By: Ken Boone Today I’m writing something I kept inside for decades. I finally I shared it with Celia, who encouraged me to put it in my blog. Looking back, I started writing this in my head over 45 years ago. When I was five, my newly-single mom joined a large “Thou-Shalt-Not” church with a tradition of excellent music and, seemingly unreachable, high standards for everything else. I quickly learned in church exactly what I was supposed to believe and exactly how I was supposed to behave, but I never felt like I belonged. As the son of a new believer, I received an unspoken message: My place was at the back of the line. Period. Meanwhile, in Asheville, NC, there was a smaller church of the same denomination. The church was named for my future wife Celia’s grandfather, and her family was prominent in the denomination, at least in the southeast part of the U.S. Celia was becoming an accomplished and in-demand pianist, and yet, like me, she never felt like she belonged either. In my world, many of us had dreams of making it big in the music business and I was one of them. Because I was considered an eloquent public speaker, the church people told my mother I had a “calling” to the ministry. In Celia’s neck of the woods, a career in medicine was the prime occupation. A business career was where you landed if Plan A didn’t work out. Both of us really wanted a career in music, but the heads in the “Thou Shalt Not” church always wagged an emphatic “No!” Celia’s and my collective dreams of stardom were treated as delusional. Making it in the music business is damn hard, and being very talented and highly skilled isn’t necessarily enough. My brother was generally considered a “can’t miss” as someone who was going to have a successful career in music. He was supposed to be a classical pianist. Instead, he has forged a 40-year career as a jazz bassist. Celia learned to play all the hymns in the denomination’s entire 600+ song hymnal when she was 11-years-old. If that doesn’t impress you, add to it the fact that she could sight-read, play by ear, as well as read in one key while playing in another! As good as she was at the church musician thing, her first paying gig was playing standards in a hotel lounge. That’s because our religion doesn’t pay musicians. All the money goes to evangelism. The rest of us musical hacks tried a number of different hustles to break through. I started my journey by being a charter member of a boy’s choir that ultimately became world-renowned. Then I moved on to the gospel equivalent of a barber shop quartet with piano accompaniment. I then settled into the space that I still occupy – a contemporary/inspirational songwriter who is a producer, engineer, and erstwhile band leader. It’s been a difficult journey and I made a ton of mistakes along the way. I also wrote some damn good music. Why am I telling you all of this? It’s to let you know that, other than hurting the people I’ve hurt along the way, the only thing I would change is me trying to break down every closed door in my path. And I’d like to share with you probably the single most consequential encounter I had on my way to where I’m at now. In my teens, there were a number of singing groups that sprung up in the New York Metropolitan area. You couldn’t walk past a barber shop, record store, or store front church without seeing a poster for an upcoming gospel extravaganza. We all dreamed of one day having our group’s name and image emblazed on one of those posters. Hell, we’d settle for our name to appear on an 8 x 10 flier. One group, through the tireless efforts of their gifted manager, broke through. They opened for a lot of national acts, as well as headlined on the regional level. They recorded a number of albums that garnered radio airplay. Their stage craft was outstanding. They were well-received, all the way down to audible swooning from some of the prettiest girls in town. In my opinion, they made it! I was never considered a candidate for membership in that group. Although I could carry a tune and was a phenomenal vocal arranger, I wasn’t in possession of a great singing voice. In response to that closed door, I started a competing group that had a much lower profile. While my group was jealous of their success, there was no open hostility and we publicly supported them. While I wished them well, I never jumped on the bandwagon. That’s because I knew I had one huge advantage over them – I could write my own songs. Whether they were any good was of no consequence. They were mine and I owed no one a dime in mechanical royalties. Through hard work and a lot of trial and error, my profile grew to where I was being approached to write and produce on an extremely small scale. While I was making very little money from this, my ego was being paid handsomely. Eventually, I was approached by a member of the more famous group to either write for, or produce some tracks for their upcoming album. I told him that I would listen to any offers they had. Time passed and the next thing I knew, I was approached by one of the group’s lead singers. Something told me that conversation wasn’t going to go well. And boy was I correct. After the cursory pleasantries, he proceeded to ask me if I was up to the challenge. Basically he wanted to know if I was good enough to handle “their” music. That was odd, because the one knock on that group was that they were pretty much a straight cover band. I mean, they performed note for note like the original artists. It’s a wonder they were never hit with a “cease and desist” letter! While I fought every instinct to snap back at him and just listened, he thought it was a good idea to make the dominant gesture of picking some imaginary lint off the lapel of my jacket. To this day, that still bothers me. He ended the conversation by telling me that the group would discuss me at their next band meeting. Translation – don’t call us, we’ll call you. Truth be known, I never wanted the gig. I grew up with these guys, so I knew how little they knew about music. I knew that my pedigree was going to carry the day. I knew that I would end up here. Not necessarily doing exactly this, but having a career in the music business. And what’s most important – I knew that I could write my own music. There is a saying in the business: “he who writes the songs, writes the rules”. Enough said. See you next week. But wait... there's more!
