Flowers In The Window
I can almost see it in the half-light of the crescent moon: my garden.
It’s not much, really: some ivy, a spider plant, some marigolds. But I planted them myself. I buried my hands in the cool, wet soil. I watered them. And I will watch them grow.
Saturday began way too early. My alarm went of at 5:45. Chris, Jen and Ethan pulled up to my doorstep at 6:30. I climbed into the truck next Ethan. He was drinking a bottle, left hand clutching his red bangs, and pushed me away when I went to kiss him. Jen said, “He’s not a morning person.” To which Chris added, “Like his uncle.”
The Queens Half Marathon began at 8:00. I ran into colleagues and friends along the 13.1-mile route through College Park, and spent my time (2:01:49, if you must know) chatting with them. Wex, Alyssa, her dad and I all finished together. Chris and Jen followed shortly thereafter.
Now, one would think that, of all people, Chris would know whether or not I was a morning person on account of our having shared bedrooms on and off for twenty-six years. But I am, in fact, a morning person. Just not with other people.
Take Sunday morning. I’d only slept four hours since getting in from my really cool, really fun, really rockin’ performance at Rockwood Music Hall. Dan, Tony and I may have looked like a jazz trio, but we sounded like a rock band. Songs like “Dear Elizabeth” and “Shiver” found new voices in the new instrumentation. And our cover of Ben Folds’ “Evaporated,” while imperfect (my bad with a few lyrics), was meaningful. After I calmed down (adrenaline, endorphins, all that), I had the rare treat of watching Casey Shea and Jeff Jacobson perform. Casey’s voice is pristine. Jeff guitar work is just right: supportive, tasteful. It was a great night (which culminated with a late-night bowl of ice cream).
Anyway, so I wake up from all that. It’s only 7:30. I can still taste the beer on my breath. I want to sleep some more. I want to sleep in. I want to dream straight through to the afternoon. But I can’t. I’m up.
When I was a kid, I used to wake up early on Saturdays to clean my room. No one would bother me, even my brother. I’d make my bed, put my books on the shelf, line up my stuffed animals. Maybe I was singing along with my Fischer-Price record player, maybe not. I didn’t need distraction, or accompaniment, I just needed those few moments to put my world in just a little bit of order.
Like Sunday Morning. I climbed out of bed, stretched a bit, set an iTunes Playlist (Rufus Wainright, Finlay Quaye, Nick Drake, etc), and started sorting laundry. In between loads of sheets, towels, and three weeks of t-shirts, underwear and jeans, I had a Grande Mild, blueberry scone, egg sandwich, and Gatorade. Then I set out for the flea market where, after much deliberation on which plants I was least likely to kill, I purchased two armloads worth of flats (I learned that’s what gardeners call those little plastic pots). Back home on the roof, Sunday shining, I pulled on my straw hat, and got my hands dirty.
People like to garden. They like their rows of flowers, fruits and vegetables. I never really got it. Until this morning. The earth smelled beautiful. Like spring. And when I was done, the whole thing was mine. I had started something new. I had invested in the outcome of something beyond my control. It was up to nature now. With an assist from nurture.
The Sunday Songwriters appreciated my little garden in the sky. I invited a number of performing singer/songwriters to my place for some sort of “book club without books.” Musicians tend to be competitive, or aloof, with one another. I thought it would be nice to leave our guitars at home, check our egos at the door, grab a beer, and build some kind of community. Amy Hills, Elisa Korenne, Casey Shea, Elisa Peimer, and Jeff Jacobson, and I, then, are the inaugural members of this hopefully burgeoning circle of friends. The sun set over the river, we ordered another round, and settled into one another. As darkness fell, we had formed a small circle of chairs, and had gravitated to a musical conversation. We talked about our motivations, ambitions, anxieties, influences, inspiration, successes and struggles. Were it not approaching midnight, and were it not a school night, I’m sure we’d still be talking now.
