9/29/14

To my twelve loyal readers ...

This week's report will be delayed a few days, but I will be back. Thanks for reading!

Jamie

The Oppenheimer Report 9/22/14

Camani's Screaming Heads

Last Saturday, my best friend Bob and his wife Laura drove all the way up from Buffalo to visit us here in the near north. I was recently corrected when I mistakenly referred to our locale as “the great white north.” This term apparently refers to that vast area of the untamed wilderness hundreds of miles to our north. And there is a LOT of Canada further to our north.  Bob and Laura have not seen our house since they visited well before its completion, around in 2009. Their first visit was when the logs were stacked about halfway up the second floor, and the house had not yet been stained. Their second visit occurred when the house was nearly complete. Quite a lot of water has rushed under the old bridge since that last visit, and the house feels decidedly more lived in now. That includes the flying squirrels, bats, groundhogs, voles, and various other rodent and non-rodent creatures which call Jasper Bark Lodge their home. Of course, and in keeping with the kind of summer it has been up here, the weather was desperate, as the Irish might say, and it poured cats and dogs for their entire visit. Not to be discouraged, Saturday we seized one break in the deluge to take a quick boat ride to the far end of the big lake. Sometimes one must simply ignore the horrible weather. That is what foul weather gear is all about.

Sunday we had great plans to do some more foul weather boating before our guests had to leave, but the rain came down too hard. So much rain fell that it almost sank my little dinghy.  Instead, Shauna and I gave our friends a guided tour of Burk’s Falls and the surrounding area. Everyone who travels to our community should see our new (and only) stoplight, and of course, the recently constructed Tim Horton’s donut emporium. That Timmy’s really put us on the map, and people should be made aware of the fact that Burk’s Falls has now “arrived.” Next, we drove out Midloathian road to the site of Peter Camani’s sprawling property and sculpture park, Screaming Heads. Carmani is or was an art teacher at one of the local high schools, and is well known in the area for his giant, sometimes spooky, concrete sculptures, spread out across his vast property. What has been a work in progress for well over fifteen years now is a formidable art installation. One can learn more about this unique phenomenon simply by googling “screaming heads”. Frequently there are special events held on the property – I understand he’s thrown a mean fall equinox party or two – and when we visited last Sunday, there were a Frisbee golf tournament in progress. There were thirty or more cars in the parking lot, and I felt awful for the attendees, mostly campers in tents, because the weather was bordering on abominable. I suppose we must all suck it up and quit complaining about the weather ... as if that will ever happen! I wish there was at least some way of diverting a little of this precipitation to my cousins in the Northwest, who are complaining of draught.

I’ve been working to improve my performing skills, and have been practicing my songs at home in front of a mic and with an amplifier. Recordings of my recent live performances have made it obvious to me that there is ample room for improvement. As I seem to have more and more opportunities to play my songs in public – I have been offered two more shows in the next week – I need to work on presenting my songs better. About a month away from shoulder surgery, I am eager to get as many live performances under my belt as I can before a possibly long hiatus. Last week, I was fortunate to perform again at the third Friday Burk’s Falls coffee house, the first in its new venue. These shows are now being held at the Burk’s Falls Royal Canadian Legion, which provides a room much better suited for live performances than the old venue. All of the artists put on a great show last Friday night, and I think we were well received. I had the pleasure of calling up my friend Barry Hayward to accompany me on the conga drums for two of my songs. He really improved my performance, so thank you Barry! I am delighted to be playing my music in front of an attentive audience, and I hope I can continue to do this for a long time. Carpe Diem, weather be damned.     

 

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 9/15/14

Friend and fellow songwriter Douglas McLean performing at Muskoka Sound

Last weekend marked the first  Muskoka Sound music festival in Huntsville, and there were about thirty acts that played from Friday through Sunday, including the local musicians who played on the second “home grown” stage. Shauna was not able to join me, much as she wanted to, because she could not have enjoyed this outdoor event in such inclement weather. It was very cold and rainy, and there was even a frost warning Saturday night. The festival grounds were a muddy mess and people were trudging through the muck with great difficulty, many of them wearing the wrong footwear. At one point our family doctor walked by, and as she waved to me, one of her boots got stuck in the mud and came off her foot. The suction of the mud was not allowing her to hop and she planted her stocking foot deep into the bog. Regardless of Mother Nature’s lack of cooperation, attendance was good, and I very much enjoyed hearing most of the artists.  

I do not usually consult the internet for my inspiration, but I watched a short video on Facebook the other day, which Shauna brought to my attention, and the title captured my interest: “Why I Think the World Should End”. I liked it enough to share it on my Facebook timeline. It is not, as the title would suggest, a negative message at all, and the poetic language in it really moved me. It covers a lot of ground and it struck a nerve. Perhaps because it feels as if winter has arrived early, and I am a little gloomy while writing this week’s installment, that video really expressed what I have been feeling. With all the bad news stories spewing out of my TV set, sometimes it seems as if the sky is falling, and I lose my perspective. Last week, amidst the usual headliners (Syrian conflict, Isis, threat, Ukrainian struggle; who knew what, when, and who covered it up … the usual), there was yet another story of celebrity misbehavior which saddened me. NFL football player, Ray Rice was fired from the Baltimore Ravens after a video surfaced of him punching and knocking out his then girlfriend (now his wife), in the elevator of an Atlantic City casino. The incident was caught on security videos which somehow found its way into the hands of scandal-obsessed TMZ. This is the “news” organization also responsible for outing former Clippers owner Donald Sterling, when he uttered racist remarks to a young girlfriend. As disturbing as is Rice’s deplorable act of domestic violence, the bigger question is, why didn’t the NFL do anything about it until it was revealed by TMZ? Apparently this incident was made known to the NFL long before the video became public. I suspect the answer is pretty clear: what (we think) they don’t know won’t hurt them. Ugh. What amazed me were the commentators who condemned the media for jumping all over this story. The guy punches his woman unconscious, in a public place, then drags her limp body out of an elevator in front of more security cameras. Domestic violence is not defensible in any way shape or form, regardless of circumstances. One can debate the subject of how this information became public but hello, it happened in public,  and it is contemptible behavior in any modern society.

Last Thursday night, I was working with some lyrics on the computer, and it was not until I went to save the file, which I usually date, that I noticed it was the anniversary of 9-11. I paused for just a moment to remind myself that this horrible event happened thirteen years ago, and I still clearly remember the day. My generation’s Day of Infamy. Shauna and I were in our high rise apartment in Toronto when the news came out, and I remember the palpable feeling that the Free World was under attack. Now, not a day goes by when I do not feel that intangible threat looming.  I cannot seem to escape the omnipresent news stories that remind me.

 

Lies on the telly, lies in the paper, dirty little lies we believe

Everyone’s selling scandal and fame like they’re red hot commodities

Talking heads, to the walking dead, beamed off the Uranus feed

Preaching to the choir, stoking the fire, giving us all what we need  

 

excerpt from  “A Dishonest Man”

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 9/8/14

Shauna and I met a man named Sam Fattore a year or so ago at one of the Burk’s Falls "Coffee House"open mics. I was scheduled to perform, and we arrived a little after the show had begun. There were only a few seats left and Sam and his wife Betty offered to let us sit with them. Sam was also performing that night, and he played some of his favorite “old country” covers. He had a good voice for country music - he sounded a little like Hank Snow - and I bought his CD at the end of the night. Over the next year, I bumped into Sam and Betty several times at various musical gatherings, usually at places where Sam was performing, and we would discuss our musical pursuits. While our styles were entirely different, we shared a passion for good songwriting.

