Jamie Leonhart & Chris Abad Bring Christmas To October
It may have been a bit out of sync with yesterday’s balmy, October weather, but the holiday spirit was in the air.
And so it was that — just as the sun began to set on a crisp, fall afternoon — I retired to our cramped walk-in closet and began assembling my little MacGyver recording studio. I powered up ProTools, and cued up our track, and began tinkering. Twenty minutes later — just as the doorbell rang — I emerged to say to Abbi, “I would have to pick the world’s most-recognizable Christmas tune.”
Yup, it’s time for another holiday benefit album.
Last year’s “A Family Holiday Benefit” CD and show raised well over two grand for 826NYC (a nonprofit organization dedicated to supporting students ages 6-18 with their creative and expository writing skills), so we’re doin’ it again.
This year, I’m helming the project with Rebel Spirit Music, a community network for fans, artists and industry professionals. So the official title is “Rebel Spirit Music Presents: A Holiday Benefit, Volume II.”
We’re recording our “all-star” cover, John Lennon’s “Happy Xmas (War Is Over),” this Sunday at Brooklyn’s Kingsland Studios. Once again, Chris Abad, Tony Maceli, and Jamie Alegre will act as house band. And once again, the list of participating artists is pretty impressive (and completely different from last year, save for Casey Shea, Chris and me). The big release party is scheduled for Monday, December 1 at Tribeca’s Canal Room. And yes, there will be a music video.
For our contribution, Jamie and I were originally going to record, “Let It Snow.” But it became apparent that we didn’t have the time or inclination to arrange what surely demanded better than an acoustic guitar. So then I suggested a real pretty, “Killing The Blues”-inspired “Silent Night.” But Kailin Garrity recorded that song on last year’s album. So I decided to use and ace in the whole…
Meanwhile, back at the ranch (my apartment, that is), Chris and Jamie Leonhart were at the door. We sat and talked politics a while (Jamie’s been putting her money where her mouth is, twice canvasing for voters in Philadelphia), then hit play on the iPod…
“I – I’ll – have – a – bluuueee Christmasssss without you…”
Yup. The King. Elvis Presley. “Blue Christmas.”
Classic.
Jamie and I pieced out some harmonies, then retired to the closet to bang ‘em out. We endured a few bouts with the giggles (you try singing that song straight faced in a 4×6 walk-in closet), and I had a tough time with the low unison part (which, Jamie — who, you’ll recall teaches voice — is often more difficult for singers to hear than harmonies), but managed six tracks in twenty minutes. Suddenly, the vanilla version of “Blue Christmas” that Ryan, Tony, Chris and I had recorded last fall sounded lush and warm. Next, it needed some rock.
Enter Chris.
He took his seat on the wooden, lavender stool while I kneel just behind him facing my Powerbook. There wasn’t one foot of wiggle room between us. Still, in short order, he busted out a bluesy, arpegiated line, plus a nice solo to compliment my ridiculous, tongue-in-cheek spoken lines (“Darlin’, I’ve been missin’ you real bad…”).
We knocked the whole song out in an hour or so, wrapping just in time for Megan Abad’s arrival, and a big delivery of Thai food. Which, at the end of the day, was the big idea for the whole Holiday Benefit all along: make friends, make music, have fun, do good.
With friends like Jamie and Chris, and music like we’re makin’, how can we not have fun? How can it not do some good?
A Post About Running Twenty Miles On Saturday Morning
The first few blocks of a twenty-mile run are populated by disbelief.
“What the hell are we thinking?” gives way to, “If this creaky, old ankle feels sore already, how’s it going to feel in three hours?”
Such was the case as Abbi and I ran through the shadows of the gargantuan Time Warner Center and into the early-morning light of Central Park Saturday morning.
“At the minimum,” I thought, “We’ll see a lot of New York.”
Which, in our 3:35:36 New York City Marathon training run (pausing frequently to stretch, hydrate, gel and snap photos), we sure did.
