Jack Korbel

Spring 2012 Tour Blog

admin — Fri, 16 Mar 2012 01:57:57 +0000

Tuesday, April 03, 2012

The beginning of this tour has been challenging. My thumb that I sprained last week is improved, but it’s still stiff and sore. I struggle with mild pain and discomfort when I perform, and I have to simplify some of my guitar parts. To complicate matters, this morning I experienced difficulty speaking (let alone singing) due to allergies. But in the spirit of Dead Poets Society, I’m undaunted. “I sound my barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world”, even if it sounds like a strangled goose. The show must go on. If you’re the praying kind, please toss up a few prayers for me.

Me, an eager pupil, at the feet of Bill Mallonee, a wise, songwriting veteran. Photo by Scott Spradlin.

Last Friday, I had the honor of serving as opening act for singer/songwriter Bill Mallonee, formerly of the band Vigilantes of Love, when he performed at The Ladder in Wichita, KS. Mr. Mallonee was personable and engaging when I met him before the show—a trait not always found in veteran performers. Bill gave me golden advice and a great perspective concerning the music industry. He referred to partnering with a record label (in the 1990’s) as “indentured servitude”. Even though music critics continually lavish Mallonee with praise, commercial success mostly eludes him. And at fifty-seven-years-old, he books his own concerts and travels in a Scion XB. For the last eight to ten years, Mallonee said he’s lived below the poverty line. Yet, he’s making a living writing and performing songs, which inspires me. “You don’t need anyone’s permission to make art,” he told me. I will count myself lucky and blessed if I can achieve all that Bill Mallonee has achieved with his musical career. As he sings,

Burn out like a sunset

O’er high deserts out west

Burn out with every colour

Leaping from your breast

And go to sleep with the angels

Sleep with the secrets they tell

Burn out like an old star

…and collapse on yourself

Bill graciously traded me one of his CD’s, “The Power & The Glory”, for my CD, “So Much Depends on the Weather”. I’m listening to Bill’s CD as I type these lines, sitting in Monon Coffee Company in Indianapolis, IN, waiting to perform this evening. “The Power & The Glory” may well become the soundtrack of my tour of the Midwest.

Here’s one of my favorite Bill Mallonee tunes, “Skin” (it’s about Vincent Van Gogh):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vy15OXC1uls

Listening to Bill Mallonee talk about the irrepressibility of the artistic impulse in true artists such as Van Gogh reminded me of a poem by my friend, John Estes. In his poem “My son, two, who wakes in our bed and screams in terror if we’re not there because he thinks we have betrayed and/or abandoned him”, Estes writes,

I wonder (or possibly dream) if Van Gogh faced

This same dreadful pause […]

Each time a new self-portrait

Imagined itself, begged to be attempted,

Prodding him, in the goading sense,

To resist the warmth of the work’s opposite,

That emerald quiver at the margin

Of a chasm

Of an oblivion ceaselessly beckoning, drawing

A man back to fall into it and rest.

He must get up, he must get up

And paint it before it engulfs him.

To learn more about John Estes and his poetry, visit his website:

http://www.johnestes.org/

I want to express my gratitude to Erin Doom of Eighth Day institute for asking me to open for Bill Mallonee, and to Amy and Andy for their hospitality, and for showing me around St. Louis on Sunday.

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

My spring 2012 tour began Thursday, March 22^nd in Newton, KS at Prairie Harvest Deli. The attentive and appreciative audience made performing extremely pleasurable. Many of the folks in attendance were old enough to remember President John F. Kennedy in office, so my song “The Stain” (about Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis) resonated with them. Friday night, my cousin Joshua Sturgill and Ellen Johnson joined me in Overland Park, KS to perform at Homer’s Coffee House. Joshua and I played at Homer’s many times over the past two years, but Friday was the first time Ellen joined us on alto flute. I always have a fantastic time performing with my two band mates. Sunday night, Ellen and I played at Henry’s Upstairs in Lawrence, KS. Earlier that evening, The University of Kansas basketball team won a game that usherd them into the Final Four Tournament. I could hear cheering eight blocks away from Massachusetts St., Lawrence’s center for pubs, restaurants, and coffee houses. The intersection of Eighth St. and Massachusetts St. became the epicenter of revelry, as students blocked traffic, upholding Lawrence’s reputation of free-spiritedness. Singer/banjo player Caleb Sawin shared the stage with us, performing between our two sets. As usual, Caleb’s blend of Americana spirituals, bluegrass, and original compositions won the crowd’s approval.

For the past three days, I’ve enjoyed the hospitality of my friend Anthony Case, bass guitarist for one of my favorite regional bands, Wrong Kata Trio. To sample some of their jazz/funk/groove/ambient tunes, visit their Facebook/ReverbNation page:

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Wrong-Kata-Trio/149422781749197?sk=app_2405167945

While participating in Café Cedar’s Tuesday night open mic, in Parkville, MO, I was happy to hear host Brian Ruskin perform. Brian is one of Kansas City’s hidden musical treasures. You can listen to Brian leading The Ruskin Quartet here:

http://www.myspace.com/ruskinquartet

Because Brian and I know each other from another open mic he hosted, he graciously featured me as a “very special guest” with the choicest time slot.

Shortly before the open mic began, I sprained my thumb while checking the oil in my car. It’s a mild sprain, but I don’t have full range of motion. I made it through the gig, but playing my guitar was a constant struggle. I’m praying for full recovery before Friday night’s show in Wichita.

KU students celebrate on Massachusetts St.

Hello world!

admin — Mon, 01 Aug 2011 20:50:14 +0000

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Photos

admin — Mon, 01 Aug 2011 19:56:37 +0000

Shows (Scroll down for more shows)

admin — Mon, 01 Aug 2011 19:45:42 +0000

SPRING 2012 TOUR

_____________________________________

St. Patrick’s Day

Saturday, March 17th, 2012

The Ladder: 2828 E. Douglas, Wichita, KS

(next door to Eighth Day Books, behind Hannah Banana)

7:00 pm

With special guests Elliot Road. Featuring John Beasley, Ellen Johnson, Joshua Sturgill, and Randy Zellers.

http://www.eighthdayinstitute.com/the_Ladder.html

__________________________________________

Thursday, March 22nd, 2012

Prairie Harvest : 601 N. Main St., Newton, KS

6:00-8:00 pm

Admission is free; tips are greatly appreciated.

http://www.prairieharvestnewton.com/

___________________________________________

Friday, March 23rd, 2012

Homer’s Coffee House: 7126 W. 80th St., Overland Park, KS

7:30 pm

Admission is free; tips are greatly appreciated.

Shared billing with Michael Hillboldt.

http://www.homerscoffeehouse.com/

___________________________________________

Sunday, March 25th, 2012

Henry’s Upstairs

11 E. Eighth St., Lawrence, KS

8:30 pm

Admission is free; tips are greatly appreciated.

With special guest Caleb Sawin.

http://www.lawrence.com/places/henrys_on_eighth/

___________________________________________

Tuesday, March 27th, 2012

OPEN MIC.

Cafe Cedar: 2 E. 2nd Street, Parkville, MO

6:30-9:30 pm

This event is an open mic night, and therefore subject to change. Please check back often.

http://www.cafecedar.com/Parkville.html

________________________________________________

Wednesday, March 28st, 2012

OPEN MIC.

The Jazzhaus: 926 & 1/2 Massachusetts St., Lawrence, KS

10:00 pm

Admission is $ 2.00

This event is an open mic, and therefore subject to change. Please check back often.

http://www.jazzhaus.com/

_____________________________________________

Friday, March 30, 2012

Opening for Bill Mallonee

The Ladder: 2828 E. Douglas, Wichita, KS

(next door to Eighth Day Books, behind Hannah Banana)

7:00 pm

Admisson is $12.00 Purchase tickets at the link bellow:

http://www.eighthdayinstitute.com/Mallonee_Tickets.html

__________________________________________

Sunday, April 1st, 2012

Adam Brothers Music & Coffee: 110 S. 2nd St., Greenville, IL

7:00-8:30 pm

Admission is free; tips are greatly appreciated.

http://www.adambroscoffeehouse.com

___________________________________________

Tuesday, April 3rd, 2012

Monon Coffee Company: 920 E. Westfield Blvd.

5:00-8:00 pm

Admission is free; tips are greatly appreciated.

http://mononcoffee.com

____________________________________________

Wednesday, April 4th, 2012

The Earth House Collective: 237 N. East Street, Indianapolis, IN

7:00-9:00 pm

Admission is free; tips are greatly appreciated.

http://www.earthhousecollective.org/

______________________________________________

Friday, April 6th, 2012

Kafe Kerouac: 2250 N. High St., Columbus, Ohio 43201

9:00 pm

Admission is free; tips are greatly appreciated

Featuring Michael White on upright bass.

http://www.kafekerouac.com/pages/index.php?pageId=101

______________________________________________

Saturday, April 14th, 2012

Kidd Coffee (West Chester Store): 6360 Tylersville Rd., Mason, OH

3:00 pm- 5:00 pm

Admission is free; tips are greatly appreciated.

http://kiddcoffee.com/west-chester

_______________________________________________

Thursday, April 19th, 2012

OPEN MIC.

The Winchester Music Hall: 12112 Madison Ave., Lakewood/Cleveland, OH

9:00 pm

This event is an open mic, and therefore subject to change. Please check back often.

http://www.thewinchester.net/openmic.html

_______________________________________________

Saturday, April 21st, 2012

The Root Cafe: 15118 Detroit Ave., Lakewood, OH

8:00 pm

Admission is free; tips are greatly appreciated.

http://theroot-cafe.com/calendar/2012-04

Music

admin — Mon, 01 Aug 2011 19:03:36 +0000

Jack Korbel’s debut album, So Much Depends on the Weather, is now available for digital download.

Lyrics

admin — Wed, 13 Jul 2011 02:19:24 +0000

Sunflowers

‘Twas a most unpleasant business on a gray midwinter’s day,
Digging Mrs. Murphy’s grave in Connemara clay
Fr. Nolen and the mourners through the mud had trudged away
Leaving me and Michael in our soiled Sunday shirts
To lower her down in the hole and cover her with dirtThe light of elfish mischief glowed in Michael’s hazel eyes
He suggested that we open up the coffin one last time:
“Let’s supplement our wages with the gold coins on her eyes.
We’ll take those coins down to the pub, the barmaid we will pay
And with countless rounds of porter drown the sorrows of this day.“Those coins on her eyes should buy rounds for the county;
She’s no longer troubled by earthly concerns.
On the shore where she’s landed, the sun shines so brightly
The sunflowers don’t know which way they should turn.”“Michael, have you lost what little sense you had inside you head?
That gold’s the Coachman’s recompense for shuttling the dead.
Without those coins he’ll leave her soul down in this earthen bed.
She’ll never see Lord Jesus Christ as Resurrected King,
And never with God’s angels will that gorgeous alto sing.”“Sean, you’ve blurred The Church’s teachings with the Irish myths of old;
No Coachman shuttles mortal souls to Heaven’s streets of gold.
The blood that spilled on Calvary’s hill pays ransom for our souls.
But to ease your troubled mind about our newly gotten wealth,
We’ll dedicate each round we buy to Mrs. Murphy’s health.“Those coins on her eyes could buy rounds at O’Kelly’s;
She’s no longer troubled by earthly concerns.
On the shore where she’s landed, the sun shines so brightly
The sunflowers don’t know which way they should turn.”“Sean, whose likeness is stamped on those two golden coins?”
“It’s the likeness of our English king.”
“Do you honestly think they’d admit her to Heaven
Carrying two pictures of that foreign devil?
Give to Caesar what’s Caesar’s; to God what is God’s.
Spend those coins at O’Kelly’s; don’t waste them beneath the sod.”So with the coins on her eyes we bought rounds for the county;
She’s no longer troubled by earthly concerns.
On the shore where she’s landed, the sun shines so brightly
The sunflowers don’t know which way they should turn.

The Lost Sweater

Our captain gave the order: “All ye hands, abandon ship!”
As our fishing vessel sank beneath the North Atlantic Drift
I stripped of my sailing sweater; let it slip beneath the waves
For to swim while wearing wool would make this gray ocean my grave.
My own dear wife handmade for me that lovely woolen sweater
And pledged it to St. Nicholas, The Patron Saint of Sailors
Begging for his intercession “over he who wears this wool.
Pray that angels guard him while at sea and guide him safely home.”.
The sheep from which she sheared the wool, it surely was enchanted
Perhaps it grazed upon the grass of yonder fairylands
For a sinful pride came o’er my wife that never found release
She acts as though that sweater’s made of Jason’s Golden Fleece.
She took such pride in knitting that wool sweater
It surely was a work of art to see
Enamored of the beauty she created
She came to love that sweater more than me.
So perhaps I aught recant my prayer to The Patron Saint of Sailors
Perhaps I aught to praise the Lord for the sea’s tempestuous weather
Perhaps it’s truly better that I drown beneath the foam
For my wife will give me hell should I come home without that sweater.
By an eastward-sailing merchant vessel finally I was found
But before they hauled me up I asked, “Wherever are ye bound?”
When a Yankee sailor said, “We plan to land in Galway Bay.”
I cried, “If that’s the case, I’d much prefer you left me on the waves..
“Lads, I lost my sailing sweater when my ship sank here at sea.
‘Twas a splendid handmade garment that my wife loves more than me.
She’d rather find my bloated corps upon the beach after the storm
Than to see me safe and sound without the magic wool she spun.”.
Their captain said he sympathized completely
He said he’d do the same if he were me
And though I know it truly pained them deeply,
They left me to my fate out on the sea

.
They said, “Perhaps you aught recant your prayer to The Patron Saint of Sailors
Perhaps you aught to praise the Lord for the sea’s tempestuous weather
Perhaps it’s truly better that you drown beneath the foam
For your wife will give me hell should you come home without that sweater.”

.
So perhaps I aught recant my prayer to The Patron Saint of Sailors
Perhaps I aught to praise the Lord for the sea’s tempestuous weather
Perhaps it’s truly better that I drown beneath the foam
For my wife will give me hell should I come home without that sweater

Beal na mBlath

Lyrics partially inspired by Tim Pat Coogan, Seaums Heaney, and Tobias Wolfe

.
Upon its entrance the bullet triggers a synaptic lightning flash
That illuminates a pathway to a childhood summer long since past
The Blossom Gap, The Pass of Flowers, treacherous blooms at Beal na mBlath
Are overshadowed by a memory—the musty hayloft of a barn

.
He crawled over the apple blossoms his sisters strewed across the loft
Their floral carpet concealed the trapdoor that their father had left unlocked
The girls gasped as the floor beneath their younger brother gave way
He was swallowed by the mouth of flowers, down the chute onto a pile of hay

A mild reproach from their father after the boy emerged unscathed:
“Girls, you must look after Michael; he’ll do great work for Ireland someday.”
Several years later, on his deathbed, he’d repeat that prophetic phrase:
“Mark my words: Your brother, Michael, will do great work for Ireland someday.”

But sadly this sweet reverie must come to an end
A fleeting dream evaporates with the August morning dew
But for now, there’s still time to linger in his father’s house
Time enough to linger until the bullet crashes through

.
Then the bullet makes its exit into the West Cork evening air
Dragging its comet’s tail of memory, leaving the hopeful to despair
And a nation drunk on its nostalgia, forever waiting for winter’s thaw
What might have been had Michael Collins emerged a second time from Beal na mBlath

The Stain

Oh, well do I remember that bleak November day
I was stationed as an Airman out at Andrews Air Force Base
I can’t forget the moment you descended from the plane
For you refused to change your skirt so they would see the stain

The woolen suite you wore was pink with matching pillbox hat
You looked like a drift of blossoms on the navy Lincoln’s back
Zapruder’s homemade movie blurs the colors like Monett
But clearly I remember the vivid crimson stain

You were mindful of the photographs the press would surely take
From Parkland to Bethesda, The Oath inside the plane
“They need to see what they have done,” Mrs. Johnson heard you say
So you refused to change your suite so they would see the stain

Oh, The Dallas Times-Herald said it might rain
But the Texas sun beamed down on your motorcade
If only the bulletproof top had remained,
How many lives might have changed for the better?
So much depends on the weather

Then Monday found you wearing black, your children, powder blue
Your son salutes the casket like he sees the soldiers do
Of all the symbols of your grief—the graves eternal flame—
The one that I remember first will always be the stain

The Lower Ninth Ward

O, August Twenty-Ninth of Two-Thousand-Five is our Ruination Day
Damn that Hurricane Katrina; she breached our levee walls
And then washed my poor neighborhood away
And I’m pushin’ all I got in a shopping cart—a few things I managed to save
And I’m tryin’ to get my babies to a modern Noah’s Ark—
The stadium that’s home to The Saints

.
Don’t it figure that The Saints is givin’ comfort to the poor?
Their Superdome’s become our shelter of last resort
Won’t you send down your angels to save us, O Lord?
‘Cause the water’s gettin’ high in the Lower Ninth Ward

.
Well, I don’t know why or how our levees and canals
Couldn’t keep all that water at bay
But St. Bernard, oh, won’t you pray as your parish floats away
That we’d all live to see another day
And I shoulda made a trip across the Mighty Mississip
Steada hangin’ round and waitin’ ‘till today
But my home’s the Mighty Ninth, and it’s a home that’s mighty fine
When a place is home, that’s where you wanna stay

.
So we’re grateful that The Saints is givin’ comfort to the poor
Their Superdome’s become our shelter of last resort
Won’t you send down your angels to save us, O Lord?
‘Cause the water’s gettin’ high in the Lower Ninth Ward

.
When the saints go marching in, oh when the saints go marching in
Lord, how I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
And when the stars refuse to shine, when the stars refuse to shine
Lord, how I want to be in that number
When the stars refuse to shine

Sober as a Judge

Johnny was a Yankee tourist, which was well and good

But he couldn’t hold his liquor like his father could

At Kennedy’s Public he followed his bilss

To say he was tipsy would be remiss

With fourteen pints of Guinness in him, Johnny, he was pissed

So when Johnny cried, “More porter please,” the barmaid said, “You’re done.

O, I’m not tryin’ to be your mamm, but you’ve had too much fun.”

“I’m sober as a judge,” says he, “as any fool can see.

For Guinness Extra Stout is just like mother’s milk to me.”

After fourteen pints of Guinness stout, old Johnny’s speech was slurred

Obscenities began to follow every other word

When he started rattling on about how De Valera had sold us out

A fellow at the bar said he’d better shut his mouth

So when Johnny called, “Another round,” the barmaid said, “Pipe down.

If I served a man as pissed as you, the guards would shut me down.”

“I’m sober as a judge,” says he, “as any fool can see

For Guinness Extra Stout is just like mother’s milk to me.”

Like a prophet to the Israelites, old Johnny began to preach

His thunderous oration to the heavens surely reached

Our priests had made us Irish slaves and dug Parnell an early grave

And God bless Michael Collins, for he gave us our Irish State

So when Johnny cried, “I’m dyin’ o’ thirst,” the barmaid said, “No more.

If you pester me just one more time, I’ll show you to the door.”

“I’m sober as a judge,” says he, “as any fool can see.

For Guinness Extra Stout is just like mother’s milk to me.”

Old Johnny said, “I never thought I’d live to see the night

When a prodigal son of Ireland was denied The Sacred Pint.

I thought I’d escaped the Volsted curse; O, Prohibition is surely the worst.

I crossed the ocean blue, but still I cannot slake my thirst.”

‘Twas shortly after that, old Johnny passed out on the floor

But he started coming to as we dragged him out the door

“I’m sober as a judge,” says he, “as any fool can see.

For Guinness extra milk is just like mother’s stout to me.

O, bring me back inside, me boys

We Wore Away the Gold

On tattered shoes we trod the streets of our new home
Oh, America’s a road that leads to Rome—
A gilded dream that lost its luster like the cobblestones
Since we wore away the gold

The stones we dug for fences while down upon our knees
Stand like somber monuments beneath the trees
For those who died of hunger and our landlord’s apathy,
Whose ghostly fingers point across the sea

And in my dreams, I can still hear them singing
In my ears, empty promises ringing like requiem bells

.
Rejoice! Rejoice, hungry sons of Ireland!
America will save you from famine
Rejoice! Rejoice! I swear it’s just as you were told—
A land where all the streets are paved with gold

Of America we dreamed, to America we sailed
Where the grand experiment in justice failed
Where the tired huddled masses, the hungry and the poor
Fought on the front lines of your Civil War

.
And in my dreams, I can still hear them singing
In my ears, empty promises ringing like requiem bells

Rejoice! Rejoice, hungry sons of Ireland!
America will save you from famine
Rejoice! Rejoice! I swear it’s just as you were told—
A land where all the streets are paved with gold
Oh, America awaits the fate of Rome—
A gilded dream that lost its luster like the cobblestones
Since we wore away the gold

Our tattered shoes wore away the gold
Our marching feet wore away the gold
The blood we shed wore away the gold
The blood we bled wore away the gold…

This Irish Winter Sky

At dawn you’ll sail away, my love, from Erin’s eastern shore
To manufacture bullets for the Tommies and the Yanks
And in this subtle way, my love, you’ll help them win the war
And keep food upon our children’s plates and clothes upon their backs

.
When we leave you at the boat at dawn, we mustn’t shed a tear
We’ll present a strong façade to ease our children’s anxious hearts
For to keen in front of our wee lads would just confirm their fears
So the rain from Dublin’s winter clouds must substitute for tears
And the rain from Dublin’s winter clouds will substitute for tears

.
Just say, “I’ll see you soon.” And I’ll say, “I’ll see you soon.”
And I’ll say that I’ll miss you, and you’ll say that you’ll miss me
But this Irish winter sky will be so gray
Will be so gray
Will be so gray
When you leave

.
All the drunkards down at old Finn’s pub are grateful for the war
With Britain’s guns preoccupied, they hope to gain the North
I’m sorry for the poor young men the fighting’s claimed, yet still,
I’m grateful for the factory job they left for you to fill

.
So say, “I’ll see you soon.” And I’ll say, “I’ll see you soon.”
And I’ll say that I’ll miss you, and you’ll say that you’ll miss me
But this Irish winter sky will be so gray
Will be so gray
Will be so gray
When you leave

Why the Robin’s Breast is Red: A Welsh Fairytale

When I was a boy of only three
My grandmother reprimanded me
Saying, “Never through stones at the robin redbreast
That made his nest in the churchyard tree.
Never throw stones at redbreast birds
That nest in churchyard trees.

.
“Have you not heard how the merciful bird
Earned glory and eternal fame
When he gathered dewdrops on his little bill
And flew boldly through eternal flames?
This noble bird was burned as he dropped the dew
On sinful souls that know no rest
And the scorch marks from the flames of Hell
Can still be seen upon the robin’s breast.”

.
When I was a boy of only three
My grandmother reprimanded me
Saying, “Never through stones at the robin redbreast
That made his nest in the churchyard tree.
Never throw stones at redbreast birds
That nest in churchyard trees.

The Disappointed Bones of St. Francis

Oh, the soul of the saint lying naked in the dirt is a canary in a cage
Who knows the time is at hand—to the bosom of Abraham he now can fly away
He pleaded, “Strip me of my habit. And lay my body down,
Parchment skin against the earth. Remember thou art dust,
And unto dust thou shall return.”

.
I’m sure his thoughts drifted back to the day he disrobed at our bishop’s holy court
Thereby renouncing every claim the material world had upon his youthful soul
Thus began the holy courtship of Brother Francis the saint and his humble bride-to-be
Today he died in the arms of his ever-loving wife, lovely Lady Poverty

.
We drew solace from the wounds on his hands and his feet
That corresponded with our Lord’s
Then we decided to entomb the remains of the saint beneath the chapel he restored
But humble San Domiano’s wasn’t glamorous enough for the authorities in Rome
The Pope Himself traveled north to commission a new church and to lay its cornerstone

.
When The Son of Man returns, flesh and bones will be redeemed
And reunited with the souls of the saints who fell asleep,
Who were guided The Spirit of our True and Risen Lord
On that day, our Father Francis will look with wonder upon the place his bones were laid
And then, humbly, he will say, “It wasn’t meant to be this way; of this I always was afraid.”

.
Oh, the soul of the saint lying naked in the dirt is a canary in a cage
Who knows the time is at hand—to the bosom of Abraham he now can fly away
He pleaded, “Strip me of my habit. And lay my body down,
Parchment skin against the earth. Remember thou art dust,
And unto dust thou shall return.”

Contact Jack

admin — Wed, 13 Jul 2011 02:10:52 +0000

For booking and general inquires, write to jackkorbelmusic@hotmail.com

Please include your contact information.

About Jack

admin — Tue, 12 Jul 2011 19:10:45 +0000

Jack was born in the heart of Ohio and reared on a strict diet of pop music and B-movies from which he happily rebelled. Jack is a musician-turned-writer-turned-musician who endeavors to capture a little Literature in all his tunes.

He names a broad base of influences: folklore and folk music from Ireland to Appalachia, the lives of saints and fools, and a fascination with the misfortunes of human history. Setting out regularly from his current home in Wichita, Kansas, Jack plays in pubs, cafes, private homes, and college and university campuses both West and East of the Mississippi.

About his craft and style, Jack believes thoughtful music fosters thoughtful community.

Reviews:

“With traditional and original tunes, lyrics that make you want to listen, learn, and read up a little, and a voice that can move from playful to haunting in an instant, The Jack Korbel Confluence delivers a riveting performance.” ~Pages Books & Coffee, Newton, KS

Album Production Notes

admin — Tue, 12 Jul 2011 18:58:12 +0000

Production Notes for So Much Depends on the Weather:

Melody to Beal na mBlath and The Stain—traditional and John Phillip Korbel

Melody to The Disappointed Bones of St. Francis—traditional

Chorus melody to We Wore Away the Gold from O Come, O Come, Emmanuel—traditional

Lyrics to Beal na mBlath partially inspired by Tim Pat Coogan, Seamus Heaney, and Tobias Wolfe

Produced by Jack Korbel

Recorded at Planet Paul Studios, The Brick House Studios, and Wichita State University, Wichita, Kansas.

Engineered by Gabriel Bennett and Josh Cary.

Mixed and mastered by Josh Cary

Album cover by Justin Miller, copyright 2010. Bound Staff Press– “Fine Art Printmaking”
www.boundstaffpress.blogspot.com
www.boundstaffpress.etsy.com

Photography by Ze Bernardinello of Ze Photography: http://zephotography.com/

John “Jack” Korbel: vocals, stomping and clapping

Joshua Sturgill: bodhran, harmony vocals

Randy Zellers: guitars

Lisa Enns: piano, organ, vocal on This Irish Winter Sky

Rob Loren: fiddle, viola, mandolin

Susan Mayo: cello

Troy Fischer: upright bass

Wesley Scott: trumpet

Jonah Tausche: bodhran on The Disappointed Bones of St. Francis

Very special thanks to Jay and Martha for their generosity, and to all the musicians and technicians who invested their time and talents in this project.

Home

admin — Fri, 08 Jul 2011 02:25:44 +0000

What’s New

iTunes, Amazon, and eMusic converted Jack’s debut album, So Much Depends on the Weather, into digital 1′s and 0′s. You can reassemble the songs by purchasing them on-line. If you prefer owning the album in its corporeal form, you can buy a CD at one of Jack’s shows.

Here is the Music Player. You need to installl flash player to show this cool thing!