The Editor Known as Mr. Deathrealm. Author of The House at Black Tooth Pond, Blue Devil Island, Dark Shadows: Dreams of the Dark (with Elizabeth Massie), and many others. Feed at your own risk. Note: Stephen Mark Rainey is a participant in the Amazon Services LLC Associates Program, an affiliate advertising program designed to provide a means for the author to earn fees by linking to Amazon.com.
Showing posts with label Songwriters Showcase. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Songwriters Showcase. Show all posts
...you weren't where you should have been. There was a fine crowd for the Daily Grind's Ninth Songwriters Showcase in Martinsville, VA, with near a dozen individual performers, including the old Geocaching Noisemaking Horror Writer. Songwriters came from all around Virginia and North Carolina, including Martinsville, Chatham, Richmond, and beyond. For my set, I played my original songs "Scan in Progress," "My Love Goes On," and "Paranoid Schizophrenia." And at the end of the show, a bunch of us got together and raised a ruckus with a freestyle jam the likes of which I haven't experienced since my college days. It was great too, since these young guys were playing The Rolling Stones, ELO,Bob Dylan, and such with enthusiasm like I haven't seen in forever. A nice beer tasting ran along with the show, which, for the audience, helped make even the old dude sound reasonably sweet.
The Songwriters Showcase is the brainchild of musician-Daily Grind proprietor Danny Heiss, who played an impressive solo set as well as an intense duet with guitarist Angus Hobson. The event is held on a quarterly schedule—more or less—and there should be another one coming up in the fall, which I hope will work out for me time-wise. Last night's was among the best ever, and those of you who weren't there (you know who you are) missed a helluva treat.
Danny and Angus going to town on one of Danny's original compositions
Old Rodan and Young Angus getting in tune for the jam
ROCK AND ROLLLLLLL!
Today, Ms. B. and I made a day of it in Danville, as she had wanted to visit the Woodwick Candle Outlet in Blairs, a few miles north of town. We caught some sushi for lunch at Tokyo Grill, one of my regular Danville haunts; grabbed a few Geocaches; enjoyed a spot of wine at the always pleasant 2Witches Winery & Brewing Co.; and check out Vintages by the Dan, a nice little wine/brew shop on the fringes of Danville's historic district.
One of my Geocaching targets was close to the historic Grove Street Cemetery, which Brugger particularly enjoyed exploring. In it, there are graves dating back to the Civil War, including a section for local slaves, who were, of course, not individually identified. A somber yet peaceful and scenic location. Here, I ran into old Geocaching friends esddan (a.k.a. Stokes and Joyce), who were among the very first cachers I ever met, back in early 2008, at one the first caches I ever placed. A full but relatively relaxing day of it all around.
As you diehard regulars here have surely deduced, scary fiction and music are among my passions, and while I work at creating the former almost daily, it's less common for me to break out the git-fiddle and make a scary racket. Still, now and again I am known to do this thing and inflict some lovely pain and suffering on an unsuspecting populace. So shall it be this coming Friday, July 20, at The Daily Grind in Martinsville, VA. From 7:00 PM to 9:00 PM, The Daily Grind is hosting another Songwriters Showcase for local musicians to perform some of their original compositions. Now, I haven't written music in decades, but there was a spell back in the 1980s and early 90s where I composed a fair number of guitar-and-vocal tunes, many of them — I'm sure your shock is palpable — featuring scary themes. Come Friday, I'll be performing a few of them.
You folks in the area, please come by and feel free to hurl, heckle, and chuck things. It's all appreciated. The Daily Grind is located at 303 E Church St, Martinsville, VA 24112 (see map below).
Lately, I've been about as busy playing music — or something akin to it — as writing fiction. Of course, the composing of prose is my secondary profession, while banging on the guitar and hollering to scare the wits out of innocent passersby falls more in the "hobby" department. Still, I've become a regular at the The Daily Grind's quarterly Songwriters' Showcase in Martinsville, VA, and we have one tonight — Friday, October 20,7:00–10:00 PM. I'll be one of several singer/songwriters playing a set of original tunes, mine based primarily on the darker sides of life (and death), which I suppose surprises the hell out of my faithful followers.
