Going Home
Wanna’ hear the sound of heartbreak?
We’re rolling south on I-35. I’m the new guy on the bus. It’s a little bit awkward. I’ve already solidified my outsider status by putting Death Cab For Cutie on the CD player. Mike’s playing, “Where you at?” Crank calling a Hooters and asking, “Where you at?” His ability to bluff is hilarious. And it passes the miles. “You wanna’ here the iTunes album?” he asks.
I know “Templeton Rye.” Heck, I’ve smelled the stuff. Jason pulled it from a cupboard above the sink. I just hadn’t yet mustered the courage to drink it. “The Wost Place I’ve Ever Been” comes on.
“What’s it about?” I ask.
“It’s all right there,” Mike says.
Apparently, the band was performing a two-night stint in Marathon, Florida. And it was a disaster. People were ignoring them. Locals were looking for fights. A sign above the stage read, “If you can’t play at my volume, don’t plug in.” A couple that’d planned their vacation around the gigs said, “We’ll be back tomorrow,” but never showed.
Somewhere in the meantime, Mike penned “The Worst Place I’ve Ever Been.” It’s on The Nadas’ “Listen Through The Static” EP. And it’s a heartbreaker. You can hear the road in his voice: the miles, the whiskey, and the cigarettes. His voice cracks. He breaks into falsetto. Listening back I wonder how he puts himself in the right headspace to sing it with such melancholy.
Wife a thousand miles away: check. Kid a thousand miles away: check. Stifling humidity: check. Belligerent audience: check.
The Nadas do not reinvent the wheel. They concede out loud their appreciation of The Goo Goo Dolls. The sing about home only slightly more often than me.
I love ‘em.
Jason text messaged me tonight, “They’re watching ‘Van Wilder’ again.” The poor choice of DVD notwithstanding, I wish I were on the bus with ‘em.
Do yourself a favor: listen through the static. On Itunes. Then hit repeat. And listen to the sound of heartbreak. It never sounded sweeter. Or sadder.
A Frequency To Change My Mind
The granite buildings of Omaha were glowing orange in the sunset. Smitty, Mike, Jason and I were racing to The Sokol Underground for my opening set.
“I’ve never seen so many radio towers,” I said.
“Broadcasting so little,” Jason said.
The Nadas spend plenty of time transversing the highways and byways of Middle America. It’s no wonder, then, that their bus is equipped with XM Radio. Why? ‘Cuz broadcast is a corrupt, wheezing beast. As Jason sings on the title track from the band’s forthcoming LP, “Listen Through The Static,” radio is “bought and paid for every hour on the hour.”
Reference the recent FCC investigation into the age-old practice of payola. Wanna’ get your song on the radio? How much you got? An anonymous label employee complained about the cost of a few spins in an intercepted e-mail to a higher-up: “Two weeks ago, it cost us over $4,000 to get Franz on WKSE.”
Fortunately, the time and technology has never been better for grass roots distribution. With a few emails, a few links, and a little elbow grease, a guy like me, or a band like The Nadas, can get our music heard from Anchorage to Amsterdam. And thanks to Internerd, we can sneak in the back door of the major download services. Or, if you’re The Nadas, the front door.
Jason, Mike and I were sitting at Hi-Life on the Upper West a few months ago. The guys had flown out to play some shows in the Northeast. I’m not sure the tour was going quite as they’d hoped. Mike was on his third whiskey. We were talking about “Static,” and puzzling out ways for a coupla’ guys to get their music out there. “Dudes,” I said, “Put a cover on iTunes. Worked for me.”
My Uncle Bill suggested years and years ago that I record cover songs. Now, you gotta’ know the guy: super-savvy, super-corporate, super-cool guy. He played drums in high school, so he gets what I’m doing and always encourages me. Still, I was resistant. I’d always performed covers in my live sets as a way to demonstrate my influences: REM, Pixies, Kim Wilde. Still, I don’t want to cheese out.
