The Story Continues: Carlos on Cassette to Carlos in Concert

Carlos Santana is on tiptoes now, coaxing a bit more expression from the fretboard.

Half a phrase earlier, he'd tipped back his head as if to watch his notes take flight from his guitar, then shower down on 10,000 listeners at Ruminaui Coliseum in Quito. The tickets that Martin and I had bought a day earlier were in the "nosebleed" section (as is the entire city in fact, at 9,000 feet.)

Often, the 61-year-old Santana’s solos featured a pleasant complement to a driving rhythm; other times in the nearly 2 ½ hour performance, he showcased his bandmates’ talents. In a musical dialogue, they solo’ed or traded riff for riff.

No matter where those solos soared, the tight rhythm carried the crowd forward, whether it be salsa, Afro-Cuban, and even rap and reggae. Roused to their feet to sing Oye Como Va, people would surely have been stirred to a fevered frenzy at Santana’s first appearance in Quito.

He’d back off the pace however, with a ballad, sitting on a speaker monitor by the side of the stage. He spoke little, letting the guitar talk in ways it has since his reputation skyrocketed to fame 40 years ago at Woodstock. The ladies in Ruminaui received a dedicated song in the flamenco rhythm. Another song hailed Africa. Launching his1960s classic, “Oye Como Va” prompted a chorus of voices joining those on the stage.

His fusion of rock with Latin music established Santana, and the performance in Quito revealed his decades of disciplined playing. He successful weaved in the piercingly high solos central to rock music since the sixties, throwing in triplets as effortless embellishments. His Pandora’s box of effects full of any number of moods most often produced the “wah” of the seventies.

Martin at one point suggested a move to bleacher seats that would've let us see the rhythm section in action, for a speakers tower and huge video screeen blocked our view of the drummer, Dennis Chambers, and the fellas adding punchy percussion for that Afro-Latin sound. We in fact were watching a drummer, Chester Thompson, who happened to be on organ and keyboards. Benny Rietveld played bass; Bill Ortiz was on trumpet and fluegelhorn, teaming up nicely on brass with Jeff Cressman on a featured number. Santana stepped briefly into a role as sideman before re igniting the audience with another solo. Late in the evening it was Raul Rekow and Karl Perazzo delighting the audience on timbales and congas. Other stellar players included Andy Vargas, Tommy Anthony, and Tony Lindsay.

The band played a dozen songs, then said goodnight, with enough audience applause to bring them back for a just a few more.
Surging rhythms . . .


soaring solos . . .

saying goodnight . . .
Santana.

(Way, Way) Back There The Story Starts

The song ends.

A weary hand slips out from beneath the heaps of quilts, feels for the Panasonic on the plain wood floor, and turns the cassette tape to Side 2. Quickly, the hand rejoins its owner in the warmth of the bed.

Happy, syncopated rhythms in mono sound from the cassette recorder compete with winter winds howling outside the farmhouse’s upstairs bedroom. Then exhaustion from the day’s cold and work outside sets in. The four boys doze off as Santana's guitar plays on.

It was Christmas 1970 and my older brothers' new cassette recorder introduced a new phase of life, new rhythms, a new musician and a new language. (Our school only offered German as a foreign language. The one family in town with a hint of Hispanic roots, the Duarte brothers’ surname we thoroughly anglicized. Nobody said Duarte, we all said Dwoordee.) Carlos Santana’s name got similar treatment, even as his Abraxus album got played over and over on those nights in the unheated bedroom until we fell asleep.

Lying dormant for decades, this childhood memory revived for me as our own kids began passing from childhood to adolescence. Just as my brothers and I had left behind homemade toboggans and go-carts and sparrow shooting with the BB gun in the barn’s hay mow, our own boys were moving on.

The memory surfaced on Christmas a couple years back. That year's batch of presents had brought into our home a bass guitar. The drum kit was getting some new accessories - a ride cymbal and stand. The kids' Duplos had already been stored years before; even the little Lego lilliputians were seeing fewer visits from the Gullivers who assembled their world.

I wrote down the reality of time never waiting for any mortal; the paper got shoved in a drawer. Months later at the school's spring concert, a new Santana stimulus when the band played Oye Como Va. The boy in me remembered the rhythm and late night 70's radio in the car.

One day in March, Santana came to town. He brought his guitars, his band and a whole lot of songs.

Teach an Old Bird to Tweet?

Twitter.

In a sort of Rorschach inkblots reaction to words read or heard, does Tweety Bird flit into your imagination? If your mind replayed the “tawt I taw a puddy tat” phrase, please consider again. Twitter is being applied in interesting and relevant ways.

As I understand, short 140-character messages called tweets are sent, often including a link to a website. Increasingly, Twitter is part of the suite of tools used by new journalists. With planes going down -either gently into the Hudson or with fatal consequences – cellphone photographers are catching the breaking news shots and using mobile devices to post to the Internet, then sending dispatches (ala "wire services" of yesteryear in the news industry) via Twitter.

From there, mainstream media runs with the stories. (Intrigued by new journalism, yes. But I don't mean to "dis" the traditional newsgatherers.)

These short text bursts remind me of Steve.

A family practice physician, Steve has at least TWO responsibilities when we send a medical team out in response to disaster or dire healthcare needs. It's medicine by day, media work at dusk. From farflung places like Solomon Islands after a tsunami or Pakistan as surrounding mountains rumbled with quake aftershocks, the photographs made their way to us via the Internet.




