Shiloh Rayn

Tasty Nuggets

2012-01-25T17:15:00.001-08:00

Another California winter and the sun is burning through the window. The sky is a cool almost fluorescent blue–like a piece of low grade stationary you would use for posting band flyers and lost pets. I’m sitting with a laptop and a small orange cat named Inspector Hobbes...slowly drifting into the vortex.

My father’s house is getting a face lift. Nothing drastic–just a little rouge to hide the cracks. It’s the first paint job in years and when it’s done he’ll belong to an exclusive group of red house dwellers. So far I’ve seen about two red houses in this town, the others being a church and a fire department. Could it mean that people in red houses are caught between heaven and hell? Who knows. Anyway I kind of dig it and it beats the rainbow of beige and suede that make this town look like a Pottery Barn catalog.

On the band front things are continuing in their perpetual state of transition. Slade is out of the band which is one reason I’ve put off writing for awhile. I think we took things as far as they could go with our mix of insane personalities. I wish him well and no matter the drama I feel lucky for the time we spent working and writing together. Had some great memories and I’ll never open a Pacifico without thinking of ‘Ol Slade Dawg. Happy trails to a great player and cool compadre. Hopefully no bridges were burned in the process.

Since we lost our low end we’ve been debating as to add a replacement but somehow it just doesn’t feel right. I have a hankering we’re a trio for good which is fine considering we’re edging towards a new sound. The tone is creeping into spooky jazz territory and that’s a nice fit for the material. It’s also a nice fit for me personally since now I have an excuse to wear bow-ties and use words like hankering.

On a doomsday note–being that this is now 2012 and we’re facing either an apocalypse or an enlightenment–I’ve come to terms with the fact that this could be my last band experience. The way I see it even if we don’t all die and simply become re-born my songs may seem a bit too existentially outdated for all the enlightened ears. I’ll probably end up on a beach somewhere with a banjo writing songs about transcendence and using too many major-seventh chords. So I really have to enjoy this dream while I can.

Since I’m talking about my last band I should mention my first band, the legendary Tastes Just Like Chicken, just so future aliens have all the historical facts.

Curtain rises....a muffled cough echoes through the auditorium as the spotlight falls upon the storyteller, his hands gripping a generous pint of thick black ale and a package of Red Vines.

It all started in the hallowed halls of Santa Cruz high when my head was filled with dreams and covered with just as many zits. It was my junior year and I had yet to find my one moment of high school glory, though hurling a square of processed cheese on the side of the science building had come close. What I really needed was to do something big–to shake the very foundations of high school existence and to find my place of glory among my fellow freaks. It wasn’t until I saw a poster for the SCHS Talent Showcase that I knew how I was going to make it happen.

The next day I was sitting in Mr. Levy’s video class, doodling ideas and trying to get the attention of my friend Nate, half asleep in the row next to me. “Yo Nate,” I whispered to him, tapping the side of his desk with my red Reebox sneaker. “What’s up bro?” he asked, twisting his hand towards his head in his signature white man Rasta-Wave. “I’m getting a band together for the big show,” I said.

“What big show?”

“The big talent showcase in two months.”

“You call that a big show?”

“Well the posters are everywhere...it seems like it’s going to be sort of a big deal.” Nate turned towards the front of the classroom and put his head in his hands and whispered through his fingers. “Woodstock....Lollapalooza.... The Concert for Bangladesh. Those are big shows.”

“It doesn’t matter Nate–just listen for a sec–”

“There is a MONUMENTAL difference between watching Zeppelin at Madison Square Garden and some chick in the auditorium doing an interpretive dance to the Cranberries. Not trying to burn your bong here but–”

“Alright dude. I get it–no one is going to get rich off the t-shirt rights. Would you just listen?”

“Fine, bro...tell me the dream.”

“Alright so it’s like this–”

A piece of chalk shot against the metal lip of the board, jolting our heads towards the front of the class. Mr. Levy’s freckled arms crossed against an orange Memorex t-shirt as he leaned his head on his right shoulder. “Alright–do you guys have something to add about clock wipes?” he asked. A deafening silence filled the class as I sat and waited to see how Nate was going to save us.

“No sir Mr. Levy” Nate finally said. “I did have some concerns– about the compatibility of Beta formats when splicing–but my neighbor here put me on the right track. No pun intended sir.” With that Mr. Levy gave a constipated glance, sighed and returned to storyboarding the chalkboard.

As Mr. Levy commenced mumbling in the background of my reality I quietly ripped a sheet of binder paper and tried to make my message as clear as I could: STARTING A BITCHIN’ BAND. NEED YOUR GUTAR TO COMPLETE THE LINE-UP!!! After I had added the right amount of exclamation points and devil horns I folded the paper and tossed it on Nate’s binder. He took out what looked like a library pencil and shot me back: YOU WANT TO BORROW MY GUITAR? I laughed and ripped off another shred of my Mead and sent the clarification: NO DUDE! WE NEED YOU TO COME PLAY AND LAY DOWN SOME KICKIN’ GROOVES AND GNARLY SOLOS.

The next installment took a little more time, but since it was a weighty decision I understood completely. A minute later a paper triangle slid against my desk with the words: LOOK DUDE––I ONLY PLAY TWO CHORDS. I shook my head but knew this was only a minor setback. “It’s cool Nate...don’t stress,” I whispered.

“My amp is like 15 volts too...that’s less then a vacuum, man.”
“We might have to go acoustic...it’s okay,” I said.

“Who else is in this band?”

“A few other guys...sort of.”

“What do you mean sort of?”

“Well I haven’t really asked them yet. I thought maybe you could. Anyway I’ve got some great lyrics and a few grooves that really– ”

Mr. Levy’s chalk went on it’s second voyage, this time nearly shattering.

“Alright that’s it jokers,” yelled Mr. Levy. “I want to see you guys front and center.” About a second later the bell rang and the class filed out, chanting “busted” as we made our way to the little man with the ponytail staring us down.

“So what’s so important that you feel a need to interrupt my class?”

“Well sir” began Nate, only to be cut off by another warning.

“And don’t give me lines about editing.”

“Well okay...in that case Shi-Guy over here is starting a band and he wants me to be his Santana.” With that Mr. Levy chuckled. “You two forming a band huh? Some how I’m not thinking Santana. More like the Chipmunks Christmas Special.”

I smiled, quietly envisioning the T-Square lying up against the chalkboard impaling his scrawny frame and roasting it over a fire of his smoldering VHS tapes. “Okay jokers–get out of here. But if I catch any more band talk you’ll find yourself in the office.”

We left and walked down the narrow concrete walkway that led to the gym. “God I hate that freaking Leprechaun bastard. So are you in?” I asked. Nate choked up on his backpack embroidered with Ziggy Marley and Pavement patches. “Sounds like you’ve got a dream and I’ve got nothing to loose. Yeah I’m in.”

“Excellent dude...excellent.”

“I might even be able to learn a few chords. But the wailing solos will have to wait. If you want I can ask Jordan from art class. He’s been playing for like seven months.”

“Seven months? That would be great,” I said. “We need a veteran in this band.”

TO BE CONTINUED...

Pimpin’ Yo Groove

2011-09-21T22:12:00.000-07:00

Not long after we finished our first show at Michael’s on Main Joaquin headed off for a vacation and the band took a break. Well sort of. We played as a trio at the Main St. Garden Cafe where I spent most of the gig re-tuning my guitar and wishing I could vaporize into another dimension. Someday I’ll write of that experience but for now the scars are too fresh. After that we had another Bocci’s gig that Mirian and I performed as a duo. We were slightly more prepared for that one as we frequently partake in acoustic jams on our deck at home whilst guzzling cheap merlot and burning s’mores–so we did all right. It only got weird towards the third set when a bunch of surly bikers came in looking like they were ready to bludgeon me to death with my Telecaster. Thankfully disaster was averted with a rousing version of Folsom Prison Blues, which I was certain everybody in the house could relate to.

After those gigs it was my birthday so I rented a “toxic orange” muscle car and cruised Napa with a couple of chicks. Okay so it was Mirian and her sister but I just wanted to throw that in there to regain some of the coolness I lost writing the first paragraph. (Picture courtesy of Mirian's sister Silvia Song blog.silviasong.com)

Time passed and gradually I reflected on where the band was, wondering if we had somehow gone off-track. I was starting to get the feeling we were playing the wrong kinds of places and not taking the band’s potential seriously enough. I also had my future to consider and was questioning my path in life. What if I was stuck playing classic rock covers for the rest of my days–crooning away when I’m forty to a bunch of horny panty-pitching housewives desperate to hear my sleazy renditions of rock chestnuts? It was all so overwhelming–especially since a life of endless, morally questionable sleaze has its potential benefits (it’s a tough economy, folks). But I digress.

No matter who I was destined to become in this sordid life I still needed to think about the band and where we were headed as a team. It wasn’t long before I found out I wasn’t the only one re-evaluating–a few days after Joaquin got back from paradise Slade sent out an email requesting a “band meeting.”

Although a band meeting, or any surprise meeting at a neutral location is cause for concern (see the Godfather Saga) I agreed. The only thing we had to figure out was where to have the meeting. It was too weird to talk at the studio and we needed a comfy spot we could all feel relaxed in. When they asked me I naturally suggested Britannia Arms, my favorite spot just outside of town and the only place around to get my Yorkshire pudding fix (what could be more inviting?). Of course at the time I had mentioned this it was met with some resistance.

“You want to meet where?” Slade had asked me, during a weekday phone conversation.“Brit Arms,” I said, practically screaming over the crackle of my antiquated cell phone. “That English dive in Aptos?” he asked. “Ain’t no dive, bro–it’s the best British pub in town.”

“Dude I wouldn’t serve British food to my dog much less the band.”

“You got a problem with organ meat and puff pastry? Besides–they have a good beer menu and the waitresses talk in cockney accents.”

“Well that is impressive…next thing you’ll tell me is that they’re all inbred and have bad teeth.”

“So that’s a yes then?”

“Yeah sure…see you at Slimy Limey’s.”

“We’ll be there.”

A few days later we met Slade at the Brit Arms bar, hunched over a cold one amid a plethora of vintage Guinness signs and mini Union Jacks. “Looks like we found him,” Mirian said.

“What’s up, Black Widow?” Slade said, toasting Mirian with his pint glass. “I heard there was a secret band meeting around here,” she said.

“Thar be a band meeting for sure, lass if we don’t all die of a coronary first.”

“I see you’ve had a chance to see the menu. I said.”

“Of course duder–are you going to order a beer already?”
I turned to the bartender, a stout man with the calloused hands of a fisherman and ordered one of my favorites. “I’ll take an Old Speckled Hen,” I said. Like clockwork Slade started snorting, with Mirian following suit behind him. “Sorry dude,” he said. “It sounded like you just asked for a British hooker.”

“Real classy comment...now come on lets sit down and call this meeting to order. I think I just saw the Wokmiester drive up.”

We took a seat at my favorite booth by the front entrance with a nice view of the fireplace and some choice UK ornamentation. I laid my refined orange blossom hued drink on the dark wooden table and waved to Joaquin as he walked by the front window, dressed in his trademark beanie, plaid shirt and thick fleece vest. “Hey guys,” he said walking through the doorway, “I didn’t miss the royal wedding did I?”

“What’s up buddy?” Slade said, padding him on the shoulder. “It’s gotta be eighty in the shade and you’re dressed like some fuckin’ Arctic logger.”

“It’s all about the layers, man...all about the layers.”

“It also helps if you’re part reptile,” I added as he took the seat across from me and picked up a menu.

We pondered our choices for a while and shot the shite about life in general as I downed further rude-sounding British brews and soaked in the atmosphere. After some deliberation Wok finally announced his grub choice. “I think I’m going for the shepherd’s pie,” he said.

“Right on matey” I added, giving him a subtle high five across the bottles of HP and mint jelly on the table. “And you, m’lord?” he asked.

“Me thinks I’ll be partaking in a little steak and kidneys in fine gravy.”

“A wise choice indeed…nothing like a warm pie of innards to enliven the mental juices.”

“Well,” added Slade, “after I make a quick trip to the “loo” to vomit what’s left of my guts because you both just made me sick, I’ll have the chicken strips.”

“I’m going for the salad,” said Mirian.

“Amateurs,” I muttered.

When our fare finally arrived with the help of a charming waitress from the east end we gobbled and got down to the business at hand. Slade was the first to speak, trying his best to avoid looking at the intestinal fiesta on my plate.

“What I don’t want is a bunch of people ignoring our original music. The people there just wanted to hear something they’ve already heard. It’s not right man–our originals are great and deserve to be heard.”

“Not only that,” said Joaquin, “But it’s not good on our part when they ask for an encore and we run out of material.”

I sat and listened and after some further discussion, and a nice gorge on butter, meat and hops we came to the conclusion that we needed to be more aggressive about finding places that could showcase our original sound so we wouldn’t feel like a bunch of bleedin’ poseurs.

Michaels on Main and Bocci’s weren’t concerned in us as original performers as far as we were concerned and it was time to shoot for venues where people appreciated something they hadn’t seen before.

It was an easy decision to make–that is until Michaels emailed us asking if we wanted to play again just as I was reviewing our hefty invoice from Gadgetbox studios. Suddenly the thought of making a quick roll of bills to pay for the damage seemed like a good idea.

So I said yes to the gig but made it as clear as possible to the band that I was only doing it to earn the cash to pay for the final touches on the record. They agreed to do the gig (as selling out in necessary sometimes) only if we all agreed we would return to our former glory after the show to cement our creative creds. I whole heatedly agreed.

The gig was set for a Thursday night just like the last time, and although we had agreed to ditch our original tunes and “give them what they wanted” we had to keep most of the originals to fill three sets. While I hated the thought of people ignoring our hard work I began to get the feeling the failure of the originals had less to do with our songs and more to do with our confidence in them. Somehow I knew there was a way to make this gig count.

The day of the show Slade showed up in Elvis shades and a brown 70’s pimp suit that looked like it was stitched out of buffalo hide. “Dr. Pimpenstien I presume?” I said to him, adjusting my own raggedy zoot suit. “That’s right suckas,” he said, flaring his lapels. “It’s party time and the Dawg’s ready to howl.” Mirian was decked out too–with a polka dot dress, fishnets and funky cowgirl boots. Together I knew we were set to give a kick-ass show. And even if we didn’t something told me we could have a very promising future in another profession.

Mirian’s sisters were there, which was quite an event seeing as sister #2 (who I will refer to as “LuLu”) had never seen her youngest sis perform much less play a rousing Lynyrd Skynyrd piano solo. If “M dawg” was nervous she didn’t show it, which is a testament to her sublime professionalism. Then again she was probably drinking more than me so who am I to say.

The first set started the same as the last time but right away it felt better. My focus was on my playing and getting a good sound rather than worrying about pleasing the crowd. After awhile I began to feel more in the moment and by the third song I could already see people dancing and diggin’ the grooves. Though we were in a state of rocking Zen I still knew it would be a challenge to hold on to our bliss.

Finally we came to our first original song and I could feel my fingers shake. Still I knew that if I held onto my groove and didn’t give in to nerves I would be fine. “This one’s called “Picked to the Bone,” I said, watching the legs in the room anxiously awaiting another crowd pleaser. This time I wasn’t going to let them down.

After the first verse we still had them–if anything more people got up to dance–and I knew that we had finally sold our songs to the crowd. It was a nice feeling and I realized how much I enjoy playing these songs when I’m not busy beating myself up.

By the end we had a ton of email addresses, some cash in the tip jar, and handfuls of people telling us they loved our original music. The band was happy and though I had sold out a little we made our sound come alive–and I didn’t feel like a sleazy poseur anymore–I felt like a sleazy original. It was a nice feeling.

To be a great musician or any kind of artist you’ve got to be able to leave your fear and doubt out of the equation. The strum of strings or the stroke of a brush is an expression of the love and passion you have for your craft–not your own self-loathing (unless that’s your bag). After this last gig I finally realized I’ve been so self-conscious about my own creation that I killed it’s very soul.

Fortunately now I’m confident that we can be a successful original band with our own sound. I’m not always sure what that sound is…sometimes funny…sometimes creepy…and other times just plain weird. It’s not really up to me to judge but just play it with everything I’ve got and let the panties fall where they may.

We’ve got some new demos that we did at Gadgetbox during our two day session up on the website. I’m pretty happy, and even happier to know that we’ve improved since then...and it’s my pleasure to share the songs with you.

So until next time, my friend, celebrate your own groove and keep that Old Speckled Hen flowing.

New gig poster

2011-09-05T02:19:00.000-07:00

Eight Track Mind

2011-09-01T16:40:00.001-07:00

Recently the members of Ghost Town Tavern scraped up what little cash we had in the band fund and headed down to Gadgetbox studios for a marathon two-day recording session to get a demo completed. Slade first mentioned Gadgetbox and the studio wizardry of some guy named Andy a few months earlier at rehearsal but I didn't want to hear it. “Andy's a monster bass player with some serious chops,” he told me. “He's also got the baddest studio in town. We have to record there.” I listened to this and felt my eyes roll towards the ceiling fan. “Baddest studio huh? I don't know bro-modern studios are designed to sap the seeds of artistic passion. Ghost Town Tavern deserves more.”

“What the hell are you smoking…Gadgetbox is the real deal.” I took another handful of stale Rold Gold. “I'm not smoking anything but the truth here Big Daddy–and if you think I'm going to let this band be sonically castrated by some Auto-Tune happy ProTools jockey you can get yourself a DJ and another rock opera.”

“Oh Jesus. Here we go again.”

“My vision bro. We're going old-school reel to reel on this puppy or not at all. We need saturation and warmth man–our epic grooves deserve no less.”

“Andy is a personal friend of mine,” he said. "Are you doubting my integrity you furry motherfucker?”

“Furry mofo? Dude–my preponderance of arm hair has little to do with the fact that nothing great was ever recorded after 1987. Don’t be hating just because I'm not a fan of the corporate Prometheus that wants to kill the sprit that gave the world Led Zeppelin and The Beatles.”

“If this is related to some larger conspiracy theory you can save it for your manifesto. We are going to Gadgetbox and that's it.”

