http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x_iDsLKLeqU

This was a crappy year on most fronts, for me. Had Barack Obama -- for whose campaign I worked in, I think, four cities -- not won, I don't know how I'd have kept it together.

Not that I did all that masterful a job. This was a harsh year. My dad had open heart surgery. Worked out, he's in great shape, but... What a gut check for us all.

Terry Adams called me to play at the Stone with him and Karen Mantler in January. That was nice. I finally got to play in a Robert Drasnin Voodoo performance, which was great not only for getting to do music with Bob and with the killing-good Alice Berry, whom I hadn't known before, but also to reconnect with Otto and Baby Doe, who I hadn't seen in quite some years, and with Lee Joseph, who is the best friend I only see annually. I got to give the speech for Bob's induction into the West Virginia Music Hall of Fame and see an audience in his home state give him a standing ovation, a moment that was pure magic and I almost cried. I was befriended in WV by some really excellent folks, not the least of which were Mona Seghatoleslami, who might be the nicest person who ever grew up in Jersey, and Ann Magnusson, who might be the nicest person I've met in showbiz. Oh yeah -- I got to play some with Peter Rowan while I was there. Oh yeah.

Chris Gaffney died, as did Larry Levine -- two guys I loved. Yma Sumac died. The incredible Edie Adams -- my first boss in LA -- passed as well, and the world is poorer for that.

Randy Newman made a great new record, and it might have been the only new album I bought all year (the Dylan doesn't count -- it's a comp).

Keith Pawlak assembled a student orch at UA Tucson and they played Les Baxter and Robert Drasnin. It was amazing to me to hear two people who mean so much to me performed with such care.

I put a good band together to play mostly up in Bakersfield. That said, finishing this goddam record is taking forever. Maybe Keith can produce the next one. He's getting shit done.

I've gotten to spend a bunch of time with the inspiringly maniacal Phil Alvin. I did Mike Watt's radio show, which was great. Watt is a national treasure, right up with Waffle House.

I came back to LA in June, after proving to myself by moving back to Philly (for about 14 months) that just because you can go home again doesn't mean it's a good idea. Then I moved back to LA for a girlfriend here. We were better off commuting. Every foray into romance staring with that I made ended up in such a briar patch that I needed Bactine. And there didn't seem to be any.

I settled for a time in Inglewood, babysitting my friend Lori's grandparents old house, and rediscovering the joys of living alone in the city. A cool thing to rediscover. And the house... amazing. I will miss this place, but the Valley beckons.

I will not mourn the passing of this year, much as I love my new president. It was a big cold shower of reality. Close friends died, others have had problems with the law, and ought-9 is emerging as a question mark behind which I don't see any gentle answers getting ready for their face time.

Ironically, West Virginia did not go to Obama, but did elect a democrat oth as governor and the mayor of Charleston. The feeling through the city was one of big doin's. Maybe it had something to do with the state having a feeling of autonomy at the end of the process. Maybe it was that everyone was in a good mood anyway, and that democracy hadn't ground to a complete halt -- recounts etc -- after all.

I sat with Michael Lipton and the rest of the good people assembled, and we stared at the televison together and I realized: My parents can tell you where they were when Kennedy was shot. This was better.

That night was spent alone in a hotel room watching Chris Matthews and feeling like we'd just snatched America from the jaws of something dangerous by electing a skinny guy with a funny name who likes Stevie Wonder, Robert Caro, and basketball. Yay us.

I woke up the next morning with MSNBC humming on the TV. I made coffee, showered, and went down to the lobby to introduce myself to the West Virginia Music Hall of Fame folks. I met Mary Claire Finly, and a really nice woman named Becky. There was apparently a dliemna at hand, and Claire was at her wits end.

Wilma Lee Cooper -- of Stony Cooper and Wilma Lee legend -- was there, right there, in the Marriot -- and there'd been a problem because she'd brought her pets into the hotel and so forth. Wilma Lee is in her 80s, and travels with a caretaker because she had a stroke and and and... Claire's last nerve was worked.

I was certainly eager to meet Wilma Lee Cooper, who I've loved since childhood (her's is the last name mentioned in John Hartford's amazing "Tater Tate and Allen Mundy"). Becky asked if I'd go up and soften her up by being fanboy. I assured her it wouldn't be a stretch.

