“You said your son has spina bifida?”

“Yes. He had fetal surgery to correct the defect when my wife was twenty-two weeks pregnant, but he still has some mobility issues.”

“Hmmm…” The physician continued to explore my injured lower back.

Crap, I thought. It really is my fault.

. . .

This conversation happened a few days ago, as I was being examined for ongoing, often severe back pain stemming from a car accident almost thirty years ago. This particular doctor had been born with spina bifida, mostly asymptomatic, but she was intimately familiar with the disability. And she recognized something about me that no other physician had seen in almost three decades of back exams.

Think of spina bifida as being born with a spinal cord injury. As a fetus develops, the vertebrae gradually fuse closed starting at the top, kind of like an upside-down zipper. With SB, because of some biological factor, the vertebrae stop closing at some point, leaving a gap that exposes the spinal cord to damage within the womb. There are several degrees of the disability, the most minor being spina bifida occulta, meaning “hidden”. The gap is small enough that it might never be detected and isn't likely to cause damage.

At the other extreme is myeloschisis, where there's basically nothing protecting the spinal cord at all. That’s the variety that our son, Nicholas, ended up with. It was detected through amniocentesis when Christie was sixteen weeks pregnant, after a blood test showed an anomaly. Six weeks later, she and Nick were the 87th mom and baby to undergo the fetal surgery at Vanderbilt Medical Center in Nashville. (We are eternally thankful to Dr. Joe Bruner and the late Dr. Noel Tulipan for their work, and the good people of Cornerstone Community Church and Countrywide Field Services for financing our trip to Vanderbilt.)

Now, spina bifida can be caused to some degree by a lack of folic acid in the mother’s diet, although Christie had been taking folic acid supplements early on. The most likely cause is genetics, which is why my heart sank the other day when I heard that doctor’s words.

SB is most common in people of Latino and Irish heritage, for some reason. Neither of us have an ounce of Latino blood, but Christie has a little Irish in there… and my mother’s father was born in Kentucky, two weeks after his parents arrived from County Cork. I have never known of a case of spina bifida within my bloodline before. But again, the most common variety is also the least noticeable. It could be that every Mason for centuries had it to some degree but never knew it. No one on that side of the family is still with us, so I can’t really ask a lot of probing questions.

Apparently I have had the occulta variety my whole life, but it was never diagnosed or even noticed during the several back exams, x-rays, and chiropractic treatments I’ve endured since that 1998 car crash. This week, a doctor who had been there and done that recognized the little patch of hair over my tailbone and the accompanying back indentation, the (usually) dead giveaways. I told her the hair had been there since intermediate school, but I just blamed it on tween hormones. Now I’ve had some x-rays and will get an MRI when/if the insurance company sees fit to grant it, and we’ll go from there.

Over the nearly twenty-seven years of Nicholas’ life, we have learned that disabilities like spina bifida don’t have to mean a sedentary, unrewarding existence. When Nick was eight years old, a fellow fetal surgery patient tried out sled hockey in Wisconsin and sent Nick some photos. We hadn’t been able to find any adaptive sports for physically disabled kids in our area. Intellectual disabilities, yes; physically disabled adults, yes; nothing for Nick’s demographic. So he decided that sled hockey was the sport he wanted to get into.

Nick got on the phone — again, he was eight years old — and started calling rinks all over Southern California to find out where sled hockey was available. Eventually we found out that there were only two sled programs in the entire state: a youth team in the Bay Area, and the Sacramento Lightning adult team. That was it, in a state of thirty-seven million people. Undaunted, we contacted PossAbilities, our local disabled outreach organization, and USA Hockey to find out how to get a program going.

We held our first public clinic in May 2009 with Ray Free of the Sacramento Lightning and USA Paralympic gold and bronze medalist Dave Conklin (rest in peace, dear man). The response was moderate, so we held another one in 2010 with Dave and another clinician, which generated more interest. After a sled grant from USA Hockey and a couple of false starts, we officially launched our sled program at Icetown in Riverside.

