Baby Gramps @ The Grey Eagle

“Baby Gramps is an amazing amalgamation of everything that anybody’s ever heard ....” So begins one rapturous review of Baby Gramps, a raucous roots-ragtime-hoot-holler-blues-in-a-tin-pan performer who will be casting spells at the Grey Eagle come Sunday. A legend in his native Northwest, Baby Gramps is known for having a good time on stage. In between novelty songs, wisecrackin’ wordplay, and the occasional Tuvan throat solo, he’ll astonish you with his fluid chops on the National Steel guitar. Baby Gramps plays Sunday, June 19, at the Grey Eagle in Asheville, with the Mad Tea Party opening. Highly recommended.

Miriam Makeba

Among my many serial musical flirtations, I’ve had an off-again on-again affair with Afro-Pop. Buried in my little black book are all the usual suspects: Hugh Masakela, Mahlathini and the Mahotella Queens, Ali Farka Toure, Youssou N’Dour. All have been sweet romances, but my current objet d’amour from the continent is Miriam Makeba. Bold and brassy, sharp and sassy, she brings a grin and wiggle to my ears. Her biggest hit, 1967’s “Pata Pata,” is still my favorite, possessed of a fine rolling groove and a bass line that’s as simple as it is sweet. Next time you see me standing on the corner, babbling what sounds like nonsense, don’t fear: I haven’t lost my senses, I’m just singing in Xhosa, as best I can.

Wiffleball

After more than 20 years away from the grand old game, I have recently been party to two glorious matches of frontyard Wiffleball. The setting has changed, along with the age of the competition and the cold beverage of choice, but the essentials remain the same: a stretch of green grass, a thin plastic bat, and a ball that runs every which way but straight. On the mound, I’m struggling: my best pitch, a submarine sinker, rarely finds the strike zone. In the batter’s box, things are looking up: while I still groundout to the pitcher more than I’d like, I’ve knocked a few into the trees as well. Play ball.

Picking Slugs Off Strawberries

Hey man: you planted those strawberries, you watched them, you weeded them, you gave them all the love they needed. And now that they’re ripe and red, you’re gonna let the slugs eat ‘em? Not a chance.

— Jay Hardwig