Many moons ago, in another life in a galaxy far, far away, I used to practice karate. I did it for some time, attended a few gradings, and eventually attended a grading in the hope of being awarded the green belt. When the names were called out and I realized mine wasn’t one of them, my heart sank. I was somewhat surprised by my own reaction; after all, the belt is just there to hold your gi together. Anyway, it was the sensei’s call. A bit later on I stopped training and, as it turned out, wouldn’t see the inside of a dojo again for a number of years.

At one time before class, the sensei told two stories that have stayed with me ever since. Bear with me if I bungle up some of the details — these are stories that I heard exactly once more than ten years ago.

Running From the Lions

A man was being chased by a pride of lions. He ran for his life, but the lions were gaining on him. It was obvious that they would soon reach him. Also, he hadn’t noticed that he’d been running towards a cliff edge until he was at the ledge. He leaped off the ledge and fell. There were a few scrubs and small trees growing out of the cliff face. He managed to grab onto a branch and stop his fall.

Hanging in mid-air, the man noticed another pride of lions waiting for him on the ground below. He also noticed that there was a beautiful red flower growing on the cliff face. He leaned towards the flower to smell it. The branch creaked as if it was about to give.

As he inhaled and the fragrance filled his nostrils, he smiled and thought to himself: “What a lovely scent!”

Two Monks and an Old Lady

Two old monks were walking towards the town to get some supplies. The sky was grey; it was raining quite heavily.  As they reached the town, they saw that all the streets were muddy and flooded.

As part of their vows to become a monk, they’d promised that they would never touch a woman as long as they lived. An old lady was trying in vain to locate a dry spot to cross the street. One of the monks asked her if she’d accept assistance. She said yes, and the monk carried her across the street through the mud.

As they were heading back to the monastery, the other monk asked: “Don’t you remember what you promised when you became a monk? What has become of you?” The monk who helped the old lady said: “You’re still carrying her with you — I’m not.”

Epilogue

After a long break I eventually started practicing karate again, in a different country, in a different style. Last Sunday I graded to 6th kyu, or green belt.

Ray

(Prologue: Ray Ashley 1968-2009 on Youtube.)

I first met Ray in 2000 in Brussels, of all places. We were both in Belgium to attend the legendary Tap-Guitar Seminar in Neufchâteau. Ray was already an incredible tapper who could do amazing things on his 11-string Warr. Me, I was still trying to figure out which way to hold the instrument.

We caught up every now and then over the years, sometimes in Belgium, a couple of times at his place in New Jersey. I felt very privileged to be invited to perform at Summerjam, Ray’s annual musical BBQ fiesta. On one occasion we did a rendition of Tabula Rasa’s Rakastatko vielä kun on ilta together, with Ray on keys and his long-time musical accomplice Joe on drums.

It was Ray’s turn to visit me in Finland in 2004. Being the huge Rachmaninov fan that he was, he made sure to time his trip so we could go and see the Estonian Philharmonic Chamber Choir performing Vespers, Op. 37. We took the ferry over to Tallinn and made our way to Niguliste church. After the gig, Ray had a brief chat with the Russian basso profundo Vladimir Miller — in Russian, of course. As I don’t speak the language, I didn’t join them and so don’t know what his reaction was, but I would bet that he doesn’t get a chance all that often to chat with fans from New Jersey who are fluent in his native language.

We did a road trip to Montreal in 2006. Ray always had a flair for unearthing extremely obscure composers and their even more obscure works, but I think he outshone even himself by putting Sulkhan Tsintsadze on the car stereo. It was a long drive, but I wasn’t about to complain. Instead, I willingly sat shotgun while listening to Ray’s endless yet always entertaining monologues on anything and everything under the sun.

Fast forward to 2009. I was about to leave San Francisco and called Ray to double-check that he would be coming to pick me up. He sounded a bit preoccupied, which wasn’t unusual; he’d had bad days mixed in with the good for a long time. Ray said he’d be there to meet me, I said “see you tomorrow then”, and that was it.

