Reggae Love in Rexburg

November 11, 2010

Sammie's. 8-10pm Its going to Melt your face.


http://rexburgraisetheroof.blogspot.com/

Jack o Lanterns, goblin masks, and powdered wigs.

In Crescent City Fla, mid- 18th-century clothing specialist stitched more than three dozen  regimental coats this year, where as in a normal year six will do, says the Wall Street Journal. He has also placed an order for 300 cocked hats which is normally only an order of 72. 

With the Glenn Beck rally "Restoring Honor" in Washington, and all the libertarian and Tea Party movements going about, powdered wigs are finally back in fad- as well round spectacles, classy knee-high knickerbockers, and everything that goes along with them! 

So why not kill two stones with one bird this year and throw a little protest in with your apostate pagan rituals? Go for it. You know you want to. George Washington for halloween.

Just click right here for your new knickerbockers, and bring back the wooden teeth!

Jaima Itzae Barajas Pena

The hot sun filled the world outside the bus and seeped in through the window giving light to the youthful eyes of Jaima Itzae Barajas Pena. His white, short-sleeved shirt folded across his body as he read from a good book. He was dressed in the same way as those boys that came to his home for the first time 4 years ago. All he was missing was a name-tag. The weather was different on that day.

 Rain poured down, splattering against the windows. Young Barajas lounged inside his house, enjoying his soft carpet, and the couches of white and lime green, colors characteristic of Mexico City, Mexico. He was 13 then. 

He heard commotion at the door, and soon two young men entered, water dripping down their smiling faces and from their shirts and onto the floor, wetting the carpet. His father brought out two white polos and insisted that they wear them, they declined but his father insisted more. They put them on, over their wet clothing, one of them fumbling to put his name tag on over the polo. Strange these hermanos are, thought Barajas. 

They announced that they were missionaries of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Mom had said that the family needed more spiritual guidance- dad brought back the Mormons. 

They showed pictures of people his family had never seen and “began preaching about prophets of God.”

His mothers needle work hung on the wall.

Barajas was different then, certainly, but still, not so different as he would like. 

A few weeks ago he and his friend had been sitting practicing lines for the upcoming play. They were dressed in simple slacks and polos, cutomary dress code for their all-LDS school. Graduation was coming up and that included graduation from seminary. 

"Are you going to graduate?" his friend asked.

"Uh, of course not, I haven’t done anything" responded Barajas.

And then his friend came out with it- I like you, amigo, but with you I will not progress spiritually. 

“And then it hit me," relates Brajas. His friend then challenged him to read the Book of Mormon, and told him of its importance. 

He had been baptized for four or five years now, and had still not succeeded in reading it all the way through. Light came in and illuminated the pages of the Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ. The people around him sang :

Called to serve Him, heav'nly King of glory,

Chosen e'er to witness for his name,

Far and wide we tell the Father's story,

Far and wide his love proclaim.

Barajas had started reading the Book of Mormon ever since that conversation with hiw friend. Now he was on his way to teach a nearby town. He was a missionary for a week, as part of the missionary program for his school. His companion was by his side. They had now been asked to read 3 Nephi 11, and to underline this part, giving it to the investigators to read. He refocused on the reading. He desired to know that it was true.

Artwork by Walter Rane

 8 And it came to pass, as they understood they cast their eyes up again towards heaven; and behold, they saw a Man descending out of heaven; and he was clothed in a white robe; and he came down and stood in the midst of them; and the eyes of the whole multitude were turned upon him, and they durst not open their mouths, even one to another, and wist not what it meant, for they thought it was an angel that had appeared unto them.

9 And it came to pass that he stretched forth his hand and spake unto the people, saying:

10 Behold, I am Jesus Christ, whom the prophets testified shall come into the world.

11 And behold, I am the alight and the life of the world; and I have drunk out of that bitter cup which the Father hath given me, and have glorified the Father in taking upon me the sins of the world, in the which I have suffered the will of the Father in all things from the beginning.

“When I read the Book of Mormon I didn’t really understand, but that day I did understand what it was saying and I imagined that scene in my mind. of the savior coming to the america and talking to the Nephites,” remembers Barajas, “I love that part... I decided to be spiritually strong. If you read the boo of mormon you will be strong. I didn’t do that until he told me.”

Barajas now attends BYU-I. Has been living in the United States for a little over a month now, and just finished his mission in Mexico. He is an example of the power of true friendships. We call him James.

Eric Bibb

To say it simply the Eric Bibb show was the realization of dreams. He entered the stage and took his natural place behind the old microphone. The stage aged as his soul caught up with him and all things around him became antiques. He wore a purple v-neck up top and some brown suede pants down below, a simple bracelet around his wrist, and a single stud in his left ear. He cradled his guitar like a baby; you could tell he loved it. A flat-brimmed cowboy hat capped him off, and framed his steady eyes. His mouth began to open and an easy, gritty voice came forth, speaking hefty words of rhymes and tales of days today does not know.

Bibb came to town this Friday to a half full auditorium, to move the soul by his perform and song- some of the new, some of the old. Blues Folk are not words you hear often together and are even more seldomly heard apart these days, especially on your average college campus, but when struck just right they make a beautiful tune that pleases the right ears.

