September rose - Living The Blues
September Rose at the piano
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A book about the shamanistic side of being a blues bandleader. |
The Introduction to September Rose: Living the Blues
I met September Rose when his prime should have been long behind, but he was half blues caveman and half spirit world shaman. He seemed to think I should hear his story, but it is not a linear thing. I would simply record and transcribe his thoughts and what follows are little bubbles of what I heard.
Like reaching into timelessness, I saw the pain of art born in slavery. He is capable of the kind of surrender beyond ego, and that is spellbinding. Too fast, made it sweaty, too slow made it sexual, immediacy made it transitory, and distortion made it transcendent.
Don't dwell on whether or not you have actually heard of this man, only a tiny bit of the worst of his work is permanent. It is as if his curse was that his best performances were recorded on the hearts of people, but never in any way that that would ever be heard again.
I apologize for the lack of continuity, but he drifts. These little vignettes represent the way he is. Like a three minute song, these thoughts are waves in tides, all the same, each one a simple truth.
Like reaching into timelessness, I saw the pain of art born in slavery. He is capable of the kind of surrender beyond ego, and that is spellbinding. Too fast, made it sweaty, too slow made it sexual, immediacy made it transitory, and distortion made it transcendent.
Don't dwell on whether or not you have actually heard of this man, only a tiny bit of the worst of his work is permanent. It is as if his curse was that his best performances were recorded on the hearts of people, but never in any way that that would ever be heard again.
I apologize for the lack of continuity, but he drifts. These little vignettes represent the way he is. Like a three minute song, these thoughts are waves in tides, all the same, each one a simple truth.
Why this Book?
There have been books about the rise and fall of musicians as celebrities and books about music in history. This book is for those who might be interested in the the way being a musician feels. What might send a person into a snowstorm to get to an obscure location for minimum financial gain just to feel the triumph of the music taking one to a higher plane? This book attempts in short vignettes to describe the way music's magic transcends just work, or play, to a physical need to be possessed to speak the voice of a culture. In plain terms I tend to think that there are neural pathways in a musician's body and specifically brain that train in muscle memory a positive neural chemical response of peace, acceptance and pleasure. The need for this response is as real as a mother's love of contact with their baby, a sculptor's relationship with stone, a dancer's contact with the floor and gravity, or a gambler's flush at a big score. Words themselves have wormed their way from some collective consciousness in to the ready pen of poets for feeding back to generations forward.
Meet September Rose
About the Author
My name is Dan Linn. I write under the name RoseDrop Rust. September Rose is a character loosely based on my experiences as a live music performer. Favorite quote from HBO's Treme': "fuckin' is fuckin', but music, that's personal!". Wanna know about me, and the real measure is the music. I was oldest and outgoing as an alpha sperm could be. They said I would go with strangers just because they made me laugh. My first memory is standing with my brother leaning against the Wurlitzer piano my folks bought on credit. It was the piano my mother taught me the The Big Bass Singer from sheet music. She taught me to read music, words, and numbers and that's what I find fascinating to this day. There is no end to numbers, words have meaning and music is magic. It was my sister coming home when we were still just three siblings, but when we were seven, we were singing harmony. My Dad's record collection and rock band rehearsals in the basement are true connecting fibers in my life. I mean, I can go to a job, I can deal to some degree with day to day shit, but I have always, always, done gigs. A gig is an engagement to play. I will do that before most anything, important things. A gig is a promise I made so long ago, I don't even know why I can't refuse anymore. So I play. Through bar tending at a strip club, through Coffee houses, bands, clubs and and through the woman who loved me since High School, and children who wondered if I had ever loved anyone more than the rush of the moment, high and sensual, when the music would take a chorus of it's own, independent of my intention, to those Zen moments of transcendence I could not explain or defend. We were poor Catholics in a poor neighborhood, and we ate what was served. I learned to share, privacy was not an option so we had two rules about practice, one was you could delay any chore, and two, people had to leave you alone. I got used to playing out my moods and anger in scales and keys and songs. This? It's a another riff. Don't mind me, I'm only dreaming.
Sample Query Letter
Dear Sarabande Books,
The way it feels to be a blues musician and shaman shouter can be soul searing. I am inviting you into the world of September Rose, an aging blues musician. My name is Dan Linn. I have never been more myself than when standing on a stage in a nightclub playing music.
