Ironically, this very morning I took a long listen to the first cut on NOTES FROM THE KELP, a little piece called SLIPPING, 9 minutes, 34 seconds, brought into this world by Ms. Shapiro in 2006. I let it play with my mind, my imagination –and when that happens, when music takes me on a journey, it can be magnificent.

I started with the dance of love, the Tango, and the slit skirts rode up high, and the kicks were spectacular, and the passion palpable–sliding into rock and roll, just a few bars of the old stuff, 56 or 58, doo wop, brassy, breezy –slipping back into baroque as that harpsicord tickled my fancy, put me on tip toes, with Dan on those divers drums, setting the pace, underscoring the meter, pounding every which way, like a heart beat, like a thousand heartbeats –sliding into the Orient, the Forbidden City, everything plated in gold, fringed with blood red curtains –sliding into Crete and the Greek Isles with Anthony Quinn telling us that every man needs a little madness in order to let go the rope, and be free –slipping somewhere in between, oriental and Mediterranean mingling, procreating, creating a glimpse of their spawn –sliding into a jazz violin, that was fearless, erect, and ready to penetrate more rock riffs, rolling thick into what felt classical, ancient, musty, with a tinge, a tinkle of Broadway, big sounds held long, and a quick dash past some cloggers in the Appalacians; with perky string pluckings that boldly puncuate segues, –sliding to the Waterfront, a deep busy port late at night, with husky tugs pushing around huge freighters and luxury liners –sliding to the South Pacific, Fiji, Tahiti, Hawaii; long sorrowful horns twisted into grotesque shapes, and yet emitting beautiful breathes, ode to a stark brilliant sunset on the flat Polynesian horizon, and like a sea bird, the sun plunges into the dark water, leaving a tiny stain of blood on the azure surface, pulling puffy clouds down, down, to the other side, letting the darkness gather, as long hand-carved canoes slip through the sudden fog, with flashes of strong arms paddling, skimming forever on the shallow reef, moving inexorably toward a new day, blasting the night with light, saved by strings, and soon smothered in bird song; birds of every color, racing those fat insects from flower to flower, shaking the wet petals with their collective wings, spraying the dew into a mist –sliding into an island barrenness, like Easter Island, covered with multiple stone figures, hundreds of stern oversized faces, pounding, pulsating, overpowering –and yet midst the passion, love seems to exist, drifting high and sweet above us, within us, with a brown couple, nearly naked, strolling hand in hand on a black beach; first walking but when they heard the drums, the urgency of that beat, they began to run, and soon everything and everyone was running, the tempo increasing, their many legs a blur, like a manic giant centipede caught in a stampede of people and animals, fleeing the huge wave, the high pitching hum and pounding of its wet thunder, all rolling, racing, one on top of the other; until exhaustion and some form of closure; eyes closed, tongues panting, arms and limbs intertwined, interlocked, a thousand as one, all the beasts togehter there on high ground, lying in the now hot sun watching the waters recede.

Glenn