Where I’m Going
I wasn’t sure how the band would go over in the East Village. But sure enough, they had them dancing — square dancing, no less — on Avenue C.
It’s been quite a week having The Nadas in town. Hard workers, all, but there’s not nine to fiver amongst ‘em. They’re noon to fivers. Five a.m., that is. Juggling my corporate life, my marathon training (3-6 miles a morning four days a week, one long room, one morning in the gym, and one of rest), finishing up “Heartland,” and — oh yeah — sleeping, well, something had to give. Mostly, it was the sleeping.
Still, exhaustion wasn’t gonna keep me from the guy’s last New York shows, no matter how over-committed, or over-tired I was feeling. I have a lot of friends who play music. They’re all great: Casey Shea, Amy Hills, Jeff Jacobson, Chris Abad, Bryan Thompson, Deen Goodman. But on my iPod, one band rates with U2 and REM, and it just so happens they’re my friends. I know I write about ‘em alot, and it’s not cuz they’re my label chiefs. It’s because they’re good men who write great songs. And put on one hell of a show, whether it’s for eight people in an empty club on a rainy night in October, and 3500 fans in an ampitheater on a sweltering night in August.
We walked into Alphabet Lounge seconds before the band started in on “California III.” Alphabet’s not the city’s best venue; the restrooms are basically on stage, and there’s a railing between the audience and the band. But the woman who books it is a friend of mine, and a sweetheart. And the guys made it sound good.
I wasn’t sure that they could do it, but they won over the hipsters. I thought the audience would fall silent if Jason mentioned the band’s big
One Thing Right
“Americas Next Top Model” was the talk of the MTV News morning meeting. Sadly, there was no mention of the sonic pyrotechnics coming from The Rodeo Bar last night.
It was pretty overwhelming bringing The Smith Family and The Nadas together. If these two worlds collided at Monday’s Rockwood Music Hall show, they absolutely super collided last night. Radiation was spilling out the doors. It was, in short, a blast.
Not that the whole event didn’t come with some worry. The Smith Family hadn’t performed in six months. Heck, we’d barely seen each other since Kevin moved. Still, it was too sweet an opportunity to miss. My two favorite bands (REM and U2 notwithstanding) in the same room on the same night? I had to make it so.
Kevin flew in around noon. Scott, Nick, Roy and I met him at Funkadelic Rehearsal Studios at seven o’clock, at which point we had exactly an hour and a half ’til sound check, and two ’til we went on. Talk about pressure! The songs we play aren’t rocket science, still, a band’s gotta get starts, stops and breaks right, not to mention keys and progressions. At one point Kev said, “You might want to go to the E just a half a beat later.” I was like, “Dude, the likelihood of me re-learning it in the next half an hour’s pretty low.” That we would train wreck on stage was a distinct possibility.
I walked double-time to Rodeo, where I saw the familiar sight of The Nadas’ bus. I knocked on the door, and stepped into my old home. Charity, Justin, and Jon were almost exactly where I’d left them in August, except Justin’s hair is now red, and they’ve got a new sound guy: cute young fella named Luke.
Inside, Rodeo was already hoppin’. The place was packed. And — unlike Monday night — they’d come to see me! Well, me and The Smiths and The Nadas. There were all these excellent people from disparate corners of my world coming together. There’s Jason Walsmith talking to my brother. There’s Jeremy Doctor chatting up to Abbi. There’s Kevin hanging out with Jon Locker. It was kind of surreal. And kind of excellent.
I remember leaving summer camp when I was fifteen and feeling like I would never see those friends again. Same with high school graduation. It all seemed so finite. What is excellent, now, about being an adult, is seeing how these relationships ebb and flow, twist, turn, and snake back over themselves like an old river. In some spots, the water pools and deepens. That’s where we were last night, night swimming amongst great friends, old and new.