“No way man.”

“Blame everything except yourself dude.”

“I'm not…I swear–it's just…”

“Forget it…I'm out of the band. I can't take this. By the way I'd like that Keith Richards bio you stole from me three years ago.”

“I didn’t…I swear.”

“Techno-pussy.”

“FINE!!!!”

I agreed to give it a chance, only because I didn’t want to risk any rift that might break the band apart. It's not everyone who can sacrifice a small part of his vision for the sake of friendship but I guess that’s just the kind of guy I am.

A few phone calls later we were booked and ready for a two-day session that took every last cent of our once sizeable band fund. Even though I was now looking forward to it I was still skeptical as any true artist would be. When we all pulled into the narrow Gadgetbox parking lot that first morning I couldn’t help but be a little under whelmed by the cold gray nondescript warehouse in front of me. “This is it guys” said Slade, as he high-fived Joaquin and rested an arm on Mirian's Honda. Joaquin smiled and padded me on the shoulder as I saw the stark edifice reflected in his Ray-Bans. “Are you guys psyched? Man this is going to be something. Can't wait to get some tracks down.”

“Is it just me or does this look like a place that sells wholesale plumbing supplies?” I asked.

“Cram it dude,” said Slade.

When Andy showed up at 10:30 I suddenly started to feel better for some strange reason. "Let me show you guys where the magic happens," he said, dressed in a vintage Motown t-shirt and a pair of cool geeky-chic glasses. “By the way I really dig Ghost Town Tavern and the website. “You guys been playing out alot?”

“We played Bocci’s and a few other spots so far,” said Joaquin, unloading his kit piece by piece onto the black pavement. Andy turned to me as I swung my Les Paul towards the door. “How did Bocci's go?” he asked.

“Well..uh” I mumbled, flashing back to Bocci's back wall where we set up behind the barstools and gaze into a row of ass cracks while we played a grueling three-hour set. “It's a start,” I told him.

“It was actually our best show yet,” said Slade. "But some people never see the positive.”

“Whatever,” I murmered.

Andy punched in a code and opened the front door as a skinny young guy with shoulder length hair and a soul patch greeted us with a fist-bump. “What's the haps Ghost Town Tavern?” he said. “Spot me some knuckles.”

“Meet Patrick,” said Andy. “He'll be you're engineer and the guy who can solve any problem you've got.” Slowly I started to relax even more. From then on Gadgetbox only got better.

The first room had ceilings as high as a church and housed one of the nicest grand pianos I'd ever seen. Next to that sat a classic Yamaha electric piano with keys that pumped out tones that reeked of the finest funk this side of Detroit. Across from the keys were a plush sofa, a small kitchen and a fully stocked wine rack. I had finally found a home.

An antique organ sat in the next room that looked like it would have felt more at home in a castle. There was also an authentic Farfisa and other geek-treats. Still that was nothing compared to the main room that housed the ultimate beast: a classic Hammond B-3 organ with a real rotating Leslie speaker cabinet. After seeing it Mirian sat down and gazed over the vintage drawbars. “Hand's off,” she said. “This one's mine.”

To the right of the majestic B-3, in front of the first orange trimmed isolation booth sat an endless buffet of amplifiers, each one with it's own delicate flavor: a Fender Twin Reverb, a Bassman, and some I had never seen before that looked like the grill off a '57 Cadillac. At the end of the stack was the door to the second booth, where Andy told me to set up. I walked in and put my gear down and looked out of a skinny window and into the main control room. Suddenly I could feel the blood start to pump.

As Andy was setting up he started talking with the guys about an earlier session he had done with some talented musicians from Zimbabwe. “It makes you realize what music really means over there. It means connection and expression…not just the American Idol crap which turns everything into a competition.” The more I listened the more I new this was exactly the sort of guy I wanted to work with–someone that still knew what music meant. Aside form that Andy seemed like the right combination of musician/gear-head with a good old fashioned dose of that New York City in-yo-face–fahgettaboudit attitude that I needed to make me feel at ease. “Come on guys,” he said, attaching the last mic. “Lets go check out the control room.”

We walked out of the main recording area and hung a left into a long room that housed the controls for this magnificent vessel. We then sunk our asses into a comfy couch at the back and let Andy show us the ropes. I suddenly felt that maybe ProTools was not the enemy and for a brief moment it felt like I could find peace in this pixilated universe known as the twenty-first century. I turned to Slade, and buttered up a piece of humble pie. “This place is pretty cool,” I said.

“Why do you doubt the Slade Dawg?” he asked as Joaquin turned towards me. “Who's doubting the Slade Dawg?”

“Just this nutcase,” said Slade.

“I wasn’t doubting. I'm just cautious that’s all.” I said.

“Nothing to fear" said the mighty Wokmiester. “GTT is in the house and all is well.”

“Yeah I guess you guys are right,” I said.

“Damn right you pussy,” said Slade.

Andy swiveled towards us in a black office chair as he sat at the helm of a long mixing board and a cinema screen that hung in front of the control window. “So this is where it happens guys: the recording, mixing and polishing and the general tweaking and all that good stuff. We've got phones and mics in every room guys so communication wont be a problem. So how many songs are we dong today?”

“We're going to try for five. Just looking for an EP for now,” said Slade.

“Five is definitely do-able.”

Patrick walked into the room cradling a coffee in close to his Jane's Addiction t-shirt and took a seat by Andy. “Man I'm down to see what the band can do in there. Just remember don’t put too much pressure on yourselves. We can fix and nudge to our heart’s delight in here.”

“What do mean nudge?” I asked.

“Nudge the fudge my man. If you're off the beat we can make it sound like you were born a metronome.”

“We probably won't need that right?” I asked timidly.

“No shame in it man" said Patrick “the pros all do it. Besides even if you don't need it we might need to do a little tuning here and there.” I suddenly felt nauseous again. "I don't think we need any Auto-Tune.” I said.

“Auto-Tune is nothing, man. We've got much better programs...so advanced you can’t even tell its there. No one will ever know.”

“Forgive him Patrick,” said Slade. “He's a total technophobe. It took him two hours to get his buggy here.”

“No worries,” said Patrick. “You're the boss.”

Aside from my usual phobic reactions the recording went smooth and over the course of two days we were able to get fairly good takes of everything. Patrick turned out to be a really cool guy to hang out with and had some great ears to rely on. Andy was amazing and was able to give us some insight into things we probably weren't able to hear ourselves. The grand piano made all the difference and I cant wait to hear that B-3 chug through our tracks.

In a week or so we return to do some final mixing and if everything goes well we should have a more than decent EP (extended play) disc to sell at gigs and help pay for other things we'll need. I'm looking forward to printing up t-shirts too to sell along with the CD.

Two days isn’t much at a studio but it was all we could afford. If there's anyone out there that wants to help support the band so we can do more glamorous things (like eating) I set up a donate button on ghosttowntavern.com. It's not an easy time financially for anyone and I'll keep on doing whatever I can to keep going regardless but a little help goes a long way.

Until next time keep that flow going and enjoy those stale pretzels.

Finding the Spirit

2011-09-01T16:27:00.001-07:00

We had our latest full band gig at a nightspot near town where the locals come to sip cocktails, twist fettuccini and contemplate paradise. They have a stone fireplace there with a long comfy couch and a few tiny tables around a stage area. On the other side stretches a bar and another nest of tables that face a courtyard. When you factor in the back patio and the gazebo it’s quite a respectable establishment. I’m still wondering how we got in the front door.

Setting up the gear was no small feat as the place doesn’t have a P.A. In case you don’t know, a P.A. is just a sound system. If you’re wondering what the letters “P.A.” stand for it’s short for “Pain in the Ass.” That should clarify everything.

After the cables were in place we unveiled he newest addition to our stage show: a hand painted “Ghost Town Tavern” banner draped over the keyboard. This lovely item was courtesy of the hard work of one Silvia (AKA “Seamstress for the Band”) who spent a grueling afternoon on our porch stenciling the trademark GTT letters. Visit her blog at http://blog.silviasong.com/ to see her photography and buy her stylish handbags which I’m sure will feature the GTT insignia in the near future once we reach Lady Gaga status.

When we were done setting up we did our usual routine of heading to the bar to insure maximum lubrication. Slade beat me to it and already had a glass in hand when I showed up with my drink tickets. “So what are we sipping tonight?” he asked me.

“A few beers should get me where I need to be. Maybe a shot after the second set.”

“Jesus,” he said, “am I drinking with my sister-in-law? Have a MAN drink for shit’s sake.”

“Take it easy–I’ve got to pace myself over here. Nothing too heavy for the first set.” Slade shook a glass of Scotch on ice just under my nose. “You hear that?” he said. “You hear the rocks talking? That’s what you need for this gig. Now order up a real drink and save the Corona for your Polka band.”

After some quiet introspection I could see his point although I was still hesitant. The last time we had hit the hard stuff together was a time I wanted to forget. It was an innocent lapse in judgment really–one that could have happened to anybody with compromised motor skills–but after it happened it earned me a nickname that I have still yet to live down.

“Look, that’s never going to happen again,” Slade said. “You’ve learned your limits and have grown since then.”

“Yeah I suppose...you know that wasn’t my fault.”

“Don’t blame Johnnie Walker because you temporarily forgot what a toilet was.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“I’m just glad I had that extra bottle of Liquid Plumber. I don’t know how in god’s name you thought you could hide something that nasty.”

“Why are you bringing this up?”

“Me? You’re the one who brought it up, Sink.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Just try to relax–first of all you’re a mature, seasoned gentleman now. Second of all it’s not my bathroom.”

My fingers tapped on the wooden bar as I contemplated my choices. The more I mulled the more I realized the wisdom in his message. I had grown up in the past few years and it was time my palate reflected that seasoned, responsible maturity. After all, James Bond never ordered a “Corona” and Tennessee Williams wasn’t driven to the grave by PBR and Doritos–so it was time to raise the bar.

The bartender was a tall perky blonde who seemed to know her way around a jigger (whatever that is) and I knew it was no time to be indecisive. I scanned my head for every possible cocktail I had ever heard of and drew a complete blank until the name “Manhattan” seeped in. I felt pretty sure it was a safe bet (especially since the second one I thought of involved an umbrella and a pineapple wedge) so I went with it. I then put one arm on he bar, eyed the bartender and crooned, “I’ll take a Manhattan please.” Hearing this Slade patted me on the shoulder and immediately I knew I was on my way.

“Nice job rock star,” said Slade “you’re drinking with the big dogs now.”

“Well it had to happen sometime.”

I slicked back my hair and glanced at the sandy haired mixologist in front of me playing the rumba on a cocktail shaker. Beneath the smell of maraschino cherries and lime juice her soft hands carried the fragrance of sandy beaches and other exotic ports of call. I could only imagine what she thought of a sophisticated connoisseur of spirits such as I.

I watched the bar goddess pour me the “good stuff” and did my best to remain cool. I figured that even if I lost my cookies later that night it wouldn’t be so bad. If I was still shy of Hemingway and Dylan Thomas I would still always have PBR and tiny twists.

After grabbing my man drink I sat down next to Joaquin and the lovely Mirian on a long sofa to the right of the fireplace. Joaquin’s fingers were drumming on a glass coffee table in front of us and Mirian was sipping on a cool Mojito next to Silvia who was nursing one of the three non-alcoholic options (she’s preggo folks).

“So what did you opt for?” asked Joaquin, his eyes gazing attentively into the auburn liquid in my grasp.

“Manhattan” I said.

“Nice choice my man.”

“Yeah but I don’t know much about mixed drinks. It’s all so complicated...ten different kinds of this...eight kinds of that. How do you know the sauce for you?” At that Joaquin’s eyes widened like burning orbs of wisdom. “You just have to try them all,” he said. By this point I could feel the burn of the whiskey and knew this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.

Just before show time a lanky member of the wait staff appeared with a whitened grin to let us know the ground rules. “Guys we have a decibel limit here,” he said. “Try to keep it mellow for the first set.”

“Yeah sure” I said, eyeing my amplifier which was set just above a whisper. “We’ve got it pretty low.”

“Alright guys that’s great! My names Kyle and if you need anything just let me know.” I kindly nodded, thinking the only thing I needed was for him to get back behind the bar and let us jam as the gods intended, decibel limit or not. When he left a moment later I took a drink and waited for Joaquin to count us off into a nice slow blues.

After we finished the tune I felt pretty good about everything until Mr. Pearly Whites returned, his eyes nervously pained. “Guys you sound great...but can you take it down another notch?” As he said “notch” he poised his hand below his nose in a frozen karate chop to further illustrate the concept. “Yeah sure,” I said, and obligingly turned my levels down and settled in for another library gig.

This went on for the rest of my set and after awhile I accepted the fact that we were there to play background music. The way I saw it, as long as I didn’t play a note louder than the crunch of fresh endive I would get fifty bucks –which more than paid for the gas needed to get home. But then again I wasn’t complaining.

After playing dinner music to the Easter Island set I laid my guitar down and took a break before the third act. As I looked around the room I could see that people we’re getting relaxed and finally loosening up. The alcohol was kicking in and it was finally time to liven things up. Throwing caution to the wind I walked over to my amp and cranked it two more notches. If only I had remembered the smoke machines.

By that time the sun had faded and the room was a gathering of weaving silhouettes. I dragged myself to the piano and blew a breath of my third Makers Mark into the mic. “Here’s a nice little boogie” I said, wrapping my right hand around a“C” chord like a wobbly vice. We then went into “Great Balls of Fire” and the room was finally alive with the primal drunken spirit of rock. Soon a hungry herd of cougars stormed the floor, dragging their white collar prey with them as I pounded out the last notes of my fading youth for their collective enjoyment. Talk about Yuppies Gone Wild.

As the sea of undulating bodies swirled before me I could feel the electricity, static and otherwise that was coming off the floor and I was charged and finally in the moment.

It had taken some time but once the right balance was found the feeling came. Rock n’ roll is a relatively simple art–the right mixture of tone, feeling and energy will get you on the devil’s doorstep–but if the mood of the crowd isn’t there you might as well be playing Manilow covers. In the first set I thought we had all we needed but we didn’t have the chemistry (or the volume) in the mix. Live and learn.

Next time we’ll bring these same ingredients but also a little patience. Nobody is ready to rock until after they’ve finished their brie Panini...at least in this town. As long as I can remember the formula it will all go down easy and I wont have to sweat it.

Hope to see you all at our next show as we all look forward to serving up something tasty for ya.

The Six-Stringed Siren

2011-06-24T01:10:00.000-07:00

When: Two days before Christmas

Who A sixteen year old kid and his dad on vacation.

Weather: A meat locker.

Where: Standing outside the legendary Manny’s music in NYC.

I gazed up into the illuminated window display and could feel the blood finally begin to flow back into my frozen limbs. There was something magical behind that glass and it wasn’t the glow of holiday lighting. I had seen the strange and beautiful object before on the back of old album covers from the seventies and in films with men with wild hair who cradled them in their arms as if it was somehow an extension of their sweat infused bodies. Still nothing could compare to looking at it face to face as the smooth curves tempted me like forbidden fruit. I wanted to caress the sunburst finish, lay my hands over its smooth rolled neck and slide my fingers down the tight strings until I could hear it moan. She was beautiful. She was a Les Paul Standard solid body electric guitar and she was singing at me.

We filed through the front door that burned like a nightlight beneath the arc of soiled green awning and I could feel a hunger begin to bubble. Inside the store instruments rested on rubber hooks, protruding from the pale green walls like rows of glistening candy canes. A sonic blue Fender Stratocaster with a thin neck of carved maple floated above a cherry-red Gibson SG with a body that curved at the top into two seductive horns. There was a hollow-bodied Gretch six-string with a surface that seemed to glitter like the sparkled eyes of an Egyptian priestess and a twelve string Rickenbacker that begged for the opening chord to A Hard Day’s Night. Still there was only one exhibit in this museum I wanted to drool for: that Gibson Les Paul.

When my eyes finally zeroed in on the subject of my newfound lust I could sense a shadowy male figure lurking in the blurred edge of my peripheral reality. The closer I got to the guitar the closer the figure seemed to close in on me and there was little I could do to shake him. All I wanted was to be alone with my latest obsession, but something told me it wasn’t going to be that easy. When I finally felt a bare elbow graze against the arm of my black rain coat it was clear to me that this stranger, much like the bargain aftershave that emanated off of him, would not easily be ignored. I finally turned to the man and glanced at the silver nametag pinned to his shirt. It read, “Franco.”

“Man oh man alive,” he blurted. “I tell you friend these babies oughta come with a warning that states that the manufacturer is not responsible for any injuries that might be incurred while dodging flying panties. Am I right or am I right?” Franco’s thinning black curls, coated in a congealed layer of styling gel, fell like dark Christmas ribbons across his lined forehead. “I used to play in a four piece called the Vagabonds,” he went on. “Had a gold top Les Paul I used to let hang down to my stones that I called The Home Wrecker. I still play with Marcello, the drummer. We’ve been talking reunion. Goanna be epic. So how long you been playing, rockstar?”

“I don’t play. Well I play the piano a little bit here and there. Mostly in the stride style of Scott Joplin and other ragtime notables.” I was trying to sound sophisticated. Franco tilted his head back and let out wheezing laugh that sounded like a dying accordion.

“The stride style of Scott Joplin and other ragtime notables? Oh man. Yeah that’ll get you some pussy for sure my friend. Look kid unless you’re looking to gig at a frontier saloon you need to get yourself a bad-looking axe.”

“No I can’t really play. I’m just here with my dad. He plays folk music.”

“Oh man. A couple of lady killers for sure. Come on just pick it up and see how she feels.” He gripped the top of the guitar and handed it to me. I slung the black leather strap over my head but the front of the instrument seemed on the verge of flipping over like a pancake. “Man oh man alive,” grunted Franco as his hands clasped tightly around the neck and pulled away the sparkling Les Paul. Something seemed out of whack. “You’re a southpaw aren’t you?”

“You mean left handed?” I answered. “I’m guessing that makes a difference?”

“Yeah you’re freaking guessing right. You gotta play it upside-down or search the earth for a lefty model. Either way you’re in for a long hunt.”

