The Northwest Files

Daytona 500 Crash Fast, Yee-haw!

I may have gotten carried away, here, but I just watched this year’s Daytona 500 crash fest. I don’t watch much NASCAR at all, thinking, as I do, that it is not far removed from motorized wresting, or maybe cage fighting. This year’s “race” did little to change that view for me.

To begin with, racing on ovals? Really? What have ovals to do with the real world? This is a throwback to racing’s earliest days, when racing was done on horse tracks at fairgrounds and such. Racing on public roads, where there were actual, like, you know, corners that went left and right, was banned early on for reasons of safety.

But much safer closed-track road racing, as it’s called, has been with us now for, what, 80 years? In a road race, you accelerate, slow down, turn left, turn right. Accelerate again, turn again. And so on. In NASCAR, at least at Daytona, you hold the throttle pedal to the floor. All the time.

Then there are the cars, so-called stock cars. What about them, exactly, is stock? Right, nothing. And the weight of those cars? It’s 3,200 pounds. Why so heavy? They don’t have to be that heavy.

But they are that heavy. They race at 200 mph, two and three wide, and when someone makes the smallest mistake, there are enormous multi-car crashes fueled by speed and inertia, wrecks that ruin equipment worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Three wrecks like that today cut the field by more than half. It’s never IF these wrecks will happen. It’s when. How does that make any sense?

Then there are the engines and transmissions. Big honkin’ V-8s bolted up to obsolete four speed manual transmissions. Those engines gulp fuel and belch pollution. Why? Because the American male loves the sound of a V-8 engine? Too much Bruce Springsteen!

They run these races in “stages,” borrowing a term from rallying. Except these aren’t stages at all. They are cool-down periods, like standing your kid in a corner to keep mayhem from developing. It's phony. It's fake. It's false. It is not racing.

Much of this, I think, has to do with tradition. NASCAR’s fan base loves this shit. Its members would howl if the specifications were changed to reflect contemporary realities. And make no mistake, they come to see the wrecks, the sparks, the fire, the carnage. Think the Roman Coliseum.

All of this is why I think NASCAR is analogous to the current form of the Republican Party: beer-swilling, gun-owning white people, many of them from the South, who eschew logic and education, and who still think they are part of the Confederacy – or at least wish they were.  

As far as I can tell, they want nothing to do with change, nothing to do with modern race cars – unless maybe those cars race once a year at Indianapolis, another oval – and to hell with liberals and other sensible people who know that oval fans are chasing a dream of yesteryear, a dream that already has disappeared, except for a few vestiges like these anachronistic races, like these anachronistic “race” cars.

What does it all mean? I have no idea. I just hope that soon it all will go away.

But that’s just me. Watching stupid shit on TV always makes me cranky.

-JFT

Old Friends and Olden Times

If you want history, there are few better places in the U.S. to look for it than Santa Fe, New Mexico. Founded by Spanish colonists in 1610, Santa Fe is the oldest state capital in the U.S. But the city's history goes back far beyond 1610, as the Tewa people lived where Santa Fe now sits for thousands of years prior to the arrival of the Spaniards.

The city itself sprawls and much of it is of little interest to Laura and me. But the old downtown area contains historic buildings, lots of art galleries – many of both of these are found on Canyon Road, a short walk to the east of the city's historic plaza and its Governor's Palace – and many really good restaurants. Here's a shot of John, Dar and Laura. As always, click on a photo to enlarge it.

Last week it also contained our pals Darlene Strayer and John Shureen. So we packed up and flew in for a few days. The payoff was lots of laughter, fine discussions, a wonderful hike through prehistoric Indian dwellings, and several incredible meals. I know, too many modifiers. But hey. It's my blog. At least I know what the rules are before I break them.

 

Santa Fe is at about 7,200 feet of elevation, so the air is bright and clear, perfect for artists and photographers. This is a huge draw. The air also was very dry, so lips chap immediately.

