When you think of Anaheim CA you probably think of Tinker Bell on the Matterhorn, but I think of Guitars and Porn.
The annual NAMM show was just a week or so ago and I made the scene thanks to passes from the wonderful folks at Line6.

It’s no mystery that there are more male musicians than women.
Even more who actually play an instrument, and even more still who play that instrument at a virtuosic level in Rock n Roll. So I was not surprised by the sex ratio in attendance.
What did catch my attention were the other women there and how they allowed themselves to be regarded by their potential peers, fans, customers, partners and mates.

At the Daisy Rock booth I saw some cute tweens pink and sparkly in holy jeans and black nail polish amid colorful and unashamedly girly guitars. I get it, female empowerment though glitter, works for me but this was the ONLY booth where I saw a female endorser signing autographs and taking pictures.

Next I saw some dutiful Birkenstock wearing, and forgive me for saying it, “Frumpy” gals who either don’t care, or don’t care anymore (which I support either way) trailing behind their eager partners pulling them off to yet another Ukelele booth. And man I think the Ukes were breeding down there on the third floor!
Then more various types, Chinese saleswomen cutting through the crowds of black T-Shirts and Glen Danzigs, and some probable musicians in the form of garden variety Renaissance Faire Stevie Nicks types and an occasional Riot Grrrl as well.

But then, I see what can only be described as well…. porn stars, like sexual neon frighteningly reminding me of blow up dolls in their obviously awkward relationship to the tools of (or at) this trade show.
Some look a bit more WWF, and some look decidedly more fetish but Porn Star looks none the less.
(I was informed that the female version of the now called WWE is called GLOW, silly me, the things you don’t learn when you abandon mainstream TV)
Some were wives or girlfriends, but most of these porn types were actually show models.
I’m guessing most were not actual adult entertainers because the porn look, in Los Angeles at least, is ubiquitous and they all can’t be professionals can they?

Assembled with usually white cotton candy hair, tattoos only a mother can love, spray tans as orange as clementines and hooker heels these living ornaments have gone with Rock n Roll for as long as Rock n Roll has been around, each era having it’s own flavor of course. But don’t be fooled, these women were not groupies.
They did not appear to offer the adulation of fan to an artist, or muse to creator, these women were window dressing, or undressing in this case ….

Some of these ladies may have been musicians, but in this context they were accessories.
The women who seemed to be musicians dressed more, well…manly.
This brings to stark relief the unconscious conditioning I suspect we all share that men are musicians and women are rewards or trophies.
I can not count how many men did not introduce themselves to me while shaking the hand of my counterpart, Christian Nesmith, although in their defense I was greeted with many a smile.
But your average Rock n Roller who says he got into music without ever giving thought to sex is probably lying. And there’s nothing wrong with that as far as I’m concerned, but once puberty passes some actually realize music is a sublime language bearing a deeper potential then purely as an aphrodisiac.

Now lest you think I think I’m above all this, I’m not. I wore what I call my sensible heels because they have closed toes and are only about four inches high and a tight skirt. I had hoped to be appealing yes, but classy. But next to the porn star types however I felt like a Kir Royal in a room of cheap Tequila shots.
I’m not condescending here, I really felt sad for my sisters and fellow musicians.
And I’m not asking if we should ban T&A at NAMM, or for a solution to this gender imbalance, or if any of this is right or wrong.
I am asking did those tweens, on the way to the Daisy Rock booth, passing all that human eye candy displayed next to instruments but not playing them still want to pick up a guitar?

I’ve been told I have great legs, a nice ass and beautiful hair.
I have been relatively blessed as far as my looks are concerned, thank you baby cheesus. But let me ask you a question by way of this story…

Recently I got asked by a fellow musician to do a video interview.
Cool I think, I can use all the promo I can get.
But wait, hold on there Ms. Giant Ego, he wants me to interview his band. Hu?

I ask him “Why me”? He says, after some uncomfortable pauses, it’s “..because you’re a, a ham, ya know like onstage”. A ham, me… really?
Now for those of you who don’t know I often refer to myself as a reluctant performer, because how else can a poet really get their stuff read I ask you?
Seriously, the bliss of songwriting far out weighs the spotlight for this kid.
But after about a year of crying post gig this Monster has created a Doctor Frankenstein. Which is my way of saying I quite dig it now. But I digress….

