In The Up Position
I’m listening to a rough mix of ‘California’ from Sunday afternoon’s recording session and am psyched to report that the rollercoaster is in the ‘Up’ position: it rocks!
All that matters on these rough mixes is the bass and drums, and they’re spot on. I’ve yet to add 12-string and electric guitars, a solo, tamborine, keyboards, vocals, and whatever else, and it’s already as good as anything I’ve released. Ever. So now is when I exhale.
Another night in the studio found Kevin and I banging out three more tracks, ‘Annalia (Come Back Home),’ ‘Stay,’ plus a mystery bonus track. So the basic tracks are done on everything except what will be the last song on the record, ‘New York’ (the arrival to the departure of ‘California,’ if you will).
We had a hoot drinking beers, laughing at stupid accents, listening to Merle Haggart, and talking about the acoustic rock of yesteryear: Gordon Lightfoot, Jim Croce, John Denver. The mix I burned Kevin for sonic reference is more Fountains of Wayne than America, but we’re definately coming from the same place, and going somewhere new together. Which is cool. Every musician needs a partner in crime.
Somewhere between the fourth take of ‘Stay’ and the 57th Street NR station, I hatched a plan to release the ‘JFK/LAX Demos’ concurrent to the new record (working title ‘Almost Home’), either as a double CD, a freebie for the first 100 sales, or something like that. I like the idea of offering the black and white snapshots and the glossy, airbrushed 8×10.
Meanwhile, an era ends: Sam Phillips has passed. I’ve been to Graceland twice, but never made it to Sun Studios. Still, I feel like I knew the guy. If not him personally, at least his youthful enthusiasm. I found an image of him while producing the story that is completely illustrative: it’s from last year’s release of the Sun box set. Phillips, 79-years-old at the time, is seated in from of the legendary Sun logo answering some inane Q&A but smiling and gesturing like a giddy teenager. I’m sure there’s good rockin’ upstairs tonight.
What else? Weekend. My dad’s coming. I have a half marathon Sunday. Then, I suppose, Kevin and I will get back to work. Thanksgiving’s approaching fast, and I have some living rooms to rock.
Rough Mixes
Now, the anxiety sets in. I haven’t given any of Sunday’s recordings a complete listen: too stressful. I notice everything imperfect: rogue drum fills, errant bass notes, off tempos. Its all there on tape: done, permanent. So I just won’t listen, until I have to… when I return to the studio tomorrow night.
Not that it’s not a terrific recording. It is. It’s just, well, this whole process (I should KNOW this by now — my freakin’ tenth record, at least) is a rollercoaster. Example: by the time we’d gotten a good performance of ‘Hollywood Arms’ the other day, I HATED it. Which of course, I don’t. I’m proud of it. But, well, over and over and over, every little detail… it gets difficult.
I’m listening to Wilco right now, which is illustrative of my point. There are four versions of the ‘Yankee Hotel Foxtrot’ song “Kamera” alone, all wildly different, all interesting, all cool.
To make matters worse, I’ve heard these songs solo acoustic — some of them — for years. I was gonna’ do a ‘Damien Rice’ record: minimalist, mellow. All of a sudden, they’re larger than life. Huge. Stadium rock.
Don’t fret — that’s why they call these “rough mixes.” There’s no EQ, no effects, no overdubs. They’re just bare bones. They’re building blocks. They are the first steps on a very long road home.
Begun In Earnest
Seven hours, six tracks, five beers and one Quizno’s sub later, Benjamin Wagner has left the building. Control One Studios, that is.
Forgive me the derivative and self-referential lead (you won’t oft catch me referring to myself in the third person; I’m plenty comfortable with ‘I’), but it was a good day in the studio. Nay, a great day.
Long story short: my new record is begun in earnest.
Recording works like this: you lay down rhythm tracks (bass and drums), then overdub guitars, vocals, keyboards, percussion, etc. So the trick today was to get solid, dynamic, well-recorded rhythm tracks — everything else is ‘scratch.’ We got it, in record time and with minimal angst.
