I’ve stopped giving myself the allowance of a thick skin regarding certain traits and behavior. I will and do believe there is a business for my art and whatever that capacity turns out to be, that is the one that will work.
I have picked my lane, it’s the one I drive down now. The pieces are falling together, I am not looking to hustle a deal to make a movie or a documentary. Would I love to? Yes, absolutely but that is not my driving force. My driving force is to develop an under appreciated skill that for the most part is newly discovered to me and run with it.
I’m excited to see where this natural organic talent takes me. I get to practice theatre and TV, both behind the scenes and on center stage. I love each one very much but they are so individual like your own children.
The core is writing, it all steams and starts from that, the rest follows. I am much less tolerant, which for me is a tremendously positive step in the right direction towards my inner evolution. It was this ridiculous tolerance I had to, “suffer fools gladly,” that stalled my natural growth. I was not aware of my disposition towards this behavior for most of my life thus far. Even though I have heard the cliché many times and knew what it softly meant. Now there is an emphatic feeling that crashes over me when faced by fools with every discomfort you can imagine. It’s as if I am being pulled under by a nautical force. I find I’m panicked, struggling with all the effort of knowing it’s probably my last. Only to rise above out of my buoyant coffin and gasp for life. It’s unlikely I will want to relive that experience anytime soon.
So finally I can truly know and say, I will no longer, “suffer fools gladly.”
Artist; Native American Mother Cherokee; Godmother. If you know anything about southern soul music and rock ‘n’ roll or just happen to be a James Bond fan, then you know the timeless and inspiring southern velvet voice of “The Delta Lady” Rita Coolidge. Mark Wahlberg likes her singing A LOT.
Thirty-seven years ago was Rita’s last experience of Judy and I. She walked out on stage at the Throckmorton Theatre on Dec. 7th, 2013 at 8:30 pm.
I saw something I hadn’t experienced since Dec. 7th, 2011 exactly two years to the day. That experience was branded. “Unique…one of a kind even…what swagger,” I thought.
It’s not seen in many women, especially one so beautiful.
Instinct, human nature and a strong sense of self-preservation would tell you what that swagger meant; “Warning, unstable, approach…
This is a very unique collection of photographs taken from my raw footage shot on my Sony HD Handy Cam with DCR-SX45 w/2000 digital x zoom I am a documentarian with a recent body of work I’ve been compiling for over the last 24 months.
The entire collection was shot just off Hwy 1 at Half Moon Bay, California.
Hello Superstar® & Bay, Half Moon Full® Are photographs capturing natural elements and life. The location is Half Moon Bay in California. As the sky changed from sunset, to dusk than dark, I captured the moon shortly after.
Poem written on Dec.18th 2013. This body of work comes from my latest Rocumentary called, Surviving the Artists.
I’m losing light at break neck speed. Driving south bound on Hwy 1 the camera continues rolling pasted its 48th hour.
The crossing of the majestic Golden Gate Bridge is behind me and the successful negotiation thru the passionate city streets of San Francisco was just about to leave me. If I’m lucky maybe some of that artistic talent the city is saturated in will rub off as I quickly pass through.
I still have no coastal line footage. I continue driving fiercely for, “That shot.” I’m racing through my mind on how best to steal more daylight before night comes to count me out. My 48 hours of filming only have a beginning, middle and no end. Short of mentally believing I was Superman and envisioning myself moving supersonic -light speed fast to achieve a few extra earthly moments of daylight was silly.
It’s not even practical, my mustang would never go that fast. It’s only a six cylinder.
Even if I had my own Wookie to fix my hyper drive and go starlight speed it wouldn’t matter. I had to pull over. Especially now, since none of these mental notes or options offered any factual help that was based in reality.
As if a Wookie would ride in my mustang. It’s not even a convertible. After that ridiculous notion, what happened next might never have been shared. That is, if it hadn’t been for my Sony HD handy cam DCR-SX45 capturing everything on digital recording. Validating of course that I may be insane but not about this moment. I also had a witnesses to how life and nature can be stranger than fiction.
Interviews from 2007 with Judy Keys, 2009 with Bobby Keys and Bonnie Bramlett, 2012 with Bobby Keys, 2012 with Patty (Harrison/Clapton) Boyd and more.