Jump ahead to this past June, and I was leaving my doctor’s office after a checkup. I bumped into Sam and Betty in the lobby of the medical building. He was sitting in a chair, and Betty was at his side with  her arm around his shoulder. He said he’d experienced heat stroke while chopping wood and he looked exhausted and beat up. We spoke for a few minutes, and I said I’d see them again soon, but I walked away a little rattled. He looked much different from the vital man I‘d seen several months before. Then, last week I took Shauna to the Huntsville hospital for an X-Ray and, as we were walking out, I spotted Betty in the waiting area. Next to her was Sam, now in a wheelchair, looking as if he’d aged thirty years. One look in Betty’s eyes spoke volumes about what had happened. Since I’d last seen them, Sam had been diagnosed with lung cancer, had had one lung removed, but the cancer had spread. The prognosis was clearly grim. Shauna and I sat with them for ten or fifteen minutes while they waited for the doctor, feeling the same awkward helplessness anyone feels in that situation. We made small talk about music. In a quiet voice Sam looked sadly at his boney hands and sighed with resignation “I can’t even hold a guitar in my hands anymore.”

I spent most of last summer in Sunnybrook Hospital watching my beloved father-in-law slowly drift away. We were at that hospital every day, and in a hospital, death is your constant companion. It is an odor in the air, it is the sad look in the eyes of a passing wheelchair-bound patient, it is the helpless look of false hope in a family member’s face as they screen out the bad news a doctor is giving them. Everything in a hospital is too slow or too fast, but always out of step with the outside world. You meet and bond with complete strangers who are going through a similar experience, and you are confronted with lessons none of us can avoid. Now, just short of a year from the date of Dad Taylor’s passing, approaching Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement, I find myself faced with another living ghost. I can try to blot him out of my mind, or I can dwell on him obsessively, or, as I have chosen to do of late, I can remind myself to live and to appreciate my life, our lives. I feel sometimes that as I age it is getting harder for me to connect to other people. I have to try harder. We live in an age where information is coming at us fast and hard. I can know exactly what a friend in Los Angeles is doing and exactly when he is doing it, just by consulting his Facebook page. I can even access this “information” on my phone. But as intoxicating as is the delusion that I am connecting with this friend, I am not. As much as I try to keep in touch with my friends, some are slipping away from me, fallen soldiers on the battlefield. Sam is just an acquaintance, one of the locals whom I have come to know superficially, but he is a reminder to me that we are all connected, somehow. I don’t often admit that I pray, but the older I get the more I do it. I don’t consider myself a religious man, and my problems with conventional religion are too many to list. And yet I pray. For my buddy Edmond in Buffalo, down for the count with MS, for the mother and father on the news who lost a little girl to some fiend; I pray for the all the families I see going by, like a slow motion movie shot, drifting by at the ever-accelerating speed of time.

Finally, I mention the passing of edgy comedienne Joan Rivers, who passed away last week unexpectedly after a surgical complication. Her humor was often cruel, but she always made me laugh. Not long ago I watched a movie about her recent career and it was insightful.

I think maybe I’ll try to make Sam laugh. 

 Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
 

The Oppenheimer Report 9/1/14

Answer me this: why, when a product is satisfactory, must manufacturers change it? This happens so often. Cereal boxes get smaller, formulas for hair products change, a favorite toothpaste is discontinued. Feminine hygiene products and cosmetics are the worst. Don’t ask me how I know this. The thing that really puzzles me is why some products are packaged in such a way as to be indistinguishable from each other. Tropicana orange juice has several different varieties from which to choose, and the “no pulp” version has the exact same markings as the “extra pulp” version. The packaging is virtually identical, except for some hard to find print on the front of the carton. I think I speak for the majority of male shoppers when I say I do not enjoy lingering in a supermarket. I have a list of items I need, and I just want to get in and get out as soon as possible. Metro has a special brand of coffee we buy, and it has the exact same packaging as another Metro brand we do not like. The other day, I bought two of the wrong packages along with one of the right ones. I must assume that the stock boy didn’t notice the difference either. Now I have to wait until I am making another trip to Huntsville to return said items.

Last Tuesday night, Shauna and I headed into "Dee’s Bistro" in Burk’s Falls to attend the last of the Tree Ring Tuesday songwriter showcases for this summer. Sean Cotton, the organizer of these events, accompanied fellow songwriters Pam Millar and my friend Douglas McLean. Lewis Hodgson and I were called up from the audience to play a few of our songs, which was good fun. There was a good turnout, the audience seemed to enjoy the music, there was humorous banter, and there was a high energy about the night that I think everybody felt. I spoke last week of music’s healing qualities, both for the listeners and the performers, and currently, our little town needs to heal. Last week, a little boy drowned while playing on the banks of the swollen Magnetawan River near the Burk’s Falls dam. This kind of tragedy affects almost everyone in a small community. Some members of the town came out to Dee’s to distract themselves from the inexplicable sadness of this death, and I think Sean and Pam, both residents of Burk’s Falls, did a great job lifting their spirits.
Speaking of Sean Cotton, as I began writing this report last Wednesday, I was listening to him on the radio talking about his recent appointment as the new host of the Hunter’s Bay Radio’s Talent on the Bay show. Congratulations Sean, you’ll be great in that role. This coming Wednesday, some of the local songwriters, including me, will join Sean on the show from 11AM –12PM to talk about our experiences performing this summer, and to play a few tunes. I’m looking forward to that show. Tune in to 88.7 FM Radio or, if you are not local, hear it on the internet if you get the chance: http://www.muskokaonline.com/Start/tabid/55/Default.aspx

When I complain and rant about something as mundane as similar packaging of food products, I am not completely oblivious to the irony of such complaints, especially given the current events unfolding in the global arena. An outbreak of the Ebola virus in five African countries (so far) is anything but contained. This raises the complicated ethical issue of equality and treatment. While thousands have died from this outbreak so far, if a vaccine is produced (several are showing promise in fast track studies), it will likely be available to the privileged few before the Third World poor are saved. ISIS, the latest high profile Islamic fundamentalist threat in Iraq and elsewhere, is now targeting Western journalists. It is a strange world we live in where one can type a few words in a Google search and view a YouTube video of a journalist being beheaded. The other disturbing newsmaker is Russia’s continuing and unchecked mission to annex the Ukraine. Putin shrugs off the bad press and maintains that the aggression comes from patriotic pro-Russian rebels who are not under his command, but NATO is not buying it; neither is the world. Certainly border countries like Romania, Bulgaria, and Moldavia must be a bit nervous. I do not delude myself into thinking that Russia is alone in her lust for natural resources and real estate, any more than I believe the U.S. was simply on a humanitarian mission to “free” Iraq from the dictator we had supported. Finally, there seems to be no end to the Israeli/Palestinian conflict, and now the Syrians are once again getting into the fight. Millions of Syrians have been displaced by the civil war raging in that country and the U.S. is showing little inclination to intervene. I know, I know, it’s complicated.

