The Best Of Times
I’ve spent a lot of time in headphones. Not the hip, white Ipod ear buds. I’m talking about the clunky, heavy ones that lock the world out, and keep the music in.
My earliest experience with music was via a powder blue Fischer Price record player. Later, my grandparents bought me a bright pink Radio Shack transistor radio. But the music that mattered the most, the sounds that really began to transform who I was becoming, came from my parents Magnavox cabinet stereo console.
This thing wasn’t just an AM/FM, cassette player and turntable, it was furniture. It was a huge oak paneled thing the size of a couch. And when I was a kid — eight or nine years old — living in Oak Park, IL, I spent hours and hours sitting in front of it Indian-style listening to records. Heavy rotation at the time consisted primarily of Neil Diamond’s “The Jazz Singer,” Journey’s “Escape,” the “Fame” soundtrack, and especially Styx’s “Paradise Theater.”
“Paradise Theater,” you’ll recall, was a concept album about the rise and fall of a Chicago landmark. It was a Dennis Dee Young rock opera with a few coke-addled Tommy Shaw rockers in-between. Though I didn’t really know any of that at the time. I only knew that I could sing along, and that if I closed my eyes, I could imagine myself on stage at the actual Paradise Theater. It was close enough to be real, but distant enough to be fantasy.
Years later, on New Year’s Eve 1988 or so, a colleague at the video store I worked at gave me a joint. My best friend, Sibby, and I smoked half of it before falling into our respective stupors: he, in front of a Flyers game, me in front of the stereo (then a Fischer console system with a still-novel CD player). I put on Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here” and — like so may stoners before me — disappeared into the music. Again, I closed my eyes, and imagined myself surrounded by towering amplifiers on an enormous stage.
I have stood on hundreds of stages since then, some enormous, some not. I have disappeared into the music thousands of times. That transformation, that transition out from the flesh and into the ether, never fails to move me to me deepest places. Last night was no exception.
Strap on some headphones. Have a listen. Tune the world out, and the music in. See where it takes you.
I’ll meet you there.
Work It
I’m gonna call it harbinger. Cuz I need a sign, a prophecy, an omen… anything.
A couple of hours ago now, Chris, Walker, Tony and I are rehearsing for Tuesday’s big ‘Heartland’ CD release show. We’re at a middle-of-the-road space called Ultrasound on 30th Street. It’s not the best space (thirty bucks an hour), or the best neighborhood. Walking in tonight, by example, I passed a man in a trash bag, and a woman wearing nothing but nylons just outside the door.
Rehearsal is going ok. After a rough, Replacement-esque start (which is fine by me), we’ve found our groove. The songs — new by all accounts — are settling into themselves. “Better That That,” especially, has found a new and better place. (So much so that I’m not sure guest-star Amy Hills will be able to figure out a part.)
This and other related thoughts are whipping around my (Stella-soaked) brain when our time runs out. The guy pops his head in the door. “Time’s up.” And so it is.
Chris, Walker, Tony and I pack our instruments away. I think to myself that Tuesday’s show is now completely out of my hands. We are as rehearsed as we are going to be. I pay the bill, and head for the elevator. En route, I pass what can only be described as an entourage: puffy down jackets, sideways baseball caps, bling. My Spidey sense tingles. ‘That’s Missy Elliott,’ I think to myself.
The four of us are standing by the elevator. Missy is just around the corner. ‘Dudes,’ I whisper, ‘Don’t all look at once, but Missy Elliott is just around the corner!’
“Who?” Walker asks.
“I was just watching ‘Honey’ today!” Chris says, faking like he’s searching for cell reception.
The entourage approaches. Three young women are staring blankly into their cell phones. Missy saunters up behind them, none too happy. She is pushing an orange Bugaboo baby carriage. A small poodle sits inside. I sneak a glance to confirm that it’s her. A diamond-studded Sidekick is in her left hand. Confirmed.
The eight of us — doggy not included — ride six floors down. Missy is clearly peeved. Her minions feign to remedy some invisible problem by holding their cell phones silently to their ears. I hold the door for her. She says thank you, and speeds off.
So there it is: Missy Elliott and me collaboratin’ on the corner of 30th Street and Eighth Avenue. A door, a puppy in a stroller, and a thank you.
Flip it, and reverse it, beeyatch.
The Blueprint
I woke up well before normal this morning, and lie there on my back a while looking up at the cloudless blue sky, worrying.
By lunchtime I was sweating. By dinner, I was nauseous. Right now I am, well, too tired to feel much at all.
I released my debut CD, “Bloom,” in 1994. I was 22-years-old. “Heartland” is my tenth release (though its my first on a bona fide independent label). You would think I’d be used to this entire hullabaloo by now. The last-minute details. The cloying nerves. The hope against hope. Feigning enthusiasm in the face of public apathy. Will anyone come to the show? Will anyone buy the album? Does anyone know how much I feel like Sisyphus? Does anyone know how much I care about these things? Does anyone else care in any way? At all? Even a little bit?
Tori Amos describes her songs as children. That might be a stretch for me and mine. But there certainly is vulnerability to giving them up, especially after such a long incubation (when you — to advance the metaphor — teach them manners, dress them up, and send them out), and especially to a world so saturated with commercialized art. It’s easy to forget, I think, that there is a face and a name — more tenuous still, a heart — behind every song. So when a judgment is rendered, or worse, one refuses to engage at all, well, it’s difficult not to take personally.
By the time I got home for work, I was short on breath, and shorter on patience. Casey, Chris, and Wynn were due at my apartment to rehearse for our pre-release Cross Pollination performance. All I wanted to do was go to sleep.
There was a Fed Ex envelope at my doorstep. Inside, there was a drawing by my cousin’s Billy’s daughter Drew. It is a pencil sketch of me. I have more hair, and am smiling more broadly, than I ever remember. I am holding my guitar, and singing, and — at least in Drew’s eyes — I am clearly very, very happy. Below the picture is written, “Cool Cool Awesome Wow Cool” next to a square amplifier that reads, “We love you.”
Everything else slipped away. Nothing else mattered. In an instant, a five-year-old child erased thirty-four years of worry. In an instant, a child gave me the blueprint of how to be very, very happy.
Your Legs Grow
It’s not very rock n’ roll, I suppose, to want to be a college professor. But it’s on my short list of things to do, right there next to South By Southwest, the cover of Rolling Stone, the Nantucket Film Festival, and The New York Times Best Seller List. Oh, and Mt. Everest.
I took steps towards at least two of those goals yesterday. I sent in my SXSW application as part of a potential Authentic Records Showcase (which would include The Nadas, Towncrier, Josh Davis, and me). And I wrote the dean of Syracuse’s journalism school.
From: Wagner, Benjamin
Sent: Thu 11/10/2005 4:39 PM
To: David Rubin
Subject: Re: Benjamin Wagner ’93Dear Dean Rubin:
I have seen extraordinary change in my ten years at MTV News. I launched MTV’s Daily News web site in 1996, and proselytized on behalf of the emerging medium throughout the Nineties. In the early 00′s, I have seen my vision of the digital newsroom and on-demand content model come to fruition. This year, as Executive Producer of MTV News Digital, I played a key role in the launch of the broadband industry’s current standard-bearer, MTV Overdrive. Best of all, I’ve had a blast doing it.
In the past five years, I have volunteered as a resource for Newhouse students through the Career Center. It has been my pleasure to speak with students and help them set career goals, and find their way towards those goals.
To that end (and because my contribution to Newhouse IV is a few years away), I’m offering you my time as a visiting lecturer. As a 34-year-old media executive at a fast-moving, early-adopting, wildly-popular network, I can connect with students and get them excited in a pragmatic, hands-on, do-it-yourself way.Most of all, I’d love to give back just a bit of the inspiration that I received from my professors (including yourself).
Best,
Benjamin Wagner
Executive Producer
MTV News Digital
He wrote back this morning.
From: David Rubin
Sent: Friday, November 11, 2005 9:53 AM
To: Wagner, Benjamin
Cc: Dona Hayes, Karen McGee
Subject: Re: Benjamin Wagner ’93Dear Ben:
I very much appreciate your offer to visit and talk to our students, and I am also happy to hear about your professional success. Your career is the reason we are in business.
I have copied Dona Hayes, the chair of the BJ department, and Karen McGee, who heads the CDC, with your e-mail and your offer to visit and talk to students. I am sure they will get in touch with you to arrange something that fits everyone’s schedule.
I hope to see you on campus in the spring.
DR
I was a dual major in college: creative writing and journalism. The Newshouse School was right across the street from the College of Arts & Sciences. Their respective curriculum was different in every way. At Newhouse, specific words mean specific things. A car “crash” was distinct from a car “accident.” Across the street, language was “slippery,” and the author revealed himself in every word choice. Newhouse was a vocation. Arts & Sciences was a way of thinking.
I was far more into my English classes and creative writing seminars than I was any of my journalism courses. But I always knew that I would travel farther — career wise, anyway — on the journalism degree. And I have.
That said, and the above email notwithstanding, I don’t want to return to my alma mater solely to hype the digital revolution, or my role in it. I just want to get students excited. I wasn’t excited in college, I was scared. I was scared that The Real World (not to be confused with “The Real World”) held no promise for me. Worse, I was scared that I held no promise for it. I lacked the confidence, or the imagination (perhaps) that I had anything to offer.
While the verdict is out on that very question, I’ve endured enough of The Real World to know that there’s a place here for everyone. You just gotta find it. Or make it.
Birth Of Words
At the time, opening for The Samples seemed like a pretty big deal.
The year was 1990. I was a 19-year-old junior at Syracuse University. In its first year, my band, Smokey Junglefrog, had already made something of a mark (primarily because we bombed the campus with posters, but whatever). We had released our debut recording (they were cassettes in those days), “Crumble,” which had actually gotten a spec of ink in the local weeklies. The local high school and college stations were playing some songs. We were about to release our second record, “Au Gratin.” And we had graduated from house parties (which still rate atop my list of all-time favorite shows: nothing beats an attic full of drunken co-eds and kegs) to local venues like The Lost Horizon.
The Lost Horizon wasn’t much to look at. It was basically a great big old house on Erie Boulevard, a long, wide, gray slab of concrete on the edge of a long, wide, gray slab of a city. But for touring acts of a certain size, The Lost was the only game in town. Bands as varied as Sonic Youth, Marillion, Brian Setzer, and The Mighty Might Bosstones (we opened for them too) played there. A whole bunch of local heavy metal bands with names like Dracula Jones and Bone China held down the weeknights.
Smokey Junglefrog, then, was something of an anomaly at The Lost. We were pretty damned poppy. At the time, we called it “alt.pop.” Which is to say, it was danceable, but the guitars were distorted. If I were to cite our influences (based on what we covered, and what we listened to in our then-copious free time), I’d say The Pixies meets R.E.M. with a bad case of schizophrenia. Truth is, we were pretty good. Slightly aimless, a little youthful, but pretty good.
Somehow, though, we became one of The Lost Horizon’s favorite bands. We played there all the time (and sometimes, we even drew a crowd). And I gotta tell ya, we thought we were rock stars. Especially when they tapped us to open for The Samples.
Now, bear in mind this was the early nineties. Earth Day was still a big deal. Dudes wore Guatemalan pants. Chicks wore tapestry-print skirts. Ponytails were happenin’ (or at least I thought so, but I was doing a ton of LSD at the time). So the Samples earnest, crunchy granola vibe was right in my wheelhouse. I might have even considered them something of an influence at the time. I dunno. I just know I was stoked, and it was a big deal. Heck, I think my brother flew in from Cleveland for the show (and I’m sure he packed an, ahem, big bag).
One memory emerges through the haze of time. I step into the bright lights, and the din of perhaps the largest audience we’d yet entertained. We’re opening with a silly, fun little number called “The Hamster Song.” This particular tune — a set opening staple — comes complete with its own dance (aptly dubbed “The Hamster Dance”) in which I basically wave my arms over my head and spin around in circles. Without fail, the audience always followed suit.
So there we are in the blinding spotlight of The Lost Horizon, the crowd’s going nuts, I’m smiling, Fish starts his drum fill, and Jamie and Paul come in with a discordant THUD! Paul’s bass is out of tune. Like, WAY out of tune. He looks at Jamie and in an instant — an instant in which I’m waving my hands over my head and spinning around in circles — decides to stop, retune, then start the song again. It is what we refer to in the business as a train wreck. And I’m the car stuck on the tracks.
I storm off stage in embarrassment. I find the nearest piece of furniture to throw my fists into, but throw my entire body instead. I slam my head into the table. Everything goes black. I stagger back on stage as the band begins again. And we’re off.
Later, after their set, I see Samples front man Sean Kelly talking to a blonde from my ETS 301 (“Reading Dreams”) class. He is wearing black Converse high tops, black jeans, a black t-shirt, and a black motorcycle jacket. He’s expounding on the plight of Native Americans. And she is completely rapt.
Even now, I can’t quite explain it, but I lost just a little bit of my innocence that night. Sometimes I think I’m still looking for it.
Just Read Your Blog…
This just in from my Smith Family cousin/brother Scott Cunningham, who overcame a slew of injuries to finish his first New York City Marathon in an astonishing 4:10:51.
Buck up Wagner! You ran in the top half of all finishers! And only 1 of 3 that recorded music during the training period (ok, that I know of anyway: me, you and Vanessa Carlton, and she has money for trainers and no day job! And actually no album release… so screw her now that I think of it!)
4:30:49 ain’t no joke brother!
Lance Armstrong doesn’t release albums. Bob Dylan ain’t no marathoner. You got ‘em both covered and you’re a Music Media Exec at the same time!
Half of what got me into this crazy thing in the first place was trying to chase you! Don’t bring it down now. It’s unattractive to the ladies.
In fact, I just spent the last few days looking at doing the NYC Tri! See what you’ve started?
Keep inspiring brother!
Thanks to Scotty, and all of you who’ve sent your kindness my way.
It’s working.
Going Through The Motions
My Aunt Marden wore a lot of orange and brown back in the day. Even in the late seventies, when I was still in single digits, it didn’t seem like much of a color combination.
She was one of those not-really-your-aunt aunts. In fact, she was my mom’s roommate at the College of St. Theresa in Winona, Minnesota. Don’t look for it, it’s no longer there. I guess all-women Catholic colleges hundreds of miles from the nearest urban center (would Minneapolis even count in 1964?) didn’t have legs. Perhaps because their idea of rebellion was skipping weekly convocation. Or a good time was all-night bridge in “The Smoker.”
Anyway, Aunt Marden spent a lot of time with us growing up in Chicago. Those were the days when the Equal Rights Movement was in full swing. The dining room walls were wood paneling. They didn’t know smoking was bad for them (or so I’m told). And there was a whole lot of orange and brown.
Visits to Aunt Marden’s modest La Grange apartment meant a dip into the jar of pennies. These were good times at eight-years-old. A fistful of Lincolns went a long way at the local five and dime: rubber snakes, snap-tight models, and bouncy balls. Good times.
I’m in a post-marathon, pre-album release low today. I’m wearing an orange sweater and a brown jacket. What I wouldn’t give to be sitting on Aunt Marden’s linoleum floor counting pennies.
Done With It
Disappointment with my marathon time notwithstanding, yesterday was my real finish line. And it felt pretty good.
I managed to think about virtually nothing from 11-12 as my unbelievably named Oasis Day Spa masseuse, Miles Golden, kneaded and pounded knots out of me. Somewhat surprisingly, the bulk of the damage is above my waist. Apparently, I carry stress in my shoulders and neck.
Afterwards, at just a few minutes past noon, we saddled up to the bar at Atlantic Grill. With the brilliant glare of fall sunshine pouring in the windows, we dined on oysters and beer, lobster salad, sushi, and champagne. We capped this decadent lunch with a visit to Crumbs for cupcakes and cookies. Divine.
After a long nap (punctuated by web surfing for a mid-winter vacation destination), we took in “Prime” (which was just ok), and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Mint Chocolate Cookie (which was, as always, excellent).
Back at work, now, I feel as though I’ve been away for a month. It’s difficult to adjust. And it’s difficult to talk with people about the race. I am reticent to discuss my disappointment, and reticent to spin my success. Everyone — including you, Dear Readers — has only kind words for me, which I appreciate. I wish I could focus on the success of just finishing. I wish I could relish in the accomplishment of bringing myself back to marathon shape in three short months (waking up all hung over and injured in the back of The Nadas bus in August, while fun, was definitely my physical low point).
But I can’t.
I want to heed Cameron Crowe’s advise (via Kirsten Dunst) to allow myself ten minutes to feel sorry for myself, then move on.
But I can’t.
I want to heed my buddy Ben’s excellent advice:
“Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could; some blunders and absurdities have crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; you shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.”
– Emerson
But I can’t.
And maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe that’s what keeps me aspiring to do more, and do better. Or maybe that’s what makes me just a little bit fucking nuts. Not sure. Lemme get back to you on that.
Mine, Yours, Ours
I don’t really want to talk about it.
But I will. Because it’s what I do here. And because so many of you were so kind in sending me you well-wishes via email, text message, and carrier pigeon.
Bottom line: I finished the New York City Marathon in 4:30:49. My sixth marathon was my worst. Though not by much. I finished ’04 in 4:25:00, and ’03 in 4:24:00, all in contrast to my ’03 best of 3:56:00. Perhaps not coincidentally, my three worst times coincide with the three years I’ve released a new CD within a week of the marathon. More on that later.
As predicted, I was hot. I dunno for sure, but I’m pretty sure it was the warmest NYC Marathon ever. Certainly the warmest marathon I’ve ever run (and the last two were hot). Which ends up being bad news. I have a tendency to dehydrate — no matter how much water or Gatorade I take in — and sure enough, by mile seventeen, the dreaded goose bumps arrived. More on that later.
Chris, Jen and I stepped onto the bus at 6:00. I read “Fargo Rock City” all the way to Staten Island. It only took a half an hour, most of which was spent creeping across the Verranzano Bridge. Fort Tryon was nearly empty when we walked in. The bridge was largely obscured by fog. The air was cool and moist. Chris and I toured the corrals to decide where to start. We all had different colors and numbers, so had to coordinate.
Abbi and her sister Pembry met us around 8:00. I stretched, changed (black tights, sleeveless Dry Fit, brand-new Thorlo socks, and lots of Vasoline), and dropped my bag at UPS truck #52. We dropped the ladies¹ bags, and lined up in the orange corral. (There are three: orange, blue, and green. You don’t want green, as those runners end up on the lower deck of the bridge where they are showered by pee from above).
The start might have been the best part. “New York, New York” gets me every time. Chris and I sang it over and over as we packed up his pick-up truck and drove it here in 1995.