We went up, knocked on the door, and Wilma's caretaker greeted us, shushed us, kept us waiting in the hall, let us in the front room and then we waited some more. And then I was asked if I wanted to meet Wilma Lee Cooper. I said of course. And so I was let in, and there was one very bedridden, frail Wilma Lee. She looked nothing like country music queen of the fifties, and Stony and Wilma had big style. She was a nice enough old lady who didn't understand why everyone was making this fuss. She told me I was handsome and sweet to be a fan.

I got outta there fast. It was sad. I went back down to the lobby and was introduced to Suzanne (sorry I forgot your last name -- you were sweet) from the local PBS station and the unbelievably named Mona Seghatoleslami, a classical DJ at the local NPR affiliate, and also very sweet. She bought me a book and played Ives' 4th on her radio show for me. That day, we hung out discussing classical music, drinking coffee, and got a sandwich at a local place called Jimmy's (I think).

Wednesday was also when the other presenters arrived, among them Cowboy Jack Clement (who I'd spent time with before), Meadowlark Lemon, the Whites, and -- ohmyfuckingod --Peter Rowan. There was a meet and greet in the cocktail lounge, and I sat with Cowboy mostly. Mona showed up and she asked me who Cowboy was, and Fanboy rematerialized.

Ann Magnusson was hosting the TV show, and she and I hadn't seen one another in years. We spoke a bit at the meet and greet, and she volunteered to show me around the next day.

I spent Halloween on a train to Tucson, AZ from Union Station, Los Angeles. Out of some sort of spiritual deference to Steve Earle, I took the Texas Eagle. It was not right on time (it never is), and two guys fresh outta jail met up with a white trash princess from 29 Palms who swore she could out party any guy who'd been in the can. Ten hours of my life I'll never get back, I'd say.

The quality clientele on the Amtrak made me nostalgiac for the Greyhound bus.

Keith Pawlak met my train in Tucson, and we set about discussing the program that was to happen Monday night -- his student ensemble playing first the music of Les Baxter (with Keith conducting) and then Robert Drasnin (with ob conducting and Keith playing vibraphone). I was playing guitar in the second half as well as saying a few words to put the music in a context with Les's. Jeff Chenault's boots were on the ground, so he gave the Les Baxter talk.

The student ensemble had things pretty well dialed in. Mind you, there's a lot about exotica that requires a sort of inner jukebox that college kids are only working up to, and there are a lot of tricks you have to pull to get the music just so, and these tricks only come with muscle memory. That said, they pulled the train admirably.

I'm looking forward to hearing the speech I gave. It got laughs. And Bob conducted really well. The ensemble got some grooves on, and the singer was excellent and a half.

I enjoy Tucson. Me, Rob, Lacey, the Typewriter Kid, and a few of us are a good crew to hang out and eat and speak about music, so I got dear pals there. Keith and I have become fellow soldiers in the ongoing battle of presenting this music, so these days I feel like he's such an ally. And Jose-Luis -- thanks for the beautiful guitar.


We left for Charleston, WV on Tuesday morning. Roert Drasnin was being inducted on Thursday into the West Virginia Music Hall of Fame, and I was giving the induction speech. Ah to be getting out of Mccain Country on Election Day. We flew via Houston. It was only afternoon when we touched down, so there was no real news. Bob and I were both tense. The thought of another Republican at the helm was not happy. Houston was a shockingly apolitical stop. Then again, the state that gave us Bush 43 might not be in a hurry to state its case just now. Camilla Aiken texted me "Go Obama", and I drank coffee and hoped. I called my dad to see if any returns were in, but he didn't know yet.

We boarded a Continental puddlejumper from Houston to Charlie West (aka Charleston, WestbyGodVirginia) and sat for what seemed like an eternity. Part of me wanted to sob, just in case the worst happened. It was a rough couple of hours.

I turned on my phone as we arrived late in the evening, and everything happened so fast. I called Camilla, and she said, "If Brooklyn means anything, he's gotta win. He's gotta."

I called my dad and got my mom. She said she was pretty sure. My sister called next. She was pretty sure too. The Hall of Fame had sent out a terrific fella named Bill -- a sort of ruralized Ted Gerike -- to pick us up at the airport. He offered to take us to the American Legion Hall. The Drasnin's just wanted to go to the hotel and crash, so I told Bill to take them to check in and I'd join him and we'd go to the American Legion, where Michael Lipton -- who runs the Hall of Fame with Clare Finly -- was with a group of friends watching the whole thing on a big screen TV.

