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This is too cool not to post

Ben Proctor — 2008-09-09T11:34:55-04:00

I have now reached a new level of coolness. Children are drawing pictures of me. This one is by Bryn, who took the time to reproduce my messy hair and crooked church name tag. And it makes a kick-butt Facebook profile pic!

through my old neighborhood

Ben Proctor — 2008-06-06T11:07:55-04:00

American dreams laid out to rows
of hardy bushes dividing green chemlawns;
all the familiar dogs have died.
the school bus came around this turn pregnant with
hopeful repeating future.
he became a schoolteacher,
she from the big red house went to Nashville,
friend in the brick ranch overdosed.
I remember the priest said "o death, where is your sting"
looking at his mother and nodding promise.
he asked us to remember the seal of baptism,
a flag draped over the casket.

around where I pulled into her driveway on a motorcycle,
the pine trees where I smoked my first cigarette.
he always sped up the old subaru around this turn.
I remember the family names,
Italian and Irish syllables to the beat of my sneakers.
I remember the insecure affection, the angry fathers,
the teenagers driving way too fast down the hill.
I remember soft breasts, pressing and unfaithful.
this is a graveyard of friendships.

I do not remember the sunshine ever being this bright!
or the air as thick and pulsing.
some gardens look exactly the same
as they did twenty years ago.
only I am different,
a transient voice resurrecting shadows.

Do schools kill creativity?

Ben Proctor — 2008-05-20T20:39:54-04:00

An inspiring talk about creativity and the arts' relationship to public education, especially important for me as I seek to be a public school music teacher and a voice for change in music education.

Punch Brothers, Punch

Ben Proctor — 2008-05-19T10:33:31-04:00

Punch is one of the most important bluegrass-rooted albums since Bela Fleck's Drive, and a compelling example of the possibilities for a modern bluegrass ensemble. The Punch Brothers, all musicians who mastered their instruments within the bluegrass tradition, break new ground with this record. Led by Nickel Creek's mandolin player Chris Thile, the musicians execute the music with clarity, sensitivity, and life.

Some of the harmony employed on this record, to my knowledge, has never been used by an Americana-rooted band before. Many bluegrass traditionalists would consider the use of bitonality and dissonance outside of common tonal practice to be sacrilegious. Progressive bluegrass, such as Bela Fleck's Acoustic Planet and Tony Trischka, has strong jazz and world music influences. Punch embraces even more diverse musical influences; many of the frequent dissonances recall 20th century Russian composers like Shosticovich and Stravinsky. The band perfoms with changes in texture, move in and out of meter, and other techniques more common to modern classical music and film scoring.

Thile through-composed much of the record--the musicians' parts and don't repeat, such as in a common verse/chorus form. Many of the progressive aspects of the album result from this removal of the ensemble from strophic forms where everyone creates their own part out of a predictable bluegrass vocabulary. But this format does not come across as antithetical to bluegrass; there is a authentic sense that the music developed out of the bluegrass tradition. The band's ability to transition between a driving bluegrass sound and the more contemplative, orchestrated sections is remarkable. Even in the most esoteric sections of the pieces, a wailing pentatonic or a backbeat remains, keeping the listener grounded in the American vernacular.

The recording itself is transparent, without the heavy compression, booming bass, and flat levels found on many modern recordings. Nonesuch records specializes in classical music, so it is no surprise that the sound of the room and comes through clearly and the instrument mics bleed together.

I have listened to this album many times already, and I discover new things with each listen. For myself as a progressive traditional musician, this is an inspiring and thoroughly satisfying album.

flooded guts

Ben Proctor — 2008-04-25T14:41:38-04:00

I wish to reach in myself
and draw out only courage.
split my breastplate and fall
onto my open hand by the fingertips
push slowly between the lungs
to the fragile beating core.
the muggy organs flow between fingers and
I declare to the world my envy of it.
arm-deep in
perhaps, unwilling
to hook the slick charity,
tear through the membrane;
a white swamp in my guts
by the broken milk.

Obstinate weather

Ben Proctor — 2008-03-28T11:33:51-04:00

My original plan for my blog today was to post a picture of the tiny, white, cabbage-like flowers growing in my backyard, as a way to celebrate the oncoming warmth. But Rochester had other ideas, and poured her obstinately cold and wet snow over me and my budding friends. Just a day ago I was ready to put away my insulated boots. I was looking forward to letting go of my obsession with the thermostat and its hungry, bill-inflating master in the basement. My bicycle is restless!

yearning for shelter

Ben Proctor — 2008-03-14T14:48:56-04:00

last night I dreamt that I tortured a man
the anger grinding inside my bones
like shattered iron into bedrock
I watched his will sputter and croak
clenched the comic burble
whimpering through useless bloody lips
his dying hope my fuel of wrath

I dreampt fear, rendered into guilt
a sour fog in my lungs,
I could not fathom forgiveness.
he was bound to the chair and I to my rage,
and each blow fattened the impatient grudge.

I woke up yearning for shelter
a bed of warm earth
to break open underneath me,
a garden to sow tears.

Jeremiah 20:9

Ben Proctor — 2008-03-06T11:09:01-05:00

If I say: I won't mention Him
or speak any longer in His name,
His message becomes a fire burning in my heart,
shut up in my bones.
I become tired of holding it in,
and I cannot prevail.

you words

Ben Proctor — 2008-03-05T23:36:16-05:00

how does the word-spackle
draw me up
like a creaking bucket from the well?
remove me from time, you words
of trickle over patched awning.
putty the swelling crack in my hope,
mother me with damp moss and raw breath,
revive the waltz of early morning,
the one two three
one two three
love you me?
you words, I know your music,
brewed from laughter and skin.
buried in you are stories, all true.
I reach to you, words.
my dreams drag as a stuffed toy
over the salted, noisy road.
bare feet on the cold asphalt,
the drowsy child rubs an eye
and smiles.

Dogfish Head 90-minute IPA

Ben Proctor — 2008-02-21T11:15:28-05:00

I had this beer from the tap last night at the Tap & Mallet on Gregory St., and it is about as good an IPA as I could ever ask for. The aroma is hoppy, powerful, and swirling. The taste has the crisp bitterness of the hops up front, like any good IPA will, but the finish is sweet, lingering, and complex. There is some heat in the finish, too, from the high alcohol content. Some raisin, pale malt, and rich fruit-like flavors crawl under the weight of the hops, giving it a great balance and fullness.

It amazes me how creative American microbreweries are these days. I don't even bother drinking imports anymore. I recommend this beer to all beer drinkers, and especially those who love IPA.

Perfoming at IAM this year!

Ben Proctor — 2008-02-18T18:59:12-05:00

My band, the Varnish Cooks, won the Juried Music Competition for the International Arts Movement Conference this year. We play Saturday, March 1st at the Tribeca Performing Arts Center in New York City. It is an amazing honor and I am very excited.

