Smokey Junglefrog 101
Smokey Junglefrog formed at Syracuse University in the fall of 1990. I hung a few flyers around campus and two guys replied: bassist Paul Perreault, and guitarist Jamie Dunphy. We recruited drummer Tod Salmonson and performed our first show in the spring of 1991. The band released three albums in three years, performing in New York City, Boston, and beyond with The Mighty Mighty Bosstones, The Samples, Dada, Bim Skala Bim, and Chucklehead.
And it was a great time. My fondest memories are from jam-packed house parties: people dancing, people spilling beer and laughing. We’d play three forty-five minute sets pausing only to swill Boone’s Strawberry Wine and pour shots of tequila for the audience.
It’s long been difficult to reach the same level of excitement on stage. For one thing, the guys and I lived together, rehearsed a few nights a week, and partied the rest of the time. Drunken adoration never sounded louder. That and it was college and all.
We’ve all gone on in one form or another. I released my first solo album (1993′s ‘Always Almost There’) three months after SJF’s last, and, as you know, am working on my eighth solo CD. Jamie’s heavy into jazz, and has his Ph.D. from UMass. Pablo’s band, Planet Sandwich, is working on its debut release. And Fish, er Tod, had twins last year. (I don’t care how many albums you release — twins win.)
So earlier this year I suggested to the guys that we compile our favorite and best songs from our three albums (we released cassettes in those days), master them, and release them online and on iTunes in time for Christmas (it’s all about Q4). 3/4 of the guys were interested, so we’re moving ahead.
It’s not like there are that many people Googling some band they vaguely remember from college ten years ago. The thing is, between those three records, there are at least fifteen cool songs that deserve a larger audience. And the internet and MP3s and iTunes and all of the things that have changed since 1993 mean that SJF can find a larger audience, even without playing a gig (‘cuz that will never happen). So… what the heck. If nothing else, it’ll be cool to have copies for ourselves.
As Pablo always used to say, if our songs aren’t amongst favorite songs, how can we expect them to be anyone else’s?
I’m Not Sick, I Just Have Symptoms
My friend Paul used to say, “I’m not sick. I just have symptoms.”
I’ve felt better. But it’s been a long day. I struggled to make it into the 9:30 news meeting on time. And I struggled through the day. Coulda’ been my late night watchin’ documentaries and recording strange songs. Coulda’ been getting soaked last night. Or it could be all those whack germs floatin’ around the airplane finally caught up with me. Whatever, I’m nursing just a little bit of a soar throat.
The Smith Family rehearsed after work. We musta’ spent an hour on our cover of Waylon Jenning’s ‘Luchenbach Texas.’ We’re performing at Pete’s Candy Store in Brooklyn on Sunday, and Two Boots in Brooklyn on Tuesday. Plus about a dozen more shows between now and Christmas. So… we had some work to do.
Afterwords, I checked out Keane at Irving Plaze. I don’t think I’d been there since covering Ani DiFranco for Rolling Stone in the (gulp) late nineties. Last time I saw Keane, I was wedged into The Knitting Factory with a hundred other early adopters. Tonight was quite the rock show, complete with a blinding, swirling light show, and nearly a thousand adoring fans. That Tom Chaplin sure can sing. And he’s pretty darned cheesy, talkin’ between songs about relationships and stuff. I love it.
I must admit, it is difficult for me to watch a rock show like that. It’s hard for me not to be envious. It’s hard for me to get past wanting to be on stage long enough to appreciate what’s going on up there. The French Kicks, a coupla’ dudes in suits from New York whose February residency at Mercury Lounge put them on the map, opened up. They were good enough. But it coulda’ been me and Tony and Todd. We’re loud enough for the boys and soft enough for the girls (as Rolling Stone wrote of Keane). Between The MTV and all the great rock venues in New York, many of which I play, it’s tough to be this close to “success” all of the time. I hope I don’t sound like I’m whining. I’m just trying to be honest.
Eventually, though, that veneer chipped away. I was pretty absorbed by the time Keane performed ‘Bend & Break.’ What with those high notes, those chords and beats, it’s tough not to let the feeling in. It’s difficult not to smile. And why not smile?