“They don’t make a left handed one?”

“Oh sure if you want to pay double. But unless you’re Paul freaking Beatleman Mc Cartney I’m thinking you’d be better off with something cheaper like a Squire. They make a bunch of them for your kind.”

“My kind?” I felt like a leper. “But what about Jimi Hendrix, the greatest of all time?” I asked. “Wasn’t he a south-paw?”

“Yeah dude. He also had a three-foot Afro, velvet pants and could play with his molars. You’re wearing fleece and play RAGTIME. What’s your point?” I said nothing and stared down at my boots. A blue plastic guitar pick lay on the tiled floor silently mocking me.

“Listen kid take some advice and stick to the keyboard. Just be careful of those sharpshooters that mosey into town.” He patted me on the shoulder and walked away, leaving me to stare mournfully at the Les Paul Custom electric guitar that was so close but so painfully out of reach.

I never forgot that guitar and swore one day I’d learn to play just so I could strum one even if I had to scour the earth. Years later, after wearing out the neck of my first Squire Stratocaster I found one with a honey-burst finish and I knew my time had come. It’s still the guitar I play today and it hasn’t stopped singing to me. Maybe one day I can play it for you and maybe even Franco if he still wants to listen.

Keep on rockin...

Fish Tacos and a Side of Lettuce Head

2011-06-18T21:55:00.000-07:00

Bought some CDs today to get the car road trip ready. Some of the classics of course: Ike and Tina Turner, some Willie N and Johnny C and a couple metal gems that will remain my anonymous guity pleasure. I realize in this age of digital wonder I could simply pinch them all out of thin air and start feeding a pod but I’ve seen too many sci-fi movies to start feeding pods. Besides my iPod was never the same after I left it on the deck before a thunderstorm and a trip to the Rasputin’s in a nice excuse to drive to San Jose and binge on fast food tacos. Don’t try and tell me life isn’t sweet.

Aside from a few scattered unwashed and the usual sociopaths trolling the porn dvds there wasnt much life at old Rasputin records. The place had a deserted feeling, like vultures picking at rubble after a small apocalyse. A little sad and the end of an era I guess. When the record stores are gone, along with the bookstores I’m not sure all my socially oppressed bretheren will gather. We’ll probably all be working at Cinnabon and huffing vats of icing and bitching about our lack of motivation. Actualy that doesnt sound sound half bad.

My girlfriend and her sister (who may wish to remain anonymous ) were along for the adventure. After a small incident involving fish tacos we picked up some groceries and ended up at the record store. They both left after ten minutes for the greener pastures of the Honda sitting the parking lot and told me to take my time. Guess some people can only stand only so much excitement.

After a good thirty minutes I was in a deep browsing trance. My pulse was jumpy but that had more to do with the old guy from the nearby retirement vila who was serenading smooth sax to a group of two suburbanites and a couple of nice looking ladies I had a feeling I had seen at the Hankook Korean supermarket an hour before. I had no idea who the sax machine was but his subdued version of Nora Jones’s Come Away With Me semed to have the crowd in a frenzy. I think I might have even heard one of them breathing.

While Orville Redenbacker did his In-Store I popped through the country and picked out some of the Johnny Cash that headed yonder when my computer paid me back for my rebellious stance against upgrades and commited suicide. So tempermental. After Johnny there was some Patsy and some Willie and soon I had a nice stack going and it was time to move on. By the end I had multiple stacks and had to keep going back to get rid of the “next times.” (Sorry Dio) .

I have no real clue why I’m writing a blog about my trip to the music store when they’re are far more facinating topics. I still havent told you about the chicken suit, Ukulele Dick and the dry martinis but I have to save something for the memoirs. Band stuff is steady though we’ve lost some rehearsals due to bouts with nasty airborne viruses that feed off the rock pulsing through our viens. Get better Slade.

Jesus it must sound like I’m in a metal band. I’ve never even been in a metal band. Everybody is going to get the wrong idea about my musical compass and they wont want to steal my music. What should I say? Such is the quandry of an international superstar.

What I really want to talk about is the jar of Baconaisse I purchased that recently changed my life. Before finding this smoky mayo alternative I didn’t see a need for everything to taste like bacon. I could probably do without the gelationous appearence and the caloric orgy in every bite but thats where the beer really helps to forget these trivial details. Anyway I’m ranting here and perhaps I unconsiously am hoping for an endorsement deal from the baconaisse people but then that would only mean I have a death wish.

Record stores....condiments....Ronnie James Dio. I think that should cover everything for this illustrious week. Oh yeah and one more thing...Slow Gherkin is back in town. But of course you knew that.

Heres an old story that my give you insight into the frayed edges of my current reality....

LETTUCE HEAD

By Shiloh Hellman, Eng 12E

I was standing in front of a smeared gas station mirror watching the coarse watery sludge that plastered my blonde hair leak out of a translucent shower cap. As I stood there, my head covered with dye from a shoplifted box of herbal color, I could hear my Uncle Charlie’s sandals slap against the concrete outside the locked door. “Are you almost finished in there?” he said. I didn’t answer, wondering instead just how the tepid muddy paste streaming down my cheeks in tracks of seaweed-green could ever resemble the autumn chestnut swatch on the front of the package. I was seventeen and we were on our way to a wedding.

“What in God’s name are you doing?” said my uncle again, the palm of his hand beating against the metal door of the Petro-Canada bathroom. “I’m almost there,” I told him. My shower cap sprung a couple leaks but my moustache is almost dry. I think I may have overdone it on the eyebrows though.”

“You’re moustache? You know you’re not supposed to use that stuff near your eyes or mouth right? I’ve heard that you could go permanently blind if you don’t know precisely what you’re doing.”

“Is it supposed to be this lumpy?” I asked, wiping my forehead with a rough paper towel to catch the streams of dye still escaping beneath the worn elastic of the shower cap. “I mean it’s really really lumpy and it’s starting to harden. I probably didn’t add enough water.”

“And may I remind you,” he went on, “that we’re going to get stuck in traffic if you don’t hurry the hell up. You know you could’ve done this at home before we left. Or say last week when you had more than a couple of hours and weren’t going to a wedding.” I opened the door with a whoosh, blowing a stack of paper towels off the sink. “I know but like I said before–I changed my mind on the color at the last minute. Seriously though–do you think I should have stayed with midnight black?”

My thirty two year-old uncle stood framed by the splintered doorway, his thin cheeks pulsating as if battling an overwhelming urge to explode in bursts of howling laughter. Within moments he surrendered to this urge completely, gripping both of his kidneys as he began moaning with pained hilarity. I watched in my soiled cap, sopping facial hair and dye-streaked eyebrows and walked towards the car while his laughter continued to erupt in a series of dry heaves. After a good five minutes he grabbed his keys and we were in the car.

We were driving to the wedding of my stepfather Daryl’s best friend Luigi and his live-in girlfriend, Pam. Pam was a self-confessed Love Boat fanatic and had insisted to Luigi that they get married on a cruise ship. My mother and Daryl were already on board and they had informed us that they would going to set sail with or without us. I had no doubt that everything would go smoothly.

“So tell me,” said Charlie, still snickering as we drove towards Vancouver harbor. “Is this little stunt all about Melanie?” Melanie was the bride’s sixteen year-old daughter, the girl I had been pen-pals with when I was living with my father during my sophomore year of high school, a thousand miles away in a sleepy northern California town called Santa Cruz. “What do you mean little stunt?” I said. “We were writing letters to each other for awhile but that was it. If you’re saying that she has anything to do with my current make-over you are sadly mistaken.”

“Oh really?” he said. “I remember that time we all went bowling and she said me she only dated tanned dark-haired muscular guys. I looked over at you and I thought you were going to kill yourself right there with that little eight pound bowling ball.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. I was just very focused on my game that’s all.”

“Sure,” he said. “And that’s why you scored twenty that night. But please– feel free to delude yourself if it makes you happy.” I shook my head and wiped another stream of dye off my cheek with the back of my hand.

We pulled off the highway, the sun broiling the windshield. It was late August and people were strolling through the city in shorts and tank tops, basking in the unexpected return of sweltering summer weather. The car braked and rested beneath the eye of a red stoplight as Charlie swiveled his neck towards me again, this time looking befuddled. “Can I ask you a somewhat personal question?”

“Is there any other kind with you?”

“Not really. Did you do something different to your skin?”

“Please. Now you’re just hallucinating.”

“I guess it’s just the light then. For a minute I thought you may have gone and smeared on a tube of sunless tanner for her on or something. “

“I’m not that crazy,” I said. “I think I’ve got enough chemicals on my head for now anyway.”

He was right though. I had applied a wad of Hawaiian Tropic sunless tanning cream before we left my mothers apartment. I had smeared it on a little haphazardly, but so thin I really didn’t think it would make a difference. Still the color seemed to be more akin to orange cheese powder from a bag of Cheetos than an actual tan. I wasn’t worried though. If anything it was just in an in-between stage.

We pulled in near Stanley park and I got out of the car, held my shower cap in place and ran into a wooden cabin that housed the men’s room. I knew the dye had set in for only a couple of hours but time was running out. I pressed the metal faucet tap and stuck my head beneath the spout, my nose nuzzling against the white bowl of the sink. The water limped out of the faucet and I lathered a sopping mass of blue liquid soap through my stiff hair in an attempt to loosen the cement-like mixture. My uncle stepped through the doorway, a beige towel in hand. I could hear him snorting through the splash of tap water. “I’m almost there,” I told him. “I can really feel it start to come off now. Hate this smell though. Are you smelling this?” He didn’t answer but I could sense that his laughter was even more pronounced than before, as it was bordering on cries of sheer torture. “You’ve gotta–“ he said, about five times, each time unable to find the breath to finish the sentence amid his constant wheezing. “You’ve gotta take a look. It’s priceless. Absolutely priceless.”

“Is autumn chestnut not my color or something?” I said. “What exactly are you trying to tell me?” I kept scrubbing my head, watching piles of herbal sediment collect in the sink and spiral the drain. By now Charlie was waving the towel, as if pleading with me to surrender my quest for brunette perfection. I lifted my head slowly as the faucet shut off and squinted into yet another soiled bathroom mirror. At first I thought it might have been just the lighting. Then I opened my eyes wider and saw that whatever had made its way to the top of my head wasn’t anything close to autumn chestnut. It wasn’t even winter almond. It was far worse.

“Holy shit” I said. “What the fuck happened? It looks almost green.” I frantically rubbed the towel against my scalp, trying desperately to wipe away the nauseating hue that had suddenly latched onto my follicles. . “It’s not really green is it Charles? Come on tell me. Jesus Christ.” My uncle was aching. “It’s not just green,” he screamed. “It’s bright green. Then again it could just be the lighting.”

“Very funny. Very fucking funny.”

It was true. My hair had now turned the kind of unnatural shade of green I had seen flickering on neon signs in seedy liquor store windows and in Superman movies when the Man of Steel was faced with a glowing rod of Kryptonite. And it was all on top of my head, though my facial hair and eyebrows seemed to have been miraculously spared, ending up the color of thick chimney dust. “What in the hell went wrong?” I blurted, my voice raised to a shaky octave. “What the holy freaking fuck?” My uncle Charlie had staggered out of the men’s room and I could hear him gasping desperately for oxygen amid the cooing of pigeons and the rapid strides of park joggers, no doubt wondering why there was a strange man currently locked in a fetal position outside the men’s room. I stood there speechless, flashing back to my first memory of Melanie in a cherry-blossom summer dress, with eyes like sparkling brown jewels and lashes pirouetting towards an endless blue sky I had hoped would last forever. I watched her image fade into nothingness as my eyes once again focused on the awe-struck teenager staring back at me stricken with a near-fatal case of lettuce head.

“Maybe you just grabbed the wrong box” I heard Charlie say, trying his best to regain his composure as he stumbled back through the open door of the bathroom. “But it said autumn chestnut,” I implored. It clearly said autumn chestnut. What else could it possibly be other than autumn chestnut?”

“Maybe it was a misprint or something,” said Charlie. “Like they didn’t exactly mean chestnut but some other nut entirely. Maybe autumn pistachio. God I really have no idea.”

“I’m screwed. She’ll never want me.”

“Oh come on. Just say you did it intentionally. As a way to connect with your Irish roots. Then you can lead them to a pot of gold somewhere.”

“Okay you’ve made your point. We’re not going to this wedding”

“Oh yes we are.”

“No way Charlie.”

“You mother will blame me if we’re not there. We are going.”

I scraped the excess dye off my head and changed into the dress shirt and a pinstriped blue sport coat I had bought for ten-fifty at Value Village. I also had a pair of black slacks that my mother bought new, one of my grandfathers silk blue ties and an old pair of brown loafers which I had successfully revived with a coat of shoe polish. When I was done changing in one of the three available stalls I stared at my reflection. While my hair still resembled an electric cabbage my skin was taking an unexpected turn for the worst. The zits that spotted my cheeks now looked like bubbling red meteorites that had collided with the surface of a barren orange planet and my nose felt greasy, as if it had been tossed into a deep fryer. I thought I looked like a well-dressed jack-o-lantern.

Charlie appeared after a quick change of his own, adorned in a western style vanilla dress shirt and a dark sequined vest complete with a beaded star over each shoulder. I thought about making some sarcastic comment about his flamboyant wedding attire but my mind had turned into a static abyss of white noise.

We walked to the harbor where a small crowd gathered at the base of a looming white ship. Charlie’s hand was pushing me forward across a stone walkway that lead to the harbor, as I tried to remember to put n a smile. Daryl, my twenty-seven year old stepfather stood directing the wedding traffic with some of the groomsmen and upon noticing the sight of the two us coming towards him, did what had to be the double take of his short life. “Hey there Daryl,” smiled Charlie as we approached the tuxedo-clad best man. “Hey…uh… guys,” he responded. “I uh…was wondering what happened to you. But now I’m not quite so sure I really want to know that much. Where did you get your hair done?”

“It started at a gas station and ended in a Stanley Park restroom,” Charlie said, patting the back of my shoulder. “Aren’t the mint highlights just fabulous?”

“I wanted to…uh…. make a statement,” I whispered. Daryl stood there chuckling.

“You’re just always full of surprises aren’t you?” he said, waving me towards the main deck where I heard Melanie’s voice coming from. I grabbed the back of Charlie’s studded vest, pulling him back from a small stairwell. “I can’t go up there,” I told him.

“You have no choice,” he said.

“Yes I do.”

“No you don’t.”

“But I…”

“Trust me. For once in your life just go with it. In a few hours it won’t even matter anyway.”

We walked up the set of white steps that led to the main deck, my eyes hidden behind Charlie’s shoulders. I could hear voices raised in celebration as I tried to convince myself that I was blowing everything out of proportion. After all this day wasn’t about me and even if it was a wedding Luigi and Pam were laid back people. Luigi was a musician, like most of my parent’s friends, and thrived on finding his own rhythm. Be strong. Be brave I thought. As I got to the final step and could hear the last words of my uncle echoing in my head: for once in your life just go with it. I knew he was right.

“Check out the dew on that dude,” a voice yelled. I turned around and saw a guy roughly my age standing next to Melanie with jet-black hair and a pressed grey suit. His coat, unlike my partially moth-eaten Value Village special, seemed to actually match his pants.

“That’s trippy man, “ he said. “Does it glow in the dark too?””

“I’m not really sure,” I said. “Guess I wouldn’t be surprised though.” I could see Melanie, even though I was doing everything in my power to avert all eye contact with her. Even when I wasn’t cursed with hair the color of a neon highlighter I could never look directly at her. It was as if one look at her button nose and hazel eyes melted me instantly, draining me of every last shred of intelligence. Still I could see her violet dress and the tiny white flowers woven into the braids of her hair. I could see her soft hands with glittered fingernails, clutching a bouquet of fresh orchids. And I could feel my brain melt into a pool of watery grey Jell-O. She spoke and began bursting with laughter. “You look hilarious,” she said. “You look like you spent more time on your hair than I did.”

“Well,” I said. “You know how it is.” I stopped myself in mid-sentence, temporarily forgetting most of the English language. “It was sort of a mistake but not really,” I finally said. I felt Charlie pat me on the back as I turned and headed for the bathroom, trying my best to smile while I felt the first pangs of seasickness wash over me.

Once in the sanctuary of the restroom, a place I had began to feel strangely at home during the course of the day, I heard the ship’s motor churn. My uncle was once again on the other side of the door as I stood gazing at my mortified reflection. “Just think of it this way,” he said. “How many times in your life do you get to visit such a diverse array of bathrooms all in a single day? Land…sea…if we can get to an airport we just might be able to set some kind of public men’s room record. “

“Yeah right. Have you seen my mom? “

“She tried calling your name just as you were desperately fleeing the scene. Just between you and me I think the hair is a hit.”

“Not exactly the one I was looking for.”

“It never is. By the way the ceremony is starting soon. They want to get it done while the lights still good. Will you be making an appearance anytime soon?”

“That depends,” I said. “Will you be drinking this evening?”

“By the end of the night,” he said. “I’ll be as wasted as a liberal arts degree.”

“Well then,” I said. “I guess that’ll make two of us.”

Stage Fright

2011-05-22T18:56:00.001-07:00

We played our best gig so far at Bocci’s Cellar recently and got asked back for two more slots, one of which is a Friday which should help us get some new fans. Of course the rapture is set for tomorrow but I’m not worried since I happen to know quite a few booking agents in hell. At the moment I’m sitting in bed with a cold and hoping the Dayquil will kick in and inspire a touch of literary greatness. I heard it worked for Balzac but maybe that was Sudafed.

I’ve been doing what I can to book future gigs before Bocci’s to make sure we have our act down but Santa Cruz is a music town and that means stiff competition. Doing my best to whore myself out using all that social media has to offer but the information gridlock makes it hard to get noticed. One can only hope for so much in this age of perpetual distraction.

In terms of the blog my stats tell me people are reading this but I haven’t heard from anybody yet so what does that tell me. Still I keep writing, rambling as always to anybody and nobody just like any self-respecting mad man would-be wanna-be rock star should. Perhaps when I’m gone they can cull through it all and try to make sense of this meandering journey if the Borg hasn’t completely taken over by then.

As for performing I’ve been doing my best to deal with stage-fright, as it’s always been a stumbling block for me. When spooked we humans make the choice to fight or to flee and I’m usually somewhere in the middle. From Wikipedia:

“...The neck muscles contract, bringing the head down and shoulders up, while the back muscles draw the spine into a concave curve. This, in turn, pushes the pelvis forward and pulls the genitals up, slumping the body into a classic fetal position.”

Nothing like contracted genitals to help with those high notes if you ask me. A few years ago I was living in San Francisco and heading out to open-mic shows at the Hotel Utah. The shows went great, and each time people would approach me and tell me how much they enjoyed my set. It felt great but I had to fight my instincts to run screaming out of there. Sometimes I would feel my hands shake uncontrollably and have what I would best classify as a series of “mind quakes” which eventually caused me to quit the scene all together.

It’s gotten better and the fight is overcoming the flee but it’s always a struggle and there’s always something that gets in my way. The second I limbo under one hurdle I uncover another and it never seems to end. Life is a never ending Babushka Doll of existential torment. Please put that on a t-shirt for me. In the meantime here are my reflections on the Hotel Utah days:

The Hotel Utah Saloon has sat at the corner of Fourth and Bryant in San Francisco since 1908 and I don’t imagine much has changed except it’s name. In the fifties it was Al’s Trans-Bay Tavern and run under the watchful eye of Al Opatz who was famous for enforcing a rather unorthodox dress code: no neck-ties of any kind. Whenever some poor soul wandered down from the financial district in a business suit looking for a pint Al would rush towards the front door with scissors in hand to relieve the gentleman of what he saw as the greatest of fashion offenses. No one can say how many were cut but legend has it that the top of the bar was lined end to end with severed ties. Clearly Al Opatz was a man of conviction.

The regulars were dock workers, gamblers and politicians who knew to keep their ties in their brief case. Legend has it that it was a favorite hangout for Joe DiMaggio and Marilyn Monroe as well as string of beat poets and anyone who knew a good cocktail.

The bar was sold in the seventies to Paul Gaer who had the foresight to build a stage to support the wealth of local performers in the area. Soon names such as Robin Williams and Whoopi Goldberg were stopping by to cut their teeth and grab a drink.

Today it’s known as one of the best open-mics in the city with a decent menu to boot. The songwriter’s showcase is every Monday and when you walk through the front door, passed the haze of pot smoke that usually hangs outside you’ll find that famous bar, sans ties, and the best bartenders in the city. Hang a right, passed the pinball machine and you’ll walk down a row of wooden steps leading to the stage area. There you’ll find rows of old wooden columns and smell the redwood beneath your feet as you stake out a table. I always liked to sit at the one farthest from the bar, hidden in a corner so I could look up into the cracked open windows and overhear long street-side discussions about open guitar tunings while the traffic blew the pot smoke my way. On top there’s a balcony but if you’re there to play it’s best to stay as close to the stage as you can.

The performance order is set by drawing names out of a pitcher, which begins to overflow close to show time. I would always come early just so I could grab a table and drop my name in the bucket. After that me and the misses would share anything on tap named after an exotic bird and wait for the open-mic army to show up.

When everyone was there, including the usual celebrities such as Shovelman, who plays dust bowl slide on a guitar made from the implement that bears his name, it was a sight to behold. On an average Monday there would be over a hundred names in that pitcher, which meant the show would last all night if your number happened to be ninety. Late thirties would be tolerable but it would still take awhile with the usual long transitions (dude-do you really need bongos?) and meandering intros about the break-up that inspired the painfully long song you were about to hear. Pretty soon it’s 11:30 and you’re playing to Shovelman who’s passed out in the corner and possibly the emcee if he’s still standing. As for everybody else they’re probably all sleeping with each other by then since they all they need more break up songs to fill out their repertoire.

I’m probably making it sound like a vastly unpleasant experience but the few times we played it felt great and I wish I didn’t let my nerves get the best of me. We met some cool folks and it was great practice for what I’m up to now and I can’t recommend it enough to anyone looking to play for a great crowd. Just pray you get a good number and a decent seat.

Well I can’t say if the Dayquil did me well or not. All I can say is I need a nap. I haven’t even touched on my appearance at Throwing Stones, a show put on by the famous Ukulele Dick in which I performed Midnight Rambler dressed as a chicken. I’ll see if I have the energy to relive it. In the meantime be well and may your nuggets be crispy.

Will Rock for Crepes...

2011-05-04T21:42:00.000-07:00

After seven months of slaving away in the studio, heeding the call of the muses and huffing the stench of stale beer and passion we finally got what every band dreams of...free crepes and a live audience. Both came courtesy of the Crepe Place, a Santa Cruz institution where we finally got to play our first gig and announce to the land that Ghost Town Tavern is officially in da house.

For those unfortunate few who have not visited our fair seaside town, the Crepe Place is one of the more popular small music venues in the city. You can see a variety of acts playing nightly by the bar while patrons in the next room spear thin cakes bursting with the aroma of roasted vegetables and fine cheeses. The stage area is intimate, (think large shoe closet) but if you can get fifteen people in there it feels like you’ve filled it which is encouraging when you’re a band nobody’s heard of. Sounds like I should be writing restaurant guides doesn’t it?

The day we got there to load in for the first gig I couldn’t help but get a little nostalgic. Around the corner from the CP is Gault Elementary where I first learned back ball, breakin’ and the proper trajectory for a mid-morning spit ball. I think I may have learned something called long division too but its all a blur now. Up the street from Gault is the roller rink (yes it’s still there) where I can still remember being exposed to something called the hokey pokey from a creepy forty year old guy in a clip on bow tie while drowning myself in Doctor Pepper. A few pedals on a dirt bike from there will get you to my old barber shop (now a Supercuts), where the man my father affectionately dubbed “Dr. Buzz saw” would give the fro a mow while I sat propped in a barber chair and stared out at the Rio theatre across the street. Finally there’s Horsnyder’s Pharmacy where the gang used to juice up on Nerds and wax lips before heading to the tree house to look at dirty magazines and pass out from an overdose of red dye #40. Oh the treasured memories. Horsynder’s is still there but is now a medical supply shop where they sell things like adult diapers and Gold Bond. If I stay here a few more decades it’ll be just like the old days.

The Crepe Place gig was set for a Sunday night at 9pm and included Amee Chapman and the Velvet Tumbleweeds. The whole month (March) had been wrought with torrential downpour, hail, and something called a “Supermoon” which supposedly was partly to blame for the recent Japanese Tsunami. There was even rumors of a forthcoming earthquake that was capable of leveling the town and killing us all. A fitting night to debut the band known as Ghost Town Tavern.

Our old friend and lap steel player extraordinaire Mikey J. (from the Velvet Tumbleweeds) got us the spot and we invited him to play with us for a blues set later in the show. I was looking forward to playing with him again and even though we had never played these tunes together I was sure everything would go down without a hitch. Winging it usually works for me. At least I thought it did.

The Sunday of the gig started with a short rehearsal to try and patch up some frayed ends in our set. It was there in the sobering daylight that it dawned on me that there might actually be people there listening to us. To make matters even more challenging I was given strict orders by the fun police to not touch a drop of hops prior to show time. At first I couldn’t see why until Slade reminded me of a hazy rehearsal a couple of years earlier.

“Remember the Jack dude?”

“The what?”

“Exactly.”

Sure there had been times that I self medicated and temporarily had lost all coordination in my fretting hand but it was only because I was trying to overcome my demons. Or something like that. Anyway I agreed to stay partially on the wagon (one beer during the first set) and they agreed to stop bitching.

By the time I took the stage I could feel the nerves jumping beneath the pair of tan suspenders I had on. Seven months of practicing plus another two or three years of putting together material plus another fifteen or twenty of learning the instrument coupled with the crisis in the middle east and my various emotional disorders was a big hairy monkey on my back. Still I had to face the crepe breathing dragon with courage. That’s what rock heroes do people.

Quick…get on stage and try not to trip. Where do I stand? Did someone steal my guitar? These are the wrong cables and I cant find my tuner. Who’s that guy and why is he looking at me? Why am I here? Good god they’re all looking at me and silently judging. Where the hell is my beer? That piano shouldn’t go there and I don’t even think all the keys work. Nobody is listening anyway. I should have stayed in school and become a medical technician like my father wanted me to and I could be polishing a cat scan and be helping to save lives. Instead I’m just encouraging people to drink and feeding the tumors they’ll never see because there was no one there to clean the equipment. What’s that lump and why isn’t it on my other foot? Am I a rebel or just scared…be water…be water…don’t show fear…they can smell it. Where the hell is my beer? Look busy and maybe everyone else will do the hard stuff. I’ve sabotaged every opportunity that I’ve ever had. These suspenders look ridiculous…I’m still wasting my life as time beats my soul like a withered piñata of regret and shame…..pick up the guitar….just pick up the guitar. Now turn on the amp. Nod at the sound guy and smile. But not too much or you’ll look like a retard. You cant say retard anymore. You must love everybody and be open and green and enjoy soy products. I cant do it…turn on the amp…listen for that tone….it is the only truth I know. Ricky don’t loose that number. Remember the Titans.

“Hello we are the Ghost Town Tavern and this is a song I wrote called “Picked to the Bone.” I turn to Joaquin, my eyes panning up passed Cecil (our ghoulish mascot pictured on the kick drum) while my calloused digits dance the steps of a dark and lonely riff. The gears are moving and I’m in for a ride. I can almost feel the safety bar of the Big Dipper lower towards my chest as my eyes squint towards a rickety track leading to a free fall that might take my lunch with it. The only thing pushing me forward is that there’s no turning back.

My head arches to the microphone and the metal grating presses against my lips. The sound of my own voice now seeps out of the speakers, trembling but comfortable alongside the stinging tone of the Telecaster. The beat pushes me and the bass creeps up my back while the vibrating organ takes me back to the Boardwalk where I once again fight to face the view in front of me and try my best to enjoy the ride.

The demon was hungry and in need of a treat….the sign on my soul said “all you can eat.” He sat in my gut and he dug deep inside…cut through my will and swallowed my pride.

The people are half blurred to me while voices mingle with cocktail glasses and the unending thud of the cash register drawer. The night is a hazy blue and the traffic light outside streaks the pavement and through the window I can see the a line outside Charlie Hong Kong’s, the noodle joint across the street. Focus...focus. I pull back and bend a few notes and feel alive again.

The first song ends without any hitches and I can relax a little. Slade looks cool in a new red and black stage shirt complete with a pair of skulls. Joaquin, with an intense fiery gaze and vintage hat looks half Victorian street thug and half prophet. If I didn’t know either of them I would have been sure they were there solely to kick my ass. At my left Mirian the Mysterious is peering under her hat like a blues detective on the case of the Little Red rooster.

We get through some blues and pretty soon its time to bring Mikey and Dave back to the stage as promised. My job is to lead them through the tunes that we’ve never played together and make sure they get their solos in. There was some other minute details that I was supposed to remember but I can’t be bothered with all I have to think about. Did I leave the oven on? Am I going blind? Who played Jo on Facts of Life?

“One-two-one-two…hold on.” I have just started counting in some odd time signature only heard in remote parts of India. I go a second time and realize that I’m starting the song, which means a count of any kind just makes me look like a complete an utter moron. I stop thinking and my finger bars the three strings that make up an A chord and I begin to chug like a struggling Buick. Joaquin gives me a subtle hint to speed up the rhythm so I kick it into next gear...and like that we’re off on the first verse of The Breeze.

After the second verse I turn to Mikey and tell him to cut loose with a guitar solo but I wonder why he looks confused. Probably just shyness I think and let him know its okay by whispering, “melt some goddamned faces you rock monster.” I then turn back to the crowd and finally relax as the pressure is off. Now where the hell did I put my beer?

MJ burns some cat gut for awhile and I swig some amber and were flying pretty high. After a few bars I hit the mic for one verse before Mirian unleashes the piano solo to end all piano solos. Her fingers fly and kick with a graceful soul and I can’t believe a year ago she didn’t even know what a blues scale was. The crowd cheers as she rolls through an arpeggio like a studio pro and I suddenly feel like giving up music and going back to junior college to finish one of my many unfinished degrees. Perhaps Indian history.

I turn to Dave, the pedal steel player and give him the okay for take-off and he revs through some slide licks. I’m in the middle of a serious weather system and when I see the happy sign of feet swaying to the beat I know it’s all good.

The night went on and all in all it was a successful first gig with the new band even though I learned later that I blew about twenty cues, missed whole sections, forgot lyrics, and wasn’t supposed to give Mikey a solo on the Breeze and blah blah blah chik-a blah. Still it was a gig and my first time fronting a band. When it was all over I got to hang with the crowd and met some really great players from Amee Chapman’s band and the world felt right.

Now it’s up to me to keep the train rolling. Can I find us a second gig? Can I face the fear with no beer? Will John double-cross Hailey and find love in the arms of the Countess? Tune in next time kids for As the Ghost Town Rocks.

2010-11-29T11:43:00.001-08:00

I spent twenty minutes at the mall today standing in line outside a Starbucks. It wasn't the seasonal coffees and the cheaply made impulse items that lured me but just a quick jolt to sharpen my retail instincts. After that it was back to Cinnabon and a quick scan of the food court for anything resembling pork fried rice before once again raising the bar on holiday shopping and burning some serious plastic at Forever 21. Other than that all I can remember is sitting outside the store with my eyes glued to the faux marble walkway, tracing the steps and counting the shoes of all who grazed my path.

The usuals were there. The Brittany's were tweeting and the yuppies were greeting and all through the mall housewives were stalking their way through Nordstroms and marking their territory with wisps of the latest celebrity stench. And there was I, a humble scribe summoned by the spirits with cheeks upon concrete, poised to celebrate it all.

Now in the past I could never spend five minutes in a mall after Thanksgiving without looking for a gun store. The very idea of spending half an hour parking and then another three just so I could support an elitist corporate maze was enough to inspire impromptu streaking through Banana Republic. But that’s all behind me now. Now I celebrate it. I celebrate all of it in its excess and destruction. Bury me oh Cinnabon in your unconditional sweetness and exaltation of all that is frosted. And bless the noble Range Rover owner who will not hesitate to strike me dead if it means getting out of the parking lot five minutes earlier. I see madness and I see chaos and I sing to thee!

If I abandon you oh blessed blog it is only because the muses fight for my attention. At present it is once again the songs that sing to me and I must heed the call.

I've been arranging some new pieces and re-tooling the old, awakening the once dead synapses of my brain that help me remember what a 6/9 chord is. Harmony is truly a thing of obsessive fascination. One voice that has been speaking to me is the dominant seventh add six. I realize that there may be a better name for it but this is how I understand it. Another way would be to think of a dominant seventh note, lets say the G in an A7, alongside a six note or F#. Now these notes are neighbors, one living right on top of the other in a jagged complex and couldn't be more different. On a piano one is black and slender and the other is pale and wide. Most of the time they clash with repulsion for their shared tonal nature. On top of that G keeps banging on the ceiling every time someone plays Freebird.

But then along comes the note they call A. She's a fearless and noble tone there to make the peace. It may not sound as pretty as an Amaj7 but it can lay it to waste with its sublime and humble brutality. Its dissonance is poetic and its mood is somber. A beautiful chord with no third necessary.

Been thinking of the crossroads lately. The legend (for those of you who haven't learned this from Ralph Macchio in his immortal portrayal of Eugene Martone) takes place at a dusty intersection between good and evil where the devil waits for those eager to swap souls for the power of the blues. The American version speaks of a guitar player but I hear it's open to anyone. There's even a Bavarian legend about a goblin that gives unlimited accordion prowess in exchange for Bratwurst.

In the Delta legend the axe slinger comes to the crossroads at midnight to seek his dream. While he (or she) can already play the blues well enough at the local juke joint it's just not enough to satisfy. To be a true legend one to learn the art of "cuttin' heads," and that can only be learned from old Beelzebub himself. In return for Satan's skills all the guitar man must do is sign away his soul. This is easily done since old Lucifer already has the contracts all drawn up. Lawyers are always prepared.

Once the deal is done the guitar man can go back to the juke with his head held high for he is king of the dammed and he knows it. Only problem is that he can hear those hellhounds trailing. If you need further references, besides ones featuring Ralph Macchio, I recommend listening to Robert Johnson's Hellhound on My Trail or the immortal Crossroad Blues. On the other hand you could just watch the Karate Kid. There are many paths to wisdom.

I realize that having a blog about my music and not having any sound clips to share with you only gives you part of the picture. Soon I will open the vaults and let you have a listen.

This whole songwriting thing is hard to pin down. Sometimes it works and sometimes it's just a bunch of B.S. I believe true creativity is an unconscious process for the most part. It just springs from a feeling inside that you have to set free. Since it's hard to set it free you sometimes have to wait until it escapes.

Guess any artist's responsibility is to be true to the feeling. It’s a houseguest that creeps in and stays awhile and says goodbye. You've got to treat it right and show it some hospitality. Make it some pancakes and get it a toothbrush if you're lucky it will come back for another visit

2010-11-15T22:42:00.001-08:00

Everything is going well this week and it all takes a little getting used to. Failure has spoiled me and success means that I have to wake up and start paying attention again. The increase of creativity has brought with it the usual fear of death, along with the familiar accents that accompany my various imbalances but not even those are enough to bring the curtain down. I find courage in these times and see the path that will lead me home. Struggle is, after all, the greatest of muses.

I've got the same creative malady as any journalist...I can't really make anything up. If I do it's just manic fantasy that will steer this blog into an alternate universe inhabited by my own delusions. Not sure if I want to go there just yet. If I simply tell the truth I'm liable to get people into trouble (if there's one thing people fear the most it's exposing their own nature).

Just a little subtext to keep it interesting while I fight my natural exhibitionism. Like any journalist I want to tell you everything but I'd also like a conflict free Thanksgiving. If that makes any sense...

And now the news:

Last Monday’s rehearsal was spent recording the first song of a three to four song demo. It was a good chance to work under pressure and take this puppy on the track to see if she brings daddy some bones. Obviously I’m starting to get into character for a possible stage show and gambling lingo adds a nice touch.

The demo was just for one song but it went well and I have a good idea of how we would sound live. Sometimes its hard to hear the whole picture when you’re pacing yourself rhythmically and struggling to keep the beer on the end of the keyboard from toppling over and shorting out the equipment (thus igniting a blaze that would kill both you and the band) and it’s nice to be able to sit back and just listen.

The band is sounding better and more together since lines of communication are widening. For a real band listening and responding are key. If we were a faux band we’d all be in our own little bubble, talking to ourselves and waiting for our moment. I’ve already been to that gig and I don’t need another. Now I’m part of a team that has to define and refine and do all the detail work together. Hard but satisfying.

I also have to get accustomed to being a singer. Normally I would try and find a "serious" vocalist but I think it’ll be cathartic to scream in front of strangers (take that Dr. Swarski) and with my new found emotional freedom there’s probably less chance of road rage en route to rehearsal. Then there’s the speedballs and the hookers to think about. Nobodies perfect.

Just working on balancing mania and melody. Been doing some vocal conditioning with the help of Beatles Rock Band. The early songs are a vocal boot camp and require a twenty year old's endurance. I'm now learning how to conserve my breath and focus. The five beers I consume during the workout are also an easy way to raise the bar and give myself an added challenge. You need that to be a champion.

It's already Monday and this blog is but a short one. I need to pick my stories carefully so I hope you'll understand. I'm aware that there may be only two readers out there and I might just seem like a self deluded narcissist talking to myself...but if there are only two out there that are really reading this I need to let you both know how I'm charting my course.

There will be plenty more tales to tell. The journey has only begun. Lets just hope I can befriend the coming chaos.

The Second Floor

2010-11-09T20:57:00.000-08:00

The curtains of my sordid life are opening a bit more. I know people could peek in but I don't really expect it. Once they do, it can feel a little strange. How much to show? How far is too far? Do the neighbors need to see me running around the house in a chicken suit handcuffed to a Peruvian midget?

Good god what will they all think?

Will the vegans leer at me from their hybrids?

If I'm lucky.

So another night in the woods…

Speaking of mountain living…my neighbors, the ones you probably read about…

But wait…

If other people are reading this then do I have the right to air their personal lives? These are good people after all. According to my stats there are folks on the other side of the world looking at this (whassup Denmark).

Is this okay? Are we in an age of full disclosure? Are there even rules on this lawless digital ponderosa we call an internet? Am I asking too many questions?

Hell I shouldn't even be writing about the band. Slade's probably pissed. I see that look of vengeance in his eyes. No way to say what my next step (or slide) will be.

Oh geeze…

But back to my neighbors who shall remain nameless for the sake of online privacy:

Remember that cool anonymous lady who gave us an all access pass to rock the redwoods? Well she just lost her mom the same week her husband had a heart attack. Ouch.

After she told us we made her a chicken potpie and took it over. We got to see her home and heard some stories. Carlos Santana was mentioned as a family friend. A few days later I was pulling out and saw her husband in a bathrobe, shivering on his doorstep with the empty pie plate.

A kitchen towel was folded on the plate, garnished with a plastic lily. I smiled at him and asked how he'd been. "Better" he said. After that he thanked me, soul to soul and walked back inside his cabin. Wish I could know everybody that well.

Check it out:

I went over to the library the other day to get some reference books for a band idea I've been working on. It’s Top Secret right now since local spies have leaked the possibility that band members may be reading this blog. This would obviously violate security code 17A not to mention various state and local ordinances.

It might even screw up the space-time continuum. Whatever the hell that is.

But back to the books:

If you haven’t been in a while (or ever) let me just fill you in on the latest addition to the Santa Cruz Public Library System: Robrarians. At least that’s what I dub them. Li-bots would be acceptable too.

As seemingly trivial and unnecessary as it may seem, it's always a good idea to chat it up with the librarian for a few while they scan your library materials and silently judge you. The very fact that you're there and talking to someone makes it a community atmosphere. It even feels like you have a life you loser. Relax I’m talking to myself here.

This “Robrarian” or “Seething Fiery Barcode Scanning Spawn of the Devil" as I like to call it, gives you the "luxury" of self-checkout so a human is not needed. At least not until it screws up (which is about every ten minutes).

I don’t get these things. It can’t smile or tell me who’s coming to town. And forget about flirting with a Robrarian. She doesn’t care and is still pissed off about her boyfriend leaving her for an iPad.

But she is efficient. And pretty soon people wont even need libraries right? But I digress.

For now let's just relax and hear another chapter from the continuing chronicles of a nameless band:

I pulled into rehearsal with a six-pack and a Dobro, ready to cut loose and forget all the stresses that had been trailing me for the past week. I made my way across the lawn, damp from the rain we'd been having, and checked into the lab where my musical creature was brewing. In my corner my tools were all waiting for me: a Frankenstrat and its twangy twin the Telecaster. The keyboard was there too and as I was the first to arrive I took the opportunity to stretch my digits with some advanced noodling exercises. Halfway through a mean Bob Seger medley I heard the glass door slide open followed by a moan of pure agony. I looked up from my Night Moves finger dance and saw Slade, his tired eyes at a mid-bulge as he surveyed the wires sprawled across the floor like a school of tangled eels. "This place is a mess...I don't even know what's plugged in or where. This is goanna be freaking a nightmare...on top of it all I might just do a vomit launch on someone's amp."

"You've been sick?" I asked, still tinkling.

"I had food poisoning...didn't you get my email?"

"You had food poisoning? I thought that was Joaquin."

"Joaquin?"

"Yeah...I even wrote him. Did you guys share the same burger?"

"That was me Spacebrain. I wondered why your email sounded more bizarre than usual. Why did you keep mentioning my neck?" (Joaquin had been having neck problems all week)

"I dunno," I said, scanning my thoughts for an easy way out of the now awkward conversation. "Is there any beer left?"

"Check the fridge Magellan."

Joaquin got there a little later with a new snare drum in hand to help add some beef to his kit. He set it up and gave it a good whack and I could hear things getting tastier already. It was a good opportunity to go back to my tinkling, this time with a little Break On Through while engineer Slade toiled with the eels on deck. Somewhere in my hazy consciousness I was reminded of a vague memory of Slade telling me how maddening it is when everybody starts jamming when he's trying to concentrate. I made a mental note to stop after my second solo.

It had been a week since "The Burglar" had been able to practice and the stress of the studio coupled with food poisoning and my incessant noodling didn't seem to be making things any easier. We shot the breeze for a few and eventually everyone, including Ms. Mirian, got in their jam stations and we were ready for take-off.

With the lights dimmed and a few swigs off the last beer I went into the main piano riff of a song I wrote a while back when I was staying at the Hotel Shattuck in Berkeley. For months after I wrote it both Mirian and I kept referring to it simply as "the Hotel Song" but it's officially called Better Days. Not sure which one I like more. It starts with a driving octave line, like an old Buck rattling down a lonely stretch of road. Then the drums and bass come along for the ride and with a grizzled howl our story begins:

Well I was getting' pretty loaded in the middle of a hotel lobby.

When I met a man who told me he was lookin' for a place to hide a body.

He was in need of some assistance so he asked me if I'd take a ride…

I figured that he musta had the body in a trunk outside.

Another verse creeps, this time picking up speed and rattling to an uncertain locale. When the chorus hits only one thing's for certain:

Lord I guess it's time I changed my ways

'cause I sure do think I've seen some better days.

Spent my life on trouble and it sure don't seem to pay.

Lord I guess I seen some better days.

We played the song all night, finding the right balance of kooky groove and dynamics. By the end I was feeling pretty good but I knew there was more to be done.

Now that I see things really coming together I know that it's time to organize and start charting a course. There are no more excuses and if I fail to give my best on this project I may not get a second chance.

Gotta grab the reins and with this talented team and get my head out of the clouds. I have no doubt that it will be a great and rewarding trip but we've all got to do our part including me. New ideas are coming and mad visions are rapping on the cellar door and I have to be there to catch them.

I'm going to lay off the poison for a while since moderation may as well be a word in Swedish. Time to take it to the next level and I don't need any more monkeys on my tired back. So Operator if you please…take me to floor two.

Smell ya all up there.

All Aboard

2010-11-01T09:26:00.001-07:00

Welcome aboard Space Rock Air...please review the safety information next to your complimentary copy of Hit Parader. Be advised that your laptop can be used as a floatation device and your cellphone doubles as a paddle. Of course these will be of no use to you once we crash into the volcano.

So let me introduce to you…the band you’ve loved for all these years (but didn’t know it):

On Keys, Ukelele and a $200 eighties organ that sounds like a cross between a B-3 and whatever they used to play the original theme to Super Mario Bros on:

Lady Mirian (aka Kimberly Chee aka Red Viper aka The Hammer)!:?;

She’s the one who turns a funky groove into a chilling ride on the Wall of Death. She will amaze and rock you with Lolly, the mystical UKE! She will inspire wonder and madness in all who fall under her devilish spell…

(so step right this way and you will see a bein’ of a Korean with the spice that’s twice as nice.)

Moe hae?

BUT WAIT! ORDER WITHIN THE NEXT 15 MINUTES AND RECEIVE THESE ADDITIONAL ITEMS:

On drums and a mad vision of his and our own eternal destiny, the keeper of the universal groove that gets our world a-spinnin’, MISTER JOAQUIN THE MACHINE! A powerhouse of pathos he is…probably the best drummer this side of Witch Mountain. Take a bow or give a finger. The choice is yours my friend.

On Bass…ladies and gentlemen they call him the Burglar but FEAR NOT! One feel of the foundation he’s laying down and you’ll give it all away anyway. Yes he’s the hi-end in low-end, the bass with space, the man to keep the blood going and the pirates rowing, Mr. SLADE.

End intro. Turn tape over…

And now a story to understand our former glory:

aka: where I met the band…

By Billy, age eleven

I met the Burglar when I signed on for a reggae* band that became The Missing Channel. Yes…that Missing Channel.

I had been looking for a way to cut loose and ward off the psychotic whispers screaming in my head.

So I answered a Craigslist posting looking for a lead guitarist.

(basically for the past decade, the entire course of my life has been dictated by Craigslist. Sounds like some kinda voodoo if you ask me.)

*the reggae thing was intimidating since I assumed (correctly) that it was tied into a set of deeply held spiritual beliefs. The last thing I wanted was to tread on holy ground if I was not a true believer. As you can see I'm the superstitious type and somehow the fact that I was dread-less and naive to the ways of the Rasta meant to me the GODS were going to send me to a smoldering hell reserved for poseurs and Rasta wannabes and BASICALLY KICK MY CAUCASOID ASS.

Little did I know all it took was a delay pedal and some recreational stimulants to convince me that I TOO was the second coming of JAH.

Trust me I wasn’t the first.

After I battled these insecure demons within I realized this band was a just a bunch of nice guys that wanted to play some good music.

Strangely I had rarely encountered this phenomenon in my musical journeys.

Why are there so many songs about rainbows?

In a short time I had a rough overview of the style and learned some great tunes. I also learned that Bob Marley had other songs besides No Woman No Cry and Jammin’.

Soon we expanded our influences both musical and otherwise. I played our first gig in a chicken suit. I learned how to play Punky Reggae Party. I snorted a line of coke off a Jamaican diplomat’s ass. One of those is an exaggeration.

Some good times were had and gradually we found ourselves going in different places. Such is the nature of bandom.

The Missing Channel personnel, for those who are taking notes, was Slade on bass, the legendary Mikey J (Beaver) on spacey guitar and John B. on drums and vocal on the classic Don't Sniff Coke. T-shirts are available in the lobby.

After “MC” Slade told me about this fella named Joaquin, who had a hankering for skins, Martinellis and wild wild women. He had wandered in and outta various parts and knew the layout of many lands. His skills as a navigator were legendary and that legend had it he learned it all in a school for learnin’ up yonder in Loredo.

He also enjoyed romantic comedies and was comfortable with this.

During this time, even though we were mostly just jamming we started finding “common grooves” (coincidently the title of my bi-daily newsletter).

Joaquin and Slade have great communication with each other. This is key for any rhythm section.

With them it’s their own language really–a variant of some rhythmic dialect that only makes sense to Zulu warriors and air traffic controllers. Possibly some CB slang in there but I can’t be sure. During their exchanges I find time to stare at my fret board and plan out my next solo. “Win–win” I suppose.

Slade speaks both Drum and Guitar. Some say he can even speak tuba but that is yet to be seen.

It was within the musty bowels of room nine, in a practice space near the edge of town that the raw goo of our latest project began to simmer. Songs began to take shape as well.

Slade had some “exercises” he had written that he assured us had no melodic value. Sigh. We can’t all have the vision. Anyway what he had were “song skeletons”.

For more on song skeletons order my ebook. Kidding.

During this time I had a bit of a meltdown and moved to the city. Yes I abandoned my post.

But perhaps it was what I had to do. Fate can be a bitch…

Actually quite literally…for the next year and a half I was working with canines.

But Back to the Future:

Mirian hopped on the fun wagon bout the time I got to Felton.

She is my Yoko.

The only difference being that Mirian has actual musical talent.

All you need to know is that we are now ONE.

We are even in talks with a Doctor in Bombay to surgically conjoin us so we can share a heart.

His qualifications are the best money can buy.

Back to square three:

As we all evolve (the band I mean) we are finding the right balance to take this somewhere we all want to go (but I guess that sentiment could be applied to the current global crisis we are all experiencing and the oneness of all reality). Cue gong.

Still finding myself in uncharted territory. I bless the band for their patience and direction.

Well I have work to do and sprits to commune with. I'll try not to lose my mind completely this week...it's so much better to save that madness for the stage.

Namaste chilluns.

The Outlaw

2010-10-25T11:36:00.000-07:00

Saturday night and the rain is dripping off the redwoods and doing a nice moonlit dance…yes another Felton pre winter night. If I listen hard enough I swear I can hear Bigfoot. Guess he’s moody since I locked him in storage. You know those primal types. I can hear PETA calling me now…

This is going to be my first Felton winter since I moved back to the woods.

If I haven’t mentioned, or just forgot to, I used to live here back in the land before time (the late seventies) and haven’t had a winter here since I was about eight. If you also happen to be wondering if I’m some kind of delusional loner living in the woods with a gripe against society only time will tell. At the moment I’m more of a militant gnome or possibly some breed of North American Leprechaun. I’ll look at my field guide and get back to you.

I’ve been feeling anxious all this week. It’s nothing too dramatic–just the usual frayed nerves that seem to follow the first stage of something new. Things are slowly changing for and it’s equal parts terror and bliss.

I have to really make sense of all these feelings before I can say anything concrete. I’m pretty sure there are blogs out there written by those who have no inhibitions about leading you down every twisted step of their spiraling staircase…but I don’t want to do that for now. It’s easier to take the elevator anyway.

All I will say is that I get the feeling I’m on some kind of a path and while part of me has the sense that I may have just lost my mind completely I know better. After all I’ve been on this path before…it’s just that somehow I always veered off just before it got interesting. It also challenges me in ways that I never felt equipped to handle. Uh-oh…sort of veering into self-help territory here…shifting gears in 3…2…1…

So that nice guy at Fender sent my bridge saddles and I now have a custom Stratocaster I fused together in the lab. I don’t know what kind of thing they have going at Fender but personal service goes a long way in my book. These days there are so many choices out there that nobody seems to have enough faith to stand behind anything and make it personal. But that’s another blog. Anyway the guitar looks amazing and has that great old feel. If you’ve ever played ball it’s like the feel of your favorite bat: an extension of your spirit.

The neck on the old Fender I had was worn and maple. Maple necks are fine for those who like a slicker feel but I need the grit of rosewood. It’s that subtle pull of callous against grain that gives it that push. It still needs some tinkering but it can howl.

The tone is bright, which means I have to be careful not to push it to hard on the upper register. I might even want to swap the pick-ups but the payoff is that the lower notes seem too have extra sizzle. There’s a raspy burn there and I like it.

B.B. King has a song from the old days called Lucille where he digs in to a laid back blues and tells the story of how his guitar got her name There’s no need to tell the story here for the master has already spoken. All that I want to get across is that he named it after a real woman he had seen…and a fiery blaze that ensued.

I recommend going out and finding the record. It’s not really going to have the same effect if it’s part of a workout mix or a YouTube playlist. It just might change your life.

I’m going to name this one Etta because to me she’s got some heat in her voice. You need that for a smoking blues.

Playing the Strat (I haven’t earned the right to call her by name yet) reminds me of old records I used to listen to. It has that classic California sound you hear from The Beach Boys and Dick Dale. There’s a rumble there, like a hot rod cruising past Lighthouse Point and making it’s presence known alongside The Big Dipper. There’s a bit of my Santa Cruz childhood in there I guess. Now I never had a hot rod, and never put on a wetsuit and I never had much of a rumble. But I heard it all and somehow it’s in me.

The other sound that takes me back is the Hendrix tone. The first time I ever heard that sound I swore I could feel the vinyl come alive.

I was ten and thumbing through the record collection of a guy my mom was going out with at the time. I’m not going to go into him too much suffice to say he deserved to get his collection pillaged. Anyway I was thumbing through the records, trying to keep myself occupied by rifling where I didn't belong when something caught my eye.

It wasn’t Grand Funk or even his live Allman brothers LP. That fascination would come later with the discovery of beer. This time it was an imaginary outlaw...different in every way but comfortable enough to flaunt his seemingly alien qualities. His picture, which seemed to pop from the cover, was a collage of three poses, all facing different points. The images were layered and I can remember smoke, as if he had just emerged from a genie's lamp. The name said it all: The Jimi Hendrix Experience.

Since I was a kid and had no business touching this man’s stereo or the fresh bag of Double Stuff Oreos in the kitchen, I did what I had to do to make sure I could listen to it one day: I shoved it in my windbreaker and robbed him blind.

After that I held onto it, waiting to decode the sacred information burned into its grooves. It took awhile but when I found myself at the foot of the one-toothed god that went by the name of Denon Stereo record player at my dad’s house I was prepared with my offering.

I wasn’t sure what I had and really only knew Hendrix by name and the image I had seen on my trips to Haight Ashbury where his head-banned Afro and wild ruffles were plastered on t-shirts and black light posters. I had never really heard his music or his records. This one, just called Smash Hits seemed like a good enough intro as any. It began with something called Purple Haze.

I did my careful tug to dismount the snake and laid her down on the black vinyl. She hissed .as my eyes glazed over the spinning faded orange label and felt my front teeth gnaw at my bottom lip.

Then I heard an electric guitar that felt like a jagged march up a ravine. Mixed with the low end it sounded like there was a note that didn’t quite belong but it was only preparing me for one of the greatest blues rock riffs ever written by a human being or possibly a psychedelic space cowboy. I glimpsed out of my Eden into another realm and I wanted more.

Early on I was blessed to have an introduction to the power of the blues and classic r&b, having seen the Blues Brothers movie when I was a kid. Even though it was a crazy coke filled car chase through Chicago it still exposed me to John Lee Hooker, Aretha Franklin, Ray Charles and guys like “Duck” Dunn and the “Colonel” Cropper. The music had already found a home in my soul. Jimi just gave it a wild shade of purple.

After Smash Hits gave me a new window into the blues universe I got Are You Experienced (on CD this time) and my personal favorite, Live at Winterland. It was years before I would ever pick up a guitar (that came at seventeen) but I think it planted a seed in me I’ve never been able to shake.

It now one in the morning and I’m pretty sure anything else I write will disappear with the sobering effects of daylight. I will write about the band more but most of the time it’s all about repetition and getting our sound. We’ve got our space and we’ve set a course. Now I’m looking forward to getting my Strat into the picture. I know I bounce around a lot but that’s just me. If anyone out there is entertained by all this stuff it’s a pleasure. If you’re somehow annoyed and confused it’s even more of a pleasure. Catch you next Saturday night. And remember to let it howl.

Urge to Splurge

2010-10-17T15:58:00.000-07:00

It's Saturday night and I haven't written anything. Just been playing and writing songs which is good but if I let a week go by without an entry I'll feel I've failed. Oh blog how you compete me. God what's wrong with me...

So I was feeling a little down on Sunday and I realized the only remedy was to buy a new guitar. I've found this works better than Lexipro and there's not even any nausea afterwards. After a quick review of my last bank statement I realized this would only be possible if I was willing to move into my car for a couple of months. That would be a real problem since my cigarette lighter cannot double as a guitar input and the homeless thing is never a god idea in the middle of the woods when you've got Bigfoot sleeping three trees away. Thankfully I remembered that there was a magic piece of plastic in my wallet called VISA. Oh thank you credit gods. I can already hear the voice over: cost of a new electric guitar: $700-$2000. Pack of strings, leather strap and a Marshall stack: $4000. Spending money you don't have: priceless. I'm pretty sure VISA stands for a Very Impulsive Stupid Act. Still that can be the best kind.

The only real obstacle for me, a southpaw, was actually finding a left -handed guitar that is worth the splurge. Many of my kind are unfairly forced to play upside-down or re-strung right-handed guitars which is a sad disgrace. After all why should I lower myself to a right-handed model? Should I change just so my backwards oppressors don't have to bother catering to my unique and divine orientation? Are me and my left-handed brothers and sisters just supposed to stand by and take these passive forms of rejection? Are we not human? If you cut us with left-handed scissors do we not bleed? Viva lefty revolution I say. The southpaws must fight for what is right...uh...I mean left.

Yes we lefties are known for our limitless passion when it comes to noble causes. The point is that very few music stores carry decent left-handed models. If you're lucky you will probably find a row of dusty out of tune models, probably near a stack of faded Hanson songbooks in a small forgotten cobwebbed corner of the store that most of the stoned out staff isn't even aware of. Then if you're "blessed" enough to find this pathetic gathering of Squires, Epiphones and other pieces of overpriced firewood I guarantee playing any of them will be the last thing you will want to do. So then why would I want to face this cold reality and go guitar shopping? Do I enjoy rejection? Well duh. Still it's like any treasure hunt...you just might get lucky.

My quest was for a decent Fender Stratocaster. My first guitar was a Strat and it's still my favorite guitar. From the beginning I loved the shimmering tone, the sleek body and those single coil pick-ups that reminded me of that classic Hendrix sound. Its voice can scream and wail with the best of them but has a depth that can bring out any feeling you put into it. Some will tell you to avoid the Fender–that it's cheap and never stays in tune but they're usually jaded metal heads or pretentious guitar wankers who lost their soul the minute they started learning sweep arpeggios and Pantera riffs. The Stratocaster is a legend and always will be and even the crappy ones shine with a little soul.

My first stop was The Starving Musician in Santa Cruz which usually has a few used ones but was all out. I checked a few other places with similar luck and finally ended up at Union Grove, one of the oldest music stores in town. Union Grove is fairly big for Santa Cruz and they had a rack of lefties with at least two that weren't absolutely unplayable. The one nice Strat was out of my price range and the other was a Squire, which I have already dissed in this blog but this one wasn't half bad. In case you aren't a guitar geek I should tell you that Squire is the equivalent of Fender's student model, a cheap version of the Stratocaster and a favorite of pimply faced high school kids looking for a way to look cool without blowing their entire paycheck from Burger Town. I speak here from experience. Anyway this one was selling for just $350 and had a nice blonde finish and a decent neck. The tone was thin but it felt good and seemed well worth the price. My cheap guitar lust was building.

I sat down and started checking the intonation and ran through a few string bends and began thinking about important issues such as which t-shirt would look best against the honey glazed finish and how cool the maple neck would look if I could manage to play it behind my head. One must always think of these things when buying a new axe. It was at about this time that I wondered why none of the salespeople had come around to compliment my mastery of classic rock or even offer to plug me in. After all there seemed plenty of them but the one closest to me was too busy flirting with a perky female customer and telling her about the latest Devo record, a stimulating conversation no doubt spurred on by his Devo shirt which he insisted multiple times was "original vintage."

Now I understand that nerds need to procreate but I was in need of assistance if I was going to test-drive this puppy. To my horror when she finally left he walked right by me and back to the front counter so he could play an out of tune classical guitar.

Union Grove has never been one of those places known for service. I know this because I am ignored pretty much every time I go in there. I would say it was my fault, as I occasionally go out of my way to avoid other human beings but the fact remains that I'm usually given decent service at other stores despite my overt misanthropic tendencies. If I sit and start plucking and am ready to drop a pile of Benjamins I should at least get some consideration for my efforts.

Pretty much all I got was a third-rate version of Blackbird and the feeling that my credit was not needed. So after ten minutes of being ignored I let my passive aggressive flag fly and walked out of there. After all I've never like that place and was happy to go to Sylvan's on the West Side where the general douche level isn't nearly as high. Keep your blonde Squire asswipes. You know where you can stick it.

Sylvan's had no lefties either but it was a nice reminder that there are music shops that make an effort to acknowledge your existence. After a quick browse it was off to San Jose and Guitar Showcase but even that didn't yield any great finds. As much as I hated it I had to admit defeat.

The whole reason I was so desperate to find a new Fender is that my main one needs electrical repair and my old one is in dire need of a new neck. It's my favorite sound but I haven't been able to jam on a Strat for over a year. Now I'm not complaining and luckily I have a nice Telecaster and a Gibson to make up for the absence but it's just not the same. A guitar is a voice, a tool you use to say how you feel and for me the Strat says it best. The Tele is there for when I'm feeling a country twang and the Gibson is there when I want to really stick it to the man and shred some Zeppelin licks but the Strat is always closest to my heart and my voice.

I thought about fixing my old one but for some reason I felt like something new. Sometimes guitars remind you too much of the past and other bands and now that I have a new project I want to start fresh.

After some thought I realized that I could have a new Strat without even spending my non-existent money. All I had to do was take the neck of my broken Strat and replace the worn neck on my old one. It's a Frankenstrat but I think it will work.

The only issue is that the old body needed new saddles on the bridge and I'm missing two. In case you're wondering saddles are what the string sits on top of on the bridge. There are no spurs. The only problem is that once again I need left handed saddles which cost twice as much but on the advice of someone at Sylvan's I emailed Fender and asked them to throw me a bone.

To help my chances I told them that I would sing their praises in my blog and believe it or not it worked. So does that mean I'm exploiting my blog now for personal gain? Damn right. Praise the power of the blog. Oh by the way Fender is the greatest guitar manufacturer in the universe and they make the best saddles.

Sure maybe they would have sent me those saddles anyway. Still I'd like to think it is pure blog power.

Jesus it's 2 am. I've got a rehearsal for a Christmas concert with an old bandmate (Mary McLaughlin) at some church. It's piano accompaniment for a Gaelic choir so no blue notes but it will be nice to play with her again. Anyway I've got to get to sleep. I'll try and remember to fix my egregious spelling so I can pretend I know how to spell egregious. I hate that instant spell check in Word. My blogs got more red streaks than a tampon. Good god that was offensive. I'm keeping it.

By the way the band is going great and I will fill you all in on our progress. It's a horrible habit but I sometimes only write about the things that go wrong. You people seem to find that kind of thing entertaining. Sickos. Anyway we are back in the saddle (the other kind) and I'm really feeling close to the guys and the music is getting better every week. At this rate we'll be playing shows in no time.

God bless everyone. Even the douche bags at Union Grove. Keep on rocking and go Giants. 'Till next time...

Another Bump on the Path

2010-10-10T10:56:00.001-07:00

I spent Monday transforming my tiny back room into a blues den, taking out a narrow bookshelf and my favorite orange recliner. When it was done there was more than enough room for the bass and drums and the latest addition to the band, a Roland electric organ from the early eighties we picked up at the Starving Musician. When it was all done I moved my computer to a corner of the room and began setting up a P.A. for vocals and organ, carefully organizing the Linguini like mass of cords and cables so it would be out of everyone’s way. The last step was to connect the audio interface into the computer so I could finally record and hear what Studio Felton was truly capable of. Of course since this was the last step in completing my studio I should have known that something was going to go wrong.

I plugged the unit into the wall socket and immediately noticed the light wasn’t going on. This was soon followed by what sounded like a trio of Jimmy Deans sizzling in a greased skillet. Now while this is one of the most magnificent sounds I can think of it’s still not a good thing to hear outside the kitchen. Soon after that, possibly for an encore, I was treated to a puff of smoke blowing out of the input jack. Bravo.

Naturally at this time I began to think about breakfast and if we even had any sausages left since I wasn’t going to be doing any recording anytime soon and what better way to get my mind off of this unfortunate reality and possibly life itself than a nice cardiac inducing breakfast?

Still I had to come up with something so I rigged up a mic to two speakers and ran the organ through a practice amp and hoped for the best.

With Shabby Road completed I headed out for then the next essential ingredient in any rehearsal studio: lots and lots of cold beer. It also occurred to me to replace my fried interface but since the royalty checks aren’t flooding in just yet I figured beer would be a sounder financial investment. After all if everyone was loaded they might not even notice that half of the band was completely inaudible.

I pulled my battered Corolla into the Safeway parking lot and made my way into Felton’s seediest supermarket. Now that’s not to say that I have anything against Safeway or am even making some grandiose political statement about the Safeway chain or it’s fine line of Safeway Select products. It’s just that this particular Safeway seems to have a higher percentage of psychos combing it’s dimly lit aisles than other locations. Again I’m not making any value judgment and would never dissuade anyone from visiting the Felton Safeway. After all it’s the only place I shop.

Right away I could hear an old Rick Springfield hit as I swung a brown plastic basket off a pile and made my way to the beer fridge. Color me nostalgic but there’s nothing like early eighties power pop to get those shopping juices flowing. After my usual scan of the imported and domestic options my eyes zeroed in on a case of Pacifico, a Mexican beer and a favorite of Slade’s. It wasn’t my first choice but being that he drinks it religiously I grabbed it and fit it snugly in my now tiny basket. After my usual crawl by the bread, I passed by Oscar Meyer and then noticed a selection of bananas, stacked far from the produce section in front of the dairy case. Naturally I started thinking about bananas, which I suppose was the point in placing them near their lunchtime companions but instead of grabbing a bunch I just kept thinking about how they seemed like outsiders cornered there between the luncheon meat and the Lucerne dairy case. Then I realized bananas are really loners in the fruit universe and are always destined for a different path then their produce compadres. Perhaps they had actually been put there to teach us all a little something about being different. Safeway can be deep.

Passing by the meat I noticed some guy in torn overalls and an overgrown white beard having a discussion with a package of discounted chicken tenders. I had seen him before but usually near the baked beans. I supposed he was spreading his message throughout the store, possibly organizing the poultry section and the canned goods for some kind of uprising. I laughed and then came to the realization that this man could be me in twenty years. I made a mental note to go back to the bananas and tell them to escape while there was still time.

On my way to checkout I grabbed a couple of cardboard crust pizzas on special in case anybody needed a snack. As I grooved towards the express lane I passed the parade of familiar checkers: the tall chubby twenty-something in glasses who’s always reviewing the latest Xbox first person shooter; the dark-haired thirty-something cherub faced girl I remember from high school but avoid out of awkwardness; the older fifty something Pat Boone look-a-like who seems unnaturally happy to be there and of course the row of baggers who silently pack it all in and pretend to listen to their inane conversations.

When I got to the fifteen items or less line it was being manned by Mike, a quiet guy with a dark side who’s got the kind of seething look that says he’s ready to drop kick anyone’s ass who thinks they can come to the express checkout with anything over fifteen items. A real supermarket badass. I swiped my card and we both grunted as he scanned the box of Pacifico and peered over at the chubby guy on register three with a mildly murderous gaze. “Club card?” he asked. I typed in my phone number remembering the pizzas were on special. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him mouthing the words to some rap song I’d never heard of. It could’ve possibly been metal but since you rarely hear the phrase “bitchface” in hard rock I’m guessing it was a selection from the gangsta era. Either that or he was trying to tell me something. Whatever the case I pressed a few buttons, grunted farewell and headed back to the Corolla.

That evening, as the beer was chilling and the pizzas were cooking I heard a car pull up the dirt drive way. I made out the sound of muffled banter and knew the rhythm section had arrived. It was just after seven pm and Mirian was working late but it was time to get my mountain studio in gear.

I opened the door and felt a wisp of the nearly fall breeze hit my neck. Slade was the first to notice the smell from the oven. “I guess something’s cooking,” he said closing the door behind.

“Got some clearance pizzas. Three bucks each at Safeway.”

“My mouth is already watering.”

Joaquin craned his neck above the doorway and saw a member of my extensive art collection, a large collage piece he had made and given me a while back and gave a smile. Since everybody was in a good mood I felt ready to test out the new space. For some reason Slade wasn’t drinking that night but I had faith the Pacifco would not go to waste.

We all filed into the backroom and started warming up. I sat down at my antique upright grand piano and started plugging away at a series of gospel tinged chord progressions. Right away I could feel this new space was less than a miracle. The sound was muddy and because the piano was facing the front wall I couldn’t see anyone. My makeshift P.A. system had no gain and could barely be heard and to make matters even worse there was no plastic Swordfish to get us all in the mood.

When Mirian came we went through the three songs we’ve been practicing and smoothed out some rough edges but I think everyone agreed that studio Felton was a far cry from our usual digs. All in all it felt like another setback.

The plan now is to go to plan C, which means we return to the old studio with a curfew. I’m hoping that we can find some way of deadening the noise so we wont have to quit so early but if we can all get there by 6:30 that will give us a good three hours. Personally I’m fine with it because it’s a great space and it will be nice to get in my corner again where I can actually see everybody and hear what I’m doing. I’m just not quite sure when that will be.

Thursday’s practice was put on hold so this week we’ve barely played. I know we’ve had setbacks but it’s important to not loose the momentum we’ve built up. Once we loose a week we have to try and remember what we did and then we end up just going over the same parts and pretty soon everyone’s bored and suddenly the idea of resigning my evenings to reality television and microwave popcorn doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. I’m not saying that will happen but I know we got a little derailed. The goal for next week is to get everybody on track again.

This week has been hard for both Mirian and me. I’m now addicted to the band and being without that gets me into a funk that’s hard to beat. Usually when I’m in a group I end up playing less at home since it suddenly feels incomplete. Still I can’t over react. Life outside the music is still good and work is going well. Can’t be too selfish and I have to remind myself that at this time last year I was literally picking up dog feces for a living. I’ll have more on that later.

Another plus is that even though last practice was less than stellar I managed to record some on my computer and was impressed by what I heard. It’s actually something I’d want to listen to. Even though that may sound strange one has to realize that while some music may be fun to play it’s not always the masterpiece you’d like it to be. I’ve played in enough stoner jam bands to learn this difficult lesson.

This project just feels different and the songs are getting tighter and more solid. I can hardly wait to perform them and get free beer for my efforts. Just have to be patient and have faith. Not even ABBA was built in a day.

If this Cabin's a Rocking....

2010-10-02T10:04:00.000-07:00

   I got to rehearsal Tuesday with the feeling I could finally start to let go of some of my anxiety and just cut loose. The band had finally come together and though a few edges were a little ragged we were all falling into the same groove. The music was taking on a shape of its own and even if I couldn’t find anything on the radio or during anyone of my countless YouTube trances to make me feel something it
didn’t matter because we were creating it. If no one ever listened or cared it wouldn’t have gotten to me as long as we could just keep playing. All that mattered was the feeling it gave me; that same feeling I had when I was a teenager, staring at my bedroom ceiling in my own darkened universe with just my headphones and the music to guide me. For some people that’s the only real feeling there is. But as the blues will tell you nothing is ever that simple and if it is it doesn’t last. You’ve always got to fight to hold on to it. I got the news before I cracked the top of my first beer. “We’ve got an asshole of a problem,” said Slade. He was sitting at the recording console, the familiar squeak in the wheels of his faded
office chair at a dead calm. “Last practice the neighbor complained that she could hear bass and drums at ten at night.” I just shook my head and grabbed a beer from the fridge. “And to think some people
pay for that,” I mumbled. “It’s no joke. I like this woman and we cannot piss her off.” I could hear Joaquin tap a brush against the snare drum. “So what’s our next move?” He asked. “Another layer of soundproofing?” “If you’ve got a few grand laying around. Right now I’m just looking for
a rope to tie to the end of the ceiling fan and end it all before sunrise.” “Oh take it easy,” I burped.
“Easy for you to say. You didn’t build the studio with your own hands. This was going to be the place–maybe the only place I could come to and not have to deal with any limits. Just a place I could let go of all that shit and just play some music. Now could somebody hand me a rope or at least get me a fucking beer?” I looked and saw two bottles next to his keyboard, both recently acquired and both empty.
“What about us finishing early?’ Asked Joaquin.
“She said we could do six to nine…that would be like being in fucking
Kindergarten.”
“What about nights she’s not at home? Does she like the nightlife?” I
asked.
“She’s home every night. She’s got a baby.”
“Is she single?”
“Yes”
“What if we found her a dude?”
“She’s a lesbian.” I took another gulp from the frosty bottle and shook
my head. Something told me we weren’t going to win this battle.
Nobody was really sure why she hadn’t said anything the first
few nights. Maybe she was waiting for us to get comfortable and
secure in our sacred jam factory before she dropped the bomb. Fun
Police are like that.

   We all banged our head against the wall for a while thinking of options. There was no way Slade wanted to piss off any neighbors. Aside from that the thought of renting out another rehearsal space for a few hundred a month just so we could all hear some methed-out Van Halen cover band in the next room play Hot for Teacher until 2 AM was not sitting too well with any of us. The studio was supposed to be the answer to everything, a nice clean place where we could get mean and dirty with walls thick enough to make it sound like we were in a Tibetan monastery. The only positive thing gained from our
discussion was Joaquin’s idea that our new band name should be The Setbacks. Add another one to the name pile. Mirian got there late and arrived to see the rest of the crew looking down and dejected. We gave her the news and she blew out a sigh. Then I finally had an idea. It was crazy and impulsive but
that’s how they always come. “We can always play at my place,” I said. There was a beat of silence followed by a smirk or two. “You mean you’re hillbilly cabin you nutcase?” said Slade. “Why not? I’ve got a piano and if I move out the bookshelf from the back room and all the furniture we could set up the drums.”
“Where would you put everything?” Joaquin asked.
“I haven’t planned that far ahead. Might have to have a bonfire of
some kind.”
“Please–does anybody have any rope? Doesn’t have to be too long,”
whined Slade.
“What about the neighbors?” said Joaquin.
“All I know is that I have an upright piano set up and I’ve banged it at all hours and nobody’s said anything. That’s the whole reason I moved to the woods in the first place.” I looked at Mirian and it didn’t seem like she wanted to kill me. I had a flash of that scene in the Godfather when Michael had the idea to whack Mc Cluskey and Sollozo. At last my defining moment had come. Now I admit the cabin is small, which is the nature of cabins. Any bigger and it it would be a lodge for Chrissake. The one thing going for it is you have some freedom to get loud. I knew this thanks in part to a series of highly controlled scientifically precise experiments. Like the time I cranked an over-driven Les Paul through
my tube amp and played every seventies classic rock riff I knew. When it was done I received no complaints and even swore I heard applause after my five-minute homage to Freebird. After the axe test I turned up some classic biker rock on my stereo full blast and walked out into the road in the dead of night. Amazingly I couldn’t hear anything ten feet out of the cabin. All I could make out was nature’s own built in noise canceling system: the trickle of the stream that ran outside my window and the breeze through the redwoods. It was a great feeling and even though I probably wasn’t going to crank Burn by Deep Purple at midnight it was nice to know it was still a possibility…as was the option of any kind of goat sacrifice I may have needed to get done at the same time. Since we had nothing to loose but a night of brooding we all agreed to give it a try. Slade seemed okay with it as long as we made a beer stop on the way and he didn’t have to get off the couch. Joaquin as usual was open for anything. Mirian probably thought I had lost my mind completely but didn’t say anything. All in all it was a
typical Tuesday night.

   My plan was simple: we’d bring in the two main sonic offenders, the kick drum and the bass cab and play them full blast. I’d go out of the cabin to assess the damage and if it wasn’t too loud we’d have
our new rehearsal space. Of course I wouldn’t have a bedroom anymore but thankfully we still had a loft to sleep in. The only fear I had was an altercation with the neighbors who I hardly knew anything
about. You can call it a fear of the unknown or a skewed view of the backwoods. I call it a life-long social phobia and watching Deliverance one to many times. Whatever it was it wasn’t making anything easier. We got to the cabin and set up the kick and snare drum for the first test with Joaquin tight in the corner of the room. Slade grabbed a beer and settled in on the couch continued ranting about his forthcoming suicide and his studio blues. Joaquin blasted the kick drum and it sounded good and full. I told him to start pounding as I headed outside and up the small hill between the back of my cabin
and the neighbor’s place. When I got there I could still hear it thundering out of the cabin. The jam prognosis was not good. Back inside I realized the bedroom window was open halfway and told Joaquin to do a second test. By this time Slade was on beer number two and had a few things to say about the black naval commander’s jacket I had picked up at the Goodwill and had chosen to wear that evening. “What the hell is that on your sleeve?” He asked me, tilting the neck of the bottle towards the gold book insignia stitched onto my left arm. I hadn't even noticed it. “What are you–the
goddamned ship librarian for shit’s sake?”
“And what if I am’ I said, now sweating from my small series of hill
sprints. “I've got stripes too’ I reminded him. “Hell I'm a commander.”
“You look like a freaking elf to me.”
“Fine. Are you done?” Slade turned his head towards the back room.
“Hey Joaq...who was that captain on the Loveboat?”
“Captain Stubin” said Joaquin, without missing a beat.
“Ha ha...Captain Stubin it is.”

“Whatever,” I said and headed back up hill to check the difference a window makes. Once back up I paced around for a moment, unsure if I could hear anything. For a second it sounded like a light thud but I couldn’t really tell. Somehow I knew something wasn’t right. I skidded back through the darkness and bolted into the cabin where Slade, Joaquin and Mirian were all sitting and having an impromptu beer party. I could see the brushes resting on the snare drum. “What the hell is this?” I yelled.
“Oh sorry man” said Joaquin. “I'll get right on it Captain.” Slade raised his beer and gave me an “Ahoy” as I sneered and headed back out. The closed window made a difference but not enough to deaden the smack of that kick drum. Now the only thing left to do was the one thing I had been dreading most…talking to the neighbors and pleading with them to help me keep the band, and possibly myself,
alive. I convinced Mirian to come with me and let her do most of the talking since she has a way of putting people at ease. Even me occasionally. “You know you’re being ridiculous,’ she told me.
“I’m just being cautious that’s all.”
“You’re paranoid.”
“Well it’s sort of a fine line.”
I had moved to Felton so I wouldn’t have to deal with anybody and now I was doing it at 9:30 at night with no idea when their rabid fur ball would lunge out of the bushes and sever one if not both of my
testicles. Good times.
   We made our way to the double decker stack of cabins across the way and squeezed through a protective dog gate as I felt my legs begin to shake. Mirian knocked and I could hear the Giants game on
and smell cigarettes mingle with the damp redwoods. The door opened as an older man with thin white hair and a towel robe greeted us with a smile through a smoky haze. “Hey there,” he said,. “What
can I do you guys for?”
“We live next door and we were wondering if the noise was bothering you. We have some people over and we were playing some music
and––”
“Music? Gosh no–we love it. We hear you guys playing and we can't
get enough. You guys go on and play your heads out. By the way I’m
Fred and the wife is Donna.” We introduced ourselves and I could
feel the stress slowly dissipating.
“You sure it isn’t too late?” I asked again.
“Not on your life.” Just then a figure in loose pajamas weaved slowly out of the bedroom. I had seen her before but this time her dyed red hair looked like she had taken a ride on some kind of a mechanical
bull. Perhaps its name was Fred. “Hell” she said. "What’s the point of moving to the woods if you can't get loud sweet cakes?”
“As long as the Giants win its all gravy for me,” chimed Fred.
We thanked them and headed upstairs to talk with the other neighbor, a young college age girl who told us not to worry and party to our hearts content. Screw the media’s twisted perceptions. Inbred
or not I say mountain folk rule. I told the band and we felt a little better now that we could jam with abandon. Life was suddenly feeling good. “Nice job,’ said Slade. But now it's all on your padded shoulders.” He was right. Before this he was in charge of dialing in the PA and miking the band and now suddenly it was my responsibility. I hadn’t of even thought about it. Somehow I had forgotten that I was a lazy spaced out neurotic. Not only that I had just dedicated the only free room in my tiny mountain
shack to be a rehearsal studio for a blues rock band. I hate when that happens.

   So that’s where I’ll leave you. I figure it will take me a few days to set everything up and rearrange my life to keep the band afloat. But I guess I can do it. Hell I'm a captain now and its time to get those
sea legs in shape. Just have to remember my Dramamine.

2010-09-26T10:06:00.001-07:00

I've been trying to think of names. They really should have band name books. I mean if you can pick a baby name...

Originally I came up with the name "Peekabone." At first it was a joke but I kept saying it. The way I see it we should have something creative and snappy enough to remember. Also it should feel good when you say it.

"real" band names I like:

The Cramps

The Kinks

The Hives ( basically any name that sounds like a formal diagnosis )

The Animals

Led Zeppelin

My Bloody Valentine

Justin Bieber

Other original ideas I'm just bouncing: (keep in mind the prefix "Dr." can be substituted with either "Professor" or in some reported cases. "Captain."

Freak Magnet

Bobs Still Dead

Dr. Lazlo and The Low Plains Grifters

Sackpony

Dr. Stride and his Boomtown Serenaders

Take the Cannoli

13th Avenue

Midnight Medicine Show and Revue

Brittany's Dead

Muffhound Ballaz

Captain Chelicious and the Capitola Freedom fighters

Trust me...we'lll find the one once we're ready. Once we know who we are we will know the name. It will come my droogies...

FYI I vote for Sackpony

2010-09-26T10:05:00.001-07:00

Yesterday, Ms. M and I started the day by stopping at the local Goodwill to check out their annual Halloween extravaganza. Racks were squeezed tight with uniforms for all my favorite professions: fortunetellers, princesses, firemen and commanding officers. While the giddy shopped for October 31st I took my time and picked out a red blazer from the seventies, a Naval Captains jacket and a bounty of vintage ties. Mirian found a matching captain’s jacket and I knew we were both ready to set sail.

Some people pick one day out of the year to dress up and loose themselves to fantasy. For me it’s a lifestyle.

After finding our vintage treasures we dropped the threads in the jalopy (retro speak for white Honda Civic) and went downtown. I had on an olive blazer and a pair of cheap shades on and was feeling relaxed and strangely at peace with the odd creatures around me. As Mirian headed to stash some cash at the ATM I waited near a street side café and surveyed the cars cruising down Pacific avenue. As my mind began to drift a guy wearing a goatee walked up to me and started talking. “Do I know you?" he asks. I look him over and wonder if we had crossed paths but I can't really tell. “You look like that guy who co-starred in that movie’ he tells me. Did you ever see Drugstore Cowboy?”

“Maybe” I say, remembering William S. Burroughs was in that one.

“Man” he continues. “I dig your style. You got the moves and the voice too. Did you see the Outsiders?”

“Yeah” I tell him, suddenly feeling like I’m in the wrong business. He goes on to ask me what I do and where I’m from. He tells me he’s from San Jose and is in town to see some jazz. People are always coming to Santa Cruz to see characters. I guess I’m one of them.

Most of the time I try to be something I’m not. I want to fit in so I end up being some strange perversion of myself. Sometimes it feels better that way. Like you’re invisible. Only problem is that it gets boring being just another zombie.

Sure I’m a weirdo but then we all are. All hiding in our own way. Keeping that soul under wraps until we feel safe or in control. It’s good to remember that when the curtain rises we’re all characters in the same sideshow. The only real freaks are the ones who never want to come out and play.

Later that night we headed to Hulas, a sort of tiki lounge/restaurant. We sat under paintings of hula girls set against velvet walls and watched a crowd gather outside. The smell of cigarettes blew in from the street and only added to the experience. It was nicer than going to some overpriced yuppie joint where every plate looks like a Kandinsky and you leave feeling confused and hungry. Here I felt right. There was certain seediness in the air that was more than smoke. I guess that’s all it takes to make me feel at home.

Our drinks came in huge ceramic mugs bearing the likenesses of magical tiki-gods. At least that’s what they looked like. After a few of those I silently sent to them a prayer to thank them for their wonder juice. Then we headed to Moes Alley to see Pato Banton. Pato didn’t get started till eleven and by that time the room was spinning so much it felt like I was at the Boardwalk, watching a reggae show from the carousel. I couldn’t have asked for more.

Its Saturday afternoon and I’m slowly returning to orbit…the coffee helps along with listening to “Miles Runs the Voodoo Down.”

I invited the band to a bbq but we’ll see. Gotta take it easy today and remind myself I’m still financially challenged (among other things). Thankfully we still know how to have a good time on a budget. All you really need is a second hand naval jacket and the right attitude and good times will beat a path to your door. I suddenly feel like Doogie Howser for some reason. Cue theme music and fade out.

2010-09-24T12:31:00.001-07:00

Had rehearsal last night in the newly remodeled studio, complete with blanketed walls to help the sound. Eventually Slade wants to put up some baffling (that’s what they call it...basically looks like big eggo waffles (sans strawberry syrup) hanging on the wall to absorb sound) but those are expensive and we have to wait for the money to roll in before we install those puppies but by that time we'll be rolling in the big time and burning hotel rooms and kicking it in Abbey Road so we wont even need a bunch of waffles hanging from the ceiling to get our rock on...I guess that’s what they call a paradox. Damn.

Apparently we were having a little too much fun last night and the neighbors complained about the "noise." Typical. I mean what kind of enlightened being doesn’t enjoy a soothing drum solo and throbbing bass riff pulsating down your back at 10:30 at night? Not to mention my gospel tinged piano solo complete with church organ accompaniment. I'm beginning to seriously loose hope for the world. Anyway I guess we have to tone it down...huh. Tone it down. Did they tell Picasso to tone it down? Did they tell the Who not to blow up their amps? Devo not to dress like potatoes? Art is about rebellion...REVOLUTION.... there’s more important things than the neighbors (sheep) getting to sleep just so they can wake up and grease the machine. VIVA ROCK!

All right so I guess I was out of line a little but if you struttin' you make your own lines. Still I know it’s not cool to have a psycho rant and I'm still getting slack from my old lady (this is how bluesmen talk BTW) 'bout my Bieber tirade. I guess its just that everything always changes and the climate is never constant and all that spreadable easy cheese drippin' off my cosmic cracker at the moment. I just look around and see a world trying to wipe itself clean...auto-tuning the blue notes and going robot. I miss soul music...the good kind. I guess I just miss soul period. When I'm downtown and I see how Santa Cruz has changed from a place where the gloriously unwashed could come and pull sprouts out of their beard and listen to them play some funky jazz at the Cooper House to a place where you can Sashimi over a ten buck martini and talk about your Lamborghini. Jesus I've written another song. where was I...oh yeah...another time I guess. Buncha dirty hippies blah blah blah. Still sometimes people get so obsessed with getting clean they forget how good it feels to be dirty. Not in the creepy sense so much but just not so straight...a little funk here and there. A style all your own instead of just the latest look. A burst of your own creativity. I look around and I see judgment. Not just in the streets but also on the tube...all the TV shows come with panels ready to judge. One endless game. In the end competition is the only goal. Anything great must be cultivated over time and distilled. Competition is about ego. Art is about finding your own song and once you've got that you've eliminated the competition.

Guess I’m frazzled. Everything that I wanted to have happen is happening but at the same time all those demons resurface and remind me how hard it is to hold on to that passion. Every time I get close to something it feels like an obstacle course. The same things keep tripping me up along the way. So far I've gotten farther because I've managed to learn a few paths along the way but I know there are always those traps waiting for me up the road. Still I've got to be strong. Last night I felt like the weak link in the room for half the rehearsal. Usually I'm just playing but playing, singing and listening to everybody and all the changes and drinking cheap beer and forgetting the lyrics and being faced with my limitations takes no small buttload of coordination and discipline. Then I get into an argument with the misses because I took credit for her keyboard part and suddenly I'm ready to give up and go back to the monastery. FWI I want to formally apologize. That cool organ part was hers all hers and I probably took credit only because I was feeling insecure and I cant always remember everything especially who wrote what because when I was writing it I could barely see anything through the constant haze of pot smoke and I'm a weak petty self absorbed ass pimple who needs to get popped.

Still I just assumed it was mine because it sounded so good. Honestly since we've been playing in the band her playing has gone through the roof. What can I say. I'm one helluva teacher.

Practice is set for next Tuesday. In the meantime I've got to relax. I put a lot of pressure on myself. It feels like there’s a warden pacing the halls of my head ready to baton my fragile soul when I screw up. I don't know how he got there but he's on 24 hour soul patrol and if I don't break out he's going to turn me into a slave. My theory is the Man put him there sometime when I was a kid. Still I can't let his kind get me down. Time to get Shawshank on his ass. Word.

2010-09-17T21:14:00.001-07:00

Okay enough ranting. I realize sometimes I fixate on the negative. I'm always staring at the ground and never seem to notice the sun comes. My death fixation and various delusions of persecution also tend to undermine my better intentions. So I'll try and see the sun just a little bit...even though death is sexy and conspiracies continue to lurk around every corner...

Last Tuesday we had our second full band practice and it was better than I could have expected. For the first time in years I actually felt the joy of making music. Imagine that. Tuesday was about the thrill of collaboration and building something from the ground up. I brought the songs, and a rough outline of where I wanted to go. Slade, aka "The Bass Burglar" aka "Slade Dawg" aka "Big Poppa" is a general contractor who knows more than a thing or two about building a steady foundation. With a slightly over-driven tone he laid down a solid groove that beefed up the low end and gave it some down home country funk. Joaquin aka "The Machine" is one of the greatest drummers I've ever played behind. Its not just how he beats those skins but it's how he understands the music. The first song we did, "Better days" was a straight ahead boogie woogie jam but the nuances he added gave it a funky crazy edge I didnt know was there. In his own words the song sounds like "Freddie Mercury meets Danny Elfman." A compliment...although he could've just meant I sounded gay and creepy. Whatever. Our other member, last but not least, is Mirian Song on organ/piano/ukelele aka "Triple Threat" aka "Kimberly Chee" aka "My Girlfriend." She's an amazing and beautiful woman who gets more beautiful everyday and is actually one of the only people that reads my blog regularly. By the way what are we having for dinner tonight?

We practice in Slades rehearsal space in his backyard, which he built by himself. It's cozy and blue and the fridge is brimming with beer. I love this man. I'm also thrilled that they are all behind me for this project. For years I have always been a follower, getting in bands that were heading nowhere just so I could feel like I was a part of something. Still I learned alot in those years and if the journey had not been such a struggle I doubt the music would have felt this good. Next practice is set for Sunday and I'm told we will have recording gear set up. I'm curious to see how I sound since I'm so busy listening to everyone else. Still I must be doing something right. Maybe the key is just to have a blast and not think about it.

When I was in Venice I went with Mirian and Silvia to a shop called Gentleman's Breakfast and picked out a pair of vintage glasses. They finally came and the bluish gray frames make me feel like a zobi-fied Buddy Holly. Nice. I have no idea where this path will takee. Should be interesting...

Kick the Crate

2010-09-17T21:13:00.001-07:00

I’m sitting at work alone listening to the neighbor practice the marimba. At least that’s what I think she’s doing. As far as I’m concerned after two hours of practice any instrument the neighbor is playing officially becomes a torture device. And if that weren’t bad enough she doesn’t seem to be getting any better. This has been going on for a few weeks now and I’m starting to feel like that dude in A Clockwork Orange. Something tells me I’m never going to be able to watch the Jungle Book or anything marimba related without screaming. Oh the horror of it all.

Speaking of horror I felt especially masochistic the other day and sat through ten minutes of the Video Music Awards on MTV. If you have any doubt that we a re a culture under siege by forces of indescribable evil just watch the MTV my friend. My first instinct was to turn away and escape into the sanctuary of Netflix but I realized I needed to face the music. Even if it was Justin Bieber.

While I sat there drinking heavily and watching uber choreographed dance moves that were somewhere between the Mouseketeers and an SS rally I couldn’t help begin to feel like something was horribly horribly wrong with the world. Now that’s not to say that this little fetus in Adidas hasn’t got any talent. As far as I’m concerned most people in the music business, with the exception of maybe Taylor Swift and the entire cast of Glee, have actual talent. The only problem is that they all whore themselves out for the marketing machine and start singing for Proactive. Real talent is bad for business. I mean if people started actually enjoying the music it would distract them from shopping. Hell they might even get naked, wake up and start a revolution. Some might even forget to charge their ipads.

Anyway I was told not to rant. But it does piss me off. Bieber and his ilk remind me of seeing old TV shows from the fifties when Pat Boone and other squeaky clean saccharine crooners infiltrated the airwaves with their own brand of bubblegum. Then it was Dick Clark and Dion and now its Justin Beiber and Ryan Seacrest and the cast of Glee, botoxed and auto-tuned and ready to brainwash another generation. It wouldn’t be so bad if there was some real music out there to balance the crap but ever since America was sold to the corporate scum lords anything good has been ejected from the mainstream. If you ask me its time for a revolution my Droogies.

Last weekend I was in Venice Ca visiting my girlfriend’s sister Silvia and her husband Patrick. Very good times. Saturday started with Karaoke at the parent’s house with Korean barbeque and enough Coors lite to stock a frat party. I even got a Korean name thanks in part to my stirring passionate rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody. I can’t spell the name it but it sounds like “Jay-Eel” which I’m sure means superstar but in all likelihood probably means “tone deaf white boy.”

After that I went out with Patrick and his friend Pete to O’Brians, a bar over on Main st. We got there and filled our pint glasses with the good stuff and headed to the back room. A duo was warming up on stage and though they looked a little too OC I figured enough beers would somehow turn them into Sam & Dave. Not so. From the first whining syllable to the last painfully plucked G chord I could tell that nothing, not even their immovable ironed emo cuts was going to save them from their inherent mediocrity. Needless to say we had to get the hell out of there.

We got a late night munch from a Vietnamese taco truck parked outside. It was quite tasty and the L.A. air felt balmy and soothing. L.A. summer nights have a noir feel, the kind of feeling that takes you outside of yourself and leads you into darkened places you wouldn’t usually roam. If I hadn’t been with the guys I probably would have wandered off and woken up in a dumpster somewhere. Maybe next time.

We headed back towards the beach to another bar that was a little seedier but it was closed by the time we got there. From what I heard a lot of the great L.A. haunts have been taken over by the hipster crowd. Maybe it’s always been like that and maybe I’m cynical but more and more I see money moving in and the real soul moving out. It reminds me of what happened to the Fillmore during “urban redevelopment” and it’s getting worse. Back in the day in S.F. you could sit in a smoky jazz club and watch Coltrane play My Favorite Things. Today you can sit in Starbucks and watch assholes suck soy lattes. Once again the poor and middle class in this country, the backbone, are being crushed and squeezed. Without them this whole country is in traction. But I’m not going to let that ruin a good day and a great night. All I can say is thank God for cheap beer and Vietnamese tacos.

We walked through the deserted Venice strip with the salty sea in our noses and a warm breeze on our backs. The buzz that had started with a Coors lite and a karaoke machine was trailing off nicely and I could feel myself slowly coming back to Earth. Somehow I kept thinking about the bad emo band and how its hard to feel anything real anymore without breaking something. Then up ahead we saw something sitting in the middle of the path, bathed in the white glow of a streetlamp. As we got closer I heard Patrick ask if anyone wanted to “kick the crate.” That’s when I saw one of those brown plastic crates you see stacked in the back of the supermarket just sitting alone. “Kick the crate” brought to mind a song by the great Bill Kirchen called Bump Wood. The lyrics go:

Late in the evening I'll be alright

If I get a little supper and a kiss goodnight

And if the sun starts sinking down into a dream

Of the darkest night that I ever have seen

Then I'll open my eyes and see that it's fine

When I raise up my head and it don't hit pine

It don't hit pine, no it don't hit pine

When I wake up in the morning, then it's gonna be good

If I stick out my elbows and they don't bump wood

That crate reminded of me of how good it is to still be breathing and not in a box. Sometimes all you have to do when the shit gets you down and it feels like you’re sinking six feet under is to kick the crate open to remind you you’re still alive. That night it was Patrick that took the first shot, sending that box to the edge of the beach. I found it and knocked it with the side of my foot, the plastic skidding against the pavement as I got it in position and pounded it with a good dose of sneaker rubber. I watched it scrape into the darkness, feeling my toes burn with a pain I haven’t felt since gym class; a throbbing ache that makes your toenails curl into your socks and your legs quiver. A minute later I nailed it again, but this time even harder. After that I couldn’t feel anything, not the burning pain or my toenails ripping or even that crappy emo band. All I felt was that warm L.A. air, the salty breeze in my throat and how good it was to be alive and kicking in Venice beach.

2010-09-02T20:44:00.001-07:00

Forgive me great god of the blogisphere for I have been neglecting your call. I suppose I could write everyday but it might get a little intense for some readers. As you probably know I lead a very extreme lifestyle. While I may not go around rollerblading through volcanoes or get written up in the tabloids for my latest meltdown in rehab I still get my share of adrenaline pumping thrills . Why just yesterday when I ventured out of my woodland cabin to put the garbage out I nearly had my nuts chewed off by the five pound psychotic furball from hell that lives next door. Now I can't exactly help it if the garbage cans are technically in his "territory" can I? He's one of those angry little mutts that looks like a cross between a terrier and a toilet brush. I don't know what his name is but as soon as I get my team of Pittbulls his name will be Lunch.

The music is coming along and I have had two rehearsals with the band. I'm looking to do at least two a week to get something going and Slade, the bass maestro has said that he's in. He's got limited time but a great studio and if we can make it happen I have little doubt it will be something special. Drummer Joaquin is also interested and a fantastic player but he occasionally ventures into alternate realities and it's hard to know when he's going to come down. All the material is written so I'm just waiting and practicing something called patience which does not come easy for me. Once it starts to gather speed I will have much to write about. For now I'm focusing on nut eating dogs.

This weekend it's off to L.A. for time with my girlfriend Mirian's parents who I've only met once before. They speak no English but enjoy beer, BBQ and karaoke. Sounds to me like we speak the same language. I'm also going to see Silvia and Patrick, Miran's sister and her husband. Whatever extreme adventures transpire I promise to keep you all updated.

2010-08-19T12:54:00.001-07:00

I've been putting off writing until my next band rehearsal but since that might be sometime in the next decade I figured I'd stroke a few keys in the meantime and let my fans( all two of you ) know what's happening. My bassist has been busy which is understandable. He has a family and I suppose in his mind children come before rocking. Talk about having your priorities out of whack. Does he not know I'm trying to get a band together? They say children are the future but whatever loser said that never heard one of my tasty extended guitar solos. Seriously this madness has got to stop.

I'm restless at this point. Each day away from my goal of rock greatness chips away at my sensitive poetic soul. Maybe I should switch over to plan B and start that cult I've been thinking of. Get my profit on and start spreading the WORD...find a few dozen followers and put them to work in my hammock factory. Then I could lounge around all day preaching the gospel while my minions slave away in the name of eternal salvation. Cha-ching. Still what would I do with all these great jams dancing around in my head? And do I even look sexy in a robe? Shit...it's just not right. Screw the hammocks and the virgin slaves. I have arenas to rock.

I've been working out. But you probably knew that. I know I'm not popular in the gym due to my lame attempts to wipe down the treadmill after my forty minute sweat session but screw it I smell good. Seriously I've been taking better care of myself and I've totally been rocking my pecs. Afterall you need the body of a gladiator if you spend eight hours a day on a Mac. You think these key commands are easy?

Many blogs have been made into movies...perhaps this is plan C. I guess I could start digging into the Art of French Cooking and charm you with life lessons learned while butterflying a game hen. But that's been done. Still I could take another cookbook...say thirty minute meals by Rachel Ray and apply the same formula right? I'd be done in a fraction of the time and how could Hollywood resist something like..."Today I made chicken fajitas. The smell of the lime and cumin delights my senses like an all night fiesta...and to think it was all done in the time it takes to watch an episode of Friends. Wow. This woman and her culinary magic is humbling. If only I knew where she studied...who her many loves were..." Cut to Cape Cod in the late seventies where a young Rachel is opening a packet of taco seasoning and listening to classic rock...

Maybe not...anyway I still haven't given up on the band. If they're too busy I'll do it myself. Anyhow...anywhere...anyway I choose...I'll keep you updated.

A little backstory...

2010-08-09T18:19:00.000-07:00

Today is August ninth, which means it’s that special day that comes but once a year–that one moment when a month, a day and a year all get together and make writing the date on your electric bill a little more rewarding. Yes folks it’s eight-nine-ten and while I might be making a big deal out of this seemingly mundane detail (as I do all seemingly mundane details) remember that it comes but once a year. If you’re lucky that is. Come to think about it we don’t have too many left. After 11-12-13 this day of wonder soars off like a comet only to return the next century and who knows if they’ll still be reading my blog by then. So straighten up and fly right. 8/9/10 is here and it’s as good an excuse as any to finally get things in order.

Unfortunately 8910 is not an official holiday so like most Mondays I found myself back at work. These days, like many in the past I have been earning my keep at Gourd Music, aka the family business. Being that it is my family there are currently only two employees, myself and its founding member, my father. Much to the dismay and frustration of squash aficionados around this great world of ours, www.Gourd.com does not sell gourds or even music played on gourds. We sincerely apologize to all the crafts people and birdhouse builders who sneer at us at farmer’s markets because they missed out on a one syllable URL. That said the name is simply an homage to the earliest green thumbed luthiers who made instruments out of dried fruit shells and danced to rhythms picked on strung pumpkins by the light of an ancient moon. At least this is how I see it. In all honestly I’ve never heard anybody get down on a pumpkin and just between you and me the thought of getting down on a pumpkin brings to mind a completely different image that I will mercifully spare you from (for now).

So Gourd.com is a small independent record label that specializes in producing and distributing historical folk inspired acoustic music. Some would call it “Chamber-Folk” and even others, like the enlightened people at Apple itunes would file our music under “New Age” because trying to accurately categorize music robs away valuable Facebook time. That said you might not have any idea what I’m talking about because what the hell is an independent record label anyway? Well forgive the back-story but the front wouldn’t be able to move along without it. Again I will try to keep this as brief as possible. Ten pages max.

Imagine the mid nineteen-eighties. Lots of spandex…John Hughes movies and Reagan. Somewhere in that cauldron of culture was the music business, ruled by a handful of giants with names like Columbia records, Capitol and MTV (yes MTV was once affiliated with music). Now even though the giants towered above the little people there was still room for them to scurry around and produce odd music for their own kind, which lacked the proper ability to fully appreciate the greatness of hair metal and a Phil Collins ballad. My dad (who isn’t even that little) was one of these people who decided he would start a record label to produce his own music for his own people. That music was acoustic, with flavors of Americana and classical and featuring unusual instruments such as the Mountain Dulcimer paired with classical instruments such as the French horn. The result was his first recording, Oktober County.

At the time of Oktober County’s release the market for acoustic music was wide open. Labels like Windham Hill were making a killing in the feel-good New Age market and gift shops and museums across the country were looking to appease the never ending flow of visitors looking to find a soundtrack to their vacation. Print catalogs like the Wireless Catalog were always looking for new titles to feature on their pages and it seemed like it was only getting bigger. And it was.

Fast forward to the late nineties. Gourd music has over ten titles and is distributing even more from other record labels. Some are Celtic themed albums, which ride the wave of success brought about by blockbusters like Titanic and the PBS smash of Lord of the Dance. Things are so good that my father decides to take a chance and produce a novelty CD called “Toolbox Christmas,” a collection of Christmas songs played on hand and power tools to capitalize on the equally impressive home improvement market. That gets picked up by NPR and is featured in Dave Barry’s Holiday Gift Guide, which is published in his hometown paper, the Miami Herald . The phone never stops ringing and I spend my sixteenth Christmas in Europe. We ride the wave for a few years and then everything starts to sink.

A few years into millennium some of the gift shops close. Online sites replace catalogs. Something called Napster hits the radar and aside from some very loyal readers the only one looking at a newspaper is a parakeet ready to drop a load on the sodoku puzzle lining his cage. Okay so maybe I’m a little cynical but the fact remained that everything was changing. Everything was going digital.

So that brings us up to where Gourd music is today. Before anyone calls me something like a Neo-Luddite let me just say that the digital age had made music distribution easier. Less physical product means less returns. The phone may not ring for a few days but then we get a statement and a check because some people in Australia downloaded Toolbox Christmas. Not bad if you ask me. Still the transition hasn’t been as easy for some and many labels have closed up shop or sold to a bigger fish. Add to that no one’s making the kind of money they used to so people are scared of any kind of risk. Instead of putting out a new title people are packaging old ones or playing it safe by catering to a particular market that’s proven it’s sustainability. Sounds like the perfect recipe for some really bland predictable music if you ask me.

For better or worse that’s where I work and it’s my weekly reality. You’ll probably hear a lot about Gourd since it helps to give me a glimpse into what I love most: real music. By “real” I mean the kind of music that happens in darkened bedrooms with a flashlight and a pair of headphones. The music that cuts close to the bone, and pulses through you. Real music can open minds and open doors inside and out. For me that music is about finding personal freedom.

For the next several months or as long is it will take me my goal is create that kind of music. I hope it touches others but if it doesn’t that’s okay too. If you join me I’m pretty sure you’ll get something out of the jouney and the places it takes me. And every now and then I might just tell you something so hilarious you just might piss yourself. Sounds like a win-win to me.

Peekabone

2010-08-09T11:35:00.000-07:00

I am a musician living in a small Northern California town known for its soaring redwoods, whistling steam trains and Bigfoot sightings. It was the first place I lived when I came to California back in the seventies, when my father drove his green Dodge van called Mr. Pickle from Canada and decided that this was home. When I grew up I thought I was going to leave it all behind but here I am, back where it all began. Back with the banana slugs, the trickling streams and the imbalanced loners that lurk outside the mini-mart at 2 a.m. They call it Felton and I call it home.

My aim for this blog is to chart the evolution of my latest musical endeavor, a band I am calling Peekabone. For the passed few years I have been writing a collection of songs that pay tribute to my musical heroes. Those that played in burbon soaked barrelhouses and sang about wild women, demonic possession, late nights at the gambling house and all the other things that make life worth living. I used this genre as a forum for my own stories and experiences that have given me a glimpse into my own dark tendencies.

Along with barrelhouse and ragtime piano I also play blues guitar, taking inspiration from Chicago electric players as well as Clapton, Peter Green, and the one they call “Jimi.” My goal for this project was to also incorporate these influences as well and create something entirely new.

While in San Francisco I debuted some of my originals at open mics across the city. Sometimes I would be solo but mostly I’d play with my girlfriend, the lovely Mirian, who has always had a knack for blues and ragtime and even the occasional Rachmaninoff piece. With me on guitar the result was something entirely unique and we had a great reception wherever we went. Still the open mic scene got old and the idea of a full band began to marinate in the obsessive compulsive apparatus I call my noodle. But finding people in the city was tough and it was easy to see that the musical renaissance that had once found a home in old frisco had gone the way of the love bus. So I left and tried my hand back in my hometown.

So here I am back home. So far I’ve been playing in a trio called Avenuax, getting my chops in order while I find the right musicians for this thing called Peekabone. Last week I met with two great local players I’ve known for some time. We had a great jam and they like the material…but it’s yet to be seen if they’re in it for the long haul. All I know is that I’m going to do all I can to get this puppy off the ground.