When I first went to the festival in 2005, I remember telling myself that I wanted to perform at the festival in the next couple years. But I imagined that I would perform original music at the festival, not old-time American traditional music. In the application to the competition, I quoted the minimalist composer John Adams: "Whenever serious art loses track of its roots in the vernacular, then it begins to atrophy." The International Arts Movement Jury accepted the Varnish Cooks not only for the quality of our collective voices, but because we play music that lives outside of money-driven industry and grounds us to the aesthetic wisdom of our cultural ancestors. It is truly independent music that by nature transcends our individuality as artists.

too far from the dance

Ben Proctor — 2008-02-17T15:24:03-05:00

My friend Lisa posted this on her blog, and it resonated with me so strongly I want to repost it here:

Music rots when it gets too far from the dance.
Poetry atrophies when it gets too far from music.

- Ezra Pound

V-day

Ben Proctor — 2008-02-14T12:07:31-05:00

"A revolution without dancing is a revolution not worth having."
- V, V for Vendetta

What I really enjoy about this quote is that it means you should dance while London is blowing up. What revolution is can really justify itself without the arts? Maybe that's why Gabriel blows that trumpet at the end of the bible. While all the sinners are being destroyed by the wrath of God, hey, what a nice tune!

And happy Valentines day! May your chest cavity be impaled by the bolts of a fat flying toddler.

Ben and Dan's Bittersweet Pirate Sludge

Ben Proctor — 2008-02-08T11:37:06-05:00

For Superbowl Sunday, my church had the game on the big screen and a chili cook-off. My housemate Dan and I won the competition! Below is our winning recipe, Ben and Dan's Bittersweet Pirate Sludge. When we went up to accept the silver ladle award at halftime, I made the big mistake of mocking all the Giants fans in the room and pumping up my hometown Patriots. At least the chili was pretty good...

3 slices of bacon, minced
3 tablespoons olive oil
2 medium-large white onions, chopped
2 bulbs garlic, chopped (approx. 15-20 cloves)
1 1/2 pounds sirloin steak, cubed
1 pound ground pork
1 bag kidney beans (must be soaked overnight beforehand)
1 bag black beans (must be soaked overnight beforehand)

2 bottles of dark beer (we used Otter Creek Stovepipe Porter)
2 cups of strong coffee (expresso grounds preferred)
1 can petite-diced tomatoes (14.5 ounce)
1 28 oz. can crushed tomatoes
1 can beef broth (12-15 oz.)
4 - 5 fresh jalapeño peppers, chopped
1/2 cup chopped fresh coriander

1/2 - 3/4 cup ground chili paste
4 - 6 tablespoons brown sugar
2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa
2 - 3 tablespoons ground cumin
1 - 2 tablespoons cayenne pepper
2 - 3 teaspoons salt, to taste (you may want more)
2 teaspoons oregano
1 teaspoon curry powder
1 teaspoon black pepper
1/2 teaspoon turmeric
2 bay leaves

Cook the bacon on medium-low heat until all the fat is out of the bacon. Remove the bits of bacon and leave the fat in the pan. Increase the heat to medium and brown the sirloin and ground pork in the bacon fat. When the meat is browned, remove and set aside.

On medium heat, deglaze the pan then add the olive oil. Cook the onions and garlic until the onions are clear. Add the meat, beer, coffee, tomatoes, and beef broth and increase heat to medium-high. Just before it begins to boil, reduce heat to simmer. Add all the dry spices, jalapeño peppers, and half of the chili paste. Mix well and simmer uncovered for three hours, stirring frequently. The chili should reduce significantly.

Add the rest of the chili paste, all the beans, and the coriander. Simmer for another hour, covered or uncovered depending on how thick the chili is. The chili should be thick, not watery at all, but not to a paste.

If you decide to make this, let me know how it turns out!

Varnish Cooks, Elzic's Farewell

Ben Proctor — 2008-01-25T15:57:53-05:00

My old-time band, the Varnish Cooks, releases a second album tomorrow night! We recorded the first nine tracks of the album live in the Artisan church sanctuary with three microphones; no overdubbing, reverb, or special effects added. The last four tracks are live from a show last November at the House of Hamez.

I struggled a lot with the mixing and mastering process (it can be very tedious and difficult to satisfy my perfectionism), but I feel good about the overall sound of the album and the performances. The album has depth, passion, and a lot of playfulness to it.

Check out a couple of songs at the Varnish Cooks website.

Goodbye, Grandma

Ben Proctor — 2007-12-09T11:11:24-05:00

Virginia Hildreth, 1923 - 2007

Virginia Hildreth of Albany, New York, died at home on December 3rd at the age of 84; she was born to Charles and Jeanne Lobeck on October 1, 1923.

A proud graduate of the Eastman School of Music, Ginny celebrated her life long enthusiasm for music both as a singer and as a listener. She was a lady who raised six children and worked as a professional for Xerox Corporation in Webster, New York until her retirement. At that time she served for several years with Wycliffe Bible Translators as an inventory planner at JAARS in Waxhaw, North Carolina.

Ginny is remembered for her independence and her passion: for her faith, her family, and her love for music. As a young woman she sang in many church choirs, The Rochester Oratorio, and Bach Choir. A passion that sustained her throughout her life, and a legacy her children and grandchildren share.

best, is, what

Ben Proctor — 2007-11-09T12:11:25-05:00

who I
love averse
what I love
do
for who
what is best
  what is best
is best
  is best
best

a friendship blessed fragile,
squirm in shame and toss.
its music absolutely
promised into universe
and the honesty of rocks and wood and bone.
our crooked needs-like-child
carved onto the buzzing,
subatomic gospel of everything.

I wander darkness to
words: sharp drizzle
for us
what is best
  is best
what is
  best

I want to bind a knot
around my heart
that can only be untied

what is best
what best
what is best
  is best
  what is
is best
best

The 2007 Red Sox, revisited

Ben Proctor — 2007-11-02T15:30:41-04:00

The Red Sox won the World Series...again! We came back from three games down to Cleveland and swept the romanticized Rockies. Congratulations to everyone who played a part: fans, rookies, veterans, scouts, managers, owners, Fenway staff, and even the obsequious assistant who gets coffee.

When the Red Sox won in 2004, it was like new era began in my life. We had accomplished the impossible in sports, coming back from three games to none to vanquish the bitterly hated machine known as the New York Yankees. For superstitious fans, it could only mean a breaking curse. David Ortiz, Curt Schilling, and the rest of the Boston "idiots" became the great exorcists of Red Sox folklore. The ecstatic cheers of champagne-soaked Sox fans drowned the wail of Babe Ruth's fading ghost, first in house that Ruth built, and several days later in Cardinals stadium.

So I'm no longer a loser. And now that the Red Sox have repeated a post-WWI World Series win, I sense a confidence in Red Sox Nation and less of the lingering paranoia instilled by years of heartbreak. Earlier this year, I wrote a blog post about my fear of the Yankees, my inability to fully believe that the Red Sox had pacified the demons of loss. But now, I can't help but look at the Yankess with pity. I replay their 2007 post-season in my mind, the many clutch double plays that Jeter hit into, Clemens not making it through second inning, A-Rod playing like he belongs in some obscure gulf league, and I almost feel bad for them. Almost.

(This paragraph is an open letter to Theo Epstien. Please, please, please, please, please don't sign A-Rod. Let Mr. April fail in the clutch and build his MVP stats in blowout games someplace else.)

My pride as a fan no longer has to be rooted by stubborn, territorial allegiance. But it feels less noble to be committed to my team for anything other than stubborn, territorial allegiance. There is a dark side to this new level of confidence among Red Sox Nation. There is a new kind of fan who doesn't have any clue what it was like to be a committed Sox fan between 1918 and 2004. A couple of people said to me this year that it would be nice if we lost two games in Colorado, so that we could win the series at Fenway. My response to that is, are you crazy? Just take the freakin' win! Part of me thinks the new kind of fan will be the inevitable result of winning. I hope I don't have to complain, like some of my Yankee fan friends do, about capricious fans with more allegiance to the cuteness of a jersey than the team it represents.

David Ortiz, in an emotional pep talk to the team after the Sox went down 3 games to 1 against Cleveland in the ALCS, said while tugging on his jersey, "There's a reason why you wear this Red Sox uniform. [long pause] Because you're a bad motherf----r."

And with those eloquent words, Red Sox Nation inaugurates a new era of Boston sports fanaticism.

turn into yeast

Ben Proctor — 2007-10-30T14:28:18-04:00

slow, unmovable pressure of mercy
like comic raincloud, tears of mother;
we are entitled to nothing,
my inconsolable brother.
I am guilty, too, and not just because
I am two years older
and tempted by the pride
of failure.

the mirror grips a self-made orphan
with crumbs in his pockets
that he resents to share,
hoarded like the spoils of war.

I want us to turn into yeast
and be mixed into bread.
We can be broken and dipped
at the same table.
we can know the bond of blood,
poured into the same cup
and drunk until slurring eyes
shut and sleep forever.

Growing into lists

Ben Proctor — 2007-10-05T08:45:58-04:00

There is a lot of evidence in my life that I am quickly approaching thirty years of age. I can't remember the last time I slept in past eight in the morning. I make fewer assumptions. Lack of coffee induces withdrawal headaches and certain foods now disagree with me. But the most significant and uncomfortable change is my dependence on lists.

If I have any free time, it is because I choose to ignore my lists. Lists are never satisfied; they are cruel beasts that will attack any semblance of order in my life if left unfed. At first, lists are very attractive. They promise to graduate you into truly professional life. They prove your importance by orchestrating the world's reliance on your ability to get things done. Then they reveal their true nature and hover around your freedom like vultures.

My life used to be gestalt, greater than the sum of completed tasks. I could spend an entire day learning Kora rhythms on the banjo or composing atonally with slide guitar, and if the laundry was overdue it wouldn't matter because I had no trim appearance to maintain. Now, assembling a week is like doing a jigsaw puzzle. Because of time constraints, certain tasks on the list must be delegated to mediocrity and those tasks are usually the most personally precious: practicing my instruments, reading fiction, and, of course, procrastination.

This blog post is a defiant act of leisure, a way to ease the tyranny of the list. I need to learn how to tame the list and wrestle its supremacy, especially because my listed life will only grow more intense. I suspect this means I must develop a mentality that runs ahead of the list. I have to be smarter than it...I must beat it as its own game by anticipating tasks and (gulp!) doing things ahead of time. The difficult part for me is discovering ways to enjoy this, which feels like giving up on a dearly held principle of the artist's lifestyle.

A friend of my family loves to make the joke, you know you're middle aged when you reach down to pick something up off the floor and think, "is there any thing else I can do while I'm down here?" Even now, in the middle of my defiant act of leisure, I think of other updates my website requires. I have to add a performance date to the calendar...a small victory, and bittersweet...

Varnish Cooks first album

Ben Proctor — 2007-09-21T08:45:40-04:00

I play in an old-time band called the Varnish Cooks, and we just released our first album! We recorded it in my dining room with GarageBand. I've listened to it many times now, and think that the band's sound is unique, although I hear a lot of things I need to work on. I think the band has enormous potential. We developed a musical philosphy that guides our aethetic decisions about playing traditional music; the first time I have experienced that in a band. It will help us play old-time music with consistent integrity while keeping the sound distictive.

Sample MP3s are available on the Varnish Cooks website. Check it out and let me know what you think!

Evil piano teacher

Ben Proctor — 2007-09-13T17:33:20-04:00

I remember when I broke the evil piano teacher’s vase. A frustrated child will often fend off his enemies through seemingly careless impropriety. He was not a pleasant man; he had large bones in his wrists that protruded outwardly like great malignant pulleys under his skin. He had me play the same piece of music for several months. It was about a song about the sea and the notation featured a picture of a schooner. I might have practiced it twice. I mostly focused on my own compositions, which consisted of careful dissonances and shoving Legos in between the strings of the piano. (This was also an excellent way to torture Lego men from the evil space alliance.) I did not know how to read music, but my giant-handed piano teacher assumed that because I could tell him what the names of the notes were, I would be able to play the music with little effort. He would ask me to play it in lessons, and then when my incompetence so inspired him, he would use the piano to violently render a schooner crashing into the side of a young boy’s skull.

I’m not sure I meant to break the vase. Nor am I sure what moved me to kick the shards methodically from the entryway onto the asphalt driveway. Or what brilliant emotion possessed me to continue to kick the shards around the driveway even after a rude admonition from the gorilla-handed piano boxer. But I did not feel guilty, even after my mother made me apologize, because I knew that an artist and king of a Lego empire could not flourish under the tutelage of such a maladroit oaf.

New house!

Ben Proctor — 2007-08-15T07:46:47-04:00

Just before I went on vacation, I moved into a new place. A friend from undergrad at Geneseo and I are renting the whole house (we have shared a house before in Genseo, so he knows what he's getting into). I now have a separate room for private teaching and a nice big kitchen. The house is at the end of a dead end street in a diverse city neighborhood. Across the street is a housing complex so there are always kids wandering around. I no longer have to stack instrument cases on top of one another to get to the bathroom...

Novia Scotia

Ben Proctor — 2007-08-13T21:19:41-04:00

I spent seven days in Novia Scotia, a vacation with my family. It was an amazing trip; the weather was gorgeous, the air was salty and crisp, and the water was 40 freaking degrees (I went swimming and it hurt). I grew up near the ocean and spent weeks of my childhood summers at my grandparent's seaside cottage, so living in Rochester leaves me frequently pining for the sea. Lake beaches seem tame to me; they don't have the raw expanse or mystery of the ocean.