So I go to do the interview, and I have to be honest I am a little resistant and rather bitchy when I arrive. But a few minutes in darned if I don’t start feeling sorry for my fellow artists once the camera is on.
To keep with my Frankenstein  metaphor, they seem about as uncomfortable as a creature poked with torches and pitchforks.
And after a few questions, a few cheesy shots of me holding their new CD like a toothpaste model (which they agreed not to use…yes that’s how vain I am) I again ask …”Uh why me”?

With a chagrined look I hear “Well, I didn’t want to say, but it’s because of your looks.” to which I responded “I know THAT!” But that’s it? I was the costume?
A human form of prestidigitation? A little sexual misdirection? Old as the hills and all the advertising companies who place billboards on them?
(See Bill Hicks for thoughts on the profession of advertising.)

So I’ve taken the long way to talk about Theatre, Costume, Drama, and Spectacle.

From the master of visual reinvention, David Bowie (I heart) to the curious stylings of Lady Gaga I wonder how much of that does an audience want from a musician?
Or better yet how much of that do you need to be successful today?

Last year we did a Halloween gig where I dressed up as The Diva of the Dead where my band allowed me to paint them up like ghouls. After the show we were overwhelmed with responses that I can only attribute to the costumes because well, we did look great!

But should an artist cultivate a style, a theme, or a character? Again, is it a requirement in order to stand out in the throngs of torn jeans and band t-shirts?
I suspect genre is a factor here ’cause I don’t see too many Americana, or Jazz groups sporting tutu’s and face paint.
But then again, consider the amazingly talented and lovely Lynda Kay, whose hair is the height of show grabbing glitz!

And while I’m comfortable with my Elizabeth Montgomery Bewitched cartoon look, I wonder am I destined to return to the Diva of The Dead?

How did I end up sitting in with the wonderful legend you ask?
A while back, after we met through mutual friends, Commander Cody asked me if I would like to sing a duet with him on his next record. That record has since been released and now titled Dopers Drunks and Every Day Losers and the song I sang on is called Seeds and Stems.

Some of you may recall that Commander Cody and His Lost Planet Airmen had a little hit in the 1970′s called Hot Rod Lincoln, but if you aren’t familiar with it or him I suggest you give it a go, you won’t be disappointed.

The song Seeds and Stems that The Commander used perform with Nicolette Larson, but they were never able to record it properly before she passed away, sadly much too soon for her time.
So you can guess I was flattered and tickled to attempt to fill such big shoes and be involved with such a legend as Commander Cody.

The song came out great and ever since tracking it we had hoped to have me join in for a live rendition.
So finally the cosmos converged and up to San Francisco I went. What a time we had!
There is rumor of a video in the works, stay tuned and I’ll keep ya posted!

Check out all the photos under the Gallery tab and enjoy.

Ok that is just not true. I have seen some incredibly artful tits in full color.
But I got you to read the first line, and that’s the point I’d like to make.
Let me further illustrate with three vignettes:

#1 Blue Ball Eyed Soul
A while ago I was at The Grand Ole Echo, one of the only clubs I ever go to, and the Americana alt Soul Punk Pop thing the band was laying down was killing. The sardonic salty man tunes, all ironic and snarky drove me right to the merch table. Too bad there was no one there to sell me a record. (#5 Suggestion of How Not to Make Money with Music)
After the band was done I approached the main guy and chatted a bit, then asked where their next gig was. Towering above him, in my very inappropriate heels for this terrain, his sweet blue eyes looked up and he said “INSERT SLEAZY HOLLOWOOD STIP CLUB HERE”
“Really? They have bands now?” Incredulously I asked.
“They are now….” He said with big shit eating grin.

#2 Misdirection Erection
I will burn in hell for this one but the band down there is supposed to rock, so here goes.
I know these two female musicians, who shall remain nameless, and each of them went out and did the very same thing. Each of them made a video to promote a song. Each of them said the same thing when telling me all about it. Neither of them made sense.
“The band had a great time, we ran out of money” they giggled “and the dancers were sooo hot!”
“Dancers! Neat, bring back Fred and Ginger man!” I yell.
“No, not that kind of dancer, you know DANCERS!” Wink wink nudge nudge.

