Ian Whitcomb is a highly respected performer, composer, and
music historian. You can find all of his CD's, DVD's, Books,
and Songbooks by
clicking here,
or by going to ianwhitcomb.com
LETTER FROM LOTUSLAND
January, 2012
I was gratified
to hear from a few readers who were alarmed at the non-appearance so far this
year of a new Letter. At least their concern shows that somebody does read these
musings. But that isn’t the reason I have been so late in writing up my
adventures.
I didn’t have a Letter ready by the beginning of
this month because, in the last days of December, we had distressing news from
England concerning the health of my sister Suzanne. I won’t go into details
except to say that she’s now back home in the Berkshire countryside in the
cottage she shares with her husband, the General. And she gets better daily. I
am making a lightning trip there next week to see all the family. I’ll be back
here the following week.
And from now on my Letter will tell of what happened
in the actual month at the heading. So on we go to January—I will open my big
black journal and re-work what’s printable…
I always dread January, fearing that there will no
longer be any calls for work—gigs, concerts, writing, acting, lecturing—but so
far the calendar is filling up nicely.
New
Year’s Eve at Cantalini’s Italian Restaurant was as lively as ever. Two
sittings. Much skill required in negotiating one’s way--lugging accordion and
ukes--down the aisles for fear of banging a heavily-laden waiter and causing
ropes of pasta to drape a customer. Fred, Dave and I were joined in our corner
(see the old photo posted near the top of this website) by Tom Marion, the
unpredictable but brilliant mandolin/banjo player, clad in a seasonal black
paper top hat and wearing a Mona Lisa smile. I made a note to keep an eye on the
tip basket.
Lisa, the amply-built owner who sails like a
stately schooner down the aisles putting into table ports to meet and greet,
stopped at our corner to ask us not too play loud due to a nearby table of
seniors who were hard of hearing. Well, surely that meant we should play louder
so that they could hear us? No, no—they want to talk among themselves. However,
they soon so loved our old songs that their table talk languished and they
commenced clapping and singing along as we gave them “Istanbul Was
Constantinople” and “Happy Days Are Hear Again”. Paper hats and bead necklaces
contributed to their fun feelings but I could have done without the noisome
noisemakers.
We did our ritual set of Elvis Presley material for
Ann, the Elvis Lady, and her complaisant husband. Dave, our bass player, told me
to go easy in “Are You Lonesome Tonight” since her husband is still recovering
from surgery. Fred and I, in the break, joined Mr. and Mrs. Elvis in their
booth. Fred regaled us with stories of his recent trip to Italy. “Everywhere you
look”, he said, “ is picture perfect”. All the famous sites came up to
scratch--just like in the travel magazines and the movies. Then why bother to
trek there, I could have said, but didn’t because my New Year’s resolution is to
be less grouchy.
Mr. Elvis told us that during their Italian tour
Mrs. E had examined the rear of Michelangelo’s statue of David and pronounced:
“It’s Elvis!”
On Monday, January I started my journal entry with:
“I hope this is a better year”. Something similar is said every year. . But they
never get better. In fact, the so-called Golden Years are marked by decay and
death. And ailments.
Because it’s offered so cheap I take The New
Yorker but it’s an irritatingly smart and twee mag. That’s the trouble with
the East Coast. Everybody’s so bloody smug and self-satisfied there. Well-read
chaps with leather patches in their tweed jackets. Why go to the East Coast when
I can get the real thing in England? Or what’s left of it. At any rate, last
night—sitting alone with my second margarita in Mijare’s Mexican restaurant and
waiting for a female porn film assistant and her parents (who never turned up--
more about the porn film adventure later)—I read an article in the Personal
History section of The New Yorker. God it was irritatingly twee! I
wanted to smear guacamole all over it. But—it was about the age group I’ll be
joining soon if I live so long: The Very Old. This precious octogenarian sits
all day long, it would appear, looking out the window.
