In a battle between Nat King Cole, and Elvis Aaron Presley, Nat Cole wins as the real King. Let me just state that. Elvis, and his plastic guitar, can eat gravel and bark at the moon. Compared to Cole, Elvis couldn't sing his way out of a puddle of turkey poo.

Nat's music is American contribution to the delicate creation of advanced art. Sweden has ABBA, Germany has David Hasselhoff (God knows they can have him), but we Americans have Nat.

Cole influenced a score of piano players. Nat Cole was a respected pianist before he was even recognized as a singer. He swung hard, and played with fierce attack. Bill Evans himself cites Cole as the initial influence on his own career. And anyone reading this god-awful, slanted blog knows that Evans is royalty in this neck of the online woods.

Now for the plug. On July 27th, Panama City, the trio is doing a tribute concert of Nat King Cole, sponsored by the Gulf Jazz Society.

Labels: bass, guitar, gulf jazz society, mobile Jazz society, nat king cole, piano, sean dietrich trio, tribute

That's what I've had to lovingly say to my 3 big dogs. They whine outside of my office, worried because I am locked away in my tiny office. They worry, because being holed up in a little stuffy room, for them, isn't good news. At all. "Crap. Delete take three, I think I heard Boone wimpering outside the door again. I'm about to go beat some dogs." Of course, then I end up giving out massages to each of them. Can't have favorites. Wouldn't be right.

Such is life inside the home-studio.

We've got too many things in this house. Too much fur. Too many animals. Far too many books. Useless antiques in every corner, the curse of flea-market addicts. I rearrange the little office, positioning mic stands. Weaving my way through cords. It's a big hairy deal.


Above is a snippet of the recording going on in Dietrich Studios Inc. We record all the major stars here at the Dietrich's. On our DVR, that is.

Labels: all about jazz, all the things you are, destin florida, electric piano, home, pianist, recording, seagrove, sean dietrich trio, seaside

After church, the core group of pathetic Godless liberals stand around. A peer group of which I am a carrying member. I reel out painfully average jokes, and rouse courtesy laughter from the circle. I get to pretend, for a brief 15 minutes, that I am part of the proverbial in-crowd. I'm really just a nerd. But it makes me smile nonetheless. The conversation eventually takes a drift into the area of the current local fudge. The oil.

We talk about more than oil though. Michael Granberry gets to talking about communal living. Jamie mentions something about nudism. Ronnie recommends a good movie, while I attempt an artful useage the f-bomb. We talk about dolphins, beer, and what it would be like if Michael were elected as sheriff.

And so, on this fourth of July, I wonder what's going to happen when our home turns into a ghost town? Tourism is dying. The Gulf is ill. The humble fishing village is no more. Local residents, rolling around the possibility of leaving Dodge. We all struggle to formulate our plan B. Plan C. I still haven't come up with a plan A yet.

Labels: a simple faith, BP, gulf coast, gulf of mexico, oil spill, seagrove, seaside

It's coming. That's certain. Oil.

A frolic on the beach proved sticky for Jamie D. Jamie was forced to wipe the crude sludge off her feet with Pine-Sol. Oddly, there are cannisters of Pine-Sol and rolls of paper towels on many of the NWF beaches, provided as a courtesy.

The oil texture is similar to pine sap. Meaning, it bonds to skin tighter than super glue, and it has a long-suffering property to it. Withstanding steel wool, sand paper, and hand grenades.

So Jamie and I treked up to Appalachicola this weekend to enjoy the local flavor one last time, before it's all totally engulfed in BP's god-forsaken slime. While in Appalach, we saw hundreds of swabbies signing up for HASMAT training, preparing for the worst.

What are we going to do? Let me say that again. What in the Sam-Hell are we going to do? Everyone in this area relies on tourism. Without tourism to provide us with the Monopoly money we need, we're done for.

Labels: appalachicola, BP, destin, electric piano, gulf coast, gulf of mexico, northwest florida, oil spill, sean dietrich trio

As a pianist, I train the phalanges on these two appendages located at the end of my arms. My hands. Everyday I train them actually. I strive for flexibility, strength, endurance, and overall health. I'm anal about it too. Carpel tunnel could end my career in one swift swoop of terror.

So, imagine my despair when I am suddenly afflicted with an ugly hand rash on both hands. Bubbly, moist, and stretching all the way to the tips of my fingers.

After ridding myself of evil thoughts, thoughts of me running into oncoming traffic to end this charade of living, I decided to wait this tragedy out.

Every now and then, I'd glance down at my alligator hands, and just about cry. And yet somehow, I managed to play every night almost, having a full schedule this past week of work.

Now that my "Job-ishly Biblical" test has dissipated. I've decided that I am done shaking anyone's hand. From now on.

If you see me, and feel like touching me in a ritualistic social salutation, give me a thumbs up instead. :)

Labels: destin, destin florida, electric piano, gulf coast, hand rash, jazz, pensacola, pianist, sean dietrich trio

I charge my feet to keep up with the rest of my body, because I am running in all directions it seems.

Still working on the Airstream, slowly. Also have taken on a few side projects for other people. I won't talk about those. Smile. Many of you already know that I've been writing for AllAboutJazz.com, and so that has been like a form of meditation almost. And of course, I manage my schedule of playing music down here in the great Southern coast of the panhandle, as well as the trio's bookings. Though, I'm not sure how much longer musicians will be in demand when balloon sized tar balls start washing up on the beach from the oil spill.

I've been fortunate though, and have had opportunities to do some really nice interviews for the AAJ online magazine. And just recently began writing a column for the magazine called "Unsung Heroes". Looking forward to that.

Going through the massive database that is AAJ, I wonder how anyone could think that Jazz is breathing slowly. The organism of jazz is alive and cussing. Just not on American Idol. I know that as long as I'm able to move my own fingers, there'll be a lot of sound jumping out of my personal piano.

Labels: .com, all about jazz, jazz, jazz piano, oil spill, pianist, sean dietrich trio, unsung heroes

I remember first seeing Davey play at church. Eyes closed, and looking very frail, Davey played a raggedy old upright bass that survived 2 car wrecks, and 60 years of playing. He bought the bass at 15 years of age, when he switched from the tuba to the string bass.

I met Davey through a mutual friend. I pursued Davey, because I wanted to learn. I wanted to learn the theory, the material, the genre. I wanted to be a part of the Jazz brotherhood, and all that it meant. Davey was a professor of music composition from Auburn University back in his day, although you'd never know it to look at him. He was an elderly hippy if I ever saw one.

Davey's small apartment was a cluster of heady books, a hefty classical record collection, and upright basses in the corners and on the floor. An old piano near the window was litered with compositions by Bartok, and Stravinsky. The room reaked of cigarette smoke and old paper.

He told me, rather firmly, that he wanted nothing to do with me if I didn't put in hard work. Davey lost his temper quite easily. I smile now. Davey was just being Davey. He gave me a chart for "Come Rain or Come Shine" to learn. And I learned it that night. I was determined to show Davey that he had never met anyone who would work as hard, or as long, as I.

Every Monday and Wednesday I was at Davey's apartment at 3:00pm to play. I worked tirelessly on a new tune every week. And listened to hundreds of albums that Davey would introduce me to. Everyone from Goodman, and Miles, to Eric Dolphy, and Roland Hannah.

Each one of our playing "sessions" began and ended the same way. We'd start by playing a blues tune. Then progress onto difficult material that that I was then learning. Tunes like Donna Lee, Giant Steps, Falling Grace, Nardis. And then we'd finish by listening to an entire classical composition on his Hi Fi record player, while he reclined, closed his eyes, and smoked his Winstons. And then he would send me along with homework. A new tune to learn, classical music to study, and a different jazz album to listen to.

We played gigs together. And he was the first bassist in my first trio. Davey showed up to each gig with a cap and sunglasses on, looking like Dizzy Gillespe. And he always swung on that old bass of his. I gradually became a different kind of player over the 2 years that I studied with Davey. My taste began to change. My standards got higher as I saturated myself with the music of Bill Evans. I developed enough confidence to feel comfortable calling myself a humble jazz musician. I quit playing all other music, but the standards.

The impact that Davey had on my life was notable. And even though he is gone now. Davey will always be swinging. Swinging hard. Somewhere. This song is for Davey, since it is among the first tunes I the trio played.

Labels: bass, come rain or come shine, destin, destin florida, electric piano, jazz, santa rosa beach, seagrove, sean dietrich trio, seaside, upright bass