Kevin Midgley: News

If you haven't come over to the Rest-O-Bar you should quit your job, check yourself out of rehab, and spend down your life savings. Some friends old, and very old, have made it to the big city version of Thursday night ch__ch, and you can too. This event is still in flux spiritually speaking...it doesn't seem to have as many desperate acts of contrition and repentence, followed by backsliding as the other locales. But things change, and the more thay change, the more different they are. The spy network has informed us that Mr. Conway has made it to the Pacific coast, following in the footsteps of many a drunken sailor. If he's not back on Thursday I'll have to replace him - I can't continue to fight off the legions of apparently unemployed harmonica players in the area. I've given up being good for Lent. If it works out, I'll make it permanent. I've tried it before, but never with God on my side.

Well, for those of you who have been wandering in the desert, or dessert as the case may be, your 286 days of waiting are over - Uncle Billy's Rest-O-Bar is officially open. The exact address is still a mystery, however it is located deep in the liver of the arts district. Thursday night church WILL convene as of January 18th and continue until bureaucratic interference or the end of time, whichever comes first. Mr. Conway and Mr. Midgley will appear out of a cloud of street level exhaust (that looks like Jesus) and pick up exactly, to the measure, where they left off those many months ago. (As a side note, the streets of Yarmouth have never been more barren. Buying a bottle of wine and a trendy (albeit delicious) take out meal for $60.00 and going home to watch Democracy Now! is not quite the same as being driven to the BBQ like a wild animal by the smell of smoke and the promise of a soothing cocktail or two.) Diagonally across from the Video XXXpress, sandwiched between Joe's Smoke Shop and Geno's (formerly the "Fine Arts Cinema") the Rest-O-Bar will bring to Portland some dearly needed funk and normalcy. Across the street at Blue, Sugar Smallhouse holds his own court on Thursday nights. Mark my words: these two musical systems acting, reacting, swirling in a cosmic ballet, spinning billions and billions of blue notes, will act like binary stars drawing in heavenly bodies and astral debris at at ever increasing rate, condensing into the heaviest sound Portland has ever heard, bursting like twin super nova over Cumberland County. Amen.

Rumors of a new Uncle Billy's are in fact true. Location on Congress St. in Portland, near Joe's Smoke Shop. The actual address of the building is unknown even to the city and there is some concern about the strange markings on the basement floor. Jay and I dropped in for a visit and were almost sucked into the apocalyptic maelstrom at the creative vortex of an Uncle Billy's Production. Escher staircases, dripping water, echoing laughter from an unknown source, red atmosphere, a birth canal built from framing lumber, smoke and the dreams of damaged men. What rude beast shall issue forth? Stay tuned...

Purest gray dust on the leaves down that dirt road. There´s that one striped maple sapling with one leaf that is waving in the stillness like a Southern belle´s fan. It´s noon, dead air and that one leaf is all that´s moving. Cicadas, motorcycles out on the highway, prop plane overhead, lawnmower coming from that house that´s built into the hillside there, but it´s awful quiet anyways. Here it comes: a formerly shiny black SUV with a pair of kayaks strapped to the top, two adult and two children´s bikes hanging off the back, four humans in their air conditioned bubble. They have no idea where they are, and they are too tired as they pass through heaven to see the angels, the tattered farmsteads, Jesus on the right hand of God, Mary on the front lawn. The kids are watching Disney on the DVD and they miss the plot of graves on the hillside, spookier in the noonday sun than anything the studio boss could have dreamed up. Mom and dad are too busy arguing about the wrong left or right to notice that one leaf waving by the roadside, the only visible sign pointing them away from the E on the fuel gauge. A broad-winged hawk rides a thermal. If they had the windows down, they would have heard the blues, around that big bend in the river that they didn´t allow themselves to see or smell. They could have stopped and asked those dozen or so strangers who were fishing for lost souls, "Which way do we go?"

This is quite possibly the perfect moment of the year. It does have that telltale bittersweet turning the corner feeling, that hurts a little, but the world is overrich in its natural beauty, in this neck of the woods. The crickets and cicadas have begun their drum marching; waxwings have drifted back to where the ripe fruit is; yellow jackets raiding meat from the BBQ table. Stripers, blues, mackeral are running, corn and tomatoes are at the farmstands. Our big willow trees have the look of some wispy Mediterranean coast and the world sighs a big deep sigh before the change begins in earnest. There's lots of people music here. Come on down the road a piece and say hello.

Kevin & Jay will be at Buck's Naked BBQ Thurs. Aug. 3 8:00 -?, hosting the Thursday Open Mike Event. Come down, participate. Where have you been?

Buck's Naked BBQ and Travis Humphrey Roving Sonic Production's Thursday night open stage, every Thursday at Buck's. Strong Waters and the Devil (without a Tail) will be there in spirits. Kevin and Jay will sooth the savage beast with music singery songwritery and blue blue blue.

