My last band photo

This is the last known photo of my first "unofficial band."

We sang in the forest and God allowed our voices to reach into the brotherhood, where we listened, grew, made promises in the flesh and heard him singing the high tenor part we never knew existed, as the high lonesome sound of life rushed in.

It was beautiful and heartbreaking and all the hummingbirds in the forest took pause and smiled.

Two years with a Greyhound

In has been two years since Tiger Jack Burke has taken up permanent residence in my home. Many things have happened in these seven hundred and thirty days, so I have decided to share some of the highlights.

Times he has bitten the mailman; zero. Times he has barked at the mailman; zero.

Times he has barked at me; only a couple. Times I’ve deserved it; probably more than a few.

We have walked close to 2200 miles (average 3 per day) and during those walks he has alternated lifting one of his back legs approximately 14,500 times to mark his territory.

His precise aim and prowess as a powerful pee-er made sure the fire hydrant two houses down opened easily after being rusted shut. This helped the Fire Department douse a house fire in June of 2012. 

He has had close to four thousand pictures taken of himself.

He has consumed about 500 cans of sardines, stolen two raw steaks from the cutting board and hidden three sox somewhere in the house while leaving me with three identical ones in my dresser. 

He has caught small footballs I have fired around the yard with a hockey stick approximately 20,000 times and saved my life (and his and Needa’s) by stubbornly insisting we took a different route during our evening walk on Feb 27, 2013 when a gas leak caused a house to explode on the route we walked every evening without fail.

He has made humans at the dog park go “wow!” on at least 25 different occasions as they’ve watched him accelerate from a standstill to about 40 MPH in five or six strides.

He has caused people to pull over to the side of the road on more occasions than I can recall, approach us and ask what kind of dog he was and if he was a “rescue.”

“His name is Tiger Jack Burke and he was named after a popular wrestler from the 1920’s,” I tell people. “And I didn’t rescue him; he rescued me.”

He has also become the loving companion to Anita Wood (Needa) since November 2012 TLA.

He has been voluntarily pulled out of his evening slumber and found his way to me as I’ve written teary Emails to friends who have just lost their dog. His head on my lap without saying a word tells me he gets it.

He has had a seventy nine pound brindle ball of sweetness follow him everywhere he goes with her cute puppy dog ways, prancing in smitten, adoring shyness.

You may not believe this, but last night as I was composing this, he woke from an evening nap, came to the threshold of my office door and looked at me like “uhh, did you forget what day it was?”  A “Swear to God statement” here folks. . .I explained to Needa what the special day was; the anniversary of Jack’s new life. All dolled up with a fresh brushing, she strolled over and nudged Jack as they looked out the window pondering life together and then she did something I have never seen her do before. She licked him three times on the side of his face, just like Snoopy laying it on thick with Lucy. 

After two years, the manners he had during his first month with me have been as elusive as one dollar gasoline. He still pushes Needa out of the way coming and going through doors and in and out of cars. But she takes it in stride. Sometimes he even thinks he’s the boss of me.

Many people move to Florida when they retire but he did the opposite. Here he has soaked his feet in pristine Upper Peninsula lakes, strolled the beaches in Wisconsin and has run in the farm lands like a world class thoroughbred.

He has poked my bee-hind with his nose at least 200 times when my morning walk from the bedroom to the kitchen wasn’t fast enough for him.

He has received one credit card offer in the mail. . .which I did not let him have.

He has provided more laughs than a stack of comic books with his antics around the house and as we look to the future with his lovely companion Needa, one thing is for sure.  When you let a dog into your home, they let you into their heart. And that is a pretty good thing.

Remembering Mary Lee May

Every once in a while we come across people who we know will be part of our lives forever. This is true even after they are gone; proof that the heart doesn’t lie.

I am blessed to have such a wonderful sister, Debbie, but I was also blessed by having a second one named Mary Lee. I was “stuck” with my sister, but Mary Lee May Radja was one I chose. (sorry Deb)

We lost her one year ago today. She had been ill for some time, yet nothing could prepare us for when the time came. This is always the case.

