Well, one cool thing about last night's Academy Awards was that Summer of Soul won an Oscar for Best Documentary — which ties in nicely with this tribute to the late, great jazz flautist Herbie Mann (whose incredible 1969 band with Roy Ayers and Sonny Sharrock makes a tantalizingly brief appearance in the film) that I penned for today's Forward.
You can read it here:
Spring is finally here, and to salute her arrival after a brutal-in-so-many-ways winter, I've written and recorded a new Corinthian Columns track — a little instrumental accompaniment for a springtime stroll.
It's kind of a funky soundtrack/library keyboard groove with a little Ernie Isley-meets-Thin Lizzy guitar damage thrown in—because, well, why the hell not?
I'd also like to give a special shout-out to the Carolina Chickadees in my back yard, whose chirps I recorded (admittedly without their consent) and added to the mix for extra vernal flavor!
Happy Spring to you all. Here's to the season of beauty and rebirth...
Just in time for Bancamp Friday — "Traveling in Dreams," a new, psychedelically-tinged track from my music project The Corinthian Columns!
2021 certainly brought its share of frustration, disappointment and tragedy, but one of this year's big positives for me was that — after a lyrical writer's block of two decades — I started writing (and finishing, and recording) songs again.
In fact, I actually wrote a Christmas song, which is now available for your listening enjoyment on Bandcamp, along with the other songs I recorded this year under the "nom de rock" of The Corinthian Columns.
Happy Holidays to all y'all, and I hope my "Jingle Jangle Christmas" brings you a little joy and cheer this week.
John Padgett was the coolest.
Perhaps that’s all that really needs to be said. And perhaps John, who was never one to toot his own horn beyond the occasional posting of his artwork on Facebook, would prefer I leave it at that. But there is so much more I’d like to share about my favorite uncle, who left this world on Saturday at the age of 82. Finding the best words for the best uncle ever won’t be easy, but I’m gonna give it a shot…
John Padgett was many things, including a devoted husband, father and grandfather, an incredible cook, and a brilliant artist whose impressive and ever-evolving portfolio included pop art, op art, photorealist watercolors, Joseph Cornell-inspired assemblages, Xeroxed collages and spray-painted abstracts. He was a music lover with wide-ranging tastes (though his ear naturally gravitated towards anything based in blues, country or folk), a skillful guitar picker, and a soulful singer and songwriter. He was kind, sensitive, gentle, generous, and really funny in that low-key Tulsa-born way of his. And best of all, at least for me, John Padgett was my uncle. I’m lucky enough to have crossed paths with many mentors, angels and loyal pals in this lifetime; but if I had to pick the three men who truly shaped the person I am today, my father, my Grandpa Fred, and Uncle John would easily outpace the rest of the field.
I first met Uncle John in 1970, around the time he married Aunt Toni, my mom’s older sister. John and Toni came to visit us in Ann Arbor, and my most vivid memory from their stay is of standing with John outside the Food & Drug Mart on Packard and Stadium, and hearing him dryly note the preponderance of “Free John Now” flyers bedecking the store’s parking lot. John wasn’t at all like any of the adult men I’d encountered up to that point; I was used to gregarious gents like my dad and my grandfathers, crazy hippies like my mom’s friends, and sports-obsessed straight-arrows like most of my friends’ fathers. But John was quiet, calm. self-contained, and seemed most comfortable just standing back and taking everything in. He had a strong presence, and a definite twinkle in his eye, but he said very little. I was intrigued, and also a little intimidated.
I got to know Uncle John a little better over Christmas 1973, which my mom, sister and I spent at Toni and John’s Spanish-style duplex in L.A.’s Fairfax District. My two most vivid memories from that visit are of him playing John Fahey’s enchanting Christmas album The New Possibility over and over again, and of him introducing me to the mind-blowing world of EC Comics. Uncle John still had all the EC horror and war comics he’d bought back in the early 1950s — along with several copies from Mad magazine’s days — and he very generously let me page through as many of them as I wanted. Comics would never be the same for me after that, and no subsequent childhood visit to L.A. would be complete without me asking John to pull down his boxes of Vault of Horrors and Frontline Combats for another look. Uncle John was likewise extremely generous with his vast stock of art supplies, and allowed me to spend many hours trying to copy or expand upon the images I saw in his comic books.
It was clear to me even back then that Uncle John was a gifted artist, though I didn’t always understand what he was making or why he was making it. I was always especially drawn to his photorealist paintings, most of which depicted Craftsman or Spanish-style houses he’d spotted around Southern California. There was something simple yet wonderfully otherworldly about these images with their soft sunlit colors, the old cars parked in the foregrounds and voluminous palm trees caught in mid-sway in the backgrounds; in retrospect, these paintings of his really molded how this Midwestern kid saw Los Angeles. To this day, whenever I think of L.A., I immediately think of light stucco exterior walls, red clay roof tiles and cactus-studded front yards; and whenever I see a building with all of those attributes, I immediately think of my Uncle John.
