Dear Hannah
Ok. So I got an interesting email yesterday, and it begs for a response. I owe it to those of you playing along at home. And somehow I feel like I owe it to myself. To explain, that is. Or to try and understand for myself. So here goes.
I’ve gotten this sort of email before, and I appreciate it. Basically, Hannah (who I don’t think I know, or I don’t know how I know) succinctly (and eloquently) responded to the frustration and aggravation that has been a recent thread in these pages.
“[Your] skewed vision of achievement annoys me,” Hannah wrote. “When I think of playing the Wagner version of ‘Babylon’ when watching the naked winter trees outside my window, pondering about childhood dreams lost and gone and washing away the dust of everyday life between the hours of 12 – 1 A.M daily – or when my roommate asks me routinely to play either ‘Dear Elizabeth’ by Benjamin Wagner or ‘Anna Begins’ by Counting Crows on my laptop as she snuggles with a hand-made quilt hugging herself whilst staring at the ceiling, smiling and feeling all the more relaxed as she reminisces about her grandmother she lost to cancer this past Autumn.”
Wow, right? Amazing.
So she’s encouraging me to not throw in towel, and maybe calling me on sounding a little too whiny, a little too Adam Duritz (you want whiny? Read his daily journal!), which I appreciate. A lot. But however odd or dysfunctional or narcissistic it is of me to keep this little public record of my life, it’s not a comprehensive representation of what’s going on. Words fail. Time runs out. And I gotta’ keep some stuff to myself. Fame is not the frustration here. I’m not entirely sure it was the goal, or is why I’ve lost a little steam of late. I can’t say that some sort of material or external measurements of success don’t have a bearing. Maybe it’s fatigue. Or old age. I’m not entirely sure. Lemme’ try and elaborate.
Yes, I’m restless. I’m in some sort of transition. I’m 31-years-old. I’m not a kid. The rocknroll fantasies and romantic delusions that hatched as a 11-year-old reading Rolling Stone and listening to Styx as my violently divorcing parents shuttled me back and forth between Philadelphia and Chicago, the “when everybody loves you / that’s just as happy as you can be” that fueled my twenties, are being tempered by time and reality. The reality is, recording and touring is expensive. I’ve spent well over $25,000 — just a guess, probably double that — in the last ten years as a “solo singer/songwriter.” The financial return has been minimal. It feels like the energy I’ve put into spreading my music — which, for the record, I believe very strongly in, and absolutely believe is on par with anything out there (that’s not the issue) — has been returned to me about 10%. The rest gets lost to the universe. Yes, I’d like a label deal. Yes, I’d like to be on the radio. I’d like to play shows every night. I’d like to see a hear full of people singing along. And I’ve had glimpses into all of that. And it ends up being less than I’d hoped.
I’m meandering. Thing is, I appreciate — really, really, really — that “Dear Elizabeth” means something to somebody, and has helped anyone in any small way. God knows it helped me. That’s why I wrote it. That’s why I write songs. Not to get famous, or get on the radio, not to sell records, but to let something — some emotion, some thought, some unsettled something — out. That motive remains pure, and rewarded, and the foundation of everything that matters to me. Still, it gets more and more difficult to put that emotion out there, to toss that money into the great beyond, and to remain hopeful when I feel like a tree falling in a semi-populated forest. Doesn’t mean I’m not grateful that YOU are there, are here, with me. I am. So grateful.
Thanks you Hannah, and Keith, and Amy, and Claire, and everyone who’s ever written — not to mention my parents and my brother and friends and all the people who have done so much to make this possible and meaningful. Your support and your emails are terrific fuel. I will continue to write songs. And record and release them in some capacity. And I hope you’ll keep writing. And reading. And maybe someday, watching on the big screen.
I won’t give up, I won’t give in, I will persist. I promise.
Don’t Give Up
Monday was the world’s longest day.
Plane landed early. As expected, I dropped my bags and immediately went running. It was a clear and beautiful morning, some 25 degrees colder than Sunday morning in L.A. I wrote a chorus in my head while I was running, and finished the song as soon as I got back to my apartment.
It’s called “Don’t Give Up,” and is so cheesy (though certainly well-intentioned) that you can be assured you’ll never hear it.
Off to work, I was immediately slammed with regular real-world stuff: headlines, promos, problems, movie projects, 2003 planning. Ugh. So uncool. So long.
Anyway, I finally got some rest last night, and am almost done with my Tuesday. Tomorrow’s a short day. Thanksgiving’s gonna’ be mellow. I’ll wake up and go for a long bike ride (weather permitting, I guess — it’s supposed to snow), like the old days when Chris and I first moved to New York. I will be avoiding the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade at all costs. Then I’m meeting up with some family friends for dinner at the Rainbow Room in Rockefeller Center.
Then I’m heading to Boston Friday morning for a quiet weekend. And this time, I’ll be bringing my guitar.
When The Xanax Wears Off…
I’m on JetBlue Flight 126 en route from Long Beach, CA, to New York City. The monitor on the seat back says that we’re cruising at 603 miles per hour some 32,000 feet over Ohio. The plane is dark. The young family next to me is fast asleep. The Xanax has worn off, so I’m staring at the plane icon slowly tracking across America…
L.A. was fabulous. Suffice it to say that the weekend didn’t diminish my interest in moving (as any normal reader would surmount). I’ve had the opportunity, these past months, to approximate normalcy there. That is, I’ve spent enough time out of hotels, working with and hanging out with actual Angelinos, so I feel like I have some idea what it would be like to live there. The weather, the outdoors (Runyon Canyon), the pace, the opportunities — too sweet. I will live there. Someday.
The wedding itself was a lot of fun. Like a wedding anywhere else, really, excepting that it was on a Sunset Boulevard rooftop and was buzzed by helicopters. That and Peter Bagdonovich stepping in the elevator. It was such a quick trip that I left my guitar at home for the first time in a long time. And while it was nice not to lug around, I had some prime songwriting downtime Sunday afternoon. It was encouraging, anyway, to feel the itch to play at all.
For now, then, it’s back to NYC, crazy, I’m sure, with holiday chaos. Land around 5:30, car service home. unpack, go running, and be into the MTV by 9. Back to my concrete reality…
Cockfight Kills Rats Dead
On the way out of last night’s Cockfight rehearsal, we saw a garbage man kick a rat. Killed it right there on the the spot.
Anyway, we basically played the same song for two hours, a two and a half minute big rock song called “Tony.” It actually sounds ok. We remind me of The B52s, primarily because Rod’s guitar work is so clean and poppy, and my drumming is so obviously simple. I’m fairly confident, though, that the objective is to be louder.
At this rate, it could take us a year to play out, but it is fun, and it does give me new ideas. Not that I’m going in the big rock direction. To the contrary, I’m expecting the next CD — whenever I manage to make it — will be more acoustic, less electric; more Coldplay, less Foo Fighters.
I’ll share that whole next album strategy with ya’ in the coming days and weeks. Alas, a plan is gestating in my mind. For now, though, it’s 6:01, so I’m outa’ here.
Goin’ to California…
Mutual of Omaha
I have a new favorite film: “The Bad & The Beautiful” starring Kirk Douglas and Lana Turner. Cool story structure (three flashbacks). Well-acted (in a 50s noire sorta’ way). Great camera movement. Kinda’ funny. And very inside Hollywood. Speaking of, I’m flying to to L.A. Friday morning for a very Hollywood black tie wedding. I’m excited for that, and for the hikes the generally accompany my time there.
I’ve been trying to keep up with the songwriting. Every time I picked up my guitar, I’d kinda’ slide outa’ my chair and onto the floor and lose momentum. I did start a couple of ideas on Saturday afternoon, one called “Mutual of Omaha” (“I will call you then from Paris / I will send for you from Spain / I will meet you when it’s raining / Where the seasons always change / ‘Cuz I’m leaving California / At the first sign of the dawn / Yeah I’m leaving here this morning / By the time you read this note, I’ll be gone”), but didn’t make it past the chorus (“Omaha, I was running away the day that I met you / I thought that I saw, you drifting away a thousand feet below”). I’ll get back to it, ‘cuz it’s a good melody.
