The memorial for Joel O'Brien on Oct. 17th went great.
… There was a King Bees reunion at the memorial!! (only Kootch and Dickie Frank left alive unfortunately). Rob Dupree brought a 5 page fax of the Joel O'Brien tribute written by Ralph  Shuckett to the memorial on Sunday and I made a few copies (there was a copy machine in an office) for Rob to give to close friends. When I got home I read the letter and was quite amazed by Ralph's writing. He really nailed it. He captured Joel like he really was and everything about him in that letter rang true.

Kootch even mentioned it in his speech at the memorial. He said how Ralph hadn't seen Joel in 20 years, but his effect he had on him was such that Shuckett wrote this intense 5 page letter about him. He had that effect on all of us. Joel was quite a guy. Many people loved that man. I have included the letter below (with Ralph's permission) - a great piece of writing and for a while I'll be re-reading it often.
    And to those who weren't there the memorial itself was a big success. The place was packed. It was a school auditorium in the village. Joel's father, two brothers and widow were all there. My old band "The Glitterhouse" in which Bishop played drums, had a reunion. First one in 30 years (Mike Gayle, Hank Aberle, Al Lax and me). The remaining King Bees did "Lost in a Shuffle"  - Kootch and Dickie Frank with Richard Corey doing lead vocals (John John's part). John John McDuffy is rumored to have died ten years ago from a drug OD on the lower east side.
    I performed a song I wrote with the Bish - "Take a G note off the fat man" and my hit "You gotta have friends". Kootch backed up Rob Dupree and Richard Corey and me. Joe Berger also played with me and had Bishop's old ten piece big band play and a  jazz quartet with Joey performed that also used to work with Bish.
    Bishop's family made speeches and Kootch and I also made speeches, as did Professor Irwin Corey (he's 90!) and in great shape. There must have been at least three hundred people there. Refreshments were served and many old friends from Great Neck were there.
      Joel's collages (he became a respected artist in the last years of his life) were on the wall as were pix of him from all phases of his life. Richard Corey showed a 15 minute bio of Joel's life - lots of amazing stuff in that video.  Joel's legend was extremely large and his friends, family and fans came out in force to remember this absolutely unique guy
    So below is Ralph's remembrance - check it out.

Moogy

And many thanks to Ralph Shuckett who gave me his kind permission to publish his remembrance.
 
 