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By: Ken Boone I just finished an editing session for the second episode of Angel’s podcast, “Can I Say Something?” when it occurred to me how honored I am to have a front row seat to watch a fellow human being’s transformation. Let me take you back a year. I was driving north on Harris Boulevard in the University area of Charlotte, NC, having just left a Guitar Center. I hadn’t gone there to make a purchase. I hoped visiting the store would cure a mild case of G.A.S. (Gear Acquisition Syndrome). It is a malady that frequently strikes many of us who fancy ourselves as musicians and recording engineers. We convince ourselves that if we can have that one extra piece of equipment, it will get us over the top. For me, it’s usually something that I can’t afford. I successfully navigated my way through the store, messed around with a couple of guitars and basses, and left without purchasing anything. Needless to say I was proud of myself. But my inner “wanter” was still on overdrive. This is why I mentioned Harris Boulevard earlier in this post. About three lights ahead was a big beautiful church that held a daily 12-step meeting. Although my problem wasn’t with the bottle, those nice people unknowingly helped me kick my nicotine habit. I was late. The meeting was about to end! Sometimes, if you’re merely in the presence of positive people, their good will rub off on you. Just walking through the door confirmed that for me. They had just finished saying the Lord’s Prayer when I walked in. I was immediately greeted by smiles and hugs. I knew I was in the right place. Not to intrude, I typically stand off to the side and wait for people to acknowledge me. After all, it’s their meeting, their sobriety, and their joy. I’m just grateful that they let me get a taste. However, today felt different. I heard a voice that I’d never heard before, accompanied by an unfamiliar face. I noticed her because although she was “working the room,” she kept making her way back to the person who initially brought me to these meetings, who I’ll call “My Girl”. Eventually the newcomer made her way to the corner of the room where I was camped out. With the biggest smile and coolest Southern accent, she introduced herself, “Hi, I’m Angel”. I thought to myself that if she were running for office, I‘d vote for her. Over the next few months, my case of G.A.S. only seemed to get worse. The frustration wasn’t that I couldn’t afford the gear, because Celia and I “do frugal” very well. In fact, it has become a game for us. I thought my issue was that I was obsessed over a certain piece of gear I was sure that I needed. The real issue, though, was fear: Fear that I wasn’t good enough to do what I believe I was called to do. So I went back to those meetings, and they did wonders for my spirit, my confidence, my will to succeed. It felt like the energy level in that room had gone up a notch, and the producer in me wanted to find out where the razzle-dazzle was coming from. Wouldn’t you know, it was Angel! She always shared and brought a new perspective to the journey to sobriety. She usually said at least one thing that made the attendees bust out laughing. And she always cried. I remember during one meeting, Angel stated that she was “militant” about her sobriety. That line stuck with me to this day. Angel became a sponsee of “My Girl.” She and Celia met, and bonded outside the rooms. In fact, Angel started calling Celia “Mom,” and was gracious enough to call me “Dad.” We promised her that we would support and be there for her. As parents, it is our duty help our kids find their true calling and supply them with the tools to achieve it. I noticed Angel’s natural flair for the dramatic, which went well beyond drama queen. The girl has some serious chops! She’s shown great potential as a public speaker. And I happen to have a podcast network with the ability to produce an almost unlimited number of shows. After talking it over with Celia, who though it was a great idea, we asked Angel if she wanted to be interviewed on Celia’s podcast, “ISO Peace & Healing.” She agreed and promptly hit it out of the park! Five minutes into the interview, I was already creating a show for her in my head. As I finished editing and scheduling her second episode, I scanned our studio and took a moment to count my blessings. I didn’t buy that thing piece of gear with which I’d been obsessed. I have produced over 30 podcast episodes since the day I walked into that meeting. And the case of G.A.S. is gone, hopefully never to return. I could go on and on about our daughter, Angel, but as a producer, I’ll let her tell you the rest. She now has her own show, titled “Can I Say Something?” and she’s a much better storyteller than I am. She got that ability from her mom, Celia, and I’m deeply grateful to be her dad! But wait... there's more!
