A Friday Photo Mystery

Last night, we announced that we will be presenting A Midsummer Night’s Dream from June 20 to June 23, 2013 for our Shakespeare on the Lawn at Salisbury House program. We made the announcement during a wonderful fundraising event in the Common Room presented by our creative partners, Repertory Theater of Iowa. When we have such events, we like to find rarely-seen items to share with our audience members as a testament to the breadth and depth of the collections here. Here’s something we showed our guests last night, that ties Salisbury House, the Weeks family, and William Shakespeare together in an amazing fashion. We present it to you in the same way that we discovered it!

High on an out-of-the-way shelf in the Salisbury House Library is a slender, unmarked book that has been rebound in plain, manilla-colored cardboard. What could it be?

High on an out-of-the-way shelf in the Salisbury House Library is a slender, unmarked book that has been rebound in plain, manilla-colored cardboard. What could it be?

Inside the front cover is an inscription: Carl Weeks gave this book to his youngest son, Lafe, on Christmas Day, 1939.

Inside the front cover is an inscription: Carl Weeks gave this book to his youngest son, Lafe, on Christmas Day, 1939. Lafe was about 20 at the time.

Tucked inside the front cover are four yellowed pieces of lined paper, pulled from a spiral notebook. They are filled with writing in what looks to be a young person's cursive, done in pencil.

Tucked inside the front cover are four yellowed pieces of lined paper, pulled from a spiral notebook. They are filled with writing in what looks to be a young person’s cursive, done in pencil. Do you recognize the quote?

Carl gave Lafe a 1703 edition of Shakespeare's "Hamlet," published in London. The page numbers in Carl's inscription match the locations of the four passages recorded in the handwritten pages. Did Carl find some of young Lafe's writing done after "90 minutes spent with Shakespeare," and surprise him with it in this gift, years later? We may never know . . . but it's a reminder that all of these objects have amazing human stories and meaning behind them!

Behind the notebook paper, we find what lies within: a 1703 edition of Shakespeare’s “Hamlet,” published in London. The page numbers in Carl’s inscription match the locations of the four passages recorded in the handwritten pages. Did Carl find some of young Lafe’s writing done after “90 minutes spent with Shakespeare,” and place it in this gift, years later? We may never know . . . but it’s a reminder that all of these objects have amazing human stories and meaning behind them!

Top 21 Albums of 2012

It’s hard to believe how quickly the time goes, but it’s been nearly twelve months since I posted my Top 20 Albums of 2011 column, which marked the 20th consecutive year that I had published such a year-end list via an ever-evolving array of digital and print outlets. With a belly full of Thanksgiving leftovers tonight, it seems a good time to offer the 21st edition of this ongoing series, in which I lay out my admittedly and unapologetically subjective views on the very best music that the prior year has set before me.

I usually do this article in late November or early December each year, because I think an album has to spin on my turntable (or digital substitute thereof) for at least a month or so before I can put it on a list like this. So I don’t include anything that’s going to come out in December 2012, but I might include some things that came out in December 2011, and if you put out a killer 2012 disc in the next five weeks, I look forward to celebrating it twelve months from now. Also, as much as I wish I could listen to every album released by every artist in every country in this great green world of ours, I can’t, so this is obviously the best of the (many) things I listened to in 2012. Sorry in advance if I didn’t include any of your favorite saung gauk recordings from Myanmar or Uruguayan candombe hits this year, since I didn’t hear any of them. My omission in no way invalidates your own appreciation of those and any other vital and vibrant musical forms that please you. Happy listening!

Okay, these obligatory preambles aside, I want to say right up front that I think 2012 was an absolutely fantastic year for new music. Some years, I have to struggle to come up with 20 albums that I consider worthy of mention. This year, I had to struggle to cut the list back to 20 albums, and when push came to shove, I decided it wasn’t worth throwing one brilliant record off the island just to hit that round number, especially in my 21st year of making such public declarations. Hence, The Top 21 of 2012, which also seems to nicely fit the vibe of 12/21/2012 being the End of Days anyway.

The list below includes a lot of debut albums by emergent artists, and it includes a lot of second or third albums from young bands passing into new spheres of creative maturity, and it include a lot of new classics from long-time favorites. Which I think is great, because when people give me the whole “music was better in the [pick your decade here, depending on how old and obsolete you are] than it is today” spiel, I’m always adamant in noting that I really, truly believe that the very best music, ever, is the music being made right now, by definition. To admit otherwise is to accept musical obsolescence and creative senescence, and I am not yet ready to become a look-back bore.


With that sense of always looking forward in mind, it tickles me to name a debut long-player by a band I’d neither heard nor heard of six months ago as the best that 2012 had to offer. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you World Music by Goat, which I declare to be my Album of the Year for 2012:

Goat’s “World Music,” the J. Eric Smith Album of the Year for 2012. Click this image to visit the band’s website, and then make sure to watch the live video from Truckstop Alaska in Gothenburg.