The change in Nicholas was almost immediate. All of a sudden, he was able to do fun, athletic things with his body that had always seemed out of reach. Our first recruit was someone else with spina bifida, Joshua Swope, whom we met at an Ontario Reign game he attended with his mom, Kathy. (Kathy went on to be the best team manager ever, and we’re sorry that she has now retired.) We were able to commiserate and learn with him and his family as we built the sport. We gradually added enough people, including several others with spina bifida, to put together a functional team. In 2013 we affiliated with the Los Angeles Kings, and we’ve only gotten stronger.

Angel and Silverio, two cousins with SB, were among the first to join us. Angel was five years old and Silverio was six at the time. They have become our strongest players on the ice. Last year Angel got a scholarship to play sled hockey at Penn State, and at this year’s National Sled Hockey Festival in Dallas he was the second-ranked adult scorer in the entire tournament, just behind USA Paralympic titan Declan Farmer. Their disability is what got them on the ice, but it doesn’t hold them back.

We have another family, dad Geoffrey and sons Ethan and Aaron, with a hereditary neurological condition that affects their leg function. They, too, haven’t let their condition slow them down. The boys initially joined the team to have fun and get some exercise, and their father soon decided to join them on the ice. All three are strong contributors in every game, and Aaron was the only goaltender with six full shutouts at Nationals this year.

The team has other remarkable stories: Anthony, born without legs but one of the funniest wits ever; Roger, who lost a leg to cancer and plays alongside his able-bodied brother, Bob; Mark, who lost an arm and both legs in a motorcycle accident but plays and scores hard and fast with a skating pusher moving his sled. These wonderful folks are our constant reminder that disability doesn’t mean inability.

. . .

In light of all that, why do I feel an intense amount of guilt and sadness this week, knowing that my gene pool is probably the reason for Nick’s disability? I know there’s nothing I could have done to change the situation, especially only confirming my own condition after fifty-seven years of living with it.

Because he’s my son, and despite his joys and triumphs I’ve seen all of the struggles and pain he’s endured. He got his first shunt to relieve hydrocephalus when he was ten months old. They had told us that if he made it through the first year without a shunt, he probably wouldn’t need one. So close, yet so far.

Nick used a cane and a walker until he was eight; then he had a huge growth spurt, his bones outgrew his muscles, and he got his first wheelchair because walking had just become too hard.

He had a gorgeous girlfriend as a freshman in high school. Then he had three shunt revision surgeries in the span of fifteen months. She brought the party to him on the night they were supposed to be at the homecoming dance, but after the third hospital stay she decided she wasn’t equipped for the stress.

In 2022, Nick had a seizure getting out of the car. We ran him to the hospital and found he was in kidney failure because of a urinary tract infection that had backed up into his kidneys. (Another joy of spina bifida: lack of sensation means he might not know he has a UTI until he gets really sick.) He’s been on dialysis for more than two years now, and we’re trying to hack our way through the shitty American health “care” system to see about getting him a transplant. He took a break from college with one class left to finish his A.A. degree because he can’t deal with it right now.

This is why I’ve been weighed down with guilt and frustration for the past few days, knowing that my bloodline is the probable reason for everything he’s been through in life.

My mother passed away last July 23rd at the age of 84. She was always a very difficult person, and we were pretty much alienated for the past two decades because of her attitude towards my wife and kids and life in general. Her Irish father had been much the same way, cold and impatient, which is probably where she got it. Maybe that’s part of what weighs on me now. I tried very hard to set a better example for my kids than the example I grew up with. I didn’t always succeed, but I’ve tried to make up for it as they have grown up. Maybe spina bifida is just one more turd in that punchbowl. Again, there’s not a damned thing I could have done about it, but it still weighs on my heart. Nick deserves better.

Still, right now he’s in Minnesota visiting his fiancée, Olivia, and ironically sweating in the Midwestern heat while SoCal has another rainy spell. He’s living the best life he can under the circumstances. And maybe that needs to be enough hope for me.

For the past several weeks, Ted Gioia has been posting brilliantly on Substack about the inadequacies and false promises of AI. An essential read, particularly if you're a teacher trying to show your students why AI writing is just about one step above worthless.

