I just returned from the Gathering Stateside, an event that brings together performers, songwriters and instrumentalists who originally “met” on MySpace’s Acoustic Forum. The event was fantastic and everyone I met, and I’m serious about this, was a fine person who I would be happy to have live next door to me.
But Jo Robinson, the organizer of the event, and likely others as well, will blog about the details and highlights of the actual event and the interactions of the participants. I’d like to reflect on another part of  my journey.
The day before the formal (perhaps a poor choice of words!) show, a few of us went to the Rock and Roll Hall Of Fame. We were not obvious candidates for this pilgrimage. Allen is a purveyor of the finest and most worthy-of-preservation of past music. But Allen’s definition of past music centers on the Nineteenth and early Twentieth Century. The newest song I have ever heard Allen perform was from the late ’40s. Kimberley is a composer of marvelous keyboard instrumentals, often classical in structure, and is a music director for a church. Virginia is a gifted singer and composer of what used to be called art songs, quiet acoustic pieces with a unique perspective and a strong sense of vignette. Wonderful performers all, but none likely selections for a ripping good sock hop.
It’s fair to say that for a good part of this crew, the Hall Of Fame was a learning experience as opposed to a nostalgic or lifestyle-affirming one. None of the musicians above, at first and even second perusal, have a lot in common with the history of rock music.
Except that we do. It is the foundation upon which music culture, and all popular culture in fact, is precariously stacked. You cannot live in the modern world without feeling the influence of the artists honoured in the Hall Of Fame. No Bo Diddley or Chuck Berry, no Stones or Beatles. No Howlin’ Wolf, no Zeppelin. No Aretha no… well name any number of modern vocal divas for yourself. For my part, I will not put them in the same sentence as the Queen Of Soul.
And on it goes. I would argue no Sly and the Family Stone, no hip hop/ modern R&B/ neo soul, or whatever you want to call it. And on a personal level, it has to be said that no Beatles, no Byrds, no  Zombies, no Dylan, no Stax, no Motown  and yes, no Rick Nelson, no Postcard Comets.
So, regardless of our musical orientation, I think it’s fair to say that we all got something out of the Museum, to say nothing of the gift shop, because of rock music’s staggering contribution not just to music but to the culture in which we are interred.
It’s also fair to say, I think, that I was the biggest fan of the four of us. I was, after all, the only one pointing out glimpses of Randy Meisner in the clips of the Stone Canyon Band. I’m certain I was the only one tempted to smash the display case just to slide the faders on the board that mixed Jimi Hendrix.
But I may also have been the one most disappointed by the experience. As much fun as the Museum was, particularly in such good company, it was, as museums must be, about artifacts. It was not about the thrill of seeing Sly perform, or seeing the blur of Keith Moon behind a kit or having the voice of Etta James move me to tears. It was about stuff. Amazing, sequined, iconic, sweated-upon-by-the-famous stuff, but stuff nonetheless, a gift shop for the eyes, hermetically sealed in Plexiglas.
The next day, Allen, Virginia, Kimberley and I played and/or sang at The Gathering in the company of  many like-minded but equally musically disparate performers. The sets were wonderful; the camaraderie was astonishing.
But the Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame was still on my mind. And although I tout myself as a songwriter, the works of John Prine, Holland/Dozier/Holland and Lennon/McCartney found their way into my set. Thanks to Jay Cox, our Beatles collaboration included a roots-affirming 12 bar bottleneck blues solo. I credited Bo Diddley for his influence in my introduction of my own song Jani. I even tacked a verse of Under The Boardwalk onto the end of my own Can’t See the Ocean—  off the cuff and without throwing Bell Tone Easy, who was contributing percussion for the tune.
I wasn’t intending to make a statement and I didn’t. But thinking about it later, I realized that as cool as the Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame is, it is only a building full of costumes and well-used guitars. Even from a performer with skills as modest as mine, the magic is in the songs, the playing of them and the hearing of them in a room full of friends.
I’m not knocking the Hall Of Fame. I’d go again. But it is because of what happens in little Ohio venues like Verlie’s, where performers use hands and voices to sketch the contents of  hearts and souls, this is the reason that I say, CLEVELAND ROCKS.
David Partridge