Goat, World Music: Goat are a three-piece band in the studio and a seven-piece collective onstage who claim to come from a tiny town in Northern Sweden called Korpolombolo, to which a witch doctor allegedly traveled in ancient times, established a thriving voodoo cult that permeates local thought, music and culture to this day. I buy that Goat are from Sweden, but the rest of it, okay, that’s their story and they’re sticking to it, I get it, cool. The band’s back-story construct is amplified by their use of masks and costumes onstage that actually do evoke a weird blend of radically disparate Nordic and Caribbean cultures. Regardless of how, where and why it was created, Goat’s music is sublime and exciting, offering a bizarre melange of conga-driven tropical rhythms and melodies taken straight from the NorthSide back catalog, tweaked with fuzztone bass and guitar, and with energetic female vocals atop the whole mess exhorting you to shake your sexy parts in a language that may or may not be some combination of English, Swedish, Ululation or Glossolalia. I can’t really understand many of the words, but I get the meaning and the vibe behind them, and I love the mood evoked by those declamations and the music that frames them. World Music doesn’t sound like anything I’ve ever heard before, and I suspect that there aren’t going to be many things in the months ahead that sound like it either, unless and until Goat get their sophomore disc out into the public domain. Exceptional. Exciting. And easily the best that 2012 has to offer from where I sit. So congratulations, and thank you, to the mysterious masked musicians who gave us this disc. They’ve truly made something remarkable for the ages, and their Swedish Voodoo Witch Doctor forebears must be very proud indeed.


Jed Davis, Small Sacrifices Must Be Made: Jed Davis is one the greatest singers, musicians and songwriters that I’ve encountered in nearly five decades of music listening, and his latest long-player may arguably be his best disc yet in a canon that’s filled with brilliance. He’s played with loads of folks over the years, and this album finds him working through a collection of songs written over a twenty-year span with a stable studio band including Reeves Gabrels, Anton Fig and Graham Maby. If you don’t know who those guys are (a) shame on you, and (b) go look them up online, and be awed at what an incredible supergroup Jed assembled for this record. There are gorgeous ballads and ribald rockers in equal measure on this platter, and the Otto Lilienthal cover image is a graphic design masterpiece. Essential.

Napalm Death, Utilitarian: There aren’t a lot of bands doing their very best work a quarter century into their careers, but Napalm Death are clearly in such rarefied company as 2009’s Time Waits for No Slave and this year’s Utilitarian are easily among the best that the grindcore pioneers have offered over their long and illustrious career. The new disc finds them delivering all of the brutal, political musical blasts that aficionados of the band would expect, but they also work to expand the sonic palette by having sax player John Zorn spray skronk all over “Everyday Pox,” while “Fall on Their Swords” features an operatic/Laibach-like vocal passage and “The Wolf I Feed” offers shrieking lead verse vocals from guitarist Mitch Harris countered by some of the most melodic singing the band have ever offered in the choruses. If you’re ever inclined to play the “it all sounds the same to me” card when referencing Napalm Death, then this album is one to prove you wrong. Great stuff by a great band.

Public Image Ltd., This Is PiL: Every time that erstwhile Sex Pistol Johnny Rotten/John Lydon seems to be crossing into cultural irrelevance, he invariably comes up with a musical masterpiece to remind folks that he’s not a simple man to be trifled with. After a few years of being excoriated online for his British butter commercials, Lydon reactivated his post-Sex Pistols band Public Image Ltd. this year and issued a shockingly, delightfully strong album, filled with spacious dubby grooves and some of the strongest singing he’s ever offered in a studio project. Returning PiL members Lu Edmunds (also once of The Damned, The Mekons, Shriekback and Billy Bragg’s Blokes) and Bruce Smith (Pop Group) are joined by newcomer Scott Firth on bass and keyboards, and the noise they make together is fantastically evocative and engaging, making this easily the best PiL album since 1979’s Metal Box/Second Edition. If John Lydon has to make butter commercials in order to finance albums like this one, then I support him in his advertising career 100%. Well played, Mister Rotten, sir. Well played indeed.

Three Minute Tease, Three Minute Tease: Robyn Hitchcock and the Egyptians were one of my favorite bands in the late ’80s and early ’90s, but when Hitchcock broke up his long-time group after their 1993 album Respect, I found his later solo and band efforts less engaging and appealing, and I lost interest in his work after a couple of years. In 2012, his amazing Egyptians rhythm section (bassist/keyboardist Andy Metcalfe and drummer/singer Morris Windsor) have unexpectedly re-emerged to work together backing prolific and eclectic California singer-songwriter Anton Barbeau in Three Minute Tease, and the trio have made an extraordinary album together. Metcalfe and Windsor are kings of the groove, and hearing their intuitive rhythmic magic on disc again all these years on is a delight. I’d never heard of Barbeau before this record (though he has a vast back catalog under his belt), but am delighted to report that he writes, sings and plays some truly great songs here, and some retrospective research into his oeuvre seems in order on my part. But regardless of what I find there, I thank him for getting Metcalfe and Windsor together again to play with him on his outstanding collection of songs, because all together, Three Minute Tease is one fantastic new band.


Ian Anderson, Thick As A Brick 2: Whatever Happened to Gerald Bostock: Jethro Tull’s Ian Anderson delivers a tremendous sequel to his band’s 1972 masterpiece, Thick as a Brick, but does it under his own name, without stalwart Tull guitarist Martin Barre, who’s been his primary creative foil since 1969. As much as I love Barre and the Jethro Tull brand, if it took jettisoning both to produce an album this good, then it was worth it. “Adrift and Dumbfounded” and “Medley: Upper Sixth Loan Shark/Banker Bets” are the best songs Anderson has written and performed since The Broadsword and The Beast days. Which was a long time ago, for those of you who aren’t up on your Tullology.

