Take The Money And Run

Three of my favorite ladies are sitting around the kitchen table right now after Sunday dinner talking about Josh, my son, and his fiance, Amber's wedding in July. There is no place in the conversation where a guy can jump in and make a comment. They really don't care what guys think when it comes to weddings. This is a chick thing. And by the way, they (chicks) can talk and listen at the same time. Its an incredible sight to behold.

As an ordained minister for more than 20 years, I have officiated my share of weddings. I can offer my suggestions to the bride and her mother but they usually look at me with rolled-eyed pity. You see, their wedding will be like no other. It will be so original and they expect everyone to notice all of the details and the symbolism attached to the decor and the ceremony. Truth be told, no one ever notices the details like the bride and mother. Guys, especially, don't give a flying flip. Guys are so practical when it comes to weddings: 1)ask the father of the bride for her hand in marriage, 2) get a ring and propose, and 3) The Honeymoon! All of the other steps in the wedding process are unimportant.

I can't believe how much a wedding costs today. When Brenda and I married 25 years ago our cake cost around $100. The photos probably cost between $250 and $500. Brenda's mother did the flowers and placed tandem Christmas trees standing like guards at the back row of the aisle. We couldn't disguise the fact that we were married in a gym (the lines on the floor and the goals are very much present in our photos). The simple but elegant Christmas theme did its best to draw attention away from our basketball-sanctuary. I am sure that the costs were crazy for the mid-eighties and I am grateful to my in-law for creating a beautiful memory.

The suggestion I bring to brides is to consider the flow of the wedding for the sake of those invited. I hate waiting for cake just because the bride a groom are taking pictures. I also hate it when there are a billion songs during the ceremony. I suggest the wedding be as early as possible so the bride and groom can take a moment to reflect on the day over dinner (Brenda and I had our wedding at 7 o'clock in the evening...we were both famished and exhausted by the time we reached our evening's destination).

Brides and moms really don't care about my ideas even as they are sane, practical and efficient. Brides aren't looking for efficient...they are looking for "story book". My biggest suggestion to Josh and his bride is: here's how much money I have for this wedding. Its your decision to spend as much as you want or take it on your honeymoon. If I were in their place, I would elope, take the money and run!

G.A.S.

Music stores are like candy stores to me. Not the big-box music stores but the little ones that have charm, great personal service and all the little boutique items that big-boxes would never carry. I have a favorite store in Nashville, right down from Baptist Hospital, across from Exit/In, called Rock Block that I love to visit. I have to bring a pocket full of parking meter quarters if I am gonna stay a while.

Musicians are a funny breed. Guitar players especially have a disease called G.A.S.-- gear acquisition syndrome. We are always on the prowl for that illusive tone calling out to us from classic records, favorite players and gear that we lust for while perusing our guitar magazines. GAS is a condition that makes wives suspicious every time we take a trip to our little music store. While there, we are tempted with new, shiny boxes filled with switches and lights--all promising the journey's end in a lifetime of searching for musical gold like Cortez in his pursuit for El Dorado (minus the pillage and mass murder, of course). There will never be an end to our gear lust.

This quest for great guitar tone started with my first electric guitar and amp. Once the volume was dimed and that first wind-mill strum was cranked on that open-voiced G chord, I was hooked. Power, creativity, dreams and girls were now possible. The once invisible, mild little Harvill boy now had a promising future (...well that's what I fantasized, anyway).

As I started down that path as a musician many of my friends joined me. We all wanted to be like the Beatles. As we moved into Jr. High and beyond, friends traded the music bug for baseball or something else. It's interesting that as I made my choice to continue playing and pursuing music as a profession, I eventually found myself alone in the endeavor. Playing music for a living is expensive and almost never pays off like the dream promised in the beginning. In fact, the original fantasy of power and girls is supplanted with a real passion for the instrument and the incredible satisfaction that performing, writing and singing brings. It was never for the money, really--because there is so little money to be had (ask your guitar-virtuoso waiter next time while visiting a Nashville TGI Fridays!).

I love living in Nashville where so many of us with the dogged-determination to make a living in music reside. You can spot us a mile a way by our hair style; our car's rear bumper making sparks in the road from too much equipment piled up in the back seat; or just the silly smile on our face from GAS, headed to Rock Block.

Road-Dog Chronicles

A few weeks ago I wrote a blog about the adventures of professional road-life in a band. I spent almost 6 years of virtually uninterrupted, "living out of a suitcase," life-on-the-go. I don't think I completely unpacked my clothes even once during those 6 years. The art of packing for such a prolonged time span creates a paranoia of losing control of your finely-folded world. Really...the suitcase and, of course, the briefcase contained my entire sustenance! One must remember, my road-dog days lasted from the very beginning of the '80s and ended almost into '86, when a beautiful brunette from Mobile, Alabama, caused me to willingly exit the highway and settle down. Since this was before the days of cell phones and iPods, I suffered great hardship on the unforgiving concrete pathways criss-crossing North America and the world.

