Rocker asks Putin ‘is your money that good …’ as her band members fights on Europe’s streets of death (see video inside)

The lanky musician who has brought an element of punk blues to Dylan’s performances over the past decades has stepped into the spotlight of war.

Charlie Sexton, the six feet three inches tall, string-bean meastro of some of Bob’s most creative work took to the stage with a singer from the Ukraine to perform Masters of War.

It was performed as a pointed statement to the Madman of Moscow who has brought the world to the brink…

You fasten all the triggers
For the others to fire

Then you sit back and watch
While the death count gets higher
You hide in your mansion
While the young peoples’ blood

Flows out of their bodies
And is buried in the mud

Charlie lives in Austin, Texas, where the venue for the SXSW regular showcase is held. And the ‘walk down the road’ to join Oleksandra Zaritska – known as Sasha – on stage was a dramatic moment of emotion, conviction that showed Dylan’s words from more than half a century ago still ring true.

Just prior to Sexton strolling on stage she said “I have a message to Putin: It’s a song from Bob Dylan and its name is ‘Masters of War.’

Sasha turned to Charlie for her cue because, while its message is indelible, she couldn’t remember all the lyrics in English.

But the lyrics couldn’t help resonate.

Sasha, was the only member of electronic-folk band Kazka able to attend the showcase. Bandmates were made to stay in Ukraine to fight or volunteer to help people.

Charlie Sexton was hired by Bob Dylan to replace Bucky Baxter in 1999. Sexton had previously played with Dylan during a pair of Austin, Texas, concerts in 1991.

Before the performance Sasha told how she had witnessed Russian bombs falling on her hometown of Kyiv.

She told the audience: “You can stop this war. Use your voice.”

#bobdylan #sexton #austintexas #ukraine #russia #moscow #neverendingtour

Who remembers these Communist ‘failures’?

A quirky museum needed a bit more room for its array of historic cars, trucks and motorcycles. So it tried selling off part of its Slovak and Czech collection.

Makes sense… we can all do with some more space can’t we. So, what do we do? We have a garage sale.

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And the Lane Motor Museum in Nashville is one BIG garage.

But is this really how to advertise your wares?

The museum said this about one of its Communist era vehicles: “This is not a vehicle for the casual driver. Performance is sluggish at best. As the driver sits right next to the engine, the heat and noise are appalling. Turning the steering wheel alone is a real workout.”

Well, to be honest they were talking about a 1950s Tatra T-805 and they were only asking just over 4,000 euros for it.

The old 800 series consisted of ‘special purpose’ vehicles made for the military and building firms. And let’s face it nobody really cared about builders OR soldiers in mid-Europe in the 50s.

So, silly truckers then?

I say no!

More like Honest Joe, that thing as rare as a Kia Picanto that never breaks down – an honest car dealer!

I’d buy a Communist truck off them…

The Nashville-based Lane Motor Museum, opened in 2002, specialising in European vehicles. But recentlyit wanted to get rid of the Tatra 805, Aero 30, Tatra 613, and Tatra 75.

The collection included Aero, Škoda, Tatra, Praga, Jawa and Velorex. Of them, four car models are now up for sale: Tatra 805, Aero 30, Tatra 613, and Tatra 75.

Also for sale was a Tatra model, 613. The company intended them for government officials in communist countries. This ‘limo’ is for sale for €10,000. More than 11,000 of the vehicles were produced from 1973 into the Nineties.

An Aero 30, was for sale for $10,000 too. This car was produced between 1928 and 1947. The company initially produced planes.

Jeff Lane has

been an automotive enthusiast since an childhood. He began restoring his first car -a 1955 MG TF—when he was in his teens.

His venue is one of the few museums in the US to specialise in European cars and is based at Sunbeam Bakery at 702 Murfreesboro Pike. The former bakery has a high ceiling, natural light, and hand-crafted brick and maple wood flooring. The architectural style complements the age of the cars represented.