Crudbump, Real Art: Crudbump is the nom du rap of the writer Drew, perhaps better known as the artist behind the daily cartoon blog Toothpaste For Dinner and (maybe) as the author of the deliciously perverse black comic novel Veins, both of which are highly recommended. As is this album, which transcends the expected nerdcore genre to become something sublimely entertaining, with outstanding beats, phat synths and fantastically insightful and humorous observational lyrics. Best moment: the truly spectacular “You Dumb,” (language warning at link) which is easily among the most often quoted songs in the Smith household in 2012. Seriously.

Death Grips, The Money Store: Not quite as terrifying and transgressive as their 2011 debut mix tape, as signing to a major record label (Epic) seems to have dictated that they don’t illegally jack quite so many samples from recognizable sources, but still an album that puts a boot in your ass and makes you move, whether you want to or not, while also forcing you to think hard about the provocative flows laid down by the electrifying Stefan Burnett. A few months after this album came out, Death Grips were dropped by Epic when they pre-released a version of their next album, No Love Deep Web, with an stunningly graphic album cover. (If you choose to Google it, I do not accept responsibility for what you might see). Glad they’re back to being indie. It suits them, clearly.

Django Django, Django Django:  Fabulously wiggly synth-rock from Great Britain, with deadpan mass vocals piled atop crisp rhythms and analog noises that would make Pere Ubu’s synthesists proud. This debut album includes their exciting early singles “Waveforms” and “Default,” and the merger of the group’s sonically obvious British vocal roots and Meccano-style electronic groove-making and kraut-rocking evokes something like Kraftwerk Does Canterbury, or Can Goes Cambridge or Ubu In Edinburgh. There’s also some musical spice thrown in from England’s former commonwealth partners in North Africa and the Indian subcontinent for good measure. It’s similar to Goat’s record, in some ways, as I think about it, only much more British. Have I mentioned that they’re British yet? Okay. Just checking. British.

Pete Donnelly, When You Come Home: Pete Donnelly is the bassist for The Figgs, a legendary Upstate New York-bred band who, in addition to crafting a great catalog of albums, have backed Graham Parker live and in the studio for years. Donnelly has also done side duty with Mike Viola and the Candy Butchers, Soul Asylum and NRBQ, adding choice musical taste and texture to the proceedings wherever he goes. His work has always been my favorite part of The Figgs experience, with his sinewy bass, eclectic songwriting and smooth harmony vocals always attracting my attention, and serving the songs. It’s great to finally hear him stepping out on his own here with a wonderful collection of classy, catchy tunes.

Donald Fagen, Sunken Condos: Steely Dan singer/keyboardist Donald Fagen deploys many of the members of the latest live Steely Dan band on this, his fourth solo disc, so it probably should not have come as a surprise when the lead single, “I’m Not the Same Without You,” sounded like a great lost track from Steely Dan’s Gaucho sessions (and that’s a complement for you snarkmeisters who are inclined to diss the Dan). The rest of the album lived up to the tasteful and tasty fare that you expect from The (Real) Donald, and it’s always a treat whenever he and his Steely Comrade in Arms Walter Becker choose to bless us with studio recordings, together or on their own.

Focus, X: Dutch masters Focus are one of the world’s most criminally under-appreciated bands, in large part because they scored an improbable international hit with the yodel-heavy “Hocus Pocus” in 1973, so most casual listeners give the “novelty band” or “one hit wonder” nods, when they notice them at all. But the vintage era Focus line-up of Thijs Van Leer (keys, flute, voice), Jan Akkerman (guitar), Bert Ruiter (bass) and Pierre Van Der Linden (drums) was an extraordinarily accomplished group of players, capable of merging sick riffs and chops with haunting solos and melodies, knitting it all together into something that often attained musical magical status. (Check these live video versions of “Hocus Pocus” and “Sylvia” to see what I mean, if you’ve only heard the sanitized studio/radio edit of these songs; Focus were punk before there was punk, only with loads more talent). In 2012, Van Leer and Van Der Linden have put out a tenth studio album under the Focus brand, this time aided and abetted by guitarist Menno Gootjes and bassist Bobby Jacobs. While I never thought the whole Focus thing would work without Akkerman, this album is spectacular, and here’s hoping that the Roger Dean album cover heart fools a bunch of Yes fans into buying the disc, too. They’ll like it!

Gangrene, Vodka & Ayahuasca: This is something like the skankiest, skunkiest hip-hop/rap-based album of the year, a wild trip through psychedelic beats and florid dream vision flows that just hits it out of the park, track after track after track. The lyrical content often reflects on the altered states that a variety of natural and man-made substances can inflict upon a fragile psyche, and while I don’t wish to impugn to creators of this hazy masterpiece, it does seem that you can smell smoke, herbs, empty bottles and a vague hint of mushroom in the spaces between the sounds on this thoroughly enjoyable sonic expedition. Gangrene is a collaboration between DJ’s Oh No and The Alchemist, and as hard as they both rock solo, they really do achieve something sublime when they work together here, even if it makes you want to take a shower when it’s over.

Here We Go Magic, A Different Ship: I have all three of Here We Go Magic’s full-length albums and it has been a delight to hear the group grow from an edgy/experimental Luke Temple solo vehicle into a skilled band that’s capable of creating music catchy enough for me to have actually heard it over the store sound system in our friendly neighborhood Target store. And that’s a good thing, I think, since popularity doesn’t equate to sell-out in my book at all, as I’d certainly rather hear Here We Go Magic’s delicious “How Do I Know?” instead the usual crap that I’m forced to endure when I go to buy socks, underwear or what seems to be a never-ending sequence of easily broken Apple products. Temple and company do a great job of finding the sweet spot where “experimental” and “pop” exist comfortably side by side, and that’s a delightful feat in this or any other year.

