Candied Apples and Razorblades

And these are the days when I'm really fucking glad that at the end of them- I get to be Glenda.

I learned the hard way that this blog is not a forum for me to vent my personal and private issues, because 1) nobody who reads this will care, other than those intolerably irritating gossip mongers who, due to their own lack of an interesting existence, enjoy discussing the negative aspects of others' lives for recreation (yes, you. If you think for just one second that I might be talking to you... I am ABSOLUTELY talking to you). 2) the people who actually care about me won't be finding out about things of this nature via Facebook and blogging.

But I want to write a leeeeeetle itty-bitty piece today about VENTING.

I just received a piece of information that I found... upsetting. Now granted, I'm only feeling this way because of my own immaturity, but FUCK it. To be fair, my reaction to said information is entirely reasonable and human, it's something that would be difficult for anyone to deal with in the moment. I am not a whiner by nature. I take after my Dad, and I do not live in Mamby-Pamby Land.  But for now, till I grow the hell up, rationalize it and move on... I'm a little... off. And since the usual amount of time it takes me to do such growing the hell up exceeds the limit for joining Team Lightning in the Maturity Olympics, it's a good damn thing that at the end of today, I get to go be Glenda fucking DANZIG.
I was sitting at my office. It was a very normal day. I wear frilly sundresses with scarves and high heels to work, make charming small talk at the elevators, and spend my days discussing things involving network engineering and account management (not that I pretend to understand any of it). I answer my phone with a cheerful, "Anonymous Financial..." And I do not, by ANY stretch of ANYBODY's twisted imagination, look or act like I sing in a horror punk band called Violent Age.

And so I'm sitting here in this condition, perfect corporate gloss-over, when I receive this missive (which- just to clarify so that none of these myopic idiots are given any fuel for the local gossip mill- involved my Pop in an indirect way). Ever since my Dad, my rock of wisdom and stability, died in December I've been on an emotional balance beam, trying to stay focused and centered without falling off. There are waiting arms to catch me on either side should I slip, but they are only so strong and when I fall, I fall HARD. So today, just as I felt for the first time in a couple weeks that my feet were flat on the beam and I am ready to walk forward, here comes this finger prodding me in my right shoulder, nudging me towards the big black abyss directly to the left of my little safety beam.
I walked out of the office and started making a beeline direct for the liquor store at the end of my block. Pop would NOT have been happy. This has been my long-time coping mechanism, and I don't think there's any need to guard that secret anymore. The whole world knows. Dad's greatest fear was me ruining my life with booze, and if anyone would understand that dilemma, he was it. So I buy this tiny half-pint of gin, tell myself that in this moment I am justified in seeking this sort of comfort, settle down in a park, bum a cigarette (eww menthol, GROSS, and I don't even smoke), and get ready to crack the bottle open when I swear to you he was sitting beside me. Great, I'm thinking. If my Dad could REALLY see me... storming out of my office, and then sitting down in my pretty dress to drink and smoke in the park. On company time. God, I'm so juvenile.
He and I then proceeded to have a brief theoretical conversation. See, my parents and I had that sort of relationship where we knew each other so well, that I could easily sit there and do this without being categorized as a schizoid. This actually happens a lot. I could hear him telling me what I already know about drinking. We also had an (also brief) exchange about the situation I'm facing. I know exactly what he would say, because he was a man of the highest integrity and his standards never flagged or fluctuated.
So I forsook the bottle. I mean, it's still in my purse. Tiny little thing, at least it'll save me from spending money on overpriced New York City drinks at my show tonight. Which brings me to the point- my show tonight.
Or OUR show, I should say. David Superbassist Alva and I started this Misfits band as an outlet for some personal fucking rage. He suffered almost the exact same loss I did in December. We both got our hearts ripped out by significant others, and THEN lost the strongest figure in our lives 10 days apart. My Dad, his Grandma. We met about a month later, and that was end of story. We've been causing DeathDestructionMurderMayhem ever since, and it's not always constructive. Actually we're fucking trainwrecks when we drink together. Don't ask me for stories. But whatever, rock'n'roll, right?
WRONG.
Neither of us want this, to be an overage/underdeveloped behavioural/emotional liability nightmare. And nothing helps like this Misfits band. That's why we fkin did it. I've written about this before:

http://marronsbrain.blogspot.com/2011_04_18_archive.html

I have a semi-"perfect" life. A solid handful of wonderful friends who are truly genuine people. A fantastic blessing of a "real" job (that my Dad was SOOOO thrilled about after my years of dead-end employment, such as waitressing, WAL*MART, selling pot, authorizing gas pumps,  and asking people if they want fries), with all of the freedom in the world to have a "real" life in the evenings (ballet, billiards, beers, bro's and bands). Joan Holloway by day, Glenda Danzig by night. I have built a life that is no longer just a drifting existence, but a complex infrastructure of many different elements and factors that must be maintained. So there is absolutely zero room for my erratic, childish emotions and "acting out" when I'm angry. Enter Glenda.


So here we are. I've got a fkin show tonight, and I'm gonna fkin PLAY it.

I am leaving my office. I am not going to drink anything during daylight hours. I am hyped up enough on some bad adrenaline that it would be a baaaaad idea anyway. And I am saving it ALL, every last concentrated acid black drop, to rip the SPINE outta some motherfuckers tonight. In Violent Age, I have the convenience of taking every fucking ounce and fiber of BLACK that lives on the inside and putting it into this little efficient Pandora's Box that I can open and close at will. And let me tell you, Pandora's Box is a fucking TRASH bin. There is nothing worthwhile in there, I think the base logic in the most hardcore of people (unrepentant murderers aside, please pardon) will tell us all that darkness isn't good. But you know what? I've got it. And in a past life, when I would release said darkness arbitrarily, it REALLY wasn't good. I haz a monster inside, and over the years it becomes harder and harder to wake. Not that it's awoken now... like I said, after losing my Pop it takes a loooooot to shake me internally. But it starts rolling around and snorting in its sleep every now and then, and I fear a situation like the one from the Hobbit... you know, when Bilbo Baggins comes sneaking in to the sleeping lair of Smaug the dragon, wakes him, and the dragon goes on to cause... DeathDestructionMurderMayhem.
I'll take it out on stage, thank you very much. Fuck you, DayDrinkingDepressionMorbidMisery. DeathDestructionMurderMayhem will live in me tonight, if only for a few short hours. I'm gonna be an asshole like I always am at Misfits shows, and it'll feel really good 'cause people like it. I like to eat raw steak on stage and throw it in people's faces, call my audience a bunch of faggots, kick leather-wearing dudes in the chest when they come too fuckin close to my stage, and sing songs about burning bodies hanging from poles.
Tomorrow I'm gonna be passed the fuck out.
And on Friday, I'll be once more in a lovely dress, smiling, updating monthly revenue reports and it's back to "Anonymous Financial, this is Gle- uh, err, Marron..."
Someday He'll extract the Razorblade from the Candy Apple. But today is not that day.
And tonight is CERTAINLY not that night. Catch ya later, suckas.
 

Keeping It Real.

I'm starting to look at the sort of gigs/venues I've been playing for the past year in much the same way a low self-esteem woman looks at her unemployed fat slob of an abusive boyfriend drooling in front of the TV and realizes she just might be able to do better.
Friday was ABSOLUTELY one of those awful gigs I wrote about a few months ago, and I didn't even fall flat drunk on my face. File under "Dues: Paid."
It was the venue's fault- my guys and I were, if I may be so bold, awesome. Between the four of us, we spent a lot of time hauling around a lot of cumbersome musical equipment (next hit single: The Heartwrenching Ballad of Davey's Acoustic Bass With No Case) over a lot of pavement to get ready for Friday, and man do I feel friggin' SPECIAL. There was a moment on Friday night when I stopped to breathe for a second... looked around me... and realized that I was actually on stage with four of the best musicians I know, all of whom came together to play this gig at this deplorable little venue with me. WHOA.
Yeah, so the venue screwed us. They put us up an hour late to milk every last dime out of our bar crowd, the price of entry was your first born, they didn't pay us, and there would have been a MAJOR improvement in the sound if we'd substituted a baby monitor for the PA system. Whatever. I think people understand what happened. These places get away with this kind of thing all the time. A lot of acts, singer/songwriter types especially, keep grinding it out in these joints, misguidedly believing that we should be grateful to any place that will allow us a moment on stage. Well you know what UC Lounge, and every other Lower East Side hell-hole that still exploits that idea of the long-gone "romance" it once had to lure impressionable musicians like Charlie the Unicorn into Candy Mountain, only to spit them back out with no kidney? SUCK IT.
However, I do not for one second believe that anyone who wants to play music should skip this part... it's necessary. There is a current trend in our culture that... well, to say that we are being led away from first-hand direct experience is a bit of an understatement. I would say that we are being programmed to experience reality in a flat, removed, two-dimensional manner... similar to that of the experience of watching television. Everyone is so eager to be endorsed by the System, so anxious to hurry up and become an image, an icon, a virtual-reality of themselves... to imprint themselves onto the masses via pictures, video footage and recorded sounds. Almost asking to exist by proxy in the minds of the collective conscious known as the public. There is no interaction. Everyone is vying to become the Ultimate Facebook Status. Catching my drift?
I myself am guilty as hell of this last part, much as I loathe to admit it. To be fair, I think New York has contributed to making me this way. I am working to amend that. I've always been an incredibly insecure individual, and our culture teaches us that the remedy for insecurity is not introspection and moral self-betterment contributing to a fundamentally positive image of one's character, but by piling on the narcissism and building taller and taller monuments to ourselves. I am here to confess that I've fallen for that trap hard, and would like to repent of that. I went on to my beast of a Facebook profile the other day, and set two albums full of vain and self-glorifying pictures to Private (well, my Mom can still see them) because, really- what's the point? Attention? To get people to come to my shows and listen to my music? Um, right. People look at pictures like that and say, "Wow, I bet she's an incredibly talented musician!" about as much as they look at images of Rupert Murdoch and assume that he spends his free time volunteering at homeless shelters. I'm still working up the guts to go in and physically remove some of those narcissistic images one by one from my mile-long roster of profile pictures. After this little revelation, I kind of don't want to look. Worst part is, I haven't really recorded much MUSIC. I've spent TONS of time in practice, writing, and playing out, but have committed almost nothing to record (a total self-contradiction, in that I have committed myself to record in an extensive visual archive, yet have held out on creating any concrete and quantified versions of my music under the seemingly noble pretense of maintaining the experiential, living, interactive element of it all, i.e. "keeping it real"). So an overabundance of images + lack of anything substantial to show =... uh... what does that equal? Exactly.
That's where the hard work comes in, and at least I have that. Back to the point, which is the transition of the reality of collective culture from direct and first hand to living everything as if it was scripted for screen. A musician at heart must endure the trials and tribulations of the early phases, or we'll never deserve to reap the benefits of being an autonomous creative creature free to dance between the gridlines of the Matrix. Before people have tour managers and roadies, labels and perks, music videos and covers of magazines, I believe it is important that they haul the equipment, get screwed over and leave unpaid (frequently), play to empty houses, understand that they are absolutely meaningless to the bars and venues (which I believe are like a micro-representation of the larger, even less caring Industry) and can recall the stench of stale urine and beer without trying. I also believe it's important to go through phases of self-assessment and self-doubt, much like I'm going through now. Looking at yourself honestly to make sure you're doing this the right way, for the right reasons. That you believe that you're not only worth looking at, but even more worth listening to. And most importantly of all, you accept that if you do not "make it", your life is not over- that just because I'm out here doing this right now, working as hard as I can and wishing with all my heart that someday I'll have the privilege of doing what I love for a living, that does not guarantee that it will happen. I'm learning that at the core, the love of playing has to be enough.
Yes, I am a believer in learning the hard way. That's why this blog is called the Musician's Grind, not The Aspiring Pop Star's Quest For a Fast-Track to Fame. But neither is it the Pathetic Noisemaker's Grueling Stations of the Cross. Damned if the Lower East Side becomes my Calvary.

