Archive for September, 2012

White Squirrel Singing

September 8th, 2012

The 2nd annual Jamaica Plain Music Festival stepped up nicely. Last years had a lot of indie groups that sounded like garage bands — as in several cats trapped in a garage. This time, the range and quality of sounds was fine.

Here be some snaps:

The ghost of the white squirrel which used to inhabit Jamaica Pond inspired the t-shirts (disclaimer: I own and wear one), as well as the graphics for the festival.
The squirrel appears now in several versions of banners too, several above each of the two stages.
Above each stage was a stuffed toy version on strings.
Fest staffer had both a squirrel stuffy in a pocket and a hipster, Trilby-style hat. Several other in the crowd had the hat, but they were to a one 40 or 50 somethings (mid-life crises?).
Morris and the East Coast’s drummer never stopped or even slowed.
Thick Wild, a.k.a. Amelia Emmet, really belted her self-written tunes, solo, and overpowered her banjo.
The fest had tons of activities for breeders, including hula hoops, water balloon tosses, drawing stations and lots to keep the kiddies perking.
A cardboard slide the length and depth of the sugar bowl kept kids and parents squealing.
A petting zoo let kids and adults play and play with a wide variety of musical instruments.
Sweatshop threw out rap, hip hop and rock.
The new JP Symphony Orchestra sent its brass section to introduce their classical versions.
Later, more reps from the well-established Cambridge Symphony Orchestra were classy and dressy as well as talented.
Cambridge’s strings do not chill like rock musicians while awaiting their time.
The lead for Riding Shotgun did his Springsteen dance.
Big folk got to use the petting zoo of instruments too.
One of the Pepe Gutierrez mariachi band (regulars at Tacos El Charro) grokked the indie rockers.
Gracious Galamity (Kate and Kit) were soft harmonies among hard rockers.
Babies and tots abounded.
Lauren DeRose show off the best emo and tattoos.
This is a very manageable festival, in the hundreds of listeners/watchers.
The rest of us scruffies in tees and shorts didn’t cut it in contrast to the Cambridge Symphony Orchestra crew.
Small tats, big tats…here’s a shoulder gem.
Riding Shotgun’s drummer loved his job.
Sweatshop’s MC Catch Wreck.

Pix Notes: These are far and without flash. You’re welcome to anything useful. They are Creative Commons. Just credit Mike Ball once up front.

Hipster Skins

September 2nd, 2012

OK, I shouldn’t be surprised. Yet I am. Biking out through Dedham, Wellesley, Newton and back into Boston neighborhoods, I did not see a single one of the hundred or so cyclists who did not have a pricey jersey.

I felt like such an old hippie and I guess I am. I buy my tires, tubes, tools and gear from the biking monster Nashbar/Performance/Bikes Direct. I know those designer jerseys are $100 to $150 per, replete with the logo of the beer or such you are pandering to advertise. I own a few of those, because they were two-thirds or three-quarters off. My favorite in the drawer is Mickey Mouse; it is garish and gives me an advantage cycling with inattentive drivers.

Today though, I rolled out in an orange tee-shirt with a skeleton on a cycle. It was a memento from a Tour de Graves in Boston when Ray Flynn way mayor and before he became a drunken conservative ambassador to the Vatican. I was an old guy with a T instead of a stylish fashion statement.

I know in my heart of hearts and on the occasional radar machines on the roadside that I can skunk the 20, 30, 40 and 50 somethings in their high-end jerseys and multi-thousand-dollar bikes. Instead, I find myself glad to see so many cyclists out of Labor Day weekend. In Wellesley in particular, many dozens of deuces and quartets plied their Spandex-contracted flab on public byways. Bless their hearts.

Worthy and workman-like they are. I can’t begrudge them their need for attention. Let us allow they are exceptional, privileged folk who might otherwise stress a lawn chair and instead are trying to be simultaneously fit and pretty.

That’s OK to us journeyman cyclists. The pretty pretenders server their purpose. The more humans on cycles the better. Motorists slowly, every so slowly register, “Bicycles. Must share road.”

Sorry, hipsters and fogies, though. The really scrawny and big-bellied in their high-end jerseys are laughable. If you’d been a jock in your teens and gotten the hormones coursing, you wouldn’t be a flab bowl or a skinny-jeans joke now.

Let’s all ride every weekend…hell, every day.