Jazz Butcher, Last of the Gentlemen Adventurers: 30 years after they first played together in clubs in Oxford, and 25 years since their initial partnership exploded under a poisonous cloud of alcohol and fisticuffs and road fatigue, The Jazz Butcher Conspiracy’s Pat Fish and Max Eider returned to the studio together in 2012 to issue this delightful and unexpected new disc, their first since 2000’s “let’s make up and be friendly” album, Rotten Soul. It finds them pretty much picking up on the original musical agenda where they left off with 1995’s Sex and Travel, before mission creep and quality control issues entered the mix during the final year of their initial run. There’s superb guitar work here from Eider (who I consider to be one of the world’s most seriously under-rated performers), great songs and lyrics by Fish, a solid new rhythm section and excellent production from long-time Fish collaborator (of the post-Eider era) Richard Formby. I’ve very much enjoyed listening to Fish and Eider (especially) on their own over the past quarter century, but it’s truly a delight to hear them collaborating again here, as the interplay of their voices and guitars together really is something special and magical.

Kamikaze Hearts, Live 05-07: It’s probably rare for an outsider to be able to watch a band evolve from cradle to grave in quite the way that I experienced Kamikaze Hearts during my last decade in Albany, so I am glad I had that experience. I saw one of the first public performances featuring main singer-songwriters Gaven Richard and Troy Pohl onstage together, after having heard Richard with his earlier band (Annabel Lee) and Pohl working in a production/collaborative capacity with local anti-folk goddess Paddy Kilrain. I watched Gaven and Troy and co-founder Matthew Loiacono go through a couple of early line-up changes involving an angry bass player and a thoughtfully sensitive cellist (it was in the latter configuration that I booked them to perform on Sounding Board, the television show I hosted at the time), then watched them recruit the bassist (Bob Buckley) of another band who had angered our television studio technical crew by spending a lot of time trying to mic a box of crickets during a recording session. They later added the bassist (Nate Giordano) of an industrial metal band called Wetwerks who had also played on Sounding Board, shifting Buckley to slide guitar in the process to create their “classic” lineup. I saw them play at least a dozen acoustic “porch music” shows at a variety of clubs over the years, and I also saw them play electric gigs under the moniker/alias Pirate School, including a great show that I booked at the Chapel + Cultural Center at Rensselaer. The Kamikaze Hearts put out some fantastic records along the way, eventually getting their last studio disc out on Bjork’s One Little Indian label. Then they played a bunch of long and amazing live shows (some of them featuring guest Frank Moscowitz, the erstwhile cricket player) and just as things really seemed to be going their way, they quietly disbanded and went away. I have all of their studio works, but it’s a treat to now hear some classic cuts from some of those later shows here, including their awesome rendition of Stephen Gaylord’s “Scumbag Pines,” which I’m glad to finally have on my jukebox. Bonus points: the album comes on a flash drive that doubles as a beer bottle opener. Perfect!

Public Enemy, The Evil Empire of Everything: Like Death Grips (noted above), hip-hop pioneers Public Enemy also put out two albums this year. The first, Most of My Heroes Still Don’t Appear on No Stamp, got most of the year’s press coverage regarding the band, since it was their first studio disc in five years, and it contained the ripping single “I Shall Not Be Moved.” But the rest of that disc felt a little thin to me, with a lot of guest spots that diluted the killer P.E. sound, that first and foremost hinges on killer beats from the Bomb Squad, furious exhortations from Chuck D, and well-placed interjections from Flavor Flav playing the role of the lyrical foil. Interestingly, Public Enemy’s second album of the year, The Evil Empire of Everything, rectified these shortcomings and then some, with epic standout track “Icebreaker” rocking for a solid seven minutes with a variety of instrumental movements that leave it standing as the “Bohemian Rhapsody” of hip hop. When Chuck and company bring in supporting performers, they get the most out of them, especially on “Everything,” an incredible gospel soul protest number featuring Gerald Albright and Sheila Brody. I’d totally go to a church where I got to worship to this song!

Opossom, Electric Hawaii:  This delicious little trifle hails from New Zealand, and like so many other albums from the home nation of Split Enz and The Flying Nun label, it blends perfect, pristine pop and wooly, wonderful weirdness into a distinctive and impressive whole, that somehow could never emerge from any other place in the world. (If you don’t click any other link in this article, you should click that Split Enz one, just to see how completely bizarre they were in their early, pre-international success days). Opossom is the current musical vehicle for Kody Nielson, who once fronted “troublegum” allstars The Mint Chicks. His new band offers a similar blend of sweetness and menace, with a fantastic production sheen that really makes it jump out of your stereo, even if your stereo is a tiny little thing in your pocket from Apple that is likely to break if you sit down too quickly. Just saying.