Well, for those of us who live in the neighborhood, it's that time of year(third weekend in July) when summer finally hits its stride, and the sleepy little suburb puts on its party dress. The Clam Festival! It's kind of generic, fried dough Ferris wheelin' tuckered out haunted house, boy scoutin' ski clubbin' white elephant table with sides of seafood, firetrucks fryolators musiccraftsraceswhatnobeertent. Mosquitos, honky high school bands, sweaty gorillas, the pepto-bismol sun baking thousands of happy campers lined up on Main St. Yarmouth USA while the thunderheads form in the west the greater show's grease monkeys take a long drag off a smoke and try to figure out where that bolt that flew off the zipper, that concussed a poodle, came from. By the time it's over there is no grass to speak of in Yarmouth, the smell of fry oil is everywhere, and gulls, fresh from the facepainting tent, whirl over the parade grounds like feathered gangsters. A carnival hangover: exhausted, anguished children, impoverished families from the hinterlands, dogs sleeping off their trash binge, and the last few cyclists, burning off their dopamines, like stray electrons breaking their bond, going nowhere fast. STAY TUNED FRIENDS! We've got gigs in August aplenty. The Rev. Strong Waters lives!
There's a box turtle crossing the road. THE SUMMER IS DEEP!

Get thee behind me Chicky! Sinners, saved, agnostics, and all others WELCOME! Reverend Strongwaters and Deacon Bouquet du Bourbon will deliver a musical sermon between 7:00 and 8:15, May 9th, a Tuesday evening. Following the sermon will be a performance by the rock-a-billy trio The Two Timin' Three, suspiciously claiming ties to Texas (hell on earth minus the service staff). After a brush-hogging competiton down by the river, and Blake's Death By Tequila we will steal their women and leave them crying like children. AMEN.

Only Fred meant don't leave. Uncle Billy's in Yarmouth is officially closed. If you've been thinking of showing up for the last three years or so, you missed your chance. As for Mr. Midgley and Mr. Conway, they will continue playing their version of music at venues in other locations - far and wide, near and skinny. Check in here to find their whereabouts, recording plans, and downloads. In addition to his mail order spiritual p.h.d from the Church of the Blessed Billfold of the Unknown Sacrificial Lamb, he has also been honored by The Cleptomaniacs of God, a shadowy religious organisation based out of our nation's capitol, known for their ability to turn the opiate of the masses into rationalization for sexual de-education, illiteracy, re-impoverishment of the majority, more power for the already powerful, healthcare for profit, warmongering, blamegaming, cronyism, and I could go on. Mr. Midgley received the Silver Medal of Achievement from the School of Spontaneous Rant. Amen.

Well we might have the 27th of March at the BBQ - best call and ask about the special amusements. 846-3770

Rev. Midgley and Mr. Conway have concluded their relentless Thursday night testifying in what was a vain attempt to bring a li´l bit o´ that old time Southern to Yarmouth´s musically challenged. A rotating cast of lay musicians, harmonica choirboys, stick wielding deacons, kazooists, raconteurs, & sideshow chefs participate in the services. Witness as the merry-go-round spins backward, drowning spirits rise up and the ghost of a juke joint begins haunting the four corners. We all flash powder burned out practically before we started, leaving nothing but a searing bright impression in the mind´s eye. Amen

I saw a barred owl on the way to work today, in a tree just north of the Presumpscot. I see a lot of hawks, usually red-tailed - it must be good hunting. But not a lot of owls... The Thursday Church of the Blues rolls on, the chapel of the juke, reverend deacon lay people choir boys all raising their spirits to the ice-glazed trees and sheafs of The Forecaster blowing through the intersection the clicking sound of the traffic light. I will not go to the crossroad that looks over the old folks home, the closed up dairy joy, the house hidden behind the evergreen trees. It couldn't happen at THAT crossroad, Still. last time I went there, things didn't seem right for awhile. I don't know what it was. The weight of that traffic light swaying in the wind. The way sounds tunnel out of nowhere when you stand in the middle. The walk sign spontaneously turning on when no one is in sight. Maybe it was my soul being dragged away, out of the blinking yellow, down towards the filling station...

It never fails that when you do something (almost anything other than nothing counts) somebody has to bitch about it. What is unfortunate is when the pissed off person doesn't feel equipped to talk to the cause of "the PROBLEM" and instead goes to the principal, or in this case the town manager. When you move into an apartment over a restaurant, you've got to expect some noise. So don't do that anymore. Nat Tupper, town manager, has warned the Marquis du Larde about his establishment: about the rude parking lot practices(?), the loud conversation on the deck, the loud juke box at 5:00 in the afternoon on Sunday, and (oh yeah!) the sing-a-longs after 10:00 (PM) on Thursday nights! HEY! IT'S THURSDAY NIGHT CHURCH! When the spirit moves, the congregation responds. I don't understand what is wrong with a dozen or so people getting together, enjoying each others' company, listening to and participating in music - without being prompted or begged! If you work shift work you really should have thought twice before living over a business like a restaurant. Secondly, maybe it'd be good for you to come down and have a drink and relax with the rest of us. It's good for me.

