The Right Direction
Note to self: The L train is downtown from Times Square. Make sure you get on the NR heading in the right direction.
Mmmm hmmm, the right direction.
Ok, so I was to the Fifth Avenue station before I noticed. I was reading, for God’s sake. Nick Hornby’s ‘Songbook,’ for cryin’ out loud. Good stuff. Nay, great stuff. Not that I was distracted. Not that I was trembling just a little bit. Nerves before The Brooklyn Country Show? You bet your ass.
So I make it way out to Brooklyn, and walk over to Yabby by 8:30. The Smith Family is on at 9:00. So we tune, and drink beer, and pace around and stuff. Then we play. And what can I tell you, being that it’s 1:45, I’m eating soup and pretzels, and drinking Gatorade. Especially since — sorry, Mom — I’m kinda’ buzzed and all.
I can tell you this: I love The Smith Family. They’re good people. And they’re all doin’ it for the right reasons (fun, music, beer). Seeing The Smith Family name in ink (well, chalk anyway) was wicked cool. (Of course, I’m happiest that the band ended up with the name I suggested, but also that it’s taken on the spirit of a family already. It’s dorky, but we call each other names like Uncle Kevin and Sister Wren. In a city of anonymity, and disconnection, I find it kinda’ sweet.)
And I can tell you this: I love to perform. Did you know that of me? Well, it’s true. Singing all those Hank Williams, Willie Nelson and Johnny Cash songs was a blast. Shakin’ my hips, playin’ like Pete Townsend, finishing big, and generally doin’ my best Grand Ole’ Opry shtick was a ball. I didn’t want it to end. I mean, if you got to sing “I’m the center of attention in this barroom, ‘cuz I’ve got the biggest heartache of the year” in a deep country twang with a pedal steel wailing behind you, you wouldn’t want it to end either. So ask me (when I’m done with my soup) just how freeing it was. Ask me just how much I loved vamping to Elvis Presley, Merle Haggard, and such. A lot. A bunch. A ton. So much so that I said afterwards — somewhere around my fifth pint on the patio, or sometime around the band portrait in the bathroom — “Hey let’s do this again tomorrow night!”
Well, I’ll be doin’ it again tomorrow, solo stylee in Philly. And then, afterwards, finally, I’m gonna’ take a short walk to the creek in my Mom’s backyard, and sit a while in the Adirondack chair. Heck, I might even take a nap for a second.
Mmmm hmmm.
Seconds
New York is not measured in minutes. Seconds, too, are too large an increment to mark the time space continuum here. Nay, it is the nanosecond, the inch, that marks the difference between life, death, joy, and pain.
This occurred to me as I stepped across 51st and Ninth tonight, just one footfall away from being left for roadkill by one of New York’s Yellow Cabs. And it was me that was gambling with that minor space.
Don’t we all? I mean, don’t you?
Every nanosecond of mu Wednesday was full. I woke from dreams in which high school and college were cooler than reality. In the early seconds of this particular Wednesday, I wanted to believe that the loft space, the neighborhood, and the cast of my dream was real life. As I slowly emerged from the dream space, though, I realized my unconscious folly.
Into The MTV, nary a second was wasted. My favorite instant? The moment when a co-worker said in earnest, “I may be stupid, but I’m not desperate.”
After work, I put on my country. The Smith Family gathered in advance of tomorrow night’s Yabby show. Yes, we’re ready. Yes, it’s fun. And yes, every second, every beat, matters.
And then I met the team at St. James on Eighth. They were all there: Rod, Rahman, Jonathan, Joe, Andrew, Langhan, Dee, Akshai, and a full cast of interns. Every second of tomfoolery mattered. It meant something.
Walking home, iPod on shuffle, I couldn’t wait to get home to you. Better, I couldn’t wait to get home to bed. And so I gambled with the small spaces between me and cabs, between me and pedestrians, between me and solid objects. I gambled, and won. Here I am.
And Tomorrow will be another 20-hour day, from Hell’s Kitchen, to Park Slope, and back again. 86,400 seconds with which to gamble: win, lose, or draw.
So. Central Rain
In the bonus materials of The Criterion Edition of Douglas Sirk’s “All That Heaven Allows,” the director speaks to the etymology of melodrama: melody plus drama. These elements, what Leanord Cohen calls “the minor fall and major lift,” are fundamental to all great songs.