Tame Impala, Lonerism:  Another disc from the southern half of the planet (this time from Perth, Australia), Tame Impala’s sophomore record builds wonderfully on their highly acclaimed 2010 debut, Innerspeaker. Like some of the other records I’ve already discussed here (e.g. Opossom, Here We Go Magic, Django Django, Goat), Tame Impala’s Lonerism is at heart a pop album with strong songs, only they’re all decorated up with all sorts of wild and crazy sonic dressings that make them both comfortable and other-worldly at the same time. While the band functions as a five-piece in a concert setting, in the studio, Tame Impala is primarily the instrument of Kevin Parker, once of The Dee Dee Dums. He’s got a great sense of studio space, and it’s fantastic to hear such a young musician really creating a unique and exciting neo-psychedelic palette for his recorded music, without ever falling prey to the self-indulgence that solo studio work can often engender. I’ve read reviews that favorably compare this record to the more psychedelic bits of The Beatles’ Revolver and Sgt Peppers albums. I wouldn’t argue with that assessment.

Serj Tankian, Harakiri: One of the great mysteries in modern metal music is why the once-brilliant System of a Down allowed guitarist Daron Malakian’s thuggish and monotone shouting to take up more and more space on successive albums, effectively limiting the contributions of lead singer/keyboardist Serj Tankian, owner of what I’d argue is one of the finest vocal instruments ever deployed atop a metal bed. Where System’s first two albums soared, as Malakian assumed ever-more control of the band, the group became equally ever-more earthbound. On his third solo album, Serj Tankian once again soars, sometimes using his operatic pipes on powerful metal cuts, and sometimes using his rapid-fire, crisp lyrical delivery as a percussion instrument, punching both the beats and the message home at the same time. And make no mistake about message: this is a provocative sociopolitical album, touching on some themes that have haunted Tankian throughout his public performing career (e.g. the Armenian holocaust) and some that seem to be new obsessions for this particularly thoughtful songwriter (e.g. animal suicide). This is the best System of a Down-related album since Toxicity was released in 2001, and I’m damned glad to finally hear it.

Jack White, Blunderbuss: Last but certainly not least, former White Stripe and current (?) Raconteur and Dead Weather member Jack White finally gets around to putting out what he markets as his first solo album, even though we all know that he pretty well dominates anything that he performs on, so it seems a technicality to call it that on some plane. Interestingly enough, though, for his first (so-called) solo effort, White actually assembles a crack band of young studio hounds, and he gives them a lot of room to run, so that his voice, guitar and keyboard work is often not the primary point of auditory interest in any given song. White’s songwriting and arrangements are all over the place (in the good meaning of that phrase), with dirty rockers, piano ballads, blues excursions (both modern and traditional) and radio-friendly pop rubbing shoulders in a generally compatible and comfortable fashion. He’s probably the most experienced debut solo artist I can think of in recent years, but I’m glad he’s finally ready to put something this good out under his own name.


My Uncle Daniel died during the night last night, after a long struggle with kidney and respiratory failure, bless him.

My mom has been one of his primary support coordinators for some time, even though she lives four hours away from his home in Pooler, Georgia. She was here in Des Moines for Thanksgiving weekend, and was supposed to fly home to Charlotte later this morning. I woke up around 4:00 AM today and heard her moving around downstairs, so I came down to see if she was okay, soon after she had gotten the 3:30 AM call from her sister Mary Glynn saying that Daniel was gone. It’s Mary Glynn’s 70th birthday today, but there will be no celebration, alas.

My mom and I worked with Delta Airlines to get her a new flight to Savannah at 6:00 AM so she could be there to help with arrangements, and she’s en route as I type. I give Delta a grateful nod of approval for being really responsive under the circumstances. I’m not used to good customer service from airlines.

We’re not really quite sure what’s going to happen when my Mom gets to Savannah, except to note that it’s likely to be difficult. Mary Glynn and my cousin Glynn (and Daniel himself) all have (had) some special needs to contend with, but they are very strong, and at their best when things are tough. They will need it now.

I wrote a (true) terza rima sonnet about Daniel and my father back in January 2004. I reproduce it here today in honor and memory of them both. It is called “Gun,” and it is complicated on a lot of planes, yet really simple on others. At bottom line: dignity comes wrapped in odd packaging sometimes. This is one such case. You’re done with the troubles of the world today, Daniel. Rest peacefully.

The main thing that he wanted was a gun.
He had other more pressing needs, of course,
But deep in his gut he still wanted one.

Not for self-defense or for show of force,
But just so that he didn’t feel unmanned:
by owning a gun, his adult standing was endorsed.

He was slower, yes, true, but understand
he was well smart enough to feel the sting
when patronized, and that’s why he planned

to get himself a gun, since that would bring
some small comfort when he felt sad or mean.
He wasn’t going to shoot anything.

(With a smile on his face, he sits and cleans
that rifle you bought him, until it gleams).


Three quickies with piccies, in advance of the holiday . . .

1. I wrote a post for my work blog today called The Bibles of Salisbury House. We have a truly, amazingly, incredibly significant collection of complete and fragmentary Bibles in our collection (including a Noble Fragment leaf from a 1454 Gutenberg Bible), and I’m looking for a financial partner to help us curate an exhibition to share these historic and beautiful works more widely. If you know someone with $25,000 burning a hole in their pocket, let me know!

Spine of the oldest complete Bible in the Salisbury House collection, though we have other leaves and liturgical fragments going back to England in 1200.

2. When we bought our house in Beaverdale (a neighborhood in northwest Des Moines) last year, we learned that the homes in our neighborhood had been build for coal miners and their families in the 1920s and 1930s. Most of them have showers in the basement that can be accessed from exterior doors so the filthy miners didn’t get the main floor of the house dirty when they came home from work. What I didn’t learn until recently, however, was just how short a commute the miners had from home to office: there are several abandoned coal mines located right in the heart of Beaverdale. Here’s an outline map of one, showing just how close it is to where I live today.