Even If It Ends Up Sailing Off the Ends of the Earth...

"Wow, you like music? AND you like drinking? What, you breathe oxygen too? We should hang out!"
I should also go tattoo my face, because that will make just as much sense and be every bit as judicious a use of time.
Wow, I really am turning into a bitter person, aren't I? Quick measures must be taken to combat the acid tidal waves that are continually crashing against the cold rock of my heart, the spray of which spills forth from my lips in acrimonious syllables as their crests break.
What I am trying to say, in a less awful tone, is that I have had something of a revelation while observing my own social behaviours, and am now doing everything I can to cut back on "hanging out." You know, those times when you have two options as far as how you plan to wake up the next day: well rested, lucid, with a clear picture of the night before, all personal relationships assuredly intact, about $60 up and 600 calories down, maybe with a new understanding and proficiency of a certain set of scales, or even a new song. Or, if you spent your time "hanging out..." you can wake up broker, fatter, tired-er, possibly having to sift through the spliced-together cinema reel of the previous night's events in your head to make sure you didn't do anything stupid, with positively nothing to show for any of it- and if you're me, no recollection of any conversations that might have taken place while "hanging out," not even the "deep and meaningful" ones.
One of the best pieces of advice I ever got came from my journalist friend, Mike Geffner.
"I think you like your personal time too much to be successful." Ouch.
Mike has been sort of a mentor to me. He is an accomplished journalist who understands what it takes to "make it." Starting out in the business at a very young age, against his parents' wishes for him to be an attorney, Mike has worked very hard all of his life to be successful. It's paid off- if, in your opinion, having been published over 8,000 times by dozens and dozens of major publications constitutes success.
I met Mike a little over 2 years ago, while I was waitressing at Amsterdam Billiards. I was such a mess. Mike was looking to start up a performance poetry series, and threw me a bone my asking me to emcee. Not that I'd ever emcee'd before, or really even had any obvious social skills to speak of. I was a volatile drunk who stamped around the pool hall in a continuous rage against my very existence, and the circumstances that had forced me into carrying trays of beer for a living (through no fault of my own, of course). But Mike saw something in me, I guess. I ask him why to this day, and he still just says, "I asked you questions, and you didn't give typical answers." That's it, that's all I get. Oh well.
I started out as "emcee" of The Inspired Word once a month all the way out in Queens. Through the persistent (and I mean, persistent) efforts of Mike and Marvin (aka "Sunshine"- Mike's best friend and right-hand man), the event went from being waaay out there in Queens, to being canceled altogether, to reopening at none other than Le Poisson Rouge, and is now based out of Nexus Lounge on Tuesday and Thursday nights. And it is a HUGE success. Famous poets from all over the country show up at the Inspired Word, to perform for 15 mins, sometimes for FREE. Whoa.
Mike has given me a lot of pep talks over the time I've known him, but if there's one thing he said that really stuck, it's that generally speaking, only those who put ALL of their efforts into achieving their goals actually attain them. And that those who do go full-steam-ahead and devote 100% of their energy rarely fail. "I think you like your personal time a little bit too much... When you get to the point that you are putting every last drop of your efforts into being a success, then you will succeed."
Hmm.
He was right- so much of my time has been filled with drinking, playing pool, hanging out with friends, laying around in Central Park, walking around the city, "practicing" at home (springing for the oversized bottle of Gato Negro sauvignon blanc, parking myself on the couch, running through a few covers, passing out), etc. I could have covered a lot of ground by now, and I haven't. And I'm starting to feel it catching up. There's this guilt that settles in when I go out and socialize and it doesn't have anything to do with music. The only thing I want to do these days is go. Home. And. Practice. I SEE it now. I understand. Do I WANT to spend every night of my life attending a different social gathering? Yes! Is there a different opportunity to do so available nightly? Totally! Is there an intense amount of dissatisfaction when I stumble home after midnight, go to sleep in my clothes immediately and wake up at 7 for work the next day without so much as touching my guitar? Four days in a row? Absofuckinglutely.
So I think I've reached the conclusion that in order to progress, I'm going to have to restrict "me" time and friend time to interactions that center around music. For now.
A lot of my friends are facing this precise dilemma, and not just my musician friends. Everyone I know who has any sort of a creative streak suffers from the effects of the pure poetic irony of it all. We are artists, which necessarily implies that organization, structure, discipline and direction are not our strongest points. Many of us work in "real" jobs, but we are not corporate climbers. We work simply so that we can play. We stagnate in our roles for years, knowing that if we accept their offers of workforce advancement, we will literally be putting a piece of our soul on lien to the very system we hate. They may pay us more, but they will own more of us as well. We all want to be successful, but as artists we'd much rather play than work our way to the top. And we're social creatures. Do we enjoy sitting home and practicing scales, running through our set and our songs endlessly until playing and performing them come naturally as breathing? Sure we do! Until our buddies call to inform us that there is free booze and some serious rock-starring going on at the Thompson Hotel.
And then there's the depression and self-doubt, often the very driving force behind our creativity. Pain and self-loathing are fabulous catalysts for great art. Not calling them "great" art, but just read my lyrics. It's a TOUGH cycle, I'll tell ya. We are all suffering on the inside. The societal structure that we have been groomed to conform to just does not appeal to us. We don't want to be a moving part in a big factory machine, we want to be the machinist. We want to create.
But then the darkness inevitably sets in. We write killer songs, begin killer novels and screenplays, paint a few killer pieces, and then as soon as we hit a creative dry spell, we bottom out. We wonder if we will ever have another breath of inspiration, and we start looking at the wonderful things we have created and questioning their quality. We are intimidated by the idea of presenting what we do to the world, fearing rejection and ridicule. We beat and battle ourselves into submission, until all we are is "aspiring" somethings. And instead of fighting back and saying, "No, I will not quit, I will not give up, I will break through the gut-wrenching anxiety, I will tune out the naysayers, I know my work is good and I will keep pressing on," we turn back to our mundane jobs for stability, and to boozing and partying it up with our friends for comfort.
We nurture our passions from youth until it's time to make the big choice. One foot on the sailboat, one foot on the shore. Lifting the other foot from stable, dry land means that once we are on the boat, sailing into unknown and uncertain waters, we will need to be proactive. We have to navigate, we have to steer. And isn't proactivity and responsibility the very thing we are trying to avoid? Why can't I just get on the boat, lean back with my guitar, and enjoy smooth sailing in the sun? Because if it were that easy, anyone could do it and everyone would. I for one have zero interest in this corporate desert island. The Crystal Ship is sailing soon. I'm 26 and only have so much time. And I for one am tired of being afraid to board. The Ship is where I want to be- even if it ends up sailing off the ends of the Earth.

"So... is this a BLOG you're writing, or a C-movie screenplay?"

I should probably start trying to make these things into actual blog entries instead of completely out-of-order chapters in a retrospective novel that will never get written. Like Bon Jovi says:

"'Cause the bottle vodka's still lodged in my head...
As I dream about movies they won't make of me when I'm dead."

That's a line from "Bed of Roses," which was one of my Dad's favorite songs. He was pretty darn sentimental for being such a gangster. And you can mock/knock Bon Jovi all you want, but the man's got a point. I think that a lot of us are actually living each day in some sort of suspended reality, visualizing our lives as a movie and secretly casting our friends as side roles in our own grand cinematic delusion. There comes a time when it's very important to stop living for the idea. For example, I spent a lot of time working towards being known as a guitar player vs. actually improving at guitar. And then my last band experience with the girls forced me to wake up and realize that I wasn't nearly as good as I thought I was.