This is a picture of the Bay of Fundy, which has the largest tides in the world. In some places on the bay, the tides rise and fall more that fifty vertical feet. We went to a beach along the bay and in three hours the tide recessed close to a mile. We literally walked on the ocean floor. I took the picture above at Cape Split, which has high cliffs and extends into the middle of the bay. The view from the top is one of the most awesome things I have ever seen.

Anne Lamott is my new anti-hero

Ben Proctor — 2007-07-05T16:13:27-04:00

Quotes from a sermon I listened to today called "things I don't need in a pastor":

"I think laughter is really the carbonated form of Holy Spirit."

"Crying is the way home...it's good to never get over it."

"...it makes you a little lighthouse, when you've gotten down to what's true and what's real. And lighthouses don't go running around the islands looking for boats to save...they are on the islands of wreckage and disaster and they give off a little bit of light, so that people might be saved."

vision and none

Ben Proctor — 2007-07-02T18:28:08-04:00

I have no vision for light-bleeding stars
or moons that draw oceans like bedsheets over the shore.
I wish one grain of sand
to become two, then two to one;
I do not the know the coasts,
fleeing from sunrise to darkness
printed by thousands of crashing years.
what thrall keeps men to themselves--
my insulation!
(the devil wants my petty rhythms
and flatters me warmly;
he gives me my own key.)
the divine gift
ha!
I am not so bold to take it
or to know why.
thrust into me,
He makes homes
of the dark corners,
and my hell-spoiled life
speaks of great black expanses crossed.

in-between koi

Ben Proctor — 2007-06-23T13:12:47-04:00

I am learning to love
    muddy water,
the murky religion
under the floating dead
    leaves and in-between koi.
I eat nameless seeds,
    tart purple off the lolling branches,
and let the sun sting my eyes;
fear displaced by trust.

time to get a bigger apartment...

Ben Proctor — 2007-06-15T08:36:38-04:00

Two mandolins, two banjos, two acoustic guitars, a solid body electric guitar, a hollow-body electric guitar, a fiddle, a trombone, two trumpets, a clarinet, a keyboard, an acoustic instrument amplifier, a tube guitar amplifier, several harmonicas, a frame drum, and a penny whistle. Plus the condenser mic my Dad got me. Scary part is that I actually play all of them, at the expense of my social life...

My friend Mel made a really funny and appropriate comment the other day, "Another family torn apart by one man's quest for tone."

Dylan in church

Ben Proctor — 2007-06-10T21:16:54-04:00

I had the great privilege of leading music in church this evening (my church meets Sunday nights in an old theater). I took the opportunity to fulfill a dream of mine and play Bob Dylan's Ring Them Bells in full rock and roll fashion (lyrics here). It was a great spiritual moment for me, thank you to Anna, Bethany, Aaron, and especially Mike for the opportunity.

Next time, Every Grain of Sand...

tv words

Ben Proctor — 2007-06-04T22:01:48-04:00

!watch! oh holy!
!screen! he!who!
!provides!! our!
!mostloved drug!

oh, you brittle words
shattered on my love.
each shard longs and... waits
to be picked up
and made a joy sent tumbling
for eternity.

The 2007 Red Sox

Ben Proctor — 2007-05-30T10:18:00-04:00

We have the best record in baseball. The Yankees continue to find new ways to lose. Why am I paranoid? Why am I still afraid of the Yankees?

While living in New York City, I endured the garden variety Yankee maltreatments. I went to Yankee stadium proudly in my gray Sox away jersey, where I was heckled, spat with beer, and met with mocking sympathy. Out of the times I went to see the rivals, I never got to see the Sox win in the house that Ruth built. I still cringe at the thought of the 2003 American League championship series when the Sox should have beaten the Yankees and gone on to the World Series. I am disturbed by childhood memories of believing in my team then being heartbroken in the playoffs--every year. Like a neglected child, I still can't fully trust the 2007 Red Sox even though they look so unbeatable.

I lost my voice for two days after screaming when the Sox came back to win the American League championship series in 2004, coming back to beat the Yankees after being three games behind. I relished the irony when one of my coworkers told me, "You just wait until next year." We broke the curse. The Sox won the world series, and at first I thought, we'll never be losers again. But it wasn't enough to slay the paranoid, insecure Sox fan inside me. There is no salvation in baseball.

I want to say things like, "Well, I guess 194 million dollars just doesn't buy what it used to." The mistreated fan inside me wants to lash out in anger and rub the Yankees in the mud. I've lectured children at church about how George Steinbrenner is involved the occult. I taught my friend's five year-old daughter to torment her dad with, "The Yankees are evil. My favorite team is the Red Sox!" I'm so bad I go after kids...but the lack of grace is what makes the game so enjoyable! I love to watch the fighting highlights--Pedro shoving Don ZImmer into the dirt and 'Tek stuffing his glove into A-Rod's nauseating face. I'm still insecure about my team because the fear and hate is what drives the tradition behind my love of the game.

So I embrace it all. I fear the Yankees and will gladly throw them under a bus. I take solace in knowing that what I endured at Yankee Stadium is far worse for Yankee fans visiting Fenway. And what's the Yankees record now? 21 and 29? Well, at least you're not in last place alone...at 25 million, those Devil Rays make stinging company, huh?

Memorial Day Poem for Grandpa

Ben Proctor — 2007-05-29T10:38:28-04:00

Grandpa, you saved a million dollars
but still fixed your cheap sneakers with duct tape
then spray-painted them white

you did so many tours of duty,
safely piloting back and forth the paraphernalia of war,
flying our boys home or to...
I imagine them saluting "Captain Bob"
and you minding over them
as a grinning shepherd with
big black muffs over your ears.

you loved your morning Metamucil
and drank the most awful beer.
the coffee you made was like rusty water,
but you were a master of evenly buttered toast.

you married a defiant poet from North Carolina.
I think she is in my blood more than you
because I am not like a long distance runner
or a dusty cottage by the sea.

you shopped often, but only
at the East Hampton town dump.
how many free oars did you really need?
I remember the catacomb of old lamps.

you told me the same jokes
every time I visited you.
they were all so, so bad.
like the one about an Indian and a V8,
which I can only tell to people
who will truly appreciate it...
they were the kind of jokes
a captain makes to humble himself.

Grandpa, the medals are so trivial
compared to your
duct taped spray-painted sneakers.
we need to learn how to wear
shoes like yours.

thoughts, not mine

Ben Proctor — 2007-05-26T13:08:08-04:00

"Real grace is simply inexplicable, inappropriate, out of the box, out of bounds, offensive, excessive, too much, given to the wrong people..." --Michael Spencer

"The danger we have is that we want to water down what Jesus said to make it mean something that aligns with our common sense. But if it were only common sense, what He said would not even be worthwhile." --Oswald Chambers

"There is, in the end, only two ways to read the Bible: is it basically about me or basically about Jesus? In other words, is it basically about what I must do, or basically about what He has done?" --Tim Keller

"Then he isn't safe?" said Lucy.
"Safe?" said Mr. Beaver. "Don't you hear what Mrs. Beaver tells you? Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you."
--C. S. Lewis

what language cannot give me now

Ben Proctor — 2007-05-22T10:47:06-04:00

what language cannot give me now
I let go
into the vast blue.

the fizzing swarm,
the endlessly shifting green blades, and
the impatiently courting sparrows
decorate the howl of technology
in the garden
like missing children
wandering a lightless sinking cloud
of corpulent, hopeless god.

and the Blood runs
over every star
to puddles at our feet,
its awkward warmness
we kneel to lap as dogs.

my pride, the curtain
of gravity and tar,
torn.
please, please
torn.

home is the place

Ben Proctor — 2007-05-17T18:32:10-04:00

home is the place
where the Atlantic is bitter cold
(I wade in wincing)
in spring and the wind sends
sidearmed oyster shells planing like gulls.

home is the place
where Mom hoots for our Red Sox,
provoking her favorite players by nickname,
and Dad doesn't know the difference
between shortstop and second base.
(he graciously
buys the beer anyway.)

home is the place
where my little brothers and I
still bicker over wiffle ball
and family history;
we try to impress each other
with second-hand understandings.

home is the place
where Dad walks around out of the bathroom naked
and no one says anything, because
what is there to say?

home is the place
where nobody compliments Andy
on his ability to roll cigarettes
even though he's gotten quite good at it.
(he needs to
brush his teeth more.)

home is the place
where gifts are clever
and Mom cries to family sweetness.

home is the place
where the New England swamp grows
bold, bloodsucking bugs
and proud, far-seeing trees

home is the place
where the crisp scent of sheets
and familiar cross-stitch on the walls
speak to my olding heart

to think or not to think

Ben Proctor — 2007-05-14T07:57:43-04:00

"If you make people think they're thinking, they'll love you; But if you really make them think, they'll hate you." --Don Marquis

"Information must be moved and consumed continuously. That is the price to be paid for speed-of-light transmission. What the information may be is of no consequence, as long as it is attention-getting, and does not inhibit the flow of new information coming fast behind it." --Neil Postman

Information is becoming less and less meaningful. In the information age, people don't want information, they want to feel informed. We consume information rather than internalize it and allow it to affect how we live our lives. That is why popular poetry and song lyrics crumble into paranoid and graceless sloganeering.

(While I'm writing...anyone see the Sox come back with six runs in the bottom of the ninth to win the game yesturday? That was off the hook...I think the O's need to spend some time practicing...how to catch a baseball.)

First year of grad school is over!

Ben Proctor — 2007-05-13T18:15:26-04:00

...and I survived. I am alive to tell tales of conquering a five-legged bear with a small white stick (Holst's Mars), hacking through dense jungle undergrowth (incorrectly documented degree requirements), and hypnotizing swarms of wide-eyed, mischievous forest creatures (kindergarten). Eastman is not a grave for the banjo-playing avant-garde jazz pundit...

I learned this semester that to live on the edge of failure is a blessing. God does not want me to look back on a master's degree from the Eastman School of Music as my accomplishment. I am in school by grace, I'll make it out by grace, and I can say, look how great my God is.

Eastman concert-music snotheads

Ben Proctor — 2007-05-09T17:14:15-04:00

This is what I want to do to every Eastman concert-music snothead: "Reginald, this is Skip. He only knows how to play three Lynard Skynard songs on the guitar. Now go make music with him. The concert will be tomorrow, attended by every important person you know." It would be so good for them.

"Uh, Skip, so...can you read music?"

I should be studying for finals

Ben Proctor — 2007-05-07T23:20:15-04:00

I think the internet is my common-law wife...

with sunburnt smile say

Ben Proctor — 2007-05-06T15:10:46-04:00

singing the blues,
I want to be found
a rusty scrap
that speaks in unison heart
so she will place me in her voice,
and with sunburnt smile say,
you make a charming sound
when children knock you.

I conceal war with sympathy.
I do not want to gallop across
the muddy November field
to a trembling Guinevere.
I would soothe her
with unheeded melody--
(ambition is song
to fool the mockingbird.)

the fog, solitude
prods look! where! ...but
I am not alone when I wake--
the pigeons living in my chimney
warble to me of God.
it first annoys me,
then I remember the old women across the street
who hobble out of the subsidized tower
to mother us with stale bread.

dogwood

Ben Proctor — 2007-05-03T16:57:26-04:00

dogwood!
scatter your white petals
and will I bush up against your branches
with explicit carelessness
(like I brush up against
a woman
whose skin I desire.
I love nature
as I love woman,
so full of rain
and vast, yearning beauty...
I fear nature
as I fear woman,
that a snapping twig
invokes claws.)
the dafodils are now!

Styrofoam pellets dancing on asphalt

Ben Proctor — 2007-04-20T15:09:55-04:00

Sometimes beautiful things happen. Today is a gorgeous day in Rochester. I stood outside work and a light breeze blew styrofoam packing pellets across the parking lot. They were small and white against the sandy gray like popped up beans. They made the most precious and musical tinkling sounds against the asphalt. They spun in circles, played dead, and tumbled over each other like they were not the waste of a hedonistic society. I was nearly overwhelmed with joy before returning to the machine.

my sudden heart

Ben Proctor — 2007-04-13T11:41:13-04:00

my sudden heart
is physical presence.
I smell the rain;
I trust the insistent and cold
lake air breathing in
through the classroom windows.
the great black pianos sleep.
the faces of my colleges
are weary with empty devotion,
and I hold the silence
like an unwanted prize.

who am I?
I belong nowhere.
there is nothing
in my former cities
for me to envy.
it makes me laugh
to know
this is the way of God.
yet I listen
religiously
to the persistent melody
of a fool's dream.

Poem for today in Rochester

Ben Proctor — 2007-04-12T14:03:13-04:00

The Desolate Field
by William Carlos Williams

Vast and grey, the sky
is a simulacrum
to all but him whose days
are vast and grey and --
In the tall, dried grasses
a goat stirs
with nozzle searching the ground.
My head is in the air
but who am I . . . ?
-- and my heart stops amazed
at the thought of love
vast and grey
yearning silently over me.

I played with legos

Ben Proctor — 2007-04-02T10:27:32-04:00

when I was a child,
I played with legos.
I would search my pile
(for hours even!)
for a single lego
the exact size
and shape
and color.
I am stubborn;
my ideas make demands of me.

sometimes I searched
(for days!)
aimlessly,
waiting for the
shiny plastic pieces
to speak to me.
the best ideas
were accicents,
two mismatched legos
clinging to each other
like needy lovers.

I have not changed much.
only now I search
the frets of a guitar
and the words of my native tongue.
I still nurture doomed cities
and build radical star-ships
full of cocky and gifted crewmen.

I know to fight for the words
and answer the demands of music.
I am stubborn;
I believe that the right piece
is somewhere in the pile,
and—dammit—I will find it!
but
the jumbled collection
also has a will
and its providence
is my voice.

old pocket-sized notebook

Ben Proctor — 2007-04-01T00:38:02-04:00

I found an old
pocket-sized notebook
from my New York years.
I was not scared to
read the intimate thoughts.
first, a diatribe
of self-hatred
and desperate lyrics.
then, your name,
written in your cursive,
and how I could contact you.
the rest of the pages
were blank.

I carried the notebook
with me to a play this evening.
I wrote in it what
an Iraqi woman told me from the stage,
"the war is inside you."
I saw the smoke of the towers
from my backyard in Brooklyn.
I remember drinking screwdrivers
and feeling guilty.
the Iraqi woman meant
the war I haven't seen:
the one with smart bombs.
my smart bombs.
I wrote what she said,
"I love like I cannot breathe."

I will leave
the rest of the pages blank.

Drowning melodies

Ben Proctor — 2007-03-28T00:06:52-04:00

"The unhappy person is one who is possessed by some idea which he cannot convert into action." --Goethe

the rising music in me finds no outlet;
it cannot wrench itself from
the pragmatism of survival
of the body that carries it.
this world favors toil over joy!
what can I say about the curse
that is not evident?
that which can only be expressed
through melodies
drowning.

God: show me what is true

Ben Proctor — 2007-03-21T20:33:11-04:00

God:
show me what is true.
place in the hold
of my timid fingers
the cut feather

I wish to sign
with my own blood,
and have been trying!

but I cannot bleed enough;
I am always a letter short.

the flesh of Christ
cured and braided into rope,
is noosed
gently around my neck.
I believe my soul
will sling out through my feet
the moment my neck
splits.

I see my reflection peering up at me
from the pool at the foot of the gallows.
I look the same,
not like a man about to die.
perhaps the vulgar red of the pool
overwhelms the joy
and terror in my eyes.

if you are a christian, you are on welfare

Ben Proctor — 2007-03-20T01:10:15-04:00

if you are a christian, you are on welfare.
you live in the subsidized ghetto earth
you pursue your selfish desires, believing they are not selfish
you judge other people for being on welfare
then you accept the welfare check of grace
believing that you did something
to earn it.

The faith of failure

Ben Proctor — 2007-03-19T12:21:35-04:00

"Living a life of faith means never knowing where you are being led. But it does mean loving and knowing the One who is leading. It is literally a life of faith, not of understanding and reason—a life of knowing Him who calls us to go. Faith is rooted in the knowledge of a Person, and one of the biggest traps we fall into is the belief that if we have faith, God will surely lead us to success in the world." --Oswald Chambers

oh God, where is your power?
prayer does not make a warrior
and there is little sense in love.
brokenness is the way of life
for the kingdom of blessed men.
should failure be an embrace?
the questions jump and pop from
fickle believing hearts
like sparks from a campfire.
the wood is stacked high
and there are plenty of trees to cut down.
but even vast landscapes of campfires
cannot light the sky,
and we can discern no smoke
through the darkness.
looking down from heaven,
angels name constellations of the
yellow and orange specks.
I am part of the constellation that has
for centuries been attempting letters.
we wish to spell a reminder:
at the core of embers is coal.
but we too are jinxed by
the cult of success and stability;
how we prefer
its sensible lies.

Compulsion and inspiration

Ben Proctor — 2007-03-14T00:28:11-04:00

There is a fine line between finding inspiration and indulging compulsion. Frequently in my notes, written on scraps of paper, in notebooks, and in computer text files, I have written "find inspiration." Inspiration to write, inspiration to play music, inspiration to love. But I compulsively indulge distractions to plug the haunting emptiness of life. These distractions often masquerade as things in which I find inspiration: poems, music, the word of God, people, and nature. I listen to the same song over and over, read the same verse over and over, but I feed on it as escape and do not search its subtleties for the muse.

Is it inspiration I really look for? If I became inspired, would that lead to truth or more self-indulgence? Even now, I sit here at my desk, drinking beer and having completed no work today, after just coming back from an hour-long midnight walk around my neighborhood which I took to get away from the computer addiction. Lord God, have mercy on me, a compulsive man who indulges counterfeit grace. My generation has a fetish for media. We are addicted to online social networking, cell phones, and television. It is our compulsive perpetual search for meaning, or distraction from the reality that we lack meaning. May we see you, Lord Jesus, and know you as the one who gives life. May we not feel guilty for our failures and boast only in your grace.

oh God, show me how
you redeem this world.
let me walk the dark streets of
its decaying cities
and see unfulfiled grace,
may I speak prayers of compassion
in my mercenary heart.

leaks in my spirit

Ben Proctor — 2007-03-11T13:16:16-04:00

"We cannot attain to a vision, we must live in the inspiration of it until it accomplishes itself." --Oswald Chambers

many leaks in my spirit:
the impatience of passion
breeding superficial hope.
the darkness knows me.
it is a well of uncountable
beating lies

the commercialism of my abandonment
to a life of vision:
what I want is so consuming!
what strength do I have
to recall with tenacity
the vision of redemption?

oh, to be there!
in that moment of repentance
to draw up an unfeigned cry
that fearlessly sings
among the dead.
I sense His call,
a misunderstood tickling
like a tiny point of light
holding back the fusion of a billion stars.
the laughing suspicion of my heart,
it is from the great deep
but from it I can take no esteem
if it is the Spirit
that claims me

The waitress in Van Gogh's <i>Cafe Terrace at Night</i>

Ben Proctor — 2007-03-08T11:59:27-05:00

the white figure!
calm, poised at his center.
the patrons around her
are draped in shadows, disfigured.
they have scraps of indulgence
to leave for her.
she is a ghost
carved of smoke to flatter the gods.
she is wonder,
a jealousy of the painter's heart.
she serves the pride of wine,
and a fierce sorrow
frames her beauty.
the awning offers no protection,
it is on fire!
but the flames cannot illuminate the faces
of the bourgeois
can they burn like coals?
they do not see
her,
holy sister of
the deep French night

link to the painting

Thoughts on the IAM conference

Ben Proctor — 2007-03-02T11:28:55-05:00

At last year's IAM conference, I asked Dana Gioia, the chairman for the National Endowment of the Arts, about his recommendations for arts in the public schools. I was working with Young Audiences at the time as a visiting performer for kids in various schools. He said, "Let me be very clear about this. Public school teachers have the most important job in the country." He went on to describe the increasing need for arts in our schools in the 21st century and the importance of having teachers who believe in the arts as a means to communicate redemption, truth, and beauty to younger generations. His words convicted me. That was the most influential moment in my decision to attend Eastman for music education. Even though Eastman is the most elite school in the country for graduate work in music, it was the only school I applied to; there was no backup plan. I felt called by God and followed Him not knowing how it would all work out.

My experience at IAM this year was equally as moving. As our culture becomes increasingly fragmented and media-centric, artists will play a crucial role in providing a message of hope. The utilitarian, deterministic philosophies that plague our society have more trouble convincing us of their universal relevance despite their objective stability. People are haunted by the suspicion that science, despite its power to explain the laws that govern our universe, cannot explain me. Reason alone cannot provide humanity with the mystifying, fundamental needs of beauty, love, and truth. What is truth? The enlightenment, for all it's service to the human condition, has failed the human soul.

Unfortunately, the church has been infected by these utilitarian values. The logical four-point plan for salvation seems just as dry and lifeless as deterministic science. The Bible as a life instruction manual discredits the longings of the human heart. Art has the power to communicate the longings of the human heart. Art can articulate the brokenness of the world and the hope of redemption. The truth and beauty we cannot explain with reasoned arguments, artists are called by God to breath into their colors, sounds, movements, characters, poetry, and lives. IAM is a movement of artists whose passion for art is yolked with with a passion for humanity. God has privileged us to join our work with His work, the redemption of His creation.

"I cannot miss that art is about humanity - faces. After all is said and done, the simplicity of coming face to face will be what matters. Could it be that art - creation - all of our labor - all of our work - is so that we as human being can come face to face and know at the deepest level each other? And by that, know God? We create, I think because we want to know and be known beyond expression - though expression is the necessary road by which we must travel." --Alex Scott

IAM conference notes, day 2

Ben Proctor — 2007-03-01T09:45:11-05:00

We are surrounded by so much media--how can we tell the difference between the message and the noise? The purpose of modern media is to distract you and lead you astray, to impregnate you with ideas for commercial purpose. A very small number of people controls the vast majority of media in this country--who are these people and what are their values? We are like Pavlov's dog with media; we salivate to these powerful images regardless if they lead to any truth. American culture is America's biggest export. The rest of the world sees us through the denigrating messages of our media. Are we amusing and distracting ourselves to death? Artists will play a crucial role in the developing post-information age. Artists communicate ideas with precision and meaning. It will be a challenge for artists to communicate redemption powerfully without falling in love with that power.

E pluribus unum: out of many, one, written on our money. But isn't our society increasingly fractured? Isn't it more like the many becoming even more?

The mission field is no longer geographic, it is a cultural one. Artists are the trailblazers of culture.

Artists specialize in excess, like God's love, grace, and creation is excessive. The arts are excessive, yet they are vital.

Art can be so beautiful that it makes you nostalgic. It makes you homesick. It is longing for God.

Before the fall, God had Adam name the animals. In doing so, Adam discovered that he lacked. God used man's creativity to help him discover his his need for Eve.

In this declining age of information, we know more about everything, but less about everything.

Artists must create with the belief in the liberation of all people.

This world is world is 95% catastrphe, 100% grace.

Artists live with monsters. We cannot separate ourselves from the twisted, broken, and lost realities of life. Artists often suffer from depression. For this reason, the church has exorcized us if we are monsters ourselves. We artists must learn how to live in the critical zone, living with both Jesus and monsters, and challenge the church to do the same. Only by embracing the brokenness of the world, as Jesus did, can we draw out the beauty of redemption. An example: this sculpture of a tree made completely out of decommissioned guns.

IAM conference notes, day 1

Ben Proctor — 2007-03-01T08:32:05-05:00

"The artist queries the last privelages of our existence and tells us to change our life." --George Steiner

If you desire influence as an artist, what you really want is responsibility. Artists who wield irresponsible influence afforded them by their gift betray humanity. As Jesus took responsibility for us, so artists are called by God to take responsibility for others and be servants to a broken world. Artists can be the good samaritans of a culture that has been highjacked by utilitarianism and greed.

For art to be authentic, it must maintain the posture of art the the world is both beautiful and broken. For art to produce hope, the artist must have a vision of the world that ought to be, the world as God wants to re-make it.

“We cannot mingle with the splendors we see. But all the leaves of the New Testament are rustling with the rumor that it will not always be so... The door on which we have been knocking all our lives will open at last.” --C.S. Lewis

Jesus' parables used simplicity that a child could understand, yet depth that wise men cannot fully understand. God drew from the same toolbox that artists use: metaphor, imagery, cadence, and story.

Every finished work must be redrawn several times, re-written, re-discovered. Find a doorway into the story, into my deep self.

From Daniel Libeskind interview: In business, there is a very specific goal that is to be attained. You live your life for this or that. But artists don't live like this. We wander this very narrow path, discovering each step along the way.

How can we, as Christians, be dangerous as Christ is dangerous?

Poetic response to IAM conference

Ben Proctor — 2007-02-26T11:17:18-05:00

the warriors of God
    have paint
    under their fingernails
the warriors of God
    carry mandolins

the armory is filled with pitches and color
whispers of the deep Spirit haunt
    brushstrokes and penstrokes and lips
the cavalry are dancers
    twirling their bodies into the streets of war

sweet music!
the impending fiddles
    (a toll of bombs in the distance)
the scrawling impetuous poet
    (a roar of machine gun)
the characters of the play
rising to sacrifice and truth
    (a city, burning to the ground)
the actors cast their broken hearts
    like bread to us poor,
the unruly screams of hope
    cue the raising dead

the warriors of God
    lose sleep perfecting a single word
the warriors of God
    contort their spines
    for an epiphany of gesture

dreamers and excessive lovers of joy!
the Spirit of the deep groans
those orphaned for reckless wonder
    are called pilgrims of light
    and eternal children

Entering New York City

Ben Proctor — 2007-02-22T04:02:21-05:00

everytime I enter this city
there's a sticky anticipation in my gut
the train pushes into her hollowing belly
and I feel the world shake

First GarageBand experement

Ben Proctor — 2007-02-21T21:51:08-05:00

This software is way to much fun. Here is the result of my fooling around with the program for the first time.

Giving lessons to Mom

Ben Proctor — 2007-02-20T17:04:42-05:00

I have a 4-year old student who I teach general music and guitar. His mother told me that at home, he called her into the room and had the keyboard and the guitar all set-up. He proceeded to give her a music lesson. He directed her to tell if what he played was fast or slow, the same or different melody, playing things on both the keyboard and guitar. The same stuff I do to him in lessons! I think that is so awesome. Maybe he has a future is music education...

Manly Pasta Sauce

Ben Proctor — 2007-02-19T21:13:20-05:00

This recipe never tastes quite the same. When I was an undergraduate, my housemates and I made it all the time and we called it "man sauce." We still call it that despite the innuendo, which didn't occur to us until long after the evolution of the dish.

