// This very short digest represents our list traffic for the past
// several days...but it DOES have a NANCI CONCERT REPORT!!
// I am assuming that as Nanci tours the UK we will be inundated
// with such welcome messages!
// Enjoy!  [BP

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Subject: NN: Nanci takes Croydon by storm
   Date: Wed, 03 Oct 2001 10:29:56 +0000
   From: "Mike Barrett" (mikebarrettuk@hotmail.com>

The Fairfield Hall is an excellent venue, the lighting and acoustics first 
class, and the opening concert of the UK Tour was quite superb, a real treat 
for both eyes and ears.

Nanci was dressed in a white top, black skirt and black boots.  Her hair was 
long, without the Letterman fringe, and she looked really stunning. Her 
devastating smile was worth the price of admission on its own, not to 
mention the occasional eye contact, and she was in absolutely top form - 
relaxed, happy, upbeat, and clearly very much enjoying herself. Her 
introductions were always interesting, witty or moving, sometimes a 
combination of all three, and the show itself was a good mixture of old 
favourites and songs from the new cd, with a surprise item in the encore.

Tom Russell opened the concert, very ably supported by Andrew Hardin, who is 
an amazingly talented guitar player.  They did half a dozen songs, with 
Nanci joining them and harmonising on "St Olav's Gate", "If I Were A Child" 
(yes, the song from the B F Deal Sampler!) and "Canadian Whisky".  Nanci 
looked and sounded great from the start, and this boded well for the main 
part of the evening, which followed after a short intermission.

The set list was as follows -

Speed Of The Sound Of Loneliness
Trouble In The Fields
Two For The Road
These Days In An Open Book
Wall Of Death
Clock Without Hands
>From A Distance
It's A Hard Life Wherever You Go
Gulf Coast Highway
Lost Him In The Sun
Pearl's Eye View
Across The Great Divide
Where Would I Be
The Flyer
Armstrong
Travelling Through This Part Of You
If I Had A Hammer
(Encores)
What's That I Hear
Road To Aberdeen

The most sustained applause was for a magnificent rendition of "From A 
Distance", but each and every song was performed excellently, with Nanci in 
very fine voice throughout, and the Blue Moon Orchestra in first rate form 
too.  The initial song of the encore was a Phil Ochs composition which she 
said she had never sung in concert before, one which she had learned to play 
guitar by.  The final song was of course a capella (or "acapulco" as Nanci 
jokingly introduced it!), and nicely rounded off what was a really wonderful 
evening.

I have seen Nanci a number of times and never been disappointed, but this 
was unquestionably the best performance yet.  She just seems to get better 
and better, and if the rest of the tour is up to this very high standard, 
then everyone is in for a treat.  Roll on the 1st November and the RAH!

Mike Barrett

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Subject: NN: U.K. tour/anticipation?
   Date: Mon, 1 Oct 01 19:30:25 +0100
   From: John Edward Graveling (kai21@dial.pipex.com>

Well Nanci has rolled into our fair isles and her month long sojourn 
begins on Wednesday. I am going to Friday's show (the third night) in 
Reading and then to the London show at the Royal Albert Hall on 1st 
November, toward the end of the tour. I am hopeful of seeing some great 
music, although I have to admit that my sense of anticipation is probably 
lower than ever. I have seen Nanci everytime she has toured the U.K. 
since 1987, often twice, sometimes three times per tour. I have always 
looked forward with great excitement to her shows, so what gives this 
time? I enjoy the new cd, "Clock Without Hands", so I think it is down to 
the fact I am expecting her to play some of the same worn-out songs she 
has been playing for what seems an eternity. Let's hope there are some 
surprises in her set and we get to hear some of the magical songs from 
earlier in her career.

I will keep you posted, as doubtless will the rest of the U.K. fraternity.

Here's to Friday!!!!

John Graveling

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Subject: NN: dar dates
   Date: 29 Sep 2001 16:53:47 +0000
   From: "Matt Bloomfield" (mailm@tthewb.u-net.com>

The following dates have just been posted on the Lucylist for the Dar
Williams UK tour.  