BEER ALERT! There will be a beer tasting tonight as well. The Daily Grind also has a good selection of wines.
Do you have superhuman courage? Well, come on out and have a listen! But only heckle me if you really mean it.
September is going to be a busy month, the weekend of 9/22–9/23 busiest of all, with two events in Martinsville, VA. On Friday 9/22, I'll be performing a bunch of original songs at the Writers' Round at The Daily Grind in Uptown Martinsville, and on Saturday 9/23, I'll be on hand at the Young Blood Five-Year Anniversary Event at the Hollywood Cinema.
Having made a racket at several of the regular Songwriter Showcase events at The Daily Grind, I'll be back to share the stage with songwriter Tokyo Rosenthalfor a two-man show, which runs from 8:00 PM to 10:00 PM. You may look forward with mounting dread to a dozen or so of my original compositions, many of which —shockingly enough—gravitate toward the spooky side of life (and death).Admission is a mere $5, and along with a variety of sandwiches, wraps, salads, and specialty coffees, The Daily Grind offers an excellent selection of wines and craft beers.
Your opportunity to chuck things at the old man is here. Let's fill the place up, people!
I want all your garmonbozia....
What: Writers Round Featuring Stephen Mark Rainey and Tokyo Rosenthal
When: Friday, September 22, 2017, 8:00 PM
Where: The Daily Grind, 303 E Church St, Martinsville, VA 24112
Last night... such a fateful night... a half dozen or so dangerous men with musical instruments gathered at The Daily Grind in Martinsville for the fourth Songwriters Showcase and unleashed a racket fit to wake the dead — and now you oughta see the all those walking dead shambling past my window. It is to be afeared.
The Songwriters Showcases present local artists playing all original songs, and the first three filled up the house. Last night, we started out with a somewhat smaller group, both musicians and attendees, but over the course of the evening, more and more people filed in, and at the end of it all, the place was nearly packed. Each musician brought a unique sound to the place, from refined, jazzy instrumental (Darryl) to raucous improv (Angus and Daily Grind owner Daniel). I played a couple of sets, five songs in all, and no one threw any shit at me, which was a refreshing change of pace. Okay, well, no one's actually thrown any shit at me, but I bet they wanted to. Unfortunately, none of the ladies who have made some exceptional contributions to the gatherings came round last night, which was disappointing. In particular, I was hoping Morgan would be there to play some of her signature, Celtic-inspired ballads, mais alas....
Come Friday, September 22, I'll be part of a two-man show — The Writers Round, Featuring Tokyo Rosenthal and Mark Rainey — in which each of us takes several turns playing individual sets over the course of the evening. I can always use as many hecklers as possible, so I hope some of you folks can make the show. That's going to be a busy weekend too, as on Saturday, September 23, The Smith Brothers will be presenting a five-year anniversary screening of Young Blood: Evil Intentions at the Hollywood Cinema in Martinsville, and I'll be on hand to autograph copies of the novel. More on that event a bit later.
Finally, to leave you with a sample of what was and what will be... last night's performance of "Fire in the City"....
Yoda Rob, Old Rodan, Diefenbaker — 3/4 of Team Old Fart (photo by Robert Isenhour)
It felt like a regular reunion of old farts today, for Yoda Rob, Old Rob, Diefenbaker, and Old Rodan have not turned the woods dark and dismal for way too long a spell. The four of us made a day of it in Rowan County, mostly at the expansive Dan Nicholas Park, with a relatively brief incursion into the nearby town of Salisbury for a handful of (mostly) park-&-grab hides. I added another 23 caches to my total count, which now stands at 9,533. Hmm — 10K by the end of the year, I wonder...?
Is that the Team Old Fart logo etched into that tree?
Surely, none of us would do such a thing.
(Cough, Yoda, cough, Rob...)