Mary Lee May was born in Lombard, Illinois and was 5 years older than me. We grew up together at the family cabin in the Upper Peninsula and spent time at our summer cottage in Wisconsin, as well as making family trips back and forth from Royal Oak to Lombard.

When she was born she was a doll; quite literally because she was so small she had to wear doll clothes. But being tiny allowed her to grow up quickly and she had a personality larger than life. Once a neighborhood bully was picking on her brother Norman and Mary Lee. . .three foot nothing, stepped in with her hands on her hips and said “quit picking on my brother!” It was then that “Little Joe Stranger” was born, modeled after her favorite character on Bonanza. After that display only a few brave souls dared to mess with her.

She had a “can-do” attitude that went with her everywhere in life and she took things on with confidence even if she wasn’t right. . .like when she confidently stated that there were 52 states in American “just like a deck of cards.” Or on her first day as a tour guide in Arizona when she told people they’d be leaving Phoenix and arriving in a place called “Tuscan” (Tucson)

She worked at George Mason University and I’ve always told people that she was responsible for their Cinderella year in the NCAA tournament a few years ago. Whether she was or not, she was a well-loved fixture around there; always eager to help students.

She expressed her love of life with robust laughter and taught me about important people. . .like Bobby Sherman, Donny Osmond and the Osmond brothers, Elton John and more. She also taught me important lessons, like “one bad apple don’t spoil the whole bunch girl.”

She invented a nickname that has stuck with me my entire life that many people outside of my family do not know, but will be divulged here for the first time. During an overzealous lunch at the family table in the cabin one summer, I took the art of sandwich making a little too far for an 8 year old and in an instant the name “Jellyface” was born. Too bad we don’t have pictures, but enough said about that one.

Perhaps her greatest accomplishment (and risk) was sharing her husband Greg with our family. He quickly became part of ours and we are so fortunate to have, love and know him. When they got married their wedding theme was the carpenters “we’ve only just begun” but we joked that Greg’s theme was more like “mission impossible.” Her mother gave Greg an industrial size bottle of aspirin as a wedding gift, though rumor has it he didn’t need them as much as she thought he would.

She excelled at laughter and making us laugh. We loved her, she loved us and we let each other know as much as we could, though its days like this that make me wish we had said it more often.

I miss you Lee Head.

The Guy in the Back Row with the Bike

I am grateful that I was invited to the Garden City Public Library last night to talk about my new book. There was a small crowd but they were fantastic (you know, as library crowds go, I mean with all the shushing that is always imposed on them and all.)   One lady gave me a $10 tip on her book purchase despite my resistance. But after calculating the pothole damage I incurred on the way there, I stuffed it in my pocket and smiled.

Everybody there left with a book except for the guy in the back row wearing the baseball cap.  He stuck out. After I saw him leave the library I followed him. I knew I had one more sale to make.

He had a good lead on me by the time I pulled out of the parking lot. It was past dark and his rear reflectors faded quickly.  The streets were terrible with the ice and snow. Once I caught up to him, he slowed down and moved to the side of the road.  I pulled past him, stopped and waited. Then I got out of my Jeep. 

“Wasn’t it you who was in the back row?” I asked.  

“Yes” he replied.

“This is for you. Thanks for coming to see me,” I said.

I don't know how far away his "home" was or if he even had one. He had a rolled sleeping bag on top of his backpack and another large bag full of belongings that rattled.  But he was kind; he didn't really look or act the part of what most people might perceive him to be.  I wondered if it was because he had it “down pat” or because that was the only way of life he had known for so long that even he could not believe and had no other choice but to accept what life had given him. 

Sometimes good luck and bad luck are the same thing.

 
I don't know his name, I'll probably never know his name, but I'll never forget him.

Determining the Price of our Souls

I’ve had the pleasure of having a ringside seat in Stewart Francke’s career. As he gets set to release his 14th full length release I cannot help but marvel at the incredible amount and quality of work he has assembled over the years. I have never been disappointed in any of his records, though I must confess after hearing his latest, “A Familiar Fire” it did not meet my expectations.

It exceeded them.