Our latest interview Dec. 2013 with Godmother Rita Coolidge. Utilizing vintage never seen or heard audio, super 8 film, 60’s&70’s film and video, digital recordings visual and audio and digital HD.
I have documented historical events from past to present listing all the amazing historical living and passed artists that are documented throughout this entire series. For the full list of historical and contemporary artists visit us at http://www.survivingrocknroll.com
This article by Peter McAlevey, written nearly four years ago on January 5th, 2010, while an exciting read; is somewhat inaccurate. The Laurel Canyon mansion Mr. McAlevey alludes to was rented by George Harrison not Paul McCartney (wrong Beatle). Also, it was originally rented for the purpose to help that “stunningly beautiful ex-model” Judy Keys (Debin-Keys not Deben-Keys as written in his article) and her three-year-old daughter, Amber Keys.
George had respectful thoughts towards the better part of the Keys family at the time. Amber’s father, Bobby Keys, was still in a post-coital heroin fog (aka the late 60s/early 70s form of lapetite mort) with Bianca Jagger’s best friend, French model/actress Nathalie Delon; the estranged wife of French movie star Alain Delon, aka the French Brad Pitt of the 60s.
Read the last part of that sentence again. KEITH RICHARDS pondering whether or not something…ANYTHING…is a good idea is akin to Idi Amin stroking his chin reflectively with one hand while patting his chest with the other wondering “Maybe I should lighten up a little.”
Judy and Amber returned from New York with George & Pattie Harrison back to Ascot, England. There they sought refuge in the family cottage which Bobby had originally rented from John and Yoko Lennon.
George and his new female protégé Judy performed one of several songs they practiced and worked on at the Ascot cottage. Originally written by Judy Keys, the song George chose to debut was called, “I May Look Like a Lady.” The venue chosen to perform it at for the first time you ask? Just the afterparty for that little event known as The Concert for Bangladesh.
Keith Moon gave Judy a standing ovation after it was over. Keith might have also thought Judy was a bottle of Jack Daniels before he smashed up Mike Gibbins’ drum kit later that night/morning. Keith did have a propensity for drums spontaneously combusting.
Amber Keys, the owner to the copyrights and original recordings of Judy & George’s entire catalog of songs, has been keeping busy for the last two years.
Following her mother’s shadowy death in December 2011, Amber has been preserving a library’s worth of hysterical, tragic and outrageously entertaining stories from the rock icons of the 60s and 70s. Some of the stories come from artists who are no longer with us but are preserved on digital recordings discovered by Amber.
You know, just another big-budget production with an army of one behind it. Well into the fourth episode of the series, Amber’s hope is to open lines of communication for artists worldwide as well as to revive these lost and unearthed treasures in order to preserve some of the most historical moments in music history.
Her first point of interest is the man who helped establish, along with a few others, the “Mad” in “Mad Dogs & Englishmen,” longtime “Rolling Stones” sax player and intermittent father Bobby Keys. It would turn out to be the hardest interview so far in the process. This is just one of many reputable and infamous names that Amber has interviewed in her journey to date.
However you perceive or sneer at the unlikely ingredients, they work symmetrically to form an intoxicating platform for the treasure trove of vintage films, audio recordings and long-lost interviews.
Many stories, like the one Mr. Mc Alevey talks about with slight inaccuracies, will all be elaborated on with precise details, audio testimonials and cataloged events.
Artist; Native American Mother Cherokee; Godmother. If you know anything about southern soul music and rock ‘n’ roll or just happen to be a James Bond fan, then you know the timeless and inspiring southern velvet voice of “The Delta Lady” Rita Coolidge. Mark Wahlberg likes her singing A LOT.
Thirty-seven years ago was Rita’s last experience of Judy and I. She walked out on stage at the Throckmorton Theatre on Dec. 7th, 2013 at 8:30 pm.
I saw something I hadn’t experienced since Dec. 7th, 2011 exactly two years to the day. That experience was branded. “Unique…one of a kind even…what swagger,” I thought.
It’s not seen in many women, especially one so beautiful.