Most of my personal AI headaches result from Alexa not being able to give a straight answer to a simple question, but that's just an iota of the situation. All over, we see more and more failures of this purported time-saving panacea:

• A few months ago, the idiot RFK Jr. went in front of a Congressional committee and presented “research” that was clearly fabricated by AI. The citations included several studies that simply do not exist. Oddly, he wasn't impeached immediately for lying to Congress.

• The New York Times issued a list of recommended books that included not only non-existent works by real authors, but non-existent authors.

• An unscrupulous European publisher has been making AI-generated books on jazz and other subjects available on Amazon. Not only are they poorly written and full of falsehoods, the ostensible authors are the flipped names of real writers, i.e. “Frank Gioia and Ted Alkyer”. Amazon refuses to remove these fabrications because Bezos might need another mansion.

• Reports indicate that Spotify is hosting thousands of AI-generated music tracks by non-existent “artists”, and they're being downloaded by the tone-deaf masses in appalling numbers. Mr. Ek, as usual, gives not one crap.

• McDonald's recently aired an AI ad that was so stupid and repulsive it was pulled from television within a couple of days.

As one more wave on the digital bullshit tide, last night my wife and I chortled our way through a pathetic film on Amazon Prime (hey, there's Greedy Jeff again) called A Very Pagan Christmas. The subject matter was potentially fascinating: an overview of how pagan holiday celebrations were assimilated into Christianity over the centuries. However, the results were cringe-worthy.

Every visual in this forty-odd-minute turd was created by AI, mostly in Midjourney, and such crap have we rarely beheld besides the usual missing appendages and facial deformities. Carolers with their heads detached from their bodies. Little kids holding flames in their bare hands, gathered with their families around dinner tables that are also inexplicably on fire. In the very last shot, some pagan dude with antlers whose head is attached but aflame. (Apparently Midjourney has a long way to go regarding its understanding of fire.)

Just as bad was the soulless, Brit-inflected AI narration, droning on and on with endless, repetitive literary and historical clichés. The only respite we had from the compu-babble was the increasing laughability of the images. Still we watched raptly, like witnesses to an especially awesome car crash.

Thankfully, there are signs that the AI bubble is beginning to burst. This week Microsoft announced that they will cut their AI efforts by up to fifty percent. But then the U.S. “government” doubles down on their insistence that AI belongs in our scientific research, our military, our legislation. Fueled, of course, by billions in donations from the grifters who hawk these embarrassing, half-assed wares that can never replace a decent human intellect. Like most other inhuman incursions on society, this too shall pass.

(Photo of Gordon Goodwin by Joe Meyer for Parade)

It hardly seems real that Gordon Goodwin has left the stage, felled by pancreatic cancer at 70. He seemed a couple of decades younger whenever he was onstage with the Big Phat Band and his lovely wife, Vangie Gunn. Hard to believe that he had been writing music since 1962, when he was in the seventh grade. His career spanned TV, film, world tours, and some of the finest big band recordings of our time. Awards ranged from the NAJE composition contest at 21 (for “Checking the Cell Structure”, 1976) to two Grammys and two Daytime Emmys.

(“Checking the Cell Structure” as performed by Catalan drummer Santi Arisa’s ensemble)

I wrote my very first composition because of Gordon’s inspiration. It was 1983 and I was a fourteen-year-old sophomore. Our jazz ensemble was playing his fun shuffle tune “Picture IV”, part of his suite “Four Pictures for Jazz Orchestra”. Something about that chart really clicked with me, perhaps because my drummer dad had always loved shuffle tunes. He would spend an hour or so a day improving on his shuffle beat, though the swing band he was in didn’t play much in that style. At any rate, I would go home with “Picture IV” stuck in my head. Eventually I decided to try my hand at writing something original in the way of a shuffle. Over time it mutated into more of a funk tune, and I never really did anything with it, but the seed had been planted.