It's all been a movie, a realized vision
Where nothing is real, just a life-or-death game
The winner perfects authenticity feigned
The ride into the sunset can't make you John Wayne...

That's a little something that came into my head a few years ago, when I first realized that I was not an authentic person. That I often do things for the object, for the show or for the idea, rather than the actual practical value and experience. And so, if I'm writing a blog, how's bout writing a blog and not turning everything into a pretentious friggin' screenplay. Because sometimes people get accidentally "cast" unfairly, assigned lines they never wished to read.
So enough blogging about blogging... BLOG!!
(Remember being a kid and realizing for the first time that if you start to repeat the same word over and over and over again, it completely loses its meaning and becomes a funny-sounding set of syllables?)

Today should be good. Excellent, even. After a grueling day of slavery under the cruel master I know as Salesforce.com (bane of my existence), I get to go bouncing away to Misfits practice! Vunderful. I could not be looking forward to this more. The guys and I are having our second go of it tonight, hopefully defining a set list and moving a few steps closer to getting on stage. It's so exciting. It's a different experience for all of us- between the four of us we encompass a wide range of skill levels, from established, experienced musician to total band newb, to moderate band newb, to music student at a SUPER-legit institution. What this means is that there is a lot of potential for growth among us- that the novice might learn from the veteran, that the more experienced might expand personally by helping nurture someone who is on their way. I'm probably getting ahead of myself- I do that- we've only had one practice. But it was a GREAT practice. And we're all back again this week for another one. This project still being a new thing, there is of course always that chance that certain elements may fall apart. But it is my highest hope that we succeed with this current lineup, and that anyone who likes to burn some energy slamming around to classic Misfits tunes will be able to come out and do just that with us soon. VERY soon!
After that, we're hiking it down to the Delancey to see the NE'RE DO WELLS!! My absolute FAVORITE local act (Stoned Fire, Sky White Tiger, Daniel Wayne, and Edison Woods are right there too and deserve honorable mentions). I give a LOT of credit to these guys... they are doing their part to keep traditional MUSIC alive. I believe I first caught the Ne're Do Wells at the Southpaw in Park Slope, Brooklyn. I'd never seen anything like it- it's these tall, handsome guys in suits, playing punk country. Yes, punk country. As if Johnny Cash had actually gone over his prodigious cocaine limit. If you haven't seen the Ne're Do Wells, I highly suggest you put it on your to-do list. It is traditional country/folk/blues-style music set to a punk-rock backbeat. And people DANCE! Imagine, a show where people don't just STAND there. After this week I really need this... and shows are such a wonderful cathartic escape. It's been a somewhat stressful week, between work, interpersonal tensions, and me just being kind of a miserable human being for no reason half the time. I can think of few things finer than going to a show in an "intimate" setting (meaning you can watch the artist cranking out the tunes you love without TV screens on the stage, and knowing that that artist will be standing at the same bar as you after their set and you might get to shake their pickin' hand and buy them a "thank you" beer). And it is SO important to SUPPORT LOCAL MUSIC. I feel that if more musicians supported each other's shows, if more people made it a point to discover and support the people who are making great music happen in the town they live in, that the world would drastically improve. Music is such a community thing- it should be a glue, an adherent, a set of crochet needles that weaves people in and out of circles and patterns to form a human fabric.
SOOO..... I HEAVILY recommend that if, like me, you would otherwise plan on staying home tonight Googling funny pictures of cats to post to your friends' Facebook profiles, that you change your "ICanHasCheezburger"-ridden mind and come see the Ne're Do Wells tonight at the Delancey. 9pm.
LATER!

In Times of Crisis... Start a Punk Band. (For My Pop)

NOTE:: This post was originally removed at the request of a friend. I however feel that it has been down long enough. I wrote it, it's part of my story, and with no ill will towards anyone, I'm putting it back up for the archive.

And so, with one very nasty text message and a de-friending on Facebook, thus ends the saga of BodyTalk:All Female RATT Tribute. I can't pretend that I'm not sad that it's over, or that I'm not disappointed by the way it ended, but it's time to call it what it is and understand that it was time. The RATT band was wonderful for what it was... a learning experience, a technical exercise, a damn good time when times were good- but it was never quite fulfilling, because I wasn't all that into RATT (although I had, by the end, acquired a new respect for their unexpectedly tight musicianship). And although I love the ladies, each of them equally and individually, such highly concentrated levels of estrogen may or may not have been instrumental in our collective downfall.
In the last post, I alluded to the possibility of there being another project in the works, as of yet in its formative stages. This new endeavor is effectively the death knell for the last one. If any one cause must be given for our abrupt ending, this would probably suffice. Without going into too much detail, let's just say that there may have been some confusion as to how certain people really felt about me starting this project, in reference to who "owns" the original idea, and in contrast to the permissive words that were actually spoken and the neutral (positive, even) sentiments that were outwardly expressed.
One evening when tensions were running high and the stench of "breakup" was permeating the atmosphere, one band member suggested that should our current project come to a close, perhaps we ought to start a Misfits band with me singing. Which is something I've been waiting to do since I was a teenager. Not wanting- waiting. There is no way to verbally express the feeling of excitement that wells up inside me every time I so much as think about singing in a Misfits band. So I agreed that yes, should our band break up, I was RIGHT there on the Misfits project, ready to get started immediately.
One evening, after one unnecessary cat-fight too many (which should have been about 5 ago), I decided that the upcoming show should be my last. That particular sentiment had been frivolously tossed about by each of us like a batted balloon at a child's party since this project's inception, but I don't think anyone ever really wanted to take that final step. Our band was almost like a codependent relationship, with its high and low cycles, so I had enough and began allowing my brain to broil over the details of this potential Misfits ensemble.
My Dad was a very wise man, and my obedience to his advice over the years has indisputably altered the course of my life for the better. Saved me, even. He had a full arsenal of idioms and sayings that he would pull out at appropriate times; though initially appearing as simple statements, these phrases had a knack for lodging themselves in your head, and resurfacing at appropriate intervals to reveal the true multi-layered nature of their message.
One of the Reverend Charles P. Shustrick's favorite maxims has been a constant vapour in the forest of my psyche of late... a ghost dancing through the trees, never fully materializing, never attempting to convince me of anything concrete or influence any of my specific decisions directly- but always there, hinting in abstractions that these are the times for its particular employ.
"Mick, you gotta eliminate the 'What-If's."
The "What-If"s. The things you wanted to do while you could, but chose not to because of fear, inconvenience, or too much consideration given to the emotions and opinions of other people who certainly would not return that level of consideration to you. My Dad telling me to "eliminate the What-Ifs" is what helped me to end up in New York City- twice. Both times I showed up here on a Greyhound bus, with a bag of clothes, a guitar, no job and no money. And I think it's worked out pretty damn well- thanks largely in part to my Dad, who, although he didn't necessarily want to see me waitressing at pool halls, sleeping in parks and subways and delivering marijuana to strange places in Brooklyn alone late at night for $10 (first job!), still gave me his support and reminded me that I did not want to wake up at 35, hating my life and beating myself in the face because I didn't just leave everything and run away to New York City in my early 20's.
I am at a similar crossroads. It's been four months now, and I am just now beginning to heal from his loss- and from the loss of both of my grandparents at the exact same time. I am empty and hurt. My heart has been in a terrible winter that has overextended the welcome it never had, and the process of getting this new band started has provided me with the first real hints of warmth that give me hope that soon this arctic deep-freeze in my heart, soul and mind may end. I am at a point in my personal life where I just have to do what must be done in order to move forward with my life, as long as it doesn't hurt anybody. Now offending people, that's a different story. I do not want to appear a calloused person. But I just can't care right now about people's petty objections to things that, in the grand scheme, do. Not. Matter. One. Bit.
 And so to return to our narrative after this anecdotal detour... in an attempt at brevity, I will simply state that when I was all geared up and ready to get started with the new band, had an entire game plan laid out complete with co-conspirators, my bandmate who had initially suggested the Misfits project said that she was not ready, perhaps wanted to take a break from bands in general for just a moment, and gave me express permission to continue as she was aware that this was something of a lifelong dream of mine.
Continue I have... my dear friend Davey and I have put together a four-piece ensemble (me and three guys), already with a full practice under our belts. It happened so naturally and so quickly that it almost can't be anything other than providence.
Then out of nowhere I receive a cellular missive indicating that someone else in my band, not the individual who initiated the dialogue about the Misfits thing, is VERY angry with me for doing this, that they find me to be the most horrible and deplorable of human beings and that they have given me an express order to "stay out of [their] life for good." On grounds that I am an "idea thief."
And all I can really say about that is... Give me a fucking break.
I'm thinking that what this means is that someone was initially unable to tell me how they really felt about me moving forward, and then felt it necessary to vent about it behind my back. I would just love to know how that conversation went.
This is a bit of a strange feeling... Other than all of the bitchfights and temper tantrums salt-and-peppered all over this band, I haven't had any actual conflict in my life, really, for a couple solid years now (unsolicited battles with inconveniently-placed homeless lunatics notwithstanding; boyfriend spats don't count either, nor do intellectual cage-fights with flaming liberals).  I once had such a vile temper that it became my all-consuming obsession for a time to overcome it. I worked hard to learn how to exercise objectivity and patience in regards to the often gauche behaviour of my fellow humans, learned how to practice peace. See when someone offends you, it is for the well-being of your own mental and emotional health that you should learn how to simply let it go. There is no reason to engage in combat, unless someone is literally threatening you or your family. There are just more important things to worry about. Losing my Dad has really helped me understand this. After dealing with that kind of pain, how could I possibly place any value on some of the silly (and I do mean silly) issues and dealings that put some of these people into a tailspin? I mean SERIOUSLY folks. Some of the things I've seen people get upset about lately, and some of the cruel and dismissive things people are willing to say to others over absolutely nothing...
There was a point in time where I might have conceded. Self-loathing as I am,  it would be very easy for a personality like mine to internalize these insults, accept them as fact, concur that I am indeed an awful human being and abort the mission. But I just can't do that now. This is a "What-If," and I have to eliminate it. In essence I'm doing this for my Pop- all I can hear in my head is, "Mick, you gotta eliminate the 'What-If's." I see myself at 35, kicking myself because I had the chance to sing in that band I've always wanted to, but I didn't do it because somebody would have gotten pissed off about it for no reason. Chuckie Blue-Shoes (Dad's street name in his younger years, loooong before he became a Pastor) would be very disappointed to know that his kid backed down at high noon, left my gun in the holster and put my hands up over an issue that I had every right to fight for. You would have to have really known the man to fully understand what I'm trying to express here. My Dad was an old-school badass with a gentleman's code of honor. He never messed with anybody- but you didn't mess with him. You didn't mess with his daughter. You SURE as hell didn't mess with his wife. And if there was an issue worth standing for- you stood for it.
Playing in this band makes me HAPPY. It gives me something to look forward to, an outside source of energy that gives me a quick shot of adrenaline every time I so much as think about it. It's an undertaking, an endeavor, something to think about, plan, wrap my little bird-brain around so I don't go crazy. And in the band room when all four of us practice, I can really feel something. We are not worried about playing everything note-perfect. We are there for the RELEASE. We come together in inglourious disharmony to kick, scream, and pound out all of our frustrations in a constructive outlet that will hopefully translate into a hell of a good time live once we're ready. We need this for our souls. We all need this right now. Each one of us has our own personal reasons for just needing to be a part of this project, and if anyone out there feels it necessary to try and tell us that we shouldn't, well... all I can say is that I am very sorry for how you feel about that...  May You Find Peace.

