It was clear to me at the most recent Jeff Loven music show in Hudson, for Memorial Day weekend, that there has been a changing of the guard. The sword has been passed. New blood, like Yungblud, has been brought in.
And, I must say, loyalty — amongst the devotees who travel frequently and all across the two-state area to virtually all of Jeff’s shows — has been rewarded. They are the royalty, in what just makes good business sense that I can appreciate.
In a significant but not unprecedented altering of course, I was not one of those asked to sing. Doesn’t surprise me, really, based on my recent performance history with him onstage. He was very cordial, greeted me prior to his long first set and after the last, but for a change did not apologize if on a rare occasion not bringing me up. I always exchange the civility back, saying that I have sung so much in the last three or more decades that the novelty has worn off, so don’t worry about it. He’d always add from the stage, “I see someone in that front row, who really wants to come up here …”
That’s usually just hyperbole and theatrics on Jeff’s part.
But this time I felt that same old itch.
After all, we had done this same routine as long as Jeff has been coming to Hudson most every Sunday night, a total of 26 years, as he often points out to the audience in front of him.
Maybe it’s just gotten old.
To be clear, this piece is not meant to be sour grapes in any way, just an analysis of how well a given vocal style potentially played out, or played into, what else was played on a given night. I hadn’t expected to be warbling on this eve, but it is the main climax of my going to any show by Jeff, and my hopes started climbing up a bit as others kept climbing up. You can feel a little like a kid at Christmas hoping for that favorite toy, but having to settle for some other gift, although still nice.
— The writer penned in their description, asked simply since when is Woodbury actually Hudson, and left it at that.
Well since you asked, they like Stillwater are symbiotic with us. At least with their nightlife coming here. And back to Wild Bill’s, even sans Amanda behind the bar. But the feedback, since it was about the location where a news event happened but it didn’t give that event or describe it, was bitter. Maybe another trendy and bigger shop opens, and The W beat ours out, in WW, by MAXXing out on concrete forms.
You’re confused, one wrote in return. Coulda meant or alluded to Hutchinson, instead. Was it at that darn intersection, but I’d guess that across the course of the Cities, there are several such damnable conglomerations with a dern dearth of speed contusions, also named bumps. These even need to be traversed by supergroups like The Traveling Wilburys, going through Woodbury to a Woodstock-like concert gig.
Where they were us is at Pier fivehundred early Tuesday, with all the concrete decking and rails on the north wing basically done and full to the street. The east wing has the other side of decking, serious sand, plenty of upright plywood and concrete shapes throwing their weight around. In the square where they meet, the north and its bulk ride herd. On the south end, the sidewalk is still closed. (Again?) So basically two-thirds or a bit more done, if measured by area. But still plenty of space to be seated, in part because on the (again) north side, where there is a disability access ramp, and we’re friendly to that on this webpage. And on a sign on a big garage door next to the alley, it has an arrow and even words that spell out … access ramp.
Lastly, they got a lyttle old lydy to dryve not an Yber or Lyft or Lymo or Taxy, but a Hyndye to The Hyme and pyrk it ynder the byge ryfe (by the pyer.) It hynkered down thyre all myrning. A Chrysler or Chevy or Fyrd or Mercury cyld hyve been takyn too. —
I will first make a bold and brash and sometimes brutal analysis of my singing style. As a vocal coach might say, I use and sometimes have had trouble controlling my “very clean but even guttural, open vibrato.” One of my harshest critics, my wife who has sung To Sir With Love with Jeff, says it goes beyond vibrato to staccato, a fine distinction, but defensable. The quality of my annunciation is like none other, even Bruce Dickinson of Iron Maiden, whose operatic style I model. I can hold a note for 20 seconds, (Bruce beats me by a bit and I am envious), have a very wide range and can go up and down freely. I never go flat at the end of words. Bruce??
