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http://www.popstar.com/Jimi_Bertucci/
http://www.youtube.com
http://www.livestream.com/theethnicnetwork |
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 wow ... now that's what I'm talkin about. all the
best in 2007! Dale, Nashville Read more feedback
and comments |
 Canada's first
free over-the-air multilingual/multicultural television system,
was licensed in 1979 as Channel 47 in Toronto. Rogers Broadcasting
Limited acquired controlling interest of OMNI.1 in 1986. |
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There is loneliness and periods
of darkness in my heart Is it for lack of love or unfound peace
My quiet solitude reveals emptiness ( from the poem The
Weight ) |
 REQUEST
AC and Jimi B on the Rockin Ray Micheals Show |
 Variations on Gould
Toronto - CBC Radio "I
have an extra ticket and you have to come!!!" My mind was
racing like a Guinea pig in an annoying spinner. Everything I
ever thought about the CBC would soon become clearer to me. We
arrived at the Glen Gould Studio, in the heart of Toronto . A
fair portion of this lustrous real-estate is dedicated to a man,
a musician, a genius, that played piano. I can hear them all
in unison, PLAYED PIANO. And while the kind folks of the great
white north continue to invest their tax dollars in support of
the arts programs in Canada , the CBC was looking pretty good.
The reception for this monumental celebration convinced me that
class still finds its way around town. Had it not been for that
annoying buzzer that begins way too soon like a last call for
snooting....this would have been a perfect cultural evening,
well at least for me. I forgot to mention that this Mardi gras
was a ten-day affair. I was thrust into the pits of fortune for
but one of these tux and running shoes eventful evenings. When
Andre LaPlante hit the stage, I can honestly say I did not have
a clue who this gentleman was....he appeared to look like a classical
pianist and I expected just that. Before I tell you how awesome
this artist was, let me explain the importance of this gala.
Glen is a Canadian icon, a local boy who became one of the great
musicians of the twentieth century. I would always hear his name,
not in an Elvis or Beatle way but more like in an I'm cool, I
know who he is way. He broke international musical grounds and
continues to deeply provoke the listening ear. During this festival
of back-patting, many performers paid tribute to this legend
in their own musical way. Mr. LaPlante, I later found out, was
named an Officer of the Order of Canada .....dah..I could list
all his achievements but that would only reveal that I read his
bio in the program. I want to write about what I heard from this
genius ivory tickler. I know I will probably sound so cliché,
he was a virtuoso boy, do I need piano lessons.....The less said
of this man the more. When the string quartet, which was made
up of Erika Raum (violin), Aisslinn Nosky (violin), Steven Dann
(viola), and David Hetherington (cello), joined Mr. La Plante
I was taken to a mystic place feeling the passion of each string
as it resonated through my head. How wonderful to be treated
to a natural high. If the CBC continues to display this kind
of adventure I will stop saying they are a foo foo organization.
Reporter Kant Gettalon for iUpdate. |
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 MADAGASCAR - The dictionary defines poetry as, "the writing
of poems; the art of writing poems" and my favorite, "poetic
quality of spirit". I began expressing myself with words
when I was ten or eleven years old. The English language was
still somewhat fresh to me and discovering new words was thrilling.
I would often run to my Italian mother with excitement trying
to express the new verbage I had encountered that day. I have
to admit that during my youth my public school years were the
most exciting and probably the most impressionable of my life.
Over time, I explored my ability to transpose my thoughts to
more than merely words on paper. I began experimenting with communication
as a release from the dungeons of my Grace Street dwelling. My
companion was an old furnace that, at times, seemed haunting
and its constant chatter of nuts and bolts would often frighten
the hell out of me. The comforts of the tattered grey couch served
as my resting place and also as my thought initiator. You ask
yourself, what the hell was he doing in the basement? It was
the place where all Italians gathered to feast and drink the
spirits of their heritage. But in the evenings it was the only
solitude that was available for whatever reason was needed. It
was my space. I know it seems a little strange, but inquire with
any Italian family and you will learn that the basement was,
and still is, the recreational club med. So there I sat with
a small dictionary that was given to me by a teacher to help
with my language skills. I thank her every time I pick one up.
At first my writings were simple and I would structure the compositions
so that words would rhyme. Later, I discovered that poetry or
story telling was not about rhyme, but about touching the emotions
with the delivered message. I like that. I recall in grade four,
as the class was beginning it's curriculum, one of the young
boys had left his jacket outside. The teacher asked "did
anyone see his jacket?". I raised my hand and replied, "I
saw it laying on the steps". The teacher responded "lying"
and I replied "no sir, I'm telling the truth". His
correction made me think how complex all these terms seemed.
My progression in life enabled me to study the profundity of
words and language and the clear meaning of what was and can
be. Although at times I cross over the line of acceptability
I can justify my actions by saying. "It's artistic freedom". READ SOME SAMPLES
BELOW AND THEN GET YOUR OWN COLLECTION FROM THE DROP DOWN MENU. |
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I Die With The Storm
Sad was the water
that danced on my body
Like tears of sorrow lost in the mist
She has vanished to vapor
Never to return
Taking my love that so burns
She will awaken on that day
Her pleasures alone
I'm only speechless within my own paradox of thought
God I want you badly
Am I a fool to make you such a necessity in my whole
Are these merely words of heat
How can you move me so deeply
I sleep with you in me
My walks are beside you
Just to hold you once would be revealed
My weakness you have discovered
You challenge my responsibilities
Across a universe that calls
Yet your passion is committed
I hang from your cliffs
The sins grow covering our eyes
The clashing wet releases the ropes
I die with the storm |
Scroll down the list and pick and choose
share the words and emotions that flow to the heart. Some poetry
may not be suitable for children.
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Domina
I hear the mystic
song in her eyes through silent rumors
The Domina is shamed vanquished by utter vacancy
And yet desired by those that spill her ideals like scrap
Diminishing her yearning blinding the pathway
He has honor and speaks to her of poetic dreams and kindness
With vision of security and humble nobility caressingly
Her skin he tastes like the violets so sweet
Resting his lips on the pinkness of her intimate hills
His hands the remedy of vigor yet a gentle glide of motion
He stares at the emptiness of his effigy mould
Knowing she saves his vulnerability from uncensored pain
Lavishing her tenderness with purity without measure
She longs not for diamonds rubies or castles
But moments of strength giving all unconcerned by remorse
Her heart weakens from his distant obligations
Like the lonely mountains that cry with echoes despaired
Unpainted shutters hide the world that flings misfortunes
With misunderstood anger and senseless greed unloved
Tears dance on the satin spread his gift from China
Tomorrow is the day to dress in celebration |
Each order is individually signed by the
author and dated. Poetry can touch a soul when nothing else can.
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2009 Toronto Centre For The
Arts - photos by George Onuska |
click on photo for enlargement
and story |
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 Whether you are producing a multi-million
dollar commercial or a small budget film, James Bert
Publishing can
provide a catalog of songs and music that can compliment the
end results.Since 1973 we have been providing hit-making music.
Drop us an email and let us be part of
your next winning project. |
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 BANJOS AND GUTTER PUNKS - San Francisco
- California:
When one decides to give
back, as the saying goes, you often wonder what are the motives
behind these grand gestures. Warren Hellman is a good soldier.
For the past seven years this banjo loving 72-year old billionaire
has provided the lost generation of tye-dye afficianados weekends
of colorful entertainment. It's a time when the not so fortunate
and curious seekers bask in Golden Gate Park and pretend that
life doesn't get any better. I personally have never been a big
fan of hillbilly picking corn eating music, but by the day's
end I was so impressed with the multitude of talent that my appreciation
level rose to unexpected heights. Hardly Strictly Bluegrass 7
as it was billed, attracted a couple of hundred thousand people
over the blue-sky weekend. The eclectic collection of music that
was provided on five different stages was enough to appeal to
a spectrum of ear candy lovers. Of course there were the many
that just wanted to catch a peek of nostalgia, but for the most
part they were dedicated to the sounds that filled the warm air.
Hellman, our master investment banker, knows a good thing. The
city loves him for all the revenue and the people appreciate
the mogul that shares his wealth.....I arrived on Sunday due
to unarranged plans, that's another read. Ok ok let's talk about
the performers.....There was sound everywhere. The stages pumped
out music continuously for three days. The list of artists reads
like an hors d'oeuvres tray of some of the finest pickers and
crooners; Earl Scruggs, Del McCoury, Doc Watson, T-Bone Burnett,
Nick Lowe, yes I said Nick Lowe, John Prine and Toronto's own,
the Sadies. Now, I have to admit I missed their performance but
a friend of mine who happened to be there all three days said
the psychedelic foursome were awesome. And what would an outdoor
event like this be without a few Gutter Punks. This is the latest
export from San Francisco's concrete dwellers. Their presence
did not go unnoticed. I was approached by what some would say
was just a dirty faced Dickens character and asked if I would
like to take a photograph of some original San Francisco Gutter
Punks...how could I refuse. He held his hand out and said, "it
will cost you". I reached into my pockets and all I could
come up with were Canadian coins. He said that would work. They
posed in a proud manner for their portrait. One of them asked
where this would end up and I told him the name of the website.
He said, "I'll check it out".....Wait a minute, this
gutterman looked like he slept at the county dump and smelled
even worse...a computer? Who am I to question. One of the main
attractions for me was Emmylou Harris, looking quite informal
and sporting that signature hair. As a veteran performer of HSB
her set provided a little southern comfort that the crowd drank
up. Emmy has touched on everything from folk to country and a
bit of pop. She wooed her audience with familiar songs and then
some. When Earl Scruggs broke into the theme from The Beverly
Hillbillies that was it, my childhood flashed before my eyes.
I would recommend to all that next year you find your way to
SF and yes wear flowers in your hair, and enjoy this contribution
that Warren provides for us. Reporter Kant Gettalon for iUpdate.
Photos by Jimi Bertucci Read more about the concert at http://www.hardlystrictlybluegrass. |
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Jimi B. Jimi
B A & M 9069 - Jimi ( Bertucci ) B's
career has been incubating for 10 years since he fronted "
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The Punchinelo
The parade of saints slushed through the
wet streets
Women in black mutter prayers counting their beads
Warm sighs reveal the decay of age
The constant hum trips with the dissident voices
They celebrate the birth the death the day
Dark clouds fill the skies of the village
The observers drink espresso from colorful cafes
The less they believe without shame
I stand waist high to my father
Trying to understand the swords in her chest
Filled with money and sorrow on her face
Why does the punchinelo dance in circles of joy
I hide my eyes to avoid his annoying stares
He frolics with a frozen smile on the holy steps
Collecting souls in baskets made of cane
The bells from the church ring loud with echo
Hiding his face the monk stands still
They march by the river that flows so clear
The crowd follows in herds and fear
Iron gates that lead to ancient graves
Open and welcome the ritual display
I stand alone not to enter the grounds
Watching the punchinelo he calls to me
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