Thursday, August 21, 2014


This article originally appeared in the 8.21.14 issue of Metroland.

Until fairly recently I didn’t get the whole house concert thing; at least I didn’t think it was for me.  The idea of going to somebody’s home for a private concert struck me as something akin to a horrible hippie pot-luck dinner.  I figured the performers were typically sensitive folkies, playing the kind of show that makes me want to punch a stranger and then go blast Raw Power at full volume in my car all the way home.  This sort of thing is fine for some people, and god knows having more places where musicians can play and make some money is a good thing.  But house concerts seemed way too sharing and caring and gentle and patchouli-soaked for this old rocker.

            Then I ran into The Great Sean Rowe playing last year at the Dreamaway Lodge.  My girlfriend Terri was going bonkers over him, naturally, and I mentioned that maybe he’d come play at her house.  She damn near passed out.  I asked Sean, he was game, we set a date, and voila, we’re doing a house concert.  And we just did another one with Sean (who just did a cross-country house concert tour while waiting for his new album to drop) a couple weeks ago.   We invited a bunch of people, borrowed some chairs, put out some wine and beer, Sean rocked severely, and we had ourselves a time.

            It appears not everybody understands that a house concert is a thing, and a very different thing than a house party. Lots of people we invited didn’t respond, and maybe they thought it was weird and off-putting to be invited to someone’s house and asked to donate $25 for a musical performance.   A number of people wrote back and said they were coming, but didn’t send in their money as they were asked to, and then canceled at the last minute.  Like you might do for a party.  The thing is, it’s maddening because there are a very limited number of seats (we had room for 30), the idea is to get the musician paid, and these last minute cancellations screw up the works.  They’re unintentionally (giving the last minute balers the benefit of the doubt) rude and annoying.

            My friend Doug, who’s been putting on the great Billsville house concerts in and around Williamstown for a couple of years, explained it best.  He gets acts that he and his wife would otherwise go to see in a club.  If they went to a club, they’d have to get a sitter, buy tickets, drive to the club (usually Northampton or Albany), probably have dinner and drinks somewhere, maybe stay in a hotel, and drive home.  We’re talking at least hundred bucks here, and probably more.  So instead they have the musicians come to their house, feed them, let them stay overnight, invite a bunch of friends over, and have a totally different, infinitely richer and personal experience than the alternative.  Doug told me that often after a show the musicians stay up and jam with his budding-musician kids.  What could be better than that?

            And for national or regional acts at a certain level, house concerts make a ton of sense.  First, you’re gigging at somebody’s house, usually a pretty nice house, with running hot and cold water in the private bathroom.  And a nice room to change in.  If you’ve ever gigged out in club-land, you know these things aren’t always there.  You get fed nice homemade food, not soul-killing road food.  You get to sleep in a nice bed, not stuck with your three band-mates in a Motel 6 by the expressway.  You’re on at 8, off by 9:30 and you get to hang out with nice people in a nice house.   And the money’s good!  Figure 30 people at $25 each and figure most of them will buy some merch to remember the night by.  You can easily clear $1000, which ain’t bad scratch these days for working musicians.

            The audience is invite-only; there’s no public advertising or announcements, so you’re not diluting the local market (and getting the attention of the creeps at ASCAP).  And Sean tells me that usually two-thirds to three-quarters of the people coming to house concerts have never heard the act before—they’re friends with the hosts or are brought to the concert by a date.  The people get an intense and intimate experience, and if the performer does his or her job right, the folks at the house concert will talk it up and come out and bring friends the next time the performer does a “legit” gig in town.

            So if you’re inclined to do something like this, just do it.  You’ll be surprised at the caliber of talent that will gladly come play at your house.  And if you’re lucky enough to be invited to a house concert, go, and understand it ain’t a party, it’s an event.  And more than likely a very, very special event.

Paul Rapp is an entertainment attorney in the Berkshires who hopes to see all of you at his band Blotto’s gigs tonight at the Low Beat and Saturday at the Cutting Room in Manhattan.

Wednesday, August 06, 2014

8.7.14 BLEW NOTE

This article originally appeared in the 8.7.14 issue of Metroland.