By: Ken Boone Parenting is tough. Ok, so I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. For those of you who are blessed to have children, you get it loud and clear. Those of you who are/were fortunate enough to have ringside seats to the show get it too. For the rest of you with no kids, no proximity to kids, and who have parents, take the next few days to figure out how you can make it up to them. Back when I picked this topic, I was just going to talk about how I was raised to be overly accommodating to others because anything less was considered selfish. I was going to go into an endless rant about how I was taught how let others get ahead of me in the line of life. And not only that, I was supposed to be supportive of their climb up the ladder, with me sometimes being the ladder itself. More than a few times, the person in front of me pulled the ladder up behind them before I could start my climb. An essay just vamping on the wrongs that were visited upon me would not have been in keeping with what I’ve been sharing with you the past couple of months. I would have juxtaposed those recollections with how I raised my son to be just the opposite. How I taught him to stand tall and boldly claim what was rightfully his. Then I remembered that I made just as many mistakes with him as I thought my parents made with me. That would have been a total waste of time and 600 – 700 words! I can still hear my mother’s voice ringing in my ears. Her mantra was “It seems as though our family’s purpose in life is to be of service to others.” Those words were usually uttered right after she would brag on the accomplishments of the children of her friends. I didn’t just have to listen to her boasts, I was supposed to join the cheering section. In all fairness to Mom, I was a handful. Applying the wisdom of a soon-to-be senior citizen, I can say that it wasn’t entirely my fault. You see, I am an autodidact, a largely self-taught person. I learn via a method I like to call “intellectual dumpster diving.” I pick things up through reading, conversation, watching television, surfing the internet, using Google and listening to the radio. Along the way, I picked up a college degree in economics, but I continue to take in information, ask questions and learn every day. One of the side effects of being an autodidact is that I’m constantly changing my mind. Today, I want to be an astronaut. Next day, a bus driver. Third day, an attorney. That can go on endlessly. It would scare the crap out of my mother, who was responsible for getting me to adulthood in one piece. So I was labeled as being “wishy-washy” and lacking the virtue of “stick-to-itive-ness,” whatever that is. I still don’t think it’s a real word! Fast forward to the early 1990s. I encouraged my son to be whatever he wanted to be and supported his every endeavor. I made sure he stood his ground and wasn’t a doormat. I taught him that being a doorman from time to time was ok, but I didn’t want him to habitually hand over things that were rightfully his. Unfortunately, I had a blind spot when it came to his oppositional defiance. That trait led to his racking up suspensions and expulsions from schools dating back to day care! In response to yet another sticky situation, I would pack up and move us to a new town, a new school district, hoping for a new start, hoping he’d start maturing, hoping he’d change. I chose to be a “spare the rod” type of parent. That meant that I had to have a lot of lectures at the ready. Most of them ended with me saying, “just wait until you become a parent!” The look on his face told me he could parent his child better than I could in his sleep. The tension and resentment reached a level as to where we couldn’t stay in the same state, much less same house. So he moved to Atlanta to be the king of his own castle, armed with the lessons I taught him. Oh boy, was that kid screwed! To be sure, he took some bumps and bruises, and most of them were if his own doing. He didn’t play shortstop for the Atlanta Braves, nor did he become a lawyer, a doctor, or an architect. He is now working as a regional manager for a small fast-food chain and seems to love his job and they seem to love him. Oh, I forgot to mention, he has a 5-year-old daughter! I’m officially Pop Pop! A few months ago, I got a rare phone call from my son. He was calm, which is always good. After the pleasantries, he said “damn Pop, this kid is a handful! I find myself dusting off your old lectures to give to her!” I could help laughing. You see, she doesn’t have disciplinary problems. She’s funny, sweet, polite, and smart as hell! Ask “Grammy” Celia if you don’t believe me. And how does Celia know that? Because my granddaughter didn’t hesitate to matter-of-factly tell her, “I’m very smart.” What’s driving my son nuts? This kid stands her ground. She’s very considerate of others, but she is not a doormat! And I brag about her every chance I get! But wait... there's more!
