in our never ending efforts to achieve jazz world domination dred scott trio has begun a potcast.  it’s just like a poDcast except the idea is you smoke some pot and then listen to it.  it’s kind of like 3-d without the glasses or visual imagery.   as if this is not enough, you can now follow the trio and it’s various important and meaningless exploits via twitter.  i haven’t ‘twittered’ myself just yet.  my cell is the first cell phone that was ever made so it doesn’t text very fast.  i have to figure out how to ‘twit’ from my computer, which as i understand it kind of defeats the purpose of ‘twitterring,’ an up to the minute account of whatever i or my bandmates happen to want to ‘twit’ about.  and speaking of my bandmates, i’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that tony will never be ‘twitting.’   i’ve also been told that twittering is not a long form, but a two sentence or so message.  like those cell phone novels they write in japan.  or a fortune cookie.  or even a haiku.  i always carry a notebook with me so i’ll just start recording them there when i think of them and then later post them from my computer - a time delay like they use at the academy awards or the super bowl halftime show.  i’m not sure how you follow us on twitter, but a hell of a lot of people already are. i get a notification email when someone joins and we haven’t even tweeted a twit yet.  i know for sure, though, that you can get on the potcast via iTunes or RSS.
i’ve been told by my handlers not to mention the iphone app because it won’t be coming out for another couple of weeks, so i’m not going to mention that iphone app that’s coming out in a couple of weeks.  but i can mention that we are building a new website.  and when it’s ready we’re going to have a launch party. with hors d’oeuvres.  meanwhile, tonite in an effort to increase jazz world domination probability, we are teaming with saxophonist, michael blake.  we’ve been talking about working on some new music together for awhile and doing a record or something and well, while we haven’t written any new music for ourselves, we are going to start playing some gigs together.  so come on down and check us out.

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i’m standing in line waiting to be checked in.  we’ve gone through security – bag check and a metal detector (america’s got psycho’s) – and i turn around and right behind me is a squat and swarthy man with a very bad comb-over wearing a long black overcoat and an expensive looking white scarf.  i overhear him saying to his equally squat female companion in an accent i can’t place,

‘i hope i have time to warm up.’

she replies in a thick russian accent,

‘don’t worry.  you worry too much.’

i lean over between them and say,

‘doesn’t matter if you warm up or not.  you’re going down just the same.’

‘oh!! WE’RE going down??!  i don’t think so.  this man has performed at the met!  and he was headliner in las vegas,’ 

she stresses the first syllable of ‘vegas’ so it sounds like, ‘VAYYYgus.’

the comb-over guy touches my arm and moves in close like he’s going to tell me a secret,

‘you know why i think you are right?’

his breath smells like an empty warehouse.

‘last year a tenor won, so they can’t have two tenors in a row.’

‘stop saying that!’  and his accompanist gives him a lite punch in the arm.  russian spirit.  irrepressible.  i take a step back and say,

‘hey, you never know.  maybe you guys take the whole thing.’

it’s no fun kidding around with people who are too serious.  it can even be irritating.  so i say,

‘i notice your accents.  you guys are americans, right?  i mean, this is america’s got talent.  do they make you show your passport?’

the russian snorts,

‘i have been in this country 25 years!  i am as american as you!!’

‘oh, ok,’ i say, ‘i was just wondering if they check is all.’

it’s our turn so i turn back around and show my id to the registrar and without looking up she hands me 4 or 5 papers stapled together.

‘fill this out.’

name. age. address. name of act. phone. email. usual stuff on the first page.  most of the rest of the pages were rules and regs contestants were to read and agree to.  the last page had a series of more personal questions:

who is the most important person in your life?

my momma.  she raised me up from nothing and gave me everything.  i love my momma.

what is the single most important event in your life?