Cataleptically the old fool sits entombed watching
“nuthatches, evening grosbeaks, American goldfinches, sparrows…” Later we hear
about crocuses, daffodils, tulips, peonies, lilies of the valley, foxglove,
sweet alyssum, bee balm, Indian paintbrush, and on and on. All glorious nature
that we don’t have out here in L.A, so there; all written in cozy poesy
(“Always when winter moved into March, bears would wake and tear the feeder
down, crushing it in clumsy hunger”) Oh, yes—you have visible, feelable
seasons and we don’t!
Who is this old man who “teeters” when he walks, who
microwaves Stouffer’s, who takes offense at the kindness of others,
seeing it as “condescending”, when, for example, an art museum guard points out
that the carving the octogenarian in the wheel chair is looking at is by Henry
Moore: “I wrote a book about Moore, and knew him well”.
Mind you, I don’t blame the duffer taking umbrage
when later, in the cafeteria, this guard bends down close, wags his finger and
bellows: “Did we have a nice din-din?”
Out West we seem to thrive in our old age. Maybe
it’s the pleasantly reliable weather, maybe it’s the promise of the azure
Pacific and the beckoning mellow gold sunsets, curtain to success beyond the
horizon. All I know is that jazz classicist Rosy McHargue blew his sax and
roared great songs in bars right up till his death at 95; that David “Laura”
Raksin, the movie score composer, was striding about and conducting my orchestra
with vigor (“Get out of the studio, Ian—we’re working!”) when he was well into
his 80s. And here am I—heading towards very old age and busier than ever what
with a new book, a weekly radio show. Cantalini’s, and the chance to become a
character star of porn films.
So, as I said, who is this aged specimen gabbling of
birds and flowers and a barn which appears to “heave like a frigate in a gale”
(typical East Coast weather) as he slumps in his blue armchair in some
ever-so-tasteful renovated farmhouse dating back, no doubt, to revolutionary
times?
I flip to the front of The New Yorker. Turns
out he’s one Donald Hall, a former United States Poet Laureate who was awarded
the National Medal Of Arts last March. “Whispering” Jack Smith never got any
awards. Nor did Rosy McHargue. But I would guess they gave us more unalloyed
pleasure.
I’m lively as hell, as you can see. And game for
more….
Getting back to the journal…
A quick race through the days, Mr. Jingle-style (I’m
re-reading The Pickwick Papers, easing in by way of an excellent BBC TV
serialization):
Tuesday, Jan 3:hosted two friends at The
Athenaeum—corking club at Cal Tech—recently joined thanks to Huntington
connection--elegant dining in wood paneled room—waiters in livery—sommelier
jangling chain— evening spoiled by Asian gent in jeans and T shirt—thrusts
through to buffet table—shoves one of our aged guests—slaps island dressing onto
plate—result: splashed trousers of guest—will report Asian to club bosses—all
very well in the Orient but not on in civilized society.
Wednesday, Jan 4: struggle to attach
doctor-ordered high-tech heart monitor equipment to self—sticky electrodes,
entwined wires, neck-strung monitor ready to be buzzed at slightest palpitation
or light-headedness
or dizziness, cell-phone barking when equipment wrongly attached. But nothing
tumultuous to report—heart pulses and skips and bounces like a young lover all
the time—day and night thus could be spent in squeezing alarm system on monitor.
Decision: gave up squeezing after a dozen or so pulses, skips, and bounces in a
row. Also: bloody cumbersome and unsightly in public—bulges in wrong places--
and have to pull off electrodes from under chest (“Ladies please lift left
breast”) when swimming. So much for high-tech—and my life.
Wednesday, Jan 11: shock at Huntington
Library—head of American section tells me millionaire donor, founder of Silicon
Valley now into pop culture and supposed fan of mine-- won’t cough up dollars to
support my XM radio show—has all my records and books—instead gives piles of
dough to established institutions like The Huntington and other museums—likes,
no doubt, to see his name emblazoned on front of buildings, doors, and embossed
in plaques—like so many art benefactors who feel guilty about the dirt they
gathered in their marketplace career climb and now, as death approaches, are
fretting over their legacy.