(“Picture IV” as performed by the TrueNorth Big Band from Ohio)

A few months later, my family watched the cheesy 1978 horror parody, “Attack of the Killer Tomatoes”. I saw a “Gordon Goodwin” mentioned in the music credits. “Nah, can’t possibly be the same one.” But it was. He had contributed music to the film while he was a student at Cal State Northridge. Maybe not the most auspicious vehicle for getting the industry’s attention. (Then again, Burt Bacharach’s first bite of ostensible glory was the theme for “The Blob”, so you never can tell.)

Gordon went on to write for a wide range of projects: Disneyland rides, “The New Mickey Mouse Club”, “Animaniacs”, “The Incredibles”, “Remember the Titans”, “National Treasure”, not to mention working with Ray Charles, Johnny Mathis, Quincy Jones, Idina Menzel, and conducting symphony orchestras worldwide. But it seems his greatest love had always been big band jazz. Hence, the quarter-century run of the Big Phat Band, which I pray someone will keep alive as a reminder of Gordon’s gifts and the eternal joy of big band music.

(The Big Phat Band performing “Sing Sang Sung” at the Hollywood Bowl in June 2022)

Gordon was deeply honored that his hero Louis Bellson had chosen to record “Picture IV” for the album Note Smoking. Later he had the honor of playing with Bellson and Les Hooper’s big bands, both of which were touchstones in my own listening journey. When I spoke with Gordon about a decade ago, he seemed almost embarrassed by the older tunes like “Picture IV” and “The Check’s in the Mail” that we loved when I was a student. Granted, his writing had evolved a great deal over those thirty-odd years, but he was gratified that his early charts were still appreciated.

(“The Check’s in the Mail” as performed by Japan’s Battle Jazz Big Band)

The Big Phat Band performed several times at the Redlands Bowl, our local outdoor music venue that’s provided great entertainment for more than a century. My wife and I never missed an opportunity to catch Gordon and company during their summer music programs. Gordon’s sense of humor was always on display. I remember the time that tenorman Brian Scanlon laid a real clam during a solo. A couple of bars later, Gordon loudly hit that same wrong note on the piano to let Scanlon know he was caught. The year before, the end of their set had gotten rained out by an atypical summer storm. Upon the band’s return to Redlands, Gordon immediately joked about the weather.

Gordon Goodwin made an indelible impact on American culture and the art of jazz in particular. May his memory continue to inspire future generations of musicians and listeners.

Somewhere around 1990, back in my drinking days, my friend Scott invited me over for a James Bond marathon. Scott's brothers and some mutual buddies were already at the apartment when I arrived with Coronas in hand. Scott fired up the VCR, and we settled in for our chronological venture through the 007 canon.

By the time the closing credits of “From Russia With Love” rolled, Scott and a couple of other guys were pretty well into their cups, as they say. I switched out the VHS tape and cued up “Goldfinger”, which most of us had never seen.

After the usual daring front matter, the theme song arrived. John Barry's sumptuous, brooding score wafted through the air. Then it hit.

“Gold… FINgah!”

At which point the well-pickled Scott jumped up from the couch, gaping, and said, “Dude! She meant that!!” We all broke up laughing, and it took a while for us to focus on Mr. Connery again. We giggled off and on about it through at least “Live and Let Die”. Thankfully, that wasn't the only impression the fiery Welsh chanteuse, Dame Shirley Bassey, made on me.

The half-Nigerian, half-Yorkie Ms. Bassey came up in the industrial community of Splott, Cardiff. As a schoolgirl, her voice was already so powerful that she was often relegated to the hallway during choir practice. She left school at fourteen to work in the steel mill, spending her evenings singing in local pubs (child labor, shmild shmabor).

At sixteen she joined a touring show based on Al Jolson's life, which opened the door for other stage work nationally. Bassey never failed to impress audiences and reviewers with her powerful, confident performances. Her delivery of “Burn My Candle” in Such Is Life landed her a recording contract at nineteen. Here she delivers the tune in her first-ever appearance on the BBC:

https://youtu.be/epIdxoo4QcI?si=dGnN0jg-FVpFY4zX

In 1957 she released more charted singles and briefly toured the U.S. as one of Britain's hottest up-and-comers. Mitch Miller finagled Bassey's move from Decca to Columbia Records, then more U.S. gigs. Throughout the 1960s she struggled to find a bigger audience in America, where she was generally only recognized for the one Bond tune. (The later themes for “Diamonds Are Forever” and “Moonraker” certainly helped.)

https://youtu.be/0KZIwDNNYik?si=lt_RRcK8IupTXvGq

The usual ups and downs followed: big hits and fades, a small brush with the law, a short-lived TV variety show, a good amount of charity work, and vocal training to keep up her chops.

Eventually the world settled in to acknowledge Shirley Bassey as an icon in the truest sense, a powerful woman who never compromised on her art while showing a wider vision (hence her work with songwriters from Pet Shop Boys and Manic Street Preachers, and this intense 1987 collaboration with Swiss popsters Yello).

https://youtu.be/smwR21SDqEY?si=IsQcfeEV_EeouVLT

Bassey was embraced by the royals and nobles, singing at the Queen's 50th Jubilee and the Duke of Edinburgh's 80th birthday fête. She continues to perform on occasion in her 88th year; here she is at Carnegie Hall in February 2025, delivering "Diamonds Are Forever” as gracefully as ever:

https://youtube.com/shorts/DULMCjYgE90?si=dlFaOQcVHsjLHHRi

Is Shirley Bassey a jazz singer? A pop star? A diva? Who cares? She is Herself, and that is enough. May her legacy endure for decades to come.

This year I began studying Welsh culture, mythology, and language to connect with a murky piece of my heritage. Nawr mae angen i mi ddod o hyd i benglog ceffyl... (Now I need to find a horse skull…)

https://boingboing.net/2025/12/05/medieval-rap-battles-with-decorated-horse-skulls-are-back-for-christmas.html

Today Christie and I headed to Pasadena for our monthly-ish couple's outing. We hit Vroman's Books first, a required pilgrimage, then had dinner at Craft BBQ. After a walk around Old Pasadena to let the smoked tri-tip settle, we headed to The Gold Bug -- one of the city's quirkiest, most fascinating shops -- for a book release party.

Author Steven C. Bowie has penned the long-overdue biography of trumpeter Charles “Cootie” Williams, a major star of the Duke Ellington and Benny Goodman orchestras, and later an excellent bandleader in his own right. Bowie's Concerto for Cootie: The Life and Times of Cootie Williams (University Press of Mississippi, 2025) covers the great hornman's life from his childhood in Alabama through his death in 1985, with a good number of historical photographs, concert details, and a comprehensive discography.

As of this writing I'm only about forty pages into the book, having just received it three days ago, but I jumped at the rare chance to meet a jazz writer in Southern California. Authors Steven Isoardi (the recent Horace Tapscott bio The Dark Tree) and Jeff Schwartz (Free Jazz: A Research and Information Guide) were also present, and it was an honor to meet all three writers. Although I've “known” Jeff Schwartz via social media for about fifteen years, this was our first meeting in person.

No understanding of Duke Ellington's music can be complete without acknowledging the importance of Johnny Hodges, Harry Carney, and Cootie Williams in shaping the band's sound and style. But the Duke years were the tip of the iceberg for the warm, brilliant trumpeter, and it's nice to have a full overview of his career. I welcome the arrival of this volume and encourage fans of classic big band jazz to pick up Mr. Bowie's book, as it fills an important gap in the canon.

When I was a kid in the 1970s my father, Roy (at left, next to his non-musical twin brother, Ray), played drums in the Lang Howe Orchestra, a swing band in Atlanta. I grew up with fine music in the house every day: Benny Goodman, the Dorseys, Glen Gray, Guy Lombardo, Dizzy, Shorty, etc. His biggest drum inspiration was the legendary Gene Krupa, followed closely by the more obscure and modern Don Lamond. My mother was more into ‘50s and ‘60s pop, one of my factors in the eventual dissolution of their marriage. (Later on, my stepfather was big on bluegrass, but he did have some good Wes Montgomery and Stan Getz discs in his collection.)

When the time came for me to learn music in elementary school, I picked the saxophone just because my great-uncle Frank played it. I was born essentially blind in my right eye, so in high school I always had to be on the right side in street marching formation. I blew alto until the tenth grade, then switched to tenor because the band had too many altos. I played second tenor in the jazz ensemble that year, and composed my first tune but never did anything with it. Despite loving the music we played, including great charts by Gordon Goodwin, Tom Kubis, and Sammy Nestico, I didn't continue with it because I felt my skill set didn't do the music justice. (Then I got completely banned by the band director because I was required to take driver ed instead of concert band as a junior. Oh, well…)

In college I took a couple of jazz theory and improv classes and played in the jazz ensemble for one year, but I mostly concentrated on my psych major. I also took up the bass just for kicks. Got pretty good at it, too.

Jazz took a back seat to other things in life until 1991, when I began booking local concerts with my late friend Simon Barley, a DJ at the University of Redlands FM station, KUOR. Simon rekindled my love for the music, for which I'm eternally grateful. We booked a wide spectrum of artists including Dave Brubeck, Jimmy Smith, Diana Krall, Ernie Andrews, Walter Norris, and the Lighthouse All-Stars. Stacy Rowles became a dear friend, Bill Perkins a mentor who taught me proper breath control. I also wrote album liner notes for Stacy and Jimmy Rowles, Mike Vax and Clark Terry, trumpeter Fred Forney, pianist Chuck Marohnic, and vocalist Kayla Brecher.

One of my favorite memories of that era was when we booked the trio of pianist Frank Strazzeri, saxophonist Bill Perkins, and guitarist Al Viola at a local pizza joint. Halfway through their set the power went out on Orange Street, silencing Frank's electric piano. Candles were lit at the tables, and then Perk and Al played an absolutely gorgeous acoustic duo set. They had us in the metaphorical palm of their hand by the time the power returned twenty minutes later. That evening has been an enduring reminder of how deeply music can communicate and touch hearts. I miss Simon, Perk, and Stacy very much and think of them often.

Through some connections I'm still unclear about, when I was twenty-five I was approached by a publisher to write what was supposed to be one volume of a seven-part series on jazz history. The focus for my contribution was to be the 1960s with an emphasis on free jazz. However, the publisher and editors couldn't decide exactly what they wanted from anyone, and over time most of the contracted authors backed out of their deals. After several major shifts of focus on the publisher's part, I submitted the manuscript of Free Jazz and Free Improvisation: An Encyclopedia. While I found the project fascinating, the exorbitant price they set and the odd decision to split it into two volumes led to very sluggish sales. Twenty years after it hit the market, I doubt the first print run has sold out.

A similar fate befell my second book, I Know What I Know: The Music of Charles Mingus. Over the course of three years I listened to every single note recorded by Mingus during his career, developing a deep love for his unique canon. Unfortunately, because the editor never dealt with the list of corrections and additions I submitted, it was released with a handful of annoying errors. It also received basically zero promotion. (Over a year after it was published, jazz writer Howard Mandel asked me when it was coming out. Sigh.)

Aside from the sections on 60's jazz and 70's blues in The Billboard Illustrated Encyclopedia of Jazz and Blues -- an opportunity that Howard kindly arranged for me -- that marked the end of my authoring career for now. I did contribute to a number of periodicals and websites over the years: Downbeat, Signal To Noise, Cadence, Route 66 Magazine, Uncle Jam, Inland Empire Weekly, All About Jazz, and Jazz.com. I extend my deepest appreciation to Howard, Jason Koransky, Ted Gioia, Michael Ricci, Phil Yeh, and the others who have helped further my writing career.

At this point in my life, much of my time is devoted to the Los Angeles Kings Sled Hockey program, founded by my family to provide adaptive ice hockey opportunities for physically disabled kids and adults. I have returned to jazz composing and arranging for my own enjoyment and practice; maybe I'll find an outlet for that in time. I'm also honored to be a member of the Jazz Journalists Association Book Awards Committee, annually evaluating jazz-oriented books published worldwide.

I'm not entirely sure what I plan to do with this space, but I feel the need for another creative outlet in my life. I welcome and appreciate anyone who drops in to check out my musings. Thank you for your time and kindness.