we lived in the country
when i was in first and
second grades.
mariaville, ny
was the name of the town.
i've been back there since
and it's not that far away
from schenectady,
where i grew up,
but back then
it seemed far
far
far away.
our school was about a mile
(felt like ten)
from home
and there was a general store
down the road that sold
penny candy and
and rubber worms and
baseball cards
and really what else
is there when you're seven?
girls in pigtails?
there were also always lots of
motorcycles vrooming by
driven by men
in black leather
and women who held on tight
with their long hair flowing
behind them.
sometimes the locals
would yell out,
"show us your tits!"
and they would,
but that's for another time.
our house
was a wobbly ranch-style affair,
white with yellow trim,
at the top of a gravel road.
at the bottom was a lake
filled with carp
and neighborhood kids
and casted lines.
in the summertime
wild strawberries popped up
in the grass around our house
and in the winter it was quiet.
i read sherlock holmes stories
and tried not to knock
into the kerosene heater.
that first christmas
santa came.
i don't know how or why
but that's the story
they keep telling me.
my sister michele awoke
in the middle of the night
to use the bathroom
and swears
to this day!
that she saw santa claus
dressed in his red suit
stacking presents
under our tree.
the next day
there was a carrot
on the kitchen table
bearing the imprint of teeth
and sled marks in the otherwise
untouched snow outside.
but i'd been reading holmes
so i knew to be skeptical
of such things.
the one thing i can't
disprove to this day
is that my sister still
claims she saw santa
himself
in the jolly flesh
crouched under our tree.
might my step-dad have dressed
up for the occasion?
possibly.
but bill loved elvis, too--
how many fictional characters
can one man believe in?
this year
i'm going to ask michele
to recount her tale again.
there must be something
i'm missing,
a hole in her story.
after all,
we had to move the next year
because things didn't work out
in mariaville.
if there was a
santa, he couldn't
fit happiness under the tree,
i guess.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
guns and garland
when i was ten
i wanted a red ryder bb gun
for x'mas,
just like ralphy.
i wasn't a boy
who liked guns
necessarily
but something about that red ryder
appealed to me
in a way i can't explain.
i was a careful
ten year old--
i wasn't too worried
about poking my eye out, kid.
and my mom
usually let me do
whatever i wanted anyway.
my mom's boyfrend
at the time
was jim.
jim had beady black eyes
a thin mustache sharp as a blade
and wore a camouflage hat
all the time.
jim was obsessed
with picking lint off the floor
and being angry all the time.
he enjoyed yelling
and making threats
with his belt,
which twice daily tore through his belt loops
with the sound of thunder.
but even more than lint and fury,
jim was obsessed with war;
jim liked ww2
the way i liked the yankees.
jim had grenades in our attic
bayonets in our attic
rocket launchers in our attic
jim had mannequins in our attic.
mannequins of nazis
dressed in nazi uniforms.
in our attic.
vintage from head to toe:
from socks to underwear
to helmets and rifles.
all gear once stolen
off the backs of dead men.
in our attic.
so guns were around
and i wanted a gun.
which i got one x'mas.
i can't remember anything else
about that particular year
as far as what i awoke to
under our glimmering artificial tree
but i did get that bb gun.
it came in a long box
and with it
5 or 6
packages of bbs.
i hugged a gun that x'mas morning,
just as jesus would have wanted me to on his birthday.
that day, and for the next week
after that
i prowled my grandmother's yard
and filled her with worry while
i tucked that well-oiled stock
into the crook of my arm and
sighted down the blue-steel barrel and
shot at tin cans
and a dying pear tree
and a weary garage with busted-out windows.
my friend jason came over
and we took turns
standing out there in the snow.
i still liked my books and drawing pad and ron guidry model baseball glove
better,
but i can't lie,
i loved my new red ryder bb gun.
right after new years
i came home from school one day
to find our apartment
had been broken into.
there was a tv missing
and some other stuff
that i don't recall because
i was ten.
besides, i was too upset about my own loss:
my red ryder bb gun had been taken,
stolen out from under our glimmering artificial tree.
i never liked that gun anyway,
i told myself.
it never felt as though it were mine
the way i felt about books
drawing pads
and my ron guidry model baseball glove.
shiny toys weren't real
the way paper and pencils were.
that whole saying about
if it's too good to be true?
i should have known better;
in fact i did.
later, years later,
my mother admitted to me
that right from the beginning
she was sure jim
had broken in and stolen
our tv
and the other stuff i don't
recall 'cause i was ten,
and my red ryder bb gun.
i didn't ask her why.
there was no real answer why
or else we might have known why
he picked lint
off the floor
and threatened us with his belt
and called me and my sisters
awful names
and once got caught
stealing ivory soap from a supermarket.
jim gave me a red rdyder bb gun for x'mas.
jim stole it from me by mlk day.
i hated that motherfucker;
my mom married him the following year.
sad as i was to have stolen by my to-be dad
our tv
and some other stuff i don't recall
'cause i was ten
and my red ryder bb gun
on x'mas day
this turned out to not even be
our worst x'mas with jim.
jim saved the best for last.
jim, if you're out there,
i hope you have a miserable holiday season.
you asshole.
i wanted a red ryder bb gun
for x'mas,
just like ralphy.
i wasn't a boy
who liked guns
necessarily
but something about that red ryder
appealed to me
in a way i can't explain.
i was a careful
ten year old--
i wasn't too worried
about poking my eye out, kid.
and my mom
usually let me do
whatever i wanted anyway.
my mom's boyfrend
at the time
was jim.
jim had beady black eyes
a thin mustache sharp as a blade
and wore a camouflage hat
all the time.
jim was obsessed
with picking lint off the floor
and being angry all the time.
he enjoyed yelling
and making threats
with his belt,
which twice daily tore through his belt loops
with the sound of thunder.
but even more than lint and fury,
jim was obsessed with war;
jim liked ww2
the way i liked the yankees.
jim had grenades in our attic
bayonets in our attic
rocket launchers in our attic
jim had mannequins in our attic.
mannequins of nazis
dressed in nazi uniforms.
in our attic.
vintage from head to toe:
from socks to underwear
to helmets and rifles.
all gear once stolen
off the backs of dead men.
in our attic.
so guns were around
and i wanted a gun.
which i got one x'mas.
i can't remember anything else
about that particular year
as far as what i awoke to
under our glimmering artificial tree
but i did get that bb gun.
it came in a long box
and with it
5 or 6
packages of bbs.
i hugged a gun that x'mas morning,
just as jesus would have wanted me to on his birthday.
that day, and for the next week
after that
i prowled my grandmother's yard
and filled her with worry while
i tucked that well-oiled stock
into the crook of my arm and
sighted down the blue-steel barrel and
shot at tin cans
and a dying pear tree
and a weary garage with busted-out windows.
my friend jason came over
and we took turns
standing out there in the snow.
i still liked my books and drawing pad and ron guidry model baseball glove
better,
but i can't lie,
i loved my new red ryder bb gun.
right after new years
i came home from school one day
to find our apartment
had been broken into.
there was a tv missing
and some other stuff
that i don't recall because
i was ten.
besides, i was too upset about my own loss:
my red ryder bb gun had been taken,
stolen out from under our glimmering artificial tree.
i never liked that gun anyway,
i told myself.
it never felt as though it were mine
the way i felt about books
drawing pads
and my ron guidry model baseball glove.
shiny toys weren't real
the way paper and pencils were.
that whole saying about
if it's too good to be true?
i should have known better;
in fact i did.
later, years later,
my mother admitted to me
that right from the beginning
she was sure jim
had broken in and stolen
our tv
and the other stuff i don't
recall 'cause i was ten,
and my red ryder bb gun.
i didn't ask her why.
there was no real answer why
or else we might have known why
he picked lint
off the floor
and threatened us with his belt
and called me and my sisters
awful names
and once got caught
stealing ivory soap from a supermarket.
jim gave me a red rdyder bb gun for x'mas.
jim stole it from me by mlk day.
i hated that motherfucker;
my mom married him the following year.
sad as i was to have stolen by my to-be dad
our tv
and some other stuff i don't recall
'cause i was ten
and my red ryder bb gun
on x'mas day
this turned out to not even be
our worst x'mas with jim.
jim saved the best for last.
jim, if you're out there,
i hope you have a miserable holiday season.
you asshole.
Friday, December 19, 2008
beautiful, in the belly of america
the strangled
voices of angels
scream!
from the throats
of ancient mountains
cut against the cobalt
sky
somewhere
in the belly of america.
she's so beautiful,
isn't she?
the way she dies
like that?
with her rippling ridges, and old covered bridges,
windswept prairies and cloud-kissed cities?
yet
nothing dies
quite like december
in the sunburned arms
of summer.
arise!
it's the sleeping man
afraid of losing
who never sees the world.
voices of angels
scream!
from the throats
of ancient mountains
cut against the cobalt
sky
somewhere
in the belly of america.
she's so beautiful,
isn't she?
the way she dies
like that?
with her rippling ridges, and old covered bridges,
windswept prairies and cloud-kissed cities?
yet
nothing dies
quite like december
in the sunburned arms
of summer.
arise!
it's the sleeping man
afraid of losing
who never sees the world.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Christmas Time is Here
My guitar and I reconnected last night. I can't go into the details--I don't kiss and tell--but we were happy to see one another again :)
Also last night was my favorite Christmas show, "A Charlie Brown Christmas"--followed closely by It's a Wonderful Life; okay, so maybe those are the only two I like, but that's besides the point... About two weeks ago I checked to see when it was on and set it to record. I didn't watch it yet--I had rehearsal and a bunch of other stuff to do--but I will soon. I am not alone in my love of "A Charlie Brown Christmas," so there is no need for my commentary on what makes it so great. But a large reason why is "Christmas Time is Here." If that is not the most melancholy song ever, I don't know what is. The song is so quiet, so vulnerable, so sad, so full of yearning, and so blue, the color of a winter sky around 5am, when the rest of the world is still asleep. It's one of those songs that I probably won't ever learn on guitar because then all the mystique will be taken from it. It won't be magical any longer, but merely a succession of chords and notes and melodic patterns.
Watch this clip for yourself; if you feel nothing, you must not have a pulse:
Aside from the music, note Linus's speech at the end, when he tells his friends the story of Christmas--something that overtly religious would never make it to prime-time television if it were released today.
Also last night was my favorite Christmas show, "A Charlie Brown Christmas"--followed closely by It's a Wonderful Life; okay, so maybe those are the only two I like, but that's besides the point... About two weeks ago I checked to see when it was on and set it to record. I didn't watch it yet--I had rehearsal and a bunch of other stuff to do--but I will soon. I am not alone in my love of "A Charlie Brown Christmas," so there is no need for my commentary on what makes it so great. But a large reason why is "Christmas Time is Here." If that is not the most melancholy song ever, I don't know what is. The song is so quiet, so vulnerable, so sad, so full of yearning, and so blue, the color of a winter sky around 5am, when the rest of the world is still asleep. It's one of those songs that I probably won't ever learn on guitar because then all the mystique will be taken from it. It won't be magical any longer, but merely a succession of chords and notes and melodic patterns.
Watch this clip for yourself; if you feel nothing, you must not have a pulse:
Aside from the music, note Linus's speech at the end, when he tells his friends the story of Christmas--something that overtly religious would never make it to prime-time television if it were released today.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
The Martins
Before anything else, I have found myself really liking the new Coldplay song, "Lost!" And yes, there really is an exclamation point in the title. I have yet to hear the whole album, but I see the closing track is called, "Lost?" Hmmm. Without even hearing the question-marked "Lost" I can say that I like the idea. Anyway, there is something about the former that really appeals to me. I can assure you it's not from watching Mr. Paltrow and his mates perform it live on SNL; quite the contrary, in fact. But it sounds fantastic in the car. Just a good tune.
As for my tunes, I have noticed a weird trend in the last week. Outside of a couple of minutes on Friday night, I have not taken my Martin out of it's cases since Thursday at Hill Country. And I am not sure why. Well, one tangible reason is that my new MacBook Pro has been occupying a lot of my time as I am figuring out all of its new tricks and how I can get it to make music with me. But the wooden, organic music-making tool, one that has helped me write almost every JH song to date, sits unattended to in it's case on my living room floor. I look at it sometimes, but I am not sure what I want to say with it. Just as when I run into a stretch of writer's block and know to simply wait it out and trust my instincts, I also go through periods of disassociation with my trusty guitar. Leading up to this weekend, I had begun to notice that I kept sounding too much like me whenever my fingers tried to conjure music from the strings. Everything felt stale, as though I were beginning to cover myself instead of channeling new inspiration. I don't have an electric guitar these days, for now, but if I did I would probably have busted it out by now and tried to write on something sonically different than my Martin.
The good news is twofold. One, I believe it is important that a writer puts his tool of the trade down once in a while and takes time to see, feel, explore, process, and make sense of the world going on around him. Basically, writers need material, and material comes from living, from stepping out from behind the piano, the easel, the cutting board, the sewing machine, the notebook, the whatever. So for that reason I am almost glad that I have taken a breather. But now that a few days have passed, I can feel that yearning inside me again--on my way out the door today I remember glancing back over my shoulder at my black guitar case leaning against the couch. I wanted to play it; I had something new to say, perhaps.
Or maybe I had begun to forget what music sounded like coming from my fingers, and maybe I had begun to miss that music. Either way, I'll find out tonight at rehearsal. I am already looking forward to it.
As for my tunes, I have noticed a weird trend in the last week. Outside of a couple of minutes on Friday night, I have not taken my Martin out of it's cases since Thursday at Hill Country. And I am not sure why. Well, one tangible reason is that my new MacBook Pro has been occupying a lot of my time as I am figuring out all of its new tricks and how I can get it to make music with me. But the wooden, organic music-making tool, one that has helped me write almost every JH song to date, sits unattended to in it's case on my living room floor. I look at it sometimes, but I am not sure what I want to say with it. Just as when I run into a stretch of writer's block and know to simply wait it out and trust my instincts, I also go through periods of disassociation with my trusty guitar. Leading up to this weekend, I had begun to notice that I kept sounding too much like me whenever my fingers tried to conjure music from the strings. Everything felt stale, as though I were beginning to cover myself instead of channeling new inspiration. I don't have an electric guitar these days, for now, but if I did I would probably have busted it out by now and tried to write on something sonically different than my Martin.
The good news is twofold. One, I believe it is important that a writer puts his tool of the trade down once in a while and takes time to see, feel, explore, process, and make sense of the world going on around him. Basically, writers need material, and material comes from living, from stepping out from behind the piano, the easel, the cutting board, the sewing machine, the notebook, the whatever. So for that reason I am almost glad that I have taken a breather. But now that a few days have passed, I can feel that yearning inside me again--on my way out the door today I remember glancing back over my shoulder at my black guitar case leaning against the couch. I wanted to play it; I had something new to say, perhaps.
Or maybe I had begun to forget what music sounded like coming from my fingers, and maybe I had begun to miss that music. Either way, I'll find out tonight at rehearsal. I am already looking forward to it.
Friday, December 12, 2008
It was a hard December day
Last night Jo Henley played at Hill Country, a totally kick-ass BBQ joint in the heart of Manhattan. It was our first time there. Hill Country is a huge two-floor, Texas-inspired restaurant with a large stage downstairs, amazing food (so I was told--I don't eat before I sing anymore), the kindest staff, great sound, and an attentive crowd that's out to have a good time. Suffice to say, we LOVED Hill Country, and Hill Country LOVED us back, and so we'll be back there regularly from now on. Seriously, one of the best JH gigs ever, and I truly mean that.
During our third set, a young woman came to the front of the stage from a long table full of people and waved me toward her. I leaned down, and she proceeded to tell me it was her friend's 22nd birthday and could we dedicate a song to her? I said of course we could. She thanked me, and as she was about to return to her table, she paused and said her friend's name was Christine.
The song we were just about to play before that girl came to the stage was "Promised Paradise." It's about my grandmother's passing, which was two years ago to the day last night, and I was going to dedicate the song to my grandma. She meant the world to me.
We joked and made up a silly impromptu song on the spot for the birthday girl, then played her a real song. They all seemed to eat it up and thought it was the greatest thing.