A Little Help from my Friends

It's easy to commit to writing a blog, and then slack off. It really is. You start writing, you have all of these ideas, it's still a novelty... And then you feel you've reached the point where you might not have anything interesting to contribute, but keep sludging on anyway. If I had to describe my blogging mindset right now, I would probably say... Metallica, late 1988ish.

There are things worth writing, though. I believe that this chronicle is a worthwhile endeavor. Reading back over the past couple entries, I noticed that there is a lot of negativity and frustration in there. I'm a big-time bottler (yes, deliberate double-entendre), and any blackness I might harbor comes out through creative expression, which includes writing this blog.
At any rate, this is not a therapy session, although I wish it could be. I wish that I could just bleed and spit all over the page, and display it openly. For a sick sort of validation. My friend Johnny Res(igliano) says that an artist is just someone who FEELS things in front of the whole world. Overgrown children, we stamp and pout on the enormous public stage because we're not happy until everyone else is engaged in our misery. See, I try not to do that. But I want to.
So, back to reality- this is a music blog. This is something that I am doing because I wish I had someone to talk me through my first open mic, to warn me about shady club promoters when I started playing gigs... and I keep doing it because... well, at first I didn't actually expect anybody to read it. I published the first post as sort of a public journal entry, because I was hurting worse than I've ever hurt in my life after being crushed between the dual semi's of Randall leaving me and my dear Dad passing away 5 days apart in December. But a handful of people have actually claimed to enjoy this, so why not keep at it?
So, to catch up... there's a lot of catching up to do. As some of you know, I am a solo singer/songwriter, and the lead guitar player in an all-female Ratt cover band. Both are gratifying in very different ways. I played my last solo gig a few weeks ago, and am not booking any for the moment until I get a real set list together with my "collaborator."
I have had the very great fortune of meeting E. E is a New York City native, growing up in the Lower East Side when it was still really "rock 'n roll." He is also a lifelong professional bass player who has worked with a ton of big names that you all know and, for some crazy reason, has decided that he wants to work with little ol' me. I met him outside of the Studio, the music rehearsal building on 30th & 8th. I was there for my Hail-Mary last-chance practice with my band- the week prior I had shown up visibly intoxicated, didn't really know my parts, and proceeded to continue drinking vodka like water for the rest of the session. And I thought I sounded good. The following day I get this email from the lead singer, acting as spokesperson, that I was not to show up to practice drunk ever again, and if I didn't have my act together by next week that was it.
Well eff me. I was ready to say "screw this," but I didn't really want out of the band. In the aftermath of December, the last thing I could stand to feel was the alienation and shame of being booted from this group. So I got it together, and steeled my jaw planning to arrive at practice with my head up.
Walking up to the building, I could see two characters outside standing in the pool of golden light emanating through the 9pm darkness from the glass doorway. They were smoking. One was very tall and dark, with black spiky hair, a black leather jacket, black Converse sneakers, a big black instrument strapped to his back, black eyes, and a Marlboro Red wedged between two fingers. The other- I don't even remember, to be honest. Thinking I had a second (and a few pre-redemption practice jitters) to kill, I asked them if I might steal a drag from someone's cigarette. Tall and Dark responded, "Here sweetie, I can give you your own cigarette." He gave it to me, and lit it with matches. We all introduced ourselves, and then E gestured towards the guitar on my back and asked me if I could actually play it. I replied in the affirmative. In the rest of the time window between this exchange and me going inside to battle off the executioner, E told me he was a pro bass player, name dropped a bit, I acted unimpressed, he mentioned working together, I didn't rule it out, we exchanged information, I finished my cigarette, and went inside. I'm not sure why, but he radiated sincerity. I didn't get the impression that he was one of "those." I determined that that didn't mean that he wasn't, but that perhaps I shouldn't rule out the possibility that "collaborating" might be a legitimate offer and if it proved false, well that would reveal itself soon enough.
I made it through practice. I wasn't great, but I was better. The ladies were pretty understanding. They got the idea that I had just kind of died inside, and it was a little difficult to keep the focus when trying to learn these '80s metal songs about nothing. But that's where the whole concept of being in a band comes in to play... it's not about me, whether I happen to be ready to paint the world in rainbows or garrote myself with braided dental floss. It's about the unit. And if I'm so torn up on the inside that I can't live up to the task of playing these songs, I need to let them find someone who is. Unfortunately for them, mwahaha, I wasn't willing to do that just yet so I pulled it through. They stopped being hardasses after that.
E and I kept in communication, and eventually I agreed to go uptown and meet him and his roommate Dave for dinner at their house. Dave is a guitar player on Broadway, so by the end of the evening, 3 people, 4 hours and 5 bottles of red wine later, the three of us were having a prolific jam session that I never wanted to end. We played, sang, and it was amazing. Something that I had been searching for for a while- a good jam session. Lots of musicians around my age and my skill level like to talk about jamming, but it never seems to happen. Either no one can get together on the same days, or we have nowhere to go. OR, and this is the worst, a few people get together, with instruments, and then just sit there and talk about nothing because nobody knows what to play or how to get started.
 It took a few weeks, but after that night E and I have started meeting up on Sundays to practice. The practice sessions have been a wonderful thing, for both of us I think. He's learning my original songs, which is great, because that means they're getting objectively processed in his brain and often they come out differently. The first day we sat down to work on an original tune of mine, we completely reworked it. Took out an extra bridge, reformatted the pattern, and made it into something complete. Before, it was long and rambling, and while every piece fit together perfectly, there were some fragments of the song that were just not as necessary as I believed.
I have also found a great friend, which I've really needed. I have plenty of friends, don't get me wrong. There are a lot of wonderful people in my life. But I feel that with a lot of my friends, our fundamental understandings of things are different. And losing the two main men in my life in December has left me feeling very isolated, alone, and totally insecure regarding my place on this planet. E has been through many losses as well, including the loss of his own father relatively recently. So we have an understanding. We probably burn up a good 20-25% of our Sunday rehearsals in "therapy," talking, venting, commiserating. He's a little older than me, in his later mid-thirties, and has been around the block in this business. There is no "scene" in him whatsoever. He gets a big kick out of my stories of bands and open microphone nights, experimental gigs gone awry, misadventure and Disney-level debauchery, and I can often see an almost wistful secret smile on his face and know that he's fondly remembering a stage in life that he is happy to have outgrown. I also think that our collaboration is good for him because, after working professionally with big names for so long (many of which come with horror stories so vile that if not the truth, would fall nothing short of character assassination), it's probably nice for him just to get back to music again. Sitting with me, an absolute little nobody, in a studio room, writing out chords on a piece of paper, letting me point obnoxiously at the fretboard in his hands when its time for a chord change and working out music with no pressure or expectations. Not orchestrating a big show for some celebrity product.
In the end, music is supposed to be a community thing, a group activity. I don't believe in competition, one artist trying to outshine the other. I don't want to waste my light in a continuous effort to extinguish someone else's. And it's great right now, because I have my band. I have my E. There's no feeling like being onstage with my ladies, all five of us grooving along to the same rhythm, making a packed Brooklyn crowd full of metalheads go crazy, looking over while our other guitar player rips her first solo live and KILLS it like a pro. Knowing we're a band, friends, pushing each other to be better. There's also no feeling like getting together with E on a lazy Sunday afternoon, sharing my personal songs that I've written, and hearing them come to life just because one person in the world cares about the things I've created other than me.
And I have.... well, another Ace up the ol' sleeve if you will. See, I'm starting another band. I'm tacking this on as a footnote at the very end of this long blog, because while I am in a childlike state of ecstatic, uncontainable excitement about it and I want to start screaming about it everywhere I go, I can't. So those of you who cared enough to read all the way down to the end, you get some inside information. I can't say too much until things get a little further underway, but it's a punk cover band, I am singing, and I'm forming it with three guys. This does not mean that my Ratt guitar project with the girls is ending, it just means that I might really have absolutely NO life other than music for a while. But hey, a life without music is no life at all anyway! Thanks for reading this far... Maybe more on the new band next time.