It wasn’t until recording a countrified version of “Here Comes Your Man” for “Crash Site” that I really embraced the idea. And it wasn’t until my music popped up on iTunes that I could see the value of the idea. People were looking for “Leaving on a Jet Plane” and finding me. then the dug in, and found, ‘Heck, this guy’s all right.’ You’ll find Pixies, Phil Collins, and John Denver covers there now. Within the next few months, live versions of REM, Wilco, and George Harrison will be available on iTunes. And I cover Matthew Sweet and The Nadas themselves on my forthcoming CD, “Heartland.”
The Nadas “Listen Through The Static” EP hit iTunes today. It’s a four song, acoustic collection of tunes from the new record: the title track, “The Worst Place I’ve Been,” “Templeton Rye,” and “Lullaby.” They played it for me and told me the back story on all the tunes en route to Kansas City (including pouring me a shot of the rye). It’s recorded it in Jon’s basement specifically for iTunes. Apparently they couldn’t quite rally around which cover song to record. Doesn’t really matter. It’s perfect as is.
Listen Through the Static II
In fifteen years of making records, I don’t think I’ve ever really had a plan.
I’ve made more than a dozen records with a handful of great producers, but I don’t think we ever possessed a clear vision of the process or the outcome when we started recording. Sometimes it works (“Love & Other Indoor Games,” “Almost Home,” “Crash Site”). Sometimes, it makes for a bit of a fiasco (“The Jackie Chan EP,” “Out of Your Head”). My forthcoming LP, “Heartland,” has been no exception. All I really knew was that I was flying to Des Moines to work with The Nadas. That’s about it.
When you’re operating on budgets my size — zero dollars — it’s difficult to put a record together the old fashioned way. Legendary Studios like The Hit Factory (New York) and Ocean Way (L.A.) can cost upwards of $2k a day. Not surprisingly, they’ve both closed their doors in recent years, primarily because everyone — from Metallica to Moby — is using digital technology (aka ProTools and a Mac) to make their albums. Sure, a little something is lost. Every musician loves the warmth of tape. But I got five bucks that says most of us couldn’t pick tape vs. digital out of a lineup. So what the heck? A couple hundred bucks and a laptop, and you’re good to go.
A few days before I landed in Des Moines, Jon said, “Why don’t we work with some of your home recordings?” It was kind of a shock to me. I wasn’t sure they sounded good enough. But Jason and Mike backed him up. ‘Heck, they know what they’re doing,’ I though, ‘Why not?’
Well, there’s at least one why not. All of my home recordings are made available to you as soon as their even partly done in the form of The Morning Mix. Bad business? Probably. But I get excited when I write a new song. I’m always surprised when another one pops out. Especially one I like. So business be damned; it’s good creativity. And nowadays, I’m all about that (clearly).
So the challenge has been to create something new for you: something richer, deeper, sweeter. The challenge has been to (corporate speak here) give the songs added value. Not just for me, or for you, but for the songs. Some songs want to be just a vocal and a guitar. Other’s say to me, “I want Mike Butterworth wailing in the background.” And so we’ve used some of The Morning Mix recordings as building blocks, plus recorded a bunch of new ones. Justin’s already dropped in drums. I re-tracked some vocals and guitars. And Jon, Mike, and Jason are working on guitars, bass, and vocals as we speak (er, type).
The most recent — and exciting — development is that Kevin Anthony has agreed to come onboard to mix. Kevin is, of course, my beloved Smith Family bandmate and the producer of “Almost Home” and “Love & Other Indoor Games.” He’ll be mixing it in his home studio in Minneapolis. This allows Jon to focus on recording all of his tracks, before wrapping up the Josh Davis Band record he was working on before mine, before going on tour in support of The Nadas forthcoming CD (due September 20th on Authentic Records).
What’s extra cool about the technology is that I’ve set up a file transfer drop box for Jon, Kevin and I to deposit recordings as they progress. Today, for example, Jon’s recording Josh’s guest vocals on “Do It Again.” Then he’ll drop it onto a server, where I’ll retrieve it, record new vocals, and drop it on Kevin to mix.