A few songs later, toward the end of our third set, just before midnight, we played "Promised Paradise." I never said anything aloud to anyone about the occasion, but in my head, and my heart, I dedicated it to my grandmother.
The reason for telling this story, you ask? My grandma's name was Christine, too.
During our third set, a young woman came to the front of the stage from a long table full of people and waved me toward her. I leaned down, and she proceeded to tell me it was her friend's 22nd birthday and could we dedicate a song to her? I said of course we could. She thanked me, and as she was about to return to her table, she paused and said her friend's name was Christine.
The song we were just about to play before that girl came to the stage was "Promised Paradise." It's about my grandmother's passing, which was two years ago to the day last night, and I was going to dedicate the song to my grandma. She meant the world to me.
We joked and made up a silly impromptu song on the spot for the birthday girl, then played her a real song. They all seemed to eat it up and thought it was the greatest thing.
A few songs later, toward the end of our third set, just before midnight, we played "Promised Paradise." I never said anything aloud to anyone about the occasion, but in my head, and my heart, I dedicated it to my grandmother.
The reason for telling this story, you ask? My grandma's name was Christine, too.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Something shiny, something new
I have a new laptop now. A Macbook Pro. It's shiny, with a big screen, and it winks at me sometimes. We're not bffs yet, but I think we will be. I sense there is a spark there; I can feel it. It's been egging me on. Challenging me. And I am at my best when challenged. I was going to get one of the newest Macbooks that just came out, but they don't have firewire (Apple, really? C'mon.) and one of my main reasons for a new computer--besides the fact that a four-year-old desktop is archaic--is to record music, and usb really isn't really up to the task for that sort of thing.
So now that I have this new machine, this new friend, I intend to put it to work. With its help I think I can get a lot of words and music out of me. Extract them. Even more so than now. We'll blog together, and post pictures together, and I'll plug mics into it (whoa) and it will record new songs. And videos. I see the beginning of something special here. But I'll share. I always share. I observe the world around me, analyze it, and then try to find a way to express what I have learned (or learnt, if I were British). Because that's what I do.
Now if only I could make money at it...
Until then, keep your eyes (and ears, and hearts) open. New stuff in the works. Lots of shows. Lots of band happenings. 2009 is a wide-open year. This is THE year. It's scary. But that's okay. Scary is good. Scary means taking risks. Risks means new doors, new opportunities.
You never know until you try, right?
Me and my guitar are going places this year. I can feel it.
So now that I have this new machine, this new friend, I intend to put it to work. With its help I think I can get a lot of words and music out of me. Extract them. Even more so than now. We'll blog together, and post pictures together, and I'll plug mics into it (whoa) and it will record new songs. And videos. I see the beginning of something special here. But I'll share. I always share. I observe the world around me, analyze it, and then try to find a way to express what I have learned (or learnt, if I were British). Because that's what I do.
Now if only I could make money at it...
Until then, keep your eyes (and ears, and hearts) open. New stuff in the works. Lots of shows. Lots of band happenings. 2009 is a wide-open year. This is THE year. It's scary. But that's okay. Scary is good. Scary means taking risks. Risks means new doors, new opportunities.
You never know until you try, right?
Me and my guitar are going places this year. I can feel it.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
"You'll think of me as a fond memory."
All one needs to know about me is that the opening sequence of Woody Allen's "Manhattan" is one of my favorite things in the world. Yes, things, not just movie scenes or works of art. The whole film is simply wonderful--the scene where Isaac (Woody Allen) and Mary (Diane Keaton) duck into Hayden Planetarium to escape a thunderstorm is pure cinematic genius--but those first four minutes speak to me, to my soul, in a way that nothing else can. I tried hard to put into words just why I adore it so, but in the end decided some things are best left without commentary. So I have instead chosen to let you experience, or re-experience, this masterpiece for yourself.
I couldn't find a widescreen clip with decent enough quality, but this is still plenty watchable. I dream of one day finding an old movie house that is playing this on the big screen, but until then...
Enjoy!
I couldn't find a widescreen clip with decent enough quality, but this is still plenty watchable. I dream of one day finding an old movie house that is playing this on the big screen, but until then...
Enjoy!
Friday, December 5, 2008
Friday music, and random thoughts
Last week I read about this Ohio woman who blogs about NBC News' Brian Williams' necktie choices after each broadcast (http://brianwilliamstiereportarchives.blogspot.com). My first reaction was, "Huh? Really? Seriously?" It seemed like the most mundane topic about which to write--you know, as opposed to which songs I have listened to on the train every morning this week--until I read further and learned that she's a high school English teacher whose whole object is to impress upon her students that a writer writes. Every day. Because she has to. Because in order to be a good writer--or a good whatever--one must work on it every day, without fail. The Ohio necktie blogger woman fully admits that her blog topic is a silly one, but her hope is her students will see that that is not the point. It's consistency that serves to hone one's craft.
On my band's myspace, I can see how many people read my blogs each day and each week. But this one, I really don't know who reads it, if anyone. And I really don't care. Sure, any artist of any kind who puts creative output into public display would like to know someone out there is taking notice on some level, and I am not alone in thinking that way. In fact, I tend to think that my life is very much an open book. I am always amused by people who I don't see for long periods of time who will say, geez, I've been wondering where you've been all these years and what you've been up to? I think to myself, really? Then you must not be trying hard. I am easily googleable (assuming you can spell my last name). You can, fairly easily, find out where I work, where I'm living, what I look like, all about my band, hear my songs, read my lyrics, and, at least this week, find out all about my musical tastes on a daily basis. If you can't find me, it's because you weren't thinking about me, or you have no idea how to work a search engine (which I doubt).
With Jo Henley, the whole goal is to get noticed as much as possible. All of my creative output is designed to be made public, if not immediately, then at least very soon. But my idea with this blog here was to have a place where I could say anything I want, whether it relates to the band or not. I have a compulsion about putting my thoughts down into words. It is therapeutic for me. I used to have a consistent outlet for that, but I don't any longer; this blog has become an alternative to that, a way to empty my head each day so that I don't drown in my own thoughts. I realize that I don't actually share anything overly deep here, as a rule, but the process of writing relaxes me and makes me feel productive. I also get to work on lyrics, write poetry, and maybe, just maybe, there are people out there who find a few minutes of mild pleasure in what I have to say.
On the first of November I made a promise to blog every day. I have not done so. But I knew I wasn't going to be able to. They say shoot for the moon, and at worst you'll land in the stars, right? I knew if I said publicly my intention was to blog daily, I would come pretty damn close; I am stubborn, oftentimes to a fault. This is, I believe, my 30th post in 36 days or something like that, so not too bad...
Onto the music. This is my last day of this. I am not sure why I started to do this on Monday, though probably because I had nothing else to say but knew I wanted to clack away on my keyboard for a while and string words together and sprinkle them with commas and periods and semicolons, and hopefully not too many ellipses and exclamation points, both of which are cringingly overused. For the record, I am aware that I just used "hopefully" incorrectly. And I am pretty sure "cringingly" is not a real word. Oh well.
Yes, right, the music.
The Dramatics, "Whatcha See Is Whatcha Get": Motown gets all the props as the preeminent powerhouse of '60s and '70s soul music, and rightfully so, but they were not the only label putting out amazing soul and R&B during that era. Just as important to the genre was the Memphis label Stax. Stax gave us Booker T and the MGs, Isaac Hayes, Sam and Dave, Rufus Thomas, The Staple Singers, and Otis Redding, just to name a few. If you think you don't know some of these names, listen to any Stax compilation and you'll realize some of the most popular songs of all time came out of Stax. The biggest difference between Motown and Stax was that Motown was the pretty label with the lush sound and their stars were molded to cater more toward a white audience, as they were the ones with the money to fork over on records and concerts. Motown relied more on big multi-part harmony vocals, where as Stax was dirtier, grittier, and leaned more toward big horn parts in place of bloated backing vocals.I could go on, but that's for you to discover. This song by The Dramatics blows my mind. The groove is off the hook, the vocals are to die for, and the sound!! Ah, the sound!! Unlike some Motown stuff that sounds dated and washed out, this track sounds as if it were recorded yesterday and produced by Timbaland. It's that timeless, full, and flat-out funky.
The Four Tops, "Baby I Need Your Loving": When I saw on the news a couple months ago that Levi Stubbs passed away, I was saddened. That passionate, powerful, and larger-than-life voice of his as lead singer of The Four Tops is forever woven into the fabric of American culture: "I Can't Help Myself," "It's the Same Old Song," "Bernadette," and on and on. This song was stuck in my head for weeks earlier this year, when we were mixing the new JH album. Not only is it a dynamite song, but there is a way-too-loud tambourine in there. One's natural instinct is to make sure that nothing sticks out when mixing--that the vocals aren't any louder than the guitars, and the bass isn't louder than the drums, etc. But what I learned from this song is to be bold. Take a risk. The tambourine is too loud, and that's a GREAT thing. It's risky. It's confident. It makes the track stand out, as opposed to a bland, uninteresting mix where nothing exciting happens. Technicalities aside, this song is a gorgeous, heartbreaking love letter. So, so good.
The Smiths, "This Charming Man": I was never a big Smiths fan growing up--and that's an understatement--but these days I listen to just about anything, and I have come to appreciate the genius of Morrissey's haunting, androgynous voice over Johnny Marr's stunning guitar work. I don't love even half of The Smiths that I've heard, but they have a whole bunch of songs that are simply amazing, and "This Charming Man" is one of them. This song makes me want to throw on horrible '80s clothes, ingest drugs I shouldn't, and dance my skinny little ass off.
Little Big Town, "Wounded:" Little Big Town is today's Fleetwood Mac. They are a vocal group, the The Mac and The Eagles, who writes their own country- and folk-pop material and performs it flawlessly. They are the real deal. "Wounded" sounds a lot like Nickel Creek, but deals with the heavy topic of divorce and what it means to recover from that.
Merle Haggard, "I'd Trade All of My Tomorrows": Let me say this right now--Merle Haggard was, in his hey day, just as good, if not better, than Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Nat King Cole, and anyone else of that caliber from that era. Except he sang country music, and therefore never got the props he deserved. Sure, he's revered in the country music world, but the general public turns its collective nose up to country music. Hag is still at it today, but a lifetime of hard living and just plain time has tarnished those once-golden pipes. Listen to his first bunch of records, though, and you'll see what I mean. I love Merle Haggard. He has been a tremendous influence on my songwriting. Best of all, the man wrote his own material, a rarity in country music.
Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins, "Rise Up With Fists!": Jenny Lewis :) Wait...where was I?" Oh yeah. Right. This song totally rocks. Well, it doesn't actually rock, per se, but it is a nearly perfect acoustic-based roots-pop song with buttery but sarcastic vocals and a standout hook. It's a song like this that makes me not worry so much about the possible demise of Rilo Kiley. This is a totally excellent, sunny song that gets massive play on my iPod.
Wilco, "I Am Trying to Break Your Heart": In the opening to the documentary of the same name, which chronicles the making of Wilco's classic Yankee Hotel Foxtrot album, a scruffy Jeff Tweedy is seen driving through Chicago on his way to the recording studio, and the song playing in the background is an acoustic demo version of "I Am Trying to Break Your Heart." The studio version is full of weird noises, electronic blurps and bleeps, odd percussion, whacky keyboards, and a wash of guitars, but the quiet acoustic version that opens the movie I love to pieces. The easiest way to hear it is to youtube the video and watch the opening scene of the documentary. Not only is this song so good, but it's filmed in black and white, of which I am a HUGE fan, when it's done right (see: Woody Allen's Manhattan).
Well, I guess that's it. There are many honorable mentions this week, folks who I listened to but maybe just not in the morning--Adele, Feist, Johnny Cash, Townes Van Zandt, Ben Folds, Cat Power, Ben Folds Five, Elvis, and the Foo Fighters, just to name a few. On that note, enjoy your Friday.
On my band's myspace, I can see how many people read my blogs each day and each week. But this one, I really don't know who reads it, if anyone. And I really don't care. Sure, any artist of any kind who puts creative output into public display would like to know someone out there is taking notice on some level, and I am not alone in thinking that way. In fact, I tend to think that my life is very much an open book. I am always amused by people who I don't see for long periods of time who will say, geez, I've been wondering where you've been all these years and what you've been up to? I think to myself, really? Then you must not be trying hard. I am easily googleable (assuming you can spell my last name). You can, fairly easily, find out where I work, where I'm living, what I look like, all about my band, hear my songs, read my lyrics, and, at least this week, find out all about my musical tastes on a daily basis. If you can't find me, it's because you weren't thinking about me, or you have no idea how to work a search engine (which I doubt).
With Jo Henley, the whole goal is to get noticed as much as possible. All of my creative output is designed to be made public, if not immediately, then at least very soon. But my idea with this blog here was to have a place where I could say anything I want, whether it relates to the band or not. I have a compulsion about putting my thoughts down into words. It is therapeutic for me. I used to have a consistent outlet for that, but I don't any longer; this blog has become an alternative to that, a way to empty my head each day so that I don't drown in my own thoughts. I realize that I don't actually share anything overly deep here, as a rule, but the process of writing relaxes me and makes me feel productive. I also get to work on lyrics, write poetry, and maybe, just maybe, there are people out there who find a few minutes of mild pleasure in what I have to say.
On the first of November I made a promise to blog every day. I have not done so. But I knew I wasn't going to be able to. They say shoot for the moon, and at worst you'll land in the stars, right? I knew if I said publicly my intention was to blog daily, I would come pretty damn close; I am stubborn, oftentimes to a fault. This is, I believe, my 30th post in 36 days or something like that, so not too bad...
Onto the music. This is my last day of this. I am not sure why I started to do this on Monday, though probably because I had nothing else to say but knew I wanted to clack away on my keyboard for a while and string words together and sprinkle them with commas and periods and semicolons, and hopefully not too many ellipses and exclamation points, both of which are cringingly overused. For the record, I am aware that I just used "hopefully" incorrectly. And I am pretty sure "cringingly" is not a real word. Oh well.
Yes, right, the music.
The Dramatics, "Whatcha See Is Whatcha Get": Motown gets all the props as the preeminent powerhouse of '60s and '70s soul music, and rightfully so, but they were not the only label putting out amazing soul and R&B during that era. Just as important to the genre was the Memphis label Stax. Stax gave us Booker T and the MGs, Isaac Hayes, Sam and Dave, Rufus Thomas, The Staple Singers, and Otis Redding, just to name a few. If you think you don't know some of these names, listen to any Stax compilation and you'll realize some of the most popular songs of all time came out of Stax. The biggest difference between Motown and Stax was that Motown was the pretty label with the lush sound and their stars were molded to cater more toward a white audience, as they were the ones with the money to fork over on records and concerts. Motown relied more on big multi-part harmony vocals, where as Stax was dirtier, grittier, and leaned more toward big horn parts in place of bloated backing vocals.I could go on, but that's for you to discover. This song by The Dramatics blows my mind. The groove is off the hook, the vocals are to die for, and the sound!! Ah, the sound!! Unlike some Motown stuff that sounds dated and washed out, this track sounds as if it were recorded yesterday and produced by Timbaland. It's that timeless, full, and flat-out funky.
The Four Tops, "Baby I Need Your Loving": When I saw on the news a couple months ago that Levi Stubbs passed away, I was saddened. That passionate, powerful, and larger-than-life voice of his as lead singer of The Four Tops is forever woven into the fabric of American culture: "I Can't Help Myself," "It's the Same Old Song," "Bernadette," and on and on. This song was stuck in my head for weeks earlier this year, when we were mixing the new JH album. Not only is it a dynamite song, but there is a way-too-loud tambourine in there. One's natural instinct is to make sure that nothing sticks out when mixing--that the vocals aren't any louder than the guitars, and the bass isn't louder than the drums, etc. But what I learned from this song is to be bold. Take a risk. The tambourine is too loud, and that's a GREAT thing. It's risky. It's confident. It makes the track stand out, as opposed to a bland, uninteresting mix where nothing exciting happens. Technicalities aside, this song is a gorgeous, heartbreaking love letter. So, so good.