Books have been written of the publicly lives and historical events around popular musicians -- but few tell “how it felt.” I have assembled a collection of more than 150, 100 word non-linear lyric poetry vignettes that reveal a fictional blues bandleader’s mundane challenges and spiritual visions.
September Rose loves women, but is often left with a only a bottle of whisky for comfort. His mother was a New Orleans Voodoo practitioner and he is of a indistinguishable racial makeup. His Strat is an autonomous being with whom he contends, and the club is a church to the timeless religion of the blues.
I started writing these little scenes with the intention of marketing live shows. September became as much his own creature as mine. You could say this is an alter ego, but I am simply an observer of the real world of stages, costumes, tribulations, tragedies, and triumphs that might make a person drive through a blizzard for one more chance to play.
What this book is intended to do is immerse the reader in a world they have often dreamed they could visit, but only glimpsed in the face of the bluesman in rapture. This is the spontaneous result of my experience of loving when the music takes a chorus of its own, independent of my intention, to those moments of transcendence I cannot easily explain.
I have published in EnertialCall Magazine, East Jasmine Review, and RezMagazine. I have been a podcaster and have about 150 episodes still available as the RoseDrop Media Circus podcast. I can update my domain RoseDropMedia.com to a promotion and sales website. With considerable contacts within the Portland music community, I expect to be able to arrange co-appearances with influential local blues musicians for readings and non-traditional sales of this book. I am comfortable in front of an audience and willing to show up anywhere, at any time (within reason) to advance the publisher’s promotion.
Some comparable titles might be Heart Talk: Poetic Wisdom for a Better Life by Cleo Wade, Poetic Conversations by Amanda Torroni, and Blues From Laurel Canyon: John Mayall: My Life as a Bluesman. Each of these have elements of my book, though I hope that the innovative way it is presented can make it a unique departure from traditional poetry or biography, and act as a daily affirmation of the power of music.
Regards,
Dan Linn (AKA RoseDrop Rust
5034909829
[email protected]
The way it feels to be a blues musician and shaman shouter can be soul searing. I am inviting you into the world of September Rose, an aging blues musician. My name is Dan Linn. I have never been more myself than when standing on a stage in a nightclub playing music.
Books have been written of the publicly lives and historical events around popular musicians -- but few tell “how it felt.” I have assembled a collection of more than 150, 100 word non-linear lyric poetry vignettes that reveal a fictional blues bandleader’s mundane challenges and spiritual visions.
September Rose loves women, but is often left with a only a bottle of whisky for comfort. His mother was a New Orleans Voodoo practitioner and he is of a indistinguishable racial makeup. His Strat is an autonomous being with whom he contends, and the club is a church to the timeless religion of the blues.
I started writing these little scenes with the intention of marketing live shows. September became as much his own creature as mine. You could say this is an alter ego, but I am simply an observer of the real world of stages, costumes, tribulations, tragedies, and triumphs that might make a person drive through a blizzard for one more chance to play.
What this book is intended to do is immerse the reader in a world they have often dreamed they could visit, but only glimpsed in the face of the bluesman in rapture. This is the spontaneous result of my experience of loving when the music takes a chorus of its own, independent of my intention, to those moments of transcendence I cannot easily explain.
I have published in EnertialCall Magazine, East Jasmine Review, and RezMagazine. I have been a podcaster and have about 150 episodes still available as the RoseDrop Media Circus podcast. I can update my domain RoseDropMedia.com to a promotion and sales website. With considerable contacts within the Portland music community, I expect to be able to arrange co-appearances with influential local blues musicians for readings and non-traditional sales of this book. I am comfortable in front of an audience and willing to show up anywhere, at any time (within reason) to advance the publisher’s promotion.
Some comparable titles might be Heart Talk: Poetic Wisdom for a Better Life by Cleo Wade, Poetic Conversations by Amanda Torroni, and Blues From Laurel Canyon: John Mayall: My Life as a Bluesman. Each of these have elements of my book, though I hope that the innovative way it is presented can make it a unique departure from traditional poetry or biography, and act as a daily affirmation of the power of music.
Regards,
Dan Linn (AKA RoseDrop Rust
5034909829
[email protected]
September Rose Sample Tip Sheet
| september_rose_tipsheet.pdf |
Samples From September Rose: Living the Blues
An old bluesman name of September,
cruising down a long road career,
met a young May—met her
like a new solo found on his guitar--
the roaring rush of time over his shoulder
chased him like an enemy soldier.