I can’t even figure out packaging labels in the supermarket.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

 

The Oppenheimer Report 8/25/14

One of the hazards of growing older is the general obliviousness to one’s growing lack of dexterity. As arthritis begins to set in, something I never thought would happen to me, I am beginning to have some unanticipated problems. The other day, running to the car to avoid a sudden downpour, my hip simply gave out and I stumbled to the ground. Short of a skinned knee and a bruised ego, I was fine, but it was one of life’s little reminders that I am not as spry as I once thought I was. I have lived my life so far relatively careless of my potential to injure myself, and thankfully, I have remained injury free for most of it. This past winter was a wake-up call.

The ice was particularly treacherous up here last winter, and it seemed as if the freeze/thaw cycle continued for months. Our driveway was a skating rink for a good deal of the winter, and while I often wore grips over my winter boots when I took Jasper out for her walks, one fateful morning in January, I neglected to put them on. I have to put them on outside the house as they can mar the floor. Sure enough, that was the day I slipped on the ice and fell. You wouldn’t think a 16-pound miniature Schnauzer could cause an accident like that, but walking down the steep portion of our driveway – the only place TO walk last winter – she pulled me just hard enough to yank my feet out from under me, and down I went, hard onto my right shoulder. That is the same shoulder on which I’d had surgery performed over thirty years ago. I knew I had sustained some trauma, but it didn’t hurt all that much, and I didn’t pay a lot of attention to it at the time. Within a week, when the injury had not healed and the strength in my right arm was severely compromised, I saw my doctor and began to go for physiotherapy. With no improvement after six weeks, and after an X-Ray and an MRI, it became apparent that the injury requires surgery.

Originally, my surgery was scheduled for August 29^th, less than a month after I had my appointment with the surgeon. The problem with this, apart from the fact that I didn’t want to cut the boating season short, is that it likely means I will not play the guitar for several months. I’m done with the Tree Ring Tuesday performances, which were a lot of fun by the way, but I’m furiously recording songs while I still have Juan Barbosa at my disposal. He did a wonderful job with my first album of songs and now we’ve begun to record songs for a second album. After I have two albums under my belt, I hope to persuade some of the local musicians to cover my songs in a third album. I have lined up some musicians and want to strike while the iron is at least luke warm. Last week, Shauna arranged to bump my surgery back to October 24th, so I will have a little more lead time to get some of these songs “in the can.” While I do not delude myself into thinking this is in any way important to anyone but me, I have come this far and I want to finish what I started. Then I can move on to my next hobby: upholstering couches with squirrel fur.

My last Tree Ring Tuesday performance of this summer was held last week at "Seven Main Café" in Huntsville, where I was joined by a fellow singer/songwriter, Michael “Lopez” Phillips. One of our G-d-daughters, Lindsay Watson, drove all the way up from Toronto to surprise me with her attendance, and that made me extremely happy. I think she genuinely enjoyed hearing me perform. Ever my promoter and biggest fan, Shauna was out in the street before we began, handing out fliers and urging people to attend the free concert. As I said before, Tuesdays are a hard sell, but we’ve managed to attract some audiences. I could not “hear the crickets” at the end of each song. It is my aspiration to somehow promote and sponsor our local community of musicians, young and old. We’ve got great talent up here in the GWN, and Hunter’s Bay Radio, our community radio station, is committed to giving these artists a voice. I will pay local musicians to produce and cover my songs. As well, I intend to contribute to the local organizations that promote young musicians in the area, and help them to learn their craft. Music heals! Sadly, it does not repair torn rotator cuffs.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 8/18/14

Here is my indignant rant of the week. Shauna and I are fans of Jann Arden’s music and songwriting and of late, we have been following her on Facebook. We saw her in concert last year and she’s really funny. Her comments on Facebook are witty and she is a good storyteller. She’s been writing a lot lately about caregiving issues with regard to her elderly parents (who sound like a hoot) and this is of particular interest to me.

The other day, Shauna alerted me to a controversial opinion Jann had posted on her page about a new radio phenomenon. Radio editing has always been an unsavory reality of music broadcasting, and it is not uncommon for a 4-minute-long pop song to be whittled down by 30 or 40 seconds in order to fit the radio “format.” This was usually done with the reluctant approval of the artist, or of his or her record company, but of late, the process has been taken to the extreme. Apparently, there is a top 40 radio station in Calgary called AMP, part of a chain of stations across Canada. They have implemented a new format called QuickHitz, which essentially takes pop songs and cuts them in half for their attention-challenged listeners.  I assume that the thinking here is that listeners do not have sufficient attention to sit through an entire 3:30 minute song, and this allows the station to pack in twice as many hits in an hour. If the artist does not consent, they are not aired, and most artists probably want the exposure, however truncated.

I’m not a big fan of top 40 radio, but this seems to be a new low. To me, this is symptomatic of two things. One, it’s another canary in the coal mine for conventional radio. It indicates to me that the music industry is changing and big radio broadcasters of pop music will do just about anything to survive. They are struggling to compete with the growing popularity of satellite radio and the omnipresent availability of just about any on-demand music one wants to hear on the internet. The other red flag is the dumbing down of the listening audience. Perhaps this is what the listeners want, who knows, but in scrambling to satisfy this “demand” by cutting pop songs in half, are not the broadcasters contributing to the death of this art form? Let’s feed the perceived ADD shall we? OK, one could argue that omitting a couple of the forty “baby’s” in Justin Beiber’s hit single Baby might not make much difference to the song, but is this not a slippery slope? Just as reality television is, in my opinion, eroding the intelligence of its viewers, so will the abbreviated song undermine the integrity of song writing. As much as I have begun to embrace the great Satan of social media, I feel the immediacy of Twitter, and Instagram, and Facebook feeds the impatience of a short attention span society. It is most certainly diluting people’s communication skills. I believe the shorter our attention spans become, the less we absorb. What part of Beethovan’s 9^th would you suggest we cut out; after all it is kind of long? And maybe we don’t need the entire statue of David, just cut him off above the balls. Pop songs do not require a lot of grey matter; if a pop song has merit, it has merit in its entirety. Jeesh. There, rant presented and vented.

Cole Porter must be rolling in his grave.   

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 8/12/14

I could not believe the news today that Robin Williams has died, and that his death was a suspected suicide. I’d heard about his problems with alcoholism and substance abuse, but did not realize he was also struggling with depression. My dad was the first person to apprise me of Williams’ comic genius after he happened to catch the comedian in an episode of the ground-breaking sitcom Mork and Mindy. Dad had a wonderful sense of humor, and I’d never seen him so enthusiastic about a sitcom. Of course, I had to see what he thought was so funny, and boy was he right. I thought the guy was hilarious too. There was a rumor that the show’s formula for success was to surround Williams with straight men and women with a basic script, and then to let him ad lib as the cameras rolled. This guy was like no one I’d ever seen before. Maybe Sid Caesar was as funny. Clearly, he was in a league of his own as a stand-up comic, but what I did not expect was that Williams would be a great actor as well. His range was enormous and he could play the creepy photo store guy in One Hour Photo, or the gay parent in The Birdcage, or the tall tale teller in Jacob the Liar, which I think was an adaptation of Isaac Singer’s short story Gimpel the Fool. His portrayal of the psychiatrist in Good Will Hunting was one of my all-time favorite Williams performances, and I think I liked him in everything he was in. I just pulled out my Leonard Malton’s 2012 Movie Guide and I am reminded of the many great movies in which he starred; movies like Dead Poets Society, The World According to Garp, Good Morning Viet Nam, The Fisher King, Patch Adams, One Hour Photo, and the list goes on. There were over fifty movies in all, and I think he made every one of them better. I feel the same way about him as I did upon hearing of Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s death. I feel as if the world has lost a great entertainer and a good, albeit complicated man. My sincerest condolences to his wife and family.