#3 It’s Art Cocky!
So I’m on the phone with a Tom Waits type singer songwriter who wanted some info about touring in Japan. After I gave him my thoughts, ever the networker, I asked if we might share a bill sometime, cross-pollination is good ya know.
“Oh sure, I’ll make that happen sometime (which he never did) but you gotta come check out the next show we’re gonna have topless girls onstage, you won’t want to miss it.”
“Wait…”, me gullible, “What for?”
“It’s Art.” Cocky tells me.

Well peel my fishnets and call me Madonna/Whore what will they think of next?
Sex to sell art, that’s just nutty.
Ok, so I like to go naked as you all may know, but that’s my inner hippie asserting herself.
And I’m not saying showing a little leg won’t help along the way and is a bad thing necessarily.
But employing strippers in these new and various way is beyond me. I thought it was about music. Silly me!

I don’t listen to my own music.
Once it’s done, I don’t fondly go over old songs like worn pictures in a vintage scrapbook. Honestly, I’m more interested in creating something new than reliving the past. That coupled with my overly active creativity makes me a rather prolific songwriter. Hence my sixth full length studio release titled “California Kid”.

On this record I tried, for the love of baby jesus, to stick with one style, call it Roots Rock or Americana if you will. I used to call my style “Cowboy Jazz” and that worked when I had an upright bass player and a Bettie Page pencil skirt, but now it’s anyone’s guess.
I’m not sure if any of you out there agree, but my genre hopping may have limited my “marketability” so I have been told by some industry wigs. Alas, I have yet to come up with a catchy sound bite moniker for the new sound, but rest assured it keeps me up at night…..

The tones, style and approach for this record were along the lines of The Band, Tom Petty, and Derek Trucks and a little Sheryl Crow. Throw my vocal into the mix with some lovely harmonies and hear the results for yourself. Additionally, this record introduces my reformatted band now called ‘Circe Link and The Discount Candy Family Band‘ and includes the stellar bass playing of Jason Chesney from the Los Angeles local buzz band Old Californio, backing vocals by session singer Laura Drew and singer songwriter Debra Tala.

The band name came from conversational scraps that stuck in my flypaper mind, my love of 1970′s cheesy family bands, and the lack of pretension a name like that suggests. We “play” music after all right?
And the name fits pretty darn well if I do say so myself as folks feel a family atmosphere at both our rehearsals and shows.

Fun facts on this record include:
Christian Nesmith on the left speaker and Bart Ryan on the right in all mixes except California Kid so one can hear the wonderful character of each player. Just like on a Judas Priest record. (Yes, I love them still)
Laura Drew’s riotous squeak going into the bridge of Gettin’ High.
Deb Tala’s lilting Texan accent peeking through on Tiger Swami.
Michael Sherwood pondering about 1970′s Legend Barry Gibb.
Christopher “Peanut-butter” Allis and “Chocolate” Jason Chesney’s killing rhythm on every bleeding track.
Oh, and I’m naked on the inside artwork.
The official street release date is September 14th 2010.

The record release will be at The Grand Ole Echo at The Echo on July 25th.
The show will be all ages and FREE!
Please come down and join us for some down home family style fun in a wild west of a town we like to call Los Angeles.

1822 Sunset Blvd. Los Angeles, CA 90026 in downtown Echo Park. Enter through the alley at 1154 Glendale Blvd. Los Angeles CA 90026

Tipping Sacred Cows

IS TOM WAITS THE HIPSTERS ED HARDY?

At the risk of tipping someone’s scared musical cow, I’m telling you now, Tom Waits is becoming the Ed Hardy of songwriting hipsters across Los Angeles. I can’t speak for other cities, but my guess is the franchise is booming elsewhere as well.

Don Ed Hardy, for those of you who don’t know, is a legendary old school tattoo artist who sold his name, and his flash (that’s tattoo speak for art), to “FUTURE LANDFILL PRODUCT” manufacturers thus making him a household name in every landfill.
The mass marketing of his brand has made tepid the “cool” that was once there.
That mass marketing thing has also made it possible for you and me to drink Ed Hardy wine in our Ed Hardy Sneakers while burning Ed Hardy apparel with our Ed Hardy lighters.