By traveling in such compact spaces, and being together 24/7, it is easy to lose one's identity and surrender to the pack mentality.There are some techniques that the road-dog learns to maintain his individuality--to mentally and emotionally survive. This is where books, magazines and music (earphones) come in handy. They create a needed barrier when all you have separating you and your band mate is the air you breathe and the shirt on your back. As I mentioned in the last blog, the 1 hour rule before speaking to anyone after climbing aboard the bus in the morning is a life saver (literally...you wanna murder the incessant talkers...loud talkers are worse). Malls are a great diversion because you can stretch your legs, get some air and be alone for a while.

Learning to sleep, and the many techniques one must experiment with to get it, is a necessary way of physically surviving the road. Getting adequate rest while sitting in the up-position is a talent I learned while traveling by van in the early days. I would go to sleep somewhere in rainy Tennessee, let's say, and wake up after 8, solid hours in sunny Florida. Sleeping on the floor of a van is a wicked feat only accomplished by the young, nimble and comatose. After a while the body gets used to such abuse and surrenders to it's cruelty. Do or die-- adapt or get off the bus!

A much-coveted skill practiced by hard-core roadies is the ability to roll cords. Novices are not welcomed. The art of pinch-n-roll has been practiced by road musicians since sound systems were invented. The beauty of a well-rolled cord is it's ability to be unrolled without snags, knots or twists. A roadie will rip a cable from the hands of a well-meaning, post-show helper and roll it himself rather than suffer the consequences of poor roll-manship!

Not an art but a staple in the life of every road-dog is duct tape. I have used it for suitcase repair, U-Haul trailer leak-stopper, road atlas cover protector and band-aids. It is the glue that holds the road-world together. And not just any gaffer's tape will do. The cheap stuff does more damage than good. It leaves behind evidence. The good stuff costs a lot more but the results are outstanding. The manager of the venues we visited didn't appreciate a sticky mess after our circus left town.

The last observation of my road experience today is the kitchen entrance. Why is it that every band I have been with loads in and out through the kitchen? We hustle past the smelly garbage on the dock into the equally stench-laden elevator, past the coffee brewing (good smell) and the food prep, into the ballroom where 50 servers are pouring ice-water into glass goblets, 2 hours before the gig. Every major artist enters the stage through the kitchen. Isn't that where RFK met his fate? Come to think of it, Reagan almost lost his life at a Washington, D.C. Hilton on March 30, 1981, near the kitchen as he was leaving.

Road life may have taken me through the oddest paces of any other endeavor I have attempted in my almost 50 years on earth. It has also led me through the catacombs beneath Walt Disney World; brought me to stand on the foundation of the Acropolis in Athens, Greece; led me to rise up from the subway in Rome to the beautiful panorama of the Colosseum; and to a bluff overlooking a harbor in Iceland. You see, road life has its payoff. I will never under-estimate the valuable lessons I gained through those wonderful experiences. I will always be grateful for the toughness it brought to my character. I wouldn't trade it for anything...well, maybe a decent night's sleep.

Hearing the Voice of God

I have been reading a book called With the Old Breed by Eugene Sledge. It was a source for Ken Burns in producing his 2007 PBS series, The War. Tom Hanks, an executive producer on the HBO series The Pacific, said of Sledge’s book, "...(it) is considered perhaps as great a combat memoir as has ever been produced…It is very personal and it is very much written with his voice and with his perspective on life.”

I was so intrigued with Sledge’s character in The Pacific that I bought a copy of With the Old Breed for my Kindle. Sledge and another character in the series, Sid Phillips, grew up in Mobile, Alabama (Dr. Phillips was at one time my wife’s family physician). Their stories intertwine throughout the 10 installments of The Pacific series. Because I already knew a little bit about Sid, I wanted to know more about Sledge. His book holds up to the reputation touted by Hanks.

A particular passage in the first third of the book centered around a divine visitation on the harsh Peleliu battlefield:

Suddenly, I heard a loud voice say clearly and distinctly, “You will survive the war!”
After a few quizzical glances Sledge asked, “Did y’all hear that?”
”Hear what?” (the others) inquired.
“Someone said something,” I said.

Sledge went on to write about his unusual experience-

“Like most persons, I had always been skeptical about hearing voices. So I didn’t mention my experience to anyone. But I believed God spoke to me that night on that Peleliu battlefield, and I resolved to make my life amount to something after the war.”

I have experienced similar moments– hearing God’s voice. One in particular was during a dream. I had been facing a series of decisions that would eventually lead to my songwriting career and success. In the dream I was at a party where several small clusters of people gathered, talking to one another. I heard the voice of God call my name and say, “Follow me.” I asked the others in the party if they heard it too. As with Sledge, my friends didn’t hear a thing. I have, on other occasions, heard my name being called out and no one else heard either.

You might think that I am crazy. But I, like Sledge, can testify that God will visit us in situations beyond our ability to cope. Or in situations where a big life-change is looming on the horizon. He lets us know He is there and that our welfare and safety are protected by His hand. My greatest testimony, and that of Eugene, is that what was promised to us both came to be.