It's possible to walk central Santa Fe in a day, doing enough window shopping – and actual shopping – to last me for at least a decade. Gorgeous stuff in the windows, but spendy. Very spendy. We got that out of the way quickly. Then we wanted to bask in a bit of history.

A bite at that apple involved visiting the New Mexico State History Museum and the Georgia O'Keeffe Museum. Both were impressive.

But we wanted more. So we drove to Bandelier National Monument, maybe 35 miles or so out of town.

This is raw, wild country for the most part, high desert marked by cliffs and canyons. The bottom of a canyon that bisects the Monument (wouldn't some oil wells and some uranium mining look great here, those bastids?) contains a nice visitor's center, through which can be fou
nd a trail leading to several sets of historic dwellings. It's a peaceful place where deer wander unperturbed by human presence.

These are a combination of cliff dwellings and stabilized ruins of pueblos. One of the latter is circular and the other, the Long House, is long and narrow, and is found immediately adjacent to the cliff dwellings. It once incorporated those caves.

A nicely kept trail winds through all this and allows visitors to enter, via sets of daunting ladders, several of the caves.

At maximum, maybe 400 people lived here at any one time. They made their respective livings by farming and hunting. They left their mark not just with the caves and pueblos, but with petroglyphs, art far more lasting than most, carved into the faces of the cliffs.

After a nice hike through the ruins, we drove another 15 miles to the Valles Caldera, the site of an ancient super-volcano explosion – think 1.25 million years ago – that left the surrounding area buried in many yards of ash. The result was a gorgeous, 13-mile-wide meadowed valley where a mountain once stood. We watched a large herd of elk graze before we turned around and headed for home.

This was by far the best day we spent.

The other bests? Food, buddy! For breakfast, we kept to the Plaza Cafe, right across the town’s historic plaza from our hotel, which offers a short menu of really great food, including the best huevos rancheros I’ve found. We stumbled upon a place called La Choza (in English, The Hut), which offered wonderful New Mexican dinners; hot, spicy, and plenty. Also, a long list of custom margaritas. As you might imagine, there was lots of trading of bites.

But that wasn't all. We also discovered La Boca, which specializes in Tapas plates – man, good stuff. Also, Paper Dosa, a restaurant specializing in foods from the southern part of India. This was very different from the Indian food we are used to. We liked it a lot. We did a lot more bite trading, since we all were curious about the contents of the plates of our companions.

The interesting thing about both La Choza and Paper Dosa (a dosa, apparently, is a spicy, flavorful crepe-like thingie, and a paper one is paper-thin) is that both restaurants are so popular that each is jammed with eager customers. When we arrived at Paper Dosa just before it opened, there already were people waiting to get in. Same deal at La Choza. They do take walk-ins, but reservations really are the way to go.

And then it was over.

During a trip last year, we were away for 30 days. Ridiculous. That was far too long. When we finally arrived home, the cats hardly recognized us. This trip was much shorter. We liked that better. But what we liked the most was hanging out with our pals, whom we hadn't seen in donkey's years. We hope to see them again soon – if not in Santa Fe, then here in Central Oregon.

Oh, and when we arrived back home after five days, the cats still hardly recognized us. But you knew that.

-JFT

Light Happiness

It doesn't take much to make me happy. Here's an example of something that makes me very happy.

When we moved into this house 18 months ago, everything about it was very nearly perfect. One small imperfection, however, befuddled us. This imperfection involved the path lighting systems outside. They are inexpensive systems that work well, but are aging.

What I noticed was that the plastic globes in the individual lights had hardened and began to crystallize. To remove a lamp top to replace a burned-out bulb, for instance, was to destroy the globe.

I had a couple of contractors come out to provide estimates on new systems. The first estimate was $2,500. The second was $3,500. Yikes! We left things as they were.

