music: Rodrigo y Gabriela- Rodrigo y Gabriela
Dearest Sigma DR1-ST,
We’ve been together a long time. I remember when I first took you home, fresh from Wade’s and realized that you and I were in for a long-term relationship. Granted, my buddy Mike set us up, picked you out of the crowd and said something like “yeah, this one will do you for a couple years,” but once we had some time together to get better acquainted I knew you and I would go places, and for more than a couple of years. It was the end of high school. I was young and didn’t really have a clue as to what was going on; my future was fuzzy at best. And you were there through all the craziness, solid as spruce and rosewood laminate. You were there during those last days of high school when my world was turning upside down. You were right there with me as I played and sang to my first real crowds at summer camp. You got me through some really hard nights in the dorms my first year of college. Your good looks helped me earn spare change for lunch on the streets of Montreal the summer after, and then accompanied me to several concerts where you and I made quick friends with other people. I took you up to the cold North Woods of Wisconsin where we celebrated the new year on more than one occasion. You served as a translator when I had no more words, you helped me find a common language with complete strangers. You’ve eased some of my more awkward moments. You made the trip up to Boston with me after college ended. You endured a summer in the trunk of my car as I drove around the country, but I made sure that we had some quality time every night. You got a lot out of your time in Boston with me; we tromped around that crazy city and did some weekend trips as well, having good times all the while. I remember that on one trip up to Maine we were sitting by the fire and you were lying in my arms when I had one of my more defining musical experiences to date, and you and I formed what would be come the greatest acoustic duo in history. You even sat in the back seat of my car when I drove out to California, squished between boxes and books and fancier electrical equipment. We’ve been places, you and I, that’s for sure.
I know it hasn’t always been easy for us, that sometimes you felt as though I may have been abusing you. I know there was that one time in that dingy apartment where I dropped you on the floor and gave you a solid crack in your finish (but I did get you all fixed up, didn’t I?). There was that other time where I may have forced one of your pegs out a little too harshly and worn into some wood. There may be a few belt scratches, dings in your headstock, gouges in your finish. I know that one night, when I was messing around with one of those cheap pickups that are meant to pop in and out I accidentally took off a chunk of wood and finish right from the edge of your sound hole. I’ve tried to take good care of you, I really have, and there have been many times where I tried to go the extra mile and have your frets leveled, replace you new tuning pegs, or install a strap knob as to take the tension off your neck. I’ve tried to be good about keeping your fretboard clean and changing your strings on a regular basis. I know that I often kept you under the bed or in the closet. and that sometimes when i kept you out the temperature and humidity made your body warp a little. I’ve treated you rough, I’ve thrown you on the bed on more than one occasion, I’ve picked you up improperly on many more occasions. Some days we just can’t find harmony and I get frustrated with you, but you know that the truth is you’ve made me as happy as any inanimate object can.
So, dear guitar, don’t take this the wrong way: I’ve met someone else. I’m hoping you can be friends, because — and I mean this when I say it — I’m never letting you go. I know you got less face time with me when the Gibson came into my life, but those quieter, tender moments were always reserved for you. But now, as of yesterday, really, There’s a new acoustic. You’re from the same family, it turns out: the Sigma DR-28 that swooped into my life took me by surprise. You can’t plan for these sorts of things. But the DR-28 is, by all measures, a beautiful guitar. It’s older than you, made in 1982. It’s well-crafted, has amazing hardwear and solid construction. It’s a rosewood and spruce model, just like you. I can plug it in. And if I could tell you a secret, DR1-ST, I finally decided that the DR-28 was the right one for me because it reminded me so much of you. I know that’s hard to hear, but it’s the truth.
I’ll tell you this right now: If push comes to shove, I’ll get rid of the other one. You may be road weary, dinged up, full of nicks and chips, but you will always have a place in my life. In those dark, lonely hours you are my go-to guitar. You’re the guitar on whom I’ve written all my songs, please remember that. Instead of being jealous, I hope that you and the DR-28 can be friends. We will have our time still, old guitar. Nothing (except the green osprey silhouette - you know the one, hanging out right across the room?) has been with me longer. We’ve been through so much that I could never let you go.
Here’s to more good times down the road. Things won’t be the same, how could they be? Things won’t be better or worse for you and I, just…different. I hope you can understand this, Sigma DR1-ST. You are beautiful. You have made me laugh and cry, and I’m sure will in the future. Thank you for your time, patience, caring, and understanding.
Love,
David
music: Beastie Boys: Check Your Head
My very early musical listening habits were not of my own devising, it was simply whatever was on the house stereo. I can’t remember most of it, save Peter and the Wolf. Around middle school I started developing my own tastes in music, and was split between the raw energy and power of hard rock (Def Lepperd’s Hysteria) and the funkiness of hip hop (Parents Just Don’t Understand). I was, like so many suburban kids, lost in a world of Top 40, because my sole inlet for new music was the radio. Once I got to summer camp, and could sample the musical tastes of way cool college students, my horizons opened up, and when I was 11 or so my ears were graced by three guys who found some middle ground between rock and hip hop. That was it for me for a while. AdRock, Mike D, and MCA became my first band crush, and it lasted clear through the end of high school. In terms of raw energy, varied style, fun, and catchiness, nobody could top the Beastie Boys.
The trio from New York CIty put a spell on me something serious in my teens. Beyond being able to bridge the gap between two styles of music that I’d been digging, the Beastie Boys represented something really important. Here were three guys, three white guys, three Jewish white guys, rapping over live instruments. They would do whatever they wanted, and they could do whatever they wanted, and despite it being hopelessly dorky most of the time we white kids in suburban America ate it up. The Beastie Boys were the Great White Hope for us floundering suburban kids wishing above all else that we could be down. If these three yahoos from New York could do it, then we had a shot, and we at that point refered to myself, and my friends CJ and Roger, who at the time were convinced we wanted to be Beastie Boys and not grow up.
But the B-Boys gave me more to chew on than good times and hopes of coolness. With the release of “Check Your Head” there also came incredible musical substance. I’d of course heard the 1980’s party anthems from “License to Ill,” and they were fun, but nothing could hang with the mix of hip hop, live instrument rock, and acid jazz that was “Check Your Head.” “Ill Communication” accentuated the point, and with the release of the instrumental compilation “The In Sound From Way Out!” I was completely and forever a B-Boys Fanatic. Now, ten years out of high school, the Beastie Boys’ instrumental work is what keeps me hooked and coming back for more. “The In Sound From Way Out!” has probably influenced my playing as a musician more than any other single album has. (It also would make a Beastie Boys fan out of many people who swore that they hated those three brats.) So when the Beastie Boys, now well into their forties, dropped their latest album, all instrumental, and announced a string of all instrumental shows, I knew what had to happen at all costs. I would have to dress to impress, and attend the Gala Event.
Last night, through strokes of incredible fortune, the Beastie Boys hosted a Gala Event (what they are calling the handful of all instrumental shows they are playing around the world) not five miles from my door. My buddy Adam (incidentally nicknamed AdRock, among other things) and I cruised down to the warfield, dressed to impress, and joined the three thousand or so well-dressed eventgoers (and people dressed up! Amazing!) for a night of Beastie Boys at their absolute finest. I was completely and totally hooked into it for two and a half hours, through the new instrumentals (“Off The Grid” holds high esteem), the rare punk breakouts, the acid jazz/funk grooves from the mid-90’s, and the live instrument hip hop that was offered up. It was the best concert I’ve seen in years. These guys, I am reminded, are more than dorky Jewish white guys somehow making it in the rap world; these guys are musicians who play instruments and are bold enough to leave lyrics out of their music despite all the ridiculous crap that has come out of their mouths for the past 20 years.
My band crush with the Beastie Boys never really went away. I dipped into other bands much more seriously after high school, but the Beastie Boys always had a special place in my heart. Seeing them do their thing in person last evoked me at age 15, but simultaneously scratched my more recent itch for quality groove-based rock. I had so much fun last night that tonight I think I’m going to spend way too much money to catch them again at the Greek. Y’can’t front on that.
music: Talking Heads- The Name Of This Band Is Talking Heads, d.2
This one came down the pipe a couple weeks back but I’m still thinking about it: what happens when a world-class musician plays the subway with a $3,500,000 instrument during morning rush hour? (It’s a long read, but well-worth it.)
That day, to the 1,100-odd rat racers, one of the most famous classical violinists in the world was relegated to background hum. This is a guy who commands the cultural upper crust to maintain absolute silence during performances, this is a guy who can take in more money per minute of performance than i probably make in a month. And coolest of all, this is a guy who, despite his fame and fortune, is willing to go along with a devilish social experiment. The results were quite clear: context matters. Do people rate a meal as better if it were more expensive? I bet they would. Are people more inclined to litter on the concrete sidewalk or the backcountry of a national park? Probably the sidewalk. So it goes with art. All artifacts of human creation exist in a medium of place and time which lend it certain properties, and often times great works of art are largely altered when removed from that context. Imagine Jackson Pollack in Renaissance Italy, the Beatles in pre-colonial Africa. Such drastic contrasts between time emphasize the point, but there are plenty of examples here and now: hip hop on the street corner and hip hop in the record executive’s board room, modernist paintings made by a 5 year old and modernist paintings hanging in the MOMA, and here, classical music performed in the subway versus the same music performed at Carnegie Hall.
Context matters. True enough. The other piece is prior knowledge on the subject matter. People who are “experts” in certain fields are able to discern more nuance than the layman, understand deeper layers of meaning, and most people aren’t “experts” in classical music. So in the same way that i can’t tell a 1997 ford from a 1999 ford, most people don’t know their Handel from their Haydin. My roommate pointed out something interesting: in the US, classical music buffs are generally more well off and tend to not ride the subway in DC, so there’s potentially a class thing at work here as well.
Most of the effect demonstrated can safely be explained by the current state of urban living, especially during morning rush hour. ipods, job stress, lack of wakefulness, bystander effect, and all that. But there’s also the anonymity factor in this particular situation. Part of why the social experiment here worked is that Joshua Bell wasn’t recognized by face. Classical musicians aren’t necessarily the rockstar types by way of looks and tabloid fodder and are very rarely recognized by face (they audition from behind a screen, for godsakes!). No doubt Paul Mccartney couldn’t pull the same thing off. And furthermore, I don’t think you can completely rule out people’s taste in music. I’d be very curious to test this out on other “virtuoso” musicians that do not play classical. what do we think would happen if one of the Marsalis boys dresses down and plays a subway station? Bela Fleck? BB King? i’d bet you’d get a different reaction.
And still.
This all confirms my worst suspicions: music does not speak for itself. Instead it’s packaged, tied up with image, personalities, lights and ambiance, cover charges, celebrity status, ticket fees, certain cultural traditions, promotional efforts, subcultures, distribution medium, method of consumption (LP vs. ipod), product lines, and the like. Music: buy the t-shirt, see the movie. it’s a pity.
music: Miles Davis- ‘Round About Midnight
I don’t own much stuff by American standards. Besides a couple boxes and drawers full of old relics in Milwaukee, my bicycle and car, and a few assorted odds and ends, I can fit all my worldly possessions into a 9’ × 12’ bedroom. I think that’s pretty cool, as I sit in my room surrounded by pretty much everything I own. I’m rolling on a backpacker’s mentality: only carry what you need (or really, really value) and be sure to use everything you carry. I may not have that much stuff, but the stuff I have is pretty important to me. I rely on it a great deal, count on it being in working order.
I’ve recently been making efforts to take more ownership of the things I own. If at all possible I’d rather fix or build stuff on my own than take it to specialists. Part of this is simple economics. Living where I do and having the job I have doesn’t leave a lot of spare change in my pockets. The other part of this is more ideological. I’m not a big believer in leaving things on the shelf and letting them collect dust if they are meant to be used. My camping gear is worn and patched and grimy at this point (except my whisperlite stove, which is a replacement for the old and grimy one sitting somewhere in a TSA warehouse in Honolulu. Thanks for keeping us safe, guys), but I know I can rely on it because I’ve used the stuff enough times in all sorts of dramatic conditions to know it inside out. I started in on my car under Ron’s tutelage last spring. I’ve been doing my bike for a while. My bed, while creaky, is homemade. Even many of my books are all marked up with notes in the margins. All this has been coming to a head as of late, when some very important material items have been on the outs as far as proper functioning is concerned.
Sometimes we don’t have the tools necessary to do a job properly. This goes for physical tools as well as mental know-how tools. One of the things I use the most and value even more, and the one thing I’ve been afraid to work on is my guitar rig. I’m only a novice when it comes to wiring and electrical work, and only a little beyond that when it comes to woodwork.
After about a year and 3100 miles on the road, though, my guitar needed a setup. This is a mysterious ordeal to many guitarists, even the ones who give a damn about their instruments, where a technician or luthier somehow realigns the guitar to optimal playing specifications. It’s like taking your car to the shop for its 30,000 mile checkup: you aren’t completely sure what has transpired between this skilled technician and your stuff, but you get it back and you can feel the difference. I couldn’t help but think, though, that something was amiss when someone says “oh, well, your neck is out of relief and i’m gonna have to go ahead and get in there and adjust your truss rod. No, no, it’s not dangerous to the instrument but it’s a bit expensive in terms of labor, might have to charge you fifty for it.” Sounds legit, but a quick internet search will reveal that a truss rod adjustment takes no more than two minutes and is as easy as giving an allen wrench a 1/4 turn in the right direction. That someone would charge $50 for this is completely stupid. So instead of dropping off my guitar with some stranger to undergo this magical process of getting set up, I found a excellent guy named Chris on Craigslist who not only does a setup on your instrument, but also teaches you how to do the setup while you sit there. And the whole thing costs $50. Amazing turnaround time, quality work, and more valuable still, a little lesson in self-empowerment. Way cool. I was feeling so empowered that I decided to install strap locks on my Gibson this past weekend, complete with taking an electric drill to its beautifully finished wooden body. There were tense moments, downright harrowing moments for that matter, but by day’s end two small holes were drilled in exactly the right spot, the strap locks were installed, and my guitar became less of a showroom item and more of another tool that I may use in order to make music. (I say that, of course, because I took a big divot out of the back trying to get a stripped screw out of the thing.)
Two weeks ago, my mp3 player finally gave up the ghost. I use that thing almost on a daily basis, and not just for consumption of music. I use it as a portable hard drive, a medium through which I can disseminate my own music, as well as a music player. The kicker is that it was the second one to go in as many months, as the display on my trusty nomad jukebox 3 finally blinked off. As I use my mp3 players for high quality digital recording (production, not just consumption!!) my options were pretty limited as far as what I could go for. Ebay came through: I ended up getting an identical iRiver h120 to the one I had previously. And between the old and new ones, I managed to cobble together a bigger, better iRiver than I had even before, plus I saved the time and headache of transferring all the music onto my new iRiver by just popping the hard drive out of the old one and putting it into the new one. All this, of course, requires that one be willing to open the thing up and tinker a bit. Thanks to “misticriver.net” I was able to stumble through the process with very little difficulty. Add rockbox to the equation and I have ways of customizing a lot on the software end. (And as an aside to any mp3 player user, including iPod users: rockbox is amazing. Look into putting it onto your music player if you can. You’ll be very, very glad for it.)
I employed the same ethic towards truing my rear bike wheel a couple months back. I managed to get it fairly straight, but realized that some spokes were wrenched very tight and others not at all. That all caught up with me this week when I popped two spokes on my back wheel and completely taco’ed the thing. That one, given the tools at hand, was beyond my capabilities and I had to bite the bullet and buy a new wheel. I’ll be giving my bike an overhaul some time soon when I have a minute, adjusting the breaks to be a little tighter on the new rim.
Lesson learned, though: if you’re going to do a job yourself, you need the proper tools. The actual physical tools you use are important, but more than that is the knowledge of what to do with them. Thanks to resources like Chris up in Petaluma, I’m able to take more ownership of the few important things I own. Too often we Americans outsource the care and feeding of all that is important to us, so much so that we lose the ability to deal with it all personally. It gets harder to personally deal with all your stuff in this manner as the amount of stuff you have increases, but it’s very much worth it. Or else, as the line goes, the things you own end up owning you. This sort of education began in earnest at Chowdahaus in Boston, and continues in full force to the present moment. The battle against entropy continues, but not without some of the necessary tools. As always, gettin’ there.
music: The Curtis Twelve- 5/13/2006, Somerville, MA
(Long TIme No Blog. I think February of 2007 was the first month I missed since I started this thing in June of 2003. Things have been busy and I’ve been pushing myself away from this contraption as much as possible.)
Of all the material possessions that I still have, only a few have been with me since I lived in Milwaukee. I moved out to Providence in the fall of 1997, so most of my belongings are newer than that. Between 4 moves in Providence, 6 moves in Boston, and one big cross-country drive this summer there are only a few things that have survived the changes of the last 10 years. I take inventory as I look around my room: what has made cut after cut for the past 10 years? There is my acoustic guitar, a very important object. There are a few ratty t-shirts, each with sentimental value for one reason or another. There are certain CDs and books, for obvious reasons. There is my clock radio. There is my big green Osprey Silhouette, a very important item indeed. And there is my little stereo, which has been around longer than any of the above items.
I bought my little Panasonic shelf unit in December of 1991, when I was in seventh grade. It was a pretty expensive piece of equipment at the time, but put out a lot of good sound for the size and had some top-of-the-line features. That little stereo made its way to college, every apartment I’ve lived in, my cabin when I was a summer camp counselor (where I dubbed a good 100 tapes from AJM in the summer of 1997).. Every night I gazed at the flickering LCD EQ as I drifted off to bed, every morning I rubbed my eyes and squinted at the time on it. Today, though, that all came to a close as I picked up a used receiver off Craigslist for $35. It was time; I’m running three sets of speakers, multiple inputs (the least of which is this computer). Moreover, after 15 years the CD player on the shelf unit no longer works for most CDs and one of the tape players is broken. The new receiver puts out incredible power, is able to fill the entire upstairs of my house with sound, exhibits great stereo separation, can handle multiple inputs with ease, but something is still off. After living with something and interacting with it on a daily basis for 15 years I’d imagine this will take some getting used to.
It is said that every cell in your body regenerates after about seven years, meaning that you are made of completely different molecules every seven years or so. The little panasonic shelf unit, as an extension of my cellular makeup for the past 15 years, has survived two complete biological overhauls. Now it sits under my bed, unused, gathering dust. Its time has definitely come, but it’s still awkward to not have the thing around.
music: none
My roommate Jenn asked me what I would miss most about Boston a couple days ago. There’s a lot that’s happened in the past 5 years here, and a lot that I will miss, but the one thing that stood out in my mind was the biosphere, the music studio the basement of 12 Curtis. Every week (or almost every week) for the past year and a half I’ve descended to the basement and played my heart out. The biosphere has become a cruciible of artistic output, and has spurred me to push my music. What was accomplished down there isn’t groundbreaking or earth shattering on a consumable level, but the biosphere sessions hold a very significant place in my personal musical growth. Even looking back on the first biosphere sessions in February of 2005, it’s amazing how much has changed.
Two years ago the back of our basement was filled with tons of scrap, 30 years-worth of collected waste in a neglected triple-decker. The fall of 2004 saw a collective form here; 12 Curtis ceased to be three separate apartment units and became a house. With that, an opportunity: transform the basement into usable space. Ron and Tim cleared some space for workshop projects, and Peet started a modest bike repair center. Matt dreamt bigger than that; he singlehandedly designed and built a room in which music could be made. I initially thought he was thinking too big; just a cleared-out corner would be enough. But Matt persisted with minimal help and by November a room had in fact taken form. It was an incredible gift, although I did not know it at the time. Little by little the Biosphere flushed itself out, with gear and decor being added at a healthy rate until the room was packed with amplifiers, speakers, drums, microphones, posters, a mixer, guitar stands, and most importantly, people to use all the equipment on a regular basis. We had a fully-functioning music studio right in our basement, and roommates who not only tolerated the racket but encouraged it. The biosphere became my favorite room in the house; walking through the double doors was a transformation. You could leave the rest of the world out there. The biosphere was its own world, a haven.
We had a party at 12 Curtis this weekend, and a well-attended one at that. It was the final time I would play in the Biosphere. Because of this the night was bittersweet, a celebration with a tinge of nostalgia. One of my musical projects had ended almost a month previous, so it was left to Matt, Sebastian, Duncan, and me to close things out down there. I was glad to be able to do it with witnesses, to share what had been going on down there for the past year and a half. We had our last gig on our home turf, in the most comfortable setting to make music that I could hope for. We put up a good effort, at this point so locked in to each other that music came as second nature, and people responded positively. Never before had I seen people dancing (and dancing hard!) to music that I made, and I was floored because of it. We ended modestly, with a small sigh and without much fanfare, and that was that. Last Saturday my time in the biosphere came to an end.
I can’t say how much more my mental health would have suffered had i not been able to go down to the biosphere, plug in, and play whenever I felt like making music. I can’t say how thankful I am that there was a place to play (and play loud!) right in my own house. I’ve meticulously archived all the biosphere sessions, and can say that I’m very proud of the music I’ve made down there. I can’t see a music-making situation as perfect as the biosphere wherever I end up. Most likely I’ll have to rent space, travel with considerable effort to some place in order to play. I still don’t know how good I had it. But it is time to move on from my basement, I think. Says Anansi: The important thing about songs is that they’re like stories. They don’t mean a damn unless there’s people listening to them. I’ll continue to play music, probably for the rest of my life. I hope to get into some inspiring and challenging musical arrangements, but I doubt that anything will be as familiar, accessible, and comfortable as the biosphere.
I spent a couple hours this morning breaking down my gear and carrying it out of that room. Of all the uprooting that has to happen with a cross-country move, I think that moving out of the Biosphere will be the hardest.
music: King Johnson- Hot Fish Laundry Mat
I’ve been obsessing over my guitar tone recently. And for good reason: this spring has been explosive with music on the personal front. The band reconvened after about two months of hiatus, and after bringing fellow acoustic conspirator Duncan into the mix, we’ve solidified a lineup of sorts that will ensure that this musical project goes out with a bang. We actually have a gig lined up on the 13th of May, and perhaps one more before July. I’ve also started up with another band since January, something that tends as much towards gospel/soul as a twentysomething caucasian with two overdrive pedals can get. Both bands are coming along nicely and have spurred me to refine my rig.
(warning: geeky guitar content to follow.)
Refine is an understatement. I’ve been perseverating over my guitar tone. I’ve taken some big steps towards that holy grail of tonal perfection, which inches closer to what I think I want with every step. I’ve switched my strings from the muted, jazzy flatwound .11’s to the standard round-wound .10’s, which has afforded me a little more speed, attack, and nuance in my playing but has cost me some thickness in my lows and mids. More importantly, I dropped a good chunk of cash on a beautiful amplifier a couple months back: a refurbished and customized ‘76 Fender Vibrolux, with all point-to-point electronics cleaned up and tweaked to 60’s blackface specs, down to the faceplate and grille. The amp isn’t quite blackfaced completely, though: it still has a pull-out volume knob for high boost, and some pretty sweet AlNiCo Fender Special Design Speakers. It’s truly a unique amp, and I was very lucky to run into it on craigslist when I did. Between the vibrolux and my Gibson things are sounding pretty sweet. But your instrument is not just your guitar and amp, it’s everything you run your signal through. Upgrading the speaker cones and pickups of my rig are items I really should give some thought to, but not now. Now I am devoting full attention to obsessing over pedals.
Which pedals an electric guitarist decides to use might make the most difference in terms of customizing their instrument than the guitar or amp itself. Those little metal boxes are not generally thought of as part of someone’s instrument, but they are incredibly important. I would say that the pedals I’ve chosen to use account for half of my tone, and after a good amount of research and experimentation, I’d say that with my current setup I’m a little over 75% of the way there. The basic setup is a giant effects loop running out of and back into a Boss NS-2 Noise Suppressor (used mainly as a mute button for me). The loop, right now, is a Dunlop Crybaby (wah) > Electro Harmonix Q-Tron (bubble sound) > Ibanez TS-9 DX (overdrive with low-end boost for a little growl) > Ibanez TS-9 (lead distortion) > Boss BF-2 (flanger) > Boss CS-3 (compression and a little sustain). Then after the effects loop the whole thing runs into a Line 6 Delay Box (for which I’ve dialed in the Maestro Tube Echo, Electro Harmonix Memory Man, and Sweep Echo settings) before being sent out to the amp. It’s a lot to deal with.
One of the great parts to a rig like this is that there are so many places to tweak your sound just so. Each box does something different, and depending on the order in which they are placed you’ll get different results (wah > overdrive sounds different than overdrive > wah). Mixing and matching pedals has been even more fruitful than messing with knobs on each individual pedal. But all these knobs are a double-edged sword: all these options leave more possibilities for things get messy. Between the guitar, amp, and pedals, I have no less than seven volume knobs and six tone knobs. Finding and maintaining the right balance is quite a balancing act. There is also the issue of signal degradation: with all those input and output jacks, and with all those cables connecting the jacks, there is bound to be some diminished quality in the sound. If (when?) I get really, really serious about all of this, I replace my mid-grade cables with customizable solderless connectors, or the top of the line gold-plated cables.
I’m not quite satisfied with my rig. Sometimes I don’t think I will ever be, and half the fun is going to be continually building and experimenting with different combinations. While everything I have will stay put, I can’t help but wonder if replacing my standard crybaby with the 535Q, or if it is worth swapping out the q-tron for the q-tron +, which offers a softer, vowel-like response. The flanger is old and horribly beaten up and makes some pretty freaky sounds, which can be cool sometimes, but maybe I’d be better off with something a little more reliable and even-keeled, like the MXR Phaser. Perhaps throwing in an EQ at the end of the effects loop will give me a more full tone. And recently I’ve been enamoured with the leslie speaker effect, which points things towards the Uni-Vibe, but damned if I don’t have a stereo rig. It wouldn’t make much sense in mono to have a Uni-Vibe, which is essentially a phaser that pans between a left and right channel, but there are some less expensive options. I also have a Boss Octave Pedal kicking around, but it’s less than awesome as it cuts out and distorts when you play chords through it. Makes me drool after some of the high-end Electro-Harmonix Synths…
I spent a good three afternoons at Mr. Music trying out different pedals in different combinations. Didn’t buy anything, although I think they are pretty sick of me now. These pedals and all the options they offer have my head spinning. Maybe I should take a lesson from Angus Young and worry more about what my fingers are doing instead of my feet. After listening to all the options and pedals I begin to lose perspective. After talking to a particulary helpful guy at Mr. Music for over an hour on Wednesday, I handed back an armful of pedals with an apologetic and resigned look on my face, and thought to myself, that’s it. I’m going acoustic.
music: The Hackensaw Boys- Love What You Do
A while back I answered an ad on craigslist for a guitarist needed. Turns out the ad was for someone to do some studio work up in Billerica, which I wasn’t aware of when I answered it. I went ahead with it anyway when he finally responded. About a month ago I went up to Billerica with my rig and jammed with a bassist and drummer. The whole thing was recorded in 16 track digital with separate channels for each instrument. By my ears the session was not all that great; I set up too close to my amp and had problems with feedback all night. Several of our jams were messy, distorted affairs closer to bands like Tool than the standard whitebread rock/funk I usally produce. But he seemed to dig it. A bunch of time went by before the guy got back to me and I sort of wrote it off so when he did I was pretty surprised. He wanted me back up to do some studio overdubs and rework some sections. I haven’t ever really been interested in doing anything like this, but that could in part be due to the fact that I haven’t had the opportunity.
Hearing the tracks from last time really surprised me. It sounded a lot better than I remembered, plus he had a keyboard player come in and do overdubs on some of the stuff we recorded. It was a strange phenomenon listening to a jam you remember as mediocre at best with a keyboard track that was not originally there. All told it came together quite nicely, but something didn’t sit well.
Studio work is an exercise in detail, and an endless stretch towards perfection. Over the course of three hours I probably added about 30 seconds of sound to the existing tracks, along with splashes of chords here and there. I’m not sure that the tiny changes amounted to all that much but the guy seemed to be pretty happy about it. I kept thinking that you could keep tweaking and punching in and overdubing forever and never be satisfied with the outcome. I was glad for the experience, but left thinking about how much I prefer to play with people who are actually there. And moreover, I like the blemishes, those little honest moments, that you can only get by playing live. It’s a lot messier at points, risky too, but it’s also a lot more revealing and cathartic to put yourself out there with no chance for post-production, editing, or mixdowns.
Musicians can be placed on a continuum according to their focus as related to this issue; on one end is the studio and on the other end is the live show. I think I’ve always been drawn to bands that tend towards the live side of the spectrum, even before I started playing myself. There’s an energy to the live music experience that you don’t get on an album, and there are moments of brilliance and humanity that somehow don’t translate to the studio. Live music reminds us that this sound is the creation of humans, real humans right there in front of you playing instruments, and that somehow puts the music in a different perspective. Of course there is some life-changing studio music out there. I love certain albums and will always love them. And I know the importance of studio work, how you can do things in the studio that you can’t reproduce live, that the most important rock band in history is almost completely a studio band. But studio sessions are sometimes so squeaky clean, the composition’s delivery so prototypical, that something vital is lost. There’s the other issue of packaging music and the problems in the industry with doing this now that people have the internet at their disposal, and how live music is the way for musicans to make a living without having to worry about people sharing their music. But that’s a rant for a different time.
It’s really a matter of medium, which brush auditory artists choose to paint with. And all else being equal, I’d rather go live. That might change now that I have almost an album’s worth of originals, but the thrill is not listening to a stitched-together piece of music in a soundproof booth and throwing in your part; the thrill is plugging in and sharing a desparate moment with other musicians, even if it doesn’t come out perfectly. You won’t find moments in a box, they say.
I think that this particular situation was a strange one because we had no preconceived compositions to track out in the studio; it was essentially a live jam recorded in the studio. Things might be different if I went into the studio with a band, people I have been playing and writing with. But here was a situation with two strangers, and some I’ve never met adding parts at later times. The illusion is quite convincing, but something doesn’t sit right with me about the whole setup. It’s a strange enough thing to collaborate on a creative improvisation with other people, but to put your piece down and then find that someone else has come along and thrown something on top of that calls the whole project into question. You never hear about four painters working on one canvas, even painters who know and respect each others’ work.
I came away from the studio experience intruiged, glad to have done it, but excited for band practice the next night. Band practice turned out to be the worst one we’ve ever had, but despite not clicking at all and quitting an hour early there were still moments where I was thought to myself, oh, this is why I do this. Something I could not get in the studio.
music: Grateful Dead- 6/10/1973, Washington DC
I was catching up with someone after a wonderful salmon dinner tonight, talking about this and that. There’s a guitar nearby, and he eggs me on to play a little. I tune the thing up, and out from the woodwork comes B. B. is somewhere in his 50’s, presents with impenetrable eyes and facial expression,sports long stringy hair and shaggy goatee and an ample round potbelly framed by old stretched suspenders. He shuffles around, partly due to a small cast or brace on one of his feet, but mostly because a lucid reality isn’t his forte. He smells a bit of old underwear, but it didn’t seem to bother him. He had shuffled back and forth once or twice over the course of the evening, and had probably been there and back more than that in a larger sense, but this last time he stopped in front of us at the sound of the guitar being tuned. He looks at me for a good long while, damn near half a minute, without saying anything at all, and not seeming like it was necessary for him to talk. Something clinically close to catatonic, were I to guess. I asked him, seeing his Jerry Garcia shirt, if he liked the Grateful Dead. He nods after another excruciating 10 seconds, still staring quite blankly at me and the guitar. I’m not sure if he blinked the whole time. I start running through some songs I know how to play, and halfway through the list he speaks up:
“Play Eyes of the World.”
So I do, carefully, and not too loud, not knowing exactly how this guy would react to it and not wanting to make too much of a spectacle. But as soon as the chords started, he breaks out with the lyrics, shouting his way through the lyrics, barely holding melody and rhythm together. And as soon as it began, though, B. was immediatlely transformed. An intensity came over him as he half-sang, a certain glow as well. Something in B. resonated and reverberated and amplified, he somehow was now awake, snapped out of his placid trance. It wasn’t good, but it was pure and honest. He hit most of the words pretty well.
I kept playing the tune for all my life, not quite knowing what would happen to this human being once the music stopped. When it inevitably did he fell silent, cracked an imperceptible smile, and asked: “Box of Rain?”
I didn’t know it.
“Ripple?”
That I knew. So we did Ripple, with B. scratching out the verses. There was something heartbreakingly human listening to him recite the lyrics almost as if they were the Gospel. In some very significant way, especially with the music of the Dead to a certain demographic, music takes on a highly spiritual quality, and B. was in church, testifying.
If my words did glow with the glow of sunshine, and my tunes were played on the harp unstrung, would you hear my voice come through the music? Would you hold it dear as it were your own?
We ended up doing Brown Eyed Women and Bertha before it was all said and done. He seemed pretty disappointed that we had to stop, but we’d made a bit of a scene and my fingers were hurting. The point, however, was made. Music is an incredibly powerful and moving thing, sometimes able to accomplish in a few seconds what years of therapy can not. It evokes something deepset and vital in even the most impenetrable of minds. A Ripple in still water.
(if I knew the way, B., I would take you home.)
Wake up to find out that you are the eyes of the world
the heart has its beaches, its homeland and thoughts of its own
Wake now, discover that you are the song that the morning brings
The heart has its seasons, its evenings and songs of its own
music: Biosphere Sessions - 9/28/2005
I spend a lot of time thinking about improvisation, which is funny because I’m a planner at heart. It’s also funny because improvisation, by definition, is something you don’t think about beforehand. I think I’m attracted to the idea of improvisation because it is a creative act that in many ways rattles the cage of order, safety, and composition, and is a reaction against constraining structures.
When you improvise, you take risks. Sometimes it pays off, sometimes it doesn’t, but when things do click it is complete ecstasy. The more you improvise the more you can get things to work out in some way, but the more you need to keep pushing back the boundaries of your comfort zone.
My own musical endeavours over the past month or so have exploded with improvisation. We’ve been rocking the Biosphere since February, and over the past couple sessions I’ve been able to say to myself that we sound like a band who has played together for a bit and sounds tight, even in our improvisations. We are falling into musical pockets that, as they say in the field, get there. Moments where our improvisations fall into alignment are ecstatic, some of the best moments I have all week. With the most recent addition of a tenor sax we’re pushing in new directions and cultivating an adventuresome attitude towards music making. At the same time, though, our improvisational approach is growing more disciplined. In order to make the improvisation work there are needs for some constraints, some rules. Most of it is because our improvisations are communal; everything is interplay and reaction, and since none of us knows what is to happen next we have to be able to fall back on a little bit of agreed-upon structure. In some sort of paradox, the more we practice together the better our spontinaeity becomes. And strangely enough, some of the best moments of improvisation are when something completely new and unrepeatable slides into something composed, familiar, and recognizable. Our immediate goals, in fact, include expanding our repertoire of compositions and rearranging some of the tunes we already have down.
Music is a safe venue in which I can improvise. The payoffs are huge, and the adverse consequences for something not working out are not that bad. But trying to stretch improvisation to other corners of my life has proved less fruitful. I found that I have had to improvise with my teaching a little more this year than last, and while teaching will never be devoid of improvisation sometimes I think that the best thing to do is to avoid improvisation by planning as much as possible. But Missa Toss is trying his best to have a life of his own this time ‘round, and after a weekend full of friends and short on lesson planning, I found that I had to improvise a little more than I would have liked. It hasn’t blown up in my face yet, and has worked almost enough to convince me that I could get away with a drastic reduction in the amount of planning I do, but over the past day or two I’ve gotten some indication that kids may be suffering academically because of my lack of planning. This is more apparent in my behavioral science classes, the whole of which is, if not an improvisation, a work-in-progress, an uncompleted vision. The course is new to the district, something I applied to do, and since the suits downtown said I could do it I’ve been scrambling to throw things together in a satisfactory fashion. Due to time and energy constraints, it’s been mostly improvisation, and it’s been only me. No dropping out for a couple seconds to listen to the rhythm, get my bearings, and re-tune, no sitting back on the melody and letting the other instruments take over…if I’m not prepared then I suffer a tough day at school and the kids don’t quite click in with the material. A lot of the stuff of the last unit has been disjoint and organized poorly as far as theme. Because I haven’t done the course before and because I’m pulling together so many things from outside sources I’m finding that I’m dropping the ball every now and again. Even though I’m feeling like teaching is becoming more second nature and less performance, I still need to suck it up and spend the majority of my Sundays preparing for the week. In the teaching venue, I’m not the one that suffers if my improvisations don’t pay off. My students are.
Stopping to think about it is a bit overwhelming. I sometimes can’t believe that I’m managing to keep it together at all on the teaching front. But that is the way with improvisation: as soon as you start to think too much you are lost. Miles and Coltrane practiced so much because they wanted to engrave the basics into their heads, fingers, and mouths so much that they didn’t have to think about them. Whatever your improvisation is, your goal is to flow with it, to blur its boundaries and blend yourself into its stream, to skip into some sort of groove with your medium. And at the same time, your goal is to impose enough structure onto any system such that there is a coherent scope and theme, but leave enough room such that there can be some degree of improvisation. Be it music or teaching, or pounding out these weblog entries, I realize that I can’t achieve the level of organization I want on the fly just yet. And when the lives of others are at stake, I’m realizing, sometimes my own improvisational spirit needs to take a back seat to some solid planning.
music: Bootsy Collins- Back in the Day…Best of Bootsy
Acoustic guitar players have it easy. Their instrument is, well, their insturment. The piece of wood and steel that they hold in their hands is the beginning and the end of their technical quest for perfect tone and feel. How nice it must be.
Electric guitar players have a little more to consider. There is the instrument, which is undoubtedly a very important piece of the puzzle, but when you go electric you have a rig, a chain of boxes and cables and vacuum tubes that end in an amplifier of some kind and a speaker or two. There are a dizzying amount of options to consider. but if you somehow manage to own the right guitar, put the right boxes in the right order, and run them all into the right amplifier, life is sweet.
My rig has been developing over the past year or so. The big steps up have been purchasing the Gibson ES-335, and the Fender Super 210 amp. I’ve thrown a series of stompboxes in between the two, and more or less settled on a crybaby, two tubescreamers (one with extra boost on the low end, the other with gain and tone max’ed out), a flanger, and a compression sustainer. Until today. Today, as Peet said, is a special day, for the Q-Tron arrived in the mail. I’m now the funkiest one in town.
I can only describe this one as the box that makes the bubble sound. There are a host of other things it can do, but i’ve got it set to bubble, somewhere in between late ‘70’s Jerry Garcia, Bootsy, and that opening bass line to Chameleon (and not unlike a certain bass player on songs like Down with Disease and the breakdown to Free, although we are told he used the vintage mu-tron III). It’s the first box in the series right now, even before the crybaby, but I’m thinking of trying it in between the wah and the tubescreamers. Either way there are some interesting combinations to be had. Q-Tron + Flanger make for a cool sound, add distortion and things feed back in an unsatisfactory way until I step away from the amp a little. Semi-hollow guitars are a pain sometimes. I’m working on it.
For now I’m content with just the Q-tron. That bubble sound is the coolest.
So my rig is coming into its own, and my instrument in the larger sense is being revised and honed. A big piece will come next week when I take my guitar to a guy I jammed with a couple times, and we tinker with the electronics. Want more sweep in the mid-section? More headroom on the lead channel? A brighter clean tone? It’s all possible. Plus I can get the tubes checked; there’s been a rattling that indicates something is up. Then what? Replace the cheap tubescreamer with an original model, update the cables and connections, and mount all on a homemade pedal board. Maybe, just maybe a delay pedal.
Fine. Biosphere be rockin’. We’ve done some cleaning and rearranging down there, installed new christmas lights, and turned a section of wall into a chalkboard (aw naw, missa…). We’re playing with a sax and potentially a new keyboardist in the coming weeks. And now with the Q-tron, I get to make that funky bubble sound whenever I want. Acoustic will always have its place for me — it’s how I started playing — but now that I’ve gone electric and have built a halfway decent rig there is no going back.
music: Talking Heads- Stop Making Sense
I bought an amp this weekend. The old Crate was hitting the upper reaches of its capabilities and the new band setup demanded a little more headroom. Up comes an all-tube, 60-watt, 2×10 amp on craigslist for $300 and anticipating a decent tax refund this year I jumped at it.
The thing is a beast. An absolute beast. The highs are piercing and the lows are rattling. It’s way too much to deal with, more than I’m prepared to handle at this point. Louder than I’ll ever need it to be in our studio space downstairs, but plenty of headroom to entertain the possibility of playing an actual room one day. I spent about an hour each yesterday and today playing around with it, trying out its built-in lead channel, tweaking and balancing levels on it as it runs through my stompboxes. The increase in power will allow me to get a more full sound out of my axe with less finger strain, but also increases the likelihood of feedback, especially considering my guitar is semi-hollow. Probably doesn’t help things that I’ve got my guitar running through two tubescreamers, along with a flanger, crybaby, and compression sustainer. The compressor helps some but my rig is now an unruly 1,000 lb. angry gorilla ready to rage at a moment’s notice.
I worry a little bit that I’ve sacrificed the finesse and soft touch that the Crate allowed for, that I’ll go way over the top when I plug in with the band on Wednesday. New gear always takes some getting used to, and this will be a bit of an adjustment. Amps are curious things to use; they are often overlooked and money is spent on the actual guitar, but the amplifier (and all accessories) is part of the instrument in a larger sense. It is arguably the most important part-it’s where the sound comes out. I’m not completely set on the Fender, and there’s no way I’m getting rid of that little Crate, so there’s room for growing pains and experimentation. There’s also an incredible amount of headroom for me to crank the thing up and literally shake the house to its foundations.
music: Recordings from the Biosphere (with Matt and Sebastian)- 2/18/05
Another week of vacation from school is upon me and my goals this time around are modest: resurrect some of that which I lost to Missa Toss over the past six months. I knew going into this nine day stretch that some sort of ritual was appropriate to mark the reclaiming of my own life that was to take place, and in the days before the vacation proper I considered doing a three-day fast to help clear the cobwebs and to create some mental space from which a more healthy, balanced perspective could take place. The topics of hunger and the inescapable need for food have been rattling around in my head for the past couple weeks, and the idea of a fast appealed to me as a way to manage both my accumulating emotional and visceral clutter. As the vacation hit, though, I realized that I did not need to empty out; instead, I needed to fill up. Enough of my time has been spent in personal deprivation that a physical acting out of that deprivation was not the proper means of making the most of this time given to me. No, instead, I thought to see what I could to to fill time with things of substance. My eating habits are poor enough during the work week.
If I had the inclination, I could easily fill my time from now until the end of break with work for school. I’ll have to dip into it at some point-lessons must be planned for the week after this and an entire curriculum in psychology must be outlined for next year-but for the time being I’m content to do things for myself. And even though break has only been dented by this past weekend, it is of significant substance. Time is being filled with goodness, mostly with that infinitely difficult but unspeakably positive thing I’ve been working towards and pushing on since I returned from my trip across the country: music.
Friday night, by all personal measures, was a watershed moment. I connected with two guys from Craigslist, a bassist and a drummer, and got down to it for about two and a half hours in the 1-2 basement music studio. We threw around some original ideas (I’m re-listening to the 30-minute straight improv we opened things with now), a couple Dead covers, a couple Phish covers, and some other assorted works. It was the first time I got to put the room downstairs to good use, and it was also the first time I got to put the newly-tuned and tweaked Gibson through the motions. Both earned their keep and then some-things came out better than I ever could have hoped for. Considering that it was our first time playing together it was downright incredible now that I’m listening to it again. Peet, a man who knows his music and takes it seriously, said that he’s paid good money to hear music much worse. It occurred to me afterwards that this was possibly the first electric jam session I’ve had on guitar…ever? It legitimized a lot for me: all that time spent noodling in my bedroom playing along to CDs, all that work put into recording demo tracks, all that money thrown into the new Gibson. It also made me glad I dropped some bills on mixers and microphones-we got a great sounding recording out of the session. We three are going to make a habit out of it and hope to eventually bring a keyboardist into the mix. Friday night saw a big goal of mine for this year come to fruition. I couldn’t be happier about it and am already itching to have another go at it.
I’m still staying true to my roots on the music front. I’m working on some more structured singer-songwriter type stuff on acoustic with Jono, a guy who contacted me about playing music a couple weeks back. We met up this afternoon, ran a few of his tunes including some covers, some of my originals and some of his. We’re shooting for an open-mic at the Middle East tomorrow night. It isn’t perfect yet, but it sounds good enough to take out there and let hang in the breeze for a little bit. Another goal of mine to be realized: playing out. My musical horizons are expanding by leaps and bounds given this short time in February and the best part is that these recent aural explosions are by no means limited or isolated incidents; they are beginnings.
Music, no matter how good it can be, is not the sum total of anyone’s existence. This week saw, by my standards, a staggering amount of social movement. C. and I had our weekly Thursday night dinner for the first time in a couple weeks and it was good to catch up with her. We came up with a great hairbrained scheme: I supply the music, and she’s going to make us Hammer Pants. (That’s word, because you know…) I also got a chance to see M. twice this week, a monumental feat considering I haven’t seen her since last September. Jono invited me out for the time honored tradition of drinking beer and then throwing really sharp pointy things last night. And tonight we had a dinner gathering at the 1-2 that blossomed from an offhand comment to Peet this morning into a way cool get-together. TiMO and JZ came back to the 1-2 from dogsitting, Jono stuck around after running through songs and convinced Sam to join us, Matt and Gina came up from downstairs, and Jojo made the trek up from Central Square. We had a good hour or two in the kitchen full of frying, boiling, slicing, talking, eating, drinking…even a good grease fire in the oven. We then did a good amount of lounging and laughing in the common room while we waited for our digestive systems to do their thing. It was a simply beautiful (and beautifully simple) Sunday night at the 1-2. It was a study in what is necessary this break: food. I do not need to be emptied, assuming a passive stance towards my surroundings. Instead, I need to be forceful and purposeful in my actions, to indulge in and enjoy food of all kinds, and as the song goes, share it with many friends. There are seven days left in which I have a lot to accomplish here in Boston. This vacation isn’t about leaving, and that’s important. It’s tough work resurrecting one’s social life after over a year of neglect, but I’m already beginning to taste the rewards.
music: Phish- 11/14/95, Orlando, FL
A drive
beyond the city
around
but not to long to
riot in the night
through fuss and fight
through nothing
live through it all
The three day weekend was, for the most part, spent convalescing. I’m not sure what from. I spent a good amount of time pinballing around the house tweaking this and that, having minutes of focus and purpose, but most was filler. I got some big projects for school out of the way. I played a decent amount of guitar. I started work on a new song, which is now well on its way to completion. By Monday night I was restless and disappointed at how the weekend shook out. Cue tmo, asking coyly if I was interested in going to an open mic. In Gloucester. On a school night. I needed the recklessness of it all more than the content of the trip, so I dragged out the acoustic, bundled up, and headed out.
Enter the Rhumb Line, a small townie bar at the ass-end of the commuter rail far beyond the hype of the big city. The crowd was friendly and accepting, or drunk, or both. The music was predominantly classic rock covers, with some impressive improvisatory moments thrown in for good measure. The open mic was in fact an open jam session, and me there at 10:00pm on a school night, bringing the wrong brush with which to paint. I sat back and took in the scene, keeping mostly to myself, but some time around 11:30 the host of the session points a meaty finger my way. Apparently Shane, the guy who we travelled to meet up with, put my name on the list. He also loaned me his old Strat, an axe that’s been through the war and then some. The frets were almost flush against the fretboard and the action was dangerously low. It, besides all that, was a Strat, and as such has a completely different feel than the ES-335 that I’ve spoiled myself on. Throw an actual crowd of strangers into the mix, a drummer, a bassist, and the host on another guitar, shake. No, puree. I call for a simple funky improv to open: Am7 > D7, nothing too difficult, and I immediately falter on my first riffs. The Strat played sharp and pointy, the clean channel far too choppy, and I ended up fighting with the instrument for the rest of the night instead of using it as a tool. We segued into a fairly standard E-blues jam where I took a stab at a weak solo. The host asked me to sing something, and conjuring back from a far more successful gig in Bellingham, MA, I started Franklin’s Tower. By that point I had already lost my legs. I bumbled through three or four verses, the host ended it, and I turned the borrowed Strat over to Shane. I’d had enough.
This music things is hard enough as it is; doing it in vivo is even harder. But I realized as we were driving home that that is my zone of proximal development. I’m no longer challenged as much by my bedroom solo recitals. I needed to get out there, plug in, completely fall on my face, and stick it out. I needed the reality check to my pride, the humbling, the reminder that I don’t know jack. The challenge, as I saw it, was not a kinesthetic one; I didn’t feel the need to rip off mammoth solos. I’d like to blame the guitar but as a wiser person once said, the tools are only as good as the carpenter. The challenge was and is how to put myself into the proper frame of mind when I know other people are listening. There was a great deal of static and interference last night at the Rhumb Line. I was not clear and directed, and I certainly was not at ease. I made it through, and will live to play another day.
I’ve redoubled my efforts on the music front. I’ve been thinking hard about how to transition to playing in a more public sphere, about my own songwriting, and about some of the more fundamental issues of tonal theory that I’ll need in my bag of tricks. I spent about an hour on Sunday night taking a music lesson. All of this is directed towards a point- I have a jam session/audition scheduled with two guys from the craigslist music board on Thursday.
Musical horizons are expanding as I push outwards. Part of creating art is putting oneself on display publicly. I have tended to lurk in the shadows, produce from behind a curtain and reveal work without standing next to it (blog?) but that’s not so much an option any more. The musical externalizing process is too far along to slow down or reverse now, and despite any stumbling blocks that I may make for myself, there’s only one direction to move. Struggle, progress, and all that.
Slipping
Finding the stream
Living the dream
Feeling the sound
music: STS9- 4/21/02, Champaign, IL
To tune means to bring into harmony. On the most basic level, we have to bring our instrument into harmony with itself…Tuning means to hear. Too many of us allow our eyes to dominate our ears. Try closing your eyes and listening with the ears of a blind person…Beyond tuning the instrument itself, it’s also important for you to be in tune with the insturment. In the same way that singers understand their own voices, learn to understand your guitar…Much more difficult is finding an internal tuning — one that brings body, mind, and spirit into harmony. A player must be clear of internal static such as impatience and frustration; otherwise, the spirit frizzles like a radio slightly off dial. Your sound must have what the Chinese call ch’iyun: a sympathetic vibration of the vital spirit. It is a harmony that speaks from your heart directly to the heart of the listener — an intangible element that enables us to transcend our separateness and feel the greater oneness. When you feel that moment of transcendence, when your spirit is uplifted — that’s what you’re going for.
-Philip Toshio Sudo
I spent almost two hours restringing, tuning, and adjusting the intonation on my guitar this afternoon. Tuning itself is a relatively short practice; adjusting intonation takes much more focus and time. It was a chance to get to know the instrument better, to adjust its sound in a personal and significant way, and allow myself to meditate on the alignment of vibrations that is and will become music. Musicians often rush through tuning, eager to jump into making music. I’m trying to use the practice and discipline of tuning as a way to enter into a receptive mental state before I start to play. It also separates time spent making music from the rest of the day, allows me to set up my dojo, so to speak. I think that the sanctification of musical space is an excellent (and widely followed) practice by musicians of all sorts-it explains candles on the guitar amp, special carpets on which musicians stand, rituals involving setting up rigs, and more broadly, the use of music in religious rites.
I find that on days I am unhappy, discontent, or restless my guitar sounds out of tune no matter what I do. Taking the time to stop everything else and focus on bringing sound into alignment can make a big difference in the quality of my music to follow. I try to use my own ears for this as much as I can; electronic tuners can be helpful but make people too reliant on visual feedback and allows them to stop listening. More than that- electronic tuners allow people to tune without even hearing the note they are playing, which seems self-defeating. Music is more about feel than physical calibration; to really dig into an instrument or music in general it is imperative that one can internalize tone, can hear the tone in their own head before they are able to bring it into actual harmony. This was a lesson learned early: one of Mr. White’s first lessons in high school band was to listen to the reference pitch, then sing the note in your head before you make sound with your instrument. He also used to say something along the lines of the thinking of Mr. Sudo- that if you are playing a scale, then make that scale music. if you are only playing one note, make that note music. It’s harder than it sounds.
Music, above all else, is a discipline of rhythm and harmony. I spent almost two hours bringing my guitar into harmony this afternoon, and in doing so pushed myself into a more centered mind state. It’s a necessary practice. Making time for alignment is important, as is learning how to listen deeply. Both are lessons that ripple through the creation of sound, yes, but also to every other corner of my existence.
music: Tori Amos- Tales from the Choirgirl Hotel
Winter break is probably past its halfway point and I’m still in Boston. But there are plans afoot to get out of here. I’ve, however, had my hands full here. Three solid days of work on music, and almost exactly one year to the day of my first concerted effort at recording the resultant EP is nearing completion. I’ve pasted together a rough mix of all six tracks. While there is still a bit of patching and mastering and normalizing and stitching together, the infrastructure is in place and the bulk of the work is done. Pushing this project into its final stages was a big goal of mine for this break and it’s good to have something to show for all the time I’ve spent messing around with instruments, computers, mixers, and microphones. While I’d ideally like to rework sections of most of the tunes I have to draw the line sometime soon. This EP is not meant for public consumption on a commercial level-it is more a document for myself and my co-writer as well as something handy to give to people I might play with in the future. Many of the tunes push towards the sappy guy-with-guitar campfire cheese about nature and the open road. It’s to be expected considering I drove across the country this summer with a guitar, but in the larger scheme I’m not looking to make that sort of music. It was what we had to work with this summer, and it is what came out. Now that it’s down on an EP, it’s time to move on to a more full electric sound. More than anything else it feels good to get the six tracks of the Rivers and Roads EP out of my head and onto disc. I’m rollin’ on.
Get me out of this city…
Such a simple line, such a powerful sentiment. It’s a proclamation of discontent I’ve voiced on more than one occasion, and as luck would have it, my good friends happened to paste it into a song, the song that really made the rest of this music thing possible. With the penning of Gato Negro worlds opened up for me. Yes, I’m reaching, and perhaps even making good time. But after three solid days of work on music in my isolation chamber/recording studio/bedroom, I’m ready to actually get outta this city. An impromptu midnight trip to the Arboretum tonight was a nice appetizer, but I’m thirsty for more.
Last minute audible, made earlier this evening: Philadelphia for New Year’s with friends from my childhood. It will be great to see them, and it will also be good to hit the asphalt and drift for a couple days. I’ve been a little too boxed in here. I saddle up in THW-455 some time tomorrow and set out for points South on the current of the mighty I-95. And now I’ll have a soundtrack, one conceived primarily during travels in the same car, to keep me company on the quick pop down to the city of Brotherly Love.
My faculties for language slip at three in the morning. More from the road. I’m rollin’ on…
music: Tea Leaf Green- 5/10/03
Peet played it for me last Thursday and I promptly lost my potatos. We’ve been rocking it loud multiple times every day since. The song itself isn’t anything too mindblowing, but all things considered, Lapti Nek is a jam of intergalactic proportions. It also reveals the extent to which Peet and I are incredible dorks. No, really, we are incurable. Way beyond help. Along with a good proportion of the males born in the 1970’s and 70,000 Australians.
Have a listen. A free drink to anyone who can place the song without outside help. Another drink to anyone who can name all the members of the band.
(And for the true dork: lyrics and translation. Zorze zot.)
music: Drums and Tuba- Vinyl Killer
I realized this Friday afternoon that I hadn’t been to a concert since Phish’s final show in mid-August. Good that I was finally getting out and taking in some music: the Sam Kininger Band at Harper’s. While the show would be good in its own right, my friend Amy plays keys in the band and can throw down with the best of them. Even though she’s a friend of mine, she’s also a good enough musican for me to want to listen to her stuff regardless. The show was good; more than anything else it felt good to be back in the realm of live music. But it left me more hungry than when I came in.
I’ve been bitten by the music bug. it’s not enough to be a passive observer of the creation of music anymore. It seems that every time I hear music happening these days I want in on its creation. I’m not saying that I’m good enough to hang with the likes of the Sam Kininger Band yet (nor would I get off on playing funk for over an hour at a time), but hearing isn’t enough. Music is no longer a spectator sport. I left the show sort of bent out of shape because 1) I wanted to make some music and 2) I realized how little time I have been giving myself to pursue things I wanted to do for me. I spent the rest of the weekend with my guitar, bass, drums, and recording equipment getting some stuff out of my head and onto tape…er…hard disk. It’s now Sunday night and I’ve just spent a good long weekend doing little besides making music. It’s been just me on all instruments, but hey, I take what I can get.
This summer AJM and I cannibalized a tune written by our buddies in Madison and made it a connecting piece between two more structured tunes: Gato Negro and the Asphalt River. We retained its name but none of its lyrics. And so Fernanda became my little project for the weekend. Every time I get into a recording session the bar is raised in new ways-this time was a much, much better mic job on the drum kit thanks to Ron’s Oktava MK 12’s. Plus, this is the first song I recorded with the Gibson. The results are astounding; Fernanda has become an ass-kicker of a song. I seem to have worked myself out of the sappy campfire songwriting phase I was in from this summer. I also got a good drum and bass track down for the reworked studio version of Gato Negro (probably the best song I’ve had a part in writing thus far). To be finished this week sometime…but with the end of the quarter at school and tests and notebooks to grade it might have to wait for a while.
All this sound crunching has put my computer through the ringer. It’s probably more than that but things have been a little off with this trusty machine this past week. I’m getting some electronic static on audio tracks. It could be a whole bunch of things including the patch cables connecting the mixer to the soundcard (let it not be the mixer itself! and PLEASE let it not be the soundcard or computer…) but some of my work has some crackles in it. Funny part is when I rewind and replay that section, though, the crackles are gone. Curious. Cool Edit has flaked a couple times as well, randomly shutting itself down mid-session. Chalk one up for Microsoft. And this is probably unrelated, but over the past week my computer’s developed a case of insomnia- it isn’t able to standby or hibernate. I think this is because of something else (the error message says something about COM 1 and drivers) but it’s still frustrating. I’d like to lean heavily on this computer of mine for audio recording even though I know it’s not designed for such uses.
Recording sessions are a long process that require discipline and patience. And for now, the creative process is a solitary endeavour. Just as well; I need to make more time for things that allow me to grow. Plus most days school burns me out on conversations. Besides those technological glitches and electronic hiccups I’m glad to be getting this stuff down. Fernanda is an enormous rocker. I’ll still tweak levels and fiddle with the things for a bit but for the most part it’s done. It feels good to know I have the potential to make some really good music, but more than that it feels good to do more than consume. I’m now starting to contribute some original music to the world, and it rocks.
music: Allman Brothers Band- At the Fillmore East d.2
I’d been plucking away at my old Epiphone Les Paul Special for almost four years now and over the past year or so I finally outgrew it. While the low-low-lowest end LP was a perfect starter electric, I realized about a year ago that I was past the starter stage and it was time to upgrade. I kept a casual eye open to new guitars around town, periodically popping into music shops to check out the latest. An axe caught my eye a couple days ago at Mr. Music in Allston. They say that you’ll know when you pick the right one up, and as I took it off the wall and started to pick at it something felt very, very right about it. the weight, balance, neck width, action, the way it sat, distance from volume knob to selector switch…this was it. ES-335 model (an ES-333 actually), which is the model i’d been eyeing for years. This one had a natural finish, not flashy but elegant, and because it was an ES-333 it was about $800-$900 cheaper than its bigger brother. I was in and out of the store for a couple days this week, plugging the thing in, debating whether or not to drop so much money on a piece of wood and metal, allowing myself to believe I was ready for such a nice axe.
So it’s been a long time in the coming; the old tools could only get me so far. I dropped a hefty chunk of change today on my new guitar.” It was a sizable investment to be sure, but one that will pay dividends in excellent sound and playability for years and years. This is an axe that will be with me for a long time.
The difference between the old and new guitar is astronomical. Everything feels more solid now; I actually feel like I can pull off some pretty brash licks that I couldn’t have before. Part of it is the new axe just plays better — it’s better constructed and has higher-quality components — but part of it is that this new guitar means that this music thing is getting serious. The biggest hang-up I had in buying the new axe was the question of just how serious I was going to be about playing. Was I content to play in my bedroom, record some stuff and squirrell it away, or am I ready to start collaborating, hitting up jam sessions, playing out? The latter just wasn’t feasible with the old guitar, at the level I was looking for anyway. And even if I spend another couple months or years in the bedroom recording mode, the new axe will lend a higher quality to my work. What comes out of the thing is more balanced, measured, even. Simply put, I can worry less about putting my fingers in the right place (the old guitar demanded a much more exact hand technique, a good thing for a starter axe) and start worrying more about bringing feeling to the music. I’m much looser now. I’m able to think more laterally than vertically on the fretboard. And the sustain…
The past couple months have seen a steady investment in music gear. I’m now in possession of some high-quality mics, a mixer, some digital production software, a pretty nice 20-watt tube amp, some pedals, some cables, a bass, my trusty old acoustic, and now one beautiful natural cherry semi-hollowbody Gibson electric. Looking at the thing now, I realize that it’s almost the same model as a guitar I listened to a lot growing up, one owned by a friend of mine in high school, a guy whose playing (and discipline and modesty about it all) did a great deal in inspiring me to pick up the instrument for myself. My buddy Mike is now making it as a musician, performing on Garrison Keillor’s Prarie Home Companion, and I can only hope to channel some of his drive, emotion, passion, and talent in this new step.
The guitar is a musical intstrument, and like any instrument it is a tool that humans use to facilitate some other project. It is a means to an end. This particular instrument will allow me some more freedom of expression, increase the range and quality of my pallete, but ultimately the music will come from the same place it always has. Now, though, more has been made possible and the bar has been raised. I look forward to the challenge.
music: Geoff Scott’s Public House, 9/21/04
Music has been riding the bench along with the rest of my life since the summer ended. David, as of late, has been more or less ignored while Mr. Taus is busy getting it together. Tonight, though, I indulged and recorded some ideas that have been kicking around since the road trip. One of these ideas is yet another sappy campfire folk tune extolling the virtues of the open road and the wilderness. This one is called ‘Miles from Nowhere.’ The vocal tracks are painful to listen to. I was much better with my singing at the end of the summer, when we busied ourselves with singing and playing every day. I’m still maintaining some limited proficiency on the stings, but my singing voice is suffering from gross neglect. No matter. Add it to the repertoire of originals, and call it the first one that was written solo. It’s passable as far as acoustic folk music goes, but I’m not really that interested in making that sort of music these days. I’d rather plug in and rock hard or funk deep. Still, nice to have another original under my belt.
It appears that I’m not the only one distributing original music on the internet. (No, technically, thousands of people do this every day…) This one hits close to home. If the secret wasn’t out yet, it is definitely out now: Tuesday Night at Matt Murphy’s is now on archive.org. The little weeknight residency that I frequented for so many months is now hitting the information superhighway, freely downloadable by anyone with an internet connection. It’s the way things should be, I suppose, but I feel some remnant of selfishness over Tuesday Night even though I haven’t gone in more than 6 weeks, and only 10 or so times this whole year. The last time I went in there was a plainclothes stranger carding at the door, and the crowd was completely fresh to me. Besides the musicians themselves and Jason behind the bar, the Tuesday Night scene is no longer mine. Not that I could pop out at midnight on a Tuesday anymore…Mr. Taus wouldn’t allow it.
The music, though, is what matters. The stuff that comes out of that little corner of the bar is some of the best stuff I’ve heard. Period. That is why I’m thankful that Geo allowed his stuff to be put up on archive.org; people who like music really should hear this unadvertised residency. I’ve been writing about Tuesday night for some time now and have been listening to live recordings of the Murphy’s sessions for even longer. I did a review of Tuesday Night for Live Live a year or so back, and it sums up the experience (at least, the experience than) nicely. Thanks to taper acquaintences and friends, I have amassed a decent collection of recordings from Tuesday Night and have passed copies around where appropriate.
Be it Tuesday Night at Matt Murphy’s or David’s cheesey campfire folk music, the internet is a powerful way to indiscriminately throw music around without regard to distance or hard format. Thanks to my computer gurus DFC and tmo I’m able to join the information race. Maybe one day I too will be up on archive.org…
music: AndersenPalooza, 7/31/04, Bellingham, WA
Sunday in Boston. I’ve been couch-crashing for almost a week now and have done a stellar job of taking it real easy, reacclimating to city life and all it brings. I’ve been catching up with friends- ran into M. biking through Porter Square, stopped by Dunk n’ Balls’ house briefly, checked in with Peet, the new roomies, and even managed to grab a beer with a fellow educator at Charlie’s late last night. But i’ve been busy. This time around it’s been with recording music.
The past two or three weeks have seen some significant steps towards my musical growth. I picked up a mixer,
a soundcard, two Shure microphones, a fairly nice condensor mic, and the cables to connect everything. I also picked up an acoustic guitar pickup from my sister, and yesterday I bought a bass used for $95. A pretty nice instrument for the price, and an indespensible tool in my quest for sonic documentation. Funny part is that I don’t play bass. But I know enough guitar to get by for the time being. To top it all off, I recovered my poor old drum set from Amy’s magical music room and will be employing its services shortly.
All this adds up to a lot of money, yes, and a lot of time, yes, but it’s worth it. I’m now able to do some high quality recording and produce something listenable. From the technical end, at least. Whether or not my songwriting is any good remains to be seen, but I’ve been pretty pleased with what has come out. Now it’s a matter of arranging things and putting them down on tape…eh…hard disk. AJM and I started the process at the end of the summer, starting in Bellingham around the first of the month, but ever since that day or so in the company of The Chef and the Dub Anthropologist, i’ve been feverishly working towards getting something of quality together. This last spurt of purchasing will allow me to really get down to it, moreso than I ever have.
So this weekend was a work weekend. I figure that I won’t get the chance to put a good chunk of time into making music once I start work, so I pushed hard to get something down this weekend. After two days of locking myself away in tmo’s room with my mini mobile recording studio, this is the result. It’s a campfire tune called “Mama,” (a sappy campfire song of the highest degree to be sure) a collaboration between myself and AJM, our small tribute to Camp Minikani. It would have been nice to have that guy around with his mandolin this weekend to lay a track down, but that’s why I’ve saved the session-to allow for overdubs later. The vocals are a little rough as well; maybe I’ll redo those some other time. For the most part, I’m pleased with the results, especially when compared to what came before.
The music bug has bitten me hard. After our impromptu gig in Bellingham at the start of the month, I’ve been mulling over pushing this music thing a little more seriously. I have feelers out on Craigslist and some local bulletin boards for jam sessions and partners in crime….
Guitarist/drummer/(bassist?)/songwriter w/vox seeking others in the Boston area to jam, possibly form band. Have gear, EP of originals. Looking to jam, gig locally, nothing too serious. Listened to my share of the Dead and Phish, but envisioning something in between Late Paul Simon and a Beastie Boys instrumental. Listening and patience over chops. Originals and covers. Improvisation and exploration a must. Email davidtaus@anize.org if interested.
Gettin’ there, as always. But as of late, the gettin’ there has been really gettin’ there. Hmm. Right. I just have to be careful to keep one foot in the world-at large, to not lock myself away with a bunch of microphones and knobs and stringed instruments for days at a time. But now to post-production. It’s always something…
music: Phish- The White Tape
Twenty-some years ago, four college kids got together to play some music with each other, and in doing so became friends. What that friendship and that music grew into in subsequent years was most likely beyond the scope what any of those four college kids could dream up back when the four of them jammed late into the night in the early 1980’s. Their music was quirky, intricate. But for some reason it took root in the ears of their friends and grew. And grew. And grew. Twenty years after college ended these four friends were still making music, although the circumstances were quite different. By the early 2000’s, these four friends had effectively built nothing short of a cultural institution, a quirky and intricate empire of which they were the reluctant figureheads. And this past weekend, the four musicians known as Phish closed the door to the empire they had built over the past twenty years and handed back the keys.
Phish’s final concert was held in Coventry, VT, a location that bore heavy personal significance to the band in their evolution in the earlier years. As soon as the band announced that this end-of-the-summer festival would be their last performance as Phish, the concert became an event of epic symbolic scale. Those who had at any point in their lives found a personal affinity for the Phish phenomenon scrambled to be a part of this last concert, to revel and dance one last time, and to pay their respects. Expectations were high. The Phish Nation would congregate to celebrate (and/or mourn) the music that in many ways gave them an identity and a sense of affiliation.
The getting there proved to be the most difficult part for some. Because of the heavy rains, Coventry, VT was turned into a colossal mud pit. Thousands waited in traffic for over 30 hours, and when word came down that no other cars would be allowed in the venue, thousands abandoned their cars on I-91 and walked up to 20 miles in order to be a part of the show. I too joined the final pilgrimage with my friends, although we had a fairly painless time getting into the festival grounds as compared with most others. Other than a reunion with this group of people, I did not really know what to expect from the weekend, from this band. But ultimately, this weekend was not about me. Nor was it about any of the 70,000 other individuals who were in attendance. The final Phish concert was not for us; it was for the four members of Phish.
Never before has the band seemed so human to me as they were this past weekend. Whereas before they took the stage, played, and left without a word to the audience, this weekend the band spoke directly to us so informally and sometimes awkwardly it could do nothing but take them down from some exhalted place and humanize them to us. We got stories about origins of songs, we got glimpses into the inner workings of a band rehearsing, we got personal narratives, we met friends and family members, we heard tearful expressions of thanks. They stopped songs in the middle only to restart them in a different key, to deliver anecdotes, to somehow try to include all 75,000 of us in their world of inside jokes that we thought we knew so well. The concert, as a result, felt less like a professionally packaged entertainment event, and more like a backyard barbecue and family reunion.
It quickly became apparrent that the weekend was not about the quality of music. I personally did not go to Coventry to hear Phish give a recital of the body of their work, and I think that those who did go for this reason were fairly disappointed. Those of us who cared about Phish at any point did not need to hear them play difinitive versions of any of their songs. We had heard them do that before. This weekend was more about witnessing how the four members of Phish would reconcile their own experience, how they would walk away from the thing that they had created and built over the past 20 years. We were to be flies on the wall of a final jam session between these four people whose music we soaked up for so long. And as it turned out, the jamming was what Coventry was all about. Compositions were flubbed throughout the weekend, entrances were missed, notes were struck sour, but when the band pushed away from song structure and began to play with each other, and more importantly for each other, the music’s quality appropriately matched the epic scope of the weekend.
The first day and the first set of the second day were precursors to the pith of the experience: the last two sets of the festival. On paper they looked fairly unremarkable:
Phish, 8/15/04, Coventry, VT
Set 2: Down With Disease -> Wading in the Velvet Sea, Glide, [band speech], Split Open and Melt -> jam -> Ghost
Set 3: Fast Enough for You, Seven Below -> Simple -> Piper -> Bruno ->Dickie Scotland -> Wilson -> Slave to the Traffic Light
[fireworks]
Encore: The Curtain With
As Down With Disease began the second set, the band began to feel the gravity of the situation. This song is typically reserved for watershed moments (it was the first song after Auld Lang Syne on NYE 2000), and its rousing chorus “Waiting for the time when I can finally say / This has all been wonderful but now I’m on my way” has obvious relevance. The jam to ensue simmered to a tender piano solo, and as Velvet Sea started, Page broke. It was an unbelievably touching moment, one that, to me, outweighed the mud and the traffic and the flubs and the botched musicianship. Music is nothing if it does not move the spirit, and the tears that flowed during Velvet Sea reminded me of just this.. At that point, Glide marked time, delayed the inevitable outpouring. The band speeches, replete with tears from Trey and Page, and the hour of music to follow was truly inspired, an improvisatory magnum opus that at once expressed the tangle of emotions surrounding that particular moment in time. I am tempted to listen to this hour or so again, to revisit the intensity of such a musical conversation, but part of me is insistent that I never listen to Coventry on tape. The second set, like the weekend, was a lot to deal with, but was why I was there.
The third set was more premeditated: a lyrically poignant song to open, then some jamming and silliness. It wouldn’t be Phish with out some silliness. In Trey’s own words, the whole thing was meant to be a big overblown cartoon, and to the end they were as goofy as college kids in a dorm room. At the same time, though, the band needed some time to give serious thought to such a complex ending. They needed to acknowledge the arc of their careers, the places at which they found themselves, and choose to say this complex goodbye with maturity. The Slave to end, in retrospect, was the perfect choice. While people were expecting the band to end their career with some of the centerpiece songs such as YEM, Divided Sky, or Harry Hood, songs that they commonly would use at moments of signifigance, Slave to the Traffic Light was for the most part overlooked to fill this slot. It is in many ways a quiet little brother to YEM or Antelope, but it is also a grand, sweeping composition incorporating quiet, reflective moments as well as exhalted ones. It was more sparsely played than other larger tunes, which rendered it that much more precious. And as the band transitioned into Slave out of the reckless fun of Wilson (“You still can have fun!” Trey yells), the full weight of this decision became clear to me: Slave to the Traffic Light was the first song Phish ever wrote and played. The last song of the last set was the first song the band ever wrote. They had indeed come full circle. Slave’s execution and delivery was transcendental and as perfect a moment as these four humans could produce. The stage fell silent, the four stepped to the lip of the stage, held hands, and bowed deeply. Then they walked off. That was that.
After some fireworks, a few words from Trey, and an encore of The Curtain With, an obscure and very rare tune from the catalog, the lights came up and we were left to reconcile the final notes of Phish for ourselves. The Curtain With, to me, was an afterthought, a postscript. I was done after Slave ended, and judging by the way they performed Slave, so was the band. They made the decision that is ultimately the most important one in an artists’s life: knowing when to stop. Now that the four friends have moved their narrative to the stuff of history, their body of work can be examined as a whole, complete piece. The spontanaiety that made them famous will be gone, but we fans are not without countless hours of their music to listen to. And I am thankful. For their own sake, I hope that Phish never plays another concert.
(This from my little notebook at the conclusion of the second set:)
Revisit this, dissect it. This is really Phish’s final statement. LOTS of stuff here.They are not interested in playing their tunes - a recital - they really just want to play with each other and for each other. At the end, when there is nothing else on the horizon, that’s what it came back to - four friends making music with each other. At the realization that their shared vision has reached its conclusion, they payed all their attention to each other. When Phish is parsed, dissected, boiled down, and distilled, there are four people, four real human beings, who have built and shared something for 21 years more intimite nad complicated and honest and HUMAN than I could ever imagine. Never before has this band seemed so human. It’s the music, yes, but as a fine art, music is the expression and creation of a human being. It’s not about the scene, the party: it’s about people, individuals, human lives. Four specific human lives, in this case, whose story I followed and entwined with my own for the past eight years.
But ultimately this is not about me. I’m on the outside looking in this weekend. I’m getting to watch these four people talk to each other for a while, publically speak with each other for the last time. To have it out with one another, to love one another, to have some fun with each other. It is sloppy, disorganized, and not always well executed, but it is honest, it is human, it is very much Phish.
I hope that Trey, Mike, Page, and Jon will keep making music together if only for themselves. I hope that they all will meet at someone’s house on some cold autumn weekend and after a fine homecooked dinner, they four retreat to the basement to jam for a little. That is, after all, where they started 20-some years ago: college kids jamming in the basement of some dorm or apartment. I hope that it will come back to this, and I hope that they never record any of it.
music: Phish- 8/2/03, IT Tower set
Word came in today: Phish will break up for good at the end of the summer. From Trey Anastasio himself:
Last Friday night, I got together with Mike, Page and Fish to talk openly about the strong feelings I’ve been having that Phish has run its course and that we should end it now while it’s still on a high note. Once we started talking, it quickly became apparent that the other guys’ feelings, while not all the same as mine, were similar in many ways — most importantly, that we all love and respect Phish and the Phish audience far too much to stand by and allow it to drag on beyond the point of vibrancy and health. We don’t want to become caricatures of ourselves, or worse yet, a nostalgia act. By the end of the meeting, we realized that after almost twenty-one years together we were faced with the opportunity to graciously step away in unison, as a group, united in our friendship and our feelings of gratitude.So Coventry will be the final Phish show. We are proud and thrilled that it will be in our home state of Vermont. We’re also excited for the June and August shows, our last tour together. For the sake of clarity, I should say that this is not like the hiatus, which was our last attempt to revitalize ourselves. We’re done. It’s been an amazing and incredible journey. We thank you all for the love and support that you’ve shown us.
My knee-jerk reaction, as could be expected, was one of pain. Phish as an institution has played a significant part in my life’s path over the past eight years, and to know that it will no longer exist is something of a blow to my memories about growing up. Phish has provided a very constant, stable refuge; a Phish show is as much a known quantity as it is a musical adventure. When the lights go down and the music starts, I am in completely familiar territory. Same as it was two years ago, same as it was at my first Phish show in 1996. It was a point to rally reunions around, a destination for cross-country drives, a reason to go forth and seek adventure. Says Andy Bernstein of the Pharmer’s Almanac: “A Phish fan is someone who can honestly say their life was touched by the music—that is a truly enduring legacy,” Bernstein says. “I always say, if you can create one friendship between two people you have done something great—-Phish created millions.” Now, after so many years, this unifying force from which I have benefitted so much will no longer exist. And while I am considered to be a serious Phish fan, some are in far worse shape.
But upon further reflection, I came to the decision that not only was Phish’s decision to disband an appropriate one, it came about three-and-a-half years too late. I tried to think about it from their perspective: four college buddies in a band turned rockstars and celebrities sounds pretty nice, but for people who only wanted to make music, the “perks” that came with their success might have become their undoing. Phish has effectively created a Frankenstein’s Monster out of the community that supports the band. They are in many ways separate and detached from those people who consume the music they make. While they may have celebrity and material wealth because of their efforts, they no longer have that which sustains humans on a more meaningful level: a community to which they can relate and in which they can participate.
And from my point of view, the music has suffered. Now that we are able to look at the body of the band’s work from a historical perspective, I would argue that the pinnacle of their playing, the point towards which all their momentum was thrust, was New Year’s Eve 2000, Big Cypress. The music that followed Big Cypress had its moments, but the intensity of the Phish narrative was diminished. The band had already achieved and passed through its own climax. They attempted to dabble in revitalizing Phish since Big Cypress, but it was not to be. There was no creative drive the way there was in the years previous to Big Cypress. I think that Phish has recognized this about themselves and has made the mature decision to quit while they are ahead. While they could easily tour four weeks out of the year and release an album every three years from now until forever, they have had the foresight to not allow themselves to fizzle out. After all, as four college buddies whose only goal was to make music, what more does Phish have to prove?
Phish’s decision to end while things are still good for them is an application of one of the most important lessons I learned in Norris Field at camp: stop the game while it’s still fun, and you’ll always remember it as good. Sometimes a memory of fondness and even wistfulness is much more precious than continued attempts to achieve that peak experience you had once long ago. Sometimes remembering something fondly is preferable to the diminishing potential of experiencing something equally as great. In ending now, Phish is cementing a legacy in the annals of 20th century music. Perhaps more importantly, though, in bowing out gracefully, Phish is making way for a new generation of music to emerge and blossom. It should be exciting to see (and hear).
I am sad it’s over, but more than that, I am glad it happened. My experiences that relate to Phish’s music have been overwhelmingly positive ones and I will treasure them until the end of my days. But before I say goodbye for good, I will indulge in one last run of shows. One at SPAC, two at Alpine Valley. I also bought a ticket to Coventry, today, Phish’s farewell festival that will take place this August 14-15. (I actually don’t think I’ll go, but I thought I’d leave myself the option.) I suppose that if Phish is assoicated with my travels, adventures, and connections that led into adulthood, it is only fitting that my favorite band would decide to retire as I am on the cusp of entering a very new phase of my own life. I will always have memories, and recordings. For now, though, I can celebrate what was, give thanks for all that I have gained, and prepare to jump cleanly and freely into the future. As can Trey, Mike, Page, and Jon. This has all been wonderful, but now I’m on my way…no more need to wait for that time. And even if I try to find a way to, there’s nothing I can say to make it stop…
music: Beatles- Revolver
This has been going on in geek circles for much longer, probably, but this is the first I’ve heard of it. We now have a computer program that can predict and produce pop songs. I’ve heard rumors of something along the same lines but for classical music (analyze a composer’s body of work and produce a symphony that he could have written) that has fooled the experts, but this program does more than creates music in the style of a certain composer. It claims to be able to take data along twenty dimensions and create original music that they say will be commercially successful.
I suppose things like aesthetic popularity can be modeled mathematically considering it works off principles related to normal distributions. This can sit somewhat comfortably with me; I’d be a little more concerned if there was a computer program that tried to model a more objective evaluation of the arts. Richard Powers tells of the unforunate end to such a project in his book Galatea 2.2.
The notion is intruiging that pop music could be reduced to a formula. Yes, it can be described as ‘formulaic,’ but does the comparison carry that completely? I think that there would need to be a fourth axis to these kinds of calculations, one that would incorporate time. Maybe they have already built something like that into the program. But fads change. The popular music of the early ‘90’s was grunge. Now it is electronica-laced teenaged vocalists. Thirty years ago it was disco. Forty years ago it was the Beatles. Sixty years ago it was big band swing. Who is to guess what it will be in the next couple of years? Were a computer program to extrapolate that, or even claim to do so, it might even dictate the next fad instead of predicting it. Sadly, this is exactly what the suits that produce and distribute pop music are looking for.
music: Phish- Sessions at West 54th 10/20/98
I happened upon Etree’s BitTorrent site this weekend and it is making my ears quite happy. It’s not quite up to where the Archive.org audio archives is in terms of selection, but it’s got some tasty stuff up there. Of greatest interest to me is some really nice sounding soundboards of Phish shows pre-hiatus. I pulled their Sessions set down last night and it is wonderful. Leo is brilliant in the mix.
These things pop up so convienently. Even though Live Live is wrapping up my music habit will still be fed adequately through things like BitTorrent. And never mind tmo’s bold initiative to centralize and combine his, 1ey’s G-Phatty’s, my, and Matt Murphy’s music libraries. I shudder with excitement at the thought of access to such a stockpile…
music: “Up North” - The Northwoods Recording Sessions NYE 2004
(Posts are becoming more sparse. Must be some meta-awareness that people are actually paying attention…)
It was about two years ago a that tmo and I started making noises about doing a radio show. Talking hypothetically, of cousre, as tmo thrives in the realm of ideas. “We talk about music so much,” says he, “we should find a way to lend it some legitimacy.” The lightbulb then goes off that if I do have a radio show to call my own, I would then become a member of the fabled “media” and be able to reap the benefits that a member of the media enjoys, including free promotional cds and media passes to concerts. This was, of course, most appealing to me, being unemployed and having a serious music habit that needed feeding.
Two years later, steps have been taken. The radio show has become a staple in the weekly schedule. We are about to celebrate Live Live’s second anniversary at the end of the month, and our 100th show some time in February. And dozens of concerts and hundreds of cds later, I feel that my music habit has a certain degree of legitmacy.
There was a week last year where I ended up on the Yonder Mountain String Band and Sound Tribe Sector 9 tour buses within the span of one week. That was an achievement. I interviewed Michael Franti after he got offstage with Trey Anastasio. That was an achievement. But I think that legitimacy has reached its peak only now, even with the decreased amounts of time I have had to dedicate to the show. I found out this week that I will be the guest speaker in a course at the University of Colorado-Boulder. JOUR4871: Doing Media Research on the Music Industry. February 19th, 12:30pm. I’ll be talking about doing interviews.
All courtesy of the quick thinking of my colleague AJM, who is TA‘ing the course. He can’t believe he’s getting away with this. And at the same time, he’s really digging this music thing. A perfect symbiosis, I think. A resume-builder, he says. Legitimacy, I say. I’ll say more on the 19th of February in Boulder.
But music is not something to talk about and study exclusively. As the guest speaker, it is my role to do something, and the class’s role to analyze it. Fine. but that is not enough. This is not a spectator sport. The steps I’ve taken with music have been pointing towards production rather than consumption, authentic work rather than recycled reproductions. I started off consuming music like the majority of our lemming society, then moved towards a more intellecutal relationship with it. I played other people’s music at campfires during the summer and at scattered open mics throughout college. It was production, but not original production. With Live Live, I began producing something original, but it was still a step removed from the product itself. And as of this New Year’s vacation, I began to work through some original music with some friends. I’m listening to it now.
I spent a good chunk of time this weekend sifting through the Northwoods Recording Sessions and have distilled the best of our moments to fit on one CD, with room for some other goodies I’ve been working on over the past month or two. There are covers included, but there are also moments of pure creation. It is the first time I can point to original work and claim it as my own, or at least partially my own. And already I’m unsatisfied. There is more to do, a degree of quality to attain, places to go with this work. I need to continue to develop my own voice and style. I’m still not as fluent in the language as I would like to be, nor are my hands able to keep up with my head, but there are moments. There definitely are moments. It seems that making music captures the perfect balance of Love and Work, Freud’s two criteria for mental health.
I remember telling myself some time in high school that while music was fun for me, I never would want to pursue it in earnest. I think it was partially because I was scared to actually put something original out there for people to potentially reject. I wasn’t sure if I had the talent, if I had anything that other people would want to listen to. I still don’t know for sure. But the process of making this music and now having a very concrete resultant product was exhilirating. And now I have an 80-minute cd to show for it.
Perhaps i’ll indulge and give “Up North” some airplay on Tuesday.. Legitimacy.
All this in the middle of a torrent of demands from graduate school. I still have one monster of a Final hanging over my head, and there’s not enough time or relevance to teaching to be interested in it. Plus, my head is spinning with new song ideas. But all things considered, things are in relative balance. Love and work have found harmony. The music flows, and I feel good.
music: master recordings from Wabeno, WI- 12/29/03 — 1/1/04
2004 has arrived and my time in the midwest is rapidly coming to a close. It’s been time enough here. There are things that need my attention (and lots of it) out East, and although I’m staring down a series of very demanding weeks, I’m anxious to be getting back to my current and chosen reality. Milwaukee was a nice respite from my obligations in Boston, but it is definitely time to dig back in. So I grit my teeth, and set myself, and prepare for the onslaught of full time teaching, final exams, and everything else my life out East demands of me.
The trip home was productive on several fronts. I spent some time with family members and friends who I haven’t seen in a long time. I made some headway on school work, although not nearly as much as I would have liked. But perhaps most importantly, I made some music.
I found myself in a cabin in Wabeno, WI with some friends from camp to ring in the new year. AJM, The Doctor, and I used a good deal of time in the back room of that cabin to record some music. The conditions were less than optimal: three guys, three acoustic guitars, and a less-than-professional microphone, but it came together better than I thought it would. When all was said and done, we committed about two and a half hours’ worth of our music to hard drive space. Included in that archive were several original works, which represented an important step for me in my own creative process.
I’ve fiddled around with snippets of musical ideas for some time, but haven’t really had the wherewithall to produce a song. I think that the collaboration with friends Up North this weekend really spurred the songwriter in me. As I sit here, a night after returning, I am still energized with possibility and creativity. I think a lot of it had to do with the reinforcement my friends provided. So much of the music I make falls on my bedroom walls, and there is nobody there to add their own voice, but this week two of my friends were there to contribue their voices and visions to the product.
I learned “Gato Negro” this weekend, a tune that AJM wrote with The Doctor last year, and I am really impressed with it. So much so that its existence somehow proves to me that this songwriting endeavour is possible, that producing quality original work is absolutely within my reach. It is something that I need in order to carry forth; it is something I am listening to right now.
The music itself is rough and isn’t mixed too well (to be fair, it is pretty good considering what we had to work with), but it represents something greater. After making music with my friends this week and having it to listen to now, the production of my own song(s) seems that much more within reach. I’ve stuggled with the producer/consumer dichotomy for the past couple of year, wishing to fall more on the producer side of things, and after the recording sessions this past week I finally feel like I’m taking a step in the right direction. The real challenge will be keeping up the momentum in Boston, where I will be far away from my New Year’s collaborators and more likely than not working in isolation. Yet another challenge to add to the long list for when I return. But this is important; making music is one of the best uses of my time and energy that I can imagine. A certain threshold has been crossed, and I aim to use this inertia to push my practice in the months to come. As AJM might say: “Forward.”
music: Phish- 1/4/03, Hampton, VA
The following is edited down from an email I sent to AJM following the show. The show, by all accounts, was nothing if not extraordinary in its regularity; it was a very typical phish show through and through with some extraordinary playing, especially in the second set. but don’t take my word for it, if you’re that interested, give it a listen yourself. What I really have to say about this band as it relates to me extends far beyond the scope of this one show, although, given, it was an important milestone in the band’s career. This one is worth its $13 as a document of four guys and twenty years…
At the end of the day, it was a phish show just like every other phish show: the pre-show excitement the cheers as the lights went down, the expectation, the hope that they would play that ONE song, the big moments, the lights, the wedge, a bunch of white kids getting down. nothing uncharacteristically special, really, no cheap frills, but solid music and a good time. A phish show. You know exactly what it was like without being there by now. it was a positive night on many fronts. big props to E.M. for straight up miracling tmo. it was a beautiful gesture on her part taken on my nagging request.
Tonight’s mantra was “everything works out at a phish show.” It does. My sister A. and former camper/fellow phishstorian C. had tickets exactly two rows behind me. serindipity. There was a guy with a shirt in front of me and tmo during the second set and on the back it said “volker.” Almost eerie. I paid a straight $40 for the ticket (not even service charge!), tmo for free. saw Davi and Spicer of Happy Phamily fame. Saw zzyzx at a distance? (who, i’m sure, still has sparkles in his beard, loves his mother and loves phish.)
A phish show is a very comfortable place, a known quantity. a very, very nice place to visit, especially when the caravan rolls through my hometown. And the nice thing is that it always brings people together.
But enough blubbering-onto the music.
First set, I observed, was dictated by written setlist taped to Trey’s cabinet. Interesting to say the least, but it lacked that spontenaiety that really sets the great apart from the good. There were good moments in Yamar with a Fishman lead, and the jam out of Piper. I thought i heard Dave’s Energy Guide towards the end (one for the true dorque). They just weren’t warm enough for Hood when they brought it out to start things off, but it was a good indicator. You know it’s that sort of show when two set-closer songs open the show. People still cheer for the Everglades line in Water in the Sky (you being water, me being sky, if you will remember 1/2/03). It’s little things like that which bind the Phish Nation.
We were way up in the balcony for the first set, almost facing the left side of the stage. Way out of the sound cone, sound was terrible. Second set brought a welcome change of perspective: we chilled with tmo, Davi, Spicer, and Darren Pageside, eight rows off the floor. We got a good crowd going in that aisle-lots of knowledgeable phish dorques who really knew the score. One dude got more pumped up about The Wedge than anything else on the night. It was beautiful. Everything works out at a phish show. And the music of that second set, the music…
Second set was phish at their improvisational finest. They stretched different corners of songs that normally lay unexplored. I will go on record to say that the Maze from tonight is best i’ve heard. It’s a must-listen. Highlight of the show, if you could believe it. Heavy type II exploration with some nice melodic lines, experimentation between Trey and Page (see yamar from 4/4/98 island tour for similar stuff), but still big, big payoff at the end. A perfectly timed Maze orgasm. Jam out of rock & roll was noteworthy. Extensive exploration. the set was an ass-kicker between the jam into Weekapaug and Tweeprise (third song??!?!?!?!) and Frankenstein (there was a flicker of the remotest of possibilities of gamehendge in the Kung chant-Trey was doing these slow-mo gestures much like yoga under strobe lights during Kung and the segment stretched for about 4-5 minutes w/some on-stage conferencing. Whatever. Conjecture). Having all that energy worked out right away provided for strange flow in the set and it turned into an emotional rollercoaster. The segues between Rock & Roll and Weekapaug; Boogie on and Cities were a bit forced by Trey.
From my notebook as they started Tthe Wedge: “seems appropriate, given the jam in our barn soon.”
the Maze, the Maze, the Maze.
There was also a highly reflective element to the second set: with songs like All of these Dreams (sage advice from phish for us?) and Waste (Trey’s awkward stab at thanking the fans? Or prompt to ask the question: “waste of time?”). Bug was a throwaway musically, but was a good indicator of the band’s attitude towards this hyped up event, this somewhat arbirtrary marker in time. To the heady music fan, not much to chew on. but to the quasi-academic phish scholar, the Bug provides a wealth of substance.
gems: MAZE!!, jam out of Piper, Rock & roll>Weekapaug.
Walk out music was the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s. “it was 20 years ago today…” clever folks.
So how to sum it up? It was a phish show. Once the lights go down and the music starts, the world is a familiar, happy place. what else can i say?
More on this later when I’m not so tired. It was a good night. It was a good event. In the meantime, the raw data. I Am Happy.
Phish - 12/2/03 - Fleet Center - Boston, MA
Set 1: Harry Hood, Cavern, Birds of a Feather, Yamar, Horn, Piper, Anything But Me, Water in the Sky, Down With Disease
Setbreak: Video Retrospective (1983-2003)
Set 2: Rock and Roll>Weekapaug Groove>Tweezer Reprise> Frankenstein>Kung>Frankenstein, All of These Dreams, The Wedge, Boogie On Reggae Woman>Cities>Maze, Waste
Encore: Bug
music: The New Deal- gone gone gone
I don’t know what it is about working late at night, but I always put out better stuff. That my mental dead time during the day is from about 4pm-8pm is going to be a pain in the ass for years to come. No matter while I’m in grad school, I’ll just give another Friday night to paper writing. I banged out a pretty good rough draft tonight, although there is much tweaking for tomorrow and Sunday (my notes to myself: “add references; add a critique of Piaget; cut by 250 words). It’s really not that bad. I’m not complaining, especially now that I have my Brooklyn Black Chocolate Stout and some really nice late night groove thanks to the latest Homegrown radio promotions mailing. The new The New Deal (eh?) CD is really an acnievement. As was Piaget’s theory. My paper? Gettin’ there.
I also spent the idle minutes burning out a lot of the music that’s been sitting on my computer, so on top of the six or so CDs I got through Live Live this week I have 15 more CDs that are freshly burned and more in the works. I ran out of binder space about a month ago so now I just have music accumulating on hard drives and spindles. I really should take a hint. My stuff is totally unorganized, but oooh, so much music. You can have worse problems.
But the music is not just something to collect and accumulate; thanks to some dialogue with my colleague out west, I have some renewed energy in making music of my own. Despite my downstairs neighbor not being a fan (a story for another time). As tmo said one snowy night in Syracuse a couple of seasons back, it is time to start singing my own song. Once I figure out how to upload some of my little creations here I will, but suffice it to say that my own music making is progressing. Slowly, sure, but given the time and energy constraints, fairly well.
A mellow, productive Friday at home leaves me in good shape for the rest of the weekend. I’ll work through this paper at a semi-leisurely pace now, and have time to see friends. Pre-Thanksgiving Thanksgiving feast/party at Lothrop with the Boston family tomorrow night, hopefully connecting with M. at some point, and catch up with tmo somewhere in there. Maybe even some time in the out-of-doors. And a trip home very, very soon. I’ve been doing this thing here so intensely I nearly forgot that there’s much, much more out there. but in the meantime, I push forward into the night…
music: MMW 11/6/96, Cleveland, OH
It’s Tuesday Night (or as they say at Murph’s in the wee hours: TUESDAY NIGHT!!!) and that means I’m getting ready for Live Live and lookiing forward to a night with Jason, Geoff, and the Altitude Gang afterwards. It’s been like this close to two years; Tuesday night is my big night out during the week. Goes to show how much I get out these days.
Since I started grad school, my ivolvement in all things Live Live, and as an extention the greater Boston music scene, has been quite limited. I think that part of it is grad school and the time that it takes up, but I think that it’s also a function of me not being as interested in the music scene as I once was when I first moved here. I see this stemming from a couple sources. The first is that I just burned out on going to shows, and going to shows by myself. I used to do about 3 shows a week because I could, because I was getting in free on Live Live credentials, because I felt like an insider. The second is that I think I found what I was really looking for from the little Live Live project: a community. A social outlet. To this end, Live Live was extraordinarily successful. I can credit my radio show with being the catalyst in meeting a plentitude of quality individuals, many of whom I value as friends and whose company I enjoy regardless of if they play an instrument, regardless of if I’ve interviewed them. Finally, I realized that this fabled “Live Music Community” I was so intent on serving is a community generally composed of white upper-middle class college kids. This isn’t a bad thing by any means (myself being easily lumped into this savory demographic), but after starting up again with urban education in June, I’m just not as concerned about this community as I am about the lower-class minorities in the city. Sure, everyone has their problems and issues, but if one were to compare apples to oranges, one would conclude that urban education is a field in need of much more attention and effort.
That all being said, I’m about to head on out to the A-B Free studios for my two hours on-air as I’ve done almost every Tuesday since January, 2002. I thought about dropping the whole business, but as evidenced by the fact that I have not, I still am attached to Live Live to some extent. It’s a nice card to be able to play in certain circles. It’s a really cool answer to “So, what do you do?” It’s two hours every week that I can listen to music and not worry about anything else. It’s the reason why I am sent free cds every week and offered guestlist privileges to concerts. Not bad for $35/month DJ dues.
Live Live is no longer the well-oiled machine it once was. The website has been down more than it hasn’t recently, and I really haven’t done much about it (by way of nagging tmo). One of my favorite bands is playing Lupo’s on Thursday, and I didn’t even attempt a guestlist or interview situation. I’m not even going, although the my plans for Thursday night might be just as interesting in a different sort of way. I haven’t written a review since June. I haven’t solicited an interview since the summer either. Still, it’s nice to reserve the right to call on credentials to score media passes. It’s nice to help out up-and-coming bands who need the media exposure. It’s fun to romp around on tour buses. It’s cool to say, “yeah, I interviewed him. cool guy.” It’s nice to be a producer of content instead of solely a consumer. It’s nice to fight the fight against media conglomerates like ClearChannel in my own little way. But even if none of that were true, it’s enough to know that every Tuesday night I have a guaranteed two-hour window of uninterrupted music listening in a little garden level studio in Allston. As with any habit, Live Live is a hard one to give up.
music: Keith Jarrett- Live at the Blue Note d.5
This has been a long week for me as far as school goes: 3 papers, the regular internship, and more reading than could be finished. So it goes. But the hard work during the weekend and the front end of the week allowed me a free Thursday evening. I was to spend it in bar-style revelry with the townies as the Red Sox and Yankees were playing for the pennant, but I had bigger plans. Spearhead was in town, and I had tickets.
Timing couldn’t have been better for Spearhead to roll through. Work was getting that much harder, my internship was beginning to grind on me, and the anonymity and unfriendliness of the city was rubbing off on me in very bad ways. I was beginning to settle into the social and mental hibernation of Boston in the colder months: don’t smile at anyone, don’t talk to anyone, act as if you don’t care and have more important things to do. I get lost in my own thoughts enough as it is as I’m moving around this city. But Spearhead, as they do time and time again, renewed my faith in other people, in society, in myself and the work I’m doing. It’s more a spiritual revival posing as a concert than anything else. It’s as close to a non-demoninatinal place of worship and celebration of life and the sanctity of humanity as one can get in our postmodern urban experience. Truly a beacon of light.
Michael Franti himself said it at Berkfest 2002: “Be a light. Live as you think others should.” Truth. It’s hard to do. It’s hard to maintain that sort of existence in this day and age. It’s hard to hold to your noblest of ideals and live them out, because often it feels like you are operating solo in a sea of adversity. That a concert can reinforce all which is good in everyone in attendance is a powerful thing and nothing to be laughed at or taken for granted.
The Spearhead show went late, finally emptying out around 12:15. It was just about this time that the Yankees pulled off an 11th inning victory over the Red Sox in the ALCS. This year’s pennant run in Boston was as close as they’ve come to reversing The Curse of the Bambino since Buckner did his imitation of a croquet wicket back in the fall of 1986. Angry drunk Sox fans were emptying out of the bars at pretty much the same moment that Spearhead fans were floating out of the theater. We, of course, all aglow from a very affirming experience. Everyone else: drunk, pissed off, almost violent. It was some contrast.
Things never got really ugly, although I heard sirens blaring all night. I managed to bike home without incident (although I took my “GO SOX!” flag off my bike) and enjoy the denoument of the evening. This morning, things were pretty much back to normal. The citywide buzz that came from having the Sox in the playoffs was immediately gone; people were back to their grumbly old selves. Really amazing how something like baseball can make a difference in the morale of a city. I can’t help but think that things woudl have been worse if it weren’t for the overpowering force of positivity in Spearhead last night. In some cosmic algebra, the angry, violent Sox fans and the all-too idealistic Spearhead fans cancelled each other out last night and the net result was an indignant Boston population tending towards slightly unfriendly, preparing for the winter. Pretty much as things are normally.
I grew up rooting for the Red Sox, I think because my parents lived in Boston for a while and rooted for them. I remember watching the ‘86 series with Dad and being very close to tears at the end of game 6. I really do share the familiar pain that the city felt last night, but after Spearhead, it just didn’t get to me. Such is the way of things when you side with the underdog. The entity with whom we affiliate is the team that can’t seem to beat the Yankees, the band that flies in the face of the corporate-controlled music industry, he who has everything to prove, everything to gain, and nothing to lose.
But I think that there is something that the two experiences have in common, something that I find in myself more often than not. In each case, the underdog is celebrated. To follow the thread, it’s a lot like teaching urban minority youth, working with mentally retarded and autistic adults, volunteering at a community radio station. The Sox let us down, sure, but Spearhead reminds us all that there is joy in the struggle. And that, to me, does more than reverses the curse; it negates curses entirely.
music: Beethoven- Symphony #3
Marco Benevento sat in at Murphy’s this week. A big deal by jamband scene standards. He’s a talented guy. Seemed pretty nice too. The keys added a roundness to the Murphy’s sound that I hadn’t heard previously. It was, by all rights, an extraordinary night at Murphy’s. The music was seriously excellent. I, being creator, producer, and host of a radio show dedicated to the very live music community that I experienced that night, should have been very much interested in meeting Marco, pumping hands and working towards an interview or at least free tickets to his show on Thursday. Funny how I said my goodnights and thank-yous to Geoff and Jason and went home around 2:05.
the Chandler Travis Philharmonic played the Lizard Lounge last night for about 15 people. Which means that by the end of the night, there were more people on stage than in the crowd. The show wa complete with guys in dresses, bathrobes, plastic magic wands, the whole bit. Those guys make me smile. It’s a fun show. I had a great time.
I used to go to at least three concerts a week. It was part of the Live Live gig- free tickets, guest list, free cds, all that stuff. It’s really nice to be on the inside, have that kind of access. It’s nice to rub shoulders with the people that make the music you listen to. But as of late, I’ve burnt out on it. I’m not interested in keeping on top of the so-called music scene (which, in reality, is more of a white middle class drug using fan scene), in the tour buses and backstage hobnobbing (although that was fun). Chandler is more my speed these days: a 50-something dude from Cape Cod and his band of merry men doing the darndest things on stage, singing songs called “where’s my glasses?” and “supermarket employee”.
I think that my shift in attention is in part due to my accomplishing all my goals with Live Live, in part going to Murphy’s every week where such talented (and wildly popular) people are so accessible, and in part my finding another community with which to work: the community of educators, as well as the community of urban teenagers. They don’t have tour buses, and they certainly aren’t famous. But they are good people, and I like being around them.
The spotlight is a fun place to be for a while. It’s exciting to get caught up in the mix, to find oneself at the relative center of a somewhat high profile community, to be able to drop names and all that. But there’s also a lot of bullshit that comes with it. I used to go to at least three concerts a week, but I think I’m done with that. I think I’ve had my time backstage. I think I’ll be perfectly happy even if I never hang out with anyone popular or famous, as long as they are good people. The buzz is exhilirating, but after some time passes I grow jaded, and it gets annoying.
music: Miles Davis- Bitches Brew d.2
(actually, the bracelet was purple.)
This past weekend was Berkfest, one of the biggest events in the Northeast as far as live music is concerned. And this year, my work on Live Live earned me a free ticket to the festival, as well as media privileges. I was free to bounce back and forth from the concert grounds to backstage to VIP camping as I saw fit. I was free to hobnob with the Berkfest bigwigs, free to drink their beer for heavy discounts and eat their snacks, free to use their ultra-clean port-o-potties. It’s funny-for the most part I didn’t.
This was my third time at Berkfest. I knew the drill. I knew what to expect at pretty much every turn, I knew how to best budget my time, what to see, what not to miss, and what to do without. Because I was in VIP camping this year, I completely skipped over the increasingly sketchy situation in the “enchanted forest” (although I did venture back there to do some interviews) and was much closer to my tent site which was very convienent. I also had a better idea of which acts I wanted to see and which acts I could skip. Truth is I had already seen a lot of acts that played this year’s Berkfest, and only went to see those that I really enjoyed. As such, I took in a lot of new music this weekend. I’m going to write a review of the festival for Live Live tomorrow, so I’ll leave the music reviews up to that.
Something about Berkfest this year didn’t really strike a chord in me. Perhaps the constant onslaught of aural information overloaded my circuits. Perhaps the playing was subpar (I don’t think it was). Perhaps the setting was too over-hyped, too big, too much. This last point is it, I think. As far as live music goes, I’ve been spoiled by Murphy’s, a very small place that produces some very large music. I would pit a given night at Murphy’s against almost any set at Berkfest this weekend, and based simply on empirical auditory input, I would pick Murphy’s. Add to the equation that Murphy’s holds 50 people on average, while Berkfest was pushing 8,000. Add to the equation that people who performed on the mainstage at Berkfest are regulars at Murph’s; members of The Slip, John Brown’s Body, and Sam Kinninger’s crew all are hanging out at the bar, standing right next to you — no, talking with you — and it’s no big deal.
Maybe that’s why backstage seemed like not such a big deal. For the most part, the musicians weren’t even the ones back there. They were all out in the crowd, checking out other musicians. The bigger names didn’t stay on-site either; they bussed in, played, and bussed out just as quickly. What was left backstage was, for the most part, leeches, groupies, and hangers-on, along with a smattering of Clean Vibes volunteers and members of the media (such as myself). But again, there wasn’t much to cover backstage.
My mission for the weekend was to conduct interviews. Not interviews with musicians (although that was the logical conclusion of Gamelan’s publicity team as well as other members of the media), but interviews with regular fans. I managed to talk to a good amount of concertgoers, and a good range within that. I talked to some kids who did not leave the campgrounds and were too far gone on drugs to consider going to see music, I talked to middle-aged folks who dress in golf shirts and khakis and are camping out with the wookiees for three days in order to hear some of the more esoteric picks for the festival, I talked those who looked like they came from fraternity rush, I talked to those who sported the customary dreads-and-patchwork, I talked to drinkers of cheap beer not a day over 18. I talked to pretty much everyone I could, including representatives from some of the nonprofits, some of the festival volunteers, and craft vendors. The hard results are posted on livelive.org. For what it’s worth, though this was the highlight of the weekend for me. I gained more from talking to this wide array of people than I did listening to the music.
It occurred to me at one point that this sort of activity, the weekend-long music festival, is no longer at the top of my list of things I’d like to be doing with my weekends. I find that I increasingly seek situations of personal connection and smaller numbers as opposed to mob scenes and sensory-laden spectacles. I’d rather be talking with someone, hearing their story, than listening to music. Of course there are times when I want nothing more than to fall into the innards of one of my favorite CDs, but for the most part I’m trying to listen to things on a different level.
I think that part of my reaction to the weekend is one of disdain for the scene that I loved so much a couple of years ago. I’ve grown out of it, I guess. Or maybe because of my adventures in radio, I’ve pulled back the curtain on it and can’t really see it as something wholesome and fun anymore. Especially now that Corporate America has gotten their meathooks into the whole business…
But for whatever the reason, Berkfest didn’t carry the same clout as it has in the past for me. Strange, considering my Golden Bracelet. The most valuable lesson this weekend was about people, and how just because some people might play instruments on big stages for everyone to watch, that doesn’t make their story any more speical, important, or interesting.
music: Mad Dog Trio- 12/27/02
My world in Boston used to pivot around music. Live Live was at the center of a hub, which spun free cds, concert tickets, acquaintances, friends, and of course, lots and lots of music. It was towards this that I threw myself for the better part of two years. That all came to a screeching halt about a week and a half ago when I started grad school. Not because I no longer had interest in music; rather, that I no longer had time.
It was only a week and a half ago. Seems like months. But tonight, I departed from that new, strange social scene of grad students and aspiring teachers for the old, familiar turf of the concert. It was indeed a special event: Club d’Elf featuring John Medeski and Brahim Fribgane. And in a courtyard at the MFA, no less.
I was supposed to meet Duncan and tmo there. They were no-shows. the osha has been sidelined as of late so it was just me. But the community that I have come to know through music came through. I saw T., a guitarist for a band and my main man E., a very, very down cat that I met at Brown, again on Phish tour, and a third time at Hampton this past January. He’s in Watertown now, contemplating how to stay out of school and drinking quality italian red wine. Positive.
Said hello to Micro and Brahm before d’Elf did some fine work. Medeski pushed things stratospherically towards the end of the set. And yet, it was a sit-down affair, and nothing could be finer on a beautiful day than sitting in the grass and taking in some sonic oddities and wonders courtesy of d’Elf. It was my first concert in a while, the monstrosity that was MMW at FleetBoston notwithstanding. It feels like a while, at least. The crowd was priceless: a cross between Bonnaroo and Tanglewood. Everyone had a blast, including the musicians. Always a good sign.
Going home I watched some kids convince a busker to play a rhythm line while he freestyled over it. Gratuitous, awkward, but beautiful. Music was the theme of the evening, and I was happy to have taken it in on a very personal level.
So a night of music re-introduced me to all that was paramount in my life here in Boston up until last Monday. I had gotten my fill, felt lucky to hear such fine musicians in such close proximity, and only sorry that Duncan and tmo didn’t make it down. Must have been a late night at murphy’s.
if i only knew…
of course, there was an inkling. a distinct possibility. but my schedule being what it was, i wasn’t going to head out to murphy’s even so. I’d been to every single week for the better part of 16 months-two weeks in a row of missing it wouldn’t matter. right? right?
Catching up on tmo’s blog, I read the news.
Buh.
(shock abating…) Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck. Of all the nights to miss…
…and as sad as I am that I missed it, Amy’s gonna shit a brick.
music: MMW- Electric Tonic
I just got back from seeing Medeski, Martin, and Wood at the Fleetboston Pavillion. A good show. A good time.
The night began with Serendipity on our side. I am reading the Dig on the T from Harvard to South Station and Duncan sits down right next to me. I don’t notice at first and there’s someone I hear calling out “HEEY YA BIG FREEEK” and people are getting shifty-eyed on the T. Guess I’m the big freak. So we get to FleetBoston, and I check in with the ticket booth about guestlist and all that. It takes a couple phonecalls and 5 minutes before the nice lady comes back with tickets. Made me a little nervous, but in the end Live Live provided legitimacy enough. I will be typing up a review tomorrow for the website. The funny part is that the tickets we were given were quite literally directly in front of the two seats that Tim bought. Section 2, Row M, Seats 32 and 33. Tim had the same, except Row N. Uncanny. Positive.
We all sat together, but it didn’t matter really. there were plenty of seats open and comfortable dancing space all around. Looking back on it, the crowd was a bit strange. Not quite on the ball, worn out maybe? Many people left before the end. Granted, FleetBoston is a pretty big venue, but I’d still think that it would be more densely packed. Perhaps a reflection on the new economics of concertgoing in this new age of the ubiquitous music festival. Plus the ticket was almost $40…
MMW continues to make music that at once moves me to dance and confuses the hell out of me. It is of course all intstrumental, yet so close to human speech that at times you think you’re hearing a foreign language. I guess you are hearing a foreign language in some ways. I enjoyed the show a good deal, although it was not an in-your-face-push-the-groove MMW experience. Nor was it one of those nights where we got 20 minutes of undanceable dissonance and deconstruction-of-sound type stuff. There were some nice grooves, some straight ahead tendencies (a Coltrane cover I haven’t heard them do before), and a laid-back, loose feel to it all.
The three mad scientists communicate so well on stage. It’s an intimate conversation that we are lucky enough to be able to watch. And even though it’s mostly in a foreign language, it’s a wonder to behold. Even now, after seeing 10 or so MMW shows, it’s still a wonder.
Still, I couldn’t help wondering if the show would be objectively better if the music was identical, except played in a smaller room. I’m getting to a point where seeing music in venues larger than, say, the Avalon is just not that appealing. Especially jazz. MMW’s sound grew from small jazz clubs in New York City, and altough it is really not possible anymore to see them in places like Tonic, that’s how it was meant to be taken in. MMW really has no place in quasi-arenas that charge $40 at the door and $8 for a pint of Red Hook. Let’s leave that to bands with MTV airplay, and let us noncommercial music fans enjoy our stuff in the relative privacy of a small jazz club.
For some reason the night tired me out. Volker and Tim had just come from Ultimate practice and were visibly tired, and all of us had a late night at Murphy’s last night. I still have the good fortune of not having pesky early morning obligations such as jobs or school, so I was in better shape than most, it seemed. Yet, after a night of music, I’m ready to go to bed. It’s only 1 AM. I must be getting old. Or more responsible. Or both. At least I can still groove out when I need to, and at least MMW comes through enough to ensure that it happens.
music: Miles Davis- In a Silent Way
Gosh, it’s late. Seems like I never get to bed at a reasonable hour on Tuesday Nights. But there’s a good excuse: Matt Murphy’s Pub.
The place itself is nothing hot-a smallish bar with four dollar draughts, some nice single-malts, and cloth napkins. But the regular clientelle clears out around 10:30 on Tuesday, and the Freaks Come Out At Night.
There’s no need to go into a lengthy description of Murphy’s and Altitude Music. I did a lengthy review of the weekly event for Live Live and that pretty much sums it up nicely. But to elucidate a little…
It’s free. Costs no money. And for music of such a high quality, that’s unheard of in Boston. And yet, it thrives. I think that because there has been no dollar value placed on it, things are much more loose, free, and the musicians do not feel that certain obligation to ‘entertain.’ They play for each other and for themselves, and that is where the best musical stuff comes from. It’s also a great example of how money can be de-emphasized and playing and sharing such an experience can be emphasized. In a sense, Murphy’s sticks it directly to Clearchannel, and I like that. A lot.
It’s small. very small. on a packed night the place won’t fit more than 60-70 people. That keeps it feeling like you’re a part of something somewhat underground and secret, which makes me feel far more cool than should be allowed. But more than that, it makes a body feel like they are sharing somethign much more personal and intimite than, say, seeing Phish play an Air Force base for 60,000 people. Or even seeing a band at the Avalon or Paradise, for that matter. There is no stage, no separation between the music makers and the music takers. It’s a really cool aesthetic.
It’s friendly. Since I’ve been going virtually every week for a year and a half, there’s been a community that has developed around the event. Now everybody knows your name, and they’re always glad you came. This could be the most important factor: whether it’s late night music, quilting circles, sports, stock trading, gaming societies, frats, book clubs, or gyms, it’s all about the people you meet. And on the whole, the Murphy’s crowd is a good group.
It’s quality. The music is some of the best stuff I’ve heard. ever. There are samples on www.livelive.org under ‘archives.’
I still love going to Murphy’s after doing the radio show on Tuesdays. The one downside is that I’m out until an ungodly hour every Tuesday night. It’s pushing 4 AM now. Wednesday mornings are generally laughable. As I’m starting up with grad school and will be teaching kids, I’ll have to be more responsible about staying up so late, which may mean I give up Murphy’s for a bit. I cringe at the thought. More often than not, Tuesday night is the best night of the week, this week no exception. The lineup was spectacular, and the music was solid. They hit a tasty groove in 7/4 time to start the second set and really brought the house down with it. word.
I count Murphy’s as one of the biggest reasons why living in this city is worthwhile, behind friends and now school location. It epitomizes everything I love about the music scene here. It’s really kept me going some weeks, reinforced all that is positive other weeks, and has always served as a weekly haven from all else going on in my world. I’ll make every effort to be able to keep going as I enter graduate school.
