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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