The blue dot at upper left is my house. The purple lines are the outlines of a former coal mine. I smell an adventure!

The Bibles of Salisbury House

There are a lot of myths and apocryphal tales about Salisbury House that have taken root in the popular perception of Carl and Edith Weeks’ amazing home. Some of the ones that we hear most often include:

  • “The house was moved intact, brick by brick, piece by piece, from England.” The real story: The house is modeled after King’s House in Salisbury, England, and some architectural elements were acquired in England, while others came from more mundane locations, including cobblestones ripped up from High Street in Des Moines.
  • “Carl Weeks’ father died when he was a young boy.” The real story: Carl’s father and mother separated, and Carl’s father lived for many years afterward, into Carl’s own adulthood, in northwestern Iowa; this myth was repeated often enough that the story of Carl’s father’s premature passing actually made it onto our visitor center signs before recent research proved it wrong!
  • “Carl Weeks collected or tried to collect every Bible ever printed.” The real story: Carl only collected a tiny fraction of the probably immeasurable number of Bibles that have been printed since the first Gutenberg edition in 1454, but among the ones that he did collect are some of the most important and beautiful Bibles ever produced.

Spine from our oldest complete Bible, published in Venice.

One of our conceptual planning ideas for 2013 or 2014 is to curate an exhibition of some of the more incredible pieces from the Salisbury House Bible Collection, most of which spend most of their time locked away in climate controlled, high security rooms. We’re going to be doing some fundraising for this project and perhaps reach out to some area churches as presenting or collaborating sponsors over the next year, since we’ll have some significant costs associated with safely sharing these works with the public, while also conducting the in-depth research required to interpret and present them in the ways that they deserve to be seen.

But until we get there, we’ve been doing a little bit of preliminary research just to get our hands around the holdings, and there are some exciting things that we can share with you now, just to give you a sense of what we’re finding.

In addition to our many Bibles printed with movable type, we also have some earlier hand-lettered and illuminated incunabula from the 13th to 15th Centuries. Our oldest Biblical documents were produced in 1200 and 1225 in England; they are single, hand-illuminated leaves, one from a Psalter, one from a Bible. We also have three illuminated Books of Hours dating from the 14th and 15th Centuries.

Dutch Bible, 1553.

The 42-line Gutenberg Bible, printed in the 1450s, is obviously a landmark work of art and culture, a true game-changer for the ages. There are only 48 substantially complete copies left in the world today, and none have changed hands since the 1970s. In 1921, though, a New York book dealer dismantled a damaged copy and sold individual leafs to collectors; these are now known as “Noble Fragments,” and we have one of them here at Salisbury House. We also have two leaves from the 1460 Gutenberg Catholicon (another seminal early printed work, this one a Latin encyclopedia cum dictionary) and a leaf from the original 1611 King James Bible, among many other fragmentary pieces.

Our oldest complete Bible was printed in Venice in 1483 by Franciscus Renner of Heilbrun. It was clearly a working or study Bible, and many of its pages contain hand-written marginalia exhibiting the distinctive sepia tone of aged iron gall ink. We also have the New Testament from a Douay-Rheims Bible (1582, the first translation of the Bible from Latin Vulgate to English), a complete Dutch Bible from 1553, a 1607 English Bible bound with The Book of Common Prayer and Sternhold and Hopkin’s Psalms of David, a Greek Apocrypha from 1612, and many dozen other Bibles printed around the world up through the middle of the 20th Century.

Bruce Rogers’ massive Oxford Lectern Bible (1935), next to a reproduction of a Gutenberg set, for scale.

In addition to his interests in the Bible itself, Carl Weeks was also fascinated by and hugely supportive of the Arts and Crafts movement of the early 20th Century, wherein the art of book-making was celebrated in ways that matched the magnificence of a text’s words with illustrations, paper and binding of equal brilliance. The Salisbury House Library features two epic books inspired by this cultural movement: Bruce Rogers’ 1935 Oxford Lectern Bible (we have one of the 200 large format editions)  and the 1903-1905 Doves Bible. Every facet of these books is beautiful, and they are truly great works of art in their own rights.

Five volume Doves Bible, 1903-1905.

Some of our Bibles aren’t important because of the quality of their construction or when or where they were printed, but rather because of who owned them. We have Lewis Carroll’s Greek New Testament, for example, along with Bibles either inscribed or owned by John Trumbull, James Boswell, William Henry Harrison, and others. Carl’s favored book-dealer was a gentleman named Harry Marks, from New York City, and we often find notes from Harry in our books themselves or letters in our archives providing background or provenance for Carl’s benefit.

C.L. Dodgson signed his Greek New Testament; most know him as Lewis Carroll of “Alice in Wonderland” fame.

While we work to develop a full exhibition of our Bibles over the next couple of years, we are going to be taking one step in the short-term to allow some of these fragile or priceless pieces to be seen, without subjecting them to the rigors of daily exhibitions and tours. In January, we will be launching what we’re nominally calling “The Treasures Tour.” It will be an evening tour, held once per month, to a limited number of people (probably 20), with preregistration required. We are developing a list of items that will be shown each month of this tour (likely including the Gutenberg leaf, along with some of the other Bibles mentioned above), and will also feature a few wild card items each month, perhaps inspired by the season, or happenings in the world around us, or simply by finding something remarkable in our research.

Harry Marks’ notes, Lewis Carroll’s Greek New Testament.