9/11.

what would you do with the money if you were to win?

buy momma a new house.

i return the forms and we are escorted to a holding room.  on the way, an elderly man dressed like george washington carrying a massive flag walks by.  apparently america’s got a crazy grandpa in the attic.  we walk in and just to our right is a guy, bean-pole-thin in a flannel shirt tucked into jeans that are riding too high sitting in a tight circle with his family.  he’s obviously the talent but at what is not obvious.  looks like the dude maybe drinks water and shoots it back out his nose while his eyelids are turned inside out.  next to them, a high school drum line that is thankfully not warming up.  across the room is an acrobatic team of ten-year-old girls dressed like pixies -  brightly colored polka dots on their body suits that cover their heads from which protrude tinsel covered wire making it look like they have antennae.  standing back-flips. splits. aerials. moves and jumps i don’t know the names for.  they are so cute i walk over and say to a couple of them,

‘hey, you guys are really good.  but you’re going down.’

the two run over to the group and i am instantly beset by a half dozen pixies surrounding me and shouting,

‘YOU’RE GOING DOWN!!!  YOU’RE GOING DOWN!!!”

just then what appears to be an all-white 80’s break dancing team with matching outfits and a giant boom box saunters by.  one of the guys has a fu manchu and the back of his jersey has the number 1 on it and his name.

‘hey lazer.’ i say. ‘you guys are going down.’  and the pixies behind me all chime in,

‘yeah, yeah!  going down.  going down.’

lazer lunges for me but a guy with a warm-up jacket that says ‘coach’ on it holds him back.

‘easy lazer.  he’s not worth it.’

lazer tries to get at me from behind the coach.

‘yeah? well you’re going down buddy……later…….outside.’

‘oooo,’ i say. ‘too bad you’ll never win america’s got snappy comebacks.’

‘let it go, lazer.  let it go.’  the coach walks lazer and the team to the other side of the room where i can taunt them no more.  a long line of misfits enters carrying garbage cans, pots and pans, plastic containers.  looks like america’s got a bunch of crap lying around the house.  they call our name and we are escorted back across the wide open convention center main room to just outside an audition room.  on the way we pass a kid waving a twenty foot long pole over his head, stabbing and striking imaginary foes.  i know we will not win when the kid balances the spinning pole over his head on one hand, his arm completely outstretched and his palm completely flat and gracefully descends into the splits.  america’s got flexibility.  the tumbling pixies go by and two of them see me and start pointing and mouthing,

‘you’re going down.  you’re going down.’

i look back across the vast expanse of space and can see all at once african dancers, an electric fiddler, a couple of crusty blues guys, a juggler, a fat italian crooner in a black suit with a red tie talking to his buddy who looks exactly the same but not dressed up and i think, these are my people.  this is who i am.  we get called, i slap the numbered sticker on my pants, excuse myself from the conversation i’m having with a tap dancer and enter a too brightly lit room to take another shot.

Dred Scott Trio on iLike - Add iLike to your MySpace

the dred scott trio potcast is now live and available for subscription. it contains three tracks from the august 11 show at the rockwood. subscribe now via iTunes or RSS.

Dred Scott Trio on iLike - Add iLike to your MySpace

Dred Scott Trio on iLike - Add iLike to your MySpace

i keep a dispatch on my website (dispatch). hmmm. is that really going to go to my dispatch page?
i have a difficult enough time keeping that updated. so i'm going to dedicate this blog to those little categories. since the first one is 'none,' this will be about nothing. sort of like an old seinfeld show without all the money. and the humor. and of course we'll save the bigotted ranting for you know who. one thing about that - stand-up comedy is warfare (if done properly) and sometimes it is ugly and there are casualties. not saying kramer's not a retard. just check out bill hicks' eruption on some female heckler
on (i am addicted to) you tube. :whoah: did that little emoticon thing work? i want emoticon! i want you to see what i'm feeling. next topic - art and photography.