Updated U.K. tour dates for Dar:
NOVEMBER SUN 25  GLASGOW Ferry       0141 287 5511
MON 26
TUE 27  BRISTOL Comedy Pub  0117 929 9008
WED 28  LONDON Dingwalls        020 7267 1577
THU 29  SHEFFIELD Memorial Hall 0114 278 9789
FRI     30  ASHBOURNE, Beresford Arms   01335 300035
DECEMBERSAT 1

SUN 2   BIRMINGHAM Ronnie Scotts    0121 643 4525
MON 3   CHESTER Telford's Warehouse 01244 390090
TUE 4   LEICESTER The Musician      0116 251 0080
WED 5   NOTTINGHAM The Maze     0115 947 5650   


Matt

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Subject: NN: Vince Bell Releases "Live in Texas" on Internet
   Date: Sat, 29 Sep 2001 22:17:03 EDT
   From: Catelaw@aol.com

Hey y'all,

It's been understandably quiet around here; hope everyone is doing okay.
I wanted to thank all our Netters from outside the US for their kind words
of empathy and support. 

I also wanted to pass along the following press release and review I just got
from the Vince Bell list.  For anyone who doesn't know, Vince wrote "Woman
of the Phoenix" that Nanci covered on her Grammy winner, OVOR, and "Sun,
Moon and Stars" that she covered so beautifully on LNGH.  Vince's lovely wife,
Sarah Wrightson, is a long-time member of this list.  With respect to this CD,
I had the chance to attend one of the warm-up recording sessions in Franklin
last April where Vince defied all convention and just blew me away...again.
Can't say enough good about him.  best, cate in atlanta

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>From the VB list: 

"Vince could walk out on stage in front of Z. Z. Top with just a guitar
in his hand and hold his own," said Nanci Griffith, and with his new CD,
"Live In Texas," Bell brings us 11 new songs with just that spirit.  And
again he proves he is one of those rare artists who transcend category. 
It's a little rock 'n' roll, a little folk, a little country, some blues
and jazz, some singer-songwriter.  What kind of music?  It's Vince Bell music.

"Live In Texas" will be released on the internet on Sunday, October 7th.
The album release party will be at http://sisyphustracks.com from
3:00-5:00pm US/eastern standard time.  The program will consist of new and
old songs, an interview with Bell, and he will be available at the
Sisyphus Tracks bulletin board to answer questions during that first
airing.  The program will be repeated on Sunday at 6:00 - 8:00 pm EST,
and during the following week on Wednesday 10/10 at 3:00 - 5:00 pm EST
and Friday 10/12 at 12:00 - 2:00 pm EST.

"Live In Texas" is an internet download offering, though a limited
number of CDs will be available.  When asked the usual questions about
not having copies in stores, Bell replied, "When I returned to music
after ten years of relearning how to walk and talk, all I remembered was
how we used to do it.  I went the traditional routes and I've been on
a prestigious indie (Phoenix, 1994, Watermelon Records, produced by
Bob Neuwirth) and a major (Texas Plates, 1998, Paladin/Warner Bros.,
produced by Robin Eaton).  But its a new world, and I'm betting I can
sell more copies than they did together, and I don't have to sell my art."

Says Jim Musser, "But if those recordings showed Bell to be an
inspirational singer, an astute bandleader and yet another skin-tingling
Texas tunesmith washed in the blood of Townes, "Live In Texas" may
qualify as Vince's debut as a high-wire act."

"Once again we've made something from nothing," Bell said.  "I went to
Texas, was handed a brand new Vince Bell model Pawless guitar
[http://www.pawless.com], walked across the street and recorded an
album.  It's live as hell, and I can get it out there to you without a
lot of production and cost.  A bartender once called across the bar as I was
setting up, "Heh, there's someone on the phone who wants to know what
kinda music you do?'  I answered, "Music where the words are the most
important thing."