When I got to Newark, I quickly found out that Ray wasn’t going to be there. He’d been wheeled away to hospital that morning. I went to visit him in the intensive care unit. It is not entirely clear whether he recognized me, as he was heavily sedated. I like to think that he did. A few days later, he was gone.

As a postscript, I’d like to present one of Ray’s song lyrics from Three Hour Detour’s eponymous debut album.

Omnichrome

Omnichrome is a great and wonderful city where all colors are experienced with equal intensity at all times. It is one of the true wonders of the Galaxy, contained within a huge geodesic dome.

Far away, a dream a day, perception stained my face.
Only there was I aware of my past.
Far along, the siren’s song, far along the way.
So far to go, so much to know or say.

Soon, I’ll be away from here, back to the place where my mind is clear.
Tell me I am near.

“Dead ahead”, the sailor said, “dead ahead you’ll see,
the colored sky shows you why you’re free.”

Soon, I’ll be in Omnichrome, under the great geodesic dome.
Tell me I am home.

More cowbell! And just a touch of Dolby as well, please.

And so it came to pass that it was time to haul the collective behinds of Electric Mayhem to Angel Studios in search of the lost chord. A sunburned G#maj7+9 was lying in the parking lot, probably left behind by an earlier jazz session. It was not the day to go all fancypantsy though. No, this was to be a day of E and A, with the occasional D thrown in for good measure.

Alas, poor Revox, I knew him well.

Six tracks were laid down, including but not limited to Route 66, a song that will surely be the anthem of my upcoming California trip. I’m happy to confirm the rumours that the sleeve will indeed bear the magical words “NO OVERDUBS!” Also recorded were To Her Door, with yours truly on button accordion – prompting a comment from one of the studio crew: “I’ve never even seen one of those things before!“, Alone With You, When the River Runs Dry, In the Midnight Hour and Blue Hotel.

Thanks to Kim for lead(en?) vocals, guitars, and organising the session, Andrew for keeping the groove a-goin’, Brent for being there in spirit, if not in flesh, Trevor for filling in on the drum seat at short notice, Kevin for bankrolling the session, and last but not least, Paul & his angelic crew for making it all happen. And by the way – we are available for your Roman orgies, bar mitzvahs, and other occasions in and near South-East Queensland…

When I was but a wee lad – less than 5 years ago, to be exact, but who’s counting? – I lived in Adelaide for a few months. Wonderful town – at least Ben Folds seems to think so. And why wouldn’t he, seeing as he married an Adelaide chick. Yay Ben, whom I will incidentally be seeing live in San Francisco a week from now, unless jet lag gets me first.

Anyway, even if at the end of the day I just had to escape, I have many fond memories of Adelaide. One of them would definitely be Coopers Stout on tap at the Crown & Sceptre. If you’re ever in town, do yourself a favour and go there, if for nothing else, then at least to marvel at the recursion in the symbiosis of the bar and the painting depicting the bar hanging on the wall behind it.

The Coopers brewery is kind of the Olvi of Australia – an independent brewery that is not exactly small but definitely not a megaswillery (is that a word? I guess it is now) either. In addition to the Stout, which by the way is perfectly fine in the bottle as well, they do a mahvelous Sparkling Ale, identified by its red label. Walking back from the Brisbane Powerhouse, where I indeed indulged in a stubby of the Stout, I was inspired to swing by a bottle-o and grab a six-pack of said ale.

But oh! Woe is me! Being the carefree lad that I am, I did not take appropriate precautions and ask for a plastic bag. Instead, I foolishly thought the flimsy cardboard binding the six torpedoes of bliss together would suffice as an implement of transportation. How wrong I was. Suddenly and without any warning, the evil cardboard decided to give way in the middle of Merthyr Road, cruelly letting gravity do its worst to the contents.

The story has a happy ending, though. Not one of the bottles broke. One of the twist tops did come loose, which meant I had no option but to consume the attached stubby on the spot. Which I then swiftly proceeded to do.

It baffles the mind, though, to think that if the stubbies truly are that strong – how come they get recycled along with other glass garbage, instead of heading straight back to the bottling plant after a quick shower? Answers on a postcard please.