Am I Off The Rails?
With "Forever Young," I may be off the rails.
A few weeks ago, rock journos Greg Kot and Jim DeRogatis aired a special episode of their weekly "Sound Opinions" program called "Off The Rails." In the show, the two tallied artists who'd detoured unforgivably from the promise of their early career: Lauryn Hill, Metallica, Liz Phair. The first spot was assigned to Rod Stewart whose "Stardust: The Great American Songbook, Vol. III" -- in the duo's estimation, anyway -- undid Stewart's work with The Jeff Beck Group, The Faces, and as a solo ...
Rock ‘N Roll Coochie Coo
Thank goodness, my week of rock 'n roll bachelorhood finally came to an end.
Abbi, Maggie and I were in Wilmington, DE, last weekend for The Keller's 40th anniversary. I had to get back to NYC for MTV's TJ Search Finale on Sunday. So it seemed like a perfect, logical solution. Abbi could relax with her family, and I could finish my forthcoming benefit CD, "Forever Young."
Jeff Jacobson ran my studio (aka Maggie's nursery) through. Our cover of James Taylor's "Sweet Baby James" is a melancholy, lullaby version of the tune. He laid down ...
All The Small Things
"It's time," Abbie said.
I tiptoed into the bedroom, and squinted through the darkness until my eyes adjusted. Maggie came into focus just a few feet before me, motionless in her bassinet.
She was swaddled like a papoose, her lips curled into a heart-shape.
I slid my right hand beneath her back, my left beneath her head, and whispered into her ear, "Maggie..."
Her brow furled. Her legs curled. She yawned. I gently removed the swaddle blanket as her eyes flickered open, and scanned the space beyond my forehead.
A tiny, blue ...
The Velvet Hammer
Finally, I get to be the hero for once.
For two weeks running, Maggie and I had it made. I'd wake her softly at the crack of dawn, bottle feed her, then take a long, slow stroll around the neighborhood until she slipped off to sleep. Everybody won: Abbi slept, Maggie ate, and I gained QT with baby and bonus points with mommy.
For nearly two weeks now, though, she's refused the bottle. Our mornings are now a protracted battle that invariably ends in tears, frustration, and a solemn handover to Abbi. It's a heartbreaking exchange, one ...
Sundays With Maggie
I set out like a total rookie: no sun hat, no burp towel, no bottle, not even an extra diaper. I scarcely pulled a baseball cap over my eyes and flip flops on my feet. It was just Maggie, me and a stripped-down stroller.
Funny how quickly we forget. It doesn't seem like much now, some fifteen hours later. But at four in the morning, when her mother and I'd both taken hour-long, overnight turns endeavoring in vain to sooth her to sleep, her tiny, spastic head butts, grunts and gasps -- adorable as they may seem in the daylight -- turn ...
Wake Up, Maggie (I Think I Have Something To Say To You)
Loving music led to playing music led to writing music led to performing music led to recording music. Still, I wouldn't have bet on this.
Tony, Chris, Ryan and I started recording "Forever Young" in February. The record is due in October, and benefits The Fred Rogers Center. The conceit is simple: record a bunch of classic songs that kids and parents alike love with a bunch of friends and release it for charity. Said conceit came with a perk too: throughout Abbi's pregnancy, I placed headphones on her belly and played little Maggie ...
Maggie At Ten (Days)
Maggie slept through her one week birthday (the nerve!), so I decided to celebrate ten days; seemed like a good round number. Anyway, these first few days of Maggie's life have disabused me of measurements; seconds, minutes, hours all seem to stretch and bend in this haze of feed, burp, change, repeat.
And so tonight, I made Maggie's favorite dinner, tacos, guacamole and red velvet cupcakes (ok, not really), and celebrated with my girls. As I slaved in the kitchen (ha ha), I reflected on how much I've learned in the past ten days. Take ...
Meeting Maggie
The East River isn't really a river at all, but a tidal strait between Manhattan and Long Island that, because of tides, appears to flow like one.
New York Presbyterian Hospital soars like a great, white sail over the East River. This great, granite sheet spans several blocks of Midtown East, swallowing the FDR highway whole. Looking southeast, the river below races just below, fast past Roosevelt Island and the Queensboro Bridge beyond. From inside, it's as if one is floating above the city itself, rolling along in the waves, to and fro ...
Margaret Burton Wagner
June 13th, 2010
Building A Mystery
For a second there, the juxtaposition of my ragged, fourteen-foot UHaul barrelling up the well-coiffed upper reaches of Park Avenue was kind of awesome. Traffic was light. The gas pedal was heavy. Midtown was in the rear-view. And there was funk on the radio.
What's more, my heart was full of freshly-minted confidence. Overnight, I'd transformed our box-strewn, bare-windowed second bedroom into something pretty closely resembling a nursery. In some six hours of construction, I'd assembled a crib and dresser, hung a pair of blinds, and ...
