The Sequoia Saga, part 3

A tongue twister, a tongue, and more Saga

Dear Readers,

Thanks so much for your patience. Here's another post.
First, a tongue twister I learned from my dad.
Second is a poem about a tongue.
Third, another installment of Cantab Tango in my mother tongue.

Enjoy.
Yours, David Krancher

It takes incomprehensible incommunicability to say this thung thwister.

Theophilus Thistle, the successful thistle sifter, in sifting a sieve full of unsifted thistles, thrust three-thousand thistles through the thick of his thumb. Now if, Theophilus Thistle, the successful thistle sifter, in sifting a sieve full of of unsifted thistles, thrust three-thousand thistles through the thick of his thumb, how many thistles can'st thou thrust through the thick of thy thumb . . . in sifting a sieve-full of unsifted thistles?
Success to the successful thistle sifter!
—via M. S. Barnes from traditional sources

Poem from Cantab Tango

Atisha And

Atisha’s symphony of scratched tongue
and guitar string jazz tries to overwhelm me
with clever synchopation and a snare drum,
but loses, hands down, to silence itself—
the pain in her smile is melody enough to
throw me down for hours on clean sheets.

Atisha says she’s sorry to dance so slow,
but the ghost of her dead little brother
trips her up every Sunday just when
she’s ready to blow hot and cold and blue,
so I blow hot and cold and blue for her.

But you don’t have to compete with Atisha.
No rose petal story poems of hummingbirds
can match the touch dry wind in box canyons
makes on the soles of my feet, between my toes.
Between my toes, touched by a dry wind—
your wind is always my hot and cold and blue.
Throw me down for hours on clean sheets.

Atisha thinks my poem is about her,
but it’s just dry wind in a box canyon.

—— 3-21-20

* * * * * *

From another installment of Cantab Tango:

“And even though I'm too cool,

you know I ain't no fool

. . . 'cause I love ya like my daddy . . .”

On the chorus Tony jumps to his feet like a club DJ—twisting imaginary dials and shoving imaginary sliders—I can tell he imagines a thundering under-bass with Latin horn shouts on top. He likes that sound. Timbales slap air. He pounds a fist down on the one-beat like James Brown might—thrusts a hip out on the two.

“But I ain't afraid of eating cliché's [shout, shout]

if they taste better than apple pie . . . [shout, shout—shout, shout]”

Tony gives me an odd look to hear that line—smells like Jack spirit doesn't it? Or is he onto our trick so soon? He's not laughing yet. Satchmo doesn't laugh—he's dead serious about increasing the funk so he rakes the guitar into double-time at the bridge then pops to a full stop before he dives into a final rave-up.

“I love ya like my daddy,

love ya like my daddy, [shout, shout]

like my daddy love Ma!”

Da dum, da dum dum—pow! The tune ends. Satchmo bows.

The crowd applauds and whistles—one of us.

Tony smiles—he's onto me now—but he also sees what Satchmo's done with it: voice, guitar, and those rhythms. He applauds Satchmo but yells at me.

“He would be in The Beatles—and he'd be the best one!”

I laugh. Satchmo looks perplexed. Beatles?

“It's cool, Satch. We fooled him until right at the end. That song has a bit too much parody in it—that gives me away every time. But did you love it, Tony?”

Tony echoes a reply by playing Stevie Wonder-style riffs on an imaginary clavichord—and he bobs—da dum-pow!

I collapse onto my stool and point a fat ganja spliff at Satchmo. We all pass the audition: singer, producer, writers, and the whole non-Beatles group. But will all this be enough to save our record business? Will I have to go back to running a printing press on the night shift? Will it keep me from trying to kill myself again?

“Bury The Beatles. We got this,” I say.

I say it without much joy. Satchmo lights the joint. I can only hope we do have this.

“Not bad,” says Tony without too much joy.

I watch his left toe tap to the beat of Daddy Do on playback. Tempo is the most important thing for a foot to get right.

“What's next? Got another one for me?”

I pass the spliff.

“We do. This next one is odder than I have ever been,” I say.

“Not possible,” he says. “Not odder than you.”

Satchmo's cough sounds like a laugh.

Tony punches a button and the Daddy Do track stops.

“Break's over,” says Tony. “The other one. Go for it.”

“No,” says Satchmo. “Not yet. I haven't finished it. It needs more of a setting, you know—a history, like a fairytale. It needs the long-range story—not too emotional—a just-the-facts kind of a feeling. The story will say it all, know what I'm saying?”

“Not yet we don't. This is no freestyle thing,” I say. “Just sing what you've got.”

“Nada. The opposite . . . it's more of a Swim Good thing—it should make you stop dancing—forever.”

Tony shakes his head. I don't know what to say. This piece is a mystery to me, too.

“I will stop dancing,” I say.

“OK, Mister Frank Ocean. Let's hear its history another day,” says Tony.

“Our cheap recording half-hour is up anyway,” I say. “And the sun's up now, too. Let's all go have a nice cheap breakfast.”

We can try to be successful at breakfast. We can have a successful breakfast, if we pledge to make real music, honest music, sincere music, truly authentic music. Tony and I swear to not fuck it up this time. Not fuck it up like we did last time. Not sell out to that devil called The Hit Song Record Company. We swear on our lives to make music to save our lives—with truly authentic music.

[ End, Chapter 2 ]