            Last week some truly depressing quotes from the great jazz saxophonist Sonny Rollins started popping up online.  They were coming from a New Yorker article entitled “Sonny Rollins: In His Own Words.”  The entire article was a series of quotes, including:

Jazz might be the stupidest thing anyone ever came up with. The band starts a song, but then everything falls apart and the musicians just play whatever they want for as long they can stand it.

I really don’t know why I keep doing this. Inertia, I guess. Once you get stuck in a rut, it’s difficult to pull yourself out, even if you hate every minute of it. Maybe I’m just a coward.

Some of my recordings are in the Library of Congress. That’s idiotic. They ought to burn that building to the ground. I hate music. I wasted my life.

            None of this remotely jibed with the little bit I knew about Sonny Rollins, which was that he was a decent and spiritual man.  Pretty quickly I learned, by reading an angry blog post, that this was supposed to be a humor piece, written by someone calling himself “Django Gold”, who was described in his byline as a senior writer for The Onion.

            I guess some people think this piece is funny.  But a lot more people thought it was for real, as the quotes continued zinging through cyberspace, not as jokes, but as things Sonny Rollins actually said.  Monday Rollins did a 30-minute live webcast from his home in Woodstock, which you can see now on YouTube and which I highly recommend (search for “The Real Sonny Rollins”).   He passionately and comprehensively defended jazz, first pointing out that he was hurt over the fact that young jazz musicians might read the piece and stop practicing.  “The people who wrote this thing are trying to kill jazz, but you can’t kill a spirit.”  He said he loved comedians Bob and Ray and that he subscribed to Mad Magazine.  He quoted Churchill and Noam Chomsky.  He was beautiful.

            The New Yorker piece was a disgrace, and “Django Gold” is a royal asshole.  This piece wouldn’t have run in The Onion, because it truly isn’t funny.  And they can’t hide behind the claim that it’s satire.  It’s not.  Satire is a literary device by which someone’s  weaknesses or other bad qualities are exposed.   This didn’t do anything but attack Sonny Rollins and jazz.  Exactly what “bad qualities” does Sonny Rollins have that were “exposed” by the article?  None!  As jazz-man Nicholas Payton said on his blog “it’s nerdy white-boy humor.”  Except it’s not humor, but rather a putrid character assassination that might make some immature hipster douchebags feel good about themselves because they recognize references to Dexter Gordon, Miles Davis, The 3 Deuces, and the Montreax Jazz Festival.

            Sonny Rollins could easily sue the bejesus out of the New Yorker and “Django Gold.”  And he should.  He should sue to punish them, and even more importantly to clear his name.  Defamation consists of (a) the utterance or publication of something about someone that’s not true; (b) the speaker’s knowledge of the untruth; and (c) damage to the reputation of the subject.  There’s a satire exception if the lies are so outlandish that a “reasonable person” would conclude that they can’t be true.  And that’s not the case here.  It wasn’t for me, and it wasn’t for a ton of people, including a lot of people who know a heck of a lot more than me about jazz and Sonny Rollins.  This was defamation, pure and simple.

            Contrast this situation to our friends (and my clients) The Yes Men, who issue phony press releases and impersonate governmental and corporate officials proclaiming things like Dow Chemical is going spend a billion dollars cleaning up Bhopal, or that the World Bank is shutting down because it realized it was harming third-world countries.  The corporations and governments are then forced to deny these things, and often The Yes Men issue phony denials first.   The Yes Men’s announcements are often reported as real news.  Are these things defamatory?  Technically maybe, but the effectiveness of the stunts rely on people believing their outlandish claims, which then forces the targets’ denials (like Dow Chemical having to state that it’s not going to clean up Bhopal).  The end result is satire’s purpose, to expose the truth.   And it’s hard to argue that the truth could harm a target’s reputation.

            The fact is that the Yes Men are pretty much insulated from lawsuits because of the “Streisand Effect” – the notion that a lawsuit and the attendant publicity would trumpet the Yes Men’s message and notoriety even more loudly, and embarrass the target even more, no matter what the outcome of the lawsuit.
            Which is exactly why Sonny Rollins ought to sue: the Streisand Effect will work in his favor, as people reading about the lawsuit will come to learn that he didn’t say what the New Yorker has him saying.  And people will also learn what hideous fuckheads “Django Gold” and the editors at the New Yorker are.

Paul Rapp is a local IP attorney who dangles participles as naturally as he breathes.


