TOUR DIARY
DESTINATION: EAST COAST
NEW YORK CITY
Sunday, 7/9/06
New York City was quick and crazy. My tension level went through the roof
as soon as we crossed over the Washington Bridge into Manhattan.
I worried incessantly about the rental car, the otherworldly denizens
(who seemed hard and yet loose in a way that struck me as utterly, unsustainably
foreign), and the soiled, blighted, decrepit appearance of every surface
and structure. The peachy haze of intermittent sunshine gave everything
a post-apocalyptic glaze that bespoke a near onomatopoetic manifestation
of the word “slum.” It reeked of piquant history.
Everything pertinent to the activities of the next 12 or so hours was
contained within half a city block, which was a small yet hardly unwelcome
consolation. We parked the car in a garage that was right around the corner
from Fat Baby, which is a somewhat nondescript-yet-clubby-looking edifice
with an onyx façade and a very understated, barely visible venue
sign.
We’d been informed that our contact there had left some weeks prior,
which instantly raised doubts in my mind about the gig even happening.
Called a few times and received no definitive answer either way when someone
finally picked up, so down to the venue we went to see what we could make
of the vague evening.
I could tell as I walked in, even from 20 feet away, that Adam the soundman
was an extremely amiable bloke who would be very easy to work with. There
was a Midwest politeness and youthfulness about him I knew the city (and
the sods who’d severely beaten him a while back) would never manage
to sand down off the wood of his countenance...but he still had “it,”
that New York thing that all New Yorkers eventually pick up, even if they’re
originally from someplace else (and most are). They’re all looking
out for themselves, but are still able—or are perhaps concurrently
able—to share a meaningful interpersonal encounter, to share of
themselves even in a brief amount of time without looking back when it’s
over. New Yorkers are resilient and move on quickly.
New York is always in motion, its people flowing through the capillary
streets like rushing blood, always quick with a honk to let you know there’s
no time or room for clots or blockage. The blood MUST get to the head,
the heart, the lungs, the legs, the hands, the genitals...you think they’re
actually paying attention to you, and they are if you’re in their
way, but you couldn’t be more invisible to them afterwards. It’s
necessitated short-term memory.
Setup and soundcheck took a total of five minutes. It sounded fantastic.
I wanted to put Adam in my pocket and take him with me as my soundman
for the rest of the tour.
I waited around in the basement lounge with the small, colorfully lit
stage, working out the night’s still amorphous details with Adam,
who had no idea if our contact, named Xiaoting, even existed(!), let alone
ever worked at Fat Baby during the previous five months.
Slowly the night coalesced to reveal that three of the booked bands had
cancelled, leaving the night to myself and a small duo, a hep outfit out
of the Williamsburg enclave, who were so bad not even their disaffected
low-fi posturing could hide it. Bless their hearts...but sometimes the
right clothes and disaffectation aren’t enough to cloak talentlessness.
Gig-wise I felt on fire...got to play 1 1/4 hours, with a good mix, songs
from all three albums...plus Got A Gun, which feels like it’s sticking,
proving itself good enough to stand the test of time. All I know is I
feel better and better about it each time I play it, more confident in
it...knew it was solid when I first put it together. It GROOVES, man,
in a way that feels new to me...
Jen, a friend of Allison’s from high school, had offered to put
us up for the night. Her fourth floor walkup was conveniently located
right around the corner from both the venue and parking garage.
It was a quizzical relief to have the parking structure so well guarded;
at one point, a one-armed security guard took our eye contact as a cue
to flex his muscle. He warned me that any car parked outside the yellow
lines of its designated spot would be ticketed or towed. This was despite
the fact that my car was indubitably inside the yellow lines.
We loaded up like a couple of pack mules and trudged around the corner
to Jen’s with all our stuff in plain view. I’ll admit I can
be a little pessimistic sometimes...but I thought I might as well have
had a target painted on my chest! I felt like a very naked and vulnerable
gazelle in a den of lions.
As we walked up and found Jen’s address we saw a man with his back
to us just standing there in the doorway...it became clear as he briskly
straightened up and departed (and from the fresh puddle on the solitary
step) that this guy had just urinated in the doorway we were about to
enter. Welcome to New York.
Jen was nonplused when we told her this, said it happened all the time
(there are several clubs in the general vicinity). She helped us up the
four flights of stairs, past her super’s unnervingly always-open
door, and into her rat hole of a dwelling. The claustrophobic squalor
was more comical when confronted en masse, with a fading buzz, after a
good gig at 1:00 in the morning.
NEWPORT, RI
7/10/06
Overnight parking had cost us 40.00, and with the shower in Jen’s
apartment looking so eviscerated from hair-dying experiments and general
wear and tear we decided to forego bathing and leave New York. Al and
I are just not made for the city, we decided, and we expressed our regrets
to Jen for curtailing our stay there in the Big Apple. We just had to
get out.
I knew I’d have to become a junkie (or pick up one habit or another)
in order to live there...that or stay there long enough for that New York
“it” to manifest itself in the belfry of “me.”