From 57th Street, we ran northeast through Columbus Circle into Central Park. In the park, we ran north along the Bridal Path, the east across the top of the Great Lawn where we turned south and began our long, slow descent. We exited the park at 72d Street, then cruised east to First Avenue where we remained until 34th Street. There we jogged along the East River to Chinatown where we crossed the Manhattan Bridge into Brooklyn. A few blocks later, we returned westward on the Brooklyn Bridge, then ran along Broadway to the Battery. From the southern-most tip of Manhattan, through the World Financial Center (where we jogged past Kelly Ripa and husband Mark Consuelos), we returned north along the Hudson River.
It was a beautiful, cloudless, blazing-blue morning. And though we covered a great distance, we felt great, and had a great time. Afterwards, we devoured ham, egg and cheese sandwiches and gulped Gatorade as we lounged on the floor elevating our feet.
Oddly enough, my creaky, old ankle didn’t hurt a bit.
Goodnight Two Timing Blues
You’re sitting in a windowless, fluorescent-lit conference room on the seventeenth floor of a Midtown corporate headquarters reviewing the network’s Q4 Programming Calendar when it dawns on you.
You’ve promised your best friend, a guy you’ve known since you were ten-years-old, that you’d meet him in back home for his induction into your high school’s sports hall of fame.
At the same time, on the same night, you’re booked to play a rock show at a prestigious music festival — a gig you’ve already re-booked once on account of your journalism day job interfering with your rock ‘n roll fantasy.
Now, you’ve played the festival once before, but here’s the wrinkle: this year, you’ve been asked to moderate a panel. No big deal, really; you just have to keep a conversation going amongst a couple of guys in front of a few dozen college students.
Thing is, your two worlds — this twenty-year-old backup plan — are about to be validated (not that anyone outside of your wife will really know, or understand, but you will).
Moreover, this confluence of your split-personality — journalist and musician — has taken twenty years manifest. Truth is, you don’t draw so well anymore, especially at seven o’clock on a Saturday night.
So, what do you do?
* * *
Yup. The “you” is me. The friend is my best friend and groomsman, Sibby Browne. The gig is my CMJ show at Alphabet Lounge. And it all came crashing down this morning.
So what did I do? I called Abbi, and asked her. After a few minutes of preamble, she sighed and said, “Honey, if you’re asking me to tell you what to do, I can’t.”
I turned and faced the window, put my feet up on the sill, and stared out towards the Chrysler Building.
First, I ran through the financial considerations. Which version of that weekend would be most cost effective? Rehearsing, paying the band, commuting 160 blocks round trip in a taxi, and plus a bar tab? Or a train ticked and rubber chicken dinner?
Second, I ran through the relational considerations. Disappoint a friend whose had your back for 26 years? Or a booker whose done you a ton of decent favors?
Then I thought about my ego, ‘cuz canceling the gig was gonna’ bruise a little bit.
Somewhere in all the calculations, though, the right thing to do became apparent. It all boiled down to personal pronouns. Me? Or you?
And so, on October 25th at 7pm, Jamie, Tony, Chris and I will not be performing at Alphabet Lounge as part of the College Music Journal Marathon.
Instead, I’ll slither up to the cash bar at a suburban Philadelphia country club and buy my friend — a guy I’ve known nearly three fourths of my life, a guy with whom I dressed up as Crockett and Tubbs for Halloween, a guy who stood up for me at my wedding, a guy who said, “Hey, the local paper needs a high school soccer correspondent” and pointed me towards my first job in journalism — a cold, refreshing, well-earned beverage. And then I’m gonna’ raise my glass and say, “Here’s to you, Sibby.”
Underground
Dear Ben,
In just a few weeks, you’ll be laying in a hospital bed with a broken jaw. You’ll look in the mirror but — what with those wired teeth and that Elephant Man swelling — fail to recognize yourself. It’s a whole lotta’ trauma on account of a girl, and a knuckleheaded football player, and it’s gonna’ bruise for a long, long time.
One year from now, though, you’ll step from the gymnasium stage, stoned and squinty-eyed, with a diploma in your hand, and a duct tape question mark on you maroon cap. Shortly thereafter, you’ll be heading north to a cold, gray freshman year at Syracuse University with a pony tail and Ray Bans, a fairly significant lack of confidence, and a new name: Benjamin.
Six years from now, you’ll move to New York City with $400 in your pocket and no real plan. The good new is, your brother will carry you until you can walk on your own. What’s better, you’ll do a stint at Rolling Stone, then land somewhere even cooler. The bad news is, you’ll be smoking pot 24/7 to try and deal with whatever leftover adolescent baggage you refused to unpack.
Right now, though, it’s 1988. May, to be exact. You’re standing in the courtyard of Conestoga High School in Berwyn, Pennsylvania. Your band, Underground, is one of five performing at the school’s annual Lunch Munch. That’s bassist John Leggette and guitarist Jason Knoft over your shoulder. You’re about to open with REM’s “Strange.” And while your classmates are just standing there with their arms crossed, it’ll all turn… eventually.
You’ll make records. Lots of ‘em. You’ll open for real bands that actually get played on the radio. You’ll get played on the radio. You’ll make music videos. You’ll play house parties that turn so raucous, they threaten to bring the place down. Music will provide a light you cannot resist.
And — believe it or not — your future wife will tap you on the shoulder after a show sixteen years from now and say, “Nice set.” And she’ll be right; it was.
For now, though, lighten up. Put your shoulders back. Smile. Enjoy. It only seems complicated: the heartbreak, the drama, cliques and popularity contest. You can’t know this now, but that failed bid for student council president? Doesn’t really matter.
And those Converse All-Stars are a solid, timeless call. But trust me on this — you work at MTV now and you know — no one plays a rock show in plaid shorts. No one. Ever see Bono in clamdiggers? Michael Stipe in capris? Exactly.
Listen, it’s cool; you’re seventeen. It’s supposed to seem complicated. You’re supposed to be irritable, have bad taste, and dubious judgement.
But I’m writing you from 2008. Twenty years have passed. The posture, the shorts, the scowl, the lack of confidence; they’re not ok anymore. A whole bunch of stuff is gonna’ happen, some good, some bad, some planned, some unexpected.
Relax; it all turns out fine. Remember that.
Love, Benjamin
Vows (Or, I’ll Work For Your Love)
At the end of the day, the meet cute doesn’t count for much.
I mean, make no mistake; it’s a cute story. I thank my lucky stars that Abbi happened onto my Friendster profile, found my website, came to my rock show, and tapped me on the shoulder — to say nothing of the fact that she had the wherewithal to be persistent (but not too persistent).
No, at the end of the day, it’s a good story, and a great start (and, if you’re me, a fortuitous turn of events).
It seems to me, though, that really matters isn’t that first chapter, but the pages unspooling in real time now: not the highlights, or spotlights, or moonlight, but the sixty-watt bulb that illuminates our living room.
I don’t know much about love, and — one wonderful year into this excellent, new adventure — I don’t know much about marriage. So far, it’s been a pretty smooth ride. We’ve had some challenges, hit some bumps, and had some tests: taking the leap, building a home, finding our footing, and dealing with surprises.
I know this much: I lucked out with an excellent partner, but we ain’t seen nuthin’ yet.
Last October, I stood beneath that live oak on Bray’s Island and began my vows thusly:
In his “Letters To A Young Poet,” Rainer Maria Rilke warns that “People have misunderstood the place of love in life. They have made it into play and pleasure because they thought play and pleasure were more blissful than work. But there is nothing happier than work. And love, because it is the extreme happiness, can be nothing else but work.”
Since getting married exactly 365 days ago this afternoon, Abbi and I have enjoyed more than our share of happiness.
We’ve knocked around the Maldives, Dubai, Nantucket and Seattle. We’ve woken up early to jog, and late to rest. We’ve run marathons and walked aisles. We’ve laughed with and at each other.
And we’ve done some work too.
We’ve vented about work, grouched about parents, spouted about siblings, and kvetched about friends. We’ve argued about laundry, furniture, food, and finances; debated couches, kids, cleaning ladies and vacations; and disagreed about where to go, how long to stay, and what to spend.
I’ve learned to compromise not because I have to but because I want to. I’ve learned to share space, jettison vestigial habits, long-held (but outdated) beliefs, and material, and think of someone other than myself before myself. I’ve learned to listen, to wait, and to work. And I’ve learned to persist.
I know we’ve only just begun. And I know we have challenges to endure.
Today, though, on the first wedding anniversary, I just want to relish my goods fortune for finding the sweetest, most-beautiful, patient woman and perfect partner possible.
Today, I want to relish my good fortune that I’ve met a women who loves rock shows, matinees, and sitcoms in equal measure; who looks equally ravishing in jeans and a t-shirt, or taffeta and pearls; and who has a folder full of design clippings, books full of crossword puzzles, and closets full of board games.
Today, I acknowledge to the whole, wide world that I am a lucky man for my love, and my happiness. And today — more than yesterday, less than tomorrow — I am committed to the work; whatever it takes, whatever may come, ’til death do us part.
Debate Night In Hell’s Kitchen
Once again, it was debate night in Hell’s Kitchen.
And once again, Chris and Meg Abad hosted a viewing party of epic proportions.
We drank beers, ate nachos, and yelled at the TV screen. We gaffawed at CNN’s silly graphics, played Palin Bingo, and chugged on a number of key phrases (“maverick,” “reform,” “change,” etc.).
And we worried about the future of the country. (I said to Chris at one point, “Yunno, I didn’t think anyone could top Bush’s folksy, down-home, faux-authenticity schtick. Tonight, I stand corrected.”)
Here’s my blow-by-blow as tapped into my Blackberry:
8:01 – Joe, buddy, too much makeup!
8:05 – Did she just wink into the camera?
8:09 – At least they’re making eye contact with each other.
8:10 – “Joe Six Pack?” Really?
8:14 – Darn, heckuva, gosh… Palin’s colloquialisms are getting old fast (though I imagine it’s playing well in my home state of Iowa).
8:16 – Biden’s got a comb-over AND a mullet. Two-for-one!
8:20 – I don’t like her glasses. I think if the K-Mart Optical Center every time. “There’s a blue-light special on Luxotica’s brand-new, high-fashion,light-weight Soho Line in the K-Mart Optical Center…” Except no one in Soho would wear those glasses. Only Alaska. Or Idaho, maybe Idaho. Not that there’s anything wrong with those states, just their taste in glasses.
8:24 – I find the candidate’s direct addressing of the camera extremely creepy.
8:25 – I think McCain’s proposal that we all buy into free-market health insurance is problematic (see also: my thirty thousand dollar hospital bill).
8:26 – I’m beginning to think Mrs. Palin might be the spawn of Satan himself. Cuz if you were gonna bring evil into the world, wouldn’t you do it in the person of a skinny, white, bespectacled librarian who talks about soccer and “regular families” while drilling for oil in national parks, peddling perks to lobbyists,and generally dragging down the discourse of American politics?
8:30 – I’m watching this debate with a dozen friends many of whom are cracking wise (which is fine, and fun). I’m straight-faced, though, ‘cuz I’m afraid people outside of our (extremely awesome and cool) cadre of hipster, Northeast media elites might be buyin’ what she’s sellin’.
8:31 – Biden looks really, really tired. And really, really orange.
8:36: – She just said “O’Biden!” Love it. “I’m a heckuva fan of the O’Biden ticket! Pour meanother pint of Guinness, will ya’ Jimmy?”
8:45 – “The Surge.” Good name for a rock band. As is “Talibany.” Wait, Talibany!?!
8:46 – I think it’s honorable that both of them have sons in the military. (I think it’s a shame that anyone’s sons and daughters have to be in the military at all.)
8:49 – Ahmadinejad, Ahmadinejad, Ahmadinejad … five times in one minute!!!
8:56 – Maverick! Yeah!!!
8:59 – THREE shout outs for Kim Jong Il. You KNOW he’s sittin’ there in his palace watchin’ CNN with a big, self-satisfied grin.
9:00 – “I’d like to use my lifeline, please?”
9:06 – Associating John McCain with Dick Cheney? Kinda genius (though Sarah begs to disagree).
9:07 – “John McCain knows what evil is.” ‘Cuz he’s worked with ‘em for years.
9:11 – “Say it ain’t so Joe!?!” Jeez, c’mon! How condescending.
9:12 – Another wink! And a shout out!!!
9:18 – Cheney sucks.
9:20 – I have a new theory. Sarah Palin elicits the hot-for-teacher, “Hit Me Baby (One More Time),” “Secretary” thing. ‘Cuz, sorry, it ain’t her brains.
9:23 – Biden just choked up. Wow.
9:27 – “At the end of the day, it’s gonna’ be ok.”
9:29 – Palin Closing Statement: “Fight for the middle class.” Check. “Ronald Reagan.” Check. “Back in the day.” Check. Wait, back in the day!?!
9:30 – Biden Closing Statement: Dug into a very deep hole, indeed. “Champ, when you get knocked down, stand up.” I”m ok with that.
9:33 – Oh jeez, she’s holding that baby again. And it’s sleeping, again. Why is it always sleeping? What does she put in its formula?
In the end, I think we all acknowledged that Mrs. Palin performed well. That is, she didn’t seem to say anything, or have much idea what she was saying, but she didn’t train wreck. There’s no denying that she’s charismatic, and oddly likable (much like a SuperSized Big Mac Meal: looks good, tastes good, bad for you).
Biden, while long-winded and a little detailed for general comprehension, seemed smart, experienced, and ready for the gig.
And so we called it a night, streamed out onto 55th Street, and scattered to our little corners of New York City, one step closer to performing our civic duty.
The Recovery Room
So… the bill for last months emergency appendectomy surgery came yesterday.
$30,445.16.
Thirty grand!!!
Abbi and I could go scuba diving in Belize six times! We could buy a brand-new Jaguar X-Type! We could put a 5% down payment on a $600,000 house!
The bill’s full of interesting stuff, though, like a $219.19 “specimen bag” (presumably the final resting spot for my beloved, 5mm appendix). Or the $1041.86 Harmonic Ace Scalpel (an “ultrasonic cutting and coagulating surgical device” that, vibrating at 55,500 times per second, cuts tissue while coagulating blood vessels).
Here are some highlights:
$14,814 Hospital Room
$3,139.27 Operating Room
$1,041.86 Harmonic Ace Scalpel
$775.00 Emergency Room
$753.59 Anesthesia (90 minutes)
$723.68 Lab
$694.40 Recovery Room
$683.27 Pharmacy
$285.00 Chest X-Ray
$229.00 EKG
$219.19 Specimen Bag
$57.55 Blood typing
$42.48 Cefoxitin x6
$2.80 Percocet x5
$3.08 Heparin x3
Gratefully, we have United Healthcare; excepting the $500 upgrade for a private room, we’re covered. But it does start the mind spinning. What if we didn’t have health insurance? What if the appendicitis struck just one week prior, while I was working The Video Music Awards in Los Angeles? Or just one day prior, while we played Wiffle Ball™ in Vermont? Heck, what if I was born a hundred years ago?
As painful, inconvenient, and expensive as the whole ordeal was, it could have been worse. And now that I’m on the other side of it (or nearly so), I feel an extra sense of gratitude.
Last night, for example, Abbi and I met Casey and Langan Shea, plus Chris Abad for mussels, fries and beer at Cafe Charbon-Epicerie, then took in Jamie Leonhart’s stunningly original set at a jam-packed Rockwood Music Hall. It was a magical, hilarious, beautiful New York night.
When we got home, I had to say it out loud: I’m lucky. I’m happy. And I’m grateful.