But recently I Googled Malibu Lights, the company that makes the stuff we now have. Dummy! Why didn't I just do that in the first place? Turns out they make replacement parts. Identical stuff. Fifty bucks bought us six brand new complete light units that are so simple to install that even a Millennial could do it. Problem solved.

But that solution was concurrent with the onset of another problem. The timer/transformer that operates the larger of the two systems began buzzing and feeling warm to the touch. Uh-oh. I unplugged it, lest it fail completely and burn the house down with us and the cats in it. But that left our driveway dark.

Once again I went online. I found a new, improved timer/transformer that is a direct replacement for the old one. It even has a solar eye that automatically turns the lights on and off, if you want to use that instead of setting precise times for the lights to go on and off. Cool! Old part out, new part in. Easy-peasy. Even I could do it.

Now all of our path lighting works like it is supposed to work. I like it!

See? Doesn't take much to make me happy.

-JFT

Dealing with Barbarians

Worried that the Barbarians are at the gates? Worried that maybe we Americans stand threatened by Goths, Visigoths and Vandals, the sorts of unwashed hordes that brought down Rome? Hey, don't worry about it.

It's way too late to worry. They're here and in control of our country.

Evidence of this is the Barbarian in Chief, a liar, racist, foul-mouthed molester of women, and more.

He is aided by those who support and enable him. This includes Congressional Republicans, whose only goal, apparently, is to make sure that they lock poor and middle-class people out of the American Dream by making sure they go hungry and do without education and medical care;

Big business, whose only goal is to corner every last dollar you and I have while insuring that their employees work for the lowest possible wage;

Energy companies, whose only goal is to pillage every last piece of open and free space, even our cherished national parks and monuments, for every last drop of petroleum, coal, uranium, and more.

The religious right, whose only goals seems to be to ignore science and to support Israel and ignore the Palestinians, all the better, apparently, to hurry along the Rapture.

Gun enthusiasts, whose only goal is to protect their firearms while ignoring the murderous drumbeat of firearm deaths in this country;

Racists, who don't care what Trump does as long as he is not Barack Obama, and as long as the civil rights of non-whites are abrogated;

Anti-abortion advocates, whose only goal is to prevent women from making important decisions about their own bodies even as they ignore the health and welfare of children once they are born (my sense is, if you oppose abortion don't have one. But what do I know?);

Trump enablers who want to curb the ability of the media to report the news as a way to support the Barbarian in Chief and his acolytes. (Remember, please, that Supreme Court Justice Black wrote in the Pentagon Papers decision that the purpose of the free press is not to support those who govern, but to support those who are governed.)

Are you a Barbarian? If you support any of these groups, probably you are; you are part of the problem.

If you voted for the Barbarian in Chief, if you still support him, you are the cause of the problem.

What to do, what to do? Beats me. I know very well that people are entrenched in their respective positions. I think our only hope is to make sure that Democrats do well in the November elections.

I wish we could hurry things along. We've had too much of this destructive administration, of these destructive and anti-human Republican policies.

It is time for the pendulum to swing away from hate and the politics of selfishness and greed toward sanity, toward comity, toward the realization that we are all in this together.

That is all. We now return to our regular programming.

-JFT

The Safe Choice? Nah.

"Life is hard and then you die," the saying goes. I would amend that.

My amendment would read, "Life is hard and then your friends and loved ones die."

My cousin Paul Thompson and I begin a sad trip tomorrow. We're driving from Central Oregon, where I live, to Southern California to say goodbye to Mr. Tom Anderson, an elder cousin whom I respected and admired. And also just liked a lot. And my dad, gone since 2002? He thought Tom walked on water.

Tom left us last Sunday, Dec. 30, 2017. His service is on the west side of Los Angeles Saturday morning.

Except for his military service, Tom led a quiet but productive life of business and public service. Ah, but that military service. He was a naval aviator. He flew bad-ass, hotrod aircraft. Landed on carriers. On land, he hauled-ass around in a Porsche 356. He was 10 years older than me. As a youngster, I idolized him.