It’s not often that I get to toot my own horn about my brushes with greatness and delicate geniuses (one of my many jocular nicknames for him) but after being blown away in the early 90’s by three cassette only releases, it was me who got him out of retirement in 1995 to make his first “real record.” The rest has been a body of work that has only become stronger with time as he has done what very few songwriters can do; compose and perform in several different styles, combining Motown, Bob Seger, Springsteen, Brian Wilson, Marvin Gay, Van Morrison and a little bit of Sondheim to round things out.

His first recordings were really nothing more than 4 track demos, but they embodied a sound and vision of a learned young man living life on rock and roll’s terms. Once he started making records and devoting himself full time to his art, he no longer had to make excuses or explain what he was really trying to say with his songs because their musical and lyrical prowess spoke for itself.

Early in his career Francke was taken under the wing of Boogie Bob Baldori, who was playing with Chuck Berry. He called Francke to play bass on some of Chuck’s gigs as a teenager and was schooled in Rock and Roll. Many people may not know this but Stewart is always writing music and constantly drawing on influences like those days playing with Berry. There are a lot of songs that have never been released while others have stuck with him and morphed into something else over the years. I always tell people that Stewart is one of the few people who is constantly ripping himself off musically and is not afraid to borrow a line, phrase, chorus or verse of a previous song and reinvent it. The opening song “Wave” on his new record is proof.

Through the years I’ve heard rough mixes over the phone, bits and pieces of songs played on piano or guitar in his living room or in mine as they were being written. Each one of them would leave me wanting more. In addition to the hundreds of live performances, I’ve been with him for long nights at the studio, in our homes, or on the phone talking about something important even when the talking doesn’t come easy.

The most recent example of this was being parked in my driveway listening to the final mixes of the new record earlier this week in the middle of the worst snow and frigid temps to hit Michigan in 20 years.

On this record Stewart returns to the sparse instrumentation of his earlier recordings (Where the River Meets the Bay and Expecting Heroes) and he recorded many of the guitar and bass parts himself. Co-Producer B. Rilley did a great job of putting the vocals to these poignant narratives up front in the mixes so nobody will miss a word; and you won’t want to. His voice is clean yet rugged; strong and honest and these new songs will stir your soul.

Unlike so many of his contemporaries, Francke has never been a songwriter who cheapens things like faith and love with thin, fluffy words for the sake of a perfect rhyme. There are no clichés and no fan is ever cheated when they shell out their $15 for a CD.

"Starlings gather in the yard the way they always do when they feel a storm is breaking
Darling this is very hard, that you & I are through, and I fear my soul is aching
I’m getting to know this loneliness. . .I guess."

-From “Love’s Very Marrow”

His story is not woeful, but rather empowering; something the national media could really sink their teeth into but won’t and something the Detroit area music media could sink their teeth into but hasn’t in several years and when they did they only gave us a taste. That’s the sad price we pay when editors are beholden to Kid Rock, Eminem. Jack White, ICP or whatever the new sound of the day may be. The people I just mentioned may have the numbers of Hollywood stars in their I-phone, but how many of them have Bruce Springsteen as a fan? Springsteen recorded with Francke on his record “Heartless World” in 2011 and it was virtually ignored by AAA radio and the Detroit media.

Stewart was an ambassador of Detroit music long before most of today’s Detroit stars were making music. He reunited the legendary Funk Brothers for their first recording session in decades (recording his music) back in 2004 after the release of the movie “Standing in the Shadows of Motown,” but has remained largely shut out of the Detroit Music Awards for years. I guess that happens when you’re not young enough or hip enough or don’t have enough “likes” on facebook. . .so much for possessing artistic acumen.

But for Francke, it’s not about awards and it never has been. It’s about the connection with his audience; one that has grown with him over the years and remained steadfast amid the clutter of people who have suddenly become musicians with drum loops, ephemeral writing and free downloads.

