By: Ken Boone It’s been 25 years since I last attended Franklin Plaza Day, and I can’t make it this year either. However, I told my friend Spoon, one of the event coordinators, that I’d like to make a donation for refreshments. This is where I’m from, and it’s the least I can do for a group of guys who literally saved my life! Franklin Plaza Apartments were a collection of 20 story buildings in the East Harlem section of New York City, on the island of Manhattan. But to us, it was an oasis in the midst of urban crazy. For almost 60 years, it has stood tall, taking on all comers and coming out on top. It has been 38 years since I first ventured out on my own. The first time I came back home was when I was in between apartments in my mid 20s. The next time was when I separated from my first wife. Both times I was warmly greeted by the guys who stayed in the neighborhood. We picked up where we left off, but with kids in tow. When my mother unexpectedly passed away in December 2002, more of my friends from Franklin Plaza showed up at the funeral than did friends from the church I had attended and where my mother was a beloved member for decades. I don’t even know how my Franklin Plaza buddies found out – they just showed up, replete with rib-bruising bear hugs and broad shoulders that readily absorbed tears. I was 5 years old when I got hit with a triple whammy – my parents split, we lost our house in Queens to foreclosure and Mom made us attend a vastly different kind of church, where I had no sense of belonging. The people in that church worshipped on a different day from that to which I was accustomed. They imposed a lot of restrictions on church member’s behaviors. Worst yet, they had an unwritten, yet well-established, pecking order. I reluctantly took my place at the back of the line at the “Thou Shalt Not” church. Franklin Plaza was a new apartment complex, so we were all new kids, and thankfully, there was a strong sense of belonging there for me. That complex seemed to be part of an anthropological experiment to test the nature vs. nurture theory. We were surrounded by public housing projects, tenements that were inhabited by ethnic racial groups who resented being pushed out by urban renewal, and let us know it! We were targeted for harassment by our “neighbors”. We were bullied constantly. All of us except Vee, who became something of a legend because of his rare combination of fearlessness, loyalty, smarts, and humor. He never hesitated to go for it when someone picked a fight. We all looked up to him, even though he was shorter than most of us. I’m Facebook friends with a lot of the guys now. I got dozens of friend requests immediately after Franklin Plaza Day 2018. I don’t who’s passed away since the last time I was there. I think I just want to keep them young in my thoughts. Big Cliff “likes” a lot of my postings on Facebook. He was always that type of guy. He, Smitty, and Pretzel made up the core of the “Big Guys” group. They were a few years older than us, so they got first dibs on the basketball court, leaving us to use the garbage cans as our hoops. Sometimes we got picked to play with the big guys. We were mostly used as placeholders until one of their crew showed up. Big Cliff would even pass the ball to us from time to time. He was clearly a hero to us. As you can see, most of us had nicknames, and most of the nicknames stuck to this day. Since it’s my blogging policy not to name names, my friends are easy to write about. Thank God for policy loopholes. My brother and I had nicknames, although they lacked imagination. He was Big Boone, whereas I was simply known as Little Boone. I’m actually four inches taller than my brother, but who’s counting? We did suffer our share of tragedy and loss. We lost friends to murder, car accidents, drug addiction, and the ravages of unchecked mental illness. But we keep marching on. Forging careers as attorneys, accountants, academicians, musicians, cinematographers, to name a few, the kids from East Harlem have done pretty well in life! I don’t remember when they began to celebrate Franklin Plaza Day. I do remember that it was always held on a Saturday, which was not convenient for me. You see, that was the day that my mother chose for us to worship. Her decision also prevented me from playing in the more influential basketball leagues growing up. There was a neighborhood music program that I couldn’t partake in. The guys didn’t tease us. They would wave to my brother and me as we walked to the bus stop dressed in suits and carrying bibles. When we were younger, the Catholic guys would race out of mass to meet us in the basketball court on Sundays. The Baptists and Pentecostals would get there as soon as they could. Then we would play until our parents chased us upstairs to eat dinner and finish our homework. These guys weren’t like “The Fellas” I referenced in a prior blog post and on my podcast. We came from various parts of New York City. Our pecking order was based on ability, and assholes were shunned. Some of us came from two-parent homes. Some were raised by a single parent. Others were foster kids. Some of us went to church on a day and time when the rest sat down with a second bowl of cereal to watch cartoons. We’d have vigorous debates about everything from Tricky Dick Nixon, to our favorite athlete, comic book hero, or professional wrestler. And we all were very knowledgeable on every topic. But when it came to basketball, no one knew more than Spoon! As I said earlier, I’m not going to be able to make it to Franklin Plaza Day 2019. In fact, I may never attend another one. Not that I don’t want to see the guys, but because I made a vow to myself that I would never return to New York City. There are too many mixed emotions for me there. I will make a donation to go towards refreshments. So when you pour that glass of iced tea, and the pitcher says “sweet tea,” you’ll know it’s Little Boone saying “What’s up, my brother?!?” But wait... there's more!
