How to Play the Blues

Baby boomers are not aging gracefully. I went to a Johnny Winter concert last night. Never have I seen so many overweight, 50+ and probably divorced men together at the same time in one room in my life. It was bizarre. And the music? Loud, discordant, like the whole point of it was to see how much punishment your eardrums could take. No wonder they had to help him out on stage. He’s not blind, he’s dizzy. His inner ears were destroyed years ago. And one other thing. I know he’s been doing this a long time, but the guy never moved – never showed any sense of rhythm at all. No tapping toes, no bobbing of the head – nothing! He’s probably deaf.


Now granted, it’s been awhile since I went to a blues concert or heard it live. When I was in college I used to hang out in bars where they played the blues. Usually these bands featured one extraordinary guitarist and if they were any good they could usually pack the house. And I know this guy was at Woodstock. But I also revere people like Paul Butterfield, Eric Clapton, Mississippi John Hurt, Blind Willie McTell, ect. and I think that’s what blues is/are. The blues is singing. Yeah, you got a wailing guitar and preferably a mouth harp, too – notably missing from last night’s performance. Well, last night you couldn’t hear anything except cacophonous noise with a backbeat. That ain’t blues.

A Poem in Memory of John Lennon

(a note: I wrote this shortly after the gathering described which took place at the corner of 72nd St. and CPW the Sunday after his murder.)

December Sunday afternoon

a poem by Richard R. Binkele

(for John Lennon, 1940 – 1980)


gilt edged trees rise
against the dense gray bank
of concrete, of sky.
all around the park the city thoughtfully
packs it’s ballbearings with grease.

by the bandshell the tribe unites
to mourn the murder of another
peacemaker – carnations and roses
bloom in the wind
around the poster, a kind brow
under soft hair, a soldier in
the softer conflagration
of love, a tender rebel,
a light in the inkwell dark.

beneath low rolling clouds
helicopters drone recalling
another stubborn wound
a memory of war.
love was never enough to save us all,
idiots still perform their wild dance
and madmen cut down stars from the heavens.

bend the trees down
the strings of his guitar are silent.
our hearts have just begun to sing.
for a moment the droning fades,
the low clouds fall away,
a warm sun penetrates the wound
and sparkles on our tears.
our covenant, our brotherhood
is reaffirmed

outside this silence is life and traffic.
veins and capillaries flow free
on December Sunday afternoon while
children coming from the museum stop to see;
lovers too,
always lovers

imagine plays, the tribe splits,
the clouds return as intense as any sunlight
to atone for a bitter day.
oh sadness
for all the sorrow
hidden in moist crevasses of sky
and the coming of winter