Late afternoon sun quietly streams onto the wooden rink. Do you have memories of a skating rink? I bet you do.
At least a couple of times during his recent performance, Dexter Romweber suddenly stopped mid sentence and looking out into the audience told us “You get it, right? I don’t need to go on with this one.” It’s hard to discern whether he was unfocused, uninterested, deeply anxious or truly worried if the audience was bored.
Dexter often seems as if he’s channeling something most of us can’t see or hear or feel. It appeared during the early part of this show as if the signal he was receiving got scrambled, or grew so weak the antennae lost reception. While singing “Smile, though your heart is breaking” he abruptly halted and told us he just couldn’t go on. At the urging of the crowd, he did manage to complete the song. Listening to him croon his way to the finish, after he’d announced earlier that he was in a hard spot in part because a girlfriend had recently broken off a long term relationship, left me feeling like a disingenuous cheerleader or worse yet a soulless voyeur.
I’m late to the Dexter Romweber universe. I missed him in the 80s and the 90s and have only seen him a handful of times in this millennium. Therefore I knew that I didn’t have the backstory to understand how much of his shtick was harmless stage antics, and how much of it was ‘honest-to-god I’m falling apart before your very eyes folks’ reality.
His guitar was dusty. He looked truly uncomfortable with himself. Unkempt comes to mind, but again, unkempt is sometimes just a ‘look.’ In between being mesmerized by his music and magnetized by his larger than life psyche, I did sometimes wonder if I was being conned.
I stayed up late when I got home from the show, jotting down what I could remember about what he said, and what he played. My husband, a music connoisseur and veteran Romweber fan attempted to give me some framework to process what I’d just seen and heard. Dexter was 14 years old the first time my husband saw him play in 1980 on the campus of UNC in Chapel Hill.
To long time followers, none of this will be news, but here’s some of what has stayed with me from the show. Dexter did a song called “Paradise” which he learned from the Dick Van Dyke show. He doesn’t know who wrote it, or who performed it. He learned it from a 1960s television show. He gave us “Blind Man.” He played “Dark Night.” He delivered a several minute monologue about an idea that had just come to him about a painting that he was going to do when he got home from the show. Said he was going to title it “Den of Demons” and it would portray him amongst all his heroes, many of whom have passed on early. The main message he seemed to want to convey was that he was no longer afraid of his idols.
On one level he appears as to be tied up in his own mythology. On a more mundane level, it’s possible that some of what he’s coping with is the classic mid-life crisis. He’s facing his fiftieth birthday, which often comes as quite a shock whether you’ve known the thrill of fame or labored in complete obscurity.
Dexter was confessional throughout the show, revealing and wrestling his demons, and apologizing for not having practiced enough. He compared himself to Rod Abernethy who curates the once monthly series called “Music From Downstairs” at Neptunes in Raleigh where we were all gathered. Rod had just surrendered a polished set to open the evening, combining a few new originals with some hard hitting, thought provoking vintage tunes. He brought us everything from Dylan’s “Oxford Town” to an original called “Pleasant Street.”
Dexter too delivered a mix of covers and originals, but trust me nothing he sang or played took place anywhere near Pleasant Street. Announcing his tune that includes the lyrics “Sharks flying in from outer space” he informed us it came to him once when he was somewhere between Virginia Beach and Hades.
He kept his body turned from the audience much of the time preferring to gaze into his amplifier. He stepped on and off microphone at seemingly random times, and on and off stage at will, dangerously dragging his guitar chord which might have been the only thing tethering him to this realm. At times during the twang filled licks and riffs, he dropped to his knees as if asking forgiveness.
A friend of Dexter’s once described him as being in a “perpetual state of penance.” I gleaned that from spending several hours today watching “Two-Headed Cow” the 2011 documentary by filmmaker Tony Gayton, which beautifully captures the chaotic rise to fame of The Flat Duo Jets. More importantly the film follows the aftermath of the break-up of the famed duet.
The film leaves the viewer with the question of what is more important – fame, or legend.
There’s no other way to describe what we witnessed and heard last night from Dexter Romweber as anything other than legendary. After he finally got out of his own way, knowing the agony of performance was drawing to an end, he let go with almost five minutes of the rawest rockabilly this side of the 1950s. A stew of gospel surf with a big dose of alien spaceship sputnick-spewing blues. The signal was coming in loud and clear at that point.
Near the end of Two-Headed Cow, a younger Dexter seems to predict some of what we observed on this night. He says “I know what it’s like to be free, and I know what it’s like to be encaged. And when you’re playing music you want to be free, and some nights you feel like you’re caged, so you’re fighting your way out.”
Dexter, you got another serious fan in me. I sure hope you keep on fighting your way out.
A production by Art Howard in conjunction with the NC Museum of Natural Sciences. Follows the work of dozens of deep sea researchers over a three year period. My role was co-producer and story editor.
I carry a small notebook detailing locations I like, so I can return when circumstances are optimal to make a pleasing photograph. But, sometimes you just know that “we may never pass this way again.” At least not soon. So you work with whatever lighting mother earth is providing at that moment. No amount of twirling my high end polarizer was going to cut this light back, and there was construction and heavy equipment in almost any frame I chose besides straight on. I clicked the shutter a few times, not expecting much out of the ordinary. Yet when I returned home and looked through my raw images I was taken by this one. I think the light at San Ysidro was just what it was supposed to be!
It’s a simple phrase really. To All Gates. But the connotations are endless. In this photograph is my oldest son Rob. In this photograph he is returning to Berlin after a short visit home. In this photograph he is pushing an oversized bag to the drop off window. The large bag contains two of his keyboards which he’s finally getting to have with him in his current home city. In this photograph you also see that he’s got one of his guitars. What you don’t see is the checked bag with an analog recorder he’s also adding to his choice of tools. He’s never wanted more than he could move across town in a taxi, so it comforts me to think he’s willing to admit that somewhere is going to be his home long enough to accumulate some stuff. He’s a brave and adventurous soul, and I’m trying to be a brave Mom, stilling my heart for another goodbye.
He’s been away from my home for seven years. I thought Asheville was a long way until he moved to the west coast, which doesn’t seem nearly as far away since he’s moved to Europe. He’s a composer. He’s composed an interesting life for himself, with interesting friends, interesting work and interesting places. He creates songs and soundtracks where ever he goes. He is not afraid of the uncharted. What else could a brave Mom hope for? Does the photograph show that?
The photograph does not show the tears welling up in my eyes, or the tightening of my throat as I swallow the surge of emotions surrounding me. But still I raise a toast “To All Gates.”
I was the last photographer to document the Crabtree Jones house while it was still at home on its original site. In the Fall of 2013 I drove up the long drive to the house one afternoon on a crisp Sunday. I cautiously unlocked the side door, pushed it gently open, and carried in my camera gear. I stayed there alone photographing until there was no more light to eke out. The golden Autumn light streamed in the lead glass windows the same way it had for more than 200 years. The last rays of the day filtered through 100 year old trees standing guard all around the proud place.
Raleigh’s historic Crabtree Jones house perched at the top of a knoll hidden from site from most of the world even though just a few hundred yards away were busy shopping centers and thousands of cars passing by on Wake Forest Road. But the house could not hide forever, and it narrowly escaped the wrecking ball after the beautiful land it had occupied for more than two centuries was bought by a developer with plans for hundreds of apartment units.
The house was moved to a new location early in 2014, but with this collection of photographs I seek to preserve the beauty that existed in the way the light fell on, around, and through the house in a certain place, in a certain time, in a certain way.
I felt the house was speaking to me as I photographed, and I hope you might hear, and see, some of what she had to say.
In 2014 my company “words and pictures” marked 16 years in business. Sweet sixteen. I remember that time in life as being so full of potential, and I try to continue to see every year – every day – as holding great potential. I am so grateful for the work I get to do. This year has included writing and co-producing print, web and video pieces about rivers, deep sea research, environmental engineering, workforce development, controlling pediatric asthma, and retirement lifestyle options . . . just to name a few. I have also had the great fortune to photograph, interview and write about some amazing families who persevere against what would be overwhelming circumstances for many of us.
I am honored to get to continue to tell stories. Stories for the sake of story, and stories to meet strategy. This tagline works for me on both a business and personal level.
I combed my personal photography archives for a shot or two from this past year, and the ones that spoke to me did so because in each case they made me ponder the notion of “potential.”
This photo of three empty tables was taken this summer in Berlin when I was visiting my older son. The scene seems set for many things to potentially occur. Friends will gather, smoke cigarettes and drink coffee while making plans for later. Lovers will linger over a glass of wine. There’s so much potential.
This photo is of a girl named Hope. She reminds me of the potential for joy.
Remember your potential. Happy New Year.
New video from Art Howard, of ARTWORK, in Raleigh. I was Producer/Writer and absolutely was blown away by what’s being studied and developed here on NC State campus, which is practically in my backyard.