PLEASE FEEL FREE TO JOIN US IN OUR CELEBRATION OF THE LIFE OF JAZZ GUITARIST- PAUL WINGO, A DEAR FRIEND, TALENTED GUITARIST AND COMPOSER, AND TRULY GENTLE SOUL! THIS TRIBUTE TO THE LIFE OF PAUL WINGO WILL BE HELD ON, SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 8, 2014 FROM 1:00-4:00 AT CALVARY LUTHERAN CHURCH, 9545 GEORGIA AVENUE, SILVER SPRING, MARYLAND 20910- ALL ARE WELCOME!! IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO PERFORM, OR SHARE ONE OF THE THOUSANDS OF “WINGO” STORIES THAT WE ALL HAVE, PLEASE CONTACT STEVE ABSHIRE at email@example.com or 301-318-4275 or MICHAEL G. STEWART at firstname.lastname@example.org TO GET ON THE PROGRAM. WE LOOK FORWARD TO HAVING YOU JOIN US IN CELEBRATION OF A TRULY GIFTED & UNIQUE HUMAN BEING!
Tag Archives: Paul Wingo
2013 END OF THE YEAR CD DESIGN
2013 found me bursting with creative collaborations in the form of many CD package designs and photography. The last few months produced a flurry of activity in both jazz and traditional musical forms, working with some of the finest musicians in the business today.
Here’s one by mandolin player and Patuxent Music label guru, Tom Mindte.
Local multi-reed player Halley Shoenberg
Nate Leath can play just about any style on the fiddle, and does it all well
Some gorgeous Celtic music by the LILT duo
My good friends EKG tearing up some fabulous Latin-flavored piano jazz in this sophomore release, this time with horns
Al Jones, the son of Bill Monroe, doing some hard-core bluegrass! Pass me that moonshine!
Jazz guitarist Paul Wingo, the living embodiment of all things jazz, livening up the legendary club, Blues Alley
THANKS FOR THE COFFEE CHAPTER 8
From the meager bandstand at the front of Bertha’s, the tune ended with a resounding crash of cymbals as Wingo brought the song in for a landing with his trademark pinky strum. In almost perfect time with the musical crescendo, a cacophony of curses and falling boxes arose from the little storage room, and Audrey came charging back into the bar, her hair a tangled rat’s nest, and her too snug white blouse held in place by a single button and covered in dust and flecks of blood.
“ Get outta here! Pervert! Somebody call the cops! Help me!” cried Audrey, her lower lip dripping red and looking like someone had tried to shove it in a blender. “Call 911!”
Findley swaggered out of the stockroom, hitching his pants up and buckling his belt like he hadn’t a care in the world. He spit out what appeared to be a small piece of raw hamburger, a tiny bit of crimson spittle hanging on his chin. His eyes were flickering like the worn out neon beer sign over the bar, and he was tunelessly humming “My Favorite Things” beneath his breath.
Audrey went running out the back door, a hysterical tornado in a savaged hairdo, heading in the direction of the main dining room and safety. Alton Findley stepped behind the bar and grabbed a bottle of Bushmill’s from the shelf. There was a large, old fashioned plaid thermos beside the coffee maker, which he had seen Audrey filling before they had toddled off together to their rendevous in the stockroom. Finn grabbed it and pitched in toward Barlow, who was just now lifting his head from its resting place in a puddle of beer on the bar.
“Catch, buddy. You’re gonna need it. You, too Daryll. Time to vamoose. I have a suspicion the little lady’s none too pleased with the present I tried to give her. Jeeze, I told her I was trouble. Don’t women EVER listen?”
The last thing the three fugitives heard as they pushed through the red portal and headed out into the Fells Point night was the voice of the guitarist as he stood smoking beneath the street lamp just outside the door.
“Hey man, awww, come back! That’s my coffee jug!”
Be Sure to see the REAL Paul Wingo play some of the best jazz on the planet every Tuesday night at Bertha’s
THANKS FOR THE COFFEE CHAPTER 4
From the cramped little bandstand, actually little more than a corner at the front of the bar, the trio had started to play. The formal restaurant on the upper floor of Bertha’s was indeed famous for its mussels and other seafood, but the dingy watering hole that faced the Broadway side of the street was famous for reasons that had nothing to do with cuisine and everything to do with jazz.
For over twenty five years, Bertha’s had been the Tuesday night home of Paul Wingo, the living embodiment of a sound forged in a past generation and a Baltimore institution in his own right.
In his standard uniform of faded flannel shirt and worn black jeans, wrists wrapped in a dozen rubber bands, Wingo launched into the opening riff of the Duke Pearson classic, Jeanine, his fingers dancing across the fretboard like a swarm of nervous bumblebees. The couple in the booth broke from their clinch to listen, and the blonde sitting next to the band fluffed her hair and adjusted her already short skirt, pulling it an inch or so higher up her thighs, giving the guitarist a brief glimpse of the heaven that awaited him later, if he played his cards right. Wingo gave a gentle” heh, heh, heh”, his grinning face a living relief map of the Grand Canyon etched in flesh, and returned his concentration to the Buscarino guitar for his next solo.
“This guy is really awesome”, snorted Finn. “Goddamned genius. I’ve known him for years.” In reality, Alton had only heard the guitarist two or three times, when, back in the eighties, his mother had had a brief but torrid affair with the drummer in the band, and in a blinding flash of conscience, and not wanting to leave the toddler Alton at home alone, brought him along to the assignation at the club. As a rule, Findley’s musical tastes tended more toward Mastodon.
“Yeah, right, Finn. You and the genius. Hey, miss, how about another Fat Tire over here?”
Barlow was quickly on his way to a good and proper drunk. This had rapidly turned into the worst day of his life and seeing no easy way out and without funds or ideas, he plunged headlong into the pillowy comfort of beer foam. Barlow’s moral compass was slightly off true, but for all intents and purposes, Alton Lee Findley’s compass had completely lost its needle long, long ago.
Audrey the bartender passed the glass to Barlow, then slowly inched her way along the bar till she was in front of Alton. She was a big girl, full of chest, wide of ass, with a mountain of dark hair piled high on her head in a mockery of a traditional Balmore beehive. She preferred to wear her jeans as tight as humanly possible, barely allowing herself room to breathe. Never one to question if her butt looked too big, she tended to flaunt all her assets, and the very stricture of the fabric allowed her to satisfy herself behind the bar when things got boring, with the patrons being none the wiser.
“You really know Paul?”, she asked. “ I don’t remember seeing you in here before. What’s your name, cowboy?” Audrey cooed, while her eyes zeroed in on Finn’s mouth, like two laser guided missiles.
“Name’s Finn,” came the answer from those full, luscious lips.”I just killed a man today.”
Jazz Guitarist Paul Wingo-The Man, The Legend Photo Copyright Michael G. Stewart
THANKS FOR THE COFFEE CHAPTER 3
Finn licked his perpetually bee swollen lips and exhaled a dense cloud of smoke into the already hazy confines of the trio’s getaway car. A 1994 Honda Accord was no one’s idea of a classy ride, and surrounded by a months’s, more likely a years’s accumulation of Barlow’s discarded fast food wrappers, old beer bottles, used rubbers and soiled lingerie, the enforced confinement in the noisy heap as they drove rudderless across the Maryland countryside was beginning to tear at their already frayed nerves.
“Turn here, man, get onto 70. I know a place in Baltimore, get us a beer and some good food. Mussels! Great shit, like oysters, get ya all horny.”
“ I ain’t eating that slimey stuff, like swallowing snot!”, shot back Daryll. “I feel sick enough already.”
“ Shut up, dick head. Turn here.”
Barlow twisted the wheel with a grimace, as the aging Honda’s brakes whined in protest, and the car shot up the ramp onto the interstate. Forty minutes later the car rattled down the narrow cobblestone streets of Fells Point, an historic waterfront neighborhood known for its abundance of bars, seafood restaurants and utter lack of parking.
“There dude, over there”, coughed Daryll as Barlow cut off a well dressed couple in a Mercedes to claim a coveted parking space, shooting them the bird and a threatening leer. Alton led the way, toward where a solid, three storied nineteenth century building kept watch over its corner at Lancaster and Broadway. “No, man, this way”, said Findley when Barlow started toward an awning proclaiming Dining Room. “Over here, around the corner.”
Finn pulled open an oft painted red door and entered the long, narrow space leading toward the bar. A group of musicians was setting up in the tiny nook beside the door, illuminated only by the strings of tiny white Christmas lights strung across the ceiling. The half dozen scarred wooden two seater booths along the wall were empty except for a self-absorbed college couple and a middle aged blonde deep in a conversation with herself.
“S’cuze me a sec, gotta take the man his coffee. Paul can’t play a note without it” said the bartender as she stepped from behind the worn bar to deliver a cup of joe to the guitarist tuning up under the fairy lights.
“What’ll it be boys?”, smiled the bartender when she returned to her post. Her majestic bosom strained against the thin white fabric of her blouse, hinting at a vision of silky black lace and soft, pliable flesh beneath. She was of that indeterminate age, somewhere between twenty five and fifty, her hard but eager green eyes tempered by a lifetime in saloons, either working, or just existing. She smiled again and winked at Daryll. “Well? See anything you like?”
Daryll’s eyes meekly dropped to the top of the bar. “Could I just get a burger, mustard and a Natty Boh?”
“Out for an adventure, eh? How about you, sunshine?”
“Just a beer, Fat Tire if you’ve got it?”
“And you, sailor? Got a bit more imagination than your compadres?”
Findley looked with intention directly into the woman’s eyes. “Yeah, sure. I’ll have a double order of mussels, with extra garlic butter. And a Irish Car Bomb.” His eyes dropped to her chest, and his lips formed a subtle pout.
“Hhhhmmm, a man with an appetite”, she purred.
Text & Photo Copyright Michael G. Stewart May not be Reprinted without Permission