On Illusion (5/5/2008)....in talking about the music I make with a dear friend this weekend, I explained the difference between my two albums this way:
People used to hearing me play the guitar and sing (especially in person) probably consider Comfort Noise to be more like the 'real me' than the big production of One Band Man. But to me the opposite feels true, because when I'm playing and singing, say, "Just Around the Corner," I can hear the harmonies and bass guitar that aren't there. When I play "Right Before My Eyes" I 'heard' the walking bass line and worked out the lead guitar part before I'd ever recorded them...like you might have a picture in your head of your 'ideal house', I have an auditory 'ideal picture' of a fully realized song.
So the songs on One Band Man are meant to represent how I picture those songs, in their complete form. It may sound odd, but when I first wrote "Crowd Control" I had a very distinct image of a cheesy electronic drum sound opening the song, just as I knew that "Hildegard" must open with a harpsichord sound. I 'wrote' both of these songs as I usually do, with only the acoustic guitar and some blank paper for the lyrics.
And yet . . as I was driving and listening to songs off my ipod, I reflected that the songs on One Band Man never actually "happened." They only exist because I recorded bits in such a way that they could be played back and resemble a full band playing. But that "band" never existed, and those performances are impossible.
The illusion is what's presented on the album. If I were suddenly asked to
perform songs from One Band Man live, in a more-or-less faithful way,
then I would have to enlist musicians to help me recreate something
that never existed in the first place, except in my head. This is true of many albums these days, even by "real" bands. Drums are often recorded first, because they present the biggest challenge to the recording engineer--a big range of sounds, from the heavy thump of the kick drum to the tinkly brightness of the cymbals. While the other members of the band may play and sing along while the drummer plays, their parts are often re-recorded later, which means the performance of the song, in the end, never 'happened' the way it sounds.
All the same, in recording a song in my studio last week (now posted on the Downlow), I went after my 'mental picture' of the song, which called for acoustic 12-string guitar, and electrics, and bass, and drums. Putting aside the guitar instrumental I had been working on, I decided to have some fun and experiment with the new mics and equipment I'd bought and see what I could throw together.
I chose a silly song I wrote a few years ago called "Spatula!" and I laid down the separate tracks, the song started to appear....like primary colors blending together to make new ones. I then re-did a few parts (bass and backing vocals) and it resembled what I've 'heard' all along when I play the song for myself, the harmonies and other guitars that sing and play (in my head? in the ether?) while I hold a single guitar and sing with my only voice. And, interestingly, the very process of doing so brought new ideas to mind (such as the "ba-bump-ba" backing vocals) which I then committed to the recorder.
Does any of this make any sense? And, does it matter?
Why I like little frogs so much (4/29/2008).....it all started at Baltimore's National Aquarium. Just before you get to the moving walkway/escalator to the Tropical Birds & Animals area, there were a couple of tanks that contained poison dart frogs. And then after you exit the Tropical area, there are a series of tanks that feature several varieties of these amazing little creatures in the family Dendrobates.
I'd never seen any up close before, and I was transfixed. They struck me as the cutest things I'd ever seen, with their tiny little feet, quick hopping movements, and especially their magnificent coloration. Turns out their collective name is a misnomer: of the 175 different varieties of these little guys, only 3 or so were ever used by indigenous tribes to poison their darts or arrows, and most of them are only "poisoned" enough to produce a bad taste in a predator's mouth.
So I decided that I liked poison dart frogs, and started to pick up little frog figures at the Aquarium's gift shop each time I went. The frog became my totem animal, and my work desk soon housed a small colorful collection of them.
Photo: Kitchen-Hurst/T. Sack
Some months later I flew out to California to visit my dear friend Wendy, and as she obligingly drove me around to familiar haunts from my Bay Area days, we stopped at a book shop in Berkeley, where I saw the a picture (shown on the right) in a rack of greeting cards. It's a Red Eyed Tree frog with a baby on its back, and as odd as it might sound, I immediately associated it with my son, who (when he was little) used to love to clamber on my back and lay there.
It was such a funny parental image that I bought the card at once, thinking I'd mail it to him . . but instead, when I got back to Baltimore, I showed it to him and told him how it had reminded me of him. He laughed at that, and ever since then we both consider the funny looking critter "our" frog.
And that picture has adorned my workspace(s) ever since. I look at it, next to all manner of school pictures of him and my neice and nephew, and can't help but smile. As a result, I decided (against all classifying logic) that the Red Eyed Tree frog is an honorary member of my froggy favorites, the Dendrobates.
Music People(4/18/2008).....Let’s call her Brenda. She managed an R&B singer and advertised in the Village
Voice, looking for songwriters to contribute material.
This was 1990 or so, when I was living in New York and trying to make my way as a musician, or failing that, as a songwriter. I sent a tape of a
couple of songs to her.
My phone rang a few days later. “Geoffrey,” she said in a whisky-soaked purr,
“I want to thank you for submitting this tape. It’s fan-tas-tic.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Really,” she continued, “it’s fresh—really contemporary,
great melodies, lyrics. A really fresh sound to it. You must have published
before, right? I mean, this stuff is so fresh!"
She had me at “fresh.”
“I’d like to get you and the singer together,” she said.
“She’s incredible, you know, and she loves the songs."
“That’d be great, sure, just tell me when.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
Thus began a series of phone calls in which Brenda would
praise my work and toss out a potential connection that she could arrange.
First it was just the singer, but soon she wanted me to meet a guy in a band
that might need material, and then someone else in some other ensemble.
Flattery is verbal cocaine for artists—the more abject the
better. As hardened as they come, artists, especially young ones, can usually be won over with praise.