Episode 6: "Holler FREEBIRD again, I DARE you!!!!"

Standing in the subway station, I see an advertisement for the movie Hall Pass, and I think I'm beginning to understand why Owen Wilson attempted suicide... he glimpsed his future. There he is, forever frozen with that moronic expression on his face, in a dumb Hawaiian shirt, and the guys standing behind him are two of the most boring-looking actors I've never seen. And we are able to determine through inductive reasoning, based on not only the marketing methods being utilized to promote this particular golden nugget of American cinema, but also upon studious observations of Owen Wilson's previous body of work, that this film is absolute garbage. Trash. Refuse. Predictable buddy-plot, contrived laughs, one-dimensional character has trite moral self-reconciliation towards the end. And gets (or keeps) the Hot Chick (usually either Jennifer Aniston, or some girl who we will see next year in Scary Movie 9, and after that never again).
Across the track, there's Matt Damon's gaze-of-steel piercing me from the 2-D confines of the poster for intellectual thriller The Adjustment Bureau, which he and his cool black suit share with the stunning British ingenue Emily Blunt. If Damon's professional track-record is an indicator, we already know that Adjustment Bureau is gonna kickass. I mean, dude's films just keep getting better and better. Should Matt Damon ever attempt suicide, we can be certain that it will not have anything to do with his career.
In this scenario, Damon gets to be "that guy." Poor Owen Wilson. Starring in yet another asinine Hollywood comedy. If only you'd chosen acting over film stardom, this never would have happened.
Now I haven't met Owen Wilson personally. There's no way I can possibly know anything about his personal character, or how it's driven his career boat into such shallow and choppy commercial waters. What I do know, or am slowly beginning to realize, is that as creative people, we have choices to make. Big ones. We have the power of the Grand Veto... we declare "yea" or "nay" over any project that comes our way. We are literally the captains of our own ships, and we steer heavy-handed in the direction towards which we are most inclined. We forsake our horses, and boldly sail the dark turquoise waters towards a golden windmill horizon.
Who are you? And what are you after? Why are you doing this, what is your motivation? I believe we can learn a lesson from our friends Mr. Wilson and Mr. Damon here. You can pursue notoriety, or you can pursue excellence. You can pursue both- but the excellence must come first, and the notoriety may (or may not) be in shorter supply because of that choice.
I am totally facing that dilemma right now. This whole artist's integrity thing is getting me nowhere. People can be all like, Hey, I really like your songs, man, all they want, but their intention to look you up again and seek out another one of your shows lasts about until the end of whatever drink they're holding at that moment. Cut that in half if they're past their fourth (third is actually a pretty good number to hit 'em on- they're all amped and buzzy and loving everything, but not in deep enough for the alcohol's mind-eraser properties to kick in just yet).
No, people want covers. *sigh. Of course they do. Never mind that I've spent years of my life being continually pierced through by a whole quiver of emotional arrows, only to gruelingly extract the points from my chest (via my head, similar to the way ancient Egyptian embalmers might extract organs via the nasal cavity of a corpse) and surgically piece them back together outside of myself in the form of a "song" just so. Never mind that. You want "Simple Man?" Ok. I will Google the lyrics the day of my show, download the track off iTunes, run through it twice at home, and then get up on stage and kill it. All in one day. You will hoot and holler and cheer your asses off, raise your glass and sing along, and then as soon as I conclude my next original piece, you will give me a distracted applause over your shoulder while you make convenient use of this interval between Skynrd and Danzig to order more beer. Because my music sounds better when you're drinking. Acoustic set? Let's add some percussion- how bout rhythmic guzzling and glasses hitting the bar!
I cannot tell a lie, it absolutely hurts when people go crazy for the covers, and barely react to the pieces I've worked so hard on. But there's nothing I can do. I can't get angry, I can't blame people for being moved by what's familiar. Those songs are timeless classics for a reason. It can take time for a new piece of music to really imprint itself on someone's brain- gotta let it grow on people. But that's not an easy thing to wait for, and I find that the only thing "growing" is my impatience. So that puts one at a crossroads. What am I going for here? How important is it to me to get my music to people? Is it about getting the songs I write out there, or is it about receiving that instant gratification from the crowd? Is this blog just a self-serving forum to keep asking as many stupid rhetorical questions as I want without ever having to think about the answers? This really seems to boil down to a choice between taking the Wilson Road, and taking the Damon Road.
I guess the only answer here is persistence, and full acceptance of the understanding that I did indeed come here to get hurt. Broken. So I can build back up into something better. Always look the ugliest parts of yourself right in the face and fight them. Don't be afraid. I am a masochist, but one with a purpose. I am a glutton for self-punishment- mainly because I have an addiction to continually transcending the layers of myself that constitute the failure of a human that I perceive in the mirror. I didn't show up to my first open mic with the expectation that anyone was going to enjoy my nervous drunken caterwauling. Didn't walk in with my head held high, planning to perform and get a positive reaction with lots of compliments and adulation. Nope. I am an onion. I am constructed of layers. Deep down at my core, I have such a rock-solid confidence in my abilities as a musician that it almost borders on hubris. I love my voice, I love my ear, I love my songs. And I love these things more than I love almost everyone else's. I believe that the gift of music is the One Thing above all that I have really been given by God to utilize fully. That being said, I look at myself as having a crippling inability to DO anything. I have seen myself as a loser my entire life, for various reasons. It's part of the reason why I'm a drunk- when I self-medicate, it's very easy for me to forget all of those feelings. (Am I being too honest here?) So I guess for me, my "motivation" to be a musical performer comes from two places- incredibly, unbelievably overblown ego and a distorted perception of my own talent as practically transcendent, and a gi-normous inferiority-complex sandwich stuffed between two thick, fluffy slices of self-loathing. In other words- I look at my Self, independently of my music, as a complete degenerate who is entirely incompetent at life. But my LOVE and devotion to my musical ability- the only piece of myself that I perceive from beginning to end as NOT being a let-down- leaves me no choice but to continually soldier through these insecurities and prove them WRONG. I have to fight through my self-hatred so that I can get my music out there, and it really hurts. I've developed a numbness, I think. I'm starting to be able to project pain onstage, while hiding behind dry humour. I breathe heavy and my voice becomes ragged during some of my songs. I beat on my guitar like a drum. I LET IT OUT. It's getting to the point where there is no longer that dead space around me when I play- my emotions are beginning to cut through the notes and syllables, my pieces are being fleshed out as I become a real human within their walls.
The more I push through and play MY songs, I think, the more people are starting to hear them. Some of my friends are even able to quote lyric lines here and there. I have a loooong way to go before the first time anyone drives down the highway singing along to my tunes, cries to them at night, or puts one on a mix tape for a friend. But every time I play I get closer to the reality that it might happen. It might not- but I've already made the decision to pursue creative credibility rather than ensure that somebody someday rocks out to my empty product.
I'm not taking the Wilson road. I can knock out some covers buddy, let me tell ya. People clap for 'em, they does. I get tons of compliments all the time on this version of so and so, and told that I should really go for this one, and blah blah blah. It would be pretty easy for me to just develop a rock-solid cover set, go get a Tuesday night residency at a nice lounge, make some steady $$. And let the applause keep rolling in. Just like it was easy for Owen Wilson to make quick money and cheap laughs by doing jackass comedies.
Instead, I plan on continuing to play tiny bars and heckling my buddies to come support me, because that's the only crowd I can draw with originals right now. But I believe in what I write... I BELIEVE in it. I do not believe in mySELF. But I believe in my songs, my voice and my playing. And I BELIEVE that eventually, by playing the same songs over and over again, that they will indeed become "imprinted," if you will, on the psychological walls of the people who hear them. They will develop gradually in the minds of the listeners, like a slow-growing Anise garden. I am young and still idealistic enough to possess this kind of innocent faith, which will probably serve me ill in the long run when I find myself at 34 years old answering the phone with, "Anonymous Financial..."
But it's better than being on the subway poster for Hall Pass.

AMERICAN TRASH: My First Open Mic (This is a long one.)

Nobody ever forgets their first open mic.
Unless they had to get so blasted before taking the stage that "remembrance" was just never an option to begin with.

I remember mine remarkably well, considering my level of inebriation. It was two Decembers ago at this joint called American Trash, conveniently located right on the fringe of Manhattan's extraordinarily affluent and "classy" (ahem) Upper East Side. I found the place through Openmics.org, this cool website with a day-by-day calendar listing open microphone nights around the city. (Seedling musicians, I would highly recommend this resource if you're looking for places to play, but once you narrow it down to a few venues I suggest calling first. Some of the listings are outdated, and you might get a little embarrassed when you unwittingly show up at Drag Night.)
Randall (my then-boyfriend) and I were all about some life change. We were (and are) in our mid-twenties, perpetually contemplating the meaning of life and what have you, wondering what exactly we were doing with ourselves. He was a gifted writer in an unhappy real estate agent's body, returning every day to a dismal office that he loathed. I was the "musician" who just kind of plunked around on the guitar on days off between waitressing at the pool hall. No actually, Amsterdam Billiards had fired me by this point for excessive drinking on the job and general bad behavior that I had gotten away with for FAR too long. So my broker-than-broke self was barely skimming by, picking up sporadic event gigs as a traveling bartender. And I had never felt so miserable or so hopeless.
We decided it was time to take action. Some people, Randall and myself included, will never be satisfied with life on this earth as long as we are not fulfilling our obligations to walk in the gifts with which God has endowed us. Sorry, but hustling people into spending their extra money on booze and broker's fees was not our idea of an existence. So we hatched a plan- no more work force for us, he would be a bestselling novelist and I would be a rock star! It was that easy! All we had to do was sit around in the stairwell of his Brooklyn building, smoke cigarettes, drink oversized Coronas and talk about our combined creative genius and how great our life was going to be. Repeat that process enough and it would all just happen.
Approximately 6 pounds of beer gut and a nasty wheeze later, we realized our master scheme might not be as effective as we had hoped, and that we might actually have to put some work into it. So Randall came up with a brilliant concept for a novel (which I am pleased to report he is currently writing), and I grit my teeth and headed to my first open mic.