We expected a miserably hot day, and make no mistake, the temperature got a good ways up there, but it was hardly as awful as it has been recently, especially in the humidity department. At times, we even had a pleasant breeze blowing. We found a good variety of cache hides—some micros, some big honking ammo cans, some well-camouflaged, some just for the numbers. Individually, each of the Old Farts made a good showing, with no one earning the Dead Weight Award today. Inside the park, we put in about a five-mile hike and found 13 of the 14 caches we hunted. There's a fair chance the one we didn't find is simply missing, but nonetheless it can be frustrating to look at the geocaching map and see among all those smileys one ugly, bitchy, flingin'-flangin' sucky unclaimed cache.
Interestingly...perhaps...one of the caches in the park was hidden at a picnic table in one of the camping areas, and it just so happened the campsite was occupied. I figured, what the hell, I'll go ask the attendant gentleman whether he'd mind if I searched his picnic table in hopes of finding a geocache. Happily, as it turns out, his wife and daughter were at least occasional geocachers, and he seemed rather excited that there was one literally under their noses they could hunt. I did manage to make a quick find, and it was kind of fun to be that unexpected visitor making what many might consider a weird-ass request.
March of the Old Farts (photo by
Robert Isenhour)
My favorites of the day were actually among the urban hides in Salisbury proper, one hiding inside a hole in a telephone pole, cleverly disguised; another residing some ways up in a tree next to a Cook-Out parking lot. I'm pretty sure the surprised folks having lunch in their car next to said tree had a good laugh at the Old Fart (yes, me) clambering up into those branches. (Yeah, that first step was a doozy.) Oddly, after we had found the cache, a young gentleman accosted us and asked whether we might have been looking for the geocache in the tree, as he believed it to be missing. We assured him it was still there because I had just signed the log, which seemed to surprise him, but, well, there it is.
Lunch — a rather late one — happened at East Coast Wings, where I ordered some wings that proved almost too hot for my palate, and that's saying something. Still, all very satisfying, as hot wings are one of my wee little vices.
Tonight, here comes episode 10 of Twin Peaks, and that should cap off what has been overall a satisfying day (and weekend). Next weekend, it's Songwriter Showcase at The Daily Grind in Martinsville, which means I need to practice my ass off this week to insure that my fingers and voice are in at least passable condition.
I know... the deuce, you say!
One of my favorite caches of the day, hidden in a hole in the telephone pole
Uhh... Yummy???
Old Farts — a slightly different view: Yoda Rob, Old Rob, Diefenbaker
Gray clouds cry in the thundering sky,
Yellow fire darts between billowed masses.
The voice of the wind is howling in my ears,
And the trees quake as the thunder crashes.
Inside the fire roars, and there’s someone at the door
Coming in from the gloomy, pine-black forest.
Cloak drawn around him, and his boots are caked with mud.
He sits down for an ale and me another.
He tells a tale as he downs another ale.
There’s a fear down deep behind his eyes.
Out in the storm something fearsome is born,
Something evil that now comes with the night.
And with his words,
A sound is heard from outside.
Fear clouds his eyes,
And he dies
In his chair.
Out in the rain looking through the window pane,
Two eyes glowing in a fiery brimstone red.
With a thunder I can hear, my heart pounds with fear
As a shadow fades into the forest.
Carrying my gun, I break into a run
Through the trees that were once so familiar.
But as I run through the rain and the mud,
There’s a sound that echoes from behind.
Back at my house, all the lights go out,
And I’m standing on the edge of a nightmare.
Sound drawing near,
I can hear
But I can’t hide.
Lost in this dream,
I hear a scream.
It is I.
Gray clouds cry in the thundering sky,
And the air is lit by streaking forks of light.
Out in the storm, something fearsome is born,
Something evil that now comes with the night.
Lately, I've been about as busy playing music — or something akin to it — as writing fiction. Of course, the composing of prose is my secondary profession, while banging on the guitar and hollering to scare the wits out of innocent passersby falls more in the "hobby" department. Still, now and again I do a public performance here or there, and I've become a regular at the The Daily Grind's quarterly Songwriters' Showcase in Martinsville, VA. There's one coming up on Friday, July 21,6:30–10:00 PM. Per the usual, I'll be one of several singer/songwriters playing a set of original tunes, mine based primarily on the darker sides of life (and death), which I suppose surprises the hell out of my faithful followers.