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By Ken Boone: My mother always told me that two ingredients to a successful marriage are:
The joint bank account has been another blessing in our marriage. You see, two of Celia’s favorite hobbies are doing logic puzzles and tweaking our household budget. Her squirreling away of money is now legendary. I have a two fully equipped studio spaces in my house because of her skill! One of the things we used to talk about was our separate musical war stories. My favorite Celia story was about the time she played a lush, flowing version of the “Oscar Meyer Weiner” jingle at a church service, because her oldest sister bet her $50 she wouldn’t do it. I have told Celia about all the times I bombed on stage. It wasn’t so bad because I always knew how to cover up the gaffes. There was one time at a high school assembly when the ad hoc band I was in couldn’t get past the intro of Santana’s “Evil Ways”. It was supposed to be a staged extravaganza complete with singers, dancers, and maybe even jugglers. What we didn’t have was sheet music, adequate rehearsals, or a clue as to what the hell we were doing. We ended up getting literally chased off the stage, which turned out to be an act of mercy for all concerned. These comic moments weren’t just funny, but they were revealing. Celia and I both learned early on that the stage was a place that felt safe. Neither of us is a thespian, so dialogue wasn’t our fodder. It was music. Whether it was a hymn or a pop tune, we used them to escape our troubles, immerse ourselves in the music and relate to our audiences. Because we considered ourselves misfits everywhere other than the stage, we had a distinct advantage over our peers. We didn’t suffer from stage fright. Celia has nerves of steel. No stage is too big or too small for her. As for me, I have no shame. While I care deeply about my audience and don’t want to offend their sensibilities, I can’t help but take chances on stage. Also, I know that deep down, a lot of audiences have a perverse desire to see and/or hear a proverbial train wreck, and I’m more than happy to oblige. Once Celia and I began performing together, we developed a routine of doing a postmortem of our performances afterwards. Every time, we would end up discussing an audience member’s response to one or more of our songs. Our music has always been received very well, and one or more audience members will come up afterwards and tell us how that song impacted their lives, mostly in a positive way. Years ago, we provided worship arts services for a multi-cultural church that was experiencing multi-cultural problems. One of the issues was the choice of music and instruments. When we added several our our arrangements of standard hymns to the worship band’s repertoire, things really came together. The American-born senior citizen members sang from a place of familiarity of old-time church. The Cambodian members were also familiar with these songs, but for a different reason. We found out that those hymns, in their native language, were sung as lullabies to them when they were children. Everyone has a story. Everyone has a song that has given them inspiration, comfort and/or has helped them through a rough patch in life. Whether it’s a hymn by Fanny Crosby or a country classic by Willie Nelson, everyone has that song. When Celia & I play live in churches or faith-based venues, we mix some of or original tunes with our original, contemporary arrangements of classic, public domain hymns. For the secular gigs, we tend to stick to pop classics. Falling back on our open communication strategy, we decided to develop a monthly podcast show about that very topic. We picked the name, “Songs from the Journey” and selected a soundtrack of songs we’ve previously recorded. We even created cover art, and a debut date, Wednesday July 17, 2019. We are contacting and scheduling guests who we find fascinating. As Celia said on her show, “ISO Peace & Healing,” our guests may not be household names, but they are rock stars to us! We don’t have guests for all our episodes yet, so that’s why we’re reaching out to you, our audience. If you have a song and a story behind that song, please get in touch with us. Maybe we can make a podcast episode out of the song from your journey. We don’t really have a budget, but we’ll find a way to say thank you. Back to my mother’s advice. The open communication Celia and I engage in has brought us to this point. Our joint bank account, along with Celia’s passion for tweaking our household budget, puts us in a position to purchase some logo-stamped swag. Our wanter wants you to share your stories, and songs, with us and our audience. So, come on our show and get a coffee mug! But wait... there's more!
