RIP: Run-DMC DJ Jam Master Jay
Run-DMC DJ Jam Master Jay was shot last night in Queens (see “Jam Master Jay, Run-DMC DJ, Killed In Shooting”), so I worked into the wee hours. As we started digging up videos and stuff, getting materials together, I realized just how integral Run-DMC had been in introducing hip-hop to suburban chumps like me. Got home around 4 a.m., slept three hours, and came back into work. No run. Marathon in some 72 hours, and I need some SLEEP!
The Matador
American Airlines #126 has begun its descent into Newark, NJ. I can’t believe that just this morning I was looking down from Parker Mesa, some one thousand or more feet above Malibu and the sparkling blue Pacific. And soon, I’ll be emerging from the Lincoln Tunnel into Manhattan, back into the big bad city. So amazing, these modern times. I’m pretty lucky.
So, what’s the deal with this whole New York L.A. thing? Where will I end up? Well, the day job not withstanding (which is, of course, a major variable), my love for both cities ebbs and flows.
Standing on the beach in Santa Monica, jogging the palm-lined streets of Beverly Hills, or hiking the dusty trails of Topanga Canyon, it seems like a no brainer. L.A. has the outdoor vistas of Telluride (CO, where I lived one summer in college) and the cultural opportunities of New York City. There’s something in the air. There’s an ease and some kind of spiritual seeking that’s appealing, and tough to define. That said, there’s the flipside: the Eurotrash, the peacock-like displays of wealth, the plastic surgery, the BBD (bigger better deal).
New York, by contrast, is so real. Too fucking real. I came home to cold, gray skies singing The Pixies’ “Caribou” in my head (”I hate this town / I live cement”). If I’m lucky, there’s, like, one beautiful thing a day, and it usually has something to do with the sun. ‘Cuz it’s a major endeavor to get to the beach or the mountains, and odds are, they’re strewn with litter. Still, for some reason, it feels like what you see is what you get here: no pretense, no illusions, just hard cold in-your-face reality. I’m sure that a bit of an over simplification, but it feels that way.
So… guess what? I have no idea. As if I needed more to wonder about — Who am I? What am I doing with my life? Who’s going to pay for my next record? — I’ve now added Where am I doing it?
On the singer/songwriter front (oh yeah, that’s why I’m here!), I wrote a song in late-afternoon half-light yesterday called “The Matador.” Dunno’ if it’s a keeper. But the next record’s sure shaping up to be very L.A. Not too surprising, I guess.
Hollywood’s still sleeping, stars dancing in their head
Your broken heart’s still bleeding, and you can’t go back to bed
Everyone is waiting for a sign of what to do
When the mountains start to shaking, and the sky falls down on you
Summerland
Last night at dinner someone asked me, “What do want to do with your life, Benjamin?” I paused a beat and answered, “Rock.” But then, more honestly, answered, “Yunno’, I don’t really know. I’m in sort of a transitional mode.”
Endorsing the premise that “No matter where you go, there you are,” I find myself in the same head I’ve been in over the last few weeks, no matter where I go: What am I doing with myself? Am I a singer/songwriter? A journalist? A screenwriter? What am I going to do with my life? ‘Cuz “I wanna’ rock” — even if it’s true — is wearing a little thin.
All that existential woe nothwithstanding, I can’t complain. I am hanging out pretty comfortably in Los Angeles. I have been all over the map in thhe last six weeks or so (Nantucket, Iowa, Boston, Chapel Hill, etc etc). I found a signed copy of Michael Chabon’s new book (appropriately entitled “Summerland”) in a book store last night. I woke up this morning and ran along the Pacific. And I’m headed to McCabe’s Guitars to buy a tuner after work.
So, the short term’s all good. It’s the Big Picture’s that’s go me stumped.
The “This Is What It’s Like To Live In L.A.” Thing
What can I tell you? I’m in corporate-wanker/marathon-trainee mode this week, not rock star mode, which is far less cool than, say, touring or recording. Yeah, I have my guitar with me, but I haven’t played it since Sunday (and then, with little enthusiasm).
Mostly, I’m doing the “This Is What It’s Like To Live In L.A.” thing, waking up, running by the ocean, working, going home and quietly hanging out. My blood pressure’s pretty low, that’s for sure. But — weather not withstanding — L.A. seems to lack the grounding, the reality, and the urgency, of New York City.
I just wanna’ sit on the beach and stare out to sea here.
Moonlight On A Fog-Filled Valley
Departed EWR Saturday 8am ET. Slept through taxi and takeoff. Touched down at LAX Saturday 11am PT. Went to lunch, then took a beautiful hike through Topanga Canyon to Eagle Rock.
We hadn’t summited five minutes when we heard a commotion, and ran to find a woman with a broken ankle cradled in her husband’s arms. We helped out until the ‘copter arrived — I kid you not — and choppered her out. Walking home underneath the full moon, the valley filled with fog off the Pacific, I felt half-a-world away from New York. And better for the distance.
Spent Sunday at the Mondrian — such a scene — reading the paper at watching the punks and the starletts there. The view looking out over L.A. was 100% Spinal Tap (as were the patrons). Ran along Santa Monica Boulevard from Hollywood, past the Troubador (where Hothouse Flowers was sound checking), into Beverly Hills, then home along Carmelita Avenue. I was visited by a song idea there (”Carmelita, think it over / will you come out with me tonight / I’ve been waiting by the corner / In the faded evening light”), which I tried to hold onto the entire run home. Once reunited with my guitar, however, I lost interest (my guitar’s out of tune, and I have no tuner, so it’s no fun to play). It’s still in my head, though, so don’t fret.
Went to “Punch Drunk Love” for the second time (brilliant film — see it).
So now I’m looking out the window here at the MTV Santa Monica, Colorado Avenue bathed in half-light. Many in the department are preparing for the “Jackass” premiere shoot later tonight, but I’m preparing for a quiet night at the Hotel Oceana, there on Ocean Boulevard overlooking the Pacific.
And maybe that’s why I’ll never be Ryan Adams or John Mayer or whomever. I’m not really into the scene. In fact, I rather loathe it. Gimme’ moonlight on a fog-filled-valley anytime.
Like The Weather
I’m like the weather: hot, cold, up, down, rain, sun.
Today was a good one. So beautiful out. Wedged some fun into a busy Friday. Went running, and watched the city go from night to day. Had lunch with some like-minded (read: have day job as well as creative aspiration) co-workers. Returned Paul Grassini’s tuner to him at Three Tree Studios.
Oh, and last night I wrote a new song on my way home from work. It was raining, hence the first lines, “Walked home through the rain / I think that I told you” which pretty much lead to the rest of the song.
It’s another in-between kinda’ song, half-formed, not fully-realized, but evidence that the well isn’t dry yet.
So, meanwhile, I’m off to Los Angeles in some 9 hours or so.
See ya’ there…
Worth Remembering
Yesterday was miserable: cold, gray, sheets of wind-blown rain. The building was creaking all afternoon.
Walking home (via Blockbuster, where I rented “Insomnia”), though, the rain settled into a fine mist, and by the time I poked my head out of my bedroom window after dinner, it was the most beautiful fall night you’ve ever seen.
The clouds were low and fast over the city, illuminated by a waxing moon. The air was dry and cool. This morning, the sun is raging in a crystal clear blue skies, and I’m struck by how quickly it had all changed.
I guess that’s worth noting. Worth remembering.
My First Nosebleed
I got my first nosebleed of the fall last night, which seemed kinda’ fitting given the way I’ve felt of late. Watched “The Apartment,” ate (another) turkey burger with cheese, went to sleep.
It was pitch black and pouring rain when I woke up this morning. It sounded soothing outside my window, but was bone chilling when I went running in it.
So… what’s going on? Not much, really. Working, mostly. Watching movies. Haven’t played guitar in a few days.
Dunno’ what I’m doin’ next, probably demoing the new songs in the next six weeks or so — after the marathon. Goin’ to L.A. on Saturday. I’ll be anxious to see if the sunshine improves my disposition at all.
Boston “Summer’s Gone” Tour Report
Walking home past the Museum of Natural History tonight, a few fallen leaves blew down the sidewalk in the crisp autumn breeze, and I finally felt it for real. That’s it. It’s over. Summer’s gone.
It wasn’t gone when I kicked off my tour at the Mercury here in New York City. The air was still warm and humid, despite the calendar. And it wasn’t gone as I drove through the deep green kudzu of the South. But as we crept further and further North, the leaves began to change, the air turned colder, and as each successive city and show fell away behind me, it all began to come to a close.
“Summer’s Gone” has been more than a song and a remix EP. Autumn has always been the saddest season for me, as long as I can remember. Maybe it’s because my birthday is on Labor Day, or the whole back-to-school thing, or just the diminishing sunlight. As this whole process has evolved — from writing the song in August of 2000 to recording it for the LP to the remixes and the tour — it’s become some sort of passage, some sort of closure: growing up, getting over, moving on.
On the back of “Crash Site,” the CD the song in question first appeared, there’s a blurry plane — crashing, or crash landing, it always seemed to me — on the front, and an empty field of runway lights on the back. On the “Summer’s Gone” EP, there’s a plane landing on that same field of runway lights. And that’s what tonight feels like. I’ve landed. I’m “back down to earth,” though I’m not quite sure where I’ve arrived, in what state, which time zone.
The last date of the six city tour was Saturday in Boston at the Kendall Cafe. My brother and his friend Mark drove me, rain and traffic all the way. The show was somber, maybe, though I talked and gave context between songs. I felt a little out of place in a town where I’ve spent so much time (I recorded “Out of Your Head” there in 1996). Many of my friends have moved, if not out of the state, at least into the suburbs to marry, and have kids.
So this time, I felt slightly alien, slightly alone. Sure, many great friends came out and sang along. I sang everything to them, for them. We had a great time after the show stumbling down Mass. Ave. into a late night pizza joint for hot subs and slices. This morning, I ran along the Charles in a gray drizzle, then blew all of my earnings on CDs (R.E.M. singles, The Samples “No Room,” James Taylor’s “Sweet Baby James”) at Newbury Comics. Then it was back to the Mass. Pike, I-84, and back home through the rain to New York City.
So… I’m not sure what’s next. I have hours of video tape to potentially edit into some travelogue. I have new songs, including one I wrote just tonight called “This Song” (as in “at least I still have this song”). But mostly, I have this tired body, this heavy heart, and this overwhelming sense of uncertainty.
And gratitude. For it may not be turning out quite like I planned or schemed or dreamed, but it’s turning out, it’s developing, and soon enough, maybe, I’ll see this big picture a little more clearly.
This Is What It Feels Like
I walked outa’ work last night into the brightly lit bustle of Times Square and I thought, ‘Ya’ know what? Fuck this!’ All this tail-between-the-legs shit I’ve written the last few days, I mean. Yeah, so life’s tough, and I’ve been seeking some big break for what feels like a long time and all but… fuck this! How lucky am I?
I live in New York. I have a great day job that I love. I have great friends and family that I love. Every few days or so (when I’m lucky), new songs mysteriously pour out of me. I make records in New York and L.A. I tour. People like my music. They know it’s good. I know it’s good. I’m healthy, happy, and sane (usually). So what else is there? A record deal? International acclaim? Gazillions of dollars? As a good friend oft reminds me, I wouldn’t be satisfied if I won a Grammy. ‘Oh, it’s just for Song of the Year.’ So what gives?
So fuck it. I’m not cool. I’m not trendy. I’m not huge, or even big. Like I said to myself on my drunken answering machine message last week, “This is it. This is what it feels like.” And it usually feels pretty good.