For further information:
http://www.vincebell.com
mailto:sarahwrightson@vincebell.com

For Review and Radio copies please contact Sarah Wrightson for download
codes at mailto:sarahwrightson@vincebell.com
================================================================
>From Jim Musser, writer for the Iowa City Press-Citizen, No Depression,
and CDNOW.com

    With the daring, bare-bones "Live In Texas," Vince Bell has taken yet
another giant step forward in his extraordinary physical, spiritual,
emotional and artistic renewal since a drunk driver's high speed
broadside took everything but Vince's last breath from him almost 20
years ago.
        "Phoenix"--his aptly-named "comeback"--was nothing short of a miracle;
an aching reaffirmation of purpose laced with hard-won wisdom and
whimsical insight. The subsequent "Texas Plates" continued along that
road, displaying a growing self-confidence and flexing some serious rock
muscle to boot. Both discs couched Bell's finely-honed tunes and
goose-bump revelations with well-appointed arrangements delivered by an
enviable array of musicians.
        But if those recordings showed Bell to be an inspirational
singer, an astute bandleader and yet another skin-tingling Texas tunesmith
washed
in the blood of Townes, "Live In Texas" may qualify as Vince's debut as
a high-wire act. 
        Accompanied only by his own idiosyncratic rhythm guitar and the spare,
yet breathtakingly lovely electric guitar lacework provided by Cam King,
Bell places most of the considerable weight of nine terrific new
original tunes and a pair of well-chosen covers squarely upon his
battered suitcase of a voice.
        There are, of course, myriad ways to deliver a song effectively. There
are the lucky ones, the natural singers like The Mavericks' Raul Malo or
the late Roy Orbison, who can dial up any note they can dream of, at any
time, and with no perceptible effort. At the other end of the spectrum,
there are those, best exemplified by Bob Dylan or Neil Young, who have
more than compensated for their less-than-dulcet tones through hard
work, timing, phrasing, a storyteller's ear and a large dose of that
thing called "soul." 
        Well, Vince surely ain't no "Big O," but his inner drive is Herculean,
his talespinning gifts are hypnotic and he's got more soul than a Muscle
Shoals church picnic. Like a Victorian pump organ with a couple of
mouse-holes in its bellows, Bell's vocal instrument is compressed and
reedy, fairly reeking of the intense effort and passion with which it is 
charged.
        All of which underscores the previous "high wire" allusion--Bell's
music, while hauntingly beautiful, nevertheless creates an inescapable
tension with his audience; there is an ever-present fear of falling
which makes the listener lean into Vince's songs, to urge them on while
holding one's breath. This is truly a magical thing--it is show
business, and it is dangerous.
        Throughout "Live In Texas," Vince Bell will have you mesmerized
as you root both for him and for the subjects of his songs, and he does it all
with only a mere slip of a net. He pulls if off with sweat and grace,
and--to borrow a line from Bruce Cockburn's "Rumours Of Glory"--he
"comes out shining like gold, but better...".       --Jim Musser,
September, 2001

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Subject: NYC Fund
Date: Sun, 30 Sep 2001 21:03:15 -0400
From: James Brock (jbrock@nyc.rr.com>

It has been heartwarming reading all the thoughts and wishes here concerning
the trying times we are now living. Many have communicated with me, asking
if there is anything they can do to help. I have decided to organize a fund
for relief. If you wish, send what you can. It will be presented to an NYC
organization devoted to rebuilding the people and places hit by the
violence. You can send donations to:

James Brock
c/o Rebuilding Our Spirit
40 River Road
Apartment 4R
New York, 10044

Peace and safety to all.

(I have added below a complete version of some of my thoughts about these
days; it was published in The Huntsville Times (Alabama> on September 30.)