In the early 1990s, when the founders of the Salisbury House Foundation were assessing the true merit in preserving Salisbury House as a historic house museum, they engaged the National Trust for Historic Preservation to conduct an assessment of the house and its holdings. Their conclusion: “Salisbury House is a nationally significant architectural resource; its decorative arts and book collections are unique to the Midwest.”

I know I speak for everyone on the staff here, as well as our volunteers and board members, when I say that we are all actively committed to working in the years ahead to continually return to and be invigorated by the fundamental principle upon which our organization is built: that Salisbury House is truly, truly special, and its collections are worthy of international recognition.

The Declamatation of Freedoms and Liberties and Stuff, Yo.

IN McDONALDS, July 4, 2014.

The totally awesome Declamatation of the, like, what, Fifty-ish United States of America, if you count Alaska and Hawaii, even though, you know, like, nobody really does:

When in the course of, like, stuff happening, one dude has to say “Whoa, whoa, whoa, that’s totally uncool, you pushy ass-hat” to another dude, well, you know, then the first dude has to man-up with big, clanking dude-stones to claim the proudfulness and awesomousity that both intelligent designers and even those, like, way-too-serious atheistic science dorks say a righteous dude deserves.

But then, the rules of being cool say that the pissed-off dude ought to lay his beefs out on the table before he takes his football and blows this taco stand, so, like, here’s the deal . . .

Dudes totally know that, like, all brahs are brahs, and that the Big Man Upstairs and the Earth Goddess and whoever else a dude digs totally want dudes to be able to do cool stuff, like bang cyber-chicks in Second Life, or crush the double black diamonds at Ski Liberty, or play Trivial Pursuit, happily.

And to make sure that brahs aren’t hassled, unless they’re being D-bags and deserve it, then there’s The Man, and The Man has to be able to do his thing, too, and the dudes and brahs and chicks have to be, like, okay, cool with The Man being The Man. Right on, The Man! Rock out! Whooo!

But then when The Man starts to hassle the dudes when they, like, totally don’t deserve to have their mellows harshed, then the dudes can say “Whoa, whoa, hey, The Man, back off and STFU,” and then they can blow town to find a cool new place where The Man is not such a D-bag, so that the dudes and the brahs and the chicks can totally hang and smoke and watch TV shows that make them awesomely happy, in the comfy of their own cribs.

There’s this chick we know named Prudence (she was on “Survivor,” Season Six, for, like, three weeks, remember?) who always says, like “Whoa! Don’t rock the boat, dudes!” But that’s mainly because she, like, used to be a crack-ho, yo, so she totally knows what it’s like when The Man puts you in The Can and pokes you with the mop handle and whatnot, and we totally get the fact that Prudence is awesome for having put up with that kind of B.S. without fighting back or anything, since, like, what the hell else was she supposed to do, right, yo?

But, you know, at some point, even Prudence would have to say “Hey, The Man! Back the hell outta my face, quick-like, or I’ma smack you upside the head with this here Prison Bed Post!” Because, you know, when The Man is just, totally, being too much of a D-bag, then, well, it’s cool to throw a kidney punch or a knee to the groin to show The Man that Prudence or whoever else is mad as hell, and she’s not gonna take it any more! Hells no! Back off, yo!

So, you know, that’s like, totally, what we dudes and brahs are dealing with right now, namsain? And enough is enough, yo, so we’re here to tell The Man that we’re done with him hassling us, and poking us with the mop handle, and that we want a new freakin’ deal where our, like, freedoms and liberties aren’t always being, you know, besmirched and stuff, because that is totally not cool!

And we totally, totally have an awesome complaint list for you peoples, so that you’ll all be, like, “Whoh! Brahs! How did you put up with that for so long, yo? You dudes are totally kick-ass for being so patient in the face of such utter B.S. hassling from The Man.”

A’ight, so, here’s the list of complaints, yo:

The Man totally breaks his own rules, even when they’re cool rules, like the one about letting the people with no legs or whatever have the good parking spots, except that they can’t, because The Man’s Land Rover is parked there while he’s getting a latte and a scone at Starbucks, and jacking their wifi all afternoon.

The Man is a total micromanaging tool, so that the dudes and brahs and chicks always have to check with him before we can do anything, except every time we go to his office, he’s, like, totally out to lunch until 3:00 PM, which everyone knows is totally way past the time when the taco stands at the beach close for siesta.

The Man totally ignores lots of the dudes and chicks, unless they want to play his game, but since his game is, like, something stupid like Bridge, then, you know, the dudes and chicks have to be, like, “Whoa, we don’t get all that trump stuff, so, you know, just count us out, a’ight?”

The Man has meetings when he says we can come in to see him and talk about, like, stuff, but, dudes, he totally always schedules them when “Dancing With the Stars” is on, so who can miss that, unless they’re a rich D-bag with one of those digital recorder things?

The Man also totally cancelled “Keeping Up With The Kardashians” from the Cable Box, so how are we supposed to get our daily doses of big-bootied Armenian chicks now, right? It’s not like we live in the United States of Armenia, right?

And, then, after he cancelled “Keeping Up With the Kardashians,” The Man, like, totally allowed the Cable Box to be invaded by lame shows like, you know, “The 7000 Club” or whatever it’s called, which are all about religion and stuff, sneaky like, so it’s like getting up too early when we were kids and having to watch “Davey and Goliath” until the real cartoons come on, namsain? That, like, blows!

