and nearly 3,000 miles later, I’m back from out west. This storm system proved to be a disappointment, but it did have its moments. Bill Oosterbaan and I intercepted a nice low-topped supercell in northeast Kansas on Wednesday night, and it’s possible that we witnessed a brief tornado. I need to scrutinize the brief footage I got of the storm feature in question. What was unmistakable was the broader circulation of the storm. It seemed weird to be chasing a north-moving storm with inflow from the northeast, but that’s how it was with storms that moved along a warm front–apparently across it–near a low center with a 500 mb closed low in the vicinity.

Yesterday was a more typical setup. We targeted the Muskogee, Oklahoma, area, which the SREF and RUC pointed to as offering the best overlay of instability and mid-level support, with the H5 jet core nosing into the region.

We were right on the first storms as they initiated, but they were feeble things that just couldn’t seem to get their acts together. With a long drive home lying ahead of us, we concluded to start heading north and settle for a nice lightning show on the way home.

But our prospects improved as the 500 mb jet began to strengthen. A couple of cells to our west and northwest intensified and began to take on a telltale appearance on the radar. A handful of scans later, rotation started to manifest on SRV. By this time we were on US 59 north of the Grand Lake of the Cherokee, east of Vinita and directly in the path of the southernmost cell. At a side road, we pulled aside and I tripoded my camcorder and videotaped some nice storm features: pronounced beaver tail, tail cloud, a nasty-looking wall cloud, and a wet RFD notch.

Beginning as a classic supercell, the storm looked for a while like a tornado breeder. But after predictably morphing into an HP, it eventually lined out and got absorbed into the wad of convection springing up to its south. Lack of adequate helicity is probably what kept this and other storms non-tornadic. METARs showed backed surface winds in the vicinity of the storms, but from what I observed, surface inflow was non-existent to weak. Hodograph curvature doesn’t matter much if boundary layer wind speeds are puny.

I have a few photos to process that I’ll slap up in a day or two, possibly along with a radar grab or two. Right now, though, I’ve got some work I need to accomplish before the work week ends, so here’s where I sign off.

On the Road to Oklahoma

The southerly breeze blowing from across the field behind me into this shady little park is just enough to render an otherwise hot and somewhat humid noon hour pleasant to perfection. If bathwater could be turned into air and made to blow around me, this is how it would feel, the quintessence of balmy.

I’m sitting at a picnic table surrounded by stately maples robed in the fresh green of May. From every direction comes the chatter and song of birds. A stone’s throw to my right, three fat robins on worm patrol navigate the grass with great singleness of purpose, and somewhere not far away I can hear the whirring call of a woodpecker. I couldn’t ask for a better setting to while away a couple of hours while my buddy Bill lunches with clients at a nearby plant.

Ah, spring! Ah, Iowa! Here in this tiny park in this small town nestled in America’s gently rolling heartland, for a little while I find myself retreating from how life is to how it can be. Quietude is not necessarily quiet, for the air is filled with sounds. But they are subtle sounds, background sounds, sounds of wind and birds that unwind the mainspring of my all-too-preoccupied soul.

Tomorrow I will wake up in Enid, Oklahoma, which looks like a prime base of operations for chasing storms that bump off the dryline. I’ve had my eye on Enid for a couple of days, now, and this morning the SPC issued a moderate risk for tomorrow with Enid smack in its midsection. That bodes well. It’s time at last for a chase in the Southern Plains.

I still have some concerns with this system. But they’re outweighed by the fact that the right stuff is coming together for tomorrow. Even more importantly, it’s May in Oklahoma. An ant can fart and spin up a tornado. And I’ll be there to watch it and experience the drama, beauty, and adrenaline of the atmosphere with my good friend and chaser partner of 15 years, Bill.

Speaking of whom, here he is. Looks like his business meeting is over. Time to pack up, hop in the car, and head west. Adieu, Victor, Iowa. Thanks for providing unknowing hospitality to a stranger in this jewel-like little park beneath the unfolding leaves of spring.

First Great Plains Chase of 2011 This Wednesday

At last, the setup I’ve been waiting for–one that warrants dipping into my tight finances in order to make the 1,000-mile drive to the Southern Plains. To date, this present system has been a miserable disconnect between upper-level support and instability, with a nasty cap clamping down on the whole shebang. Last night it managed to cough up a solitary tornado in South Dakota. That was it. I’m not sure what today holds, but I haven’t seen anything to excite me about it or tomorrow.