Last weekend, I travelled to Buffalo for the 2014 Western N.Y Powerboat Association Poker Run, and this one might have been the best so far. The weather was perfect and the turnout was incredible. I started going to these poker runs (which are essentially a lap around Grand Island and, weather permitting, a 20-30 mile run down the south shore of Lake Erie) about four or five years ago because my pal Bob is in the club that hosts them. When I attended my first run, there were quite a few boats, but in the last two years, it has grown to capacity (110 or so this year). It’s funny, because when Bob joined WYNPA many years ago, the club was about to fold. Somehow the members built it up again and now it hosts one of the more popular offshore runs in the country. The owner of Outer Limit boats attended this year, bringing with him four of his more expensive models to display and run. We joked about this year’s run, because it was as if there were two runs on Saturday. There was the Buffalo contingent, some who have big fast boats, but most who are like Bob with older, smaller 60-70MPH boats (Bob owns a 42 year-old, beautifully restored 27’ Magnum sedan cruiser, with a top speed of about 65MPH). Then, there were the extremely wealthy out-of town participants, who travel all around the country with crews and expensive towing vehicles, trailing their very expensive monsters to all the big runs. Boats were separated into classes according to top speed, and there were four classes this year. We were in the very slowest class, and saw little of the fastest boats as they ran (the run is usually over 50 miles). Once we got out into the open lake, I did see a rooster tail or two go by at over 100MPH, but saw nothing up close. To give you an idea of what I am talking about, the most powerful boat in the run was a catamaran, well over 40’ in length, with four 1300+hp big block V8s, capable of achieving a top speed in the vicinity of 170MPH. There is no boat show that I know of in North America that could be as much fun for the powerboat enthusiast as these offshore powerboat runs.

Final notes ...  did you know that there is a musical coming out, I believe in Toronto, called Rob Ford the Musical? I’d love to see it! Rumor has it Ford is trailing in the polls for the upcoming mayoral election and John Tory, the guy I like, is in the lead. We’ll see what the Ford Bros. tag team wrestlers have up their sleeves, but I think they may be on the ropes for this match. Tonight, I play my second to last Tree Ring Tuesday performance, in Burk's Falls, with Hunter's Bay Radio host and fellow singer songwriter Christine Heron. My last performance will be next Tuesday in Huntsville, and I can safely say I have enjoyed this experience. While I will never count myself as much of a performer, I can cross this off my bucket list now of things I did that scared me, and I've met some great fellow songwriters.

 

Robin, I'll miss you and I mourn the uncreated art you had yet to give us all. 

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 8/4/14

An old friend from Buffalo and his wife came to visit us last week and it was wonderful to see them both. Billy and I grew up down the street from each other in Buffalo, and he and his brother and sister were in our carpool to school. He has a very interesting family, and I enjoyed the chaos that ensued whenever I waited in their kitchen for that ride to school. His family was a sitcom waiting to be made and I was always jealous. While his family was animated and funny, my family was, by comparison, a little like that painting American Gothic – you know, the one depicting the farmer and his wife standing stone-faced and holding a pitchfork.

Billy and I attended the same boarding school, and we have remained friends for over 50 years. He, along with several other neighborhood pals and I came up with the unique Buffalo tradition of raffling off tickets to shoot a television set on New Year’s Day. That long standing Buffalo tradition endured for over a decade and became a rather large gathering. By the end, the event involved enough firepower to take over a small country.

Many years ago, I attended Billy's wedding to his wife Avra in Boston, and that celebration is etched in my memory. I and my best friend Bob rented a yellow Lincoln Town car, decorated it with pink pompoms (classy huh?), and ferried wedding guests around Boston. We used that car during the bachelor party and I distinctly remember driving down into Boston’s notorious combat zone and double parking the car while we sampled some of the local “dancing” establishments. The car looked as if it belonged to a pimp, and nobody touched it. Throughout that weekend, much of it a foggy blur, I also remember one of the other neighborhood friends, sitting in the back seat yelling over and over, “NO GUTS NO GLORY” as I nervously attempted to weave through congested Boston traffic.

One thing Billy and I have shared throughout the years is our love of good music. An excellent guitarist and pretty good keyboard player, Billy has made a good living producing music and video on a professional level. Over the years, when we have had the opportunity see each other, we inevitably break out the guitars and jam, tag team playing whatever songs we’ve penned. He came up with the musical arrangement for my hit single (sarcasm intended) How Come it Hurts When I Pee? and, to this day we get a laugh – we certainly make each other laugh - whenever we dust off that old chestnut. When their first son Max was born, Billy and Avra nicknamed him Noopy, and I wrote a parody of the McCoy’s hit Hang On Sloopy entitled Hang Ten Noopy. I wonder where that recording went, it might have been the worst song I ever recorded.

Now that I and my peers are rapidly approaching 60 years of age, it is comforting to note that some of us still go way back. I lost Frank last week, and of late my mortality has been haunting me. What is my legacy, if I die tomorrow will anyone remember me, have I done any good in my life … that sort of thing. One of the songs I played in last week’s jam session with Billy was Scrapbook, a song about summoning the peaceful, good moments in one’s life, in order to cope with the ever shifting sands. My most recent song, which I just completed, is a dark song called The Edge, about the regrets of an addict. While it is largely written from imagination, everything I write has a piece of me in it.

Certainly Billy and I have lived through our share of life’s drama. We may have achieved some success, inevitably we have stumbled, but throughout it all, we have remained friends. Though he is now known as Roy to most of his non-Buffalonian friends, he will always be Billy to me, and I will always be “Hyman” or “Grinder” to him. Don’t ask.

Sometimes old friends are the best friends, and today I remind myself to be thankful for all of them.

 

How come it hurts when I pee?

Darlin’ please tell me did you do this to me.

I appreciate the love you spread unselfishly,

I just hope what you’re spreadin’ don’t begin with a ‘G’ …

 

 Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 7/28/14

One of Frank Riccio's many illustrations

The other day, I learned that my dear friend Frank Riccio had passed on.  I met him when I joined the Delta Kappa Epsilon (DKE) fraternity at Trinity College in Hartford, Connecticut, back in the late 70’s. No, I was not a beer-swilling Animal House frat boy; the Trinity chapter of DKE (Alpha Chi) was anything but that type of fraternity. Yes, we drank some beer, we knew how to throw a great party, and we certainly had the best live music; but the Trinity chapter of DKE also had the highest grade point average of any of the Trinity frats (present company excluded). The members of DKE were largely made up of intellectuals and artists. At the time I joined, the fraternity was struggling, and I first got involved quite by chance,  as a non-member of its eating club. I became very fond of some the eccentric personalities at DKE, and on a college campus where all the food was catered by SAGA, and the eating hall was a giant, informal, fluorescent-lit cafeteria, DKE was a house where I could go to eat good, home cooked dinners and hang out with thirty other like-minded people. It became my community, my quirky little family in a college for which I did not otherwise much care. Ultimately, I became the steward of this eating club, running the day to day operations, and eventually, I joined the fraternity.

