In 1991, I drank one of Paul Simon’s beers.

I’m exaggerating, but let me tell you how I found myself in the “Rhythm of the Saints” Tour Green Room, chatting it up with Chris Botti, Michael Brecker, and Steve Gadd — Yeah, I know. I was 21.

I was playing trumpet with my college teacher, Robert Baca, on a Thursday or Friday morning. I mentioned I was going to hear Paul Simon play at the then new Target Center in Minneapolis the next night. I didn’t think it would be noteworthy to him, but immediately, he said, “Oh, you should try to say hi to my IU friend Chris Botti! He’s on that gig.”

Well, OK then. Challenge accepted / failure anticipated.

But I was young and dumb enough to think I might be able to contact someone in PAUL SIMON’S FREAKIN’ BAND. I went with my college sophomore roommate Jeremy, my dear friend Jen, and her roommate and our friend Lisa.

I wrote a note ahead of time that went something like this:

“Hi Mr. Botti. I’m a student of Robert Baca, who said I should try to have a conversation with you after the show. I’m sitting in Section 112, Row H, Seat 14. I’m the dorky lookin’ one.”

I flagged down a pimply-faced usher who was on the main floor, tossed my note over the rail that separates those with money from the college kids, and hollered, “Can you get that to the trumpet player in the band?!” He looked at me like I was nuts, and I could read his thought bubble: “No, I don’t think so!”

In desperation, I replied over the crowd noise, “Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope!”

I mean, maybe I said that. It was a long time ago.

A few minutes later, the band came out and opened with one of Paul’s hits that didn’t include horns. I went back down to the rail, where I could see Chris noodling off-mic to the side of the stage. I did my best to get his attention, and somehow, he heard me, seeming to acknowledge that I was a complete dork, and that he got my note. The horns walked on to play “You Can Call Me Al,” and I went back to my friends. Somewhere in the middle of “Late in the Evening,” an official-looking lady with an earpiece tapped me on my shoulder, said something over the heavy pulse of the massive band, and handed me a back stage pass. I was suddenly converted into THE coolest person in the stadium, a miracle of miracles, and everyone near us was staring at the patch I proudly stuck on the front of my jeans. Are you kidding me?! I was 21, about to head back stage to meet the Paul Simon Band and maybe even Paul Simon himself.

(Yeah, right — like Paul was gonna hang out with us and sing an 11 PM rendition of “Kumbaya”.)

At any rate, the concert concluded after an incredible 4 hour single set (!!!) split in two by a 45 minute solo break played by the incomparable Michael Brecker. It remains one of the best shows I’ve ever been to, and not just because I got to go back stage. There, I talked to Chris Botti and fan-girled Michael Brecker and Steve Gadd — “OMGOMGOMG!” — it was the first big hang like this of my life, and I’ll never forget it. As a trumpet player, that concert motivated me for years, if not decades.

And yes, I continue to tell myself that the beer I drank was meant for Paul Simon — that’s how close I got to perhaps the greatest songwriter there ever was. I ate some of his cheese and crackers, too. Woof.

Fast forward 33 years — let’s bring the lesson home —

I recently read a Paul Simon biography, written with Paul’s cooperation by author Robert Hilburn (and sent to me by the the same Jen who went to that ’91 concert with me — thanks, Jen!). As a long time fan, I ate it up. And what I remember from the book was how much failure Paul endured in his early years. He had a “neighborhood hit,” in his teens as the duo Tom and Jerry (with Art Garfunkel), and then tried everything for the next 10-15 or so years to be successful in the industry. He wrote jingles, recorded 30 of so songs that tanked, changed his stage name several times, worked for music publishers, copied other artists — he truly studied and tried everything — and was fairy lousy at it for a very, very long time. And we all know what happened to him starting in the early 70s, after he turned 30. In my estimation, Paul developed into the greatest singer songwriter of all time by sheer power of will and maybe a dose of destiny. Check out this 1975 lyric, reprised on one of his most recent albums, Into the Blue Light, as he expresses a deep understanding what we are all trying to do as musicians and humans:

Some folks’ lives roll easy as a breeze
Drifting through a summer night
Heading for a sunny day
But most folks’ lives
Oh, they stumble, Lord, they fall
Through no fault of their own
Most folks never catch their stars

Wow. On the new album, the keyboard is gently replaced by a celeste at the word “Stars.” It’s great. He’s creating in his late 70s with this one. Check it out HERE:

The lesson, kids, is that you just keep working on what you love. Some of you will fail and fail and fail, and some of you will fail and fail and succeed. But we all fail — over and over. Just keep going, my friends, and I hope to share a beer with you someday.

I truly hope you catch your star, in whatever form it takes.

Sincerely,

Steve Kriesel

President
Glenn Cronkhite Custom Cases
Torpedo Bags

My Aunt Jean should probably be your hero, too.

She’s 92.

Last year, she flew overseas to visit my sister. In this case, “overseas” meant South Africa — just a ho hum little trip, right? Uhhh … no. This was a 9 hour flight to Amsterdam, a 4 hour layover, and then 12 hours to Capetown. When you add in waking up, the taxi to the Minneapolis airport, a stop for scones, evading her arrest warrant from some 1970s shenanigans we don’t talk about, and all of that other travel mess, she’s in for well over 30 hours — and we had to get her back, too.