I got there just as McCain was giving his concession speech. I was in a room full of strangers who were my fellow soldiers in putting the Long National Nightmare behind us. Everyone was close personal friends at that moment.

Michael Drasnin (Bob's son) showed up at the American Legion midway through McCain's speech and joined in the very considerable revelry. Michael [Lipton] filled me in on Steve Ferguson's condition, and we kicked back like a couple of old buddies in a room full of my oldest friends whom I'd never met.

When we finally broke away from the TV, Bill drove Michael and I back to the hotel, and I stayed up all night watching MSNBC.

My bassist, Paul Eckman, loaned me OSWALD'S TALE, Norman Mailer's bio of Lee Harvey Oswald. It makes a guy realize: You need neither the wit of Mencken nor the charm of Brian Williams to make history. All you need is to be a big enough asshole to shoot an important person.

In the next few years, someone will remake ALL THE KING'S MEN. But instead of the main character being sculpted in the image of Huey Long, the model will be Sarah Palin. Either way, Broderick Crawford can still play the title role.

Phil Alvin is a really nice, sweet person. But he hates Frank Sinatra, and that's just WRONG.

Inglewood is on pins and needles about the election. People on the bus -- 60% of whom are wearing Obama shirts and/or buttons -- remind each other to vote. It's like the night before New Year's Eve. God help Los Angeles if anything smells fishy around the voting machines. DO NOT TOY WITH HOPE. THE CONSEQUENCES WILL BE DIRE.

I am convinced that "Shopping For Clothes" by the Coasters is one of the greatest records ever. Last night, I was helping the aforementioned Phil move some dirt around in his backyard (COOL HAND LUKE comes to Downey, CA), and we -- me, Phil, and Phil's buddy Michael -- were listening to Phil's mp3's through speakers in the backyard as we picked and shoveled, and the opening of "Shopping For Clothes" came on. We all just stopped and stared at the speakers, as if they were bursting into song. A great record production makes you stare at the speakers.

(I was going to make another Sarah Palin joke about shopping for clothes, but I don't want to cheapen my love for the Coasters.)

Finally, there is this weekend. The amazing Robert Drasnin (with me in tow) at University of Arizona, performing selections from each of the two VOODOO records. This is Bob's last performance, and -- if you're within striking distance of Tucson -- it is not to be missed. Please come and celebrate a national treasure.

Here in Inglewood, John McCain is vilified. It's not his fault. He's just running against Obama, the most undeniable star since... Bill Clinton?

Damn right.

There are Obama signs in every front yard here. A trip on the 210 bus (Crenshaw) gets you up close and personal with dozens of Obama t-shirts. Bootleggers sell Obama t-shirts on the subway. Calling the candidate a rock star is minimizing his impact. He's Ali. He's the Beatles. He's Chaplin. And he plays in Inglewood really well.

I watched Colin Powell's endorsement of Barack on Meet The Press on Sunday morning, and it was like... well, the old boss gave it up to the new boss. It was less "the old black guy gives it up to the new black guy" than it was the insight of a guy who had seen all kinds of change and knows a new type of progress when he sees it.

As Powell was on NBC (on MTP), there was a roundtable on the ABC Sunday show, This Week With George Stephanopolous, that included the Republican I admire more than any other, David Gergen. And when Gergen was asked what he thought McCain's best strategy was, he said McCain should just play the happy warrior so that he could maybe NOT hurt Republicans in down-ticket races. And Gergen's praise -- just a few weeks ago, in fact -- for McCain personally was glowing. Now he was telling McCain to lose gracefully.

McCain lost the faith of Powell and Gergen, two of the most venerated Republicans. Admired by insiders on both sides of the aisle. This must have been the worst Sunday morning of McCain's political career.

This leaves McCain with... Sarah Palin.

Now, I don't generally hate public servants. Public service is a hard gig, and I admire anyone who goes knowingly into that fishbowl with the thought that he or she can make the world better. But I can't stand that woman. Her voice makes me nostalgic for Yoko Ono solo albums. As for her attitude, some comedian said she's less qualified to be VP than she is to be Grand Dragon (of the KKK). Sounds right. I don't think she could play Inglewood. Then again, it's not one of those "Real America" places.