But Wednesday…ah, now we’re talking! The SPC places a large section of the Great Plains under a slight risk, and their discussions have been fairly bullish about the potential for a wide-scale event. At first I couldn’t see why. My mistake–I was looking at the NAM, which with straight southerly H5 winds has not provided the best PR for Wednesday’s setup. But once I glommed the GFS, I got a whole ‘nother picture, one which the SREF and Euro corroborated.

That was last night. I haven’t looked at today’s SREF, and the new ECMWF gives me a slight pause as its now somewhat negative tilt has slightly backed the mid-levels from the previous run. But only slightly. The H5 winds still have a nice southwesterly flow, and taking the three models together, everything you could ask for is lining up beautifully for tornadoes in the plains.

The event promises to be widespread, with a robust dryline stretching from a triple point in southwest Kansas south through Oklahoma and Texas. Positioned near a dryline bulge, Enid, Oklahoma has drawn my attention for the last couple of GFS runs. Check out this model sounding for 00Z and tell me what’s not to like about it. Everything is there, including a voluptuous hodograph and 1 km SRH in excess of 300 m^2/s^2.

Other places in the region also look good, though. Farther south in Texas, Wichita Falls shows potential. Helicity isn’t as persuasive as Enid, but the CAPE tops 3,000 J/kg and there’s less

convective inhibition. Here’s the sounding for you to compare with Enid.

I haven’t been as drawn to Kansas so far, but with the triple point perched there, storms are bound to fire up just fine in the Sunflower State. The details will work themselves out between now and Wednesday evening. Significantly, the tyrannical cap of the previous few days no longer appears to be an issue.

The bottom line is–it’s time to head West! This evening I’m taking off for the plains with my long-time chase buddy Bill. At last! Time to sample what the dryline has to offer, and–now that I’m equipped with a great HD camcorder–finally get some quality footage of a tornado or two.

There’s no place like the Great Plains! YeeeeHAW!!!!!

Altered Major Scales for Secondary Dominant Chords

Some months ago I shared a table of non-diatonic tones and their common uses. This morning I found myself thinking once again about non-diatonic tones, and specifically about an effective way to practice them, one that could quickly translate to actual jazz improvisation.

The standard bebop scales came to mind. The insertion of one extra note into a scale–typically a raised fifth in a major scale, and a raised seventh in a dominant (Mixolydian) scale–does more than allow a soloist to move through a scale with ease and land on an octave. It also creates new harmonic possibilities. That principle can be exploited by inserting other tones that also suggest secondary harmonies.

Click on the image to your right to enlarge it. You’ll see three scales. The first two contain a single added note. Scale #1 includes a raised first, and scale #2, a raised fourth. The interpolation of these notes adapts a basic major scale for use with two commonly encountered secondary dominant chords: the V7/ii (or VI7) and the V7 of V (or II7). In the key of C, which these scales are written in, those chords are A7 and D7.

These scales are as fresh to me as they are to you at the time of this writing. Not that I’ve never played them before; I just haven’t made a conscious point of focusing on them as actual scales to invest my time in practicing. I see two benefits to doing do. The first is, obviously, developing technical facility. The second is raising one’s awareness of the added notes as harmonic devices, with an eye on the secondary chords that they apply to.

Each added note serves as the major third–a critical identifying tone–of its secondary dominant chord. So when you play scale #1, remember that it works readily with the VI7; and likewise, scale #2 pairs with the II7. Many playing situations feature both of those secondary dominants, and often the VI7 moves directly to the II7, which in turn moves to the V7–in essence, coasting around a segment of the cycle of fifths.

The third scale incorporates both the raised first and the raised fourth, making it a kind of granddaddy scale that accommodates both secondary dominants.

Now, don’t look at these scales as magic harmonic bullets.. Rather, look at them as resources that allow you to judiciously select certain tones when you need them as well as furnishing you with good linear resources. It’s not all about your fingers mastering the technique of the scales. It’s also very much about applying your mind to grasp the uses of the introduced tones.

In other words, build harmonic awareness, not just digital dexterity. To assist you, I’ve included an exercise for each scale that will help you hear how each added note implies a certain harmony. Play these exercises on the piano so you can chord along with the melody line, or else get a keyboard player or guitarist to comp for you while you play the different lines.

Have fun! And if you enjoyed this post, drop in on my Jazz page and check out the many other exercises, articles, and solo transcriptions.

Misuse of the EF-Scale: Just the Facts, Please

Would the media and storm spotters PLEASE stop rating tornadoes before the official National Weather Service survey teams do!

A couple Fridays ago a radio announcer in Saint Louis assigned a tornado an EF-3 rating while the storm was still in progress, chewing through the city. More recently I read a news writeup in which the April 27 Tuscaloosa–Birmingham, Alabama, tornado was described as an EF-5, as though that rating were a done deal. At the time, the matter had yet to be determined by damage assessment professionals.

