Filed under: Uncategorized — kendrasteinereditions @ 1:01 am
1. I’ll Be Standing By – Chuck Walker & The VIP’s 2. At Last – Jimmy Bee 3. Hungry Children – Rudy Love & The Love Family 4. Mighty Clouds of Joy – B.P.S. Revolution 5. Honey – Felice Taylor 6. Slow and Easy – Vernon Garrett 7. Where She At – Z.Z. Hill 8. Don’t Believe Him – Stacy Johnson 9. Nobody But Me – The Other Brothers 10. Like I Do – Bobby John 11. Whole World Down On You – Larry Davis 12. It’s Getting Late – Al King 13. Jodine – Earl Foster 14. Then I Found You – Rudy Love & The Love Family 15. The Good Side of My Girl – Clay Hammond 16. The Thought of You – Jeanette Jones 17. You’re Still My Baby – Venetta Fields 18. Rock Me Baby – Millie Foster 19. What Is This World Coming To – Charles Taylor 20. What the Heck – Lowell Fulson 21. Funky Duck – Four Tees 22. I Need You (2nd Version) – Arthur K Adams 23. Ghetto Child – Johnny Copeland 24. Peace of Mind – Chuck Walker & The VIP’s
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V.A.—Los Angeles Soul, Volume 2: Kent-Modern’s Black Music Legacy, 1963-1972 (Ace/Kent, UK), CD
Ace’s Kent subsidiary has done a number of soul compilations over the years (the three volumes called For Connoisseurs Only are highly recommended) from the vaults of Los Angeles-based Kent-Modern Records, and this newest one offers a wide variety of soulful sounds, ranging from pop-gospel sides (in the wake of the Staple Singers’ chart success) to soul-flavored offerings from blues artists such as Lowell Fulson, Johnny Copeland, Larry Davis, and Arthur K. Adams. Soul stalwarts such as ZZ Hill and Clay Hammond and Vernon Garrett spent time at the label, and they are also represented, as well as Felice Taylor, who was the Diana Ross of the Kent-Modern stable.
A number of the tracks are quite obscure, coming from subsidiary and distributed labels such as Virgo, Golden Soul, Mo’ Soul, Earthquake, and Kent Gospel, and these performances are fresh and sound as though they would have appealed to Los Angeles listeners with Southern roots. There’s no slick “uptown” soul here trying to compete with New York or Motown productions, and that’s a big plus here. Also, as soul evolved into a slower, more funk-rooted vein, Kent-Modern adapted quite well, as with the 1971 “Jodine” by Earl Foster.
One objection some might have to this collection is that some of the tracks appear on past Ace/Kent reissues devoted to artists such as Fulson, Copeland, Adams, etc. In the compilers’ defense, though, the tracks used are lesser-known ones, and they sound great in the context of the other material. Anyone serious enough of a fan to have all the previous issues is probably not going to have a problem with getting 3/4 un-reissued material, and others would not even notice.
Imagine that you are listening to some low-wattage AM soul station in Los Angeles circa 1969, hearing local singles from artists who might be playing clubs and lounges just a few miles away, wanting a piece of the chart action of a Joe Tex or a William Bell, and plugging their new singles from the bandstand. Put this album on, turn up the volume, and it’s non-stop soul excellence from beginning to end, with hardly any tracks that will be familiar to most listeners, but many tracks that will have you wanting more. What a golden age of Black Music the city of Los Angeles had to offer in this period! No fan of lesser-known soul records will want to pass on this solid and eclectic compilation.
BILL SHUTE, originally published in Ugly Things magazine in 2019
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Be sure to pick up a copy of my newest poetry book…
Filed under: Uncategorized — kendrasteinereditions @ 1:21 am
The “all Black cast” films of the 30s and 40s provide a lot of entertainment value, as well as a window into African-American culture of the day, performers who are often undocumented or at least underdocumented elsewhere on film, and usually excellent music.
Many of the feature films—-the ones directed by Spencer Williams, the ones directed by Oscar Micheaux, and the ones starring Louis Jordan—-were widely available in the early days of VHS and were aired on BET as filler in the early days of cable. I notice that many of those (no doubt due to their public domain status) are available today on some of the lower-grade free streaming services available via Roku. I hope that people are enjoying them there. When I first moved to San Antonio in 1991, I actually scoped out some of the locations used in Spencer Williams films, which could still be found at that time.