Neither is -- by her definition -- Philadelphia, where my father went on strike so he could make a living wage to support us, where my mother became a librarian and never caved to people censoring or banning books, where my grandmother was a union seamstress in a sweater factory.

To this dizzy bitch, an "elite" is anyone who aspires to read, travel, think.

John McCain used to be the kind of guy you could go to for insight (even if you didn't agree with his view). Now, he's a name-calling fool who has left his own considerable brains and dignity -- watch Eugene Jarecki's brilliant doc WHY WE FIGHT -- in the gutter. Which is sad.

(How that guy sank to the point of hiring Sarah Palin... sad.)

This was supposed to be McCain's moment. He's made a life of public service, been savaged by people whose asses he had to kiss to stay in the game etc. And out of nowhere comes a whole new kind of opponent. It has to hurt. And, unlike Nixon living out his political de-pantsing in relative seclusion in San Clemente, John McCain is shrinking before our very eyes, every day. And he will be to presidential politics what Primo Carnera was to boxing.

(Carnera was the first white guy to get in the ring with Joe Louis. And I don't have to remind anyone who Joe Louis was. But Carnera -- a very well-known cat with a VERY interesting story -- is nowhere to be found in the contemporary lexicon).

This being said, I'd like to forget I ever knew about John McCain, because nobody wants to remember a fall from grace so terrible.

He'll never eat lunch in Inglewood again.

Jeez, what a boring debate. It was like watching cheese harden.

I'm house-sitting for some very dear friends in Inglewood, which is the town you always pass through on any shuttle you take out of LAX that goes north. By public transit, it's 40 minutes to Hollywood (add another 15 - 20 for the train to the Valley).

I've never spent all that much time here. Played a few gigs around here (Inglewood, Watts, Leimert Park) with Big Jay McNeely and/or Jennell Hawkins. Years ago, and at night, so I never got up close to the place.

It's old and gorgeous. Really nice, neat houses, and a spread of residences and commerce that spread out from a kind of Y-shape between Crenshaw and Manchester. When Art Fein drove me down here, our eyes popped. It's the nicest place I've ever lived. It reminds me of 48th Street in Philadelphia, that row from Baltimore Ave up to about Spruce, except there's more of it, and the houses are most one storey each. Also, unlike 48th St, I'm the youngest person I've seen on this block.

I have no television. I watch movies on the laptop, and I've been reading a zillion political blogs and listening to podcasts. I think I've fallen in love with Diablo Cody. I finally saw JUNO and it floored me, and I've been reading her blog. She's just amazing -- fast, funny, charming, unapologetic. And sexy.

My new hobby is going down to the Big Lots store (kind of the next step up from the 99 Cent store, for those of you not in CA) and looking through all the various stuff.

Now, this is a mostly black neighborhood, so I'm pretty sure that nobody is buying the $3 DVDs at the Big Lots in Inglewood. There's A MIGHTY WIND, BUCKET OF BLOOD, a bunch of Errol Morris, and ART SCHOOL CONFIDENTIAL. If this were Silverlake, there'd be a run on the place. Maybe the Kung Fu movies are in the Encino store. Who can tell?

Also, there's all this heavy, starchy food that can't possibly be good for you. Off varieties of frosted mini-wheats (vanilla with toast oat something or other), graham crackers, Pop Tarts, and other commercial experiments gone awry.

I bought a bunch of houseware stuff, Java Pop coffee soda,and some diet red licorice. I've started to get a little doughy in the middle from not running (the gas heat doesn't come on until Friday, so the shower water is too cold, and that's pure terror after a run), so diet candy is the only candy for now.

There's no Trader Joe's nearby, and all the take-out food is fried chicken or fast food. I've got to be careful about this stuff, because my two favorite food groups are breaded and fried. Also, there's no Starbucks to walk to, so I make my own coffee. There are eight soul food places within walking distance.

After living again in the Valley, Inglewood is a Philly-styled change back to knowing your neighbors (mine is a retired nurse named Flo), to a whole range of people who take the bus (ah, my people), to a more usual urban setting with everything I love about Southern California.

Hey howdy everyone. It's Friday night in the San Fernando Valley. Do you know where your hair metal is?

