In my twenties Lou DeSerio and i talked of recording together. Lou,
with a camera in one hand and a piano in the other, came at me with a
continuous stream of words and places: New York, did i understand the
East Coast. Nevada was square and did i know, with a smile, that i
had been a little to long in the desert. . . Reno, in the early
seventies, had one jazz club, the Mandarin, where everyone met as the
night unfolded, while the music once again took us to sunrise. Lou
trying to introduce me to the hip scene; while i carried a back pack
full of books, and often drug Lou into the mountains where he was
none to certain. Now, in our fifties, I guess it’s time. Lou,
his wife, Susan, and son, Adam, are living in Arizona, while I’m
still struggling at Lake Tahoe, trying to survive two ex-wives and
endless excuses. Of course, I’m not a complete failure, my
daughters, Paula Gay, Gayla Aan and Alexandria Nicole, remind me of
the good life, while my sons, Henry Miller and Jack Kerouac, keep me
young. It is a great thing to have a friend for life, Lou, thank
you.

One night at an open mic i heard Eric Stangeland playing. A year later
I called him, at the studio within an hour we’d recorded the ode,
full time lawyer and my god. Eric will be making a life time of
music, that ‘s easy. Barry once again joined us with conga and
drums. Sam Minae, on bass, and Adrian Justice, on sax, stood tall
for a second album. Al Shay, younger than ever, Miles Kiechler and
Jill Snyder completed these recordings. Thanks to all and may we all
do it again.

My entire life i have been communing with the dead. Dead a century
or two, maybe a thousand years. For even if the artists are alive, we
do not personally meet them, no handshake, no heartbreak. We do not
meet their gaze. Yet, they are my friends, and I have for a lifetime
discussed the human condition with them for breakfast, lunch and
dinner. For only through the written word or recorded music, a
painting here and there, does the past, in fact, fill the present.
Yes, time itself is sometimes cheated of her nightmare; as the past,
present and future are rolled into Hope’s arms. A great painting
touches the heart, a great poem touches the soul, a great book
reveals that which you already know. Music, music is the voice of
God, a gift from the stars, a touching of eternity on our momentary
joy ride upon this little piece of granite.

There’s only two things that I know, you can’t go fast, and you can’t
go slow. You can’t go forward, and you can’t go back; time is the
illusion, age the mask.

R.B.Lindsay July 2003