There’s a song on the new record called “Raining in Saginaw” which to me is more about the spirit of Detroit than it is the city by the bay. Let’s hope someone in the Michigan media picks up on it because Detroit could use something beautiful and uplifting about now. All the songs that make up “A Familiar Fire” have heart, guts and significance. They present something courageous and dare I say, “Poetic.” But they are not just a bunch of pretty ballads where “love” rhymes with “of” and “from the heart” rhymes with “from the start” like we’ve heard a thousand times on the radio. They possess something greater, which is the ability to change the way we think; which ultimately leads to how we accept this world and how the world accepts us. Within the songs are the secrets about how we live, what we keep, give away and the amount of grace we maintain when we lose.

"Now you say you’ve lost your faith;
You say you’ve lost love for the human race
You’ve had too much to carry and grief too large to bury
Suzanne this town is hard but you've gotta play your card
Your beauty's your lock and key; it still can set you free."

-From “Wave”

Francke weaves beautiful and unpredictable melodies that soar with story lines that go head to head with some of the great songwriters of our generation. They are created for the people who have followed him on his journey and allowed their journey’s to include him. He may not have moved units like Eminem, Kid Rock or the White Stripes, but instead he gives you something you can hold onto in this beautiful, messy and often slippery world.

"We are not what we were when but I’ve got this feeling that we’ll feel that way again.
Kiss me and I’ll whisper to ya what I’ve learned
Oh it’s nothing next to what I’ve burned."

–From “The Pylons”

Stewart Francke is one of Detroit’s most reliable gems and with each new record his story becomes fuller, richer and more deserving of wider recognition. Through his music he tosses questions into the wind that most people are afraid to ask, much less answer with honesty. And though some answers are implied, you’re going to have to discover that implication for yourself when the record comes out sometime in March.

Francke would not ask us to follow him into the pain-filled, joyful and mysterious places he’s been without first returning from them himself. “A Familiar Fire” is proof that he has.

January 2, 2014

My house is small by Royal Oak standards, but I love it.  It was built in 1922, has a subtle old Royal Oak charm to it and Jack and Needa have no problem stretching their legs in the yard. I also like my neighborhood. My goal is to have homes, cottages or cabins in four different places but first I need success and a woman standing next to me who can replace the shocked look on her face with her smile.

Yesterday we had a significant amount of snow. Much of it was shoveled away from driveways and sidewalks, but today’s blowing, drifting and additional accumulation made it reappear as people came back home and found it had moved. Not fair.

Since last night through today I’ve seen neighbors clearing snow for other neighbors, a resident using his own truck and plow to clear a path for someone stuck and other neighbors thanking him for his selfless act. This is the world I want to live in.

I love my neighborhood. Five miles south of me people are killed for no reason. In mine, we face the same wind but don’t shoot each other. I'll stay here as long as I can.

Days That Suck and Days That Don't

I’ve had a cold since last week. The origin of it has been narrowed down to my own belief of how germs are transmitted.  It has wreaked havoc on me for the last 4 days causing a considerable amount of suck.  I don’t like to dwell on “sucky things.”

In late September I walked into a restaurant/gift shop in Paradise, MI., owned by a sweet, lovely, elderly woman. She purchased several copies of my book for her gift shop.  I called her today to see if she wanted additional copies. Before we could get to business she told me that after I left she took one of my books home and read it to her husband, who has been bedridden for a long time. She told me they were thrilled with what I’ve done. She ordered more and did not hesitate in wishing me a Merry Christmas. 
I also got an email from someone I used to work with who had this to say.

"Mason Williams, the composer and perhaps holder of a discomforting case or two of Classical Gas, took full-size photos of a Greyhound Bus. Smaller buses were spun-off and resulted in a fleet of used, but highly viable, Greyhound dogs. Congrats to you for adopting two such critters whom we are sure are truly loved and well fed. My wife is thrilled to have received your latest and beautifully assembled book of tales and tails of the northern reaches and beaches (a lack of sleep has enhanced my wittiness). We are enjoying the colder climes and the absence of neighbors we will never miss. Our harpsichord celebrated its 10th anniversary and wonders when our dwindling array of kittens will tickle the keys. Wishing you the best, write soon and often.”

I can’t make this stuff up. Thank you everyone who believes in what I am doing.

As you send good wishes and cards this season, consider sending one to them:

Shiri and Carl Clark
Berry Patch Gifts & Bakery
8234 N. M-123
Paradise, MI 49768