DKE was full of interesting members, and because it was the only fraternity at the time to accept women as full members, violating the DKE national charter I might add, we stood out among the other fraternities at Trinity. Frank joined shortly after I did and I think we became friends almost immediately. He lived at the house, and he was a quiet, gentle guy, It was quite a while before I even learned what a wonderful artist he was, because Frank was never one to brag or show off.  He was soft spoken, thoughtful, kind, generous, down-to-earth, interesting, very intelligent, and he possessed a wonderfully wry, disarming sense of humor. He ultimately became a successful painter and illustrator, but Frank was a thousand other things to me. I really liked him. It was because of him and so many of my other brothers and sisters at DKE, that I remained at Trinity, which although it was a pretty good school academically, was in many ways a country club for rich, entitled kids. I eschewed that image, though I was no stranger to wealth and entitlement.

After we had graduated, Frank and I kept in touch semi-regularly by mail. We rarely spoke on the phone. I shared my songwriting with him - he was one of my few friends who thought I was any good, and  encouraged me to continue writing songs - and he shared his progress in the art world with me in the beautiful letters he wrote. Every letter contained some example of his recent work, and sometimes, if I was lucky, he would draw some intricate sketch in pencil somewhere on the letter. I cannot put into words how much those personal bits of art meant to me, and I have them all, somewhere in my letter files. I have a feeling I am not the only recipient of his spontaneous art.

My last correspondence with Frank was in January of this year; it was an email wherein he responded to a recent report I’d written about caregiving. He was particularly moved by my experiences in the Sunnybrook Hospital stroke ward. His mom’s health was failing, and he told me I’d shined a light on some of the dark issues he too was facing. Throughout our friendship, we shared some of our darker hours, and in so doing, maybe we helped each other make some sense of it all. I didn’t know Frank well, but sometimes those are the people with whom we choose to share. He may have known at that time of his last correspondence that he was terminally ill, but no mention was made of it. Now, I am left with those letters, and the memories I have of our communications. It is my hubris that makes me feel I could have been some comfort to him in his last days. I am so sad that  I could not, and I will miss him terribly.

There are some souls that shine brighter than all the rest, and as the ever growing specter of my mortality hovers over me, I am bluntly reminded of the simple fact that this journey goes in one direction. The ugly beast of anti-Semitism again rises in the Middle East and elsewhere, the superpowers are once again rattling their sabers, and we as a species continue to make the same mistakes over and over again. And then there are people like Frank, with his gentle, wry smile, and his disarming honesty. Guys like Frank give me hope that perhaps we won’t screw the whole thing up. He is the hopeful man child, sailing out into unknown waters, absorbing all that life has to give. I love you Frank, and I always will. May you rest in peace.  

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 7/21/14

Johnny Winter with Jimi Hendrix

I suppose I have buried my head in the sand this summer, anesthetized by my own good fortune, and have for the most part tried to ignore the troubling reminders throughout the world that history does indeed repeat itself. No matter how you slice it, the last week was a bad one for world peace. The two biggest stories, sandwiched in between the latest exploits of Toronto Mayor Rob “Bluto” Ford and whatever grizzly murder or celebrity mishap occurred in North America, were two stories that dominated the headlines. First there was the news that Malaysian Airlines Flight 17 had been shot down over Eastern Ukraine, killing all passengers aboard. The graphic coverage of this tragedy left little to the imagination. If I can believe the news reports, and the “intelligence” therein, this was likely the act of pro-Russian separatists. Whether or not Putin is behind this latest act of aggression, the spin is not good, and lines have been drawn. Goodbye Gorbachev, hello Stalin. I thought to myself, how could there be another horrible, and irreconcilable air disaster involving Malaysian Airlines, within months of that mystery flight that disappeared in the Indian Ocean? I am reminded of the events that spark world wars, and what concerns me is the potential finality of the next one. The second story involves the ongoing conflict between Israel and Palestine. No matter which side you take in this conflict, all you haters of Israel should remember that Hamas refuses to accept the State of Israel, and in trying desperately to spin this conflict their way, Hamas has hijacked its countrymen, using innocent women and children as their pawns to sway public opinion. In my opinion, that is disgusting. If there was ever anything noble or clear about armed conflict, it has long since dissolved. “Nobody’s right if everybody’s wrong.”  There are no white hats and black hats these days; all the hats are grey.

In the They’re-dropping-like-flies department, veteran actor James Garner passed away last week at the age of 86. I remember first watching him on the T.V. Western Maverick when I was a little boy. I don’t think I was the right demographic for The Rockford Files. I think my mom liked that show. Same demographic as Murder That Bitch. Garner had a lot of great roles and I thought he was a good actor. The second notable death: Texas blues rock legend Johnny Winter passed away in Switzerland last week, at the age of 70. I’m surprised he made it as far as he did. I could kick myself because I passed on an opportunity to see him play up here in the Muskokas last year. I saw Johnny play about forty years ago at a venue in Springfield, Mass. and he rocked the house. The James Gang, without Joe Walsh, was the backup band, and they were booed off the stage before their set was over. Johnny had some miles on him before he died, but boy could he play the slide guitar. One of my all-time favorite “go-to” songs when I want to rock out is Johnny’s live version of Jumpin’ Jack Flash (Johnny Winter And album?)

Final notes. Shauna and I were fortunate enough to get front row seats to see Colin James perform an acoustic set at the Algonquin Theatre in Huntsville last Thursday night. Accompanying him was Chris Caddell, an excellent Toronto based singer songwriter, whose music reminded me of some of my favorite country rock acts of the 70s and 80s. Last week, my first Tree Ring Tuesday came and went and I performed to the best of my ability at Dee’s Bistro in Burk’s Falls. No spoiled fruit or debris of any sort was thrown, so I suppose this on its own was a success of sorts. Huntsville singer songwriter James Jones, of the duo Big East, was my partner in this particular showcase. I enjoyed meeting him and listening to his excellent voice and his original songs. Tomorrow it’s Bracebridge at the Fine Thymes Bistro with fellow songwriter Scott Gilson. Wish us luck, and come out to see us (8-10PM) if you find yourself in the area!

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 7/14/14

Last week I was in Huntsville to pick up Shauna’s long-belated 20^th anniversary gift; my small token of jewelry for her to congratulate her for lasting nine rounds with me (so far). While I was in town, I figured I would stop by Hunter’s Bay Radio and drop off a CD of the six songs Juan and I have completed thus far. HBR has encouraged me to give them some of my music, suggesting they might play it on the radio. While I have never been much good at promoting myself, I have come to realize that no one else is going to do it. Finally, I have some halfway listenable versions of my songs to present, so why not get it out there? I wasn’t too shy to stand in front of a microphone and broadcast my decidedly flawed performances on the radio, so I should not be shy about promoting a studio recording as well. I am reminded of a joke my dad used to tell about the guy who prays to God for a winning lottery ticket. Years go by, the guy prays every day, and still no winning ticket. Finally, the guy asks “Why do you forsake me Lord, why no winner after so many years?”  The clouds part and a thunderous voice from above yells angrily, “Meet me halfway …. Buy a ticket!”