I went alone. It was Randall's best friend's last night in town from Los Angeles, and they were having a boys' night at home. Perfect. Now I only have to embarrass myself in front of a bar full of strangers.
So I packed up my electric guitar, because I was too lazy to carry my acoustic and didn't know any better, and made the over-an-hour-long hike from Union City, NJ to 77th & 1st in Manhattan. It was freezing, but I barely noticed. Zillions of frenetic nerves + 2 ENORMOUS shots of vodka immediately prior to departure = 1 relatively warm Marron. On the way there I ran over my song selections in my head- I didn't have very many. Figured it would be a safe play to stick with one cover and one original. For the original piece I chose "Prodigal Son," the first song I ever completed. It's funny, I really don't play it much in public anymore, even though I love that song. It's a little long, kind of folky and lilting, and there is no PUNCH. No fixed chorus. And the biggest problem with it is that it's a full story, so you actually have to listen to the lyrics to "get it." A bit of a paradox, isn't it? The problem with the song is that you have to listen to it. That's what the record industry has done. But I digress... For the cover song, I decided to go with "Mother" by Glenn Danzig. Yes, Glenn Danzig. Why? Because it's the best freakin' cover I do, PERIOD. To this day. I love it- it's easy, people don't expect it, and I can get LOUD. However, up until this point, all I'd ever really done with it is sort of half-impress myself and fully disturb my neighbors.
Making the giant leap from playing for your own satisfaction at home to putting yourself out there on display is one of the toughest transitions a person can make. Given the opportunity, people will tear you apart, even if they themselves would never have the nerve to even get up and try. If you are reading this, and you are not a performer of any sort, and you KNOW you'd never have the balls (pardonnez moi) to get up in front of a room full of strangers (the vast majority of which will fall under one of two categories- hostile or totally apathetic, which may be worse), then I implore you to think twice next time you criticize someone who does have that kind of fortitude. It takes a lot more brass than you realize, but you'll never know because you're afraid. I know a lot of people like you, and they rarely do anything worth noting. They're intimidated by others' confidence, because they don't have any. Very few things piss me off like those ignorant assholes in the crowd shooting their mouths off about the person on stage, when we all know damn well that they would NEVER have what it takes to get up there and try. Just remember- only the spineless talk shit.

So I arrived at American Trash. I do this thing when I'm nervous- I harden up and come off as a real asshole with a chip on my shoulder. I become entirely unapproachable in certain new environments. I walked into this joint with that exact attitude, went to the bar, grabbed my typical bucket o' bourbon (Jim Beam neat) and downed it in one gulp. Sometimes people stare at me funny when I do this. I have ordering said buckets down to such a science that I can get pretty much any bartender to fill up 3/4 of a rocks glass for the price of a 1.5 oz shot. Still haven't figured out whether or not that's something to be proud of.  After that I went to find the guy who ran the open mic.
Every open mic has one- a director, a master of ceremonies, a commandant. They're all different. Some of these guys are really bitter- after failed attempts at a music career, they find themselves middle aged and organizing gatherings for aspiring young minstrels who still might have a crack at the life they missed. These guys are often rude and dismissive to the performers, and treat us as something subhuman. I never return to those open mics, because if the person running the thing is not there to promote a sense of community, what's the point? I got REAL lucky when I chose American Trash as my first prospective slaughterhouse... The man presiding over the festivities was named Dan Schteingart- one of the nicest people I have ever met. A lot of you reading this probably know him, as the Trash open mic was once a very popular hangout. Dan was very calm and encouraging- there was just something about the way he talked to me and the other musicians that always put us at ease. Dan just understood us, and knew how to remind us that it's not that serious, everyone is here to have fun, and mutual support for fellow musicians is the order of the day.
Anyways, I'm still a bundle of nerves, but I sign up. A few people went before me... and I don't want to sound like one of those jerk-offs I mentioned two paragraphs ago, but the nicest way to put it is, the first two people who got up there REALLY bolstered my confidence. Eventually we might end up in a discussion about people who, although their courage is respectable, might not actually belong on stage. But at least they try. I had also previously made the fortunate discovery that the bar had a special- 5 shots of Jim Beam for $10. WHOA. I got the special, and asked for it all in one glass. The lovely bartender was like, "um... okaaaaaayy...", but she obliged. So I'd been sitting around for about half an hour after signup, by myself, afraid to talk to anyone, looking like I must be a real b**ch (even though I like to believe that's the farthest thing from the truth), sipping on a full highball glass of whiskey. It was pretty much gone by the time I hit the stage- my nerves, however, were not.
My turn. The trip from New Jersey was my Green Mile- and though I was more than tempted to petition for a stay of execution, I knew it really wasn't an option. If I backed out now, I'd lose a substantial chunk of self-respect. So I got it together, stumbled up to the rickety little platform, and set myself up on the stool. I plugged in my electric and fumbled with the dials for a moment (as if that mattered). 
The feeling that came over me when I opened my mouth and started to play is... difficult to describe to anyone who hasn't been there. There is a moment in every performer's life in which one realizes that playing well and singing well alone are just not enough, and this was it for me. Because as soon as I began to play, I swear on my life that everything I was putting out was just coming right back at me. I was in a self-conscious bubble, and though noise was able to break through the force field, the energy was not. There was nothing connecting me with the other people in the room, just dead space between us. And they really weren't paying attention anyway. That's a tough thing to deal with- knowing that your performance is neither actively good or bad, but not even worth paying attention to.
I tiptoed through "Prodigal Son." DEFINITELY the wrong fit for this scenario. I'm in a bar called American Trash, drinking a pint glass of White Label smack in the middle of others who are doing the same, singing a song I wrote about my relationship with God. Wow. I tried my best to gather up the pieces of my bloody heart off the dirty wood floor and shove it back into my chest, unsterilized though it was. That's a good way to get an infection. Then it was time to try and power it through "Mother-" thought for sure there was no way I could screw that up, but it was exactly the same thing. Only worse, because this time, I found myself practically yelling to overpower my fear. And although I probably came close to giving myself an aneurysm, that didn't work either. *Sigh.
Dejected, I slunk off the stage before the brief, tepid applause had faded. Keeping my humiliated head down, I made a beeline for the bar and ordered a tall glass of liquid painkiller to numb the mortification. A thousand doses is never enough.
"Hey, that wasn't bad," said a kindly voice over my right shoulder while I was shuddering mid-gulp. I turned around and it was Dan.
"Actually it was terrible, but thanks."
"No I mean it, you have a very nice voice. Was that your first time getting up there?"
"Yeah, and if they're all like that it'll be my last."
"No, don't say that. Everyone's nervous in the beginning, but stick with it. I think as you get comfortable over time, you could be pretty good." And it didn't seem phony at all, it really seemed as if he meant it.

I really believe that that single word of encouragement is what brought me back. After that I started becoming a regular at American Trash every Tuesday night. I practiced so heard every week, just so that I could believe in myself enough to get up there on that tiny little stage, in that trashy little bar (not knocking it, hey, it's in the name!), and play two measly little songs. The most gratifying moment in my life thus far is still the first time I nailed "Mother." I mean, I blew it out. And people were listening, nodding their heads, singing along, and wholeheartedly congratulating me when I came offstage. Eventually I worked some magic into my originals, and began to own them very little by very little. I made some friends at that open mic that have really affected my life- some have drifted to and fro, far and away, as musicians do. But many are still close friends to this day. The Trash open mic was its own mini-microcosm; it really had a life of its own. So many characters, so many shenanigans, adventure after adventure waiting to happen between those four walls and the "smoking section" out in front on the sidewalk- I could write a huge collection of short stories based on that alone. A whole world was opened up in front of me, and it changed my life, all thanks to the kindness and encouragement of one person. That's why I'm so keen on encouraging other aspiring musicians now- you never know when somebody is downhearted and ready to give up. And you could be the one to bring them back. A simple word from you may be all they need to pull it together again, and there is NO better gift than that.

I heard last week that American Trash had closed, due to leasing problems. It really saddened me. It also made me wonder what the hell they're going to do with all the NASCAR gear they have hanging on the walls. I haven't been there in several months. I took an office job, and drinking the better part of a fifth of whiskey while rockin' and rollin' til 4am just isn't the best idea when one has to report to work at 9 in the morning with a round trip to New Jersey in between. But I will never forget that place, the experience I gained and the friends I made. So if there's anyone out there, sitting at home, playing your own songs or someone else's, wondering if you'll ever gather up the moxie to take it in front of people, my suggestion to you is just DO it. Go to Openmics.org. Find your own American Trash. Make it your home, find your family, and keep pressing on. You'll never forgive yourself if you don't... But you'll never regret it if you do.

Thanks for staying with me this long...
Catch ya on the B-Side.

Episode 6: GUITAR GNOMES and the GHOST OF HELEN KELLER

I woke up this morning with a broken heart.  But I didn't immediately know why...

