Uncle Bardie’s Spotlight Creator: Skydog

Once a week on Friday, Uncle Bardie celebrates the creativity in others by shining a Spotlight on a movie, a song or a creator. This week’s Spotlight Creator is the legendary guitarist Duane Allman:

Before Stevie Ray Vaughan, before Joe Bonamasa, before John Mayer, there was Duane Allman. In the late sixties, Skydog was one of the Allman Brothers with his brother Greg. He was also in demand studio guitarist. He played on Wilson Pickett’s “Hey Jude”, Aretha Franklin’s “The Weight” and Boz Skagg’s “Loan Me a Dime”. He is considered to be one of the all-time greatest guitarists by many critics who know their way around a guitar.

Eric Clapton heard him and invited him and his band to work on Derek and Dominoes sessions for Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs.

Instrumental in the founding of Southern rock, he was such a force that he has been an inspiration to many rock guitarists of his time and of many who have come since. Unfortunately we lost him too too early. He died from a motorcycle accident in 1971. He was 24 years old.

The Allman Brothers with Duane on “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed”.

Boz Scaggs and Duane Allman on “Loan Me a Dime”.



haiku for the day: piano

Each of us has our favorite musical instrument. For me, it’s the guitar. It covers so many genres of music. After the guitar, there’s nothing like a master on the keyboard running through Chopin, Beethoven or Mozart. And of course, I do love the violin. Especially in the hands of a Joshua Bell or an Izhak Perlman. Each instrument sings in its own special way. And together, wow.

fingers on the keys
of a piano moving
to Beethoven’s dance.

haiku for the day: music

As many of you know, I love music. All kinds of music. Which means I love musicians. I want to embrace my blues, I play something real bluesy. Like Muddy Waters or Chet Baker. If I want to embrace my loneliness, l listen to Sinatra, especially at three in the morning. Don’t know why but three a.m. seems to be good for that sort of thing. If I want to be joyous, I find joyous music. There’s Satchmo and his trumpet and his gravelly voice. There’s nothing like Beethoven and his “Ode to Joy” for that. I want to jump up and howl. There’s music for that too. And many a time I’ve gone to a concert and been mesmerized by the back-up musicians, not the main guys. Because they are such awesome musicians.

guy on a guitar
threading song thru the cosmos
ain’t nothing better

The Guitarist

Beautiful hands you have, I said to her.

Why, thank you, she said. I get them from my mother. My mother has very beautiful hands.

I reached over and took her hand in mine. I turned the hand over and looked at her palm. There were calluses on her fingers. You must be a musician? I asked her.

She nodded. A guitarist.

What kind of guitar do you play? I asked, interested.

Classical, she said, then added, John Williams style.

I would like to hear you play sometime. I really wanted to hear her play. It wasn’t just a pick-up line.

I could play now.


She got up and walked over to her guitar case. It lay against the wall. She opened the case and she brought out a beautiful guitar. She came back over and sat down beside me. The guitar on her lap showed that it had been played a great deal. This was someone who took her craft serious. I liked that. She twisted the tuning keys just a little and said, Let’s see. Then she played. She played beautifully.

At the end of her piece, I asked, Is that Vivaldi? I was trying to show that I knew at least a little about music.

Bach. I’ve been working on some of his violin pieces. Arrange them for guitar.

What do you love about Bach? I asked. I liked Bach. I just didn’t like the organ pieces. I don’t like organ. Except when it is played as support. Like some of the rock and roll bands of the sixties.

Oh, he’s so complex. There isn’t anything he can’t do.

I find Bach and Vivaldi and the other Baroque composers made music that was so peaceful. And it was such a chaotic age.

Kind of like ours, she followed up. The guitar rested on her lap. She looked into my eyes with her dark eyes.

Very much like ours. Though we do get some breaks from time to time.

Yes. There was a sadness to her eyes. The kind of sadness that comes with living a sad life.

Why are you so sad? I asked, going deeper.

Why do you say that?

There is such sadness in your eyes.

I’m sorry. I don’t think you want to explore my sadness.

I thought for a second, then I answered her, I do.

Would you like to make love to me? she asked out of the blue.

Yes. But only if we can get to know each other. It’s too early for that.

She smiled. I liked her smile. I leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips.

Short Story Wednesday: R J and Euterpe

Short Story Prompt: “Young Goodman Brown” by Nathaniel Hawthorne.

Headlights streamed through the bedroom curtains and hit R J in the eyes. He shook the sleep from his eyes, then turned to the woman at his side on the bed.

“Clara,” he said, then louder. “Clara.”

The pickup stopped in the driveway outside.

“What?” she said, angry at being woken from her dream.

“I thought you said that your husband would be out of town all week.”

The headlights went off.

“Oh, shit. R J, you gotta get out of here.”

R J was already out of the bed and in his pants. He grabbed his shirt and his shoes. He leaned over and kissed her thick brown lips. “Be seeing you.”

He shoved the window up and threw his clothes out into the back yard. Halfway through the bedroom window, he remembered Euterpe. He ran across the room and picked the guitar up. The front door opened just as R J went through the window.

He heard Clara call out to her man, “That you, Hon?”

The husband called from the living room, “Who else you expectin’?”

“You, baby,” Clara said.

R J had his shirt and shoes on. He sneaked past the side of the house and then headed out to the street. Before he knew it, he was three blocks away and out of danger. He checked his watch by the streetlight. It was still early. Only ten p.m. He had enough time to make the appointment he had been offered. He shrugged his shoulders with a why-not and headed on out toward the countryside.

A half hour later he left the town behind him, making his way down the dark country road. The night was dark, no stars and no moon. Only the blacktopped road guided his feet.

R J came upon a bit of a forest. He stepped into the trees. If things were dark on the roadway, they were even darker among the trees. What was he doing? He didn’t need nobody to help him play Sweet Euterpe. He played that guitar just fine.

As he progressed, the oaks and the pines turned gnarly. They gave him the willies, that feeling they were trying to reach out and grab him and squeeze the dickens out of him. It was as if the forest was haunted. There were owls. There were the cries of wolves in the distance. Each of R J’s steps crunched something that didn’t sound quite like leaves. He was not about to reach down and feel the undergrowth. He advanced quickly, pushing back branches and vines that hesitated his progress. Without warning, he stumbled into a clearing. He dropped the case holding Euterpe to the ground.

It was not just any kind of old clearing. This was a clearing where the four winds met. This was a clearing where wizards were known to gather. This was a clearing where the supernatural and the natural encounter each other. This was a clearing where magic was done, and black magic at that.

R J advanced into the clearing, and he saw that the moon and the stars had come out of their closet. In the center of the clearing, four roads met. The road to the north, the road to the east, the road to the south, the road to the west. It was as if they were the four rivers out of Eden.

At the meeting place of the four was a giant stump, a stump as old as the world may have been. Upon the stomp sat a beautiful woman. She wore a long dress of the whitest and purest satin. Her golden hair fell down around her body. The glow pouring from her face put the light of the moon to shame.

“R J, what you expectin’?” she asked from her place on that stomp. “The devil?”

“Y-y-y-yes.” His teeth chattered with fear. It was that kind of fear that came from the preachers when they stormed their congregations with visions of hell. He’d heard their sermons many a time and he knew all the way down to his toes that he didn’t want none of that hell.

“Do I look like an Old Scratch? Do I look like Satan?”

“N-n-no, ma’am.”

“‘Course I do not. I want you to know I have had my eye on you a long time. The way you play Miss Euterpe there. Well, it’s like you play like that Orpheus who lived a long time ago. He played so good, he got Mr. Hades hisself to surrender Orpheus’ one-and-only Eurydice.”

He turned to look back to see where he dropped his Sweet Euterpe. It was not at the edge of the clearing. He looked down at his feet. There at the side of his right foot was the guitar out of its case and lying flat on the earth.

“Come and show me how you can play the beauty,” the woman’s voice beckoned him to the stomp.

R J did not hesitate. Any chance to show his stuff and he was ready. Euterpe flew out of the case and into his hands. He strode to the stomp. The woman offered him a place to sit beside her. He accepted.

Euterpe rested on R J’s lap and under his right arm, ready for the music about to be. Her master’s left fingers turned the tuning pegs a few notches, then the fingers made a run down the fret and toward the rosette and they returned to the center of the fret. It was then that the fingers on his right hand began their dance on the strings of the guitar. The fingers on the strings above the fret turned wild. The woman watched, her eyes growing larger than the moon. It was the midnight hour and R J was bewitching the witch.

She jumped off the stomp and her feet took her round and round, her hands cavorting above her body. The music grew wilder and wilder. Her dance too grew as wild as the wildest of things.The dress dropped to the ground.

Deep into the night R J played, his music frenzied, then dropped into a softness like a feather falling slow and peaceful-like to the grass below. The sound landed easily to a finale. The woman capitulated, surrendering to the gravity that held her to the earth. She lay exhausted on the ground, laughing, ecstatically laughing. She had been right to choose R J,  and this was the night to choose him.

Naked, she rose from the earth and walked to the Orpheus before her. She reached into the stomp and drew out a chalice and a dagger. The dagger’s blade pricked her finger and red blood dropped into the cup. She raised dagger and cup to the sky, then chanted the words of an ancient tongue.

Lowering the cup, she offered it to R J. “Drink, drink, my brother,” her voice commanded.

R J took the chalice and greedily quaffed down the nectar, draining the cup of its liquid. He went to return it to the woman. But she was gone. The moon was gone. The stars were gone. The clearing was gone. The chalice was gone from his hand. He was sitting on the side of the road, Euterpe on his lap.

R J did the only thing he knew how to do. That night and into the dawn, he soothed the sweetest blues out of his Euterpe ever heard by man or beast.