As a result of all this, I’m able to get all of my favorite musicians involved: Casey Shea is gonna’ play some harmonica, Chris Abad is going to record some guitars, and Amy Hills and gonna’ sing some. Plus, out in Iowa, I’ve got all of The Nadas on board, plus Josh Davis. Even Jason’s wife Stephanie laid down some tracks. And it’ll all come together with Kevin’s even hand and unbiased ear.
It’s really kind of amazing, if you think about it. And at least one piece of evidence in support of the notion that no plan is the best plan.
Get Back
If I injure my back on tour, can I write of the massage come tax time?
Who knew rocknroll could be so dangerous? Last Friday night — actually, it was Saturday morning — I was lending The Nadas a hand in their load out of Sokol Underground in Omaha, Nebraska. It was a fabulous night. I’d never been to Omaha. I called my brother to tell him I was standing in front of the Mutual Of Omaha Headquarters. The audience was small but mighty. They sang along to every tune. And all things considered, they were pretty darned gracious to me. The guys invited me onstage for “Do It Again” and “Girlfriend,” which Mike, Jason and I had just tracked that morning. I felt good. My whole body was smiling.
I lifted a road case — The Nadas have dozens — into the trailer when I felt something spike in my back. A sharp pain shot from my waist to my shoulder blades. I grimaced, and moved on to another heavy piece of rocknroll machinery. Jason poured me a shot of Templeton Rye on the bus later. The crew slid into their bunks one by one. I sat up listening to Josh Davis’ “Don’t Follow” a few times before pulling out my bed in the rear lounge and drifting off into a Miller High Life soaked slumber.
The morning came quickly through the blinds. I felt the bus lurch forward, then steadily gain speed. I heard Mike laughing over the roar of the engine. I stumbled up front to find him pointing the mighty gray whale eastward into the sunny interstate. He was laughing uproariously at XM Radio’s comedy channel. It was barely seven o’clock. He was wide-awake. I limped back to my bunk clutching my back like an eighty-year-old and fell into a deep sleep. I woke up in Des Moines, and hobbled off the bus.
While The Nadas and their crew are sensitive, thoughtful folk, the road is not a place for the weak. Jokes are frequent and eviscerating. And so I didn’t announce my injury. I didn’t complain. I simply washed down a few Advil (with an Excedrin for good measure) with warm beer, and resumed my day. I grabbed a cup of coffee with Jason and Charidy, choked down a stale Danish, and pointed my Pontiac towards the next show.
A steady diet of Advil kept the pain at bay all week. Until yesterday. I woke from a few hours of sleep (the State Fair show was followed by an AK’s after party which was followed by a late-night breakfast) clutching my back with my left hand, my head with my right. When I climbed onto the regional jet out of Des Moines at five o’clock, I had no idea I’d be wedged between two overweight businessmen for ten more hours. I could barely stand in the taxi line at Newark.
I deal in music news. By day, my colleagues and I bandy about tales of celebrity woe: lawsuits, arrests, rehab. We’ve laughed more than once at the thought of Mariah Carey taking time off for exhaustion, or Ashlee Simpson canceling a show due to laryngitis. No longer.
I limped into the office on three hours sleep this morning. My first order of business, subsequent to regailing my colleagues with tales of cows carved entirely of butter, was to book myself a massage. Now, I’m not the massage type. I get exactly one a year on the day after the New York City Marathon. But it was mission critical today. And so, hours later — after the budget meetings, the creative conversations, the emails and conference calls — I climbed onto a massage table at Feline Spa. Laying there, reminding myself to exhale (without sounding creepy), I tried hard not to think about work or the new record. The massage was downright painful. She never really got at the spot that hurts. And before I knew it, I was laying alone in the dark. Walking home — slowly — through a sea of harried Upper West Siders, I wondered if I’d ever feel like myself again. Then I wondered what it feels like to be myself.
The road is a thankless mistress. I’m paying for the affair.
Do It Again (And Again)
As far as my mother is concerned, I am finally a bona fide success.
The Nadas are midway through the second set of their third night at the Iowa State Fair. The Anderson Erickson Amphitheater is jam-packed. Josh Davis and I are pacing backstage, sharing a water to sober up. He’s fiddling with his hair. “Your hair looks great,” I assure him.
Josh and I stand behind swinging, smoked-glass doors. Red and yellow light spills through the cracks. I hear Jason speak over the din of the riotous audience.
“We started our label, Authentic Records, to put out our own records. And recently we’ve asked some of our musician friends to be on the label. This next guy is one of ‘em. He lives in New York City, and had his first corn dog today. Please welcome our friend Benjamin Wagner.”
I step into the light, shielded from the gaze of a few thousand Nadas’ fans by a well-worn cowboy hat. The audience roars its welcome. I look up to a sea of anonymous faces stretching hundreds of feet in each direction. Jason hands me a guitar, and I begin strumming “Do It Again.”
“I was born in Iowa City…”
The crowd roars.
“Both my parents grew up in Waterloo…”
The crowd roars.
“And when I told my mother I was performing at the state fair, well, she told me that I’d really arrived.”
I begin singing. The band comes in. We’re huge. I stomp around the stage. I strut along the front row, gesturing to each fan. I fall to my knees during Mike’s solo. I call Josh onto the stage for the last chorus. He and I lean into one mic, Jason and Mike into the other. I am stone drunk on adrenaline. I am twenty miles high and rising. I never want the feeling to end. I step onto Justin’s drum riser, raise my left fist, and leap. Justin crashes his cymbals. We are done. I mouth the words “Thank you” to each member of the band, and slide off stage.
It may not make sense to some why I would leave New York for ten days in the Midwest, then turn around four days later and, well, do it again. It may not make sense to some why I would make a record here, some one thousand miles from my apartment. I think it’s just starting to make sense to me.
Every album, Jason reminds me, is a historical document. “Crash Site” is reckoning with my parent’s divorce. “Almost Home” is about my doomed bicoastal relationship. “Love & Other Indoor Games” is about all my other doomed relationships, and my intent to get it right… someday.
“Heartland,” I think, finds me one step closer. To what or whom I’m still figuring out. But I’m pretty sure it has something to do with Jason and Stephanie, Mike and Jon and Justin, Smitty, Charidy, Mandy, and a whole bunch of other good people I’ve met along the way. It has something to do with the drone of locusts, the whisper of crickets, fireworks, crescent moons, and deep, brown, rich earth. It has something to do with slowing down, opening up, letting go, and doing it again.
Being Here
The skyline is cast in a hazy, orange glow as I wrap up my day high above New York City.
I call Chris and Jen to see if I can visit. Ethan answers the phone.
“Hiiiii!”
“Hi Ethan! It’s Uncle Benjamin.”
“Ben-ba-ben!”
“Ask Mommy if I can come over. Can you save ‘come over?’”
“Come ober! Come ober!”
I call Jason as I step out of the building, bobbing and weaving through Times Square traffic. He is on stage at the Iowa State Fair about to do a live hit for KCCI-TV. One hundred Miss Iowa contestants giggle in the background.
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow at 9 a.m.”
“Saturday, dude. Saturday. You have four more shows, then you pick me up.”
“Oh, right, right. Saturday. Gotta’ go. Steve Karlin’s about to interview us.”
Rock and roll.
The door is ajar when I get to Chris and Jen’s. I hear Ethan splashing around in the tub. Jen and I spend a minute catching up.
“It seems like you’ve been gone a month.”
Ethan comes bounding down the hall, smiling ear to ear, and jumps into my open arms.
“Ben-ba-ben!”
In one instant, I don’t care where I am.
There is only here.
If There Was Fight In These Bones
I’m back.
I mean, I know you know I’m back in New York City. What I mean is that I’m back. It took a minute, but I’ve got a groove. I’m walking fast, talking fast, and generally moving at a blur-inducing rate. Is this a good thing? Probably not. But it beats feeling stranded at 33,000 feet somewhere over Ohio, or getting squashed like a bug on these mean streets.
I made the mistake of telling my grandmother that my time in Iowa provoked some romantic thoughts of returning for good. What I failed to add was “someday.” The last thing she said to me as I tucked myself into my Pontiac Sunbird was, “So when are you moving back?”
New York City has warped my perception. It’s all bright lights and loud noises. It’s a great buzz. But it becomes difficult to imagine any other reality. No Central Park? No Natural History? No Wollman Rink? No Soho? How would I survive? What would I do?
My mother asked me a few months ago, “Do you think you’ll stay in New York City forever?” And I said that I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.
Until last week.
Des Moines was plenty hip. There was cool stuff going on in Omaha. Kansas City was… well, ok, maybe not Kansas City.
More importantly, spending time with Jason, his lovely wife Stephanie and their adorable son Mitchell drove home the fact that there’s way more than bright lights, loud noise, and a good buzz. There’s being a good friend, a good son, a good husband, a good father. Those things are much more important to me now.
As Pippin says in my all-time favorite piece of musical theater, “I don’t know what I’m gonna’ do, or where I’m gonna’ go…”
But I bet it looks a lot like there. Plus a little bit of here for good measure.
Long Walk Home
I’m drinking a beer on my deck looking up at the clouds thinking, ‘Where did the sky go?’
I thought I had a pretty good patch of sky reserved for myself. As New York goes, I guess I do. Some nights, when the light’s just right, I can even see a faint star or two.
Tonight, though, I feel cheated. I see nothing but bricks, mortar, and a few nicotine-colored clouds.
I guess it’s to be expected.
Jason introduced me to a mentor of his, his photography professor who now writes for The Des Moines Register. I told him my time in Iowa had me rethinking my life in New York City.
“Everybody falls in love on vacation,” he said.
Maybe.
Hanging out with local heroes is intoxicating. Standing on stage every night is euphoric. Making music with passionate souls is exhilarating. Spending time with warm, enthusiastic people is magical.
The romantic in me relishes the thought of returning to Iowa. I imagine myself making good there. I imagine slowing down. I imagine raising children in the big back yard of the Midwest. I imagine myself buried in the shade of the red maple beside my grandparents.
But I am back in New York City now. This is home. The reality of the situation is soul crushing: tourists in Times Square, subway delays, eigh dollar beers, an empty fridge, take-out dinner. This is my home. I built it. I chose it. It’s mine.
The crash was inevitable. I knew it.
Still, I keep re-reading the last line of Charidy’s email in my mind, over and over, like a mantra. Like it’s comes as some kind of surprise.
“There is no Oz, Dorothy.”
“There is no Oz, Dorothy.”
“There is no Oz, Dorothy.”
Listen Through The Static
The signal to noise ratio in New York City, as I recall through the static haze of memory, is high.
For every police siren, taxi horn, and chattering hipster back in the big city, there is a cricket’s chirp, a locust hum, or distant train’s call here in the heartland. Makes a guy think.
Makes a guy think that maybe there’s a little something more than aspiring to run a major media empire. Makes a guy think that maybe there’s more than Times Square, Soho, and Central Park. Makes a guy think that maybe there’s more than the spotlight, the close-up, and the applause.
It’s difficult to know exactly how my week on the road has transformed me. Tough to tell, really, until I’ve spent a few minutes on the subway, a few hours in the office, a few days in the sky.
I’m flying back to New York in an hour.
I’m flying back to Iowa — back to the heartland — Saturday morning.
And it’s home.
What Are You Waiting For
I’m an hour late for the Wagner family reunion in Grundy Center, Iowa, and I’ve yet to wash last night’s show from my skin.
This much I will say for now. There is a wave cresting here in Iowa. It’s a melodic, driven, and distorted din. It’s rooted deep in the great and rich soil. It is the sound of wide-open spaces, and wide-open hearts.
Will Des Moines be the next Toronto? Seattle? Athens? Minneapolis?
Will The Nadas be the next Jayhawks? Towncrier the next Lifehouse? Josh Davis the next Ryan Adams?
I hope so.
I guess it all depends how open-minded and open-hearted America is.
