Into The Great Wide Open
My friends are the best.
They’re the kinda guys who’ll willingly sacrifice the first 60° Saturday afternoon of the young year to lay down a few rockin’ tracks. And afterwards, they’ll gladly down a few pints and hot wings at the local dive bar.
Chris and Tony came over to record today. In four hours, they’d both tracked some great additions to “The Desert Star EP.”
Tony drove thirty miles. Chris was recovering from a recently broken nose, all black, blue and groggy. Tony put down bass lines on all five songs. Chris tracked rhythm parts, and a few blistering solos. Both rocked.
It’s pretty exciting to hear these songs come together. They were just a jumble of ideas when I wrote ‘em in the desert a few weeks ago. Now they’re songs.
I’ll mix them down in the next few days, then hand off to Mark over at The Engine Room. The five song EP — with a great cover of Wilco’s “California Stars” — will be done for our March 31 show at Pianos. I can’t wait to hear ‘em live. It’ll be the sound of friendship, only amplified.
Second Guessing
This is the second time in a row.
As you know, I’m working on a new record, “The Desert Star.” Just a little one — an EP — to keep me busy, keep me creative, yunno. And twice now I’ve tried to re-track songs I wrote and recorded in the desert. And twice now I’ve come back to the original.
I do a mean cover of “California Stars.” It’s a song by Woody Guthrie that Billy Bragg and Wilco set to music for their “Mermaid Avenue” collaboration. I recorded a version for the Morning Mix last year. It seemed like the perfect coda to the new CD. So I set to re-record it earlier this week. I figured I’d record to click track; make it easier for the guys to lay down there parts. Three hours later, I hated what I’d recorded. It was soul-less. It sounded square, boring.
Tonight, I thought I’d knock out “Rainmaker,” a quiet little pretty one I recorded in L.A. I thought I could get a better guitar sound, maybe change the groove a little bit. Three hours later, I’m back to the original.
John Lennon used to encourage songwriters to spend a least twenty minutes on every fresh idea. Leonard Cohen, by contrast, labored for years on a single song. Me? Every time I try and make something better, or give it new voice, I ruin the original.
So what does this tell us? Big revelation. The original is the best. So now I can just get it right the first time, and spend my free time watching TV and eating ice cream.
Fat chance.
Wind Me Up
I stopped cold at a box of wind-up bunnies as I walked through the Hallmark store last night. I couldn’t resist. I wound one up, and watched it hop around in circles. I bought three, wrestling with the urge to immediately walk over my brother’s place and give ‘em to Ethan.
Many years ago, my grandmother gave Chris and me a bunny for Easter. It fit in my palm, and I was only seven years old. I was smitten. We named him Tibbles (so named after the loveable street urchin, Mr. Tibbles, in the children’s book, “Scruffy”), and built him a hutch from chicken wire and 2x4s. He lived in the back yard behind the swing set, right next to the rhubarb patch.
I loved animals as a kid, especially little, fuzzy ones. My room was littered with stuffed animals, in stark contrast to my brother and his baseball gloves, model airplanes and race cars.
I awoke one morning that summer to my parents standing over my bed. My father said, “Tibbles passed in his sleep. Sorry, buddy.” And I cried, and cried, and cried.
Later that day, recalling the flashing yellow lights and steady hiss of a municipal mosquito control vehical, I drafted a letter to city hall — the mayor, to be exact. I accused the Village of Oak Park, Illinois, of murdering my beloved Tibbles with their reckless spraying of pesticide.
A few months later, I received a letter from the mayor with his condolences, and his not guilty plea.
At some point, even Ethan’s wind-up bunny may pass (more than likely, sooner than later). So maybe I can spare him that childhood loss. Probably not. But imagine his wide eyes when I hand him a box full of jumping bunnies, just small enough to fit in his palm. I can’t wait.
Rounding 60
I am occasionally asked, “How do you do it? Full-time corporate media executive? Part time rock star? Sometimes teacher? Marathoner? Triathlete? Blogger? Adoring uncle?” And I appreciate the compliment.
Part of it is just my obsessive-compulsive, hyper-maniacal nature. Part of it is making up for lost time, and making the most of time left. And part of it is that the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.
My mother visited Communist China three weeks after Tiananmen Square. She has two master’s degrees (nursing education and theology). She runs her own business. She recently gutted and fused two Upper West Side apartments into one. Within the last year, she’s traveled extensively in Spain, France, and St. Barth’s. She’s going to Turkey next month. She’s taking a creative writing class at NYU. She ran her first half marathon, and first triathlon, within the last six months. She blogs. And she’s an adoring grandmother.