I am encouraged today that God has a plan for me. And if I follow Him, no matter the odds, I will find success.

The Simple Things

I know this sounds elementary but I sure miss playing and singing with just my acoustic guitar. I just finished a sound check for an early worship session and I wasn't using any in-ear device or wireless guitar pack. Just me, Heather Gray and my acoustic in the wedges. It sounded so pure with no competition with other players or singers.

What happened to the days when we plugged straight into our amps with those slinky, retractable cords? Remember when we would turn a main speaker a tiny-bit inward so we could hear our vocals over the band? We would literally run into a venue in those days, set up and sound check within 30 minutes. I also weighed about 165 pounds, soaking wet.

Would I reverse the hands of time and go back to the way it was? Would I actually trade my Mac with Digital Performer 7 in my office where I do most of my music production for an outside studio with 2" tape machines and $1000/day fees? Would I trade my YouSendIt online file sharing software that allows me to easily send large files and email attachments for a courier? NO WAY!

I will enjoy the stripped-down feel of this morning's worship service. But tonight I will be ready to put on my in-ears, turn-on my wireless guitar pack and sing with a kicking band!

Favorite Music Download Store

One of the things I do as I sip my first cup of coffee in the morning is check the daily deal on Amazon MP3. This website and it's offerings have supplanted iTunes as my go-to source for downloaded music. It offers DRM-free music when I make a purchase. The website explains, "Digital Rights Management or 'DRM' commonly refers to software that is designed to control or limit how a file can be played, copied, downloaded, shared, or accessed. DRM-free means that the MP3 files you purchase from Amazon.com do not contain any software that will restrict your use of the file."

Amazon MP3 has very effective download software (optional) that works with Mac and Windows and loads the songs directly into iTunes if you set it up to do so. Each month there is a special 100-album selection that only costs $5 per album. Most new-release selections are $9.99--I have seen 100's of popular records as low as $7.99 and under.

In this day of challenged budgets and diminishing resources, Amazon MP3 proves to be a great way to help you escape from it all with a new record on your iPod. And, by the way, you can find some of my stuff on there, too.

I, my friends, am one happy customer!

Best Foot Foward

I watched a few episodes of the Dick Van Dyke show with Brenda this morning. I was struck with the quality of the production from the beginning to the final credits of each installment. That brings me to ponder about the concept of excellence. I could go on and on with this subject today but I will make a simple observation.

There are three camps in the human race: one who brings their best in skill and effort to each activity and/or project; one who doesn't see the trouble expended is worth the effort; and the last one is a group of people who are selective about the quality and excellence of certain things and are neutral or don't fuss about the others. Most of us fall into the final category.

When it comes to music, live productions, writing, visuals, etc., I am a stickler for excellence. My dad always said that God enjoys worship even if it is out of tune. I really think He cringes like we parents do during our child's talent show or recital-- yes, they are our kids but, man that was painful! We are born with differing talents and aptitudes. Life is not "fair" in that regard. Some of us see uneven roof lines on a house, some folks are oblivious. Some can't stand to see a tilted picture frame and won't rest until it is righted. Some are fussy about their clothes. Most of us are fussy about some things and not so much with others.

I choose to put as much excellence as I can into the worship leading, music, writing, playing, singing and producing I do. Some critics may disagree with some of the content, but I am going to do my best to make sure that the presentation is at it's best. After all, I respect you, the beholder; I respect God, my Creator; and I respect myself because I have to live with the outcome. Your time is important to me. And if I capture your valuable time for even a wink, I want to bring you my best.

So, why do we lay out paper plates and plastic tableware when we can offer our best china, so to speak? Excellence comes first by recognizing a high standard. We plan and rehearse to attain that standard and we make corrections along the way in the process to bring our presentation to the public. The spectators in our world make judgments on our God, our belief systems, our families, our work-- based on presentation. I am not out to impress everyone. But if I am going to say, "Hey, look at this...," I am gonna be sure to not waste your time.

Like Brenda's grandma always said, "Soap is cheap and water is free." Use it!

Great Records

Several years ago I was co-producing a worship project in Muscle Shoals, Alabama. The bass player and engineer on the project is a fine singer, writer, player and producer. From time to time, when the hay gets low in the loft, he, like the rest of us hustlers, produces budget projects for "non-professionals". One such group had just finished a marathon, all-niter recording session with my friend reluctantly at the helm. As he was finishing up, writing the last few notes on the tape box with a Sharpie, a group member was scratching his head, looking bum-fuzzled, searching around the recording console as if he were trying to find his missing keys. My friend asked the guy what was the matter. The man, still looking quite puzzled, looked into my friend's tired, blood-shot eyes and asked with a slow, country drawl, "Where duz da recuds come out?" He thought, when the session was done, the 45's popped out of the side of the mixing board like candy from a vending machine .

Sadly, most people don't have a clue as to how "recuds" (records) are made. Since I and countless others make a living in Nashville, Music City, it is the obvious place to come, while on the eastern side of the US, to make a recording. Everything one needs to accomplish that goal is pretty much here- en masse. Though, just because one has the money, the dream, the time, the guts and a strong defense against rejection, it doesn't mean they will come away with a great record. Great records are few and far between and it doesn't take a genius to know one when he hears one.