It´s not too late! It´s NEVER too late! If you´re in the neighborhood WALK to it! Take the highway north or south to Main St. Yarmouth USA. Cross the tracks, the dividing line between good and evil. Brother! Sister! WHICH SIDE ARE YOU ON? 356 Main St. The exact geographic equator which demarcates the sacred from the profane. Where the music that mixes the weakness of the flesh with the fire of the eternal spirit in a sweet, smokey gumbo gushes forth - whispers shouts moans guffaws forgets circles round and ambushes. Not so far from the church of Sunday is the church of Thursday. The church where there are no heroes, no miracles, where Satan shakes your hand and God slaps your back, where the angels take smoke breaks and the demons are ALWAYS inner! Yes friends it´s in your town, it´s BEEN in your town! Hidden under the school bus, a dust devil with a fistful of summer´s lost leaves, unbidden, unstoppable, invisible - still - TANGIBLE! Go to your history books, every year something disappears forever, read it! Under your noses, outside your bedroom window, midnight at noon, ecliptic. An unsuspected ongoing song, marking time. The Rev. Midgley reveals all, revealing nothing. Deacon Conway deep in the reeds. The lingerers on, the dependents, the co-dependents, raging kazooists, harmonica choirs, men with sticks and women with spoons marking time, the congregation moved to tongues, the body politic moved to shake and always the unseen mechanic twisting the gears of the night, bending Thursday's hours like notes pulled out of the faraway south. The sun coming out to set, the winter set in motion, my mother cleaning the windows with the newspaper. The bare locust trees in the graveyard across the street, bony and black against the sky. I, in my Halloween costume and the room smelling of vinegar.

a collection of poems called "The Far Field". Almost mandatory reading.

Hey everybody, it's that time of year - kids suffering another session of school, a little dark earlier in the evening, cooler mornings, that lone cricket in the basement calling to its kin outside. That one tree that always colors before the others. It makes me wish it was still August. I see some new names in the guestbook, thanks for stopping by. Send your friends over. I'd like to say I've got another recording underway, but that would be a lie. I will get around to it. Sometime. really. I have the songs, just not the time to put them down. Anyway thanks for your interest.

Well, awhile back this spring, it was the end of May, a couple dropped in to Billy's on a Thursday night around the time we were setiing up. They were watching us and asked which of us was Kevin, Kevin MIdgley? Kevin D. Midgley? When I determined they weren't private investigators I 'fessed up. The fellow said that they had something of mine they'd been meaning to return. I didn't know what that could be since they were strangers to me. They produced most of a pencil, light purple, with my name stamped in gold letters. I said that did appear to be my pencil. The Niesen's then related to us that they'd had the pencil for 30 some years and it had traveled all over the country with them -out to the West Coast - around and about. Sheepishly Mr. Neisen admitted to using it in a pinch once or twice. Being naturally inquisitive they had wondered who is this person? what is he doing now? does he still chew his pencils? Through the miracle of the information highway they searched for me and found me ultimately at Uncle Billy's on a Thursday night and in a good mood! The pencil is in my little box of treasures - my mom who passed away just about a year ago, made a habit of putting such things in our Christmas stockings. The Neisens found it in a camp they bought from my stepfather's parents. My brother and I had wondered where that camp was and I had no idea, but the pencil seemed to want to tell us. So I guess that's one of life's mysteries solved - I wonder where those guitars I let go of ended up?

Nowhere. Well three months just kinda slipped by, and I've got nuthin' to say about it. Winter's over, but is this spring?

I visited with The Mutineers this evening and put down a track for their new recording. Check out their website, Mutineers something something. Google the thing.

Jay and I are still at Uncle Billy's in Yarmouth every Thursday, so if you haven't been - you gotta go.

Plans are in the works to play a set or two of blues with Myron Samuels (of Wednesday Evenin' Sun fame - www.wmpg.org) at the North Atlantic Blues Festival in Rockland July 11th. The Time Out Pub(?) It's Brunch! 9 AM to 11 AM Then enjoy the Sunday Festival!

See ya in three months!

read this poem:
Ode to a Watch at Night

Chef Jonathan "Frango" St. Laurent will be hosting an open house to allow patrons to sample his newest menu renovations. Portuguese grilling traditions will be added to the downhome Southern style. From 3:00 until ? Call 846-3770

My wife and I attended the performance by the Sean Mencher Combo at the Center for Cultural Exchange last evening. If you are unaware of these guys you owe yourself a visit. Western swing, rockabilly, country, swing, on and on. A bird woke me up this morning at around 7:00. Couldn't figure it out. Repetative with a sliding note. Don't think it was a starling. I went out to see if I could see it but I guess he saw me first. Cardinal was out though, calling. Yeah, I know it's not spring. Just a little thaw going on...