The Thing About Jazz

There's nothing like jazz. I'm not talking about Dixieland, or swing or American Songbook, or Ella and Billy. The jazz I'm thinking of starts with Basie and Ellington and reaches out into the strange terrain of Coltrane, Dizzy, and Miles. What is that called? When a basic tune is offered up without vocals and, before running it's full course, it has gotten an improv treatment from the horn player, the guitar and the bass. Maybe the drummer took a solo on this one.

It's jazz designed to put you in a mood.

It's not like any other music because where else would an individual performer get a little ovation in the middle of a piece? Can you imagine a performance of the Brandenberg Concertos where the audience goes a little nuts after that incredible harpsichord solo?

No. The pace, the vibe, the purpose is all different here.

We went to see such a group the other night. The namesake and songwriter of the band was on standup bass. He was accompanied by guitar, trombone, trumpet and drums. He would intro each song with a brief blurb about what inspired the piece. He mentioned that he writes songs every day. But they weren't songs in any sense that knew. Nothing like folk tunes. A bit like classical maybe where the title may spill the beans on the theme but the audience is left to draw the inference, make the movie. 

I'll admit that, coming from a folk and rock tradition, I get a little giddy thinking about this loose connection between inspiration and song. It's more of a private matter. I love knowing that the jazzheads in the audience are lapping it up, thereby playing their role in the whole experience. Of couse I can be cynical too. "I walked into my studio the other day and accidentally stepped on the cat's tail which inspired this next tune I call Banshee Sunrise." Some of the solos really ask too much. Just because you can make a trumpet squeak doesn't mean you should.

Looks like you made it

Instead of lamenting our advanced years, embrace this alternate take on your situation…

You are lucky enough to have made yourself a Full Life – that is, you have experienced all of the critical stages and phases that encompass a human lifespan. Childhood innocence, teenage angst, youthful exuberance, careers sought and settled, the ebb and flow of relationships. A full, complex life span from one incontinence to another, from executive function to erectile dysfunction, you’ve done it all. So please consider that you, still cognitive and curious, are sitting on a treasure trove of your own unique, hard-won data. You’re an elder with lessons learned, memories stacked, prices paid. While you still have your wits about you, and before you are unaware that you told that person this story five times before, just sit back and marvel at your situation. Consider the privilege you’ve attained.  

Tired,not sick

 I am tired

..of the constant need for reinvention or is it just maintenance?

..of keyboards, guitars, journal pages staring at me asking "well?"

..of circular questions that have no answers

..of dwelling on the lengthy road in the rear view versus the short one ahead.

..of anticipating that it will really fall apart soon

..of being less than I was but, probably, more than I will be

Craiglist

 Fallen Angel ISO Higher Ground

Time, sadly, marches on

 I just discovered that I still have this blog. Do people still do blogs? I wouldn't know -  I'm cruising in the fast lane and the next exit is Geezerdom. The last blog entry had an assist from my brother Steve. Yeah, he's dead now and I am, unexpectedly, the last remaining member of the Sugrue nuclear unit. Not what I imagined and certainly not what I want.

Is there something useful I could do with this blog?

My wife's parents are 90ish and have matured too much.

My son Jackson is 23 and hasn't matured nearly enough.

I am 70, struggling with no reference points.

 This is a photo my mother took in Japan in 1946.

Rock legend

I thought I would share an email conversation I had with my brother last week. Pretty entertaining, I think.
It start when a member of my high school band posted this picture on facebook and sent it to me. That's yours truly on the right proudly wearing his "Schlitz - Breakfast of Champions" shirt.
I sent this off to my nephew who is in a band now and copied my brother with this note:

Shawn – I just want to remind you that you are not the first would-be rock legend in the family. An old band mate found me on Facebook and posted this priceless piece of rock history
Shawn's response ..
good to see that the haircuts and gear haven't changed. thankfully, the pants have

This is the back-and-forth with my brother Steve...(The Riffs is another band I was in)
Great picture; very Brian Wilson (pre-breakdown). I think you should use the photo to prove that you were actually an early member of the Rolling Stones (not the Barbary Coast, as it says on the bass drum). Where was that taken? Looks a little Jersey Shore; or maybe the Train Station. I'm hoping to hell it wasn't taken in our living room. The picture is almost as impressive as your appearance as a member of the Riffs at the Barclay School of Dance gig at the Community Church, a much sought-after venue for all the top bands of the day. No genuine rock band can say they have made it until they perform for an audience whose female members are all wearing white gloves. Two each, that is. It was hard to cha-cha to "96 Tears", but somehow we all managed. Those brave enough, among which number I was not, may have attempted The Lindy, realizing their tactical error once the song suddenly reached the down-tempo heavy organ part. I'm sure that Question Mark and the Mysterians are still living off the royalties generated by that appearance. I don't know what attic you've been going through lately, but keep up the good work.
- Steve

The Suits Are Disturbing

These are world leaders from a vast range of countries at the G-8 summit. United States to Ivory Coast. Why are the suits the same color? I find that disturbing. Do they email each other or is there some protocol?

Funny how Berlusconi is the only one using his hands.

Snow Joke

It's so deep you don't know where you are. You, literally, have to carve out a life for yourself. It's monolithic. It's waking up on the wrong planet.

The cold puts the cry in cryogenic. The icicles are absurd. Sky daggers, roof tears. Be careful where you stop to check your mail.

Driving is insane. Compacted walls around minimal ribbons. You're lucky to get from A to B. The snow is so deep you can't see your knee in front of your face.

A Case for Abnormality

I think I would like to be officially abnormal - it would solve a lot of problems. I could be psychotic or gay or have a club foot. -I don't care as long as it deviates from the norm. People could then say "Of course he's depressed, he has three arms!" or "Don't listen to him, it's the spina bifida talking."

Being abnormal would open many doors for me (and I don't just mean handicap access), grease a lot of skids, and eliminate a great deal of noise and responsibility. People would approach we with "Forget about me, how was YOUR day?" wearing a worried look. I could call my wife at work and tell her "I finished the jigsaw puzzle!" A simple life could be mine.

If I play my cards right I might convince people that my condition has led to some level of brilliance and insight. "His music touches me - especially since the amputation."

You see being normal isn't working that well for me. I'm expected to brush my teeth, take the kids to the mall and get regular colonoscopies. What kind of a life is that to look forward to?

French Words With No English Translation

Dépaysement: The sensation of being in another country.

La douleur exquise: The heart-wrenching pain of wanting someone you can’t have. Even a Sex in the City episode was named after it!

Chômer: To be unemployed, but because it’s a verb, it makes the state active.

Profiter: To make the most of or take advantage of.

Flâneur: As defined in the book Elegant Wits and Grand Horizontals, it’s “the deliberately aimless pedestrian, unencumbered by any obligation or sense of urgency, who, being French and therefore frugal, wastes nothing, including his time which he spends with the leisurely discrimination of a gourmet, savoring the multiple flavors of his city.”

Esprit d’escalier: The literal translation is staircase wit, but it means to think of a comeback when it’s too late.

Retrouvailles: The happiness of meeting again after a long time.

Sortable: An adjective for someone you can take anywhere without being embarrassed.

Voila/voici: It’s so necessary that we use it all the time. “Voila” literally means “there it is” and “voici means “here it is.”

Empêchement: An unexpected last-minute change of plans. A great excuse without having to be specific.

Stuck!

What happened? I was navigating through the channel nicely then – whump! – I ran aground.

Nothing’s working – especially music. I got up to a point in the recording sessions and lost my way. I’ve got some solid tracks down – I even took a couple of trips to a vocal coach in the process. There’s nothing particularly wrong with the material except that I’ve fallen out of love with it. These songs are looking for a ride somewhere. Maybe there’s just no room in the car or maybe I’m afraid to pick up these strangers – you can’t be too careful these days. Or maybe – just maybe – I’ve got too many metaphors in the trunk. Or in the ship’s cargo. Oh, never mind.

I was thinking of convening an expert panel to help me with this. I was always planning to hire musicians later in the project but now I’m thinking of bringing them in on the design phase.

Fear of Pedestrians: I think I have a fear of producing something quite average. If I follow the standard prescription – lay down the performance-style tracks then add stuff, stir and bake – then I will end up with just that. Another path is to play the songs with different musicians until they find their way.

An example of what I’m taking about is the Joan Osbourne song, St. Teresa. If you can imagine what that song might sound like “as written” it would probably be a good, but ordinary, acoustic tune. The recording, however, starts up with an upside-down drum beat and then the mandolin lick which end up defining the song. I’m looking for the middle process that gives songs a reason for living in recorded form.

Good Company

I guess it's normal to appreciate you child's progress in fits and starts but what do I know. Last Friday I let Jackson stay out of school so he could help me deliver cookies to some of my best clients. It was a whirlwind tour of Greater Boston with exciting ports of call like Burlington, Lexington, Quincy, as well as Our Fair City. Jack took to the project with great zeal, always wanting to know the next stop so he could be ready. In Woburn we loaded up my back seat at the cookie vendors and proceeded on our mission.

I discovered that Jack possesses Good Will Ambassador genes. Charming and friendly, he shook everyone's hand and wished them a Merry Christmas and was a natural at shooting the breeze. Now this may not seem all that extraordinary for a 12-year old but it wasn't that long ago that he was bouncing off the walls and speaking Russian. I was really taken aback at his level of maturity. I'm accustomed to being proud of his athletic ability but this was a different kind of pride.

The best part is that Jack is good company. We've crossed some kind of threshold where he gets my sense of humor and gives it right back. He's a kids with a million questions. Some are normal curiosities like "what does this company do?" and others are questions from the fringe ("If you bought all the cars in the United States how much would it cost?") So for the better part of the day all the worry about ADHD and school and friends just vaporized. My son hung out with me, helped me get a job done and we had a good time. I'm not used to anything that simple.

Electric Guitar Culture

I've got it in my head that I want a decent electric guitar. It's a sad, neurotic journey but there it is. First I tried to find the object of my desire at Guitar Center. I attempted to conduct business while looking at my shoes because, quite frankly, I can't handle the extreme facial piercings of your typical GC employee. Deflated, I took my search online and tentatively settled on an Epiphone Les Paul Ultra. So I rambled around craigslist to find a used one and I ended up delving into the culture of Boston-area metal heads. I challenge anyone to try to line up an appointment with one of these smoky hollows. Last week it was a guy who apparently didn't know what day it was. Today I talked to a guy who seemed to have no permanent address but could bring the guitar to me because "I gotta van with an electrical outlet". Retail prices are starting to look good....

Is This Thing On?

Recording your own music in a studio is the improbable intersection of inspiration and tedium. I’ve completed 13 hours and I have 8 final guitar tracks and 5 or 6 keeper vocals. A long way to go. Yesterday was a good session – knocked off a couple of strong vocals. The passing grade comes down to “You know, I really can’t play/sing it any better than that”. One interesting turn of events is with my song Heaven. I always played it as a showy finger-picking tune but one day I hashed it out with a pick and realized what a great bluegrass song it would make. So that's what it will be.

Next session is Dec 1. I’ll be 60 then so I asked for a senior discount. Eric laughed. Eric Kilburn is a pleasure to work with. In theory he is the engineer but he gives such great great guidance with advice like “That was really nice – and you sound like a really nice guy – but I would like you to convince me that you’re invested in this story you’re telling.” or "Could you be a little more desperate?"

I drive home listening to the rough cuts of the day. I'm starting to get psyched about this project.

Appearing Mon thru Fri at The Stairs

Now that my gigs have dried up for a while I'm turning my focus back to songwriting using a new technique. For some reason I have more to offer creatively in the morning (you know, before the constant pounding of bourgeois routines and the meaningless drudgery of proletariat responsibilities take their inevitable toll ... but I digress). At my house there is a short window that starts around 7:20 am when I'm alone in the house but don't have any pressing obligations. I'll take my guitar to the front stairs, where the acoustics are best, and play as mindlessly as possible. I try to make something up on the spot using nonsense words. Invariably I come up with a morsel that may be worth savoring so I go to the computer and make a quick recording. Then, every few days I’ll take a listen. It may take a while but I can see how some of these tunes will grow up to find meaning in their lives. One day they’ll be out the door, oblivious to my tearful good-byes. They grow up so fast!

What does it say about the human mind that you have employ tricks to coax an idea out of your head that you suspect is already formed? Weird.

Playin' Out

It's tough out there trying to play your music and just when you think you're justified in giving up you stumble into some joint that's just right. It's been a crazy couple of weeks. On Oct 14 I was the feature at the open mike at Amazing Things. Attendance could have been better but you couldn't ask for a more attentive bunch, most of them fellow songwriters. What's tough is the inherent wrist-slitting pedestrian pace of most folky open mikes. My beef has always been this: If you set up a venue where All Are Welcome and everyone is encouraged to play then you invite (and encourage) the lamest among us. I have a problem with people who write songs with 14 verses and, by the way, they CAN'T F&^%ING SING or with performers who think giving it the full 40 percent is good enough. It makes me nuts. I can say stuff like this now. I'm a curmudgeon-in-training/elder who played his first coffeehouse gig in 1970.

Three days later I was at The Java Room. I've played there before but never for the brunch crowd. It's just the worst place to play. How many variants of disrespect are you expected to put up with? The patrons can't seem to take a break from their precious laptops or private conversations to give you a chance to get inside their heads. But the most galling thing is the attitude from the establishment. They don't pay you, provide a sound system, greet you when you walk in, introduce you to the crowd, offer to prop the door open during your nine round trips to the car, offer you a beverage unless you ask, or exhibit any kind of friendliness at all. Yet you are there to enhance their business at absolutely no cost to them. All they offer is 40 square feet and a piano. You have to "pass your own hat", as it were.

After that gig I think I was entitled to a bad attitude but I recovered after a couple of days. Tuesday night I felt to urge to play so I headed up to Main St. Market & Cafe in Concord. I've been meaning to check out this open mike run by Bruce Marshall, a first-rate guitar player and songwriter. This open mike is a keeper – it combines the rapt audience attention you usually find only in a coffeehouse with the social energy of a bar. There were all kinds of wack jobs stepping up to the microphone but everyone had something different to offer. Lots of fun.

Dagmar

Dagmar is a musical thing like no other. I first heard about this duo earlier last summer, before it got so hot that I lost my mind but that, as they say, is another story. The way I describe Dagmar to people is that they approach acoustic music through the theatrical side door. This is a lame depiction that doesn’t do them justice or even explain their brand. The only way to appreciate them is to have a look.

The units of Dagmar are Jim Bauer, who writes all the material and plays mostly guitar, and Meghan McGeary, a wacky and talented percussionist who also plays melodica and mandolin. Their music is vivid, the harmonies are sublime, and the music itself like some wonderfully insane combination of folk, show tunes, and German opera.

I’ve been looking forward to the latest CD, Door No 3, for a while now but it’s only available at their gigs so I vectored over to scenic Melrose last night to catch them at Absolutely Fabulous. It was not a great trip. As if the deadly embrace of rain and traffic weren’t bad enough, my Tom-Tom must have been set to Post-Apocalypse mode since it thought the quickest route from the Mass Pike to Melrose was through Central Square in Cambridge. Say what? Apparently neither Tom attended MIT. Not only did the traffic crawl but I fell victim to a police scam designed to pull over as many cars as possible to feed the local coffers. They don’t call it the Republic of Cambridge for nothing. 100 bucks for an illegal turn – seriously?

Shaken but not stirred, I got to the venue 10 minutes into Dagmar’s short set. I was not disappointed. My favorite songs, I suppose, are Give Me the Rifle and Isle of Kokokovo (both from Door No. 2) and the newer Wish That I and You Said Yes but there are many gems.

The best part of the night was sitting at the bar the rest of the evening talking to Jim and Meghan about art, music, performing, recording and a language called Maxperanto (or did I dream that part?). I know a lot of musicians and guitar-playin' wannabes but it occurs to me that I don’t know many real artists - people who create something truly original from the heart then live for the passion to get it heard and seen. That’s what I appreciate most about Dagmar: Their aim is true.

This experience comes just two days before I start recording my second album. Maybe it's not a coincidence. I can tell you that there is small shift in my thinking on this project. As I was driving home I imagined how some of the songs might levitate with the help of an unexpected instrument or melodic excursion to a faraway place. We'll see if I have any of that in me.

Related links:

http://www.dagmartheband.com
http://www.myspace.com/dagmartheband
http://www.theblueflower.org/

Sloppy Gray

There’s a digital bird on the power line outside my window. Someone changed the chirping algorithm over the weekend. My scattered brain misses connections with my fingers. Spelling’s off, chunks missing. Every cell pleading Don’t Go this morning. Find Your Inner Idle.

Comcast wants 43 bucks or else. Or Else what? You’ll stop the incessant drivel you jam through the pipe forcing me to desperately go the The Guide to soften my incredulity?

I love the sloppy gray outside. The piano has that come hither look. There's a song to finish in the basement. Work will have to wait for me today.

The view won’t bother you much after awhile

The idea has been rattling around head for a while now: it’s time to make a new record. I’ve only made done this once and it was 25 years ago. You may recall that 1986 was the last year of vinyl. I look at my 12-inch LP (say what?) and think I may as well have recorded on a wax cylinder. That effort was a commercial flop because I could never get enough gigs to "push the product". But I have no regrets. As I’ve often said making a record is the most honest work I’ve ever done. There is something about the process of tuning and perfecting a recording that is difficult but very rewarding.

So I’ve started looking around for a studio. They run the gamut between $40/hour for in-home operations to Berkshire mountain retreats at more than double that rate. Initially I was tempted by the idea of finding a studio that screams musical retreat. There are many of these (check out the photo on the left). The thinking is that such bodacious surroundings offer that extra inspiration to round out the experience. But y’know what? – the time for inspiration is before you get in the studio. So now inclined to keep it closer to home, knuckle-down and get to work. I talked about the project with Eric Kilburn who runs Wellspring Sound (photo right). How about that panoramic view? Step inside and chat it up with Eric though and it’s hard to imagine a better place to record. I’m still going to do a little shopping but the more I look around the more anxious I am to get started.

Twists and Turns

Trying to create a new musical life for yourself isn’t easy. Every turn requires you to examine the goal. Is this a hobby, commercial venture, eventual work replacement? Am I looking for fame, fun, or fortune? For me the commercial aspect is close to nil. Fun and creative expression are at the top of the list. These days I’m trying to figure out who I want my musical self to be: a songwriter, recording artist, solo performer, part of a duet or band.

You can’t solve this identity crisis in a vacuum – you have to take in account our culture. What you want and what the culture can offer may be at odds. I got an email today from a guy who’s restarting a sixties band. I think he said it best .. "In a dead cultural landscape we feel like the old buffalo hunter dragging his gun around, wondering where the herd went. It's kind of a mail-order bride situation." (I’m still trying to figure out who ordered the bride – the hunter? the buffalo?) Anyway the point is that live music has lost its tingle. Most people can barely make the distinction between a live performer and an mp3 file.

I stopped playing guitar for the better part of 10 years. Then, a while back, I started playing again, wrote a couple of new songs, and starting doing some open mikes. In the last few months I upgraded to “real gigs” – 2 one-hour sets of yours truly doing about 70% original material. These can be daunting because in most places you have to beg for attention. To wit… the best part of my last gig was playing background music to a small group of diners. I thought things would improve in the second set when I expected folks from the adjoining bar to saunter over for a listen. Nyet. Instead I played my last 6 songs to an empty room (a very strange feeling). Now it could be that I lack the musical magnetism to encourage people to walk 20 feet to see a live performer but I don’t think so. It has more to do with the iPod Effect – music is everywhere. Music, especially, has ceased to become as special.

If you want to have a good listening crowd you need go the coffeehouse / folk festival route. As painful as an open mike can be, you are playing to a room of performers and songwriters and they are definitely paying attention. This positive is offset by the fact that you’ll only play 1 to 3 songs. The challenge for us singer/songwriters is to find the best of both worlds. Right now the closest you can get is to be a feature act at an open mike. I would like to invent something better.

Revival

Thought I might try breathing some new life into to this neglected blog by using it to chronicle my recent musical calisthenics. There are a couple of efforts going on. First, I've started returning to my familiar open mic haunts, Amazing Things and TCAN, and seeking out new ones. Also, a month ago I placed an ad in Craigslist (Singer/songwriter seeks musical partners) just to see what would happen.

The ad generated 5 responses that ran the gamut from rockers looking for something different to guys just tired of picking and strumming alone. I've only met up with two of them but both offered enjoyable jam sessions. Where it gets interesting is when you follow the thread of connections. My session with Mike led to two discoveries. The first was the regular open mic at Fireflys . I tried it out the following week. Great Bose sound system and a well-run event thanks to the regular host, Bruce Marshall. But if you're used to the hushed attention you get at a coffeehouse, the vibe you get at a bar is an acquired taste. Personally, I'm not used to having a TV over my head while I play so competing with a hockey game cramps my style a bit.

The second introduction I got at Mike's house is the duo known as Dagmar and as soon as I heard the tune on their home page my ears perked up. This is what I've been looking for amongst the acoustic set - a surprise, a little theater, tight performance, and, dare I say it, originality. The twin forces of Dagmar are Jim Bauer and Meghan McGeary. I won't attempt to describe them but do yourself a favor and search for them on YouTube. I played every clip I could find, bought their last CD, Door No. 2, and even had some back-and-forth emails with the misfits.

Run the movie forward. After a logistical nightmare of getting my kids to their respective team practices last night, I managed to get on the road by 5:30, setting my coordinates for the Tupelo Music Hall in Londonderry, NH. 75 minutes later I arrived, bladder-challenged but fully engaged. I've made the trip because I hear it's an excellent room and the feature tonight is, who else, Dagmar. The open mic is run by Robert Haigh who ran the venerable but long-defunct Old Vienna Kaffeehaus in Westboro, MA.

It was worth the long haul. Dagmar was brilliant. The open mikers represented the full spectrum - they always do - but I did notice one important difference: no one seemed nervous and everyone gave it their all. That is the thing that has been bothering me about many of these open mic venues - so many people get up there and assume the audience's patience is unlimited. They play 11 verses in mumbly, droning indifference, as if being on the stage is enough. Any why wouldn't they? After all, everyone gets applause no matter how lame or lackluster.

Maybe it's my job to get people to play their best, make songs dynamic, learn to get the most out of your guitar, punch it up, send your message. Play to publish.

Or not...

Russian Adoption Story - Bleak on Bleak

Russia suspended adoptions by Americans this week in reaction to the incident in which a woman from Tennessee sent her Russian-adopted child back to Moscow, unaccompanied, with a note that said "I no longer wish to parent this child". Several people have asked me what I think of this, since my wife and I adopted two older kids from Russia in 2003.

Let's start with the obvious: the choice Torry Hansen made is appalling on many levels but it is particularly inconceivable that she did not understand the most basic fact of any adoption: when you sign the papers you make a complete and irreversible commitment to be the child's parent. Even if her contention that the she was mislead is correct, the permanence of the adoption still rules. Find a therapist, look into medications. This is not Costco.

You have to put some blame on the adoption agency. The vetting process for adoptive parents is rigorous and lengthy. If done properly it should have flagged this woman as an unsuitable parent. I believe that the only good that may come out of this is a tightening of the requirements.

There's a lot of chatter about the general topic of international adoption but very little on the adoption of older children specifically. There is an enormous difference between adopting a baby and a child 5 or older. There is history and memory, not to mention the experience of several years in an orphanage. There has been a trend to expand the eligibility requirements beyond "traditional families" and I suspect it has been taken too far. For example, I came in contact with a single working woman planning to adopt 2 older Russian kids. Knowing what I know now about the time and energy required to put these kids on the right path I have to say this should not be allowed. As I understand it, Ms. Hansen was allowed to adopt this child with her mother. 'Nuff said.

As a warning, let's put that adoption agency out of business.

It's disheartening that one act of stupidity could have a major impact on the well-being of many children. If the suspension of adoptions lasts for any significant period, many children may lose the chance to finally get a safe, happy life in a family. I don't think Russia is completely wrong here but before they get all teary-eyed with national pride they should not lose sight of the facts. There are over 700,000 orphans in their country, mostly due to the dire economics that rank-and-file Russians find themselves in. Adoption by fellow countrymen is not an option. It's bad enough that the life expectancy of a Russian man is 58. Among many bleak statistics* about Russian orphans is the life expectancy of the ones who don't get adopted: 30.

So my reaction to this is don't forget about the waiting children. Anyone who has been inside a Russian orphanage is haunted by the ones left behind. By and large The U.S. and other first-world countries give these kids a life they will never have otherwise. That is all that matters.

*Within three (3) years of “aging out” of the system approximately 20% of Russian orphans will be in prison, 40% will be homeless and 33% will be unemployed. Is it any wonder that 15% of them (approximately 1,000 per year) will commit suicide before the age of eighteen (18). Among orphans in general there is a great tendency toward drug and alcohol abuse, crime and prostitution as they look for a way to escape and a means to survive. In Russia, sixty percent (60%) of the girls become prostitutes and 70% of the boys become criminals.

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Except for the car crash - great holiday!

It was an irritating blip in an otherwise successful Christmas. Once again Aly and Jack we're deliriously happy even though we are exiting the Santa stage. Happy, safe, curious, compulsive, exhausted. What else is there?

The short version is that there was a snowbank where a stop sign should be. More to the point, two back-to-back storms created one of those landscape-altering illusions that, in this case, hid the cross street ahead. Next thing I know, I'm looking stage right to see a GMC truck coming right at me. A millisecond later I am facing a new direction and my side curtains are deployed. No injury to yours truly (I was on my way to picking up the kids - thank God I wasn't on my way home).

This happened 2 days before Christmas. There's not much to say about because it's so absurd and because being hit from the side and spun around comes with it's own metaphor. Not much to add unless you know how to articulate disbelief.

I'm past having emotional attachment to cars but I rather liked my bright red Acura, with it's sleek lines and lack of car payments. For the last five days I've been wailing and gnashing over the replacement vehicle while driving a rented cruise ship - a Lincoln MKX. I appreciate that they filled up the gas tank but the swimming pool is empty and I can't find half of the shuffleboard equipment. They're very clever over there at Avis. They offer 2 kinds of cars - unnecessary luxury and embarrassing frugality. What self-respecting male with an ounce of testosterone left will say - "I'll take the Aspire" ?

So after days of obsessing over the cvalue of bluetooth, AWD, heated seats, keyless entry, decent gas mileage, new vs. used I stumbled of on a car that I think with suit me well (not telling). It's a relief to have this episode over and I'm looking forward to docking HMS Ostentatious at Port Avis this afternoon.

Internet Joy

Back in 1986 I made a vinyl LP called Dwellings. Yes, that was the year that CDs started to come out and, you're right, my timing was impeccable. Anyway, except for using the "vanity press" model, I followed a fairly traditional process.

• Spend a bunch of money to record in a 16-track analog studio
• Work with a graphic artist to produce the "camera-ready" cover
  
• Have a record plant produce a fixed number of platters based on my nail-biting estimate
• Attempt to recoup the money by selling records through gigs or shaming friends and family

The results were not good in my case. I did not sell enough alto cover the costs. Every time I moved, I ditched a couple of boxed of albums. Also I was disappointed at the amount of feedback I got.

Flash forward to the recent experience

• I recorded one song on my Mac in the basement. I think the quality of audio was quite acceptable.
• I scoured the Internet for images and used $99 image editing software to create an online poster which also included lyrics, an embedded mp3 player (free), notes, and a link with which to send comments
• I sent the link to selected friends

I've gotten more good feedback from this production than from the entire record way back. It's not the quality of the music that made the difference. This is the most perfect example I can imagine of how software and the Internet improve a process. Not only is it cheap and relatively easy to make and distribute music, you are asking very little of your audience. Click this to listen to one song - if you want to comment, click that. And because it's cheap, I can opt out of the whole commercial aspect and just make it about sharing music.

Sweet.

New Song From Left Field

Those who know my brand of angst may be aware that I've experienced the mother of all creative blocks on the songwriting front. It's been 15 years since I've come up with anything. In fact, I just stopped playing the guitar for a bunch of years and tried ramping up on the piano. Still no dice.

Then, about a month ago, I started to play the guitar again and before long I stumbled over the start of something. Two tortured weeks later (it used to be so easy) I wrestled it into the can. Check out Those Days Are Gone.

Note to Self

I found this note I wrote to myself buried in some papers on the piano

Note to Self:
Admire what you're trying to do with no map, no guide, no mentor in the wings.
Be mindful of a few reminders...
There are thousands of phrases that launch off the tongue. They can be taught synchronized swimming. Forget the end result. Go somewhere where moonlight lathers the path. Gather your wits. Don't give up. Don't contemplate for a minute that it is not attainable. Because the cost is much more than your creativity- it really is your belief system. The atom is the solar system. We are at our best when life passes through us.

Beyond Coincidence

I was was watching a movie, Kloya, on the indie channel yesterday, about a Czech man in his fifties who, through a serious of events, ends up caring for a 5-year old Russian boy. This is the second charming movie I've seen in a recent weeks that center's around a Russian boy (The other is The Italian which I also recommend). One of best things about Kolya is the music most of which, it turns out, was Dvorak. There was a gorgeous orchestral piece at the end of the film so I made sure I found it in the credits. It was Smetana's Ma Vlosk (My Country).

An hour later I was at my in-laws and I sat in the piano room listening to Joe play. Next to me there were 2 crates filled with CDs. I pulled out one from the back. .... Smetana, My Vlosk.

What are the chances? I'd say very close to zero. I'd say so minute that it begs another explanation. Just when you get comfortable in your virtual atheistic paradigm....

I immediately went to tell Terry of this bizarre experience. As I told the story a funny expression arrived on her face. She walked over to a pile of papers she had be straightening up and pulled out a medical bill....from Dr. Smetana.

What's it mean?