In my office, on each wall to my left and right, are LP covers mounted in shadow boxes bearing the artwork and photos of the albums and artists I adored and listened to growing up. When folks come over many of them ask, "Did you play on those records?" First of all...I am not that old. And second, I WISH! To me, these 10 or so record covers represent the finest moments in my life when I would carefully place the vinyl on a turntable, then study the liner notes and pictures as the music coaxed me into another world. The scratching of the needle against the final grooves broke my trance and reminded me to turn the disc to the other side. My favorite moments on those albums all had the same thing in common and contained the ultimate triumvirate: 1) great songs; 2) great performances and 3) a supernatural, other-worldly, brilliant moment that is captured in a fine recording.

The "fine recording" doesn't always mean pristine. It just means that the full potential of the recorded material is all there-- hiss, crackles and all! When I listen to the Carter Family's 1927 recordings, they are masterpieces but sound ancient to our digitally-trained ears. A.P. Carter's song selection and harmony, Sara's lead vocal, and Maybelle's unique guitar picking and harmony all add up to a spectacular, albeit earthy record. Elvis produced great records at Sun in Memphis and in Nashville at RCA, Studio B. A modern recording that, to my taste, is one of the finest: I Can't Make You Love Me by Bonnie Raitt. (I have seen numerous lists where this recording is mentioned as an all time favorite). The song captures a longing and a sadness with which everyone can relate...what a vocal, what a song! A great record came out a few years ago and I was surprised to see it basically fall from the charts and go almost unnoticed. It was a 2002, Bob Rock produced CD from the group, Tonic, called Head on Straight. The songs were great, the playing was great, the recording, vibe...the total sum was "masterpiece". Sometimes great art goes unnoticed. It's intrinsic value isn't measured by economics but by it's ability to remain standing after the junk-food music eventually and deservingly fades into obscurity.

Great records are everywhere. George Jones, James Taylor, ZZ Top, The Beach Boys, John Coltrane...they all made a few in their careers. The cool thing is, they are more accessible today than ever through Amazon, Amazon MP3, iTunes, etc. I still love to browse through used record stores for the "great find". Where duz da recuds come out? Well, they come out of lessons learned, broken hearts, joyous highs and melancholy, blue gazes through rain-streamed windows. Great records break into our souls with a flashlight and expose the truth of what we feel as humans. Great records take us to other places and times. Great records just are!

Haircuts

While I was writing the blog about Saturday morning cartoons, I shed light on a little visited area of my past: haircuts. My brothers and I would usually don shaved heads in the summer. I guess it was just easier for my mom to place a board across an empty oil drum/ trash can and lift us up there to receive our "butch" for the season. She would leave just a little patch in front where we would dab on a little bit of "butch wax". As I remember, it was pink, sticky, but smelled clean and fresh like the barber shop. There was very little foolishness when it came to hair, discipline and my 5'-2" mom.



When we got older, long hair became cool. I learned the hard way as an adolescent that long, unwashed hair was laughed at. So, the people-pleaser in me succumbed to peer-pressure and began washing my hair everyday. Up until then, washing the hair for men wasn't much more than a quick scrub with a bar of soap and that was it. At that point, in the 70's, products came out to wrangle the men-folk into a primarily female world: hair care products. I was the first boy I knew that got a shag. I guess my mom persuaded me to go to a "stylist" and get my hair cut in layers, as opposed to the barber's way of my past, cutting the top to one length and buzzing the sides. We then had to arm ourselves with our sister's/ mom's hair dryer each morning. It became a two-hour ritual for guys to get ready when at an earlier time it took all but 10 minutes to shower, dry, get dressed and head out the door.

One thing that my dad handed down to me and outlives hairstyles and fashion- its wearing cologne. My dad would always put on some sort of tonic after he shaved and a faint smell would remain even after he got home from work. In the 60's my dad started using a cologne that I love to this day called Aramis. People at the store counters roll their eyes when I ask about it, but it really smells good and it has stayed around for over 40 years. I never fell for the Jade East/ Hi Karate of the 60's. It all smelled the same to me: Skin Bracer. Still to this day, I don't feel complete without wearing some kind of cologne before I start my day.

I am glad that hair went back to no-fuss in that past several years. I haven't used a blow dryer for 10 years. I like to throw some gel on my half-wet head, spike it up and go. Brenda is looking online for a new doo for you-know-who. I only hope that it doesn't involve hair dryers.

Saturday Morning Cartoons

Saturdays have always been my favorite day of the week. It is the week's equivalent of the year's Christmas. As kids growing up in suburban Los Angeles, we woke up really early on Saturday so we wouldn't miss the cartoons. Sometimes we would get up so early the farm report was still on. I guess that was the time we shoveled down our cereal and waited for the familiar music in the opening titles of our favorite show.

