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!
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Monday, April 18, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
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.
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.
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