By: Ken Boone It must have been the fresh mountain air. I swear that my body went into shock when I got out of the car and inhaled. Being a native New Yorker, I was used to breathing smog. Not the more famous Los Angeles variety, but an equally nasty East Coast combination of fog and pollution. The first time I went to Asheville was to attend a memorial service for Celia’s mother. We weren’t married yet, but were engaged, so I was being introduced to her relatives as their future in-law. They were very nice people who immediately accepted me. In particular, her uncle, aunt, and two cousins from Florida literally blew me away with their instant smiles and enthusiastic hugs! At the time, we could only afford to stay at the hotel one night. We had recently incurred an expense that kept a prolonged hold on our credit card. Hearing about our plight, her oldest sister offered to help, which I politely declined. Her husband told Celia that, since she loved me, they were committed to loving me too. Innocent until proven guilty - such a novel concept in my world! Her other sister’s husband picked up our check when we all went out to eat after the service. I didn’t get a chance to turn down that offer. When I went over to thank him, he jumped into a conversation about road trips through Western New York State, my former home. He didn’t want acknowledgment for his generosity, he just wanted a chance to get to chat; one in-law to another. I made a vow right then that they would never have to worry about their little sister being in good hands. I think I kept my word. (Editor’s note from Celia, Ken has *most definitely* kept his word!!!) We returned to that beautiful city in the Blue Ridge Mountains a couple years later to attend Celia’s class reunion. It was then that I realized that she was a star in that neck of the woods, when she played, sang , and tore down the house. Again, I met plenty of nice people who immediately accepted me. In fact, some even asked what year I graduated from that school. I never attended school there, but they included me and made me feel like an alumnus anyway. Over the past eight-plus years, we’ve made dozens of trips up the mountain and through the woods to Celia’s hometown of Candler, which is technically Asheville-Adjacent. Most trips involved us performing our music at Celia’s home church as a piano/bass duet with Celia providing lead vocals. The congregation almost always joined in, enthusiastically singing and raising the rafters with their volume. We have done everything from playing for their morning church services, to being featured artists at their church’s 100th Anniversary Celebration weekend! We even had the opportunity to play on the grounds of the world-famous Biltmore House at the wedding of friends. As always, we were warmly embraced. Some kind friends even lobbied for us to start looking for a house there. Now, I don’t think I’ve told you about the significant divide in our home. Well, here goes – Celia is a devout vegetarian while I’m a hard-core carnivore. There, I said it! The gulf is wide, but we make it work. A lot of her home church functions end with a huge vegetarian meal. They have potluck dinners just about every week. That was new to me because my home church had them maybe once a year. At Celia’s church potlucks, even I usually have two helpings. Then we always stop by a locally owned Ingle’s Supermarket for a $5.00 carnivore’s feast for me. Ingle’s Supermarkets are one of the reasons I’d love to live in Asheville! Speaking of stages and potlucks, we were hoping to find a place that could be a reasonable facsimile of Celia’s church a little closer to home. Asheville is a 2+ hour drive, even after we discovered a shortcut. Our faithful car (Blue) got us there and back without any problems whatsoever. After a bit of exploring, we thought we found a church home relatively close to where we live. It’s a beautiful structure, though quite a bit smaller than the church in Asheville. Upon closer examination it had a bit of a pretentious air to it. They guarded their stage from outside musicians as if it were Carnegie Hall. When it came to their potlucks, they routinely ran out of food before everyone was served. This happened several times we were in attendance, where we didn’t eat anything. To rectify that issue, they began advertising potlucks weeks in advance, repeatedly asking people to bring enough food for themselves and enough to share with others. I wondered to myself if their church budget couldn’t even cover plastic utensils? (Note to self: Because I keep referencing this