Enter Tom Waits.
Now, don’t freak, I know Tom Waits is a genius and deserves all the adulation and acclaim he has achieved.
From “Pasties and a G-Sting” to “Bend Down the Branches”, that guy is about as innovative and cool as you can get. Not to mention his incredibly underrated co-writing wife Kathleen Brennan to whom many of you are negligently ignorant.
Kathleen, so says the dubious Wikipedia, is rumored to have hipped ‘ol Tom to the wonders of Captain Beefheart, which may or may not be true, but you can’t help notice some similarities between the two masters.
And if you don’t know who Captain Beefheart is, you flunked out of cool class before the bell even rang.

However, eavesdrop at just about any songwriter circle and you’re likely to hear people copping Mr. Waits so much that you wonder if they’re paying royalties.
Is some of the fascination with the sound of Tom Waits a ruse for those of us who need a little more practice on our instruments? (Me included) Or could it be a subconscious acquiescence to the outdated and damaging concept that artists have to suffer in order to be real artists – with Tom as the self-made poster boy for smoked-and-drank-one-too-many? Or is it that fallacy dictating all artists have to be “edgy” in order to be authentic? All I know is the beautifully raw, occasionally out of tune, and organic outsider mystique is not something you can put on like a jacket even if you try.

To be sure, I have borrowed a color or two from Tom’s hobo pallet. On pre-production for my record Vonnegut’s Wife, for instance, I asked Lee Ferris for a guitar approach like Marc Ribot on Rain Dogs for certain songs.
But if I hear another artist say they’re going for a Tom Waits vibe on their entire record I’m gonna scream.
A vibe, by the way, that can include chasing down first rate players and then ironically asking them to sound like a junk band for a whole lot ‘o money – true story! As a session player once was heard to say, “It’s your record man.”

So to my songwriting brethren, I implore you, let’s start to explore some other musical and lyrical phenoms so that Tom Waits doesn’t become a brand that shows up across the velour running suit asses of America. Oh wait, Scarlett Johansson already did her Tom Waits record so I guess we’re too late for that. Interestingly, that record made me feel like I did too much cough syrup. And, just like in middle school, it did not really get me high. Go figure.

Here are some suggestions for those of you caught in the Watis-ian whirlpool to consider:

How about Leonard Cohen? – songwriter of “Stories Of The Street” from Songs Of Leonard Cohen

The stories of the street are mine, the Spanish voices laugh.
The Cadillacs go creeping now through the night and the poison gas,
and I lean from my window sill in this old hotel I chose,
yes one hand on my suicide, one hand on the rose.

Oh everybody knows him already? You want to be a little more outside and “edgy”?

Ok then, how about this from Valley Road by James McMurtry on Saint Mary of The Woods

Short tables – no slop eight ball
line of crank off his gold top Les Paul
Woke you up. Set you right.
Kept you talkin’ to the middle
of the next night
He had the stance. Major attitude.
Vibrato you could o’ thrown a cat through
A little much
A little heavy
I guess the world just wasn’t ready
Just a ghost from back a long time ago,
Blue-eyed shadow
You never mention anymore
Nothin’ ventured
Nothin’ saved
You poured it out like bourbon on a fresh grave
And learned your lesson well
And learned your lesson well

If that doesn’t make you want to slit your wrists and jump from the peak of envy, I don’t know what will.
Now, I get why it’s passe to site Joni Mitchell as an influence.
It’s because after Joni came a wave of weepy writers who confused diary entries for lyrics. And diary entries may be a good source for inspiration, I suppose, but unless you’re Jack Kerouac your stream of consciousness may need some editing. And sonically she’s not as dramatic or cinematic in that James Ellroy kind of way you anti heros are looking for. Additionally, while anyone can site the influence of the Great Canadian Goddess of Song, few have the goods to prove it.
Even Elvis Costello to a small degree has been caught in the cross hairs of this social lens – a lens that takes what is unique and beats it to death, packages it in rhinestones and sells it to “HOUSEWIVES OF SUBURBAN CITY TO BE NAMED” so we can all enjoy the musings of an inner soul in small sanitized servings. Yum!

I admit, I suffer from the “I wouldn’t want to be a member of any club that would have me” syndrome. Perhaps some of this rant stems from that. Heck,I still haven’t listened to the first Norah Jones record (clearly not counter culture) that garnered her a few Grammys because of my condition. This stupid phenomena, by the way, backlashes in so many odd ways I need a pie chart and stinky markers to keep track of my own counter culture spin out. But honestly, I’m improving. And now I’m able to enjoy things my previous full throttle snobbery would have scoffed at years ago – such as society in general. Who me kid? But this rant isn’t just about enjoying the outside perspective, it’s about bravery.