She held him and gave him shelter,
lending him youth to make him stronger.
He didn't care that he looked a fool--
he'd been that many times and more--
he just simply loved her
As every song he'd sung before.
He is drinking whiskey so's he can cut off the bottle neck for a slide. He may lose his wife for howling at the moon in every woman he meets. There's a gutter with his name on it at the crossroads. There he will bet his last paycheck on a deal with the devil for his soul to play like all his dead guitar heroes. He hasstumbled across every bridge in his life with fire trailing in his wake. Blues for sale! Only costs the rest of your life.
Aging Bluesman September Rose on the blues: "It’s an age old question—do ya have to be unhappy to have the blues? Far as I can tell, the blues is a measuring stick. You gotta feel bad to know when you feel good. When you are down the blues is there to bring you up, when you are high, the blues will mellow you out. A twitch and yer dancin', a tear and yer cryin'. All those things and a bit o’ mystery. Blues is for balance my friends, everybody needs 'em some."
Past the "New Management" sign, the bartender points ruefully in the direction of the owner's nephew. September walks over, sets down his guitar, shakes hands and introduces himself to the youngster. "So, do you have a web page and a demo? What kinda music you play? I have never heard of you." "Well son, I'm told you can find me on the web though I ain't looked.” He shifts his guitar and walks away, talking over his shoulder, “I play songs and the last time I played here, I hadn’t never heard of you neither. Call me."
The aches and pains of daily life can settle in our bones. September Rose always takes the same prescription: two parts blues and one part audience approval, with a whiskey chaser. "Nothin' can cure heartache like a sad song." he says, "When one other heart beats in time, it helps. I can save you a lot of money on psychotherapy." The old bluesman says, "Some things happen in life that would make any sane person unhappy. Here's your dose of blues."
September snorts, he's been through economic bad times before. They always cut pay when they can't serve enough drinks. Surprise, surprise, they lost their best waitress because she went to a job where she could make a living wage. He's eaten restaurant kitchen leftovers and ramen before. You gotta be able to feed yourself cheap if you are gonna be a bluesman. "Wanna know how to get through bad times? Take a lesson from a blues singer, and a bum like me."
There's only three things that will get Ol' September to sling his Strat in the Caddy on a night he ain't got a gig. That's somebody else's whiskey, another bluesman with chops, and the potential of a smile on a pretty girl's face. On a promise of a trifecta he took a chance. Two hours later he's giving 12 bar basic's lessons to an insurance millionaire who can't count to four, but has more gear than this ol’ bluesman's ever had at once. No girls, no hot hand, hell, they were even out of whiskey. Mo' blues.
Some days Ol' September just wakes up broke. It's not about money, it's the toll that living in the emotional realm can take. He'll be ok, but when you sing about trouble, trouble seems to follow. The stories he's heard sitting at a table between sets would break a heart not already open for business. He just stores the sorrow like nuts in a tree, ready to use when the well of his own hassles runs dry. Like tears cried into an ocean, the blues is never ending. “Come dip your cup.”
Whiskey and Tequila usually got along, but,
they argued one night in September Rose's gut.
The mescal said, "Damn you, I am exiting south."
the contrary whiskey said, "my exit's the mouth."
September passed out on his face to save trouble.
He came to and propped himself up on one elbow.
"This is impressive drinkin',”
said the bluesman, “for some,
let's see what the fuck happens
when we add in some rum."
September has seen his share of sound engineers. He always tells them the same thing, "Look, turn my mic up. If my voice is too loud, gimme more monitor, if too soft, turn it down, but never turn me down in the mains. Don't wanna yell. Okay?" If they seem to know what they are doing, he asks about compression and equalization. If they get belligerent, he just walks away. No use arguing with genius. “Don't bother the sound man. He knows what he's doing. Just ask him.”
Sunrise, sunset, September Rose isn't always keeping track of precise specifics, 'cause these days he plays a larger song, timeless rhyming whose rhythms ring like hummingbird's wings and groove like planets rotating. He heard someone say all things came into being like the plucking of a string. On some hot nights he feels that first vibration sing in the oldest parts of his soul. All walls waterfalling and lifting by the pit of his stomach, floating, suspending, like some crazy chakra acrobat, spinning.
cruising down a long road career,
met a young May—met her
like a new solo found on his guitar--
the roaring rush of time over his shoulder
chased him like an enemy soldier.