Most of all, my mother has encouraged me since I was a little boy to be creatively and existentially curious, to push the edges of my own personal boundaries, and to be the best man that I can be.
Today is my mother’s 60th birthday. I can only hope that, if I make it to sixty-years-old, I’m half as adventurous, half as accomplished, and half as existentially curious.
Happy Birthday, Mom. And thanks.
Magnum Farce
My father has had a mustache as long as I’ve known him. I recently decided to give one a try myself.
Mustaches are held in high regard around the MTV newsroom. For some reason, we often reference The Raleigh Fingers, The Swashbuckler, and The Fu-Manchu, though no one wears one. Sure, there’s a snack strip or two, but no honest to God Magnums. And we’ve often discussed holding a mustache growing pool each copetitor pays twenty bucks each, and the dude who wears his mustache the longest won. For some reason (vanity? poverty?), the contest has never gotten off the ground.
I was home sick Saturday night, and decided to use my time wisely. So I shaved. I had two weeks of growth left over from vacation, but no excuse for holding on to it. It wasn’t very media executive-like to be heading towards a full-on Grizzly Adams. So for some reason, I left a ‘stache. Granted, I left a snack strip (inspired, perhaps, by V) to take the focus off the lone mustache. But it’s a ‘stache nonetheless
As I said, my father’s had a Magnum as long as I’ve known him. Many of his brothers do too. Generally, I find any facial hair, except maybe the well-worn five o’clock shadow, to be kinda’ funny (as you may have gathered by our newsroom pools). But, of course, not on my father. I don’t even really notice it. It’s always been there.
Now, I’ve suggested to my father that he shave it at least once in thirty-five years, but he is (perhaps reasonably) resistant. I can’t think of anything I’ve possessed — aesthetically or otherwise — for one year, let alone going on four decades. But wouldn’t you be curious?
I was alittle embarassed walking to work yesterday. I wanted to explain to everyone, “It’s just a joke!” In fact, Shannon at Starbucks noticed right away. And my boss couldn’t look me in the eye until I said, “Dude, it’ll be gone tomorrow.”
But now it’s tomorrow and… I kinda’ like it. It makes me feel kinda’ mysterious. It makes me feel a kinda’ Williamsburg cool. And every time I look in the mirror, it makes me laugh.
But it’s time to get ready for work. And it’s time for the mustache to go. So goodbye to The Raleigh Fingers. Goodbye to The Swashbuckler, The Fu-Manchu, The Chaplin, and The Zapata. It was fun while it lasted.
Hustle & Flow
From the moment we first heard Terrence Howard rockin’ the “Hustle & Flow” theme, “It’s Hard Out Here For A Pimp,” at last year’s Sundance Film Festival, we knew that the tune was super catchy. But Oscar worthy?
I saw the premiere of “Hustle & Flow” on the first night of Sundance ’05. I had two comments walking out of the screening. “We should buy that movie” (which MTV Film did that very evening). And, “That song has a fuckin’ great hook.”
We sang it all week long, half in jest (being that none of us are pimps, at least in the traditional sense of the word). We scribbled it in dust on the back of our SUV. I think I even freestyled it late one night after a long shoot (and a lot of beer).
It is an amazing hook; so infectious. And not just the lyrics (“It’s hard out here for a pimp/When he tryin to get this money for the rent/For the Cadillacs and gas money spent/Because a whole lot of bitches talkin shit”), but the melody. And Taraji Henson nails the last “P” in pimp. Like this, “p-eeeem-P!”
And Terrance Howard killed the rap in the movie. It was a pivotal scene. The pimp-turned-aspiring rapper had cobbled together a recording studion in his home, and was laying down his first rhymes. The scene was like watching “Rocky” run through the streets of Philadelphia before running up the steps of the art museum. You could feel the momentum building.
So when Three-6 Mafia stormed the Oscar stage last night, well, my mouth was a bit agape. And when they won the thing and there was a gaggle of rappers standing next to Jon Stewart all blinged out and swearing, well, you could just feel Middle America cringe (as if “Brokeback” and “Capote” hadn’t already alienated them). It was a fascinating moment, the MTV-ification of Hollywood, the full-fledged co-option of hip hop culture.
The Powers That Be here at The 800 Pound Gorilla were stoked. I was covering the show along with a gaggle of my colleagues online and in L.A., so when the senior management emails began flying (subject line: “Holy Fucking Shit!” You gotta love this place), we snapped into action to be sure the moment was preserved.
So even though they sanitized the hook, changing it from “There’s a whole lotta bitches talkin’ shit” to “There’s a whole lotta witches jumping ship,” well, I say it was a pretty cool moment, one I’d like to think I saw coming.
The Desert Star
Get this: I’m working on a new record.
Rediculous, right? I released “Heartland” just four months ago. I released “The Rivington Sessions” just four months prior to that. Quarterly new releases? What the heck.
You’ve probably read a little about this new project before. I was in Los Angeles last month for The Grammy Awards. No, no, no, not to win one, or to be nominated. I mean, I walked the red carpet, but twenty-four hours prior to Kanye, Christina and all the rest.
Yeah, I was workin’. But I had a free weekend. So I drove to Palm Springs to write and record some new material. It was some kind of challenge, I guess, to see if I gave myself a finite amount of time (foty-eight hours) to complete a task (write and record five songs). I guess I figured the desert would be inspiring. And it was. Big time.
I wrote five songs that weekend, and two more in L.A. So I brought the rough tracks home, listened to ‘em a while, finished up some lyrics, then invited the guys over to add some sounds. Drummer Ryan Vaughn came over today. Bassist Tony Macelli is coming over on Wednesday. And guitarist Chris Abad is coming next weekend.
It’s a full-band record, but not quite a rock record. (At least not yet.) I wanted to make an acoustic record, something real organic sounding. Something mellow. Primarily cuz that’s what I was feeling there. The weekend was an oasis amidst a storm of chaos, and I think that’ll be reflected in the songs.
1- Flirting With Disaster
2- Angels In The Atmosphere
3- Carmelita
4- Rainmaker
5- California Stars
I’m calling it “The Desert Star,” which also happens to be the name of the wicked-cool mid-century motel at which I stayed. It’ll be done by the end of the month, come hell or high water. Cuz I’m releasing it at my Pianos gig on Friday, March 31 at 9pm.
Half A World Away
I was really diggin’ on bein’ back in the city last night.
My pal Dan Zola, MTV Digital Supervising Producer (and sometimes pianist at my shows) cajoled me into grabbing a beer after work. I, in turn, cajoled Dan into slumming it at The Playwright Tavern instead of one of his more swank suggestions. Nonetheless, we tossed back a few, he devoured a burger (and in the process thwarted a potential ketchup stain on his cuff with more grace and finesse than I’ve ever witnessed), and caught up on the things a coupla corporate stiffs talk about.
Point being, when I walked out of The Playwright sometime around nine o’clock or so, I had a little buzz goin’ on. I strapped on y iPod, and headed uptown through my old neighborhood (Hell’s Kitchen) diggin’ on all the cool and ridiculous and fun things about the city. Like all the people talking into their cell phones. Like the buzzing traffic, and the flashing lights, and the gasping tourists. It all felt new and exciting and fun. And I was glad to be back, glad to be here, and glad to be appreciating it all.
I listened to REM’s “Half A World A Way” five times before ducking into a cab, and speeding home.
So I was really diggin’ on bein’ back in the city last night. This morning, though, with snow falling from a slate gray sky, not so much so.
Allright Now
Last night on the subway, I told a friend, “Vacations are a little bit like massage. You think it’s gonna stay with you a while, that somehow maybe you’re gonna be looser or feel better afterwards, but you never really do. It’s really all about that moment.”
Now, I’m not entirely convinced that what I said it 100% true. Last week’s vacation definately still has some legacy. I still have about sixteen lempiras in my wallet, and my suitcase remains unpacked on the floor next to my desk. My tan is fading, and the hundreds of sand fly bites on my legs are beginning to heal up.
More importantly, though, I’m dive certified. That doesn’t expire (well, it kinda does, but not if I keep doing it). And the memories aren’t going anywhere (that is, until senility sets in): water lapping up on sand, wind rustling through the palms, birds, flowers, cloudless sky, and lots of laughter. All of it. It’s mine. And it’s just a synapse away.
So maybe vacation (and you have to forgive me for spending three posts on the subject, but I’ve never taken a vacation like this one) is more like taking a multivitamin. It’s good for you, even if you can’t quite see the results.
All I know is, I’m back in the world. It didn’t take long. JFK is relentlessly harried. And it was 8° when we landed Sunday night (there’s a heat wave this morning: it’s 28°). We hit traffic within a mile of the airport. Three minutes after I sat down at my computer Monday morning, my boss walked in, closed the door, and caught me up on all kinds of real world corporate media stuff.
And now, from my desk in my rooftop bedroom, I hear jackhammers, sirens, horns and helicopters. I feel the cold nipping at my feet through the sliding glass door. And I’m ok with it. Which probably says it all.