Every year in the fall, each TV network would unveil their new Saturday morning cartoon line-up. We would be so excited to catch the first glimpse of the new weekend fare. It was so cool to go to the store and find lunch boxes portraying our TV heroes to take to the first day of school. I loved the way those brand-new Aladdin lunch boxes smelled when first opened. The thermos was a cool thing, too. It kept our milk luke-warm until we swished our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches down with it before whisking off to play dodge ball or marbles, awaiting the dreaded recess bell to ring, calling us back into the classroom.

When we were kids, we didn't look for quality in our cartoons, we just wanted to laugh and be transported into the two-dimensional world that beamed into to our living rooms. Looking back now at the cartoons of the 60's and early 70's, I am amazed how quickly they must have pushed those things out of the production line. The backgrounds were looped so you could always count to 5 and the same background scene with Barney and Fred running was repeated. We were gullible, but we loved our cartoons. I guess the ritual would last from 7AM till 10 AM when mom or dad would kick us out of the house to go play or do chores.

When I sit down to look at cartoons today I am bored in seconds. For goodness sake, they have full-time cartoon networks nowadays where kids don't have to wait until Saturday to see them. They are always on. I remember when I started to get into my pre-teens, Sid & Marty Croft produced live-action kid shows like The Bugaloos, Lidsville and Sigmund and the Sea Monsters. Also a favorite from another production company was H.R. Pufnstuff with Freddie the Flute and Jimmy. I loved the water that Jimmy would swim up in during the show's intro segment; I always wanted to go there and live on that island. I remember my desire to watch cartoons faded right before Land of the Lost became popular because I don't think I ever watched it.

Things have changed drastically in 40 years. I sit here at the computer with a bit of melancholy for the days gone by. I can still see, in my mind's eye, three boys, shaved heads, in their PJ's looking intently into the TV, transfixed by moving drawings on a screen. Those days have gone but are precious memories, none the less.

The Pacific- a brutal reality

I have been watching The Pacific on HBO. The episodes have been recorded onto my DirecTV hard disc so I can pick the right time to view them later each week. There are 10 installments of the series and I completed #9 yesterday afternoon. The shows portray such brutality that I have to be careful when I watch them so I don't carry the visions of carnage with me to my daily responsibilities. Actually, I have been unable to successfully dodge the terrible images in my mind . The plight of the 1st Marine Division soldier's experiences during the horrid Pacific Theater of Operations of WWII in such battles as Guadalcanal, Cape Gloucester, Peleliu, Okinawa and Iwo Jima are breathtaking. One of the real-life characters from the movie is the now 85 year old Sidney Phillips from Mobile, Alabama.

Sid came back home to South Alabama after the war. He had decided while at Cape Gloucester to become a physician and settled in Mobile to practice medicine. Eventually, many years later, he became a friend and doctor to my wife's family. Brenda grew up with Sid's son, Sidney, teaching her at Greystone Christian School and later we became personal friends and fellow church congregants with his youngest son and daughter-in-law, Charles and Sue Phillips. When one meets Dr. Phillips, there is an air of "old southern gentleman" that surrounds him. To realize that for years he and his sons ran an antiques business makes that so much more understandable. Dr. Phillip's place is filled with history and the furnishings that followed lives to just short of their eternal destinations. This all seems so mild when seeing the horrible experiences that Sid lived on Tenaru, Guadalcanal and Cape Gloucester. Sid and his older sister, Catherine, were also featured on Ken Burn's, The War, in 2007.

My father, Tom Harvill, also served in WWII. He is just a day shy of being 2 years younger than Sid Phillips. He was a latecomer to the war, not by desire, but by age. Although stationed stateside as a Navy Corpsman, he witnessed the carnage that was brought back home. Corpsmen were the medical caregivers that fought right alongside the Marines portrayed in The Pacific. My dad saw victims of the battles and helped with surgeries in military hospitals. In fact, my dad served in the Korean War as well. I am so proud of him and that my lineage includes veterans from almost every war since the Revolution. When I visited my dad last month in North Carolina, he gave me something I have seen around my childhood home since I can remember: his Navy Corpsman's field box. It contains all the battlefield surgical supplies that one could carry to battle. When I see the Corpsmen helping the Marines in the movie, I think of the medicine box my dad gave me. I love you, Pop!

I would recommend The Pacific to those who are not faint of heart. The battle scenes are recreated with, even as the veterans testify, brutal realism. The language is as crude as you would imagine a group of terrified, just-out-of-high-school boys would be. The adult scenes in the movie are unnecessary, in my opinion, as they didn't help propel the heart of the story (with the categorical exception of Basilone). I realize that this is HBO. All in all, this movie is brilliant. I hope it helps our contemporaries understand the blood shed, the anguish and the bravery that pushed our troops ahead, against all odds, to take the enemy's ground, inch by inch, into victory.

To all the armed forces, past and present, I humbly thank you.

