Don’t Sweat The Technique
We were discussing The Nadas pre-show ritual, “I think they need to listen to ‘Big Pimpin’ before they go on. Hip hop has more attitude, more confidence. It’d be good for ‘em.”
Tonight I listened to a friend of mine go on and on and on about how much her life sucked. Her career, her love life, her apartment — everythning sucked. But at every suggestion, every intersection, she shut me down. She couldn’t find her way to optimism. Hell, she couldn’t even imagine the map.
Today, for me (in contrast), was a good one. I am happy. The longest, most stressful week of the year is over. I weathered the hurricane, the sun, the humidity, and the crushing weight of constant uncertainty. Best of all, my boss was happy with my work there at the MTV Video Music Awards. Likewise, I was thrilled and grateful for the Hurculean efforts that my colleagues made there.
My recently recorded EP, “The Rivington Sessions,” is en route to CD Baby. My forthcoming LP, “Heartland,” is coming along brilliantly. Heck, in the craziness of last week, I even managed to pull a tour together with a couple of great songwriter friends of mine. The cherry on top? I’m opening for my pals The Nadas at their Rodeo Bar performance in October.
I’m running again. Heck, I even got a tiny duathlon in just before the VMAs. More still, I slept in my own bed last night. I had sushi and beer on my own couch in front of my own television. And in some seventy-two hours, I leave for a weekend of building sand castles in Nantucket with Ethan.
Life is good.
Thursday afternoon, as I walked the American Airlines Arena and cased out the VMA Big Show for the first time, I snuck into Fat Joe’s rehearsal. He was introducing a Daddy Yankee Reggaetón medley. I turned to Jonathan and said, “Dude! Listen to that beat!” The bass was huge in the empty, cavernous arena. The snare was tight and crisp. I got goose bumps. It was amazing. “What is that song!?!” I asked. “Only the biggest song of last summer,” he answered.
Ok, so in my singer/songwriter, alternative rock world, I’m not all that up to date on the hippity-hop. Sure, I’ve heard it while working at The MTV. I’ve heard it, but I haven’t listened. Lately, I’ve been tuning in. I’ve been spinning Jay-Z’s “99 Problems,” Dre’s “Still Dre,” Kanye’s “Gold Digger,” Eminem’s “Lose Yourself,” even Erik B and Rakim’s “Don’t Sweat the Technique.” Kinda’ poppy, but still, I gotta’ say: it’s working. I’m walking with just a little more swagger. I can imagine the map. And for the first time in my life, I might even know where I’m going.
I Can Breath For The First Time
Eighteen hours later, I walk into my hotel room. The clock reads 3:39.
There was a moment this morning when I couldn’t remember what day of the week it was. I had no idea when I was going home. And then, before I knew it, I was clapping my hands and telling my photographers, “Dudes, carpet’s open. Let’s hit it.”
The first hour of MTV News’ Pre-Show By The Shore was a drag race. I was struggling to keep MTVNews.com up to speed with it’s on air counterparts. We hit our marks, and then we hit our stride.
The red — white, really — carpet was laid just moments from the first arrivals. The paint on the sets was barely dry. In the office, by contrast, craft services was running low. We ran through three pounds of honey roasted peanuts in less than an hour.
I managed to sneak out of the office for approximately six minutes. I watched Fallout Boy perform from the edge of the stage, then headed back inside. It was a relief, really to get back into the AC. It was downright sticky out there.
Inside, and out, my colleagues were kickin’ it big time. I work with hundreds of talented, passionate people. It’s pretty humbling. We may not always agree, or always like one another, but we get the job done. And most of the time, we have a few laughs doing so.
Tonight’s laughs were provided by R. Kelly, who’s lip synched pantomime of “Stuck In The Closet Parts 5-6″ had the office in stictches. Tonight’s joy was provided by Green Day, who’s slow, steady, heartfelt rise has been a pleasure to watch. And tonight’s cuteness was provided by a rain-soaked Kelly Clarkson.
Alas, our work is not done. Tomorrow is MTVNews.com’s busiest day of the year. In a few hours, I’ll be back in the floursecent-lit basement office. Hopefully, through the exhaustion and nausia, we’ll find a few more laughs hiding in the corners.
Sunshower
I have run to the edge of Key Biscayne. I am standing in the sand looking out at the bay. I am debating whether or not to dive in.
If I do get into the water, I may miss my room service delivery. I may miss my conference call with my boss. I may miss my shuttle to the arena. I may arrive late for the Video Music Awards. Heck, I might be swallowed by a shark and miss the awards completely.
As I teeter on the edge of this monumental descision, I look up from the sparkling blue waves to the sky. There, in an arc below billowing gray thunderclouds, a rainbow stretches across the horizon.
I dive in.
Everything turns out just fine.
When September Ends
It’s Saturday morning. I’m setting up News’ interview room at the MTV Radio Forum when I hear the unmistakable buzz of electric guitars. I sneak into rehearsals and catch a snippet of Green Day.
The band is soundchecking. I wait through their monitor and mic checks. They’ve got a piano and a second guitarist. When did they become REM circa “Out Of Time?” I don’t care. They sound great. And they haven’t played a song.
I spent a few minutes Friday photographing the band’s arrival vehicle, the battered Pontiac from their “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” video. The chrome is nicked in the spots where drummer Tres Cool slammed his sticks. In contrast to Ludacris and Snoop’s hi-gloss rides, it’s the real deal: fatigued, dented… lived in.
I am alone in the dark of the arena. Billie Joe hits the opening chord of “Boulevard.” Tremelo shakes the American Airlines Arena. I have goose bumps. I smile and think, ‘I love this job.’
Read between the lines
What’s fucked up and everything’s all right
Check my vital signs
And know I’m still alive
The band hits its big finale as I dial my brother and hold my cell phone aloft. When they finish, I find Jennifer on the other end of the phone. “Did you hear that!?!” I ask.
She hands the phone to Ethan. He says, “Hi Uncle Benjamin!” He has mastered the letter j. I tell him I love him. “Bu bye!” he says. I can see his face in my mind’s eye. He’s definately smiling too.
I exit the arena into the humid Miami morning. I’m pretty sure I’m the luckiest man alive.
Big Slice
I’m riding shotgun in Snoop’s pimped out convertible with Dub Magazine’s Herman Flores. It’s a yellow and purple Pontiac; Laker’s colors. The rims are solid gold spokes. The hydraulics give it about two inches of clearence. An unpredictable Miami rains begins. And the brakes give out.
We’re coasting downhill towards P2, aka News’ parking garage. A twenty two foot Rhyder truck pulls out to the right. A white rent-a-Tourus pulls out to the left. Herman says, “Hold on.” And I think, ‘Should I get out a Fred Flintstone us to a stop?’
Herman pounds on the break pedal. His career flashes before him. My career flashes before me. He drops the tree into reverse. We coast into the garage.
I pass him later stumbling through the Hyatt to the elevators. “Tomorrow,” he says, “We’ll have brakes.”
‘In Snoop’s ride,’ I think, ‘Yes.’
Everything else, though? All acceleration.
A Perfect Disaster
We did what we always do in the face of disaster. We hit the bar.
Fact is, Katrina’s landfall last night was pretty fun. We left the venue a little bit early, and convened at the Hyatt for a slightly grim but completely hopeful production meeting.
Afterwards, the entire crew descended on Currents, the Hyatt’s fairly dismal sports bar. Two nights prior, Jonathan and I had eaten there in near solitiude. Last night, it was like Skybar on a Saturday night. We were shoulder to shoulder — gaffers, grips, production assistants — laughing, snapping photos, and drinking. Boy were we drinking.
Meanwhile, windows were bowing. Light fixtures were hemoraging water. And over the din of the music and the laughter was the sound of the wind howling like a freight train.
Katrina’s winds hit from the west. The hotel’s eastward-facing atrium entrance was protected. And so, eventually (say, on the fourth beer), we went outside. It was like stepping into a CNN segment. The sky was deep purple. The trees were pegged westward. Debris was hurtling through the rain-streaked air.
And so we walked out into the hurricane.
Afterwards — chest sore from laughter, skin wet from rain — we returned to the bar to find that MTV had drunk the place dry. They were closed. The crowd was thinning. It was time to find the afterparty.
It didn’t take long. Crack News reporter James “Jimmy Mont” Montgomery was hosting in his spacious suite. We hit the gift shop (miraculously still open), secured a few sixes, a cylindar of Pringles, and headed upstairs.
The after party was riotous. The sink was full of beer. The sliding glass doors were thrown wide. Curtains were billowing in the wind. Andrew, Shari, Alyssa, Christina, Yanina, Monte, Chris, James and I pushed deep into the night, and well into the next morning. By the time I got back to my room, Katrina was nearly gone. And room service had arrived.
Meeting Katrina
She’s here. And she’s feisty.
The sliding glass door in Hyatt #1226 is rattling. Wind is gusting from the west at upwards of 75 miles an hour. Rain is blowing in gray-streaked vertical sheets. Palm trees are stretching and swaying. Power is out in nearly half a million homes already. And Katrina’s just barely arrived.
There was a palpable sense of excitement, dread, and even disbelief in the office today. I overheard, “The show must go on” more than once. And it will. MTV News stops for nothing. Though we do take shelter. We abandoned our remote offices a bit early. The digiterati among us took up positions in our hotel rooms.
And so I’m writing you now from about 150 feet above the confluence of the Miami River and Biscayne Bay. The river is white capped. I can’t see the bay. The skyline has disappeared into a constant wall of gray. It’s kind of exciting. But then, the winds haven’t turned yet. When they do, I imagine the din will be deafening.
On the television behind me, Channel Six News is having a field day. News organizations live for this shit. I suggested we stand John Norris out on the beach like CNN or The Weather Channel, but I’m betting that doesn’t happen.
In the meantime, I’ve continued working in the background on my forthcoming record and tour. Chris Abad, Casey Shea, Wynn Walent, and I will be setting out for a four-man, solo singer/songwriter Northeast tour in the middle of November. I’ll do a quick Midwestern jaunt shortly thereafter.
And ironically, “Heartland” producer (and Nada bassist) Jon Locker just sent me a mix of “Milk & Honey,” a strong candidate for the third track of the new record. The first verse goes like this:
I wanna’ get away
Outside the hurricane
I wanna’ find a place
Out of the driving rain
For you, maybe it’s you
Of course, when I wrote the lyrics, I was thinking entirely in metaphor. Now? Not so much so.
Into Miami
While I have complete confidence in the durability of the American Airlines Arena — the basement of which I am currently writing you from — in the face of the descending tropical storm, of the red carpet, white tents and fresh sod just outside the door… well, I’m not so sure.
Yes, it’s that time of year, and I am here in Miami — sweating — again. The 2005 MTV Video Music Awards are nearly upon us. As is Katrina.
So I’m doing my little morning stretching routine (I know, I sound like I’m an 80-year-old, but it’s the back, ok?) in my hotel room (The Hyatt, if you must know, and yes — it’s pretty f’in’ ghetto) watching the Today Show (I know, I sound like I’m an 80-year-old, but…) when Channel 6 breaks in with a storm warning.
Bear in mind that the title of the two-hour pre-show for which my team is responsible is “The Pre-Show By The Shore.” Our red carpet is about fifteen feet from Biscayne Bay. Heck, out red carpet is Biscayne Bay. Half a dozen artists are showing up in yachts.
I arrived, by contrast, via shuttle van. I walked right past my colleague, Jonathan, after baggage claim, such was the tranquility of my Tuesday morning flight. We are staying, as I mentioned, at The Hyatt located in beautiful downtown Miami. It is an area, I imagine, much like New York’s South Street Seaport, or Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. That is, locals never see it. And they’re not missing much. The hulking Moby Dick of a structure known as The American Airlines Arena does not, I’m betting, see action well beyond The Miami Heat. Likewise, the surrounding environs don’t see much action. Clearly, the city is doing its best to revitalize the area. Still, it’s little more than highways, parking lots, and half-constructed buildings.
South Beach, by contrast, where much of the MTV talent (Diddy, Ludacris, Ashlee, Jessica, etc) will be partying well into the wee hours, is off across the bay in the distance. I don’t expect I’ll make it that far afield this year. Instead, were I a gambling man, I’d bet we’ll find ourselves huddled around warm Miller Lights at the Hyatt sports bar, Currents, just as we did last night. What our hotel watering hole lacks in star power, however, my colleagues will make up for in wit.
I’m currently hunkered down in the MTV News offices in basement of the Triple A with my co-workers. We’re all watching The Weather Channel. A Broward County official just said, “Start thinking what you need in the house for the next 36 hours.” Accordingly, we’re reviewing our rain contingency plans. In a nutshell? Grab a raincoat, and hold onto something rooted in the earth.
There’s another storm gathering here, Katrina notwithstanding. The buzz is building as the sets come together, and my colleagues arrive. We’ve accomplished quite a bit — most of which I’d lose my job if I wrote about.
Suffice to say that you ought to tune into The MTV on Sunday night at 6 p.m. And for Heaven’s sake, if you value me, my web site, my music, please click early, and click often at The MTV Dot Com.
Meanwhile, I’ll be here, hustling through a melancholy turpor, listening to Counting Crows on repeat…
Make a circle in the sand
Make a halo with your hand
I’ll make a place for you to land
See you when you gete here…
Believe What You’re Saying
Here we go again. I have a car coming at 6 o’clock for an eight o’clock flight to Miami. I haven’t packed a thing.
I’ve been told that my “I’m So Busy I Could Blank A Blank” journal entries are tedious. So I’ll spare you. Sort of. Just get this:
8:30 – Doctor’s appointment, 87th & Park
9:30 – Picked up contact lenses, 49th & Madison
10:00 – Work, 44th & Broadway
3:00 – Picked up watch from repair shop, 48th & Seventh
3:30 – Work, 44th & Broadway
7:00 – Picked up “The Rivington Session” CDs, Canal & Lafayette
7:45 – Met Chris, 80th & Amsterdam
8:30 – Recorded Chris, 80th & Columbus
That’s four subways, a bus, and a cab, in case you’re counting. And a whole bunch of walking. In the meantime, I wrapped up all kinds of rediculous Video Music Award details, filled my social calendar through mid-September, and registered for four New York Road Runner Club races.
Do I sound like I’m complaining? Whining? Not at all. I’m grateful that I have the energy, and the support. Still, I feel like my will is writing checks my body can’t cash. Fortunately, I have a bunch of Jay-Z on my iPod. Nothing motivates like, “99 Problems.”
Chris Abad, apprently, has been listening to The Hova. Kid’s got mad chops. He listens to a song twice, then proceeds to nail it. We recorded parts for “Harder To Believe” and Better Than That.” I might just get this new record out this year after all.
Meanwhile, my windows are thrown wide. It’s 65 degrees and breezy tonight. It feels like fall. Just in time to immerse myself in the permenant greenhouse that is Miami.
Run
Well, that was fast.
This was my first weekend home in three weeks. And it’s my last weekend home for three weeks. As a result, I did almost nothing all weekend.
Laundry? Check. Haircut? Check. Dancing at three a.m.? Check.
Casey came over last night. He’s a far more accomplished harmonica player than I am, so I asked him to record a new part for “Heartland.” We were taking a break on the roof deck when we looked up to see the most excellent sunset ever. It looked like the sunsets I drew as a kid, all clouds and vertical lines. It was astonishing.
This morning, just over a water tower across 80th Street, the moon — waxing or waning? I don’t even know — is huge and white and setting in the clear blue sky.
I’m off to the doctor this morning. My back’s not much better. As a result, I haven’t run in almost three weeks. Between the injury, the new record(s), and two more weeks of touring (Northeast and Midwest), the likelihood of my sixth NYC Marathon bid is diminishing. Which sucks.
I’m off to Miami in the morning. Every time I see Diddy on the side of a bus or a phone booth, I get a little nervous. It’s going to be a crazy week. I’ll be pleased when it’s over. I’ll be pleased when Ethan and I are building sand castles in Madaket. That’s the real finish line.
Update: Dr. Gilbert said I could be back to 18-miles in three weeks. It’s just muscular. He gave me some stretches, said to keep up the warm showers and Advil, and get back into slow and steady training. So I just visited nyrrc.org and printed out a training schedule. I have eight weeks. I guess that’s the real finish line now.