When I arrived at HBR, just about to walk in, I noticed through the window that there was a live performance airing, and figured I’d come back later. James Caroll, the interviewer, who knows me and saw me peeking through the window, waved me in. Feeling a little awkward, I sat in on the tail end of the interview, and I just figured I was watching one of the many local songwriters I have yet to meet. But the performer looked vaguely familiar. Turns out it was Alan Doyle of the very successful Maritimes band Great Big Sea, and he blew me away with his talent. What a voice! He was in town to perform at The Algonquin Theatre that night. Before his interview was over, several more people ambled in, and Doyle joked with Caroll about how HBR truly was one the few remaining community radio stations in Canada. True to the reputation that Maritimers have as a friendly bunch, Doyle seemed like a great guy. It did not faze him a bit that people walked in while he was singing, and he reacted as if he were welcoming people into his kitchen. He was affable and from what I could tell, humble. Shauna and I tried last minute to get tickets to his show that night, but of course, it was sold out. I did download a Great Big Sea album and Doyle’s solo album Boy on Bridge (good album by the way). It’s funny, because I’d been meaning to buy some of the music of Great Big Sea for a while now, ever since I watched and enjoyed them performing on television a few years ago. I just never got around to it. What a great reminder!

Tomorrow night is my first Tree Ring Tuesday performance, and I am a little nervous. I have now heard almost all of the other artists who are performing in this series and they are better musicians than I. I suffer from the mild apprehension that I may be out of my league. My first “gig” is just up the road in Burk’s Falls, at a restaurant called Dee’s, and my fellow songwriter for this performance is Huntsville songwriter James Jones. While I doubt this will be well attended, I am nervous about playing to a fellow songwriter. All of these folks have a CD to promote and some (many) of them do this for a living. Really, what was I thinking? No guts no glory.

Final note. For many summers passed there was a guy down the bay from us who used to come out of his cottage and wave to me with both arms every time I passed in a boat. It was just something he did for everyone he knew. That small, friendly gesture always made me smile, and though I did not know Barry Fry well, I’d seem him at Doe Lake Association meetings, and I thought he was a good guy. I heard he was gravely ill, and this summer the house has been empty. It makes me sad, and I know it’s such a little thing, but I miss his small gestures of kindness. Yesterday, I found out that he’d recently passed on, and though we were not close friends, I’ll be waving at that house for a long time to come. I think maybe a lot of people will. Rest in Peace Barry.     

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

 

The Oppenheimer Report - 7/7/14

It will be no secret to any of you who know Shauna and me that we are lovers of nature. While out in Banff those many years ago, we grew to appreciate not only the wild animals, but also the flora. I took many hundreds of pictures of wildflowers while out there (I know, I know, get a life!) and I still to this day marvel at their unique beauty and diversity.

My mom really jump started my appreciation of flowers, and I guess she turned me into a flower lover. I doubt there are very many people out there who would say they hate flowers, but my mother, without actually trying to do so, enlightened me about so many beautiful things. It was probably the artist in her. At our summer home on Lake Erie she always planted a big flower garden, and spent hours tending to it all summer long. As a young kid, this seemed to me like a big waste of time, but Mom, a very busy and active lady, enjoyed her hours weeding and tending to her garden. Perhaps it was her meditation, her opportunity to momentarily set aside her undeniable role as the chief cook and bottle washer of our hectic household. She always planted petunias and snap dragons in the center bed at the end of our driveway, and in the crescent shaped border beds of our back yard, she planted zinnias, tuberous begonias, marigolds, and various border flowers like alyssum, and impatients. There were always pansies around the shrubs that dotted the property, potted geraniums on both sides of our doorstep, and various flowers in flower boxes on either side of the porch entrance to the house. While the house was an unspectacular beach cottage, which has been in our family now for four generations, the flower gardens were the thing about that beach house that made it special to me.

I never really thought about this much until later in life, as we started to travel out west to hike in the mountains. I remember discovering lady slipper orchids growing wild along a glacial lake, and marveling at their spectacular design. The mountain wildflowers in general were wonderful. My particular favorite was indian paintbrush, which sprung up in red, pink, and white everywhere in the mountains in the spring. I have never seen it up here in Muskoka, although I’m told it does grows here in the east. When we first built this home in Katrine, I scattered wildflower seeds around the property, but figured nothing would take. Now, lining our long driveway is a rainbow of wildflowers, including foxglove and some really beautiful orchid-like blooms. Every year on our hill down to the water we have an explosion of multi-colored lupins, which seem to take over the property in late spring.  

Like an old song, or a photograph, flowers have become a mnemonic trigger for me. As I stumble somewhat cluelessly through the latter half of my life, I pay more attention to things which I ignored in my ill-spent youth. While I am not an avid gardener, I do get it now. I understand why people find pleasure in it. Our good friend Deirdre came up recently and planted our vegetable garden for us. I putter around in it daily and haven’t killed anything (yet). While I do have a brown thumb in general, I have figured out how to germinate and grow zinnias. Every summer, starting a few years ago, I’ve had zinnias, geraniums, and snap dragons growing in our garden.

The family beach house is up for sale now, and the flower beds are bare. I know it would improve the “curb appeal” of the house to plant the flower garden Mom used to create, but sadly I’m not there to tend to it. I suppose flowers were just one of the many ways Mom transformed our house into a home, and I miss her every time I think of the beautiful life she provided for her family. This year’s zinnias are at least a month away from blooming, and like all beautiful things, they will come and go. What remains after the bloom are the memories. I think Mom would get a kick out of knowing that the little boy, who had no patience with her weeding and gardening, has now taken a bit of a liking to it himself. And he’s still planting the same flowers she planted.

 

"Don't it always seem to go, you don't know what you've got til it's gone ..." Joni Mitchell

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 6/30/14

Photo by Shauna Leigh Taylor

Today’s imponderable question is: Why do any electrical appliances require AAA batteries? They are, in my opinion, a particularly annoying battery. One can find the larger AAs in most stores, but the smaller AAAs are harder to find. Go to any Wal Mart or Canadian Tire in Canada, and the AA’s will be everywhere, but the AAA’s are sold out or not available in the larger economy packages. Also, they are generally more expensive than the AAs, which makes absolutely no sense. We use them in our little OFF mosquito replelling clip on machines, which work pretty well by the way. Several of our LED flashlights use them as well. We go through a lot of batteries in this household. As for rechargeable batteries, fuggetabotit. I have yet to find a rechargeable battery that is worth the powder to blow it away, which is a shame, because it would certainly lessen the battery disposal problem in the world. We have a couple rechargeable portable vacuum cleaners and they are relatively useless. I replaced the large cylinder-shaped batteries in one of my dust busters with what I believed were higher quality nickel metal hydride batteries, but they did not hold a charge any better than the original crappy nickel cadmium batteries. The only rechargeable batteries I have found somewhat useful are the lithium ions I use in my power tools, but so far I have not found rechargeable lithium ion batters available in AA or AAA size. I just bought a cordless weed whacker with a lithium ion battery and it works pretty well. With this new cordless job, I can go up our long driveway and tame some of the dense overgrowth that seems worse than ever this year.

We had a rainstorm a few weeks ago that flooded our property. The newly installed sump pump in our basement pumps at 25 gallons per minute, and it was going strong for well over an hour. Used to be that the rainstorms were soaking rains, good for the vegetation, but lately the rains have been hard and fast. When they come that fast they wash out the roads and flood the lawn before the water can absorb into the soil. Yesterday there were pop up thunderstorms, and one or two of them were quite severe. One minute it was blowing hard and pouring buckets, and five minutes later it was calm and sunny. Today I heard there was a tornado that touched down in nearby Burk’s Falls. I’ve always had a morbid fascination with tornadoes. I wish could see one in person, from a safe distance of course. I feel for the residents in Brandon, Manitoba who have been inundated with floods from excessive rain. But before all you AL Gore supporters tell me this is all because of our excessive carbon footprint, I think weather patterns are cyclical, and this would probably happen whether man was here to screw up the environment or not. I doubt any industrialized country will ever comply with the directives of Kyoto, or any other voluntary agreement to cut back on greenhouse gases, but it probably would not make much difference anyhow. To understand why weather change is impacting us more now than it did say 100 years ago, look at how our populations have swelled. So many people live so close to the ocean. I watched an interesting documentary on Hurricane Sandy the other night, and did not realize that the southern end of Manhattan is landfill. No wonder it flooded. Enough about the weather.   

