Whoa, reflective-ness! What a perilous, occasionally narcissistic, but gosh-darn heartwarming exercise thinking back can be. I’ve been trying to rein myself in all day, but thoughts of the past few years continue to creep up, and in my continued job-less and friendless state of parsimony, I’ve little to do but sweep the kitchen floor, pluck at my guitar, and find innovative ways to combine peanut butter and bread. And so, creep up they do, these thoughts, and I am powerless to stop them.
Living in my hometown in Ohio, as a post-collegiate without crippling student-loan debt, I lived cheaply, and thus was afforded a great many benefits. I traveled widely, I toured frequently—often to far-flung places where we made little to no money—and I ate and drank as if at a kegger thrown by Dionysus. In my humble little hometown there still exists bars where one can buy a drink for, no joke, one dollar and twenty-five cents. Frequently, my only night of the week out on the town was Tuesday, when I would throw my guitar in the trunk and head downtown for the revelry, imbibing, and occasional music-making of an old-Irish-guys music session, where we’d gather in a half-circle of dilapidated chairs around the equally dilapidated upright piano, pound out the jigs and reels, and where I’d drink Guinness and whiskey (usually Jameson, as my preferred Powers was mysteriously absent from what was advertised as the only “Irish Pub” in town) for free, all night. It was a fool’s paradise, some might say, but I still found an abundance of misery.
But, oh, the travel. While music, girls, and drinking (coffee, tea, beer, whiskey—anything caffeinated or alcoholic) are things I take very, very seriously, traveling may be the only thing of which I would never, ever, tire. It’s become something of a feedback loop for me, building onto its ever-widening wavelength, spiraling outward uncontrollably like the slow rumble of thunder echoing across the open plain. These past two years I’ve been very lucky, in ways that only now, broke and overwhelmed by the necessity to ingratiate myself to a new community, I’ve begun to appreciate. There is a handy little application on Facebook called “Where I’ve been” which has the ability to inform you of your travel-related worth by tracking your “stats”; apparently, I’ve been to 13% of the world, and I don’t know if I should be pleased or dissatisfied. But in the past two years alone, in part because of the touring, which escalated nationally in scope for The Princes of Hollywood, and also because I was itching to get out of town on all my other spare moments, I managed to go. A lot. From Boston to Los Angeles, Key West to Seattle, I hit the airways and interstates of this expansive country and caught passing glimpses of it’s history, both past and in the making. At one point I brazenly drove the full expanse of highway 90, which starts near the Boston Harbor and ends just east of Puget Sound and downtown Seattle. I surfed in Hawai’i. I sipped coffee and pastries continental in San Francisco. I think I was in Mexico once. I hazily remember an alcohol-related swimming pool accident in Charleston, South Carolina, a whiskey-fueled, late night bluegrass session high in the mountains of West Virginia, and almost getting arrested for playing a mandolin in a Fredericksburg, Virginia Seven-Eleven at 4 in the morning. Let the record show, please, that I have no regrets, and plead innocent on all charges.
Now, let it also be noted: this is not a compendium of braggadocio, but a fond walk down memory lane, and I only share because it brought me joy, and I wish you the same. Currently, however, I’m recalling these things with a tad bit of sadness, since my lifestyle change, while necessary for the sake of science and the progress of humanity, has momentarily forced me to put my wanderlust away. I know I have work to be done here, and it feels good to be where I am right now, and, really, that’s all you can hope for. I’ve got job interviews to attend, auditions to schedule, and people to meet, but I will be back with more, music-specific updates from music city later this week. But first, I need to go buy a map of Tokyo and start dreaming.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Thursday, February 7, 2008
The End of the American Dream –or-- What’s a Generation To Do?
There is something deeply troubling brewing in America today. For a generation raised on the prosperity and hubris of the 80s and 90s, the turns we are taking in this country are a bit hard to stomach. Not only has corporate America and the rise of Yuppiedom raised our lifestyle standards to unprecedented and unsubstantiated levels, it’s also made it so that we have, ironically, very little choice about the lifestyles we can lead here. Gone are the days when one could make it as a jazz musician, or a poet, or even an independent proprietor in Manhattan, once the center of the bohemian movement in America that fostered the creation of great art, and music, and literature. Similarly, the beat poets and hippies and other counter-culturalists that once found a home on the streets and cafes of San Francisco must look elsewhere if they hope to keep their lifestyle alive. I, for one, believe that this is a tragic turn of events in the history of American culture.
This country was built upon the idea of the rugged individualist, a place where you—any free person—could claim your plot, dig in your heels, and make a life for yourself on your own terms. At one time, rejecting the status quo only made you an outsider; now, it makes you an endangered species, a dying breed with nowhere to turn. What does a generation such as mine do when faced with a future of crippling debt, a shrinking job market, and an increasingly homogenized culture? Honestly, I do not know. What was once the American dream has been transformed into the American burden—no longer a dream but a standard, a prerequisite, a requirement—and what’s left in its wake is a society without options and choices, only obligations. We’ve started to become everything we feared communism represented during the cold war: a country without opportunity or individual freedom, two of our loftiest American ideals. Think about this: once the American dream was finding a place in our society where you could be the person you wanted to be, own your own house and car, and raise a family in the secure confines of a community and society where your children could grow into the people they dreamed of being. Now, those things have become what we deserve, not aspire to, and its what we do after we have the job, the house, and the family that makes us who we are. Our expectations of what we deserve are destroying the idea of the individual, and with it, the sprit of what has made this country so great, and so pioneering.
Why do I bring this up? Because here in Nashville, I’m meeting people from all over the country who’ve come here because it’s the only place they can afford to live where they feel they can be a part of a large-scale creative community. I have friends in almost every major city in America, from Chicago to Los Angeles, New York to Seattle, Boston to San Francisco, and not one of them can truly afford to live in the fashion we’ve come to expect. And my friends are, for the most part, not in the arts. They are engineers, or chefs, or accountants--smart, well-educated, ambitious folks barely scraping by on salaries that would have made them flush if they had grown up when their parents did. And forget about the main pillar of the American dream, namely property ownership—trying to find an affordable mortgage in California is like trying to find clean in a bucket full of shit.
Great art has always been inspired by a social context, and historically, hotbeds of cultural and artistic innovation have grown in the tumultuous and frenetic landscape of the city—think of how contemporary American music was born in New Orleans at the turn of the 20th century; or of the birth of the American cultural identity in Boston with the rejection of the imposition of British cultural and economic policies. Now, all you can do in cities is try to keep your head above water and work your way to the corner office. Cities are no long fortresses and ports where communities can be grown and ideas hatched, but mere gulags of luxury. We are losing our cities and our dreams, and with it the things that have made America great.
And, simply put, there is no way to have it all back. What the next frontier will be for cultural human evolution is unclear, and the kind of place in the world that the 21st century thinking individual will be able inhabit is yet to be seen. But before we get there, I’d like to take a moment to say a few last words for the American dream: it was a good run, while it lasted, and we’ll miss you.
This country was built upon the idea of the rugged individualist, a place where you—any free person—could claim your plot, dig in your heels, and make a life for yourself on your own terms. At one time, rejecting the status quo only made you an outsider; now, it makes you an endangered species, a dying breed with nowhere to turn. What does a generation such as mine do when faced with a future of crippling debt, a shrinking job market, and an increasingly homogenized culture? Honestly, I do not know. What was once the American dream has been transformed into the American burden—no longer a dream but a standard, a prerequisite, a requirement—and what’s left in its wake is a society without options and choices, only obligations. We’ve started to become everything we feared communism represented during the cold war: a country without opportunity or individual freedom, two of our loftiest American ideals. Think about this: once the American dream was finding a place in our society where you could be the person you wanted to be, own your own house and car, and raise a family in the secure confines of a community and society where your children could grow into the people they dreamed of being. Now, those things have become what we deserve, not aspire to, and its what we do after we have the job, the house, and the family that makes us who we are. Our expectations of what we deserve are destroying the idea of the individual, and with it, the sprit of what has made this country so great, and so pioneering.
Why do I bring this up? Because here in Nashville, I’m meeting people from all over the country who’ve come here because it’s the only place they can afford to live where they feel they can be a part of a large-scale creative community. I have friends in almost every major city in America, from Chicago to Los Angeles, New York to Seattle, Boston to San Francisco, and not one of them can truly afford to live in the fashion we’ve come to expect. And my friends are, for the most part, not in the arts. They are engineers, or chefs, or accountants--smart, well-educated, ambitious folks barely scraping by on salaries that would have made them flush if they had grown up when their parents did. And forget about the main pillar of the American dream, namely property ownership—trying to find an affordable mortgage in California is like trying to find clean in a bucket full of shit.
Great art has always been inspired by a social context, and historically, hotbeds of cultural and artistic innovation have grown in the tumultuous and frenetic landscape of the city—think of how contemporary American music was born in New Orleans at the turn of the 20th century; or of the birth of the American cultural identity in Boston with the rejection of the imposition of British cultural and economic policies. Now, all you can do in cities is try to keep your head above water and work your way to the corner office. Cities are no long fortresses and ports where communities can be grown and ideas hatched, but mere gulags of luxury. We are losing our cities and our dreams, and with it the things that have made America great.
And, simply put, there is no way to have it all back. What the next frontier will be for cultural human evolution is unclear, and the kind of place in the world that the 21st century thinking individual will be able inhabit is yet to be seen. But before we get there, I’d like to take a moment to say a few last words for the American dream: it was a good run, while it lasted, and we’ll miss you.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Tornados, and hail, and music, oh, my!
So, as the dust had partially settled in my house after a hectic weekend of unpacking and situating, I decided it was time to head out on the town to get a little of why I’d moved here in the first place: music! Ignoring the fact that I was broke and still jobless, gig-less, and generally prospect-less, I hopped in the car and headed over to what may be the hippest bar for music in town, The Basement, which is helmed by the witty music patron Mike Grimes, who also owns the adjoining Grimey’s New and Pre-Loved Music, which Rolling Stone declared to be “the best record store in Nashville”. Tuesday is generally “New Faces” night at The Basement, where an assortment of up-and-coming artists and acts play short sets back-to-back. When I arrived, a Nashville-via-Texas songwriter, Mando Saenz, was having a CD release show. He was good, and his tunes were catchy and moody in the right ways, but the real highlight for me was that he had veteran country/roots-rock guitarist Kenny Vaughn playing with him that evening, who I hold in very high regard. Kenny’s regular gig is with Marty Stuart, but he’s played and recorded with a veritable who’s who among the alternative-country scene. This is also very indicative of the kind of thing that happens every night in Nashville: show up someplace, and you’re likely to see, unexpectedly, somebody very good and relatively famous playing for free. Also likely: half the crowd will be folks whose records you own. I think this may take some getting used to. Another thing indicative of the scene in Nashville: yes, there are thousands of extremely talented people making great music. And for every one of those talented people making great music, there is another not-so-talented person making, well, rather passable, unmoving music. Just like anywhere, I suppose. After a number of sets that were enjoyable, but perhaps not particularly memorable, I caught a set by a former Bostonian, who I remember from his Soda-Pop Records days (this won’t mean anything to anyone who hasn’t lived in Boston, but it was a very cool little institution for Boston area music in the early 2000s), named Brett Rosenberg. His attitude and songwriting were spot on—his two most memorable tunes were “Illegal immigrant Girlfriend” (refrain: “she’s my illegal immigrant girlfriend, doing the jobs American girls won’t do”) and “Divorce” (sample lines: “I put regular coffee in the decaf carafe, now that its over she wants half” and “I put the futon mattress on a hard wood floor, she’ll keep banging the guy next door”).
The most interesting part of the evening came when they turned the bar TV to the local news channel so we could all watch the massive thunderstorm system that was sweeping towards us across the state, tornados and massive hail in tow. Proprietor Grimey suggested that we’d be safe in his club since it is located--you guessed it--in a basement. So there I sat, drinking the local Yazoo beer, enjoying some music, expecting that when I returned home the roof would be gone from the house and I’d go back to living in the Extended Stay America where I crashed when I first arrived. Upon leaving, I found my car still in the parking lot, and generally the city looked as it did before I had “gone underground” in the subterranean music club. My house was fine, and generally it appears as though Nashville came out relatively unscathed from the tornados warpath. From the looks of the news coming in from Memphis and Arkansas, they were not so lucky.
It appears I’ll be heading out tonight for some more tunes, and it looks as though I’ll have a similarly full calendar next week—but, hell, that’s why I came here, ain’t it?
The most interesting part of the evening came when they turned the bar TV to the local news channel so we could all watch the massive thunderstorm system that was sweeping towards us across the state, tornados and massive hail in tow. Proprietor Grimey suggested that we’d be safe in his club since it is located--you guessed it--in a basement. So there I sat, drinking the local Yazoo beer, enjoying some music, expecting that when I returned home the roof would be gone from the house and I’d go back to living in the Extended Stay America where I crashed when I first arrived. Upon leaving, I found my car still in the parking lot, and generally the city looked as it did before I had “gone underground” in the subterranean music club. My house was fine, and generally it appears as though Nashville came out relatively unscathed from the tornados warpath. From the looks of the news coming in from Memphis and Arkansas, they were not so lucky.
It appears I’ll be heading out tonight for some more tunes, and it looks as though I’ll have a similarly full calendar next week—but, hell, that’s why I came here, ain’t it?
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Greetings From Nashvegas, Tennessee
The dust has settled, the sweat has run, and the electricity has been turned on: yep, that’s right, I’ve moved to Nashville. I’ve had the dumb luck of renting an amazing apartment, sight-unseen, simply because I ran out of options on the virtual eve of my move, and it has been the beginning of a streak of good luck that I’m assured is due to the fact that God has fallen asleep at the monitor bay of the universe (imagine a room, as in the movies, where they watch the security cameras for a large building…except with God), and is currently unaware of the imbalance of good fortune that has befallen me. In the weeks leading up to this, I’ve had misfortune left and right, ultimately peaking when my car crapped out the day before I was supposed to move; the head gasket went bad, and engine coolant began to leak, and my local mechanic assured me that my engine would seize up and die if I tried to drive it to the grocery store, let alone Tennessee. Even as I crossed the Tennessee border, heavy rain commenced to fall, leaving us to move in to the new place in the pouring rain.
But look at me now, Universe!
So, I think I really like this town. I love my neighborhood, which rests comfortably between the 12th Avenue South and Hillsboro Village centers, where cool shops and good eats abound, and is cradled by the academic and co-ed hotbeds of the universities Vanderbilt and Belmont. Just today, while perusing the cereal isle of my neighborhood grocery market, I bumped into none other than legendary Americana songwriter John Prine (I went for the old fashioned oats, as he appeared to be choosing between versions of Raisin Bran).
The house has been a lot of work to get into shape, and we are still lacking a severe amount of furnishings, but the canvas with which we have to work is astonishing. We have two “living” quarters that we’ve agreed will have decidedly different themes; the first room, also the entrance, has a wonderful working fireplace, and will be “The Parlor”, which will house the wetbar, the phonograph, the bearskin rug, and will be the gathering place to watch the fire, imbibe spirits, and discuss matters of political and sexual consequence; in the next room, to be dubbed “The Key West Lounge”, we have our wicker chairs, steamer trunks, and posters from the Pan American Airlines, in case we need to take a little vacation. Also worthy of noting, Harlan and I have dubbed our shared bathroom “The ManSpace”, complete with hula-girl Christmas lights, a Mexican-tile sink, and “The Man Pod”, a shower with a cylindrical casing, which resembles the kind of thing one might climb into in order to be teleported or perhaps cryogenically frozen; it will also be the Center for Research into Advance Shaving Technique and Etiquette and Other Sundry Retro-sexual Grooming Apparati.
Also, if anyone in Nashville has leads on a locating bearskin rug, please let me know.
But look at me now, Universe!
So, I think I really like this town. I love my neighborhood, which rests comfortably between the 12th Avenue South and Hillsboro Village centers, where cool shops and good eats abound, and is cradled by the academic and co-ed hotbeds of the universities Vanderbilt and Belmont. Just today, while perusing the cereal isle of my neighborhood grocery market, I bumped into none other than legendary Americana songwriter John Prine (I went for the old fashioned oats, as he appeared to be choosing between versions of Raisin Bran).
The house has been a lot of work to get into shape, and we are still lacking a severe amount of furnishings, but the canvas with which we have to work is astonishing. We have two “living” quarters that we’ve agreed will have decidedly different themes; the first room, also the entrance, has a wonderful working fireplace, and will be “The Parlor”, which will house the wetbar, the phonograph, the bearskin rug, and will be the gathering place to watch the fire, imbibe spirits, and discuss matters of political and sexual consequence; in the next room, to be dubbed “The Key West Lounge”, we have our wicker chairs, steamer trunks, and posters from the Pan American Airlines, in case we need to take a little vacation. Also worthy of noting, Harlan and I have dubbed our shared bathroom “The ManSpace”, complete with hula-girl Christmas lights, a Mexican-tile sink, and “The Man Pod”, a shower with a cylindrical casing, which resembles the kind of thing one might climb into in order to be teleported or perhaps cryogenically frozen; it will also be the Center for Research into Advance Shaving Technique and Etiquette and Other Sundry Retro-sexual Grooming Apparati.
Also, if anyone in Nashville has leads on a locating bearskin rug, please let me know.
Friday, February 1, 2008
In Defense of Music
I’ve not been fully truthful with you already. The last blog I posted here was admirable in its scope and enthusiasm, if a little arrogant, but in many ways it failed to address the more current and personal issues that are fueling my move to Nashville. I’ll spare you the heartache and the heavy-handed mysticism (at least until you buy my albums), but I will be very, very real about one thing: music.
I’ve encountered many folks, some of whom I truly respect, who hold the view that Nashville is “the place where music goes to die” (this was actually said to me backstage by a very kind and talented artist from another town in Tennessee shortly before I informed him that I would be moving to said music-destroying city). In many ways, I can understand why so many might feel this way: the blood-curtling sameness of the last two decades of popular country music; the idea that musical decisions could be made preemptively for the sole purpose of effecting sales; that songwriters could be working with the mission to hit on the lowest common human denominator in order to sell music to Wal-Mart-shopping meatheads who wouldn’t know the difference between a guitar and shovel. I know, sometimes the world makes things suck.
But let me suggest this: regardless of your place in the world—whether you can hop in your SUV and blast the new Sting record on your way to the Yuppie Organics Marketplace or you’re spending twelve hours a day wading knee deep in rice paddies and you’ve never seen a TV—we’re all just trying to get by and find happiness, even if we don’t understand what that means. Give professional artists a break. We can’t all get by on our eccentricities and be critically lauded for wearing monkey suits onstage and being utterly, disarmingly stoned off our rockers the rest of the time in our chic London apartments. We all, whether we acknowledge it or not, have to compromise. For example, aforementioned stoner-rock-star-artist-savant is likely to die young, leaving behind a trail of failed relationships and a catalog of music that is unlikely to outlive his or her tabloid persona. That sure sounds like a compromise to me.
Or how about this: one of my best friends is a chef in the greater Seattle area. If it were up to him, he’d be challenging diners every night of the week, giving them reason to think outside the box, to be open to new and unusual ingredients, or to take the time to appreciate simple, classic comfort food in a new way. Unfortunately for him, and for the rest of us, most folks don’t like to be challenged. It would be nice to think that we could relax, and trust, and learn—as we surely could from someone who has spent the better part of their adult life learning the intricacies of this one tiny part of the human experience—but no. Some folks just want the same well-done steak or chicken Parmesan. Let me put is this way: why would you bother to take a history course in college if you assumed that you knew more that the professor who had spent years studying his or her subject? Do us all a favor--next time you fork over thirty bucks for a meal, suggest that the chef cook you something of his or her preference; the knowledge and passion that will go into that meal just might help you to learn something.
Let’s get back to music. I have another bone to pick, and this is a rather large one. The number one reason why I’m moving to Nashville is the people--the thousands of uber-talented practiced, enthusiastic, and professional people who are there to make music, and understand that compromise is sometimes okay (and in this world, essentially necessary). I need to emphasize just how professional they are, and not because they are talented and gifted and knowledgeable. They are professional simply because of their attitude; because they are willing to relax, to trust, to learn; because they realized that music is bigger than they are, than their egos, than their misguided hopes for immortality. Does this sound a bit like Kundera’s “Unbearable Lightness of Being” (see previous entry)? Well, it is.
Do you want to know how not to get work in Nashville? Have a big ego. Think that what you do is important, and that someone else couldn’t do what you are there to do. You’ll find yourself at home, the phone won’t be ringing, and thousands of other talented, knowledgeable, and humble people will be out there getting your work.
Now I’m no music veteran. I’ve been playing professionally for almost nine years now, which I suppose is respectable for someone who has yet to turn twenty-four, but certainly I’m not alone in the regard. However, I’ve have had the simple good fortune to be put into situations time and time again with people older, better, and more professional than me that I learned these things fast, and while I was still young. I was never given the opportunity to think I was special, or that the gig or the world wouldn’t keep on rolling without me. I’ve tried to be in many bands in the last nine years, and in Ohio, especially in my tiny little town, there are a lot of talented, well-intentioned folks making art who have not had the opportunity to learn these lessons. Want to know what hell will be like? Try starting a band with a bunch of undergrads weaned on their parents coddling and a steady diet of tabloidal MTV and Rolling Stone magazine tales of musical illustriousness. If I have any advice for musicians, young or old, it is this: like a diner at a fine restaurant, or a traveler to foreign lands, learn to relax, and trust, and learn. Music is bigger than you and me, and it is worthy of your attention and humble dedication.
I’ve encountered many folks, some of whom I truly respect, who hold the view that Nashville is “the place where music goes to die” (this was actually said to me backstage by a very kind and talented artist from another town in Tennessee shortly before I informed him that I would be moving to said music-destroying city). In many ways, I can understand why so many might feel this way: the blood-curtling sameness of the last two decades of popular country music; the idea that musical decisions could be made preemptively for the sole purpose of effecting sales; that songwriters could be working with the mission to hit on the lowest common human denominator in order to sell music to Wal-Mart-shopping meatheads who wouldn’t know the difference between a guitar and shovel. I know, sometimes the world makes things suck.
But let me suggest this: regardless of your place in the world—whether you can hop in your SUV and blast the new Sting record on your way to the Yuppie Organics Marketplace or you’re spending twelve hours a day wading knee deep in rice paddies and you’ve never seen a TV—we’re all just trying to get by and find happiness, even if we don’t understand what that means. Give professional artists a break. We can’t all get by on our eccentricities and be critically lauded for wearing monkey suits onstage and being utterly, disarmingly stoned off our rockers the rest of the time in our chic London apartments. We all, whether we acknowledge it or not, have to compromise. For example, aforementioned stoner-rock-star-artist-savant is likely to die young, leaving behind a trail of failed relationships and a catalog of music that is unlikely to outlive his or her tabloid persona. That sure sounds like a compromise to me.
Or how about this: one of my best friends is a chef in the greater Seattle area. If it were up to him, he’d be challenging diners every night of the week, giving them reason to think outside the box, to be open to new and unusual ingredients, or to take the time to appreciate simple, classic comfort food in a new way. Unfortunately for him, and for the rest of us, most folks don’t like to be challenged. It would be nice to think that we could relax, and trust, and learn—as we surely could from someone who has spent the better part of their adult life learning the intricacies of this one tiny part of the human experience—but no. Some folks just want the same well-done steak or chicken Parmesan. Let me put is this way: why would you bother to take a history course in college if you assumed that you knew more that the professor who had spent years studying his or her subject? Do us all a favor--next time you fork over thirty bucks for a meal, suggest that the chef cook you something of his or her preference; the knowledge and passion that will go into that meal just might help you to learn something.
Let’s get back to music. I have another bone to pick, and this is a rather large one. The number one reason why I’m moving to Nashville is the people--the thousands of uber-talented practiced, enthusiastic, and professional people who are there to make music, and understand that compromise is sometimes okay (and in this world, essentially necessary). I need to emphasize just how professional they are, and not because they are talented and gifted and knowledgeable. They are professional simply because of their attitude; because they are willing to relax, to trust, to learn; because they realized that music is bigger than they are, than their egos, than their misguided hopes for immortality. Does this sound a bit like Kundera’s “Unbearable Lightness of Being” (see previous entry)? Well, it is.
Do you want to know how not to get work in Nashville? Have a big ego. Think that what you do is important, and that someone else couldn’t do what you are there to do. You’ll find yourself at home, the phone won’t be ringing, and thousands of other talented, knowledgeable, and humble people will be out there getting your work.
Now I’m no music veteran. I’ve been playing professionally for almost nine years now, which I suppose is respectable for someone who has yet to turn twenty-four, but certainly I’m not alone in the regard. However, I’ve have had the simple good fortune to be put into situations time and time again with people older, better, and more professional than me that I learned these things fast, and while I was still young. I was never given the opportunity to think I was special, or that the gig or the world wouldn’t keep on rolling without me. I’ve tried to be in many bands in the last nine years, and in Ohio, especially in my tiny little town, there are a lot of talented, well-intentioned folks making art who have not had the opportunity to learn these lessons. Want to know what hell will be like? Try starting a band with a bunch of undergrads weaned on their parents coddling and a steady diet of tabloidal MTV and Rolling Stone magazine tales of musical illustriousness. If I have any advice for musicians, young or old, it is this: like a diner at a fine restaurant, or a traveler to foreign lands, learn to relax, and trust, and learn. Music is bigger than you and me, and it is worthy of your attention and humble dedication.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Columbus and some Mack-tastic Music Making
Greetings, friends.
I spent the weekend in a Columbus, Ohio, studio tracking guitars and imbibing scotch with my friend, retro-sexual raconteur Matt Mackey. Though Matt spent some of his high school years in Ohio, outside of Cleveland, he has spent most of his time in warmer climes since, namely Virginia, and as of late, Orlando, Florida. As such, he seemed to be having some difficulty accepting the state of Ohio weather, and his body didn’t seem to put up with it either, since he came down with something on Sunday morning. Being the retro-trooper that he is (Sean Connery would be proud) he muscled through some final background vocals before running to catch a plane for home. I’m feeling quite pleased with the way his record is shaping up, and I’m glad to be a part of it; I hope that we get a chance to tour behind this in the near future. We cut basic tracks in Nashville about two weeks ago, with the rhythm section of Matt Mangano and Josh Robinson, both of whom we’re incredibly kind and funny, and both of whom killed it on the tracks—musician speak for “played great” (in Mackey speak: “are you tasting the sauce they brought to the table?”). I believe the record will be out in late April, and I hope that you’ll check it out.
Meanwhile, I had my Flip video camera hanging out at the session, and it wasn’t long before Mackey discovered it and began to document. Here is a little taste of the sauce we were bringing.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Nashville -or- The Unberable Lightness of Being Me
There comes a time in every young man’s life when he just has to grow a pair. No, I’m not talking about puberty, or a bar mitzvah. I’m talking about the acceptance of being alive. Sound new age-y? It’s not. I propose it to be about as fundamentally metaphysical as we, as humans, are capable of being. The supposed ancient Chinese idiom (I only note that is it supposed because the provenance of something of that antiquity seems unlikely to be obvious…or whatever), “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step” pretty much hits it on the head. What I’m talking about is the conscious choice to not suffer the indignity of a life at half speed, half-heartedness, or apathy. This is not an endorsement of the Disney-fied “you can accomplish anything” kind of absurdity bandied about in men’s magazines and marketing campaigns. This is facing up to your burdens, realizing the limitation of being human, and the honest and humble acceptance that you are alive. So, take that step, for crying out loud.
That time is here for me. It’s time I grow a pair. This is why I’m moving to Nashville. Contemplation only gets you so far, and usually, without the accompanying experience of action, that is up your own ass.
Milan Kundera, in the seminal existentialist novel, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, explains life in this way: “being” (as in alive) is full of said unbearable lightness because impermanence is a simple and overarching premise of existence. The German expression, “Einmal ist keinmal”, or “once is nonce” sounds a lot like the Buddhist idea that the existence of each moment is so unlikely that it might as well never have happened at all. This is the basis for Kendera’s suggestion that without permanence, life is ultimately insignificant, and each choice we make does not matter. The realization of our choices and actions insignificance (whether we realize this consciously or not) makes life unbearable to the liver. The tragedy of Kundera's characters is their failure to comprehend fully how free (not to fail, not to suffer) this makes one who is alive. The unbearable-ness of being continues to be so only because humans, thanks to our frontal lobes, are the only animals capable of feeling bad that we won’t and can’t live forever. But tell me, why do we so desperately desire immortality? Why would we suffer daily over something that only reminds us that we should be not suffering because that thing we’re suffering for isn’t attainable anyway. Faghettaboutit already, would ya? Take the first step; do something for somebody simply because you love that person (not because you think you’ll gain karma. Fuck karma. Once Monopoly is over, that stupid little money just goes right back in the box, and you get nothing. Understand?); try not to be dead—not literally dead, like eaten-by-wolves-dead, but dead as in the not-appreciating-that-you-are-alive-just-for-
-the-sake-of-being-alive-and-how-completely-
-preposterously-improbable-that-is-dead.
So: back to the subject of Nashville. Why move there? Why not? I want to make music, I want to meet new people, I want new restaurant environs in which gormandize, I want new things to consider, and think about, and write about. That is why I’m here today, writing this self-indulgent, ego-maniacal bit of linguistic drudgery—I am reminding myself that I am alive, I am here to do and be, and so bring it on. Also, I’d like to become the Anthony Bourdain of music--traveling, ranting, hosting a TV shows--and this is the first step in the process.
On a less proselytizing topic, I’m here to share my experiences behind my two main objectives in life: to make music and to see the world. I hope that you’ll enjoy the things I have to share here, and if you don’t, I hope that you’ll encourage me to do better by challenging the things I say, point out where I’m falling short, and keep the gay jokes to a minimum.
More to come later this week on new musical endeavors, including the record I’m working on for my friend, Matt Mackey, retro-sexual revolutionary, inquirer of truth, and one soulful brotha.
That time is here for me. It’s time I grow a pair. This is why I’m moving to Nashville. Contemplation only gets you so far, and usually, without the accompanying experience of action, that is up your own ass.
Milan Kundera, in the seminal existentialist novel, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, explains life in this way: “being” (as in alive) is full of said unbearable lightness because impermanence is a simple and overarching premise of existence. The German expression, “Einmal ist keinmal”, or “once is nonce” sounds a lot like the Buddhist idea that the existence of each moment is so unlikely that it might as well never have happened at all. This is the basis for Kendera’s suggestion that without permanence, life is ultimately insignificant, and each choice we make does not matter. The realization of our choices and actions insignificance (whether we realize this consciously or not) makes life unbearable to the liver. The tragedy of Kundera's characters is their failure to comprehend fully how free (not to fail, not to suffer) this makes one who is alive. The unbearable-ness of being continues to be so only because humans, thanks to our frontal lobes, are the only animals capable of feeling bad that we won’t and can’t live forever. But tell me, why do we so desperately desire immortality? Why would we suffer daily over something that only reminds us that we should be not suffering because that thing we’re suffering for isn’t attainable anyway. Faghettaboutit already, would ya? Take the first step; do something for somebody simply because you love that person (not because you think you’ll gain karma. Fuck karma. Once Monopoly is over, that stupid little money just goes right back in the box, and you get nothing. Understand?); try not to be dead—not literally dead, like eaten-by-wolves-dead, but dead as in the not-appreciating-that-you-are-alive-just-for-
-the-sake-of-being-alive-and-how-completely-
-preposterously-improbable-that-is-dead.
So: back to the subject of Nashville. Why move there? Why not? I want to make music, I want to meet new people, I want new restaurant environs in which gormandize, I want new things to consider, and think about, and write about. That is why I’m here today, writing this self-indulgent, ego-maniacal bit of linguistic drudgery—I am reminding myself that I am alive, I am here to do and be, and so bring it on. Also, I’d like to become the Anthony Bourdain of music--traveling, ranting, hosting a TV shows--and this is the first step in the process.
On a less proselytizing topic, I’m here to share my experiences behind my two main objectives in life: to make music and to see the world. I hope that you’ll enjoy the things I have to share here, and if you don’t, I hope that you’ll encourage me to do better by challenging the things I say, point out where I’m falling short, and keep the gay jokes to a minimum.
More to come later this week on new musical endeavors, including the record I’m working on for my friend, Matt Mackey, retro-sexual revolutionary, inquirer of truth, and one soulful brotha.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)