September 11. 2001

Life changes at certain points, forever. I was living near Ramstein, Germany
when it was bombed in the early 1980s, and I remember feeling the assault.
We always knew about the threats, grew accustomed to the machine guns in the
airports and the heightened security everywhere. But to most Americans, this
is an unknown. People who grow angry when they are delayed at airports for a
baggage check must now realize that they have experienced one of those
life-changing events ... four planes hijacked in the space of one hour, four
cockpits breached, pilots murdered, jetliners full of fuel and human
life transformed into giant, horrific bombs. (As I type, I am listening to
NPR; many Palestinians are dancing in the streets in celebration, handing
out sweets to children...unwrapping the candies and screaming their glees of
approval ... We must not place blame on the wrong persons.) All American
airline companies and airports contract out their gate security capacities;
many of the people whose responsibility it is to
keep weapons off of planes are paid less than the minimum wage. They have
minimal or no training. Three weeks ago a Jihad leader boasted that it would
be easy to hijack an American jet. This must
end.

Three buildings collapsed in Manhattan, hundreds of rescue personnel dead
and injured. No telling how many people crushed in the tons of concrete and
aluminum and glass and steel.

My office is five blocks from the WTC complex; I was at an appointment
uptown
when the planes slammed into the square buildings. I did not go to work.

I am often critical of US foreign (and domestic) policy; I believe that the
best citizens of a nation are the ones most adamant about making sure it
maintains its standards. I think many persons around the world have some
legitimate grievances against the US.

In fact, I think it is a travesty that all my fellow citizens do not have
health insurance; that we are letting our military members live in housing
not fit for horses and cows; that our mentally handicapped war veterans are
scorned and ignored; that our teachers and caregivers are paid so little;
that our Supreme Court overruled our democratic vote and usurped the White
House. But, this is too much. No matter my grievances, killing innocents is
something I would never do.  Nor condone. Don't do this. To anyone.


September 13. 2001

The distinct odor of burning rubber and steel remains in the air, and a haze
floats, as if an omen, over the island. We find joy in the retrieval of five
firefighters, but beneath those fortunate five, all of whom were in the
second or third
wave of rescuers, are countless thousands of fathers and mothers and sons
and daughters. We are desperate to hear even one of them tapping on a wall
or a crushed piece of concrete. One sound brings the work to an even more
fevered pitch.

I watch men, some in their 20th consecutive hour of work, using nothing more
than
five-gallon buckets to rapidly, but delicately, move rubble. They can use
nothing more, for they do not want to cause a cave-in. To me, they are like
Sisyphus. 

I went today to a firehouse near our apartment, to bring food and whatever
else the men and women might need.  There were tears and firm handshakes.
These men and women are true heroes.

Firehouse 30 in Manhattan is full of strangers today. Its rightful
inhabitants, the personnel who spent their days and nights there, are all
dead, lying somewhere under tons of glass and metal, and tears. A new group
of firefighters has moved in.

Paddy O'Keefe, an ironworker, was among the many people who built the World
Trade Towers. He, and many other Union workers, is now helping dismantle it.
On his arm, written in large letters in waterproof ink, are his name, social
security number, and blood type.

Later today I went to the Pierre, a hotel at 61st and Fifth Avenue, to
volunteer for Cantor Fitzgerald, a small financial firm that called the
World Trade Center its home. Many of its 1000-plus employees are gone. In
one of the hotel's beautiful halls, the faux cloud-bedecked ceiling hangs
over
round tables with place cards reading "Floor 104" and "Floor 105" and so on.
At those tables sit men and women, some holding young children, faces blank,
streaked with tears. Taped to the ornate columns around the hall are
hundreds of pieces of paper. On these pieces of paper are photographs of the
missing. I read, "Please help me find my husband. John _____, father and
lover. He was wearing a blue shirt, and wears glasses. I miss him. Call
718-///-//// if you have seen him." Something in me sinks, and I feel
powerless: So much rage to help her find him, but the knowledge that I can
do nothing.

Up around 65th Street, near Central Park, many people are wearing disposable
breathing masks. They do not want to take in the debris, thrown into the air
and suspended over all.

The block on which the Israeli Embassy rests is barricaded. Hanging from the
embassy's facade is an American flag. Taxi driver rushing up and down the
avenues with American flags flying take more care to not endlessly lean on
their horns. The island is more peaceful.

I stopped by a favorite restaurant this evening to say hello to the owner. I
had some wine, ate something. She came out of the kitchen and without words
leaned down to hug me. I hugged her back. Hard.