Subject: Thinking of Joel Dear Harriet and Friends, I hope you are coping with Joel's absence, and that it's in some way bearable. How fragile and short life is!  How easy it is to forget our friends and colleagues amidst the hurry-scurry huff 'n' puff drama that everyday life has become. Today, work and family commitments revented me from joining you, but I wanted to share some thoughts about Joel and what he means to me. Please forgive the digressions. I tend towards self indulgence with word processors. Bishop and I roomed together on several tours of the US and England. We were drinking buddies, and we talked endlessly, but Joel rarely talked about himself. As I think about it, I knew very little about him-- his childhood, family or his feelings. It wasn't his style to reveal his inner life. Joel was an ageless, world-wise hipster. I, at the time a fledgling bohemian, couldn't connect him with my mundane image of family life, just as I couldn't imagine Miles having parents, or Jimi Hendrix, or Frank Zappa. Cool people didn't have parents. They weren't cursed with the ill-fated, inescapable irritant, that I viewed parents to be. No, Joel O'Brien had skipped childbirth and childhood. He had simply materialized one night in The Blue Note, humbly and surreptitiously, in some weird cosmic Immaculate Conception. With a cigarette in one hand, the New York Times in the other, drum sticks jutting from a back pocket, and a double shot of Canadian Whiskey on the bar. Bathed in bebop and spewing esoterica. Which I, being of college age but not college material, hungrily inhaled, consumed, and which consumed me. I was a ripe, hungry pupil and Joel was, well, the best teacher I can recall. Thrilled and impassioned by his subject matter, he shared it, eagerly and gleefully. He unveiled a universe of music and culture I never knew existed. Like all good teachers, he made me more curious. Made me want to hear more and see more. To know more. When I heard he was ill, I phoned Bishop. After our twenty year estrangement I was nervous and self-conscious. I felt compelled to be cheerful, positive, and supportive-- to say the right thing. His voice, with just the first two words-- "Hey, Cuz,"  had such great warmth and affection, with no judgement and no need, that I, by comparison, felt uptight, banal and disconnected.  I realized, that I, at times, had  judged, even dissed him, and had never acknowledged his warmth, affection and acceptance. In my self-involved, drugged out youth I'd been pretty much oblivious to that kind of thing. The last time I'd seen him was on 6th Aveand 12th Streetin front of Ray's Pizza. I was in a big hurry, late for I forget what, and we hadn't really connected. So now, we made a date for my visit, but he said, almost sheepishly, that there was one problem he was concerned about.  My mind raced. Was he contagious? Was he in a plastic bubble? Would I need to disrobe and have my body sterilized and have to wear a mask and gloves? Was he so disfigured by his illness that he'd be embarrassed by my revulsion? Then he said, "We have cats and I know you're allergic, so you should take a pill before you come." The fact that Joel, suffering with the pain of a terrible  illness, with little time left, with the events and regrets, the memories and attachments, the people he'd loved and married, the stuff he never got to do, the stuff he shouldn't have done-- all this all up in his face-- How did he remember such an insignificant detail about me, whom he hadn't seen or heard a peep from in twenty years? I think that in one short  phone  conversation, Joel set in motion a chain of thoughts and feelings that changed, not only the way I saw him, but myself, my family, and, really, everything. I'm still not sure why. It's not the fact that he was dying. Being in my line of work (or maybe it's my choice of friends, or just our times) a lot of my people have died. Some from fate. Some from old age. Some by their own hand. Some were killed by the life they lived, or "chose", if you look at it from today's popular psycho-spiritual-metaphysical-12 Step-Oprah- Dr Phil viewpoint. At times I've been asked or attempted to eulogize these departed, but could never find any words, really. I'd tearfully mutter "I love you" or "I miss you", but I couldn't summon, much less convey, my deep feelings for the person. This is the first time, ever, that, not only do the words come easily, but I can't stop talking! Joel O'Brien wasn't just a great musician, an amazing talent, or an artist, although he was all those things. He was more than just a musical mentor, an astute social critic, or a snappy dresser.  Though he was all those things. More than just a junkie. Although sometimes he was a junkie. Joel O'Brien was an institution. A way of life. A point of view. A piece of history. An era. A connection with a world that no longer exists. I never thought of him as "old school", but by today's standards of hipness, I guess he was. Because he wasn't  trendy. He didn't adhere to anyone else's standards. And he didn't change his mind every few weeks about what was and wasn't cool. I mean how many beboppers do you know with reverence and respect for Appalachian hillbilly music? How many hillbillies listen to Thelonious Monk? At the time Joel and I became friends, I had a narrow, skewed standard of what I thought "good music" was, though I didn't know it. Basically, it went like this: There is no good white music, unless it's eastern European classical music, and that doesn't swing, and is for old people, anyway. (I couldn't reconcile that with the fact that most of my band-mates had been white, but I was in denial about that). All Blues, Bebop and Hard Bop were automatically great, even uninspired cookie cutter "commercial" jazz, if performed by black people, especially all the Hammond Organ trios recorded in Trenton, New jerseyghetto clubs. The exceptions were Ramsey Lewis, who was just too damn popular, and Ahmad Jamal, who, too me, just didn't swing, and didn't deserve all those albums and airplay, even if he did have a cool name. "West Coast" jazz was permissible, even played by whites, but not if they were successful studio musicians. Only Art Pepper and Gerry Mulligan made that cut, the former because he was in prison, the latter because he was just so undeniably cool. Dave Brubeck was Satan incarnate, the personification of evil. His only rivals for that throne were the Grateful Dead, whom I actually kinda like now, because they're so white, and so lousy, that they really do have a unique sound. Any music that becomes popular, even if it's black music, immediately decreases in value. Top forty music from any race has no value unless it's super-funky (which to me at that time meant "with a busy broken up beat, ie James Brown's "Cold Sweat" or  "What is Hip" by Towerof Power, neither of which, to my knowledge, ever made the top forty). Bob Dylan, who was Miles Davis's co-reigning almighty diety, was allowed to be successful and popular, in the same way Picasso or Salvador Dali (both white) were in their field. Bill Evans and Gil Evans were allowed to be white, but only because Miles  liked them. If either had ever gone Gold, they wouldn't be gettin' my $3.98. The Rolling Stones, who, being white, popular, and British, had three strikes against them, received my grace, because they had refused to be on Shindig, a prime time network show, unless they could bring along Howling Wolf. Ya had to love 'em for that. In their case, the  cool factor outweighed the race factor, the popularity factor, the funk factor and the musicianship factor. So, as my unwitting mentor, Bishop had his work cut out for him. It didn't take him long to shatter all my preconceptions. In no time, he hipped me to as diverse an array of music makers as you'll ever find anywhere. From Eddie Palmieri to The Carter Family. From Noel Coward to Buell Kazee. From Mickey Katz to Fela Ransom Kuti. All along he seasoned the mix joyfully with anecdotes, footnotes and cross references. Pointing out phrases, reciting lyrics, explaining origins and traditions, and immigration patterns. He unearthed  original versions of songs of which I'd only heard the tepid British covers. He revealed British gems, like The Goon Show, largely unknown on this continent, and from whose cassetes I derive much pleasure to this day. Bishop could laud the profound nuances of a Bud Powell solo, then, minutes later, give me a fascinating, detailed dissertation on  the attributes of a cheesy novelty record called "Oogum Boogum". If I'd been in college, the homework would've  been to "Compare and Contrast".  And I relished my homework. I spent every dime I made on records. It was not only educational, but liberating. Here was a whole new, broader, more universal, more humane set of aesthetics. Because,  despite all their differences, all of these had a lot in common. They were all soulful. They were all artful. They all had a kind of innate intelligence. They all, in some way, spoke truthfully. As did my humble, if erudite professor. I'm not even going to get into "Bishop on the Cinema", because that would fill several volumes. Suffice it to say that, post-Bishop, when watching a film or TV show, if I like it, you can be sure I know why I like it, and if I don't, I can probably give you an example of an earlier film that told the same story in a better way. At Hollywoodparties (if there still is such a thing) I can reel off references to Fritz Lang, Eric Von Stroheim, Albert Zugsmith, et al. It used to be that I could name practically every mug, every cowpoke, every tipsy society matron, vagabond, crony, henchman, fallguy, con artist, sidekick, corpulent corrupt politician, pompous, prune-faced demagogue, European professor, nerd, geek, judge, jurist, storekeeper, cab driver, insane asylum nurse, or cranky old New Englander ever to grace the American screen. My memory's not so great these days, so I  probably now only know, maybe half. Guess who taught me that stuff. And Joel could be so funny, with an ironic, understated, wacky take on things, and an easy, infectious laugh. And a puck-ish penchant for mischief. He loved playing pranks. That's one of the things that distinguished him from most people I knew-- Bishop never took himself too seriously. God knows the rest of us did. On the road, like most  young musicians of the day, each of us was, in turns, neurotic, depressed, resentful, competitive or pompous. Scared, angry. Lonely. Young creative types are so serious, so much of the time. Rarely, if ever, was Bishop. He could always find the humor, even the fun, in seemingly dire situations. I got to some dark, dark places on the road. Somehow, even though we never discussed those things, I would see Joel's face, and feel comforted.  It wasn't that Joel was in denial, or repressed, or the class clown, or that he was hiding  intimacy problems. He might have been, I don't know.  Sometimes I'd pry, but I never learned the source of his "demons". No, Joel would just want to, as the English say, Get on with it. Today, with 20-20 hindsight, I know that in many ways he was right. Nowadays, I even tell my kids that a lot. Get on with it. Teenagers' own personal pain is so goddam precious. Sometimes, no matter how bad it is (and my kids don't know from bad) you just gotta get on with it. Some of us have spent fortunes on therapy, but are we really, after it  all, better? Better people? Happier people? More "well-adjusted", let's say, than Joel O'Brien was? Yes, we're all still alive and he's not. But he lived a full life. He had lots of friends. He touched, entertained, loved, taught, changed, moved a whole lot of people. To think. To question. To do good deeds. To laugh. To just... blow! To be themselves. It takes some people years, a lifetime, to learn to be true to themselves. You could accuse Joel of a lot of things, but never of Not Being Himself. That's why we loved him. Some might  say that he was your typical New Yorkleft wing bohemian intellectual beatnik musician, but they'd be lying. I new lots of those, and Joel wasn't one of them. When my parents met Joel, they said he was a "character". He was, but shit, so were they. My whole family was full of characters. But none was a true original, like Bishop. You don't see too many originals these days. Not in the music world, anyway. Nowadays it's hard to be original!  We all watch TV. We're exposed to everything all the time. Most people dance to someone else's tune, and we don't even know we're doing it. Sometimes we can't even hear a tune anymore, but we be dancin', just the same!  Cuz we see everybody else around us dancin'. Maybe we just need to dance. Sometimes it seems like with all our evolution and "higher consciousness", and all the changes the beatniks and hippies brought  about, most people act like herd animals. Some of us just can't help it!  Joel was never one of the herd, or part of any movement, or scene. He was an independent, free  thinking individual, the same guy in his own bedroom, as he was in a crowd of people. He knew who he was and wasn't. He made no apologies, and had no agenda to foist upon others. He defied categories. Bishop never complained or blamed anyone else for his misfortunes, just as he never bragged about his many talents. He was a walking contradiction, but somehow, in and of no one else but Joel. He was opinionated. He was, at times, obstinate. Selfish. Self-destructive. But he was more colorful than most people. He was unforgettable. I re-connected with Joel, and saw him, weak, in pain, and pretty much resigned to his fate. I listened to his CD's, playing piano and singing, and perused walls of his artwork, and I was, both thrilled and saddened. He'd cultivated and made public creative parts of himself I'd never seen. His work blew me away. Made me laugh out loud. I heard him singing in my car and I started to shout, Yeah, Joel! Alright! You're doin it! Bravo! That was the thrilling part. The sad part is not that I never got to tell how much I loved him, which is true, but that's a given at memorials. I don't feel guilty and he and I have no unfinished business. The sadness is really just me being, in a way, selfish. It comes from realizing how much I've missed, all these years we haven't kept in touch, and how much more we could have shared, as we both grew older and, hopefully up.  I think of watching the Bush-Kerry debates with Bishop. Or ragging on a reality show. Or him meeting my kids. Who knows, maybe I could have even taught him something, for a change. Now before I go any further,  you have to imagine what I'm about to say, being spoken by James Stewart or Henry Fonda. I'm not trying to be funny, and every word of it comes painfully, from my deepest places. But I also don't want to wallow in sentimentality and embarrass Joel. So if one of those guys says it, we can, if we choose to, maintain an ironic distance, and no one will be embarrassed or bummed out. Or, if we choose to buy into it, we can be as bloody sentimental as we want to be, cry in our beer, and Joel will just have to bare it. Considering what he bore in the last weeks of his life, it'll be cake. Do we understand each other? Good. Joel has been looming large in my thoughts and in my heart for the last few weeks. And today, though I'm looking through this veil of tears, I see very clearly how Joel has left his mark on this world. How he's made a difference. What part of him will never go away. Each of us possesses a piece of his legacy. I write music for a living-- all kinds. Lots of it is on TV. Every note of music that I write, or play contains a piece of Joel's legacy. You can hear his legacy in Danny Kortchmar's music, and because of that, in some of Don Henley's music. People every day, all over the world, hear it in Carole King's music, in James Taylor's. In Robbie DuPree's. You'll hear it in the music their children make, if they do. Anyone who's ever worked with any of these people I mention, has inherited some of it. People who never heard of, never met, couldn't give a shit about Joel O'Brien, or  jazz or hillbilly music, have put it in their music and they don't even know it. In some of these people's music, it's very subtle. Maybe only those of us who know Joel and know them, even know it's there. But it's there. What I'm talking about is not drumming or piano playing. It's a point of view. An attitude. A vibe, a joke. A cloud of smoke. A walk. A way to talk. A giggle. A stumble. A snore. A horn honking. A slip on the ice. A missed opportunity.  A sneer. A smirk. A sheepish grin. An erect middle finger. A half eaten bagel. A cigarette butt. It's a funny hat. It's the entire history of jazz, and it's a little kid banging on a rock with a big stick. It's primal, but it's also very sophisticated. It's been there, done that, and still don't know shit. It's gentle as Lester Young, and as furious as Archie Shepp. It's as sweet as Bill Monroe, and as nasty as a B flat 7 chord with a sharp 9. It's good taste. It's utter tastelessness. It's tradition. It's a pie in the face of tradition. It'll be passed on, from hand to hand, for a long time, to a whole lot of people. It's a  part of history. Thank you for your legacy, Joel. I'm very grateful to have a piece of it, and to have had you in my life.   Now that Jimmy or Henry has finished speaking, and I'm thinking of all that's been lost, and all that's been gained, I find myself both laughing and crying at the same time. It's not easy, and it hurts. But it also feels really good. And that, I guess, is the point.    Ralph Shuckett

Some thoughts on Joel/Bishop O'Brien by guitarist/songwriter/producer Danny Kotchmar, who played with Joel in the Kingbees, the Flying Machine and the Jo Mama. Danny also did many records with Joel including early James Taylor albums, three Carole King records including "Tapestry" and many other recordings.

“Joel bishop O'Brien, the drummer in my first 3 bands, died in early Sept. He was a huge influence on me and many others during his life, and will be sorely missed by the many people that loved him.
Although Joel played drums in our bands, he was a wonderful piano player and interpreter of jazz standards, but that only scratches the surface of what he was about.
Joel had a vast knowledge of early American music as well as jazz, r &b, blues and rock &roll. He also was stunningly articulate and provided me (and many other of his friends) with an education about Italian cinema, American movies and literature. Hanging out with Joel was my college.
The stuff I learned from him has informed my music and my life since.
Joel was also a wonderful artist, who used collage and graphics to create art that was instantly recognizable as his. He had a unique style in everything he did, the way he dressed, his hipster lingo. He probably influenced everyone he ever had a conversation with.
I hope people will get to hear his later music, when he finally came into his own as a jazz pianist and vocalist. His music is what he was: sly, witty soulful, cool, smart, funky,.........hip.

I'll miss him for the rest of my life.”

Joel O'Brien & Danny Kotchmar

The Kingbees 1966 L to R: Dickie Frank, Joel O'Brien, John John McDuffy & Danny Kortchmar

"Memories of Joel" by Moogy Klingman      Joel was drummer to both James Taylor and Carole King. Playing in their band and on their records. He was the drummer on Carole King's hit singles, "It's Too Late" and "Sweet Season".  He also drummed and recorded for my band the Glitterhouse, Robbie Dupree's band, the Stryders and Daniel Kotchmar bands like Jo Mama with Ralph Schuckett, the King Bees with John John McDuffy, and the Flying Machine with James Taylor      Joel's drumming could be found on other records as well. People like Jackie Lomax on Apple Records with George Harrison producing and John Stewart with Lou Adler producing. James Cotten with me and Todd Rundgren producing.      Joel wasn't just a rock drummer. He was an accomplished jazz drummer and pianist. He could also play jazz vibes, tenor and alto sax and flute. I kid you not. And he was a real jazz player. He knew all the old bebop songs and could solo as authentically as anyone.

The Glitterhouse 1968, L to R: Moogy, Mike, Joel, Al and Hank w/ Bob Crewe behind the glass

Joel with "The Glitterhouse" 1968 L to R: Joel O'Brien, Moogy Klingman, Mike Gayle, Al Lax and Hank Aberle

The Kingbees 1966 L to R: Dickie, Danny, Joel and John John

Joel was like a father, brother and teacher/mentor to me, all at once. And he was a humble human being, who held ill will toward no one. In a sleazy, ego driven business like the music business, Joel was without ego, and sleazed out on no one. He was a pure soul with a good heart.      Though I haven't been close to Joel for many years (though I always tried to stay in touch), in my ealy years, ages 16 to 22 or 23....... Joel and I were very close. And he always taught me much about music and life in his role as life's teacher.       I was lucky to get him to join the Glitterhouse (my band) after the Flying Machine broke up. And I was extremely lucky that I got to meet so many amazing musicians because he introduced me to them. Folks like Danny Kooch, James Taylor, Ralph Shuckett, Carole King, John John McDuffy, Richard and Professor Irwin Corey..... and his woodstock gang of musicians including Robbie Dupree and Josh Sneider.       Richard told his father Irwin (who's 90) about Joel's death and he was upset.

After that day, I spent as much time as I could hanging out and listening to the Flying Machine. I'd go listen to them play til midnite at the Nite Owl and then walk with Joel and James back to Joel's 6th floor walk-up apartment on Charles street.
     Joel had an endless supply of records new and old, and would play them for Jame and me until dawn. He'd explain each part and how the musicians decided to play what they played. Joel was an expert on all styles of music. From Jazz to Bluegrass to Blues to Rock and R & B Joel knew and could play it all.
        And Bish kept me under his wing like student/son/sidekick. I was always welcome to hang with the Bish. And the Bishop always had my complete respect. I'll miss him badly.

                                 Moogy Klingman - 9/12/04

Paintings of Joel O'Brien by Joel's	artist friend, Richard Corey in the late 60's

Bishop in high school GNS

James Taylor, Carol King, Jo Mama Tour 1971 top: Ralph Shuckett, middle row: Danny Kortchmar, Joel O'Brien  & James Taylor, bottom row: Carol King and Lee Sklar

Joel with his first wife Connie, with James Taylor  at Richard Corey's wedding, 1970

The Flying Machine with James Taylor and Joel O'Brien shooting a documentary in 1967

Excerpt from Geoffrey O'Brien's "Sonata for Jukebox"
(Cue: The Kingbees, "Four in the Morning", unreleased demo, 1965)

          It's summer. Another year passed while they (the Kingbees) were listening to records. The younger kids-high school's over with by now, though autumn still seems far off- will gather around the musicians to study their moves and provide an audience.   Joel  manages a constant play of metamorphoses-starting with name: he is now Bishop, because somebody thought a cloak he wore once made him look like a bishop-and his role changes hang on the adjustment of an ascot or medallion, an unexpected guava-colored splash, a modulation of accent or facial hair that changes a Prussian officer into a Dodge City gambler. The effects are completed as often as not with wardrobe salvaged from the back of the closet, the castoff's of four decades, the Shriner's tie, the golf hat with the scarlet tassel, the leather driving gloves. The characters he mimes-not so much impersonated as freshly invented-reel in and out of existence so fast it would seem rehearsed except for that air of rough exuberance that proves it's all improvised.
     Somewhere nearby where he can reach it is a cascading pile of 45's, scooped up from among a dozen such piles: René Hernandez, the Manhattans, Gene Ammons, Albert Collins, Lord Invader, Eddie Jefferson, Buck Owens, Sugar Pie De Santo, chosen almost randomly from hundreds of instances. He's just remembered the name of an accordion player who died in Missouri last month with all his recordings out of print. This morning, while seeming to watch a Jungle Jim rerun,
while doing the things that musicians do (wait around until three, listen to the tapes, wait for Mike to call, remember to pick up some soda on the way out), he was thinking about how chord changes affect the space in a room. Now, in the guise of a melodica version of "Ruby My Dear, " he is sketching a tonal portrait of our grandmother's childhood in Hungary.
     These improvisations mingle with pieces of his life in these last few complicated years that seem to have moved too fast to track: the time he played drums behind the Cadillacs (of "Speedo" fame) at a high school but ended up in Los Angeles listening to Teddy Edwards and Billy Higgins at the Venice West, or catching Dexter Gordon in the West Coast production of The Connection, and then back home where he played a gig doubling on drums and vibes on a floating bar while attending summer school by day. Sitting up listening to Alan Freed and Jocko: hanging out at Indian Joe's record store in the West 40's: an old Communist; learning about African jazz from Hugh Masekela and Cuban jazz from Eddie Palmieri, not through formal study but just by hanging out; managing a movie theater on Avenue C and getting badly beaten by some locals who didn't like the company he was keeping; in the hospital and then on an island off the Baja coast, getting crazy; getting high; shooting a pistol off in an empty house; driving through Mississippi singing Hank Williams songs in road houses; watching a movie in the snow at a drive-in in deep winter. The scenes come out in a different order every time.
    He demonstrates the total malleability of surfaces. Disruption is life. His musical transformations are of the same order. He segues from suggestions of Jack Teagarden to Uncle Dave Macon, from tourist lounge calypso singer to a scatting vocal setting of Sonny Rollin's solo on "Strode Rode" to a fragment of an Alban Berg-like wail of atonal Central European anguish in mock German, with spoken interludes ranging from punch-drunk prizefighter to George Sanders welcoming you to Saturday night at Club Macumba. Everything truly alive is in some sense made up on the spot, out of whatever happens to be around.
       The band is rehearsing, making themselves acceptable for the club audience, hoping to stimulate some airplay for their second single, but that audience will never see the chaos that gets edited out. This is perhaps the real artwork, but it dissolves in air.

Hi Folks,

      A celebration of the life of good friend and  musician/artist Joel "Bishop" O'Brien will be held Sunday, Oct. 17th from 3 to 6 pm at the Village Community School Auditorium* at  272 w. 10th st between Greenwich st. and Washington St. in the far west village one block east of the Hudson River. It's free.

     Joel, who died last month (1943 - 2004), drummed in my old band the Glitterhouse and his credentials are extensive. Playing  on early records and in bands with both James Taylor and Carole King, Joel is one of  rock 'n roll's seminal drummers. I will be performing "Friends" and hopefully another song or two. My old band the Glitterhouse, will be staging it's first reunion in 30 years and will also being doing a few songs.
      Old friend Danny "Kooch" Kotchmar, guitarist, songwriter-producer extrodinary will also sing a few songs, (lead guitarist & songwriter for James Taylor, Carole King, Jackson Brown and Don Henley, among others).
      Also performing at the event will be Rob Dupree (remember his hit's - "Steal Away" and "Hot Rod Hearts") and musicians from many of Joel's former bands including the Joel's Kansas City Big Band.
      Joel's family will also be there and his brother, respected author, Geoffrey O'Brien will be speaking.
       Please come and celebrate the life of this absolutely unique artist.

Moogy Klingman