It was also clear to me back then that Uncle John was on a different trip than any of the other adult men in my life. Though immensely talented at graphic design, by the mid-70s he’d bailed out of the advertising world and become what we called in those days “a househusband”. My aunt was able to support their family with her state government gig, so John stayed home with their kids, took care of all the cooking and housework, and concentrated on art and other creative projects in his spare time. It was an unorthodox arrangement for the era, but it worked well for them — and I think it subconsciously instilled in me the notion that devoting your life to love and creativity was just as legitimate as sticking to a standard “career path”.
Much as I’d always loved Uncle John, our relationship and friendship ascended to a new level in my late teens, when I learned to play guitar. Along with accompanying our family’s Christmas Eve carols, Uncle John and I would spend countless joy-filled hours together talking about music and trading guitar licks — I would play the Rolling Stones’ version of “Love in Vain,” and he would respond by showing me how to play the Robert Johnson original. This was around the time where I was becoming really obsessed with the music of the 1960s, and Uncle John (who had witnessed the S.F. and L.A. psychedelic booms firsthand) not only already knew most of the songs I’d learned to play, but often had colorful stories to tell about seeing those artists. (There’s a framed poster from Donovan’s 1967 Cow Palace gig on my office wall that was a gift from Uncle John, who’d pulled it off a wall somewhere in San Francisco and saved it rolled up in a tube for nearly 30 years before he gave it to me.)
Uncle John was immensely encouraging of both my guitar playing and my nascent attempts at songwriting; we even once tried writing a song together — the appropriately titled “Hell, I Don’t Know” — but I was too hung up in those days on getting the words absolutely perfect, and we never finished it. He also turned me on to (and let me tape) many fantastic records from his album collection, which included such crucial artists as Muddy Waters, John Lee Hooker, Lightnin’ Hopkins, Champion Jack Dupree, Johnny Cash, Bob Dylan, Gram Parsons, The Incredible String Band, Tim Buckley, Bert Jansch, Dr. John and Leon Russell, to name just a few. He was also the person who introduced me to Neil Diamond’s “Solitary Man,” a song which forever altered my view of the “Jewish Elvis” and sent me digging frantically for Neil’s old Bang Records 45s at thrift stores. And over Christmas ’87, he took me to Nudie’s Rodeo Tailors in North Hollywood, so I could get a pair of cowboy boots at the same place the Flying Burrito Brothers got their Gilded Palace of Sin outfits…
In the summer of 1989, shortly before the photo I’ve posted here was taken, Uncle John came out to Chicago to spend a week with my mom and me. I had just graduated college, but instead of parlaying my degree into some kind of job with some kind of future I’d decided to jump into the deep end of rock and roll, forming Lava Sutra with my friends Jason Walker and Bob Samiljan. Though playing music was absolutely what I wanted to do at that point in my life, in the moments when the amps were off I had to admit that I was experiencing some heavy doubts about my choices; John, having just turned 50, was likewise in the process of sorting through and figuring out some stuff in his own life, and the two of us spent several afternoons smoking weed, drinking Carling Black Label, and having intense discussions about everything from Chet Flippo’s Hank Williams bio Your Cheating Heart to the vagaries of life, love and spirituality.
Uncle John’s visit was totally the tonic I needed; and shortly after he went back to L.A., I wrote a song inspired by our time together called “Uncle John,” which would become a staple of Lava Sutra’s set lists for the next few years, and eventually our first single. The song’s lyrics touched obliquely upon some of the things we’d discussed, but the chorus — “Uncle John, I think your art kicks ass/I think you kick ass too/May you keep on kicking ass until you no longer desire to do so” — was the most important part, a direct and heartfelt message of love and encouragement to someone who had so soulfully given me the same.
Speaking of that Chicago visit — my one attempt to take Uncle John out to “see some Chicago blues” was a total bust. We went to Wise Fools Pub to see former Howlin’ Wolf sideman Eddie Shaw, who proceed to lay on us a set of Blues Bros.-type party-rock so jive that Uncle John (a man not generally given to raising his voice above a quiet drawl) was actually moved to angrily yell “PLAY THE BLUES!” at the stage on several occasions. But after I moved to L.A. in August 1993, we made many far more enjoyable forays together into the world of live music. The very first gig we went to see together out there was Arthur Lee at the Palomino, a show which not only resulted in one of my first freelance pieces for the L.A. Reader, but also led to a lovely (no pun intended) friendship with the Baby Lemonade guys that continues to this day. Uncle John and I saw Jimmy Webb at the Roxy, Tony Joe White at Molly Malone’s, and so many other great gigs.