Take my all-time favorite, REM’s “So. Central Rain.”
First, the hook: five simple notes — clarion bells through a clear blue night — on two guitars. Nothing else.
Already, I’m in.
Then the drums: two beats, simple and urgent.
And Michael chimes in, low and steady.
“Did you never call?”
The question, the uncertainty, the doubt.
“I waited for your call.”
The thesis, the fall, the loss.
“These rivers of suggestion, they’re driving me away.”
A piano, distant and musty, breaks through the background like a ghost in an old church.
“The trees will bend the cities wash away the city on the river is a girl without a dream.”
Finally, the refrain. First the hook, again. But this time the guitars and the ghost, the midnight bells and piano. And he says it, no, he cries out, “I’m sorry!”
I’m sorry.
So simple, so stupid, so beautiful — Why didn’t I say that? Why didn’t I sing that? Why didn’t I think of that?
The storm rises, then breaks in the middle eight. The protagonist breaths. The players pause. There is space, but no light to sneak through. The rain falls, the lovers lost, and us with them.
Likewise Mike Mills. His buoyant bass line fools no one, least of all himself. He chimes in with wordless, elegant regret in the form of cascading “Aaaaahs.” Four lines of verse — a last gasp — and a piano banging in metered dischord.
It is almost done. We are almost home.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
Michael too is speechless. “Ooooooh!” he cried over and over, with the full pop fury of the band behind him.
“Ooooooh!”
I believe it hurts. I believe he hurts. Because I do.
Five simple notes, and a call never made.
A letter never sent, and some rain.
Melody. And drama.
And all that heaven allows.
Sleep When I’m Dead
It was pouring rain. I was wearing the same sportcoat, dress shirt, shoes and socks I’d been in since Saturday. My laptop weighed a hundred pounds. My guitar case felt like it had a dead body inside. And my legs were finally aching from Saturday’s half marathon. I was cold, wet, and tired as I neared the end of my 20-hour day. But as I stumbled down 56th Street, rain cascading from the brim of my baseball cap into my eyes, there was nothing left to do but smile.
It was the end of a long, long day. Somehow these ambitious plans of mine — ‘I know! I’ll run the half marathon, catch the train to Boston, play a show, then take the train straight into work!’ — seem like a good idea at the moment of inception. ‘I know! I’ll work a long week launching one of my most challenging projects ever, play a show in Brooklyn Thursday night, hop the train to Philly on Friday, play a show, then run the Broad Street 10 miler!’
Don’t get me wrong: I’m not complaining. I can sleep when I’m dead. I wouldn’t change a thing. I like to do a lot, as much as possible, to pack my days full of activity. Somehow I feel like I’m making up for lost time. Which is odd because I’ve been hell-bent on being productive as long as I can remember (even when I was a stoner). So it’s kinda’ curious to wonder what drives it, what drives me.
At least that’s what I was thinkin’ as I turned down 45th Street this morning, Starbucks in hand, towards another day at the MTV, another day packed with meetings, another day squeezing in a five minute lunch, another day with multiple layers of after-school (ha ha) activity. The sun was breaking through the wind-blown leaves. A woman asked me for a dollar. The little park I love so much was open, but empty. I tugged at the cuffs of my bright, new spring shirt, and stepped out of the shadows, smiling again.
Pure Relaxation
Raindrops on water. Remember what that sounds like? Like fifth grade summer camp. Remember? Well, that’s what I was just diggin’ on the dock here at Rob & Claudine’s in Chelmsford, MA: pure relaxation.
I’ve been up here for less than 24 hours, and I’ve slept at least 18. This morning, I woke up at 8, read the Globe, then napped ’til noon. I woke up again, watched the Red Sox, then slept ’til 5:30. Then I showered and started the day in earnest.
I have reason enough, I think, to be tired. I ran the Brooklyn Half Marathon yesterday morning in 1:55:00 (not bad), then hustled as fast as the 2/3 would take me back to my apartment, grabbed my guitar, jumped in a cab, and caught the 1pm Amtrak to Providence. Seamus met me in Providence and drove us up I-95, guzzling Gatorade and catching up on our lives all the way. We got to Rob & Claudine’s around 6pm as the party — my party, that is, I was here to perform — was just starting to get rollin’.