The Smiths, "This Charming Man": I was never a big Smiths fan growing up--and that's an understatement--but these days I listen to just about anything, and I have come to appreciate the genius of Morrissey's haunting, androgynous voice over Johnny Marr's stunning guitar work. I don't love even half of The Smiths that I've heard, but they have a whole bunch of songs that are simply amazing, and "This Charming Man" is one of them. This song makes me want to throw on horrible '80s clothes, ingest drugs I shouldn't, and dance my skinny little ass off.
Little Big Town, "Wounded:" Little Big Town is today's Fleetwood Mac. They are a vocal group, the The Mac and The Eagles, who writes their own country- and folk-pop material and performs it flawlessly. They are the real deal. "Wounded" sounds a lot like Nickel Creek, but deals with the heavy topic of divorce and what it means to recover from that.
Merle Haggard, "I'd Trade All of My Tomorrows": Let me say this right now--Merle Haggard was, in his hey day, just as good, if not better, than Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Nat King Cole, and anyone else of that caliber from that era. Except he sang country music, and therefore never got the props he deserved. Sure, he's revered in the country music world, but the general public turns its collective nose up to country music. Hag is still at it today, but a lifetime of hard living and just plain time has tarnished those once-golden pipes. Listen to his first bunch of records, though, and you'll see what I mean. I love Merle Haggard. He has been a tremendous influence on my songwriting. Best of all, the man wrote his own material, a rarity in country music.
Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins, "Rise Up With Fists!": Jenny Lewis :) Wait...where was I?" Oh yeah. Right. This song totally rocks. Well, it doesn't actually rock, per se, but it is a nearly perfect acoustic-based roots-pop song with buttery but sarcastic vocals and a standout hook. It's a song like this that makes me not worry so much about the possible demise of Rilo Kiley. This is a totally excellent, sunny song that gets massive play on my iPod.
Wilco, "I Am Trying to Break Your Heart": In the opening to the documentary of the same name, which chronicles the making of Wilco's classic Yankee Hotel Foxtrot album, a scruffy Jeff Tweedy is seen driving through Chicago on his way to the recording studio, and the song playing in the background is an acoustic demo version of "I Am Trying to Break Your Heart." The studio version is full of weird noises, electronic blurps and bleeps, odd percussion, whacky keyboards, and a wash of guitars, but the quiet acoustic version that opens the movie I love to pieces. The easiest way to hear it is to youtube the video and watch the opening scene of the documentary. Not only is this song so good, but it's filmed in black and white, of which I am a HUGE fan, when it's done right (see: Woody Allen's Manhattan).
Well, I guess that's it. There are many honorable mentions this week, folks who I listened to but maybe just not in the morning--Adele, Feist, Johnny Cash, Townes Van Zandt, Ben Folds, Cat Power, Ben Folds Five, Elvis, and the Foo Fighters, just to name a few. On that note, enjoy your Friday.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
What it means to dream
I didn't get to listen to as much music as I usually do this morning. As much as I can lately I have been trying to edit doctoral students' dissertations on the side for extra money. It's boring work, and I generally don't understand anything I'm reading. Luckily for me, I don't have to--my job is to correct the grammar and make sure the punctuation is okay and the paper flows from paragraph to paragraph. Again, not the mostest funnest job out there, but it costs money to pursue my music dreams and this is an easy way to rake in a little extra cash.
Just a quick word about chasing dreams. I am not that talented of a singer or musician. I'm really not. I think I have a knack for hearing melodies and stringing together chord progressions and concocting songs out of them. I think I am musically inclined. But I am an average guitarist with an average voice. I have no deep knowledge of music theory and I tend to go by ear. My whole music career, beginning with my Old Janx Spirit days in Ithaca, there have always been other singers with a lot better voices, guitarists with faster fingers, and bands who have risen to popularity with greater ease. I am not selling myself short; this is just the truth.
The thing is, though, it's so often not about talent. Yes, you need aptitude, and you need basic ability, but after that it's all heart. And drive. And more than anything, perseverance.
I recently heard that the best way to "win," if you will, is to keep plugging away at something, because humans, by nature, are quitters. So all you really have to do is work on your craft and never stop, and at some point, by default, you will reach the top simply because you'll be the last one standing. I like to believe this is true.
I have had many bandmates in my lifetime. Not all, but many of them were (or are) far better musicians than I. But at the same time, most all of them bailed along the way, or found other avenues to pursue, while (Ben and) I have kept plodding forward. I am not passing judgment on those who, over the years, abandoned their dreams--many have good reasons for doing so. My only point is to say that there is something to be said for having a one-track mind, a single destination circled on the map.
I am a realist, too. I know I will never win a Grammy. Nor walk on the moon. And try as I might, I will never be good at math. I do not believe that a person can do anything to which he sets his mind. That's bullshit that we tell kids to instill confidence and inspire them to reach for the stars. What I want to do is sustain myself for the rest of my life through music. And as long as I keep working on my craft, day in and day out, I will achieve this. I know I will. Over time, I have learned to embrace the voice I do have and make it work for me. I know I will never play Eddie Van Halen solos, but I am most certainly a competent rhythm guitarist. And while I have written boatloads of awful songs in my day, I have begun to write some decent ones and know I have even better ones inside me just waiting to spring forth one day.
As long as I keep at it. Which I will.
Chasing dreams and refusing to give up is not an easy thing to do. It usually means you are willing to let other things in life that you love take a backseat. But there is no other way. You must be stubborn. I know there are people out there who find me maddeningly, and heartbreakingly stubborn, as I tend to insist on walking my own roads and seeing things through until I am sure it will either work, or never work. But this is the only way I know. So I must trust myself.
Anyway. If you have a dream, and in your heart of hearts you are sure you can achieve it, do not give up. On most days you will want to do just that--give up. On most days you will feel all alone. But don't give up. If you want to play music, play music every day. If you want to "make it," you have to get out there as much as you can. Don't make excuses. No one discovers you sitting on your couch. If you have a great voice and can play a mean piano or guitar or you draw well or paint like Ram Dass and no one knows it but your friends and family who will ALWAYS lie to you and blow sunshine up your ass, you will never make it. Unless you have the voice of Alicia Keys and are THAT good, you will waste away in anonymity lest you get out there all the time. There will always be excuses.
See, as much as I say that I have been working toward my dream for years and years, I know deep down I have done so with varying degrees of sincerity. I, for years, was a couch-sitting singer/songwriter. Granted, I had paused to try my hand at writing fiction, but the fact is that I wasted several years floundering when I could have been even further along now had I not. I am not happy about that choice, but it is over and done with. Can't get those years back. What I can do, though, is learn from my mistakes and trudge forward.
Jo Henley, my band, is not where we want it to be. Yet. We can't fill the largest rooms even here in our hometown. But the past year has been kind to us because every single day we work on it. Every morning I wake up and begin to think about what I can do for the band today. I spend any extra (and even non-extra) money on promotion, recordings, press kits, photographers, travel, etc. I am always working on songs throughout the day. I have few close friends and go to few social events outside of gigs--and I still don't work as hard as I have to. Oh, I know I work hard. Very hard. Most nights I rest easy knowing that I couldn't have worked any harder that day. Yet I didn't work hard enough.
About six years ago, Ben and I met with a booking agent at a local bar. We had just cut a duo demo and were starting to book some shows around town. The booking agent asked us if we were looking to do whatever it took to make it, or were we looking to just play around town on the weekends and do it on the side. That absolutely terrified me, because even though I knew I didn't want to be a weekend warrior, I knew could honestly say I was willing and able to do ANYTHING. It just so happened that this woman was in no position to do anything for us even if I was ready to sell everything I owned and jump in a van. Still, the question she posed haunted me.
Someone close to me asked me the same thing even just two years ago, and while my answer was closer to what I would have wanted it to be, I still had too many "yeah buts" in there. Excuses are excuses. Now, I don't feel that way. I am older and wiser now and understand that unless you have some financial backing there is no way you can sustain a life by simply jumping in a van and playing gigs all over the place without a business model in mind. You still need to be smart about it. But I know now that I am in a place where I can look at myself in the mirror and know I am working as hard as I can toward my dreams and am willing to make tough decisions as a result.
And the best part? Doubters. We all have doubters. Doubters are everywhere. Doubters are also my biggest driving force. I find motivation in those who doubt. Tune out your friends, family, and loved ones who tell you how great you are. Those are empty compliments. For example, a few months ago we got a review of our latest album where the music was given high praise and my lyrics were trashed. This has been our only bad review, and in fact many reviewers have gone out of their way to compliment my lyrics. But those nice, positive reviews mean nothing to me. In fact, I never even read them a second time. But bad reviews? I'll memorize them. And now I am taking great care to ensure my lyrics are as strong as they possibly can be.
The moral? Don't give up. Let everyone else give up. If you want something badly enough, just keep fighting for it.
'K, I'm stepping down from my soapbox now...
Here's what I listened to today:
Billy Joel, "Just the Way You Are": Late this summer, I had fallen asleep on the couch, as I tend to do every night, and when I awoke in the middle of the night PBS was airing a Billy Joel concert from the '70s, from his "The Stranger" tour, and this was the song he was singing at the time. I have a lot going on inside me that provoked an emotional response right then, and could devote a few thousand words to that moment of waking up and hearing that song, but that's not important. It was Billy on the Rhodes with his coked-out eyes and amazing song and tight band and unreal vocal performance. He sang this song so effortlessly and the mood of it, at 3am, hit me hard.
Dr. Dre, "Still Dre": This came out years ago as the follow-up to "Dre. Day," off The Chronic. It's a strong, catchy track that recalls the best of The Chronic and Snoop's Doggystyle. Those two record, in particular, are amazing. The beats are laid back but heavy, and Dre put tasty '70s funk, solo, and disco samples over those beats to create this ethereal mood over which to showcase Snoop's and even his own vocals. You think I move around on the T when Merle Haggard comes on? You should see me when I listen to "Gin and Juice." I must look like I'm on my way to a mental ward.
Drive-by Truckers, "The Opening Act": If you are in a band, or have ever been in a band, that's been working hard out there to pay its dues in empty clubs, staring down empty roads and eating bad gas station food, then you simply must hear this song. It is a masterpiece.
Chris Isaak, "Pretty Girls Don't Cry:" Personally, for me, I would rather have nails driven through my palms than have to spend a week on a tropical beach. A day or two might be cool, I suppose, but the idea of kicking back and relaxing on a sandy beach with an umbrella drink appeals to me about as much as dog food does. A cruise? Are you freaking kidding me? No way. Put me in the middle of a city with chaos around me. Or at least don't make me have to sit somewhere all day. Anyway, I say that because this song, and in fact this whole album, makes me rethink my above position. Recorded somewhere on the beaches near the California/Mexico border, it just sounds warm and peaceful, and well, relaxing. Chris Isaak is good shit. "Wicked Games" is still, to my ears, the sexiest song of all time (the video helps a lot, I'll admit...). I still would rather eat glass than go on a cruise, but this album is glorious.
John Mayer, "3X5": The dudes catches a lot of heat by the haters, and a lot of it deservedly so--he is terribly awkward to watch and does seem to gravitate toward celebrity babes (wow, what a loser)--but it's hard to ignore his talents. JM can write good songs, play mean solos, and has a good voice. (Asshole.) Not all of his stuff is breathtaking, but when he's on he's really on. "3X5" is one of those songs that has been implanted into my DNA. The chords, the melody, the lyrics--they are so deeply ingrained into my subconscious that I have found myself rewriting the song accidentally without even meaning to.
Waylon Jennings, "I'm a Ramblin' Man": Waylon Jennings makes John Mayer sound like a five-year-old girl in a hot pink leotard. He sound like a Harley. A leather jacket. A bar brawl. The inside of a whiskey bottle. He never had the best voice, technically speaking, but that rich, canyon-deep baritone and kiss-my-ass delivery of his is unparalleled. I am a fan of a lot of Waylon's work, but this song is the one that gets often stuck in my head (with "Luchenback, Texas" a close second).
Grateful Dead, "Been All Around this World": I love Jerry Garcia. Perfect example of a great singer with a weak voice. This song makes me want to take a nap--and I mean that as high praise; naps, to me, are punishment (see Chris Isaak above). This song is why I simply had to see the Blue Ridge Mountains this summer. If you don't own Reckonings, you should. And as soon as you do you will know exactly what Jo Henley's blueprint is.
Just a quick word about chasing dreams. I am not that talented of a singer or musician. I'm really not. I think I have a knack for hearing melodies and stringing together chord progressions and concocting songs out of them. I think I am musically inclined. But I am an average guitarist with an average voice. I have no deep knowledge of music theory and I tend to go by ear. My whole music career, beginning with my Old Janx Spirit days in Ithaca, there have always been other singers with a lot better voices, guitarists with faster fingers, and bands who have risen to popularity with greater ease. I am not selling myself short; this is just the truth.
The thing is, though, it's so often not about talent. Yes, you need aptitude, and you need basic ability, but after that it's all heart. And drive. And more than anything, perseverance.
I recently heard that the best way to "win," if you will, is to keep plugging away at something, because humans, by nature, are quitters. So all you really have to do is work on your craft and never stop, and at some point, by default, you will reach the top simply because you'll be the last one standing. I like to believe this is true.
I have had many bandmates in my lifetime. Not all, but many of them were (or are) far better musicians than I. But at the same time, most all of them bailed along the way, or found other avenues to pursue, while (Ben and) I have kept plodding forward. I am not passing judgment on those who, over the years, abandoned their dreams--many have good reasons for doing so. My only point is to say that there is something to be said for having a one-track mind, a single destination circled on the map.
I am a realist, too. I know I will never win a Grammy. Nor walk on the moon. And try as I might, I will never be good at math. I do not believe that a person can do anything to which he sets his mind. That's bullshit that we tell kids to instill confidence and inspire them to reach for the stars. What I want to do is sustain myself for the rest of my life through music. And as long as I keep working on my craft, day in and day out, I will achieve this. I know I will. Over time, I have learned to embrace the voice I do have and make it work for me. I know I will never play Eddie Van Halen solos, but I am most certainly a competent rhythm guitarist. And while I have written boatloads of awful songs in my day, I have begun to write some decent ones and know I have even better ones inside me just waiting to spring forth one day.
As long as I keep at it. Which I will.
Chasing dreams and refusing to give up is not an easy thing to do. It usually means you are willing to let other things in life that you love take a backseat. But there is no other way. You must be stubborn. I know there are people out there who find me maddeningly, and heartbreakingly stubborn, as I tend to insist on walking my own roads and seeing things through until I am sure it will either work, or never work. But this is the only way I know. So I must trust myself.
Anyway. If you have a dream, and in your heart of hearts you are sure you can achieve it, do not give up. On most days you will want to do just that--give up. On most days you will feel all alone. But don't give up. If you want to play music, play music every day. If you want to "make it," you have to get out there as much as you can. Don't make excuses. No one discovers you sitting on your couch. If you have a great voice and can play a mean piano or guitar or you draw well or paint like Ram Dass and no one knows it but your friends and family who will ALWAYS lie to you and blow sunshine up your ass, you will never make it. Unless you have the voice of Alicia Keys and are THAT good, you will waste away in anonymity lest you get out there all the time. There will always be excuses.
See, as much as I say that I have been working toward my dream for years and years, I know deep down I have done so with varying degrees of sincerity. I, for years, was a couch-sitting singer/songwriter. Granted, I had paused to try my hand at writing fiction, but the fact is that I wasted several years floundering when I could have been even further along now had I not. I am not happy about that choice, but it is over and done with. Can't get those years back. What I can do, though, is learn from my mistakes and trudge forward.
Jo Henley, my band, is not where we want it to be. Yet. We can't fill the largest rooms even here in our hometown. But the past year has been kind to us because every single day we work on it. Every morning I wake up and begin to think about what I can do for the band today. I spend any extra (and even non-extra) money on promotion, recordings, press kits, photographers, travel, etc. I am always working on songs throughout the day. I have few close friends and go to few social events outside of gigs--and I still don't work as hard as I have to. Oh, I know I work hard. Very hard. Most nights I rest easy knowing that I couldn't have worked any harder that day. Yet I didn't work hard enough.
About six years ago, Ben and I met with a booking agent at a local bar. We had just cut a duo demo and were starting to book some shows around town. The booking agent asked us if we were looking to do whatever it took to make it, or were we looking to just play around town on the weekends and do it on the side. That absolutely terrified me, because even though I knew I didn't want to be a weekend warrior, I knew could honestly say I was willing and able to do ANYTHING. It just so happened that this woman was in no position to do anything for us even if I was ready to sell everything I owned and jump in a van. Still, the question she posed haunted me.
Someone close to me asked me the same thing even just two years ago, and while my answer was closer to what I would have wanted it to be, I still had too many "yeah buts" in there. Excuses are excuses. Now, I don't feel that way. I am older and wiser now and understand that unless you have some financial backing there is no way you can sustain a life by simply jumping in a van and playing gigs all over the place without a business model in mind. You still need to be smart about it. But I know now that I am in a place where I can look at myself in the mirror and know I am working as hard as I can toward my dreams and am willing to make tough decisions as a result.
And the best part? Doubters. We all have doubters. Doubters are everywhere. Doubters are also my biggest driving force. I find motivation in those who doubt. Tune out your friends, family, and loved ones who tell you how great you are. Those are empty compliments. For example, a few months ago we got a review of our latest album where the music was given high praise and my lyrics were trashed. This has been our only bad review, and in fact many reviewers have gone out of their way to compliment my lyrics. But those nice, positive reviews mean nothing to me. In fact, I never even read them a second time. But bad reviews? I'll memorize them. And now I am taking great care to ensure my lyrics are as strong as they possibly can be.
The moral? Don't give up. Let everyone else give up. If you want something badly enough, just keep fighting for it.
'K, I'm stepping down from my soapbox now...
Here's what I listened to today:
Billy Joel, "Just the Way You Are": Late this summer, I had fallen asleep on the couch, as I tend to do every night, and when I awoke in the middle of the night PBS was airing a Billy Joel concert from the '70s, from his "The Stranger" tour, and this was the song he was singing at the time. I have a lot going on inside me that provoked an emotional response right then, and could devote a few thousand words to that moment of waking up and hearing that song, but that's not important. It was Billy on the Rhodes with his coked-out eyes and amazing song and tight band and unreal vocal performance. He sang this song so effortlessly and the mood of it, at 3am, hit me hard.
Dr. Dre, "Still Dre": This came out years ago as the follow-up to "Dre. Day," off The Chronic. It's a strong, catchy track that recalls the best of The Chronic and Snoop's Doggystyle. Those two record, in particular, are amazing. The beats are laid back but heavy, and Dre put tasty '70s funk, solo, and disco samples over those beats to create this ethereal mood over which to showcase Snoop's and even his own vocals. You think I move around on the T when Merle Haggard comes on? You should see me when I listen to "Gin and Juice." I must look like I'm on my way to a mental ward.
Drive-by Truckers, "The Opening Act": If you are in a band, or have ever been in a band, that's been working hard out there to pay its dues in empty clubs, staring down empty roads and eating bad gas station food, then you simply must hear this song. It is a masterpiece.
Chris Isaak, "Pretty Girls Don't Cry:" Personally, for me, I would rather have nails driven through my palms than have to spend a week on a tropical beach. A day or two might be cool, I suppose, but the idea of kicking back and relaxing on a sandy beach with an umbrella drink appeals to me about as much as dog food does. A cruise? Are you freaking kidding me? No way. Put me in the middle of a city with chaos around me. Or at least don't make me have to sit somewhere all day. Anyway, I say that because this song, and in fact this whole album, makes me rethink my above position. Recorded somewhere on the beaches near the California/Mexico border, it just sounds warm and peaceful, and well, relaxing. Chris Isaak is good shit. "Wicked Games" is still, to my ears, the sexiest song of all time (the video helps a lot, I'll admit...). I still would rather eat glass than go on a cruise, but this album is glorious.
John Mayer, "3X5": The dudes catches a lot of heat by the haters, and a lot of it deservedly so--he is terribly awkward to watch and does seem to gravitate toward celebrity babes (wow, what a loser)--but it's hard to ignore his talents. JM can write good songs, play mean solos, and has a good voice. (Asshole.) Not all of his stuff is breathtaking, but when he's on he's really on. "3X5" is one of those songs that has been implanted into my DNA. The chords, the melody, the lyrics--they are so deeply ingrained into my subconscious that I have found myself rewriting the song accidentally without even meaning to.
Waylon Jennings, "I'm a Ramblin' Man": Waylon Jennings makes John Mayer sound like a five-year-old girl in a hot pink leotard. He sound like a Harley. A leather jacket. A bar brawl. The inside of a whiskey bottle. He never had the best voice, technically speaking, but that rich, canyon-deep baritone and kiss-my-ass delivery of his is unparalleled. I am a fan of a lot of Waylon's work, but this song is the one that gets often stuck in my head (with "Luchenback, Texas" a close second).
Grateful Dead, "Been All Around this World": I love Jerry Garcia. Perfect example of a great singer with a weak voice. This song makes me want to take a nap--and I mean that as high praise; naps, to me, are punishment (see Chris Isaak above). This song is why I simply had to see the Blue Ridge Mountains this summer. If you don't own Reckonings, you should. And as soon as you do you will know exactly what Jo Henley's blueprint is.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Whatever you do, take care of your shoes...
Just one quick thing before I bore you with the banalities of my morning music choices.
Shoes.
Shoes are the most important article of clothing one can own. This is important, so don't leave or scroll down the page or roll your eyes. This week alone I have seen so many terrible shoe choices that I am simply left with no choice but to comment. To me, shoes are articles of clothing, and not accessories. I generally only wear a hat when I absolutely have to, so I can't really consider hats clothing. They are, at least in my eyes, an accessory, and more often than not, a security blanket of sorts. A good hat on the right person can be fabulous, of course. Not my thing, but that's okay; I have my own problems. But shoes are a must. Everyone wears shoes. Shoes are everything.
Guys--and I see this all the time--you wear pressed, dry-cleaned pants, a nice shirt, a sharp ties...and some sort of rawhide dog toys on your feet. Scuffed, raggedy, sad clumps of leather with blown-out soles and frayed laces that should have been euthanized ages ago. And no, sneakers do not go with everything. Sneakers have their place, but they pretty much suck. I could go on about men's ridiculous footwear decisions, but this would be pointless.
I knew I had to bring up shoes when I saw a young woman yesterday with a ruby-red V-neck cashmere sweater and ruby-red shoes. WHAT?? My eyes began to tear up, as I was on the verge of hysterical laughing. Dear God, don't ever do that. Please. Her sweater was very easy on the eyes. Her shoes could have been amazing. They were almost a bold, sexy, confident choice. But what negated that was the fact that she had decided it would be wise to match her shoes to her sweater, essentially bookending herself in the same color. That's just wrong on so many levels. For one, if you are short, this only serves to emphasize it. Secondly--and this is the biggest reason--it makes your shoes less exciting. This woman would have had on bold, sexy, confident heels had she not been wearing any other ruby-red on her body. There are many exceptions to this rule--nothing wrong with a black dress and black heels, for sure--but if you splurged on fancy green croc slingbacks, why in the world would you pair it with a bag of the same color or a jacket of the same color? You'll just look silly.
Okay, so now that I have made myself sound like the most shallow, arrogant, unmanly man (I say that, but I know for certain I am right about the shoes thing) on planet Earth, let's move on.
Anyway.
Music for Wednesday, December 3, 2008.
Patsy Cline, "I Fall to Pieces": I have been to somewhere around 75 Phish shows (and counting?), give or take a half-dozen, and after almost every single one "Crazy" would float in over the PA just as the house lights flicked on. It always, at least to me, seemed like a perfect epilogue to what was almost always a head-rattling, guitar-solo-heavy show. Tender, soft, vulnerable. Everyone loves Pasty Cline, don't they? She transcends country. She makes you want to jump in your car in a rumpled, too-small suit (and fucking amazing shoes), with a grocery-store rose in hand, and get your woman back. I'm not sure what the woman's side of that would be, but I'm sure it's equally inspiring. "I Fall to Pieces" is a heartbreakingly gorgeous song by one of the finest voices voices ever pressed to wax.
Jakob Dylan, "Will it Grow": Jakob Dylan, backed by a top-notch three-piece band, opened for Willie Nelson when I saw him in September. If, like me, all you know of Jakob Dylan is "One Headlight" and the rest of The Wallflowers stuff he put out in the '90s, you would be floored by his latest album. It is mostly a gritty-but-quiet acoustic folk record with lots of fingerpicking, moody and organic lyrics, and shuffling brushed drums. I love it, especially this song. The lyrics are so good. I am particularly partial to one line: "I'd be robbing these trains if I could catch me one." For whatever reason that lines grabs me every single time. Best of all, last I checked this album is $7.99 on iTunes. I just spent that much on a shitty bagel and tea this morning.
Josh Rouse, "Streetlights": Josh Rouse is one of the most underappreciated artists I know of. I realize this world is full of underappreciated artists, but he's in a class my himself. I have just about everything JR's done, but to my ears Nashville is his best album. Every song is a winner. "Streetlights" isn't my favorite on the album, but it is damn good. I especially love how the orchestral beginning sounds like fantasical fairy dust--like a movement out of Fantasia--and yet the first line of the song is "Rock and roll..."
Jackie Greene, "Shaken": I firmly believe that if Jackie Greene lived in NYC and toured more of the East Coast cities, he'd be a household name by now. Dude's a genius, and has spent the past two years front Phil Lesh's touring band, singing Dead songs, a gig that has gotten him notoriety in the jam band community. But his own work is so frigging good. He is based in the Bay Area (first Sacramento, now SF), however, and I feel it has slowed his career down a little. But no matter, if you are talented enough, and even more so, if you work harder than everyone else, you'll get noticed. He's only 28. He'll be around a long time. He's that good.
Whiskeytown, "Avenues": This is how good Ryan Adams is: he has so much excellent solo material that he can afford to ignore three superb albums he wrote and recorded with his first band, Whiskeytown. All of us alt-country nerds are huge fans of all things Whiskeytown. In just his early 20's, Adams was writing songs the rest of us wish we could touch, everything from booze-fueled rockers to tender twilit acoustic tunes. When the band's co-founder and fiddler Caitlin Cary heard this new Adams song after he'd recorded it, it scared her to death because she knew right then that Whiskeytown's days were numbered; he was too good not to go solo. "Avenues" is a simple, yet brilliant song about growing up in the big city.
Sheryl Crow, "Can't Cry Anymore": I have defended Sheryl Crow so often to naysayers that I believe she owes me money. Anyone who thinks it is easy to write a pop song is smoking crack. If it's so easy, go do it. It's hard to write a good, smart, catchy song and have it become a radio smash. And she does it ALL THE TIME. I, somehow, own a lot of her music, and it is mostly all really good. Sure, she's written some duds, but for every dud she's penned two classics. And her lyrics are underrated. Listen to even just the hits off Saturday Night Music Club. The lyrics on that album make me jealous. For a moment. Then they make me work harder.
And finally, The Vince Guaraldi Trio, "Skating": Vince Guaraldi is the man responsible for all the music in the "Peanuts" TV specials we all know and love (or should). He wrote music outside the "Peanuts" world, but this was largely ignored. His laid-back West Coast jazz sound, along the lines of Dave Brubeck's "Take Five," is playful, melodic, and catchy as all hell, with a bossa nova feel that was super popular during that time in the jazz world. "Skating" is off the "Charlie Brown Christmas" album, but to me, it's just a winter song. If "Skating" does not make you want to rush to Rockefeller Plaza and watch the skaters glide in figure-8s under that giant trimmed tree, beneath those tall buildings, while wearing warm mittens cupped around a cup of hot cocoa, out of your mind in love, with a rosy winter-kissed nose, and the smell of roasted nuts and the jingle of sleigh bells in the air, then you aren't human.
Or maybe I'm just a hopeless romantic who needs to wake up and stop dreaming. Life can't really be like that.
Can it?
I don't know, but until I find out I'll continue to keep "Skating" on my iPod year 'round.
Shoes.
Shoes are the most important article of clothing one can own. This is important, so don't leave or scroll down the page or roll your eyes. This week alone I have seen so many terrible shoe choices that I am simply left with no choice but to comment. To me, shoes are articles of clothing, and not accessories. I generally only wear a hat when I absolutely have to, so I can't really consider hats clothing. They are, at least in my eyes, an accessory, and more often than not, a security blanket of sorts. A good hat on the right person can be fabulous, of course. Not my thing, but that's okay; I have my own problems. But shoes are a must. Everyone wears shoes. Shoes are everything.
Guys--and I see this all the time--you wear pressed, dry-cleaned pants, a nice shirt, a sharp ties...and some sort of rawhide dog toys on your feet. Scuffed, raggedy, sad clumps of leather with blown-out soles and frayed laces that should have been euthanized ages ago. And no, sneakers do not go with everything. Sneakers have their place, but they pretty much suck. I could go on about men's ridiculous footwear decisions, but this would be pointless.
I knew I had to bring up shoes when I saw a young woman yesterday with a ruby-red V-neck cashmere sweater and ruby-red shoes. WHAT?? My eyes began to tear up, as I was on the verge of hysterical laughing. Dear God, don't ever do that. Please. Her sweater was very easy on the eyes. Her shoes could have been amazing. They were almost a bold, sexy, confident choice. But what negated that was the fact that she had decided it would be wise to match her shoes to her sweater, essentially bookending herself in the same color. That's just wrong on so many levels. For one, if you are short, this only serves to emphasize it. Secondly--and this is the biggest reason--it makes your shoes less exciting. This woman would have had on bold, sexy, confident heels had she not been wearing any other ruby-red on her body. There are many exceptions to this rule--nothing wrong with a black dress and black heels, for sure--but if you splurged on fancy green croc slingbacks, why in the world would you pair it with a bag of the same color or a jacket of the same color? You'll just look silly.
Okay, so now that I have made myself sound like the most shallow, arrogant, unmanly man (I say that, but I know for certain I am right about the shoes thing) on planet Earth, let's move on.
Anyway.
Music for Wednesday, December 3, 2008.
Patsy Cline, "I Fall to Pieces": I have been to somewhere around 75 Phish shows (and counting?), give or take a half-dozen, and after almost every single one "Crazy" would float in over the PA just as the house lights flicked on. It always, at least to me, seemed like a perfect epilogue to what was almost always a head-rattling, guitar-solo-heavy show. Tender, soft, vulnerable. Everyone loves Pasty Cline, don't they? She transcends country. She makes you want to jump in your car in a rumpled, too-small suit (and fucking amazing shoes), with a grocery-store rose in hand, and get your woman back. I'm not sure what the woman's side of that would be, but I'm sure it's equally inspiring. "I Fall to Pieces" is a heartbreakingly gorgeous song by one of the finest voices voices ever pressed to wax.
Jakob Dylan, "Will it Grow": Jakob Dylan, backed by a top-notch three-piece band, opened for Willie Nelson when I saw him in September. If, like me, all you know of Jakob Dylan is "One Headlight" and the rest of The Wallflowers stuff he put out in the '90s, you would be floored by his latest album. It is mostly a gritty-but-quiet acoustic folk record with lots of fingerpicking, moody and organic lyrics, and shuffling brushed drums. I love it, especially this song. The lyrics are so good. I am particularly partial to one line: "I'd be robbing these trains if I could catch me one." For whatever reason that lines grabs me every single time. Best of all, last I checked this album is $7.99 on iTunes. I just spent that much on a shitty bagel and tea this morning.
Josh Rouse, "Streetlights": Josh Rouse is one of the most underappreciated artists I know of. I realize this world is full of underappreciated artists, but he's in a class my himself. I have just about everything JR's done, but to my ears Nashville is his best album. Every song is a winner. "Streetlights" isn't my favorite on the album, but it is damn good. I especially love how the orchestral beginning sounds like fantasical fairy dust--like a movement out of Fantasia--and yet the first line of the song is "Rock and roll..."
Jackie Greene, "Shaken": I firmly believe that if Jackie Greene lived in NYC and toured more of the East Coast cities, he'd be a household name by now. Dude's a genius, and has spent the past two years front Phil Lesh's touring band, singing Dead songs, a gig that has gotten him notoriety in the jam band community. But his own work is so frigging good. He is based in the Bay Area (first Sacramento, now SF), however, and I feel it has slowed his career down a little. But no matter, if you are talented enough, and even more so, if you work harder than everyone else, you'll get noticed. He's only 28. He'll be around a long time. He's that good.
Whiskeytown, "Avenues": This is how good Ryan Adams is: he has so much excellent solo material that he can afford to ignore three superb albums he wrote and recorded with his first band, Whiskeytown. All of us alt-country nerds are huge fans of all things Whiskeytown. In just his early 20's, Adams was writing songs the rest of us wish we could touch, everything from booze-fueled rockers to tender twilit acoustic tunes. When the band's co-founder and fiddler Caitlin Cary heard this new Adams song after he'd recorded it, it scared her to death because she knew right then that Whiskeytown's days were numbered; he was too good not to go solo. "Avenues" is a simple, yet brilliant song about growing up in the big city.
Sheryl Crow, "Can't Cry Anymore": I have defended Sheryl Crow so often to naysayers that I believe she owes me money. Anyone who thinks it is easy to write a pop song is smoking crack. If it's so easy, go do it. It's hard to write a good, smart, catchy song and have it become a radio smash. And she does it ALL THE TIME. I, somehow, own a lot of her music, and it is mostly all really good. Sure, she's written some duds, but for every dud she's penned two classics. And her lyrics are underrated. Listen to even just the hits off Saturday Night Music Club. The lyrics on that album make me jealous. For a moment. Then they make me work harder.
And finally, The Vince Guaraldi Trio, "Skating": Vince Guaraldi is the man responsible for all the music in the "Peanuts" TV specials we all know and love (or should). He wrote music outside the "Peanuts" world, but this was largely ignored. His laid-back West Coast jazz sound, along the lines of Dave Brubeck's "Take Five," is playful, melodic, and catchy as all hell, with a bossa nova feel that was super popular during that time in the jazz world. "Skating" is off the "Charlie Brown Christmas" album, but to me, it's just a winter song. If "Skating" does not make you want to rush to Rockefeller Plaza and watch the skaters glide in figure-8s under that giant trimmed tree, beneath those tall buildings, while wearing warm mittens cupped around a cup of hot cocoa, out of your mind in love, with a rosy winter-kissed nose, and the smell of roasted nuts and the jingle of sleigh bells in the air, then you aren't human.
Or maybe I'm just a hopeless romantic who needs to wake up and stop dreaming. Life can't really be like that.
Can it?
I don't know, but until I find out I'll continue to keep "Skating" on my iPod year 'round.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
More of yesterday
Last night was so clear here in Boston that even those who had no idea that both Venus and Jupiter were visible knew something was different about the sky. I snapped this picture with my cell phone; it doesn't do it justice, though. There was a sliver of a moon, bright and big, and then Venus just below it, and Jupiter to the right of Venus, forming a (love) triangle with the moon. Did anyone else happen to see this? I am not a constellation buff, but this was pretty freaking cool. Try to look for it again tonight, if you get the chance.Well, if you read my band's blog, you already know that our album, Sad Songs and Alcohol, came in at #64 on the national Americana charts this week. (What is Americana, you ask? It's rootsy music that loosely falls into the folk, bluegrass, country genres. This includes everyone from Dylan to Tom Petty to Gillian Welch to Allison Krauss to Willie Nelson to Ryan Adams to...well, Jo Henley, and everyone in between.) #64 feels good, I can't lie, but I really want to get into the Top 40, where industry folks will really take notice. In the meantime...
...I have a whole new list of songs I rocked out to on the train this morning. Lots of female artists today, for whatever reason. This won't become a habit, as there are far more interesting things to write about, but in case you were curious:
Stevie Nicks and Tom Petty, "Stop Dragging My Heart Around": I beepin' love this song. I listen to it all the time. Maybe too much. I am a duet fan, when it's done right, and these two rock this Petty tune hard. Stevie's vocals are raw and weary and the simple three-note guitar riff just kills. I am going to sing this one day when I can find a woman who wants to sing it with me. Just a fantastic rock song. (A Cliff Clavinism: Stevie desperately wanted to join her buddy Tom's band for a long time and lobbied hard for the chance, but was finally, and famously, told by Petty, "No way. There's no chicks in the Heartbreakers!" He penned this song for her, then at the last second didn't want to give it up. They agreed to sing it together as a compromise.)
Rilo Kiley, "Breakin' Up": I sorta have a crush on Jennifer Nettles of Sugarland, but Jenny Lewis is a close second. I love her vocals and her songs (and her hair). She got a solid solo career going on these days, so Rilo Kiley's days are likely numbered, but their most recent (and last?) effort still gets serious play on my iPod. This song makes me wish I were a cowbell (okay, so TMI...).
Norah Jones, "Thinking About You": Anything by Norah Jones I love, but the Rhodes she plays on this track gives it this soul-gospel-funk that I really like a lot. Thankfully I got to see her years ago in a small jazz club with about 40 other people just a few weeks before her first record blew up. There are many NJ tunes I adore. This one just happened to win out today.
The Postal Service, "The District Sleeps Alone Tonight:" Ben Gibbard's (of Death Cab) side project, with a little help from the aforementioned Jenny Lewis on backing vocals on this song. "Such Great Heights" is the hit off the album of the same name, but I really love this song. It is sad and lonely and pretty and sounds like walking around alone on a warm, drizzly night. In February I listened to this album at least twice a day. Tells you where I was in February.
Ryan Adams and the Cardinals, "Sink Ships": I know, I am totally biased, as RA is just about my favorite artist, but the new Cards album is amazing. That band is the best band in the business right now--and it's not even close. They can do anything. This is a tight record from top to bottom. "Sink Ships" won out today, but it could have been anything.
And last but not least...
Gram Parsons and Emmylou Harris, "A Brand New Heartache": GP and EH are the quintessential duet partners. Gram never got a chance to live long on this earth, but the music he did make has had a profound impact on everyone who works in the roots/folk/country genre. This is truly a beautiful song.
Happy Tuesday,
Andy
Monday, December 1, 2008
Stargazing tonight
For those of you who, like me, find yourselves looking skyward (too) often--and I know you are out there--I thought you may find it interesting to know that you should be able to see Venus and Jupiter both in tonight's night sky. The pair have been visible for the past two nights, but this evening is the grand finale, according to today's Boston Globe:
"Venus and Jupiter, the two brightest planets, have been marching toward each other for more than a month in the southwestern sky at dusk. As they've drawn closer together, the sight has been catching more people's eyes, and now the show is reaching its climax.
"Venus and Jupiter, the two brightest planets, have been marching toward each other for more than a month in the southwestern sky at dusk. As they've drawn closer together, the sight has been catching more people's eyes, and now the show is reaching its climax.
[Tonight] brings the peak of the show. The two planets will remain as close as ever, and the moon will form a compact, extraordinary triangle with them.
Then on subsequent evenings, things fall apart. The moon will move farther off to the upper left, and Jupiter starts pulling away to Venus's right."
This sound like the tragic tangos of all tragic tangos. I feel badly for Jupiter and Venus, but I will watch and root for them just the same. Even though I already know the outcome.The day I almost died again
Um...that would be this morning. I was just about to cross the street when I looked up, saw the light flick to yellow, and stepped off the sidewalk. I had noticed out of the corner of my eye a gray Camry speeding toward me, but I just figured it was slow to stop and would soon enough seeing as how they were about to hit a red light.
Except there was no red light. The yellow light I had seen was not a prelude to a red light, but rather a blinking yellow that I hadn't watched long enough to notice it was blinking. So needless to say I came within a fraction of an inch of being mowed down by a car doing about 45 this morning. With my luck, I wouldn't have died; I would have ended up losing both my arms, never able to strum a guitar or write a sentence again. This, for me, would be a fate worse than death.
Okay, but enough about that. The fact of the matter is that I evaded disaster and I have both of my limbs and here I am writing about the banalities of my daily life. Perhaps I was not paying attention to crossing the street because I had all this great music in my head.
Here's how it went to prior to my near-disaster:
When I get on the train in the morning, there is usually no one else aboard. So I take my usual spot, standing by the window in the space reserved for wheelchairs and folks with strollers and anything else that needs the extra room. Sitting, by nature, doesn't appeal to me. It's a lot like sleeping, something else I find a waste of time. I stand there so that I can rock out. I know, it sounds ridiculous, and I am sure I look so, but the truth is I don't care. I keep my sunglasses on and stare out the window and listen to music. About half the time I read, too--the past weeks it's been this fantastic Charles Bukowski anthology of poetry and prose that I just love--but this morning I opted for an all-music commute. It usually takes me about a couple of miles to realize I am swaying my head and click-clacking my heels in time to the snare drums and coming as close as one can to singing out loud. Again, I know, I must look insane. But the truth is I just don't give a shit. In kindergarten I used to wear a Superman costume under my light- and navy-blue uniform. I stand in front of crowds and dance and play guitar and sing lyrics about my personal life. If I were intimidated by crowds and insecure about expressing myself, chances are I wouldn't be writing this blog, or have much of an existence in general.
So, yep, I was having my own personal concert this morning, as usual. A typical commute doesn't get me much more than five or six songs, but this morning there were several delays, which afforded me a couple bonus tracks. An encore, if you will. I have nothing against shuffle on my iPod, but usually I opt for specific songs. Considering that I front and write the music for a roots-rock/alt-country band, I suppose I should probably say that all I listen to is James Taylor and Johnny Cash and Wilco and etc., etc., but that would be a lie. I am as likely to have on Madonna as I am Merle Haggard. Okay, so maybe not exactly, but I will never deny my love of pop music. Here's what I had on this morning, in order:
Kathleen Edwards, "I Make the Dough, You Get the Glory": There are several songs I like even better on her latest album, but this one is pretty much a lesson in how to write a hit roots-pop tune. Smooth, catchy, witty, but gritty.
Maroon 5, "Tangled": Songs about Jane is, from start to finish, a perfect record. I listen to it all the freaking time. I love it. It destroys their most recent effort, even though I am fond of that one, too. Warning, if you are absent rhythm, you should probably choose something other than "Tangled." Those drums might hurt you.
Marah, "My Heart is the Bum's on the Street": I really don't know how or why I stumbled upon this song, but it's one I play often, even if randomly. The tambourine in it gives it this early Springsteen sound that I just adore. This Philly band is hit-or-miss, but they have something special about them that sounds like the soundtrack to an early Pete Dexter or Richard Price book.
Sugarland, "All I Wanna Do": Sounds a lot like the Stones' "Miss You." But who cares? A catchy-as-hell song.
Bob Dylan, "I'll Be Your Baby Tonight": This is the kind of song that I strive to write all the time. It was either this or "Tonight I'll Be Staying Here with You." Can't go wrong either way. Dylan, at least in my opinion, was at his best writing these broken love, country-folk tunes.
Moonraker, "These Walls": It is rare that I know almost zero about a band that I like, but Moonraker falls into that category. Before I grew tired of meaningless funk/disco lyrics and relentless retro white-boy soul, I used to be a huge Jamiroquai fan. Sorry, Jay Kay, but as much as you try, just 'cause you use 9-chords and scat doesn't mean you're jazzy. I still like them, to an extent, but Moonraker manages to take the essence of that worn-out polyester sound and infuse it with the trip-hop electronica of Massive Attack, then adds more impassioned lyrics and vocals that don't rely on annoying vocal gymnastics. "These Walls" make me want to dance--sorry, fellow train riders. Too bad this band is now defunct.
Miles Davis, "Flamenco Sketches": I am not alone in my longtime love affair with Kind of Blue. It is the all-time best-selling jazz record ever, and it deserves to be. No exaggeration, I listened to this album every single morning for about a two-year period while I hacked away at a novel that I wrote and tried, unsuccessfully, to get published. Ever felt this way?: this song makes me want to stand by a moonlit river under a star-sprinkled sky and feel my eyes well up as my soul tries to leap from my body. It makes me want to stand on a mountaintop and scream. Makes me want to sink into a warm ocean at sunset. This song is powerful stuff. Go find your copy and give it a listen. My copy is the original version, but the newer one has an alternate take of "Flamenco Sketches" with different gorgeous solos by Davis and Coltrane. Of course these are not two men with trumpets and saxophones, but rather artists with paintbrushes. I could go on and on about this album and this song...
Rolling Stones, "Beast of Burden": No idea why I wanted to hear it today. Just a damn good classic with that warm and bluesy Keith Richards Tele tone.
Willie Nelson, "Stardust": Willie can do anything. He really can. He made some duds, but the vast majority of his output is spot-on. Here he famously takes this revered jazz standard about lost-love and makes it his own in that way that only Willie can.
And finally, Rod Stewart, "Every Picture Tells a Story": Okay, so I almost got hit by a car during this song, but it wasn't my fault--there are about three big flaws in this tune that I obsess over and I was preoccupied with trying to decipher why they decided not to fix them when they recorded it. First off, very quickly, I have a long relationship with this album, going back to when I was a kid. All through my childhood it was a know fact that my mother had some sort of attachment to "Maggie May," which was the big hit off this classic record. The details are not my business to recount, so I will resist, but let's just say that this was, for her, one of those songs. One of those songs where as soon as you hear it you wish your life had turned out differently, or you are reminded of an old flame, or some combination of the two. I used to resent this song, until I grew up and had lived enough myself to have a few of my own songs like that. Nostalgia isn't the right word. It's more than that. More powerful, more meaningful than that. Anyway, Rod Stewart wasn't always the misogynistic perv in pink Spandex who groped women old enough to be his (grand)daughters. He once was the quintessential rock-n-roll frontman. He had wonderfully messy fucking hair and a voice that sounded as though he ate nails and chased them back with scotch each morning. He was bold and sassy and make ballsy music. Every Picture Tells a Story was his debut solo album, recorded at the peak of his band's, The Faces, career. The title track is a bad-ass rocker, for sure, and it definitely makes my want to grab a mic stand and shake my ass in front of a hot and sweaty crowd, but there are a few curious oddities in it that always make me wonder what they were thinking when they recorded it. First off, the12-string that opens the song is not even close to in tune. Not even close. Then, the drums kick in, but they kick in a half-second too soon. Finally, in the last breakdown verse, when Rod the Mod and his wailing backup singer duet, Rod accidentally utters the first syllable of a word almost a full measure early. He quickly catches himself, but it is very audible screw up. This came out in 1971, I believe, so I understand there wasn't digital editing software like we have now, but still, they definitely had the technology then to fix those things. But then again, why bother? It's raw. It's imperfect. It's flawed. Just like life. I will argue the song would be just as great with an in-tune guitar and drums that come in on time, but I can't deny the song is a winner, warts and all.
I'm glad I didn't die today. I have far too much left to accomplish. And I've made some promises that I need to keep. And besides, there is all this amazing music still left to hear, and something tells me where I'll end up one day, there will be no music.
Except there was no red light. The yellow light I had seen was not a prelude to a red light, but rather a blinking yellow that I hadn't watched long enough to notice it was blinking. So needless to say I came within a fraction of an inch of being mowed down by a car doing about 45 this morning. With my luck, I wouldn't have died; I would have ended up losing both my arms, never able to strum a guitar or write a sentence again. This, for me, would be a fate worse than death.
Okay, but enough about that. The fact of the matter is that I evaded disaster and I have both of my limbs and here I am writing about the banalities of my daily life. Perhaps I was not paying attention to crossing the street because I had all this great music in my head.
Here's how it went to prior to my near-disaster:
When I get on the train in the morning, there is usually no one else aboard. So I take my usual spot, standing by the window in the space reserved for wheelchairs and folks with strollers and anything else that needs the extra room. Sitting, by nature, doesn't appeal to me. It's a lot like sleeping, something else I find a waste of time. I stand there so that I can rock out. I know, it sounds ridiculous, and I am sure I look so, but the truth is I don't care. I keep my sunglasses on and stare out the window and listen to music. About half the time I read, too--the past weeks it's been this fantastic Charles Bukowski anthology of poetry and prose that I just love--but this morning I opted for an all-music commute. It usually takes me about a couple of miles to realize I am swaying my head and click-clacking my heels in time to the snare drums and coming as close as one can to singing out loud. Again, I know, I must look insane. But the truth is I just don't give a shit. In kindergarten I used to wear a Superman costume under my light- and navy-blue uniform. I stand in front of crowds and dance and play guitar and sing lyrics about my personal life. If I were intimidated by crowds and insecure about expressing myself, chances are I wouldn't be writing this blog, or have much of an existence in general.
So, yep, I was having my own personal concert this morning, as usual. A typical commute doesn't get me much more than five or six songs, but this morning there were several delays, which afforded me a couple bonus tracks. An encore, if you will. I have nothing against shuffle on my iPod, but usually I opt for specific songs. Considering that I front and write the music for a roots-rock/alt-country band, I suppose I should probably say that all I listen to is James Taylor and Johnny Cash and Wilco and etc., etc., but that would be a lie. I am as likely to have on Madonna as I am Merle Haggard. Okay, so maybe not exactly, but I will never deny my love of pop music. Here's what I had on this morning, in order:
Kathleen Edwards, "I Make the Dough, You Get the Glory": There are several songs I like even better on her latest album, but this one is pretty much a lesson in how to write a hit roots-pop tune. Smooth, catchy, witty, but gritty.
Maroon 5, "Tangled": Songs about Jane is, from start to finish, a perfect record. I listen to it all the freaking time. I love it. It destroys their most recent effort, even though I am fond of that one, too. Warning, if you are absent rhythm, you should probably choose something other than "Tangled." Those drums might hurt you.
Marah, "My Heart is the Bum's on the Street": I really don't know how or why I stumbled upon this song, but it's one I play often, even if randomly. The tambourine in it gives it this early Springsteen sound that I just adore. This Philly band is hit-or-miss, but they have something special about them that sounds like the soundtrack to an early Pete Dexter or Richard Price book.
Sugarland, "All I Wanna Do": Sounds a lot like the Stones' "Miss You." But who cares? A catchy-as-hell song.
Bob Dylan, "I'll Be Your Baby Tonight": This is the kind of song that I strive to write all the time. It was either this or "Tonight I'll Be Staying Here with You." Can't go wrong either way. Dylan, at least in my opinion, was at his best writing these broken love, country-folk tunes.
Moonraker, "These Walls": It is rare that I know almost zero about a band that I like, but Moonraker falls into that category. Before I grew tired of meaningless funk/disco lyrics and relentless retro white-boy soul, I used to be a huge Jamiroquai fan. Sorry, Jay Kay, but as much as you try, just 'cause you use 9-chords and scat doesn't mean you're jazzy. I still like them, to an extent, but Moonraker manages to take the essence of that worn-out polyester sound and infuse it with the trip-hop electronica of Massive Attack, then adds more impassioned lyrics and vocals that don't rely on annoying vocal gymnastics. "These Walls" make me want to dance--sorry, fellow train riders. Too bad this band is now defunct.
Miles Davis, "Flamenco Sketches": I am not alone in my longtime love affair with Kind of Blue. It is the all-time best-selling jazz record ever, and it deserves to be. No exaggeration, I listened to this album every single morning for about a two-year period while I hacked away at a novel that I wrote and tried, unsuccessfully, to get published. Ever felt this way?: this song makes me want to stand by a moonlit river under a star-sprinkled sky and feel my eyes well up as my soul tries to leap from my body. It makes me want to stand on a mountaintop and scream. Makes me want to sink into a warm ocean at sunset. This song is powerful stuff. Go find your copy and give it a listen. My copy is the original version, but the newer one has an alternate take of "Flamenco Sketches" with different gorgeous solos by Davis and Coltrane. Of course these are not two men with trumpets and saxophones, but rather artists with paintbrushes. I could go on and on about this album and this song...
Rolling Stones, "Beast of Burden": No idea why I wanted to hear it today. Just a damn good classic with that warm and bluesy Keith Richards Tele tone.
Willie Nelson, "Stardust": Willie can do anything. He really can. He made some duds, but the vast majority of his output is spot-on. Here he famously takes this revered jazz standard about lost-love and makes it his own in that way that only Willie can.
And finally, Rod Stewart, "Every Picture Tells a Story": Okay, so I almost got hit by a car during this song, but it wasn't my fault--there are about three big flaws in this tune that I obsess over and I was preoccupied with trying to decipher why they decided not to fix them when they recorded it. First off, very quickly, I have a long relationship with this album, going back to when I was a kid. All through my childhood it was a know fact that my mother had some sort of attachment to "Maggie May," which was the big hit off this classic record. The details are not my business to recount, so I will resist, but let's just say that this was, for her, one of those songs. One of those songs where as soon as you hear it you wish your life had turned out differently, or you are reminded of an old flame, or some combination of the two. I used to resent this song, until I grew up and had lived enough myself to have a few of my own songs like that. Nostalgia isn't the right word. It's more than that. More powerful, more meaningful than that. Anyway, Rod Stewart wasn't always the misogynistic perv in pink Spandex who groped women old enough to be his (grand)daughters. He once was the quintessential rock-n-roll frontman. He had wonderfully messy fucking hair and a voice that sounded as though he ate nails and chased them back with scotch each morning. He was bold and sassy and make ballsy music. Every Picture Tells a Story was his debut solo album, recorded at the peak of his band's, The Faces, career. The title track is a bad-ass rocker, for sure, and it definitely makes my want to grab a mic stand and shake my ass in front of a hot and sweaty crowd, but there are a few curious oddities in it that always make me wonder what they were thinking when they recorded it. First off, the12-string that opens the song is not even close to in tune. Not even close. Then, the drums kick in, but they kick in a half-second too soon. Finally, in the last breakdown verse, when Rod the Mod and his wailing backup singer duet, Rod accidentally utters the first syllable of a word almost a full measure early. He quickly catches himself, but it is very audible screw up. This came out in 1971, I believe, so I understand there wasn't digital editing software like we have now, but still, they definitely had the technology then to fix those things. But then again, why bother? It's raw. It's imperfect. It's flawed. Just like life. I will argue the song would be just as great with an in-tune guitar and drums that come in on time, but I can't deny the song is a winner, warts and all.
I'm glad I didn't die today. I have far too much left to accomplish. And I've made some promises that I need to keep. And besides, there is all this amazing music still left to hear, and something tells me where I'll end up one day, there will be no music.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
falling
i awoke
this morning to find
the first
snowflakes falling
past my window.
this morning to find
the first
snowflakes falling
past my window.
i wanted to tell
someone
but there was
no one
to tell.
so i
closed my eyes
and wished
that weren't true.
when i
opened them, snowflakes
still fell
and still
there was no one
to tell.
falling, falling, falling, falling, falling
past my window.
i wonder
why i care so
much about these things, but
i do.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
...in an elevator
it
happened before
i could stop it;
isn't that the way
these things go?
the door closed
and suddenly
the elevator was
dark
as a secret;
the overhead light
had blown.
i
didn't mind.
i
made the most of it.
i just felt
sorry for the girl
who was stuck
inside
there with me.
happened before
i could stop it;
isn't that the way
these things go?
the door closed
and suddenly
the elevator was
dark
as a secret;
the overhead light
had blown.
i
didn't mind.
i
made the most of it.
i just felt
sorry for the girl
who was stuck
inside
there with me.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Rain
a few falls
ago, when i was
taking some courses,
each time i left class
when it was raining
i would pop
my headphones
on and listen to a
wonderfully sad
record called Love is Hell.
i would stand
on the train
platform
and watch the water
bounce off the shiny
rails
and tip my head
back and feel the
rain on my face
something
about that album
sounded like rain
coming down in whispers
and umbrellas bursting
open and sprinkling
a city of gray
with pastel smudges
everything felt better then
for a while
ago, when i was
taking some courses,
each time i left class
when it was raining
i would pop
my headphones
on and listen to a
wonderfully sad
record called Love is Hell.
i would stand
on the train
platform
and watch the water
bounce off the shiny
rails
and tip my head
back and feel the
rain on my face
something
about that album
sounded like rain
coming down in whispers
and umbrellas bursting
open and sprinkling
a city of gray
with pastel smudges
everything felt better then
for a while
Love is a Long Way Down
Love is a Long Way Down
words and music by Andy Campolieto
Here I go again
Taking it slow
Don't want to lose
What's left of my soul
But this time I'm strong
I'm not gonna hide
I'm not how you left me
I've found what's left
Of my pride
'Cause it's a long way
Long way down
Love is a long way
Long way down
You knew that I'd come
As soon as you called
But you don't see me running
I'm in no rush to fall
In love
'Cause it's a long way
Long way down
Love is a long way
Long way down, down, down
But each time I run from you
I end up in your arms
Love is a long way
Long way down
words and music by Andy Campolieto
Here I go again
Taking it slow
Don't want to lose
What's left of my soul
But this time I'm strong
I'm not gonna hide
I'm not how you left me
I've found what's left
Of my pride
'Cause it's a long way
Long way down
Love is a long way
Long way down
You knew that I'd come
As soon as you called
But you don't see me running
I'm in no rush to fall
In love
'Cause it's a long way
Long way down
Love is a long way
Long way down, down, down
But each time I run from you
I end up in your arms
Love is a long way
Long way down
Monday, November 24, 2008
Inside Out
Here's another song for which I only have a few lines. Oh, that doesn't stop us from playing it live--it just means that I improvise the words each time. It is a dark, rocking, aggressive, very un-Jo-Henley-like song, one that the band particularly likes to play because they get to wail on their instruments, jam, and listen to me emote differently than I usually do.
Here's all I have, just the first verse:
We cannot talk it over anymore
There are no magic words to speak
My car's outside
It's running on fumes, like me
I see you've got your lipstick on
As with "Chasing Rainbows" I will continue to post the words as I work them out...
Here's all I have, just the first verse:
We cannot talk it over anymore
There are no magic words to speak
My car's outside
It's running on fumes, like me
I see you've got your lipstick on
As with "Chasing Rainbows" I will continue to post the words as I work them out...
Sunday, November 23, 2008
What's cooking?
Yup, you guessed it: I'm making that chicken soup that I wanted so desperately yesterday. Driving twelve hours with your head feeling like it's on the verge of explosion and an on-fire throat was not fun. But the radio show was worth every second of the trip. And my voice held up all right, all things considered.
Still, I never got my soup.
Today is about 24 degrees in Boston, and windy enough to make it feel about 10 in the sun, and I'm still sick, so right now I have a pot of homemade chicken noodle simmering on the stove.
(Okay, quick aside? Chicken soup with rice is FAR inferior to chicken noodle soup. I'm sorry, but it's just a fact.)
I hate Sundays. Even more than sneezing. But I do like chicken noodle soup.
Still, I never got my soup.
Today is about 24 degrees in Boston, and windy enough to make it feel about 10 in the sun, and I'm still sick, so right now I have a pot of homemade chicken noodle simmering on the stove.
(Okay, quick aside? Chicken soup with rice is FAR inferior to chicken noodle soup. I'm sorry, but it's just a fact.)
I hate Sundays. Even more than sneezing. But I do like chicken noodle soup.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Chicken Soup for the Frontman
Will someone make me chicken noodle soup?
Yup, you guessed it: I'm sick. If you know me, you know I am never sick. Oh sure, I may get the weird shit that no one else gets, but never the straight-up cold, like I have now. The last time I got a cold was probably three years ago. But I have one now, and I have to deal with it because in about thirty seconds the band is bound for Nowhere, New Jersey--smack dab between Trenton, NJ and Allentown, PA--for a two-hour radio performance/interview on WDVR's "Guitar Town." Which means I have to sing. Stuffy. In between sneezes. With my eyes sore and not enough sleep in me.
Nothing that a couple shots of Afrin and a whole bunch of other over-the-counter crap can't get me through.
Here's the thing, though--sick or not I get to play music today and I am too excited about that to care much about being sick. I don't want to sound like my head's in a balloon when I sing today, but I am very much looking forward to being inside the songs, in their stories, with fiddle and drums and bass and guitars all dancing around me. I am sure I'll feel better once we're there, anyway.
We will be in the car for about 12 hours today for the chance to play and be interviewed for two, so if you are around, near a computer, I ask that you tune in and listen. You should be able to stream the show on www.wdvrfm.org
Tune in, listen, call in, make requests-and pray I remember not to say "shit" when we play "Sad Songs and Alcohol."
Yup, you guessed it: I'm sick. If you know me, you know I am never sick. Oh sure, I may get the weird shit that no one else gets, but never the straight-up cold, like I have now. The last time I got a cold was probably three years ago. But I have one now, and I have to deal with it because in about thirty seconds the band is bound for Nowhere, New Jersey--smack dab between Trenton, NJ and Allentown, PA--for a two-hour radio performance/interview on WDVR's "Guitar Town." Which means I have to sing. Stuffy. In between sneezes. With my eyes sore and not enough sleep in me.
Nothing that a couple shots of Afrin and a whole bunch of other over-the-counter crap can't get me through.
Here's the thing, though--sick or not I get to play music today and I am too excited about that to care much about being sick. I don't want to sound like my head's in a balloon when I sing today, but I am very much looking forward to being inside the songs, in their stories, with fiddle and drums and bass and guitars all dancing around me. I am sure I'll feel better once we're there, anyway.
We will be in the car for about 12 hours today for the chance to play and be interviewed for two, so if you are around, near a computer, I ask that you tune in and listen. You should be able to stream the show on www.wdvrfm.org
Tune in, listen, call in, make requests-and pray I remember not to say "shit" when we play "Sad Songs and Alcohol."
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Chasing Rainbows
This is a song I've been playing (ooh, how about futzing? or fiddling?) around with for a few months but for which I can't seem to find the rest of the words. My hope is that I can hack away at it a little at a time; perhaps seeing it here will spark my muse. So far I only have the chorus:
Everything
Everything I ever wanted was you
If you can’t find me
I’m chasing my rainbows around
With my eyes on the ground
And if I should lose my path
Will you be there when I'm lost
Like you promised you would?
I realize this is not much, and not particularly good. But it's all about those first two lines. I wrote them down on a Post-It a while ago and stuck it in my pocket, which is how I work. I have a journal I carry with me (and a pocket projector and a Trapper Keeper and a Slinky) but I tend to rely on the Post-Its or whatever scrap piece of paper I find. I take it out and scribble ideas down and work it out like that until either the song is done, or I've decided it's not worth pursuing, or the paper is so beat-up it's taken on the texture of a tissue. I also realize as I post these lyrics to songs that no one has yet heard that I am the only one with the luxury of knowing the melody that goes along with the words.
Typical me, I write four sentences, and it takes me three paragraphs to explain those four sentences.
Anyway, I'll keep adding to the song as I go. In the meantime, I am considering posting a long short story I have, in chapters. To be honest, I have no idea how much traffic my blog here gets, so my audience could be small, but I'll post it anyway.
Happy reading :)
Everything
Everything I ever wanted was you
If you can’t find me
I’m chasing my rainbows around
With my eyes on the ground
And if I should lose my path
Will you be there when I'm lost
Like you promised you would?
I realize this is not much, and not particularly good. But it's all about those first two lines. I wrote them down on a Post-It a while ago and stuck it in my pocket, which is how I work. I have a journal I carry with me (and a pocket projector and a Trapper Keeper and a Slinky) but I tend to rely on the Post-Its or whatever scrap piece of paper I find. I take it out and scribble ideas down and work it out like that until either the song is done, or I've decided it's not worth pursuing, or the paper is so beat-up it's taken on the texture of a tissue. I also realize as I post these lyrics to songs that no one has yet heard that I am the only one with the luxury of knowing the melody that goes along with the words.
Typical me, I write four sentences, and it takes me three paragraphs to explain those four sentences.
Anyway, I'll keep adding to the song as I go. In the meantime, I am considering posting a long short story I have, in chapters. To be honest, I have no idea how much traffic my blog here gets, so my audience could be small, but I'll post it anyway.
Happy reading :)
Monday, November 17, 2008
what it means to try
you're doing the best you can
they tell me
i hope not
i say
because that just means
my best
isn't good enough
they tell me
i hope not
i say
because that just means
my best
isn't good enough
Friday, November 14, 2008
Only I Can Break Your Heart
Only I Can Break Your Heart
words and music by Andy Campolieto
Somebody else might buy you roses
Or leave you love notes on your car
Somebody else might call you beautiful
But only I can break your heart
Only I would leave you stranded in a station in the rain
With a suitcase full of dreams that won't come true
Somebody else might light your smokes
Or sing you love songs in the park
Somebody else may hold you till you fall asleep
But only I can break your heart
Only I would leave you shattered in the kitchen by the sink
Trying to catch my eyes to read the lies
CHORUS
If it's you who I want
If it's you who I need when I breathe
Then tell me where I've got it wrong
You can try to pretend
We're better off in the end but only love
Will keep you up at night
To watch the stars and cry
Somebody else may be the one
Your shining knight in tarnished times
To give you everything that you deserve
And who will never break your heart
Only I would paint a watercolor sunset in your sky
And wash it all away before it dries
CHORUS
Somebody else might buy you roses
But only I can break your heart
words and music by Andy Campolieto
Somebody else might buy you roses
Or leave you love notes on your car
Somebody else might call you beautiful
But only I can break your heart
Only I would leave you stranded in a station in the rain
With a suitcase full of dreams that won't come true
Somebody else might light your smokes
Or sing you love songs in the park
Somebody else may hold you till you fall asleep
But only I can break your heart
Only I would leave you shattered in the kitchen by the sink
Trying to catch my eyes to read the lies
CHORUS
If it's you who I want
If it's you who I need when I breathe
Then tell me where I've got it wrong
You can try to pretend
We're better off in the end but only love
Will keep you up at night
To watch the stars and cry
Somebody else may be the one
Your shining knight in tarnished times
To give you everything that you deserve
And who will never break your heart
Only I would paint a watercolor sunset in your sky
And wash it all away before it dries
CHORUS
Somebody else might buy you roses
But only I can break your heart
Thursday, November 13, 2008
train music
i stand
on the subway with
music
bubbling in my ears
across from me
a man
with a salty beard and
big black headphones
sits and dances
he dances
as he sits with his
big black headphones
i
can hear the
music:
oontz
oontz
oontz
oontz
eyes closed
lips
moving
with his thick
brown hands
karate-chopping the
air
between us
oontz
oontz
oontz
oontz
i turn
my music down
until the bubbling
stops
and the two of us are
dancing
now to the
sound
seeping from his
big black headphones
oontz
oontz
oontz
oontz
what a
sight
we must have been
standing there
sitting there
dancing
to the music from those
big black headphones
oontz
oontz
oontz
oontz
a
few minutes later
i get off
the subway
twirl
a scarf around
my neck
the air is COLD and
loud
i watch the
train gurgle
past
and tuck my chin
inside my
scarf as i trudge up
the sidewalk
a kid
with yellow hair
fires up
a cigarette
the sky is cold and
LOUD
i
wish i had
big black headphones
on the subway with
music
bubbling in my ears
across from me
a man
with a salty beard and
big black headphones
sits and dances
he dances
as he sits with his
big black headphones
i
can hear the
music:
oontz
oontz
oontz
oontz
eyes closed
lips
moving
with his thick
brown hands
karate-chopping the
air
between us
oontz
oontz
oontz
oontz
i turn
my music down
until the bubbling
stops
and the two of us are
dancing
now to the
sound
seeping from his
big black headphones
oontz
oontz
oontz
oontz
what a
sight
we must have been
standing there
sitting there
dancing
to the music from those
big black headphones
oontz
oontz
oontz
oontz
a
few minutes later
i get off
the subway
twirl
a scarf around
my neck
the air is COLD and
loud
i watch the
train gurgle
past
and tuck my chin
inside my
scarf as i trudge up
the sidewalk
a kid
with yellow hair
fires up
a cigarette
the sky is cold and
LOUD
i
wish i had
big black headphones
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Save the Last Dance for Us
Save the Last Dance for Uswords and music by Andy Campolieto
If I were to take your hand tonight
Could we dance under the stars
Just one more time?
I know that was long ago
But I'm no good at letting go of you
Every day feels like I'm doing time
Inside a box of letters you used to write
I think about where you are
And if you found what you're looking for
Without me, love
Some things will never change
But I promised you I'd never
Let you down for long
Save the last dance for us
I feel your arms around me all the time
You probably think I'm crazy, and you're right
I used to think I was sensible
But that's before I tried to go
Without you, love
Some things will never change
But I promised you I'd never
Let you down for long
Like you let me down: for good
I searched this world to find you
From New York to Tennessee
Lost you somewhere in the Carolinas
So many miles, so many miles
Before I sleep
Twenty-five years and still no word
You were married in the Midwest last I heard
Two kids and a couple of cars
Me, I'm still singing in bars
About you, love
Some things will never change
I promised you I'd never
Let you down for long
Like you let me down: for good
Save the last dance for us
I'll save the last dance for us
If you want
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Tears on My Sleeve
Tears on My Sleeve
words and music by Andy Campolieto
Have you heard about what I done on Avenue B.?
Seen my face on every TV set it seems
They make me out as crazy
Well, I suppose that ain't far from fact
But there's a lot more to the story than that
See, before I came to New York City
And burned up all my dreams
I was something of a legend back home
For longer than I care to know
I tried to be a star
But this guitar only got me so far
Now I'm stuck behind these bars
With my tears on my sleeve
Last fall, I rolled into town
'Cause I heard you'd moved to Queens
Seen your eyes on every playbill that I read
But I couldn't find the nerve
To let you know I'd come for you
And by the time I did
You was wearing a ring
That day you turned your back on me
Said you had to get away
Still kills me like it happened yesterday
That night I picked a bottle up
To wash it all away with gin
I lost everything that I always hoped I'd win
Now the only thing I have of yours
Are your tears on my sleeve
I was hunched up by an evergreen
They was stringing it with lights
Felt the metal in my pocket, squeezed it tight
At 8 o'clock I went inside
Sat down and looked around
It was dark, except the curtain that hung down
When you finally walked on stage
Honey, I could hardly breathe
You were prettier than anything I'd ever seen
The time had come to take stand
For once to be a man
I stood up tall with a pistol in my hand
Then I turned around to leave
With tears on my sleeve
I want you to love me
I want you to hold me tight
And tell me it'll be all right
I had my chance
words and music by Andy Campolieto
Have you heard about what I done on Avenue B.?
Seen my face on every TV set it seems
They make me out as crazy
Well, I suppose that ain't far from fact
But there's a lot more to the story than that
See, before I came to New York City
And burned up all my dreams
I was something of a legend back home
For longer than I care to know
I tried to be a star
But this guitar only got me so far
Now I'm stuck behind these bars
With my tears on my sleeve
Last fall, I rolled into town
'Cause I heard you'd moved to Queens
Seen your eyes on every playbill that I read
But I couldn't find the nerve
To let you know I'd come for you
And by the time I did
You was wearing a ring
That day you turned your back on me
Said you had to get away
Still kills me like it happened yesterday
That night I picked a bottle up
To wash it all away with gin
I lost everything that I always hoped I'd win
Now the only thing I have of yours
Are your tears on my sleeve
I was hunched up by an evergreen
They was stringing it with lights
Felt the metal in my pocket, squeezed it tight
At 8 o'clock I went inside
Sat down and looked around
It was dark, except the curtain that hung down
When you finally walked on stage
Honey, I could hardly breathe
You were prettier than anything I'd ever seen
The time had come to take stand
For once to be a man
I stood up tall with a pistol in my hand
Then I turned around to leave
With tears on my sleeve
I want you to love me
I want you to hold me tight
And tell me it'll be all right
I had my chance
But I was too slow to see
That love may linger
But the tears can't last forever
That love may linger
But the tears can't last forever
Monday, November 10, 2008
Cheyenne
Cheyenne
words and music by Andy Campolieto
I just can't break another heart today
I can't wipe no more tears from your eyes
We're better off a thousand miles away
I tried so hard to keep from hurting you
But it's all I ever seem to do
By morning I'll be halfway to Cheyenne
Every day begins and ends with us making up
But somewhere in between we fall apart
And I'm so tired of falling
I'm so tired of falling
I know we've been through all of this before
And my boots always find your door
But this time they're not coming back no more
I hope, my darling, one day you'll forgive me
I'm not the man you hoped I'd be
Trying to find my way out on the plains
Every day begins and ends with us making up
But somewhere in between we fall apart
And I'm so tired of falling
I'm so tired of falling
I'm so tired of falling
I just can't break another heart today
Or sweep your shattered dreams away
By morning I'll be halfway to Cheyenne
By morning I'll be halfway to Cheyenne
By morning I'll be halfway to Cheyenne
words and music by Andy Campolieto
I just can't break another heart today
I can't wipe no more tears from your eyes
We're better off a thousand miles away
I tried so hard to keep from hurting you
But it's all I ever seem to do
By morning I'll be halfway to Cheyenne
Every day begins and ends with us making up
But somewhere in between we fall apart
And I'm so tired of falling
I'm so tired of falling
I know we've been through all of this before
And my boots always find your door
But this time they're not coming back no more
I hope, my darling, one day you'll forgive me
I'm not the man you hoped I'd be
Trying to find my way out on the plains
Every day begins and ends with us making up
But somewhere in between we fall apart
And I'm so tired of falling
I'm so tired of falling
I'm so tired of falling
I just can't break another heart today
Or sweep your shattered dreams away
By morning I'll be halfway to Cheyenne
By morning I'll be halfway to Cheyenne
By morning I'll be halfway to Cheyenne
Saturday, November 8, 2008
going somewhere slowly
white-knuckled
blood
beating my skull
like fists
i watch the lights
turn green to
red
to
green to red
and my wheels never
turn
locked inside
a steel cell
ihavesomewheretobedonttheysee?
fucks fly from
my mouth
until
two kids with
two smiles and
two cans
float over like leaves
that have just let go
and then so do i
let go
and drop
a bill into the can
it's for sick kids mister
but really
it was for me
blood
beating my skull
like fists
i watch the lights
turn green to
red
to
green to red
and my wheels never
turn
locked inside
a steel cell
ihavesomewheretobedonttheysee?
fucks fly from
my mouth
until
two kids with
two smiles and
two cans
float over like leaves
that have just let go
and then so do i
let go
and drop
a bill into the can
it's for sick kids mister
but really
it was for me
Friday, November 7, 2008
...with a white rose in my hand...
Somewhere in the lush green hills of eastern Tennessee this summer, just beyond the edge of Smoky Mountain National Park, a song came on the radio that struck me. It was a country station, but the song wasn't true-blue Top 40, CMT, modern country--not in that Toby Keith-modern way anyway. It was my ideal song: midtempo, laid-back but strong, with a sweet melody and purty guitars and blue-colored lyrics about a man who got tired of waiting for the woman he loves and so he goes searching for her--all dressed up in twang and delivered by a scotch-voiced troubadour. I tried to remember the words so that I could google them later, in Nashville, but none of my keywords could locate the song online. "...with a white rose in my hand..." was all I could remember, and that was so vague it returned a million-plus hits, none of which were the song I'd heard and took a liking to.
A couple months later, I was again on the road, this time in Boston, when the same song came on the radio. I pulled over and listened, scribbled frantically as many lyrics as I could. Then I rushed to a computer and typed in "Beaumont white rose crowd Murphy country folk song lyrics" and out came "Beaumont" by a Texas singer-songwriter names Hayes Carll. I had heard of him, and had even heard a couple of his songs somewhere along the way, but whatever I'd heard, while good, wasn't quite like "Beaumont." The next day I rushed to Newbury Comics and picked up Trouble in Mind. The whole record is superb from start to finish, but "Beaumont" is still my favorite. I like the song so much that I don't listen to it that often. Just once in a while, like fine wine. Too afraid I'll grow tired of it.
Turns out I'm not the only one smitten with this guy's music. Hayes Carll is something of a darling in the Americana scene. Trouble in Mind has been among the top-rated albums in the genre for a long time, and Hayes Carll is among the most respected singer/songwriters working these days.
Since that time a lot has happen to my own music, and just yesterday we learned there is now an outside chance that we could land an opening gig for Hayes Carll. My guess is that this won't happen--just being honest here, not self-defeating--but there is also a very real chance it could. I won't make this sound bigger than it is; it would be a cool experience, something to build upon and add to our resume, not anything that will propel us to stardom. But it just goes to show you that you never know what may happen in this life. What today seems wholly implausible could very well come to fruition when you least expect it.
Keep your fingers crossed for us, as this would be a positive experience for my band. But even better, go find that song, "Beaumont." Who knows, it just may change your life.
A couple months later, I was again on the road, this time in Boston, when the same song came on the radio. I pulled over and listened, scribbled frantically as many lyrics as I could. Then I rushed to a computer and typed in "Beaumont white rose crowd Murphy country folk song lyrics" and out came "Beaumont" by a Texas singer-songwriter names Hayes Carll. I had heard of him, and had even heard a couple of his songs somewhere along the way, but whatever I'd heard, while good, wasn't quite like "Beaumont." The next day I rushed to Newbury Comics and picked up Trouble in Mind. The whole record is superb from start to finish, but "Beaumont" is still my favorite. I like the song so much that I don't listen to it that often. Just once in a while, like fine wine. Too afraid I'll grow tired of it.
Turns out I'm not the only one smitten with this guy's music. Hayes Carll is something of a darling in the Americana scene. Trouble in Mind has been among the top-rated albums in the genre for a long time, and Hayes Carll is among the most respected singer/songwriters working these days.
Since that time a lot has happen to my own music, and just yesterday we learned there is now an outside chance that we could land an opening gig for Hayes Carll. My guess is that this won't happen--just being honest here, not self-defeating--but there is also a very real chance it could. I won't make this sound bigger than it is; it would be a cool experience, something to build upon and add to our resume, not anything that will propel us to stardom. But it just goes to show you that you never know what may happen in this life. What today seems wholly implausible could very well come to fruition when you least expect it.
Keep your fingers crossed for us, as this would be a positive experience for my band. But even better, go find that song, "Beaumont." Who knows, it just may change your life.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
The Great Depression
The Great Depression
words and music by Andy Campolieto
If I had a dime to my name
Then I guess I'd have somethin' to lose
Like all these suits and ties
I read about in the news
They say the money's all gone
Nothin' like it since '29
But I'm broke as a Ford
So I guess I'm doin' just fine
CHORUS
This Great Depression means nothin' to me
Let Wall St. crumble
Let Main St. whistle with tumbleweed
Give me a long-haired girl and a bottle of wine
We can sit on the roof and get drunk all night
And watch the world come tumbling down
As the sun comes up
Well, I worked hard all my life
But I could never make enough to save
This old 6-string's all that I've got to my name
If I had a big fat wallet full of big green bills
I'd buy me a bungalow in the hills
But I'm broke as a seal
So I guess I'm doin' just fine
CHORUS
Please don't misunderstand
I never meant for it to be this way
There ain't nothin' I love more than the USA
But I'd be lying if I said
I gave a damn about the government
'Cause I'm broke as a heart
And I guess I'm doin' all right
CHORUS
words and music by Andy Campolieto
If I had a dime to my name
Then I guess I'd have somethin' to lose
Like all these suits and ties
I read about in the news
They say the money's all gone
Nothin' like it since '29
But I'm broke as a Ford
So I guess I'm doin' just fine
CHORUS
This Great Depression means nothin' to me
Let Wall St. crumble
Let Main St. whistle with tumbleweed
Give me a long-haired girl and a bottle of wine
We can sit on the roof and get drunk all night
And watch the world come tumbling down
As the sun comes up
Well, I worked hard all my life
But I could never make enough to save
This old 6-string's all that I've got to my name
If I had a big fat wallet full of big green bills
I'd buy me a bungalow in the hills
But I'm broke as a seal
So I guess I'm doin' just fine
CHORUS
Please don't misunderstand
I never meant for it to be this way
There ain't nothin' I love more than the USA
But I'd be lying if I said
I gave a damn about the government
'Cause I'm broke as a heart
And I guess I'm doin' all right
CHORUS
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Yes, we did
A girl passed me on the train this morning wearing a T-shirt bearing the face of George Bush with the words "Not my president" written alongside his face. Any other day these past 8 years I would have thought her just one more well-informed but helpless voice proclaiming, in her youthful rebellious way, what most of us have been thinking for a long time. But today, her shirt rang true. The day has finally arrived. George W. Bush truly is "Not my president." Oh, he may technically have another 8 weeks or so before it becomes official. Academic aside, though, the man who has run our country into iceberg after iceberg no longer captains our ship.
Standing in line for my tea this morning, I overheard a woman of about 60, dressed for work, well put-together, ask the barista steaming the milk for her cappuccino who won last night. Who won last night? I thought to myself, astonished. So astonished, in fact, that I turned to the girl at the register--who looks a lot like Sarah Palin, that ditz who once ran for VP--tossed a thumb in the direction of the woman, and said aloud, "Did she really just ask who won the election last night?" The man next to me chuckled and rolled his eyes. The Palin look-alike shrugged and politely offered an excuse for her: "Maybe she went to bead early."
What? Went to bed early? Who cares? Are you freakin' kidding me? She made it this far--9am, dressed, in the city, probably arrived in her car that has a radio, probably passed a newspaper stand or two--and she never once stumbled across, even accidentally, something that alerted her to the fact that we have a new president? Worse yet, she didn't climb out of bed and even half-heartedly wonder who won? No? Nothing? Not even a casual interest?
That's her loss then, because she missed out on the most heartening moment in American history in 40 years, and certainly in my lifetime. Like him or not, Barack Obama transcended our country's dark, shameful past as far as race relations, and carried on his back millions of people who have been waiting for a moment like this.
Last night was proof positive that with hope, and lots of hard work, one truly can achieve greatness. It in no way erased all of our race issues, or biases, our prejudices, and our deep-rooted resentment, but it went a long way toward mending that fence and turning everyone's attention to the future.
I could feel my eyes welling up last night as Obama spoke, standing there so calm, so poised, not a trace of gloat or pretentiousness anywhere to be found. He acutely understands what lies ahead. He understands there is difficult work to be tackled, and that not everyone is going to bend over backwards to give his plan a shot. He knows there will be people waiting to tear him down just as quickly as they raised him up--that is, after all, what America does to its heroes.
Those days have not yet come, however. They will soon, but not yet. Last night, today, and ideally for as long as we can, we must attempt to bottle that display of sheer patriotism that America embraced last night. In a different way, I remember feeling the same spirit of camaraderie immediately following 9/11, when we, the people, faced a common enemy and bonded together as one against those who threatened to destroy us. At that moment, Bush could have asked us to do anything and we would have done so. I have never been a Bush fan, but when he walked out to the pitcher's mound at Yankee Stadium during the World Series in 2001 and threw out the first pitch, bravely, wearing a bulletproof vest, I was moved practically to tears. Love him or leave him, he was our leader, and our leader let us all know we have nothing to be fearful of.
But Bush missed his chance to really invoke a sense of civic duty in us. Rather than seize the chance to raise us to greatness, to call upon us to each pitch in for a greater good, he told us to go to the mall.
Obama learned those lessons, and will not, I dearly hope, make the same mistake. I know from playing music and connecting with fans that people want to help in things they believe in. There are times when I sense I could even ask our fans for even more help, but don't because it feels like imposing. Truth is, they want to help. I support artists I enjoy, so why wouldn't I expect others to do the same for my music? Same with Obama. He recognizes that America is beat up, wants change, and is willing to make sacrifices for that change. And that is inspiring.
Inspiration. I felt inspired last night. There are many, my own family included, who assumes we are now destined for 4 years of welfare handouts, white flags overseas, and skyrocketing taxes. To that, I say, you had your chance. You had Bush for 8 years. And it didn't work. Will Obama fix all of our problems? No way. But he deserves a chance to give it a shot.
Six months from now, if not six days from now, the glow will have dulled, the soared spirits will have returned to the earth, and the disbelief that America has finally done something really amazing for itself, will have worn off. The debt will still be there. The war will not have left us. Racism will not have gone anywhere.
That day is not upon us now, though. There will be plenty of time for cynicism. But for now we owe it to ourselves to think big and dream big and bottle all of this up. We must remember what it felt like to watch that scene in Chicago last night, and in living rooms across this country, so that when times are tough, and the news cycle is once more rife with ugliness, disparity, depression, and gloom, we will know that it doesn't have to be that way. That when push comes to shove, we, the people, can do great things together.
Standing in line for my tea this morning, I overheard a woman of about 60, dressed for work, well put-together, ask the barista steaming the milk for her cappuccino who won last night. Who won last night? I thought to myself, astonished. So astonished, in fact, that I turned to the girl at the register--who looks a lot like Sarah Palin, that ditz who once ran for VP--tossed a thumb in the direction of the woman, and said aloud, "Did she really just ask who won the election last night?" The man next to me chuckled and rolled his eyes. The Palin look-alike shrugged and politely offered an excuse for her: "Maybe she went to bead early."
What? Went to bed early? Who cares? Are you freakin' kidding me? She made it this far--9am, dressed, in the city, probably arrived in her car that has a radio, probably passed a newspaper stand or two--and she never once stumbled across, even accidentally, something that alerted her to the fact that we have a new president? Worse yet, she didn't climb out of bed and even half-heartedly wonder who won? No? Nothing? Not even a casual interest?
That's her loss then, because she missed out on the most heartening moment in American history in 40 years, and certainly in my lifetime. Like him or not, Barack Obama transcended our country's dark, shameful past as far as race relations, and carried on his back millions of people who have been waiting for a moment like this.
Last night was proof positive that with hope, and lots of hard work, one truly can achieve greatness. It in no way erased all of our race issues, or biases, our prejudices, and our deep-rooted resentment, but it went a long way toward mending that fence and turning everyone's attention to the future.
I could feel my eyes welling up last night as Obama spoke, standing there so calm, so poised, not a trace of gloat or pretentiousness anywhere to be found. He acutely understands what lies ahead. He understands there is difficult work to be tackled, and that not everyone is going to bend over backwards to give his plan a shot. He knows there will be people waiting to tear him down just as quickly as they raised him up--that is, after all, what America does to its heroes.
Those days have not yet come, however. They will soon, but not yet. Last night, today, and ideally for as long as we can, we must attempt to bottle that display of sheer patriotism that America embraced last night. In a different way, I remember feeling the same spirit of camaraderie immediately following 9/11, when we, the people, faced a common enemy and bonded together as one against those who threatened to destroy us. At that moment, Bush could have asked us to do anything and we would have done so. I have never been a Bush fan, but when he walked out to the pitcher's mound at Yankee Stadium during the World Series in 2001 and threw out the first pitch, bravely, wearing a bulletproof vest, I was moved practically to tears. Love him or leave him, he was our leader, and our leader let us all know we have nothing to be fearful of.
But Bush missed his chance to really invoke a sense of civic duty in us. Rather than seize the chance to raise us to greatness, to call upon us to each pitch in for a greater good, he told us to go to the mall.
Obama learned those lessons, and will not, I dearly hope, make the same mistake. I know from playing music and connecting with fans that people want to help in things they believe in. There are times when I sense I could even ask our fans for even more help, but don't because it feels like imposing. Truth is, they want to help. I support artists I enjoy, so why wouldn't I expect others to do the same for my music? Same with Obama. He recognizes that America is beat up, wants change, and is willing to make sacrifices for that change. And that is inspiring.
Inspiration. I felt inspired last night. There are many, my own family included, who assumes we are now destined for 4 years of welfare handouts, white flags overseas, and skyrocketing taxes. To that, I say, you had your chance. You had Bush for 8 years. And it didn't work. Will Obama fix all of our problems? No way. But he deserves a chance to give it a shot.
Six months from now, if not six days from now, the glow will have dulled, the soared spirits will have returned to the earth, and the disbelief that America has finally done something really amazing for itself, will have worn off. The debt will still be there. The war will not have left us. Racism will not have gone anywhere.
That day is not upon us now, though. There will be plenty of time for cynicism. But for now we owe it to ourselves to think big and dream big and bottle all of this up. We must remember what it felt like to watch that scene in Chicago last night, and in living rooms across this country, so that when times are tough, and the news cycle is once more rife with ugliness, disparity, depression, and gloom, we will know that it doesn't have to be that way. That when push comes to shove, we, the people, can do great things together.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
November 4, 2008
This is a bittersweet day for me. Here in Boston, the sun sits high in a clear morning sky, the river a ribbon of slate-blue that runs through a wet city exploding in reds, oranges, and burgundies. The newspaper stands boast bold-print predictions of who may lead us by night's end. Outside polling stations, lines snake in anxious curves around old brick walls as folks funnel toward the doors that lead them to their ballots. Some dressed for the occasion in pins and T-shirts depicting their choice to next lead our country, while others quietly wait to do the same in office attire, skirts and sneakers, paint-splattered Carharts, suits and ties, hospital scrubs, cowboy boots and Levi's. Today is an historic day, and no one wants to sit by idly and not participate. Baseball is done for the fall, our football team battles Brady-less, and the C's are barely under way. But none of those pastimes could match the electricity of today anyway.
Today is different. Today, after all the TV ads and stump speeches, all the pundits and primaries, debates and SNL sketches--today is the day that we, the People, choose our next president. And I, for one, am feeling pretty down about it.
I feel down because before long it will all be over. Oh, sure, the talking heads will have much to Monday-morning quarterback for days and weeks to come. The Joe Scarboroughs and Rachel Maddows of the world will milk this thing for all its worth, analyzing, dissecting, and opining about all that went right or wrong for each candidate, depending upon the outcome.
But it won't be the same. Can't be. This is the big day. What makes it exciting is that it isn't over yet. The polls have only just opened. My morning tea is still steeping. No winner has been projected. By 11pm, we should have a winner, and then it will all be over, this energy that has swept up the nation, captured our imaginations, and led us to pour into polling stations in record numbers. I dig my heels against the passage of time today. I haven't even voted yet (I will tonight) because I am squeezing all I can out of this day.
I will miss the verbal political sparring with coworkers and drunks on barstools. I will miss the New Yorker cartoons, the outlandish claims, the left-wing crazies and the right-wing loonies, the logos and slogans and lawn signs. I will miss the lies and the half-truths. I'll miss Hillary biting her lip as she pretends to LOVE Obama. I'll miss Cindy McCain's cold, harsh smile, and Michelle Obama's fist bumps. I already miss the debates, those forced and awkward knife fights that never said anything of substance but which oozed gravitas.
What all of the above is a demonstration of, and what I essentially will miss when all this is over, is passion. This election has stirred in us a collective passion, a burning, combustible passion--no matter who you support--and it is that passion that I will miss come November 5.
Vote as you wish, but I, for one, am casting my ballot for Barack Obama. And the reason, aside from the fact that I align with most all his policies, is that I admire him. I am not sure I have ever thought that way about a politician before. I liked Clinton's policies, and even still find the guy charming in spite of his womanizing tendencies and penchant for self-idolization. But Barack Obama is different. To me, he seems like a nice guy, kind, empathetic, a family man who loves his family, a go-getter who is almost naively optimistic. He plays basketball, used to smoke (and may still), had admitted to past drug use, and likes Wilco. He's a man of color, a man of pride, a man of high intellect who inspires me to want to participate and do whatever is asked of me for the betterment of the country. Obama fought dirty when he had to, but only when he had to. He is not the snide, arrogant, self-centered, erratic, and yes, old, man that McCain is. I once admired McCain, and have even thought at one time that he was perhaps the man best-suited to lead a divided nation. But those days are long gone. McCain is the same choice for all those too afraid of change, too afraid of youth, too afraid of progress and big ideas. A vote for McCain is a vote for war, a vote for fear, and a vote for a time that has already passed us by. I, for one, am not about to squander my one vote in this pivotal time in America on someone prone to fits and gritted teeth and backstabbing and deception. Thanks, but no thanks.
I am trying to be bold in my own life. Be strong. Think big. Aspire for more than the ordinary. And that is why I will cast my vote for Barack Obama today.
Then I will go home, sit on my couch with my guitar on my lap, and watch as they polls close, the votes are counted, and someone, eventually, is named the next to-be president of our flawed but wonderful country. And I will fight back the sadness that I know I will feel as it begins to sink in that this two-year-long dash for the White House has come to an anticlimactic close.
But we're not there yet. This day ain't over yet. I'll worry about my political hangover when it comes. Until then, today is a party. Don't miss out. Participate!
Monday, November 3, 2008
The other JH
Bookstores are wonderful places. I prefer the used, independent variety, with their uneven shelves plumped with cracked and dusty spines, but I'm not above Barnes and Noble, either. Which is where I found myself on Saturday. I had intended to run in and pick up Dennis Lehane's new novel. Twenty minutes later, however, I emerged with a memoir by Juliana Hatfield. I knew of Juliana Hatfield in a very limited way--as the bassist and sweet, angelic backing vocalist on The Lemonheads' classic It's a Shame About Ray. I can't admit to being any sort of diehard Lemonheads fan, but I do like that album a lot, and Ben and I have been playing "My Drug Buddy" live for many years. The Lemonheads gig was just a one-off stint for her though. She is better known by the general public as a solo artist whose catchy power-pop songs put her on the alternative/post-punk map in the early '90s and have kept her there, for the most part, ever since. She was supposed to be the next big thing, but that never really happened, at least to the degree expected of her. Did I mention she hails from Boston and is something of a local underground celebrity around here?
Anyway, I picked up the book, which had just come out in hardcover, and read the first chapter. She opens the memoir with her sitting backstage at a grimy club somewhere, about to go on, when the owner of the club comes back and gives her shit for taking a shot of Patron from the bartender when what she should have done was traded in one of her measly free-drink tickets for a Bud Light or watered-down well drink. Here she was in her late 30's, single, childless, about to go on at some rat-infested, puke-floored shithole of a club, playing for peanuts (oh, right, and free-drink tickets, though she barely drinks), and this asshole's giving her hell over a shot of tequila that she wanted to pay for in the first place. It was then that she decided she wasn't sure she could carry on with her rock-n-roll dream. The problem was, what else was she going to do? She wasn't qualified for, much less interested in, anything else.
Something about the way she described her relationship with music struck a chord with me--no pun intended. She could hardly carry on, and yet she could in no way give it up, either. Music was bringing her a great deal of fatigue, financial hardship, heartache, loneliness, and frustration, and still there was no other choice for her. She had to keep going, keep hacking away.
Or did she? That is what she promised to explore in her story.
This was good enough for me. I plunked down $20 on a hardcover written by someone who had never written a book before, and of whom I had never heard more than a song or two, and proceeded to spend a chunk of my weekend barreling through Juliana's (we're on a first-name basis now) memoir. This isn't meant to be a book report, but rather a brief and likely semi-useless anecdote about choosing something spontaneously, out of the blue. It is, on a very small scale, reflective of this recent compulsion I have to be make bold decisions, take risks--whatever that means. This is not something at which I am always very good. I am systematically spontaneous--meaning I am always game for anything and can find fun in most situations, yet I have a terrible habit of trying to think things through in advance, and too deeply. It is a trait that has served me fairly well, as I have come to trust my own instincts and oftentimes feel that others don't think things through nearly enough, but still there is always room for more decisiveness, more spontaneity, in my life, and probably yours, too.
The book? It's ain't Lehane, that I can tell you. I wasn't expecting it to be, though. For me, a musician who can relate to JH on some level, I find it very readable, funny, insightful, and enlightening. (It just occurred to me I don't even know the title, in case you were wondering; sorry.) That's not my point, though. The point is, keep your eyes, and your mind, open, to something new today that you may not have otherwise embraced. Who knows where it may lead you?
And you heard it here first: Juliana is going to sing on the next Jo Henley record. She just doesn't know it yet...
Tomorrow: Get out there and VOTE! No excuses!!!!
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