It’s natural. We sweat over our work, we put our energy and thought into it.
What could be better than having some acknowledgement?
Brenda went beyond acknowledgement, straight into the
stratosphere. To be blunt, she shined me on and I ate it up. I hadn’t talked
with many music professionals, and I was completely won over. She understands! I thought. She gets it!
Brenda was one in a series of “this is it” moments—moments
that hold promise of greater things. Many's the time I had called
my parents with a “this is it” announcement.
“I’m going to be on an album!"
“Rena’s music lawyer said my song is a hit!”
“We’re playing at the Village Vanguard! THE Village
Vanguard!"
Each time....I got my hopes up. Each time I was sure THIS would be the thing
that would get me over (even as I heard the polite
skepticism in my parents’ voices) that this time I would show them. And each time it come
to nothing, or very little. My excite-o-meter would swing back to “normal,”
waiting for the next fleeting hope to come along push it up to “this is it.”
“Geoffrey,” Brenda said on one call, “could you go out to a
club in Brooklyn to meet someone?"
“Sure, why not? Who is this person?”
“It’s another talented songwriter I’m working with,” she
said breezily. I liked the implication that I was a talented songwriter, and I liked
even more the implication that Brenda was working
with me. “I’m thinking that you two might like each other, and want to
collaborate.”
My teeth clicked together. The dreaded "C" word. I shuddered.
“You still there?”
“Yes!” I sputtered, telling myself get over yourself, meet the guy, collaborate if you have to! This could
be IT! “Sure, yeah, I’ll meet the guy.”
“Ok, I’ll call him. I’ll get back to you."
She didn’t.
The next time I spoke with her, she sounded decidedly less
enthused. Mentioning that her singer would be at the Vanguard cocktail area on
such-and-such a night, she sounded non-commital about finally getting together
for a face-to-face meeting.
“I’ll get back to you on that.”
I never heard from her again.
A few weeks later, I went to hear the singer. She wasn’t
extraordinary, but had a nice voice and presence. Talking with her afterwards,
I mentioned that I’d talked to Brenda. At the mention of the name, the singer’s
face went blank.
“Oh,” she said. “Her. I’m not working with her anymore.”
Somehow, I wasn’t surprised.
What She Had, What She Was (4/15/2008).....Watched 'the Seven Year Itch" on DVD last night, along with the little special-features documentary, and I couldn't help but be struck by the Marilyn Effect. For me, this boils down to: "how can a woman seem, at once, both utterly unreal yet completely scrumptious?"
There she is in those unbelievable costumes, delivering her lines in that bizarre breathy voice---at times it sounds like English isn't her first language, although it's impossible to image what is...apart from body language, in which she was fluent.
Her gifts as a comedic actress are well-known, and her sex appeal is legendary, but the artifice of her presence is what struck me most. Watching this movie, NO ONE could believe: a) She was 22 (as the character claimed to be) b) She believed a single scripted word of that guff about married men c) She really existed
Yet despite it all, you can't take your eyes off her, and none of it matters. She steals the movie from Tom Ewell and her character doesn't even have a name! One of the quotes in the documentary was that she had a 'genius' about her, and watching this movie or Some Like It Hot, it's hard to disagree.
I once wrote a "poor Marilyn" song which began with what I considered a genius couplet: Not everyone can say they were a president's lover Not everyone can say they had a president's brother
At the time (late 80s) I kind of hated the fact that I was even writing about her, she seemed such a sad hollywood cliche, someone who was posthumously twisted into whatever shapes writers or film-makers required to make their point. Yet I wrote the thing, a never-quite-finished ode that mourned her death and her life as an object, a thing. I didn't realize (until doing a quick webseach just now) what a horrific childhood she had, and how prevelant depression was in her family, which does bring a lump-in-the-throat of sympathy for her, having struggled with it myself for years.
It was hard not to see her as a woman who struggled to define herself, in opposition to the prevailing views of her, but without, perhaps, a solid grasp of the tools that could keep her stable. The combination of alcoholism and prescription drugs must've been devastating to any sense of equilibrium. With stories like hers, and, say, Judy Garland's, I think a large part of the allure is the anticipation of the tragedy that's around the corner. It would've been fascinating to hear a 60-year-old Marilyn Monroe talk about her career; I think she would've kicked ass as an old broad.
But as for being a "victim" of her stardom, well, look around. It's not like stardom or fame generally produces people of solid character or mental health.
So, in glamorously understated terms.....here's a toast to a really cool gal.
(Champagne, of course.)
To Catch a Phrase (4/10/2008).....Songs can come from the humblest beginnings: a single interesting chord change or a simple figure of speech. Those initial ideas can form the core of the song, or end up on the periphery.
A few examples:
1) At work one day back when I was living in NYC, a tech had come to my cubicle and encountered a problem with my computer's system connection. Momentarily stymied, he sat back in a crouch and stared at the wiring. Softly he said to himself, "It's too simple to be complicated..." I was so taken by this phrase that I constructed a song called "Matter of Choice" around it, making that line the top of the chorus.
2) One summer I worked as a dishwasher at a summer camp, and I can recall the moment when, my hands in soapy water, my mind drifted along and finally snagged on an English expression: "I shouldn't wonder." It's an aside that means something like "I can imagine" or "I bet" (e.g., "She was pleased as punch that he proposed, I shouldn't wonder.") As I fiddled with that phrase in my head, I shifted to a more literal take, and added "..but I do." Suddenly I was humming the line "I shouldn't wonder but I do....about you," and had an impression of a 60s girl-group sound. That phrase became the main "hook" of the lyric, and the song was titled "I Shouldn't Wonder."
3) A very low day when I was in California. I had been let go at my job that morning, sent home with my desk items in a cardboard box, and that blow was gradually sinking in. I called a few friends and told them what had happened, and expressed panic about my prospects. Each one tried to be reassuring, and all of them said something along the lines of "it'll get better" or "something better is coming," or "it's around the corner." I walked into the kitchen and was about to heat up some water when I realized that a line was running through my head, melody and all: "Something better's/just around the corner."
I went into my room, picked up the guitar, and it poured out onto the page within a half-hour. That song is called "Just Around the Corner," and is one of the 10 best songs I've ever written.
rrrrrRRRRRrrrr!
I ♥ Zombies (4/7/2008)....The first time I saw a zombie movie, or rather, THE zombie movie (Night of the Living Dead) was Halloween night, 1982. Newly arrived at NYU, I was still in the full flush of big-city excitement. After watching the Greenwich Village Halloween Parade for a while, with its swooping giant puppets and costumed West-Village dwellers camping it up, I had retired to the dorm's tv room. I was buzzed, and sat down happily just as the brand-spanking-new MTV channel began its Halloween broadcast of the horror classic.
The movie began, and its dated b&w look and dialogue seemed to point to a fun, kitschy screening. But as the picture went on, I couldn't help but get geniunely creeped out. Being wasted didn't help matters, because when I turned around for reassurance from my fellows dorm-mates, I was confronted with the sight of students dressed up for halloween---a whole 'nother set of monsters. I would gulp and quietly turn back to the tv.
At that time it was still possible to be geniunely shocked by the content of a movie like that....I'm not sure it is anymore. At some point thereafter I saw the others of the original George Romero 'of the Dead' zombie trilogy: Dawn (aka the one in the mall) and Day (aka the one in the Army barracks). It was only later that I learned of Italian cinema's embrace of zombies, with flicks such as Zombi and City of the Living Dead, and much later, the geniunely surreal Cemetary Man, which starred Rupert Everett.
Which brings me back to the original question.....why the hell do I like this stuff?
I think it's the fact that they push the horror movie to its very limits. The idea of dead people coming back to life is preposterous enough, but the further detail that they want to eat living people streaks right into silly territory. Yes, I said it, zombies are dead silly! (It's amazing that it took as long as it did for somebody to make Shaun of the Dead, altho Return of the Living Dead was the first true zombie comedy.)
Whenever people try to explain horror's appeal (a big mistake), it sounds ludicrous. There's always stuff like "...taps into our instinctual fears...the dark, death..blah blah.."
I think it's simpler: it's fun to get scared. Think roller coasters, bungee jumping, extreme paratricyling, or the prospect of eating liver: there's a little tingly rush that accompanies the mere contemplation of these activities. Not for everyone, certainly, but to fans the prospect of a new horror movie is a treat. Watching horror is close to the experience of watching a comedy, really--both provoke a reaction, whether vocal (laughter/shrieks) or physical (laughter/jolt).
And zombies have both the creeping-dread of their agonizingly slow shamble (before the recent running-zombie movies, that is) and the often ingenious cinematic solutions to budget problems. Because until recent days, there was no such thing as a big-budget zombie movie. The word 'cheesy' often comes to mind when watching them, and cheesy can be sooooo much fun. Yet they can be geniunely enthralling, in an end-of-the-world how-would-you-react kind of way.
P.S. I'm pretty sure that my great affection for the 60s British Invasion band the Zombies is coincidental....or is it? Have a listen to Time of the Season and decide for yourself.
Closer, closer (4/3/08)....Work continues at Poison Dart Studios. The last couple of days I've returned from the (dreaded) dayjob, eaten some dinner, and switched on the preamps and connected the mics. Then I sit down, tune the guitar, and try, try, try again.
I'm still working on the same guitar piece, "Wheatlfield Lullaby," that I've been trying to record for weeks. I keep coming SO close to a 'take' I want to keep, yet I keep not quite getting there. A string buzzes, or my wrist cracks when I form a particular barre chord, or I just mess up. Last night I noticed my mind wandering while I played, which is usually the last thought I'm aware of before some mistake happens. ("Hmm, I can't wait to post it, I wonder what Charles will think," and then blap. "Damn!")
The tune has improved, and I've added a few nice details to the arrangement as I've practiced and run through it.
Which means, oddly, I'm still pretty happy with the process, and still enjoying the extreme clarity of sound that the new mics and preamps provide. Naturally I'd like to get this piece "done" and move on to others, but I'm not quite at the impatient stage. I have this feeling that reaching the goal will open up a floodgate, even just a little bit, and that I'll move on through other pieces.
But I hope the final take is worth it after all this!
Ringing, ringing (April 1, 2008)....It started just after midnight, with the electronic bleating of the telephone. My eyes snapped open as I woke immediately and grabbed for the phone.
"Wha...hello?"
"Mr. Wickman? Hi. This is Amy. I'm an assistant producer for the Craig Kilborn show."
Blink. Do I know an Amy? "The . . . what?"
"Craig Kilborn, the late-night talk show host? One of our PAs stumbled across your website and alerted us to the story in your blog about standing in the movie line with your fly undone? I'm told it's very funny. Would you be interested in appearing on the show?"
"Is this," blink blink, "My web...you're kidding, right?"
And then, silly me, I hung up on her. Must've been holding the phone wrong. I glanced at the alarm clock and winced at the time, and then put the phone in the cradle and lay back, my heart still racing. I always answer in a panic because I assume it's an emergency and someone's dead in a ditch; everyone who knows me at all well knows I hate late-night phone calls.
It rang again, and I grabbed at it again.
"Look, Amy or whoever you are, it's not-"
"Oh, sorry, no," a deep male voice said. "My name's Tony."
"Uh . . . ok?"
"I'm on the booking staff. I work for Conan."
My brain went blank, and a misty memory of Arnold Schwarzenegger holding a big-ass battle axe surfaced.
"...the barbarian?"
Polite chuckle. "Ha, very amusing, Mr. Woodsman. In fact, your humor is why I'm calling. We were alerted to a very funny story about a movie line and a costume malfunction? On your website's blog? We were hoping to book you next . . "
"Wait a minute," I said, my head clearing a bit. "You found my website and aren't calling about my music?"
"Oh, you're a musician as well?"
He was interupted by a sudden beeping. "Hold on, there's another call," I said, and hit the Flash button.
"Hi, Mr....Waltham? This is Akeela at the David Letterman Show. I'm calling about your funny blog story, the one about the movie line and your zipper?"
"What? Is this some kind of . . . "
And then it all became clear: after midnight, the month of March over, the first day of the new month dawning.
I hung up, and hung up again to clear the line, and lay down to await the call from the Tonight Show.
Crowd Control (3/27/2008)....I've often said that I hate crowds, except when they're paying to hear me play guitar. A decent one-liner, I think, and basically true.
Sometimes people really don't believe me when I tell them I'm crowd-shy, since I can be appear very outgoing one-on-one, and especially since I'm a performer. Their confusion is quite natural: I have no trouble getting in front
of people with my guitar, speaking and singing into a microphone. I get
nervous occasionally (especially lately, since I don't perform
regularly), but mostly that's not a problem.
But malls, parties, concerts, sports events? My first, visceral response is usually quiet panic. I can overcome the feeling when I want or need to, but I'm eminently capable of making excuses not to go out.
I explain it this way: when I'm performing, I'm in control. Although I'm the ostensible focus of attention, I'm comfortable doing my thing even if people aren't listening, because I have a task that I love doing, and I know what's expected of me. The kind of contact I make with the 'crowd' is very much of my own choosing.
I've never been fond of the sensation of being surrounded--a big reason I prefer matinee or weekday movies to weekend evenings, for instance. At parties I clam up and wander off, drifting on the periphery, or engage in conversation for a certain amount of time, after which I leave, sometimes abruptly. One-on-one conversation is a joy to me, but hit-and-run chatting wears me out quickly.
Even with songwriter groups like the BSA (which I joined in an effort to be more 'social') I observe before I engage, and my interest goes in waves. I'll attend meetings or open mikes for a few months running, and then drop out entirely. To be sure, there are certain members I enjoy seeing and talking with, and I really love the feeling of encouraging/cheering beginners, but between the crowd-aversion and my own (much lamented) competitiveness, I have trouble feeling rooted in the group.
This came to mind recently because I've been enjoying the discussion groups at Harmony-Central, a website for musicians and music-production types. There are forums for different interests (Recording, Songwriting, Guitar, Bass, etc), and the discussion threads can be annoying or refreshing, and are sometimes both.
I've been able to dip my toe into several discussions, and have read nice things about some of my comments. It's nice to feel I'm participating in something with like-minded artists, some of whom are very experienced and some of whom are not. Yesterday I read a thread that started with the question, "Why do you write songs?" A very simple query, yet one that made me pause and smile.
The web, chat, and discussion forums are obviously great gifts to wordy loners. It lets people who express themselves well in type converse, share, and engage at a distance, often alone, from a safe place. This resonates well for homebodies like me, who can socialize with a favorite mug sitting next to my keyboard, extending my interests and thoughts but not my corporeal presence.
However, this has nothing to do with my song "Crowd Control"....that story is for another day.
What is this thing called Blog? The Apology (March 26, 2008)....it has gradually dawned on me that this isn't a proper blog, in that there's no comments field capability. I started this as an experiment, but after seeing the hit count for the site rise steadily for the last month, I looked into switching over to a proper-blog system.
But. The past few days I've tried three times to start one up with a utility offered by my webhost, and I've ended up deleting all three in frustration. First, it would break the look-n-feel of this website, because it's a separate system. Second, the learning curve is a bit steeper than I expected. Third, between music and its enabler (the dreaded DayJob....tremble with fear!) I'm sorry to say I don't have the time (at present) to start one up and devote the proper amount of time to it.
So please accept this humble bloggy, such as it is....more of a monoblog, really. I will endeavor to keep the entries in the style to which you've become accustomed, and if you'd like to comment, please send some feedback (added at the bottom of this page), and I may just add it to the bottom of the bloggy entry. More stories ahead, and thanks soooo much for reading! Comments: "Pic of escape key, haha"....Julie, DC "This is a great alternative and I love and enjoy the blog in its present form. Thanks.".....Sheila
Backstory #2: Happy, Happy Blues from Comfort Noise (3/21/2008)....I'm reading a very pointed biography/thought piece about Skip James, a Delta bluesman who recorded a few geniune classics, among them "Devil Got My Woman" and the amazing "I'm So Glad" (which some may know from the 60s cover version by Cream).
What I hadn't realized was that the reason he first came to anyone's attention--given that his releases on the Paramount label in 1931 pretty much sank without a ripple--was because jazz & blues collectors a decade or more later realized his old 78s were the hardest to come by.
Think about that for a second: Skip James' records were the rarest blues recordings among a set of mostly white music collectors, and thus became an elusive prize. The obsession of some of these collectors, and later, fans of blues re-releases, led them to become "blues hunters," going to the old Mississippi Delta towns and tracking down the men who had made the music. In some cases these musicians hadn't played the blues in years. As part of the folk boom of the 50s and 60s, these "rediscovered" bluesmen (like Mississippi John Hurt, Fred McDowell, Son House, and Skip James) began to perform in coffeehouses and at festivals, and even re-record their old "hits" again.
My song "Happy Happy Blues" was partly inspired by James' "I'm So Glad," a song that mixes some of the fiercest finger-picking you ever heard with James' ghostly tenor. His voice occasionally leaps up an octave with a forlorn coyote-ish quality. I was so struck by James' recording that I quoted the title in the middle break of "Happy," in the line that goes "I'm so glad/that you stopped by." I even sang it high in my range to imitate his vocal, a practice I later dropped when I realized that it sounded better a full octave lower (as it appears on Comfort Noise).
Musically, "Happy" liberally adapts (i.e., rips off) a song called "Worryin' You Off My Mind" by another blues giant: Big Bill Broonzy. It's one of my favorite recordings ever, with wonderful guitar licks, and I loved playing it. After I wrote "Happy" it took the show-offy blues number spot in my live sets previously occupied by "Worryin'". It's very much on the traditional model, except for the break ("It scares me/how much I want you/to stay..."), which tosses in a couple of extra (i.e., non-trad) changes.
There's a hair . . .
Oh, Waiter.....(3/19/2008) Got together with a dear friend in Arlington over the weekend, and had dinner at a restaurant called Essie's Carriage House. Very nice looking place, great menu full of tempting steak'n'seafood items.
The trouble started with the salad, a mixed green that was quite pleasant until I discovered a dark hair. My hair is not dark. What's more, it's not long, unlike the dark hair that nestled cosily in my salad.
The next time the waiter stopped by I said, "Um, the salad?" and pulled at the hair.
The owner was walking by and came over. "What's wrong?"
"A hair," I said, slowly extracting the hair, and trying not to spill thousand island dressing.
"Oh, that's no problem," he replied, taking the plate, "I'll get you a new salad." Off he went.
I turned to my friend and asked if oh, that's no problem was really the kind of response you expected from the owner of a fine restaurant. A moment later, he returned to the table and set down a fresh plate of salad in front of me.
"Here you are," he chirped, "a new one."
I glanced at the salad and said, "With a new hair..." and proceeded to extract another dark hair from the salad, sitting in nearly the same spot that the previous hair had sat in the previous salad plate.
"What?" the fellow said, in an exasperated tone. I pulled the hair out and put it in his outstretched hand, or tried to, whereupon he seemed to lose it, and then mimed looking for the missing hair in his hand. It was then that I felt I was in a really bad joke.
Finally he asked, "Would you like a new one?"
"No!" I said, a bit too loudly, and then, "I think I'll pass on salad, thanks." He took the salad away with a slightly aggrieved air, as if I was the strange one for not wanting a new salad.
The rest of the meal was fine, but I couldn't help but wonder at the guy's attitude. Whatever happened to "Oh I'm so sorry, sir, it's our mistake. There's no charge for your meal"??
Or "Oh, I'm so sorry, thank you for pointing this out to me and not taking a picture with your cellphone and sending it to Health & Human Services!"
Or, in the Monty Python version of this story, "Oh, I'm so sorry, sir.......gaston! Go back to the kitchen and sack the sous-chef immediately!"
. . . . or even, "Oh, I'm so sorry"??
Riding the subway
Backstory #1: Figuring Out the 6 (3/14/2008) . . . I thought it might be fun to recount a bit about the creation of the songs I'm posting or have released before, so here's the first.
Figuring Out the 6 may be an odd title, it may sound bizarre, but it probably helps to know that it's referring to a subway train. When I lived in NYC, the subway was my main mode of transport (I didn't own a car until I was 26). And being the slightly strange artsy-type I was, I would sometimes walk about with an old 12-string acoustic strapped around my back. If the subway car wasn't crowded, I'd play the guitar for myself. Yes, I thought this was quite reasonable.
So, the "6" in the title refers to the eastside local, the 6 train, which I took quite frequently to visit my friend and bandmate Charles.
All the better to hear you with
Becoming a Perfectionist(3/11/2008)....Poison Dart Recording is changing everything!
Before, when I'd record at home, the purpose was to get an idea of the overall sound of a song. It was strictly a demo process (short for 'demonstration'). For the multi-part songs, I'd throw together bass, drums, guitars, and vocals, and try out harmonies, and if something obviously didn't work I'd figure out an alternative, or abandon it and move on to something else. My goal wasn't a finished painting, it was like a sketch, a try-out, and it felt like play rather than work. Thus, it was a lot of fun.
The role of the studio was different. You book time at a recording studio when you want to produce a high-quality recording, 'cos that's where the best equipment is, along with the people (engineers) who know how to use it effectively.
Your job as the musician is to have things "set" in your arrangement. You rehearse, you practice, you make sure that you won't waste time in the studio (studio time = $60+ an hour). When microphones and mixing board are set up and the engineer is ready to record, the clock starts. If you play a part and screw up, you start over. It's just not feasible to spend an hour on one guitar part--that's where the preparation comes in.
Yes, it's possible to punch in (re-record a small section), but punch-ins are like potato chips: once you have one, you're tempted to have another. Complete takes are ideal because they flow better, they help sell the illusion that what you're hearing is spontaneous, it's happening now! Boom!
But the flip side is that, what you get is only as good as your playing at that moment in time. Even if you didn't quite bend the note exactly as far as you'd practiced, the pressure of time/money is....if it's close enough, you have to accept it and move on. Maybe you'll get back to it later, but maybe you won't have time. Of course, sometimes you play something better than you expect, which is great. But what you record and decide you can live with is the way it is. Forever. That's the compromise implicit in studio time.
Now, though, with my new super-mics and preamps at home, and with the goal of recording finished 'products' on my own time, I started to notice a number of things when I sat down and pressed record.
First, with the better sound, I was hearing the shortcomings of my performances more--finger squeaks on the steel strings, and sloppy playing. When I was demo-ing, it didn't have to be perfect, or even very near perfect; my goal has changed. I started to pay a lot more attention to the position of my hands while playing: in other words, on my technique. That cut down on some of the noisiness. (I also did some research and found out about Elixir strings, which have a special coating that can quiet some string squeakiness.)
Second, parts of the
song where I hadn't truly nailed down the arrangement were glaringly apparent. I
was, essentially, winging it and hoping to get a good take. Paying attention to the song made me realize that I needed to serve the melody, and to do that, I had to know the melody...inside out.
Years ago, my ex-wife told me she envied me because I knew what "good enough" was. She's an amazing singer, but she was never satisfied with a vocal performance if it wasn't letter-perfect, so she could re-do a take endlessly. Recording was not a fun process for her. Whereas I was able to make a judgement that a take was 'good enough' and move on to others.
She was right, especially when it came to demo-ing, but even with the studio-time model. Both my albums have moments that make me cringe now, because I didn't hit a high note or my pitch wobbled. I did, in fact, deliberately leave a few 'mistakes' in (especially in One Band Man) because I liked the quality they added--but the cringe-worthy moments are things I wish I had fixed, or left out entirely.
So...some evening last week when I had followed the procedure I'd done for days (get home from the day-job, turn on the equipment, eat something, then sit down to take a stab at recording), I realized that the old demo/studio model no longer applied. Every time I did a take of this tune (an instrumental called "Wheatfield Lullaby"), no matter how close I came to perfect, I would reset and start over again, ruthlessly erasing the previous take with the thought that "I can do better."
I'm after a different beast now. My performance has improved a lot--there's a silkiness to my playing that wasn't there a few weeks ago. And little enhancements to the arrangement have popped up. That's why I'm not terribly frustrated about it--the song and my playing are improving before my very ears.
Mind you, I hope I won't be working on this same piece in another two weeks, but the luxury of taking my time, of becoming a perfectionist, is so delightful that I'm happy to see where this journey takes me.
Driving driving driving
Lost in the Rain (3/10/2008) what fun! driving around southern new jersey in pouring rain, darkness
stretching out on both sides of the road (farm communities), trying
to find Cape May so I can play the singer/songwriter festival gig.
oh, I was prepared...I had my mapquest directions all printed up. in color and everything. Somehow this
didn't prevent me from missing Route 55, which sent me off into the
unknown, tearing through towns so small they stretch on for miles without any real
'center', watching for signs that said "Cape May This Way".
Ok, got back on track in a town called Millville, got on 55 and then 47 South towards Cape May, my son trying to read directions as I drove. We make it into Cape May, take a few turns that send us near the ferry, and after a couple more turns, reach the destination.
There's only one problem: it was a residential neighborhood.
I considered walking up to the house in question and asking if I should do my set in the living room or the basement, but decided to call the venue instead. Turns out I had typed Washington Blvd instead of Washington Street in Mapquest. Crap. Had to get
re-directed over the phone. Finally found the place and stumbled in with
guitar case and a bag full of cds that no one ended up
buying...because it was a bar crowd. Some listened, but mostly when I
played covers like my "Crazy/Crazy/Crazy medley" (Patsy Cline/Gnarls Barkley/Seal) and the Pixies' "Here Comes Your Man", rather than my own songs.
At least someone bought me a beer.
And in truth, I enjoyed the road-trip experience with my son, who took it all in stride. I'm still surprised when he wants to go along with me to gigs, because he's heard me play my songs so often, but when we were driving to the hotel after the gig, he said he was glad I played "Out on the Road."
"Oh?" I said. "Why?"
"Because that's my favorite," he replied, adding, "of your songs, I mean."
It's so nice when he's a good sport about these things....so I returned the favor by taking him to play paintball on Sunday.
Last Night's Gig at Tyson's Tavern (3/6/2008) Was a nice relaxed time, sharing the spotlight with Ken & Gina, swapping songs. Even though I hadn't really prepared (have been so busy trying to capture an acoustic guitar piece in the studio, doing many many many takes over the last couple weeks) I was pleasantly surprised with how my voice sounded, and held up....but thank heavens the vocal burden was shared three ways!
At one point I
decided to do one of my 'funny' songs, Freddie's Lament (song nicknames: Freddie, or Velma), and I started pattering,
"this next song is about the love triangle hidden within Scooby Doo
cartoons."
That got a bigger-than-usual laugh, and people start pointing
over my head. Turns out the flat-screen on the wall above my head
happened to be tuned to Cartoon Network, and what happened to be on
the screen? A Scooby Doo cartoon. It added to the flavor of the song, and I'd occasionally glance up at the screen while I was singing, often prompting another ripple of laughter.
2 new microphones
Microphone Madness (2/29/2008) ...My main musical mission of late has been upgrading my home studio. Whereas in the past I did home-recorded demos strictly to flesh out song ideas and arrangements, I'm now working towards producing studio-quality (or as near as I can get) recordings. As such I've named this enterprise Poison Dart Recording Studios, after one of my favorite animals, the Poison Dart Frog.
So, what constitues an 'upgrade'? Mostly, better microphones. The difference between a cheap microphone ($100) and not-so-cheap mic ($500) is pronounced; the difference between a cheap mic and a high-quality ($800-1000 and up) mic is astounding. It's immediately noticeable. Some high-quality mics can pick up ALL the noise in the room (right down to the sound of my shirt rubbing against a chair), and even house noises like creaks and pipe knocks. And more: the other day I heard the sound of a dog barking outside right in my headphones!
The sensitivity isn't the only issue, though. Better mics capture the presence and character of the instrument or singer. My focus now is recording acoustic guitar pieces, and with better mics (and preamps, which boost the mic's signal strength) I'm getting a much more life-like recording.
But the downside is getting obsessive about the things. I pore over web forums, online catalogs like Musician's Friend and sites with user reviews like Harmony Central, checking and rechecking various makes and models--and prices--to see if they might add something important to my collection. The quest for good deals that any self-respecting shoe maven could appreciate. I've become familiar with terms like 'cardioid' and "omni-directional" and terms like 'x-y configuration'.
It occurred to me that I'm just as cloistered and geeky as many hobbyists, guys who construct elaborate miniature towns for their train sets, or people who buy huge tanks with special filtration systems to house their tropical fish, but since my pursuit might produce something tuneful and public, that makes it more 'acceptable', perhaps.
It feels just as hermetic at times, tho.
Being Reviewed (part 2), Feb 20, 2008 ....Lots of celebrities claim that they never read reviews. I used to find this baffling, but I think I understand it now. When you achieve a measure of success that leads to big sales and name recognition, reviews take on a different meaning. Whereas at the level I find myself---i.e., struggling for recognition of any kind---I have to pay attention to reviews. I can't afford not to, because in some cases they're the only way I have of reaching music lovers out there.
Which brings me to bad reviews. In Part 1, I described the giddiness of getting a great review. It didn't take long to be brought back to earth. The next review I received had a true sucker-punch first line: "I won't lie--this album put me to sleep".
And as the review goes on, it's clear that the reviewer doesn't even like my kind of music: "I need something with a little more than an acoustic guitar"...."Yes, he changes the music up, as much as you can with an acoustic guitar" And it finishes with a reversal: "So if you're looking for something that just sort of stays the same, then sure, this is fantastic!"
To coin a phrase....ouch. It didn't matter that the reviewer sounded like a bratty 12-year-old, she had totally hated my album! Now, intellectually, I know that any music will have it's fans and it's non-fans, but when you labor over something for years, at some deeply shallow and irrational level, you really DO think that everyone should love it. And this reviewer hadn't.
And she wasn't the only one.
As the months went by, I would dutifully google-search the album and every few-to-several weeks there seemed to be a new review. Some were positive, a couple were effusive, but rounding them out were some real clunkers. One UK webzine said my guitar playing was great but I can't sing. Another said my voice and guitar-playing was great, it was the song-writing that sucked.
And I won't lie.....it hurts. It's disappointing and depressing. It can put a damper on a good day or a great mood. It feels like a setback. The idea that 'any publicity is good publicity' is suspect when someone writes that my singing "grates like a desparate Michael Stipe scrounging around the shop floor for inspiration." I'm not even sure what that means, but it doesn't sound good.
Of course, I used to play this reviewing game, but on the other side of the net, and I certainly wrote some lackluster album reviews in my time. I remember writing one about Crowded House for People in which I expressed my disappointment in an album I had expected (and wanted) to like. It's never fun to get bad news. And this is the point in the essay where I should say something about "thick skin" or "dusting myself off" and getting back on the horse and whatnot.
But what I always conclude is.....goes with the turf. It's ok that I'm not for everybody. Onwards.
(1/29/2008) Was reading an article in Salon.com about the "Bill Clinton is the first black president" thing, which, like all the others, attributes the quote to Toni Morrison. The author of the piece even claimed that she'd checked, and "as far as [she] can tell" Morrison was the originator of the phrase. Which is just not the case.
So....I did the unthinkable and wrote a reply, which was then selected as an "Editor's Choice" Letter. Here's what I wrote:
A misreading of a misquote
I can't believe this is STILL being recycled as a "Toni Morrison
wrote" attribution. Morrison herself said in a talk she gave in
Baltimore that she was quoting the well-known Chris
Rock first-black-president routine. So your "as far as I
could find" evidently doesn't extend to actual research.
Chris Rock is one of the best monologists in the country, but
let's face it, would your article (and the other 'thought pieces'
that strain for gravity when speaking about Clinton and race) exist
if you HAD found the correct source?
GW, Baltimore, MD
P.S. You might want to check into Dick Gregory's late-60s
albums for more material along these lines.
I present this not to try to persuade you politically, nor because I have a beef with Toni Morrison or her New Yorker piece. It's how lazy the press and pubdits often are, both in terms of fact-checking and in thought...the herd mentality. Once a trope gets stuck, they trundle it out as accepted wisdom, whether or not it's true.
Plus, Chris Rock is brilliant, and his routine was great and should be sourced!
Galaxy pic from NASA website
(12/27/2007) 2001 again.....the movie, that is.
I'm a huge movie fan, and every year-and-a-half or so I put 2001: a space odessy on and
sit, transfixed. the movie exudes such confidence as it vaults from
one amazing set-piece to another: the dawn-of-man sequence, the inexorable "I'm sorry Dave" HAL freakout....really feels like watching the
work of people who were at the absolute top of their game.
but what struck me most THIS time (yes, it's one of those movies
that reveals something new each time you watch it) was the
seldom-mentioned middle section, where character actor William
Sylvester depicts the ultimate corporate spin-meister. this guy
deals with the moon-artifact discovery as if it were an oil-tanker
spill, something that must be ruthlessly contained. when talking to an inquisitive russian scientist on a space station, he is absolutely chilling when he
repeats the line "I'm afraid I just can't comment on that." and later, he adopts a
folksy, reagan-esque manner while telling the workers on the moon that they have no recourse regarding headquarters' policy of spreading a fake quarantine story.
prescient stuff, in these days where spin is glorified and treated as the normal state of affairs.
Music Monthly reviews GW
Being Reviewed, Part 1 (8/8/07)
My second album 'came out' earlier this year, and I dutifully sent
copies to various local papers and magazines, and radio stations
and so on. Until now I hadn't gotten any substantive reviews, beyond a quick
mention in the July Music Monthly which managed to both botch the album title and spell my name
wrong. (well, it happens)
It summarized the album thusly: "very interesting stuff".
Yesterday I picked up the August issue of Music Monthly, though, and found myself suddenly without oxygen....my name was on
the cover. At first I thought I'd play it cool and get back in my
car and drive to a restaurant and get seated and order and get nice
and squared away before I read it, and then that second elapsed and
I tore through the pages.
And there it was, in "Regional
Reviews." Scanning, I saw phrases like "..intelligent, confident musician.."
and "lyrical and literary smarts" and "each song is unique, highly
creative, and non-formulaic."
And then, in the last graph: "This is one of the best truly solo
albums since Todd Rundgren's Something/Anything".
Crikey.
Just a couple of hours before, I was feeling down-in-the-mouth
about the album, because after sending copies to family and friends
and hearing nice things from them, the reality set in again---that
I'm a chubby, middle-aged singer/songwriter that no one's heard of,
who basically recorded a vanity project that few will ever hear.
And there hasn't exactly been a stampede of demand.
But this . . . wow. To get this kind of feedback from someone who
doesn't know me . . is fantastic. And the fact that I used
to write reviews of this sort for magazines, well, somehow
that makes it sweeter. I know the game.
It suddenly doesn't seem all that important whether people download
it from iTunes or buy it from CDbaby--although that'd be
lovely--because this writer took the time to listen and process and
basically reassured me that I wasn't crazy to work so
hard putting this thing together.
That means a lot. We should all get some validation for the things
we do that we care most deeply about.
(8/3/2007)
Now, I’d really debated seeing this movie at all, because with my
son away at camp, for the first time ever, I don’t HAVE to see a
Harry Potter movie. That was kinda exciting. But after a friend
told me 'it's good, you should go,' I figured what the hell.
So there I was. Hot day in Balto, so I’m in a baggy t-shirt and shorts, day's
sunny, lots of kids chattering happily to their parents in line, and I’m just about to get
to the booth when this guy runs up. At first I thought he was with
the people in front of me, but then they wave him on and he steps
in front of me and starts to buy a ticket. He even looked back at
the line briefly before turning and ordering his ticket.
Without thinking, I said “What the fuck? You think you can just go
to the front of the line and-“
“Oh no,” he said, eyes wide. “This lady was holding my place,” he
looks at her for confirmation, and she nods.
Immediately I soften my tone and apologize, “Sorry, ok, didn’t
realize, sorry.”
That’s when I feel a sudden chill from behind me, and I realize
I’ve just said ‘fuck’ in front of two groups of pre-teen girls, and
their mothers—--just the kind of thing they didn't want at
their family-friendly movie, a nice day out.
Grrrrreat. I deliberately don’t turn back towards them, I just make
a face that says, “ok, my mistake” and try to stop blushing.
Then I step up to the booth, and say “one, please.” And the chill
spreads…I can feel frost growing on my back and shoulder and I can
almost hear them thinking aloud behind me, “Ohhhh, great, a
creepy 40something guy in his baggy clothes going alone to see
Harry Potter. Probably collects action figures...probably lives in his
mom’s basement!”
I gave up on slowing the whole blood-rushing-to-the-face thing and
accept my ticket and try not to stumble as I walk into the theater,
looking to get lost in the crowd, thinking, “Ewwww. That couldn’t
have gone worse.”
It was only later that I realized that, under my baggy t-shirt, my
fly had been undone the whole time.
GW on the Clippership
(8/30/06) I joined the likes of Acoustic Mojo, booker Stacy Arrington, Aleksis Bilmanis,
and Psycho Mike on the Clipper City ship for a "three-hour tour" (without
shipwreck) of the Baltimore Inner Harbor. A progressively inebriated great time was had by all.
Early on, though, as is my wont in new situations, I tended to hang around the edges a bit, standing off by myself and enjoying the views of the water.
I soon realized, though, that I was starving, so I asked a
crew member if there was any food. She turned out to be the ship's
cook, and invited me down to the galley (on the condition that I told
no one else). Once down there she provided me with a cup of lukewarm
beefstew and a hunk of french bread slathered with butter. And I do
mean slathered.
There's something about being in a ship's
galley with a bowl of stew that suddenly made me hunker over the bowl
and slurp loudly and soak the bread in the stew broth (something I
never do in real life). The ship gently rocking, the stew, the bread
oozing with butter....the fact that I'm in a galley at all, on a boat,
out on salt water...not the sort of thing that happens often to a guy with a serious shark phobia...it all combined to make me, momentarily, revert to
my image of the way guys in movies act when they're eating stew from
bowls in galleys...a distinctly neaderthal quality, like Karloff in the
scene with the blind man...."ahhh, breadddddd......gooooood"....
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