#slovakia #czech #motormuseum #lanemotormuseum #tatra #1955MGTF #Aero #Škoda #Tatra #Praga #Velorex #Nashville

Years ago I was asked to write something about Slovakia’s dream machine … a prototype flying car.

I loved it, but I worried I was being a bit of an Icarus about it all, blinded by the light, waxing lyrical. I certainly didn’t want to support a car crash in the sky!  

Then it completed a 35-minute 80K flight between airports in Nitra and Bratislava.

It was suddenly a story about a brave new world and set to fly up the news agendas.

And, a few weeks ago, the aircar received the Certificate of Airworthiness from the Slovak Transport Authority after completing 70 hours of rigorous flight testing.

Brilliant!

Then rumours and mixed facts began to confuse the issue… some said the company couldn’t get finance etc.

Now AeroMobil management, has come back saying the flying vehicle project remains achievable.

So, let’s have an affectionate look at the hybrid car-aircraft and what has been achieved over the decade and a half of its existence:

The vehicle has a BMW petrol engine which you can fill up at the pumps.

Its creator, Prof Stefan Klein, said it could fly about 1,000km (600 miles), at a height of 8,200ft (2,500m), and has completed 40 hours in the air so far.

And it only takes two minutes and 15 seconds to transform it from car into a plane!

Its wings fold down along the sides of the car.

Prof Klein said the vehicle reached a cruising speed of 170km/h and carry two people. At the moment it requires a runway though.

Flying cars are finally the way forward – or the way up in reality.

In 2019, consultant company Morgan Stanley predicted the sector could be worth $1.5trillion (£1tn) by 2040.

However, AirCar, Klein Vision, says the prototype has cost “less than 2m euros” (£1.7m).

Dr Stephen Wright, senior research fellow in avionics and aircraft, at the University of the West of England, described the AirCar as “the lovechild of a Bugatti Veyron and a Cesna 172”.

And he did not think the vehicle would be particularly loud or uneconomical in terms of fuel costs, compared with other aircraft.

And he revealed how 40 people from eight countries, including the UK, had worked hard on it, making it another international project emanating from the Little Big Country. 

But Aeromobil are not alone and at least 20 companies are on working flying machines.

Uber for instance is working to create an aerial taxi service in Dallas, Fort Worth, Los Angeles, and Dubai. Uber wants a plane-helicopter hybrid with fixed wings and tilt prop-rotors. The vehicles will take passengers from rooftop to rooftop.

Terrafugia Inc. in the US, also has a prototype flying and it has completed its first flight,

And Dr Paul Moller, of Davis, California, has spent 40 years developing a flying car that can be mass produced. He built his first one in 1967 in his garage.

#slovakia #flyingcar #klein #bratislava #nitra #flyingcarflies #icarus

I’ve protested about Artificial Intelligence ever since our barmy army of boffins came up with this real no-brainer threat to our civilisation.

And, as Dylan almost said…

Come gather ’round people wherever you moan
And admit that the robots around you have grown
And accept it that soon you’ll be turned to a clone
 – If your time to you is worth savin’
Then you better start clickin’ or you’ll sink like a drone
For the times, they are a-changin’

Dylan is one of history’s greatest songwriters, so, for some reason, recently it was decided to see if Artificial Intelligence could do it any better.

Yep, science decided to see if we needed Dylan to write incisive, powerful, emotional and thought-provoking lyrics anymore – or could we get a robot to do it for far less?

And this is what the new trundling troubadour of poetry, the artificial intelligence chatbot, ChatGPT, came up with:

ECHOES OF CHANGE

In a world spinning out of control
Where the powers that be have taken their toll
It’s time to rise, let our voices be heard
For justice and truth, let our spirits converge

(Chorus)
Echoes of change, they’re calling out loud
In every street, in every crowd
Together we stand, united we fight
For a better tomorrow, we shine our light

And then unbelievably the folk-less, tone-less, note-less, brain-less buffoon of our modern world came up with this sanctimonious, syrupy, sucking-up stupidity …

Let these words echo through the night
A beacon of hope, a guiding light
Bob Dylan’s spirit, forever we’ll keep
In this anthem for change, the flame runs deep

Surely, they would better read

Let these words echo through the sh*te

A beacon of hope or a guiding blight?
Bob Dylan’s spirit, forever we’ll keep
In this anthem for change, written by a robotic creep  

I was cruising round the net when I came across this video of Dylan playing a REAL one-man show!

Well, actually, Bob had members of his band with him – but, yep, there was only one man in the audience.

I know many of us will know this performance well but it is always worth a revisit for Dylan’s warmth and humour – and his eccentricity.

And this wasn’t one of the occasions when Bob’s topsy turvy career was in the doldrums, nope he had already lit the blue touch paper to his resurgence and his Never Ending Tour shows included songs like Down Along the Cove, Tell Me That It Isn’t True, Samson and Delilah and You Win Again.

This was a world exclusive tickets for Swedish television personality Fredrik Wikingsson – a personal show by legend His Royal Bobness.

And one Sunday afternoon Bob did it,he performed at Philadelphia’s Academy of Music for Wikingsson who was working on a film series about how solitary individuals experience events designed for large crowds.

Wikingsson, a self-described huge fan of Dylan, had persisted for a long time to arrange the concert. He told Rolling Stone magazine that he was so nervous before the show that he could not eat.

“I was smiling so much it was like I was on ecstasy,” Wikingsson said. “My jaw hurt for hours afterwards because I couldn’t stop smiling.”

Ol’ Bob does four performances on the vid, sadly they are cut short but worth a look all the same. He is at his growly best!

#bobdylan #hisroyalbobness #singleman #howdoesitfeel? #onyourown #philidelphia #2014

A new rocking piece by our resident writer – ERIC LASTICK

A knot so quick witted, although a path—-right through the staked heart; and leftest flash of the peace sign…American flag on the back leather, with all aboard & towards that of the flower child rise up— with straight forward of the whole…and that of the 1960’s. Chopper Billy & steady cool, Captain America on a biker’s ‘roll on down ”hearthstone thrown” segregated, deep south highways. High stakes…and higher highs—in turn, as the roads become bridges too a commune that fire and burn, 1 reefer down. Billy, the dark run rebel…wishful but opaque at the bottom of the streams…seer of the upside downs, the rides of his drift cloud mind in substance down under. Potted plants and seeds of gentle, though of crazy madness! Men, woman and children of hippie-doom trying to make a crop out of these dusty dry hills.Yet a belief to which every flower child’s inner sanctum that somehow they’ll get the crop in before the bitter fall of draft morning. Captain Peter Fonda…freedom navigator, as he pacifies while explaining to Billy about not being so quick to judge others on the commune stay…Hopper’s bummer trips of not fitting in with the crowd, a common place…and this misplaced to mingle; as Captain America has instant LSD flashes of last years Beatles “Revolver”. Beatles in a bunch of four, sitting by a jet set pool…and float down stream, with premonitions of the Tibetan book of the dead—along with sidekick ‘Billy the kid” and ”Smile” The Beach Boys trials to live up to Rubber Soul! Captain Peter Fonda has his extended trance flashback, where Pet Sounds astounds…as the go-two-riders, rev up to the next town. Light up your smoke of the brash and hot spell of another agonizing New Mexico day. There is no honor among  thieves…as cycle motors must adjust to the abject holds that scrub them…relinquish the ebb and flow of hate and prejudices that keep on rising to the top of these so soiled sad of states. Yet they do not bend or break in their hopes of the red white and blues…and the hash bowl bigger better consciousness as consequences. One can vision a redneck stare 8ft tall in it’s stay of distances…table tops…tobacco smells and promises of that… and of a barrel gunning for—- a long haired of the free! It might be better to reevaluate that space one takes; and of those very freedoms. GO-TWO-RIDERS, escalate in the landscape…and soon fall apart at it’s seams! Thread like the blues of old school guitar Delta players…harmonious web—-too no more freedom in the twilight carriers of one’s stoned circling mind.

BLATANT AN UNEASY RIDER CONCEPTION

Astral ears in the unorthodox motorcycle ride. Much more than just your Space Cadets, ”High as the sky” as now three riders of what it seems…and of the relishes of what freedom brings. No vacancies is the paths by night other than a campfire for a real southern drunk-in lawyer…and two hippies; not yet knowing, and never believing that America insists on leaving them behind! Ending this run with nothing but bad news…broken dreams; and lost destiny travels…as there is never anything easy outta Southern California travel by way of the heart of the deep south in the latter days of the nineteen sixties. Motor sets of Easy riders…pretty mommas at the French Quarters of these unwelcome roads down old Louisiana. D.H. Lawrence is the caper and well read in which this Southern lawyer shares and swears by. The drugs safely in the tank of Captain America’s Harley. The Chopper, Hopper, Peter’s side kick… nourished and approved with all the Benny’s and hot smokes, the ritual signaling of the hippie join. Member’s only, next and by, ”The Club War” of white hate,as a community engulfs in the worst in men. One dead campfire…lights out. The pain of hickory and the death of one lawyer —-off the scales of those who deem of patriotism. Hate of the long haired. Hippies and parades without permits. Cross town magic whips— too a girl’s fancy. Brothel at a mix with Mardi Gra joys until the acid kicked in. Then the fall of one’s boyhood revealed. Girly on the gurney of way too high! Magic pan send me home…and scare me straight, if it ain’t to late. Though it is…as two rifle redneck have a little fun with deaths doorways…and of the never to be expected! Next, the Astral from the sky scene look-in down on the fire trapped engine. A fatal final call. No one listens. But it’s alright ma, I’m only bleeding, in the forever of prejudice and hate.

EASY RIDER SUMMATION

Rough bends…pains; and have bike, will travel—right towards the ugliness from this evil that precludes…all along these dust barren trails. Far, Far, the L.A.  place calling back home. Reigning in the colors of freedoms. Go chopper go! Flag fill the stars and stripes, although ”the confederate” still farms his own seed…thru the Louisiana less of saves of soul suckers on it’s trail…and any ugly guerrilla style hippie outsider to which heaven holds their bewares. Billing done on a long haul motorcycle drive. Southern states…states of mind. The potted Bushman. Camp by the river…drowning sorrows of what could be, but never will.

Covering the news is an important job … it’s not an ego trip for wannabes who work down the chip shop

BBC political editor Andrew Marr said recently: ‘Terrible things are said online because they are anonymous. People say things online that they wouldn’t dream of saying in person.”

I agree with him, blogging is generally the rantings of people angry at everything from the corner shop to the giant commercial conglomerate they believe has slighted them in some way.  And they believe they’ve found a way of fighting back. But they haven’t.

A reader wrote to me asking why I describe myself as a journalist while condemning the great pretenders who, on the one hand, haughtily despise people like me, yet claim to be journalists themselves…

The reader’s name is Chuck.

Well, Chuck, the closest most pretend journalists have got to the Fourth Estate is memories of eating fish and chips out of newspapers on a rainy street corner!

Seriously though, there is mainstream journalism and peripheral journalism, specialist stuff.

I’m proud to say I have been a mainstream journalist working for UK national newspapers, international magazines and major broadcasters for decades …

I cover news and I’m trained to do so.

I understand the law generally and particularly in the way it impinges on what I can and cannot say or do, I understand my responsibilities to my audience, my publisher and my profession … I am read and listened to every week and I try to tell the truth about what’s going on and I know what to watch out for, the red-herrings, the manipulation of those with an axe to grind and how easy it is to get things wrong.

I am an investigative – and sometimes undercover – reporter and understand exactly what I can do and what I can’t. I know the laws regarding door-stepping and stake-outs. I know exactly when investigative journalism oversteps the mark and becomes harassment. I am an award-winning headline writer, award-winning newspaper designer, daily newspaper night editor, group editor, sub-editor, copy-taster, news editor.

I’ve been a war correspondent, a travel writer, a food critic and a music critic and I’ve covered some of the biggest stories in the world.

I could go on Chuck, but the above should tell you why I’m a real McCoy journalist and why I get angry at people who think they can do what I do  … those who flounce around wine bars and drop-in centres calling themselves journalists and spreading maliciousness and poor judgement.

The press gets enough bad press as it is and is the whipping boy for everybody from the chattering classes to the great pretenders …

Basically, my argument is ‘don’t call yourself a journalist if you’re not one’ – call yourself a writer or a blogger or a scribe – or perhaps a specialist.

Journalism isn’t about anonymous inarticulate, vindictive attacks on people and companies, it isn’t about venomous smears and trying to do as much damage as possible by libelling and defaming somebody who’s hurt you.  Journalism isn’t about getting even, it’s about trying to tell the truth, it’s about exposing wrongs, putting things right. Journalism is the historic fountain of truth.

 Of course, I’m not stupid enough to thing that all us professional hacks are knights in shining armour, but we are trained crusaders and let me say again, most citizen journalism has nothing to do with journalism at all.

#journalism #journalists #bloggers #citizenjournalism

Assange isn’t a journalist – never will be. Yet we real news people need to stand up for him…

UPDATE:

Assange has lost his appeal against extradition to the US on espionage charges.

The judgment was given privately recently at the High Court.

WikiLeaks founder Assange, aged 51, launched the appeal last June after then-Home Secretary Priti Patel signed an order authorizing his removal.

On a personal basis I have little time for Assange for many reasons, including the fact that he has led people to believe he is a journalist, something he patently isn’t and probably never will be.

But, in so many ways I still say that we in the news business still have to stand up and support him…

Original think-piece: Assange could face 175 years in jail.

Assange had been facing 18 charges, including plotting to hack computers and conspiring to gather and disclose national defence information.

The mathematics ‘genius’ is said to have conspired with notorious defence analyst Chelsea Manning to crack an encrypted password on US Department of Defence computers.

WikiLeaks is not a news platform, does not have a mandate to deliver properly defined news. And it doesn’t adhere to any real defined editorial controls.

But the new court ordee could not only throw Assange into hellish hidden celebrity for the rest of his life, it could have massive consequences on the freedom of the world’s press.

So, sadly, all of us REAL journalists need to back the man often described as an ‘information terrorist’ no matter what we think about him personally.

Many hard-boiled journalists like myself believe that he is a great pretender as far as investigative journalism is concerned … yes, he has co-authored a book and, sure, he is an honorary member of an Australian journalist’s union.

And, let’s face it, he did reveal secrets people wanted to keep quiet. That is a cornerstone of a journalists job.

But it is the way he did it all that is the problem.

A large part of the news industry agrees with me and, certainly, he should have many ethical questions to answer.

Put simply, he was instrumental in publishing vast amounts of unedited material which, almost certainly, put his sources at risk.

None of it had been through the necessary journalistic processes and considerations it needed.

‘WikiLeaks’s method of dumping data on the public without looking in to the motivations of the leakers leaves it open to manipulation,’ Committee to Protect Journalists boss Joel Simon said.

Also Assange fell out with the editors of The Guardian and the Times who were at least attempting to apply proper tests of journalism.

And don’t forget he is a hacker – something any real journalist would not stoop to (or at least would never admit to these days).

He has been accused of rape too, the case against him only being dropped because “the evidence has weakened considerably due to the long period of time that has elapsed since the events in question”.

Julian is also a fugitive from the law and has broken bail … there’s lots more of course.

But with all this said, it is true that his case could have an irreparable effect on journalism and so we journalists need to fight his corner.

Not for him, but for our own sakes and the sake of a free and informed world.

If successful, his prosecution would be likely to criminalise investigative journalists.

His prosecution is a real threat to journalists around the world who could potentially be prosecuted for publishing classified information.

As journalists we need to fight for freedom of speech and the freedom of the Press to report. We can not let the right to gather, receive, or publish information of public interest be eroded.

Otherwise we might as well shut down the presses and go home.

The liars, the cheats, the conmen, the criminals, the politicians and the conglomerates will have won at a time when the common man and woman are already on their knees because of a very suspect pandemic.

So, sadly, right now we have to stand up for Assange and be counted.

#assange #julian #US #media #wikileaks #rape #hacker #

Manchester in the liberated Sixties and they play pass the parcel with a young boy … he will grow up and hunt them down

A few weeks ago I finally shut down my journallistic career … it had served me for half a century! But I’d just remember that I’d forgotten to finish my memoir … I’d been putting it together in sort of note form for three decades.

The pic is a promo idea I had about 10 years ago that got shoved at the bottom of a cyber drawer …

Cheers

Leigh

#manchester #memoir #journalism #promo

THE REAL WOMEN OF COUNTER CULTURE AND PEACE IN THE 60s

The Society’s resident writer Eric Lastick takes a look at the incredible lyricism and powerful women of the time we forgot we couldn’t remember

JANIS AT MONTERREY POP…23 & one beaded necklace hanging round circle…loud and hunger, the whiskey voice blue maiden…Texas daughter heart, Janis Joplin…smiles of her awaits of East Indian carpets—stretched of a bright orange glisten…calling on one self, sunshine. Sitar supers and mother earth’s samplings of oils, to hash out—large time fun,  singer. Generation cling of their intellectual property…land seated free. Space, a place to share. Janis a song to sing::”Come on, Come on, take a little piece of my heart now baby!” Her 60’s free swing jazzed! Janis stay patient for her guru rug to rug & ceiling, stoned drives & pull cover, the ante room, golden palace of one’s mind. Frigidaire, the cold smooth mix of Bourbon and apple fritters—laughs of the next magic lifts—too the stages of success and instant fame. There ol’ Janis of ” The holding company”…banded guitars…heavy bass drum…and barreling voice of our wild night girl on the stage of the Monterrey fixed eyes…a hundred tested lights bound with the sound of this woman blues buster…eloquent stars dance in isles close to her sounds of Delta crystal and wishes. Everybody whom hits a shock wave of her sound and blues-blasts grooves. Papa John Philips shakes a mile vocal & textures, until the lifted holds of Janis and her holding company, set. Next string is played and pedaled as a Janis blend of setting sun. Wowed, the Mama Cass Elliot, so long in herself, to witness, the whiskey blasts of ”Janis Blues!” Back the next set roller coaster ride called too—like a firm name, she blazes, the beats…and conquests, her own. Beggar dance, the hippie gatherers. So many stars and head trips lift with the voice of Janis. Squeeze us all the orange sunshine…cops gated, but openings to the grooviest weep Sayers in the whole wild scenes sandbox! Kids and law, play nice, this day. Uncle Lou A and Company reach for the stage. Bless these new acts. Produce of way- out- delights. Dishes such the pretties of Monterrey Pop. Sunny association, the spills of the best vocal batch to the very hands and leisure’s of Denny, Michelle and sweet blends and sounds of Mama Cass…as Janis relinquish…and back too— East Indian beaded style, the carpeted Monterrey moon.

GRACE SLICK & HER JEFFERSON AIRPLANE RIDE AT WOODSTOCK, 1969

”REQUIEM OF DREAM”

The Airplane choir call, stumble bum, 6AM. Breakfast songs for several hundred thousand…perform for the sleepy eyed…animal  farm without hurt or shame…as the White Rabbit out of the suede floppy hippie hat was the Woodstock moist of light morning rains. On and Off progenitors of some sort of ”Swamp thing”, on the move—while CCR played, ”Better run through the jungle, don’t look back!”

Earth mothers of wisdom’s streams…see thru iridescent be of the panes…choppers in a ring, the four way circles. Mother earth lie flat with the ‘stoned’ of harmony! And whole channels circling. Winds brushing up to it’s Airplane name of Jefferson—-and to a band-mate folly. Nude swims by watchful critical crisis whips, just up the hill! Swift curry the lookers-on; of Jewish vacationers. Somewhat floored! Seeps their tossed salad in —too the pristine Catskill mountain retreats. Observatory, the foods and armory…beds and breakfasts, here, with Grace Slick in our tent. The passing of pipes of gem of the earth’s herbs…and it’s rightful garden parties.

Moments in the smoky air, as if later; I wish i had a dime bag of earth’s golden goodies—times a several hundred thousand stay! Grace Slick tent’s of peg hammer songfestseds of your heads!” And what if given the right pill in Hippiedom, won’t do anything at all!’ Mother did mean well, as stamping stammered over the edge-wood drills and soars of very poorly manufactured blotter-ed brown acid. Ransacked the notions of all love toward man. Then form a circle in the den of the medicine hand. America core. Never kid or josh on that trip. Ages 16, 17…& such. Unoccupied by a parent…as Wavy Gravy Pig farm, ol’ Reds…boldly asks to help house and feed 4 hundred thousand. Pig-tailed girls surroundings of sea-wave…and of nothing but people. Wavy haired Daddy’os…and merry pranksters color my bus like a ty-dye machine wash…as Grace Slick teaches another lesson on how to sing along a drunk, the whole morning. ”White Rabbit” ”Don’t you want somebody to love”

The balances of feed—your head…at amiable Max Yagger loans…fellow player’s Jim Kantner sings “Saturday afternoon” Hippiedom salutes. ..Cops…& helping out the human touch blends, the hippie crowds. Then, an army man flash a victory sign…as a nun shows, ”the peace sign”. T.v. cameras all aligned high the sky. I saw that all is well. No violent acts. No real crime. Care and share, mostly.

THE AIRPLANE HURRAH’S: Flight of the early fine saddles song of hippie hall bellows…hails of fine waves…freedom. Love and not war, for at least those 3 days. Grace put down all their guns. This weekend fest shows that ‘we won!”

CANADA’S OWN…Joni Mitchell. The writer and lyricist of the quintessential song ”Woodstock”

Although never made the event. And as if an omnipresent force of prophetic accuracy! Joni, a most lovely of such aspritied songwriters flow. Giants sit and wise sip listens in the backdrop of Woodstock— fulfilled in poetic form. Morning that you ware by a window. Deeds in suggestion of care…as of a bird piecing of the comfort of nest of her kids through the carpets of a poetic theme. Honor where the corner store…the homespun of all of the sights of families to the parking malls…bated county junction of folk players with lots of concrete…as Joni sings: ”Don’t it always go too show. They killed paradise, put up a parking lot!” (Big Yellow Taxi”) Yet Joni, as a choir born in words and melodies…keen ears & spirited passion, the insides to tell one’s personal stories. There is simply no better of her sings’…her worded residences from all around…spanning her art—and taking us all for the signs and places, thru the years. Hold tight, this gifted love, dear Joni. Your writes are so true as morning openers brand new regards. The Canadian air saddles of horses…power of the written words, the human felt melodies that abides ones real feels. See of thos winds…currents too perceive like no other! Joni, your gifts are for each and everyone—with acts of kindness…and joy. ”We are Stardust!”