The Oppenheimer Report 6/26/17

Last Thursday night, Hunters Bay Radio held its annual fundraiser concert at the Algonquin Theatre in Huntsville. It’s something HBR has been doing for a while, but this year, the theme was The Last Waltz. Local singer/songwriter Sean Cotton organized and produced this reprise of the 1977 concert in which The Band performed their farewell show along with many famous musical guests. The last concert that The Band would ever play, the original The Last Waltz, was legendary. Some of you have likely seen the very well-known documentary film about it, produced and directed by Martin Scorcese.    

When Sean Cotton asked me to be a part of the show, many months ago, I didn’t think much of it. Sure, of course I’d sing a song and do my part. I was flattered to be asked to perform with a band on the stage of the Algonquin Theatre. What I did not see coming was the enthusiasm with which the other local musicians embraced the show. Over the past several months, there were hundreds of emails and Facebook messages fired back and forth to finalize the plans for the big night. There was a palpable energy in the air, and I was quite frankly surprised to see everyone so excited about performing. One marathon rehearsal session was scheduled at Kandis and Troy Sinister’s house (brave souls!) in Huntsville, two days before the show . While I only heard some of the artists rehearse (there were fifteen or twenty different artists who rehearsed), I knew then and there that this was going to be a great show.

Last Thursday night marked the very first time I have ever rehearsed a song with a full band and sung in front of a paying audience. I don’t play live very often, and of course I was apprehensive. I’ll perform if I’m asked, usually solo, but I don’t love the stage the way some musicians do. Since I’ve moved up north, I’ve had some opportunities to play with full bands, and most of the musicians up here are generous and accommodating. I remember my musical colleague Juan Barbosa once telling me that he prefers to play with a band, although his solo performances are exceptional. I better understand this now that I have had occasion to perform with a band. When everything clicks, and the musicians are firing on all cylinders, as they were last week, it’s a huge rush. “The Band”, Sean Cotton, Michael Phillips, Sean Roper, and Alison Boyer all did a wonderful job, and as a neophyte to the world of musical entertainment, this was heady stuff for me. To perform in a proper theatre such as The Algonquin, with a good band backing me, well it doesn’t get much better than that! I was up second on the roster, and before I had a chance to get nervous, I was on and off. For just one moment, right after I sang, I was ready to hop on the tour bus and hit the road with the band.    

Hunters Bay Radio, or The Bay 88.7 FM as they’re calling themselves these days, is the main focus of my efforts now that I am retired. Because of the forward-thinking vision and determination of Managing Director Jeff Carter, this station is poised to grow exponentially over the next few years. In under three years they have more than doubled their advertising revenue and our on air and internet audiences have grown substantially.  While the station is still not on firm ground financially, with every penny earned pumped back into operations, equipment, and charitable contributions, new satellites in Gravenhurst and  soon Bracebridge will help to grow our audience quickly. My small part is to contribute to the music end, and to try and  to help draw in the best local and regional music we can attract. Word is out that we are musician -friendly. Commercial radio is, in my opinion, on injured reserve. The playlists are lame and redundant, and the support for the local residents is virtually non-existent. The Last Waltz concert last Thursday night was a reminder of what a small community radio station can mean to the locals. As anyone who was there will attest, that show was the meaning of community, a community of which I am proud to be a part.   

 - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 6/19/17

My grandfather Harry Lehman and me, shortly before he passed on

Yesterday was Father’s Day, and I offer a belated Happy Father’s Day to all who deserve it. As I’ve said many times in this blog, I am not a father, but have ever-increasing respect for all the good parents out there. I had a conversation with my cousin from Oregon, Harry Lehman III, or “The Third” as he signs his correspondences, and we talked a bit about our respective fathers. His dad, my mother’s brother, was a wild man when he was a boy, and Uncle Harry got into all sorts of trouble. If I recall correctly, he once stole the family limo for a joyride when he was far too young to drive. Harry III was amused by my story about stealing a box of crayons when I was little. He told me a similar story involving him and his dad. When he was young, he stole some candy bars from a store while shopping with his dad, and when his dad asked where he got the candy bars, he lied and said the store owner had given them to him. Harry Jr. said something like “What a generous thing that man did; we should go in and thank him.” Busted, and lesson learned. The unruly boy had grown into a pretty good father.

Both my mother and her brother had an excellent role model in Harry Lehman Sr., founder and CEO of The Wildroot Company, the successful hair tonic business in Buffalo. By most accounts, Harry Sr. was a very successful, kind, generous, funny, philanthropist who had an “open door” policy for his all employees. Harry Jr. may have been a handful, but he grew into a kind and generous man as well, who was loved by everyone who knew him.

I never knew my paternal grandfather; he died before I was born. Diminutive in stature, fastidious in both personal appearance and habits, and far more introverted than my maternal grandfather, Walter was quite a different man than Harry. The family history on my dad’s side is a little murky. Dad did tell me that Walter Oppenheimer was a strict man. My dad is a bit of a mystery to me, I suppose I didn’t show much interest in his past. He was in his mid-forties when I (his only biological child) was born, and he was not a particularly demonstrative man. Still, he was always there to catch me when I fell, and in retrospect, he was a fantastic dad. Because of our age difference, we locked horns when I was a teenager. I regret giving him such a hard time. In the end, we grew to know and respect each other as colleagues in business, and the greatest lessons he taught me were by example. I wish I’d asked him more questions about his family history. I loved my dad a lot.

It takes a village, right? I look around today at the young people in distress who cross my path, and I want to help them. Some are orphans, some did not have great parents, some are the by-products of bitter divorce, some just lost their way despite having good parents. It is hubris to assume I can change another human being for the better, and I don’t presume to have those skills or answers. I was shown unconditional love, without judgment, and my goal is to pay that valuable lesson forward. The heroes in the world are the good parents, the teachers; the positive role models who touch our lives, not the spoiled celebrities and entitled athletes whose bad behavior attracts an inordinately large amount of public attention. I read that Father’s Day had its origins in the commemoration of a single father who successfully and selflessly raised his five children. Perhaps we’d do well to focus on these good people and leave the spoiled and unworthy to the annals of historical anonymity.     

Thursday night, pending no healthcare crises, I’ll be singing a song by The Band at the Hunters Bay Radio Last Waltz fundraiser concert, at the Algonquin Theatre in Huntsville, along with 24 or more of my fellow local musicians. To Shauna’s mom, the resilient, remarkable, and ever-entertaining E.T., I wish you a speedy recovery from your recent health issues. To the rest of my readers, if your parents are still around, give em a hug for me. It's a tough and often thankless job,  and I suspect most of them are doing the best they can.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 6/12/17

My best friend Bob piloting the Porta-Bote on Lake Erie

Yesterday, I melted my sandals. Yes, I melted my sandals. I didn’t mean to, and I was very upset to have done so. Those sandals and I have traveled the country over the years. It was just one of those days.

Did you ever have one of those days, when you could swear some little gremlin was behind the curtain screwing with you? Yesterday was like that for me. I’d set something down, and when I looked away, it simply disappeared. I’d drop something and it would fall into the one place where it was unrecoverable. There were at least ten or fifteen annoying little things that happened in a short time which suggested to me that I was out of sync with the universe. Upon reflection, it’s funny, but I wasn’t laughing at the time.

