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From a bogus third person:
Better known as a writer (articles and three books on wordplay, with a few to follow)--his latest book, Never Odd or Even: Palindromes, Anagrams & Other Tricks Words Can Do, is a Limited Edition, published in 2005-06.
Ove (or O.V. |
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From a bogus third person:
Better known as a writer (articles and three books on wordplay, with a few to follow)--his latest book, Never Odd or Even: Palindromes, Anagrams & Other Tricks Words Can Do, is a Limited Edition, published in 2005-06.
Ove (or O.V.) has traveled across and down the States (and Texas), performing where he could. One of the highlights of his years on the road was a gig at the Bitter End--his first stop in New York.
Studio work included sessions for songwriters and "Suzy Fischer, Featuring the Dinosaurs" (available on iSound under that title).
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Hear some of his Bob Dylan Covers at
http://www.isound.com/ove_ofteness_bob_dylan_interpreted
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Watch and hear his "Limerdittyvidi" by "Celetus" at
http://iphone.dailymotion.com/tag/ove/video/xbo3e_limerdittyvidi_fun
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He's played in seven styles: Travis-picking, bluegrass, country, folk, pop, rock, and blues, but insists, "I'm not a blues PLAYER--I humbly leave blues and jazz to the specialists."
In 1973, he formed his first group--a trio, which sounded like Crosby, Stills and Cash. (Regarding his bass voice:
he was born during a helium shortage.) All the band members, in the Vague Impressions, played guitar, but their strong point was three-part vocal harmony. Ten years later, he assembled another acoustic threesome, but switched from contemporary folk and rock to a bluegrass and country sound. Members of the second band (posthumously called "Lost Keys") were Michael ("Barney") Pilgrim on violin AND fiddle, with Ron Huggins on lead Spanish guitar. (Ron gave up lead for pedal steel and plays in a country and Western swing group called the Desert Moon Band.) Barney, who was classically trained, has played with the Red Clay Ramblers, Rebecca and the Hi-Tones, and other artists. The style of the second trio had a hint of Hoyt Axton and a Mexi-Cali flavor, with a touch of bluegrass. Oddly, this band isn't mentioned in neither Ron's, nor Barney's resumes/bios.
In recent years, Ove's been playing solo, but seldom publicly. Why he took that turn is anyone's guess, but I suspect that it was because of a dozen scathing reviews of his work. Some samples of those critiques (possibly from either his best "friends" or him, under various noms de plume, such as "The Grim Rapper"):
"He's been known to outnumber an entire audience."
"He's living proof that the stage is where a performer can attend his own funeral."
"He HAS no following--just hostages and refugees."
"A dead ringer for George Clooney, minus the body and face."
"He took a request and yet kept right on playing."
"His "music?" I haven't heard it, and I didn't like it."
"He was fired from his most recent job as a face model for door knockers."
He's played for nearly forty years, on and off--mainly "off."
But seriously, over a lifetime, he has earned tens of fans and a six-figure income (thanks to the decimal point).
--Maggie Farmer
*
NOT AVAILABLE IN STORES
The second tune here contains at least ten oxymora. "An Oxymoron Song" has no melody.
I did the third performance under pressure. With laryngitis, I was forced to play instrumental solos, which I seldom did. I'm a seated guitarist, and performing while standing restricts my ability to get the subtleties of each note, especially having to hold the guitar in place with my picking hand. This track, from a video, was recorded in Durham, North Carolina. The announcer was a local news anchor--an honorable fellow whose name escapes me, to my embarrassment. The female voice in the intro was that of singer Pinky Wyoming (Rebecca Newton).
_
TOO WHITE TO PLAY THE BLUES
(Performed under the name "Bland Lemon.")
Well, I've tried many hats, and I've worn many shoes,
Lost my shirt, still I ain't paid my dues,
'cause there’s only one thing that I'll never live down:
I'm just too darn white to play the blues.
Though I picked like a demon, the crowd only stared.
You get no respect when you're rhythm impaired.
Had plenty of hard times, but none that I could use,
'cause I’m just too white to play the blues.
Refrain:
_While everyone's jumpin' to the beat of the band,
_I move to the music like I'm ankle-deep in sand,
_And though I was raised on old time rock 'n' roll,
_I can get down and out, but it ain't the blues without the soul.
Don't give me that quarter beat—you'll jus' get me confused,
'cause I'm too darn white to play the blues.
Think I might hang it up, y'all, 'cause it just ain’t no use--
I'm too doggone white to play the blues.
Guess I'll suffer in silence from my hat to my shoes,
I'm too doggone white, hopelessly white,
Lord, I'm just too white to play the blues.
_
THE BLUES BLUES
I've had it with repetition
Of the same old over-used lines.
I'm tired as hell of hearin'
Repetition of worn-out friggin' lines.
You can write twice as many blues tunes
In just about half of your wasted time.
(Spoken: Yes, I know that this didn't quite rhyme.)
I noticed by noon
That I hadn't heard my neighbor's shoes,
Then into the evenin',
There still was no sound of my neighbor's shoes.
Well, he didn't wake up that mornin';
He had the dead as a doornail blues.
_
THE ALCO-HALL OF FAME
In the alco-hall of fame,
Everybody knows your name.
In each and every bar,
They all know who you are.
Congratulations, pal, we're glad you came,
And welcome to the alco-hall of fame.
And here's to the years
You spent your hard earned pay
On the whiskey, wine, and beer
That brought you here today.
For all you've lost, there's one thing you can claim--
You've won your place in the alco-hall of fame.
Refrain:
_You're the life of every party,
_The happy hour clown,
_And everybody's buddy
_When the bottle don't let you down.
_The more you change, the more you stay _the same;
_You own the crown in the alco-hall of fame.
But soon, before you're sober
And it's close to closin' time,
You'll sit and drink it over—
All the years you've left behind.
When you lose it all, you'll have yourself to blame,
Just one last call, in the alco-hall of fame.
In the alco-hall of fame,
Everybody knows your name.
You drink, therefore you are,
A self-made stupor star.
It's no surprise, the legend you became--
You've earned your place in the alco-hall of fame.
Stand up and take a bow,
Everybody knows you now--
Welcome to the alco-hall of fame.
_
SONG PARODIES
This is the verse I've used of Geoff Mack's tune "I've Been Everywhere."
The names marked by asterisks are in the original hit version.
Fingerville, Footville, Cucumber, Cucamonga,
Cheesequake, Leaf Lake, Smackover, Opalocka;
White Fox, Dime Box, Fort Knox, Alameda,
Matawan, Oblong, Dry Prong, Loma Linda;
Waterloo, Havasu, Kalamazoo, Pasadena,*
Sioux City,* Yuba City, Cedar City, what a pity--
I’ve been everywhere...
The best-known rendition of that song, before Cash covered it, was the 1962 hit by Canadian-born country music legend Hank Snow [Clarence Eugene Snow] (1914-1999), "The Singing Ranger."
Word has it that the original version of the song was composed of Australian place-names.
I tried recording that song, using the replaced names, but turned blue from oxygen depletion.
Because of my failed attempt at singing the long-winded verses, I called my version "I've Run Out of Air," under the alias "Philip Morris."
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WONDERFUL WORLD
Don't know much about IRC,
Don't know much about an MP3,
Don't know much about a "bug" or glitch,
Don't know much about an on/off switch,
But I know that one and one is three,
And if everyone could be like me,
An innumerate world this would be.
—with utmost respect to Sam Cooke
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RAGTIME MILLIONAIRE
(My rendition, in the Key of G)
Now, I’ll just find myself a corner and I’ll pick ’em a song,
Nobody needs a ticket, and it wouldn’t be long.
With a little guitar to maybe tickle a bone,
A sidewalk star, and you let it be known.
Well, all ya little people, take your hat off to me--
I’m a ragtime millionaire.
Now, hear me syncopate it, shuffle it, or pick it up slow,
I bring back around and I’m ridin’ the flow,
Swingin’ it easy, in two-four time,
I’m flush, I’m a-loaded, and I ain’t got a dime.
Now, all ya little people, take your hat off to me--
I’m a ragtime millionaire.
BREAK (MELDOY OF THE CHORUS)
See me playin’ on the corner with a feather in my hat,
I’m a holy-shoed and ragged shirt aristocrat.
Hear me rollin’ the strings, it's a knack, it's a flair,
Well, I’m one ragtime millionaire.
Now, all ya little people, take your hat off to me--
I’m a ragged-time millionaire.
CHORUS
Well, I’m a rag, yes I’m a rag.
Well, I’m a rag, yes, I’m a ragtime millionaire,
So all ya little people take your hat off to me--
I’m a ragtime millionaire.
_
Wrote Internet user "Bunker Hill":
"Moore's song is actually a parody (using the same tune and title) of Irving Jones's 1900 hit
'The' Ragtime Millionaire.' Jones was a very popular and successful black composer (c.1895-1905)."
_
Oh, Gibson, won't you send me
A Les Paul guitar,
A lousy axe and talent
Won't get me very far.
With a hairpiece and dark glasses
I could be an online star,
So Gibson, won't you send me
A Les Paul guitar.
_
I bought a guitar from TV.
Was it HSN, or QVC?
When I pounded a barred chord,
It sounded like cardboard.
Now no one will take it for free.
_
A HAM, A YAMAHA... (palindrome)
A "musician" quite distant and guarded,
Was 40, but often was carded.
Assumed a beginner,
That open mic winner
Was found to be merely guitarded.
_
I'm no expert in the arts, but I like what I know.
We think that we trust in our ears,
Being funneled the music for years.
As the gods in Rolls Royces
Are making our choices,
We're tunneled, corralled by our peers.
_
Artistic big bangs are achieved,
But they tend to occur unperceived.
Perceptions are low,
For we like what we know.
The invisible greats are bereaved.
_
I paid their affordable fees,
But the band couldn't handle my keys.
Refusing to play
In B flat or in A,
It was mutiny on the high Cs.
(Thanks to Hedda Hopper for the final line of that one.)
_
A friend asked me what I thought of rap music. I told him I wasn’t qualified to answer his question, but, qualified or not, I jotted down this verse.
You wanted my thoughts about rap.
With a wide age and cultural gap,
It wouldn’t be fair
If I dare to declare
What I think of that juvenile crap.
(This morning I wrote the music for a rap album, and finished it before the toast popped. Inspired by Conan O'Brien, as a tribute to rapper Ludacris, I did it under the name "Preposterous.")
There's a very good Bronx-based hip-hop artist named "Puff Da Ness," meaning "High in Life" (not to be mistaken for "Uffdaness," or my birth name, [Ove] "Ofteness"). Recordings of his are available on this very service.
_
I thought I'd dress UP for a gig,
And then plug in some THINGumajig.
The guitar sounded awful.
My clothes were unlawful.
Tight pants made my HEAD look too big.
_
REVISING, RECORDING
Through midnight, till dawn, wide awake,
One more rewrite, a yawn, one more take.
Did I type a wrong letter?
This note could be better.
Lord knows I could use a brief break.
_
Promotion can work like a miracle.
With a beat, the worst words can seem lyrical.
When the talent's an act
And the hype is well-backed,
Do you think that it might be satirical?
_
As I took to the stage, they yahooed,
Then the crowd turned and booed and threw food.
I was soon marred and tethered,
And then tarred and feathered.
I left the place nude and tattooed.
_
Composing for thirty-eight years,
Pitching songs to the wrong kinds of ears,
You lose your composure,
Then die of exposure,
Forgotten with most of your peers.
_
A lifetime in art left him thin.
Rich in song from the places he's been,
Refusing to mop,
He was forced to play pop,
But a sell-out? He's yet to sell IN.
_
Trying to break into the music world can leave you as frustrated as a blind peeping tom.
When I HAD that unhealthful drive to "succeed" in that arena, I thanked everyone who had helped me through those years for ensuring that the number of names on my list of credits be kept to a bare minimum. I later recalled at least two exceptions: when I was twenty in Phoenix, the peerless musician Joe Bethancourt, who plays no fewer than sixty-five instruments, had a role in getting me started. He taught me my first nonstandard tuning, and got me repeated gigs at Funny Fellows in Phoenix. In Los Angeles, that same year, Songwriter Barry Mann recommended me to a fellow on the top floor at Capitol Records, but my sound was neither L.A., nor Nashville. At that age, I was far from prepared for it all, and wasn't aware of what was brewing in Austin.
_
Some folkies are nuts in the head,
Such as one old musician named Ed,
Dismissing a song
As though worthless and wrong
If its writer is known and not dead.
_
ON A HILTON CD
We used to associate "heiress"
With some class, not the one known as Paris.
We're tipping that balance,
Consumed by no-talents.
If only they'd bring back Chuck Barris.
_
I paid for much more than I got--
It's not the CD that I sought.
Beware, music lovers,
Of remakes or covers,
If not what you thought you had bought.
_
For one of my favorite singers whose version of "Freight Train Blues" knocked me out COLD:
DICK CURLESS
We have all heard the name Bobby Darin,
And in country, a man known as Faron.
I preferred the vibrato,
Ligato, bravado
Of one man from Maine called "The Baron."
_
IMPOSING QUESTIONS
Well, I DON'T mean to DUMP on your DAY,
I'm just ticked that you make so much hay.
Ten thousand per note?
Are they tunes that you wrote?
And how much do they pay per cliche?
_
You must enter the club to belong.
If you don't want it all, something's wrong.
One purpose, one plan,
To consume all you can.
It's a hit, so keep singing that song. :/
_
Like a high-wire juggler in balance,
It is hard to control many talents.
If you haven't got two,
Please don't drink and then do
One-arm(ed) push-ups onstage like Jack Palance.
_
The Net can be great for promotion,
Where users can get a false notion
By an alias Web-host--
A faux fan-celeb post:
"I can't get enough" (self-devotion).
_
Invalid! It isn't a "hit."
Not selling? Then why won't you quit?
They're trained to accept
What's inane and inept
And your sound simply doesn't quite fit.
_
A performer left me unimpressed,
Outdone by his less renowned guest.
I was drawn by the name
And the media's claim,
Just assuming that famous is best.
_
Our music is meant for the feet,
And technology helps us to cheat,
'cause the band is not tight
And the lyrics are trite
So we mumble them under the beat.
_
Low key means unseen by the press.
You're not news till your life is a mess.
A little humility
Pressed by futility,
Trading a life for "success."
_
With every career deal aborted,
The lengths he would go to get shorted…
"I have to confess
That this thing called 'success'
Is a fool's goal and greatly distorted."
(Thanks to Dave Morice for his input on this one.)
_
Well known, but not known very well,
We think by their work, we can tell
What their innermost thoughts are.
I know of one rock star--
The icon turned human and fell.
_
Reporters and cameras take aim.
If they're well known, they call it fair game.
Let the public decide
If they can or can't hide.
The prices they pay for their fame.
Anagram: Celebrity status = Security battles
_
"Success sometimes can really bite you in the shorts." --Donny Osmond.
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http://www.michaelcooney.com/MC1P012.html
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o-v michaelsen
ove ofteness
ove michaelsen / mistaken as "MichaelSON"
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Art by my upper half, Marin Fischer:
http://www.mesart.com/artworks.jsp.que.serUs.eq.749.amp.artist.eq.645.shtml
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