Both the Tuscaloosa and Saint Louis tornadoes were in fact officially rated EF-4. In one case the news medium underestimated the damage rating; in the other, it overestimated; and in both cases the media overstepped their bounds.

“EF-5 in Progress!”

It appears that a good number of reporters and storm spotters are prone to the same error that many storm chasers make: linking their impression of a tornado’s strength based on appearance–whether visually or on the radar–to an Enhanced Fujita scale (EF-scale) rating. Doing so demonstrates ignorance of what the EF-scale actually is: a tool that assesses and rates tornado damage, and from it extrapolates potential wind speeds. By its very nature, the EF-scale cannot be used to describe a tornado in progress; it was developed for use in post-mortem assessments of tornado events.

Expanding on the original F-scale criteria developed by pioneer tornado scientist Dr. Theodore Fujita, the EF-scale considers 28 Damage Indicators (DIs)–small barns or farm outbuildings, one- or two-family residences, strip malls, hardwood trees, and more–in rating tornadoes. Each DI is scrutinized according to its makeup, its circumstances, and the Degree of Damage (DOD) it received. For instance, did a hardwood tree sustain broken branches? How big were the branches? Was the tree uprooted? Snapped? Debarked, with only a stub of trunk left standing?

In its 95-page recommendation for an Enhanced Fujita scale that it submitted to the National Weather Service in June, 2004, the Wind Science and Engineering Department at Texas Tech University said:

Ideally the recommended approach for assigning an EF-Scale rating to a tornado event
involves the following steps:
• Conduct an aerial survey of damage path to identify applicable damage indicators and
define the extent of the damage path
• Identify several DIs that tend to indicate the highest wind speed within the damage
path
• Locate those DIs within the damage path
• Conduct a ground survey and carefully examine the DIs of interest
• Follow the steps outlined for assigning EF-Scale rating to individual DIs and
document the results
• Consider the ratings of several DIs, if available, and arrive at an integrated EF-Scale
rating for the tornado event
• Record the basis for assigning an EF-Scale rating to the tornado event
• Record other pertinent data relating to the tornado event.

Obviously this kind of information isn’t snap-judgment material. Making such assessments requires training and resources of a kind that most media personalities–and, for that matter, most storm chasers–don’t have.

The bottom line is this: It’s just flat-out wrong to rate a tornado in progress based on its appearance using the EF-scale. Also, while there’s nothing wrong with personally speculating about the nature of the damage you’ve observed in a tornado’s aftermath, remember that your opinion is unofficial.

Bear these things in mind the next time you hear someone say, “That’s got to be an EF-4!”–or the next time you’re tempted to say it yourself. Particularly if you’re a journalist. When you broadcast or publish as definitive what is in reality nothing more than your own or some spotter’s or chaser’s subjective opinion, you are misinforming the public. Your hunch might eventually be proved right, but it could also easily be proved wrong. Why create such confusion? It costs you nothing but sensationalism to refrain from presenting uninformed impressions as if they were fact. Leave EF-scale ratings out of the picture until the NWS has completed its investigation of an event and assigned official ratings.

So What CAN You Say?

You can describe a tornado that you are observing as weak, strong, or violent.

You can describe its size and/or appearance using subjective terms that are commonly understood by storm chasers and meteorologists. Small and large are good, as are wedge, cone, rope, stove pipe, and multiple vortex.

It’s correct to say, “That’s a small but strong tornado,” or, “There’s a large, violent, multi-vortex tornado in progress.” It’s incorrect to say, “Oh my gosh! EF-5 tornado!” or “A trained spotter has reported an EF-3 tornado moving toward the town of Pleasantville.” (A properly informed spotter won’t use such language.)

As for reporting tornado damage, most people–including me–aren’t intimately familiar with the nuances and complexities of the Enhanced Fujita scale. So leave it alone. Better to just describe the damage in general terms as light, significant, severe, homes completely swept away, trees uprooted, complete devastation, and so forth. Or if you want to speculate on the EF potential, make it clear that what you’re sharing is only your opinion. Saying, “This looks like it could receive an EF-2 rating,” or, “I’m guessing EF-3 damage here, but we’ll wait for the National Weather Office to make an official determination,” is different from stating definitively that “We’ve got EF-4 damage.” How do you know? Unless you’re a NWS damage assessment expert, you don’t. Your guess may prove to be true, but leave it out of print or off the airwaves until it has been established as fact.

