Thursday, December 29, 2011
Monday, December 26, 2011
Friday, December 23, 2011
Monday, December 19, 2011
Monday, December 12, 2011
Sunday, December 11, 2011
The straight-ahead and melodic hard rock band Philpot first started gaining notice in late 2004, when a rousing set in front of some celebrities in a chic New York City night club owned by the members of Velvet Revolver earned them a bit of buzz in the New York City media (including the New York Post and NY Press). This would have been just another night out for an up-and-coming, hip New York City band, but the very young Philpot (some were teens at the time) had come from the rural environs of Dugger, IN, where they rehearsed and wrote tunes in a flower shop at which one of the members worked. The band consists of lead singer Kentz Ward, lead guitarist Caleb Smith, rhythm guitarist Josh Kennedy, bass guitarist Tyler Evans, drummer Arthur Ready, and keyboardist AJ Boone. They received an early hand up from Travis Meeks, leader of Days of the New, who was impressed enough with them to arrange an opening slot for the young, unknown band at a couple of out-of-state Days of the New concerts. In July 2005, the band released B**ch Be the World, establishing their vein of full-bore, muscular, guitar-heavy rock with Ward's gravelly howl atop it. The band found an even wider audience when they released Hate Writes Better Than Love in 2007 on Toucan Cove Entertainment (Universal Records). The album boasted more polished production but was still just as straight-ahead and aggressive in rock intent. Certain tracks are reminiscent of early, hard-edged Oasis ("Rock 'N' Roll Star," etc). ~ Erik Hage, Rovi, All Music Guide
Friday, December 9, 2011
Friday, December 2, 2011
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
"For Peter Gordon Donald:
With memories that Bless and Burn."
I am Peter Gordon Donald, born Stephen James Roberts.
I am named after Gordon Barber, my Father's close friend who drowned at my Grandmother's Camp, Panther Cove, on Upper Saranac Lake, at the age of 18.
Here is a famous poem I found today about Gordon and what happened. My Father still refuses to speak about the tragedy. As a boy this is how I came to be a reporter, by reconstructing the story through news accounts and speaking with family members. Obviously this is a big part of my book Low Expectations.
Elegy on Gordon Barber, a poem by Gene Derwood
On Gordon Barber, Lamentably
Drowned in his Eighteenth Year
When in the mirror of a permanent tear
Over the iris of your mother’s eye
I beheld the dark tremor of your face, austere
With space of death, spun too benign for youth,
Icicle of the past to pierce her living sigh –
I saw you wish the last kiss of mother’s mouth,
Who took the salted waters rather in the suck
Of seas, sighing yourself to fill and drench
With water the plum-rich glory of your breast
Where beat the heart escaping from war’s luck.
Gordon, I mourn your wrist, your running foot,
Your curious brows, your thigh, your unborn daughters,
Yet mourn more deep the drought-caught war dry boy
Who goes, a killer, to join you in your sleep
And envy you what made you blench
Taking your purple back to drought-less waters.
What choke of terror filled you in the wet
What fierce surprise caught you when play turned fate
And all the rains you loved became your net,
Formlessly yielding, yet stronger than your breath?
Then did you dream of mother or hopes hatched
When the cold cramp held you from nape to foot
And time dissolved, promise dissolved, in Death?
Did you cry ‘cruel’ to all the hands that stretched
Not near, but played afar, when you sank down
Your sponge of lungs hurt to the quick
Till you had left the quick to join the dead,
Whom now, your mother mourns grief-sick.
You were too young to drown.
Never will you take bride to happy bed,
Who lay awash in water yet no laving
Needed, so pure so young for sudden leaving.
Gone, gone is Gordon, tall and brilliant lad
Whose mind was science. Now hollow his skull
A noble sculpture, is but sunken bone,
His cells from water come by water laid
Grave-deep, to water gone.
Lost, lost the hope he had
Washed to a cipher his splendour and his skill.
But Gordon’s gone, it’s other boys who live afraid.
Two years, and lads have grown to hold a gun.
In dust must splendid lads go down and choke,
Red dry their hands and dry their one day’s sun
From which they earthward fall to fiery tomb
Bomb-weighted, from bloodying children’s hair.
Never a boy but takes as cross Cain’s crime
And goes to death by making death, to pass
Death’s gate distorted with the dried brown grime –
Better the watery death than death by air
Or death by sand
Where fall hard fish of fear
Loud in unwetted dust.
Spun on a lucky wave, O early boy!
Now ocean’s fish you are
Perhaps you had sweet mercy’s tenderness
To win so soon largesse of choice
That you, by grace, went gayly to the wave
And all our mourning should be to rejoice.
Gene Derwood (1909-1954)