By: Ken Boone I was backstage at Ovens Auditorium, a 2,400-seat auditorium in Charlotte, NC pictured below. Celia, one of the pianists for a month-long evangelistic crusade, was about to go onstage. I peeked out from behind the curtain and noticed that there wasn’t an empty seat in the house. I was still a smoker at the time, so I wanted to duck out and grab a couple of puffs before it was show time. Exiting through a stage door, I noticed a couple of large vehicles with lots of activity. One was filled with recording equipment while the other had a couple of satellite dishes on top. Wow, looks like this is going to be a pretty big deal! I saw a member of the crew catching a much-needed break as I reentered the arena. I casually asked him when the event would be aired, so we could catch it. He told me that it was going out live on their cable network as well as being streamed on the internet. By the way, it was going to go global! Step on it Ken, Celia needs a heads up. Returning to my seat in the wings, I see Celia calmly working on one of her logic puzzles. I’m a crossword puzzle nut myself. The easier the better. But Celia is always exercising her brain. I like that about her. I didn’t want to break her concentration, but I felt I had no choice. When I told her about their intent to go live, I didn’t know what her reaction would be. Was she going to freak out? Was she going to run around backstage, looking for a piano to get in some last minute practice? None of the above. She just looked up and said, “oh… really… ok… cool”, then returned to her puzzle. Not the reaction I expected. But if I knew anything about Celia Waller Boone, her reaction shouldn’t have surprised me one bit. She was born for moments like this. I’ve heard her play hundreds of times. I’ve played with her dozens of time. The thing that is I’ve noticed is that no venue is too big to affect her nerves. That’s because, as a youngster, she practiced more than anyone I know. And unlike most talented musicians I know, she liked practicing! I remember my conservatory-trained brother had to almost be forced to practice until it became second nature. As she said on her podcast “ISO Peace & Healing”, Celia had a troubled relationship with her mother, who was prone to fits of rage. Often, Celia was the target of that ire. The one escape Celia had was to constantly practice the piano. And she got to be damn good! Learning the entire hymnal and most of the pop tunes of the day by the time she was 13-years-old, she was an in-demand pianist in the Asheville, NC area. I grew up in a religious denomination that took music very seriously. At least it was that way when I was a youngster. The pianists generally fell into two camps. There were the classically-trained sight readers and the hip sounding gospel cats who only played by ear. I had a toe in each camp, which kept me busy. Celia could do both, which made her a first-call keyboardist. Oh yeah, we grew up in the same denomination, hundreds of miles apart. Her legend even reached my neck of the woods. As well as she played, she always had to take a defensive posture. Challenged at every turn, and with her confidence shaken from time to time, she kept on playing. She kept getting better. The bigger the stage, the better she played. And it rubbed off on a talented, but lazy musician named Ken. I didn’t like to practice. I thought it was a waste of time. A waste of my single mother’s scarce resources. I stopped taking lessons at age eight so the focus could be placed on my brother, who grudging practiced and got better and better. Celia, however, recognized my talent and encouraged me to dive into my music head first. She graciously shares her stage with me. I insist on giving her top billing, because she’s clearly the star of this duo. She doesn’t insist that I practice scales, arpeggios, and modes. She just insists that I continue practicing being true to myself. I do that, and I’ve gotten really, really good at it! But wait... there's more!