There is a local record label up here called Tree Ring Records, actually more of a loosely based consortium of area musicians, and it has been instrumental (excuse the pun) in releasing the albums of some of our local artists. It’s a grassroots kind of thing, designed to promote local talent, and, hand in hand with Huntsville’s musician-friendly Hunter’s Bay Radio, it has been successful giving some exposure to musicians who might not otherwise be heard. And, as I have said before, there is A LOT of local talent up here.  My friend Sean Cotton is one of several founding members of Tree Ring, and the other day he did me the honor of inviting me to participate in a summer series of song writers showcases. I and my fellow songwriters will be performing at 4 local venues from Sundridge on the North side down to Bracebridge on the south end, throughout July and August. It’s called Tree Ring Tuesdays, and while I’m skeptical that this will draw any kind of large audience, I welcome the opportunity to play my tunes on a stage with some of my fellow songwriters. It is also a chance for me to develop my anemic performing skills. As I said, it is and always has been my goal to “go plywood” in Burk’s Falls, and I am in the process of forming my entourage now. Happy Canada Day to my Canadian friends and a Happy Fourth of July to my fellow yanks stateside.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 6/23/14

Shauna and I with Lake Louise in the background

I came across a picture the other day that made me laugh out loud. As some of my twelve loyal readers know, my wife Shauna and I used to travel out to Banff, Alberta at the end of May. We spent part of our honeymoon there, and we liked the town and its residents. As well, Banff is a great home base for hundreds of spectacular day hikes in the Canadian Rockies. After a few years we began to be treated like locals, and we made some good friends with whom we still keep in touch. The trip was therapeutic on many levels; certainly it was good for our souls, but as well, for Shauna it was also a partial respite from her chronic pain. There is something about living at a higher altitude that took away some of her myofascial pain, and every year, with every hundred feet we would climb, heading west out of Calgary into the mountains, there would be an audible sigh of relief from my long-suffering passenger. We never really figured out why this happened, but Shauna became markedly more energetic in the high altitudes, and within a week or so after our arrival, we were able to hike and exercise much more than we could back east. Because we stayed for a while, and because we never travel light, we drove out every season, and that drive was sublime for me. Escaping from the fist-clenching congestion of Toronto, where it took me almost 45 minutes to commute the 12 miles to my workplace, I was like a teapot letting off steam as soon as we got into to open reaches of Northern Ontario. From Kenora to Calgary, we were on the open road, and it was always an adventure. What is it about long road trips?

One day, we were in some restaurant, in Canmore, Alberta I believe, and there next to the main entrance was a large Plexiglas box filled with stuffed animals. The catch was that the animals were in little plastic containers, so you did not know what you were getting until it was too late to change. For a loonie, you took your chances. We got a monkey. There is a Peter Gabriel song I like called Shock the Monkey and Shauna used to joke about how she thought the song was actually called Spank the Monkey. I suppose some of you know what that expression means. Bopping the baloney, shaking hands with the unemployed … you get the picture. Of course, our little furry white mascot became “Spank” the monkey, and hanging from the rear view mirror of our Jeep, Spank accompanied us on our travels across Canada that summer. He was an endless source of amusement. We did horrible things to that monkey. At one point, I had his tail sticking diagonally up between his legs and taped in that position, so he looked as if he had a giant boner. People would walk by the car in a parking lot and do a double take. Rather an interesting departure from the fuzzy dice concept.  

I found a picture of Spank the other night, dangling from the rear view mirror with his enormous erection, and in the background were the Canadian Rockies. It made me chuckle, it reminded me of lofty mountain vistas Shauna and I shared and of the many adventures we experienced in Banff, Yoho, and Kootney parks. Spank the monkey reminded me how important it is to laugh and to explore.

 

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 6/16/14

From the collection of  D. Jordan Taylor

Perhaps this sobriety thing is paying off, because I have finally been motivated to do something I promised myself a long time ago I would do. Although I’ve been writing songs and making rough demos of songs now for well over 30 years, I have never really had the motivation or courage to record a proper album of songs. Life got in the way, and I always had an excuse to put it off before. As well, when one puts one’s art out there and it is rejected, it can be devastating. It is a challenge to believe in myself when so many people in the industry told me I was no good. I chased other artists to cover my songs, and that didn’t work. I submitted my songs to publishing companies, and that was actually destructive. While I expected and welcomed constructive criticism, some of the rejection letters I received were just plain stupid. I very much doubt many of the recipients even listened to the obligatory 30 seconds required to pass judgment, before tossing my tape in the circular file. I submitted my favorite songs to song contests, hoping that one of the featured celebrity judges might hear one of them and see some merit in my ability as a songwriter. This was not only expensive, but also demoralizing. I’d wait expectantly for some indication that someone in the industry had even heard one of my songs, only to be informed in some form letter that my songs were not being considered. No feedback, no proof anyone even listened to them, just “No.” Then, I’d listen to the songs that won the contest and I’d feel as if I’d been cheated. Some of those songs were simply horrible in my opinion. Like so many others, I finally gave up trying to interest anyone in my work, after trying for over a decade. But I never stopped writing songs.

 

Now, thirty years later, I am retired from my “day job”, and the music business is much different. With digital technology and the internet, it is less expensive to reach an audience than it used to be, and artists are no longer prisoners to a myopic and ageist music industry. Also, I am now in a unique environment that fosters and encourages creativity. As of two weeks ago, I have laid down bed tracks for 7 songs and with my gifted producer Juan Barbosa, we have so far completed three finished songs. I love what Juan has done with my songs, and I feel so fortunate to have found a guy who is at once so talented, and who believes in my songs enough to get them right. I know my limits as a performer, but I feel the songs are strong, and I am proud of what Juan has done with them. It is remarkable what can be done to a song by a good musician and producer. I am now almost a third of the way to accomplishing what I set out to do, and I will never again let another’s judgment quash my ambition or creativity. When the album is done, I will put it out there for anyone who cares to listen (even if it is just the twelve of you), and if it falls flat, I’m OK with that. I gave it my best shot, and I can’t disappoint myself if I give it my all. I am so happy to have been embraced with such open arms by this talented and generous Muskoka music community. Regardless of what others may determine, I have spilled some of my blood into these sound recordings, and for the first time in my life, I feel as if I have achieved one of my main goals in life. And I am proud of that. Thank you Juan, from the bottom of my heart, for getting this right. I hope to have a completed album of songs by September/ October. My next goal is to "go plywood" in Burk's Falls. Wish me luck.

Speaking of the music business, the legendary Top 40 DJ Casey Kasem has died at 82. May he rest in peace; sounds like his last few years were a little rocky. I used to enjoy his show.  