Somehow I’m not sure that would ever happen...I think some people
are meant for NYC the way some people are meant to be a model or rock
star (hardly ironic that those two archetypes usually go to one big city
or another to make their way in the world).
Our next tour stop was two days away in nearby Providence, RI, and since
we were leaving NY a day or two early we had to come up with a contingency
plan. Allison had heard a lot of good things about the town of Newport,
RI, so we decided to make a tourist destination of it and see some of
the preserved estate mansions there.
A very strange feeling, being in the midst of all that living history;
I felt it so tangibly that it was temporally confusing to know that such
a seemingly brilliant time had come and gone. The era still felt so alive
in those beautiful houses...
WESTERLY, RI
7/11/06
We took a drive down by the seashore in Newport and nearly retched(!),
the stench of sea brine was so overpowering. Decided that this was our
cue to head to our scheduled stop in nearby Westerly, where we met up
with our friends Shayla and Scott.
Shayla had just purchased a lovely home in town and was kind enough to
put us up for two nights there as we waited for the gig in Providence.
It was certainly a far cry from the urban toxicity of New York City and
we appreciated the calming effect of the surroundings on our nervous systems.
WESTERLY, PROVIDENCE, RI
7/12/06
No hot water! Apparently the new water heater had been leaking carbon
monoxide or some other hazardous chemical during the night (no wonder
the smoke alarm had mysteriously gone off!), and Scott decided it was
best to switch it off so as not to poison or blow ourselves up.
Unfortunately this meant that the showers we took were torture! The water
was too cold, even with the hot and humid air buffer, to not be uncomfortable.
Not sure I got entirely clean because I couldn’t stay under the
water long enough to rinse properly.
Made the drive up to Providence’s Tazza café in a wicked
downpour, the kind of torrent that East coasters endure on a regular basis
but that I experience infrequently. I felt remarkably calm despite the
downpour, perhaps because there is a certain kind of emotional release
in witnessing such a deluge. Sometimes you need the weather to corroborate
your darker emotions, and in a way, when it does it allows you to release
those emotions. Everything looks so brilliant after a good rain...or a
good cry; fresh and new and viscerally vibrant.
The air was warm and sticky sweet as we got out of the rental car that
I’d been able to park in a choice spot not 100 feet from the venue.
Tazza was not entirely what we’d expected to find: it was better!
Very spacious, well decorated, and with a bar surprisingly enough, considering
it was technically a cafe.
Becky Chase, the organizer of the night, was a very gracious person and
I cottoned to her right away because of how on top of things she seemed
to be (Fat Baby had made me a bit wary of all my other gig situations
on the tour) and how supportive she was of all the artists. She made everyone
laugh when, during two or three well-chosen junctures of the evening,
she passed around the tip jar, which she hilariously dubbed the “love
bucket.”
I was simply taken aback at how well I was treated because of my touring
status...just in the sense of Becky really hustling to get me paid in
order to defray some of the expenses on which I was hemorrhaging cash.
She really made a point to highlight that novelty when it came time to
pass the “love bucket,” and I ended up splitting 100 bucks
with the other featured artist, and with one CD sold that made it a 60.00
night. Not bad at all.
I got a lot of positive feedback, which added to the monetary reward in
terms of uplifting and corroborating what I’m trying to do in my
career. I felt like I played really well and was able to show them the
best of what I do, even though I was already starting to feel the strain
of the road. I got to live the dream for a few precious minutes, got to
be something special.
PORTLAND, ME
7/13/06
Weaved our way up to Portland through intermittent rains, where my long-time
buddy Mike Berkowitz and his expectant wife Erica were waiting. Mike and
I go way back; I’ve known him since we were in kindergarten together,
which was 30 years ago now (yikes!). Hung out a lot in 2nd grade, then
we diverged until our freshman year of high school, where we reconnected
over our mutual love of music, women, iconoclasm and generally harmless
teenage shenanigans.
Mike had mentioned that he’d love to sit in on bass with me during
my set at Acoustic Coffee, so we did a quick rehearsal of the tunes I’d
sent him a couple of weeks prior. We also managed to fit in quite a lot
of visiting and catching up for only spending all of six hours there(!)(this
was one of the most pleasing things about the tour; the dense, time-efficient
visits we had with so many of our beloved friends).
We’d blown off the cold showers back in Westerly in favor of plentiful
warm water at the Berkowitzes. Showering never felt so good.
Playing with Mike was the best thing about the gig...everything was proceeding
fairly smoothly, considering the circumstances, until I broke a string
on Black Mare (the Taylor’s been breaking an inordinate amount of
strings lately). At seemingly the exact same time, a bunch of old biddies
came in, sat down, and proceeded to make the most impolite din as I played
(I figured they were there to watch one of their own perform and to disrupt
everyone else).
Such a strange convergence of energy...the people who had come to see
me marveled at both my restraint in not verbally chastising the rude women
and my professionalism in playing through the myriad distractions (I did
lean extra hard into “GODDAMN you, black mare” though). In
this business, of which I have been a part for over 16 years now, you
learn to roll with the punches.
Several of Allison’s friends and family came down to support me
and I was grateful that they so visibly enjoyed what I did. Positive corroboration
can be really tough to come by in this business, so you always take it
graciously when it comes.
We had to drive the 5 some-odd hours all the way back to Ballston Spa
after the show because the rental car was due back the next morning by
9 AM! I felt a little sad leaving Mike & Erica (and Gretel, their
St. Bernard), but was very contented by the thoughts of our replete visit
with them, and the fun show Mike and I played.
SARATOGA SPRINGS, NY
7/14/06
Slept in LATE...we’d arrived back home to Ballston Spa at roughly
2:30 in the morning. I’d spent most of the night driving, jacked
up on two Red Bulls, and listening to the four rough Reactive Soul mixes
over and over.
I can’t help it--I listen to my own stuff! I like to think I’m
writing the music I’d like to hear, filling a void for myself. I
critique it, listen for things to improve, but I also trip out on it because
it’s ME, and I’m fascinated that I made that music. It’s
like looking into a soul mirror and seeing the best and worst of you reflected
back in vivid, lysergically enhanced color.
Good thing we called the Borders in Saratoga where I was to play—they
had no microphone stands. Now I’ve got one I can use whenever I’m
in upstate NY...not sure when that occasion will arise(!), but there’s
a little bit of comfort in that bit of equipmental indemnification.
Got to Borders in good stead after a rushed meal with Allison’s
family at this superlative barbeque joint. Definitely had the last-show-of-the-tour
feel about it, even though it was a fairly brief sojourn by anyone’s
standards. It was nice to bring it back to square one and play for an
unconditionally supportive home crowd.
It was the second extended show of the tour and I was tired, so I’m
not sure how I did in retrospect (felt beleaguered at the time)...but
it seemed to go over well enough.
I took a break in the middle and was verbally hailed by a man who had
come in a few minutes before. He seemed to be babbling something incoherent
about the key of C(?!), something music-related, and was coming off as
the erratic nutjob I was going to have to deal with at this particular
show. As I’ve mentioned previously, negotiating hecklers and tweakers
is part of my job description as an entertainer, so I just rolled through
it as best I could.
I played Black Mare and the guy had some kind of epiphany. He came up
to my merch table and scoped out my CDs. After I’d finished the
song, he started talking again...about how he worked on a ranch, and how
earlier in the day they’d had a black horse escape from the corral(!),
and he’d had to chase it down over a fair distance. It was uncanny!
I’m pretty sure he was telling the truth...you can never know for
sure about these sorts of things. But it certainly seemed real to him,
and that was enough for me. He would’ve absolutely purchased a copy
of Reactive Soul if I’d had any with me. My music struck a chord
with him without even trying, which is a rare thing in whatever manifestation.
* * *
Went out for drinks and food afterwards with several of Allison’s
friends that I’m getting to know progressively well. I heaved a
sigh of relief as I thought of the work being done for the time being.
Overall I thought the tour was a raving success on an intangible level
(I lost my shirt otherwise...but that was expected for my first real tour
of the East).
I got the necessary external corroboration to stay on this path a little
longer, keep striving and searching and creating and growing and sharing.
I also got to spend time with several people that I love dearly...that
was worth more than the CDs I sold or the scanty tips I made. I like the
idea of weaving my work into my life, having my actions serve multiple
purposes. I can't wait for the next trip.
TOUR DIARY
DESTINATION: THE JOHN & MELINDA HAWLEY RESIDENCE
ST. GEORGE, UT
MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND
Thursday, 5/25/06
Left San Diego mid-afternoon and headed for Vegas, arriving early evening.
Very hot and dry, and the lights weren’t all on yet but you could
still feel the libidinous excitement, swim laps in it, like the smell
of sugar at a theme park. The lips and skin were immediately robbed of
moisture.
Pulled into the Hard Rock Hotel & Museum for a night’s stay
in a blessedly discounted room (the rates are lower on weekdays, FYI).
Could’ve spent hours taking in all the memorabilia on the main floor
of the hotel...everything from Chrissy Hynde’s Telecaster (I love
the guitar sound on those Pretenders records) to Tom Petty’s 12-string
Rickenbacker signature model to Kurt Cobain’s ratty clothes and
aquamarine Jag-Stang Fender guitar.
Wondered if I’d ever get my guitar and/or clothes into some rock
n’ roll museum such as this one...but realized I didn’t want
to if it meant not being alive to see it, having rock n’ roll swallow
me whole like it has so many of our beloved icons. It’s not worth
it, it’s not worth it...I choose a normal life, one that stretches
out as long as possible into the future, even if that means eternal obscurity.
Besides, I realized as I walked through the exhibits, only their notoriety
separates them from me, only the juggernaut push they got from their star-making
machinery. Not entirely true, I suppose; I mustn’t flatter myself.
I’m missing the one thing that took them to the top: the desperation
to be subservient to my ambition.
Cruised the strip briefly after dinner at Nobu (which was not all it was
cracked up to be—Allison and I spent the rest of the night in our
room reckoning with our GIs and dehydration). What a well-lit den of iniquity!
Las Vegas simultaneously displays both its silver lining and its grimy
underbelly. In a town where the sheer volume and movement of money and
the flames of indulgence are subsequently stoked to the skies, the stratification
between classes becomes as marked as a fault line in the flat desert.
In Vegas, the service industry is huge; many of the people working the
service jobs are partiers who turn around and put their money back into
the system. You can FEEL the gambling and drug habits running rampant;
every casino is a black hole, drawing your money and mind towards it with
the force of ten thousand gravities. They don’t call it “Sin
City” for nothing.
Vegas is full of summer squirrels living for the moment, neglecting to
save for the winter. The tourists know what the natives don’t understand:
Las Vegas is a great place to visit, but you don’t want to be a
resident—it’s too inhospitable, too expensive, and you’ve
got to be able to leave it all behind there, like the recent ad campaign
says.
Friday, 5/26/06
Left the hotel room to go check out, eat a little breakfast, and perhaps
gamble away a little money before proceeding to St. George. Tried our
luck at the slots, parked ourselves in front of two “Wheel Of Fortune”
machines to see what would happen.
If and when I do gamble, which is rare because of how terrible my luck
seems to be (and how prone I feel I am to addiction), I assume the house
is right when they say it always wins. I then treat the divertissement
like an arcade where the money merely disappears and you’ve just
bought a good time with no expectation of further returns. This allows
me to avoid the addictive need to win that leads to a gambling problem.
Should I ever get hooked, I know in my bones that gambling would ruin
me.
The casinos’ monetary interface has changed substantially since
the last time I passed through town. Nowadays, you put your money in and
the machine produces a white ticket that must be given to a floor worker
to cash out. Gone is the excitement inspired by the sound of a hundred
coins splashing into the bin at the bottom of the machine when you win;
the hard currency has virtually disappeared and now only the bells and
whistles remain. We only gambled at the Hard Rock, however, which is a
newer hotel/casino, so there’s no way of knowing if this has become
standard practice city-wide. Nevertheless, something tells me the times
have changed and the casinos have found a new way to hang on to even more
money.
My game play was innocuous at first; here and there a small win punctuated
the ends of losing sentences. But then I won big...well, big considering
the original bet was one dollar(!). (Kept thinking of Mortimer and Randolph
Duke in ‘Trading Places’). Three bars out of five lined up
and I won twelve dollars, which all but covered the breakfast we’d
just eaten. Allison won as well and we covered the purchase of CD player
batteries with her proceeds. I took a dollar out of my winnings (which
accounted for the original investment) and continued playing on that for
a time until Allison won. Then we cashed out and walked away.
* * *
The drive North from Vegas to St. George is a bit ho-hum until you reach
the pass just beyond Mesquite, AZ. Then you begin to see cliff layers
and traces of the beautiful red rock for which the Southwestern region
of Utah is renown. St. George is nestled smack dab in the middle of the
first real red geological flourish just beyond the AZ/UT border. It could
very well qualify as a national park in its own right.
The Hawley residence is in a relatively new and isolated housing division
situated in the middle of a valley with red rock formations on virtually
every side. John and Melinda were up at their parent’s place when
we arrived, so we let ourselves in and waited as per the instructions
on the note they’d left.
I first met John and Melinda about 4 years ago; John was chief engineer
at Strate Sound for the lion’s share of time I spent recording Indigo
Child. For most of his stay in San Diego, he actually lived IN the studio,
as did Melinda. So I got to know them quite well, and they me, and we
all seemed to get on very easily, and we’ve been friends ever since.
They’ve been ardently supportive of my music from day one and believe
enough in what I do to go above and beyond on my behalf. This trip was
organized by John to provide me with career opportunities, gig opportunities,
and a subtext to spend some time with them and their newborn son.
I had the privilege of providing the musical backdrop for their November,
2004 wedding, where I also met the better part of both their extended
families and had a grand old time (they were all very supportive of my
solo artist shenanigans, buying many copies of Indigo Child and Soliloquy
and allowing me to pay all of that month’s bills solely on income
derived from my music).
Soon after the wedding, John and Melinda learned they were going to have
a baby, which they ultimately did in November of last year, a little boy
named John. There were some post-birth complications that could have killed
Melinda(!), and John was kind enough to keep me well-informed as we both
attempted to subdue our hysterics. I can’t sufficiently express
how grateful I am that Melinda made it through that, for everyone’s
sake.
Allison and I decompressed in their living room for about half an hour
before they arrived. Got to meet little John for the first time...what
a pleasant little boy! Very mild-mannered and, quite thankfully for his
parents, already sleeping through the night uninterrupted.
They had nicknamed him Jack after JFK (we pondered the etymology behind
the nickname Jack in its derivation from John), and I began calling him
“Saucy Jack” after a scene in Spinal Tap where David and Derek
are on an LA rooftop discussing plans for a musical based on the life
of Jack The Ripper (they even sing a couple lines of it together: “You’re
a naughty one, Saucy Jack/You’re a haughty one, Saucy Jack,”
and I sung this to little Jack at every opportunity). Saucy Jack seems
to have stuck for the time being, or perhaps the Hawleys are just graciously
humoring me on this.
I also began referring to myself as “uncle Sim,” which John
and Melinda had actually instigated (to my everlasting pride), and reveled
in this nascent new role. All my friends and family seem to be working
on or have had babies recently. Very strange to have entered this next
tier of life, no longer a budding youth but a potential parent; I’m
emotionally hardwired to be a child, and as weird as my childhood sometimes
was, it was my favorite time. I had my whole life in front of me, a life
of growth and development and change.
I can’t very well fool myself, but I still like to think I have
a lot of good time left in front of me to change and grow and evolve and
create and play. Nevertheless, in many ways I’m finally in the prime
of my life, at the pinnacle of the development of my own potential, and
that’s a good place to be. Concomitant to childhood is its main
curse of having to wait to be a full-grown autonomous adult. I feel like
I’m finally riding the bull of my destiny at full strength, and
I wouldn’t trade that for the world. I’m going for my eight
seconds on this beast.
We piled into their car and headed up to John’s mother’s house
in the neighboring mountains to the West. The plan was to hang out there
for a few hours and have a barbeque dinner before the first matter of
musician business was to occur: an appearance on the local TV station
to promote my music, specifically Sunday’s gig at The One And Only
Bar.
John’s extended family is indeed extended, with lots of infants
and growing children about, and lots of animals on the property (which
seemed very close to being a working ranch). Horses, chickens and dogs
socialized together on the front 40, which provided a buffer between the
main road and the house. A lovely little brook ran through it all, and
I laughed when the chickens waddled up to us and followed us around for
the duration of our presence, sweating us for food.
* * *
John works as an audio tech for KCSG, local channel 4, St. George, and
he claims (rather credibly I might add) to have wired the whole building.
John’s basically a master of all trades as well, a king of all media,
so before I came up to St. George he designed a special advert containing
Sunday’s gig info on a background montage of photos of me from my
website, and music from my albums (Thesedays into Trey Downs into Surrender
Song). The ad ran on KCSG for a week or so before my arrival, and it was
in constant rotation during all of Memorial Day weekend. I thought that
was really cool of John to do and immensely enjoyed seeing the creative
work he’d done on my behalf. He gave me a copy of it that I may
post somewhere someday, we’ll see.
We showed up at the station just in time to soundcheck before the waiting
began. I was nervous because I haven’t been on TV much yet (the
first time had been in Arizona with my friend Eddie Elliott, the morning
of John and Melinda’s wedding as a matter of fact! Man that was
a busy weekend), and I knew my nerves would just kill me if I didn’t
get them under control. In the end I think I did pretty well, considering
I was tired and dehydrated. I was afraid of my spoken-word interface backfiring
and letting something dreadfully uncool or taboo or non sequitur slip
out. As it was, the anchor did worse than I(!), flubbing countless lines
as she struggled to keep up with the teleprompter (she was subbing for
the regular anchor).
The appearance was split into two segments--a mid-report “chat”
between the anchor and myself, and a performance over the last 45 or so
seconds of the broadcast (both of which were captured on two cameras and
eventually burned to a DVD for me). Looking back on it now, I feel pretty
good about it...but as the rest of the weekend events would attest, I
knew that this was going to be the next frontier for me in terms of the
pedagogical journey of an artist mastering all necessary media in the
marketing of himself on behalf of his art. TV and video tend to go against
my natural hardwiring as an introverted, guileless artist, but one must
be gentle towards oneself during all one’s initial experiences.
During the performance segment at the end of the broadcast, I played the
first verse and part of the first chorus of Money Don’t Make The
Man and felt exhilarated by the prospect of such potentially wide-scale
exposure. The crew seemed to enjoy the tune (some started to dance and
move around), which helped me get into that live entertainment space for
the cameras (it’s a bit hard trying to entertain a TV audience you
can’t see).
The Hawley clan seemed excited that one of their own was going to be on
TV, so I made a point to name-check them on the air (although in retrospect
I’m not sure if any of them besides John and Melinda go by the Hawley
name?!). Either way, it felt good to give that energy to them, include
them in the moment.
That’s what it’s all about to me. Any impetus to get famous
on my part stems from a very external place wherein I would want my family
and friends to be prouder for knowing me. It would all be for them, as
I am fully aware that the star-making machinery would most likely chew
me up and spit me out with absolutely no qualms or concerns for my well-being.
No: fame, like gambling, would be my ruin. I like my anonymity too much
and would gladly prefer money over notoriety any day (the guitarist Buckethead
has the right idea in this regard).
Saturday, 5/27/06
This was initially going to be a day of rest and low-key recreation; with
only one gig booked for Sunday and the video shoot pushed back to then
as well, it had become a leisure day by default.
John, however, bless his heart, was intent on making this trip as worth
my while as he possibly could, and was on the phone by mid-morning attempting
to procure another gig for me. A friend came through with a paying, late-afternoon
set at the Red Rock Spa, a beautiful sanctuary tucked away in nearby Snow
Valley that has apparently played host to many celebrities.
The appearance of this new show and the constraints it subsequently put
on the timetable of preparation completely disrupted the preceding calm.
I rushed through my hygienic regimen quickly enough but ran into trouble
as I was packing up my gear. I was trying to fit my guitar stand into
my gear bag and as I struggled to close the hindered zipper it jerked
and my right thumb careened into the jutting guitar stand. I gouged the
first few layers of skin off the area of my right thumb directly behind
the nail. Not what I needed right before a gig!
The pain wasn’t as severe as the inconvenience; blood welled up
from the wound (I wondered if it was severe enough to warrant a trip to
the ER), and I was rushing to apply a band aid when we already should’ve
been in the car on the way to the gig (I was the one that had to drive).
I had performance problems with it for the rest of our time there because
guitarists typically hold a pick with their right thumb and index finger,
and my guitar playing was interfering with the bandage. It also stung
like hell. Irritating for sure, but as I’ve learned during my 16-year
tenure as a professional musician, the show must go on (especially lately,
what with my guitar breaking so many strings mid-song!).
The gig setting was idyllic, but the context was confusing. The spa had
a spectacular view of the blazing red cliff wall across the valley, and
the spa’s restaurant where I was to play was beautifully built and
furnished. But my audience was zombified! They were all fresh off whatever
rigorous regimen they’d chosen for their stay there (witness the
sweatpants and other athletic leisurewear), and were in the quiet way
of those basking in a sanctuary of health after a long day of paradoxical
toil and relaxation. They were also eating ridiculously overpriced food
in absurdly small portions (my “comped” meal had a value of
almost thirty dollars and consisted of no more than four or five raviolis!).
Needless to say, they were all quite unresponsive and rarely applauded
between songs. But this could have also been because management kept asking
me to turn down to the point where it made more sense to just turn the
PA off because my natural volume was louder than my volume through the
speakers! A gig is a gig, however, and one must adapt...but in the end
one can only play as well as their audience supports them, and I definitely
hadn’t found, let alone connected with, my audience that day.
Either way, it was a chance to perform in a beautiful new place for some
different faces, eat some free health food, drink some free champagne,
and make a little scratch to pay for the trip.
Sunday, 5/28/06
John had chosen ‘Thesedays’ (from Indigo Child) for my inaugural
solo artist video. A little untimely, with Reactive Soul on the way, to
now be shooting a video for a song from a soon-to-be previous record,
but a free video is nothing to be scoffed at, and I was grateful that
John’s belief in the material was enough for him to want to realize
it in video form. I was very excited to try my hand at this new facet
of creative expression in “the biz,” and to have something
I could subsequently use in my self-promotional efforts.
We had to wake up relatively early to get a leg up on the shoot. Went
and collected John’s friend Luke, who is a camera operator for KCSG.
He and John are forming a video production company and I was to be their
inaugural guinea pig client.
We headed over to the station first to try filming me in front of a green
screen. This turned out to be very awkward and stiff on my end, because
I am as of yet wanting in the ability to “perform” (i.e. act)
on demand in such a contrived environment. A bit difficult, too, to have
everyone in the room watching you as you so awkwardly shake and shimmy
and strum for the camera. None of that green-screen footage ended up appearing
in the final cut, and for good reason.
We decided to proceed directly to the external locations they’d
chosen to see if I fared any better in a more organic environment. We
drove past Snow Valley--where we’d been the day before--to part
of an Indian reservation along the roadside. We negotiated a makeshift
barbwire fence (and tenacious, abundant burr weeds) and set up shop in
front of several abandoned, gutted old dwellings.
It was the perfect day for it; reports of afternoon rains were disproved
by the wonderfully sunny yet mild weather, and the air had a clearness
to it that I knew would read magnificently on film. I’d chosen to
wear all black for the shoot, thankfully ditching the worn-out blazer
I’d brought that would’ve made me look old in favor of an
understated black t-shirt. Given this wardrobe color choice, the cooler
weather was quite serendipitous.
John sagaciously advised me to just play the song live on location, not
lip synch it like we did at the station, to evince more of a genuine emotional
delivery (perhaps by default rather than choice--they couldn’t bring
any audio equipment with them). It seemed to work though, and I felt I
was able to redeem myself somewhat from my shoddy green-screen work back
at KCSG.
The surroundings didn’t hurt; the sky was a deep blue behind the
gutted structures, and the starkness of the contrast between the sky,
the buildings, the fields of golden wheat, and me in all black holding
a yellow guitar was almost otherworldly. We were in a peaceful environment
to make a piece of art out of one of my songs, and we tried to be as quick
and as reverent as we could on that Indian land. We left it like we found
it.
* * *
I have such a fatalistic view of the advertising and shilling aspects
of the music industry...it’s one thing when you put your own energy
into it and watch it vanish with no results, but in this instance it was
all of John’s elbow grease futilely going into the promotion of
the set I was to perform at the One And Only Bar.
The liquor laws in Utah are strange...the Mormon church has a heavy hand
in the running of the Beehive State’s government, and it somehow
got decided that there would be less alcohol in liquor (mainly beer) and
less places to vend liquor that are open during less hours of the day.
The towns are only allowed so many bars per capita, and for the longest
time St. George only had enough people to merit one bar, hence the name.
The One And Only Bar is a classic beer and pool joint, with a long dancehall
design culminating in a big stage at the far end. You could almost hear
echoes of whatever the previous night’s entertainment was, be it
a line-dance hoedown, or southern/classic rock cover band. It’s
the kind of place where someone will shout out “Freebird!!,”
or “Play some Lynrd Skynrd,” and MEAN it. This actually happened
during the gig! The guy was serious as a heart attack and not joking around
like I’m used to in California.
The place was designed for a booze-soaked barnburner, and I felt so tiny
on that wide stage, and yet so huge going through the gigantic mains with
just my acoustic guitar and voice. I didn’t even need a monitor.
Luckily I had John there to help me run sound, as well as get on the case
of all his friends who neglected to show up and represent as promised.
We were also a little disappointed that the TV spot didn’t seem
to have had the desired impact of drawing more people to the show (there
couldn’t have been more than 15 people there at one time). But what
can you expect; the timing was bad (Memorial Day weekend), and I just
don’t have the pull yet.
As it was, I played for almost three hours straight, with only a short
breather or two. I dug deep and played some random covers, even some I
didn’t quite know, just to appease audience requests. One guy asked
for Alice In Chains, and I surprised myself by playing “Would”
the whole way through with most of the lyrics intact (the requester gave
me a five dollar tip). It’s almost as though the music itself is
a part of my subconscious. John happened to film this and a few other
songs on his video camera, and I have this on one DVD with the rest of
the weekend’s footage.
I love marathon shows where I’m allowed to build momentum and get
into a groove wherein I begin to blur into the audience, and they cross
over into me. It’s like the release of endorphins during runner’s
high, the shedding of all insecurity and self-consciousness by the giving
and receiving of energy, trust, vulnerability and strength. It’s
the self-contained miracle wherein the very process of releasing that
energy outward simultaneously replenishes it. The longer I play, the more
I can give. I wish I could play for people nonstop, all day every day.
It’s that “eureka!” moment where you remember why you
put up with all the B.S. of the artist’s life, the transcendence
from banal to magical and the full release of the pent-up spirit. Every
time I perform for an audience, especially when I’m given enough
time to know and be known by them, I die and am reborn, consumed by fire
like the phoenix to arise from my own ashes as a new man. When I perform
and reach that transcendental place, I know that life is absolutely worth
living.
The people there were actually very kind and appreciative, a far cry from
the previous afternoon at the Red Rock Spa. Sold a couple CDs, made good
tips, and had enjoyable conversations with several people in the audience.
The bar’s owner was copasetic with having me back when I pass through
town again, so the night, as well as the roadtrip in general, had been
a success.
8/12/06
SUDOKU
"Like all great puzzles that catch the popular fancy, sudoku is
based on a simple idea. In its usual form, sudoku has a 9X9 square grid,
with heavy lines dividing it into nine 3X3 boxes. The object is to fill
the grid with numbers so that every row, every column, and every 3X3 box
contains the digits from 1 to 9, without repeating. Some digits are placed
in the grid to get you started.
That's all there is to it--no adding or other math involved [and no guess-work].
It's a game of pure logic."
--Will Shortz, introduction to Sudoku: Easy to Hard, Vol. 2.
Although I have yet to fully conquer the holy grail of crossword puzzles--the
New York Times Sunday edition--I have achieved a more than satisfactory
level of mastery in this decades-old pastime, due to both my ever expanding
knowledge of history, language, and contemporary culture, my penchant
for abstract creative thought, and my ability to play the game based on
years of accumulated experience (see my Treatise On Crossword Puzzles).
So when I first caught wind of this new "wordless crossword puzzle,"
seen in the hands of people of all ages, at the airport, coffee shops,
and other loitering locales, my reaction was akin to curious indignation.
I was curious about the new form of divertissement on the gaming scene,
and indignant that the puzzle-forces-that-be should introduce a new challenge
that, should I ever get involved, was sure to eat up numerous hours of
my time and frustrate me to no end. And, as any adult can concur, I was
also not copasetic with being a rookie again, not even for a silly numbers
game.
My curiosity finally got the best of me three months ago, after watching
my fiancee Allison whip effortlessly through the puzzles for the better
part of the preceding months. I finally eased into sudoku while on tour
in St. George, Utah, wading into the cold, cold numeric lake like a novice
swimmer, waiting for each successive body part to adapt to the frigidity
before proceeding deeper into the water. Allison had a graded sudoku book
a la Will Shortz (the editor of the aforementioned New York Times crossword
puzzle, now the author of many sudoku books, including the one quoted
above...not thrilled to see his name again!); it seemed as good a place
as any to begin.
It started innocuously enough...but within the first few puzzles I was
hooked. I became obsessed, especially when things started to go awry.
I became severely determined to become an instant master. I had already
been feeling inept with numbers lately (I think I've managed to forget
how to multiply!) and this confirmed the diagnosis.
More disconcerting than this was the notion that I had once BEEN good
with numbers and mathematics and logic and had lost that ability through
hapless neglect (this is a guy who got a 5 on the high school AP math
test, and also got college credit for the math courses he'd taken). The
irony, as hopefully evinced by this blog, is that I scored better in math
than English on my SATs. The call to growth then was for me to improve
in English: now I find it is the reverse.
Oh, the sweet stench of numerically inept frustration that began to rise
off the bloated carcass of my ego! I wanted desperately for sudoku to
be easy and had to face the hard truth that this was something I would
have to work on--A LOT--if I was to master it. I would have to SEEK HELP,
which is such a humiliating admission of impotence, isn't it? There's
nothing so biting as the feeling of being unable to do something, no matter
how hard you try; it makes you feel inept, inadequate, limited, like a
born loser, which is something none of us will ever be comfortable with.
I HATE feeling dumb!
I may once have been good at math, but sudoku isn't necessarily about
math--it has more to do with the application of logic, which is actually
the main black mark on an otherwise illustrious mathematics career (I
dropped my math minor because of an abstract mathematics course I nearly
failed in college). Sudoku is also not an emotional game(!), and to do
well one must be detached and patient, for which I am ill-equipped, especially
in the initial high-irritation scenario. The game is very much a process
of elimination, the logical discernment of which numbers are NOT in certain
boxes in order to determine which ones are. The thought process takes
time...but this lapse of time, to a predominantly emotional person such
as myself, feels like the accelerated countdown to the apocalypse of personal
failure and inadequacy.
The kicker of sudoku is that the answers are waiting RIGHT THERE IN FRONT
OF YOU, which means it's all up to you whether or not you succeed or fail.
When you get stuck on sudoku, you feel like you're the only one in the
world who's not in on the joke. After a while, you might begin to feel
like the joke might actually be on you.
I generally shun assertions of the ego (aside from proclaiming myself
a crossword puzzle master, of course), but here my hubris stood, being
attacked on a wide-open battlefield and reduced to the size of a molecule
by this external thing, this seemingly insurmountable challenge. Such
a ridiculous notion, really, to take umbrage to a harmless, puny little
man-made puzzle...but the line had been drawn nevertheless. I don't back
down from a challenge, especially when it entails a call to growth and
evolution. After all, I believe that the worst enemy you can ever have
is yourself, so you ought to try and cooperate.
Through grappling with the beast that is sudoku over the past few months,
I've realized some things about myself that are poignant if not somewhat
troubling; I find it most often true that if something draws out an emphatic
emotional reaction, it usually means you've already been struggling with
the issue long-term and it is now being exacerbated by the new circumstance.
In this case, due to the creative life I have been trying to live over
the past sixteen or so years, I believe I am already feeling inadequate,
impotent, inept, unsuccessful, overextended, overlooked, and burnt out.
Inadequate because I contribute next to nothing tangible to my household;
impotent in my quest to better provide for myself and my family so I can
do something more substantial to ease the human condition; inept like
an autistic savant who does one thing really well and is terrible at everything
else, especially human interaction; unsuccessful as a commercial recording
artist; overextended in trying to BE a commercial recording artist; overlooked
as an artist whose "machine" is on too small a scale to reach
very many people, and; burnt out by the struggle to balance ALL of my
needs, most importantly the creative ones.
I know I need to go a little easier on myself as far as some of these
declarations...I guess I'm just really hoping that I can, on some level,
succeed commercially with my new record, Reactive Soul. I could really
use a break (as in both an opportunity and a rest).
* * *
My sudoku technique--wow, that sounds like something out of a kung fu
flick!--has been steadily improving over the past three months since I
took it up. I knew it would just take a bit of time for me to get under
the skin of it, spread like a disease, and kill it from the inside out.
Like improving at guitar or voice or any other instrument, you have to
do the hard practicing until everything about the instrument is internalized
and your performance becomes automatic, easy.
Now I can see sudoku as a little metaphorical microcosm of the call to
growth and evolution my creative life is asking of me. Sudoku has given
me hope knowing that as long as I don't deviate from the path I've chosen,
work hard and stay focused, something good will eventually happen.
At least now I can do sudoku while I wait.