The Subject line. Everything Steve wants to say --a few words to three sentences --ends up in the Subject line of his e-mail messages. (What, Internet providers give him a rate break for this???)

Situated on separate continents, we recently set up his profile on a site called FTP (file transfer protocol) to send photos. From Accra, Ghana, Steve's all-in-the-Subject-line showed up in my e-mail Inbox the same time as I was working on a different problem in the virtual classroom I was to attend a few days later.

Not an impatient man, Steve would quip “gone to lunch?” when I grew quiet too long. (I was busy with Luther in the classroom.) But everything worked and Steve was soon sharing photos of the medical team photos on the ground in Africa. Nice job Steve.


His last Subject had four phrases, ending with “thanks for sticking with an old bird to get him to fly.” Forty-one characters. Short enough.

He could have even sent it as a Tweet.



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Where's the "Book" on Facebook?

In a corporate cubicle, some young whizbang computer or marketing genius is conceiving of a name for the newest Web 2.0 program.

Seemingly nonsensical at first glance, such as the word Google* (search engine) or Joomla (a web page structure), it will be in common language in five years or less . . . maybe two years.

If all our pronouns haven't already been exhausted(I-tunes, You Tube, Meebo, etc. etc.) another "I", "You" or "Me" will be pressed into service to market the product to the many "me´s" of our world. Maybe not "We" although "Oui" is apparently selling.

Think back to a time, not very long ago, when Google meant . . . . . nothing. Now it is even a verb. In the not-too-distant past, if you wrote a book your manuscript worked its way through a general editor, a copy editor, various proofreaders who heavily invested their time to help you clearly express your ideas.You, your spouse and maybe your kids were practically married to the project. Hard work for months or years.

History, my fellow anachronism, history. That was the age of the book; this is the age of Facebook, with 175 million accounts.

How to take a name and make it a brand? Hmmm. I don’t know. How to make Java (not the coffee), Adobe (not the bricks) communicate a message saying “quality” to consumers? If I knew, I would be rich.

And I would run right out and buy Garage Band for our kids . . . and an Apple.

Next time, let's talk Twitter.

*10 to the 100^th power

The Fruit in the Fridge!

Quite literally, there has been something growing in our refrigerator. For a few months. An educational endeavor of notable merit, Science Fair is over for another year.

Want maximum storage life for your foods? Use a glass container. This was our son’s conclusion after storing small pieces of fruit in plastic, glass and tin containers as well as in zip-lock plastic bags, Saran wrap and wrapped in tin foil. Dutifully, he noted when mold first began growing on the fruit and after how many days or weeks of storage.

I transported the large, tri-fold, plywood display board home. It was a long walk home, with frequent stops.

We were enlisted for more than our fruit and fridge, for the camera and computer were in frequent use. We burned a CD of countless photos (I found our memory card full while making a video of Oye Como Va being played at the concert) and together we carried the decorated display board back to school and set it up.

It looked very sharp for the Science Fair.

He got a prize. His friend got the grand prize (trophy AND a day off from school) for a study about magnetism. Other studies varied; potatoes will root more quickly when hydrated with which liquid? Can a flower’s color be changed by watering it with Coca Cola? (No, but it can die.)

A Science Fair project or two ago --we've finished our fifth now-- we learned that it is no easy trick to take your blood pressure as another son conducted his own experiments. His study evaluated the effects of different styles of music on a listener’s blood pressure.

I know what drives up a parent’s blood pressure -- I write tongue in cheek . . . sort of . . . Science Fair!

Not the Historic Newspapers I Wanted

This wasn’t what I had in mind for a collection of historic front pages of newspapers.

No, not at all. Newspapers covering big stories, yes. But not newspapers reporting their own demise.

With Ken’s departure from our radio staff a decade ago, I inherited his historic front pages from the Louisville-Courier Journal.

I hasten to add, these are replicas, not originals. Antiquarians would otherwise paper this blog entry with reproach when I tell them I had these historic front pages made into placemats by laminating them.

Our children have engaged us in some lively dinner table conversations about Lincoln’s assassination, Nixon’s resignation or the devastation of bombs dropped on Hiroshima.

Though the collection is still small, I feel more urgency as the mainstream media creaks, groans and gasps, even as people speak in glowing terms of how Internet news will replace it (and pay its way?)

My favorite is Quito’s El Comercio from early February 1997: Ecuador Wakes Up to Three Presidents. At the radio studios and newsroom we had stayed with the story throughout the night the president was removed by Congress, with succession to the Executive in dispute in the wee hours.


This past January I grabbed some Barak Obama print editions (the way I wanted to collect newspapers) and a friend in New York City tried for Nat Hentoff’s au revoir in the Village Voice. In Feburary, Harold scored in Colorado: I now possess a final edition of the Rocky Mountain News he picked up for me. (It won’t end up in plastic.)




Predictions are grim, such as that of Emily Morrell, who writes for UPI, a wire service that once had bureaus throughout the world. Citing former reporter Mark Potts, she says, "In the next five years the newspaper industry will be dead."

Gee, I could soon end up with several dozen historic newspapers. But it won’t be a collection that I am proud of.

Feb 1997 front page.Used with permission of El Comercio Group

Listen to live radio coverage of this 1997 event

Listen to a short devotional offered to listeners during the program.

What Would You Like to Be?

We invite you to consider this:

Be something of purpose

represent Someone who has a purpose

for every one of us.

Be the hands and voice of Jesus.

The video is short, just 3 1/2 minutes.

But it could change the rest of your life.