Monday, Jan 16: interviewed by 12-year-old
schoolgirls about History of Rock for history project—stopped dead in tracks
when asked why rock was revolutionary—who said that? —You did, said
teacher--it’s in your book “After The Ball”—what could I have meant? Very young
at time of writing.
Thursday, Jan 18: brother Robin’s
birthday—phoned to fix up details of my arrival in London in a week or so to see
my poor sister and all my neglected friends—everyone ailing, it seems. “L.A –My
Home Town”—my saucy doc made for BBC in 1976—released by Scorpion—three reviews
on line already—one calls it weird but worth a watch— seem to think that all I
am is a One Hit Wonder—get fed up with strangers coming up to within an inch of
my face and screaming “C’mon now honey-- you know you really turn me
on!”—happened twice in last week—even if I’d since written a new Declaration of
Independence they’d still insist that all I’d made was this one record.
Sunday, Jan 21: another One Hit Wonder
insulter trapped me last night at Cantalini’s—couldn’t move—couldn’t get up to
strike him—stuck in corner behind music stand and massed accordions. But vantage
point useful for keeping an eye on the soap operas around us—couples coming
together—feet locked under table, couples breaking up—hand avoiding hand--
female singers vying with each other—girl who sings a fulsome “Folsom Prison
Blues” then goes into lascivious dance with pelvic thrusts—finally grabs Elvis
lady and dances with her—Elvis Lady’s beehive swaying—Folsom Prison girl later
takes look at cover of my “LA My Home Town” DVD and zeroes in on my
swimsuit—good and big and dangerous, she decides— I like the flattery but take
matter no further—got wife and dog and lovely home to worry about.
Monday, Jan 22: second chance to be part of
porno picture world: call for my “thespian abilities” from same people who hired
me to do walk-on in porno pic last year—very night I collapsed and continued to
collapse all week—hence: hospitalization and later hole drilled in head and sea
of blood removed—very painful and tedious. All better now, except for present
heart monitor regalia. This time had a speaking role as father Paul: son brings
home new girl—wine and dine—storm breaks—couple stay the night—girl’s bulge
reveals her to be a him. Hence: “Trans-Romantic”, a new genre.
Script has me as “character”—says “Here Ian does funny business and plays
uke—this I did, getting almost all cast to sing-along to “Have A Martini” and
“Hitler Has Only Got One Ball”—all except the son—big brute—stud
really---females are the VIPs in porn—males only there for their varied
abilities with wedding tackle. Served real hot chicken and rice with wine at
dinner scene—movie wife is famous porn star too-- at age 57—says there’s chance
for me yet—oh no, no! —still, it’s better than sitting in armchair in New
Hampshire looking out window and counting flowers and birds. Got a check right
on spot—location: Victorian mansion down road from our house —raining too, which
gave the action a touch of romance. Wished them goodbye at 7pm-- in time to join
Regina and friend in dining room of Athenaeum Club for elegant two-course
dinner. New career in twilight of life? Next part is as Victorian schoolmaster
fond of cane swishing—director emailed asking whether I’d mind administering
beating—“Boy will be fully-clothed”—check will be larger. Wrote back that I’d be
delighted—would take me back to boarding school days: headmaster liked to say
before caning: “This will hurt me much more than it will hurt you”—then next
morning in the showers we’d proudly show-off our blue thigh stripes to envious
boys. Schooldays! Golden Days! Full report next month on this new artistic (and
commercial) outlet.
Ian Whitcomb
is a highly respected performer, composer, and music historian. You can find all
of his CD's, DVD's, Books,
and Songbooks by
clicking here,
or by going to ianwhitcomb.com