Instinct, human nature and a strong sense of self-preservation would tell you what that swagger meant; “Warning, unstable, approach with caution, could be hazardous to your health if provoked.”
Thirty-seven years, and all this time I’m walking around with the belief that this unmistakable branded trait belonged solely to one woman. That woman was Judy, my mum.
December 7th, 2011 was the last time I saw her.
The first question sizzling in my head to Rita would be, if I got the chance to ask… “So, who gave who THAT swagger?”
The past two years of me fumbling around, documenting and researching seems more like a calamity of comical errors compared to my first experience of Rita Coolidge walking on stage. She graced towards her mic and readied herself to sing.
That singular experience would have been enough for me. Although a fleeting moment, it was one I believed to be permanently lost. All that had transpired before to get me to this moment was now worth it.
How could it get any better than this? It wasn’t possible. It didn’t need to be and, at that moment in time, nothing else mattered.
And yet, each moment that followed became more spiritually fulfilling.
The first song was “Superstar.” What seemed like several minutes had only been seconds.
Was the universe just having an overly generous celestial moment with me? At one point I may have questioned if I was owed some divine debt that afforded me this experience? Stop asking so many questions. And with that admonishment, my internal line of questioning ceased.
I had finally been able to remove the unwanted and nonpaying tenants in my head that had been taking up free room and board so that I could enjoy whatever the evening had in store for me.
The song “Superstar” just happens to be the song that plays over the opening credits of the “Surviving the Artists” documentary. Rita and several artists including my dad, Bobby Keys, are on an airplane headed to Dallas, Texas for another leg of the “Mad Dogs and Englishmen” tour.
Since Rita and Bobby are the only surviving family members left, it was fitting that the documentary opened with vintage footage of them collaborating on the song that I now know to be titled “Superstar.”
At this point I don’t know if Rita was aware of my presence. As I soaked in the minutia of each second I thought, “Did she get my email? Did she know if I was here? Could she see me down in the front row, slightly off to stage right? Would she say hello if she saw me?”
Or would I be asked to leave because of my tenacity and blatant filming of the entire show? I had recorded all the events that transpired before and leading up to this moment.
Rita and my mum Judy had more than just a friendship. As Rita tells me, “Judy and I are kindred spirits.” I had no idea how I would be received. I had no expectations; only aspirations of love.
My goal was to experience my godmother in the flesh. Not to impose my own wants or to inflict some claim of entitlement.
There are many lifetimes one might have in what seemingly could be only ten years. Nobody ever fully masters this game I hear referred to as living, because the rules keep evolving until the precipitous end.
Rita and I had almost four decades between us. The only memory would belong solely to Rita, if there was one at all.
After my first calamitous experience with someone I had not had any contact with in 40 years, Pattie (Harrison) Boyd, I recalled that moment in London with all the joy of an over amplified ice cream headache shaken with a twist of mild genitalia torture and proceeded with extreme caution.
To go out of my way and tread lightly (to quote the great Walter White) was accepting the most likely scenario of (probably) no contact. Besides I had Nanny Betsy by my side. Betsy’s last experience of me was of a three-year-old who ran in between the legs of the musicians, including my father that engulfed our living room.
I would entertain the entertainers with my silly impression of them snorting cocaine from a tiny silver spoon, then run in circles around and around, yelling out the age appropriate words,
“fuck, fuck, fuck.”
All for the Rolling Stones’ amusement.
I reveled in their laughter as I pretended to fall to the ground in my dizziness and play possum just like dad’s best friend, Keith.
I just got paid (It’s good to have money when you can) and Judy’s Mustang had a full tank of gas. It was Friday December 7th 2013, 4:00 a.m., Sherman Oaks, CA. Destination: the city of Mill Valley in Marin County, hidden home to famous artists of all types for decades now. Population: 13,903. The MapQuest printout read “383 miles to end point.”
The car was packed with recording equipment. My early Christmas present of a camera mount and tripod would serve as my director of photography, driving companion, confidant AND record my entire journey. You know. If I was the type of person that would put that kind of pressure on inanimate objects.
I never expected the monumental impact of what happened a quarter of the way through my godmother’s show. But, before the trip was over, that impact ended up being the emotional equivalent of a 6 on the Richter scale compared to the 9 that was headed my way.
