Glazed
I’m not thrilled to be the guy who taught Ethan how to use a Blackberry (though he used it constructively to take photos and email them to his grandparents).
I like to think that what came next made up for the his early introduction to corporate handcuffs.
In celebration of Ethan’s fifth birthday, Abbi and I took him to lunch at our favorite diner (EJ’s on Amsterdam where he had pancakes “with extra butter”), then across the street to paint-your-own-pottery purveyors, Make.
The storefront was relatively quiet for a sunny, Saturday afternoon. One four-year-old boy with his bored-looking mother was painting a ceramic Hummer pink and gray. In the corner, a six-year-old girl was splashing yellow and green on a parrot.
We browsed the shelves, Ethan’s eyes growing wider with every object.
“A shark!”
“Oooh, a fighter jet!”
“Wow! A race car!!!”
Abbi (who effortlessly managed Ethan’s excitement and disappointment in equal turn) promised that we could come back another time, but that we had to pick just one item.
“What are you going to paint Uncle Benjamin?”
“I think I want to paint a piggy bank,” I said, assuming it was good role modeling (but also figuring it was pragmatic item to have, as paint-your-own-ceramics go).
“The race car has a coin slot,” Abby said.
“Let’s both paint race cars!” Ethan exclaimed.
We sat down, strapped on our smocks, and received a brief tutorial (as Abbi quietly and subtly pulled a pair of saki cups from a nearby shelf).
“Be sure you apply at least three layers for brightness,” the young clerk said. “And paint light colors first.”
She handed us our paint brushes, and a silver paint tray into which Ethan insisted I pour one of every color.
And we were off.
Watching Ethan create was a blast. Where I was frustrated by the brushes’ frayed edges (and, thus, an inability to paint a clean line), he was applying glaze every which way from Sunday: brushing, splattering, spraying. Where I endeavored to paint the deepest-blue possible, he wasn’t interested in a solid-color.
Ethan’s car (a Porsche, I’m afraid — something I didn’t point out to him) was a pastiche of pinks and browns and blues and yellows. He painted dots within dots on the windshield, drew great lines across the hood, and paid no attention whatsoever to any lines, rules, or conventions.
He was at times vociferous, explaining every brush stroke and splatter, and then silently deep in thought.
It was brilliant. And a pleasure to witness.
When it came time to leave (which, at forty bucks an hour wasn’t soon enough, though as memory serves, I was the one still working), we posed with our creations (Abbi and I giggled when he grabbed our efforts unaware of the ramifications of dry fingers on wet paint, but stifled our reactions on account of, well, being the adults in the situation), washed our hands, and walked out into the summer sun.
A few blocks later, Ethan asked, “Where are our cars?”
“We’ll pick them up next weekend,” Abbi said. “They need to be heated in an oven so the paint bakes into the pottery.”
“Oh,” he said, skipping down the sidewalk singing a song only he knew. “Ok.”
The Morning Fog May Chill The Air, I Don’t Care
As I’ve said before, my favorite part about travel is running in a new town. This morning, that town was San Francisco. In fact, a good run had more than a little bit to do with my being here.
My primary raison d’etre for this sojourn was the Y-Pulse Mash Up, a conference for teen/tween-centric media and marketing types. It was great (as conferences go) if you’re into things like, say, incentivizing user generated content (which I am). And the oatmeal raisin cookies were top notch.
But I won’t front: I wanted to spend a few days in San Francisco. I like the place. The vistas are epic, combining all of the elements I love: sky, sea, and mountains all wrapped in fog and mist. What’s more, the pace and values feel closer to home (some days) the New York or Los Angeles. There’s less obsession with wealth and fame (best as I can tell, anyway).
I first came here when I was about nine-years-old (I’m pretty sure it was out last family trip). It was a big deal of a trip; I had a bunch of new outfits from Sears. All I wanted to see was Alcatraz, though I remember Fisherman’s Wharf, Ghirardelli Square and loving the cable cars (the bells on which I hear outside my window now).
Years later, I returned on behalf of MTV. We’d just acquired a new company, then swiftly laid off fifty percent of its employees. I was dispatched to make friends with those who remained. (Not so fun.)
Somewhere in between those two trips, I visited my high school buddies, Sibby and Matt, in Berkeley, then pointed my rented Seabring south on The 101 to visit another high school pal, James, in Los Angeles (beginning my brief, inevitably failed love affair with The City Of Angels.
What’s my most recent memory of San Francisco, you ask? David Fincher’s “Zodiac.” It’s all I could think about as I walked around town tonight: that CGI tracking shot that zooms in over the Market District. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
I flew in Monday afternoon, hit the first half of the conference, returned to my hotel, got a massage (a duathlon followed by a five-hour flight call justify the extravagance), then crashed (I swear I was asleep before nine o’clock).
Fast forward. Six o’clock this morning. I’m climbing into my gear: Nike DryFit shorts and t-shirt, Thorlo socks, Asics Gel Kayanos, Ray Ban sunglasses. I strap on my iPod, wrap my PowerShot’s strap around my wrist, and lean into my MacBook to figure out my route.
Here’s the thing, though: my wi-fi is slow. So Google Maps is loading in square chunks. So when I decide to run clear across San Francisco to the Pacific Ocean, then beneath the Golden Gate, around the marina, and back up to the Ritz, well, it all seems pretty reasonable. After all, I have well over two hours to run just a few miles.
Ends up, though, the map’s key was off on account of the page loading slowly.
This became apparent to me as I passed my fifth miles with no evidence whatsoever of the Pacific, let alone the Golden Gate Bridge. I passed through all kinds of adorable neighborhoods, and enjoyed some quality hill work. But the Pacific was clearly miles away.
It’s a long story, and was a long run. I really had no idea where I was, but — as always — figured I culd run my way home. Trouble was, time was short; a few of my colleagues were speaking at 8:30 (can you imagine) and I didn’t want to miss it. Worse, while hailing a cab may have made some sense, I didn’t want to do that either. (What if someone say me?)
I didn finally find my way to a lovely view of the Golden Gate bridge, though (like many things) it was a little bit of a let down. I mean, it took me well over five miles to even come close, and even then it was way off in the foggy distance. And it’s just a bridge (albeit one of the most recognized one on earth).
Still, there’s something about it. It’s epic. It’s gorgeous. And its surrounded by turbulence.
One hour and thirty-nine minutes, ten miles, and 2529 feet of ascent (and — equally painfully for my 36-year-old knees — descent) later, I stepped back into the Ritz-Carlton with twenty minutes to shower, change, and get to the conference.
Worth ten hours of travel and two rounds of Advil? Heck yes.
Tune in next week for Google Map Long Run Fiasco #2: The San Diego Edition.
Bouncing Over A White Cloud – Video
Rockwood was rowdy. I was anxious. And then it all turned.
Chris was on at 8. I was on at 9.
So I left the office at seven o’clock and struck out through a sweltering Times Square with my guitar, computer, camera and a bag of CDs strapped to my back. I jammed onto a crowded F, turned up my iPod, and began worrying.
Suddenly, all of my own songs sounded foreign. Suddenly, rushing through rehearsal seemed imprudent. Worse, I was suddenly at Delancey Street — one stop too far.
I hopped off the subway, and headed for the street. Ten minutes later, six wrong turns and four steep stairwells later, I stepped into the golden hour, and strode towards Rockwood.
It was 7:45 by the time I stepped through the doors. Chris, Tony and Jamie were on hand and ready to roll. I stepped into the bathroom to change into my rock clothes (ironically, out of a t-shirt and jeans and into a dress shirt and tie) as the guys began soundcheck.
My heart was still racing. Beads of sweat were still bursting from my forehead. I prattled nervously.
The guys were on fire. Tony was rockin’ his bass face. Jamie was squinting and squirming; really feelin’ it. Chris was crushing his parts, even if he seemed an iota distracted by the raucous audience.
Soon enough, Chris slid over, and I was on.
Why, after nearly twenty years of performing every show feels like my first is a mystery to me, but there it is. And there I was: 8:14 pm ET on stage at Rockwood Music Hall. Jamie counted to four, and we were off.
“I’ve giving up on the daydream,” I sang, “I’m giving up the ghost.”
Years ago, in high school, I played Pippin in the play, “Pippin.” There’s a scene in the first third of the book where this kid, a prince, has inherited his father’s kingdom. And he begins this song,”Morning Glow,” all by himself on stage. By the second chorus, though, his entire royal court has slipped in behind him, and backs him up in full harmony.
That’s what it feels like when the band kicks in. Like you’ve got an entire court — better, an army — on your side. The audience felt it too. They were with us: rowdy and raucous and loud and still not entirely engaged in the rock show before them.
I was a little unsteady, though I’m not sure anyone noticed. I tweaked my volume a few times, bumbled through a few chords, dodged a note or two. But the set went well. We played “The Invention Of Everything Else” (What? You haven’t downloaded it yet!?!) in order. And when the time came, I invited esteemed chanteuse Jamie Leonhart on stage.
“Promise” started softly, built through the bridge and finished strong. Jamie’s harmonies were angelic. And the audience noticed, and responded in kind. “You ain’t heard nothin’ ye,” I said before taking a deep breath, counting to four, and softly strumming a D chord (dropping the high E every-other down stroke).
“Leaves were fallin’ just like embers in colors red and gold,” I sang.
“They set us on fire,” Jamie sighed. “Burning just like a moon beam in our eyes.”
The room grew quiet.
“Somebody said they saw me,” we sang. “Swinging the world by the tail.
A few remaining talkers were shushed.
“Bouncing over a white cloud… killing the blues.”
The venue was still, save for the gentle swaying of the band. Jamie and I smiled at one an other, then resumed the second verse. The audience was rapt. We were rapt, as curious as anyone else as to whether this beauty we’d so unwittingly created together — all of us: the band, Jamie, me and the audience — would land gently.
Chris leaned softly into his solo, closing with the signature notes that echo the refrain. The last verse came to me like a ghost. Tony closed his eyes. Jamie brushed his snare. And everything flowed.
Even now, it’s difficult to describe the moment, except to say that it was precisely the kind of magic one hopes for, but rarely observes, let alone takes part.
It was warm, and wonderful, and cast a glow on everything.
Moments later, Jamie stepped from the stage beneath a fusillade of applause. Everything that came before — the noise, the distraction, the anxiety — slipped away. My heart beat like new, my feet settled into my shoes. I counted to four, and began again…
Benjamin Wagner, Chris Abad & Jamie Leonhart At Rockwood Music Hall – Photos
July 11th, 2008
Rockwood Music Hall (New York, New York)
Giving Up the Ghost
Trying To Tell You
The Last Time
(I Won’t Let You) Get Away
Promise
Killing The Blues
Breathe In
The Boys Of Summer
Live Forever
Click here to see photos from the show.
The Boys Of Summer
Ah, to be a kid in the summertime.
Remember?
Kick the can. The ice cream man. Wiffle Ball. Zinc oxide. Fireflies.
I have nothing but golden memories of summer vacation.
When I was really young, family loaded into the brown, wood-panelled Cutlass Cruiser station wagon, and travelled 561 miles to Lake Vermillion, Minnesota where we would fish, water ski, swim, and picnic.
Later, as a teenager, summer vacation came to mean Rehoboth Beach, Delaware: boogie boarding, body surfing, and endless hours at the arcade.
Good times.
For Ethan and Edward, summer vacation means a trip to Grandma and Grandpa’s in Stone Harbor, New Jersey. They’re keeping the dream alive for all of us. The very sight of them makes me smile, and long for sand between my toes.
Rock & Roll Show
No matter how good you know your best friend’s band sounds, you can’t really know until you’re sitting on the floor in the aural center of the kick drum, bass and guitar amps.
Wow. Molecules are movin’ here, fo’ reals.
You know Chris Abad and I are performing a double bill at Rockwood Music Hall Thursday night, right?
Well, since we share bassist Tony Maceli and drummer Jamie Alegre, we’re also sharing a rehearsal.
So it’s 11:30 on Tuesday night, and I’m sitting on the floor here at Ultrasound Studios on 30th & Eighth with the absolute best seat in the house for Chris’ set.
It’s amazing how different our sets sound.
Chris’ songs are muscular power-pop, like The Outfield sans the nausiating, cheeseball vocals, or STP with better lyrics and vocals. They twist and turn, full of stops and starts and crooked changes. I defy you to not bang your head and sing along.
My songs are straighter, far more singer/songwriter fare. Lots of strumming and arpegiating. Heck, I have no idea how they sound, really. If only I could sit on the floor in front of my own rehearsal…
Anyway, Thursday’s gonna be totally badass. I’ll be doing most of my new record, “The Invention Of Everything Else” (you own it already, right?), plus a few key chestnuts (including — I’ll tip you off right now — a full-band version of “New York” for the second time ever).
And we’re recording it for iTunes, so hopefully at least five of ‘em’ll work.
Or not.
Who cares.
Because when it feels like this to knock back a 40 and rock out with your friends, that’s more than enough.
Benjamin Wagner & Chris Abad With Jamie Leonhart This Thursday Night!
Dear Friends,
Please join me this Thursday night for an awesome double bill.
The evening kicks off with a set from the always-rousing, Chris Abad, followed by your truly. Both will be backed by the fabulously capable Tony Maceli (bass) and Jamie Alegre (drums).
The uber-talented Miss Jamie Leonhart will join me for “Promise,” “Breathe In,” and “Killing The Blues,” just as she does so beautifully on my brand-new CD, “The Invention Of Everything Else.”
What’s more, we’ll be recording the set for an iTunes exclusive release.
Thursday, July 10th 8-10 pm
Rockwood Music Hall
197 Allen Street, New York City
“The Invention Of Everything Else,” is available now on iTunes and Authentic Records.
:), Benjamin
Into The Arms Of America
Ok, so here’s the quandary.
I love New York City, but thirteen years later, the place is killin’ me.
I don’t just mean the fumes, shadows or concrete. And it’s more than the pace, noise, and frenzy. I’m talkin’ about politics, aspiration — the whole ladder climbing thing.
A few weeks ago, a younger friend and I were sipping homemade margaritas from the thirtieth floor sun terrace of Abbi and my building. All of Midtown was splayed out below us. We were a little buzzed.
“Man,” he said, “You’ve made it.”
“I dunno’ about that,” I said.
“C’mon: the job, the wife, the rock ‘n roll.”
I mean, listen, I’m really, really happy with who I am, and where I am. And I’m really appreciative and all. But I won’t front; I’m considering my next step. Correction: we’re considering our next steps. There will be home ownership. And children. And it could all be somewhere other than New York City. (Or not.)
Now, I’m not talking next week, or next month. But, yunno… soon.
So every time I leave Manhattan, I ponder: Does this look like the shape our life will take?
This weekend finds Abbi and I just a few blocks from where I grew up in suburban Philadelphia. It’s lush here. Bubbling streams (I caught a large mouth bass in the backyard). Country clubs. Pretty conservative.
But I look around out here amidst the great unwashed and kinda’ freak out.
Example. We made two visits to the King of Prussia Mall this weekend. Yunno, for wedding returns. (Yeah, still.) What a nightmare! It was like a rest stop: Superhighway, supersize me. “Outside it’s America,” I kept thinking. Dudes in half-shirts, women in leopard prints, squawking kids.
Oy.
Today we went to the movies. (Yeah, “Ironman,” six weeks late.) Lots of overweight. Lots of t-shirts and mandals. Squawking kids.
Wait, this sounds all surface. And maybe it is. But nothing makes me more anxious than the mall, or the popcorn line at the local cineplex.
Take the flipside, though.
We just had dinner at the country club. The view was nice: the eighteenth hole, last-night’s fireworks tonight. The food was average. The men’s room was impressive (the locker room, really; aisles and aisles of hair cream). The tennis whites? A bit much. The air kisses? A little nausiating.
I guess I’m talking about socio-economics.
And I’m sure there’s somewhere in between.
But like everything else in my life — or, the future of my life — it’s a complete mystery.
Peter Buck always says R.E.M. never set out to be anything, they set out to not to be something.
It’s not like I ever imagined that thirty-six and married was gonna’ look like this. It’s way different, and way better.
So I guess I’ll figure out what that something looks like when we get to that next something.
My Life Inside Rock (And Out)
For me, browsing the music section at the local book store is a little like an alcoholic ogling the top-shelf at the local tavern, or a sex addict wandering 4th Street in the Meatpacking District.
I have an unnatural (though entirely understandable, I think) compulsion to consume rock bios, memoirs collections and compendiums. I’ve read a ton: “The Dirty Life And Times Of Warren Zevon,” “Black Postcards,” and “Everything I’m Cracked Up To Be,” “Hammer Of The Gods,” “Conversations With Bono,” and “So You Want To Be A Rock & Roll Star?” — to name just a few.
This morning I finished “Hotel California” (which, naturally, I picked in anticipation of my recent sojourn there few weeks ago — but more on that book later). And so, when I found myself loitering outside of Abbi’s East Side office with fifteen minutes to spare, I strode immediately towards Borders.
Now, not all book stores are created equal. There’s a Barnes & Noble just downstairs from Abbi and my apartment, for example, with just one measly one shelf dedicated to rock books. The Borders on the corner of 57th & Park, however, had five, six-foot shelves full of the stuff. I was a kid in a candy store.
In just five minutes, I had a armload of options: “Girls Like Us: Carole King, Joni Mitchell, Carly Simon And the Journey of a Generation,” “Willie Nelson: An Epic Life,” “Mainlines, Blood Feasts and Bad Taste: A Lester Bangs Reader,” “A Freewheelin’ Time,” “Exile On Main St.” — and on and on and on.
“They should have some sort of Netflix for rock books,” I thought. “Oh yeah, they do: The library.”
After just ten minutes, even Motley Crue’s “The Dirt” — hell, even guitarist Nikki Sixx’s “Heroine Diaries” — were starting to look appealing.
The criteria? It’s a complex algorithm, really. Is it an artist about whom I know a lot already? Is it an autobiography or memoir (better) or a third party think piece (worse)? What era (post-1960 is crucial)? What genre? New release? Hard cover? Paperback? Will I need to download a bunch of songs to better contextualize the work? How many pages? How much?
At one point in my calculations I thought, “Yunno, that Chuck Klosterman doesn’t write fast enough” (I’ve read all of his books). And then, “I could live on the ’33 1/3′ series alone.” Which was right about the time I heard a distinct voice in my head say, “Get out!!!”
So I did.
But not before hitting the checkout and tucking two new titles into my bag: Bill Graham’s autobiography, “My Life Inside Rock And Out” (oral history; love those) and “Rob Sheffield’s “Love Is A Mixtape” (Gen X, NYC journo writes about love and music — now in paperback!).
I’ll letcha’ know how it all turns out.