92 YEARS OLD!

She smoked a ton of cigarettes in her day, so this amazing woman is a confounding mystery to us mortals, as well as our example of how to be throughout our one, short life. It was rumored she was once married to Mark Twain, but I think that was made up, probably by me, just now. I will catch hell for this in short order.

Twenty years ago, she generously gave me her entire record collection. These were, of course, the records she collected during the Golden Age of Stereo — about a dozen Ella, maybe 20 Sinatra, a’buncha Louis Armstrong, Nat King Cole, Stan Kenton, Dakota Staton, Basie, Bobby Darin, June Christie — just a ton of great recordings in very, very good condition. I’ve been listening to them ever since, at least once a week on my Klipsch Quartet / Fischer 500C set up. For a long time now, I’ve wanted to have her over and host a straight up listening party, but my large family gets together in larger houses than mine when there is an occasion, so this kept getting put on hold.

Finally, this summer, my cousin Katie needed to get an amp and CD player back from me after repairs. I asked her to come out to my place, “but bring your mother,” and we’d hang out for the day. This was in June, if I recall — I’m about a 1 hour drive for them these days, living high up on the St. Croix River, checking out Minnesota from a 1946 cabin seated on a Wisconsin cliff. It’s nice.

The pair drove out one Sunday. We said hello, I gave a tour and made some jokes, and then I explained my desire to play one of Jean’s records for her. I carefully moved my lounge chair into the sweet spot of the room, and asked everyone to not talk at all for at least one track. My sister, who suffers from FOMO and is a bit of a motor mouth, crashed our party, so this was essential instruction.

“What would you like to listen to, Jean?” I asked.

After a short consideration, she replied with anticipation, “I think … Sinatra.” I believe she knew that this was about to be an above average experience of pure nostalgia, and she settled in.

I had “In the Wee Small Hours” already on the turntable, so this was easy. I clicked on my 1960s-era tube amp — which is always a satisfying sound — explained why this was a very fitting stereo on which to play her music, and started the turntable. The needle grabbed hold of the groove as needles do, and the strings introduced the band as we quieted down. Jean was seated, likely not having been in front of a quality stereo in a good number of years. More importantly, she was hearing music decades and decades after she had picked it out in a record store — the actualrecord she chose was once again playing music for her after all this time. To many of us, these old keepers of the Great American Song Book are like old friends. To Jean and countless others, Frank was her best friend, and they were being reunited in my living room.

Please — if you want to see a moment of pure joy — take a moment to watch her experience. She gave me permission to share this, and I really think it is quite special. This is what happy looks and sounds like.

We make music in this life for one reason: To share and experience joy. Don’t ever forget this, folks.

Don’t ever forget it.

Thank you for the music, Aunt Jean. It will always be in good hands.

With love,

Steve

I was at my daughter’s orchestra concert a few years ago, sitting next to my son, Oliver. We were subjected to the full range of orchestral sounds, from beginnings efforts only a mother could love, to the top orchestra kicking out Stravinsky in ways that most college orchestras can’t touch with a conductor’s baton duct taped to the end of a fishing pole.

The directors had individual kids introduce the titles. This is an oft-practiced confidence building effort, creating poise in these young leaders, a great opportunity deeply feared by the introverts in the clarinet section. “Hi, my name is Sally Johansen. Our next selection was composed by Mozart in 1786….”

During an early applause that day, I whispered to my son that what we really needed was a balcony box for he and I, where we could heckle these kids. Don’t get me wrong, they didn’t deserve heckling. They were great. I just like the thought of being Waldorf to my son’s Stadler. If you’re under the age of 40, you might need to know that Waldorf and Stadler were the grumpy, old Muppets who heckled Kermit during the Muppet Show in the 1970s. I’ve always admired Waldorf and Stadler, aspirational and inspirational characters for my sarcastic brass-playing soul. At any rate, this conversation had my son and I primed for inappropriate giggling at a Very Serious Classical Music Concert.

A new kid approached the mic. His shirt was neatly pressed and tucked in to his black concert pants, cinched tightly above the required black dress shoes. He was as professional as any that day, and he confidently read his short script. While I’m positive his family was proud of him, I was sure I heard him introduce himself as “Grover Mupply.”

I leaned over to my son. “Did he just say his name was Grover Mupply?!?!” 

The giggles began in earnest. We tried to contain ourselves, but once a trumpet player, always a trumpet player, and we bounced and shook well into the second selection played by the following orchestra. It wasn’t actually that funny, but you know how the giggles can take flight.

I later wrote about this inappropriateness in a Facebook post, simultaneously proud and ashamed of my behavior. My friend and trumpeter Bill Simenson saw the post, and took up the chore of writing a big band chart to honor this fictional kid. I believe this is how Prokofiev first conceived of the idea for Lt. Kijé. Bill is also a fantastic composer, and organizes a weekly reading session of his charts the first Tuesday of every month in Minneapolis, holding court in front of The Bill Simenson Orchestra.