One other thing. Re: the below entry, one regular reader (heck, Keith’s known me since I was 11-years-old) inquired as to what “A&R” means. A&R stands for “artists and repetoir.” In a nutshell, they’re the guys at the label who scout the talent, and signs ‘em up. Gotta’ get more of those fellas on my team.
Oh, and one more thing — and this is music related. Remember that new band I’ve mentioned once or twice? The once I’m drumming for? We’re calling ourselves Cockfight. And we’re rehearsing tomorrow night.
Kaiju Big Battle!
Last night was one for the record books — or in this case, The Daily Journal.
A bunch of us from MTV News took a field trip to Kaiju Big Battle, a post-modern, post-ironic wrestling match between guys in slime-spewing foam monster suits. It was funny in its own way, but that’s not the point.
The point is, Kaiju Big Battle’s kinda’ got this “Cool New Thing” seal of approval right now, so The Roxy was packed with hipsters and cool kids. Which is uncomfortable enough for me, as someone who’s neither a hipster nor a cool kid. To boot, I was introduced to an A&R guy that I used to call and email, like, weekly back in the late ’90s (“the late ’90s” — that sounds so weird). And that was kinda’ awkward. (Especially since he’s outa’ work right now.) Then I was introduced this guy who does A&R for Gary Gersch’s new (as-of-yet-nameless) label at Universal. Which is exciting. But I’m, like, a total social retard. At least that’s how I sounded to myself. ‘Cuz, of course, all I could think was, ‘Holy shit, this guy could change my life!’ Which, of course, isn’t entirely true. But it highlights why being in this town and on both sides of the music business can be so soul crushing. I’m so close. And I’m so far away. At the same time.
The good news is, this has all been motivating, not debilitating. Exhausted from everything (travel, tour, marathon), I lost my voice last week. This week, though, my voice is returning, slowly but surely.
Free (At First)
Still recovering from everything: the tour, the marathon, getting sick, growing up. I’ve been feeling a little better: cough’s going away, voice’s coming back. Optimism’s on the rise.
I wrote a piece on The Wallflower’s new CD for MTVNews.com. Their “Bringing Down The Horse” was a big influence for me in the late ’90s. I listened to it non-stop as I road tripped to Graceland the week before I began working for the mighty Viacom. So I was eager to hear their new album, which I dig. The interesting part of the process for me, though, was discovering (again, perhaps) how impossible it is to write these pieces without projecting my story onto theirs (see “Red Letter Days Shows Wallflowers Aren’t Leaving The Dance”).
The article ended up being “How To Endure In The Music Business,” which you, dear reader, will surely recognize as a familiar topic on these pages. My favorite part of the story, ripped straight from the band’s bio, is the following quote which I could have easily said myself (all be it on an up day):
There is that saying that ‘It’s not a race, it’s a marathon.’ I’m not even into that. I don’t see anybody in front of me or anybody behind me, and there is no finish line. You just keep going.
I’ve also been doing some thinking about what motivates me to write songs, record and perform them. It’s a complicated question. Without revealing too much (‘cuz for God’s sake, I have to keep something for myself), I thought I’d share this cool quote from my former creative writing professor — and hero — Tobias Wolff:
“It isn’t just for the product of the story or the novel, but it’s actually for the experience of that bliss that you sometimes do have when you write, as you’re somehow transported or elevated. So that’s what keeps you going back. It comes to you free, at first, and then you have to work for it.”
And… so… I just keep going.
Red Letter Days Shows Wallflowers Aren’t Leaving The Dance
It’s a long and somewhat twisted road that has led the Wallflowers back to record stores this week with Red Letter Days.
The band first met the masses with its 1996 commercial breakthrough Bringing Down the Horse, an album that helped to make the Wallflowers one of the hottest groups in America. Torchbearers for a roots-rock resurgence that included Sheryl Crow, Counting Crows and Joan Osbourne, the band and its “6th Avenue Heartache” crackled on radio and video outlets, where a David Fincher-directed clip ran in heavy rotation.
Bruce Springsteen and Jon Bon Jovi dropped in for encores at their shows. The Rolling Stones tapped the Wallflowers to open, and the band won two Grammys. From the cover of Rolling Stone to the Billboard Hot 100 to the coveted “Saturday Night Live” stage, the Wallflowers were everywhere.
But when the band resurfaced in 2000 with the equally luminous Breach, the mid-tempo guitar rock that was its foundation had fallen from grace, bumped from the charts by prefab pop.
And now Red Letter Days finds the band — especially its blue-eyed frontman, Jakob Dylan — bruised, perhaps, but resolute in the face of fickle pop-music fashions.
The LP opens with the oscillating synth bass and electronic breakbeats of “When You’re on Top.” Dylan sing-speaks the verses (not entirely unlike his father’s “Subterranean Homesick Blues”) over what could be momentarily mistaken for a David Gray or Paul Oakenfold outtake. But when the chorus explodes with the band’s trademark shimmering guitars and richly textured harmonies, it’s like someone put the top down on the convertible.
“I feel fine with the sun in my eyes, the wind in my hair, falling from the sky” Dylan sings, “I’m doing better than I thought I would but nothing’s ever as good as when you’re on top.”
“[It's] the first thing that really got the group excited,” Dylan said of the track. “[We] realized that we were reaching somewhere different from just louder or softer or faster or slower. [It] really set the pace for the group that we were on to something.”
The band turned to original Wallflowers guitarist turned producer Tobias Miller and his partner Bill Appleberry (Adema) to helm the project.
“We had the finger on exactly what we wanted to do, [so] there was really nobody better,” Dylan said. “He was truth to me. Knowing that this is a guy I went to grade school with, he’s as good as anybody else out there with a four-star name, really.”
The song’s ProTools-enhanced flourishes demonstrate something of a new direction for the Wallflowers. But the balance of the CD, from the staccato electric guitars of “Out of the Water” to the more plaintive, acoustic-driven “Here in Pleasantville,” suggests the band understands its strengths and is sticking to its guns. Lyrically, Dylan the singer/songwriter wrestles with the fickle nature of fame, and wins. The signposts are everywhere.
“I’m not looking for a warm embrace, I’m not looking for a friendly face,” Dylan sings on “Everything I Need.” “On the way down is when I found out I’ve got everything I need.”
Capable of adaptation but confident in its skill set, Red Letter Days demonstrates that the quartet is in the rock band business for the long haul.
“It’s too late to quit, too soon to go home,” Dylan sings in “Too Late to Quit,” summarizing the band’s position in the corporate pop landscape.
“There’s that saying that ‘It’s not a race, it’s a marathon,’ ” Dylan said. “[But] I don’t see anybody in front of me or anybody behind me, and there is no finish line. You just keep going.”
This article first appeared on MTVNews.com.
Rest
I’ve been sick all week. Seems like my body (as if it’s not part of me) was waiting for the first window of opportunity to force some downtime. With the NYC Marathon over, the “Summer’s Gone” Tour complete, and a momentary lapse in my bi-coastal travel, this week was it.
So I spent Wednesday in bed watching “Ocean’s 11″ (including a second viewing to listen to the Director’s commentary — Steven Soderbergh, one of my heroes — and a third for the cast’s commentary).
I worked from home Thursday. I strummed my guitar a little bit last night — there’s something purcolating — but nothing came of it. Plus, what with this soar throat and horse voice of mine, I can’t sing so well anyhow. But I’ll be back. After some 27,000, miles or airtravel (according to my America Advantage account), maybe 2000 miles of driving, and at least 26.2 miles of running, I need to rest my body, and my voice, for just a minute.
New York City Marathon ’02: 3:56:24
The New York City Marathon was incredible. It was my favorite race ever, and my best: I finished in 3:56:24, over four minutes fast than last year, and some 22 minutes faster than my 2000.
It had been cloudy, windy and cold for days, but Sunday morning was beautiful. The sun had not yet rose above the city as I stepped out of my apartment, so the sky was deep robin’s egg blue. Everything was still and quiet. And warm. I thought to myself, “It’s perfect.”
The ritual is this: car service to the library (taxis are hard to come by with 30,000 participants looking for a ride), bus to Staten Island, and wait, wait, wait. This years wait was warm, though. Basically, I had a cup of coffee, read a little bit of the Sunday Times, stretched, lubed up (basically, you have to smear Vaseline anywhere that could become abraded — 26.2 miles is a long way), and got in line.
It was windy and clear out on the Verenzano, waiting for the gun (cannon, actually). Police and TV copters buzzed overhead. The Mayor spoke. We sang the National Anthem (the French kinda’ rolled their eyes). They released some doves. And we were off. Well, kind of: it took us about seven minutes to actually cross the start.
It was an awesome event. The first mile is up the bridge, which was challenging ‘cuz we were surrounded by slower runners. The second is down the bridge, where all the guys start peeing over the side (including me). Then you’re into Brooklyn and streets are lined with people hootin’ and hollarin’ and keeping you inspired the whole way. I lost Chris and Jen pretty quickly, and ended up running some 24 miles or so alone. The crowd was thick and our miles were slow, and I was feeling impatient. My friends Jeff and Kristan were on 4th Avenue somewhere around mile seven, and I was thrilled to see them. Mile eight is at BAM, and the crowd is thick and enthusiastic there. There were some great tunes blaring (“Back in Black” or something similarly humerous), and I was feeling pretty good.
It gets a little quiet in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, the crowds become sparse around mile ten. My arches were starting to blister, and my energy was waning. In years prior, I began to fade on the Polaski Bridge (miles 13-14) and started hurting in earnest on the 59th Street Bridge. I was getting a little worried. I gelled at mile eleven, figuring it would boost me over the bridges and into Manhattan where the crowds would keep me movin’. So indeed, surrounded by groaning, pained runner, I found myself in Queens thinking only how beautiful the light was. I crushed the 59th Street Bridge, passing runners up and down, but reminding myself to be careful.
Running down the bridge onto 1st Avenue, I was greeted with the biggest crowds of the race, most of them cute Upper East Side women with a few mimosas under their belts. I ran close to the crowds on the left side if the Avenue, as I had in years past, looking for my friends. My buddy Ken was there around mile seventeen with oranges, but I stopped only long enough to say “I’m running a little behind, so I gotta’ go!” I gelled again at mile eighteen: sour apple PowerGel and Gatorade. Mmmmmm. It gets quiet again up in Harlem, but I still felt strong. People were really hurting on the Willis Avenue Bridge into the Bronxe, but miraculously, I was passing them.
Passing the clock at mile twenty, I began to calculate (which becomes more and more difficult the longer you run): I had just over 45 minutes to make it in under four hours. And so I thought of every person I was angry with, every person I love, every person who inspires me — most importantly, I though to myself ‘If you don’t go sub-four, you’ll have to live with it another year!’ — and dug deep. All the way down Fifth Avenue, shuckin’ and jivin’ around weakening runners, I ticked away the miles. Every time I looked down at my chrono, I was surprised to find that I was gaining speed!
Chris caught up with me as we entered Central Park just long enough to say “22 minutes to make sub-four!” I just kept repeating “Sub Four, Sub Four” with each footfall. The harder I ran, the less I hurt. And before I knew it, I could see the finish, and I was sprinting in as if it were a 10k. I raised both arms and smiled as I passed under the banner, delirious. They wrapped me in a space blanket, handed me my medal, and I blended into a sea of aluminum-clad anonymity.