Our original family was a large one - it began with two tough old Swedes who arrived here in about 1898, first setting foot on American shores in Boston. While homesteading and overcoming hunger, privation and rattlesnake bites, they had 10 children. And those children had 25 offspring.

There now are fewer of us. Eight of us are gone. It does not get easier. Fold into this the notion that old and dear friends also are catching the cosmic bus, and you understand that I'm downright peeved at the state of things.

But there's nothing for it. Paul and I will drive to SoCal, attend the services, hang out with our cousins afterward, then visit the brutal,  sun-blasted desert cemetery where his father and both my parents rest. Then we'll drive home.

Paul and I will natter back and forth and pick at each other. We're like that. But he's a good guy, and it's all good natured. So we'll do well, because we both know that's what Tom would want. And because we're cousins.

I hate doing this. Ice and snow are forecast. The drive will not be easy. Flying will be safer. But not many of we cousins have ever taken the safe choice. Tom certainly didn't. Paul didn't either. I see little point in starting now.

-JFT

Gloria

We cranked out two performances of our Christmas concert this past weekend, we of the Central Oregon Mastersingers.

The centerpiece of the concerts – one on Saturday night and a matinee on Sunday, both in Bend's Tower Theatre – was an oratorio called Gloria.

This has nothing to do with the 1965 hit single, by a band called Them, called "Gloria." You can hear that classic here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cEYyujfQtwo

It has everything to do with a magnificent 30-minute, multi-movement piece of music written by one Antonio Vivaldi (1678-1741), who spent most of his career as a priest at a school for orphans in Venice. Interesting but useless factoid: Vivaldi was known as "the red monk" because of his head of curly red hair.

This piece is special for me, and for some of my beloved friends. But it was lost for a long time. It probably was written around 1715, but disappeared until about 1926, when it turned up in a stack of moldy, brittle old manuscripts.

In 1939 it was among the lost Vivaldi pieces played for the first time in centuries. Actually, there are two Glorias – catalog numbers RV 588 and 589. Number 589 is by far the better known of the two, and is the one we performed this weekend.

This work is an old friend that I, along with my Newbury Park Academy classmates, members of the school choir, discovered in about 1960. Our director, the wonderful Fred Lorenz, a dear friend to this day, selected this for performance for us. He told us at the time that we were the first high-school choir in the country to perform it.

That was fine with us! We pretty much all were infatuated with music, and especially Baroque music, which the Gloria is. So we loved this thing.

So here, all these years later, I'm privileged to sing it again. I found it to be more difficult and more complex than I remembered. I worked hard on it during rehearsals, but still mostly spent this weekend hanging on by my fingernails.

I got through it in Saturday night's performance fairly well, just a few small mistakes. Hey, after singing in choirs for most of my adult life, I've been away from that world for 15 years and returned to its rigor only this year. My skills faded quickly and are slow to return.

Sunday's performance, however, was mostly better. Only mostly, because I promised myself that I would hold Fred Lorenz, our school music director, and all my other wonderful friends from that era in my heart as we sang Sunday.

And I did. Which means that there were several times during Sunday's performance when I just had to stop singing, close my eyes, wipe the water from those eyes, and thank fate for bringing us all together so many years ago to discover not just each other, but this great music.

And oh, the music! I've been privileged to sing in several fine semi-pro choirs over the years, but COM is the finest one yet. It is such fun to be up on stage in the middle of the glorious sound this ensemble produces. Every one of our 44 singers is just stunning. Well, except for me. I hope to keep them all fooled.

Music was by far the best thing that happened to me during boarding school, a gift that continues to reward and nourish. I never will forget the experience, or those many old friends. And I am very grateful to Christian Clark, the conductor of COM, for bringing this wonderful old Gloria to the forefront of our Central Oregon Christmas this year to remind me of how much I owe those early years, and the friends I discovered back then.