In September, however, I'll be sharing the stage with only one other artist—Tokyo Rosenthal—and we'll each play at least four individual sets of original music. I've been dusting off my old song sheets from way the hell back and trying to get my fingers and voice back into respectable shape (if such is even possible). Back in the late 1970s and early 1980s, I wrote maybe 75 songs, but, unfortunately, only a handful of recordings and/or lyric sheets have survived the years. Quite a few of those songs are no doubt lost forever in my memory, and in some cases, that's probably for the best. However, I've managed to drag a number of them kicking and screaming back to the light of day, and my burning fingers and scratchy voice are testimony to some serious practicing these past few days. I've got a lot of brushing up to do, I can tell you.
I'd like to invite any of you who are brave enough to either or both shows. The "big" one — The Writers Round Featuring Tokyo Rosenthal and Mark Rainey — will be September 22, 8:00 PM–10:00 PM. You've plenty of time to prepare yourself, so mark your calendars and gird your loins. I'd love to see you folks. But only heckle me if you really mean it.
Damned Rodan, Yoda Rob, Suntigres, and BigG7777, 2017 Piedmont Triad
GeoPutt Champions
(Photo by Robert Isenhour)
Yoda Rob addresses the ball —
"Hellooooo, ball!" (Photo by
Rob Isenhour)
For me, this was another breakneck weekend, having to fit in serious caretaking
on the home front while still getting in gatherings with numerous friends,
including some geocaching. For the horror community, it was Stoker award weekend
— the festivities being held aboard the Queen Mary in Long Beach, CA (which I've
had the pleasure of visiting in the past) — and while I didn't win a Stoker
Award, I was on the winning team at the 2017 Geoputt Event in Burlington, which
involved some serious and very solemn hootin' and hollerin'.
It started on Friday evening, at the end of a long and ugly bout with a sinus
bug that kept me out of work for a couple of days. I was scheduled to make a
racket at the third Songwriters' Showcase at
The Daily Grind in
Martinsville, as I have at the past two. I felt a lot better, but my voice was
about shot from several days of snorting and hacking. Regardless, I went for it
and somehow managed to crank out three songs without choking. Dunno if it scared
anyone away permanently, but the audience was loverly, and no one hurled nasty
things at me. Score one.
Wailing on "Nova," one of the songs I wrote back in my college days
(Photo by Kimberly Brugger)
Saturday, after handling necessary business on the home front, Kimberly and I
headed down to Stonefield Cellers in Stokesdale to share some wine and tall
geocaching tales with friend Suntigres (a.k.a. Bridget) and her S.O. BigG7777
(a.k.a. Gerry). The wine and company were great, of course, though the
prodigious heat and humidity would have had a devastating effect on my hair if I
had any. Ms. B. and I eventually made our way back home for dinner and a movie,
and I would love to say this was all very relaxing — it actually was — but
certain states of affairs about which I won't elaborate online have cost me
countless hours of sleep in the past few months, and last night was no
exception. Virtually no sleep. Very, very exhausting, it is.
The notorious Night-hawk,
Putt-Putter extraordinaire
(Photo by Robert Isenour)
But sleep deprivation cannot derail certain trains, and thus it was that Old
Robgso, Suntigres, and the BigG met up this morning for a day of geocaching and
the annual Geoputt event in Burlington. Our first destination was Siler City,
where we put in a few miles of trail hiking — again in hair-curling heat and
humidity — and snagged somewhere around twenty caches before heading to
Burlington for the Putt-Putt event. For the big tournament, which brought thirty
or so geocachers out from all around the region, I teamed up with Yoda Rob,
BigG, and Suntigres. Now, back in the dark ages, I was an avid golfer — although
Putt-Putt and golfing are almost mutually exclusive activities — and my team put
in what appeared to be a pretty respectable showing. And at the end of it all,
it turned out that we were indeed the winning team of the event. Woohoo! Wahaa!
Hooooey! I even brought home a nice trophy for this astounding achievement. The
notorious Night-hawk (a.k.a. Tom) won the individual best score, for which he
was awarded an entirely too-small orange vest.
And that, ladies and germs, is why we play.
And in the horror fiction category, several authors of my acquaintance and of
unspeakable talent took home their own haunted house trophies for superior
achievement at the Bram Stoker award ceremony in Long Beach. The winners
were:
Novel:The Fisherman,
John Langan First Novel: Haven,Tom Deady Young Adult Novel: Snowed,
Maria Alexander Long Fiction: The Winter Box,
Tim Waggoner Short Fiction: “The Crawl Space,” Joyce Carol
Oates Fiction Collection:The Doll-Master and Other Tales of Terror,Joyce Carol Oates Anthology: Borderlands 6,
Oliva F. Monteleone & Thomas F. Monteleone Non-Fiction: Shirley Jackson: A Rather Haunted Life,
Ruth Franklin Poetry Collection:Brothel,
Stephanie M. Wytovich Graphic Novel:Kolchak the Night Stalker: The Forgotten Lore of Edgar Allan Poe,
James Chambers Screenplay: The Witch
My congratulations to the winners, all quite deserving of the recognition.
For me, tonight's aspiration to actually get a decent night's sleep, for it's
going to be another long week. I do turn a whole year older on Tuesday, don't
you know.
G'night.
One of the day's most intriguing geocache discoveries, all
hand-knitted
and constructed by Sull427 (a.k.a. Jean)
"Go that way. No, THAT way. Dammit, ball." (Photo by Robert Isenhour)
Another Songwriters' Showcase at the Daily Grind in Martinsville, and another
fun racket, courtesy of the old man and a slew of other talented individuals
from all around Virginia, North Carolina, and even as far away as LA — as in Los
Angeles, not Lower Axton, as some Martinsville natives have dubbed the
neighboring community. The first songwriters' event, back in September, drew a
respectable crowd. This one, with twice as many musicians, drew what appeared to
be about three times the number of attendees.
Ms. Brugger and I got there a little early to partake of their wine tasting,
which proved decent enough, as did the paninis we attacked with ferocious
delight, as neither of us had eaten in about a month. Our friends/fellow
geocachers Tom and Linda Imbus from Browns Summit showed up to heckle me, as did
old friends Ashby and Lynn Pritchett from Martinsville, and to their credit,
none of them took it upon themselves to hurl undesirable objects or epithets my
way. Sporting souls, our fine friends.
The event ran from roughly 7:30 to 10:00
PM, with eleven musicians, including
me, signed up to play. My set consisted of three original songs, "Paranoid
Schizophrenia" (again), "Ice Blossoms" (whose origin is recounted
here), and "The Watcher" (yet again). I was hoping to include the video of "Ice
Blossoms" here, as it's my favorite of the lot, but between electronic glitches
and crowd noise, the video didn't turn out very well. I may go ahead and upload
it to YouTube regardless, and I'll leave it to you to decide whether to give it
a look or avoid it all costs and preserve your sanity.
I'll post the lyrics to "Paranoid Schizophrenia" — which is the second song I
ever wrote, back in 1978, while I was at Ferrum College — beneath the videos
below. Enjoy or run like hell, your choice.
Paranoid Schizophrenia
Talked with him just yesterday because I was all alone.
I heard his voice and what he said; it's different now you've gone.
In darkened halls and haunted paths, I hear him sing his song.
He told me what I thought I felt; he told me I was wrong.
Run away, I told myself. Run away, I cried.
I'm mad, I must be mad. Run away.
He told me to calm myself. He told me never run.
He told me to help myself. He told me never cry.
He's right again, he's never wrong; how could he ever lose?
I've talked with him, I can't believe there's nothing left to choose.
Talked with him just yesterday because I was all alone.
I've heard his voice inside of me — my heart, my guide, my soul.
Run away, I told myself. Run away, I cried.
I'm mad, I must be mad. Run away.