I wonder if there is a technical term for the b-side of "performance-anxiety." If not, I'm inventing one- "performance despair." The emotional state one is left to wallow in after every potential problem whose black fuzzy outline on the horizon has been causing you preemptive nerve damage actually goes wrong in real life. There's only one way I can describe this feeling... Anyone out there ever have pre-adolescent nightmares about going to school naked? Awful, right? I think we all had that dream when we were younger. A subconscious manifestation of that deepest fear, that lies inside of everyone, of being exposed. The terror that accompanies the very idea of having all of your protective layers stripped away and being revealed as a phony, an impostor. The moment when everyone realizes that you do, in fact... SUCK.
Well imagine waking up and actually being at school naked. Reality- no *whew, glad THAT was just a dream! moment. That's the feeling that often accompanies the first nasty little inklings of one's hangover when you wake up after a less-than-satisfactory turn on the stage. The light dawns on your consciousness, and the first thing you feel before opening your eyes is nothing short of sickening dread. And you know somehow that the "sickening" element in this equation has nothing to do with the cheap liquor you took to the face late last night just so you could forget your own failure. Which you have succeeded in doing up until... NOW.  BOOM, the first memory of the morning hits like a wrecking ball on what's left of your fragile little ego, and damn it hurts. Oh f**k, that's right! I was AWFUL last night. Plain effing AWFUL.  And despite reassurance from trusted friends, that's what I've got right now: Performance Despair. No, this is not me fishing to be told what a great show it was. This is me being honest, and that's what I'm really setting out to do with this blog. Not spew lengthy dialogues about generalities, and empty philosophies about this that and the other. And you know what I mean. This is a live journal, for better and for worse. And while I don't want to write a reality show script, it's important to stay honest, personal, and current.
I mean, it wasn't a BAD show. One thing that can always be counted on is my ability to "wing it." My mother likes to say that I "keep the pants-seat industry in business." And wing it I did, through BUSTED F**KING EQUIPMENT.        
So I'm a little nervous before the whole thing even starts, which is increasingly uncharacteristic of me, as I've finally broken through a couple crucial walls in my stage fright. I'm usually pretty psyched to get onstage these days, and I've learned how to convert fear and nervous energy into adrenaline and excitement. But tonight is different... For starters, it's at National Underground, which is a great venue (at least in name and in theory). Couple that with the fact that I have a bunch of musician friends showing up who have never heard me... and my friend David, who I really respect, is bringing several of HIS musician friends on the premise that I am worth watching. And let's just compound it all into one giant paranoia pill (aaaaaannnddd- swallow! *gulp) by deciding that this is going to be an "experimental" set, meaning I am going to try and pull a Jeff Buckley and play a solo set with my electric instead of my acoustic. Usually when I hear "experimental" I think drugs... probably would have all been swell if I'd had some to dole out to the audience beforehand. Double dose for me.
Last night was a great illustration of how things do not always go the way you planned them. Man. It was also, in my book, tangible evidence that there are such a thing as guitar-gnomes. You know, the little guys that hide in the hollow cavern at the back of the amplifier, wait til no one's looking, and come out to wreak havoc on your dials and machineheads (and your sanity). Because they can. That's the only reasonable explanation. Because before my s**t-show, I went downstairs for soundcheck... and tuned my guitar... and set the amp with the effects JUST how I wanted it... and went back upstairs to hang with my buddies while the venue got their hour-late act together and ate into my friends' personal time. By the time I got back downstairs to my precious melody-maker, it might as well have been tuned and set by Helen Keller. But considering the unfortunate state of affairs of Helen Keller's being long-dead, it would probably be folly to assume that she might have fumbled her way down to my stage area, eye-patches ablaze with malicious intent, and messed with my equipment. Therefore, the only explanation available is that the National Underground has an infestation of guitar gnomes, and should really have that checked out immediately. No one likes to eat at restaurants with roaches, no one likes to play at venues with gnomes.
I spent half of my set-time tuning my guitar and fiddling with the settings on the amp in the middle of songs. Like the classy broad I am. It was just epic- Intro (tune up flatted d-string), verse (guitar volume up, master down, low E is sharp), chorus (damn reverb, why is there NEVER enough of you? Up two more notches), hey, we finally get through a full verse and chorus without having to stop and mess with anything, and... my guitar cuts out. Just stops. That's it, all she wrote kids. But this is where I realize how absolutely AWESOME my friends are- my darling Adreanna just yells, "a-cappella!" and everybody starts clapping in time. And I just go with it, and sing. Finally the guitar cuts back on. At this point I might have appeared to be shoegazing, but I was really just checking the ground for any of those pesky little gnomes that needed their pitiful lives stomped out- when the noise resumes, the levels are totally f**ked AGAIN. So I fiddle some more. Then it cuts off again completely. And so on and so forth, over and over, until my buddy Mike Katz (a great performer who can be found all around town and amongst my FB friends) just shows up out of NOWHERE and places his guitar in my hands. WHOA. Actually I found out later that my friend Enzo kind of cornered Mike in some shadowy side area and intimidated him into it. Enzo also bullied those criminals at the Underground into coughing up a few bucks for my efforts. Thanks Enzo!
The show went on. Turns out it wasn't my guitar that was busted, it was either the house amplifier or my cable (which has never been problematic before). Throughout the set, it just kept happening- the guitar would die every now and again, forcing me to just sing through the parts. I guess it wasn't my fault... At least that's what everyone keeps telling me. They also say it ended up creating a good opportunity to showcase my voice. Whatever. David says it's "rock'n roll." I say it's poor preparation and a shitty performance.
We all had a great time, and then we rolled up a few blocks to see the Ne're Do Wells, whom I LOVE. One of the best local bands out there, if my opinion counts for anything. And watching them play- they are always TIGHT, well-rehearsed, have their sounds set perfectly and all their timings coordinated to the finest points. And the frontman is able to communicate all the "rock 'n roll" energy the band needs without compromising the integrity of the performance. They don't have to pull stupid stunts and fight their way through technical glitches just to keep the audience on edge.
I crashed Adreanna's couch after the show, then woke up in the same clothes and reported to my office to begin another Day In the Double Life. Hair disheveled, stuck broiling in my sweater 'cause the double wife-beater thing don't fly at Activ Financial, dark undereye circles (given my lifestyle, I really should give some serious consideration to turning to the Dark Side, and becoming one of those girls who always packs a deadly arsenal of warpaint). Oh yeah, and one contact lens because I blinked the other out in the cab. 
Why am I doing this, anyway? What is all of this for? I get very disheartened, feeling like I must be kidding myself for thinking that a musician's life could ever be for me. That I could ever be good enough. The 9-5 is always waiting there, taunting me, mocking me in the mornings. Telling me that it's the only fate I'll ever have to look forward to. The ancient elevator opens its gaping maw to swallow me whole, carrying me up its esophagus and spewing me out into the belly of the mundane beast. Is this really it? Am I just playing stupid games with myself at night, pretending as if the possibility of escape is real? I can't even fight my way through a tiny little set, like the ones I described in Episode 2, without laying down to sleep on the cold, rock-hard slab of inferiority and failure that I'm quickly coming to know as my bed.
At least I'm not Helen Keller. I have all of my faculties, and every opportunity in this world to make what I choose of. No excuses. Just like she'd never have known the feeling of playing a guitar, singing a song, or hearing beautiful music, I'll never know what it's like to overcome that level of adversity. And if the bitch's bitter ghost would just stop sending her minions the gnomes to sabotage my equipment... I'll have to overcome even less.

THE BAND: This one'z fo' de ladiez

These past few weeks have been mayhem. But this is how it works... At least I'm taking my own advice, right? When I started this series, I made the comment about if you have ten spare seconds in your day and blah blah blah blz.ldvjinhoierhi .i.oipnjhe3ropasdc;ikujhv;oi3o;wg

Sorry, just fell asleep at the keyboard.

Lots has been happening, and I haven't scribbled down a darn thing. I'm supposed to write the second half of the last entry, in which we began to explore the psyche of the type of individual who is willing to put themselves out there in front of EVERYBODY, physically and emotionally, and probe the potential deep underlying motives for such behaviour.

However, I am in no mood for philosophical musings. I'm exhausted. So I'd just like to have a nice, mindless little blog-therapy session and journal about what's been going on. Axl, I'll psychoanalyze your crazy a** later.

Let's start with a bang, the highlight of everything, the culmination of a lot of time, a decent chunk of change, plenty of sweat and effort, and some SERIOUSLY unwanted repetition of a select slice of the back catalogue of one particular 80's hair band. So my band actually went out and played our first show on Saturday night, and it was freakin' FABULOUS. The girls in this band worked SO hard to make it what it was.
[This is the point where we reach the fine line between an informative/interesting read, and a tabloid. I never want to delve too far into the personal lives of the people I reference. So no worries.]
Anyways... So we were totally proud of ourselves, as we should be. How often DO people do what we just did? It feels a little dreamlike- we met on CRAIGSLIST for crying out loud! Have I gone there yet?
I'll go there.
So it's like 3 months ago and I'm BORED. Because I work at Such-and-such Financial Systems, Inc. And like any good office employee, I use my time wisely- playing on the internet. Kind of like I am now. So I decide to have a look-see at the ol' List, partially because I was curious to see if anyone posted anything cool in the musician section, partially because I REALLY get a kick out of reading some of those personal ads. No not THOSE ones, you pervs.
As luck would have it, I stumble upon a listing for a female lead guitar player and I'm like, "Hey, that's me!" So I respond. A couple hours later I am WASTED with coworkers ('cause office people get WASTED), and I get this phone call... from a really sweet-voiced girl on the other end. It's the guitar player for this already-formed all-girl band. They're just missing a 2nd guitar.
I have my guard up, like I do. I know how to turn it on and be the "life" of a social circumstance, but I'm a very standoffish person in certain situations. I've been told that I come off as unpredictable and abrasive. This might have been one of those times. But like I said, I was blitzed so I couldn't really tell ya. All I know is that at some point the information was leaked that I was in talks with this girl about joining... a... RATTcoverbandokiIsaidit. And that's just about how she told me, too. :) All uncertain, because apparently these girls have been blown off before by people who just weren't that interested in playing in a... RATT cover band. And that's understandable. Even you- you're reading this, probably wondering, "So why didn't you just hang up?"
I don't know... As soon as I found out that that's what I was signing up for, my insides flipped a little bit. I started getting all these grandiose ideas about infiltrating the band from the inside, hijacking their pirate ship and sailing them towards cooler waters. 'Cause I'm a megalomaniac.
But what really kept me on the phone was her. She just sounded like such a... NICE PERSON. Not at all what I was expecting... I was thinking that this was going to be a bunch of butch metal biker broads who are gonna kick my a** and rape me with a broomstick first time I show up to practice. But we just seemed to hit it off on the phone instantly (hey, don't we all hit it off with everybody after 5 Jameson's on the rocks?), and even though after 3 minutes of communication I was already spouting off about changing this and that and whatnot like it was already my band, she and the bassist STILL agreed to meet me. Score!
So I kind of met up with these girls on the premise that I think I'm this all-powerful force that can just arrange things around me to my liking. Which is an obvious fact when you consider that I am single, I work 9-5 at a finance firm, and I live in New Jersey.
First meeting went well. I kept the poker (read: I want you to think I'm way cooler than I am) face on, and I think that for at least like the first meeting or two they bought it. Double score! The first shocker was when the two of them wanted to meet at a coffee shop and not a bar. WAIT- this is a rock'n'roll band I'm joining, right? RIGHT? We are of course going to get hammered together all the time and go out and f**k s**t up, RIGHT? Ooohh, man. The guitar player does yoga. I'm damned. At least this coffee shop serves beer.
So the three of us got together and talked, and it was great. These two are all cool-lookin' with their tattoos and awesome hair, but they seemed so... CALM. They seemed like nice, normal people who have functional lives, healthy interpersonal relationships and show up to places when they're supposed to be there. Did I miss something?
So at meeting's end, the three of us mutually concluded that this could go somewhere. That I might make an acceptable addition to their outfit, and their outfit was something I might like to be an addition to. And just like that... I was in a band.


Tune in next time for more of this riveting saga. My mom says these blogs are so long that she only reads the whole thing because she's my mom and she has to. She was all like, "I just kept reading, and reading, and reading..." Thanks, Mom. Glad to know my work kept you on the edge of your seat. Literally. Poised to walk away from the computer as soon as you completed the guilt-burdened task of reading your only child's heart-on-a-page. *weeping  

Anyways... before this continues, I will be doing a few exercises in brevity. Good night and good luck.

Episode 4: Musicians vs. Rock Stars, Part I

Ok, so I'm going to end up going back to Guns 'N Roses with pretty much everything, so get used to it.

I couldn't have been older than five... My biological parents were still together, and we were all sitting in our basement "family room" in lovely little Ligonier, Pennsylvania. Don't remember what we were doing- board game or something- but we had the TV playing in the background. This was probably in 1989 or '90... I don't want to date myself here, but it's safe to say that GN'R and I were born around the same time. They imprinted themselves on the public psyche at about exactly the same time that my psyche was awakened to its own existence.
This was back in the days when MTV (Music TeleVision- yes "Teen Mom" watchers, sorry but that is what the acronym stands for) was still a music channel. I know, that era is so far gone... I am really feeling like a dinosaur here. Anyways, so to reconstruct the scenario, I am five years old, sitting with my parents, engaged in some recreational activity, not paying any attention to the boring parade of dancing monkeys jumping and jiving all around the TV screen. Pretty soon I catch my mother staring at the tube. I followed her gaze... and there they were. In all their badass-ness. And I am a life forever changed.
It was the video for "Welcome To The Jungle." When I allow myself to fictionalize (not fabricate mind you, more like make a movie out of) my life story a little, I kind of love the fact that one of the very first things I remember about the world I live in is this moment. What an appropriate introduction to being- "Welcome To The Jungle." And if this was the world I lived in, these were its inhabitants? Yes please.
So my ultra-conservative Chief of Police of a father got up to change the channel.
Me (wide-eyed with wonder):"Who's that?"
Father (ashamed that his young daughter just observed such wretched filth on his watch): "That's Guns 'N Roses. They're very dirty people."
Mom (eyes fixed on the screen with kind of a zombie thing going): "But they're very talented."

And that was it.

Next thing I knew it was 2nd grade, the video premier for "November Rain" was literally a scheduled cultural event, like the State of the Union Address, and the world stopped. There are probably lots of people just like me who remember where they were when it happened, like 9/11. Am I aggrandizing my favorite band a little too much? Well get over it, that's why they're rock stars. They get aggrandized. And that's really what the content of this episode is going to be dealing with, this is not some hyper-exaggerated soliloquy on why I think Axl Rose is the coolest person who has ever been. Ok maybe a little.
I was at a birthday party. And about forty snot-nosed second-graders, who didn't know a darn thing about life, or pain, or struggle or rebellion, or anything rock 'n roll stands for, put down the whiffle ball bats and left the pinatas dangling full of candy to gather around the tube and watch it. We were totally transfixed, and we didn't even know why. For those ten minutes, Bobby forgot that Billy had stolen his candy bar, nobody cried or wet their pants, and no one cared that Jenny smelled. Now of course as soon as it was over, Bobby gave Billy an 8-year-old slug in the jaw, Billy cried, Susie wet her pants and we all ran away from Jenny as fast as humanly possible. But for ten minutes...
You know, if I recall correctly, I think I even went so far as to sit next to Brian. He had cooties. But I did it for Axl.

That's power.

That's what "rock stars" do. They can take a moment when something might be going on that is actually important, and make it all about them. The question is, once the moment is theirs, what do they do with it? Once they've grabbed your attention, what are they filling your brain space with? In the case of Guns 'N Roses, it was sheer brilliance. Not only was the band visually arresting, but sonically as well. Each individual band member was beyond proficient at his craft, there was substance to the song lyrics, the arrangements were spectacular and elaborate. And their bad behavior was legendary. In short, these guys were the real deal, onstage and off. There was an authenticity to Guns N'Roses that can't be replicated, though many have tried and will continue to do so until music itself no longer exists.


There have really only been a few, and most of them are dead. We all know all about the 27 Club- Jim, Jimi, Janis, Kurt(5 whole big whopping cool points to those of you who actually know the fifth member without Google)... The mythical pantheon in the sky for five genuine souls who truly lived and died for their craft. Well theylived for it- most of them died for the love of reality-altering substances. But the world mourned these deaths differently than others, not only because of the untimely nature of their passings, but because we lost something genuine.
These young people are listed among the few, the proud, the entirely dysfunctional... The Artists. The ones who actually straddled the fence between creative spirit and public figure. The ones who "made it" on the strength and beauty of their spirits, and the pain that drove them over the edge. They were "Out there on the Perimeter where there are no stars," so to speak, forging new pathways through the emotional landscape of a new era, seeing, thinking, FEELING things the rest of the world was afraid to see, afraid to think, afraid to feel. They were real.
What disappoints me today is, well, everything. If I want something real, I am completely out of luck if I turn on MTV. And completely out of my mind if I think that could yield me results. Today, the record industry and media giants, with their vice grip on the cojones of public opinion, won't give it to us. I'll save the tirade about empty pop stars and the "values" they promote, I won't launch into a drawn-out diatribe about how most of them are picked out of a model casting-call and CAN'T SING. If you've tuned in to this blog, and have read this far, chances are you are a music lover and already get what I am saying.
I have a bit of a conspiracy theory. It is my personal opinion that the labels are literally afraid to release anything else- it's the immense risk-factor involved with dealing with the personality types who really embody rock'n roll. Guns'N Roses broke up (ok, imploded) after about 6 years of grand success and in the end probably cost David Geffen a pretty penny. Jimi, Kurt and Janis died young because of their self-abuse, usually common to the deeply creative types. And as for the Doors, look at the number of times Jim Morrison got his band and his record label sued just by being Jim. So you can imagine why the powers that be who stand on the blazing corporate battlefield between profit and loss might regard these personality profiles as something of a liability.
It's so much easier for them to just pick up an actor and MAKE them into a pop star. Think about it... every act that comes out these days is "the new so-and-so". Every rock band with a guitar player in a leather jacket is the new G'nR. Every big-voiced, big-haired, female vocalist is the new Joplin (although without exception prettier and much more delicate of manner). But there's always just that something missing. Usually you can just look at these types and just tell how much they CARE. They CARE what you think. Yeah, I think that's it. They are more than willing to put on the outfit, the sneer, the smile, whatever it takes just to keep your attention and please you. They will sing the songs they're told to sing. Dance, monkey, dance. Just for the fame, and the fame alone. They will promote any message they're told to promote, even if it leads to the demoralization of a generation of youth. Not that Jim Morrison and Axl Rose were promoters of traditional family values. But at least they weren't posturing themselves as anti-heroes because that's what they were told to be.

So we've gone on in abstractions long enough. Who are They? It's a fine line I'm walking here with this "blog." Don't want to get too incredibly personal, but want to keep it personal enough that it's relevant. However, I'm kind of easing into the heart of the topic, as it would be a very easy thing for me to speak and hit too close to home for some and I don't want to do that.
But this does bring me to the real meat of this discussion...

US.


Where does this leave us struggling musicians at the bottom of the barrel? How does the public, private and corporate blueprint of our heroes affect how we forge our own identities? Or should it affect us at all? How do we see the difference in ourselves- how are we able to answer honestly, completely honestly, if we really have it burning deeply within our beings to create and share our art and our hearts, or if we're just a bunch of wanna-be Axls?

Come back in next time to continue this discussion, and we will delve a little further into the real world.

Tune in tomorrow — same Bat-time, same Bat-channel.