-JFT

"Ladies and Gentlemen, the Kingston Trio!"

Back in the late 1950s, there was a boom in folk music. It was led by a band called the Kingston Trio. I liked this band a whole lot, attended many of its concerts, and was greatly influenced by the music it did, and by the polished way it did that music.

The band was contracted to do something like four record albums a year, and it toured more than 200 days a year. This was a very tough row to hoe.

The leader, one David Guard, the genius responsible for the band, for the songs, for the sound, apparently was not an easy man with whom to get along.

He was demanding. He wanted more practice, improved music literacy. The others wanted to drink beer and chase girls. And yeah, I've talked to them and that's what they told me. So after four years or so, what was a phenomenal success, big pay checks, the cover of Life Magazine and all, came crashing to the ground, leaving behind a phenomenal final album called Goin' Places, the folk equivalent of the Beatles' Abbey Road. And also, of all things, an absolutely stellar Christmas album. I still listen, with great joy, to both.

What happened was, in 1960 or so, a deficit showed up in the band's royalty accounting. Guard got pissed off, called it quits, and went off to Australia. Oops. He later said that the big lesson from doing this was, "Never give up your fan base." Today, anybody would have known that.

The remaining pair, along with their manager, bought Guard out of his interest in the band and hired a guy. Then another guy. Then another guy. Then another. Until the band no longer had any of its original members.

Yet something called "The Kingston Trio" still toured, offering what basically was a diluted tribute band controlled by one surviving member who held, and leased out, the rights to the name.

This went on for more than 40 years.

I completely lost interest. Yet as a fan, I tried to find a thread, and because of the work I did, was able to interview not just Guard, but also the succeeding band members. Not much satisfaction there, though I liked Guard a whole lot. The others, especially the guy who ended up owning the rights,  seemed to evidence great animosity toward the creator of the project. I found this unseemly, since Guard's original musical vision had made him a whole lot of money.

OK, fine. But to this day, I still love the music. A few years back, Laura and I attended a concert by this tribute band.

I was right the first time. Familiar tunes, sure. But the passion and energy, the compelling sound, was gone, no matter how hard they tried to convince the audience that they were authentic. Sorry, they just were not. You just cannot phone this sort of thing in.

Earlier this year, more than 50 years after the band's inception (Guard by now has long since left us), the surviving original member, the guy who owns the rights to the name, leased out those rights to a new bunch.

Apparently the guys who had been leasing the name, and touring and performing under that name, had no idea of what was happening until the new lessees of the name filed suit to force those guys to quit touring, to stop using the name.

This had to have been shocking. But it was long past time for a change. And change is what has happened. Once again there seems to be enthusiasm for the music and for the band's heritage.

One reason for this might be that this new Kingston Trio consists of the son of one of the original members, who apparently understands the weight the band's heritage demands that he carry. He plays the same tenor guitar, and the same conga drums, that his father did. The result is brilliant.

I had no idea all this was happening. Which is a shame, because this new, reconstituted band just came through here.

I had no idea. If I'd known, I would have attended. Just to hear them, just to see if this new bunch has truly recaptured the passion, the energy, the sound, of the original.

Researches on the Interwebs suggest that this new bunch has it figured out. They seem to play and sing with the enthusiasm that has been lacking for so long, with the verve that suggests they understand the heritage they carry.

I hope they circle back through here next year. Or sooner. If they can continue recapturing the sound, the enthusiasm of the original, I'll take my sweetie to one of their concerts. And I will love it. And as a discerning person, so will she.

-JFT

Old Man on Ice

It was cold here last winter. Really cold. With temps, a couple of nights, down to 22-below.

We had snow. Lots of snow. Two feet deep in our yard and driveway.

We had ice on streets and sidewalks. Lots of it. It all lasted forever.

Streets were not much of a problem, as our car has all-wheel drive and a high-tech set of ice/snow tires. So traction was pretty good and driving was easy.