So… like I say, I’m not feelin’ so hot. I have tomorrow night off — no rehearsals, no shows — though I do have to work MTV’s Choose Or Lose debate coverage from home. And I basically have the weekend off, excepting a few parties and a half marathon. I’m looking forward to the rest. Because another part of me, in the constant Choose Your Own Adventure that is my mind, is traipsing around Australia. He feels a lot better. Though come to think about it, I feel pretty good too. Right here’s not so bad. Symptoms or not.
Dig!
Oh my gosh, it’s 1 a.m. How in the heck did that happen?
The city was gone when looked out the window this morning. All of the buildings were locked in gray. It was pouring rain by the time I was in my first meeting. I snuck out at lunchtime to hand Dough frontman Chris Abad a copy of my new songs — he’s gonna’ play guitar on the new record and perform with us at the CD release in November. Then I worked some more.
Tonight was one of those night when passing cabs splashes a puddle on you, and the driving wind inverts your umbrella, and you’re just a few steps behind each departing subway. Yet somehow I managed to smile through it all. A Town Car nearly ran me over as I walked past The Hudson. “Dude, it’s raining out here!” I yelled over my headphones. Somehow I managed to smile through it all. I guess I figure it’s the only thing to do. Smile.
I fixed up a big ol’ salad for dinner, poured a pint of Bass Ale, and settled in with ‘Dig,’ a new documentary — in theaters Friday! — about The Dandy Warhols and The Brian Jonestown Massacre. The first twenty minutes made me want to write a song. So I did. The next twenty minutes made me want to quit my job and hit the road with my guitar (I did book a show at Bowdoin College on December 3, but…). And the last hour, as Anton Newcombe alienated everyone in his band, made me want to keep doing what I’m doing how I’m doing it: workin’ the day job, and makin’ music in between for me, for you, for us.
Life’s kinda’ like today. You’re gonna’ get splashed by some cabs. But somehow you manage to smile through it all. Or you don’t.
Rumours Of Love (And Other Indoor Games)
I think I know what Stevie Nicks must’ve felt like making ‘Rumours’ with Fleetwood Mac.
No, no, no: not the scarves or the mounds of blow or the deviated septum or the fact that I’m schtuping the guitar player. No, it’s that the music is brand new. We’re making it up from nothing right there in the studio. We’re figuring it out as we go along.
‘Rumours,’ is one of the biggest-selling albums of all time. It was on the charts well over a year. (So… we have that in common.) More importantly, or more salient to this post, is that the band — like many bands back in the day — wrote, arranged, and recorded the songs in the studio. They didn’t bring a bunch of finished products in to record and polish. They spent millions of dollars working out the details on the clock.
It’s weird. I’m singing from lyrics sheets. Which is to say, I don’t know these songs by heart. I know them, but I don’t know them. I don’t know what they;re going to grow up to become, yunno’? Rockers, ballads, country-flavored, hip-hoppy. I dunno’. I’d lived with ‘Crash Site’ for over a year. I’d lived with the ‘Almost Home’ demos for nine months. These songs? Brand new. Kev and I blew through half the final vocals (what do you think of the album title ‘How To Be Alone’?). Most of the keeper takes were the second. I mean, on a certain level, I have no idea how these songs are supposed to sound. And yet I keep saying, “That’s cool. Let’s move on.” Wiggedy wack.
Yunno’ what else is wack? This record is kinda’ sexy. Yeah, sexy. There are a few lyrics that just might make me blush in front of my parents. I’m not Prince all of a sudden, but it might just get a little Terrence Trent D’Arby on your ass for a minute…
It’s all a little nerve wracking. I mean, I know it sounds good in my headphones, but I have no idea how it’ll sound to you. In the past, I’ve spent days recording one dink ass line of a song. So to spend, like, ten minutes on the whole thing, well, it takes some getting used to. Don’t get me wrong: I asked for it. I’m pushing Kevin, he’s not pushing me. I’m the one who wants to release it by Thanksgiving. I’m the one who wants it to sound “alive.” But it’s tricky. There’s this voice in my head that says, ‘This is for all time!’ And another that says, ‘Dude, don’t sweat it! It’s only one performance!’ Don’t worry, I won’t release a piece of shit. If it blows, I’ll spare us all. But wow, this is fast!
Yeah, this is fast. This is all fast. Life is fast, and getting faster. No time to f*** around, yunno’? That’s why I wanna’ hang with Ethan and Chris and Jen and my family as much as possible. This is why I wanna’ see the world, and toast my friends, and play lotsa’ shows and make lots and lots of records. Whether they sell 15 million copies, or fifteen.
