1992...A musical perspective from the fringe...

The question of musical taste, or rather how one establishes their's, has long plagued my mind.  I think it's easy to say, "we like what we know," but I've long felt a kinship and attraction to many things I wasn't exposed to over time; but felt an instant and profound attraction when I heard it.  Even more than this, my confirmation that there is something innate, even instinctual in our tastes, was confirmed when years later I would be exposed to online sites that suggested, "If you liked this, then you'd like this so," and invariably they were correct...but they were also late joining the party.  They didn't expose me to new things, but rather confirmed that my tastes might have a more subtle, organic connection.  I've always blazed my own path when it comes to what I like.  I've never followed trends, only me ear.  I have a tendency to like things after they're popular, not because I want to be "cool" counter culture, but because I tend to be behind the curve for whatever reason.  Anyone that's known me for any length of time or ridden in my car knows all too well my propensity to go off the deep end and completely immerse myself in something I truly enjoy.

My guess is someone reading this was present when I latched obsessively onto the sounds of Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians, which ushered in a new era of self-awareness and musical exploitation, and truly set the stage for me early 90's complete immersion in 10,000 Maniacs which would dominate my mind for several years and leave many of my friends loathing them from overexposure.  10,000 Maniacs symbolized artistically a lot of my values and beliefs as a high school graduate, and the only thing that punctuated that period in my life more significantly than socially conscious lyrics was the beautiful ensemble they represented in their performances as musicians.  I've aged and my world view has changed, with it so have my politics, but my love for 10,000 Manics has endured largely because their music still resonates even if their lyrics have become somewhat polarizing.

At their heart, Edie Brickell and 10,000 Maniacs were both alternative bands from a bygone era.  It pains me to say that, mostly because it is both accurate, and near enough in time to seem impossible.  I've considered the possibility that perhaps I'm simply getting old and that every generation feels their own tastes are indeed "THE last of it's kind."  But as I scan the radio listening to anything modern that still reaches into my past, I see cold marble tombstones for things such as Alternative Music, Grunge Music, Top 40 Music, and the list goes on and on.  What plays now on the airwaves feels like an endless parade of soulless, meaningless noise with no continuity, life, or meaning.  Yeah, I'm officially a crotchety old man.        

So I give my former class, my own retrospective impression of the music that carried me through my high school years, much of my college years, and all too frequently, 20 years later, my rides into work.  I don't presume to say any of this is "typical," it's strictly my perspective, my recollection, my memories, and hopefully...YOUR smiles as you recall fondly something I enjoyed, no matter how obscure...

Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians:  "What I Am"

I'd be hard pressed to find any performer more influential to my high school experience then Edie Brickell and Co.  More than that, I was always struck by the melodies, unique sound, and compelling lyrics.  What I didn't know then, and I know now, is that the sound I was really drawn to was rock with a strong folk foundation.  Folk would later reveal itself in a passion for blue grass, and a new found passion for Irish Folk music...but in 1992 Edie Brickell was the first to help me realize my musical identity.  "Shooting Rubberbands at the Stars" was the first CD I ever purchased...months before I ever owned a CD Player I might add.  I still buy every album that comes out associated with her.  She's also the only artist I wrote a fan letter too...but to some who read this, that won't be a surprise...I'm notorious in some circles for my letter writing..

10,000 Manaics:  "These Are Days"

Edie Brickell might have been my first musical passion, but hands down the most substantial was 10,000 Maniacs.  There was probably a good two year stretch immediately after high school where if you sampled what I listened to for those  two years at any given time there was a 92% chance it was 10,000 Maniacs.  When something sticks, it REALLY sticks with me and I was really caught up in their overall sound, Natalie Merchant's vocals, and their thoughtful and thought inspiring lyrics.  Politically and socially a bit heavy handed, they none the less set the tone for the foundation of my adulthood and bridged the gap between high school and college nicely.  It was years later that I learned they too were a heavily folk influenced rock band.  They are also the first band I ever saw in concert.  Natalie Merchant is the last person I saw in concert as well, that was 10 years ago and I have fond memories of that concert I attended with fellow classmate, Denise Pearson, who was such a wonderful influence on my musical growth.      

Chris Isaak:  "Wicked Game"

Chris Isaak is sort of unique in my paradigm, I gravitate towards female vocals historically.  What first drew me to this was the haunting guitar and his powerful vocals.  Over time, Isaak's lyrical depictions of love, passion, and heart break really resonated with me as I faced my own substantial break up.  Some of you might know her too...I won't get into that, but suffice it to say Isaak resonated because I felt he was singing about me.  Over the years, he's still churned out one album after another, largely about suffering, anguish, and the trade off for time, no matter how brief, of deep love, obsession, commitment, and the remarkable power a woman can have over a man.  He's a pretty decent guitar player and in many respects he echoes another forgotten era in music where Roy Orbison, Elvis Presley,and Johnny Cash were kings.  Interestingly, he headlined the last concert I saw (Natalie Merchant was the opening act).  That was about the same time as the 10 Year Reunion...just some trivia for everyone.