And great music! Miraculously — literally, it felt like magic — The Smith Family fell right into its groove. We didn’t miss a beat. And I was back to my sideshow self: standing on chairs, hoopin’ and hollerin’ like a state fair barker. I knew we were nailing it when I saw Mike standing at the back of the room smiling ear to ear. And I know now that we nailed it because in nearly every photo I’ve seen I too am smiling ear to ear.
When it all ended, we shook hands and hugged, half-stunned that, not only had we pulled it off, but we’d absolutely killed it.
Could it get better? It could. And it did. The bartender was servin’ me free Lone Stars. And I got to see my favorite rock bands rock my town. I sat front and center, singing along and generally acting like Nada Fan Numero Uno, aka One Big Nerd. But man, they sounded great! I flittered around the room, swillin’ beer, crackin’ peanuts, snappin’ photos, and braggin’ about my friends. Periodically, I’d return to the foot of the stage to remind the guys I was there. Yunno, in the event they wanted to tap me for a cameo. (No dice.)
The evening ended with a bleary-eyed Jason singing a blistering version of “Mi Corozon.” We retired to the back of the bus, like so many nights before, until one by one, the band disappeared into its bunks. Chris and Mark dropped me off somewhere around 3:30. My body was sore, my heart was full, and my face hurt from smiling.
Wine Me Up
Wow, what a day. And it’s barely even lunch time.
I knew this week was gonna be a doozy, what with two shows, The Nadas in my living room, the marathon in a week, and my record release in two. So I’m not surprised. But it is a little ridiculous.
6:30 – Wake up, check email
7:00 – Work out with trainer
8:00 – Run
8:45 – Work (from home)
10:31 – Catch crosstown bus
11:00 – Dr, Klion checks out my neck. “No, you don’t have a brain tumor. But you are going to need to stretch your trapezius.”
11:21 – Take the 4/5 to 59th Street, transfer to N/R
11:38 – Join “Harry Potter” meeting-in-progress
12:02 – Join Podcasting meeting-in-progress
12:43 – Sit down at desk
12:44 – Join “Walk The Line” teleconference in progress (When introduced by my L.A. colleague as “senior producer,” I interject, “Executive, baby.” Fortunately, everyone laughs; they are in L.A. after all.)
1:55 – Authorize remix/re-master of “Heartland” (for a cool $2000 — more on that later)
It’s now two o’clock on the nose. I have rehearsal with The Smith Family at 7:00. We soundcheck at Rodeo at 8:30. We go on at 9:30. The Nadas follow immediately after.
There is an outside chance that I will be passing out in the bathroom at some point thereafter.
Kiss Catastrophe
Mike and Jason tipped the scales. When they climbed on stage with Will, Tony, Chris, and me last night, there were more of us onstage than off.
Of course, it’s pretty heartbreaking when no one shows up for your rock show. Especially when you’re playing every Monday night to get people excited and build momentum towards your new record’s release. All you can really do is laugh it off, and play for the small audience as if it was Madison Square Garden. So we did.
The shame of virtually no one coming out for this show (I know: there was a hurricane blowing in) is that it really was a unique, once in a lifetime thing. My New York life collided with my midwestern life, and the result was a beautiful din. Nada keyboardist Will joined Tony — on upright bass — and Chris and me. Everything sounded different: really warm, a little folksy, and kind of oldie-timey. Mike and Jason hopped on stage for “Do It Again” and a cover of Matthew Sweet’s “Girlfriend.” Imagine: two guitars, four vocals, upright bass, and piano. You could hear the sound of smiling right there in the music. (In fact, you can hear it here.)
The next band hadn’t showed by the time we wrapped our set, so we rocked the double encore (the seven people in the room demanded it). Rachel wanted to hear “Dear Elizabeth” (which I’d cut from the set cuz I always play it). Chris and I started it as quietly as possible teasing the sadness out of it. I looked over the empty chairs, through the foggy glass, and out towards Houston Street. I’m pretty sure that song ever sounded better. And then, as The Nadas were trying to negotiate their way on stage before the room really cleared, I snuck in “New York.” Will stepped back on stage, and I thought, ‘Hmmmm, the piano is really gotta be too loud for this song.’ But sure enough, he and Chris found the exact right moments, and the exact right notes.
We all had to suffer through a room-clearing instrumental rock band before enjoying The Nadas acoustic set. My strategy — in lieu of the fact that standing outside in the rain and killing myself seven minutes at a time was out of the question — was to grab a slice of pizza around the corner. I sat there alone for a while, a little sad that the show was so under-attended, a little unsure about whether or not recording and releasing records made any sense any more, a more than a little melancholy from the rain. Then Mike and Chris showed up, and the laughter began.
When we got back to Rockwood — by this point it’s well after one o’clock — the room-clearing instrumental rock band was still at it. So I stepped into the bathroom, sat down on the bench and closed my eyes. Others will call this “passing out.” I call it “taking a nap.” And here’s why. One passes out inadvertently. I closed my eyes with intent.
Anyway, The Nadas did perform… eventually — shortly after a shot of Petron, if I’m not mistaken. And the further shame if all is that they were terrific. Four hours of drinking, empty room or not, they were spot on. Of course, they just wanted to play a few songs and leave, but I wouldn’t let ‘em. I kept requesting more. I love “Static” and “Templeton,” but “Coming Home” was the real treat. (Though I’m still lobbying to join ‘em on “Kiss Catastrophe.”)
So, yunno, last night kinda sucked. Lemme rephrase that. Last night was great. Our show was top notch. What sucked is that you weren’t there. I know: you have a life, you have dinner plans, must see TV, yada yada yada. And that’s cool. I’m not chastising you (especially you, my Daily Journal readers, cuz most of you are probably not New Yorkers anyway). You do have another chance: The Nadas play Rodeo Bar Wednesday night. And my CD release is November 15th. If that’s empty, well, I’m out.
In the end, Mike, Jason and I found ourselves walking down an empty street in the middle of the night with a slice of pizza in our hands laughing and joking and stumbling and having an excellent time. And that’s good enough for me.
Octane
If you miss Monday’s Rockwood show, well, then too bad for you. We’ve got a ton of goodness up our collective sleeve.
Nadas Mike, Jason, and Will arrived Friday. I’ve missed them most of the weekend on account of a wedding (not mine), and my last training run before the marathon. I rolled in this afternoon and stole them away to The Dead Poet, my favorite neighborhood bar, for beer and wings.
Tony and Chris showed up to rehearse around sundown, so we ran the set, all of us: members of Dough, The Nadas, and me. Monday’s show might not be perfect, but it’s gonna be fun. I recorded some of our rehearsal. Check out our cover of Matthew Sweet’s “Girlfriend.”
So now I’ve got about eight beers, two dozen hot wings, and a few plates of Vietnamese in my stomache. Guitars, keyboards, and laptops are strewn all over the floor. We’re watching ‘Star Wars.’
It might not seem like much, but it might be as good as it gets.
So Says I
It wasn’t the walk of shame, it was the parade of shame.
Weddings are loathesome affairs. Not because we don’t wish well for our friends (or our date’s friends), but because we’re thrown into a room full of stranges, half of whom are related to one another.
I’m perfectly comfortable in front of a crowd, but significantly less so in it. So I’ve formed a strategy: I stick out my hand, say hello, and fake it ’til I make it. Everyone’s in the same boat at the shart of the event. But by the end of the night, after the coctail hour, the buffet, the silly dance circle, cake and coffee, ya’ll are old friends.
Such was the case last night — er, this morning — as Abbi and I stumbled out of the Mesa Grille afterparty and into a cab. The last martini may not have been the best idea, but the late night conversation was first rate.
Today, though, my cell phone was dead. The Nadas had my keys, and weren’t answering the door. And I wearing last night’s suit, shirt untucked, collar undone, tie askew like Sinatra. I struck out for my brother’s apartment, earning sideways glanses and passing smiles from a sidewalk crowded with Saturday morning casual. I hid my eyes, and tread lightly for the clip clop of my heels.
“Good morning!” I said to the barista at Starbuck’s.
“You sure?” she said.
I checked my watch, and blushed. “Well, good afternoon anyway.”
Back on Broadway, coffee in one hand, scone in the other, I put my shoulders back, smiled, and walked, and walked, and walked …
This Is Your Life
I did an interview yesterday afternoon with a woman writing a book called “Extreme Sports / Extreme Jobs.”
As I told her, I don’t consider myself extreme. Occasionally stupid and sometimes stubborn, maybe. But extreme? No. Still, I’m happy to talk about myself. So I did. For forty-five minutes.
The tricky thing about trying to draw parallels between running marathons and triathlons and my career is that it’s tough to separate out the lessons and values each provides. Growth and development is like spaghetti. My interior life, my career, my music, and my athletic pursuits are all processed in the same place: my brain. And lessons are completely transferable. So it was a strange conversation.
Example. She asked me how running the marathon relates to, say, a busy period at work. Like, say, The Video Music Awards, or releasing a new record. Do they require a similar mindset? Similar goal orientation? Similar training?
The primary difference between running twenty-six miles on a Sunday in November and working at The MTV, is that, in racing — since I don’t stand a chance of beating the Kenyans anyway — I only have to worry about my own limitations. My limitations are two-fold: the voice in my head (I characterized him to her as The Brat, or The Kid, but I’d also call him The Addict), and the pain in my muscles. At work, in contrast, and, for that matter, in every other facet of life — love, family, friends — relationships are at play. Other people’s limitations — lack of vision, crushing fear, anxiety — has a bearing on my ability to succeed. I can manage up, and over, but I can’t do it all alone.
Which is one of the reasons I love running.
That said, learning to overcome my limitations — to persist, as I repeatedly said to her — is 100% applicable to everything that I do. And it is in racing that those victories are most apparent. Most races are simply a question of pain management. What can you endure? And how? My most successful moments of endurance — my 3:56:17 in the 2002 New York City Marathon comes to mind — have found me calling on the strongest and most positive forces in myself and my life to pull me through. Scratch that: the push me through. Did it hurt? Yes. But I found a way through that pain by thinking about all my strongest and weakest friends alike, and drew lessons from both.
I could go on — and I did — but as I told the author, I don’t want to overstate it. I crap like anyone else. I pull on my jeans in the morning. I like ice cream and beer. And I love sitting on the couch watching TV. I’m not extreme; I just like to stay busy. I like to grow. It energizes me. It keeps me motivated, and happy.
It works for me. This is my life. I’m who I want to be. Or at least I’m becoming who I want to be, one footfall at a time.
Buffalo Herds & Windmills
What are the odds of me even noticing this awesome coin in my pocket? And what journey did it take to get there?
The Buffalo Nickel was minted between 1913 and 1938. They’re 75% copper and 25% nickel. Mine’s not likely to be worth much — it’s neither the coveted 1937D “three legged” variety, nor the 1917/8 overdate which fetches upwards of $3-5,000. It probably worth a buck or two. Still.
In 1936, America was still in the grips of The Great Depression. Congress passed the Rural Electrification Bill. The Hoover Dam was completed. The Hindenberg made its first trans-Atlantic flight. Social Security was one-year-old. And the Golden Gate Bridge was still under construction. It’s nearly seventy years ago. My grandmother was exactly my age.
In how many pockets did my little nickel jingle? And whose? What was purchased with it?
Frankly, it’s a small stroke of serendipity that I even found the thing. Had I not left my cell phone at The Engine Room, I wouldn’t have had to use a pay phone to order dinner. Had I not had to use a pay phone, I would have just chucked it into the jar with all my other change, and it would have travelled on to someone.
Instead, my Buffalo Nickel rests safely in a small, silver box by my bedside along with a 1924 Indian Head Penny, six ounces of silver bullion, a few silver quarters, a Susan B. Anthony dollar, and some other nearly-worthless keepsakes. Well, nearly worthless to anyone else. I happen to think it’s pretty valuable to hold all that history, all those lost memories, all those miles and experiences, in the palm of my hand.
The Nooner
I was in such a rushed to get back to the office from my afternoon tryst, that I left my cell phone at her place.
I snuck out of the office at noon. I jumped the Q to Canal Street, emerging amidst the bustle of t-shirt hucksters and purse peddlers. I stepped into the elevator — one of those old fashioned ones with a gate and a lever — and took it to the fourth floor.
Her studio was empty. She met me at the door in a sheer vintage dress and thigh-high boots.
“You got the mixes?”
She is Amy Hills, my singer/songwriter friend who also happens to work at The Engine Room where producer Mark Christensen is mastering my forthcoming CD, “Heartland,” as we speak.
Mixing is kind of an obvious process: one adjusts each individual track (vocals, guitars, bass, drums, keyboards) in relation to the others. But mastering is a dark science. I’ve attended mastering sessions — which usually take just a few hours for an entire album — and its a little like watching the leaves change. That is, something’s happening, but there’s not a ton of evidence to confirm it. Still, an unmastered record is pretty obvious to the ears. Some songs are louder than others, some songs have too much treble or bass, and in general, there’s no consistency.
I had just two directions for Mark in our hurried meeting: make it warm and spacious.
Warm and spacious, like The Heartland. Well, emotionally anyway. Winter’s are a bitch.
Here’s the final track listing for the record:
1- Harder To Believe
2- Milk & Honey
3- Better Than That
4- Cry
5- Dark Blue
6- Untitled
7- Heartland
8- Long Way Down
9- Sweet Charity
10- Dry Your Eyes
11- Do It Again
12- Girlfriend
I pick up the reference CD this afternoon. If all is well, Mark will print two masters, Amy will make a few advance copies (for press and such), and I will send of the masters and the art work to Copy Cats Media in Minneapolis, MN. The route of “Heartland” from my hands to yours, then, will be New York City (recording), Des Moines (recording), Minneapolis (mixing), New York City (mastering), Minneapolis (duplication).
That’s a lot of heart, and a lot of land.
Thank You
Team work’s an excellent thing.
A few weeks ago, I was struggling to finish an 18-mile race. My running partner pulled me through. Today, she was struggling to finish a thirteen miler. I puller her through.
And that’s it, really, isn’t it? Being there. That’s half the battle. The rest comes around.
I was born in Iowa City, IA, but my entire family — The Bolsters and The Wagners — are from Waterloo. Now, as many people live in my neighborhood as live in all of Iowa. It’s small, but it’s home. And apparently, they know teammwork well.
Example. A guy in Waterloo — let’s call him Brian — finds my website (with an assist from The Nadas). He downloads a few songs. One in particular, “Me, Myself & I” — a toss-off that I’d written, recorded, and posted in about fifteen minutes — strikes his fancy. He shares it with some friends at his local bar. The friends dig it. They download some more, and add ‘em all to the jukebox.
A few months later, these fellas see my Team Heartland project online. They read that I’m funding my new record in exchange for some perks: signed CDs, liner note credits, and — if the price is right — a private concert. They scrape together the $500. And on December 3, I’ll be rockin’ their private party. Back home in Waterloo, IA. Excellent.
There are a dozen similar examples, and I’m grateful for them all.
The new album, “Heartland,” is being mastered this week. I’m sending it out for duplication on Wednesday. So it’s not too late to chip in your contribution, get your name in the liner notes, get a few signed CDs, and — if the price is right — get your own private concert.
Meanwhile, thanks to these teammates, and friends. Thanks for being there. It’ll come around.
Mary Bolster
Brian & Roxane Bolster
Linda Shortman
Mary Warren
Ron & Jodi Lieber
Sara Butterworth
Tricia Martin
Mary Gray
Cheryl Cook
Erin Hines
Laura Smith
Melissa Ecker
Rob & Claudine Perreault
Brian, Craig, Justin, and Smitty’s Bar
See ya’ll back home in Waterloo soon. And thanks.