2 - 3 pounds of ground meat or sausage (cow, deer, pig, squirrel, whatever)
26 oz. carton Pomi chopped tomatoes
8 - 12 oz. can tomato paste (make sure it has no sugar added)
1 large bulb garlic (yes, the entire bulb), chopped
2 medium to large onions, chopped
1/4 cup olive oil
handful of fresh basil
3 bay leaves
1/2 cup grated Romano cheese
1 tsp. cayenne pepper
1 tsp. dry rosemary
salt to taste

optional:
1/2 cup dry red wine
1 cup kalamata olives, halved
1 green pepper, chopped
1 can kidney beans, or some other kind of beans
(basically, whatever you want)

Heat to medium-low a very large, heavy pot or dutch oven or something like that. Put in the olive oil, and when the oil heats up add the onions and the garlic. When the onions have partially caramelized, add the meat. Stir frequently until the meat is mostly cooked. Add the chopped tomatoes, tomato paste, bay leaves, wine, olives, green pepper, and beans. Bring heat up to high. Just as the sauce begins to boil, bring it down to simmer. Cover and simmer the sauce for several hours, stirring periodically. Add the basil, Romano cheese, cayenne pepper, rosemary, and salt. Simmer for another fifteen minutes to half hour.

The bigger a mess you can make of the kitchen while making this, the better. When you chop things, smack the knife down to make lots of noise (but be careful). Wipe your hands off on your jeans. Talk loudly and say inappropriate things. Put the sauce over some kind of pasta and serve it proudly to girls.

Props to Dan Burgess for his help developing this recipe and perpetuating the tradition.

Bruce Molsky concert

Ben Proctor — 2007-02-11T11:04:37-05:00

The Golden Link Folk Singing Society brought Bruce Molsky to Rochester last night. He performed solo on fiddle, banjo, and guitar. I am a fan of Molsky's music and feel he is one of the best old-time fiddlers in the world. He played in several other styles last night, including West African guitar and Bulgarian dance music. It was an inspiring display of musicianship and tradition.

Old-time performers often limit themselves to playing the melody, and I've even spoken to old-time musicians who don't feel that improvisation is an important part of the tradition. Molsky is an improviser, and performs with improvisation at the heart of traditional music. He adds harmonies and licks to old-time melodies, stretches song forms out to accommodate extended phrasing, mixes up rhythms, and makes every tune particular to his style and voice. Unlike bluegrass, in which improvisation is structured around the soloist, improvisation in old-time music is a more organic process. There is no specific soloist, and the tune becomes a vehicle for energy and in-the-moment communication between musicians. Molsky's performance last night inspired me to continue pursuing my convictions about improvisation as the beating heart of traditional music.

I had a chance to speak with Molsky for a few minutes last night, and I asked him how he ended up a professional musician. He worked as a mechanical engineer for twenty years after dropping out of Cornell. Ten years ago he gave himself one year to try and be a full-time musician as a "what if." Now he tours the world with his wife; as he put it to me, "It's a great feeling to wake up in the morning, and the first thing you think about is music." He encouraged me to keep playing for the love of it and perform at as many dances as I could.

Recipe: Asian Salsa

Ben Proctor — 2007-01-04T10:42:04-05:00

This is a fun fusion recipe that I think is really tasty. My Dad discovered it in a Chinese cookbook and it became a standard munchie at my folks' house.

28 oz. can top-quality petite-diced tomatoes, drained
1/2 C scallions, chopped
1/2 C fresh cilantro, chopped
2 cloves garlic, finely minced
1 T ginger, finely minced
3 T wine vinegar
2 T sesame oil
1 T safflower oil
1 1/2 t sugar
1 t chili paste
1/2 t salt

It doesn't need to me made exactly as above (safflower oil could be replaced with sunflower, peanut, or vegetable oil), but the sesame oil, garlic, ginger, and cilantro are essential. To make it hotter, add more chili paste.

Review: Weiser Sunrise, Foghorn Stringband

Ben Proctor — 2007-01-03T17:33:13-05:00

I first saw the Foghorn Stringband perform in Kilborne Hall at the Eastman School of Music with Dirk Powell and Riley Baugus in March of 2005. It was a great excuse to splatter a space usually treated with classical music etiquette with hoots and hollers. Based out of Portland, Oregon, Foghorn is not an attempt to reproduce a 19th century dance band, but they are a traditional American stringband in the best sense. They perform with a raw intensity that captures the spirit of the old time tradition while making the sound their own. Foghorn plays with the conviction that old-time music is still relevant in a post-modern world, and I wholeheartedly agree.

Weiser Sunrise is Foghorn's third album, and features the same personnel as the previous two albums, Rattlesnake Tidalwave and Reap What You Sow. One characteristic that distinguishes Foghorn's sound is the 3-finger style (or Scruggs style) employed by banjo player P.T. Grover Jr., which gives songs unique rhythmic color and a driving feel. Grover plays the melody in approximate unison with fiddler Stephen Lind and mandolinist Caleb Klauder. Klauder's mandolin gives a percussive jolt to phrases, playing in exact unison with the fiddle. Together the three deliver melodic lines with clarity, vigor, and stylistic perfection. This egalitarian approach to melody challenges the attitude often found in the old time scene that old time music is all about the fiddle. Bassist Brian Bagdonas and guitar player Kevin Sandri are undoubtedly one of the best rhythm sections on the old time scene. They are so solid that it's easy to take them for granted as they lay down the foundation to Foghorn's sound.

The song selection is well balanced, with standards like Mississippi Sawyer and Sally Anne and more obscure tunes such as Kicking Up The Devil On A Holiday (my favorite cut on the album). The recording itself is transparent and clean. Like their other albums, Foghorn picks both instrumental and vocal songs of varying tempos in both duple and triple meters. The singing of Lind, Klauder, and Sandri is understated and feels like it grows naturally out of the music rather than being featured specifically.

I highly recommend this spirited and unpretentious album from one of the best old time stringbands in the country.

Happy New Year!

Ben Proctor — 2007-01-02T16:20:26-05:00

Happy new year to my friends, students, colleagues, and family. I hope everyone happily grows one year older, stays in touch, and finds a healthy way to deal with failing to fulfill their news years resolution. My new years resolution is to finally record a full-length album of traditional and original songs. (That was also my resolution last year--please help me hold to it this time...)

"Songer"

Ben Proctor — 2006-12-07T23:16:58-05:00

I taught a couple days of music to kindergarten kids at a local city school this week. When I walked into the room the second day, one of the kids explained to her friend, "he's a songer." A songer! I can't help but love the made-up word, it's like a hip a title for someone who loves to play tunes. Can I tell you how fun it is to teach music to a roomful of six year-olds?

The most holy peanut sauce

Ben Proctor — 2006-11-21T21:04:32-05:00

I want to have a blog that at least attempts to be meaningful, so I'm going to try and post things here that are worthwhile. This recipe is worthwhile. It actually may be one of the most worthwhile things you find on the web. The recipe is originally Chinese, but it's been modified and perfected by my parents over the years.

1/4 C Soy sauce
1/4 C Vinegar
6 T Ginger, peeled and minced
2 T Sugar
1/4 C Sesame oil
2 T Chili paste
1 C Peanut butter

Combine all ingredients, mix well, and store in a jar with a tight lid in the refrigerator.

This peanut sauce is famous. Ask anyone who's hung around with my folks. Make some for Thanksgiving!