So, as cool Tom Waits is, I want to tell my fellow writers, you can be just as interesting in your own way if you try. I’m not saying you’ll start your own cult following. But it’s often the differences that make us all so beautiful to behold. It’s the oddball bravery of marching to your own beat that, likewise, made Tom Waits the artist we love and aspire to be like.

The popularization of art doesn’t make it invalid unless the purchasers don’t really get why it’s so compelling in the first place. Otherwise, for me, it’s just another T-Shirt to match that new tattoo.

So get onstage and get off the band wagon. Fall on your face on the road less traveled and you’ll get my respect every time.

With the size of my band growing and costs rising to feed and house those wild animals, don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind to cash in on some of that back-wash bliss a tribute band can offer. I’ve been told that I do a mean Karen Carpenter and I wouldn’t mind losing a few pounds in order to make an extra dollar every now and then… ahh but if I only played the drums.

I’ve met a tribute band or two, some just paying homage to great music and some who are flying around the world making wild amounts of money. Oddly, those acts often assume the personae and art of other people, who, in some instances are actually still alive and playing!

A tribute band, for those of you who do not know, is a band that plays, pretty much exclusively, the material of another band.

Usually, these bands catalogs are the ones that stroll you right down memory lane in your baby blue Angel Flight slacks or banana yellow Ditto jeans. They take you right back to your first hard on at the school dance or the raspy bong load in your cousins garage that made you cough for ten minutes like a newbie. And if you were not alive back then rent “Dazed and Confused” for your anthropological homework. 500 words by Monday double-spaced.

For some recapturing old glory days through musical nostalgia is the whole point of seeing a tribute band. It’s seems I am on the outside, again, with this one. For me the very idea of reliving any high school moments is abhorrent. Not being chased by bullies is nice these days.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ll never forget the first time I was given a Black Sabbath record by my cousin, sans the pot. He was trying to walk the straight and narrow and lucky for me Black Sabbath was on his shit list of evils to be avoided at all costs. That record was the gift that kept on giving but that doesn’t mean I’ll pony up to see some kid bite the heads off plastic bats just to relive my occult past.

If someone finds an article suggesting why people calcify musically at a certain age I’d like to read it. My guess is it may have something to do with changing diapers, acquiring jobs and getting thrown head first into the existential muck of real life. Thus limiting one’s musical day dreaming to the soundtrack of the moment from some “edgy” cable TV show spoon-feeding America a culture of pabulum. More diapers please.
And suspiciously the tribute band is right there with its well-worn memories like your favorite jeans – which no longer fit by the way.
The overall quality of music since that golden hey day of rock n roll royalty is arguable at best, makes us wonder if the current music we hear on most radio is getting the job done.

The side effect of the tribute band phenomena that pisses me off most is that some venues are closing their doors to original acts. No really. Why book a band no one knows, with songs that might not make people drink, when you can have a hot, all girl band called “INSERT CLEVER SUGGESTIVE LESBIAN NAME HERE” cranking out the classics? As the wise and super talented, oft curmudgeonly singer songwriter James McMurtry says, “I used to think I was an artist. Come to find out I’m a beer salesman”. Is the future of live music like the recent past of food, a national homogenization of sound where in every town you can see the same band playing the same songs? McMusic comes in three tasty flavors…horrific.

Now there’s nothing wrong with those of us who just want to sing along with a good song to someone sweet by our side. There’s nothing wrong with folks wanting to keep the doors open to their clubs. But next time you look in the local calendar to see where you’re gonna spend your hard earned bucks, consider supporting some unknown band every once in awhile, why don’t cha?

I mean, where would we be if no one gave a chance to the greats who inspired tribute musicians to get up there and copy cat in the first place?
And don’t worry I’m not getting all goofy and romantic about artists and our duty to support some kid who just wants to ditch school and get laid ‘cause he can play three chords. Although that is often how it starts ….