Wednesday, July 23, 2014


This article originally appeared in the 7.24.14 issue of Metroland.

            Net Neutrality Update:  Well, the FCC received well over a million comments on its “Notice of Rulemaking” to consider ways to destroy the internet.  Last week so many comments were coming in that the FCC’s servers crashed, twice, forcing the FCC to push the comment deadline out a few more days.  I suspect the vast majority of comments demanded that the FCC create strict and real net neutrality rules, not the half-ass pretend neutrality that FCC Chairman Wheeler has floated as a possible outcome.  I’m sure there were plenty of Astroturf form-letters written and financed by the segment of the corporate internet world that wants a better internet for them, and a crap internet for us.  And Techdirt reports that some guy filed a dishwasher user manual as his comments.  I wanna party with that guy.

            Anyway, now there’s a period where folks can file comments on comments that have already been filed.  This lasts until September 15, so get busy.  After that, the FCC could: issue a new rule, decline to issue a new rule, hold hearings to discuss new rules, or, believe it or not, ask more questions for the public to comment on.  Yes, this could go on forever.

            Moving on.  One totally geeked-out article caught my eye last week.  As you may have heard, there’s rumors that AT&T is in talks to acquire Direct TV, the satellite television giant.  Now, history teaches us that mega-mergers like this are almost never in the public interest—the stockholders and transactional lawyers get richer, then lots of people lose their jobs (in corporate-speak this is called things like “increased synergies and efficiencies”) and then prices go up and service quality tanks.   

            But this article, buried in a high-tech news feed, suggests that there may be reasons to want this merger to happen.  To really want this merger to happen.  The tech part of this is way over my head, but it goes something like this:  AT&T has a wireless broadband technology that it hasn’t been able to use here because it hasn’t had the right wireless bandwidth or a delivery system to make it feasible.  This technology delivers super-fast wireless broadband by the truckload, and it can’t be metered, and even if it could be, it’s so fast and plentiful it wouldn’t make sense to meter it.  According to the article, AT&T has recently acquired the right part of the bandwidth spectrum for this service, and Direct TV’s infrastructure, with a little tweaking, could deliver it.  I hate the term “game-changer” but it sure seems apt here.  Stay tuned.

            In my last article I was bitching about the horrible misreporting of the Washington Redskins trademark debacle.  Well here we go again.  Yesterday almost every news outlet screamed things like “Judges Deal Death Blow To Obamacare” and “Court Guts Obamacare.”  This did not happen.  What happed was that a panel of the DC Circuit Court, a federal appeals court, ruled 2 to 1 that the Obamacare legislation did not provide for subsidized health care in states that declined to set up their own health exchanges (36 states, all with Republican governors, shamefully refused to lift a finger to help their citizens get affordable health care).  It was, by any measure, an insane ruling, supported by two Bush appointees who, like some of their brethren on the Supreme Court, are agenda-driven toads hell-bent on destroying the New Deal and establishing a corporate-controlled fascist state.  Koch-churian judges.
            Significantly, a few hours after the DC Circuit made its ruling, the 4th Circuit Court of Appeals made the opposite ruling on the exact same issue.

            So what does it mean?  Immediately, it means nothing.  The DC Circuit’s ruling will not go into effect until the appeals process plays out.  So does this mean it’s headed for the Supreme Court, where insane rulings like this have become the order of the day?
No, it doesn’t.  The government can (and will) ask for the DC Circuit to reconsider this decision en banc, meaning instead of a three-judge panel, all of the active DC Circuit judges will decide the matter.  There are eleven active judges.  One was appointed by Bush I, three were appointed by Bush II, three were appointed by Bill Clinton, and four were appointed by Obama.  I hate the term “do the math” but it sure seems apt here.

            And if the en banc panel rules like we know it will, there won’t be a split among the circuit courts and the Supreme Court won’t likely pick it up.  It’ll be over, and Obamacare will be fine.

            This isn’t rocket science.  You’ve been subjected to shoddy sensationalist journalism.  At the highest level of what passes for journalism these days.  The internet isn’t killing journalism.  Lousy journalism is killing journalism.

Paul Rapp is a local IP attorney who invites you all to the 37th annual Monterey Fire Company Steak Roast in Monterey, Massachusetts this Saturday from 5:00 to 7:00.  Really tasty swordfish will also be available for you pantywaist communists.