That’s right, a kid who didn’t articulate his name to the extreme became a fictional kid, and that fictional kid became a big band composition.

I’ve been asked many times to check out the band, but unfortunately, I was the parent who drove my daughter to most of her orchestra rehearsals…you guessed it, every Tuesday night. On top of having an impossibly busy year, it just never worked out. However, tomorrow night, I will finally be hearing “Grover Mupply”! 

Or, as Bill says, “We’ll Mupple it up.” 

I’m truly excited to hear this chart, and will report back next month!

–Steve and the Gang

PS: The kid’s name turned out to be “River,” and as far as I know, he does not know he is slightly fictionally famous.

PPS: Bill’s CD, “Big Alpaca” can be bought on Bandcamp, and it’s great stuff! One of my old students, Paul Stodolka, is swinging the lead book. You should buy it. 😉

There was a sewing factory down the road apiece that went out of business. I knew the guy, went down there to see what might be available, and ended up buying every sewing machine he had.

One of them was the Famous Ferdinand 900B Bull, a massive block of steel that spent its days impersonating a sewing machine. I swear on my mother’s dusty bible that the needle alone weighed 14 pounds.

Do you remember the actual bull from the child’s book named Ferdinand, the one who only wanted to smell the flowers in the Spanish countryside, until he sat on a bee? Well, our Ferdinand made that Ferdinand look like a baby chipmunk.

About Ferdinand

We got him loaded in after a while. I ended up selling him to a guy who knew what Ferdinand could do. He drove up from Iowa with his wife, and was going to use Ferdie for saddle work. Ferd didn’t have reverse, so for what we do he wasn’t a great machine, but he sure was fun to look at for a few months! I have a few newer versions of him with reverse – same size but somehow 1/5th the weight. These beasts can sew through 1″ thick plywood without any show of strain whatsoever – They might as well be sewing butter, or lace … or a flute player’s psyche.

But they’ll never be as tough as Blanca.

About a year ago, I was working at my shipping table, and I heard a short squeal. One of my sewers had made a mistake – you work around needles that go up and down ten thousand times a day, and sooner or later you’re gonna get bit, sure as a cat in a dog park. But she went back to sewing! What?! One of our ladies went over to her, and so did I – she had run the needle clean through her thumb! Up it came, and I think out of embarrassment and pride she tried to keep sewing. Oh my, no, go home! Wrap that up! This is why we have PTO and MNSure and bandaids and cold packs. Go home!

This was the first time that had happened here, but every one of my sewers told me right then and there that they had ALL gone clean through a digit at least once in their careers.

But they’ll never be as tough as Jairo.

You still reading? I’m just saying, leather work is not for the faint of heart. I’ve hurt myself plenty at work, but usually doing dumb stuff with power tools. Ask Lindsey. She has stories.

I’ve got one more myself. Steel your stomach and read on if you want, no one’s forcing you. This is a bad one, from about 8 years ago.

Before I get into it, I want you to know most of my crew has been with me for many years, and I rarely ask anyone to work overtime or push them for fast production times. But there are a LOT of blades and needles and belts and pulleys and rivet machines and clickers and snap setters and more in a leather goods factory, and there are going to be mistakes. This one is famous.

My cutter’s name is Hairo. He pronounces it like Hydro, rolling the r pretty hard, which I can’t do because I’m a muppet. Others might spell it “Jairo.” Up until last year, he cut every leather bag and nylon bag we ever made, by hand, with a knife made from three bars of steel taped together. He slides the middle bar forward from time to time, when he needs more steel. He sharpens it constantly on a stone he keeps on the table next to his work. Lay up the leather, scan it for marks, lay up the pattern, lay down the straight edge, push it down hard and draw the blade, sharpen sharpen sharpen, draw it again to make sure, rinse and repeat.

It’s that straight edge that scares me, and he really has to push it down hard, with his left hand fingers, right on the edge of the edge. One day I came back from lunch, and noticed a good amount of something blackish-brownish on the floor in the bathroom. I grabbed a towel to clean it up, and under the brown it was … red. “What’s this?” I thought. I went out to the floor, and Hairo was still cutting. I asked if he was OK, and he kinda looked at me, like, no, not so much at all – but he didn’t say much. The bandage was huge. And it didn’t appear to be working! Oh my, go home! How bad is it? Do you need anything? Like, some more blood? I know a guy. Please, sit down, my friend.

He actually came in the next day, but went home right away. You can’t cut leather without a strong left hand. He came back 4 days later, and that’s when he finally showed me his finger – the poor guy had actually…

OK, seriously, why are you still reading?

…he had actually removed a ½ inch piece of his finger – big enough to think that he could put it back where it came from, tape it down long enough and maybe save it. Oh my. Oh m-y-y-y-yeow! Stitches maybe? Too small for that, really, but not by much. Oh my.

That’s leather work.

It’s not easy. It’s hard work. Things are heavy, things are sharp, and things will sting.

Just like that Spanish bee who bit Ferdinand in the butt and got him into all kinds of trouble.

—Steve

Keep safe, everyone. Leave the danger to us.