This is not some happy ending story. Some, if not many of the bands you may see out there will indeed suck the holy living life out the room with their out of tune guitars and juvenile rhyme schemes. But better that then sitting at home watching “INSERT IQ INSULTING SHOW HERE”. Think of seeing live bands as reality TV with a bartender. Or think of the moment you hear something real that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up, or the lyric that makes you feel awake for the first time in a day full of hamster wheel repetitions or the wild abandon of doing something new and different for a change because you have a choice to do so, for now.

What is it about Folkies?

If Folkies had saying it would be “If you love it set it free, if it plugs in hunt it down and kill it.”

Kidding. But not, kind of.

These seemingly sweet natured banjo picking, mando wielding aficionados of the unplugged seem to have serious issues about the growth of an artist.

Take, for instance Bob Dylan, when Bob, Lord and King to many a Folkie and Rocker alike, decided to expand his palette of sounds his former zealots wanted him hanged. Turing rabid his flipped out fanatics bleary eyed and booing became hateful and violent at shows they paid good money to get into! All because Bob wanted to say more, and in return they gave him death threats.

I have a friend who has had the hardest time with me developing as an artist. And that is what provoked my tiny but sweet natured rant about Folkies, as he is indeed one.

He tells me my first record was my best, and that I was so pure, so real and that my lyrics were so much more about me and therefore resonated with the listener on a deeper level.

So let me fill all of you in, that record, “More Songs from Circe Link”, really only has one song whose lyrics apply to me in truth. And that song is called “I Like Knowing You Miss Me”, it’s a love song. Kidding.

Other than that song, in my neophyte stages of writing I found it more fun to write about others, still do actually. Rather than writing about myself I chose archetypical metaphors as homage to a specific style with which I was flirting, savvy?

Had I ever had a blue bird tattoo?

Had I ever been a ghost?

Had I ever had my husband die?

Take a wild guess.

And by the way, that song is not about dead babies. I say this because once a squeaky fan after a show excitedly told me she loved my dead baby song! (Lift eyebrow here.)

The last record “Moody Girl” and the new record “Vonnegut’s Wife” hold more intimate details and inner musings than I have ever cared or dared to express in song form. Which, one day I will probably regret, as will any of you that the songs are written about, C’est la vie.

Now don’t get me wrong I love a good old-fashioned folk song. I love my 501’s, waving golden meadows and a bare foot home down hoe down hootenannies but sheesh guys it seems someone’s got a problem with change.

So to my Folkie friend who sits in his wooded solitude, shunning the evolving world, almost a musical Luddite, I say with love and affection the poem is not the poet.

I say trying to tell this storm not to shift is bad for the crops. Trying to fight the waves will get you a lunch of sand and saltwater. I choose impressionism and realism, I choose cola and un-cola, I choose yes and no and everything in between. And if you don’t like it then keep your symbolic chocolate out of my lyrical peanut butter.

Ok so the mind of this obsessive artist is always on and ready for an opportunity to catch something good. Like fishing or surfing sometime it’s a matter of being present.

So the other day I am getting on the freeway, traffic is heavy, the sun is climbing to it’s tower top to yell about the climate change all day long, and he works a long shift in the summer don’t cha ya know.

And then there it is, off to the side of the road, in the shade but there, tiny and unassuming. I wonder if anyone else sees, but then of course someone must. I am sure I can not be alone in this beauty. Off to the side of the road one single yellow petaled daisy stands alone.

Such a reward to see, that I will not attempt to speak of its impact on me here. But there it was, alone and great, small and silent. One single, standing, reaching growing proud little daisy along the freeway on ramp.

I’ve been driving lately. Out far into the wilds of suburbia, to the home of the ever so talented Michael Sherwood. If you are not familiar with his work see the bio for him under the drop down menu on the Musicians page.

Well now, it’s getting to be a habit. Michael and I have combined forces to create a little treasure trove of very jazzy numbers. So it is decided we will make a record, why not?

I have always wanted to do a primarily Jazz record and now the gods have given the big nod in sweet swinging time.

Each song so far has had it’s own process. I know for many writers that process can be, or often must be, a particular way. Incense, candles, wine and soft lights, some need the blues or a good heartbreak to hear the cosmic songs. Some writers require the pre-requisite suffering artist angst and pain.

Not for this girl, life is hard enough and beautiful enough to cherry pick ideas with careful ease if you just know where to look, or is it listen….

Anyhow, I think the future holds a very jazzy pie for us all.