Born in New York to Leon Bibb, he grew up with many great musicians, and shared their love of music. "I would cut school and claim I was sick" said Bibb. "When everyone would leave the house I would whip out all the records and do my own personal DJ thing all day long, playing Odetta, Joan Baez, The New Lost City Ramblers, Josh White." He became caught up in the Folk-Revival in Greenwich Village, and became immersed in the pre-war blues. He says, “The hardest thing to write is a new Blues song that sounds older.”

Bibb fills a gap that is all too prevalent in todays pop culture- a gap that is for the moral, and the aged. His songs speak from an era that is all too important to be forgotten, that is the early 1900’s when folk songs were sung regularly by southern troubadours. From these roots sprung much of our pop music today. In a time when many are calling for reversion to an older or “truer” style of government, perhaps we should also look to the older or “truer” styles of our culture. In man’s appetite for progression, we many times over shoot the mark, trading what is already tried and good, for what is untried and new. There is much to be understood in these poetic tales that Bibb makes audible to the modern ear.

Of older times, he sang. He spoke of the 1927 Mississippi Flood as if he had lived then and seen it with his own eyes.  He sang of the famous Booker White’s Guitar as if it were a sacred heirloom. He reminisced of the days of country blues as if his soul was a part of them, and they a part of his soul. 

His time sadly came, the clock struck, and he bid his dues and tried to leave the stage vacant, but he could not ignore the roaring applause and shouts for an encore, and promptly returned to bless us with a gospel spiritual. 

If Tommy Johnson sold his soul to the Devil, Eric Bibb sold his to the Lord, because the Devil never made anything sound so good. 

 Bibb entered to an applause and left after a demanded encore to a standing ovation.



(Click on the "sang" and "Booker White's Guitar" links to melt your face.)

Change?

What is the direction of our society? Where are we going? What are our goals? World Peace?

Is the government doing what it should? What is it doing poorly? Is the fault in the Constitution, the Politicians, or in the general masses? What should it do ideally? When did it cease to do this, if ever? Was it better back in the good old days? If yes, what was soo good about George Washington and his wooden teeth?

Maybe this will have some insight on the latter.

I noted the RV's across the gas station parking lot (I dare not call them campers). Their insides heavily burdened with trivial miscellany. They rob their owners of more worth while pursuits and they squat on their property when not being used. Slavery, I thought to myself as I removed my shoes for a looser pair of sandals. 

We made the long drive back to Rexburg.

Here's some samples of competitive sports photography.

Maxine Rose Marshall (Day 24)

... rose comes from like a great aunt or something,

 died form breast cancer...

... ok, my happiest time with my family is

 probably on easter because we always have a big easter egg fight...

...when was the best year?...

-when we had the missionaries with us (laughs)...

...I got to videotape the missionaries engaging in that activity and they told me not to post it on facebook...

-Do you have those tapes?

-I do, yeah.

-Where are they?

Easter weekend. The blanket of gray clouds above hold back the sunlight, as the wind rushes along the Californian shore below. The Marshall family packs up their camp and heads inland to enjoy Eastern dinner with their friends. They pull up to to an older house, different from the others. Its walls are rounded adobe on the inside, and each of its doors has a different glass knob.  Warm greetings are exchanged, I'm sure, as they sit down to dinner. 

Meatloaf and mushy potatoes are served alongside over-cooked carrots,

I added to much butter, says the humble mother chef.

The Elders are there; their shiny black badges and pristine white shirts unharmed and untouched by the world. They are asked if they have any plans for later; they don't so they are invited to stay for the "easter egg thing" going on later. They stay. They keep their shoes on.

After dinner the smell of the meatloaf and carrots lingered and mingled with the retched scent of mixed fruit and aroma-therapy.

Father Marshall saunters over and places himself behind the coach. The hoard of ownerless children divides as they and their pajamaed legs scurry to different corners of the house. The voices stop all across the house. Its about to begin.

"Its hard to remember details," relates Maxine Marshall, "Its a really old house... squeaky wooden floors..."

And then the great exchange of brilliant, multi-colored easter eggs begins. Eggs, flying through the air, in a mad volley across the open air space. Yellow ones full of prunes crack against the walls. Red eggs stuffed with dead bugs shatter across the floor. The fight is brutal. The vicious children take full advantage of the fact that they can hurt their parents, and the parents don't hold back on the children, but all agree: the missionaries are the worst of all. One unlucky soldier attempts a sock slide across the floor dealing out eggs rapid fire against his mother, but it is folly as he slips out and his mom ends up on top of him on the ground, beating him up and down. War cries echo through the chambers as the girls flee to distant rooms. Mayhem is rife. 

Maxine grabs the camera, sick of the boys throwing too hard, and positions herself at a crossroads where she can see all entrances, and starts to film. She declares herself a neutral journalist but nobody coming around the corners waits for her to shout neutrality as they pummel her with eggs. Its dark outside 

The last eggs are thrown, some hit their target, others miss, they all find their way shattered on the floor, an honorable sacrifice of another easter tradition well kept. Large, long-lasting welts will be the reminder of this Easter, it is decided, as the two families and the missionaries sit down on the coach, sweaty from the household civil war. A movie starts. It might be Shrek. It plays.