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Ove Michaelsen Bio 
"Instead of that 'magic carpet ride,' I sat in a tragic tar pit, fried." http://s2.toopine.com/goodhealth.htm
From a bogus third person:
Better known as a writer (articles and three books on wordplay, and three to go)
(Never Odd or Even: Palindromes, Anagrams & Other Tricks Words Can Do (Limited
Edition, 2005-06).
He's also an inactive illustrator-cartoonist.
O.V. has traveled to the four corners of the U.S., performing where he could.
One of the
highlights of his years on the road was a gig at the Bitter End--his first
stop in New York.
Studio work included sessions for songwriters and with SUZY FISCHER, FEATURING THE DINOSAURS.
Artwork by Marin Fischer (his upper half):
http://www.mesart.com/artworks.jsp.que.serUs.eq.749.amp.artist.eq.645.shtml
Hear some of his Bob Dylan Covers at
http://www.isound.com/ove_ofteness_bob_dylan_interpreted
Watch and hear his "Limerdittyvidi" by "Celetus" at
http://homepage.mac.com/celetus/iMovieTheater98.html
He's played in seven styles: Travis-picking, bluegrass, country, folk, pop,
rock, and blues, but
insists, "I'm not a blues *player*--I humbly leave that style to the specialists."
In 1973, he formed his first band--a trio, which sounded like Crosby,
Stills and Cash. (About his
bass voice: "I was born during a helium shortage.")
All the band members, in the Vague Impressions, played guitar, but their strong point was three-part vocal harmony. Ten years later, he assembled another acoustic threesome, but switched from contemporary folk and rock to a bluegrass and country sound. Members of the second band (posthumously called "The Floor") were Michael ("Barney") Pilgrim on violin AND fiddle with Ron Huggins on lead Spanish guitar. (Ron gave up lead for pedal steel and plays in a country and Western swing group called the Desert Moon Band.) Barney has played with the Red Clay Ramblers, Rebecca and the Hi-Tones, and other artists. The style of the second trio had a hint of Hoyt Axton and a Tex-Mex flavor, with a touch of bluegrass. Oddly, this band isn't mentioned in neither Ron's nor Barney's resumes/bios.
Ove once mentioned having two personalities. One's an author/lyricist/poet (in the loosest sense of the word), and the other is an illustrator, musician, and composer. He'd wake up with verses on his kitchen table by his other identity, and then put them to music, or vice versa. His personalities haven't met. One day his author side emerged as an autobiographer, and began writing the story of the mysterious trio. We're awaiting the results: a made-for-TV movie on Fox.
In recent years, he's been playing solo, but seldom publically. Why he took
that turn is anyone's
guess, but if you ask ME, which you didn't, I suspect that it was because of
some scathing reviews
of his work. Examples (possibly from his own pen, under various noms de plume,
such as "The Grim
Rapper"):
"He's been known to outnumber an entire audience."
"His talent is unlimitless."
"He's living proof that the stage is where a performer can attend his own funeral."
"The greatest thing since white bread."
"He HAS no following--just hostages and refugees."
"A dead ringer for George Clooney, minus the body and face."
"Vocal by Philip Morris."
But seriously, over a lifetime he has earned tens of fans and hundreds of dollars.
--Maggie Farmer
NOT AVAILABLE IN STORES
I did the first tune here under pressure. With laryngitis, I was forced to play an instrumental solo, which I seldom did. Caffeine came in handy for the occasion. The female voice in the intro was that of "Pinky Wyoming" (of " Rebecca and the Hi-Tones"), who tried to sabotage my bit a little with cheap shots at my foreign-sounding name. (I'm not Ron Howard's character on "The Andy Griffith Show.")
"An Oxymoron Song" contains at least ten examples. That song has no melody.
The third track, "The Alco-Hall of Fame," was the closing song of the final show for the last band I was in, recorded at La Val's Subterranean in Berkeley, California. The band members are mentioned above. The fiddler and guitarist were on a roll that night, considering their painless condition. I enjoyed being the singing and strumming sideman on that tune, with the best seat in the house.
Thanks to Dave Morice for suggestions regarding "Good
Healthy Smoke." My
brother, Tore, provided
the subtitle for that song.
http://www.toreofteness.com/docs/salon.html
That "tune" was the result of my aim to write a ditty that's exactly
one minute long.
_
NOT AVAILABLE IN STORES (TENS OF FANS CAN'T BE WRONG)
I should have written another verse to my Johnny Cash parody--maybe it will come to me.
The second track is about the plight of being melanin deficient. God help us. :(
To quote Dave Van Ronk, "All my life I've wanted to play in the worst way--and I succeeded".
The third tune on here was the finishing song of the final show with my last
band, the members of
whom are mentioned above. It was at LaVal's Subterranean in Berkeley, California.
To my ear, our
band wasn't bad that night, considering our painless condition.
_
I wrote nearly all my earliest songs around melodies, rather than lyrics.
Those tunes tended to be
emotional exposes (ex-poz-ays), but not necessarily autobiographical. Over
time I've learned to
avoid sticking my naked neck out on the chopping block. Too many hear sentiment
as mere sap. So BE
it. It's not in my best intereset to be an exhibitionist.
_
A semi-recent poem:
A CAST-OFF IN THROWAWAYS
A pair of Reeboks from a freebox
In a pile of throwaways,
His blue jeans are not NEW jeans,
And his shirt and socks are smudged and frayed.
He carries his wealth in a makeshift bed.
Misfortune has always found him.
His home is where he lays his head,
As life goes on around him.
Just how he gets from day to day
Defies my comprehension.
Some say he should be sent away
And treated in detention.
A weathered face and a broken mind,
A shell amidst the "sanity,"
From a nether place, he joins the line,
In the hope of some humanity.
_
Lyrics to one of my most recent songs (if someone comes up
with a GOOD melody for this, I'd like
to hear it):
SQUEEZED
From the dirtiest poor to the filthiest rich,
It's the same gritty ground from the hill to the ditch.
A drain on their ethics, they squeeze to get by,
While the few make a killing, the rest are squeezed 'til they're dry.
Forced into aggression, or they're crushed to the bones,
Trapped in by traffic, squeezed out of homes.
Picked in the pocket, or pinched in the purse,
And they pay / (un)til the day / of that ride in the hearse.
Pressured till it seems they're left with empty despair,
And yet they somehow get by, as if surviving on air.
The most they can hope for is the best they can do,
In the struggle to survive, they just exist to get through.
Some have given up reason, or the hope to get by.
People think it's of their will / to be drained till they're dry.
For the dirtiest poor, and the filthiest rich,
It's the same gritty world from the hill to the ditch.
The needy and the greedy sharing one common ground:
In the end, the field is level--we'll be ONE where we're bound.
I bought a guitar from TV,
On HSN? QVC?
When I pounded a barred chord,
It sounded like cardboard.
Now no one will take it for free.
_
A "musician" quite distant and guarded,
Was 40, but often was carded.
Assumed a beginner,
That open mic winner
Was found to be merely guitarded.
_
A performer left me unimpressed,
Outdone by his less renowned guest.
I was drawn by the name
And the media's claim,
Assuming that famous is best.
_
He went to a "hoot" night to play,
But their fee was just too much to pay.
He explained at the door
That most folkies are poor,
Then Jack Elliott went on his way.
_
I paid their affordable fees,
But the band couldn't handle my keys.
Refusing to play
In B flat or in A,
It was mutiny on the high Cs.
(Thanks to Hedda Hopper for the final line of that one.)
_You wanted my thoughts about rap.
With a wide age and cultural gap,
It wouldn't be fair
If I dare to declare
What I think of that juvenile crap.
(I wrote the music for a rap album this morning, and finished it before the toast popped.)
_
It's amazing that so many people who lack a talent become lecturers to those
who possess a little
of it on why they should create or perform.
This is based on what I recall of a dialogue I had at a Berkeley pub one night
(the name of which
will remain The Starry Plough) before playing at their open mic.
(Never again have I performed on talent nights or in taverns.)
Man on a bar stool: "You should be into your art for the JOY of it."
Well, of course, on the most part.
"If you're dreaming about the remote possibility of earning a living
at music, your heart's in the
wrong place."
Ah, you're a player.
"No, I run a studio and package CDs for artists. Would you like to lay down some tracks?"
Great! :D I'll record an album's worth and you'll distribute the discs free.
Love it! Thank you
for putting that spark back! There IS hope! You're a pal. :)
"Free? No, we charge 150 an hour. The CDs, inserts and distribution would run you..."
Well, I don't plan on robbing Brinks any time soon, but thanks for your interest
(and the memory).
_
There was a time when I'd have loved the option of being overproduced, but
these days I'm grateful
for having missed the pitfalls of fame, as if that's been a distant possibility.
If it had happened, it wouldn't have been worth the trade-offs. Invisibility
has its advantages,
and missing that golden opportunity of the spotlight (which I once craved and
yet had an aversion
to) might have saved my hide.
_
I thought I'd dress up for a gig,
And plug in some thingumajig.
The guitar sounded awful.
My clothes were unlawful.
Tight pants made my head look too big.
_
Promotion can work like a miracle.
With a beat, the worst words can seem lyrical.
When the talent's an act
And the hype is well-backed,
Do you think that it might be satirical?
_
With the voice of a young Vaughn Monroe,
And the longevity of Don Ho,
The clout and big teeth
Of the mouth Toby Keith,
No crowd on this earth could say "No."
_
As I took the stage, one dude yahooed,
Then the crowd only booed and threw food.
I was soon marred and tethered,
And then tarred and feathered,
And left the place nude and tattooed.
_
Composing for thirty-eight years,
Pitching songs to the wrong kinds of ears,
You lose your composure,
Then die of exposure,
Forgotten with most of your peers.
_
A lifetime in art left him thin.
Rich in song from the places he's been,
Refusing to mop,
He was forced to play pop,
But a sell-out? He's yet to sell IN.
_
Trying to break into the music world can leave you as frustrated as a blind peeping tom.
When I HAD that unhealthful drive to "succeed" in that arena, I thanked everyone who had helped me through those years for ensuring that the number of names on my list of credits be kept to a bare minimum.
_
A busker they call "Baby Gramps"
Is not among beggars or tramps.
A pleasure to hear,
He will tickle your ear
Till his playing gives him minstrel cramps.
_
ON A HILTON CD
We used to associate "heiress"
With some class, not the one known as Paris.
We're tipping that balance,
Consumed by no-talents.
If only they'd bring back Chuck Barris.
_
You must join the club to belong.
If you don't want it all, something's wrong.
One purpose, one plan--
Consume all you can.
It's a hit, so keep singing that song. :/
_
The Net can be great for promotion,
Where users can get a false notion
By an alias Web-host--
A faux fan-celeb post:
"I can't get enough" (self-devotion).
_
Invalid! It isn't a "hit."
Not selling? Then why won't you quit?
They're trained to accept
What's inane and inept
And your sound simply doesn't quite fit.
_
A performer left me unimpressed,
Outdone by his less renowned guest.
I was drawn by the name
And the media's claim,
Assuming that famous is best.
_
Low key means unseen by the press.
You're not news till your life is a mess.
A little humility
Pressed by futility,
Trading a life for "success."
_
Well known, but not known very well,
We think by their work, we can tell
What their innermost thoughts are.
I know of one rock star--
The icon turned human and fell.
_
Reporters and cameras take aim.
If they're well known, they call it fair game.
Let the public decide
If they can or can't hide.
The prices they pay for their fame.
Anagram: Celebrity status = Security battles
_
"Success sometimes can really bite you in the shorts." --Donny Osmond.
_
Anagram: Celebrity status = Security battles
_
"A Case Against Fame":
http://www.michaelcooney.com/MC1P012.html
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