Sid Phillips and Tom Hanks at The Pacific premier

My mom & dad, Tom & Betty Harvill, 1952

Roku, Blu Ray and Netflix

Okay...one more thing. Last night I switched on another one of my shiny new gadgets that is very intriguing: the Roku. No, it's not a Hawaiian dance routine. It is a cool little player that works with your HD TV and gives the ability to show streaming Netflix movies on TVs that don't already have a Netflix streamer built into a separate Blu-Ray player (If all that jargon just flew right over your head, suffice it to say that in a few years, everyone will be enjoying instant streaming of movies, and probably through a gateway such as the Roku!).

Netflix is killing the neighborhood video store with it's "mail to your home" and "keep as long as you like" feature. Who wants to rent a movie for $4 and pay a late fee on top of that because you forgot to get in your car and return it last night? Netflix allows you to have a maximum of, say, three movies at a time (there are several tiers). You maintain a queue of movies you want to see and when you mail in a viewed DVD, you receive a new movie in a few days. Miraculous! Ingenious! The bonus is the "watch instantly" feature. You build a queue of shows to watch and from your computer, Wii console, Blu-Ray player (has to have software that is included, not all do...) or Roku, you can watch shows or movies any time you want- stop, pause, rewind, fast-forward!

The HD quality of the selections is incredible. I have a 36" screen in my bedroom and the resolution is killer! I was watching a movie last night on the Roku player that I saw being filmed while on vacation with my family in 1969. The movie is Mackenna's Gold with Gregory Peck and Omar Sharif. The memories have faded but the deep-blue lagoon that we visited is even more spectacular on screen.

I know all of this tech stuff can get boring and certainly expensive but the Roku is a terrific answer to folks who want to limit cable and watch only the shows they select. The beautiful thing is, the "watch instantly" feature is limitless. You can choose and watch as many shows as you please. It is only on the physical DVD portion of the plan that you have a limit.

My dad always says, "They've done all they can do, right Jamie?" No, Pop, they're just beginning!

Shiny New Gadgets

I just wanted to mention a cool friend that I take everywhere with me these days: my Kindle. I know all the hype is going toward the iPad of late but I am so enamored with my reader that it deserves attention.

First of all, it was a gift that Brenda and I gave each other for Christmas last year- his and hers Kindles. We have always read several books at a time as well as magazines and the local newspaper. Upon getting my Kindle set up, I ordered USA Today because I always get one in the airport when I travel. This way, with my new e-subscription, I wake up each morning and the paper is delivered via Whispernet (Amazon's cell-phone like, wireless delivery system) directly to my reader. I love it. I also have the Reader's Digest delivered monthly (another weird magazine love affair I've had for many, many years).

People always make fun of me because I am quick to jump on the band wagon for new gadgets. iPods, BlackBerry phones, laptops and a blue-tooth, hands-free speaker for my car...I have been criticized for having these early on until they become so common place that nobody notices anymore.

My dad told me once that his father, who died in 1955, had the same "Jones" for shiny, new gadgets. I guess it runs in the blood. I am fascinated with progress- so much so that I take chances which don't always pan out. Like the time I bought an Apple Newton, a forerunner of electronic organizers. Obviously, it was ahead of it's time and really didn't capture the market. Even though it wasn't a phone, it was, however, a step in the right direction that eventually morphed into the iPhone we know today.

I am totally enthralled with my Kindle. It has several books on board waiting to be consumed as well as my favorite Bible translations and reference books. I guess if I were on a deserted island I would want my sweetheart, a boat-load of batteries and all my shiny gadgets right there in my grass hut. Problem is, I wouldn't have a Best Buy near to test drive the next cool thing.

The Root of the Problem

I sit at the computer this afternoon all jacked-up on Tylenol 3. So if I say, "I love you, man..." more than once, it's the codeine talking. Here's my story...

Gary Sadler and I were hanging out at his place last Friday afternoon when he wondered why I looked a bit under the weather. I told him that a tooth had been hurting for a few days. He went on to tell me one of the most profound statements I have heard in a long time. Gary, being the consummate C.S. Lewis fan, quoted to me his hero's take on the subject of pain:

"God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world."--The Problem of Pain

Pain is the great motivator. It comes in the form of emotional distress, hunger, physical injury and is our body's megaphone to us saying, "It's time to rest, use the facilities or slow down!" Sometimes my objective is louder than my pain and I completely disregard it's message...until... it tackles me to the ground and I have to deal with the source before I can do anything else. By today, early Monday morning, after a long event-filled weekend, I surrendered and called the dentist.

I hadn't been to a dentist in six years. So the disapproving looks from both the dentist and his staff were well deserved. His diagnosis, after eying the x-ray, was to perform the dreaded "root canal". Didn't someone epitomize excruciating pain as a root canal?...like in, "that baseball bat to the shin was 'not as bad' as a root canal!" Well, this morning was filled with the most intense pain I have ever experienced. Isn't it ironic that the day after Mother's Day I am complaining about pain? I can hear a chorus of moms right about now shaking their heads, saying, "Pain, you don't know what stinking pain is until you give birth!" Well, you got me there, Mommies. I will never know.