But best of all in some ways were the many Duane Jarvis gigs we attended around town. As soon as I heard D.J.’s Front Porch for the first time, I knew it would be right up Uncle John’s alley; but what I didn’t anticipate was how wonderfully he and Duane would hit it off. Duane absolutely adored Uncle John, and Uncle John became Duane’s biggest fan, often going to see his shows without me if I had another gig to catch — the entire D.J.’s Front Porch gang had pretty much adopted him as their own “Uncle John” by then — and dutifully informing (and recording it for) me whenever Duane made a live appearance on KCRW or another radio station. John and I even used my 4-track to cook up our own version of Duane’s “Not Young Anymore,” complete with Duane Eddy-esque guitar, which Duane seemed genuinely touched by. Duane moved to Nashville in the mid-90s, but we’d always go see him play and hang out with him whenever he came back to town. The last time I spoke to Duane, shortly before his untimely death in 2009, the first thing he wanted to know was, “How’s Uncle John?”
Sadly, the answer to that question wasn’t always a positive one over the last decade or two, as Uncle John was beset by some serious health problems including diverticulitis and various forms of cancer. But he always kept plugging along, Uncle John-style, making art and music when he felt well enough to do so, and continuously performing all kinds of magic in the kitchen. Just about every meal Uncle John cooked was a perfectly balanced masterpiece, but his holiday feasts were legendary. His stuffed mushrooms, which made an appearance every Thanksgiving and Christmas, were my favorite — tender, juicy and savory morsels of multi-layered, life-affirming flavor — and he was of course kind enough to show me how to make them.
When Katie and I went out to L.A. this past July to celebrate Uncle John’s 82nd birthday, he was unfortunately no longer able to cook, play guitar or make art, and frankly wasn’t well enough to do much more than sit and watch TV. But he caught a burst of energy out of nowhere on the last day of our visit, and we got to spend some serious quality time together. In the morning, I interviewed him about art and music for a video documentary about his life that his son (my cousin) Whitney is making; and in the afternoon, John, Whitney and I hung out in their garage studio, going through those boxes of old EC comics together one more time. I knew, given his prognosis, that this was probably the last time I’d see him, but we didn’t talk about any of that stuff. Instead, we just hung out and bullshitted about Jack Davis, Graham “Ghastly” Ingels, Wally Wood, Harvey Kurtzman, Johnny Craig and other great EC artists. In retrospect, I can’t think of a more appropriate or wonderful way to have spent a final hour together.
This Christmas, like I do every year, I’ll pull out my own EC comics and look at them while listening to Uncle John’s original copy of John Fahey’s The New Possibility, which he passed along to me about 25 years ago. And I’m sure I’ll cry, like I’m doing now, but I’ll also smile; because for fifty years, I was lucky enough to have the greatest, coolest, most righteous uncle ever, and that’s a gift I’ll always be thankful for.
Farewell, Uncle John. Thank you for everything. And whatever and wherever’s next for you, may you keep on kicking ass there, too.
“I’m the only guy in the world who could throw a ball through a car wash and never get it wet," James Rodney Richard used to say in jest, though more than a few hitters who faced him would probably tell you it was the truth. As my pal Lenny Randle, who was a teammate of J.R.'s at ASU and faced him 19 times in the majors (hitting only .167, but only striking out once, which I suppose was something of a moral victory) once said of him, "He starts out throwing Alka Seltzers, and ends up throwing Anacins."
If 2021 was any kind of normal year, Ron Blomberg and I would be doing in-person book events all over the place right now to promote The Captain & Me.
Alas, while this year has been a marked improvement over the utter shitshow that was 2020, things are still not "back to normal" enough for us to be making the scene in that time-honored way. I will, however, be joining the esteemed authors pictured above this Friday afternoon at 4 pm ET for a virtual panel as part of a series of events hosted by Denver, CO bookstore Tattered Cover in conjunction with this year's MLB All-Star Game.
This event — which focuses on the many challenges involved with telling a ballplayer's story — is free to all, but you have to register in advance here to view it. Should be a lot of fun, though, so I hope you'll tune in for it. (And click here to check out the full list of the bookstore's ASG-related events.)
And speaking of tuning in... I spent much of this past spring working on a new documentary series for AXS TV called If These Walls Could Rock. Each episode explores the history and legacy of a particular live music venue; some world-famous, some obscure, but all incredibly fascinating. The debut episode, which premieres tonight, covers South Carolina's Old Brick Church — an early 19th century structure which now serves as a venue for acoustic shows, but was once the site of The Cainhoy Riot, an 1876 clash between Black residents of the era and white paramilitary forces who sought to suppress the local Black vote through violence and intimidation. (Hmmm... sound at all familiar?)
I served as the main writer on this particular episode, and I'm really proud of how it turned out. I hope you'll give it a look if you have the chance; if you miss the premiere tonight, it will still be available through the channel for later viewing. (Whether or not you have access to AXS depends a lot on your cable set-up. But if you have a Roku, I can attest from personal experience that it's really easy to add AXS to your Roku channels free of charge.)
Here's the trailer for the Old Brick Church episode: