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.
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!"??
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, I'm not sure, 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.
Becoming a Perfectionist(3/11/2008)....Poison Dart Recording Studios 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...
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.
I has a studio?
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) (2/20/2008)....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.
(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.
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.
(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"....