flock, maybe I need some professional help to move past them!) It’s my understanding that both churches are currently experiencing huge financial challenges. In fact, organized religion is in a state of decline. It is my sincere hope that both churches find their way to spiritual and financial stability, because they serve a purpose in this world. Celia and I can’t help them with the spiritual part. They both have competent, highly qualified pastors, who we really like! What they don’t understand is that we can help with the financial challenges. You see, both churches have great stages, with great pianos, sound systems, and wonderful acoustics. Did I tell you that Celia and I do fundraising seminars and concerts? We’ll gladly perform at the church close by because they are close by. We’d jump at the chance to return to the church in the mountains because, among many things, the fresh mountain air, and they have a group of folks who would love for us to move there! But wait... there's more!
By: Ken Boone I'll probably start this blog post with the biggest blow to my ego, when I failed to get into the High School of Music & Art on trombone at age 15. I looked for every excuse as to why it didn't happen. They had a glut of trombonists auditioning, I dropped my instrument and dented the slide, or God forbid, “dude, you just suck”! I was too young to understand why it wasn't such a bad thing, beginning with the fact that I hated playing the trombone. It led me to gospel music (first true musical passion), playing the piano, writing music, etc. It would have been nice to have gotten an explanation. The salient points of that one-page letter were: 1. Thanks for auditioning 2. Sorry, you didn’t make it 3. Try again next year if you’re feeling lucky 4. Good luck in all your future endeavors. I do know the true reason. I thought I could just mail in my performance. As I’ve said many times in this blog and on my podcast, I was one who understood the value of practicing. So, I probably came across as an arrogant little snot with a huge sense of entitlement. They didn’t have to include that in my rejection letter. As with every dark cloud, the silver lining was something much better than what slipped through my hands. I got more mileage out of Plan B than I ever could have had I gotten in that school. Gospel music found me, not the other way around. I plowed into it with reckless abandon. I didn’t care whether I bombed on stage or not, because the potential booing I would have gotten paled in comparison to the embarrassment I felt when I read that rejection letter years prior. And I was further emboldened by the fact that, even though I bombed countless times, I only got booed off the stage once. That’s a funny story for another day. While that was my first major rejection, it wasn’t my last. In fact, I came to expect rejection, so much so that I didn’t know how to reaction to acceptance of any kind. That helped to perpetuate the legend of “Ken the Door Man” I wrote about in a prior blog post. It didn’t help that no one attempted to lift my spirits. And I mean no one. As I got older, the rejections continued, with some instances of success thrown in just to keep things interesting. I was glad to learn that no one batter 1.000 and I wasn’t the only one who thought that fate was singling us out for these indignities. At least the rejecters would give a reason once in a while. Let’s fast forward to April 2019. I came here to the Charlotte area from Rochester, NY to check out things first-hand. It was more than a reconnaissance mission, it was house hunting. I did my research, hired a realtor, and had a sizable down payment sitting in my bank account. I also made an appointment with an unnamed temp agency that specialized in financial services staffing positions. Unlike the trombone audition episode, I was prepared. The staff there seemed to be excited that I picked them over their competitors. They assured me that I would have no problem getting an accounting gig, because of my experience and the fact that I was willing to take a temp assignment. The house hunt went well. I made an offer on the fourth house I saw. In fact, I’m typing this blog post from the bonus room of that house. This July will mark a decade of me living in that house. I’ve lived here longer than any other residence I’ve lived in since I was a child! Ok, house bought. Now, time to get that job. After some unpacking, I called the agency to let them know that I was ready to start working. They seemed thrilled when they set up the appointment for me to update my paperwork