Kevin, God bless ‘em, was ready to rock when I walked in the door. Rosa was already setting up, and Tony showed up via Metro North moments later. We started with ‘I’ll Be Waiting,’ the most uptempo, raucous tune in the set, and knocked it out on the third pass. The rest of the afternoon — breaking only for lunch, quick discussions on intros, breaks and bridges, as well as extended bouts of complimenting Kevin’s efficiency — went the as well. By 5:57 we had recorded ‘California,’ ‘Never (Be The Same),’ ‘Intent On St. Paul,’ ‘Hollywood Arms,’ and ‘Radio.’
We paid extra attention to time signatures, assuring that every track was distinctly up, mid, or down tempo. We recorded to click track (a metranome, basicilly) with BPM (beats per minute) rates of roughly 50 (‘Hollywood Arms’) to 125 (‘I’ll Be Waiting’).
Most importantly, though, we had a great time. Which is unusual for recording. It can be anxiety provoking, calculating the minutes to dollars, and tense, managing the relationships. But so far, so good.
It has to have helped that a) I was inspired by seeing Springsteen last week, b) I spent Friday reading under a shade tree on the Princeton campus and c) Saturday running and swimming with my buddy Jeff along Connecticut’s Hoosetonic River. Remind me of these days when I’m tired and gray. If I’m not smiling, shoot me. ‘Cuz these are the best of times. And I’m grateful for them.
Bruuuuuuce!!!
Bono said of Bruce Springsteen in his Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame induction: “It takes guys to be romantic.” Equal parts preacher, poet, and provocateur, The Boss testified tonight at the fifth of ten sold out homecoming shows at New Jersey’s Meadowlands Arena. I was there.
It’s good for us corporate Music Television types to get out amongst the great unwashed and take in an honest to goodness 50,000-seat Big Rock stadium show. And everyone should see Springsteen perform at least once before being toted off in that big, black Cadillac in the sky. Which my VH1 buddy (and author of ‘Summer’s Gone Remix’ liner notes) Brian Ives knew. A huge fan, and native New Jersian, he kindly invited to the show. And wow, what a show.
Springsteen, Brian pointed out, has some sort of superpower. He alternates between ballads and bar room rockers effortlessly. He embraces joy like Fred Durst or Fabrizio Moretti could only dream of doing. And he can make 50,000 regular old working Joes forget everything for a minute, and levitate.
I did, despite my post-VMA announcement, pre-recording exhaustion. I loved his acoustic version of “Into The Fire,” as jets descended on Newark Airport, just a few miles west of the World Trade Center. One of my favorites, “No Surrender,” followed: raucous, defiant, and celebratory.
In this age of hipster apathy and undirected alt.rock rage, it takes courage to be raucous, defiant, romantic and celebratory. I believe, Bruce. I believe.
Well Done, Boy
I step off the ACE at 34th Street, climb the stairs, and escape into the cool evening air. It’s 9:15. I cross 33d, and am in front of the post office when I pass two drunken Yuppies laughing and yelling at each other at the top of their lungs. I feel my hand brush something, and hear the crash of breaking glass.
Distracted by the Yuppies on my left, I barely saw the old man on my right. I brushed up against him with scarcely enough pressure to topple a house of cards, and he dropped his brown paper bag. “That was a brand new fifth of vodka!” he says. He’s black. He has gray hair and Coke-bottle glasses. He walks with a cane. I can smell booze on his breath. He’s not so much angry as surprised.
“How much did the bottle cost, sir?” I ask.
“That was a brand new fifth of vodka!” he says. “I just bought that! It was eight dollars!”
What would YOU do? (I’ll tell you what I did at the end of this post.)
So I get to rehearsal and we start with the songs we already ran through on Monday. And we nitpick all sorts of things: intros, outros, bass lines in bridges, tempos, blah blah blah. And it’s un-fun, and it’s frustrating, and it occurs to me that ‘real’ bands with ‘real’ producers spend all kinds of time and money sweating every last note, but I like how they feel, so we keep moving through the set.
Ends up my song ‘Radio’ has a similar progression to ‘Hollywood Arms’ (which has a similar progression to ‘Here Comes Your Man,’ but that’s supurfluous), so we talk about how to keep them distinct through key changes, instrumentation, etc., but then just go ahead and play them. And while we’re playing them I think, ‘Well, I could just play them solo. It workes for Damien Rice.’ But I like the way the band sounds, so we press on.
We get to ‘Stay,’ the last of seven songs the band performs on (the rest will be filled out by Kevin and me on keyboards, percussion, etc.), and I can’t remember it. At all. A song I wrote just over a year ago. And it’s 11:30, our time has run out, so we pack up and roll. Tony and I agree to work out the progression while Rosa sets up her drums at Sunday’s recording session. Which is fine with me. Lotsa’ band get keepers on the first take. And I can always play it alone.
So, the guy and the bottle.
I offer him money, then realize I only have twenties. So I walk back down into the subway and ask a tellar for change. He’s already counted out his register, so I try another. And the guy’s limping behind me saying things like, ‘I hope I can trust you!’ as I scurry ahead, assuring him over my shoulder. So, I break a twenty and figure, what the heck, and give ‘em eight bucks.
Sucker? Maybe. But I figure somewhere, someone is looking down from some billowy white cloud saying, ‘Well done, boy.’ Or not. But it felt like the right thing to do, and I slept soundly.
Rehearsing ‘Almost Home’
And so it has begun. I just got in from my first rehearsal with Tony and Rosa in nearly a year. And I can report that the new record is off to a good start.
Rehearsals are intended to get us all in rhythm with one another. And rehearsals are used to block out parts: acoustic intro here, bass after four, drums at the prechorus. It’s no short order when so much time has elapsed, and when the front man — me — doesn’t read music but instead speaks in cryptic terms like ‘less notes,’ ‘more rockin’,’ or ‘funkier.’ But somehow it works.
And sometimes it’s unnecessary. ‘California,’ ‘I’ll Be Waiting,’ and ‘Never Be The Same’ came together effortlessly. They’re unplugged, but they rock. ‘Intent on St. Paul’ continues to find its legs. And we’ll tackle ‘Stay,’ ‘Radio’ and ‘Hollywood Arms’ Wednesday. ‘Shiver’ ‘Annalia’ and ‘New York’ are going to be solo acoustic (or some approximation there of).
But that’s straight reportage. How does it feel? Worrisome. Invariably the songs change once they breath open air, which takes some getting used to. And tense. I have to give resolute direction on parts, and creative people tend resist direction. And did I mention worrisome? Tonight cost $83 (rehearsal space plus Tony and Rosa’s time, subway fare and one 40 oz. El Presidente beer) which, while not a fortune, adds up quickly (studio time, additional musicians, art, duplication, promotion, etc etc).
But it’s not time to get bogged down with all that. This is exciting. This record will be my best yet: the most cohesive, the most mature, the most evolved. This process is like any great race: easier to manage if broken down into its individual elements.
Example: I ran the Stone Harbor Triathlon yesterday morning. It was just me, my thoughts, and my body. I focussed on the moment, and my available resources for it. I only worried about the next event in so much that I reserved enough energy to get through it. When I was hurting — and that was most of the time — I reminded myself that it wouldn’t last long. And it didn’t. I shaved three minutes off my swim, four minutes off my ride, and a few seconds off my run to finish in 1:05:13, 8th in my age group, and 50th overall. I crushed it.
As I will this new project, one step at a time.
The ‘Almost Home’ Tour
I like to write songs, record ‘em, and perform ‘em, but I hate to practice. Of course, I’m bound to write, record and perform better if I practice. So, this morning — seeing as I’m headed into the studio next week — I did. And in the midst of it all, I hatched what I think is a terrific idea.
As I’ve written before, and as the below set list may indicate, much of this new record deals with transition, travel, and what constitutes ‘home.’ This became even more apparent to me this morning as I played a few tunes before work: ‘New York’ (“Home/I’ll meet you at home”), ‘Shiver’ (“I don’t want to live in the house that you built on your own”), ‘Intent On St. Paul’ (“The view out the window means nothing at all/Standing all day with your back to the wall/Now you’re running away to the heart of it all”), ‘Annalia (Come Back Home)’ — you get the idea.
Meanwhile, as I’ve written before, I hate booking shows (at this point you’re thinking, ‘What a lazy bum!’ Bear in mind I’ve been at this music biz racket for fifteen years). I’ve been considering how to tour in support of this release, to spread the word and sell a few copies. And I’ve been thinking about a living room tour. And it all sorta’ came together.
The ‘Almost Home’ Tour.
It’s like a Tupperware party, but for me. Late fall. I kick it off at the Living Room (the aptly-named acoustic venue here in NYC). Then I hit eight cities or so between here and Chapel Hill performing in — here’s the hook — people’s living rooms. So of course it’s contingent on my friends in Philly, DC, Chapel Hill, etc., graciously hosting me and inviting their friends — and a few strangers — over for a solo acoustic show and sell (any takers?). I think it can work, don’t you? We’ll see. I’m pretty excited about the grass roots aspect of the idea, and the editorial cohesion of it. Heck, I might even call the record ‘Almost Home.’ Anything’s possible.
Approaching ‘Home’
After making ten or so records over the last (gulp) fifteen years, I can tell you with confidence that this is the best part: just before you hit the studio. The actual process is excruciatingly repetitive, tiresome, and even a little bit boring — punctuated, of course, by life-changing epiphanies.
I’m approaching this record differently than ‘Crash Site,’ or any previous recording, really. I’m rehearsing with twice next week with the band (though we’ve played some of these songs for years). Then we’re recording everything (acoustic, drums, bass) straight to tape.
Overdubs (additional tracks) could be anything: from additional acoustic guitars, arpegiated electric guitar (clean Rickenbacker-type sounds, little to no distortion for the most part), to piano, bongos, djembe, shakers — whatever. Plus, of course, vocals. Enough of them, I hope, but not too many.
Then add in the electronic sounds. That’s Kevin’s skill set, and I’d be remiss not to call him on it. So I’m anxious to see how it works for us. I think that our previous experiments, most notably the “Summer’s Gone (Electroland Remix)” and our cover of the Phil Collin’s chestnut (ha ha) “Take Me Home” were a little rough. That is, they sounded like an acoustic guy and an electronic guy trying to work together. There is that danger here again.
And as I’ve mentioned, there will be a guest or two. Leroy Justice front man Jason Gallagher will add a bit of alt.country flavor to “Radio.” And I’m counting on über-cellist Julia Kent dropping some of her melancholy magic onto “New York,” at least.
In the end, though — or, as it were, the beginning — who really knows? All I can tell you is that I’ll do my best, it’ll sound as good as possible, and I’ll keep you up-to-date — with pictures and video and stuff — right here on these pages. And it’ll have one or more — or all — of the following tunes (plus the perfect bonus track):
California
Intent On St. Paul
Never Be The Same
I’ll Be Waiting
Hollywood Arms
Radio
Shiver
Annalia (Come Back Home)
Stay
New York
Into The Mystic
It is Saturday night. I am alone on the fire escape. I am high above 56th Street. I am staring into the brilliant orange setting sun. There is a dry breeze off the river. ‘Into The Mystic’ is on the CD player. And an ice cold Stella Artois is in my right hand. Perfect? Or pathetic?
The week in review:
Scheduled rehearsal (7/21 & 7/23) and recording dates (7/27) for myself and the band. (I’ll post the track list soon.)
Met a very cool (and very cute) woman who’s blog I’ve been reading for weeks (a first).
Took the subway into the heart of Queens for the first time (see below).
Picked up Damien Rice’s CD ‘O,’ which is pretty amazing: simple, acoustic, emotive (highly recomended).
Had drinks at the hip and happening cousin of 49&X, Xth Ave. Lounge (highly recomended).
Had sushi at the hip and delicious Sushi Hana on Amsterdam (highly recomended).
Worked. A lot (not recommended).
This morning I picked up the new Douglas Coupland book, ‘Hey Nostradomus!” (I realized shortly thereafter that I have read every one of his books, which I can say of no other author.) Thus far it recounts a Columbine-like shooting spree interspersed with ‘Dear God’ segments from the perspective of a character who knows she’s dead. Disturbing.
I began reading it this afternoon in a sunkissed Sheep’s Meadow. It wasn’t easy. I was constanntly distracted by the goings on: semi-naked twentysomethings, buff Abercrombie models, smarmy old men, roaming beer salesmen, frisbees, footballs, puppies. And the sun. The glorious, long-awaited sun.
When biting flies became to much to bear, I walked over towards Bloomingdale’s to nurse what has become my weekly shopping habit. I got two Paul Frank shirts. And walked home via Duane Reade (Twizzlers) and Blockbuster (nothing).
Rockin’ Saturday, huh?
My brother and I are meeting for a run/ride combo in the morning. Then his wife’s gonna’ give me a hair cut with their clippers: short. Then we’re having a picnic with my mom, cousins, and all the new (and soon-to-be) little ones. Then I’m going to see ‘Northfork,’ which I can’t wait to see. Then I’ll sleep, dream, get up, go to work, and do it all over again.
The One About That Time My Friend Was Shot
A few hours after my last post, in the early morning hours after July Fourth fireworks, my co-worker and friend was shot. With an AK-47.
I got the call Saturday night. “Rahman’s been shot.”
“Say that one more time?”
Well, he’s going to be fine, excepting his shattered and shredded wrist. The wrist that was only just recovered from carpel tunnel surgery. The wrist that was already stainless steel pins and mesh on the inside, deep scars on the outside.
So, Robert and I rode the 7 out to Queens after work to see him. It took an hour and a half. The subway broke down. The bus was full. We walked. But as the sun fell over Flushing, we stepped out of the elevator bank into the silent, sterile halls of New York Hospital in Queens, ducked inside his tiny room, and saw him there: all IVs and ID bracelet, all powder-blue blankets and pillows. A tear slipped out of the corner of his eye when he saw me peer around the dividing curtain.
“I guess you guys are curious about how it happened,” he said. “I’ve been laying here going over and over it in my head, just trying to figure it out.”
He had stopped by his girlfriend’s place in Astoria to see if she was awake. She wasn’t. A few buddies of his were on a nearby stoop. They rapped a minute, then rolled. As he got into his car, he noticed a commotion, then U-turned to avoid it. His radio was blaring, so he didn’t hear the shots. Windows began popping. His cousin was hit. He saw blood. He swerved and hit a parked car. His cousin flew from the passenger seat out the driver side window. The door fell from the hinges. He heard the gunmen approaching. He tucked his cousin’s feet under his left arm and sped off. Two blocks later, he dragged his cousin back into the car, and drove to the ER. The staff was motionless at the sight of his bullet-riddled and blood-soaked car.
A few days and a few surgeries later, he lays uncomfortably in his bed, his three-year-old son snoring lightly on his chest. His cousin is off the respirator and in stable condition. The bullet had passed through his bottom, through his pelvis bone, and into his abdomen. They have spoken for the first time since Saturday morning only hours ago. They rest just a little bit easier. And so do I.
Suddenly, then, visiting hours are over, and we rise to leave. Outside, our car service is waiting. We are whisked back to our safe, neon-splashed Midtown. I walk home via the health food store, pick up a six of Stella, and sit down to write, to sort it out, to hope that it all means something, someday, to someone.
