Whisper (A Million Different Voices Speaking In Tongues)
I was touching the spirit world well prior to slipping beneath the covers last night. Likewise, I expect, tonight.
Wednesday’s Late Night at Rockwood Music Hall left me reeling well into Thursday (as, I suspect, it did Casey and Chris — though they had Thursday off).
In fact, I opened my team’s annual MTV Video Music Awards digital production meeting by saying that I’d stayed up ’til five in an effort to recalibrate for Las Vegas (and that I was likely to hurl at any minute as a result, which was true though — thankfully — I didn’t).
I know, I know: real professional.
As I staggered to finally leave the office, the EVP walked in. I was sure he could smell the Petron in my sweat as we discussed the VMAs, sub-site integration and correspondent blogs.
I finally made it to the street sometime after seven o’clock. I dialed up Springsteen’s new single, “Radio Nowhere.” Bobbing, weaving through pre-theater pedestrian traffic, I ducked onto a quiet side street. As I passed an old grammar school (one, it ends up, I’ve always envisioned as a location for my oft-mentioned but not-yet-shot screenplay, “Mo’ Hart”), the sun casting a warm orange glow on its granite edifice, I got goose bumps. It was the music, the air, the energy, the excitement, the blessings, the exhaustion, and the knowledge that in less than twenty-four hours, I’d be landing in Nantucket.
Life is good. And getting better all the time.
There’ll be a Cisco Brewer‘s Whale’s Tale Pale Ale in the fridge for ya’.
See ya’ there…
Lucky, Babe
In just a few short months, Late Night at Rockwood Music Hall has become something of a phenomenon.
In a city full of recalcitrant talent bookers and apathetic sound men, Ken Rockwood’s Lower East Side venue has been the most artist-friendly venue since opening in 2005.
The stage occupies nearly one fourth of this intimate, brick walled, candle-strewn space, signaling the engaging and enthusiastic staff’s committed to the music.
The recent addition of Matt Basile and Andy Fitzpatrick’s themed after-hour, artist-centric late night jam sessions have been packing the city’s singer/songwriter community into the tiny, sweaty space for since kicking off earlier this summer.
Every week, Late Night picks a year from which performers must cover a song. Last night’s year was 1983, so chosen as everybody’s favorite local drummer’s, Ryan Vaughn, was celebrating his twenty-fourth birthday.
Last night, my singer/songwriter pals Casey Shea, Chris Abad and I hopped a cab down to the LES to get in on the action. By the time we pulled up at 1:15, the place was standing room only, and the sidewalk had become the green room.
The covers were loose, varied, hilarious, and excellent.
Standouts included Matt’s bluesy, mid-tempo rendition of Don Henley’s “Dirty Laundry, and Wes Hutchinson and Fitzpatrick version of Madness’ “Our House.” Others — Bryan Dunn, Misty Boyce, Wakey! Wakey! — rolled through the year’s Top 100, including whisky soaked versions of David Bowie’s “Let’s Dance,” The Pretender’s “Back On The Chain Gang,” Journey’s “Separate Ways” and Tom Petty’s “You Got Lucky.” The rollicking, rotating backup band included Basile, Fitzpatrick, Jeremiah Birnbaum, Tony Maceli, and young birthday boy, Ryan Vaughn.
The room was still teaming with assorted local scenesters, rabid music fans, and straight-up weirdoes alike when Casey and Andy brought the night to rousing, hilarious end with their dueling duet of Culture Club’s “Do You Really Wanna Hurt Me?”
We poured ourselves back in a cab just as the sun rose over the East Side, humming “Total Eclipse Of The Heart” all the way back to Hell’s Kitchen.
Legacy
Our friend Torrie’s father passed away last week.
You probably know Torrie from her oddly-named blog (odd because I find her delightful and not hateful at all), I Pretty Much Hate Everything.
I wrote about running into her on the street a few summers ago. I chalked it up tothe excellent connective skills of the universe. She and her husband — a singer/songwriter and MD — have graced our doorstep a few times since, but not enough. They just had an adorable daughter, Willa. So when her father passed just a few months after her birth, all I could think was that it was the universe doing it’s thing again (Disney would call it “the circle of life”).
Her father’s New York Time’s obituary is remarkable. Phillip Masters was the best, most-inspirational kind of man: curious, self-educated, relentless, and benevolent. We should all be so lucky as to be remembered thusly:
With just one day left on the permits, and with Mr. Masters away on business, Mr. Daniel found what they believed to be Queen Anne¹s Revenge.