i have to stop. these trends i create are getting out of hand. remember when guys started wearing earings. just one. the left ear meant you were straight and so on?
i started that. and that goatee thing. that really took off, too. and remember when bell bottoms came back? me. so i'm not surprised everyone is blogging. i remember when we used to call it writing. you'd think of some direction or topic and then you would write about it. yeah. it's still called writing, i think. my wife is a writer and she calls what she does, writing. now i've been writing things down my whole life. lists, appointments, ideas for songs and stories about what things happen to me so i can kind of keep track of the life i'm living. but now that i put it on the internet, i am a blogger. and this is my blog. i'm glad they give you those little categories to get you going. that's always the hardest part for me. next, dreams and the supernatural.

i found a mamiya sekor single lens reflex camera in the abandoned bf goodrich factory across from the apartment i was living in w/ joe b. on main st. in akron, oh. there was a defunct theater company that had stored a bunch of stuff - costumes, scenery, etc. and
there was an office section containing some personal effects where i found the camera. i began shooting and the cover of 'small clubs are dead' is the top floor of that factory shot with that camera. i stole the pov from my photographer/artist friend, michael loderstedt who had some shots that were similar. but i thought why pay an actual artist when i have a camera. the point? everyone's a photographer.

art. fart. smart. dart. part. tart. cart. mart.

'art is making something out of nothing, then selling it.' frank zappa
next topic - automotive

tranny's acting up. could be expensive. 193,000 on the mitsubishi. greatest car i've ever owned. me and cars. my grandmother was killed as a result of a car crash. the hatpin she was wearing went into her head and the wound became infected (it was like 1929) and that was that. when i was six, one of my brothers crashed into a phone pole (head on) while i was in the passenger seat hurtling me face first into the dash (nobody wore seat belts back then). i ruined my favorite safari shorts with all the zippers. covered in blood. my nose was flat across my face. but they rebuilt it. and naturally i never let my brother forget it. my first car i was allowed to drive was a yellow maverick. my dad used to check the mileage whenever i used it (it doesn't take miles off to jack it up and run it backwards like in ferris bueller). the first car i ever owned was a chevy monza my oldest brother tim just gave to me. i found a roach clip in the back seat and his cool cache went up a couple of notches. now he's a christian and thinks the earth is 10,000 years old. the brakes failed and i was too broke to fix them so i drove around on the emergency brake my first winter at college in cleveland. that car died when i threw a tie-rod on the freeway causing me to spin around like speed racer after an encounter with the mammoth car. i was lucky to make it out of that one without a scratch to me or anyone else. car accident brother then sold me a white mustang for $75 that lasted about a month. what a dick. i was really broke and was not speaking to my dad (something about a couple of hits of acid in the freezer and a broken garage window) when my mom (saint) gave me $1200 to buy a green honda civic i actually lived in for a couple of months while i waited for my financial aid to arrive (they give you the money for tuition and books, but for some reason don't dispense the rest till like october or november). this car i had for some time until the ring job i couldn't afford (they are notorious oil burners) and that was that. the next car was a toyota pick-up. the second greatest car i ever had. i used financial aid money to buy it and my dad (speaking again) found it near his house in florida. no rust. old guy drove it to church, etc. so i flew down and drove it back to cleveland where i copied matisse along both sides and took off to california. the painted truck went all over the west coast. one trip to seattle, jojo cooked a brisket wrapping it in foil and wedging it up under the manifold. he had read this would work and it did. the smell came through into the cab and we knew it was done, pulled over and had a feast. i spent many nights camped out in the back of that truck. but it too died and after a couple of forgettable beaters - including one i attempted my first and only repair; an alternator replacement. i took out the smog pump by mistake and the fellas at grand auto had a good laugh when i tried to exchange it for an alternator. then came the mitsubishi which i still have that has carried me to the four corners of this country and back several times. it's an adult car. not real cool looking. practical. i paid 6 grand for it. that's adult money (grandpa money, actually) but it has been worth every penny. next topic - blogging. might skip that one so i can get right to dreams and the supernatural.