Oh Tannen-bumble!

We cut down our Christmas tree today. 

It's a ritual we've followed for at least the last 10 years ... driving out south to Bucyrus, a small, rural, Kansas town sliced in half by a single-track railway. We love the drive and the hunt for a tree at the Graubergers' farm. 

This year we found a good one -- not too fat but not too skinny. Cindy, Zach and Meghan were there. Eric, Meghan's friend, joined us. Plus the dogs. All in all, a calm, sane day amid the pines. Check it out. 

Last year? Hardly the case.  We didn't get the reminder card from the Graubergers, so we assumed -- wrongly -- that they were out of business.  A co-worker of Cindy's clued us in to a new tree farm farther north in Kansas.  We gave it a shot.

Who knew what would follow?  

You see, Meghan has a thing for odd trees.  Trees she can name, with personality.  Just a few years ago, we acquired the fattest tree we'd ever seen, and she lovingly called it the "Bumble" -- after the Abominable Snowman character in the animated Rudolf cartoon we'd seen on TV for years. 

Though we, too, loved the Bumble, it was a beast to haul into the house and shoe-horn into the northern corner of what we call "The Fireplace Room."  But we did it and proudly showed it off to friends. 

But last year? Well, fat doesn't begin to describe the tree Meghan picked.  Let's see ... how's this: 

- First, regarding height ... this was not a squat tree.  It towered at least seven feet.

- It certainly was round, like a capitol rotunda is round.  Using a tape measure, we figured its girth at 18 feet. That's just about three times the height of the average man. 

- Even the tree-farm workers cowered at its sight.  "I don't think we'll be able to bag it," said the boss, looking skeptically at the metal contraption that spins nylon netting around the tree, collapsing its branches into a cocoon-like shape. It was a personal defeat for him. No tidy cocoon for this tree.

That was an issue.  Because if the tree is not netted taut, shrunken tight like vegetables in a Seal-A-Meal, it must ride home atop the minivan in full form, branches spread wide, catching the wind like the foresail on a schooner. 

That was the case. With the help of those at the tree farm, we struggled and heaved the tree atop the minivan.  Instantly, what had been a 5 1/2-foot vehicle was now about 12-foot tall. 

I began to worry about those signs on bridge underpasses warning of minimum truck heights.

We roped it down as best we could. (Like Gulliver being roped by the Lilliputians. If you don't recall the fable, check it out.) 

Cindy, Meghan, Zach and Meghan's roommate Tiffiny, laughed at the absurdity of a tree almost fatter than the car is tall. Me?  I began plotting the route home. 

Highway travel was not an option.  No way.  Instead, we'd have to inch through downtown Kansas City, Kansas, to Prairie Village at -- I guessed -- about 25 miles an hour. Otherwise the wind caused by our speed would pull the Lilliputian knots asunder and we'd be, well, tree-less ... and probably cause a car wreck to boot.

As we turtled our way through KCK, we had moments of panic.  A KCK cop pulled behind us -- are we illegal!!? -- then moved past.  A car ahead abruptly stopped, as did we. Yes!  The tree held fast. 

We then noticed people staring ... pointing fingers.  We ignored them.  A 12-foot-tall minivan with a pine-colored shag top?  What's the big deal? Odd things are normal in KCK. 

At last, we arrived home. The tree was intact, as was the car. It took an hour and 20 minutes for what normally would be a 25-minute drive. Relief. 

But oh, the neighbors! We quickly rolled the tree off the car with a massive thump!  I calculated our next step -- how to get it into the house. 

Keep in mind that this tree's circumference is 18 feet. That means, roughly, it was wider than KU football coach Mark Mangino, though not by much. (Okay, apologies to Mark, but jeez ... the guy makes a major visual statement at every game. I assume he accepts that.) 

After a family meeting, we decided to haul the tree through the back door. It was wider, plus it connected directly with the Fireplace Room, where the tree would finally rest.

So, here's the deal:  The tree's diameter is almost 6 feet wide. The door's width? About 3 1/2.

You do the math. Somehow this tree would need to pop through the door, intact, like a newborn. 

Zach and I gave it an early shot ... we pushed and tugged and pulled. After five minutes of hard work, it was wedged tight, a massive green, scratchy, immoveable clog. 