Wednesday, July 09, 2014

7.10.14 Ou Est Le Jazz?

This article originally appeared in the 7.10.14 issue of Metroland.

Festival International de Jazz de Montreal 2014
June 30-July 3

            After a 2 year absence, I was able to get back to the Montreal Jazz Festival.  I was delirious with excitement, as my previous visits had been about the most fun I’ve ever had.  This time things were considerably less awesome; I’ll spread to blame among me, the weather, and the Festival itself.
            First, I took work with me.  Worky work.  I had no choice, but even so that’s just stupid.  Idiotic.  Second, it was hot, searingly hot, and I don’t do hot well. (Perversely, these two things worked well together—it was too hot to do much but stay in my room and do work.  Third, for whatever reason, the Festival didn’t provide me with press tickets to the small-venue shows, the shows where something resembling jazz was being performed, the shows that make, at least for me, the Festival so special.  So for the three nights I was there, I had tickets to a couple medium-sized shows, and the rest of the time was left to wander among the numerous outdoor stages in the lovely Place Du Arts.  Which would have been fine, really, except it was too damn hot.
            Anyway, first stop, Ginger Baker’s Jazz Confusion.  Words can’t begin to describe what drummer Ginger Baker means to me, having had the Cream albums burned into my DNA during my formative years.  If you’ve seen the excellent documentary “Beware Of Mr. Baker” you know he’s had a singularly difficult life, is a complex person, arguably a complete prick, and not at all a well man.  I saw him play at Iridium in NYC last year and was fearful he wouldn’t make it through the show.  He whispered weakly into a microphone onces or twice, took an unscheduled break, and played OK, but without his signature power.
            A different Mr. Baker roared into Montreal.  He told jokes, he mugged, he spoke fondly of his excellent band-mates: the supremely tasty Pee Wee Ellis on sax, Alec Dankworth on bass, and the superb African percussionist Abass Dodoo.  He laughed.  Took me a while to realize it; I thought he was grimacing.  Nope, Mr. Baker was having himself a time.
            The show was, like most of Baker’s solo work, Afro-centric to the core, and featured a bunch of things of his brand new (and excellent) album Why? as well as Afroed-up versions of jazz standards by the likes of Wayne Shorter and Thelonius Monk.  Baker played simply, but he played deadly.  The crowd, which greeted him like a conquering hero at the start, was bonkers throughout.  I’m so glad I saw this.
            Night 2, Sly and Robbie and Burning Spear at the mammoth club Metropolis, an old movie / vaudeville theater turned nightclub.  I just wanted to see legendary drum/bass production duo Sly and Robbie, who have been since the 1970’s Kingston, Jamaica’s Wrecking Crew and George Martin, responsible for zillions of hits for zillions of artists from reggae stars to No Doubt to Serge Gainsbourg.  And they didn’t disappoint.  Metropolis’ massive sound system was perfect for their sledge-hammer dub-wise grooves.  Sly, wearing a gold-plated hard-hat, simply massacred his drums, playing from his shoulders, not his wrists.  Early on he did a simple little snare fill, and when I realized he was mimicking a slightly out-of-time repeating echo, my mind was blown to smithereens.  With a cool band (with a horn section), they could have done their thing all night, all week, in all its bass-dropping head-banging goodness.  But then they introduced a singer, a tall slick-looking Rasta fellow in a suit who ran around the stage trying to fire up the ladies and waiving his arms in the air like he didn’t care.  I didn’t either.  Nighty-night.
            Night 3 started with a nervous and tentative female blues trio better left unmentioned.  Then I moseyed over to the international stage to see Mokoomba.  From Zimbabwe.  From heaven, actually.  30 seconds in and I was moving briskly toward the stage.  There was nothing this band couldn’t do and do well; play, sing (all 6 of them), move (same).  Singer Mathias Muzaza is one of the best pure singers and charismatic frontmen I’ve ever seen, sounding like Sam Cooke one minute, throat-singing multiple tones the next, then peeling off a perfect Steve Perry yowl the next.  What do you say to a band that pounds a reggaeton beat while the guitarist is copping Dickie Betts licks over the top?  Mercy.  Heat schmeat, I did something I almost never do. I danced.
            ‘Til next year Montreal.  Please stay cool.  Literally.