Grant Dawson Music Official site of Twin Cities singer, songwriter, piano player Grant Dawson.

In the spirit of the season, “He is Risen, he is risen indeed.” Is it bad to make weak jokes at Jesus’ expense? I hope not.

But it’s true — I’m back after another long break. I wish I was a better blogger, but I get distracted by my day-to-days. And isn’t that the truth for most of us? We all have ambitions, hopes beyond our current circumstance, but most of us just muddle along in the middle. I have been doing quite a bit of muddling lately. That and playing a ton of broomball.

It’s true. It feels a little like a confession to admit that I have another hobby beyond music, but I do. And it has been the dominant activity these last few months. It’s even (gasp!) affected my piano practicing. I have, however, had an enjoyable few months. The State Tournament (we won!), the National Tournament (we..uh… didn’t win), and now, this coming weekend, a charmingly named tournament called The Stinky Trash Can Tournament. But then that’s it. The season will be over and I’ll be back to music.

Speaking of music, I noticed an interesting thing the other day when surfing YouTube. YouTube automatically fills in suggestions as you type in letters in the search function and so, just for kicks, I typed in each of the letters of the alphabet to see what the first suggestion for each letter is. Turns out, 23 of the 26 letters automatically suggest either a song title or an artist. A is Adele, B is Beyonce, etc. I think that’s an interesting reinforcing example of the power of music in our society. People gravitate to music. It’s in us to be musical, either by playing or listening. I like that.

Spent some time in the studio a few weeks ago, and if I could figure out how to do it, I’d post a scratch-track or two on my website. I need a nerd to show me how.

Later.
–Grant Dawson

Sure, I haven’t blogged in a little over two months. Sure, my facebook status updates have been few and far between. But give me a break, I’m working on a new album for heaven’s sake.

Wait, was I supposed to say that? Looks like the cat is out of the bag.

Most of the arrangements are done. Now its time to get in the studio and get to work. Just have to decide where I’m going to record it.

If you’re interested in hearing me play, you can head out to my favorite West-Metro venue, the Dunn Bros. Coffeehouse in Excelsior, MN this Saturday night at 8pm. I’ll be playing all sorts of fun stuff, including all of the tracks that will eventually make up album number two.

That’s all for now, but I promise I’ll be back in less than two months.

–Grant Dawson

Popped down to the AQ in St. Paul on Sunday night to catch Butch Thompson and Spider John Koerner for 10 dollars. It was strange, to say the least.

To wit:
The concert started late (not a fan).

The performers had no stage chemistry (Keorner seemed disagreeable, and Butch seemed uncomfortable).

There was too much Keorner and too litte Butch (Butch is still unparalleled at solo stride piano, Keorner seems sickly and was flat singing on a number of tunes — and yet Keorner dominated the set-list).

And sadly, a woman collapsed right next to me from an apparent heart attack. The ambulance was slow to arrive, and as her condition deteriorated she began to vomit. This was altogether unpleasant (obviously not as unpleasant for me as it was for her). I do genuinely hope she’s OK. She seemed stable when they carted her out on the stretcher.

So — that was my Sunday night.

–Grant Dawson

She probably never stood a chance. Small, undernourished, cold, dehydrated, full of worms, fleas, ear mites and who knows what else, she came into our lives last Sunday afternoon. She was olive in color, with darker brown stripes on her sides and a golden belly. Even in her awful state, she was a pretty kitten.

We did what we could. From Sunday afternoon through Wednesday morning she alternated being in the expert care of veterinarians and veterinary technicians at the Feist VCA hospital and in the less-than-expert, but very committed care of my wife and I. We warmed her up, we pushed fluids through her, we fed her every hour on the hour, even through the night. The veterinary staff gave her deworming medication, checked her temperature, and generally doted on her.

For awhile she rallied. Everyone was surprised. Dr. Harcourt, her veterinarian, said she was impressed by Emma’s fighting spirit. We hoped for the best.

She turned for the worst. On Tuesday, my wife and I picked her up from the clinic and brought her home. Her internal body temperature had begun to drop again. We kept pushing fluids and food. Her interest in eating and drinking began to wane.

Finally at midnight we went to sleep. I set my alarm for 4am. When I got to her pen at 4:15 on Wednesday morning she was collapsed on her side and barely breathing. Her strength was gone.

I tried to warm her on a heating pad and filled a water-syringe. I gave her drops of water on her tongue which she struggled to swallow. She couldn’t raise her head, so I had to prop her up to get her in position to drink. Mostly, the water simply flowed out of the side of her mouth.

At 5:15 I woke my wife and brought her down to visit Emma. We placed Emma in my wife’s lap and we tried one more time to administer some fluids to her. She couldn’t handle them. Her eyes glassed over. I placed my hand on her chest and felt her very weak heartbeat. And then I didn’t feel it.

We have another cat, Barabbas. He’s a big, healthy tomcat full of energy. We always kept him separate from Emma, for fear he might contract one of the many ailments she had. We’re not worried for his health. He loves to eat. He loves to drink from the bathtub faucet. He loves all activity: hide and seek, exploring our front porch, chasing me around the house, but maybe most of all he loves hunting after the laser stylus’ beam. He has spent countless hours chasing a point of light he’ll never catch and he has loved every minute of it.

I wrapped Emma up in towels and placed her in a shoe box. My wife and I will bury her this evening. Darling little Emma was never healthy enough to experience the joys of Barabbas’ spoiled, domestic life. She didn’t get her chance at the laser. Hers was a short life of misery. Selfishly, I hope there is a wonderful cat heaven, full of toys and food and a porch to explore. Practically, I know there isn’t. But tonight, when I lay her in the ground, I will make sure that her eyes are looking skyward, so that every evening she will be surrounded by the stars — a billion points of light that she can chase and never catch.

EDDY.

Two nights ago my wife and I were on a hike in our neighborhood when we came upon a woman fretting on the sidewalk. We asked her what was the matter and she explained that her neighbor’s cat had climbed a tree in her yard and was now unable to get down. She pointed to a giant tree next to us. We looked up and there, 30-feet in the air, was a tiny, black cat hugging a branch. We discussed our options. Call the fire department? Do they even still do that for people? Would they charge the cat’s owner? What if we stretched out a blanket under the tree? Would the cat jump? The cat certainly didn’t look interested in jumping. Why can’t cats climb down trees? Grant, could you climb the tree? What? Could you climb the tree? Excuse me? I think you could climb the tree. I could probably climb the tree. Do you have a step ladder, ma’am? Yes, I’ll be right back.

And so it was that moments later I myself was 30-feet in the air, coaxing the small fur-ball into a backpack so I could descend the tree safely. He was a friendly cat. His name is Eddy. He purred in delight when he was finally returned to the Earth.

Wife and I continued down the road.

RENO.

I used to live in Reno, NV. It’s a rightfully iconic town — gambling halls, a rich, tobacco-and-blood-stained history, hilariously parodied in a comedy television show, a shout-out in Johnny Cash’s most famous tune. I’m sure that for those who only visit, it still appears as more a den of vice than virtue.

But here’s the funny thing about Reno. If you live there, even only for a while, you’re granted permission to look behind the veil of neon lights and poker chips. You get an all-access pass to the real Reno: a smallish city that feels like a small town. You meet honest, no-nonsense people, you find the amazing local restaurants (the Stone House Cafe for breakfast, the 4th Street Bistro for dinner), you get to see that in spite of its somewhat sordid national reputation, Reno is actually a wonderful American town. At least that’s how it happened for me.

So I’ve been sad these past two weeks, reading first about the shooting of the National Guardsmen and then the horrific air-show disaster. This is not the Reno that the world should know. My hope is that they can heal, and in their healing display the resolve and spirit that I experienced while I was there. They are more than their reputation. They are bigger than these tragedies. They are Reno, The Biggest Little City In the World.