Out of breath, I called for reinforcements. 

"OK, Meghan, come out and help Zach push," I ordered.  I went inside to pull, with Cindy's help.

  

We all gripped branches.  

"OK, one-two-three, pull!!" I yelled.  No effect.  "One-two-three, PULL!!" Again, no movement. "One more time," I yelled, hoping to inspire. "One-Two-Three, PULL!"  

The tree budged an inch.  "ONE-TWO-THREE ... PULL!!" I yelled again, heartened, feeling the rhythm. 

Another inch. 

"ONE! TWO!  THREE!!  PULL!!!" I screamed. 

And then with a huge scratching sound -- its limbs loudly protesting -- it shot through the door, spilling onto the floor. Its massive branches, spring-loaded, swung back and forth, sending its powerful pine scent to all corners.  

Like a babe, delivered!

"Wahhhh!" Zach cried, on cue.  (That's my boy!)  

Interestingly, this year, Meghan seemed less ambitious with her tree selection. Nothing too big, though nothing too small.

I guess giving birth will do that to you. 

Road to Nashville 3

Nashville sweats music.

Sure, as a newbie to Nashville you see the evidence of "Music City" everywhere -- on the roads and highways coming in to town, by the many guitar and sound-equipment shops, on the billboards that tout the music-city connection, by the transients with guitars strapped to their backs. Nashville, on its face, is music.

But it is during nighttime on Broadway, near 2nd Street South deep Downtown, that you see Nashville truly sweat its music. You feel the drive and the rhythm that made this city and transforms it today.

On this night, it's freezing cold. But inside The Stage, Paradise Park, Bluegrass Inn, Full Moon Saloon and other dives, it's hot. The amps pound, the guitars sing, the beer is good and flows. The dripping band members tell of love lost and gained, of tragedy overcome. The music vibrates through the shaking, streetside windows, pummeling those on the sidewalk. It's not just country music you hear ... it's more.

Oddly, while walking Broadway, I remembered when Hollywood ripped into Nashville's political soul in 1975 with the Robert Altman film by the city's name.

"Nashville" was one of Altman's best films and featured a great cast - Ned Beatty, Lily Tomlin, Shelly Duvall, Henry Gibson, Keith Carradine and many more. The plot was complex but basically portrayed most of Nashville's country-music community as simple-minded patriots singing various versions of "My country, love it or leave it."

It was a classic post-Vietnam political film, and though the plot was complicated, the potshot at Nashville was pretty simple-minded, too.

In fact, Nashville was then -- and definitely is, now -- a complicated music community.

Sure, there's white-bread history here. Wander Broadway and you see Ernest Tubb's record shop (including, inside, a "Bargain Tubb" of discounted CDs) next to Paradise Park.

The Tubb-shop sign defiantly, stubbornly shouts above a hanging American flag: "Real country music lives here." (If it could, I imagine it would say, "Real country music lives here" -- as if the music that's followed Tubb's generation is not worthy or even worse.) 

A shop near 5th Street features traditional-country touristy junk, plus an Elvis fortune-telling machine that incessantly shouts at you.

But those shops were nearly empty this night. Time has passed them by. Nashville has changed -- like the rest of America, grown more diverse. More politically diverse, too. (Nashville/Davidson County voted in Obama over McCain by a 3-to-2 margin.)

Altman couldn't make "Nashville" today.

There aren't too many cities that can boast the geographical concentration of live music that Nashville's Broadway provides. South Beach in Miami comes to mind. And of course New Orleans' Bourbon Street.

But to this newbie, Nashville seems to be playing it smart, even in its old haunts like the Broadway strip. It has welcomed the indie movement that's taken root in Music Row. It's moving beyond the predictable "country" and even "modern country" to embrace a variety of genres. Really, it had no choice. The old-style concentration of a few music studios already has imploded under the weight of digital delivery.

In short, Nashville's music still sweats plenty, but not out of worry of changing times. It sweats the pure joy of creation.

A new voice, a new time.

Road to Nashville 2

It sits above Nashville's Music Row, at the Row's south end, like a beacon on a hill.  

Music Row is itself a trip. Drive north along its streets and you see signs boasting record labels you easily recognize -- RCA Studio B, EMI, SESAC -- and others you don't, like Love Monkey.

(For a slide show of what I saw and know, click here.) 

But south of it, high up, sits small Belmont University.  And man, you would swear it's going to burst. Because within Belmont lives a bubbling mass of youthful music talent.  No, I don't mean performers, although there are plenty here. I'm talking young, high-energy, blue-jeaned entrepreneurs who have grown up with Itunes in their ears and see -- just down the street -- that this is where that stuff is born.  And they want a piece of it. 

It's a marriage of interest and intellect:

Music Row is known as country music's Madison Avenue.  But today it's much more, representing an array of musical styles and studios.  It's always on the hunt for business talent. 

Belmont is a historic Baptist school that produced Grand Ole Opry's Minnie Pearl and Vogue Magazine's Clare Booth Luce, among others.  But it, too, is much more.  For starters, it boasts a music-business curriculum considered second to none, and its graduates leverage Music Row internships into full-time jobs.

(Less musical, but ... you may recall that Belmont also hosted the Oct. 7th debate between Obama and McCain. Thus the banner, top.) 

It's not clear that Zach is going to wind up at Belmont.  Mizzou has proven too big and too crowded to satisfy.  So he's on the hunt for an alternative. He thinks Belmont's music-business program might be the ticket. 

Friday, we spent the day checking it out, and Nashville, too. 

Nashville ... wow.  More on that later. 

Belmont?   Quite the place.   What we saw:

- Students absolutely amazed at the networking opportunities given all of the artists and studios nearby.   Riley (left), a friend of a friend to Zach (right), is an ex-KU music student who transferred to Belmont's music-biz program.  He joined us for lunch ... and laid out in much detail the contacts he's made in the trade in just three months.

- Amazing facilities, including the lower floor of the university's business school, which is tricked out with state-of-the-art music-studio space.  (Zach gets a demo, right.) 

- An enthusiasm shared by all of the students that they're in a special place, at a special time in the industry. 

- That bass players -- and Zach is one -- are in high demand among the students who like to play in bands while they pursue their professions. Guitarists are a dime a dozen on campus. Bass players? Coveted like gold. 

Next: Broadway and more. 

Road to Nashville 1

There's always something a bit mysterious and dark about an airport at night.   Tonight we're at Kansas City International, waiting for a flight to Nashville. 

Zach is checking out a school there.  So Zach, Cindy and I sit in airport-style plastic-and-metal chairs -- each welded to the other -- filling time ahead of a 9:15 flight.

This time, though, the airport wait has an even darker, different feel.  It's at the CNBC concession area, where the flat-screen TV blares news of today's stock market, that you feel the difference.  Amid the bright lights shining on books, magazines, small food items and other travel junk, you hear the pundits worry -- and clearly, they are worried -- about yet another 400-point plunge in the Dow. 

Their urgent comments echo beyond the store, spilling into the concourse.  They seem to shout over the few shoppers, who are grabbing a People magazine, or a bag of chips. 

CNBC got its start when the markets were soaring.  It's never experienced this kind of drop -- in either the stock market or the economy as a whole.   

So it's a sobering time ... at the airport, on TV.   Few watch the screen; they already know the news. 

It's not good news.  But life -- and, for now, travel -- goes on. 

My good news:  A new Paste arrived today.  Good listening on the plane.  Very appropriate for a visit to musicland, Nashville. 

Hanging by a thread

Okay ... this is my whine time, when I'll talk about the newspaper industry. I'll move on to cheerier posts after this. Promise.

Twenty-five years ago, I was slaying dragons as a financial reporter at the Springfield, Ill., Journal-Register, writing newspaper stories about how politically connected real estate developers were getting sweetheart deals from the then-governor and his administration.

Today, as a Kansas City newspaperman, I'm making a quilt.  

Huh?

'Tis true. Odd as it seems, me and my department at The Kansas City Star symbolize the sea-change under way with newspapering -- a change that I'm convinced many Americans don't understand nor appreciate in terms of significance or permanence.

The quilt thing? I'm making a quilt to get closer to our quilt-book customers. You can check it out here.

Let me explain: About 10 years ago, I chose to head down a different path at The Star -- to move from daily journalism and launch instead a book-publishing arm of the newsroom. I felt there was a lot of content there that could take different, profitable forms. I guess it was an outgrowth of my business-editor days, plus the MBA I picked up in the mid '90s.

Today, we publish more than 30 books a year -- most by us, some by other newspapers that use our services. We are welcomed as a small source of "non-core" revenue at The Star. That's because "core" revenue -- dollars from the newspaper product itself -- continues to shrink. Most of the books we publish are quilt books. It's a great business to be in, and we're doing quite well with it. (How we got into quilt books is a long story best left for another day.)

Newspapers ... in the news

Last Monday, my employer laid off 50 people -- the third reduction of the year that now totals about 300 positions. All things considered, The Star is financially sound and has lots in its favor. (In fact, combined readership of our newspaper and Web sites is at record levels.) But I predict some of our peer newspapers won't fare as well. I'm betting that one or more major cities in this country will be without a newspaper within the next couple of years.

There are lots of reasons why. Some of the industry's injuries are self-inflicted; others not. It's been a perfect storm for newspapers for awhile, and the recent economic distress only adds another hurricane or two. (If you're really curious, go to the Poynter site that follows the industry daily.)

Readers may be shocked, though, when the big headline in their town is "No More Headlines." And when that happens, I suspect in-depth local news coverage -- including reporting on local government -- will dry up or be replaced by a crop of opinionated blogs. Local news, after all, is the strength of a metro newspaper. Sure, TV will still cover local government ... but with its usual sound bites and its own diminishing news resources.

I'm not one to bemoan the passing of traditions. I love the Internet. Heck, I'm blogging. And newspapers have been moving successfully to the Internet.

But the painful fact is that newspapering's business model will no longer support the vast cadre of professional journalists whose job was to ask uncomfortable questions of our most sacred public and private institutions.

Some people on the far right are celebrating this fact, saying the public and advertisers are leaving newspapers because of our alleged liberal leanings. They say other news sources will fill the gap. Frankly, the "liberal" argument is simple-minded horse-hockey. The reasons for the industry's shift have to do with technology, mainly, and changing demographics.

I'm definitely not convinced, though, that other "news" sources will fill the gap. Will important stories go uncovered? I fear yes. And if so, what wrongs will go unseen?

And don't forget all the good news that is spread through a newspaper. Does the community's fabric fray a bit more as fewer stories are shared?

Among the 50 let go last Monday were some of our most seasoned journalists -- folks with a vast knowledge and love of Kansas City. I don't quarrel with the decision to let them go. This transition is painful but necessary.  And I mourn nonetheless.

Fearing the phone call

On that morning, we all were a bit paranoid. We were aware that layoffs would be announced that day. We knew to fear the phone call asking us to "come upstairs."

While driving to work that morning, I got a message from the publisher's assistant asking me in a serious voice to call her.

In my mind, this is how I knew it would play out: The publisher would call me to his office, talk at length about my 20-plus years of dedication and hard work, then explain my severance and bid me goodbye.

Sweaty, my heart pounding, I called her back. Turns out she was wondering if I'd seen a colleague -- one of those seasoned journalists -- because the publisher had to talk to him and they couldn't reach him. "Do you know where he is?" she asked.

"I don't," I said. "He usually arrives later than I do."

In the end, I survived; he didn't.

Don't get me wrong. I love what I'm doing and find it ironic that something as far left-field as quilt-book publishing is now considered vital revenue. Despite my fears, we get much support from "upstairs." But survivor's guilt accompanies our success.

I've also decided that my goal ahead is to protect those who work for me. And the best insurance there is for us to be successful.

Later that day, a co-worker asked me how I was doing given all the bad news. I joked: "Hanging by a thread!"

By now you know the pun: Quilts ... thread. The sad thing is, it's not a joke.

It is a mighty thread, though. And that counts for somethng.

Paste that sticks

I'd say it was about 10 years ago. I'm not sure how or why it happened. But I swear an angel named Serious came from above and whacked me on the head with a galvanized-steel wand -- "Ba-doinnk!" -- proclaiming:

"Thou Shalt No Longer Listen to New or Original Music but Instead Shall Glue Your Ears Forever to NPR."

From that day on, I listened -- religiously -- to NPR. You know the lineup ... Morning Edition, Day to Day, Fresh Air, All Things Considered. You name it, if it talked in serious tones about the world's events, I listened. And I didn't listen to much else.

I'm a journalist, after all. I guess that's my excuse. And not to disparage NPR. God help us if we didn't have it.

But music? Nah, I didn't listen much. Oh, yeah ... occasionally I'd tune in to old rock songs. Some jazz. Rarely Top 40, though. Indie tunes? Huh?

But maybe a year ago, I swear another angel -- I like to think it was Serious's fun sibling, Lighten Up -- lovingly "ca-thunked!" me on the head with a foam-rubber Star Wars light saber and proclaimed:

"Thou Shalt Lighten Up -- With Music! Go Ye ... Seek Ye Some!"

It was a revelation. After all, I'd observed my kids, ears connected to Ipods, downloading stuff while I stuffily lectured about the illegality of it. I'd snap at them when Hip Hop would surface ... complain about the morals, the language, the gun shots.

To coin a Yoda phrase: "So rigid, I was!"

One of my more thunderous "ca-thunk" moments came during a walk through the woods along nearby Indian Creek. It was a brisk walk for exercise. I was plugged in to my new Nano Ipod, a gift. And I was listening to "Walking Among the Living" by Jon Randall, an artist I discovered when I first dippped my toe into the sea called ITunes. The power of the music and message hit me. Not to get maudlin, but it was so poignant and relevant, it brought tears.

At that moment, I realized that I'd let virtually a decade or more of music pass me by.

No longer. Today, I have a honkin' 8 gigabyte Ipod. And I'm a faithful subscriber of Paste Magazine, which I mentioned in my last post and which Cindy found for me in a bookstore when I started making noise about the lack of music in my soul. Paste takes you deep into today's music world -- past the predictable FM radio lineup to a broader variety of genres.

I've subscribed for eight months now, so I've received nine CDs, each with about 20 tunes on it. (Paste Nos. 40 through 48; No. 41 is missing because it took awhile for my subscription to kick in after getting the first issue from the racks.) It's music I've enjoyed and shared with some of those important to me.

It's not all stuff I like. But much of it I do. What follows is a sampling of one favorite from each disk, with a little explanation as to why. (Some of these song links are the the artists' My Space pages ... you'll click on the song there.)

Paste #48: Hymn #101 by Joe Pug
This 23-year-old songwriter from Chicago is by day a carpenter; by night, he's almost Dylanesque thanks to the complexity of the message and the maturity of his voice. I like this song because it speaks to a young man's search for answers -- about society, justice, God, love and more.
The song

Paste #47: We've Got the Power (Love Letter from America) by the Born Again Floozies.
Here's a politically charged song that's lots of fun ... mixing tubas, tap dancers, guitar and great vocals. By all means, don't miss the message.
The song (video)

Paste #46: How The Day Sounds by Greg Laswell.
Anyone who's experienced a rebirth, big or small, can appreciate the lyrics of this song. Laswell sings of a journey from darkness to light ... and how, once emerging, he "likes how the day sounds, through this new song."
The song

Paste #45: Cler Achel by Tinariwen.
This Paste set featured international music from a range of groups. Tinariwen, an African rock group, calls the Saharan region northeast of Timbuktu home. The music is haunting, rhythmic and hard to forget.
The song (video)

Paste #44: A Dream by Priscilla Ahn.
This work is a compelling and beautiful mix of voice, story and song. It is, at its most basic, the story of a young girl's passage through time. Ahn's voice is splendid and, yes, even perfect.
The song (video)

Paste #43: Late Last Night by Robby Hecht.
Hecht has received much praise for his soulful voice, and this is one of his most popular tracks. The message is obvious: Sometimes we show love by saying good-bye.
The song

Paste #42: Okay by Kaiser Cartel.
This Brooklyn, New York, duo -- Courtney Kaiser and Benjamin Cartel -- blend beautiful harmony around well-crafted lyrics.
The song

Paste #40: A&E by Goldfrapp
This acoustic effort from the British group features Alison Goldfrapp's vocals and a story of love likely lost. Goldfrapp's vocal range is amazing.
The song

Of course, there are plenty of other tunes on the CDs worth savoring. Ultimately, what I love about the magazine is its range and its suggestions of different paths to wander down.

Lighten Up, I think, is pleased. Serious? Well, he should quit his damn scowling.