She held him and gave him shelter,
lending him youth to make him stronger.
He didn't care that he looked a fool--
he'd been that many times and more--
he just simply loved her
As every song he'd sung before.
He is drinking whiskey so's he can cut off the bottle neck for a slide. He may lose his wife for howling at the moon in every woman he meets. There's a gutter with his name on it at the crossroads. There he will bet his last paycheck on a deal with the devil for his soul to play like all his dead guitar heroes. He hasstumbled across every bridge in his life with fire trailing in his wake. Blues for sale! Only costs the rest of your life.
Aging Bluesman September Rose on the blues: "It’s an age old question—do ya have to be unhappy to have the blues? Far as I can tell, the blues is a measuring stick. You gotta feel bad to know when you feel good. When you are down the blues is there to bring you up, when you are high, the blues will mellow you out. A twitch and yer dancin', a tear and yer cryin'. All those things and a bit o’ mystery. Blues is for balance my friends, everybody needs 'em some."
Past the "New Management" sign, the bartender points ruefully in the direction of the owner's nephew. September walks over, sets down his guitar, shakes hands and introduces himself to the youngster. "So, do you have a web page and a demo? What kinda music you play? I have never heard of you." "Well son, I'm told you can find me on the web though I ain't looked.” He shifts his guitar and walks away, talking over his shoulder, “I play songs and the last time I played here, I hadn’t never heard of you neither. Call me."
The aches and pains of daily life can settle in our bones. September Rose always takes the same prescription: two parts blues and one part audience approval, with a whiskey chaser. "Nothin' can cure heartache like a sad song." he says, "When one other heart beats in time, it helps. I can save you a lot of money on psychotherapy." The old bluesman says, "Some things happen in life that would make any sane person unhappy. Here's your dose of blues."
September snorts, he's been through economic bad times before. They always cut pay when they can't serve enough drinks. Surprise, surprise, they lost their best waitress because she went to a job where she could make a living wage. He's eaten restaurant kitchen leftovers and ramen before. You gotta be able to feed yourself cheap if you are gonna be a bluesman. "Wanna know how to get through bad times? Take a lesson from a blues singer, and a bum like me."
There's only three things that will get Ol' September to sling his Strat in the Caddy on a night he ain't got a gig. That's somebody else's whiskey, another bluesman with chops, and the potential of a smile on a pretty girl's face. On a promise of a trifecta he took a chance. Two hours later he's giving 12 bar basic's lessons to an insurance millionaire who can't count to four, but has more gear than this ol’ bluesman's ever had at once. No girls, no hot hand, hell, they were even out of whiskey. Mo' blues.
Some days Ol' September just wakes up broke. It's not about money, it's the toll that living in the emotional realm can take. He'll be ok, but when you sing about trouble, trouble seems to follow. The stories he's heard sitting at a table between sets would break a heart not already open for business. He just stores the sorrow like nuts in a tree, ready to use when the well of his own hassles runs dry. Like tears cried into an ocean, the blues is never ending. “Come dip your cup.”
Whiskey and Tequila usually got along, but,
they argued one night in September Rose's gut.
The mescal said, "Damn you, I am exiting south."
the contrary whiskey said, "my exit's the mouth."
September passed out on his face to save trouble.
He came to and propped himself up on one elbow.
"This is impressive drinkin',”
said the bluesman, “for some,
let's see what the fuck happens
when we add in some rum."
September has seen his share of sound engineers. He always tells them the same thing, "Look, turn my mic up. If my voice is too loud, gimme more monitor, if too soft, turn it down, but never turn me down in the mains. Don't wanna yell. Okay?" If they seem to know what they are doing, he asks about compression and equalization. If they get belligerent, he just walks away. No use arguing with genius. “Don't bother the sound man. He knows what he's doing. Just ask him.”
Sunrise, sunset, September Rose isn't always keeping track of precise specifics, 'cause these days he plays a larger song, timeless rhyming whose rhythms ring like hummingbird's wings and groove like planets rotating. He heard someone say all things came into being like the plucking of a string. On some hot nights he feels that first vibration sing in the oldest parts of his soul. All walls waterfalling and lifting by the pit of his stomach, floating, suspending, like some crazy chakra acrobat, spinning.