I am tired. My hands are dirty. My back is sore. But something is growing here. I can almost see it.
Transceiver
The back booth at Hi Life was dark. The bar was crowded and frenetic. I was tired, but wound like a top. I was talking a lot, but not saying anything.
We were discussing plans for our new records (The Nadas “Listen Through The Static” is due in September, my as-of-yet untitled CD is due in October). I had a pretty good idea just into my first beer.
“You should do an iTunes exclusive. Record a few of the new songs acoustic and talk about ‘em: the inspiration, the process. Like Aimee Mann did. That way, you whet your audiences appetite without blowing the album for them. Plus it’d be fun to do.”
“It takes CD Baby about three months to get an independent album like ours on iTunes. Do it in a weekend. Play a few new songs, talk about them, do an older song of yours that people love, and a cover tune, and have it to Apple by June 1. It’ll be on iTunes by Labor Day.”
Then I thought, ‘Snap! I should do that myself!’
The second beer washed away my turkey burger with cheddar cheese.
Then, somewhere near the bottom of my third, I found honesty.
“Dude,” I said to front man Mike Butterworth, “I envy you guys. You have a tour bus. You play 200 shows a year. You make music for a living. Me? I compromised. I had a backup plan. And now my backup plan is my plan.”
I finished my Stella in silence, watching a basketball game on the big screen TV. I hate basketball.
“I’ve worked really hard to be ok with this little rocknroll cottage industry of mine,” I said. “But you know, when I was kid it was all about the cover of Rolling Stone, not writing for it.”
Mike picked at his sushi, eyes adrift. He lifted a glass of whiskey to his lips and emptied it.
“Dude,” he said, “I envy you. You’ve got a cool job — a steady job — a nice pad in the big city. You play gigs and make music because you want to, not because you have to.”
Mike and Jason tell me stories: some war, some horror, some hilarious. They talk about taxes and overhead. They talk about fatherhood. Mike falls quiet, eyes glazed, thinking (I imagine) of his wife and child asleep some 1200 miles away in Iowa.
“I dunno,” he says. “Seems like you have a pretty good thing going.”
I thank him, think for a minute, then flag down our waitress. “Who wants another?”
* * *
In the morning, Jason and Mike put their guitars in their truck, and head to a show Connecticut. I put my guitar on my back, and head to work in Times Square. In the evening, The Nadas perform while I rehearse for Saturday’s show. And so it goes …
New Adventures In Hi Fi
Any Tuesday night that begins with Brooklyn Lager and Excedrin is bound for ruin. And yet, somehow, I found some sort of small triumph in the end.
The world famous Nadas were in town. (In fact, I can hear them snoring downstairs as I type.) If you don’t know them, you should. They’re a terrifc rock band from Des Moines, Iowa. I hung with frontman Jason Walsmith at Sundance, and was supposed to be on the road with them this weekend. But when the tour fell through, and they booked a small acoustic in Brooklyn and invited me to perform, well, I was dubious. I mean, New York, DC, South Carolina, and Tennesee had fallen through, why should I be stoked for a little show in Brooklyn (seeing them perform notwithstanding)?
Big M-Fin’ Rock, that’s why.
I met the guys at Laila Lounge on North Seventh in Williamsburg. I had no idea what to expect of the night. All I knew was that we were supposed to perform at some sort of hootenanny or something called Whisky Breath. I was lacking such confidence as to whether my musical skill set would be needed that I left my guitar at home. But when I got there, and they asked me to play a half hour set, well … snap! What am I gonna’ play!?! And for whom?
I jumped on the horn immediately. Kev was packing. But Heather was able to be pursuaded. “I’ll pay for your cab,” I offered. And God bless her, she motivated. She walked in just as I was beginning.