So...I am sitting in the chair as the needle is inserted into the inside of my upper lip, just above the sore tooth. Thank God that they put a topical deadening solution to the area where the needle is plunged. I'm a musician and have no business telling the dentist to use a certain technique learned in a similar situation. A previous dentist told me he put the syringe under warm water for a short time before puncturing the gums. Then, the liquid is at least body temperature when the stuff fans out under the flesh. Guess what, friends, this new dentist missed that class and shot pure ice water into my head. I just about lost my shoes when my legs flailed uncontrollably at the foot of the chair. After the pain of the pain medication (irony) subsided and I was able to will my hands out of their death grip, I was fine...for a while.

Skipping to the chase scene, the Novocaine wore off too early in the process of drilling the "canal" in my tooth. I about pooped my pants again when the Mother of all pain shot through my whole body: Dr. Evil injected more ice water directly into the nerve! Holy crap, I thought I saw Jesus, my mom and a bolt of lightning all at the same time. They almost had to un-Velcro me off the ceiling! I managed to suffer through to the end when the assistant gave me 800 milligrams of Advil (didn't even kick in for an hour) and a prescription for Tylenol 3.

This takes me to the moral of the story: God SHOUTS to us through our pain. So for His sake and the benefit of obedience, stop doing what is causing the discomfort. Just STOP, deal with it and move on. The only blessing that I took home was the opportunity to enjoy the soothing effects of the medication.

Go in peace, brush and floss, and get to know your dentist and staff. Their disapproving grimace can be painful enough!

Melody In F

My dad sent this. Since I have a killer weekend at church with Mother’s Day, the new sanctuary dedication and Charlie Daniels, I will let this be my post. It is worth the gander. Please read it out loud vey slowly...I wouldn't want you to lose your testimony! The tongue twister is a take on Luke 15:11-32. My prayer is that many a wayward son will darken the door of a church this weekend whether their mother is in heaven or right next to them.


Feeling footloose and frisky, a feather-brained fellow forced his fond father to fork over the farthings and flew far to foreign fields. He frittered his fortune, feasting fabulously with faithless friends. Fleeced by his fellows in folly and facing famine, he found himself a feed-flinger in a filthy farmyard. Fairly famishing, he feigned would have filled his frame with foraged food from fodder fragments. “Fooey! My father’s flunkies fare far finer.”

The frazzled fugitive, frankly facing facts, frustrated by failure and filled with foreboding, fled forthwith to his family.. Falling at his father’s feet, he forlornly fumbled, “Father, I’ve flunked, and fruitlessly forfeited family favor.”

The farsighted father, forestalling further flinching, frantically flagged the flunkies to fetch a fatling from the flock and fix a feast. The fugitive’s fault-finding brother frowned on fickled forgiveness of former falderall. But the faithful father figured, “Filial fidelity is fine, but the fugitive is found. What forbids fervent festivity? Let the flags be unfurled, let fanfares flay!” Father’s forgiveness formed the foundation for the former fugitive’s future fortitude.

By Phil Kerr, New Zealand

Records, Guitars and Ah-Ha Moments

I was around 7 when I realized that music existed. It was always played in our home and on the car AM radio. But for some reason I woke up to the fact that music was a force that I wanted to join. My brother Jon and I had our first opportunity to sign-up for the school talent show sometime around 1968. For some reason Jon took the drums and I took the guitar. Little did I know then that the decision to play guitar would change my life forever.

I didn't see the Beatles on Ed Sullivan. I wish I could say that I bugged my dad to buy me a guitar the morning after the boys from Liverpool performed. All I know is that at some point in 1970 I knew what I wanted to do. My mom played Aretha Franklin and Stevie Wonder records in our home when I was growing up. My dad always played swing music and adored Sinatra. My older brother Rob listened to Al Green, Neil Young and the Beach Boys. So by that time, I was starting to sing harmonies, heard chord changes and was mesmerized and carried away by records. I remember taking my dad's stereo speakers and spreading them apart as far as they could go and sat in the middle to hear the stereo separation. My brother had these headphones connected to an FM radio that I would put on when he was gone. I wanted to create music and move others as it moved me.

My first guitar was a little classical model that my parents bought. I graduated to a blue Teisco ET-200 electric (similar to the pic below) with a little amp. I liked to listen to Deep Purple "Machine Head" and "Paranoid" from Black Sabbath and discovered that if I cranked that little amp to the max, I could get screams of distortion to play along with Richie Blackmore and Tony Iommi, all the while hearing my family scream, "Turn that down!" In contrast, I loved the acoustic music and harmonies of America, Cat Stevens, the Eagles and Crosby, Stills & Nash. I was steeped in a world of many varieties and styles of music.

Teisco ET-200- Mine was blue

That brings me to my first, "So that's how they do that..." moment. Some buddies brought their acoustics over to jam. One of the guys brought a friend with a bass guitar and amp. We ran an orange power cord from the garage out to the front lawn and started playing. When the bass started thumping and playing the rich, low notes, it became a sort of "glue" that brought everything together. I started hearing music in a new way. I was picking out parts and learning how music is arranged and put together to create that same magic I heard in my dad's speakers.