The Bottom Line

It’s human nature to speculate on the strength and effects of something as singular, violent, visually striking, and impactful on a community as a tornado. Moreover, there’s nothing wrong with forming your personal opinion regarding which EF-scale rating a tornado might deserve, bearing in mind that you could very well be wrong. But if you’re a broadcast personality, reporter, or storm spotter, hold your thoughts to yourself. When it comes to information that’s relevant and truly helpful to the public, you’ll do well to heed the advice of Sergeant Friday in the old Dragnet TV series: The facts, please. Just give us the facts.

Tonalism: Some Things Don’t Change

If Western tonalistic music was inaugurated with the publication of Jean-Philippe Rameau’s Treatise on Harmony in 1722–a commonly accepted date–then it has now been with us for nearly 300 years. It has been expressed in many different genres, from Baroque, to Classical, to jazz, Tin Pan Alley, and the blues. Yet no matter what garments it wears, no matter how it has been modified and expanded within various musical styles, the eight-tone major/minor scale system with its primarily dominant-tonic harmony has been the underpinning of virtually all popular music.

I don’t see that changing anytime soon. Not that it needs to; I just can’t fathom how it could do so in any meaningful way. Note the word meaningful. Modern composers have long experimented with alternatives to traditional harmony. It’s just that you don’t find most Americans or Europeans whistling Schoenberg or Indian ragas as they stroll down the sidewalk. And while the rise of “world music” (whatever exactly that is) has awakened at least some Western ears to other possibilities, it can’t match the extent to which Western tonalism has influenced other cultures. I mean, you tell me the difference between Mexican banda music and polka, other than the language. And more contemporarily, popular artists in Asian and Eastern cultures have been founding their careers on the major/minor scale system while preserving distinctive musical elements of their own cultures and languages. (Don’t ask me to name any of these artists; I just know what I’ve listened to on NPR!)

I found myself thinking about the persistence and ubiquity of Western tonalism as I stood in church last Sunday listening to our worship team play. It struck me how the same tonal relationships not only have been repackaged a seemingly infinite number of times over the centuries, but also how, unless our culture somehow undergoes a complete musical sea change, those same relationships and harmonic formulae will continue to come at us in literally millions of new songs over the coming decades.

That’s not a bad thing. Rather, it’s a necessary thing. We are steeped in tonalism, not just intellectually but also emotionally. Other approaches may intrigue us, particularly those of us who are jazz musicians and like to reach for different colors and fresh possibilities. But tonalism provides a gut-level sense of center that all of us innately desire, and a vocabulary by which we all can relate to the stories that melody tells.

Tonalism is in some respects similar to a spoken language. Languages evolve, but they do so slowly and they do so around the edges. The core remains, must remain as a context for any changes to be understood. That’s true of music. While we’re free to experiment, yet the more abstract our experimentation gets, the more that it obscures the core, then the less likely it will be to speak meaningfully to the world at large. I’m all for creative exploration; I’m just pointing out that the average American who cut his or her teeth on Billy Ray Cyrus or Stevie Ray Vaughan isn’t likely to stray far afield when it comes to listening habits. Most folks prefer stuff that’s accessible, visceral, and familiar.

While technology is racing along in seven league boots, other aspects of our world remain the same. Western tonalism may undergo cosmetic changes, but it still is what it is. It may get stretched, it may try on different clothes, but a flatted fifth will remain a flatted fifth by virtue of how it relates to the 12 tones of the chromatic scale.

Why did I write about this topic? Because I’m struck not only by the enduring nature of tonalism, but also by our amazing penchant for personalizing it. You’d think we’d have exhausted the possibilities long ago, but uniqueness continues to drift like snowflakes out of the tonal ether. As I stand singing in church, the tune may be the beloved old hymn “Holy, Holy, Holy,” written nearly 200 years ago, or it may be the recent creation of some contemporary Christian artist. Either way, the tonal foundation is the same. Two hundred years from now, if our Lord tarries and we humans haven’t outright wiped ourselves out, the music we sing will probably still be tonal in its foundations. As with the wheel, zippers, and apple pie, there’s just no need for some things to change.

April 27, 2011, Southern Outbreak: When a Nightmare Becomes Reality

The death toll from yesterday’s tornadoes in the South presently stands at 231,* and it continues to climb. In the battered town of Tuscaloosa, Alabama, 36 people are dead; in Birmingham, at least 30 more.** From

Mississippi to as far north as upstate New York, the worst tornado outbreak in 37 years has left communities sifting through a battleground of leveled buildings, crumpled automobiles, downed power lines, tortured trees, and a horrifying number of casualties. This has been no mere tornado outbreak; it has been a tornado nightmare.