The sidewalks, however, were tough. Laura has winter boots, for which I bought her a set of chains. She easily managed to remain upright. Me, much more of a klutz than she, not so much.

I pretty much survived by wearing my low-top hiking shoes. These are terrific on the dirt trails of summer, but on ice, they were as slippery as deer guts on a doorknob. My feet would be out from under me more quickly than I could react. Bam! Sore, wet butt. Not to mention cold feet.

Eventually I went looking for winter boots. Too late. Every place I tried was sold out. It's what I get for being a slow learner.

This winter will be different. However icy it gets, I'm ready.

I've bought myself a pair of insulated, waterproof, winter boots, complete with a soft tread compound that supposedly will grip icy surfaces.

But that's not all. I also bought a set of really gnarly chains for these boots.

Looks like I'm going to need this traction. Tonight's forecast calls for snow in the local mountains, and maybe even here at 3,000 feet. Lordy, I hope that's wrong!

It doesn't take much cold to get to the frostbite on the tip of one of my fingers; hurts like hell. There's nothing I can do about that. But for a change, I think I'm good in terms of remaining upright on ice. I am, however, going to be really pissed off if this winter is a warm one.

-JFT

Decency

Craig Johnson, a favorite author, spoke at a local bookstore the other day. Laura and I went to listen to him. He said that he tried to be sure that his character, or protagonist, a sheriff called Walt Longmire, was a decent person. That was uppermost for him. Well, that and a great story.

Johnson manages to accomplish both tasks, but his comment got me reflecting on the concept of decency. I went to Webster's New Collegiate Dictionary, the backstop in many newsrooms, for definitions. Here's what I found:

decent

• proper and fitting: a decentburial
• not immodest; not obscene; chaste: decentlanguage
• conforming to approved social standards; respectable: decent apparel
• reasonably good; adequate: decent wages
• fair and kind: decenttreatment

decency

• the quality or condition of being decent; propriety of conduct and speech; proper behavior, modesty, courtesy, etc.
• [] socially proper actions; the proprieties
• [] things needed for a proper or comfortable standard of living

One of the most remarkable aspects of Walt Longmire is just how fair, kind, and courteous a human being he is. We're bombarded these days with stories of unsympathetic, militaristic cops who shoot first and ask questions later. Longmire isn't one of those. He helps and takes care of people, even while busting bad people. And even they get a fair shake.

But forget Johnson and his character, Sheriff Longmire. That's fiction. What I find striking is the apparent difficulty of finding decency in the world we live in. I know, Americans want to be decent, and in fact pride themselves in living that way. But are we really? Are we a decent people?

In the years I've written posts to this strange, scatter-shot little blog, I've succeeded in not being political. With this post, however, I must cross the line into politics and more. If that bothers or perplexes you, stop reading now. Because here are my questions, the things I wonder about. I don't mean for this to make any reader uncomfortable. But it might.

Are we being decent, living decent lives, when:

• schoolchildren who can't pay for lunch don't get lunch?
• the cost of college becomes untenable while a ravenous student loan industry is allowed to proceed unchecked even as college students rack up debt they never will be able to pay for?
• mobs on both sides of the political spectrum shout down speakers whose ideas don't agree with their own?
• racists, vile, ugly racists, march in the streets of our cities yelling racist slogans?
• corporate executives take home hundreds of times more money per year than the workers who actually power their companies?
• we knowingly listen to propaganda, even though we know it is propaganda, while refusing to seek alternative points of view?
• our legislators try to deprive millions of people of health insurance even as their health needs are taken care of by generous government programs?
• we ignore the needs of military personnel who have returned from stressful and life-threatening deployments?
• government officials attempt to open public lands – some of which contain priceless historic artifacts – to oil and mineral exploitation?
• we allow the rapid erosion of environmental protections so many have fought so hard to gain?
• we allow efforts to suppress voter participation?
• we ignore incontrovertible evidence of climate change, and of man's role in the process?
• we choose to ignore or excuse the fact that our primary foreign adversary played a powerful role in swaying our most sacred of processes, our national election?
• we don't care that the president chosen in that election is a serial liar, adulterer, racist, abuser of women, cheat, bully, and misanthrope?
• cops shoot and kill unarmed black men and rarely are held accountable?
• not paying taxes is more important than seeking the greater good?
• we turn our backs on a hallowed American tradition by turning our backs on refugees?
• our citizens don't care enough about life and success to be informed?
• our citizens don't care enough about the greater good to get off their asses and vote?

In my mind, these questions – and there are many more – are binary. There are just two possible answers: yes, or no. Certainly these questions reflect my own biases. But that does not, I don't think, make them any less valid.

When I was a young man, I believed that the fall of the United States, a fall like that of Greece or Rome, for instance, was absolutely impossible. I no longer believe that. What I now believe is that if the majority answers these questions in the affirmative, our fall is assured. If a majority answers in the negative, well, maybe there's a chance for us, a chance for life to imitate art, a chance that Walt Longmire's innate decency isn't just fiction.

And now we return to our usual programming, which I hope will be halfway decent.

-JFT

Getting in Tune and Staying There

Way back in 1959 I started playing banjo. Soon after that, I picked up guitar. With both instruments, I fumbled my way, with limited success, through the basic chords. And how to hold the pick, how to hold the instruments, how to make the chord changes.

But most important, before anything else, I learned how to tune the instruments.

I didn't get too far before I realized the value of playing along with recordings. Doing that is fun, interesting, challenging. It's a great way to practice.

Classical musicians tune to what's called concert pitch, which is A, 440hz. To do that, back in those ancient times, all you needed was a tuning fork tuned to the frequency that was relevant to your instrument, or perhaps a pitch pipe. Using a pipe or a G tuning fork, I tuned my instrument's G strings – both banjos and guitars have those – and then the rest of the strings in reference to that G string.

So whatever I used, I at least had a baseline tuning that was somewhere approximate to Concert A. Good to go, right?

Maybe not. For this is where trying to play along with recordings goes off the rails, careening onto one of at least two side tracks.

First, very often, the band with which I was trying to play wasn't tuned to the same frequencies. Very often, one of us was a bit flat or sharp. Maybe. Or maybe it was just that the turntable or tape machine I was listening with turned at a slightly different speed than the machinery upon which the recordings were cut. Either way, I was out of tune.

Solution? Retune to match the song I'm trying to play along with. Often to every song on the record. That's because the musicians in the studios would retune after every song, often, apparently, without reference to a pitch pipe or a tuning fork. Instead, they would refer to one of their instruments – a guitar, for instance – which might or might not be close to concert pitch. So while they were all in tune with each other, their proximity to concert pitch continued to be approximate.

This was just something I learned to put up with, though it did dampen one's enthusiasm.

Then, finally, a decade or two ago, a break-through: the digital tuner, the little plastic gizmo you might have seen clipped to a guitar's headstock, up there where the tuners are. Over the years, these have become ubiquitous; they literally are everywhere, with every musician. They've also become very fast, very accurate, and very inexpensive, with each new generation better than the one it replaces.

That "ubiquitous" part is important. Digital technology does not lie. If designers ask a digital device to recognize tones at certain frequencies, that's exactly what that device will do.

So a band recording a tune will tune up digitally, that tune will be recorded and saved digitally, and they reproduced digitally on your iPod, CD player, or whatever.

You tune your instruments digitally and you're immediately in perfect tune with the recording. And with everyone else using a digital tuner. Pretty cool, no?

No more pitch pipes, no more tuning forks, no more analog inaccuracies. Just perfect pitch. I like it. What I don't care for too much is that the mistakes now are all mine. I own them. But I'm working on that.

-JFT