And then, since he cancelled “Keeping Up With The Kardashians,” we like, totally, went online to Google ourselves some new big-bootied Armenian chicks, except that, like, whoa, The Man said “No way! Those big-bootied Armenian chicks will totally take away jobs from the big-bootied chicks who live here already! Nuh-uh to that, yo!”

Oh man, this totally made all of the dudes want to head down to the County Court House to give that hot Chinese clerk who works there (she totally looks like Lucy Liu, for real!) a piece of our minds (among other things, namsain?), except that when we got there, we totally found out that The Man was, like, “Sorry, brahs, I don’t feel like paying the hot Lucy Liu clerk this month, so, instead, here is the clerk who looks like Roseanne Barr, with a thicker mustache . . . talk to the lip, har har har!”

And even when we tried to talk to the clerk who looks like Roseanne, with a thicker mustache, she was not interested in our dude-like charms and wiles, because she was, like, totally in the pocket of The Man, and she wasn’t about to let anybody else butter her toast, namsain?

And did we mention that there’s not just one Roseanne, with a thicker mustache, but, like a whole George Lucas, Revenge of the Clones, Army of them, yo?

Including the two dozen of them who have been hanging out in our living room for the past month, eating our Tostitos and telling us to turn down the stereo, even when we were, like, totally rocking out to the Grateful Dead live at the Carousel Ballroom, February 14, 1968, right in the middle of “Dark Star > China Cat Sunflower > The Eleven > Turn On Your Lovelight”?

Like, whoa! That’s the best Dead show, ever!!! WTF, Roseannes With Thicker Mustaches?!?! You don’t have the right to tell us to turn that one down, yo, unless you can offer us a better alternative, and don’t even try to tell us that it’s November 17, 1973 at Pauley Pavilion, since that was a Keith and Donna show, not a freakin’ Pigpen show, yo! Damn!

Of course, we can totally understand how the Rosannes With Thicker Mustaches might get confused about that, since The Man has let a bunch of totally lame tapers and traders from, like, Japan in to sell their bootlegs online, even though they don’t understand Jerry’s Genius or Drums and Space or The Bobby Problem at all, yo.

And this is going on even when The Man is busy busting our asses for downloading The Fillmore West Dead show from March 28, 1969 from that web host in Lithuanistan, or Crovenia, or whatever little ex-Russian country that was that had all of those pirate servers.

We got called to go to trial, all of the jury people are, like, totally into, like, Beyonce and Kid Rock and freakin’ Hootie and the Blowfish. Why’d you make us take the train down to the City for that, The Man, when you totally knew the outcome in advance? You suck!

And then when it was done, we got the bill, and we were, like, wait, what?!? Now The Man wants us to pay sales tax on top of our fines for illegal downloads?!? Lame! Dog lame! Double dog lame!

Oh, and also, The Man, like totally oversteps his bounds, and not only is he breaking all his own rules like a D-bag in the real world, he’s, like, totally ruining things in the Cyberverse too, doing things like suspending our MySpace accounts, even though we didn’t put the pr0n up there, someone else did. Seriously!

He also loads up Facebook with lame-ass apps, so like, every time we log on, we’re, like, “Whoa, enough with the FarmWorld, a’ight? Damn!”

Then, on the flip side, he also is always sending us spam, with, like, the creepy stuff in it that could get us fired if we click on it at work, right?

And then he shut down the beach, closed the hot dog stand, told us we can’t jet ski in the irrigation canal and, like, totally, wrecked our summer, just because he could! Oh, yeah, that’s in the real world again, not the World Wide Webtubes. Sorry, brahs. It’s hard to keep track.

And every time we turn around, there’s like more of the Roseannes With Thicker Mustaches Clone Army turning up to hassle us, ‘cause The Man is just getting too fat and lazy from all the scones and lattes to do it himself anymore.

And when the Roseannes With Thicker Mustaches are hassling us for no reason, he just looks the other way and pretends he can’t see it, and we see him typing on his laptop and we just know that he’s telling all of the Big-Bootied Armenian chicks that we suck, even though, you know, we don’t!

Okay, so that’s a lot of B.S., right? And every time we say, like, “Yo, enough, The Man,” he just flips us the bird and kicks over our garden gnomes, even though our garden gnomes totally never did anything to him.

You know what this makes The Man? This makes The Man a Total Dick, and it means, like, he doesn’t get to be the boss of we any more. We’re mad as hell! We’re not going to take it anymore!

And if you take The Man’s side, even though he is being a Total Dick, then, well, sorry brahs and chicks, then that makes you Total Dicks, too, and we have to give you the big double-barrel middle-finger salute, too. Blam! Blam! That’s for you, yo! Because a friend of our frenemy is, uh . . . well, you know, you’re not on our side.

Okay, so here we are, hangin’ at the McDonalds, because The Man and The Roseannes With Thicker Mustaches are always at the Starbucks, and we’ve decided that, like, enough is enough, and it’s time that we get to be our own bosses of we, so we say “You’re not the boss of we, The Man! We are going to have our own credit card, and our own crib, and our own Tostitos, and our own cable service, and our own Xbox (2, though, since the 3 is lame), and our own riding lawn mower, and our own kiddie pool that we can sit in when it gets hot, and our own couch on the porch, and our own freedoms and liberties without all of your besmirchment and hasslefulness and heavy-handery!”

Right on, yo! Damn!

Oh, hey, can we borrow your pen there for a second? Ours ran out . . .