Fast forward. I made that fateful leap into making music for a living 30 years ago. My dream of living in Nashville is being realized. I have played on ump-teen records and have written songs that have sold millions. I enjoy producing music for myself and others in my studio. I have played live and in the studio with many of my heroes. One of those heroes introduced me to fiddle music and southern rock way back in '74 with his record, Fire on the Mountain. That man is Charlie Daniels. How could a kid from southern California be into fiddle? As you can see from my past, I am a confused when it comes to styles. I can't enjoy just one...I gotta play 'em all! I'm still just trying to create those ah-ha moments when everything comes together and moves people the same way the music moves me.

Charlie & Jamie- April, 2009

Missing My Sweetheart

My post today is full-on selfish: I miss my wife! She left Saturday for a week-long mission trip to Guatemala with a group from our church.

Brenda's sister called the other night to ask how we did through the storm/ flood and how I was doing with Brenda being gone. As for the flood, we made it unscathed but as for her being away, I am a mess! I received a photo yesterday from a blog on Facebook about the trip. She is standing in the midst of the children she's ministering to with a little puppet named Gozer. She looks absolutely content.

When I first met Brenda she was totally sold-out to being a missionary. She was a student at what was then called Mobile College and is today the University of Mobile. It was in the chapel service that Truth, the group with which I was playing guitar at the time, were playing a concert. She was in the audience. I noticed her as she unashamedly raised her hands in worship to God. Two things struck me immediately: 1) she seemed to be the only person openly praising God and; 2) she was a total FOX (and is to this day!). So much for my knees and their ability to hold me up at that point. I was smitten! I met her afterward and we quickly became friends through letter writing (this was 1983, kids, before email and cell phones!). I visited her family one evening for dinner at some point in the next year. I noticed a sign above the inside of her bedroom door (we were "just friends", kiddos!). It was written in her own block-letters and it simply read, "You are now entering the mission field."

When Brenda's sister reminded me of the sign the other night, all of my sadness (I am a wimp!) was replaced with joy. She, even to this day, is a missionary at heart. When we met she didn't think our friendship would amount to a life-long relationship because I wasn't planning to be a missionary. Well, if having written worship songs that travel all over the world, translated into several languages, isn't a close second, then I have have failed her. Of course those songs wouldn't be written until several years later. I pursued her like a hound because I didn't want to live without her. She married me anyway, despite my leanings toward a music ministry career. She quietly tucked the dream of one day being on the mission field in her heart for a future date of fulfillment. 25 years later she found the opportunity and in the photo she looks like she's just about "bust" with joy.

I am going to pick her up at church on Sunday evening when she arrives back in Nashville with the team. I know I am her sweetheart and the kids are jewels in her crown. But we will never replace the yearning in her heart to love God and serve him in a foreign land. Selfishly, I wanna be right there with her next time!

Brenda (middle) in her Mobile College dorm, fall, 1983

Brenda with the "jewels in her crown", Josh and Betsy (recent photo)

Brenda and the Hound, engagement photo, 1985

Undaunted Courage

There's a cool series on the History Channel called America: The Story of Us. It was interesting last night to see astronaut Buzz Aldrin of Apollo 11 talking about Lewis and Clark and the Corps of Discovery. The interesting correlation between Aldrin and Lewis & Clark was that each expedition was ordered by a president and Congress and the pioneers that took the mission were already being prepared years before the opportunity came about.

I am also doing a Bible study for the second time called Experiencing God. As I wrote several posts back, God is working in the earth and we can join Him in His endeavors if we make ourselves available. It takes a quiet heart to hear and a keen eye to see God moving amongst His people. It takes many years of preparation to be ready when the right time comes about. Henry Blackaby, the author of the study, breaks it down like this: there are "Seven Realities of Experiencing God": (1) God is always at work around you; (2) God pursues a continuing love relationship with you that is real and personal; (3) God invites you to become involved with Him in His work; (4) God speaks by the Holy Spirit through the Bible, prayer, circumstances, and the church to reveal Himself, His purposes, and His ways; (5) God's invitation for you to work with Him always leads you to a "crisis of belief" that requires faith and action; (6) You must make major adjustments in your life to join God in what He is doing; and (7) You come to know God by experience as you obey Him and He accomplishes His work through you.

My heart is to be be a pioneer in the "faith sense." God has a trail for me to blaze. I want to be available to Him as a co-worker in His Kingdom. I accept His invitation to do new things and to take chances. As Lewis and Clark did two hundred and seven years ago, I take the challenge to go where no man has gone before. It may sound corny, but I mean it with all my heart.

As I speak about Lewis and Clark, I want to recommend one of the greatest books that I have ever read: Undaunted Courage by Stephen Ambrose. It is a book about the preparation, journey and the aftermath of the Corp of Discovery. It has a sad ending with regard to Meriwether Lewis. He died and is buried less than an hour's drive from my home here in middle Tennessee. Regardless of the ending, it is a wonderful story of a group of men who had the same goal, reached it, and lived to tell about it, albeit in a limited way. Lewis never finished his writing about the journey before his life was tragically cut short on the Natchez Trace in October of 1809.