R.E.M.:  "Losing My Religion"  

R.E.M. continued in the vein of socially conscious, folk-based bands that grabbed my attention...it also introduced me to the mandolin and would foreshadow my interest in bluegrass.  I had an "Out of Time" T-Shirt that I bought at Mike's Records and Tapes...hows that for a blast from the past?  There's a pretty significant landmark for me personally not far from there, again, I'll keep that one to myself I think.  R.E.M., saw them in concert too, but that was a few years after high school.  This song was hot and got a lot of play on MTV about the same time we got cable at the Bradford household.  R.E.M. sort of stand as a monument to a different era in music where college stations could still make an impact and "popular" music was usually an extension of what had been popular for ages on campuses around the country.  Another interesting connection was about this time R.E.M. was touring and had 10,000 Maniacs opening for them.  

I suppose I could go on and on...perhaps more later is the best route to go.  I don't want to bore anyone with my ramblings about decades old tunes.  Suffice it to say, the advent of cable in the Bradford home was significant, particularly in a time when the M in MTV still meant MUSIC.  I remember videos from far flung groups as The B-52s, Suzanne Vega, Midnight Oil, the Cure, Concrete Blonde, Depeche Mode and many others.  I forged a musical identity through this period and in many respects set the tone for my musical tastes that follow me to this day.  For me, the pleasure (this will sound real corny) comes from passing on my taste to my children.  My oldest, Ariana, has developed a fond appreciation for some of what I hold dear...and while she forges her own identity, I'm proud to say that she's become the musician I only wish I had become.  Thanks everyone for hanging with me while I unleashed this meandering diatribe about music and my inability to embrace the radio in 2012...(incidentally, I listen to talk radio...so yeah, I'm really, really getting old...) 

20 Year Reunion...From a Guy on Page 3, 4 or 5

Class of 1992 20 Year Reunion

Reflections, Nostalgia, and an optimistic look forward...

So the 20 Year Reunion has come and gone, a weekend of reflection, contemplation, old friends, stories that have grown and spread with time, and perhaps the lingering smell of uncertainty with the throbbing beat of a band way too loud for the venue.  Like the above ID, these are simply the reflections of one mind looking back, 20 years, 2 days, and looking forward with no real expectations.  I hope you enjoy my insights, more than that, I hope to inspire a few of your own.  I suppose in some way, much of what I wanted to say was said this weekend, but in a sea of aged faces, the clear message of mortality that was made ever clear by the small memorial of our fallen friends perhaps beckons the remembrances of one mind, one heart, and one perspective that is as anonymous now as it was when the moniker "the guy on page 3, 4 or 5" was first conceived.  Some of you are no doubt confused at this point, and that's OK, just hang with me and enjoy the read...if you can stand to read that much, I tend to ramble some...

I've always been a nostalgic soul...I save scrap book items, pictures; I have 6 cigar boxes of letters people wrote me in college.  Mostly my memories come with a flea market full of tangible bits to affirm my memories aren't an internal myth.  I heard a lot about Senior Toga Day at the 20 year reunion.  I heard a lot about prom, Senior Skip Day, and a dozen other things that people related their high school experience to.  One of my best memories is perhaps something many of you heard about, but likely never realized I was involved in.          In the closing days of our Junior year, I embarked on a prank with a couple of my cohorts...I'll leave their names out lest they be implicated, but they are certainly free to relate their thoughts on the experience.

Those of you familiar with the band/select choir room in 1992 will recall it sat on the second floor down a narrow hall way that housed lockers and the Power and Lifer practice room.  My cohorts and I snuck out of lunch to execute a plan that would overshadow whatever pathetic prank the Seniors had in mind, and to our credit, I defy any of you to tell me what the Senior Prank was our Junior Year.  That long hallway only had two ways in or out...one was at the mouth of the hallway that opened to the school, the other was a staircase at the end of the hall that went downstairs near where the Performing Arts Center is now.  

One of my cohorts went downstairs crossed the building and went up that set of stairs.  Only to pull it shut, and chain it with a bicycle chain.  On my end was a sliding black gate they would lock on the weekends to secure the musical instruments in the band room.  In this case, I pulled the gate shut and ran a shiny new Master padlock through the brackets.  

Did I mention that during my lunch period Select choir was in class?

My sincere hope is some of you heard of this practical joke, though were perhaps clueless as to who had perpetrated such a juvenile plan.  For those of you who might want proof (or simply some funny pictures), I give to you the following:

That key you see went to a certain bicycle chain.  The sticker next to the Musicale ticket came off the back of the padlock I used to secure the gate.  The fake 10 dollar bill...well...that was from when I rant for Student Council Treasurer...I'm guessing most of you don't' recall that.  I have my speech when I ran for further proof...but I digress.  In the days BEFORE cell phone cams, we simply had the audacity to take pictures:

That's me in the striped shirt, and unnamed cohort in the red shirt, and the girl in the green shorts...I won't put her name out there but would love if someone would to guess.  She had the unfortunate timing of cleaning out her locker while we were executing our prank.  We waited for her to finish before finally explaining her plan, inviting her to pick which side to be on when we locked the gate, then moved forward with our plan.  In the aftermath, she would sign me yearbook as such:

Randy, that was a cool prank, too bad you didn't see their faces.  It was funny.  Your'e a nice guy.  I'm glad I met you.

The irony of course being I was a "nice guy" that just prevented 40 or so people from eating lunch.  Fortunately for me she didn't' snitch us out.  I had a Geometry final to get to, hence I was not there when the lunch bell rang.  That and staying on sight at the scene of the crime did not seem a particularly smart endeavor (though doing so certainly wouldn't have been the stupidest thing I did in high school).  One more picture with the gate shut and locked tight:

  

Word has it, those gates are now gone...I missed the tour, and a significant trip down memory lane.  

My hope is to do a series of these...perhaps I should have done this BEFORE the reunion.  None the less, I think people's reactions to this one will largely decide how much time and effort I utilize going forward and sharing my experiences with everyone.  I'm not a private person at all, but that doesn't mean I want to bore people with stuff they aren't interested in nor do i want to use my own time for a monument to my own amusement.  that said:

If you were locked in that room that day, heard about this, or had any thoughts about it (particularly looking back), I implore you to share them.  As you can imagine, my friends and I had a grand laugh about this but didn't exactly advertise in the year book that we were the culprits.  Share your thoughts here, on Facebook, whatever, but please share them!  

I want to finish up by saying thanks to the people that made this possible.  First and foremost Theresa Martens, Erna Flaschel, the planning community, and everyone else that contributed in some small way.  It's a hard bunch of work, always trying to coordinate, please everyone, and do the best thing possible with the hope moving forward that the work will not only be appreciated, but remembered.  Thank you all so much, once again...

I'd love to share more memories...your interest and feedback will make that possible, otherwise your'e stuck waiting another 10 years to ask me whatever burning questions you might have...

Thank you for humoring me thus far in this endeavor...

Thomas Eugene Bradford

Thomas Eugene Bradford, 72, of Leavenworth, KS, passed away May 18, 2012.  Tommy, to many of his friends and family, was born in Leavenworth, KS, the son of George B and Ann Marie Bradford.  Tommy is survived by his wife of 48 years, Patricia Ann Bradford.  Tommy is also survived by his younger sister, Julie Ann Switzer as well as his daughter Andrea Lynn Bradford and son, Randy Eugene Bradford.  Tommy also leaves behind three grandchildren, Ariana Paige, Janessa Ann and Willow Marie.  Tommy retired from the Kansas Turnpike Authority after 35 years of service as part of the maintenance crew.  In his younger years, Tommy enjoyed hunting, fishing, working in his shed, and was an avid CB enthusiast where he was known to many by his handle, “Guard Rail”  More recently, he spent his time as a retiree with his wife, and looked forward to Sunday dinner with his family.   
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EULOGY

"The soil of a man's heart is stonier... A man grows what he can ... and he tends it."

I’ve admired this passage from a book I’ve read many times because I think in many ways it reflects what I believe to be true about “manhood” for many. In this respect, my father is certainly no exception, and when I knew his life was short I immediately thought of the relevancy of this passage as it related to him.

"The soil of a man's heart is stonier... A man grows what he can ... and he tends it."

My father wasn’t one to show his emotions outwardly and if the phrase “wear your emotions on your sleeve” was ever applicable, I’m quite sure he did his best to wear a jacket over those sleeves. For him, the love he had for his family, the love he had for his friends, was shown vibrantly in the idea of “growing what he can…and tending it.” My father “tended what he could grow” day after day, and year after year, working hard for what he had, and working even harder to keep it. More than that, he did it without resentment, he did it largely without complaint, he did it with humility, with a quiet unspoken love, and he did it as a monument to his belief of being responsible and doing everything that it took, no matter what it took, to live up to that responsibility. Perhaps you are familiar with the expression, “Labor of Love”…Tom Bradford labored FOR the love of his family and his innate desire to embrace his ideas of manhood by striving always to provide for them in the best way he knew how. More than that, I would argue, he did it very well.

“The soil of a man’s heart is stonier…A man grows what he can…and he tends it.”

Tom Bradford tended to his wife, in his own way, for 48 years…and their marriage took root, weathered the extremes of drought and frost and everything in between and grew. I’d like to believe, that as long as I’ve known him, the last 5 or 6 years of his life were some of the happiest for my dad, because he could sit down from his labors, and really see what he had tended and grown all those years. The fruits of his labor included two children who had grown up, become independent, capable, driven, successful and happy. He was blessed with three grandchildren and just as his children grew through him, my father grew through his grandchildren. My father believed his responsibility was to tend to his family…but in doing so what he also grew was his humanity and compassion. He grew what he could and tended it, and I’ll never know whether he fully recognized or appreciated how much of what he grew and tended likewise strived to tend to him in return.

My father was a man of paradoxes…

*He had a gift with animals, but didn’t want pets…

*He hated Christmas but could wrap a present better than anyone I know…

*He hated to take pictures but was always the best looking guy in any of the photos…

*He was a slave to routine who would deliberately shock those around him with the occasional surprise…

*He would grant a first chance to anyone, a second chance to only the select few…

*He loved to be heard but hated to repeat himself…

*He struggled to find comfort in his role as a father, but embraced his role as a grandfather with ease, enthusiasm and joy…

*He would do anything for most anyone, but loathed the possibility that his own need for help might be a burden to others.

*He was one of the simplest people I’ve ever known, and one of the most complicated I’ve ever had to deal with…

*He could barely hear, but you still had to watch what you said around him…any hint of need would likely be greeted with a visit of assistance or with him giving you something you might need to accomplish your goal…

*He could barely see, but he still knew how to spot integrity, worth, honesty and loyalty in the hearts of those around him…

*He could barely walk, and mowed his own grass less than a week before his inability to breathe would send him to the hospital…and he mowed simply because it needed to be done.

*He could barely talk…OK…that’s not true, but sometimes we all wished it was…

Mark Twain is quoted as having said: “When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished by how much he'd learned in seven years.” This passage makes me think a lot of my father’s love of Western movies. Growing up, Channel 41, every Saturday night. As child, even as a teenager, Saturday nights were a source of disdain and frustration…John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, “Two Mules for Sister Sara,” “High Plains Drifter,” “Rio Bravo,” black and white movies we’d seen 50 times before of an unsophisticated era in history long since abandoned. Looking back though, I realize my father was to me a lot like John Wayne. He was an imposing, almost mythical creature as a child…powerful, intimidating, indestructible, tall in the saddle, larger than life, one of the “good guys.”

It took going to college for me to recognize the beauty of Western movies and to gain a clearer more nuanced appreciation and understanding of the themes, the characters, the imagery, and the deeper message conveyed by The West. Similarly, older now, I look back on my father and see no John Wayne, but a Clint Eastwood: A determined man with a quiet confidence, strength and courage. Someone who wasn’t larger than life because of his stature or because of his swagger, but because of gritty determination, uncommon humility, and a well-defined sense of duty, humanity and decency. Someone who’s courage…and no small amount of it…was demonstrated on the battlefield, but in punching a time clock for 35 years. My father wasn’t flawless, but he had character, integrity, and a personality forged from adversity that would have broken and defeated many others.

My dad was well known as a CB enthusiast, which, like the Westerns he loved, embodies a bygone era that seems so distant in the age of cell phones, texting, emails and instant messaging. My father was known to many as “Guard Rail,” his CB handle, which by and large I believe was a reference to his work for the Kansas Turnpike. Looking now, it strikes me for the first time how appropriate the handle “Guard Rail” is on other levels as well. A guard rail is primarily designed to protect, it prevents people from going too far off the road, it protects them from adversity and danger when poor decisions or bad luck might otherwise lead them there. More than that, guard exist as a guide, a way to keep you not only from danger, but as a reminder of the path you are on, a simple guide forward and a reminder of our destination. Guard rails are of the simplest of design, but of unparalleled strength and value. A guard rail endures the elements, ready when needed, ready when not. A guardrail stands as a quiet and humble testimony of persistence, dependability, strength, guidance, determination and a resolute sense of purpose…a fitting reflection of my father’s character. But guard rails aren’t flashy, they aren’t awe inspiring. People can speak of a great highway, a breathtaking bridge, a stunning overpass; marvels of architecture. Nobody would ever call a guard rail “great.” By the standards of the world, my father never did anything great. To his friends and family though, HE was undeniably a great man…