Yesterday, the weather was fantastic, and after doing all the bungled projects I needed to do, each which took twice as long as it should have, I decided to reward myself with the first lap of the season around the lake in my Porta-Bote (my little folding dinghy). Yes, I’d spent most of the day breaking things, looking for things that went missing under my nose, cleaning up things I’d spilled, etc., but now it was time for some good old-fashioned fun in the sun. There are few things I enjoy more than putting around in a boat, any boat.

I pulled the little outboard out of storage, mounted it on the boat, and put the gas can in the boat. I had to go up to the house for a minute, and when I came back, I stepped into the boat before I realized that there was liquid in the bilge. I thought it strange that water had suddenly leaked into the boat. As it washed over my feet, I realized that it wasn’t water but gasoline, about a half a gallon of it. Somehow, the gas can that I had placed in the boat, which had held gas without leaking for the last three weeks, emptied into the bilge making a big mess. I decanted most of the spilled fuel into another gas can, and mopped up the bilge with a rag, grudgingly accepting that this was just one of those Murphy’s Law kind of days. What did not occur to me was that the rubber (or plastic) soles of my sandals might decompose in gasoline. As I got back on the dock and looked down on the dinghy, I could see multiple black footprints on the floor of the boat, made out of melted plastic from the bottom of my beloved sandals. For some inexplicable reason, that became the tipping point. I wish someone had been there to film me losing it on that dock, jumping up and down screaming FUCK! FUCK!! FUCK!!! FUCK!!!! FUUUUUUCK! That would have been Facebook gold for sure.

Sometimes karma’s a bitch, and every so often, life throws me a little curve ball to remind me of my place in the cosmic food chain. Maybe it was that raccoon I hit with my car in 2003, or the time I tried to steal that box of crayons when I was five, or the morbid fascination I have with the natural disasters that befall other people, or the fact that I stopped giving to certain charities, or that I sometimes over-stuff garbage bags that I take to the dump. Hell, I don’t know, maybe it was the accumulation of thousands of other little crimes against humanity of which I am guilty. Sometimes life throws a day like yesterday at me to remind me not to take my good fortune for granted. I lose my perspective from time to time. Lesson learned; thank you. There, I have purged my dysfunction (for a few days).

Shauna never liked those sandals anyway.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 6-5-17

Kareen on left and James in the middle 

It’s been a strange week. I’m fighting that old beast depression, and this past week it grabbed me by the neck like a pit bull. There’s a lady who passed away last week in Huntsville, and although I did not know her well, we’d spent a little time together while James Carroll was undergoing his chemo treatments. Kareen Burns hosted a show at Hunters Bay Radio called K On The Bay and, I believe, she was the longest running show host on HBR. Her interviews were always insightful and interesting. I spent a little time with her on the several occasions when she’d come to visit James at the hospital, and I know she was a good friend and a great comfort to him. A two-time cancer survivor herself, Kareen helped James cope with his anxiety and fear. I can’t say I bonded with her, because most of our contact was when she came to see James. Having faced death more than once, she was well-equipped to help James on his journey.  I felt her strength and determination.

Last Friday afternoon, HBR aired a pre-recorded MyTunes show featuring Kareen. This is a show wherein the featured guest plays and hour of his or her favorite tunes. Kareen pre-recorded this show three weeks ago, and she called her show Kareen’s Death Music. In the show, wherein host Jacob Kriger interviewed her between songs, Kareen discussed, with baffling philosophical detachment, her mortality, and her ongoing 15+ year battle with cancer. At the time of the recording she had not officially learned that her cancer had returned, but I think she knew. The songs she picked were beautiful, and I was moved by her hopeful outlook on life. It was about the time of that MyTunes recording that I learned she was not well. Within three weeks she was gone. Hearing her guest host that show was haunting. One of my many regrets is not getting to know her better.

When James passed away, his death really hit me hard. I’d never experienced grief like that, and it was a sucker punch. I was with him when he received the diagnosis, and I was around him for much of the last months of his life, and although I did not know him for long, we were close at the end. I felt profoundly sad when he died. James was a month younger than I, he was a creative; he was a drinker, and a smoker. I suppose that I was subconsciously thinking, there but for a roll of the dice go I. Were it not for some alignment of the stars, some cosmic arm that pulled the switch and diverted me to a safer track, I suspect things could have gone very differently for me.  

Saturday, I spent some of the day building flower boxes for our garden shed. Flowers are everywhere on our property, because they remind me of my mom. As I put together these boxes, sitting on the front porch, feeding the mosquitoes and feeling strangely ashamed and ungrateful for the blessings I have known, I couldn’t stop thinking about these two relative strangers. I thought of all the others who have touched my life and are now gone. As James ran out of time, there was a chaotic effort on his part to bring order to the end of his life. I got caught in that chaos, and in the no man’s land of another soul’s confrontation with his or her imminent death. Hearing Kareen on the radio last Friday, brought that all back. I look around at my beautiful, disorganized life, which surrounds me like the cloud of dust that surrounds Pigpen in the Charlie Brown comic, and I start asking questions that have no answers. I did not know Kareen well, nor did I know James all that well for that matter, but we became close near his end. The one thing I sensed from all I’ve heard about Kareen, was that she gave more than she received, and that she was driven to help others. I hope I’m worthy of being remembered that way when I go. I’ve learned a great deal from the heroes and strangers who have touched my life. What to make of their loss is something with which I will struggle as long as I live.

 -Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 5/29/17

Today is the 23^rd anniversary of the day Shauna and I wed. We were married at the Royal York Hotel in Toronto and it was a big, beautiful wedding. Friends and family were in attendance from near and far, and I think most of the guests had a blast. While I don’t remember every detail of our wedding, I remember parts of it very clearly. I distinctly remember being extremely sleep-deprived and sitting in a room next to the hall where we were about to be married, waiting for the ceremony to begin. As we were about to sign the ketubah, or the Jewish wedding contract, I noticed a bizarre spectacle through the open door. There was a line of ten or twenty men dressed up as Beefeaters, about to march, and this was practically concurrent with our imminent wedding ceremony. How anyone running that hotel could have missed this possible conflict was beyond me, and all I could imagine was that all our wedding guests were going to think that we were pompous assholes. It looked Kardashian-ian.

Every year on our anniversary, I reflect on what being married to Shauna has meant to me. I was a diehard bachelor, well into my 30s when we met, and the odds were against us entering into a lasting relationship. She lived in Toronto and I was firmly entrenched in Buffalo life, but we shared a passion for music and songwriting. After an extended, long distance relationship, communicating only through letters, faxes, and telephone conversations, we finally met face-to-face for dinner at Niagara-On-The-Lake, months after we first spoke. The first time she visited Buffalo was to surprise me on my birthday. She walked into our real estate office on Delaware Avenue dressed in a gorilla costume, carrying a string of balloons. My best friend (and Best Man) Bob was in on the gag. I think he rented the costume for her, which was, by the way, waaay too big on her. It was hilarious. I remember Bob saying something like “Someone went to a LOT of trouble to pull this off.” Little did she know what she was getting herself into.

We’ve been together for about 24 years now, and it hasn’t always been easy. No relationship is perfect, and anyone who tells you otherwise probably hasn’t been in a long-term relationship. If, as we are approaching, we make it to the ninth round of a marriage, we will be part of an ever-shrinking minority. Some couples stay together because of their kids, some are simply trapped in their dysfunction and cannot bear the thought of being alone. Shauna and I have had great, well-adjusted parents who provided good role models for a healthy relationship. I try not to over-analyze my relationship with Shauna, because we are only part way along our journey. I can honestly say that no other person has ever been as attractive to me as she is, on every level. I think people are becoming less and less equipped to commit to monogamous relationships for whatever reason. In this ever-changing world, it might have something to do with the erosion of our patience and attention spans. Perhaps this is a byproduct of the rise of the computer and cell phone, I don’t know. As the years pass, I think what acts as the glue for us is respect, humor, and a rich, shared history. Shauna knows just about everything there is to know about me; the darkness and the light. She knows me better than I know myself, and accepts me for who I am. This is a comforting notion in a world that is becoming ever more divisive and unloving. Happy 23^rd Boo, I still love you madly and I think you're wonderful. Let’s order a pizza and watch some crappy TV.

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 5/22/17

On one of Shauna’s rare outings, we headed in to Huntsville last Saturday for the Muskoka 2/4 Craft Beer Festival. Although neither of us drinks alcohol anymore, we went to see the local musicians who were performing at the festival and to spend some time with other Hunters Bay Radio volunteers. I attended the event last year, and it was a genuine hoot. There were fifteen craft breweries represented and over 40 beers available on tap, and this year, the festival was even bigger and better than last year. The weather was perfect, and there were back to back stages for non-stop music from noon til about 6:30 p.m. Hunters Bay Radio sponsored the musical entertainment, and I thought the station was well represented by the local musicians who performed. All in all, it was a well-organized and thoroughly enjoyable event.

This week is a busy music week for me. I will be playing some of my songs on the Hunters Bay Radio Live Drive show, Thursday night from 6-7 p.m., and then, next Saturday afternoon, I’m to play at a half-hour set at a Habitat For Humanity fundraiser in Katrine. I haven’t performed in public in a while. Several of the musicians performing at the beer festival asked me why I wasn’t playing the festival, which was flattering. I’ll play if I’m asked, and if it’s for a good cause, but there are plenty of local musicians who are better suited to entertain. In fact, while I love to compose and write songs, I’m not thrilled about performing in public. I do it, simply because I want my songs to be heard, and so far, no one is knocking down the doors to cover my songs. I hope that changes some day, but for now, it's me and my guitar. My friend, the late James Carroll, once told me that I should make no apologies for my art; present it as best I can and let the chips fall where they may.

Last week, I met with noted producer Andre Wahl to lay down the final vocal tracks to one of three songs I’m recording with him. I’m singing a love song I wrote to Shauna entitled, Time We Found. The other two songs, Deeper I Go Into Blue and White Car are sung by fellow singer/songwriters, Paul Lagendyk and Jamie Clarke, respectively. Combined with Andre’s musicians, these singers did a fantastic job, and I can't wait to release the completed tunes.

Next Thursday night, on my Lyrical Workers show at 8  p.m., I shall begin with an interview of co-writers Bobby Cameron and my wife Shauna, before premiering a new song that I began to write over ten years ago. Originally entitled Middle Of Nowhere, and now entitled Where You Live, Where You Die, the song was inspired by the vast and desolate plains of Midwestern Canada. Using that desolation as a metaphor for a state of mind, I called upon my wife Shauna and good friend Bobby Cameron to complete the song. Bobby composed the music and Shauna came up with several strong lines to complete the verse. While I rarely collaborate in my songwriting, the relinquishment of control on this song was clearly the right move. I have great trust in Bobby as a performer and a writer, and I respect Shauna's word crafting as well. This was tricky for me, because a lot of the songs I write include a little piece of my soul. To hand them over to other writers, artists, and producers, sometimes with the knowledge that the songs may be altered, is off-putting. As I now begin to release these songs to the public, for however much recognition they may receive, I now become vulnerable to the opinions and creative visions of other, sometimes more successful artists. It can be challenging to the ego, but co-writing is a logical next step towards becoming a better songwriter. I hope you’ll listen to the Live Drive on Thursday night from 6-7 p.m. and/or to the 8 p.m. premier of the new song.

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 5/14/17

Mom with Joanne

As I sit down to begin this week’s installment, I almost forgot it’s Mother’s Day. Alas, I am one of a growing number of orphans. My mom passed in 2011 and Dad preceded her by two years. I miss them both a lot, but I do not mourn their loss. The last years of their lives were difficult, as I suspect they are with most elders, but I’m getting to the point where I only remember the good times. They both lived long and interesting lives, and I am thankful to have had them for as long as I did. They were both wonderful parents, and with their patient, intelligent guidance I somehow managed to avoid any jail time, to date. I was hardly the perfect child, and I’m sure I gave my mother fits.

Last Friday night, Sarah Coombs, the host of the afternoon show at Hunters Bay Radio, called her mom live on air and asked her to recount three of Sarah’s more memorable childhood screw-ups. The stories were amusing. I have a few of those stories as well. When I was only four or five years old, my mom took me with her to run some errands, which included a trip to Wards Pharmacy near our house in Buffalo. While she was talking to the pharmacist, I grabbed a box of crayons and attempted to smuggle them out of the store. Unpracticed as I was in the fine art of thievery, I chose a giant box of crayons, and was not particularly effective at concealing them. Of course, Mom immediately caught me, and she made me admit my transgression to the pharmacist. She told me he’d probably call the police and have me thrown in jail if I did not beg for mercy, and agree to eat broccoli and spinach without protest for the rest of my life. Needless to say, this was one of many important lessons my mom taught me. I suspect many of my readers out there have or had great moms. It’s a tough and sometimes thankless job.

I’ve written a few songs that deal peripherally with my parents, and they might seem in some ways unsympathetic. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. I usually infuse some fiction in my songs to keep my distance, and to make the songs more universal. In the aforementioned songs I explore the complicated relationships we have with our parents, as the real human beings they are. The song dealing with my mom is called “Laughing” and I still have not finished it, three or four years after beginning it. It’s about a photo taken of Mom, a year or so after my thirteen-year-old sister had been hit and killed by a truck while crossing the street in Buffalo. In the photo, Mom was on a horse riding out West. She was smiling, but it was the Mona Lisa smile of a woman with had many secrets. “Wherein lies the truth behind the flash of a camera smile…” I could not know the pain she felt, I was three years old at the time, but I believe everything that happens to our parents eventually trickles down to us. Tragedy could have destroyed my mom, but it didn't.

I don’t know what it is to be a parent. We never had children, but more and more I'm growing to respect the ones who get it right. Even with the best of intentions, parents occasionally do emotional harm to their kids. Sometimes it’s a chain of abuse that is hard to break, and I’m always impressed when a parent does not transfer his or her struggles onto the children. No matter what happened to my mother in her life, and she had her share of tribulation, she never showed anything but love and respect for her children. Increasingly, I see how remarkable that is. As the world gets more complicated, it is perhaps harder and harder for mothers to protect their children from turmoil. Some do a better job than others. Today, I offer my posthumous “I love you Mom!” and I mean it with all my heart. To pay it forward, I hope to pass on some of the love and respect she showed to me. To all of you good mothers out there, bless you for all you do.

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 5/8/17

Recognize the guy in the middle?

Every Thursday night, from 6-7 p.m., Hunters Bay Radio broadcasts a live performance on-air and online. Whenever possible, and because my show airs afterwards on the same night, I try to attend these performances. When I first joined the radio station, my friend, the late James Carroll hosted the show. It was in his capacity as host of Live Drive that I came to know and love James, because he was such an enthusiastic and generous supporter of local musicians. After James passed away, Ara Aycan took over as host for around a year, and the current host is a guy from Bracebridge named Joe Thompson, or “Silver Lake Joe” as he likes to be called. Silver Lake Joe has been doing a great job, and the word is getting out in the Canadian music community that HBR is a very musician-friendly station. Last week, Live Drive featured an artist named Darrin Davis, who drove all the way up from Orillia to perform. He has a distinctive voice, he played some good original songs, and I really enjoyed his performance. Best of all, he was affable, humble, and appreciative.

Dealing with musicians can be a hassle. Some are unreliable, others simply lack any business sense whatsoever. We ask our performers for bios to post on Facebook before the show, and often they do not comply, or do so only at the last minute. Some simply don’t get it; we are promoting them. Having attended well over forty of these live shows over the past two years, I’ve seen all kinds of artists, and sometimes the egos trump the talent. Most of the vets who have been doing this for a long time are relatively humble. On the road, playing a few hundred lonely bar gigs to rooms full of inattentive drunks, they’ve grown some perspective on their place in the musical food chain. While radio is not generally a paying gig, it is exposure to a larger, attentive audience. Serious songwriters and musicians value that exposure. Some don’t, and I’m somewhat amused to watch a neophyte performer with a bloated ego. I’m ready for my close-up Mr. Demille.

Back when I regularly played open mics, it seemed as if the people with the least amount of talent were always the ones who were the highest maintenance. If you’re doing a fifteen-minute set at an open mic, wherein a dozen other performers are waiting to play, get on and get off. Don’t give the sound man a hard time, don’t spend twenty minutes setting up, and leave your attitude at the door. Some musicians don’t give Hunters Bay Radio the support I feel the station deserves, because it’s a pro bono gig. Everyone thinks his or her performance is worthy of attention (and compensation), and that they deserve to be heard. In reality, there are always other artists out there who are more talented, and are not full of themselves. I remember one arrogant, semi-local (and painfully bad) songwriter who performed at Live Drive last year. When I asked him for his mailing address, he reluctantly gave it to me, but said that he usually doesn’t, because he is so inundated with adoring fans. I had to stifle a guffaw. A legend in his own mind.

To perform in public is a privilege. Well-paying gigs are becoming fewer and further between, and the field is becoming more competitive. Most experienced musicians recognize the value of free radio exposure, and a lot of the serious ones are proactive about seeking the recognition they may deserve. A lot of people dream of success in the music business, but after 35 years writing songs, I believe it takes a lot more than raw talent. I’ve seen unbelievable, vastly under-recognized songwriters perform at Hunters Bay Radio, and they are typically humble, cooperative men and women. It takes talent, diplomacy, and a little luck to get a break. A little perspective will go a long way to help those who seek recognition to achieve their goals.

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 5/1/17

April showers bring May snowstorms, is that how the saying goes? As I begin this report on Sunday, the mercury is hovering around 33F Degrees, and once again I was fooled by a few warm, sunny days. You’d think I’d have learned by now, but every year I make the same mistake. Tempted by a couple of tee-shirt-weather days, I was at the local supermarket on Saturday, saw all the lovely spring flowers on display, and succumbed to the urge to adorn our yard with the first colors of spring. They shouldn’t put that stuff out yet for suckers like me! Experienced locals here in the Almaguin Highlands know it’s best to wait until late May to plant anything around here. Still, every year I buy something before the last frost, and then pay the price. As the Irish might say, “Today (Sunday) the weather is desperate!”. I just brought our traumatized plant in from the cold, hoping it will survive. Not known for my green thumb, I am slowly learning some hard lessons about what will and will not grow up here. 

Here in the Muskoka and Almaguin Highlands regions, we are in hardiness zones 5A and 4B. The lower the number, the more severe the climate, and the hardier the plants must be to survive. It bothers me that local garden shops routinely sell trees and shrubs that will not survive in this region. We keep a small vegetable garden during the summer, but it’s a short growing season. Many years ago, when we were building our house, I bought one of those “Topsy Turvy” upside down tomato planters you’ve probably seen advertised on TV. I planted cherry tomatoes – our favorites - in early June. By the time the plant finally bore fruit, it was late August, and just before they ripened, there was a hard frost. All was lost. Up here in the near north, you snooze you lose.

I watched part of the White House Correspondents' dinner last week, and heard young Daily Show comedian, Hasan Minhaj, roast Donald Trump (in absentia). It’s no surprise that the thin-skinned Trump would not attend this affair, because the dinner lauds those whom he considers to be creators of “fake news”. I thought Minhaj got off to a slow start, but he picked up steam in the second half of his routine, and I love to hear almost any comedian mocking Trump. It is, after all, a little like shooting fish in a barrel. I’m no fan of mainstream media, and I think many major news sources are reporting with considerable bias. That said, I do not like the direction in which this Trump administration is heading, and any attack on freedom of speech is a potential threat to our democracy. This whole battle is beginning to remind me of Edward R. Murrow vs. Senator Joe McCarthy. By the way, no one is more fact-challenged than our Commander-In-Tweet and his band of silly spokespersons. From Spicey, equating the Syrian conflict with Hitler’s Germany, to the never-before reported “Bowling Green Massacre”, to Trump’s latest boner about Andrew Jackson’s involvement in the Civil War, we are being inundated with alternative facts. Perhaps Donald should hire a tutor in American history before he opens his pie hole in public again. We’re in trouble when the average elementary school history buff knows more than our President about American history. I would not disagree that there is too much spin and misinformation in the media today, but Trump and his boneheaded minions are re-writing history.  I listened to Watergate reporters Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward speak about the dangers of an administration that eschews the media, and those two guys know a little bit about the dangers of letting a government spin out of control. 

At the end of his roast, Minhaj joked that Trump would probably tweet about how terrible the Nicki Minaj speech was during the dinner. I guess it would be a funnier joke if it weren’t so true. Ignorance is not a good foundation for leadership, and I fear it is contagious. Look at the bright side: only about 1366 days to go!!  

  
-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 4/24/17

A few days ago, I got a letter from my lawyer in Buffalo regarding some family matters, and at the end of the letter she complained a bit about the Buffalo Sabres. The team hasn’t made the playoffs in a long time, they’ve been such a disappointment, etc. When I lived in Buffalo, my family held seasons tickets to Sabres games, from the very beginning of the franchise. My dad was friends with one of the owners of the team, and one of my uncles sat on the Board of Directors. As a kid, I went to a lot of the home games, back when guys like Tim Horton and Eddie Shack were on the team. I remember the glory days when “The French Connection” was one of the hottest lines in the NHL. I remember Jim Lorenz swatting a bat out of the air with his stick during a Stanley Cup finals game with the Flyers. That Flyers series was (I believe) one of two times the Sabres ever made it to the Stanley Cup finals. They’ve never won the cup, and it doesn’t look like they’re going to anytime soon. Over the 40+ years that I have been following the team, there have been a lot of hopeful moments, and a boat load of heartache.  

I used to joke with other hockey fans that I was a glutton for punishment, because for over three decades I was a Sabres fan, and then I moved to Toronto and evolved into a Leafs fan. I finally turned into a fan back in the mid to late nineties, after realizing how crazy, supportive, and enthusiastic the Leafs fans were. After a long drought, the Leafs made the first round of the playoffs one year, and there was a huge party on Yonge Street. People were hanging out of cars hand-painted with the Leafs’ logo and colors, there was dancing in the streets, there were zany fans dressed in crazy Leafs costumes; there was elation. It was exhilarating to see. Here was one of the oldest NHL teams, in one of Canada’s biggest cities, it had been struggling near the bottom of the league for a long time, and still the home games always sold out. There will always be Toronto Maple Leafs fans.   

I spoke to a good friend from Buffalo (a Sabres supporter) last night, after the Leafs lost Game 6 in overtime to the league-leading Washington Capitals. He was impressed with the team. Nobody expected this young Leafs team to give the Caps a run for their money, but they sure did. Every single game of the series went into overtime, and it really could have gone either way each game. More important, the Leafs seemed to be on fire, and they never gave up. Of course, I wanted the team to win, but I was also happy to see them giving it all they’ve got. It might have been the best, most exciting playoff series I have ever watched, involving a team I support. For the first time since I began following this team, I’m very excited about their future. I think they’re the youngest team in the league and they will do nothing but grow.

To be a fan of any professional sports team, one must learn to accept defeat. No matter how good a team is, they will eventually lose games. I love watching the underdog prevail, t gives me hope. Sometimes fans must wait a long time, decades, for their moment of glory. Ask a Cubs fan. It’s tough to stick by a team that has been bad for so long, but I really think maybe the Leafs are finally going in the right direction. It couldn’t happen in a more supportive city than Toronto. I spoke to my best friend in Buffalo and I told him that my lawyer had sold her last home game Sabres tickets to a couple of Leafs fans. He felt that was betrayal, and that a real fan would not support the opposing team by selling tickets to their fans. I’m still a closet Sabres fan, and probably always will be. Buffalo is my hometown. I think Toronto should be proud of their Leafs, maybe for the first time in a long time. No matter who we root for, there will always be pain. That said, I’m always  looking forward to the next season.

 -Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 4/17/17

A belated Happy Easter to all my gentile friends, and a Happy Passover to all my fellow Jews. Yom Kippur and Passover are my two favorite Jewish holidays because they involve suffering. On Yom Kippur, a day of atonement, we Jews fast from sundown to sundown, and on Passover, we eat disgusting foods like gefilte fish and matzo for a little over a week. As far as suffering goes, I think the gefilte fish wins the prize, and I don’t think it is even one of the foods meant to symbolize hardship. Gefilte fish has the consistency of Jell-o; fish Jell-o is not something I want to put in my mouth. As a child, I used to loathe Seder suppers, because some well-meaning aunt would always insist I try “just one bite.” To boot, gefilte fish is as revolting to look at as it is to eat. It looks like doughy, beige, cellulite-riddled, thigh fat.

Sadly,  Dr. Joe Greenberg, a good friend of ours, passed away last Tuesday at the ripe old age of 95. Though I have not seen Joe in years, I used to write him from time to time, and Shauna and I spoke to him semi-regularly on the phone. The last time we spoke to “Dr.Joe,” as he was affectionately known by his patients and friends, was on the phone last summer. He sounded weak, but that did not stop him from telling a silly joke, or expressing genuine interest in our lives. Regrettably, we could not attend his funeral in Toronto, but I am not surprised that it was very well-attended. To follow are a few thoughts about this remarkable and popular man for whom I grew to care so deeply.

I first met Joe Greenberg and his wife Pepi in Toronto, at our wedding in 1994. His brother Dave’s wife is a first cousin to Shauna’s mom E.T., and the Greenberg and the Taylor families were very close. I grew to know Joe over the next several years, when I saw him at family events, or when, on occasion, he provided medical care for Shauna. While he was not our primary physician, his office was near our apartment in Toronto, and when one of Shauna’s many chronic illnesses would flair up, Joe was kind enough to see us on a moment’s notice. He was one of a handful of general practitioners left in Toronto who really sacrificed everything for his patients. He had what so many doctors today lack: great bedside manner, and he was one of an even smaller number of doctors who still made house calls. He was a great doctor, well-respected within the medical community, and yet he was also a humble man. His obituary describes in detail some of Joe’s finer achievements (http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/thestar/obituary.aspx?n=h-joseph-greenberg&pid=185066972), but for me, Joe was most notable for his unfailing love of most human beings. He was one of the kindest and most generous men I have ever met.

To sit in the waiting room of Dr. Joe’s office on Bathurst St. near College St. was an adventure in people watching. Patients from all walks of life packed his little office every day, many without appointments. When you were one of Joe’s patients, you became a part of his family. He’d come out of his office to call in the next patient, and engage all of us in his conversations. He was the brightest light in the room. Inevitably, patients would end up talking to each other in that waiting room, and there was always something new to learn about Joe’s many acts of kindness. When we were finally alone with him in his office, he always made us feel like we were his best friends, grilling us about personal details of our lives; always making us feel special. He told us stories about his past, he told jokes, he was warm and ingratiating; but he was an effective doctor as well. Clearly, Joe believed that compassion was part of the healing process, and I can’t think of any doctors who knew as much about or cared as much for his patients.

I watched a video on Facebook the other day, because tributes to this wonderful man are popping up all over the internet. Taped about five years ago, the interview deals with Joe’s experiences during WWII. In it he discussed six neighborhood boys who went off to fight in Europe, including himself. Only he and one other young man survived to return home. He cries during the video, and his grief is a palpable expression of the grief of all his fellow veterans. One of the many things I loved about Joe was that he wasn’t afraid to express his emotions. Stoicism may be widely considered to be a masculine trait, but I think Joe embodied the best qualities in any great man. In a world where our Commander-In-Tweet churns out ill-considered insults like a spoiled ten-year-old, Joe was the silent, cheerful hero. He was the real deal. Modest, intelligent, eloquent, funny, compassionate, kind; loving; Joe was a blessing to all who knew him.

They say it is meaningful and a great honour when a Jew’s death falls on a high holy day. My beloved father-in-law Syd passed on the eve of Yom Kippur. Dr. Joe died during Passover. I think he’d just had enough of the gefilte fish. Goodbye, my dear friend.  
 
Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 4/10/17

As I sit here Sunday night to begin this week’s report, I am listening to Ella Fitzgerald sing a Cole Porter tune on the Hunters Bay Radio Sunday night Martini Music show. Always trying to expand my musical horizons, I am learning to appreciate great songwriting in all genres of music. Besides, I feel somewhat compelled to listen to Martini Music, considering that the host, my 92 year-old mother-in-law Ethel “E.T.” Taylor, is presently visiting us for a few weeks. Today was one of those idyllic, early spring days, during which the mercury climbed above 60F degrees, and the sun burned away the blues (and grays). E.T. sat out in front of the house, in full view of the slowly melting frozen lake, armed with a cup full of seeds to feed the birds. I zapped into town on the ATV to give it an “Italian tune-up” (high-revving run to blow out the carburetor) and to buy some groceries. I then took Jasper for a long walk to sniff the newly uncovered winter debris. Nothing says “spring” like soggy, rotting vegetation. Our next door neighbors were up from Toronto to begin opening up their cottage. Spring Fever is in the air.

Last Saturday night, Shauna and I attended a concert in Huntsville, marking the release of local singer/songwriter Christina Hutt’s first EP. I first met Christina a few summers ago, at an outdoor concert in Huntsville. She was about to play an open mic at one of the local pubs, and, buoyed by the encouragement and mentoring from some established Canadian artists like Rita Chiarelli and Katherine Wheatley, she was eager to perform in public. At the time, I remember thinking to myself that her enthusiasm would soon be tempered. From my experiences, I’ve grown cynical whenever I see an emerging, hopeful musician.  When I finally did hear her sing, weeks later, I realized Christina has something special. Her tone, her vibrato, and her delivery are spellbinding.

The concert began with an improvisational set by Jack Nickalls on acoustic guitar, using a looping pedal to double track his music. Jack is the very talented fifteen year-old son of Grant Nickalls, Hunters Bay Radio weekday morning show host (and local actor/celebrity), and he is rapidly becoming a great guitarist. Particularly noteworthy to me was his jam on the bass riff to Ray Charles’ Hit The Road Jack. It was inspired, and it really set the tone for the rest of the evening. Next up was James Gray, producer of Christina’s new EP. Having toured all across Canada and parts of Western Europe, and recently back from a musical tour of Australia, James has over the past several years developed a stage presence that elevates his performances to the level of a seasoned professional. He forges a real connection with his audiences, and it is only through the experience of touring and interacting with audiences that one creates this connection. I didn’t feel it two years ago, when I first saw him play, but last Saturday night, I knew I was watching a pro.

Next up was Christina, accompanied by James on guitar, and the very talented Marion Linton on violin. Marion is featured on the new EP (as well as many other local and probably national recordings) and she adds so much to the production of every song to which she contributes. Christina’s set was lovely, hypnotizing in fact. It included a few covers, as well as all the original songs from her new EP. I knew she was prepared, but she exceeded my wildest expectations. For Shauna and me, it is always rewarding to watch local artists develop over time. Christina is probably the most improved local artist I’ve had the pleasure to follow, and I’ve been fortunate enough to work with her on more than one occasion.  The very first time I saw her perform, she was shy and a little awkward on stage, but once she began to sing, she was riveting.  Still, an artist needs more than raw talent to attract a following, and the woman I saw perform at Trinity United Church last Saturday night, accompanied by two seasoned musicians, had reached a new benchmark. She was developing what James has: a connection with the audience. Although I really have nothing to do with her improvement, I felt the same pride welling up that I feel when I see any artist who so obviously develops their performing skills. Christina’s new EP is available through Hunters Bay Radio, and probably online as well. I look forward to the day when one or a few of these emerging local talents attracts some national and international attention. Christina Hutt could be one of those artists.                      -  Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED      

The Oppenheimer Report 4/3/17

I had an email from one of my readers (and sometime listener to the radio show) who’d read last week’s rant about design flaws. He suggested that I scrap the Honda touch screen radio and go buy an after-market unit that was more user-friendly. Were that it was so simple! My old car came equipped with a stackable CD player, which meant that one could load as many as six discs into the unit at one time. While it worked fine for many years, it was problematic as well and eventually froze up, with a CD stuck in the unit.  I was told that in some newer cars, it can be a problem to install after-market players. I took it to a guy up here and he installed a very simple but effective Kenwood unit, which served me very well for the next two and one half years. The sound was noticeably better than the original factory-installed unit, and it included a blue tooth connection that allowed me to run my cell phone through it, as well as a stereo jack to accept auxiliary players. I could then play my field recorder in my car and hear live concerts I’d recorded over the car stereo. These features are standard with a lot of cars today, but back in 2006, they were not. I really miss that after-market Kenwood. If and when I keep this new Honda longer than the stereo lasts, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to replace it easily, because the unit is tied in with the onboard navigation system.

Let me for a moment talk about GPS technology. Troglodyte that I am, I got along just fine with a road map for the majority of my driving career. As a real estate broker in Western New York, I also had some fairly detailed city maps which I could consult when I was in an unfamiliar part of town. I purchased my first GPS, a Garmin, after I moved up to Toronto. It was fairly easy to use (i.e luddite-friendly) and I did find the technology helpful. That said, it was not entirely reliable, and directed me to more than one dead end. It helps to have a general  idea where your destination lies before you rely on the GPS. As well, sometimes territories re-develop, and the unit then needs to be updated. My second GPS unit was a TomTom and it was entirely UNsatisfactory. Equipped with voice activated technology, that TomTom was a piece of computerized crap. It required constant time-consuming updates on the computer, and was hard to program. One day, I was driving along Hwy 401, one of Toronto’s busiest and most congested highways, and the unit went completely berserk. It froze, and began to make a distracting noise, rather like a damaged CD. There I was, on a busy highway, and I couldn’t even get the thing to turn off! I came very close to throwing it out the window.  I have never had much luck with voice-activated controls. Shauna’s car has that feature for making phone calls, but it hardly ever works properly.

Further to my discussion last week about design flaws, and labor-saving technology which is anything but, I watched a segment on The Daily Show With Trevor Noah, which made me chuckle. They did a bit on the oxymoron of “smart technology”, ranting about silly unneccessary applications that are designed to improve our lives. There is apparently a hair brush now, equipped with some kind of sensor to alert the user when he or she is brushing too vigorously. An alarm sounds,  warning the user to brush more gently. Perhaps we have reached the tipping point here. Who needs this? That comedy bit summed up the way I feel about much of this high tech nonsense. There has been a lot of talk in the media over the past month about surveillance technology and computer hacking. I have known for a long time that hackers can get into my computer and steal my deepest darkest secrets. Now I have learned that hackers can spy on me using my computer camera or a myriad of other computer operated devices. I still don’t understand how it possible to spy on someone using a microwave oven, but admittedly, I am not the brightest person when it comes to technology. There are applications on smart phones that will allow the user to interface with the alarm systems on their homes, turn on their lights, program their PVR s, etc. While all of these things may sound remarkable, as one computer expert suggested, anything that employs computer technology to control something else remotely can be hacked. How would you feel if you tried to disable your security alarm system and someone had changed the password, or better yet, locked you out of your house?
Almost everything is run by computers now, and this should be of concern to everyone.

It is becoming increasingly clear that hackers from some country - and sorry Donald, it probably was Russia – interfered or tried to interfere with the American elections. A teenager in Markham, Ontario somehow managed to hack into the Canada Revenue Agency a few years ago. Look at all the havoc WikiLeaks has wreaked by releasing sensitive information on a number of governments around the world. Maybe I’ve been watching too much Mr. Robot, but I am concerned. When it comes down to who has the smartest hackers, I’m not entirely confident that a country that willingly elected Donald Trump will be the ones to protect us from cyber-attacks. When I look at all the things going wrong with computer technology today, it makes me want to tear my hair out. Then again, I won’t even be able to do that, because my computerized hair brush will sound an alarm if I try.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED    

The Oppenheimer Report 3/27/17

Today’s rant concerns little but annoying design failures. Most but not all of these little problems are directly related to winter conditions. First up is my Ariens 27” Deluxe snow blower. We bought the machine about six or seven years ago, and it has in most ways been a satisfactory snow blower. We do have a snowplow guy, but in an emergency I need to be able to clear our driveway. As well, after heavy snowfalls, I use our snow blower to cut back the sides of the ever-narrowing driveway path, when we run out of places to put the snow. In fact, that snow blower has come in very handy since we purchased it. That said, I’ve probably used it 25 times since we bought it. The other day, I went out to start it, and the manual pull starter cord broke. It seems that a starter cord should last longer than forty or fifty pulls, but that’s the way the cookie crumbles. I did not intend to replace the cord myself, because I’m wary of messing with recoil springs, but I did look up the replacement procedure on YouTube. After watching a video, I figured I could at least remove the recoil mechanism and take that relatively small part to a mechanic for repair. For almost all snow blowers this is an easy procedure: remove four bolts and the recoil mechanism comes off. I must have one of the only models wherein the recoil housing is riveted to the engine block. To remove the recoil assembly one must drill out the rivets. Why would anyone design a part, one that will inevitably need replacement, to be so difficult to disassemble? Now, I must take the whole machine to the repair shop, which means transporting it in my landscape trailer, which means waiting until the snow melts! 

Next up in the “what-were-they-thinking” department is Shauna’s 2011 Nissan Juke. Not only have there been a laundry list of recalls on the car, but there have been a myriad of electrical failures and design flaws. One winter day, Shauna could not open the gas cap lid because it was frozen shut. Great design! The other day, I tried to start the car in sub-zero conditions, and there wasn’t enough juice in the battery. I pulled the hood release to pop the hood and give the battery a jump, but nothing happened. I could not open the hood. I called the Nissan dealership, and their solution is to tow the car to a dealer, on a flatbed trailer. When the weather warmed up a bit, I managed to get the car running, and took it to a local car mechanic to have this relatively simple problem fixed. Had I been out on the open road I would have been S.O.L. Why must there be a hood release inside the car anyway? Inevitably, the interior release involves a wire cable, and this is just one more part to fail. I've read that Nisson is notorious for electronical problems, and in my opinion this is becoming a bigger and bigger problem with a lot of new cars. The Juke has tire pressure sensors, which I think are completely unnecessary. I can see when my tires are low on air. Every season, when we put on the snow tires, the tire “low pressure” light comes on, even though the tires are properly inflated, and it can only be reset at a Nissan dealer, or someone with the expensive diagnostic tools used by Nisson.

My new Honda is not without its design flaws. There is a back-up camera installed on the rear hatch of the car which, in theory, helps me to see what is behind me when I’m backing out of or into a parking space. Unfortunately, the camera is so placed that, if there is any precipitation whatsoever, it immediately becomes covered in grime and useless. In other words, half the time it is un-usable. The radio on this Honda is supposed to be state of the art, but in fact it is horribly counter-intuitive. It involves a touch screen (I dislike touch screens intensely), and every time the car is turned off, it is a two-step process to get back to the radio screen. While some radio controls are available on the steering wheel, many are not. On every other car stereo I’ve owned, the CD player is simple and easy to use. It typically includes fast forward and rewind controls that allow the listener to scroll through a song. I often want to hear a lyric repeated, but with this system, I can only jump ahead to the next song, or back to the beginning of the song being played. If the car is turned off with a CD in the player, unless the CD was being played when the car was turned off, it will not recognize that CD until it is ejected and re-inserted. Disregarding the minor annoyance of these design flaws, there is the obvious issue of distraction. It is against the law to operate a cell phone while driving a car, but operating this Honda radio requires more attention than texting on a phone. It’s absolutely ridiculous, especially when the weather is frigid and the control screen becomes unresponsive to my touch. Don’t even get me started on voice activated controls.This is not progress folks.

My philosophy is “don’t fix it if it ain’t broke.” While many of the electronic devices used into new car technology improve fuel efficiency and perhaps safety, some of them are just annoying, unnecessary, and complicated to fix. I look forward to the imminent release of the mass-produced self-driving car. I hope they aren’t designed by the guy who dreamed up my car stereo. Computer-operated autos: what could possibly go wrong there?

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED      

The Oppenheimer Report - 3/20/17

Saturday night, we drove down to Toronto for one of our whirlwind concert adventures. We picked up Shauna’s 92 year-old mom E.T., and headed over to Roy Thompson Hall to see Chris Botti perform with his band. For those unfamiliar with Chris Botti, he is a world class, Grammy Award-winning trumpet player whom Shauna and I have seen four or five times. As a teenager, Botti was good enough to play with Frank Sinatra and his band. Now into his fifties, he is the headliner, touring with only the best musicians. The first time we saw him, many years ago, he opened for Sting at Massey Hall. We had no idea who he was at the time, but we were astounded by his talent. Since then, we try to see him any chance we get. The summer before last, we took E.T. to see him perform at Roy Thompson Hall, while she was recovering from a bad fall. She’d broken her neck that spring and for a while there, we didn’t know whether she’d ever be able to resume a normal life. That concert was her first outing after the accident, and it was a game changer for her spirits. She was wearing a rather imposing neck brace, and when Botti came down from the stage to play in the aisles, he noticed her, and played an entire solo standing right in front of her. Jump ahead eighteen months, to last Saturday night, when we were in roughly the same seats, in the same venue, but on the other side of the aisle. He must have recognized E.T., even without her neck brace, and didn’t he play to her again! After serenading her with a beautiful solo, he took her hand and asked her how she was doing. We’re not sure why we were so fortunate. That kind gesture surely made E.T.’s night. A lady in the audience, Caroline Farquhar, videotaped the event, and it is now posted on YouTube as well as on Shauna's Facebook page.

As I said, Botti always travels with exceptional musicians, and he had a virtuoso violinist with him Saturday night who was remarkably entertaining. Her name is Sandy Cameron and, not only is she an excellent violinist, but her emotion was palpable. She leapt around the stage like a cheetah, visibly acting out every note she played with passion and fire. Chris Botti seems to be extremely supportive of young musicians coming up the ranks, and often at his concerts, he will call up some young musician from the audience to join him onstage. This is always a thrill for the kids and audience alike. At a time when funding for the arts is drying up, musicians like Chris Botti are the inspirations for the next generation.

Last Friday night, I got a taste of that sentiment at our local open stage at the Burk’s Falls Legion. The “3rd Friday Coffee House” typically includes five or six acts, and the performances range from fair to inspired. For me, the best part about these local concerts is that they encourage the community to come together and support its own. Most famous musicians will probably tell you they got their start with the support of parents, or someone in their local community. YouTube is filled with videos of young stars in the making, performing at local venues. Last Friday night, local resident and professional musician, Sean Cotton, took the stage with his son Jesse and the rest of Jesse’s band. I really enjoyed the set, wherein Jesse played four or five of his original songs, and I recorded the performance. Today, I dropped off a copy to Sean. I often record local performances because I know it is helpful to hear one’s live performances. After thirty five years of playing open mics in various places, I know that every so often, there will be a live performance which is exceptional. For me, nothing compares to the experience of seeing and hearing good music performed live. Perhaps due to the increasing popularity of YouTube, and the availability of on-demand video of almost any performance one might want to see, there seems to be waning interest in attending live performances. I read that some music festivals are struggling to survive because they can’t sell enough seats. As well, some of the clubs and small venues are facing similar challenges. I will always prefer a good live performance to a studio recording.

Driving home from the Botti concert in the moonless, rainy, wee hours of Sunday morning, I heard on the radio that the legendary Chuck Berry had passed away. He was ninety years old. In my head, I could hear Johnny Winter’s live version of Berry’s hit Johnny B. Goode. I hope that when I pass on, I will leave behind at least one memorable song. Maybe one of those young musicians coming up through the ranks will have a hit with a Jamie Oppenheimer original.  

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED      

The Oppenheimer Report - 3/13/17

Today I took a walk along the perimeter of our frozen lake wearing snowshoes. After a recent thaw, the lake re-froze, and in so doing caused ice to expand and pile up against the shore. I took some photographs of the phenomenon, hiked down the bay for about a quarter mile, then headed home. It's been brutally cold this past week and while spring is officially just around the corner, after a strange and unseasonably warm February, we are once again hearing the expression "polar vortex" in the forcast. Apparently there is at least one more whopper of a winter storm blowing this way, and I'm ready to bid this winter adieu. To follow is an old Opp Report I wrote on January 24, 1999 ...

1/24/99 - Coming from Buffalo, I am always amused to watch inexperienced drivers try to negotiate snow. Some people just can’t figure it out, and, as a result, the rest of  us suffer. This is why I am offering the following helpful tips about driving in winter weather:

1. If you park outside in the winter, as many people do, clear the snow off your windows before you begin driving ... that is, assuming you have enough common sense  to carry a snow brush and/or scraper. Otherwise, you’re flying blind until your defroster kicks in, and this is no way to face the onslaught of other commuter cretins, bent on endangering the general public with their imbecilic lack of common sense. Why not just blindfold yourself, hit the accelerator  and hope for the best?

2. A good rule of thumb is that, if the snowbank into which your car has been plowed is higher than your wheels, you aren’t going anywhere until you DIG YOURSELF OUT. That is, with a shovel. The laws of physics being what they are, one cannot remove a car from a snowbank by throwing the car into DRIVE and furiously gunning the engine.  If, in your pursuit of the ultimate urban assault vehicle, you are ridiculous  enough to own a Hummer, you might actually be able to extricate yourself from a snowbank with brute 4-wheel drive force. Then again,  Hummers are so wide they don’t fit down most unplowed side streets. Which brings me  to tip #3...

3. Just because you bought a four-wheel drive vehicle - and this does not even include those puny little “all wheel drive” rice burners with their piddling little toothpick drive trains - doesn’t mean your vehicle  will get you through anything. Snow tires and ABS will help, but all vehicles will slide on ice.  Also, four-wheel drive is substantially more expensive to repair when you overestimate its abilities and burn out your transmission. I read an article in the Wall Street Journal (and quit snickering ... I read real newspapers sometimes) about all the meatheads with expensive four wheel drive vehicles, who  became stranded during the latest big snow storm in Chicago. Many of them blew up their engines and transmissions trying unsuccessfully to free themselves from snowbanks. This, of course, has been a windfall for transmission shops and dealer service departments, but represents a four thousand dollar transmission repair bill  for the clueless owners. Learn to rock your car out of a snowbank, and know when to give up. If you car isn’t moving at all while you continuously spin your wheels for twenty minutes, maybe you’re not  oing anywhere without a good push, CAA, AAA,  or a tow truck. Get over it.

                                  

One of the best cars I ever owned for its  winter traction was my 1970 VW Beetle.  Front wheel drive is good too, but one must understand the concept of under steer. My friend Bob and I once got “busted” by a Niagara Falls Park policeman in the Goat Island parking lot, which in Western New York is widely respected as the winter proving grounds for all vehicles you don’t care too much about. We were “running some tests” on under steer, and got a little carried away. We found out that, with front wheel drive, it’s  much easier to  do a “360" in reverse, during which epiphany we almost hit several light standards. We also learned a valuable lesson that saved me from many a snowbank encounter.  With front wheel drive, if you go into a turn too fast, and experience under steer, hit the parking brake for a moment, and the back end will kick around. Bob told the policeman we were from Road and Track, but I don’t think the guy bought it.

                                                                     

Seriously folks, if you don’t know how to drive in snow, figure it out, or don’t drive. Practice in an icy parking lot ... buy Buffalo Jim’s Ninja Winter Driving Video. Trust me, I’m from Buffalo ... I have a black belt in winter driving. 

                      -Jamie Oppenheimer

The Oppenheimer Report - 3/6/17

Last weekend was a memorable one for me. Friday, I headed down south to attend a recording session with the very talented producer Andre Wahl. My somewhat undefined goal for my next album is to include other local artists to cover a few of my songs. Andre graciously agreed to produce three of my songs, piggybacking my recording session with another he was scheduled to do at a studio in Washago. Last weekend marked my first experience in a proper recording studio, and it was something I've dreamed of doing for the past forty years.

I was nervous, because I did not know what would be expected of me, but I arrived in the Orillia studio, and was immediately greeted by four friendly musicians. Within ten minutes, my butterflies were gone and then it was down to business. We began with a love song I wrote for Shauna many years ago entitled “Time We Found”, which Andre and the band unanimously agreed should be the song I sing. I had given the crew a rough demo I’d made, and from that demo they charted and arranged the song. Performing with these obviously seasoned studio musicians was such a pleasure for me, because they are so intuitive and creative. As we ran through the song, I heard the arranging process unfold before me. Each successive take was a little more refined than the last, and it was fascinating to hear musicians and their producer interacting and discussing what worked and what did not. By the third or fourth take the song began to come together, and I could feel the energy in the room as we built an interesting arrangement from a rough demo. We ran through the song eight or nine times before it was the way they wanted it.  Fully rehearsed, the song was then recorded. There may be some minor overdubs, but the song will be essentially as it was recorded off the floor. I then went into a separate booth and recorded several takes of the vocals. Thankfully, I will have a chance to re-record those, because after an hour of singing the same song, my untrained voice was not at its best. Although he has his work cut out for him, I am confident Andre will extract an acceptable vocal from me.

My friend and country singer-songwriter Paul Lagandyk was up next to record a country ballad “Deeper I Go Into Blue” which I’d written over two decades ago. He has a little more experience in the studio, has recorded his own album with Andre Wahl, and is a far better singer than I. The song came together well, and the relaxed atmosphere in this private studio made the creative process all that much easier. Including two meals, which the owner of the studio graciously provided, we were in the session for almost ten hours. For me, the time flew by. My friend Jamie Clarke, band leader for a local band called Myrle, was in the studio Saturday to record my song “White Car”. While I was not in attendance for the Saturday sessions, I ran through the song with Jamie a week or so ago, and I am confident that he will knock that song out of the park. Jamie is a seasoned musician/songwriter as well, who most recently recorded an album with the uber-talented Ron Hawkins. I don’t know what will come of these sessions, but it was my dream come true to record with such a well-known producer and these skilled studio musicians (Tom Juhas on guitar, Rich Levesque on bass, Craig Harley on keyboards, and Ken Post on drums).  After recording in a vacuum for decades, I am finally giving life to some of my songs. Given the direction of the music business lately, I no longer aspire to any widespread recognition, but I have created good recordings of some of the songs which I am proud to have written. It has taken me almost thirty years to ignore the rejection I have experienced as a songwriter, and to prevail. No matter what anyone says now, I have established some credibility with the people I respect in the music business: songwriters, musicians, and producers.

Saturday morning, I met my friend Bob in Toronto, and he and I attended the RV show in Mississauga. We try to meet for one show per year, and it used to be the boat show. Then it was the auto show, and one year we attended a motorcycle show. As an amusing side note, when we arrived at the RV show, we noticed that there was another concurrent convention: “Sexapalooza”. Perhaps it is indicative of our advancing age, because, while we used to go out for a few drinks after the show, we neither of us drink anymore. Now, we simply go out for a nice dinner somewhere and complain about our degenerating health, followed by a marathon session of “IPod DJ”. It works for us. Old friends are the best.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED