The Blue Lights
I didn’t know The Olds could lose their shit like this!
I’m in Philly with my pals, The Nadas. I snuck out of work early, hopped on Amtrak, and then cabbed over to World Cafe where the guys just opened up for The Subdudes.
The Subdudes are a talented-enough New Orleans-based quintet. They sound something like The Band meets The Dead meet The Indigo Girls. Awesome, right? Um…
I sat backstage with the guys before the show, catching up, asking about their new record, and generally being excited for them and jealous of them in equal turn. I told Jason how much I’d rather be a part of their Authentic Records empire in Des Moines instead of running MTV News Digital in New York City. He laughed. “Grass is always greener,” he said.
So The Subdudes are into their second encore now, but only after a room full of sixtysomething women stopped checking their watches in the candlelight and started hollerin’ like Pete Townsend was scissor-kicking onstage.
Weird, cuz it’s just a buch of gray-haired dudes doin’ their best Ray Charles.
I don’t mean to disparage ‘em, I’d just rather hear Mike and Jason play for two hours, but whatever. Watching law partners and bank presidents do their best hippie shake in acid-washed denim tuxedos is entertaining in it’s own right.
By the dull roar of prattle, water cooler talk and idol-but-voluminous gossip competing with my friends’ great songs, though, you’d have though some bush-league acoustic duo — not The Midwest’s Favorite Sons — were onstage.
Thing is, the Iowa-based duo was offering the virgin audience a 25-minute crash course in Nadas’ history, and even previewed a song from new CD (due in March and likely to-be-titled, I’m told, “The Ghost Inside These Halls”):
The Deal
Templeton Rye
Dancing Lucinda
Blue Lights
Goodnight Girl
No mind that the guy running the lights had red lights on during “Blue Lights,” or that the audience was more enthused about each other than The Nadas. The guys were nonplussed by the audience’s apparent apathy. Standing at the bar, hoisting a few gratis pints, one of their buddies said, “Here’s to artistic clout.”
“Here’s to artistic clowns,” Mike retorted.
1, 2, 3, 4
Please forgive me.
I have neither the time, nor the wherewithal to sufficiently characterize Chris, Tony and my Lifebeat: Hearts & Voices performance last night at the Robert Mapplethorp Residence (a residential treatment facility for New Yorkers living with AIDS) except to tell you that it was uncomfortable, insightful, and inspirational in nearly equal measure. (Inspirational won by a nose.)
Instead, I humbly and somewhat regretably offer you one of those half-assed blogger Mad Libs, the “four question meme.” Perhap you’ll learn a little something more about me, or perhaps you’ll wish you’d clicked elsewhere.
Four Jobs I’ve Had:
1. Clerk, Berwyn Video (Berwyn, PA)
2. Attendent, Texaco (Telluride, CO)
3. Temp, Carrier Corporation (Syracuse, NY)
4. Columnist, The Saratogian (Saratoga Springs, NY)
Four Movies I Could Watch Over and Over:
1. The Princess Bride
2. Spinal Tap
3. The Breakfast Club
4. Die Hard
Four Best Places I’ve Gone On Vacation:
Four Favorite Foods:
1. Cheeseburger
2. French Fries
3. Chicken Wings
4. Vlasic Kosher Dill Spears
Also, stay tuned for “All I Want Is You, Part III.” Promise.
Breathe In
Chris Abad and I were walking home from rehearsal Monday night when we said in near-unison, “I just want to release one great record.”
I post about my music career less and less here, largely because I have less and less of a music career.
I knew full well this was going to be something of an off year, being that I got engaged, moved in with and then married Abbi all within eight months.
Moreover, though, after a spate of back-to-back releases — “Almost Home,” “Love & Other Indoor Games,” “The Rivington Sessions,” “Heartland,” and “The Desert Star EP” — I relished the opportunity to refill the coffers, rediscover my muse, and find some new material.
And Lord knows this year has provided it.
Still, I’ve kept busy and productive, I think. In June, I released to CDs worth of outtakes, ephemera, and b-sides called, fittingly, “Besides Vol. I & II” And Wes Verhoeve and I are finalizing the December 5th release of our “A Family Records Holiday” benefitting 826NYC. And production’s begun on a soundtrack to “Mister Rogers & Me.”
But…
But I still want to release one (more?) great record.
I have the songs, for sure: “Promise,” “(I Won’t Let You) Get Away From Me,” and “The Last Time” will be amongst the 10-12 new tracks. In fact, I wrote and recorded a new one this morning (“Breathe In”) that I expect will make the cut. Plus, I know what it’ll be called, have some sense of the sequence and narrative arc, and am pretty sure where and with whom I’m going to record it. (The when, incidently, remains pending.)
But that’s not all that makes for a great record (which, incidently, my pal Chris has done at least twice. Part of releasing a great album is getting it heard and appreciated, and in the time between “Heartland” and now, the landscape has changed significantly. Which is worrisome. Three things drove this home for me yesterday:
1- The news that, when given the option to pay whatever they deemed fair for a new record, Radiohead fans paid an average of $4 for the bands new, ten-track release, “In Rainbows.”
2- This great Oxford American Magazine article on the timeline of blog-fueled indie rock hype which basically tracked ’06 darlings, Annuals, from Pitchfor to Stereogum to Rolling Stone obscurity in a measly three months.
3- My monthly check from my distributor, CDBaby, totalling a whopping $57.64.
See, unlike most other bands, I count on CD sales and downloads to support my habit, er, I mean career. And — in the absence of real touring, actual merch, or tangiable press exposure — I count on the Internets to spread the word, but not spread the music (in the form of copyrighted mp3s). Problem is, there’s an entire generation of music fans who don’t expect to pay for music. To them, it’s an entitlement. If they like a band, they’ll go to a show, or buy a t-shirt.More problematic still, I think, is that this flood of free, often mediocre, completely intangiable (no art, no liner notes) music diminishes the relationship one has with the music and the musician. It’s an ADD, churn-and-burn, here today and gone tomorrow environment.
Now, I’ve never really garnered any major press or blog love. My aesthetic, interests and values aren’t really in line with Stereogum. My high school band wasn’t cool, my college band wasn’t cool (though it was cooler) and I’m certainly not going to start now.
In terms of the music business, the already train’s left the station. It is what it is.
Which leaves me pretty much where I began, and where I’ve resided all these years.
I’ll do my write and record a great, sincere album. I’ll wrap it up in simple, linear packaging. I’ll play a few shows to mark the release.
And then I’ll let it go.
Breathe In – MP3
I knew I was in trouble when I found myself face down on a massage table in the Maldvives nearly a week into my honeymoon and I couldn’t silence the worries in my head. It was making me kind of nuts to be somewhere so beautiful, so tranquil, and with someone I love so much, but to be incapable of being still inside.
So I took a deep breath, and forced myself to concentrate on the inhale, and the exhale, and the inhale,and the exhale…
We’ve been back a few weeks now. I feel nuts already.
Writing this song, though, helped.
Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.
Breathe In
Today was so long, I grew tired of believing
That everything wrong would ever find some relief
Todat was so long, I grew tired of the feelin’
The wieght of it all crashing down on me
Just breathe in, breathe in
Tonight was so long, grew tired of dreamin’
Of ashes and bone and broken down things
SO you have to be strong, you have to believe that
The first morning light will help you to see
Just breathe in, breathe in
I know that it’s hard, so I’ll be with you here
I know it’s so hard to see clear
Just breathe in, breathe in
The Bachelor
It’s just another Monday night alone on the couch watching “The Bachelor.”
That’s right: season eleven of ABC’s dating jaggernaut starring Brad Womack, the 34-year-old Austin, Texas-based self-made entrepreneur (aka bar owner), is winding down. And I’m watching it.
I’d like to state for the record that, while I’m sure Deanna’s heartfelt “When I look at you during that rose ceremony, know that I’m thinking that I love you” was sincere, I’m dubious that a six-week, on-camera courtship in Cabo San Lucas is much of a foundation for releationship. But then the show’s track record (0/10) probably speaks for itself.
Still, I am looking forward to the “Women Tell All” episode next week when “The rejected bachelorettes dish about their time with Brad and make their predictions about the final two.” Sweet!
You know I’m kidding, right?
What can I tell you? “The News Hour” is over, and “Charlie Rose” isn’t on yet.
This is how I follow the single most challenging day of the year. “The Bachelor.”
Actually, until Friday, I’m The Bachelor.
After our customary day-after massages (this year at Exhale on Central Park South), Abbi caught a flight to Mexico City. I spent the rest of the afternoon napping and watching Ken Burns’ “The War.” That’s how I do: documentaries and Gatorade.
I’m obviously not going out and painting the town whatever color a bachelor paints a town. (Red? Black?) I already miss Abs. I’ve already texted her twice, and emailed her a silly photo from yesterday’s finish.
Nah, all week long I’m gonna’ eat cold pizza for breakfast, pickle sandwhiches for lunch, and ice cream for dinner. I’m gonna’ keep the toilet seat up 24/7. And I’m gonna’ rock.
In fact, Chris, Tony and I just rehearsed. We’re playing a Lifebeat Hearts & Voices gig on the Lower East Side Thursday night. Next Wednesday, we’re performing with young Ryan at Rockwood Music Hall (where, on his monthly calendar, Tommy Merrill — bless his heart — has characterized Abbi and mine as “Rockwood’s First Marriage”).
So, nothin’ crazy for me this week. I’m way too tired. My quads are way too sore. And I’m no fun without Abbi anyhow.
Born To Run
I’m often asked why I run the New York City Marathon. Here’s my top ten.
10 – It’s There. Or, more succinctly, it’s right here! The Marathon route comes within four blocks of Abbi and my apartment. In fact, yesterday, as we barrelled towards Columbus Circle, I said to Abbi (in an attempt to galvanize her resolve), “Look, there’s our grocery store.” I don’t think it helped. But seeing the Empire State coming down Fifth, Cat Hill in Central Park, or The Plaza, is energizing. It’s my back yard. I don’t think I could stand to sit it out.
9 – Bragging Rights. I won’t front. It’s cool to hit the office on a Monday morning and answer the “So what’d you do this weekend?”inquiries with “A triathlon,” or whatever. I like to be that guy, the one who goes a bit further, does a bit more, pushes a little harder. And I don’t mind talkin’ about it.
8 – Scenery. New York City is pretty spectacular, from Fort Wadsworth to Fort Green to Sheeps Meadow. On a crisp fall day like yesterday, there’s a lot to look at: downtown Manhattan from the Veranzano, the 34-story Williamsburgh Savings Bank clock tower from Fourth Avenue, the Midtown skyline from the Polaski Bridge.
7 – Fitness. Wagners are not a small people. They make ‘em pretty big in Iowa. I’d bet that the average weight of my uncles is in the high two hundreds. I’m about six feet tall. And I love cheeseburgers, beer, and ice cream. So I run.
6 – Pain Is Temporary. You see a lot of t-shirt slogans on the course. I’ve grown fond of two: Pain Is Weakness Leaving Your Body, and Pain Is Temporary, But Glory Is Abiding. Cheeseball? Maybe a little. But true, and helpful up there around mile twenty-two. Sure, my quads are a bit sore today. But the excruciating, nausiating pain in my knees and hips and soles of my feet ended as soon as I crossed the finish line. Anything worth anything costs something. And real growth often comes with real pain. I’ve never regretted give this race everything I have. I try and leave everything out there.
5- Adulation. Again, I won’t front. There are two million spectators out there between Bay Ridge and Central Park, and if you’re like me (and Abbi) and you put your name on your shirt, you feel like a rock star. I must’ve heard my name a hundred times yesterday, and it made me smile every time. I’ll take it.
4- Inspiration. Chris and I were bit by the marathon bug, I think, watching my cousin Roxane slog up First Avenue in a full-on, bone-chilling downpour. She finished in something like 3:20:00 (which is ridiculously good). But it was the sea of humanity and the dedication writ large on their faces that inspired us. Marathons are not solely for high school track stars and Olympic hopefuls. The field is crowded with everyday people digging deep inside themselves to do something big for one reason or another: to honor a passed loved one, shed unwanted weight, find inner strength, inner peace, or outward resolve. When you see a few thousand of those people pass by — all struggling through the pain, through the fatigue, and through the desire to give up — it’s impossible not to be moved.
3- Teamwork. It’s tough to run 26.2 miles. It’s even more challenging to run it with someone you love. For starters, there are 38,000 runners so just keeping track with one another is difficult. Moreover, you get a little chippy with one another somewhere in the fourth hour. The real challenge, though, is working together on pace. There are moments when I feel weightless, like I could run forever but Abbigail is suffering. And vice versa. But we made a deal — yesterday morning, and in front of that big ole oak tree in South Carolina. We’re in it together. For the long haul. So running the marathon together is the perfect…
2- Metaphor. I’m not sure there’s a single more symbolic event than a marathon. Everything is meaningful. Train hard, sleep well, wake early, start easy, lean back, settle in, find a groove, enjoy the view, endure the pain, finish strong, smile big, rock the medal, do it again.
1- Strength. I think I’ve said it all, but — other than the love of my friends, family, and wife — I’m not sure any single thing’s made me stronger than running eight of these things. It’s an annual reminder that I can do anything I set my mind to.
So, how did we do yesterday?
We started strong, logging ten minute miles with just two frustrating bathroom breaks in the first thirteen miles. We started slowing, I think, at the sixteen mile mark as we ascended the Queensboro Bridge. That’s when the pounding started taking its toll. I popped two Advil, which kicked in somewhere above 96th Street. Still, Abbi wasn’t feeling great. Our miles slipped into the 12:00/13:00 zone.
We stretched a while up in the Bronx, then pointed ourselves down Fifth Avenue. I finally persuaded Abbi to choke down some Advil around mile twenty-two, and began in on a bag gummy bears. I was feeling strong, but hung just off of Abbi’s shoulder waiting for her second wind. Whether it was the Advil or the legions of Central Park spectators yelling “Go Abbi! Kick Benjamin’s ass!” she got it, and started sprinting towards Tavern on the Green.
The last mile was a blast, laughing and smiling and blowing past struggling marathoners all the way through the finish.
We crossed together at exactly 4:42:00.
I’ll Be Right Beside You Dear
It’s remarkable how out of shape one can feel just three days before a marathon.
This was my statement to Abbigail as we began running this morning.
My knees were sore (especially the one wrecked from last year’s freak slide accident). My hips were sore. I felt stiff and tired.
Now, we planned the wedding and everything else around the New York City Marathon (my eighth, Abbi’s third). In fact, in an effort to coordinate our honeymoon with our taper (traditionally, the three weeks prior to any marathon involve far fewer miles than the twelve prior), we briefly considered getting married on Saturday, October 13th.
Briefly.
Color us superstitious.
Anyway, we’re picking up our race packets this afternnoon. The race itself is Sunday morning.
Are we ready? Tough to say.
We’ve remained fairly faithful to our traning schedule, even with business trips, rock shows and wedding planning. In fact, we both ran (seperately) on the morning of our wedding. We’ve done our long runs. And we got one heck of a taper in there in the Maldives.
Still, a marathon is an incredibly variable thing.
It’s a long race: one mile of Verrazano Bridge, eleven miles of Brooklyn, a mile and a half of Queens, one more mile of bridge (this time, the Queensboro which — by mile fifteen — feels like Mount Everest), four on First Avenue, one in Harlem, and then — the doozy — five and a half in Central Park.
This morning, Central Park was bustling with activity. The 840 acre park is playing host two two events this weekend: Olympic Marathon Trials on Saturday, and the NYC Marathon on Sunday. The finish line was in place, our attempts to practice our victorious tape-breaking thwarted by police gates. Park Drive was lined with trailers and security vehicles. Joggers fresh off the red eye were posing by the statue of New York Road Runner founder (and inaugural NYC Marathon runner) Fred LeBow.
Above The Ramble, though, all was quiet. The sun was just rising over the trees. The leaves were just beginning to yellow. The day was just beginning.
By the time we passed Bethesda Fountain (eight months to the day from when I proposed to Abbi there), I felt strong.
Like this morning, one can start a race poorly and then gain strength, or start strong and lose it. It’s a roller coaster, and — training, diet and rest notwithstanding — there’s not much one can do to affect the outcome.
Or at least not much I can do.
All things being equal — no dehydration, cramps, g.i. issues — I expect we’ll run it in 4:30 or so.
And if we’re lucky, we’ll get in a few miles with Chris and Jen, and spot Ron and Jodi, Pedro and Pembry, CJ and Megan, and my mom along the way.
And yes, Abbi and I will finish it together.
Oddly enough, I can’t wait.