By: Ken Boone Last week, I told you of a bad experience Celia and I had that helped us decide to become a musical duo. To refresh your memory, our participation was marginalized at a Christmas Eve service. That slight, or closed door, created the opportunity to find our musical calling as a duo. There was a part of me that did so out of spite. You’ve heard people say, “… yeah, I’ll show you”! You’ve probably said it a time or two, if you were pissed off enough. While I realized that going the duo route was the way to go for us, I still flirted with the idea of adding more pieces to our “group”. In fact, I continued to make overturns to musician friends, with no takers. In the meantime, Celia reached out to her contacts about us playing. You guessed it. We started getting bookings, with several them were paying gigs. In the succeeding months, Celia and I played many church services, big and small. We played at weddings, an occasional funeral, and outdoor festivals. We were well received, but part of me didn’t believe the hype! I thought, “If we were so good, how come no one wanted to play with us”? In the meantime, we were getting a lot of love from a lot of people. In fact, a couple of dear friends donated a PA system! We packed that system, along with Celia’s 88-key stage piano, my bass guitar, microphones, and cables into her 2008 blue Suzuki Reno. And that was for a one-day turnaround gig. We really had to improvise if it we’re an overnight engagement. I haven’t thought about Old Blue in quite a while, but boy was he faithful to us. When I first met Celia, I was driving a car that was slightly larger than hers. I got that car as a result of trading in my big, beautiful Chevy Avalanche due to a severe economic downturn I was facing at the time. Now that truck would have solved all of our problems, with heated seats thrown in for good measure! But again I digress. That little blue car safely transported us, and our gear, all over North Carolina and parts of South Carolina. But I wasn’t satisfied. I’d find myself lusting over every SUV, minivan, and old school bus I saw on the highways and back roads heading toward our gig. I’d drool in the parking lot when I saw a vehicle with a small trailer attached to the back. I had to have a bigger mode of transportation, a bus, in Ken-speak! I nagged Celia about it constantly; along with the imaginary band complete with background singers I first introduced you to in my last post. I told you I obsess over things. You’ve been warned. Well, Blue hung in there with us until health issues restricted our traveling plans. It was then when he showed the effects of going above and beyond, carrying more weight than he was designed to carry. It was then when he told us enough is enough! When we traded him in for what I expect will be another four-wheel ally, I thought about all of the places Blue took us. I thought about how he soldiered through a busted a/c unit, a car stereo with a non-functioning volume knob, with the constant purchasing of new tires. I also thought about the laughs Celia and I shared before and after each gig. How we mastered the art of nailing a performance without the need for rehearsal. How we would accidently play the song in the wrong key with the audience being none the wiser. These are memories we’ll keep with us forever! So, “yes” we are a duo. And “no” we don’t need a bus! We’ve got each other and Ebony, our new 9-year-old Toyota Corolla to get us to where we’re called to go. That’s enough for me! Unless we run across a sweet deal on an SUV, minivan, or school bus which happens to be Blue! But wait... there's more!
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About the AuthorAs owner of the Descant Music & Media Group, Ken is a creator and producer of several podcast shows. He is also a music producer, as well as a writer and an accountant for small businesses and nonprofits. Archives
June 2020
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