“You’re talking about whole neighborhoods of housing just completely gone,” said Birmingham Mayor William Bell in an NPR interview. “Churches, gone. Businesses, gone. I’m not talking about just roofs being blown off, but just completely gone.”**

I knew that a dangerous weather event was brewing in the South yesterday. But with my mother undergoing a knee replacement, I spent most of the day at Blodgett Hospital here in Grand Rapids, Michigan. I knew nothing of what was transpiring down in Mississippi, Tennessee, and the epicenter of the outbreak, Alabama, until later in the evening, when I finally left the hospital, fired up my laptop, and got my first look at the radar.

There it was, spread out before me: a blitzkrieg of intense supercells swarming across Alabama and Tennesse, attended by so many tornado reports that they obscured parts of the map. My heart dropped into my gut. I didn’t need any news reports to tell me that something awful was happening and people were getting killed.

Immediately I thought of my long-time friend and storm chasing partner, Bill Oosterbaan. He was down there somewhere in Alabama. I had no question that he’d seen tornadoes, but was he safe? I couldn’t reach him at first on his cell phone, but eventually we connected and Bill shared his story. He had been about a quarter-mile behind a tornado that hit Huntsville and gotten rained on by debris. It sounded bad, but Bill was okay, had witnessed five tornadoes, and had gotten video footage.

After talking with Bill, I began searching for news on Facebook and the Internet. The first video I saw was Chris England’s footage of the Tuscaloosa tornado as it chewed through the city. “Andover!” I thought. “It looks like the Andover tornado.” (An F5 monster that struck Andover, Kansas, on April 26, 1991.) More YouTube videos followed: Mind-boggling views of the Tuscaloosa storm. TWC footage of a violent, mile-wide wedge moving through Birmingham. An intense tornado striking Cullman. It was horrible. The storms were ongoing even as I watched, and it dawned on me that, overworked as the word “epic” has become, here was a situation where it applied.

I am appalled by the news and deeply saddened. As good as today’s weather warning system is, nevertheless the death toll is mind-numbing. I frankly expected a few score fatalities, and that in itself would have been too many. Lives are lives. But this many lives…it is just sickening. Were it not for the unswerving vigilance of the Storm Prediction Center and the National Weather Service; and were it not for today’s NEXRAD system that blankets the nation with Doppler radar to provide coverage that far outstrips what existed during the historic 1974 Super Outbreak and 1965 Palm Sunday Outbreak; were it not for these things, then the death toll from yesterday would have been apocalyptic. As it stands, it is horrifying, and the number continues to grow.

My writing on this event is finished for now. There is simply too much to say and too much news that is yet breaking, along with countless hearts. The story has just begun, and more can be told only as it becomes known. My thoughts and prayers go out, with those of countless other storm chasers, to the survivors of this terrible disaster.

————————————

* From CNN’s live blog.

** From NPR’s news blog, “The Two-Way.”

Sax and Wedge: Maybe This Year

This afternoon I have a gig with Paul Lesinski at the Amway Grand. I’m looking forward to it, but it indisposes me to chase what could be Michigan’s first round of severe weather this afternoon. Practically speaking, the “storm” and “horn” parts of Stormhorn sometimes conflict with each other. I can’t do two things at once; I can’t play a gig and chase storms, and when I post here about one subject, then the other half of my readership gets left out.

Yet I view the two interests as connected in spirit, to such an extent that one of my life goals is to get some footage and/or photos of me playing my sax out on the Plains with a big wedge churning in the background. Given how active this April has been, maybe 2011 will be the year when I fulfill that ambition. I almost always bring my horn with me on my long-distance chases for just that reason (plus, yeah, I like to get in some sax practice when I can). The one notable occasion when I left it home last year was on May 22, a milemarker in my chase career. Unfortunately, the vehicle was so packed that there was no room for the horn, and given how events unfolded out there by Roscoe, it was probably just as well.

Today my buddy Bill is chasing down in Arkansas. Yesterday he filmed a large, violent wedge that hit the town of Vilonia. Round two today looks to be at least as bad, and I hope Bill stays safe. I don’t have a good feeling about what lies in store for the folks in that region. But I won’t be following any of the developments because I’ll be doing the other thing I love as much as storm chasing: playing my saxophone. This time of year the storm chaser in me has the edge over the musician, but once I’ve got my horn in my hands I forget everything else and just go with the flow of the music. Playing jazz is one of the most in-the-moment experiences a person can have, and I get tremendous satisfaction out of being a practitioner.

Afterwards maybe I’ll still get a crack at whatever weather shapes up. Probably not; today, such as it is, looks like it’ll play out on the eastern side of the state.  But I’ll take my gear with me to the gig just in case.