Wait a second. Makes me nervous? Check. Spontaneous? Check. Sexy? Check.
Must be doing something right.
So Fast, So Numb
Caramelize
I ran 18 miles this morning. I recorded ten guitar tracks this afternoon. I’m going to eat pizza and drink beer now. And I’ll be fast asleep by sunset.
I spent Friday and Saturday helping Chris and Jen move. Five flights up and down in the old place, four in the new. Yikes. At the end of it all, I lay on the stairs, then came home, watched ‘Jersey Girl’ (look, I can’t blame the guy for dating J. Lo, okay? I woulda’), and went promptly to sleep.
The 18 miler. What can I tell you. I had no business doing it, and very little business enjoying it. Yeah, it was difficult, but only because Captain Crunch and The Sunday Times were far preferable. I have 26 in just over a month, so I gotta’ get on that shit.
The real news — I’m burying the lede — is the new record. Kevin and I are blowing through it like gangbusters. I want it to sound great, but alive. Not live, alive. Not like it was labored on and sweated over. I want it to have energy. And judging by the fact that I laid down ten guitar tracks in under two hours, well, we’re on the right track. I can tell which songs will be most loved, but first, you gotta’ know the track list:
1- Caramelize
2- The Rest Of My Life
3- Jenny
4- St. Anne (Of The Silence)
5- New Something
6- Long Shot
7- Whirlwind
8- Out Of Time
9- Stupid
10- Live Forever
First of all — and I’ll take bets on this — you’ll dig ‘Jenny.’ It’s just cool and different but in the usual singalong kinda’ way. You’ll probably like ‘New Something,’ ‘cuz it’s got a good beat and you can dance to it. ‘St Anne’ sounds like a song you’d listen to in a convertible. ‘Long Shot’ — it’s an Aimee Mann song — just plain rocks. And it’s guaranteed that I’ll like ‘Caramelize’ more than you will (just like ‘Summer’s Gone’ and ‘California’).
I’m not really inventing the wheel here. I just want a good, clean recording of guitar, bass, vocals, and drums. The only rogue instrument I’m imagining at the moment is the mandolin. Otherwise, it’s pretty much straight up.
Which is something of a gamble. I might be moving to fast. I might not be throwing enougfh curves. But I always liked songs that are right in the sweet spot. I don’t need to guess where they’re going, or hear some wack ass instrument from Tangiers or something. I just wanna’ sing along.
So I’m pretty psyched about it. Kev and I have to be done by November 1, at which point it’s mastered by the guy (Alan Douches) who did my last two. Stephanie Klein’s doing the photos. Then someone’ll manufacture them. And it’ll be in your hands by November 23.
Now, you’ve probably read it elsewhere, but if your so inclined, I am accepting — heck, soliciting — support for this project. Which is to say, if you wanna’ cough up $20 or more, I’ll list your name in the liners notes, and hook you with a bunch of MP3s no one else’ll get (at the minimum, I’ll be releasing ‘The Christofer Street EP’ — my unreleased recordings from last winter — for the Friends of Benjamin Wagner Deluxe, LLC). See, I know I make everything look and sound professional, but I’m just a guy with a day job, a guitar, and a dream. Warner Brothers Records, heck, even Rhino Records, are nowhere to be found. I’m 100% D.I.Y., and it adds up. So please do lend a hand.
P.S. I have a bunch of album title ideas that I’d love your help on. I’ll post a poll or something as I get closer to done. Stay tuned…
The Time/Space Continuum
Just so you know, I’m back in New York City, safe, sound and struggling to stay awake.
I just woke up from an hour-long power nap, and I’m due over at Chris and Jen’s new place, so I gotta’ be quick. But I just wanted to say, real quick…
Um, what did I want to say real quick?
I used to love the red eye. Used to do it all the time. LAX to JFK and straight into The MTV. (Reference ‘New York’ on “Almost Home”). Not so sure anymore. One dirty martini, one Ambien, and six hours in 36A later, I’m not so sure anymore…
I listened to ‘California’ as I stared down the baggage conveyer. The song’s barely two years old. I wrote it during the fall of 2002 at the very Doubletree I stayed at this week. I was watching local news broadcast footage of Santa Ana-fueled fires and freeway chases and such. And I was falling in love (or something resembling it). The recording is from just last summer. And listening to it there in the steely confines of JFK, I could barely recognize the guy singing and all the sounds around it. Who is he? And what the hell is he talking about? And why is he whining?
I get back to the work on the new album this week (what do you think of the title, “Love And Other Indoor Games”?). I listened to the rough tracks in the car on The 10 a few times to try and get some ideas for harmonies and instrumentation and such. And in contrast to “Almost Home” and everything that came before, these new songs sound so much more like me. I’m not pushing for the high notes, or trying to impress ya’ll with my tenor. It’s very natural, very low, very full. Which isn’t what I logged on to write about. I just wanted to say hi. And say that I’m okay. And still thinking a lot about the question “When am I not being me?” And wondering who me is, and how does bicoastal travel, the time/space continuum, and of all those bent moments in between change who me is.
I’m talkin’ about voice here, people. Voice.
And I guess I think it all relates somehow. I mean, everything’s connected, right?
Gigantic (A Big, Big Love)
What a gas it was to see ‘em.
If you had told me, say, yesterday, that I would be doing an eeny meeny between the Teen People party at Chateau Marmont, “I Love Huckabees” premiere at The Grove, or Pixies at the Greek, well, I wouldn’t have believed you. That I started my Wednesday at a breakfast meeting with a bunch of Paramount Picture big wigs, and ended it watching the Pixies tear through “Where Is My Mind,” well, that’s just wack.
In the end, I don’t even know what to tell you about it all. The Pixies changed my life. Smokey Junglefrog covered soooo many Pixies songs in soooo many sweaty attics, but I could never scream like Frank. So there I was standing in the pit smiling from ear to ear. I almost couldn’t believe it. Kim Deal is my new old crush. So cute. So cool. And Frank Black? Still got it. Really, a phenomenal, relentless, amazing show. The MTV News interview beforehand wasn’t so bad either. Nice to see the kids getting along.
In between? The MTV Movies dog and pony show (I was the pony), lunch with some MGM colleagues (best sushi EVER: Hamasaku on Santa Monica & Supulveda), bumping into John Voight in the MTV offices, and plenty of time on The 10. Miraculously, I know my way around this ridiculously massive town pretty darned well. And John Voight? Pretty tall.
Yeah, so, tomorrow night: The Red Eye. I leave LAX at 10 p.m. and arrive JFK at 6 a.m. Then it’s off to the Upper West to help my brother move, Control One Studio to work on the record, and 18 miles in Central Park. Yunno’ what? I’m looking forward to it all.
Genie In A Bottle
So there’s this genie. And his trying to teach this kid a lesson, so he gives him seven tasks. For the first task he says, “See that mountain over there? The one with the river in the valley below? Here, take this teaspoon, and move the mountain from one side of the river to the other.”
You know, he’s totally expecting the kid to scoop up a teaspoon of dirt from the mountain, wade across the river, dump it, and do it again. Eventually, he figures, the kid’ll give up.
But the kid walks upstream just a little bit and finds a dam. He finds a crack in the dam where just a little bit of water is sneaking through and he jams the teaspoon in there. Eventually, he wiggles that crack into a deluge of water until he’s redirected the entire river around the mountain.
I’m not entirely sure what the moral of this fable is, but as my old friend Joe Smith, a terrific writer, actor, and storyteller, shared it with me this afternoon, something in me stirred.
‘The kid’s onto something,’ I thought.
And so it is that another day in Los Angeles passes.
Crash Into Me
The first sound I heard this morning was the sickening, metallic thud of two cars crashing into one another. I rose from my bed, pulled back the drapes, and looked down. Sure enough, Fourth Street was backed up behind two crumpled SUVs. Aaaaaah, California.
Just now, as I drove west from Hollywood some seventeen hours later, a crimson harvest moon hung low over Santa Monica. It was huge, and beautiful, and floating just above the intersection of PCH and The 10.
The day in between was challenging, and fun, and long. I shaved, and wore a sport coat and dress shoes, and shook hands, and took meetings, and played corporate. I found out that I took fifth in the mountain bike division of the Malibu Triathlon, I talked up Q1 ’05, I talked up my music, and listened to my colleagues talk about their lives. I caught up with an old friend and his wife, and then drove the long, lonely freeway back to my hotel.
At the end of the day, all I can think about is the last line of the credits of “I Heart Huckabees” (which I saw on Friday and loved): When are you not being you?
When am I not being me?
Looking California, Feeling Minnesota
Funny thing happened when I got to L.A. I got robbed.
I was less than an hour in town. I’d I landed around 10 a.m., grabbed my Hertz, pointed it north on the 405, dropped my things at Le Duble Tres (The Doubletree). I headed over to my buddy James’ in Santa Monica. We spent a few minutes catching up — he and I went to high school together and have remained really close since — then stepped out to find me a bike to rent for the Malibu Triathlon, leaving his lovely wife Melissa to hold down the fort. When we got home an hour later, the door was ajar, and my bag was gone. We thought we’d lost our noggins, and retraced our steps and checked every garbage can between Fourth and Ocean, but alas, it was gone. Melis was beside herself that she had been home the whole time. But sure enough, it was lifted. Luckily, not much was in it — my cool new glasses, my digital camera, the Fred Perry jacked She gave me, and a coupla’ folders for work — so no major loss. Except those cool new glasses. They were two days old!
So we called the cops, went to dinner, and when we got back they showed up to take statements and fingerprint and such. They weren’t too surprised (“And you’re the victim?” she said smiling). I took off to get some shut eye as they were dusting, which is when they casually tipped off James and Melis that Britney was getting married just down the street. Had I stayed a few minutes more and heard that, I’d have had the Scoop of the Century. Or the weekend anyway. But I was fast asleep at Le Duble Tres.
I woke at 4:30. It’s (duh) still dark. I walk through the empty hotel, wet suit over my shoulder, wondering, ‘I’m doing what now? And why?’ The drive to Zuma Beach is harrowing. There’s crap on the radio. PCH1 winds up the coast, and all I can see is SUVs with bikes on the back. ‘I’m in trouble.’
I’m in my westsuit, swim cap and goggles. There’s sand in my toes. The sky has gone from black to blue. The sun peeks over the Santa Monica mountains. I’m in the first wave: open mountain bike. And the canon goes off…
The 2:01:40 I swam, rode, and ran were at times impossible, beautiful, harrowing, exhausting, and exhilarating. The swim was eternal. It was the f’in’ Pacific, yo’. Dudes were surfing just down the beach. There were waves. Like, big waves. A half a mile worth of big waves. I sang a little bit on the bike — Frou Frou’s “Let Go” — and talked myself through the run. Some of my run was alongside a blind dude who was running with a buddy who was coaching him through the terrain — very inspiring. But it ends up Duchovny beat me anyway. He crossed the finish just before me (and I thought the cameras were for me!). But I beat him in the NYC Tri, so I guess it’s Home Team Rules.
James, Melis and I did brunch. My cell phone was absolutely blowing up. Yeah: the Britney thing. James had to do the Emmys, and what with his hangover and all, was most un-psyched. (Good news is, his show — he’s a UTA agent for TV writers — won a few. I called him each time I saw ‘em win, and he just called me back to thank me. “Good things happen to good men,” I said.)
The whole day was so L.A. Coupla’ things: vanity license plates. Who thinks these are a good idea? C N SKY? Not cool. I FILM 4 U? I swear to God, we saw it! So lame. And why is it that everyone in this town just reaks of L.A. You know what I mean. Like, totally dressed to the nines… for Sunday brunch? And these fifty-year-old guys on the beach who look like they could buy and sell you in a heartbeat? I dunno’ what it is. I think it’s because L.A. is such a one-note town: Hollywood. And Hollywood’s all about The Deal, The Opening Weekend, and The Major, Major Dough. Heck, I’ve seen more Ferraris in the last twenty-four hours than I’ve seen in two years. At the same time, the transients and freaks in L.A. leave New York’s in shame. These dudes are wack! It’s not just that they’re deranged and delirious, you know, talking to themselves and all — it’s that they’re agendad! They have MOs! Poster boards and speeches and such. Ok, final observation: I saw a Kurt Cobain sticker on the back of a huge black Cadillac Escalade. It looked like one of those Che Guavera t-shirts. It was kind of startling, kinda’ creepy.
Standing here on my seventh floor balcony here at Les Duble Tres as the sun falls over the Pacific, I’m not really sure whether to smile or cry. I’m not sure whether to wrap my arms around this city, this country, this time, or to hunker down and wait out The Big One. This much I know: if it all comes crashing down, at least I’ll have one hell of a view.
