By Vince Bell
In detailing his restoration from the twist of fate and his roundabout climb again onstage, Bell shines a gentle in these darkish corners of the song enterprise that, for the lone musician whose good fortune is measured no longer by means of the head forty yet by means of nightly victories, frequently fall outdoors of the highlight. Bell’s prose isn't not like his lyrics: spare, attractive, evocative, and infrequently sneak-up-on-you humorous. His chronicle of his personal lifestyles and close to dying at the street finds what it potential to reside for one’s art.
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Los angeles m? sica desconcierta al an? lisis. Ese arte de l. a. presencia, que no muestra ning? n objeto, que no es m? s que una acumulaci? n de mediadores --instrumentos, partituras, int? rpretes, escenarios, medios de comunicaci? n. .. --, parece ser, sin embargo, los angeles encarnaci? n de los angeles inmediatez, l. a. expresi?
This consultant to the piano literature for the one-handed pianist surveys over 2,100 person piano items which come with not just live performance literature yet pedagogical items to boot. Following the advent are 4 chapters cataloguing unique works for the precise hand on my own, unique works for the left hand on my own, song prepared or transcribed for one hand by myself, and concerted works for one hand in live performance with different pianists, tools, or voices.
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Additional resources for One Man's Music: The Life and Times of Texas Songwriter Vince Bell (North Texas Lives of Musician Series)
At least at the casino the drinks were free if you were nice to the wait staff. Now and again we would go down to San Francisco. I played a few of my tunes with David Grisman at his house in Marin, and was part of a huge entourage backstage with the Grateful Dead at one of their last Winterland gigs. A marvel of controlled confusion, backstage was like a schoolyard the width and height of a basketball court with children bouncing about while Mom and Dad, and various other members of the band, stood in private huddles here and there smoking spliffs the size of their thumbs.
But if your newest set of mediums are old as God’s dog, the appetite will do. Anyway, no shortage of stringed things here. While cowboy and cowgirl chefs jet in and out of the kitchen, everyone who isn’t playing Texas music nonstop eats delicacies from Texas nonstop. Above freezing or below. Rain or snow. On arrival, carloads un-crease from their ride and hang a conspicuous spoon around their neck. The menu for this musico-feast in the East Texas forest covers breakfast, lunch, and dinner, served in continuous waves on outsized picnic tables on the screened-in back porch.
You took those long-haired hippie weirdos, and you had the rednecks, and they got together— they all liked Willie Nelson and they all liked to drink a cold beer— and you ended up with a bunch of great big, broad-shouldered, longhaired, kick-ass hippies. “We were on the road all the time, playing music, drinking whiskey, and smoking pot. ’ When I wasn’t out playing with the band, I did a lot of work with Vince, all over Texas, because I really loved his music. We were young—hell, I was barely 30, and Vince was 26, 27.