Now bear in mind that Rob & Claudine’s backyard is a lake. The Lake. I’ve been coming here since I was in college. Back then, Smokey Junglefrog came stopped in to grab a home cooked dinner with Nana en route to various college shows. Nana — my bass player Paul’s grandmother — is the patron Saint of this place. I thought of her as I was performing last night. Way back when, SJF had a song called ‘Goat’ in which I sang, “And those stomach pains / We all know you’re full of shit.” And Nana asked, “Oh Paul, why does he have to use the dirty words?” So last night when I sang “Used to be I was a salamander / I’m your commander / I’m takin’ the shit down” I figured Nana’s lookin’ down goin’, ‘Oh Benjamin, why do you have to use the dirty words?”
In the mid-nineties, I recorded ‘Out of Your Head’ in nearby Walthham with Paul. I was in my early twenties, new to New York City, and most of my friends and band mates from Syracuse and Saratoga Springs were living in Sommerville in a house called Mad Mel. We spent a lot of time on the couch watching The Simpsons and smoking tons and tons of pot. I took the bus then (not the Acela Express), and often popped on of Luke’s Clonapin’s for the ride home. More often than not, I woke up back in Hell’s Kitchen wondering how I’d gotten home. Hence that record’s title, ‘Out of Your Head.’
Since then, I’ve spent many a weekend with Rob after playing some club in Boston — Liberty Cafe, TT’s, The Kendal — ice skating on the frozen lake, sitting on the dock talking, or diving off the pontoon boat and floating in the cool water. Of course, now it’s a speed boat, and we water ski or ride The Patriot. But, coming here always feels like something of a homecoming. The Pearreaults are family. And I’ve been coming here to this house for some fifteen years. So beautiful. So relaxing.
About last night: what a blast. I played about twenty songs, many of ‘em accompanied by Tod ‘Fish’ Salmonson, drummer extraordinary. He played drums in Smokey, played on ‘Out of Your Head,’ and continues to be both a great friend, and an awesome accompanist. We rocked ‘Way,’ and ‘Used’ from ‘Out of Your Head’ — Fish makes a djembe sound like a full drum kit — and even dragged ‘Story’ out of the SJF catalogue. But my favorite moment may have been the string of thematically related covers — ‘Blue Eyes Cryin’ In The Rain,’ ‘So. Central Rain,’ and ‘Leaving On A Jet Plane’ — when the whole place turned still, listened up, and sang along.
So… now it’s 9:27 on Sunday night. Rob & Claudine have gone to bed. I’m watching Discovery and eating black raspberry frozen yogurt. I’m catching a 7:30 Acela out of South Station in the morning and heading straight into work. I feel restored, relaxed, and ready for the next chapter: five days of the MTV, The Smith Family show on Thursday, another of my living room performances on Friday, another race on Sunday, and another train ride back home to Hell’s Kitchen.
Through it all — the chaos, the traffic, the strangers, songs, and the waiting — I’ll remember one thing: the sound of raindrops on The Lake. And I’ll feel like a fifth grader again, only older, and maybe just a little wiser for the journey.
Bulldozers
You gotta’ love this town. It’s a quarter of ten on a weeknight, and the New York City Department of Transportation has, in its infinite wisdom, decided that it’s the perfect time to dispatch a fleet of bulldozers to rip up 56th Street.
So it’s a little loud outside. And being that it’s all of a sudden summer, and my windows are thrown wide, you’ll have to forgive me for not firing up Pro Tools and recording something new for ya’.
Eh, I can’t hear much anyway. My ears are ringing on account of another bombastic Cockfight rehearsal tonight. We truly sound like a band, which is slightly miraculous given our sad state of constantly jamming just a few weeks back. Now we’re a force to be reckoned with. Like molten lava racing down a mountainside, we ruin everything in our path. I can’t believe it — I actually sound like a drummer. I broke a brand-new f’in’ stick clean in half tonight! I can’t wait to record the stuff and release a little EP. I like to call it ‘Thunder Music.’ We’ll see if it sticks.
Anyway, what to say of this Thursday? It began in the dentist’s chair, again. I know what you’re thinking, Dear Reader, ‘What is it with this guy and the dentist?’ Well, long story short, I’d been dealing with massive orthodontia years prior to this massive, blunt head trauma, which only made matters worse. All that plus spending my twenties in denial that I had to visit a dentist or a doctor ever again… well, you get the idea.
Yeah, so the dentist hurt, again. Dr. Mansky was installing a new crown right on top of where the fracture is/was. No amount of Advil seems to do the trick, but I expect that, like all things, the pain’ll fade with time.
Anyway, then it was downtown to work where, well, you know what happens there. Then Cockfight rehearsal. Then more shopping for a sport coat. I didn’t have much luck, as it was gettin’ on 9pm and places were closing. I’m in the market for a crisp tan summer weight jacket, you know, something to throw over everything like I’m want to do. So, back to that tomorrow after work, before going to sleep in anticipation of the Brooklyn Half Marathon, the trip to Boston, my show and all.
Damn, I’m yawnin’ just typin’ about it all. So… heck, I’m turnin’ on the
AC to white out the noise, guzzlin’ some Gatorade (better to hydrate with, my dear), and turnin’ in. Hope you’re well, wherever you are. And I hope you put May 20th on your calendar…
G’night.
Wait a sec, p.s. I just realized in my proofreading that I didn’t say anything about what I was feeling today, only what I was doing. So in the interest in full disclosure, and a comprehensive portrait of my present tense: I’m feeling happy, and hopeful, and full of life. Which is a pretty good way to end a post.
Open, Centered
Because watching yet another white guy strum his acoustic guitar is pretty much played out, I’ve got a really cool show planned for Thursday, May 20th. Do mark your calendar.
I’ve rented a performance space at the very hip, very new age, exposed brick and hardwood floored holistic space at The Open Center on Spring and Broadway. I’ve asked two terrific singer/songwriters to open. Recent New York transplant Casey Shea’s record, ‘Teller,’ is one of the few independent releases that actually gets airtime on my iPod. And Shivery Delicious’ blog keeps me in stitches (and Fish reports that she’s an amazing singer, which I have no doubt is the case). They’re each doing 25-minute solo sets.
Then I’ll be performing for roughly an hour with cellist Julia Kent and Todd Cohen, both of whom grace my previous releases, ‘Crash Site,’ and ‘Almost Home.’ And my brother’s going to be working a projector loaded with cool, nonlinear slides and movies. It’s going to be a wine and cheese, BYOB affair, with candles, pillows, and a skylight overhead. Very chill. I’ve asked Casey if I can sing with him on one of his songs that I love, “To Lose A Friend,” and hope Shiv will join me for a song or two. all of which is exciting.
So while last night’s warm breeze has yielded to a brisk, cool wind of the Atlantic, and the city is crowned with low clouds — it feels like Santa Monica outside, only colder — it’s kinda’ nice. The days are longer. The trees have leaves. And even if the summer wind has faded for the moment, I know it’s just around the corner.
Count on it.
Caribbean Memories
The warm spring breeze that blew me home from the Upper West Side just now reminded me of the Caribbean. It’s not so much that I don’t relish being right here, right now, present tense in New York City. It’s just that it sent my senses reeling…
Bermuda, 1985: Scooters, cliff-diving, and caving. Snorkeling, Man-o-Wars, and baracuda…
Mexico, 1988: Cold Corona from the honor system ice box. Moonlit hot tub. Bonfires on the beach. U2’s “One Tree Hill” on the stereo in my mind…
Belize, 1991: Way out on a dock in the clear, green sea. Nightswimming. Belikin beer. My brother and me. Strong local cigarettes. New Southern friends, the Southern Cross, and shooting stars…
Bahamas, 1993: Stormy seas. Crashing the boat into the pier. Fishing from the patio. Fresh squeezed oranges and Absolut. The sound of waves through the screen door. The leaving…
British Virgin Islands, 1995: Dancing to bar band Calypso. Drinking at noon. Diving for the anchor through dusk waters. Sleeping on the deck. The blanket of stars…
Aruba, 1998: Guitars at sunset. Elvis ‘n me. The Coastal All Stars. The losing end of slots; the winning end of free drinks. Soaring underwater, breathing….
Turks & Caicos, 2000: Sailing alone. Reading with my toes in the sand. Chocolate bread. Champagne. And ping pong….
… And everywhere: the wind. The warm, steady, promising wind.
It’s not so much that I don’t relish being right here, right now, present tense in New York City. It’s just that I remember, now, again, what the first kiss of summer feels like.
I remember everything.
Good Tunes & Bad Jokes
A poodle walks into a bar with a pirate under one arm and a bowl of pudding under the other, turns to the bartender and says…
“Aaaaaaargh! Got any Cool Whip?”
It was that kind of night for The Smith Family: good tunes and bad jokes. It’ll be that kinda’ night a week from Thursday at Yabbey in Brooklyn. You should come — I’ll be singing Hank Williams songs for God’s sake.
So yeah, I’m just in from 23d Street where The Family got together to run the set which is now 18-songs strong. I’m the rodeo clown of the group. Which doesn’t entertain Kevin much — he’s the front man, so he’s stressin’ — but it passes rehearsals nicely. Actually, bassist Roy Smith had a good pirate joke. It goes like this:
A pirate walks into a grocery store and asks a cashier, “I need a can of baked beans with exactly 139 beans.” “Why 139?” the cashier asks. “Aaaaaaargh! ‘Cuz just one more would be too faaarty!”
It was that kind of night for The Smith Family: good tunes and bad jokes.
But seriously, folks, meet The Family.
Kevin Anthony-Smith: A Texas-bred electronica star returns to his roots. Growing up, Kev’s family had weekend hootenanys. We’re reprising many of the songs he sang with his grandmother as a kid. Kev’s the backbone, the glue, and the whip.
The Reverand Nick Dedring-Smith: Works for a multinational bank by day, plays pedal steel by night. Nick’s a walking encyclopedia of musical knowledge.
Sister Ren Whitaker-Smith: Our fair sister is a filmmaker who summers in Block Island. She’s wide-eyed, tuned-in, and always quick with a smile.
Roy Shimmyo-Smith: Roy likes to remind me that songs have form. He holds it down.
And me, Benjamin Wagner-Smith: I sing the high ones, the sad ones, and the rockin’ ones. And generally distract everyone.
So… that was today. MTV. Country music. Eighty degrees and sunny. Me, sunburned from too long in the convertible. Me, constantly hungry. Me, wishing I was outside. Me, bracing myself for a pretty busy coupla’ weeks.
First and foremost, I’ll be performing my songs on Thursday, May 20th at 83 Spring Street. Cellist Julia Kent and drummer Todd Cohen will be backing me up. And singer/songwriter Casey Shea will be opening. Plus there will be box wine.
But first, the Brooklyn Half Marathon, a solo living room show in Boston, the Smith Family gig, a solo living room show in Philadelphia, then the Broad Street 10 Miler.
I’m tired just thinking about it all. So … g’night!
Sunshine
There’s nothing like some sunshine, blooming flora, and a coupla’ little kids to make a guy believe in love again.
It was such a jam packed weekend. I don’t even know where to start. The theme was blue sky, fresh air, flowers and babies. I mean, what else is there? What could be better?
I sat in Central park yesterday eating a deli sandwich with a friend who’s known me since I was fifteen. Seventeen years later, she assures me, I am fundamentally the same person. That’s good, right?
I hitched a ride to Ridgefield, CT, this morning for a picnic with some friends who’ve known me since Syracuse (they’re first date was one of my shows!). Eleven years later — through all the incarnations: Smokey Junglefrog (raincoat and knit cap), Benjamin Wagner Deluxe (vinyl pants and nail polish), and the most real version of me yet, the singer-songwriter/journalist (jeans and a dress shirt) — they’ve stuck with me. Even when I flaked, Samantha and Seth kept in touch. God bless ‘em. Their children are scrumptious. And the Connecticut air was clean and clear. I even got a little sunburned.
Tonight I saw ‘Kill Bill: Vol. 2′ with a friend who’s known me since I was, well, 30-years-old. The film — I don’t have the energy for a full dissertation — was about, well, blue sky and babies. It wasn’t about vengeance. It was about love.
What else is there?
Kinda’ makes a guy believe again.
