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July 12th, Yes Trek Day 2
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I phoned Chris from my hotel, asked
for Yann and when I heard "hello?" in his moving mellow baritone, I
sang:
you can feel it
coming
in the morning
light
and you know the
feeling's
gonna make you
feel all right
all you've got
to do is
hold out your
hand
--Chris
Squire
And I would be right over. I
arrived, was buzzed up and given the formal tour of the Emery
facility. Soon I was privileged to be standing in another Yesfan's
computing space graced with an image of the X-Files motif on the
desktop. I was shown the contents of the box sent by Giotto Lady
Kathy, a care package of trail mixes and exotic cookie and cracker
thingies, seeds, mints, road musics and a kind letter of enclosure
featuring a photo. We would later show her picture to all interested
parties: Bill Maddock, Jeff Blanks, Derek, all at Wendy's, gas
station attendants, turnpike fee collectors, etc.
We loaded up the van, had Chris'
roomie snap a photo, and passed through the high-police-presence
lanes of Christopher's Columbus. We watched for a camera shop,
because I wanted slide film in 36 exposures, stopped for ice and
beverages for the cooler. The ice man promised we would be passing a
K-Mart soon and Chris and I were pleased to present to Yann an
important American-flavored experience of consumerism run rampant. I
shouldn't complain -- they did have my film. In the nearby music
section they didn't have a bin for New Age CD's, though. I had been
hoping to happen upon L'Apocalypse Des Animaux, or some other
Vangelis CD not yet in my possession. I wondered if I should let Yann
purchase my film along with his, as he was offering, because it
seemed far too generous a gesture to just accept without a fight. But
I let it go and thanked him for the capacious act of kindness, hoping
to be able to make it up to him on the road ahead.
the road ahead
can take us anywhere
Extravagant greenery below and above
garnished the ribbon of road that we followed south and east to the
sight of Serpent Mound, a snake effigy and an impressive earthwork
constructed by the Adena people over 2,000 years ago. It was one of
the wonders we once knew so well, I told my friends. Photo
opportunities abounded as we approached the wiggling hillocks and
walked the path around them. I scrambled without stumbling down a
stone stairway in time to get into a group photo at the far end.
chris, yann, merry merry, chris,
yann
chris, yann
We climbed warm side the tower for
an overview and also peeked into the gift shop.
One Serpent Mound-encrested can
opener later we were on our way, opting for the greener, scenic
routes 41 and 68 to the Lexington, Kentucky area where we would hop
on the freeway and begin the trip to Nashville at an earnest clip.
This did not happen, however, until after a stop at a McDonald's in
Paris, KY, where we ordered French fries out of seeming necessity, in
honor of Yann whose home is France. After the greasy repast, Yann
seized the opportunity to inhale a cigarette because, champion of
consideration that he is, he never for a moment would impose upon me
in the van, knowing I was a non-smoker. Chris and I meanwhile took
turns stepping in the same stringy wad of hot melted gum on our way
into the vehicle.
Once on the Blue Grass Parkway, all
of us disappointed that the grass, in fact, was green, the hours flew
by filled with the supreme sounds of Yes and related CD's. We were
fortunate to cross over a time zone and pick up an hour so that we
arrived at our meeting place relatively close to the time we'd told
Jeff Blanks and Bill Maddock to expect us. They had driven that day
from Atlanta, Georgia and St. Louis, Missouri, respectively, and were
waiting for us in Brentwood, Tennessee, when we rolled in around 7 pm
CDT.
The venue was the home of my former
brother-in-law and dear friend, Don Dunn, and his family, son Devin
and wife, Alicia. They were away and had very kindly offered their
premises, leaving a key. (Don is a guitar player, performer and
songwriter and he had a gig that night in Chattanooga, Tennessee,
playing Irish music in a pub, all Promise Ring like.) Jeff walked
headfirst into the deceptive glass outer door, announcing our
entrance with a resounding B-Boom. Laughing we passed the threshold
and entered into an evening of food, drink, music, poetry recital,
animated anecdotal exchanges and long, loud laughters punctuated by
the now-famous snorts of halfnaked Yann.
Eventually on the trip I was to find
the honk of Yann's snort a pleasing sound because it meant I had
succeeded in moving him to laugh. There is a certain pleasure in
pleasing Yann because his joy is sincere and radiant, affecting
returned laughter, which in turn leads to another snort. Exchanges of
this sort, a resonating amusement, were common in this crowd, the
joyful noises increasing in cacaphonic crescendos that penetrated the
thick, hot, humid air of greater Nashville that night.
Jeff had just attended the Nashville
Summer NAMM (National Association of Music Merchants) Convention and
told us excitedly that he had occasion to speak with the prestigious
Bob Moog of sound synthesizing fame. "What did you say to him?!" I
asked enthusiastically. "Hi, Bob," he replied. "That's all? 'HI'?"
"Yeah." Yann asked if he'd seen Moog's daughters, "Poly" and "Mini."
The upbeat conversing soon lead to hunger, so we piled back into the
vehicles in search of food.
Jeff needed gas and an oil check, so
the rest of us sought advice on the procurement of distinctive food
and wine from a professional gas station attendant. In a thick
southern accent he delightfully directed us to a Kroger with an
adjacent wine shop. Bill and Jeff met up with us in the parking lot
to specify their beverage desires before speeding off in Jeff's
sporty car to hunt down some microwavable entrees at Harris Teeter's
mega food store jungle. We had, I felt, an interesting exchange when
the topic of beverages took a turn towards Cherry Pepsi and A&W
Root Beer, as opposed to fine wine and imported beer. I was surprised
at Jeff and Bill's delight in discussing and deciding their soft
drink pleasures with an air of epicureanism. If I may venture a
general observation of Yes fans -- dangerous, I know -- I would say
we all seem to know clearly what we like, how to satisfy
ourselves.
we're so good at
finding pleasure
as to what we
are and how we fit together
I was very impressed by Yann's easy
comportment among the racks of wine. Sporting a knowing air, he
displayed a swift and aesthetic ability to select the perfect
accompaniment to whatever might be the flavors of the evening. In no
time he had decisively stood three sleek bottles promising enjoyment
before the clerk. I myself had to ask for assistance in locating my
new favorite Gewürztraminer. (I would save it in the van for our
last night with Wendy.) As we loaded the wine into the cooler, I
noticed Yann was leaving the paper bag on the bottle, to preserve the
integrity of the label. The care he demonstrated in this small detail
imparted the sensitivity of an artist and I was touched.
The higher consciousness
demonstrated by Bill and Jeff toward a healthier liver and minimal
slurring of speech was to affect the course of the shopping cart down
the Kroger aisles. We located Pepsi and IBC Cherry Soda to mix since
they didn't carry the requested Cherry Pepsi, and found Guinness, for
Chris. We also acquired cheese and bread and melons and olives and
ham to offer as fuel for whatever revery was to unfold over the
course of our carousing.
Back at the house the microwave went
DING! and there was strumming in abundance once Jeff and Chris took
out their instruments, as it were. Holding the lyric sheet, Yann and
I sang an exquisitely awful version of "Shoot High Aim Low" to Chris'
pickin' and grinnin' and thinkin' what the next chord might be. Jeff
was helpful with chord suggestions, although his 12-string was tuned
in open tuning, limiting the keys in which he was able to play. We
did manage a lively collective singing of "And You And I" that was so
rousing we decided to try to repeat it at Curt & Wendy's. Bill
fearlessly read his personal poetry and we also exchanged stories
between songs. The drunken ceiling fan wobbled close to our heads,
but the celebration ensued undaunted by the threat of decapitation.
While we are on the subject of
heads, I feel strongly here that I should devote an entire paragraph
to Jeff Blank's hair. It is incredibly long and large. It is
beautifully dark and cascading. It comes out of his head and it
stands there. Along with his tight jeans it gave him the convincing
comportment of a serious rocker.
Jeff was energetic and talkative. He
had in tow two musical efforts of his own he was eager to share,
"Electric Minstrel" and "The Ballad of Land's End." I knew that my
brother-in-law had a music room somewhere, but a brief look around
the house was not to reveal where he kept his stereo equipment, nor
was I sure if he wanted me messing with it. So we adjourned to adorn
the driveway, where I opened the back of the van and popped Jeff's
music into the tape player. We all were impressed with his polished
proggy pieces. I also played for them the tape Paul made for me of "I
Wish" and "Skydance" and my humble "Treesong" (whose amateur
overtones were obvious now in comparison to Jeff's music!) and
"Teasong." We all were enjoying our beverages, Chris content to
coddle his imported beer and Jeff and Bill cherishing their cherry
colas, leaving all three bottles of wine to be imbibed by the lone
Yann and myself.
Yann was visibly moved by "Skydance"
and told me sincerely, "I love it," twice. Did he really? Or was the
fall into folly that comes at the end of the second bottle of wine
fazing his affections? I missed out on some of Jeff's music while
trying inside the house to make sense of a sudden lapse in happiness
experienced by our French friend. Yann poured out his sorrows and I
listened sympathetically like an old drinking buddy. I had put away
the whole bottle of Chardonnay, far too much for my sensitive
constitution. I unfurled the bedding in the living room for the
others, tucked Yann in, and slipped upstairs to steep in sleep on a
girl child's bed I found with a carved angel on top.
my
merry tale ****
Day
3