Now, I’ll be honest: I’d had a few beers, which barring The Smith Family, is unusual prior to a performance. Still, I think I did pretty well. I didn’t really have time to get nervous, or whip up much of a set list. I performed “Live Forever,” “Harder To Believe,” “Intent On St. Paul,” “California,” “Radio,” and “Dear Elizabeth.” I was pretty loose, kinda’ bobbin’ and weavin’ around the small stage. My voice sounded pretty solid. I was kinda’ surprised. I haven’t performed solo in months (the living room show doesn’t count; if I’m not comfortable here, I shouldn’t be performing).
Then Jason and Mike hit the stage. Snap! You can tell these mo’ fo’s have been singing together for years. They’re voices blend effortlessly. And their songs are straight up my ally: earnest, melodic, and beautiful.
And then the big surprise: my man Ivan Sandomir was in the house! And slated to perform! What a small town! What a bonus! He performed with me at Rockwood a few weeks ago. Awesome guy. Sings like Jeff Buckly. Beautiful voice. And so chill. Good man.
And then — get this! — Christine asked me to play some more! Man, at this point I’m three sheets to it, and I’m meeting all these great people, and chattin’ up a storm and havin’ a grand ole’ Tuesday night in Brooklyn, but what the hell! Have you ever known me to say no to the stage? I whipped out “Anna’s Lost Her Mind” (a lost gem from “Out of Your Head”), then went for broke with “Shiver,” milking that last line (“So I’m leavin’ today …”) and strumming furiously until I had nothing left. It was time to go.
Find some pizza, find the Manhattan Bridge, get uptown, drop the Nada fans at The Warwick, grab Heather’s Aero Bed, find a parking garage, and then …
And then here I am. It’s well after three o’clock. On a school night. Me? All I had was my cell phone, a shaker, and plans to see some good friends perform. Next thing I know I’m holding the money note until the veins on my neck are nearly bursting. And I’m looking into the light, and I’m smling. And I’m saying, “Rocknroll’s an adventure, Heather. An adventure.” Some days, you just don’t how it’ll turn out. And they’re are the good days.
Big City Turn Me Loose
Sweet Jiminy Cricket on a popsicle stick, it’s good to be back in New York City.
I was asleep before the plane left the terminal, and I slept clear through landing. What a blessing. And what a blur. One minute I’m sneaking around the Paramount back lot, the next I’m downing a beer at the Expedia Travel Bar at LAX, then I’m walking bleary-eyed up the jet way at JFK. Wow. I marvel every time I take the red eye: go to sleep in L.A., wake up in New York. Time travel. It’s as close to Star Trek as I’ll ever get.
I walked straight from the car service to Andy’s Deli, where Nick greeted me and said, “Your brother was just here.” Ham, egg, and cheese on a roll never tasted so good. And my bed was never more welcoming. Sadly, my nap didn’t last long. My celly started chiming around noon: the report was in from Cuba, and mtvnews.com couldn’t wait. And it didn’t.
Oddly enough, I couldn’t fall back asleep. So I started recording around one o’clock, and didn’t quit ’til nine. The result? A cover of Matthew Sweet’s “Come To California.” Guess the place was still in my system.
Christofer (wearing a “More Iowans Drive Chevy” t-shirt) and I (wearing an aqua-blue tuxedo shirt) hopped the 2/3 to Brooklyn, catching up on the long, slow commute. (I didn’t miss those.) The Smith Family was in full attendance by the time we arrived at Hank’s. It was go time. Not performance time: we weren’t on ’til midnight. But midnight came and went, glasses were emptied and filled, and still, the bands played on.
Finally, at 1:30 and just a few too many into the evening, we hit the stage and made our sweet cacophony. There’s no other word for it: it was a full-fledged, whiskey-soaked hootenanny. I’m not sure that we ever sounded so, er, loose. But I’m positive that we’ve never had more fun. Kev was laughing his way through tunes, Roy was leaning on the wall to keep upright, Scott was off to the races (we all figure he had a lady to meet afterwards), and I was dry humpin’ the bass drum. Yeah, it was a sloppy, joyous romp. The whole affair was bittersweet, of course, as The Smith Family has but one more show before disbanding. Kev’s moving to Minneapolis, and like I told him, there’s no Smith Family without Kevin Anthony Smith.
The party broke up somewhere around four, so Heath and I split a cab back to the city. The Brooklyn Bridge was a glorious phosphorous blur. The FDR might as well have been The Autobahn. We talked about food the whole way home (the band’s customary four bags of salt and vinegar chips didn’t really do the trick). I climbed my stairs and collapsed on my couch — dropping my guitar, jean jacket, tuxedo shirt along the way — sometime just before five o’clock. A few states away in Indiana my father was, no doubt, starting his day as I was ending mine.
Today has been spent by my lonesome, downing Excedrin and Gatorade, wandering
my neighborhood like a tourist, and cleaning house. The windows are wide, the sun is streaming in, and the sound of the city is all around me. I am exhausted, shredded even. I could use a few days off from my few days off. But there are shows to play, songs to write, and people to see. There is no rest for the weary. And that’s all right with me.
Like the little green guy says, “You buttered your bread, now sleep in it.” So… g’night, sleep tight, sweet dreams.
Famous Players
Who’d have guessed a couple a also-rans from Berwyn, PA, would run into each other on the Paramount back lot in Hollywood, CA, some twenty years on.
I was trying to catch up with my buddy James all week, but late nights at work and poor planning on both of our parts sabotaged our efforts. So this morning we’re making plans to hook up when he rolls through New York next week, when I say, ‘Yunno’ what? I’ll be at Paramount ’til about 6:30 or so, and my flight’s not ’til 10:30. Maybe we can catch a drink somewhere in between.’ He writes back, ‘I happen to have a screening on the lot. I’ll meet you there at 6:30.’
Done, and done.
James was (forgive me, bro) something of a meathead in high school. Which is to say, he played rugby, and I played, well, I didn’t play anything. I was the editor of the newspaper and front man of Underground (my b-rate REM/Rush cover band). James was quiet and stern, known for his fiery disposition. And me, well, I’m not sure what I was known for. I thought of myself (as I still do, I guess) the sensitive artsy type. Neither of us was a stellar student, and didn’t show the academic promise of our friends Sibby (UPenn) or Matt (Harvard), but we did ok (Syracuse and Pitt, respectively). Still, had you asked our friends who amongst us was most likely to succeed, well, their money — and mine — would have been on Sibby and Matt.
Success, of course, is a matter of perspective. But seeing James step out of his Mercedes in a grey pin striped suit and blue sunglasses chattering into his cell phone, well, he painted a fair portrait. Me? Well I looked every bit The MTV: green cords, white dress shirt, suede bucks, and jean jacket. Still, there we were, hugging in the Paramount parking lot (which doubles, as it were, as a eight foot deep water tank for shooting aquatic scenes) as the sun set over the not-so-distant Pacific. And I thought, a la David Byrne (as I so often do), “How … how did I get here?”
The last stop in my long week in Los Angeles was a meeting with the Paramount Pictures interactive marketing team to discuss their forthcoming slate of films, and MTV News & Movies coverage there of. I sat in a boardroom with a few young publicists (marketing executives, I imagine, would be their preferred titles) watching clips and teasers from “The Longest Yard” (saw it already, not bad), “The Honeymooners” (eh), “Aeon Flux” (awesome, awesome, awesome), and my personally most-anticipated film of 2005, Cameron Crowe’s “Elizabethtown.” The latter was an 18-minute rough cut of the Orlando Bloom and Kirsten Dunst love story that left me grateful that someone’s still giving Cameron money to make his intimate, charming, little movies regardless of the return on their investment.
Afterwards, I walked across the lot with one of the young pr women to return the “Elizabethtown” DVD (they watch those things like hawks on account of internet bootlegging and such), then continued to show myself around the back lot while waiting for James. Of course, Paramount Security frowns on interlopers (even if they are members of the mighty Viacom family), and especially interlopers with digital cameras. But there wasn’t much going on Friday night at six o’clock, nor was I sneaking onto sound stages. I wandered around all of the exteriors, the most famous of which, of course, is the New York street set, complete with cabs (I’m pretty sure the fare prices were accurate) and NYPD cars. One part of the set looked just like my neighborhood, all brownstones and stoops, save for the Paramount water tower looming overhead and the unlikely cleanliness (which I’m sure they remedy when actually shooting).
I called my father on my cell phone (Who could resist? “Dad, you’ll never guess where I’m calling from …”), then found a nice, sunny bench to wait on James. And then I saw his silver E500 slip through the Melrose security gate.
Ends up, as the fates would have it, James was on the lot to screen “Elvis,” which his client, James Sadwith, directed. After glad-handing and hobnobbing with a few suits (me looking fresh from a Soul Asylum video), we settled into our seats just behind Randy Quaid (Colonel Tom Parker) and Robert Patrick (Vernon Presley).
Now, what even James may not know (or remember), is that I have a bit of a thing for Elvis. It’s not so much his music that moves me (though Smith Family fans know that I end every set with “It’s All Right Mama”), it’s his remarkable but tragic story. Here was a poor kid from the rural south who lost his twin brother at birth, had a classically domineering father and mother who loved him more than what might be considered natural, or healthy. Mix in a dose of unbridled ambition and optimism, some quirky dance moves, and facial expressions that made women weak at the knees … and then add drugs, depression, megalomania, and a crushing case of the Oedipal complex and, well, you have yourself quite a dynamic story arc. It’s the kind of fascinating piece of Americana that driven me to take not one but two pilgrimages to Graceland, and read at least a half dozen Elvis biographies (including Peter Guralnick’s seminal two-part work, “Last Train To Memphis” and “Careless Love”).
Yeah, so there I was watching a movie premiere at a major Hollywood film studio with the cast and crew of the film and on of my best friends from high school. And I’m sitting there, three seats in from the aisle, checking my watch as not to miss my flight, when I decide to go. I shake James’ hand and whisper into his ear, “Thanks bro, see you in a few,” and step out across Randy Quaid just as he says, “Rocknroll stars fade away, Elvis, but managers last forever.” And as I turn toward the screen to grab one last glimpse of the film before stepping out into the cool California dusk, I see Elvis and the Colonel standing before the famed Paramount Pictures arched entrance that I myself was soon to driving under of and point my rental car towards home… again… finally.
My Beat Is Correct
I’m standing on the balcony in the VIP area of the MTV/X-Box party at The Avalon on Hollywood and Vine when Ling Bai slithers up next to me.
Without Corey whispering in my ear, I’d have no idea who she is. She’s wearing a itty-bitty dress, a blonde Shirley Temple wig, fake eyelashes, and glitter everywhere. Clearly, she’s not inching in on me, but my vista, as not only can I see everything from my roost above the party, but everyone can see me. Which, dressed in my standard 501 jeans, Ben Sherman dress shirt, blue blazer, and chunky Daniel Libeskind glasses, means that the Young and Fabulous Hollywood starlettes simply size me up with a quick glance, and move on.
So Ling Bai asks, “Are there bands tonight?” And I say, “Yeah, The Killers played earlier and Snow Patrol is on in a few minutes.” We’re leaning on the railing watching Wilmer Valerrama take on Omarion and Linkin Park’s Joseph Hahn in some first-person shoot ‘em up game when some guy approaches her. “Ling Bai, I just want to clean the slate after that one night,” he says. She’s having none of it, and continues to survey the room and pose for photographers. “Every time we see each other it feels negative. And I’m so sorry.” She blows him off and asks me, “Who is Snow Patrol?”
Later, Corey says to me, “Dude, that was Charlie Kaufman!”
That’s the night in a nutshell. I was in an extra in an episode of “Entourage.” I was the suit on the edge of the screen. The highlight? Neither Jessica Simpson, or even Alyssa Milano. No, I broke away from my colleagues Sway, Shari, Nicole, and Corey to grab a spot on the balcony for Snow Patrol’s midnight performance: lackluster audience, but brilliant set.
This could be the very minute
I’m aware I’m alive
All these places feel like home
Later, I felt relieved as I snuck out through the back door into the cool drizzle. Driving west on Hollywood Boulevard, an old favorite came on the radio. I sang along like Tom Cruise in “Jerry McGuire.”
Life is bigger
It’s bigger than you
And you are not me
The lengths that I will go to
The distance in your eyes
Spotted (see the photos): Elija Wood, Ashley Simpson, Ryan Cabrera, Alyssa Milano, Xzibit, Travis and Shanna Barker, Zooey Deschane, Wilmer Valerrama, Lil’ John, Omarion, D.J. Kwals, Chiaki Kuriyama, Jeremy Piven, Tony Hawk, Chiaki Kuriyama, Charlie Kaufman, Joseph Hahn (Linkin Park), Wes Boreland (Limp Bizkit), Tony Kanal (No Doubt), director Michael Bay, Kyle Gass (Tenacious D), and CC Deville (Poison).
Missing
Moss walked into my office and said, “Some of the younger kids in the office are going across the street for happy hour. Two dollar beers …”
This was just a few hours after I walked out into the 2600 Colorado lobby to greet a prospective employee and practically bumped into Harry Shearer and Mike McKean. Spinal Tap! Looking suspiciously like a couple of my father’s more liberal friends! Sadly, as enormous a fan as I am (I’ve been watching “This Is Spinal Tap” on repeat since I was in high school), I skipped the “Huge fan” greeting and the photo op (that’s what really hurts) as a) they were engaged in conversation with some TV executive types and b) I didn’t want to set the wrong example in front of the prospective employee.
So it’s ten o’clock now. I’m back at the Doubletree, two chocolate chip cookies and a glass of milk later. Oh, and a few two dollar beers. Nice group of youngsters. Eric asked me, “Does everyone on the east coast dress like you?”
It’s Hump Day here in Los Angeles. Am I beat? Yeah. Disconnected from The Mother Ship MTV? Disconnected from My So-Called Life? Yeah. Still, it’s been a good week here. I gotta’ spend more time in the Santa Monica office. Nice group of youngsters.
I watched American Idol for the first time tonight, primarily because it’s what folks talk about here in The Los Angeles. I didn’t think any of ‘em were all that impressive. They all do that Mariah Carey thing, milking every note like it mattered. But of course they’re singing someone else’s song, which in a lot of ways renders meaning moot. Not that these kids would fathom any of that. Is it possible to sing someone else’s song and have it matter?
It occurred to me this morning that this is the first time since I was fifteen-years-old that I’m not missing someone. I remember going to Europe when I was sixteen and carrying a picture of my girlfriend Amy everywhere. There’s a photo of me clutching a photo of her in the Swiss Alps. Ridiculous. I went on to miss Kirsten while I lived at the beach, Erin when she lived in Florence, Jacinta when she moved to St. Louis, and Stephanie when she lived here and I lived in New York. Dumb. And that’s just the geographically undesirables.
Since I’ve been dating someone or another since I was a barely-pubescent, any time I wasn’t with them, I was missing them: sending postcards, making phone calls, and generally canoodling long distance. Which had the unfortunate affect of making the place where I was that much less real for me. How can you be present if you’re looking back over your shoulder towards whomever isn’t there? You’d think it would have occurred to me sometime subsequent to my fifteenth birthday but prior to my thirty-fourth that I ought to be who I am where I am, but it didn’t. Until tonight.
Driving home from the office tonight, Beck’s Brazilian-flavored (and brilliant) “Missing” on repeat in my rented Kia, I thought, ‘Good thing I’m here.’ Not sure why, but … good thing.
Liquid Kitty
I’m sitting on the bed in room #634 of the Doubletree Guest Suites. I’m watching “The Big Idea With Donny Deutsch.” They’re discussing the American Idol scandal. The ferris wheel on the Santa Monica pier is blinking out of the corner of my eye.
I don’t know what else to say, or where to start, short of all that. I woke up early, ran on the beach, had a bunch of room service coffee and worked wifi in front of local news. Then I went into work. I was far more energized than yesterday, and actually caught myself running on and on and on at the mouth. (I just heard a woman say “erection” in a a Lavitra commercial. Oh. My. God.)
I’m drinking a $5.95 bottle of Double Tree Guest Suites water in attempt to stave off the inevitable four beer, one Grey Goose and tonic hangover. Matt and I went out after work. I elected The Library, my favorite pub on Main Street in Santa Monica, ‘cuz it feels like home, or as at home as this town can feel.
After The Library, Matt and I met Owen at The Brig in Venice. Apparently, the bar used to be something of a dive, but now it’s kinda’ yuppy (still, Owen walked in wearing jeans and a t-shirt and carrying his skateboard). Matt and Owen were disparaging the lost glory of the pre-Yuppy Brig when Owen said, “I should take you to Liquid Kitty.” And I was all like, “Liquid Kitty is over by UCLA, right? I went there the first time I came to L.A. Did you take me there, Matt?”
I was 25-years-old. I had just started at The MTV. It was June. I came to visit Matt and James, and record what would become the (largely unreleased) “Happy, Not Happy EP” with Steve Feldman (of “Crash Site” fame) in Palm Springs. Los Angeles was brand new to me. Matt and I sat on a bench at Griffith Observatory smoking cigarettes and eating Fatburgers. He pointed out neighborhoods — Brentwood, Beverly Hills, Hollywood, Santa Monica — and helped establish the overhead view of L.A. that still guides me today.
Later that week, James took me to Liquid Kitty. It was dark. And it was smokey. And it was on a block full of gated store fronts. It was like going to a five star restaurant in a strip mall: incongruous. That’s about all I remember.
Anyway, that night, nearly ten years ago now, I wrote “Liquid Kitty.” I never quite finished it, recorded it, performed it, or spoke about it. Maybe for good reason. Or maybe it was oversight.
Liquid kitty had her eyes wide open
Still she didn’t know she was beholden
To all the hearts she knew that she had broken
She couldn’t get away
The melody popped back into my head as soon as Owen mentioned it. I tried to get back to it tonight on the guitar Matt loaned me for the week, but, alas, that last Grey Goose and tonic rendered me kind of, well, useless.
So I’m watching CBS Channel 2 news now, and they broke into the commercials break to show Chopper 2 footage of a police pursuit on The 10. L.A., baby.
I still love you, New York.
Glass, Concrete & Stone
I have arrived in Los Angeles. The evidence is everywhere.
Outside my window, through a thicket of palm trees, across PCH-1, and over the Santa Monica Mountains, the sun is setting.
I see the ocean, the “deep and frozen sea.”
Gary Coleman is on the TV. “Need a loan?”
Local news is reporting a freeway shooting on the 405, the eighth such incident in just ten days.
Room service is en route.
Still, I’m calculating New York time.
I settled into my CummuniCar at 5:15 this morning. I hit play on my iPod. A strange Brazilian beat began, then a cello, a xylophone, and then, as if my playlist was programmed by God Himself, these lyrics:
Now, I’m wakin’ at the crack of dawn
To send a little money home
From here to the moon
Is risin’ like a discotheque
And now my bags are down and packed for traveling
Lookin’ at happiness
Keepin’ my flavor fresh
Nobody knows I guess
How far I’ll go, I know
So I’m leavin’ at Six O’ Clock
Meet in a parkin’ lot
Harriet Hendershot
Sunglasses on, she waits by this
Glass and concrete and stone
It is just a house, not a home
So I’m puttin’ on aftershave
Nothin’ is out of place
Gonna be on my way
Try to pretend, it’s not only
Glass and concrete and stone
That it’s just, not a home
And its glass and concrete and stone
I listened to the song, David Byrne’s “Glass, Concrete & Stone” from his recent “Growing Backwards” CD, over and over again during my hazy, Xanax-fueled flight. I woke up as the captain reported that we were over the Grand Canyon. And then I was here.
Now I am here. How do I know? The air is sweet and cool. And I am tired. After all, back home it’s 1:36 in the morning.
Free At Last, Michael Penn Attempts A Comeback With Mr. Hollywood Jr.
NEW YORK — The message conveyed at Michael Penn’s performance at Joe’s Pub a few weeks back was simple: He’s back, and he’s got a new record.
It’s not that extraordinary; really, unless, like Penn, you’ve just emerged from one of the music industry’s longest-running contract skirmishes. “My father fought in World War II. He’d have to laugh at the fact that I’ve been a captive of the Axis powers the better part of my adult life,” Penn said of Japanese-owned Sony and German-owned BMG at the industry-only show.
Penn’s 1989 single “No Myth” (“What if I was Romeo in black jeans?”) propelled the singer/songwriter brother of more famous Hollywood siblings Sean and Chris into the top 20 and garnered him an MTV Video Music Award. But a poorly received sophomore effort, Free-for-All, and resulting RCA Records contract woes soon followed.
Though Penn soldiered on through two solid Sony releases, Resigned and MP4: Days Since a Lost Time Accident, lightning failed to strike twice. Worse, Sony retained the rights to Penn’s very name: Until last fall, Michael Penn didn’t own www.michaelpenn.com.
Penn stayed busy behind the scenes through the late ’90s and early ’00s. He scored Paul Thomas Anderson’s “Boogie Nights,” produced tracks for the Wallflowers and Liz Phair, and toured with his singer/songwriter wife, Aimee Mann.
Perhaps bolstered by his wife’s independent success, and free from the contractual obligations of Sony, Penn is back with Mr. Hollywood Jr. The 13-song set is firmly anchored in a nearly forgotten, post-war Los Angeles.
“1947 is the year everything changed. And it really felt to me, just as I was writing these songs, that everything that was going on around me in some way led back to that year. Everything was coming to fruition: GIs like my father were back from World War II, the National Security Act of 1947 established the CIA, and the U.N. partitioned Palestine. America became the first country to be in the position to take over the whole world, but didn’t, but really did.”
Performing at the darkly lit and intimate Joe’s Pub, Penn’s older material stood the test of time. “No Myth,” “Long Way Down” and “Bunker Hill” sat squarely with songs culled from Mr. Hollywood Jr. Further, though, his set seemed to comment on his return to a stage now crowded with acoustic-strumming teenage heartthrobs like Tyler Hilton and Jesse McCartney. It’s difficult to hear Penn wailing the refrain of “Don’t Let Me Go” and not imagine that he’s pleading for his audience back. Still, he admitted later, it’s “Out of My Hands.”
Some might consider Penn’s return after a nearly 10-year hiatus brave, or stupid. Or both.
“I don’t think of it as bravery, as much as stubbornness,” Penn said.
“There’s a certain exhilaration at starting over and paying my dues again,” he noted just prior to the performance. “Performing doesn’t come naturally to me. But you know, optimism is a funny thing.
“There’s an instrument that I use sometimes called a Marx-a-phone,” he continued. “It’s sort of like a hammer dulcimer. And in the 1920s and ’30s, they would sell them door-to-door. That’s [kind of like] what I’m doing now.”
Penn’s door-to-door, stage-to-stage tour in advance of Mr. Hollywood Jr. wrapped up in Los Angeles Sunday night. He hopes to hit the road with a full band in the fall.
This article first appeared on MTVNews.com.