However, more obscure are the short subjects, and this gem from director Bud Pollard is a fine example of that. Thanks to SMU’s Jones Film and Video Archive for finding and restoring IT HAPPENED IN HARLEM, made at the studios of All American Films (the Black newsreel company) in Fort Lee, New Jersey, a city with a lot of film history. Strangely enough, the IMDB still lists this short as being lost, though SMU posted it on You Tube in 2021! Well, YOU don’t have to worry, as the YT link is below.
This film packs a lot into 23 minutes, with a showbiz plot, great Black vaudeville acts who might otherwise not be documented on film, jazz references (the legendary Smalls Paradise club) that will excite fans of the music of that era, and the music of Chris Columbus and His Swing Gang, who were popular in the clubs but not really documented on record much (Sidney Bechet recorded with them in 1938-39, for a film soundtrack). Drummer Columbus was also known as Chris Columbo and was at one time the oldest working musician in Atlantic City. He worked with Fletcher Henderson as early as 1921, and led the Club Harlem Orchestra for 34 years. His son, Sonny Payne, was also a jazz drummer and will be known to many readers.
Bud Pollard, of course, is well-known to fans of obscure exploitation films, and he also was a pioneer in patchwork films. I have a piece elsewhere on this blog about his patchwork film on Bing Crosby THE ROAD TO HOLLYWOOD (look for it in the search box here), and I have a half-finished piece in my draft box on Pollard’s final feature, LOVE ISLAND, starring the young Eva Gabor, which I hope to finish one of these days.
Most people have 23 minutes to waste, and I can’t imagine you’d regret spending it with the classic African-American short IT HAPPENED IN HARLEM.
The print and transfer are very good, so feel free to watch this on your television, not just on your computer….
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and….Be sure to pick up a copy of my newest poetry book…
Filed under: Uncategorized — kendrasteinereditions @ 1:22 am
During my years in Stillwater, Oklahoma (1979-1985), I spent one year sharing the bottom floor of an older home in a quiet neighborhood with a guy from Alabama named Donnie Stackman. We were both part-time employees in the same academic department at the college we both attended, and we’d both lived together for the six months prior to that in the infamous $80 a month apartment with the hole through the wall into the alley, which I discussed in a previous piece. I did not know Donnie prior to the hole-in-the-wall apartment, but we were both friends of the third person who lived there, Jonathan, a long-haired zen-calm kind of guy from Birmingham who’d been in the Marine Corps, who’d invited both of us to move in so he could split the rent three ways and cut expenses. Jonathan did not join us when we found this other house to rent–it was just Donnie and yours truly….at least at the start.
Above us, occupying the second floor, lived two male graduate students in Agriculture from Tanzania–sorry, but I don’t remember their actual names. Like a lot of people from Africa or Asia who lived in the US back in that period, they affected a “Western-sounding” nickname to assist the locals in referring to them, and because those were not their real names and half the time I referred to them by those real names, not the nicknames, I’m drawing a blank on names, though I can see them clearly in my mind’s eye. Both were slim, serious-minded men in their late 20’s. I don’t think they drank, but I do remember sharing some cigarettes with them on the back steps a number of times. They probably would not have had time to drink or to waste precious hours on anything non-essential, as they were doctoral students working on Ph.D.’s. One thing I found interesting about them was that their higher educations had both been in Eastern Bloc countries. Their undergraduate work in agriculture had been in East Germany, and they’d both earned master’s degrees in the Soviet Union (though at different universities). The Eastern Bloc was looking to curry favor with third-world countries, both for influence and for potential trading partners. And now these men were in Stillwater, Oklahoma. I’d always been interested in getting to know international students (learning about distant cultures through conversation is cheaper than traveling to the places themselves, and also you’re getting it straight from the core of the culture, not the tourist version–also, people in an unfamiliar foreign land appreciate locals who welcome them and show an interest in and respect for their culture), and not having known many folks who’d lived in communist countries (this was the early 80’s), I found their stories about life in East Germany and Russia fascinating. Donnie never really got to know these fellows, other than saying “hi” when they crossed paths, but I would chat with them for 15-30 minutes maybe twice a week, and they invited me up to their apartment to eat a few times, where they prepared an inexpensive dish made with potatoes and eggs and onions and tomatoes and chile peppers and, of course, some spices from the homeland that were unfamiliar to me but delicious….and potent. Though they lived above us, these guys rarely made any noise and spent late nights at the university library in advance scientific study. They both earned doctorates in Agriculture and went back to Tanzania, where I believe they were promised jobs with the government agriculture ministry.
I was never really close with my downstairs roommate Donnie. He had a kind of Grizzly Adams vibe to him—-stocky, big blond-red beard, wore overalls, and affected a kind of folksy charm. We worked different hours, went to school at different times (I was a morning person–he was not), and stayed out of each other’s ways. We had an agreement where we’d split the kitchen and the refrigerator in half, one sink each, etc., and his side of the sink and his half of the refrigerator were always filthy. I wound up cleaning them up for him (which I’m sure he counted on!) because the stink of rotting onions in the fridge or the sight of bloated pieces of old bread floating in his sink was too much for me to take. Whenever he was out, I’d have the stereo on—-probably playing PIL “Second Edition” or one of the early Wire albums or a Chocolate Watchband album or one of Coltrane’s twelve Prestige albums over and over. He claimed to be into bluegrass, but he did not seem to know much about it. He’d sometimes listen to music with me and was the kind of guy who’d drink or smoke with me if I provided the supplies. I never knew him to buy a cigarette or beer of his own. He’d do without rather than spend a cent of his own on those things.
He would also go on crash diets from time to time…..or should I say starvation diets. He would literally starve himself for three or four days. After a few days of that, he would have some odd metallic odor coming out of his mouth. I asked him about this once because he mentioned that he was meeting a lady one night and I thought he should know that his breath was not good. He told me that he was diabetic and what I was smelling was ketones, and not to worry about it because he knew how to handle it. Unfortunately, as this unpleasant scent was not coming from his mouth but from somewhere deeper inside him, mouthwash and brushing would not have helped the breath problem. Who knows if he had any luck with the ladies that night.
When he did go off these fasts, he’d always hit some local watering hole during happy hour when they would have specials on pitchers of beer, and he’d choose a bar where people would know him, and he’d join a group who would, being the good sports that most happy hour drinkers are, invite him to join in. He’d usually stay until the last person left and/or the last drop of beer paid for by someone else had been consumed. I’m told he would also take the tip off the table, a tip left by those paying for the beer, and pocket it for himself. I used to hit a certain bar that served burgers and fried food on Fridays with a poet friend, who was also a friend of Donnie’s, and we’d get happy hour pitchers and cheap baskets of French fries and gravy and chat about life and literature and music and art for hours on end. Donnie would often crash these get-togethers and drink our beer and eat our fries and gravy. He was an entertaining guy always conscious of an audience, and as stated earlier, he played the colorful Southerner role to the hilt, so I doubt anyone ever minded his mooching, since he did provide entertainment value for the beer he drank and bar-food he pilfered.
One Wednesday–I think it was right before a holiday weekend, so he’d have a few days off work while the college was closed–he announced to me that he was going to Las Vegas for the weekend and would be back the next Tuesday. He did not drive, owned three shirts and three pants (and the shirts were all flannel checked shirts that were not great for those hundred-degree Oklahoma summers—-I can’t imagine he would have worn those back in Alabama!), and was a tightwad all around, so I was quite surprised by this move.
However, nothing prepared me for what I experienced that next Tuesday when he came back home…..he introduced me to his new wife, Candace. Yes, he met someone in Vegas over the weekend and married her on the spot and brought her back to Stillwater, Oklahoma. She had one suitcase full of clothes, and she moved into his room with him (we had endless arguments after that about whether the rent should be split three ways, as I suggested, or two ways, as he suggested).
Candace struck me as the mature one in this duo—-after all, it would be hard NOT to be—-and she had the case-hardened toughness that you find in, say, waitresses in all-night diners, people who’d seen it all and were prepared to face any hassle and stare it down. She had experience as a speech pathologist (though that was not what she’d been working at most recently), so she was able to get a job at the college within a week of arriving in Stillwater. Like me, she was a morning person, and her new husband was not, so they were rarely home at the same time. He tended to work in the early evenings–she was getting off work when he was starting. The result of this was that I spent many more waking hours with his wife than he did! This lady who was married for two weeks or whatever was stuck at home with ME each evening, and although things were awkward for a while at the beginning because I never approved of her as a “new roommate,” I accepted reality rather quickly, and we would wind up playing Scrabble or discussing art or listening to Coltrane’s BLACK PEARLS album on Prestige, the kind of long-tracked jazz album full of bluesy jams you could play over and over and over, getting up every 20 minutes to flip the record. She was a very intelligent person, had held a number of interesting jobs, was quite well-read, and had a kind of jaded cynicism that I found admirable and fascinating. She was about ten years older than I was and about five years older than Donnie.
When we would spend a few evenings in a row hanging out together, we both sensed a kind of innate need to not get too close—-after all, she was newly married and had moved across the country to live with this man, for better or worse. She’d put all her eggs in this basket. It was funny when I thought of how we would pretend not to know each other as well as we did whenever he was around. It was almost as if we were involved and hiding it, though we were not. Her relationship with her husband can be summed up in the following anecdote: when she got her first paycheck, she purchased an ice cream churn–she told me she loved to make homemade ice cream. When she first used it–after buying the cream and the salt and the ice and the caramel & butterscotch–she wound up serving this amazing ice cream to me and to the African guys, whom I invited down to join us as there was too much ice cream for the two of us to eat by ourselves. Her husband Donnie was working….or at a bar….or somewhere, probably mooching beer and fried mushrooms off someone.
Candace always referred to her husband by his last name–she would say, “hey Stackman,” if she had a question or wanted to tell him something. I NEVER heard her call him Donnie–or even refer to him by his first name when talking to some third party. Also, when they would be walking together (he affected a walking stick or cane which he did not need when out “on the town,” thinking it helped the Southern Gentleman persona) on the streets of Stillwater, which did not happen often, he’d be in some kind of detached zone in a personal fog. If she was turning a corner or having to stop somewhere, she’d tap Donnie and push him in the direction she wanted to go. It reminded me of someone walking a dog that had not been fully trained.
This old two-story home we rented the lower floor of was owned by a retired couple from the nearby town of Pawnee, who would come to town each month to pick up the rent money from us and from the African guys. It had the proverbial white picket fence around it and was at a corner on a tree-shaded neighborhood only about eight blocks from the campus but it seemed like it was miles away in terms of atmosphere, so it had a large lot. I volunteered to mow the lawn twice a month (they had an old push-mower in a shed behind the house) for a discount on the rent (although Donnie benefited from the discount too, he never offered to mow). It also had a large wrap-around covered porch. We took one side of it and half the front, and the African guys took the other side and the other half, though they rarely if ever used them because they were studying all the time.
There were three or four old rocking chairs out there (and this was the kind of area where they could be left out all the time and would never be stolen), and being at the corner there was often a breeze from one side or another, and being shaded, it always seemed ten degrees cooler than the yard. I spent a lot of time–when I was keeping apart from Candace–on that porch reading. And some of that reading was inevitably comic books, and many of those comic books were inevitably Charlton Comics. Back then, as I still do today, some 35 or 37 years later, I had a box where I would keep the new comics acquisitions, all gotten for a dime or at most a quarter at some used bookstore or junk store or in the garbage pile at a comics shop that treated Charlton product as if it had leprosy, and when I was bored, I’d work my way through a few, and then put them at the back of my stack.
They weren’t making many western movies in the early 80’s…..although I could still catch some obscure Monogram or PRC or Republic western in the middle of the night on UHF television, along with an occasional Italian western such as LEFT HANDED JOHNNY WEST, starring Steve Reeves’s old pal from the sword and sandal film days, Mimmo Palmera (or as it was Anglicized in the credits, Dick Palmer), or Sergio Corbucci’s MINNESOTA CLAY, with Cameron Mitchell as the blinded gunfighter who killed by sound….so western comics such as OUTLAWS OF THE WEST provided a cheap, action-filled fix with the wonderful stereotyped characters and situations that one could find in a Durango Kid movie, if they ever showed any of those, which they did not in early 80’s Oklahoma, but minus Smiley Burnette’s comedy and songs and with more violence and brutality. In the great tradition of Charlton’s waning days in the 80’s, the stories in this particular 1979 issue (which I probably acquired in 1981 or so for a dime) were all taken from 1959 Charlton western magazines and “re-purposed”. Did it REALLY matter in a western comic? I think not. All you need is an introduction like “Red Gruber’s huge ranch occupied the upper half of Bone Valley–he fought every owlhooter in Arizona to build the Three Bar brand–“ and lots of blazing pistols and stand-offs and fistfights in saloons and men on horseback shooting the guns out of the hands of other men on horseback, and you know you are getting what you have paid for. And with ten-cent used comics (which, in the case of the Charlton westerns, appeared to have never been read, with tightly creased spines), it did not take much to earn back that ten cents and satisfy me. In my eyes, terms like “owlhoots” and “varmints” and “ornery polecats” are like code-words among members of some secret society–I hear them, and whoever is using the terms is “in” as far as I’m concerned. We’re members of the same lodge and brothers.
That next summer, I moved on to my own solo garage apartment, where I lived for three years. Donnie left town, and I believe Candace went her own way to a different part of the country from where he went. I later heard that he had never actually gotten a divorce from a first wife up in Illinois, and I’m not sure how that situation wound up. Life brings you together with people you are friendly with but do not get close to, it forces you to interact with them, and then you stumble into your next situation. Only the yellowed Charlton Comics and the Prestige-label Coltrane albums survive to document that it was not all just a dream…
BILL SHUTE, published elsewhere online in 2018
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Be sure to pick up a copy of my newest poetry book…
Filed under: Uncategorized — kendrasteinereditions @ 1:18 am
1 Ode to Saint Cecile – Mary Lou Williams 2 The Time of This World Is at Hand – Billy Gault 3 Jean Marie – Sam Jones 4 Aida – Rene McLean 5 Tipe Tizwe – Jim Mc Neely 6 Magwaza – Johnny Dyani 7 De I Comahlee Ah – Jackie McLean & Michael Carvin 8 Miss Priss – Ken McIntyre 9 Dark Warrior – Khan Jamal 10 Naima – Michael Carvin
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V.A.—Spiritual Jazz Volume 11: Steeplechase (Jazzman, UK), CD/LP
Most people associate the term “Spiritual Jazz” with labels such as Strata-East and Black Jazz and early 70’s sessions rooted in an Afrocentric or Asian or Islamic-influenced spirit, often growing out of a community arts collective that extends beyond just music. While Jazzman has issued a lot of that kind of sound in its 11 volumes (so far) of Spiritual Jazz compilations, they’ve also gone back as far as the 1950’s to investigate the roots of that approach to jazz, and they have brought back many exciting but forgotten recordings that sound amazingly fresh to modern ears.
Volume 11 is dedicated to “Esoteric, deep and modal jazz from the Steeplechase label (1974-84)” and presents over 70 minutes of gems from the large (900+ releases!) catalog of the Danish label run by Nils Winther. Steeplechase (still active today, after nearly 50 years) has always given free rein to jazz artists to record what they wanted to record, without worrying about commercial considerations, allowing them to bring to fruition projects they’d been wanting to record and release for years, but there were no takers among established labels, and self-releasing was not as common then as it is today.
In that spirit, we’re offered here a wide variety of lengthy tracks ranging from spiritual piano trio (Mary Lou Williams) to alto saxophonist Jackie McLean (a Steeplechase regular) duetting with the African-influenced percussion of Michael Carvin, also mixing in deep tracks from respected player-composers such as Khan Jamal, Ken McIntyre, Johnny Dyani, and Sam Jones, as well as stunning creations from lesser-known names such as pianists Jim McNeely (a member of Ted Curson’s band, whose track is an adaptation of an Zimbabwean folk melody) and Billy Gault (whose 1974 track is a perfect example of what’s usually considered spiritual jazz, with a vocal by Joe Lee Wilson and a Nation of Islam theme to the lyrics).
While some of Steeplechase’s releases by Dexter Gordon, Paul Bley, Anthony Braxton, Chet Baker, and Duke Jordan attracted attention in North America and were common sights in import racks, the material on this compilation did not, for the most part, and it’s easy to see how fine performances can get buried in a catalog of 900+ albums! As is usual for Jazzman, this is very well programmed and annotated, with amazing sound, and begs to be played on “repeat”—-looking forward to Volume 12!
BILL SHUTE, originally published in Ugly Things magazine in 2019
2024 update: This fine series is already up to Volume 15 as of this writing….check them all out!
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Be sure to pick up a copy of my newest poetry book…
JANDEK, ‘THE WIZARDS HOUR’ (Corwood CD 0858), released 2023
recorded in early September 2009 and originally broadcast on WNYU-FM radio station
personnel (according to the Jandek Concert History website):
Jandek (Sterling Smith), guitar/gong/keyboards;
Karl Bauer (of Axolotl, someone whose work I followed closely in the early 2000s), viola/keyboards/drums;
Tom Carter, bass;
Marcia Bassett, guitar, vocals;
Pete Nolan, drums, trumpet, viola
1. The Wizard Awakens 20:44 2. The Wizards’ Afternoon 24:51 3. The Wizards’ Dream 16:34
Hard to believe it’s 15 years since 2009. That was an excellent year for Jandek live performances–there were TWENTY (!!!), and except for the July 2009 tour of Northern Ireland with Heather Leigh and David Keenan, the musicians were different with every performance. Sterling would throw himself into the mix with top-shelf experimental/free-improv musicians, both in North America and overseas, and they would see what happens. It took Jandek/Sterling out of his comfort zone and allowed him to take what he had to offer and combine it into a gumbo in which he was an element but not the sole or even primary determiner of the final product.
This was even clearer in performances that were either all-instrumental or primarily instrumental, as the content of Jandek’s stream of consciousness texts was not there to anchor the performance. Such is the case here, a live-in-the-radio studio performance originally broadcast on WNYU radio in 2009. Running about an hour, this performance soon appeared online, and I listened to it a few times back then.
The free-improv/experimental music community of that day was an interesting combination of people from different aesthetic backgrounds–some came from the world of contemporary classical music, some came from the world of free jazz, some came from the more abrasive and avant sides of the post-punk world, some viewed it (as I did to some extent) as an extension of psychedelia, some came to it from a visual art background and approached their music as creating sound-art, some came with a deliberately outsider background and their contributions were the equivalent of action-paintings from someone who could not draw a recognizable tree or face, some (more than I expected) came from the metal world but felt constrained by the limitations of the genre, even its avant and artsy extensions. And then there is Jandek, who is a genre unto himself (however, listening to Henry Flynt or early Loren Mazzacane Connors will help you to discover that Jandek was not alone in independently inventing this kind of wheel, although his lyrics and his delivery of those lyrics steer the listener away from making those connections).
I can’t help but compare the overall effect of this album, consisting of three long pieces, as that of tribal psychedelia, such as Ya Ho Wa 13 at their farthest out and side-long jammiest, or the Beat Of The Earth album. Pete Nolan’s percussion and Tom Carter’s bass keep things percolating and pulsating, sometimes like the heartbeat of an animal, though often very slowly and with a lot of space so you don’t notice what they’re doing but instead feel it. Bassett, Bauer, and Jandek all tune in on the same wavelength, and each tosses out morsels to the others which are then developed and twirled and tossed around until this sticky reptile of an instrumental unit sheds its skin and evolves onto another plane.
This was the period when Jandek did a lot of live collaborations with some of the most interesting figures in the experimental music community (and as some of you know, I co-produced, organized, and assembled the band for a Jandek performance in Austin in 2012, so I got to see first-hand how this alchemy worked), and fortunately for us, Corwood has in the last year or two gotten back to chronological issues of live shows from the early years, recently mining the vein of 2009. These performances were all so different from each other, and Jandek was truly in his prime at that time, inspired to higher heights by the presence of open-minded and motivated collaborators who could hit the eccentric pitches that he (Jandek) threw and meet him halfway artistically. The Corwood releases of recent years have not gotten the attention they deserve. As someone who buys multiple experimental music releases every month, I must testify that Corwood’s output is stunning, both in its diversity and its quality. If there are six or seven “essential” labels out there, Corwood is one of them (Another Timbre is another). I’m glad Sterling is still sticking to physical releases in the classic appearance and format. The Jandek project has been in operation for over 45 years now, and you don’t suddenly change a kitchen-sink melodrama into a screwball comedy during the last act of the play. Corwood has carved out a unique space of its own in the cultural world. Appreciate it while it’s happening…don’t just read about the circus after it’s left town.
BTW, there have been SIX more Corwood releases since this one. They are reasonably priced, the shipping is prompt, and you won’t be able to predict what the next one will sound like.
Kendra Steiner Editions (Bill Shute) 