memoir Archive

30 Days Out, April 2020 #2: Taylor Martin, Three Cool Cats, Kathryn O’Shea, Posey Royale

As we all begin to settle into what one might call the new normal, performing musicians are increasingly turning to livestreaming. I suspect their reasons are twofold: (1) to stay in touch with fans (and potential fans) and (2) to stave off boredom and exercise their creativity. I’m here to do my small bit toward

Old Dog, New Trick

As a kid, like so many of my generation, I harbored dreams of becoming a rock star. And failing that, I wanted at least to become a musician. But for reasons lost to the mists of time, I went with piano as my instrument of choice. My dear parents were wary: neither of them could

Miss Adventure

Note: For this, my 1500th blog entry, I’m taking a look back in time. The events described herein took place more than a year and a half ago, so please take the specific details with a grain of salt. I find that I had to wait this long to allow the events to settle in

Five Years!

Today, July 30th, marks what I consider the Official Anniversary of this Musoscribe blogzine. Five years ago today I began what would quickly become a daily blog: every business day since, I’ve posted something here – an interview, a review, an essay – generally in the 500- to 1100-word range. At right: Bill Kopp with

Bonus Weekend Post: Call Me “Steve Asheville.”

I needed some chimney work done this week, so on the recommendation of a Facebook friend, I called a local business. When I spoke to the guy, his name (Joe Carlson) sounded familiar. I asked him if he was also a musician (in Asheville, you have to be one of those, a poet, a massage

Iggy in ’80

It was 1980. I was all of sixteen, and enrolled in a private high school that had only gone co-ed the year before I started 9th grade. I lived in the white-bread suburbs of North Atlanta, and my idea of going to “the city” was getting my Dad (or one of my friends’ dads) to

Preview: My Bonnaroo 2013 (Mis)adventures

I had a fascinating experience last week: an adventure – no, perhaps misadventure is a more apt descriptor – in which I traveled to the Bonnaroo Festival with six-to-eight fellow concertgoers. (With apologies to David Sedaris: “Six to eight, you say?!” But the fuzzy count was a function of the trip’s overall character.) The short-short