First, we'll be pretty busy through September. We got one at Rock'n'Roll Pizza and two at Narducci's (I think our home base is actually Bakersfield at this point), and we start the month on this Monday at the Dog & Pony Show at Safari Sam's, at the bottom of the bill. Shit, we're the fine print. We're the first band on (3pm, a time slot only your friends can deal with), but D&PS is basically an event that has much to do with the memory of my friend -- and the Trio's drummer, Dale Daniel's former bandmate in the Hacienda Brothers -- Chris Gaffney, and it's nice to play in his memory. The Blasters headline that night, and Phil Alvin is still the greatest singer in life, plus the classic Bateman/Bazz rhythm section has been reconvened.

Secondly, we've made a bunch of progress on the trio record -- it's about half done -- be all new originals and a cover of the old Civil War song "Daisy Dean" (which I learned off a Grandpa Jones record). We started doing demos at Paul's rehearsal place, but they're turning out well. So it looks like I'll bring those up to this cool little place I know about in Bakersfield for overdubs and mixing. In addition to me, Paul, Dale, and Tom, DJ Bonebrake, Ashley Deekus, and Ralph Carney have each agreed to participate.

By the way, the guitars are my Foggy Mountain Mason Williams concert model (electric nylon string), a Foggy Mountain parlor guitar, and my trusted Alvarez dread. NO ELECTRIC INSTRUMENTS ON THIS RECORD AT ALL.

Well, it was Tiki Oasis 2008 this weekend, and I'm pleased to report on it. First, it was a blast to see everyone from Sven Tiki to all the burlesque gals to Otto & Baby Doe to Rob Endicott to... Well, everyone who was anyone was there. And many of you went a little crazy on the free rum. I was sober, had my cell phone/spy camera, and have pictures of some of y'all that will likely end several marriages.

(Get in touch, and be warned that I intend to quit my day job using blood money generated from these pictures.)

I drove down to San Diego from LA with my pal Jeff Chenault, in from Ohio for the occasion. I got right to rehearsal to play the music of Robert Drasnin, rehearsed, then watched people check into the hotel. It was the only event I've ever attended where "the guy in the fez" was not a specific enough description of who you might be looking for. Lotsa Hawaaiin shiirts and t-shirts from various tiki bars. I was dressed like... I was dressed like a guy who spends a little time in Bakersfield honky-tonks.

The Thursday night meet and greet should have given me an indication as to how insane things were gonna get. People got drunk early. Blouses came off. Tiki-inspired breast-baring ensued. Call it an offering to the pagan gods. Or maybe it's just what happens after a woman has heard thirty-five fucking versions of "Quiet [Fucking] Village" in less than three hours and forgive me Les Baxter for complaining, but that's a lot of village in any context.

(For the record: The males at the Oasis concluded that THE RACK THAT WON THE WEEKEND was on the girl topless go-go dancing with a hula hoop to the excellent Vegas surf band Three Suave Bastards, who played a fantastic unbilled set in a room on the 8th floor before hotel security gave into noise complaints.)

I got to play in the Robert Drasnin Orchestra, which was about a dozen people under Bob's own baton doing an assortment of his wonderful compositions from the two VOODOO albums, the first volume of which I produced the reissue of, the second of which I produced the actual sessions. But I never got to play the stuff. There aren't really guitar parts. But for this performance, Bob wanted to concentrate more on conducting and less on the peripherals of performance, so I came on board as guitarist/assistant honcho/liason to the soundman, and was truly overjoyed. I got to play with some really excellent musicians with whom I had no previous acquaintance, and -- gulp -- I got to join the ranks of the Drasnin sidemen (and sidewomen). n soundcheck, a tiki burlesque girl from New Orleans gave me a black plastic lei, Rob Endicott gace me one made out of flowers and little sponge rubber skulls, and someone gave me a little tiki pendant, so I wore those with a white cowboy shirt.

Now, I know Bob really well, we've certainly played together enough, and I've certainly seen him conduct, but this time, I was sitting up front, right under his baton, and I was literally thinking to myself several times, "Wow -- he's REALLY good."

The crowd -- which was big and intoxicated by music and drink -- was just wonderful. It was gratifying to see VOODOO played really well for exactly the right audience under Bob Drasnin's own hands. Kind of a big moment for me, to hear it from the middle of the stage, to be part of this big, lush sound, and to be doing it for Bob with Lee and Otto, just like when my whole California adventure started.