However, on the down side, and there is one, I sometimes try to do too much, and go too far with on-the-spot (is that redundant?) ad-libbing of vocal lines and words. I can have trouble with the quick succession of words to sing that heavy metal, my main style, constantly throws at you, and will stumble on them. (Jeff, for his part, often wears a very early Maiden T-shirt while performing, although on this night it was Outkast, and I’ve never heard him play any Maiden, or other Old School metal, just Metallica. After all, you don’t want to go niche, rather reach as broad an audience as possible.)
All of my singing ills could be cured with just a bit of practice and rehearsal, and (re)listening to lyrics in advance, as nights like this have demands that go way beyond karaoke. But I am not a professional singer, and my living does not (really) depend on it, so I have no incentive to stream music videos non-stop in front of the computer, and sing along to get my silly but at times spectacle shticks down-pat-solid. My singing is powerfully raw, which can be very good, or bad. It has a distinct tonality, and that rawness is something people either love, or at least can appreciate — or not so much in its most extreme forms. Maybe get some actual vocal training, to hone it?
Hey, the music biz can be harsh. I’m aware. But again, do I really care?
What has Jeff said from stage? “Where does he get that vibrato?” “Here he is, the local legend …” Etc., etc., etc. Yadda, yadda, yadda.
Here are some of those etcs. He told the story of playing a gig in Cottage Grove, and a guy exclaimed, “where is Joe Winter. I want to hear The Clash.” People see me walking down the street, sometimes even at the other end of the county, and yell out of their power trucks and sports cars at me “Hendrix forever.” One karaoke meister: “That was pure genius. Not just musical genius, but complete genius.”
Back to Jeff: “Joe, I don’t know if you know it or not, but you are a local celebrity (not the first time I have heard that.) So it’s good for me to bring you up on stage.”
So why the hell did I get shut out? On a night where, for when it was quite busy, there still were a lot of people brought up.
So enough self-aggrandizing, before I get too embarrassed.
The answer to what I frequently flub: Well, again, stumbling on words when trying to do too much, earlier, converting lines like “you don’t know which clothes even fit me,” to “Jeff doesn’t know what clothes even fit me.” Think it out ahead of time, Joe, as the word difference might sound subtle, but just try it out at metal speed.
Jeff and I have gotten the band back together a few times, I with he — after a long hiatus, for various practical reasons — and I felt inspired to let it all hang out on stage. Jeff has at times, midway in our history, shut my mic off when I was holding that last note too long, and ranging all over the place at the same time. A cardinal rule, especially in metal, even for someone as grandiose and accomplished as Rob Halford of Judas Priest: Don’t do something just because you can. Do it solely for artistic reasons. I violate that one freely, just to have fun with it.
Especially the last few times up there with Jeff. So him deciding not to call me up does not really surprise me. He was likely afraid of what I might try to do with my singing, which sometimes approaches wailing. He might not have thought it would fit with the audience. So I could read it toward the end of the last set, as the minutes ticked by, that this would not be the night for another reunion, although because of the diva in me, it did sting a bit.
All this to the point that I and my wife have even hung out, after singing, with he and his kids at carnivals. So, even the guy next to me, a longtime devotee of Jeff who recently got promoted to star status with singing an old country tune with him — the opposite of my style — was almost stunned when he got the nod for the last call song over me, and told me so. At least twice. And that in another difference from me, he considered his vocals too soft, and the big crowd might have trouble hearing them.
One of the first to grace the stage was Rich Raley, who did his classic joking signage mimicry to The Joker by Steve Miller — and then was asked to do another! Also, earlier a singer/guitarist got three songs, basic standards, and a man with whom I also was not that familiar got up there after unabashedly asking to. Another person, a woman with a request, got denied because Jeff said he did not know the song. Jeff is very squeamish about trying out new stuff before rehearsing it at length. He values the quality that much, even if repetitive. Theme here?
Or maybe, despite my frequent mouthing of words, picking up pace as we went along, he didn’t think about any of these things at all?