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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.
6-29-09:
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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.
6-29-09:
Some of his best anagrams are listed at
http://www.anagramgenius.com/agasearch.phtml?query=michaelsen&type=author&showaccepted=1&showpending=1&showrejected=0
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 that style 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 strength was three-part vocal harmony. Ten years later, he assembled another acoustic threesome, but switched from contemporary folk and rock to a bluegrass, country, and country blues 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 (Michael Platt's) resumes/bios.
In recent years, Ove's been playing solo, but seldom in public. Why he took that turn is anyone's guess. I suspect that it was because of a dozen scathing reviews of his work. Ten 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.'"
"He can talk a room empty."
"Contents? Nonsense."
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
This begins with "Home on the Road," one of my best songs, I think. Joining me on the only recording I have of the tune was Barney Pilgrim on fiddle, and Ron Huggins on lead Spanish guitar. I removed the bass and drum tracks, preferring it uncluttered--the sound I had in mind.
The second one here is an example of how to ruin a fine Johnny Cash song, with an apology to Mr. Cash, one of my heroes. (His performing free shows for society's worst was not my idea of Cash's best moves. If only he had devoted some free time to the victims and their families. "He's never walked the line in his life," said Merle Haggard, who was an attendee (a captive audient) at three of Cash's shows in San Quentin. Fortunately, Haggard and Cash came around.)
_
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).
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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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I TALK ONLINE
I keep a close watch on that screen of mine.
I keep my landline open all the time.
With all the chat rooms, friends aren't hard to find.
Because you're mine, I talk online.
I find it very, very easy to be cute,
Those endless times when you seem deaf and mute.
My friends don't know I'm in my birthday suit.
Because you're mine, I talk online.
You've got a way to get on someone's nerves.
You give me cause for regret no one deserves.
I'd rather chat with all the geeks and pervs.
Because you're mine, I talk online.
_
RAGTIME MILLIONAIRE
(My rendition, lyrically, in G, or the G formation)
[Recorded by William Moore in January 1928]
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 (MELODY 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 rag time millionaire,
So all ya little people, take your hat off to me--
I’m a ragtime millionaire.
_
Guitarist Dale Miller mentioned recalling "all you pretty women, take your hat off to me..." It flows nicely as an alternative to "all you little people..."
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 (circa 1895-1905)."
Moore borrowed a verse from another song, which added spice to it, but it isn't in this version. --O.V.
_
Harold Lloyd Jenkins was he,
Who left us in mid '93,
The great Conway Twitty
Of then Twitty City
In Hendersonville, Tennessee.
(For the record: Born in '33, he was 45 in '78.)
_
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...(a 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.
_
He bought a guitar just like Chet's,
And the brand is as good as it gets.
You'd think he'd explore
Up the neck a bit more,
But he stays on the lower three frets.
_
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.
_
An artist with boundless ambition,
His was not an anonymous mission.
"Here lies What's His Face
From wherever the place."
--On the Tomb of the Unknown Musician.
(Cartoonist Dan Piraro beat me to that punchline in his comic strip Bizarro.)
_
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.)
_
When a BIG name is on a marquee,
And we're charged an exorbitant fee,
Many fans are immune
To loud notes out of tune,
But he better be better than ME.
_
Defending a singer who can't hit a note,
Or get through a song without clearing his throat?
_
Some talents have been effervescent,
Through decades, unyielding, incessant,
But unlike Chris Rea,
Sting, Young and Garcia
Had vocal cords, well, prepubescent.
_
I once called my sound "post-New AGE,"
In the hope it might turn an old page,
But I lacked enough clout.
It in fact knocked me out,
So I settled for minimum wage.
_
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 ask for 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 "Uffda-ness," or my surname, "Ofteness"). Recordings of Puff 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.
_
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.
_
A lifelong ambition
To be a musician
Was more than I bargained for, Beth,
Because one day it dawned on me,
I had been conned to be
One more fool starving to death.
_
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.
_
How often one's fate will be sealed
If the talent's in more than one field.
They'll tune out the others,
If they had their druthers,
And focus more on the well-healed.
_
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.
_
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.
_
You paid for much more than you got?
It's not the CD that you 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."
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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 sacrifice life 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.
_
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.
I assumed that the famous are best.
_
The featured musician is who?
Or "whom," I should ask, most askew.
I sure wouldn't pay
To hear myself play--
An act I could always outdo.
_
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.
_
UNSOLICITED SUBMISSIONS
Unless a right name gives the word,
The songs you submit won't be heard.
They'll avoid your CDs
As they would a disease.
Yeah, they might as well flip you the bird.
_
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."
_
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.
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In your quest, there's no way of foreseeing
If you'll rise to endure a good kneeing.
Overlooked, under-rated,
Or envied and hated--
Each end can destroy your well-being.
(You've made it, or haven't. The price!)
_
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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I don't profess to be a professor of music, nor a professional musician. I just play.
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I'm living for music, but damned if I'll die for it.
I learned THAT hard lesson in AUSTIN. It's a closed door behind a brick wall.
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http://www.michaelcooney.com/MC1P012.html
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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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A friend, Pete Olson, and his music:
http://www.peteolsonmusic.com/index.html
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A phenomenal satirist to check out on YouTube: Roy Zimmerman.
They don't come any better.
He knocked my SOCKS on, heels over HEAD.
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