September 14. 2001

The blue skies are gone. Those skies since Tuesday have been out of place,
incorrect; there is no place for them. I have been looking up at those
skies, and through my living room window at the buildings of Manhattan, and
in my mind those building should be gone, destroyed, for it seems we can be
in nothing but a war zone. Nothing like this should happen outside of such
an environment. We should all be in danger. The rain falls, and the blue is
gone.

More and more flags appearing, flying in the wind and wetness. Tears mingled
with a strange sense of hope. We are all confused.


September 15. 2001

Last night I went to bed at two o'clock, watching the lightning illuminate
the sky. Huge flashes, followed, strangely, by no thunder. The rain was
lashing the ground; it has washed away many particles of what was once life,
be they the remains of a great building or a man or woman. I imagine the
essences of thousands of fellow New Yorkers (for live here, really here, for
a few weeks, and you begin to earn the right to call yourself a New Yorker)
draining into the Hudson River, flowing swiftly out to the Harbor, past
Liberty.

I went again to the Firehouse. I sat with some of the men, in their kitchen.
Just sitting, sharing their food. I think it makes them feel better. As I
was sitting there, an officer in a wheelchair rolled into the kitchen. He
had been crying, and in his hands were a small flag and a photograph. I did
not ask him about the photo.

Usually when people show me photographs, it is done with pride, or perhaps
explanation. I am sick with sadness at seeing photos of people I am certain
are
dead. Names top the images, and under the images are telephone numbers and
phrases, such as "beauty mark on his left cheek" and "scar on his shoulder."
Last night Stephanie and I walked to Union Square, which has become a giant
memorial to this darkness. We took our candles and joined thousands of
others, in a square where years ago many fought for workers' rights. (And I
think of all the union members laboring downtown.) People from so many
places gathered, candles in hand. Tears all around. A man near us breaks
down, crying violently, doubled over. A teenager to my left says "He's
cracking up." I say, "No, he is grieving." A trumpeter, from somewhere in
the dimness, begins "Amazing Grace," slightly out of tune. The most moving
rendition I have ever heard.

We left the square and walked downtown. (Beyond the Arch in Washington
Square, on the horizon, the artificial light hovers over the scene of
destruction. The smoke rises still.) Circling the Arch is a metal fence; the
monument is under repair, for time and pollution have pockmarked the face of
this George, who stands twice here, once as a soldier, once as a statesman.
On the fence hang canvas drapes, placed there to serve as tablets for
thoughts. Stephanie and I read the words, some written in Spanish, some in
German, several in French. A simple representation of the Twin Towers,
obviously drawn by a child, catches my eye. Another sentiment, scrawled in a
messy hand: "No one F-cks with NYC." We walk to the next canvas; coming
toward me is a woman, 35 or so, red eyes, carrying another one of those
photographs/pieces of paper. She stops, stands next to me. I look at the
face in her hands; I see, on her other side, an older woman, her mother. The
face stares at me; he was born exactly one month after I was born. I ask "Is
that your brother?" She answers with excitement, "Yes, do you know him?" Her
eyes plead. I sink ... no, I just wanted to say I am sorry. I put my arms
around the women. Their tears sting.

This morning on NPR I hear an accent from down South; he tells Scott Simon
he is a spelunker, and he drove up yesterday, thinking his passion and
skills could be put to use. Planes overhead bring fear.

A New York Fire Department chaplain buried today in his brown robe (Jesuit),
with his fireman's helmet. He died while administering Last Rites to a
colleague amid the rubble. Chunks of metal rained down on his head.

How much more can we (all of us) bear?

September 16. 2001

My building is still closed, and I am not especially anxious to return to
it. I have no desire to see the mass grave. I have so many questions, and a
lot of fear. We are all afraid. I think we should be afraid. Chemical,
biological, nuclear: the trinity of mass destruction.

Here's the only thing I can clearly state: I have a new determination to
spend my hours in ways that matter. I will somehow help redeem the
smoldering death at the bottom of my city. I will remember the faces. I
must. We all must.


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