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 6/9/14

With reference to our recent road trip to Connecticut for my 40^th reunion, I forgot to mention that we had a hotel adventure. We were booked into the hotel where the majority of my classmates were staying in Southbury, Conn. There was a block of rooms set aside for Taft reunion attendees and, as we had Jasper in tow, we booked a “pet friendly” room. We did not arrive at the hotel until around 2AM, and when I picked up the key to our room, I realized that there was no way to get to that room without using stairs. With Jasper we had a lot of stuff to unpack from the car, and now we could not use a cart to transport it to our room. Strike one. The room was a dump, but at 2AM, I figured I would take it up with management later. Particularly troubling was the water damaged ceiling in the bathroom. Strike two. When we woke up, I drove in to town to pick up some supplies at the supermarket, and while I was gone, the next door neighbors from hell started screaming at each other and woke Shauna up. With their two completely undisciplined, screaming children and two yappy dogs (who made Jasper look like an angel, which she is not), this was turning into a rather abominable experience. Strike three. Shauna and I actually began to laugh because it was becoming so ridiculous. We reasoned we would be out of the room for much of the stay, and thought that we could live with the hassles. But the straw that broke the camel’s back was that, while Shauna was getting ready to go out, someone in the room directly above us decided to take a shower, and when they did, water began pouring down on poor Shauna as she sat on the throne. That was the deal breaker. We called the front desk, who sent over what I can only assume was a mentally challenged maintenance man to assess the situation. I presumed that, after he surveyed the damage, we would be moved into a more suitable room. Instead, the maintenance man came back with some plastic sheeting and duct tape to divert the water away from the toilet. Not exactly what we had in mind! I calmly went to the manager and explained all that had transpired, perhaps intimating that I was one of those undisclosed internet hotel critics. Ultimately, we were moved to a much nicer section of the hotel, overlooking a lovely river and with no noisy neighbors, and the room was free of charge. Shauna was happy, Jasper was happy, but I would have gladly paid for the acceptable room I’d booked in the first place.

The yin and the yang of summer. I love warm weather, but now that it's tee shirt season, up here in the Great White North it is also biting insect season. Actually, May through October is bug season up here, but beginning a couple weeks ago, the starting gun went off for black flies and mosquitos. During the spring and summer in Canada these insects are omnipresent, and their presence is both loathed and celebrated. Somewhere I believe near Ignace in Western Ontario there used to be a large statue erected of a man being carried away by a giant mosquito. I don’t think there is any repellant that really works for the black flies, which are tiny little creatures, but which leave one helluvah an annoying welt when they bite. Mesh bug suits are somewhat effective, and at this time of year I wear a mesh cover over my head at dusk and dawn. Thankfully, black fly season is relatively short and that plague usually abates by July when the weather gets hot. Mosquitos, on the other hand, are always here when the weather warms up. We have larvicide for our retention pond and rain barrels, vitamin B patches as an alternative to poisonous DEET spray, a propane-fired mosquito “vacuum” which may or may not work,  a battery-powered clip on OFF bug repellant diffuser (which we find is also fairly effective), citronella candles, bug zappers, flame throwers … we’ve got it all, and I am still being eaten alive. This year the general consensus is that the mosquitos are worse than usual. I bought a bug book and I am learning all about them. There are some decent home remedies for the bites. Surprisingly, hand sanitizer works pretty well. Ammonia mixed with rubbing alcohol also seems to help, and is a lot cheaper than “After Bite”. My favorite mosquito weapon is those electric bug zapper racquets. Very satisfying. The other day there were a bunch of the bastards in my car when I left for town, and I almost drove into a tree because I was so distracted zapping them. You hear about not using your cell phone in a car, but I might be the first person to get in trouble for using a bug zapper.

Speaking of annoying insects, later this week Ontario elects a new Premier. Will it be the status quo?

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 6/2/14

The "courting" phase

Presently we have Shauna’s mom up here at the lake house with us. We picked her up on our return from the Taft reunion in Connecticut and rescued her from her 24-7 caregivers for a week. This has turned into a longer stay than we’d originally intended, because we wanted Ethel to be here for our 20^th wedding anniversary. Twenty years ago last Thursday Ethel and my father-in-law Syd made a wedding for Shauna and me that was decidedly the best one I’ve ever attended. Of course I am biased. It was a big wedding, held at the Royal York Hotel in Toronto, and many friends and family from both sides were in attendance. While much of the ceremony was a blur, I do remember Shauna looking like a white cloud floating down that aisle, and I remember the great band Shauna picked (she has great taste in music) for the reception. It was Guido Basso and his big band and boy, did they rock the house. The music, the food, the speeches were all fantastic and the night could not have been a better celebration. One of the best parts about our wedding was that friends and family came from across North America to share it with us. Syd and Ethel made that beautiful wedding for us, and I think it is fitting that the only one remaining parent between Shauna and me should be with us to acknowledge its 20^th anniversary. Too many of the attendees of that wedding are now gone.

We drove down to Bracebridge and had quiet dinner at a restaurant Shauna and I like, overlooking the Muskoka River. We were served dinner by someone whom I do not think had ever waitressed before, but had a lovely meal nonetheless. We took the obligatory selfie outside the restaurant with Shauna’s mom, then headed back up to Katrine. It was hardly the grandiose celebration of the original event, but an appropriate one nonetheless. No marriage is perfect, and Shauna and I have sometimes stumbled over the years. Relationships are hard, and anyone who tells you what is the “right thing to do” to keep a marriage on track had better have been married for thirty or forty years before they call themselves and expert. I am sure there will be other bumps in the road, but what I have slowly come to realize is that this woman is in many ways my foundation. She has seen me at my best and at my worst. We have spent most of the last 20 years in each other’s company, and we have shared a lot of our life so far. She knows me as well if not better than I know myself and certainly better than anyone else in my life knows me. She accepts who I am (although grudgingly when it comes to my chronic messiness) and she loves me, even when I fail. For all those things I love her. She has been my muse these past twenty years, and I doubt I would have proposed marriage in a song to any other woman.

A few weeks ago I walked in to a jewelry store in Hunstville and ordered a custom designed necklace with a pendant which will be meaningful to Shauna. It will be made out of platinum, and it will be my 20^th anniversary gift to her. The pendant will be engraved on the back, but I’m not yet sure what I will say; perhaps something like “Happy 20^th to my Shauna Leigh, and here’s to however many more years we have left together.”

 

A YEAR AGO I DIDN’T KNOW, DIDN’T HAVE A CLUE WHO I WAS WAITING FOR

PASSING TIME IMPERFECT RHYMES, DIDN’T HAVE A CLUE WHO I WAS WRITING FOR/

 

cho: AND I’M TELLING YOU I LOVE YOU, AND I’M ASKING YOU TO PLEASE CONSIDER ME.

     OH PLEASE PLEASE SHAUNA LEIGH WILL YOU MARRY ME?

 

THAT FIRST NIGHT ON THE TELEPHONE, SITTING IN MY BEACH HOUSE ALL ALONE

I LISTENED TO YOUR DISTANT VOICE, AND SOMEHOW I JUST KNEW THAT YOU WOULD BE THE ONE

 

cho: AND I’VE WAITED OH SO VERY LONG, BUT I FINALLY FOUND THE RIGHT WORDS IN A SONG, OH PLEASE PLEASE SHAUNA LEIGH  WILL YOU MARRY ME?

 

I CAN’T TELL YOU WHAT THE FUTURE HOLDS, BUT TOGETHER WE’LL EXPLORE THAT OPEN ROAD, SO I’M HOPING YOU’LL SAY “YES” SHAUNA LEIGH …. WILL YOU MARRY ME?

 

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED