The Oppenheimer Report 8/27/18

Arizona Senator John McCain has died at 81 of brain cancer, and after watching a CNN special about his storied career as a public servant, first as a Navy pilot and then as a politician, I think McCain might have made a decent President. Too bad somebody had the bright idea to make Sarah Palin his running mate when he was running against Obama. Sometimes, I am shocked by decisions made in order to pander to the Republican base. Palin was not McCain’s choice, and she clearly undermined his status as one of the rare politicians with honor. Somehow, the American voter made the quantum leap from a moron who almost became Vice President to an imbecile who did become President. It simply astounds me that Rump had the gall to impugn McCain’s integrity as a war hero, and his flag raising debacle today has me convinced me that the orange emperor has become unhinged. Admittedly, I don’t know who John McCain really was, but compared to our Commander-In-Tweet, he looks pretty good. I take bittersweet pleasure in hearing so many people in the media attacking Rump, and I don’t know how our country got so far down the toilet drain that this clown looked like a viable alternative to the status quo. Sadly, that speaks volumes about the sorry state of American politics. As I said when he was elected, his election was a shot across the bow of democracy and freedom. People hated the Washington insiders enough to vote in this clearly unqualified, boorish, incompetent puppet of big money. Now, even his media darling Fox News is beginning to say “enough is enough.” What a nincompoop. My biggest fear is that there will be an over-reaction in the other direction, and that the pendulum will swing too far to the left in the next election. They’ve got a few morons in their ranks as well.  

Last week, local singer/songwriter Christina Hutt asked me to accompany her during her performance at the Kearney fireworks display next Saturday night. A few weeks ago, we played together at the Kearney Regatta, and although it was a last-minute gig, and I was flying blind during that performance (no rehearsal, no capo or nuthin’), she was happy enough with my accompaniment to ask me to join her again. Last weekend, we actually rehearsed - something new for me - and I think she’s going to put on a great show. While there is no guarantee the show will take place, because weather is always a factor, if it does, there will likely be a large audience.

Coincidentally, Christina and Gina Horswood, another great female vocalist who lives in the area, just completed background vocals on a new song I co-wrote with singer/songwriter Sean Cotton and my wife Shauna. The unmixed recordings showed promise, and we’ve gone with a kind of eerie, Cajun voodoo vibe, which should be interesting. Sean just sent me a close-to-final mix of the song and I’m excited. Good musicians and singers make all the difference, and I am grateful to be in the midst of all this remarkable talent. The song to which I refer is entitled “Watch For Wolves” and it was inspired by an experience I had late last winter while walking on the frozen lake near our house. I came across a freshly killed deer carcass near the shoreline. There was blood everywhere on the pristine, snow-covered, and otherwise undisturbed lake, and the implied violence of this spectacle, coupled with the eerie silence of the winter morning, moved me to write the song. The song uses the metaphor of the wolf as predator to imply a much larger threat, one that I feel is omnipresent of late. I think we’ve penned a good song, and I’m eager to hear the final product.  

Wish me luck next Saturday night!

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 8/20/18

Townes Van Zandt and Blaze Foley

Every week is a new music adventure for me these days, and as the mystery and the history unfold in front of me, I am constantly learning from different mentors. Hosting a radio show which professes to be about songwriting, I feel honor bound to up my game every week, and to research some of the music about which I know comparatively little. As I begin to connect the dots, I rely on the rich oral history to enlighten me. Songwriters know songwriters. In my capacity as radio how host of Lyrical Workers, I have now had extended conversations over the phone with several very different and interesting songwriters. Each time I have one of these conversations, it peels back another layer of the onion. I learn something about the writing process and am reminded of how much I don’t know.

Last week, at 12:30AM, during the first half hour of Shauna’s 60^th birthday, I had a 45 minute phone conversation with a guy named Gurf Morlix. Gurf was originally from Hamburg, N.Y., just south of my hometown of Buffalo, and I first learned of him listening  a compilation CD of Buffalo artists distributed by the Buffalo Music Hall Of Fame. I fell in love with his haunting song Drums From New Orleans, and it inspired me to learn more about Gurf Morlix, the man with the unusual name. Buffalo was full of great musicians but I’d never heard of most of the guys on that Buffalo Music Hall Of Fame CD. As I began to explore Gurf’s career, I discovered that this hometown boy had made it pretty big in the music business. He left Buffalo in 1975 and headed down to Austin, Tx., and he never looked back. He told me that when he left Buffalo in his 20s, he was looking to spread his wings as an artist, and to add his own creative two cents to the genre of country music, a genre not widely embraced in Buffalo. He joked about the fact that he picked Austin because it was warm. I was impressed by his experience. He’d worked with/ co-written with of artists like Lucinda Williams, and he’d toured with the legendary Warren Zevon.

This Thursday night, I'll be featuring clips from my phone conversation with Gurf, placed throughout a show prominently featuring the music of Gurf and a now-deceased  songwriter named Blaze Foley. Foley will likely become better known with the imminent release of a film made about his short life, produced and directed by actor Ethan Hawke. The movie has already received critical acclaim at The Sundance Film Festival, and I look forward to its release. Blaze and Gurf arrived in Austin around the same time and became close friends shortly thereafter. Sadly, Blaze suffered from some of the self-destructive forces that plague so many creative artists. He never received the recognition he might have, had he not been held back by his demons. Hearing Gurf talk about his friend Blaze, I was reminded of the oldest story in entertainment: another creative genius falls prey to substance abuse and self-destruction.

As I have said on numerous occasions, made even more evident as I enter my 4^th year as host of  Lyrical Workers, there is a universe of good music about which I know very little. As the door opens a crack, thanks to mentors like Gurf Morlix, Jon Brooks, Gordon Shawcross, Rob Lutes, Bobby Cameron, John Campbelljohn, Noah Zacharin, and a few dozen other contemporary songwriters, I am lit up by yet another creative bright light. It's always been my mission to get better at this, and knowledge is power. Ultimately, I want what most songwriters want: to connect with others through my personal interpretation of all that has come before me. With every new artist I discover, I can place another piece in the ever-expanding puzzle of the music I love, and I become a better songwriter because of it. Last Friday night I had the extreme pleasure to see blues phenomenon Matt Andersen perform in Huntsville at the Algonquin Theatre. Two years ago I did not know who Matt Andersen was, and now I am a huge fan. With each new discovery comes the growing realization that the field of talent around me is limitless, and so then is the potential for my own growth as a songwriter.

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 8/13/18

Tomorrow, my wife Shauna will turn 60 years of age, and I am at a loss for what to do for her. In a perfect world, I would have thrown a big party for her, perhaps with some live entertainment and a lot of guests. In fact, that won't happen, because Shauna is at present too sick to entertain guests, or to be in any way social. Anyone with chronic illness in their family will understand this, but I sometimes tire of having to explain it to those who don’t. I simply don’t want to ambush her with a surprise party or saddle her with the pressure of entertaining a room full of guests. Over the past year she has only been out a handful of times, and it is always a last minute decision, depending on her pain level.

When I turned 60 several years ago, I spent it quietly at home and then later doing my Lyrical Workers show at the radio station. Shauna was not well enough to join me, and quite honestly, I was in no mood to celebrate at the time. For some puzzling reason, I did not have my mid-life crisis until I turned 60, but that birthday really pulled the rug out from under me. I just wanted the day to be over. As it turned out, Shauna and my friend Juan Barbosa had planned a surprise party for me, and the secret plan was for Juan and a group of guests to ambush me as I left the radio station, and then to whisk me off to a restaurant where Shauna had arranged for a late dinner. The problem was, I stayed extra late at the station. I was feeling sorry for myself, and I just wanted to be alone. Juan and all the guests, whom I of course had no idea were waiting for me, sat outside in the cold October night for over an hour waiting for me to finish my show. It being a week night, some could not wait. While I abhor surprise parties – and we had one for Shauna’s fortieth and for my fiftieth – that sixtieth ambush turned out to be fun.    

When I was a kid, birthdays were a big deal; now, not so much. I am thankful for the life I have been fortunate enough to live so far, and I hope it goes on for a long time. Still, I try to celebrate my life every day, not just on these anniversaries, which mean less and less to me over time. Sometimes I am more successful at living in the moment than at other times, and this is one of my (and perhaps other people’s) challenges. While I am happy to acknowledge the day I was born, I don’t need the hats and horns, and I would be perfectly content to spend the day with the person or people I love. As Shauna joins me in this sixth decade, I think she will agree with me that, at this point in our lives, we are more inclined to be reflective of the lives we have led so far. These days, birthdays are more of an acknowledgment that time is passing more quickly, and I don’t really need or want to be reminded of that. Indeed, too many of our peers have already passed on far before their time, and more and more, with every passing year of uncompromised health, we are reminded to seize the day. Personally, one of the things I can say about the approach of each successive birthday, is that they seem to approach faster every year.

Happy 60^th birthday my dear Shauna; may we enjoy many more decades together. We’ll do something appropriate to celebrate when the time is right. This birthday will definitely be better than last year’s, which was spent at Toronto Western Hospital. For now, we’ll have a nice dinner, prepared by yours truly, in the beautiful house Shauna designed, and accompanied by her 93 year-old mom. While we don't know how long our lives will be, remember, it’s been a pretty good run so far, filled with love and light. Perhaps when you turn 70 we’ll go skydiving together. 

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 8/6/18

 

Photo by Shauna Leigh Taylor

I am always excited to hear about other people’s road trips, especially where they involve music tours. Vicariously, I imagine myself out on the open road, free and unencumbered by the day to day responsibilities of my life. When I was younger, I fantasized about hopping in my car for an impromptu road trip, travelling to the Southwest United States, and playing every gig I could find from New Orleans to Austin. Perhaps it’s the allure of the unknown, or the uncertainty and potential danger of being out of my comfort zone, or the exhilaration of maybe developing a fan base. Whatever the dream was, it was just that, a dream, and as I know from the experiences of others, the reality is never quite so glorious and exciting.

Many of my younger musician friends up here – and it seems like more and more of them are much younger than I – have done at least one tour, and vicariously I thrive on their adventures. Through them, and their posts on Facebook, I am provided a window into their travels. One songwriter friend, in his twenties, annually hops in his van and drives out to B.C., hitting various venues he books along the way, and documenting his experience. One day not too long ago, I bumped into him at the local supermarket, and saw the matrass in the back of his van. He jokingly quipped, “Yep, welcome to my home away from home.” Oh, to be young again. Years ago, my friends Juan Barbosa and Jeff Stamp, both local singer songwriters, did an ill-fated tour of the Maritimes. Afterwards, Jeff wrote a song entitled “Truckin’ ” about the experience. That road trip was filled with problems, from bad weather, gigs and lodgings that fell through, and all the other attendant problems which accompany an under-funded trip to an unknown destination. I called it the “hope and a prayer tour”. In one video they posted, they were performing out east on a colorfully lit stage, complete with a mirror ball and other special effects, but what we the viewers do not see is the absence of an audience. I talked to a young singer songwriter from Leamington, who performed recently at the monthly “Third Friday Coffee House” in Burk’s Falls. Exhilarated in anticipation of embarking on a short tour in Ontario to promote his recently released debut EP, he clearly needed to get this tour out of his system. I also knew in my heart that there would be disappointment, and loneliness involved. These tours can be soul-sucking, and are hard on families. Leaving behind a wife and three or four children, this guy was dreaming of something that I think only exists in our imaginatiion.  

Over the years, I have listened to the enthusiasm of hundreds of young upstarts as the venture out into the world to apprise the world of their musical creativity. More often than not, they return from these tours road weary, and perhaps not quite as confident of their ability to lead this troubadour’s life. Secretly, I suppose I take some twisted pleasure in imagining their less-than-well-attended gigs in Medicine Hat, Alberta, or Bumfuck, Saskatchewan, because it validates my reluctance to give in to my own wanderlust. I doubt I am alone in imagining my road trip adventures, and I will always look at a motorcycle and imagine myself rolling down some empty western highway, guitar strapped on my back, headed for a well-attended concert filled with my (imagined) adoring fans. The reality is miles away from the dream, but I comfort myself with the delusion from time to time. What has become apparent to me, largely through the travel experiences of others, is that I live in a beautiful home, and I am less and less inclined to leave it. If anyone really wants to see me perform (I have after all gone “Plywood” in Huntsville) I’m around, but my adoring fans in Bumfuck, Saskatchewan are just going to have to wait until some as yet undisclosed sponsor throws piles of money at me to go out on the road. Don’t hold your breath waiting for that to happen!

    - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 7/30/18

A Woofie with Jasper at the vet

The other day, I noticed a post on Facebook from my niece and nephew who were celebrating the 14^th birthday of their Chocolate Lab, Magnum. He even had a birthday cake. Mags is a very big dog and has defied the odds with his longevity. That is cause for celebration. In the photo, he looked a little long in the tooth, with his grey muzzle and his distant gaze, but he also looked content, in a home full of dog lovers. From a chart I saw in the vets office the other day, I learned that the “dog years” scale varies considerably, depending on the size of the dog. Seems as if lately I’ve heard about a lot of friends losing their old pets. I’ve seen several Facebook posts wherein people have mourned the loss or imminent loss of their pets, and while this always makes me sad, I cannot imagine my life without a dog in it.

We went through a lot of dogs in the Oppenheimer family over the years, and I can remember each one clearly. Not all our dogs were legendary, but there were a few who were, and regardless, I loved them all. We had Standard Poodles for a while, and I think poodles get a bad rap. Poodles are wonderful dogs; very intelligent, and affectionate. My favorite Poodle was Taboo, or Tabby as we called her, and whenever we took her in for her semi-annual visit to the groomers, afterward, she’d run out into the backyard and roll in the mud and grass to de-poodle herself. I don’t know what my mother was thinking, but she once brought home a fox hound puppy, whom we named “Sam”. Kennel dogs do not make good “indoor” dogs. Sam lasted about six months, and he was more destructive than all our other dogs combined. He finally ended up on a nearby farm, and then mysteriously disappeared shortly thereafter.  Soon thereafter, my mom made the unpopular decision to buy two Yorkshire Terrier puppies, and they were yappy little bastards. Nicky and Chipper weren’t as bad as Sam, but they were far from my favorite dogs. They did have a lot of personality. Nicky was tolerable, but Chipper was the Eddie Haskell of dogs. One night I came home after a long night of partying and found myself locked out of the house. Chipper saw that I was locked out, stared at me, smiled at my dilemma, then lifted his leg on a nearby stair and ran away. Years later, when I was in university, I got a long, newsy letter from my dad, which I read in the school library. At the end of the letter was a short post script, which read: “PS, Mom ran over Chipper in the driveway by accident, but she’s ok.” That is, my mom was ok, Chipper was toast. Karma’s a bitch.     

After the Yorkies, we switched to Corgis and had five of those over the next twenty years. Although they too were noisy dogs, Corgies are great dogs. When I moved up to Toronto, the Taylor family had Miniature Schnauzers, and I have grown to love them as well. They are an acquired taste. Presently we have Jasper, a grey Miniature Schnauzer who turned 13 last May. Like all our Schnauzers have been, Jasper is full of personality and “schtick”. Sadly, she is getting old, and we are beginning to prepare ourselves for the day when we will lose her. She seems to be in the beginning stages of dementia, and her personality has changed. We have finally found a very good vet we trust, and we’ll do what we can for her. As much as I rue the day when we will lose Jasper, and I hope we have another year or two, I won’t allow her to suffer. I’ve never had to do this before; my mom was always the one who took our dogs to the vets to be euthanized. This is all very new to me, and of course, Shauna and I are emotionally attached to Jasper. I just hope when the time comes the decision is clear.

It’s the harsh reality of pet ownership that our pet’s lives will be a fraction of ours. Hopefully we have some more time with Jasper, but Shauna and I will be by her side when she passes, and she could not have found parents who love her more. Shauna whispered in her ear the other night; imploring her to come back to us in another dog when her spirit leaves her body. I’d like to think a part of her will.

.   

 - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 7/23/18

Several years ago I wrote a song entitled “Milkman” and it is a song about denial.

I think it may be time to take a news vacation as I sit here in the deceptively calm paradise of the Almaguin Highlands, overlooking our little lake from the comfort of our upstairs porch. Back in the 80s, before I met Shauna, I used to come up to Toronto relatively frequently, to attend concerts and theatrical productions, and simply to hang out in one of the world’s best cities. Back then there was relatively little crime in Toronto, certainly in comparison to many of the big cities in the U.S.A. Toronto had many of the cultural benefits of New York City but was much safer and cleaner. Well, thirty years later things have changed and Toronto is catching up to the rest of the world. A few months ago there was the deadly van attack on Yonge Street, not far from where my mother-in-law lives, which killed or injured a number of innocent pedestrians. Recently, there have been a slew of deadly shootings in the downtown core, and just last night, there was a mass shooting on the Danforth in Greek Town, not far from where Shauna and I used to live. While the news is still trickling in on this latest attack, so far there are two casualties, and thirteen people were shot. I always felt safe walking around on the streets of Toronto, but now, when I walk around the city, I’m wary.

It’s strange, because I grew up in a relatively dangerous city. Per capita, there was more gun violence in Buffalo than there ever was in Toronto. I myself had been mugged twice, and I knew that there were certain neighborhoods I just needed to avoid. That said, I became numbed to the violence about which I was apprised every night on Channel 7 News at Eleven. When, in 1994, I moved up to Toronto (which was at the time relatively crime free), I became more sensative to every violent act.  Slowly over the past 20 + years, I have watched as the gang graffiti began to litter the bridges, buildings, and subway trains. There have been about 280 shootings in Toronto since the beginning of this year, and it seems like gun violence is escalating in the city.

The guy who shot all those people on the Danforth last night was mentally ill. There’s a lot of that going around these days, and it’s almost impossible to tell who the ticking time bombs are. There's usually a reason why people go off, but we always seem to find out after the violent act. Maybe it’s a crazier world than it was; there just seem to be a lot of mentally unbalanced people roaming around. Regrettably, procuring a gun does not seem to be a problem.

About two years ago, I wrote a song about denial, and about how I process traumatic events. It is a loosely strung together group of experiences from my past, and it begins with the first time I ever saw an adult in emotional distress (it was not a milkman by the way). I think I live in denial to survive, ignoring much of the pain and suffering that goes on around me. These days, every time I watch some catastrophe on the news, I wonder what I would have done, what I should do. Would I be a hero, or a more likely, the coward?

I saw the Milkman he was crying

Right outside my cellar door

I think those preacher men been lying

Nothing makes sense to me anymore

So I bury my head, bury my head, bury my head in the sand.

Bury my head, bury my head, bury my head in the sand

Don’t want to bury my head, bury my head, bury my head in the sand.

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 7/16/18

Today, I noticed a post on Facebook from my friend Mike Cardy, one of our local naturalists and wildlife experts. He commented on the dry weather we’ve had, and the fact that it is having a deleterious effect on local wildlife. Berry bushes and much of the vegetation upon which the wild animals around here feed are drying up. Presently, there is a complete fire ban in our area, and there have been reports of wildfires popping up around the region. I heard about one in Algonquin Park, and there was recently a fairly serious one up north in the vicinity of Temagami, northeast of Sudbury. In the past ten years or so since we moved up here, a lot of fuel has been accumulating in the woods around our house, and this of course concerns me. Most of the locals take these fire bans seriously, but some do not. As well, the visitors from the city, who come up here to camp for the weekend, might be even less inclined to heed a ban. It doesn’t take much to ignite a wildfire. The other day, as Shauna and I were on our way home from Huntsville, we came across someone burning brush somewhere far in from the road. We immediately called the fire department. Trouble was we called after 5PM, and no one answered, nor did anyone answer at the bylaw department in Huntsville. The fire departments around here are volunteer, which make prevention and vigilance all that much more important. There is an old  joke among some local volunteer fireman: “We’ve never lost a foundation.”

Wildfires were never something I worried about growing up in Buffalo (in Buffalo, the bigger concern was arson). The first wildfire I ever saw close up was on one of our drives out to Banff, somewhere on the plains of Saskatchewan. One fire had jumped the road just before we passed, and it was strange and unsettling to see flames on both sides of our car. At one time, Shauna and I did quite a lot of exploring and hiking on the Alberta/ B.C. border, and one summer was a particularly bad one for wild fires. I remember driving down through the Kootenay Park one day to hike near Radium, B.C. and there were wildfires just behind the mountains. I’ll never forget seeing a thick plume of smoke rising over the distant mountaintops, and wondering if we were in any danger. We were living in the town of Banff, and one day a nearby controlled burn went out of control. The wind shifted suddenly, and in a matter of hours the entire Bow Valley surrounding Banff filled up with smoke. That fire really alarmed me, because the air quality was so bad we had to stay inside. Flash fires like the one that levelled Slave Lake near Edmonton, Alberta are horrible reminders of how quickly these fires can go completely out of control.

Today we got a little of the desperately needed rain that will help re-foliate our parched landscape, but this mini draught is a subtle reminder that the fires we see in the news so often might someday visit us here in the Almaguin Highlands. Our little draught might be portents for things to come. As the planet heats up, I become more and more concerned about the ever-increasing supply of fuel in our surrounding woods, fuel which could feed a wildfire. 

Then again, upon consulting the news tonight, wildfires might be a preferable end to what seems to be the accelerating demise of mankind. I am told that the Rump has committed yet another unpardonable diplomatic blunder, this time throwing his entire country under the bus while meeting with (pandering to) Russian President Vladimir Putin. The other day, he walked in front of the Queen  (I’m just thankful he didn’t pinch her on her butt), and he’s been busy alienating every ally we used to have in the world. Six of one, or a half dozen of the other: wildfire or hellfire, take your pick.

 - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 7/9/18

Joe Bamford on the left with his wife Fatima on the far right

At present, we have Shauna’s mom, Ethel “E.T.” Taylor visiting us at Jasper Bark Lodge, and we told her we had a big surprise for her when she got here. Joe Bamford, a music promoter in Parry Sound specializing in charity fundraisers, offered Jeff Carter, managing director of Hunters Bay Radio, four free tickets to see The Glenn Miller Orchestra at The Charles W. Stockey Centre For The Performing Arts in Parry Sound. Last Saturday night, Shauna, her mom, Jeff, and I drove to Parry Sound to see the world famous Glenn Miller Orchestra perform. E.T. hosts a show on Hunters Bay Radio entitled Martini Music which airs on Sunday nights (6pm – 8pm) and is one of the more popular shows at Hunters Bay Radio. Joe Bamford is a fan of the show, and he wanted to meet E.T. While the music E.T. loves might be a little out of my wheelhouse, I have grown to appreciate it,  largely because of this Martini Music show. She has great taste in the music from her era and has exposed me to some fantastic artists from the 40s, 50s and 60s. She plays a lot of big band swing, mixed in with male and female vocalists from the past six decades, covering some of the best songs ever written. I’m all about the songwriting and composition, and Martini Music features some of the best.

We arrived just before the concert was to begin, met Joe Bamford, and later his wife Fatima, picked up our free tickets, and were delighted to discover that our seats were front row center. There was a respectable audience of around 350 people, and the show was great. I’ve always enjoyed swing music but to see a live band perform it, with all the retro feel of the original Glenn Miller Orchestra, was a genuine thrill. The band, made up of excellent musicians from all across the United States, performed much the same way as the original orchestra had, which is to say they were animated and a lot of fun to watch. All in all it was a memorable evening, and a big thanks goes out to Jeff Carter for inviting us to the show. Particularly moving was the shout out to E.T. by Joe as he was introducing the orchestra. As a fan of Martini Music, he gave ithe show and E.T. an excellent plug. The concert was also educational, with the lead singer and band leader offering stories about Glenn Miller and about the origins of some of the famous songs he arranged. Miller was an outstanding arranger, and each song is a well-orchestrated symphony.  I was amazed to hear that Miller had, in his short career, arranged over 700 songs. As for the venue, The Stockey Centre is a beautiful place to see concert. Located right at the water’s edge along the Parry Sound waterfront, the concert hall has soaring 70+ foot ceilings and beautiful stonework lining the walls. The reception area includes a huge bank of windows overlooking Georgian Bay to the west and, during intermission, I came out and took in the remains of a spectacular sunset. A great night all around, and I think very therapeutic for Shauna.

Final note. Today, I wanted to configure E.T.’s computer tablet so that she could get on Facebook. Yes, my 93 year-old is on Facebook, probably to communicate with all her adoring fans. It should have been simple enough, but I'd lost the password for our Bell router, and unlike all the other routers I’ve owned, the password was not affixed to the back of the unit. Bell’s online instructions for how to access one’s password were ambiguous and almost laughable. I tried “chatting’ with an online assistant, but after being re-routed to four different people (I'm assuming) who didn’t know anything, I finally gave up on Bell altogether, instead consulting with the manufacturer of the router to discover that the information I needed was available on the inside of the battery cover. Increasingly I find that with all things computer-related, there is a built in you-can’t-get-there-from-here component. I can’t get no sa-tis-fac-tion.

 - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 7/2/18

A belated Happy Canada Day to all my Canadian friends, and a pre-emptive Happy Fourth of July to all my friends stateside. Last night on the lake it sounded as if we were being invaded, so loud was the cacophony of fireworks. Apart from that, Shauna and I had a relatively quiet night at home, watching Big Brother. Hey, don’t judge, it’s our guilty pleasure.

It’s strange being a landed immigrant in Canada at a time when my homeland is in such turmoil. I’ve had more than one American friend contact me to say that they are seriously thinking about moving to Canada, and that saddens me. It also discourages me to hear some Canadians lump all of America in with Rump. The Orange Emperor is merely the lightning rod for all the anger and discontent many Americans feel about their dysfunctional government. Canada and Europe are not immune to hatred by the way. I still love my country, and I regret the Pandora’s Box of hatred which has opened for the world to see. I despise all that Rump represents, but I also blame the eroding culture which feeds this beast. As I’ve said, one can’t force people to be kind-hearted, one can only lead by example. An American classmate wrote me the other day complaining about the woeful state of American politics, and my tongue-in-cheek response was that I am fighting the good fight by writing protest songs. I have written a lot of angry songs about America, dating back to the 80s, songs like “Watching The War On T.V” about the Gulf War, and “Book Of Jive” and “Paper Money” about the American Savings and Loans crisis. I don’t expect anyone to hear those songs.    

Over the past six months, I have been making simple cell phone videos of my performances of some of these songs. Facebook and YouTube have made it so easy to post these videos, and I thought I’d put them out there for posterity. The ever-growing narcissist in me realizes that I’m well into the second semester of my life, and I’ve had countless reminders that things can and do change in an instant. While I have not pursued a “career” in songwriting, it is about the only thing I have done consistently for forty plus years now. These songs are my legacy. I do not often perform live, but these videos will be a record of some of the songs I hope will live on long after I’m gone.

One song, which I recorded and posted yesterday on my Facebook page, is a song I wrote well over a decade ago. I wrote it on the day that our friends Bobby and Sherrie Cameron celebrated the birth of their daughter. I haven’t seen Jaiden Cameron since she was a baby, but I’ve watched her grow up in Facebook photos, and she seems to be developing into a very creative, interesting young lady. Entitled “Lullaby From A Newborn” the song is written from the perspective of the newborn. My songs may never find an audience; they certainly aren’t pop tunes. Still, I am happy I wrote them, because they are journal entries. They are collectively a record of my life, and of the lives of the people around me. They are my story, from my imagination; a roadmap to the many stages of my life to date. I think I’ll record “Book Of Jive” or “Watching The War On T.V. on The Fourth of July. I am thankful I still have the freedom to write songs like these.
   

      - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 6/25/18

Dad with my sister Jill

Last week, I made reference to my days as an unwilling equestrian, and this week, I’m going to delve into that subject a little further. As I said, my family was serious about horseback riding, and we rode both “English” and “Western” saddle. Out west, we rode horses out of the then famous Smoke Tree Ranch. Back in the 60s, when our family went out west for riding vacations, it was not uncommon to ride with movie stars visiting Palm Springs to escape their celebrity in L.A. Cary Grant and his wife Dyan Cannon once joined us on one of our desert rides. In Buffalo, we owned four horses. My mom and dad rode horseback every weekend, and were members of the Geneseo Valley Hunt Club. They regularly fox hunted during the fall season with their two horses, and my sister Jill was for many years on the amateur show circuit. She owned the other two horses and was a regional champion in several divisions. At her peak, she was invited to ride in an equestrian event at Madison Square Garden in New York City. Somehow or another, my parents assumed that their love of horses would rub off on me, and that it was my genetic predisposition to follow in their hoof steps. For me this enforced hobby was probably how most children felt about piano lessons.

I began riding at the Buffalo Saddle and Bridle Club when I was about 7 years of age, and I took riding lessons for the next five or six years. I never owned a horse, but rode the school horses at the club. Those ranged from old nags, to walking tubes of glue. There were two horses that stood out as my most unfavorites. One was a very old school horse named Wade, who was in fact a cross between a mule and a horse. Predictably, Wade was stubborn and slow, and extremely difficult to command. By far the worst horse in the stable though was “Snowball”, named because he was a white horse. Snowball wasn’t a bad looking horse, with one exception: he had a green ass. Snowball had a serious gas problem. Whenever Snowball trotted or cantered, he emitted wet noisy farts, sometimes combined with loose, slimy green manure. I don’t know what they were feeding those animals, but the green slime that spewed out of Snowball’s ass was otherworldly. Oftentimes, our lessons involved single file trots around the ring, and no one wanted to be behind Snowball. Anyone within 30 feet of this horse’s ass was in constant peril of being slimed. These are the dirty little secrets of horseback riding no one talks about. What child chooses to be sprayed with green horse diarrhea?

Snowball was one of a hundred reasons I never embraced horseback riding. As I said, I didn’t mind riding Western saddle out in the desert, and I also liked fox hunting, which I did for several seasons at the end of my riding career. Unlike the show circuit, fox hunting was the motocross of horseback riding, and involved a lot of high speed, open field, all terrain riding. I enjoyed the excitement of racing around on rugged terrain, jumping 3-4 foot chicken coops, and chasing after something we never ever caught. The Geneseo hunt was not snooty and aristocratic, like some of those English hunts, and many of the participants in the Geneseo Hunt were regular folk who simply loved to ride. That said, to keep a horse is an expensive, full time hobby. When the moment of truth came, wherein I was asked to commit to the sport, I opted out in favor of boating. While the rest of my family loved horses, and were happy to devote the time and effort to their care, I had little interest, and quickly gravitated to boats. As you probably know, boats rarely spew stinky green slime at their operators and, while they sometimes come with their share of mechanical problems, I have found them to be a much better investment in the fun-per-dollar department. Eventually, my family forgave me for my blasphemous rejection of the family sport, and everyone was happy.

     

 - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 6/18/18

Yesterday was Father’s Day, and though my dad’s been gone a long time now, Father’s Day is still a bittersweet day for me. It seems like only yesterday I was calling him up to bitch about the Buffalo Sabres. Until he was in his early 90’s I still relied on his judgment and advice, and I think about him and Mom every day. One thing is for sure, Dad’s personality is indelibly infused in me. There are things I do, both good and bad, which are so similar to my dad that it’s spooky. Shauna says I talk to our dog Jasper in the same baby talk voice that he used to talk to our dogs. It can be unsettling to realize I have little control over the traits I’ve inherited from my father. Some of us put our parents in the god-like category when they pass, and this belies the reality that most parents are not perfect. My dad had his faults but, almost a decade after he passed, I don’t think about them so much. Funny thing about the passage of time.

There was a photo taken of my dad a long time ago, out west in Palm Springs. When I was young, my family, all horse lovers except me, vacationed in Palm Spring during our spring break. There we spent a lot of time riding “western saddle” in the desert and in the nearby mountains. Being the youngest child, I had no say in the matter, and I did a lot of involuntary horseback riding, but that’s another report. It wasn’t so bad, and we rode all over what was back in the 1960s barren desert. There was a unique freedom I experienced riding horseback in the open desert. I’ve written a lot of songs about the desert, so it clearly made a strong impression on me. When my dad died in 2009 or thereabouts, and shortly before his funeral ceremony, I found an old black and white 8x10 photo of him on a horse, up in the mountains overlooking the then tiny town of Palm Springs. In my eulogy for him I said that this picture embodied what my dad was to me: bigger than life, strong, smart, in control, competent; the guy you wanted around in a crisis. He made me feel safe. To this day I draw on his strength.

I told a story on Facebook the other day about my dad taking me to a roadside carnival when I was a little boy. He thought it would be a big thrill for me to ride the miniature choo choo train, but when I got off the ride, I told him I could have walked faster. I was about four, and for the rest if his life, he loved to tell people that story about how his wise ass little boy was a chip off the old block. My dad was a funny guy, with a perfectly balanced combination of irreverence, humility, and dry wit that ingratiated him to all who knew him. He was a very popular guy, but he always held his cards close to his chest. His family knew him well, and loved him for the good man he was, but I don’t think many people knew him the way I did. Years ago, I wrote a very personal song entitled Bassett’s Farm, about the first time I discovered my father was a mere mortal. He had an accident, almost losing his thumb in a piece of farm machinery, and I, who was probably ten at the time, was the one who came to the rescue. My perfect dad made mistakes.

Somewhere between the Stetson-wearing John Wayne dad, up on a mountaintop riding his horse, overlooking a huge valley below him, and the dad who needed his son’s help when he got his thumb stuck in a manure spreader, lies the complicated, fallible, wonderful human being who was my father. Overall, he was a great dad, and I always knew I could count on him. All the parts that made him complicated have made me complicated. For better or for worse, we carry the genetic imprint of our parents, and the more effectively we embrace that fact, the better we will understand and be able to improve ourselves. A belated Happy Father’s Day to one and all.

      - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 6/11/18

Another Monday morning, and as I listened to Willie Nelson singing “Roll Me Up And Smoke Me” on the radio, I turned on CNN to see security guards scrambling in Singapore in anticipation of the big meeting between Trump and North Korean dictator Kim Jung Il. How appropriate is that song was to narrate what I was seeing on the screen?! Shortly after the G7 Summit in Charlevoix, Quebec, which the Orange Emperor deigned to attend, he’s back on the attack. Rump the anti-diplomat, the great disguster, the loud-mouthed, tactless shit-disturber and world class Twitterer is now spewing his venomous rhetoric at and against Canada. Nixon reportedly once called Justin Trudeau’s father Pierre “an asshole”, but I think Trump has trumped that insult. I’m no lover of Trudeau, but I’m embarrassed by how poorly Rump is representing my homeland. Maybe, as some suggest, his public nonsense is just a negotiating ploy to make a better trade deal, but in the eyes of the world he is the reckless, foul-mouthed, Cadillac-with-steer-horns-on-the-hood- driving, fast food-hoovering, uber-ugly American, and he is the man everyone loves to hate; well, everyone but half of of America. If he manages to convince N. Korea to de-nuclearize he may win a Nobel Peace Prize. Put that in your vape pen and smoke it.

  

Last week, Ontario voters chose PC (conservative) candidate Doug Ford to be Premier of Ontario. Perhaps this was more of a show of disenchantment with the outgoing Liberal party, which has done such a poor job of governing Ontario for the past 15 years. Many have likened Ford and his pompous behavior to Rump, and much was made of the fact that his brother Rob was the controversial Mayor of Toronto, caught on camera smoking crack. I could not make this stuff up if I tried!

I don’t know if others in my vicinity have noticed, but it seems the mosquitoes have been particularly fierce this season. I think they’re on steroids; they’re bigger, meaner, and faster than ever. We have electronic rackets in every room of our house, and I have begun to use a liquid concoction comprised of equal parts Epsom salt, stale beer, and mouthwash as a mosquito repellant spray. It may be helping. Nothing else is working. While black flies have not been as prominent (yet), the mosquitoes are out of control, and I’m not sure why. We are keeping the standing water to a minimum, and there hasn’t been that much rain, but they’re bad this year. I took our dog Jasper out yesterday for her morning pee and she was swarmed. It was like bees on honey. When the bugs are that fierce, I wear the bug jacket, but it’s almost impossible to keep them out of the house.

A few days ago, celebrity chef Anthony Bourdain committed suicide while on location shooting in France, and, like many others, I was shocked. Bourdain was a guy who seemed like he had it all together, despite faults which he was all too willing to admit. Bourdain hosted one of my favorite TV shows, CNN’s “Parts Unknown, and his candor and honesty were refreshing. I learned so much about other parts of the world from watching his show, and he seemed to humanize the world. Indeed, he was the opposite to the omnipresent and divisive political journalism I cannot escape on television today. Now, when I’m watching reruns his shows, I’m looking for any signs of his depression. Short of his self-deprecating humility, which belies his celebrity status, there is little to indicate he was in crisis. Sometimes the signs are very faint. Mental illness is a huge problem in the world today, and it seems like I only really take notice when a high profile celebrity like Robin Williams or Bourdain commits suicide. For every sufferer who kills him or herself, there are probably one hundred who are thinking about it. There is a local musician who recently made a video about his struggle, and I was surprised to hear his story. He came very close to leaving his family behind, because he thought it would be better for everyone. Bourdain’s death is a wake-up call to all of us who may be ignoring danger signs of the ones we love, but don’t understand. Maybe it’s time to get our noses out of our phones and strike up a dialogue, face to face.

   

    - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 6/4/18

The other day, I watched a CNN special called 1968, recounting the tumultuous year that ushered in Richard Nixon as President of the United States. LBJ’s escalation of the Viet Nam War made a bad, unwinnable war even worse. Nam veterans, unlucky enough or poor enough to be drafted against their will, came home from the war broken and suffering from PTS, to an unappreciative civilian population conflicted about the war. Iron-fisted Chicago Mayor Daley put the hammer down on the protest marchers during the Democratic National Convention. It was the year Martin Luther King Jr. and Bobby Kennedy were assassinated. It was also the year of loudmouth yippies like Abby Hoffman and Jerry Rubin, and the SDS and other militant anarchists blowing up buildings. There were race riots in LA and elsewhere, and war protests across the nation.  I was 13 at the time, and I vaguely remember those troubled times, and I remember fearing that my country was coming apart at the seams. I think it is simplistic to make parallels between that troubled time in America and the situation we find ourselves in today, but clearly, 2018 is not the first time America has faced a crisis in leadership. For me, one difference between then and now is that I still believed what I heard and saw on the news. I trusted guys like Walter Cronkite. These days, everyone so clearly has an agenda, and I don’t trust or believe most of what I hear or read.

Last week, comedienne Rosanne Barr imploded on Twitter, going on record with her overtly racist comments. She denies that her words were racist, and blamed her hurtful remarks on Ambien, a sleep medication she was taking. I chuckled when Sanofi, the pharmaceutical company which makes Ambien, immediately put out a damage control press release, assuring that Ambien does not cause users to become racists. Perhaps they should put it on the label. ABC immediately pulled the plug on Barr’s new show, and I think that was the right move. The bigger problem for me is the lack of remorse, and in some cases indignation on the part of the offenders. I didn’t mean what I said. I wasn’t responsible; I had no idea sleep medication would make me say what I believe. Celebrity’s a bitch, and sadly, the general public does pay attention to what the stars say. 

Increasingly, we live in a world where we don’t take responsibility for our actions. We blame our leaders for the atrocious mess we are in, and we judge everything, oftentimes without the facts. Why aren’t we accountable? I make mistakes every day, but I’m trying harder to own up to them. I’ve said a lot of mean, insensitive things in the past (just read some of the early Opp Reports), and I've been called out for some of those irresponsible words. I don't think I've been hateful, but these days I temper my disrespect. I find social media very useful, especially for the promotion of music, but it is also an indelible record of every stupid thing I say or do. That drunk video you posted of you dry humping a statue of Smokey the Bear might have seemed funny at the time, but maybe it won’t seem so funny in five years. We  seem to be lowering the bar for tolerable behavior and, while we all screw up, there seems to be less and less inclination to show genuine remorse for bad behavior. Ironically, we live in a world where those mistakes are permanently recorded for the public to see and judge.

I don’t know if Rosanne Barr is a racist. She may just be another unbalanced comedian who crossed the line for a laugh. I do think that the number of us who are racists is growing not shrinking, and this saddens me. I don’t know how you teach people to love, but I suspect it is by example.    

   

    - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 5/28/18

The other night, I watched a news story about some thirty something who sued his parents because they wanted to kick him out of the house. They presented him with an eviction notice, even offered him some money to move out, and said they want him out ASAP. His reaction was to take them to court. It astounds me that someone can be so out of touch with reality that he or she thinks this is ok. We hear a lot about bad parents, and there are certainly a few of those out there, but what about the bad kids? Sometimes parents do the best they can, but the kids don’t do their part. The judge in this case laughed this failure-to-launch deadbeat out of the court room, but I wonder if this might be a sign of the times. This is one of the disturbing trends I see today, especially true in N. America. Along with the omnipresence of gratuitous violence in video games and film, and the resultant general disrespect for life, the tendency to poison our food and water supply, and our growing, technology-induced alienation from our fellow man, I see the omnipresence of this failure-to-launch syndrome. If you are over thirty years old, living at home, and your parents want you out, it might be time to do a reality check. A close friend of ours recently began dating a widower with two adult children. Both kids are still living at home, and one of them has a young child. Neither of these kids contributes to the household income, or do they do anything to contribute to the household chores. The widower is still doing all the cooking for everyone, after coming home from a full day of work. Maybe he is enabling the dysfunction, but what is wrong with this picture? I understand that it may be harder today to make a living or to find affordable housing than it was thirty years ago. I also don’t think there is anything wrong with adult children living at home, with the blessing of their parents. I had help from my parents when I graduated from university, and I lived at home for four or five years before moving out. I saved up enough money to put up a down payment on a house, and was grateful for the support my parents willingly provided. But what about the young adults who live a carefree life at the expense of their parents; is this OK? I used to wonder how I would be judged by the generation that grew up during WWII, when men and women were forced to grow up at 18.

I saw a funny video spoof the other day wherein a young female “Millennial” was in a job interview, and her works skills essentially boiled down to Facebook and Instagram. By the end of the interview, the exasperated interviewer told her that he didn’t think she was going to work out, and she threw a hissy fit. “Are you FIRING me?!! I don’t feel safe!” I know a lot of extremely capable young people who are successfully coping with the business of life. Still, I worry about many of today's young adults, numbed by video game violence, baby sat by a TV set, given a gold star for accomplishing next to nothing, and trained to rely on technology to turn on a light. Heaven forbid there should be a power outage.

Someone came up to me at the Craft Beer Festival a few weeks ago and asked me “Why aren’t you up there performing?” I was of course flattered, but I try to keep my live performances to a minimum. Sometimes writers are better off remaining in the background. Leo Kottke said in the album notes for his first album that his voice was like “geese farts on a muggy day”, and Leo has a much better voice than I do. Last Saturday night I had the good fortune to see Winnipeg singer / songwriter and excellent slide guitarist Joey Landreth perform at Peters Players in Gravenhurst. To see a talent like Joey in a boutique venue, which seats about 80-100 people, was as good as it gets for me. My dream and goal has always been to have my songs covered by talented artists like Landreth. So far, I’ve come a long way towards achieving that dream. My gifted songwriter friend from Edmonton, Bobby Cameron, recorded a song he and I co-wrote, along with my talented wife Shauna. As well, several local artists, including Juan Barbosa and Paul Lagendyk, have done amazing covers of several of my songs.

Sometimes it takes a lifetime to achieve one’s goals. Oftentimes, it never happens. In the beginning I thought I'd like to be in the spotlight, but mostly, for the past 40 years, I’ve only really wanted to be a recognized songwriter. Thanks to Hunters Bay Radio and a music-friendly community full of artists, I’ve had a little success (don’t book the limo just yet). In turn, this has encouraged me to keep writing and to support like-minded artists. This is my dream come true, but it certainly was not my day job. There were a lot of bends in the road, but I always saw recognition for my writing as my brass ring. I think about the kids coming into the work force now, and the possibility that they face a less hopeful future than I did. I wonder, what are their dreams and goals? I can’t imagine a world wherein I thought it was alright to sue my parents because, after having put up with my nonsense for 30+ years, they wanted me to stand on my own two feet.  That my friends, is chutzpah.

    - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 5/21/18

"Broke Toe"

Last Saturday, to usher in the May 2-4 weekend, and to sound the starting gun for the beginning of summer festivities, Huntsville BIA and Hunters Bay Radio hosted the annual Craft Beer Festival in River Mill Park. This event has been getting progressively more popular each year, and on top of the many craft breweries offering lots of different kinds of beer to sample, there were two sound stages and about ten local musical acts represented. I came for the music.

Unfortunately, the weather was less than spectacular, and it rained on and off throughout the day. That probably kept some people away, but the turnout was pretty good, and I had a ball regardless of the weather. I enjoy watching all the local artists, especially to see how their acts  are developing, but I really wanted to see one musician in particular. Scott Gilson, a good friend of mine, who recently got married and moved to Parry Sound, had not performed in public for years. Like too many musicians I know, he’d burned out on the “business” end of music and had all but given up playing or writing songs. I think Scott’s a talented songwriter, with a great voice and a strong, passionate delivery. I’ve missed hearing him play. He was the second to last act to perform, and just about the time he came on, the heavens let loose. I was taking a video with my phone of him performing a new song, and I had to take my hat off to protect my phone from the downpour. If you go to my Facebook page, you will see the clip I recorded and, if you look closely, you can tell the rain is coming down pretty hard. I’m sure everyone in the audience, under cover, was laughing at the fool standing in the rain. I’ve never had a problem acting like a fool.

River Mill Park is a lovely venue for live entertainment, and I’d like to see a festival, dedicated to local artists every year. Last Friday night I attended the monthly coffee house show in Burk’s Falls, and there were two new songwriters on the bill that impressed me. I now know of 20 or 30 local musicians who could hold their own in the national market, and it would be fun to see them all collaborate onstage in an outdoor venue. Of course, weather is always the wild card. I distinctly remember what a disaster the Muskoka Sound Festival turned out to be four or five years ago. It was the first big festival I attended in Huntsville, perhaps the first of its kind, and the rain really killed it. I remember watching people walk by and get stuck in the mud. Nature can be a mother.   

Final note on the subject of all things natural. Shauna and I share a love and appreciation of birds, probably enhanced by our many visits to  the Canadian Rockies. Out there, we befriended a Clark’s Nutcracker we named “Broke Toe”, who came to visit us every year when we’d stay in Banff. As spring erupts up here, we’ve been spending a little “us” time out on the second floor porch off our bedroom. It’s a little like sitting in a tree house, and the bird watching is spectacular. This afternoon I watched a hummingbird feeding four feet away from me, and there were Red Winged Blackbirds, Blue Jays, Chickadees, Nuthatches, Woodpeckers, Loons, Crows, Grackles, Grosbeaks, and someone says there are a few Eagles living down the lake. Strangely, five pigeons have moved into the neighborhood, thus vastly increasing the overall volume of guano on the property.  The yin and the yang of Mother Nature.

  - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 5/14/18

In one month, Hunters Bay Radio will be hosting(I believe) its 5^th annual fundraiser at the Algonquin Theatre in Huntsville. The theme for last year’s show was The Last Waltz, featuring the music of The Band, and it was a huge success.  The theme for this year's show is The Beatles White Album, and, under the musical direction of Sean Cotton,  over thirty local musicians will be participating. I won’t reveal what song I’ll be performing, but I will say it is daunting to cover any song from that legendary album. My high school hockey team used to start their Friday night games with Why Don’t We Do It In The Road, and the music from that album has increased  my appreciation of popular music more than any other album.

I see a lot of posts on Facebook wherein people list their top ten favorite record albums. As a practicing songwriter for over 40 years, I’ve had a lot of different musical influences, and I’ve gone through many phases. Earliest albums that immediately come to mind include Cream – Wheels Of Fire/ Disraeli Gears, The Beatles – Rubber Soul/ Revolver/The White Album, Jimi Hendrix – Are You Experienced/ Axis Bold As Love/ Electric Ladyland, The Allman Bros.- Live At Fillmore East, Cat Stevens -Tea For The Tillerman, The Rolling Stones – Beggar’s Banquet/ Let It Bleed/ Sticky Fingers/ Jethro Tull - Stand Up!/ Aqualung, Pat Metheny – Bright Sized Life, Fleetwood Mac – Then Play On/ Bare Trees/ Kiln House. Anyone under the age of forty is likely unfamiliar with these albums, but many of the songs from the 70’s are still being covered more than forty years later. I have found that a surprising number of my friends’ kids like the music of the 70’s, and decidedly, that was my golden era of popular music.

On my radio show, I sometimes talk about songs being mnemonic triggers. If I hear the Stones song Satisfaction it transports me to a hot summer day waiting to cross the border in my mom’s ’68 Buick convertible. When I hear an Allman Bros. song, it takes me back to my boarding school days. The Beatles White album was there from the very beginning of my days as a music lover, and it has stood the test of time. It included such a rich and varied catalogue of songs, ranging from blues to folk to rock ‘n roll; it’s an old friend. Each song is unique in its arrangement, and to this day, I still appreciate the genius of The Beatles as composers. My big problem with much of the music today is that it has become disposable. There are still, and always will be, artists out there who are fantastic writers and composers, but I don’t think people are listening to music (or anything) the way they used to. There is too much noise competing for our attention. Now, we might gravitate to a hit song, but we are less inclined to listen to the whole album of an artist. As well, videos have become a much more important marketing tool. I wonder if songs like Blackbird or While My Guitar Gently Weeps would even make the cut in 2018. Digital platforms like Spotify have cheapened music and corporations and commercial success have re-wired our brains (and I fear the way we create). Some feel The Beatles were over-rated, and that there were and are many better artists and composers out there. I don’t think The Beatles were technically the greatest musicians, but they composed beautifully, and they had an ear for melody that few can replicate.

This week, I’ve started to practice my song for the White Album show, and while I don’t perform a lot of covers, let alone in a theatre full of people, I will try to do my selected song justice. I’ve seen the list of who is performing what song, and I’m eager to hear how my many talented colleagues will cover these songs. The White album is a special collection of music, and I know this show is going to be a lot of fun for everyone involved.

  

  - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 5/7/18

My mom, circa 1962 at our home on Chapin Pkwy.

What is it they say about the best laid plans? Saturday morning there was a service in Buffalo to commemorate the passing of my best friend’s father, “Big” Bob Miller. I was going to attend that ceremony come hell or high water; I did not anticipate gale force winds. I figured I’d head down to Shauna’s mom’s place in Toronto Friday evening before dark, thus ensuring that I was a little closer to Buffalo for the 11AM service on Saturday. I thought I was being very forward thinking, but Mother Nature had a different plan. Around 4:30 Friday afternoon, we had some strong wind gusts, which only lasted a short while, but did major destruction. Old growth trees  toppled over, power and telephone lines went down, and it was a real mess up here. In fact, the winds were so strong that Hwy 11, and my direct access to Toronto, was closed for a few hours due to debris and fallen power lines. Our power went out, and later in the evening we lost our phone lines as well. I’m sure there were a lot of people crying “Why Me?” Friday night. I was very concerned about leaving my sick and home bound wife alone in a power outage. Murphy’s Law. Thankfully, we have a good generator. Eventually, I did make it down to Toronto, albeit a lot later than I had planned.

Driving down to Buffalo, early Saturday morning, I was hit with a mild panic attack, similar to one I’d experienced before my 35^th high school reunion. My memory is terrible these days, and I was about to see a lot of people I hadn’t seen in a long time. Would I remember their names? I have not been to my hometown in at least three years, and a lot can change in three years. It was strange crossing the Peace Bridge. Short of several old friends with whom I keep in touch, I was not familiar with my city anymore. Even the access to the city from the bridge was different. I got lost in my hometown.

The service was well attended, and a fitting tribute to Big Bob. There was no insufferably long mass, the speeches were just the right length, and there was just a good vibe in the room. I got there early and sat near the front, because I was feeling asocial, but wanted to make sure I heard all the speakers. To my surprise, the person who sat down next to me was an old friend and his wife, whom I had not seen for over 25 years. Jerry Miller lived on my street when we were kids, and he is the offspring of one of the three Miller brothers who lived on the same block. I had not seen him since shortly after he and his wife were married, and it was wonderful to see them both. We’d lost touch but old friendships never really die. Later, at the reception, I saw and caught up with a lot of old Buffalo friends, and even remembered many of their names. The re-connection felt good.

I don’t know why I’m having these anxiety attacks. It might be the chaos, lies, and spin blowing around on the news like a torn flag. Maybe it’s the swift passage of time, made more evident by the visible changes in the faces of the friends I rarely see. Their eyes speak volumes about changes that I was not around to see. Maybe it’s simply that, as I get older, it becomes so glaringly apparent how completely out of control of everything I am. I have been struggling with depression over the past few months, and I fear I am losing my ability to connect with others. Attending this funeral was important for me, likely more important than it was for the family of the deceased. I woke up the next morning, back in Katrine, a little wired from the residual effects of driving for 14 hours (we rarely go anywhere but to the doctors these days). I walked outside to survey the damage from Friday night’s wind storm. I think I’ll be using the chain saw today. I can only react after the storms have passed. One day at a time.

  - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED