The idea for The Great Cover-Up had its genesis in Champaign-Urbana, and has since spiraled out into other cities. I may be biased, but it’s tough to think of a town more fun than quirky Tucson in which to revel in such an extravaganza. Each year, a bunch of local bands pick a famous (or, sometimes, not so famous) artist from musical history and put together a 20-minute set based on that artist. Some of the acts deliver their own bizarre take on it (for example, last year’s massively metal set of The Doors), while others show meticulous attention to detail in recreating a favorite band or performer from years gone by.

The Tucson edition of The Great Cover-Up originated at Club Congress in the 1990s and now encompasses three clubs and some eighty bands. Yes, that’s right, I said eighty. Organizing an event of this magnitude—and with this many musicians—is a task worthy of Atlas, Einstein, and the Swiss Army put together, but everyone involved seems to have a positive, easygoing, “We can do it!” outlook, with none of the slouchy attitude that we sometimes associate with rock ‘n’ rollers. Or maybe it’s just Tucson’s upbeat vibe that makes the whole thing so very enjoyable.

I myself had the great pleasure of participating in the Cover-Up twice. In 2006 we did Siouxsie and the Banshees, and the following year a full-on New York Dolls (circa 1972) set, with PVC platform boots, makeup, wigs, and the whole nine kilometers. I have very dark hair, so the Siouxsie set entailed seven hours in the stylist’s chair to get my hair bright white (I was appearing as proto-goth Siouxsie bassplayer Steve Severin) because, like I said, some bands show meticulous attention to detail.

Our local musical artists work extremely hard to perfect a savagely short set for what is, effectively, a site-specific, one-time-only performance piece. And that’s part of what makes it great. It’s a give everything, do-or-die, all or nothing, brief flash of brilliance on stage, while you imagine yourself part of an adored band. And the whole thing is fantastic.

Another fabulous feature is the almost universal secrecy that shrouds who is covering which band. I know which local acts are playing tomorrow night, but I cannot for the life of me figure who is appearing as ELO (one of my favorites from the ’70s), and who is doing The Beach Boys. One of my spies did notify me who is presenting the Alice in Chains show, but in the interest of fun, discretion, and honor, I’m afraid I cannot share that tidbit with you. It’s going to be good though.

And one more thing: Proceeds benefit the Tucson Artists and Musicians Health Alliance, and tickets are only eight bucks. What could be better than that? So, turn off the TV, get a babysitter for the cat, and go out and support Tucson musicians who have busted their butts tightening up their favorite five or six songs into a 20-minute visual and sonic experience. I’m not kidding you—a few of the covers I’ve seen have been significantly better than the original bands.

Rock on, and see you at Rialto.

A solo exhibition of new oil on canvas works, entitled “Closer To The Heart,” opened Sunday in the Little Gallery at DeGrazia’s Gallery in the Sun at 6300 North Swan. Not surprisingly, the popular painter attracted a non-stop flow of art aficionados including Bohemia Artisans Emporium owner Tana Kelch, Rocking J Leather owner Ronald James, while Tucson’s own The Tryst turned up to play a live music set. When I left at 1:30 pm, four of the new works had already sold (one of them to me) and that’s not bad for the first half of the first day. What recession?

Liz Vaughn with new work "Origin" at DeGrazia Gallery

Liz’s work focuses on whimsical female portraits that remind me, in the best possible way, of a slightly more cubist Marie Laurencin and a more playful Georges Braque—those being two of my all-time favorite painters, so it is not a bit surprising that I always find Liz’s work alluring.

After a year or so of experimenting with larger, expressionist figures, Liz has recently returned to the cleaner, more colorful style of her earlier work, but with added elements of collage, including partially hidden instructions on how to operate toasters and other appliances. These mechanical elements that seem to comment on the drudgery of day-to-day chores contrast strongly with her brightly-colored and somewhat wistful female subjects.

I first met Liz some years ago, when she was part of an outdoor arts and crafts show at a garden center on Tucson’s east side. I was on my way to visit another friend and artist, silversmith Lisa Marie Morrison of Sirocco Design, who was exhibiting at the same event. On the way over I called to see if Lisa needed anything. “I’m set up next to the fabulous Liz Vaughn,” Lisa replied. “Bring champagne!” I did, along with four plastic champagne flutes, and after popping the cork and toasting the warm and perfect day, I thought it the ideal way in which to begin a happy relationship with Liz’s work.

The intimate Little Gallery is the perfect place in which to view these new paintings as its blue and ochre walls gently complement Liz’s palette, and the gallery itself is a quiet and contemplate venue, far from the bustle of downtown Tucson. Follow your viewing with a walk around the beautiful grounds and buildings which were the life’s work of famed artist Ettore DeGrazia. He constructed his first adobe studio there in 1944 and continued to refine and expand the site until his death in 1982. Gallery in the Sun is a marvelous oasis of art, history, and introspection.

“Closer To The Heart” by Liz Vaughn continues daily from 10 AM to 4 PM, through November 18. Admission is free. For more information call (520) 299 9191 or visit www.degrazia.org or www.lizvaughn.com

Text and photographs © by Geoffrey Notkin. Paintings © by Liz Vaughn.
All rights reserved. No reproduction without written permission.

Tony didn’t commit suicide in the conventional sense. Rather, he made a clear and lucid decision to fight on no longer, and he was a fighter. After many years of risky operations, long stints in hospitals, chronic heart problems, and appalling eyesight, he didn’t want to have to shoulder up against the pain anymore.

A typically self-depricating self portrait by Tony Reeve

Using cartoons and satire, Tony waged a witty and subversive guerilla war against a world that had presented him with an awkward and failing body, and he won many battles. In chess, a good strategist knows that the best course of action is, occasionally, to resign before being crushed. The losing player might have been able to drag the game on for a few more moves, all the while knowing that annihilation is inevitable. Rather than beating your head against the wall for those extra moments, it is sometimes more gracious to admit defeat. That’s what Tony did, and I admire him for it. There is a point at which the small amount of hope offered by yet another heart surgery can no longer outweigh the guarantee of pain and discomfort which will definitely come later. While some close-minded people with extremist religious views will regard this act as a sin it is, in fact, an example of a thinking person taking dignified control over the end of his own life; a deed both courageous and honorable.

Intentional suicide visited upon oneself as a result of loss, unbearable sadness, fear, desperation, depression, or despair is another issue entirely, and I do know what it is like when you feel you have nothing left to lose. Less than a decade ago I realized that I would never see my adored mother again; my father remarried and his new wife initiated a campaign to alienate him from remaining family members; my rock ‘n’ roll group about which I was once most passionate had disbanded; difficult clients and relentless deadlines caused me to lose faith in my career as an art director; I was suffering from chronic health issues, possibly a result of inhaling smoke and chemicals as a 9/11 eyewitness; and my romantic partner of 12 years had shacked up with some guy she met in a New Jersey bar. I felt there was nowhere to look except down, but I didn’t. Somehow, I looked up at the night sky instead, and thought: “Really, what else have I got to lose?” It is in those moments that we can shatter what little remains of our lives, or dig deep into our heart or our soul—if you believe in that sort of thing—or if you prefer, quote a favorite Joe Strummer lyric, rouse up that last bit of defiance and anger that’s been skulking at the base of your spine and dare yourself to do something truly bold. If you really have nothing left to lose then why not risk everything on the big gamble? Whatever happens, it hopefully won’t be quite as bad as being dead.

In 2004, with my prospects looking worse than Bleak House, I sold my share in my condo—too cheaply I might add, but I wanted out right then and there, and in my experience a decent amount of cash in hand today is usually a lot better than “maybe more cash” at a later date. I put 99% of my possessions in an industrial storage joint in downtown Jersey City and announced to a few close friends that I was voyaging into the deep desert on a journey of discovery, never to return. At age 42.

To my considerable surprise, my great friend and former bandmate, Anne Husick, announced right back at me that she was going along for the ride, to keep me company and offer moral support. So we put my sweet cat, Bonnie, into a spacious travel box with plenty of comfy towels, selected one favorite bass, one favorite guitar, one computer, a few treasured books and mementos, stuffed all of them in the trunk, slapped Springsteen’s “Badlands” into the CD player and left New Jersey forever, very late on a cold and rainy January night.

For some reason, Tennessee never fails to cheer me up. By the time we were on I-81, headed towards Nashville, things were already starting to look brighter. A light dusting of snow lay across Civil War battlefields, the air was crisp and clear—like cellophane stretched over a bell jar—Bonnie was dozing in the back, Anne was trying to decide which CD to play next, and I began to fully understand, rather than just know, that there is a big world out there with endless opportunities for adventure and advancement if you can just open yourself up to them.

We spent a leisurely five days driving to Arizona, visiting Knoxville, Amarillo, the Texas Panhandle, Truth or Consequences—where Anne had an old musician friend—and Roswell because, of course, we both just had to see the fabulous and wacky UFO museum. On the long, fast run down I-10 from Lordsburg, we saw the very first green highway sign for Tucson, and when we crossed into Arizona we stopped at that first rest area, the one with the big state flag waving in gentle winter sunshine, and a hard-to-miss metal sign warning of rattlesnakes. In 120 hours I had shed my own skin, looked under a big metaphorical rock, turned over a number of leaves, rebooted my personal onboard optimism device which had been malfunctioning for some long time, and was officially ready to kick start a new life. I thought it was going to be the hardest thing I had ever done, and although it would, in time, have the biggest and best of repercussions, it really wasn’t that hard. I was suddenly at home in a new place that I knew very little about. I did have a couple of friends in Tucson, and I also knew that in a few weeks the world’s largest gem and mineral show would open up for business. How much more inspiration could a rockhound hope for?

I had a little cash, a reasonable amount of determination, and a fanatical dream of complete freedom and total artistic control over the rest of my life. If I failed I would fail spectacularly, and find myself just as miserable in Tucson as I had been in the New York Metro Area, but that was not to be the case.

I moved into a diminutive hotel suite with an in-room bar (very chic, I thought) and spent my first week in Arizona overlooking a lovely swimming pool with palm trees. It was a long way from oily, snowy, and noisy Jersey City. I soon found an unspeakably cute 1930s adobe house sporting a charmingly crooked red tile roof, in Blenman, with a rental fee that was one sixth of my mortgage back in the big, bad city. My simple but glorious residence had an actual driveway in which I could deposit my car anytime I felt like it, without feeding a meter. Cactus, lizards with black collars around their necks, and hummingbirds, populated the modest garden and—eureka!—I was walking distance from Casa Video.

I bought a used TV at Goodwill for ten bucks, hooked up the Internet and immediately began to immerse myself in all local goings-on of note, by way of the Tucson Citizen (and look where I am now!) and the Tucson Weekly. In fact, I’d only been in town for a couple of weeks before my first “Letter to the Editor” was published by the Weekly. It was, of course, political in nature, and somewhat scathing regarding certain issues related to the fake science of Creationism. “I see you’re settling in quickly,” a local friend remarked, who does not—in any way—share my political views, but who did read the Weekly and did seem fairly pleased that Arizona had adopted me.

Consider: The much-loved French artist, Henri Rousseau, also known as “Le Douanier” (the customs man), was 49 years old when he decided to give up his establishment job as a tax collector in Paris and go for it as a full-time painter. How bold is that, and how much richer is the world for having his heavenly The Dream (1910) to puzzle and delight us today?

So, my point is this: If things get so bad you feel that you need to end your life, do something even more drastic. Living is the only real adventure we have and if there is nothing left to lose then why not jump, and dare to do the thing you’ve always wanted to, but never thought you could? Tell a trusted friend that you cannot go on, as is, and if you are very lucky—as I was—that friend might exclaim: “I’m going with you!”

It is never too late to start over and, really, the worst thing that can happen is you just end up back in Jersey City.

“When you’re at the end of a dusty track,
With no hope, or desire, to turn back,
And you realize deep in your heart you’ll never be a hero,
There’s only one thing left to do,
Reset to zero”

— From “Reset to Zero” by Geoking

In memory of Tony Reeve who, right up until the end, was a hero in his own life. Joseph Campbell would have been proud.

* * *

The author wishes to thank Arabella McIntyre-Brown for making copies of Tony’s artwork available

Text and photographs © by Geoffrey Notkin
Illustrations: “Gravity” and “Self Portrait” © Estate of Tony Reeve
All rights reserved. No reproduction without written permission
“The Dream” (1910) by the great Henri Rousseau. Ca marche bien, Monsieur le Douanier!

A few minutes earlier, my roommate Leslie Ballard and my upstairs neighbor and close friend, Jeffery Cotton — the celebrated classical composer — had both left our condo on Montgomery Street. It was a delightful, sunny fall morning and they walked to the PATH station and waited for a train to take them to the downtown World Trade Center stop.

I had been up until about 2 am on the night of September 10, sharing cocktails with a couple of friends, and planning my upcoming business trip to Denver on September 12, a trip that would never take place. As a result, I slept in later than normal on the morning of the 11th. Living so close to downtown Manhattan, the noise of daily traffic and motion was a constant sonic background, but that morning it seemed louder and more urgent that usual.

My girlfriend at the time, Jackie Ho, was an early riser and when I walked into the living room, she’d already been up for a while. “There’s a fire at the World Trade Center,” she said, quietly, in her characteristically controlled manner, much as if someone had said: “There was a fire at the car factory but it’s nothing serious.” And so I did not feel alarmed until I looked out of our east-facing front windows to see the enamel-blue sky filled with brown and white smoke. At that point we didn’t know what had happened and assumed it was a conventional fire.

Jackie and I lived only a couple of miles from the Trade Center and for some reason I wanted a closer look. I am not the sort of person who gapes at road accidents, but the scale of this fire was astonishing enough for me to want to investigate. I dressed quickly, grabbed one of my cameras and Jackie and I walked out onto Montgomery Street and headed for the Hudson River. The streets were full of people pointing and staring at the towers. During our fairly short walk, the second plane hit, and by the time we arrived at the west bank of the Hudson River—directly opposite the Trade Center—both towers were ablaze.

The south tower collapsed right in front of us, so quickly that I could scarcely believe such a massive structure disintegrated so rapidly. For a couple of seconds a ghostly three-dimensional pillar of dust hung in the air, exactly mimicking the size and outline of the vanished tower. I am a photographer and it is my duty to record remarkable sights, but I left my Nikon pointed at the ground. I knew hundreds or maybe thousands of hard-working New Yorkers were being crushed at that moment and I did not want to preserve the horrible scene. The tower falling is the most haunting image in my memory and I am glad I don’t have a photograph of it.

And then the survivors arrived.

Ferries, tug boats and other small vessels began discharging evacuees where we stood. Many were covered — I mean literally covered from head to toe — in dust the color of buttermilk. I wanted to give my cell phone to anyone who needed it to call a loved one so they could say, “The Trade Center just collapsed but I’m okay,” but the WTC towers were the cell phone towers and mobile phones were not working. I distinctly remember several young women — probably secretaries — in their work attire but still wearing street-friendly sneakers, indicating that they were on their way in to their offices when the planes hit. It was a good day to be a couple of minutes late.

Jeffery Cotton and Leslie Ballard were both on the PATH train, in the tunnel near the WTC station when the towers burst into flame. Passengers on the train ahead of them were crushed or incinerated by burning, cascading jet fuel. An elderly PATH employee knew something was terribly wrong above ground, and jumped on the tracks with a flashlight to stop incoming trains. I met him, entirely by accident, exactly one year later, and thanked him for saving my friends’ lives. Leslie moved to Connecticut and — some years later, still uneasy about riding the PATH train — Jeffery moved to Pennsylvania.

For two weeks after September 11 I did rescue work, and took photos, all day, every day. I devoted time to the Hudson County SPCA, also known as the Assisi Center, where I worked as volunteer art director. None of us at the shelter were prepared for the flood of orphaned animals who would suddenly and desperately need homes because their owners had been murdered by Saudi Arabians (yes, let’s please not forget who piloted those planes — citizens of “Western-friendly” Saudi Arabia).

New Jersey EMS doctors and nurses quickly arrived and set up triage stations

I never met Bonnie’s owner, and I suppose I will never really know anything about her. As best I can figure, Bonnie was rescued, on the morning of September 14, by fireman going through the shattered apartments of Battery Park City. She was put in a donated plastic cat box and left on one of the downtown piers, along with scores of other cats, dogs, rabbits, and birds. Our shelter was already overcrowded but we took her, and a few other cats anyway. Bonnie was a tiny thing, soaking wet and terrified, and doubtless wondering why she had been taken away from her home. None of the volunteers at the shelter could get her out of her box, but when I opened up the door, she took a few steps and brushed her cheek against my hand. We’ve been together ever since.

Bonnie

If I had been trapped inside one of the burning towers ten years ago today, my final moments would have been spent worrying about my adored pet. Bonnie’s owner didn’t need to worry. On the very rare occasions when Bonnie is naughty and claws up my couch or knocks something over and breaks it, I don’t shout at her, but rather I remember the silent promise I made back in 2001 — that I would always look after her and always give her the best life possible, because her original owner could not.

Text and photographs © by Geoffrey Notkin. All rights reserved. No reproduction without written permission.

Of course, Steve and I had already known for a little while, but we’d been asked to sit quietly on our excitement and keep the news to ourselves. After all, an announcement in Variety is quite a bit grander than me just shouting from the balcony outside my showroom. Variety had been promised an exclusive on the Season Three announcement and I was under specific instructions not to say anything to anyone. In the age of Facebook and Twitter even one mention to one of my viewers could have resulted in the news spreading through the gem show, and then I would have been told to stand in the corner—an experience I was all too familiar with from British public school. I was, therefore, in a happy, yet awkward situation.

The Meteorite Men on location. Photograph by Pablo del Rio Larrain © Aerolite Meteorites LLC

With many Meteorite Men fans visiting the showroom daily, we kept a friendly and unofficial tally of the most popular questions, which were: “Are you doing a third season?” “Where can I get your show on DVD?” “Where are you going next?” and “Is this rock I found a real meteorite?” Oh, and “Can I please go hunting with you?” was in the running too. When viewers take the time to come visit me, and compliment me on the show, and are clearly enthusiastic about my work, and space rocks, and science programming in general, I really don’t feel comfortable lying to them. So, I found myself—for those few rather inconvenient days—dancing around the answer to Question Number One and saying things along the lines of: “We hope to hear news any day now,” or “We are cautiously optimistic,” and in some cases, “If you’d like to see more Meteorite Men please let our friendly network, Science Channel, know.”

So, when the Variety piece came out on the 8th, I was able to relax a little, fully embrace the news, and share it with our viewers. Debbie Myers, the radiant general manager of Science Channel telephoned to congratulate us, and I greatly enjoy Debbie’s company, so that was the best part for me. I told her that I couldn’t imagine having a better boss, and she told me that we should be very proud because most series don’t make it to a third season.

Filming in Kansas with Paul Sr. of "American Chopper" fame. Photograph by Suzanne Morrison © Aerolite Meteorite LLC

During Season Two of Meteorite Men Steve and I had our own cameraman and soundman. As he and I typically split up while hunting for space rocks, and head off in opposite directions, doing things our own way and at our own speed, we each had a separate camera/sound duo assigned to follow us. You end up sharing a lot of powerful moments with those guys: The excitement of a find; the unpleasant surprise of nearly stepping on a snake; the fatigue and disappointment of a long, unsuccessful day. Many times, my cameraman would stop me for a minute, and ask some perceptive off-the-cuff questions: “How are you feeling about this particular site Geoff?” or “What are your tactics going to be for the last hour of daylight?” Meanwhile, the poor soundman has to listen to me blather away, literally for months on end—and through headphones no less! That is dedication to your work.

I was a professional musician for many years, and I discovered that traveling around the world with a film crew is very similar to the band experience. The team works long days, shares moments of hardship and exuberance; there is socializing in bars after hours and, of course, the requisite retelling of amazing stories from other shoots and adventures.

When filming for the season is over, it can be quite sad. We had basically the same crew for six of the eight Season Two episodes and you get to know people, somewhat, when you work with them twelve hours a day, for long months on the road. When I said goodbye to Second Camera operator Tim Murphy in the shopping center of Heathrow Airport, it was the sixth country we’d visited together during a four-month period. We had camped in below-freezing temperatures inside a giant meteorite crater; consumed steaming hot coca leaf tea in the wilderness of the Atacama Desert (entirely legal there, I might add), pulled a 223-pound space rock out of a green field in Kansas, and excavated gaping holes deep in an ancient forest north of the Arctic Circle. Those are not everyday experiences, and I found myself liking and admiring these hardworking men whose job it was to make us look as good on screen as they could manage. I remember saying to Tim, as we shook hands, that I had particularly enjoyed his gentle sense of humor, and I hoped we would cross paths again.

The author under the bluest of skies, at an abandoned train station in the Atacama Desert. Photograph by Steve Arnold © Aerolite Meteorites LLC

Making quality television takes a lot of time. The gaps between seasons can be several months in length. Once filming is complete, scripts need to be written, footage edited, sound effects and music collected, narration recorded, and science facts checked. While those tasks are being carried out by the specialists in post-production, the others— the cameramen, soundmen, producers, and directors—still have to eat and pay rent, so they will likely take the next available project, and we don’t know if we will ever have the opportunity to work with them again.

We expect to commence filming Season Three in the late spring or early summer so, before too long, production will start “staffing up.” That is, hiring people who will work exclusively on that season. For my co-host and myself, it’s a bit like starting at a new school: You have some idea of what you are going to be doing, but you don’t know who you’ll be doing it with. I am a huge movie buff and I love the process of putting a program together. I’m also a photographer, have done a bit of independent film making, and used to work as an audio engineer. As such, I have learned a lot from our talented crews, and I’ve also shared plenty of laughs with them. A favorite moment in Chile was when one of our soundmen took me aside and quietly said: “It’s really fun to hang out with you and Steve. We usually aren’t allowed to talk to the talent.” I found his revelation shocking! What TV host would travel around the world and not want to share some drinks and good humor with these hardworking and highly entertaining professionals?

Fun on the road: Some serious off-roading in Australia's Northern Territories while filming Season Two (and I was driving!). Photograph by Steve Arnold © Aerolite Meteorites LLC

In a month or two I’ll be meeting the Season Three team, and we shall begin contemplating long journeys to strange places, in search of even stranger rocks from space. My job, at the moment—and Steve’s—is to research possible sites, sift through old science papers and reference works, and try to figure out where we should go in order to continue the hunt.

In my spare time—that being a rather narrow window between the end of Season Two and the beginning of the 2011 gem show—I wrote a book. And that reminds me that I forgot to include one of those very popular questions in my list and it was: “How can I find my own meteorite?” I put the answers to that in Meteorite Hunting: How To Find Treasure From Space, which was published on February 1. By very kind invitation of The Voice of Tucson, I shall be appearing at the Tucson Festival of Books this weekend. I’ll have copies of the new work available for sale and signing, and I hope to meet some of the Meteorite Men viewers who reside here in town. Come on down and meet a genuine space rock (and I don’t mean me—I’ll have some fabulous meteorites on display). I will be at the TucsonCitizen.com booth Saturday and Sunday from 1 pm to 5 pm. The FOB is a great event. If you have not attended before, come along and experience it for yourself. If you care about words on paper, you will not be disappointed.

Photographs © by Geoffrey Notkin. All rights reserved. No reproduction without written permission.

My concert-going career got off to the best-possible start when my brilliant friend Neil Gaiman took me to see Lou Reed at the London Rainbow in 1976. It was Lou’s Rock ‘n’ Roll Heart international tour. We had seats near the front; Lou opened with “Sweet Jane” and nothing in my life was ever the same again. I was fifteen and Neil and I went home and started our own band.

1977 brought with it the famous Summer of Punk and all through that glorious year—and the next—my bassplayer, Graham Smith, and I wandered through a musical wonderland in which we basked in the uncensored sonic assault of The Clash, Blondie, The Ramones, Generation X, The Buzzcocks, The Damned, The Stranglers, The Jam, The Runaways, The Cure, XTC, and a host of others. We were lucky enough to see some of those great bands over and over; I ended up catching the mighty Ramones in concert 19 times. Looking through the gig guides each week in New Musical Express or Sounds, we sometimes could just not decide which shows to go to in any given week: How could we possibly be expected to choose between The Dictators at the Roundhouse or The Rich Kids at the Lyceum Ballroom? It was, truly, an absurdity of riches. And herein lies the root of my problem: Nothing could ever compete with that adrenaline-fuelled smorgasbord of anarchic club nights, and so I could never again enjoy live music quite as much as I did during my youth.

One solution was to keep on going back, in later years, to see the survivors and that explains the 19 Ramones show. The decades rolled by, but you could always count on twenty-one high speed, perfect, catchy punk songs at any given show. When you jumped up and down in front of the Ramones while they were on stage, time stood still. Singing along with the crowd at the Academy in New York City during The Ramones’ farewell tour in 1996, I could almost have been back in London in ’78. Yeah, the guys were a little older, and C.J. had replaced Dee Dee on bass, but they were still one of the most vital and exciting live bands of all time. Now Joey Ramone is dead. So is Johnny and Dee Dee. As is Joe Strummer—the greatest artist of the punk era—and Sid Vicious, Johnny Thunders and Jerry Nolan of the New York Dolls, Malcolm Owen from The Ruts, and Dead Boys frontman Stiv Bators. The punk movement had a lot of casualties. But all through the years there was one other band that carried the punk rock torch for me: Social Distortion.

Though singer, songwriter, and lead guitarist Mike Ness is the only original member, it doesn’t matter that much. Mike is Social Distortion and a Social D concert in Tucson is always good news. They have a solid fan base here in the Baked Apple, and their shows usually set out, as demonstrated by Monday’s packed house at the Rialto Theater. Not only do I never miss a Social D concert in town, I sometimes travel considerable distances to see them, which is why they have now surpassed even The Ramones as my most-seen band.

I have a short attention span and don’t much care for all-day music festivals with endless back-to-back performances. So, when I’m going to see a favorite band I often skip the warm-up act because I want to focus on the artist I’m there to see. The just-completed Social Distortion tour featured two opening acts I wasn’t familiar with: Lucero and Frank Turner. Fortunately, my girlfriend and I decided to check out the bands online and see if the music spoke to us. Lucero had a good sound and reminded me a little of The Old 97s. Frank Turner literally blew me away. Yes, the music spoke. Frank’s rousing video of “The Road” begins with this message: “All right, this is Frank Turner. It’s 8 o’clock in the evening. We’re about to film 24 shows in 24 hours. Let’s go!” The immediately engaging English singer opens up on a rooftop in London and then travels from one friend’s house and party to another, producing a fascinating, personal, and dynamic video that is pretty much the best thing I’ve seen this century. So, not only did my girl and I decide to head down to The Rialto early, as there was absolutely no way we were missing Frank’s set, but we booked a room at Hotel Congress—right across the street—so we could let loose, party, and stay up late without worrying about driving home.

Frank Turner in action. Photo © Frank Turner

Frank opened with a couple of solo acoustic songs, then brought on his excellent band and the results were stellar. He has the fire of Joe Strummer, the conviction of Billy Bragg, the witty lyrical turn of Lach or Bob Dylan, and dresses, looks, and leaps around stage a little like a young Bruce Springsteen. Wrap all of that up in a series of catchy, energetic, uplifting melodies reminiscent of the best of the early Alarm and Levellers and the result is an unforgettable concert experience.

After the show, I made my way to the merch table, and there was Frank himself—humble, friendly, accessible—selling his own CDs. It was a very do-it-yourself punk moment. Frank and I discovered that we had some mutual acquaintances from the UK, shared a love of The Clash, and I said: “I could talk to you non-stop for an hour, but I know you’re busy.” He, smiled and said: “No, no, it’s fine, please stay,” and invited us out for a drink after the headline show but, alas, we had other plans. Next time Frank, thank you.

Social Distortion were brilliant too. It was easily the best Social D concert I’ve seen in a decade and that’s saying something. But as I fell asleep in the cozy iron-framed bed at Hotel Congress, in the wee hours, it was “The Road” that circulated happily through my head.

When Joe Strummer died, far too young, at the age of 50, one obituary threw down a momentous question: “Who among you will take up the challenge?” By that, the writer meant which artist, which songwriter, will have the courage, vision, and talent to follow in Joe’s footsteps? Frank Turner may just be that person. And I have learned that once in a long, long while, you can find something that’s every bit as good as the best moments of your youth.

Each year I am genuinely amazed when I meet a few Tucsonans who have grown up here and yet never attended All Souls—or worse yet, never even heard of it. Along with the annual gem show in February and the Open Studio tours, All Souls is one of Tucson’s most magical, important and original events. It truly is the night of nights.

As has already been well documented, our fabulous November parade was the brainchild of local artist Susan Johnson, who conceived All Souls as a Tucson artists’ retrofit of Mexico’s Dia de los Muertos. Ms. Johnson’s initial performance in 1990 honored her late father and—as the years went by—the number of participants grew to staggering proportions. Costumes, masks, glowsticks, floats, burning cauldrons, marching drum circles, and a mind bending end-of-procession pyrotechnic blowout by the mighty Flam Chen are all rolled up into a spooky, brilliant, heart-racing, kid-friendly spectacle which nobody who has any interest in the arts, costumes, fire dancing, or unbridled revelry should ever miss.

Marchers begin to congregate in front of Epic Cafe around 5 pm and the procession begins at 6 pm. Bring a flaming torch, or your pet monster, or maybe a bat with glow-in-the-dark eyes, or even a skeleton in a wheeled coffin, and be amazed by what Tucson’s brightest and wackiest artists have come up with this year. And, for the finale tonight, I gather from my agents that Flam Chen has something special in store for us.

It is the 21st annual Tucson All Souls Procession, so bring out yer dead, and throw ‘em on the cart. Long live All Souls! It makes Halloween look like a tea party.

All photographs by Geoffrey Notkin © Geoffrey Notkin. All rights reserved. No reproduction without written permission.

I first met Jessica some years ago during the Open Studio Tour. She had recently graduated from U of A with an MFA in fine arts and I was immediately enthralled by her work. My own professional life revolves around geology, fossils, art, meteorite science and related disciplines, and Jessica’s remarkable pieces displayed in the studio that day were fascinating to me, carrying within them an ancient and natural quality, as if they were valuable archaeological or paleontological artifacts.

"Swab Skin" by Jessica Drenk © Jessica Drenk

A few artists—notably Robert Smithson and Stu Jenks—have managed to infuse their visionary creations with the essence of nature and landscape. However, whereas Smithson might transport found rocks into the studio (or fashion giant site specific sculptures such as Spiral Jetty), and Jenks might build a spiral of rocks on a lonely beach or in a silent forest, Ms. Drenk uses man-made materials and found objects like books and PVC in the creation of works that resemble things we see in the natural world, but which are entirely unique.

"Caelagraph" © Jessica Drenk

For a previous body of work Ms. Drenk began literally and physically exploring the secrets of books. She devised an intriguing process that involved submerging found books in wax, shaving and chiseling off pieces, and arranging the slivers in patterns. The resulting works were reminiscent of delicate shells found by the sea, but carried imprinted upon them barely legible fragments of text; mysterious and intriguing.

"Archaeologica," window exhibit; pencils © Jessica Drenk

Ms. Drenk’s newest works still maintain an ethereal connection with the natural world, but appear larger, more involved, and seem to carry a hypnotic quality that reminds me of the patterns formed in nature by waves, bees, and perhaps even Australian white ants chewing through dry tree branches; all juxtaposed alongside geometric forms inspired by the digital world in which we continually become more and more immersed.

From the “Artist’s Statement”:

My work is a response to, and experimentation with, materials. Each series of work begins with a specific material: books, PVC pipes, rolls of toilet paper, or planks of wood, and my own desire to delve into that material—to play with it, reshape it, and change it into something new.

Jessica Drenk’s new show, Materials In Balance, opens this evening at Conrad Wilde Gallery, 439 North Sixth Avenue, #171, with an artist’s reception from 6 to 9 pm. The exhibition continues until November 27 and the gallery is open Tuesday through Saturday from 11 am to 5 pm, and by appointment.

Highly recommended.

Last year we were given a tall order by Science Channel: produce six one-hour episodes in seven months. We weren’t quite sure how we’d manage but we did—barely. The final episode was delivered to the network just five days before its air date. Five of those episodes were filmed in the US, and one in Canada. It was exciting, challenging, occasionally dangerous, sometimes hysterically funny, and often exhausting.

Steve and Geoff on location filming "Meteorite Men," June 2010. Photo by Suzanne Morrison.

For Season Two we were given just five months to produce eight one-hour episodes, and five of those were to be filmed overseas. So, since late June, I have traveled more than 60,000 miles; walked on four continents; visited eight countries; seen ten states in the Union plus the District of Columbia; completed over twenty interviews for radio, print and social media; encountered extraordinary wildlife including camels, llamas, eagles, thousands of wild parrots, a lizard the size of a dog, kangaroos, emus, and a three-legged cat. Oh, and we got to guest star on American Chopper.

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As Douglas Adams noted in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy: “How ever fast the body travels, the soul travels at the speed of an Arcturan Mega-Camel.” In other words, while I was filming in the Arctic Circle, my overstimulated brain had not finished processing my adventures in the high Atacama Desert of Chile. While dozing in a tent in the Australian Outback, I had dreams that I was still exploring salt flats in the American West at 103 F, during a previous shoot. A couple of nights ago, I woke up in utter darkness at about 4:30 am (our call time on shoot days was typically 6 or 6:30 am) grabbed my alarm clock and thought to myself: “Which hotel am I in? What time is my flight!” before realizing that I was, in fact, at home in my own bed and there were no more flights. At least for this season.

The Meteorite Men on their Orange County Chopper. Season Two location shoot, June 2010. Photo by Suzanne Morrison.

Only one of our field team from Season One joined us for our 2010 “world tour,” and she—Senior Producer Sonya Gay Bourn—has always been the most indispensable member of the road crew. So, if we could keep just one of the original team, we wanted it to be her. During our first night on location for Season Two, we had a meet and greet with our new director, co-executive producer, director of photography, second camera, sound men, and camera tech. I raised my glass to Sonya and said: “If I found myself in the middle of the screaming wilderness during, say, the 19th Century, with thousands of ferocious warriors descending upon my position—weapons raised for attack—and could only have one person standing next to me, that person would be Sonya.” No disrespect to my stalwart co-host Steve Arnold, and I promise you, he feels the same way.

I have never met anyone like Sonya, and I am quite sure there is nobody in the world remotely like her. Brilliant, sassy, unconventional, striking, fearless, and resourceful, she is also an accomplished director, writer, and former stand-up comic. She also seems to know almost everyone on the planet, well, almost everyone worth knowing. Steve likes to joke that if we got into a serious jam—in the most desolate corner of the world—Sonya would know somebody at the local helicopter outfit and, with the aid of the sat phone and Blackberry from which she is never separated, would arrange an airlift for us in less than thirty minutes.

The Meteorite Men on the hunt. Atacama Desert location shoot, August 2010.

One of my favorite shows on television these days is Animal Planet’s Whale Wars—a gripping documentary series that chronicles the ecological group Sea Shepherd’s hair-raising attempts to curtail illegal Japanese commercial whaling. It’s one of the few programs that holds my attention from the first frame to the last. Those guys have nerves of steel and big eco hearts. Imagine my delight, therefore, when I discovered that two of the brightest lights in our 2010 crew were the cameramen from Whale Wars. We camped together for four nights in one of the most inaccessible parts of the Australian wilderness and they enthralled me—as we sat around the campfire—with harrowing tales of their adventures on board the Sea Shepherd vessels. Now that is a fireside chat.

Photo by Suzanne Morrison

Once I finally returned to my desert home one of my friends asked: “So was it fun? What did you see?”

I paused for a moment—jet lag trying to convince the parts of me traveling at the speed of an Arcturan Mega-Camel that I was still at least partly on the other side of the Earth—then replied: “Everything. I’ve seen everything.”

Meteorite Men Season Two premieres this coming Tuesday, November 2, on Science Channel and Science Channel HD. Air times here in Tucson are 6 pm with a repeat at 9 pm (Cox Digital); and 7 pm with a repeat at 10 pm (Comcast Digital).