and chat about various opportunities. I was a little puzzled because I’d just visited them in April, and things on my end didn’t really change, other than the fact that I was here and no longer in Rochester. The chat went well until they mentioned something about my resume’. I asked if there were any inaccuracies, to which they replied no. I asked if my experience was on the light side. They said hell no! One more push from me and they started vomiting. The formatting was off. There wasn’t much of a narrative. I didn’t provide a mission or vision statement. Pointing out that I included each of the “missing” elements on the sheet of paper that represented everything I’d accomplished in my career, they had no choice to go in for the sales pitch. They told me about individuals who helped people spruce up their resumes’, as well as help sharpen their interview skills. And these specialists were reasonably priced. And all of this for a short-term temp gig! This little dance went on for over a year. They got smarter and began dangling jobs that didn’t exist just to get me to come down, fill out paperwork, and get lectured on having an inadequately styled resume’. I began bringing multiple versions of my resumes’ with me to these meetings, to no avail. They began to realize that I was catching on to the fact they had a quota of applicants to see each month, and this poor sap’s number just happened to come up every three months or so. Did I mention that the only parking was in the garage of their office building? The fee was $15, and they didn’t validate! As my bank account dwindled, I became overtly displaying my anger with these amateurs. That’s because I spent 10 years in the national office of a Big Four accounting D&T doing some industry-saving things. In fact, when I started down that path, the giants were known as the Big Eight. I earned a degree in Economics with honors. Wasn’t asking for a permanent gig – a temp gig would have worked just fine. The truth of the matter was that the economy was bad. Companies were hoarding cash and not spending on labor. I knew that because I had an economics degree and I knew about the “factors of production”! As far as the agency calling applicants in for bogus interviews, I have a theory for that. Since there was little hiring in the marketplace, the agency wasn’t generating the necessary fees to keep up appearances. By bringing in dozens of unsuspecting, out-of-work accountings to fill out paperwork, the revenue generated and handed over to the landlord (the most prime office building in Charlotte) could keep them in their plush digs. I suspect that because they closed their offices in location closer to my home. Just like with the “trombone audition affair”, this debacle had a silver lining. This time, I decided to hang up my shingle and become a freelance financial consultant catering to the needs of small businesses and nonprofit organizations. After some early struggles, that is now working out quite well for me. I also revisited my dream to get back in the music business. Soon after, my buddy Pete called to ask me to do some accounting work for his small businesses. I’ve mentioned many times that his small businesses were a record label and a music management/marketing agency. Talk about a God Shot! When I earned my degree, I had a job that paid pretty well, so I treated myself to an over-sized, expensive class ring. During the period of my unemployment, the price of gold was skyrocketing, and I just happened to have a hunk of gold on my right ring finger. After much discussion with Celia, I sold my ring for top dollar and bought a Tascam 2488neo digital recorder, along with a matching set of drum microphones. The amount of money I got from the sale of my ring covered the cost of the gear, with me only having to pay $1.00 out of pocket! That’s pretty awesome! The purchase of the 2488neo allowed me to reenter the music game in earnest. I used the recorder to produce Celia’s debut CD. I also use it to record multi-guest podcast episodes as well as live recording gigs. All are paying gigs, by the way. As for the drum microphones, I haven’t used them much yet, but the night is still young! From time to time, I get calls from that temp agency, with offers of non-existing jobs. I politely turn them down, telling them that I already have an employment situation that I’m quite satisfied with. Then with an impish grin, I tell them that I got the gigs without the benefit of a resume’! 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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