The News from Lake Leucadia!

Friends, coming to you from deep in the wilds of Leucadia with soggy socks and super happy plants. It’s a wet world out there and we’re loving it!

A wonderful article profiling one of the great human/musos just came out in this months San Diego Troubadour newspaper. We’re talking about Bob Magnusson, low end specialist (bassist) plus a great connoisseur of nose riding on longboards. He’s a life long friend and mentor whose taking a break from the bass (wrist problems) yet has a positive outlook and living a great life. It’s an inspiring read and he’s a special fellow. 

Check it out:

We have one concert this week and it’s on Sunday at the Unitarian Fellowship Church in Solana Beach. It’ll be Leonard on vocals and percussion, my brother Tripp on sax, flute, harmonica, and percussion, and me on el guitar with two necks. We’re rehearsing tomorrow to stir up a few new tunes and it’s been a while since we dug into the samba, folk, jazz, Beatles, Hendrix world that we love floating in. Come and join in and if you haven’t been to this venue yet, it’s a great space for music — easy on the eyes and nice sound for the small ensemble. It should be good!

Peter, Leonard, and Tripp.

that’s it folks and thanks for tuning in, best, Peter 

One Response to “The News from Lake Leucadia!”

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  1. Mike McLaughlin says:

    Well, Pete.

    Leucadia: Gray Place in Greek as I remember. Or. more likely, for us, an island in the Wine-Dark Sea.

    It has been some expanse, from receiving your beautiful little product of Basement Surfboards, across multiple scales, efforts at finger-mastery among Cirio trees, and winds of southern oceans.

    Often thinking of your gifts – a great friend and co-worker once of Bolshoi (“Big”), used to shout at his classes in frustration “Dance is conversation!” – I realized in recent failing efforts to master human society (again!) that your work, your self, as it were, must be on youtube, which led here of course, after a listen at the shape of your mind.

    Seemingly odd significances, like desiring to hear Santana, to Gabor Szabo, to you, I realized that you must have recorded on youtube, led here, where Brasil, Andaluz, and almost innumerable others shaped your dendrites and associations, sound. . .

    Oh, I forgot to reintroduce a self (it was the Wolf, you see, who taught song, grace of motion and self, the surety of molecules, in earliest childhood, to one never quite on this side of a 55 million-year line. Escaped captives, we found truth in older uses of hippocampi to derive truth, rather than words. But music, as I said, shapes minds differently, and yours hears somewhat more familiarly than those prey to deceptive symbolic sounds. You will understand) :

    Hello also, to Tripp chasing wind through the reeds.

    Names, so momentary and distant (One is required below. It is of no consequence; should you remember it, it might satisfy evanescent curiosity over such a note as this).
    I often responded to those who asked the Wolf’s name, in this way:
    “¿Cómo se llama? How are you called? – The Wolf is not called. He is his own, He already knows you and knows that you know him.”

    Learning such things from my Brother and his kind, I realize again, clearly:
    How you know another shows who you are. The wolf sees this unerringly.

    I do not know so unerringly, except vanishingly rarely, among my own kind. Only in-between, I listen to find what you are, what you become, only here speak to remind you more of yourself. (or, really, just greet, contact call, like ravens among the great trees and morning!)

    Also asked yet another thing, “what then, is the meaning of all this?” I often reply: “We participate in beauty.” It is good to find this in you most, of all the other stuff.

    Mostly y’know, it’s the air, traded among all who are, were, will be, that’s where we seek to live. The Wolf showed that Nothing is still, All is change, ever passing, passing through forms.
    The people of High Asia, whose symbols I was once asked to explore, call all the world Children of Teng-gri, the Great Sky.
    Sungmanitu Tanka, a name from where I was born, may be translated (it contains more meanings) – like one who moves, shapes, chases that essential as does a musician – as, “Dog of the Great Wind.”

    Et ainsi cette chanson se termine’ (I can’t even choose to word anything intelligibly, instead resorting to strange noises still).
    We are privileged to hear, Peter. Thank you.

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