Guilty As Charged
Judging by the weight of my heart, one would think I’d been found guilty.
The charge was felony possession of marijuana. The Defendant was a Haitian man, about 40-years-old. He wore a short Afro, tattered khaki sport coat, matching alligator shoes, and a wedding band.
There were six witnesses: three cops, two lab chemists, and a witness found a few feet from the door with 7.78 ounces of marijuana tucked into his waistband. The twelve jurors were varied: three African-Americans, three Latinos, and six Caucasians of both genders.
The case unfolded slowly over the course of the week. The cops testified on Tuesday, the lab chemists testified on Wednesday morning, and then the star witness: The Buyer.
The Buyer was a non-practicing attorney and self-described marijuana connoisseur. “I call it wisdom,” he said. He was the turncoat. While he didn’t finger The Defendant directly, what he did say said it all. “Listen, all I know is that one minute there was no pot, then The Defendant showed up and there was pot.”
The sad, sordid affair unwound in slow motion; every detail carefully laid out, contested, sustained or overturned. In short, The Buyer called his hookup, a.k.a. The Dread, to purchase some “high grade.” The Dread was fresh out. The Dread called The Defendant. The Defendant showed up, and disappeared into the bedroom with the Dread. Moments later, three pounds of marijuana (decidedly not high grade) was on the table. The Buyer peeled of six bills, placed them on the table, and walked. As he stepped through the door, three of New York City’s Finest — who just happened to be on vertical patrol in the building — stepped through the door. The Dread, who was standing, and The Defendant, who was seated before the pile of weed, were ordered to the floor at gunpoint. The Buyer joined them on the floor a few seconds later.
Defense attempted a number of slight of hand tricks. Could the cops really see the evidence through the door? Was The Buyer a credible witness? How much money did the cops recover? Who’s apartment was it anyway? Was The Defendant in control of the pile of weed? Or was The Dread?
In the end, all that mattered was New York State’s legal definition of possession. In short, possession is defined as on one’s person, or in one’s control or “dominion.”
While it was absolutely clear to me that The Dread called The Defendant and they collectively sold to The Buyer, the case was slightly stickier. The drugs were on neither man’s person. Nor was the recovered money. Still, with a huge pile of weed in front of him, and a trail of scattered buds between himself and The Dread’s scale, the case was clear. To me.
Upon deliberation of what I expected to be an open and shut case, I was flabbergasted to find that some of my fellow jurors were unsure of The Defendant’s guilt. The defense attorney had successfully distracted them with his slight of hand. They didn’t understand the law. Their heads were a flurry with detail, and they couldn’t see the forest for the trees.
An hour later, having reviewed the letter of the law, we took a second vote. Eleven of us said, “guilty.” The woman to my left, Juror Number 4, was bothered by the first policemen’s credibility (which, given the avalanche of photographic and corroborating evidence, was superfluous).
“Guilty… I guess,” she said quietly.
“You can’t guess,” I replied. “We won’t rush this. What are you uncertain about?”
We reviewed the concept of possession, and it was done.
We returned to the courtroom and the foreman read the verdict. Then each of us was called on to confirm our verdict individually. At the start of the trial, the defense attorney had asked us, “Will you be able to look my client in the eye and say, ‘Guilty?’” So when the clerk called on me, I looked The Defendant in the eyes, and said just that.
I was not fueled by vengeance, or anger, or any sense of retribution. I felt sad, worn down, and exhausted. It was a thankless task, and a sad end to a very sad story.
Trial by peers, it seems to me, is a pretty great system. It is completely transparent. Rights are vigorously defended. It is just. Sure, it’s tedious, and it took up my valuable time. Some jurors complained. But I kept quiet, thinking to myself, ‘I hope I’m treated as fairly if I’m ever in his shoes.’”
I hope I’m never in his shoes.
Forever Youngish
Being on jury duty and all, I’ve had a lot of time to read. And to think. And I’ve been thinking a lot about my generation.
In the Nineties, we were tagged with the now-unfortunate label, “Generation X.” Now, I liked Douglas Coupland’s book as much as the next guy. In fact, I recently picked up a copy to re-read it, though I didn’t make to chapter two.
The label referred, of course, to our post-Boomer status. We were decidedly un-Sixties: no hope, just cynicism We were the generation of Atari, Star Wars, and (sigh) Ronald Reagan. We were cynical, apathetic “slackers.” We were a blank generation: untested, unproven, and undefined. We were suspect of The Man, loathe to wear a suit, or otherwise adopt (or be co-opted) by any of the trappings of Big Institution. Still, we were dubious of The Summer Of Love, the Electric Cool Aid Acid Test, and anything else that reeked of what our parents (some of ours, anyway) called The Counter Revolution.
We were key players in the Dot Com Boom, and subsequent Bust. We witnessed The Gulf War, and September 11th. Perhaps we’ve earned said cynicism (though I still resist it).
My mother likes to remind me, “We impeached a president and ended a war.” I can say no such thing. We watched both Bush’s wars unfold on CNN. And when we marched, our president called it a “focus group.”
Now, I think, “Generation X” refers more to our in between-ness: we are neither Boomer nor Y. Both are sizably bigger, by a factor of almost two. Which may explain, as a recent Details article suggested, why we are a niche generation. As consumers, we savor our “alternative” music. We drink our microbrews. We eschew Brooks Brothers for Paul Frank. We want boutique, custom, originality, even if it’s packaged by J Crew.
At nearly 35-years-old, I find myself virtually indistinguishable from my younger cousin. I’m in a rock band. He’s in a rock band. I wear a hoodie, sport coat and sneakers. He wears a hoodie, sport coat and sneakers. I drink Sam Adams. He drinks Yuengling. This weekend, I’ll visit the local art house to watch “The Devil & Daniel Johnston.” So will he.
At nearly 35-years-old, though — in contrast to both my younger cousin and his Generation Y peers — I am contented in this. My generation’s idols are guys like Michael Stipe, P.T. Anderson and David Eggers. His are Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan and Ashton Kutcher. Sure, we all know their names. But what have they done? What have they made? What have they contributed? They’ve managed only fame for fame’s sake, one red carpet at a time.
I am then, it has only recently dawned on me, a product that only my generation could manufacture: a boutique artist, a rock and roll cottage industry.
Sure, I work for The Man, but only to collect enough paper to record play a few more shows. Sure, I sell a few records, but only enough to make the next one (and barely that).
The shining realization in all of this, then, is that I’m ok with it, though I’m not sure any other generation would be. ProTools, the Internet, the blog — they all allow me to cast a small net. Not that I didn’t once dream of the cover of Rolling Stone. But if you’ve found my words, or my music, it’s unlikely you’ve done so due to my efforts (the process of creation notwithstanding). You’ve found me on your own. It’s a small thing we share. But it’s a small, good thing.
Still, the net’s effective enough. I got an email yesterday from a guy I knew in sixth grade. You may recall that I once wrote of him the following:
Cut to sixth grade. I’m the new kid at Devon Elementary in Suburban Philadelphia. The school bully, Brad Daggett, has challenged me to stand high atop the jungle gym and sing Kim Wilde’s “Kids In America” for the entire playground. I assume he thought I’d be embarrassed. To the contrary, I was thrilled with the attention. He may not have appreciated the impromptu show, but the sixth grade girls did. I was hooked.
Brad’s email read:
A friend just sent me an email of your speech at Emerson University and pointed out the reference to the “bully from Devon.” After a big belly laugh, I went on to read the remainder of the article and, to say the least, was quite impressed with everything you have accomplished since then. The music sounds great and I just wanted to shoot you a quick note of congratulations. While I don’t remember the story personally, it doesn’t seem to be much of a stretch for me in those days. Keep up the good work.
I replied:
Ain’t the Internet full of surprises? Sometimes when I write, I forget that my memories (many of which verge on fiction after all of these years) are based on actual people and actual events. I appreciate the understanding and sense of humor you apparently took at finding your name in print some twenty years later. Of course, there’s no caveat there, no disclaimer, no “Hey it was a long time ago,” though I expect it’s implied. The sixth grade version of you, anyway, represents the vast difference between suburban Chicago, from where I moved, and suburban Philly. You’re unlikely to recall that you “called me out” on my first day. I said, “Sure,” cuz I thought you wanted to go to Wawa or something. :) Anyway, obviously water well under the bridge. For what it’s worth, I have plenty of decent shared memories, not the least of which being that you introduced me to The Who’s “Tommy.”
And so it is. We make waves. Maybe not the kind that capsize cruise ships, or wipe out entire villages. Maybe they’re pretty small. But small gestures change history. And small waves move continents, one tiny grain of sand at a time.
I The Jury
Apparently, I couldn’t postpone the inevitable any longer.
I have deferred my civic duty six times in the last two years. I blew off the first three jury subpoenas figuring I could chock their loss up to a mail snafu (well, I had moved). I ignored a few more. Then came the excuses: bad time at work (we were about to launch Overdrive, we were about to tackle the VMAs), family emergency, business trip. Finally, last week, knowing that I was heading to Syracuse, I bit the bullet and scheduled the nearest, unobstructed string of dates.
My strategy when I served four years ago was to wiggle out of each potential case. Domestic unrest? Can’t do it: divorced parents. Assault? Can’t do it: broken jaw. Drug charge? Ha.
This time, though, inspired in no small part by Abbi’s recent dismissal before the case even started and an overwhelming sense of duty, I endeavored to be called. Not in a bad way, or a deceptive way. I am under oath. So I decided to play it straight.
The first panel called was sixty names. Mine was twenty-third.
We waited in the drab gray hallways of 100 Center Street about thirty minutes before being ushered into the courtroom. Lawyers who look like they’ve never seen sun (or, for that matter, the inside of anywhere other than Today’s Man) shuffle past. I sat on the floor, clicking through my Blackberry, and flipping through Details. I smiled reading an article on Gen-X (“How We Went From Generation X To The Lost Generation”). My leg fell asleep. When the deputy finally led us inside, I limped.
The courtroom is actually pretty impressive. Which is to say, it’s big: rows of pews, vaulted ceilings, hanging fixtures (albeit fluorescent). Mis-matched bronze letters above the bench read, IN GOD WE TRUST (didn’t we start this country to separate church and state?). The New York and US flags stand off-center behind the judge. It would make me nuts.
The judge looks like Gary Hart. I like him. But doesn’t know me yet. I haven’t been called for vau deer, though I keep willing the clerk to call my name. Instead, she’s called twenty-six others, four of whom spoke no English (how did they make it this far?), and two of whom have been dismissed for other reasons.
The voir dire process is somewhat maddening. It feels like trickery, like a chess match between lawyers. Each successive question seems more inconsequential than the one prior, but then they get serious, fast: a bunch of if/then statements. The process is nerve wracking, and slightly antagonistic. Everyone is vulnerable here, leveled by the imperative to tell the truth.
And to tell you the truth, I can’t tell you any more.
I got picked for the jury.
Shaking Through
Man, you just never know.
I spent last weekend mixing “The Desert Star EP.” The last thing I would have expected to do this weekend is spend it in front of my laptop. But there I was, recording a new song, all weekend. And loving it.
Check this out. It’s Saturday afternoon. I’m taking a break from mixing “Boomtown,” one of the three bonus tracks from “The Desert Star EP” (all of which can be yours if you pre-order now!). I’m eating vanilla frozen yogurt with a Kinder Egg crushed into it. And I’m watching some wedding show on Oxygen or WE or Lifetime or something. And despite my self, tears are actually rolling down my cheeks. In a good way. I’m laughing, and crying, and eating, while I watch a three-year-old tell a bride-to-be, “You’re the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen.”
I grab my Martin and I climb the spiral staircase to my studio. On, maybe, the fourth step, I start playing a D chord. But I play it differently than ever before. And next thing I know, I’ve got a new song on my hands.
Thing is, I have dinner plans, so I barely get a scratch track recorded. But I do. And I walk to dinner listening to the hook. It’s kind of baroque: the same notes in three different octaves. But I’m wordless… Until I walk home from dinner.
I’m thinking I want to write a song like, “Everybody Hurts,” you know, that really ernest, almost cheesy R.E.M. song? I’m thinking I want to write really, really beautiful song. The kind of song people dance to at weddings, or proms.
It took me all day. I finished mixing sometime around eight o’clock tonight. I think it’s one of the prettiest things I’ve ever written, or recorded. It’s all about vows. It’s a love song, a promise, to someone you love: a spouse, or a child.
And it came out of thin air. Thank goodness.
Reality Bites
There’s a spot on the hill above campus where we used to go. Sometimes we’d take a forty, or a fatty. Other times we’d pack a picnic, and sit there in the car with some sandwiches, some songs, and the view.
All of Syracuse sprawled out below us. It wasn’t much of a skyline, really — more smokestacks than skycrapers — but it was a vista. And while we couldn’t quite see forever, we could at least see beyond the immediacy of whatever constituted the problems of a twenty-year-old.
I wrote “Summer’s Gone” about that place, and that feeling: standing at that spot, there on the edge of adolescence and adulthood, overwhelmed by the vast horizon.
Taking in the view
Lying here next to you
One the hill above our town
Lights spread out below
Draw us in an undertow
Dizzy from nothing to lose
With only a few minutes to burn before heading to the airport, I turned into Thorndon Park, and drove up the hill. I paused just a minute, long enough to snap a few photos, and breath in the brittle winter air. The sky was choked with clouds, obscuring the setting sun. The wind was bitter. I spotted some names carved into the lamppost, and remembered that feeling: young, dumb, and in love.
It was a long time ago.
Later, I drove through the neighborhood below, looking for The “Smokehouse,” where Tod, Jamie, Pablo and I once lived. I had a difficult time spotting which house was ours. Just as Mo Hart, the protagonist in my long-since abandoned screenplay of the same name, wandered that same neighborhood, lost, hung over and terrified, just prior to his graduation.
That’s how I left Syracuse way back in 1993: lost, hung over and a little bit terrified. I returned this morning with a far better sense of direction, much more clarity, and a heck of a lot more courage. The campus seemed, not surprisingly, smaller. There were new some buildings, but generally, little had changed. The sky was gray. The architecture clashed. And students criss-crossed The Quad in a rush to class.
I spoke to three classes today, Professor Kaplan’s Advanced News Writing, Professor Elin’s Advanced Graphics Design, and an open seminar of my own design called (what else), “I Want My MTV! Or, How A Newhouse Newspaper Grad Got Stuck In The New Media Bubble.” Between classes, I had lunch with Ed Gorman, Accociate Director of Alumni Relations, and met with Broadcast Journalism Chair Dona Hayes Storm. Kristin Kane of the Newhouse Career Development Office was my charming hostess.
My primary motivation in returning to my alma mater was to give something back. There was a fair portion of “WWMRD” (What Would Mister Rogers Do?) to the whole thing. Can’t change the world? Try a small corner of it. I felt like the university had given me some pretty decent tools. I want to give some back.
For one, I left Syracuse with nary a clue what I’d be once I grew up (short of being on the cover of Rolling Stone). Now that I’ve, apparently, landed on my feet, I wanted to reassure others that they would as well.
My secondary motivation (as I think I’ve written here before) was to plant some professorial seeds. I might want to teach in ernest some day. This was an opportunity to feel that out.
I loved it. I didn’t love hearing my own voice for hours on end (believe it or not). But I loved talking about what I do, and what I believe in. I mean, I know I’m no Walter Cronkite, but we do good work at MTV News. Not the Britney and Beyonce stuff, necessarily — though if people are fans of theirs, there’s no better place to find out what they’re up to. But the good works we do: “Growing Up Black In America,” “The Diary Of Gideon In Pakistan,” “After The Storm.” I mean, if young people are gonna get their news from John Stweart and us, well, that a serious endeavor. I wanna do a good job at it.
Above all, though, I hope I left one or two of those students with the sense that they can make a difference. They can land their dream job. They can love what they do. And their dream job and their dreams aren’t mutually exclusive. Lucky for me, mine aren’t.
At the end of the day, though, with a thin orange band of sunlight fighting through the clouds, I hope both the students and left with the assurance that summer isn’t gone. It’s just around the corner.
Homecoming King
I’m going back to school.
I haven’t been back to Syracuse in something like ten years. It was circa “Out Of Your Head,” which should tell you something about how long ago it was. Eric Gilman, Paul Perreault, my brother, Chris, and I play were on a small tour through the Northeast. We had a show at some coffee shop downtown. We stayed at the University Sheraton, but didn’t really do much on campus. It felt really alien. And it was only a few years after I graduated. Of course, we were wicked stoned the whole time, so that might have had something to do with it.
Truth is, I always felt pretty alien at Syracuse. It was never really my first choice (that would have been Northwestern). The winters are horrendous. And it’s not much to look at: just a bunch of mis-matched building high atop of permanently gray city (large town, really).
I wanted to transfer pretty much immediately, but — in a flash of unexpected maturity — realized that wherever I went is where I’d be (existential, huh?). So I stayed, and made a home of it. I made some friends, formed the band, and smoked a lot of pot. It was fine.
And the classes were good. I was a dual major: creative writing and newspaper. I was enrolled in two different colleges: Arts & Sciences, and the Newhouse School of Public Communications. Truth is, I loved A&S, and pretty much-loathed Newhouse. I liked all the Big Idea classes. I liked discussing the intersection of dreams and contemporary fiction. I liked discussing The Clash’s impact on post-WWII British literature. I liked writing short stories and discussing them. Communications law? No thanks.
End of the day, though, Newhouse served me pretty well. It was vocational, true. In a way, it was the practical application of all the free thought I learned across the street at A&S. Either way, their career center helped me land my internship at Men’s Journal, and thus my freelance gig at Rolling Stone. So I wanted to pay ‘em back in some small way.
So I’m flying up there after work tomorrow night. I’m teaching three classes Thursday (one of which, God help me, begins at 9:30), all of which could be characterized as MTV 101, or How I Got My Really Cool, Really Fun Job.
The whole thing began, as you might recall, with an email to my former dean. He wrote back, and hooked me up with some other contacts, and we worked something out. In short, I volunteered, primarily because I remember how clueless I was when I graduated, and how I could have benefited from some young(ish) dude giving me some kinda’ Real World 101 (no, not the show).
My ulterior motive, truth be told, is that I’ve always wanted to teach. In fact, one of my potential career paths way back when was to do graduate school, then teach. Oddly enough, two of my professors (my favorites: Bob Gates and Tobias Wolff) kind of warned me off the whole thing. That is, I was pretty reactionary against having a “corporate job,” so academia seemed like a good alternative. “If you don’t think there are bullshit politics in academia,” Professor Gates said, “Think again.”
I’m a little freaked out. I keep dreaming about being on stage without a guitar, if that tells you anything. I haven’t really done my homework. That is, I have some notes and outlines, but nothing like a lesson plan. We’ll see how it goes. It could just feel like I’m just a slightly older alien. Or it could feel like some sort of a homecoming.
Everything I’m Cracked Up To Be
On paper, my weekend might look like a bust. But in person, it was everything I’m cracked up to be.
Somewhere along the way, we’re taught to look for plumes, fireworks, earthquakes and thunder. But the angels in the atmosphere are distant. Their chorus is far off and faint. We hear it only when we listen closely. Sometimes we might not hear it at all. But it’s there in the little things.
St. Patrick’s Day is, of course, for the amateurs. Where some might line up early at McSorely’s, or on Fifth Avenue for the fife and drums, mine was spent at home, in front of an old movie, with a plate full of dim sum and a glass full of beer.
Saturdays are, for many, the penultimate. Where some might head downtown to the glow of the glitterati, or the fashionistas, mine was spent in the company of a little boy stretching for butterflies and big blue whales.
And while Sundays are, for most, brunches and banquets, mine was spent coloring, singing, and banging on a battered drum.
I finished “The Desert Star EP” today, here amidst the white noise of the Upper West Side: the sirens, the car alarms, and the traffic. I harnessed the sound of all the moments that came before: the laughter, the bird calls, and the wind.
Ten years ago, I might have called this weekend lame. There were no rock shows, no spotlights, no applause. There was nothing for the pages of Rolling Stone, of even The Sunday Times. But there were angels in the atmosphere, singing a distant chorus for the patient heart, and the careful listener.
The Count
I feel like Edmund Dantes: locked behind iron bars, stuck in a cell high above the city, wind-whipped and exhausted.
After four hours of mixing “Angels In The Atmosphere” last night, my headphones were crushing my glasses into my temples like a medieval torture device. Still, vengeance will be mine when I unleash this EP on an unwitting populace.
I’m sure you’re getting tired of reading about the making of The Desert Star EP,” more, perhaps, than I’m getting tired of writing about it (or living it!). But the truth is, MTV News notwithstanding, it’s all I’ve been doing.
I got home around 7:30 last night, sat down in front of Access Hollywood, and restrung my Martin. After nearly twenty years of playing guitar, it still takes me nearly a half hour of awkward fumbling to get it playable again. Rediculous. And annoying.
Upstairs, I spent nearly two hours tracking and mixing vocals for “Angels.” One might wonder exactly how that could be. Well, it’s not so much a question of hitting the notes. I’m fine there. It’s more about getting the sentiment right. Do I whisper more? Growl more? Am I too throaty? Too fey? Too lispy? And when I do manage to get a good take, odds are it’s not good straight through. So I spend another two hours trying to edit together various takes. But the levels are variable, or the performance is varied, or I stood too far from the mic, or… you get the idea. I shouted out loud more than once.
Of course, it doesn’t help that I want this record to sound like “Out Of Time,” or at least “Heartbreaker.” This from the guy who was just planning to write and record a few solo acoustic songs. This from the guy who thought it would be a breezy, lo-fi, warts-and-all recording. Now, all of a sudden, it has to be Grammy worthy.
Ah, The Obsessive Compulsive.
I took a break around ten o’clock to call Abbi (who’s kind of wondering where I disappeared to), and order some dinner. I watched “High Fidelity” (“Which came first? The music? Or the misery?”), relished a turkey burger deluxe, then stumbled back up my spiral staircase into the warm glow of my G4 and flickering candles. By midnight, I could scarcely keep my eyes open for the soul-crushing headache.
I keep thinking about Jesus’ forty days and forty nights of trial in the desert. Not because I’m all that familiar with The Bible. I’m not. Honestly, my memory of that story is formed primarily from “The Last Temptation Of Christ” which my mom (a progressive Catholic with a masters degree in theology) took me to see when I was a teenager. Plus, she often referred to “the dark night of the soul.” My weekend in Palm Springs wasn’t so much a dark night, but I was aware that I was — and still am — teetering on the edge of one.
Hence “Flirting With Disaster” (“You’re flirting with disaster/You’re always on the run/Your heart is beating faster/On and on and on and on”), and hence the need to slow down, let the light in, and find the “Angels In The Atmosphere” (“Where the sky opens up when they’re near/And the air grows heavy with light/And you say, ‘Glory! I’m so alive!’”).
I listened to four of the five mixes on the subway this morning. For the most part, I was pleased. I’ve done a pretty good job, despite the late nights, the solitude, the madness, and the headaches. Best of all, it sounds arid, but lush. It sounds frenzied, but relaxed. It sounds dark, but getting brighter. It sounds like time in the desert, or the morning after a dark night of the soul. Which is the whole idea. And worth all the headaches.
Clouds
The wind was terrible and swift last night. The walls buckled and swayed. The rainspout slammed against the stucco. The window panes threatened to pop from their frames.
It was another long, cold, sleepless night. My apartment felt haunted.
I mixed “Carmelita.” I listened to it over and over for two hours straight before committing to a final version. I have no idea what it sounds like. Pretty cool, I hope.
Tonight, I have to track final vocals guitars for “Flirting With Disaster,” “Angels in the Atmosphere,” and “Rainmaker,” then mix them all. It’s a lot to do.
A week from tonight, I’m flying to Syracuse to teach two classes and lead an open forum at my alma mater. I have a ton of homework yet to do.
I have jury duty the following Monday, rehearsal Thursday, and the “Desert Star EP” CD release on Friday night.
I’m freakin’ out.
Calling All Angels
It began with a celebration, and ended with a nightmare.
I prepared my taxes today, and discovered that it was a banner year for Benjamin Wagner Deluxe, LLC. I nearly broke even. For that reason, and on account of the good fortune that I received a mysterious direct deposit of $117.67, I decided to celebrate. Sushi and beer in front of the TV!
The celebration, though, was short lived. I had pledged myself to finishing “The Desert Star EP.” One song into mixing, I realized (surprise!) that I’d bitten off more, perhaps, than I can chew.
I’ve never recorded, produced, and mixed a record all by myself. Sure, I’ve been increasingly instrumental (bad pun) in my recordings. Kevin and collaborated on “Almost Home” and “Love & Other Indoor Games.” Most of the ideas for parts and sounds were mine, but the execution was largely his and others. “Heartland” was even more my own work, but Lon Locker really came in and spruced it up quite a bit. But for this one, I’m all alone on the high wire. And it’s looking like a long way down.
It’s tough going with no one here with me. It’s tough to know what you’re hearing after a while. Not only that, but it’s tough to judge a performance, or an idea. After a while, it all sounds the same. And none of it sounds like the stuff coming out of Ocean Way or The Hit Factory.
Of course, the four people who have pre-ordered my new five-song CD (thank you Tricia, Dawn, Chase, and Mary) will probably dig it regardless (not because they’re easy to please, but because I think they’re fellow travellers on this ride — wherever it takes us, they’re game).
No, believe it or not, the pressure has more to do with legacy. I mean, future generations will only remember The Beatles and Bob Dylan. I wouldn’t even make the top fifty thousand (I’m not that deluded). It’s not like this little project, of all things, will garner any attention from, say, Rolling Stone. And I think I’m over the whole record deal pipe dream. So why the hell am I talking about legacy?
Well, for one thing, I guess I do consider how my songs stand up to other recordings, from Bob Dylan to Darden Smith. I’d like my kids and their kids to have something, to be able to say, “Listen, it’s grandpa.” I certainly want my songs and my records to get better, not worse. And of course, I have no control where my songs go. At the minimum, people will click through iTunes and either say, “This sucks” or “Good stuff.” I’ll take the latter.
I mixed “California Stars,” then moved onto “Angels In The Atmosphere.” That’s when I realized I still had to put down a new lead vocal, plus backup vocals. So I looked over the other three songs. “Carmelita” is ready to mix, but “Rainmaker” still needs a new guitar and vocal, and “Flirting With Disaster,” well, don’t even go there.
After taking about two dozen passes at the “Angels” vocal, I went to bed.
Next thing I know, I’m walking on stage. The band is already playing. The audience (there’s an audience!) is rarin’ to go. But I have no guitar. This dude — I don’t know him, but I think he was The Devil, or at the minimum The Trickster — has borrowed it. And he keeps being evasive, handing me any guitar but mine every time I ask, with increasing anger, “Where’s my guitar!?!” Then I’m outside in an open field, then the ocean, then the woods, and everywhere it’s nighttime, and it’s raining. And I’m running. Worse, I’m being chased.
I wake up at 4:01, super freaked out, massive headache. I stretch my neck a while, take some deep breaths, and pop a few Advil. Then I bite the bullet, throw off the covers, get out of bed and, well… here I am.
My alarm just went off.
It’s 6:01 now, cloudy, 51°. I’m going outside — over a field, past the lake, through the woods — to run with an angel. I’m sure I can run it off. I’m sure I’ll get my guitar back. I’ll finish this record. And it’ll be fine.