Both Mr. Masters and Mr. Daniel renounced rights to artifacts or profits from them.
Torrie’s father, it ends up in one final, small example of universal connectedness — lived in Beaufort, South Carolina — where Abbi and I are getting married next month.
Radio Nowhere
It’s 6:10 in the morning. I realize that’s not so early for alot of people, but I’ve been awake for two hours. Any second now, Abbi’s alarm’s gonna sound, she’s gonna pop out of bed, and we’re going to go running.
Not psyched for that.
So I woke up to pee at 4 a.m. My first thought was, “Don’t think about anything or you won’t be able to go back to sleep.” So, of course, I thought about everything.
Friday afternoon begins a rediculous period of time I’ve been relishing and fearing for months. By my calculation, I will be in my own bed exactly 50% of the nights between September 1 and November 1. During that time, I will travel to Nantucket, Las Vegas, Breckenridge, South Carolina, Dubai, and the Maldives. Ten days after returning from the Maldives, Abbi and I will run the NYC Marathon. In November, I will release an as-of-yet unmentioned benefit album. Likewise, Chris and I will finish shooting “Mister Rogers & Me,” then start editing in December for the March 1 Nantucket Film Festival deadline.
Tired yet? Me too. It’s a wonder I can’t sleep.
And did I mention my day job?
I know, I know: I’m a broken record. I don’t do enough. I’m doing too much.
Cry me a river.
What’s interesting (to me, anyway), or, moreover, what I want to figure out is, why? What compells me to be so overcommited? Why do I feelso compulsive about making stuff? And would I better served at doing less better?
Sometimes I think I’m going to die young (or, young-ish), and I usually think it’s going to be in a plane crash. I joke about it with Abbi. She knows what to do with my life insurance. First, re-master and re-release everything I’ve ever recorded (including the 140 or so Morning Mix MP3s here) as a box set. Then get all of my musician friends (Chris, Casey, The Nadas, etc etc) to cover their favorites on a tribute album. Then throw a big show where they play all the songs and drink lots of beer.
Do I sound delusional?
I’m kidding. Kind of.
Sometimes I think this hypomania of mine has something to do with wasting my twenties. Other times I think it has to do with my mother telling me I’m special too much. Or that I’m trying to fill that “God shaped hole.”
I don’t really know.
I could go on, but I hear Abbi stirring in the bedroom. I have to lace up my running shoes.
Have a productive day.
C’Mon
That’s me about three minutes after running fifteen miles in 96% humidity.
Abbigail was in San Diego with “the girls” this weekend, leaving me free reign over the apartment, and the city. Still, fifteen miles, four hours in the studio, three random bars, two movies, two rock shows, one comedy show, and one blog entry later, I still don’t feel like I did shit.
I checked out The Undisputed Heavyweights’ final show of their Joe’s Pub residency Friday night. Incindiary (as in William Miller “incindiary”).
I ran the entire circumferance of Manhattan below 57th Street (with a detour through Union Square) Saturday morning. Tiring (as in took a three hour nap Saturday afternoon “tiring”).
I caught a rock ‘n roll sketch comedy review, Delusions of Spandex, Saturday night, then hung out with much of the delightful and hilarious cast. Later, I met up with Chris and Meg.
This afternoon, Chris, Tony, Ryan and I began recording our super-secret holiday benefit album (hint: “They’re singing deck the halls / But it’s not like Christmas at all”).
Tonight, I went to 826NYC‘s “Revenge of the Bookeaters” benefit at The Beacon (see below: mostly lackluster, but with some inspiring moments and — of course — worth it for supporting the organization alone).
In between it all, I watched “The Rainmaker,” “Must Love Dogs,” and CBS Sunday Morning. I read The New York Times, Atlantic Monthly, and The New Yorker.
Hell, I did three loads of laundry, ran the dishwasher, and fixed that damned loose screw on the toilet paper holder. I even managed to chip away at a web site redesign.
So, why then — here at the end of it all, here in the wee hours of Sunday night — do I feel like I wasted my time? Why do I feel like I’ve done nothing? Why do I feel like I don’t have anything to show for the last forty-eight hours?
What the f*ck is wrong with me?
Seriously.
Revenge Of The Bookeaters
To characterize 826NYC’s Revenge Of The Bookeaters benefit at New York City’s Beacon Theater Sunday night as “understated” would be, well, an understatement.
Of course, any evening hosted by the nearly catatonic (though culturally prescient, completely unflappable, and totally hilarious) Demetri Martin is bound to be low-key. Whether riffing on break dancing, goatees, or engagement rings, the Daily Show correspondent rarely deviated from his steady, somber baritone. As master of ceremonies, Martin’s muted enthusiasm set the bar for the evening’s performances.
In fact, the show — benefiting memoirist David Eggers’ children’s writing center in Brooklyn — had the lo-fi appeal of a Mickey Rooney movie, as if someone said, “Hey kids! Let’s put on a show!” Then grabbed the nearest gaggle of ragged songwriters gathered backstage at McCarren Pool.
To be fair, the casual, mostly-acoustic performances by New Pornographer A.C. Newman, Grizzly Bear, Feist, Broken Social Scene, My Morning Jacket’s Jim James, and Spoon’s Britt Daniels, were entertaining and endearing, if not a hair lackluster.
In fact, the hulking, historic Beacon Theater out scaled most of the performances. Only James rose to the occasion. A reverb junkie, to be sure, he relished the acoustics, ripping into “Gideon” like a Southern-fried Roger Daltry.
There were other surprises: Grizzly Bear’s oddball cover of Paul Simon’s “Graceland,” and A.C. Newman’s version of King Missile’s “Hemophiliac Of Love” broke through the static. Still, one was left wondering, is there some kind of hipster code against enthusiasm? Does someone have something against distortion pedals? Snare drums? Scissor kicks?
In the end, the performer’s restraint was superfluous. Long-time 826 supporter Sarah Vowell reminded the audience that the organization’s need for financial support was “a constantly renewable resource,” before introducing chanteuse-of-the-moment, Leslie Feist.
At the conclusion of Feist’s story — something written by a group of 826NYC second graders about a family of peanuts with a pickle-shaped limousine — it was abundantly clear: the evening wasn’t about the ironic t-shirt wearing twentysomethings on stage and in the balcony, it was all about the kids. And the kids are all right, thanks to 826NYC, and the scrappy group of Mumblecore-sounding, NPR-loving, Thomas Pynchon-quoting rock stars-in-training.
You Can Get What You Want Or You Can Just Get Old
He won’t be thrilled that I’m telling this story, but it illustrates a point. So here goes.
My brother hit puberty right around the time my parents announced to us that they were divorcing. It was October 1981. We were living in Chicago, IL. My mother, brother and I moved to suburban Philadelphia in August. My father moved to Indianapolis. It must have felt like a real double-whammy for him to be wrestling with braces, glasses, pimples and strange new feelings in the pit of his stomach just as he was starting his freshman year at a brand-new high school a thousand miles away from home.
Don’t worry: this is a funny story, not a sad one.
We spent a fair dose of time in both places, tethered (for a while anyway) to neither. (All those unaccompanied plane trips between parents, you’ll recall, inspired the nightmares behind “Crash Site” — but this is a funny story, not a sad one.)
Chris’ awkward phase manifested pretty significantly during one of our long summer weekends in Indianapolis. First, he left a crisp twenty spot my dad had given him on the table of the restaurant at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. Then he inadvertently tossed a golf club into a water hazard.* Later, he dropped an entire platter of spaghetti and marinara sauce all over the dining room (the one with white walls and white carpet), prompting one of my father’s patented, “Now, God dammit!”
Recently, I’ve been suffering though my own awkward phase. Two weekends ago, you’ll recall, I slipped on some rocks. Yesterday morning, I wiped out in our walk-in closet and scratched up my wrist on a stool. Yesterday afternoon, I slammed my left knee into a door jam chasing after a colleague e route to a meeting.
A few years ago, I lost my voice for a few days for no reason at all: I wasn’t sick,nor had I been singing, screaming, or otherwise straining my vocal chords. My voice just up and left me. After a few days of thought, it occurred to me that maybe it was some sort of physiological thing. My unconscious knew I needed to be quiet and listen to my inner voices, so it shut off my outer voice.
Likewise, it seems, this current phase of mine. Clearly — what with 23,000 miles of air travel in the coming six weeks alone — my unconscious is trying to tell me something.
Slow down you crazy child.
I will heed the warning, lest my next clumsy move involves Tenth Avenue traffic.
* I’m not sure this is true, though it seems entirely plausible.
Stress Rx
It’s amazing how many lotions, ointments, and treatments are required for what ails me.
You may recall last summer’s cardiology issue: the chest pains, the stress test. Well, this summer, work, wedding, marathon and documentary stress has manifested itself in a whole bunch of new, interesting, and original ways — and mostly on my face. So here’s a breakdown of the lotions, creams, and other remedies (I’m not even getting into pills) I’m sustaining in an effort to not look like the Elephant Man on my wedding day.
Ciclopirox: Ciclopirox is a synthetic broad-spectrum antifungal agent that inhibits the growth of dermatophytes, a type of fungus that grows on the skin, hair, and nails. Um, gross! Where’s my fungus? Corner of my mouth. Too much yeast, my dermatologist says. From stress.
Clocortolone: Clocortolone is a topical steroid that reduces or inhibits the actions of chemicals in the body that cause inflammation. I’m using it on the brand-new eczema on my hands (the middle and ring fingers of my right hand, to be exact).
Mimyx: More salve (deep dermal hydration) for my eczema.
Cortisone: Cortisone is a type of steroid that is produced naturally by the adrenal gland when one’s body is under stress. I’ve been getting numerous monthly injections along my jawline (almost exactly where it was broken, it turns out) to remedy stress-induced alopecia.
Eucerin: This is just anti-wrinkle cream to keep me looking more like Brad Pitt and less like Anthony Hopkins. Not sure it’s working.
Funny how the body reacts to stuff. Either way, I think I’ll be ok.
Being There
This weekend, Abbi and I were feted at the third of three engagement parties.
Early in the evening, kneeling there in my seersuckers, suede bucks and blue blazer, my uncle — my Godfather, in fact, who’d travelled some 970+ miles to spend these brief moments together — said to me, “Looks like life is treating you well.”
“It is,” I replied.
I puzzled over the statement in my head for a moment, wondering how he could tell, then immediately lept to the conclusion that if life is treating me well now, it’s certain to have challenges (or worse, tragedy) right around the corner. I knocked on my jaw (in lieu of wood) and carried on with my rounds.
A few days later now, I’m still moved by the comment. My uncle (my mother’s sister’s husband) has always held a special spot in my heart. He is (like many Iowa men) an imposing presence, probably 6’4″ 275. His words are well chosen, if few. He is a former marine who spent his career as a Central Iowa Power Company lineman, disappearing when called into the inky black, lightning strewn night. He could seem intimidating. Instead, though, he seems warm. There are smiles tucked away in the upturned corners of his eyes.
When I was about five-years-old and sick with some respiratory illness that left me wheezing and short of breath, he sat down in the rocking chair, took me into his thick arms, and rubbed my back until I fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.
Years later, on Christmas Day just after my parent’s divorce, it was my uncle who drove to Clinton, Iowa, to make the custody swap on behalf of my mother. It must have broken his heart too to suddenly feel so disconnected from his old friend my father, let alone read the sadness on his nephew’s faces.
This morning, then, it moves me still to think of his comment Saturday night. I’m glad I seem like life is treating me well. It is, though I’m not sure (short of the beautiful blond on my arm) how he could tell. Either way, I’m grateful, if a bit dubious.
That said, even if (when) life’s challenges come around, it’s comforting to know — and this is one of the lessons I’m learning in beginning a family — that he will be there for me. That’s really all we have for one another, isn’t it? Being there. And it’s more than enough.
Won’t You Be Mine?
Things have been pretty good in The Neighborhood.
A few weeks ago, Christofer and I just premiered a second “Mister Rogers & Me” trailer on You Tube, this one with sound bites from Tim Russert, Susan Stamberg, Marc Brown, and Linda Ellerbee. It’s not burning up the Internet, but’s it garnered a few comments, and won a few new eyeballs.
I’ve made fast friends with 826 NYC‘s publicist, Jen Snow, who’s excited to pitch in on Chris and my “Mister Rogers & Me” documentary. The non-profit youth literacy advocate’s big event, Revenge of the Bookeaters, is Sunday night. In the coming months, Chris and I expect to visit their Brooklyn headquarters, and interview founder David Eggers, and supporter Sarah Vowell.
And it looks like we’re going to tag along with Found Magazine creator Davy Rothbart and his pals Nicki and Lizzie Gottlieb when they visit David Newell (aka Mr. McFeely) in Pittsburgh come November.
But a reader, Kris Jensen-Van Heste, emailed me on Friday with some pretty bad news. Please visit “Making ‘Mister Rogers & Me’” for the full scoop, and how you can help.