All was revealed on the trip back from the show. Heading home on December 8th 2013 (the 2 year anniversary of my beloved mother’s inexplicable death), to paraphrase what Rick says to Victor Lazlo in “Casablanca,”it seemsthatdestiny took a hand at 6:03 pm. All my preparation meant nothing to what transpired in front of me and, more importantly, my camera.
Without the camera, this is conjecture, the musings of a woman deluged by grief. No one would believe it. I wouldn’t. This doesn’t even happen in movies. The event, like most wonders in life, came with no warning or time for preparation.
It’s correct to assume that what you are about to see can all be explained. Any scientist with a degree from Los Angeles Community College could tell you. Full Disclosure: I love scientists from Los Angeles Community College.
At some point in our lives, however, all of us are going to ask how many coincidences are enough? At what point do we let it go and accept it as a gift?
I love science. I adore actual facts. I feel better with truth, facts and absolutes. We all need them. We need answers. They make sense to us. They comfort us and give us closure. Even in moments of despair and tragedy, we need them. Even if it contradicts the age old notion that made us all want to vomit, Linda Blair-style, on the person who first told us “Everything happens for a reason, even if it isn’t necessarily clear at that moment.” This did not make sense.
A poem inspired by my mum Judy Keys and dedicated to my Godmother Rita Coolidge.
I wrote Sky on December 18th 2013. I just talked to my father for his birthday. I had hoped for a more loving conversation. The one person in the planet I could talk to about my father was no longer on the planet.
Uncertain, nervous and distraught. I found myself racing through the valley in what was once my mother’s mustang. I was stopped by a traffic light when I was forced to look up at the sky. In what felt like an overwhelming moment of loneliness, my vision was suddenly engulfed by colors of transcending blues.
This is my first poem,
I hope you enjoy it.
Amber
Written December 18th 2013 SKY The fickle blue sky seems larger today with its pillowing white.
The sky seems larger today with its fickle blue,
Transcending from dark to light.
It seems larger today, all dressed up in its soft blanket of white. I see the majestic pillowing as it dances and skips through the sky.
I see you, my fickle blue, transcending from deep dark to powder light.
The sky seems larger today as I stare up, peering through.
I’m trying to get a glimpse, maybe I’ll see her, maybe she’s there.
If it’s true.
The sky seems larger today with so many different blues.
It’s a little overwhelming to me.
Maybe,
If I reach my arms up as high as I might.
I’ll struggle and stretch, I’ll never give up.
I’ll keep reaching, higher and higher.
Perhaps I’ll feel a tug.
Why can’t I see her? Where did she go?
This fickle blue sky with its selfish curtain of white.
It’s making it so hard. I can’t see her. It’s too bright.
This is NOT fair, NO, this is not right!
Is she up there, can see me?
If I took a plane, flew over the mountains, beyond the light and far above the blue.
Would she be waiting? Could that be true?
If only I could see her, make sure she’s alright.
Let her know what had happened and why
I had to travel beyond the light.
I would hold her and hug her, I would talk of my flight.
I would tell her all that has happened and all that might.
I would never want to leave her.
But she would say no and we would
fight……
I would beg and plead,
“Please don’t make me go.”
But in my heart I would know.
She would win, I would lose.
She would say,
“Don’t be sad, I’m always with you, please don’t miss your flight.”
With my head hung low, I would acknowledge of course. Of course, she is right. She would lift my long face up with both her hands and say, “I love you my darling, it really is okay.”
I would pretend to smile and slowly get back on my flight. At least I would have seen her, said goodbye, kissed her goodnight. Then I would be okay and everything would be all right.
That would be all I would need. I could heal with just that one night.
I would be fine to travel back. Through the deep blue.
Far away beyond the light. Eventually landing beneath the blanket of white.
I see you, my fickle blue, transcending from deep dark to powder light.
You seem,
Smaller to me today.
You can’t fool me, all dressed up in your soft elegant blanket of pillowing white.
I’ll keep watching.
I’ll be fine.
I’ll wait patiently.
Until, my flight time…
Inspired by my mum Judy and dedicated to my Godmother Rita.
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