I’ll spare you the mile-by-mile (though you can click here for some photos), primarily because I have a massage in a few minutes, and secondarily because, well, I don’t really want to talk about it. In general, I never felt like it was my race. I never felt like I settled into my pace. I was in a constant state of worrying. Was I going to dehydrate? Was I being too conservative? Too ambitious? Would I have anything left?
I was pacing the sisters, as it was their first, but they were consistently a few paces in front of me. They were smiling, chatting, excited, and clearly reveling in the excitement of the event. Which is great. It is exciting. I am, perhaps, a bit used to the one million supporters who line the course. And — despite the heat — it was a beautiful day. But I am, perhaps, a bit used to the scenery. In fact, I found myself incapable of being present in any moment, as I was consistently around the next bend in my mind.
First Avenue was, as always, a highlight. We took a brief photo, stretching and Lifesaver break at 71st Street, then resumed. It’s a slow, steady climb into the Bronx, and by the time you get cross the Willis Avenue Bridge, it’s dead quiet. My hip flexors were tight, my head was swimming, and spikes of pain were shooting up and down my IT band, but mostly, I just felt heavy and slow. I felt like I was plodding. And I was. I passed the 21-mile mark at about 3:30:00. Even in my mentally compromised state (math becomes impossible), it was crystal clear that I wasn’t going sub-four.
Somewhere around twenty-one, as I lost the sisters in the glare of the afternoon sun, I thought to myself, ‘This was never my race.’ I was sagging, and had already acknowledged defeat. But then I heard a miraculous voice in my head that said, ‘Well then make it your race!’ Despite the constant shouts of “Go Benjamin!” and “C’mon Benjamin Wagner Dot Com,” that phrase is the only thing I heard for the remaining five miles. ‘Make it yours, make it yours, make it yours…’
I crossed the finish line alone, and with minimal fanfare, at 4:30:49. I was not happy. I was not celebrating. But I was happy to slip the medal over my head, and happy to wrap myself in the mylar blanket, and happy to change into my warm, dry clothes right there on the corner of 74th & Central Park West.
It was a disappointing finish. I had visions of crossing hand-in-hand with Abbi, all smiles, sub-four. I had visions of a raucous family reunion, a rare hamburger, and a tall, cold beer. I got some of that.
The marathon is an epic journey. From the moment one commits to it, to the moment one crosses the finish line is a modern day Odyssey. And in wrestling with Poseidon, fighting the Minotaur, and withstanding the Keeper of the Winds, one finds one’s self transformed.
My story does not end as I would have written it. But apparently that’s not the story this time. My story ends with a song over the credits (R.E.M.”Worst Joke Ever”) and a whispered refrain…
Make it yours. Make it yours. Make it yours.
The Fall
These are, to be sure, the days.
There’s something strangely cruel about the fall. Nature’s finest foreworks — thunderstorms notwithstanding — are reserved for these final days of warm weather. Outside my window, the trees are brilliant with reds and yellows and oranges. It’s beautiful. But it’s fleeting. In a few days, it’ll be over. The city will be cast in gray. We will have fallen.
Fall is my favorite season; the leaves, the sky, the air. It is, I guess, my own personal harvest. It’s the culmination of my year’s work. I spend all year readying myself for the marathon: short runs, duathlons, triathlons, half marathons, long runs. And I spend all year preparing to release a new record (my last three LPs were released in November): writing songs, playing shows, recording, mixing.
Today, then, is the cusp. Tomorrow I run my sixth New York City Marathon. Next week I release my tenth CD, “Heartland.” I am standing on the edge of months of my preparation. What does it look like?
It looks like pajama bottoms and a Blogger T-shirt. It looks like clean laundry (including four pairs of jeans, and thirty-three pair of boxers — all blue). It looks like “Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind” on DVD. It sounds like Wilco “Kicking Television” on CD. And it smells like yogurt.
It feels like, well, I’m not sure. It feels tranquil. It feels quiet. It feels good. It feels like I’m ready. For all of it. For anything.
Here we go…
