Barricades in the Brain

I have not yet found the reason for why I do this, but I've found recently that I do this to myself well beyond the extent that I am willing to accept.

And "this", is keeping and honoring some sort of ethereal hierarchy in the sequence of execution of certain sub-tasks of a particular task category, that is purely self-imposed.

In this instance, I have not written in this blog, obviously, for a very long time.   The truth is that an event so dire took place in my life; so dire that for the longest time I felt that I could not and should not write about anything else until I "honor" that event by writing about it.  Moreover, writing about that event was to take so much thought, time, and effort, if I were to "honor" it the way only I could imagine being appropriate, that in the end nothing happened for so many months.  Neither have I written about that or anything else.  So I just died at this barricade that I built all by myself.  Nothing got done, nothing happened.

I should have someone look at that.

I bet that my sister, completing her psychiatry residency at the moment, would be eager to sink her mindgame paws into this issue.  But I somehow feel that Mr. Henry McKenna is much better suited for the occasion.

But on that note, I plan to begin writing more... again.  I have felt the inspiration for quite some time and until now I just could not dedicate the time to it.

I am also going to start posting regularly the discoveries in two things that seem to follow me wherever I may go:


What's Playing ?

Wild Belle - Keep You

Josh Ritter - Harrisburg



What's Pouring ?

Bell's White Winter Ale

And by the way:
What the Fuck?

Personal Foul: Folding! Ten Yard Penalty.

I can only look ahead.  There is simply no other option.  I've got to take the bitter with the better.  It was bound to happen sometimes soon.  It's bound to happen some more.  Let's get the hurdles over with.

I attended the aforementioned "mic'ed" Open Mic.  This one gets a bit more attention than the previous one I posted.  It is ushered by Caroleanne Solebello.  Solebello is one of the founders and a former member of the band Red Molly.  I still remember vividly when I first came across them.  Years ago, I was flippin' channels and came across a local PBS branch.  It was showing a performance from the local place Justice Brennan Coffeehouse.  I just remember specifically the three ladies producing this haunting, Appalachian-mounatin sound.  Each one of them a multi-instrumentalist, they kept alternating who plays the guitar, the banjo, the mandolin, the bass, and the slide-guitar.  You can find plenty of Red Molly videos on the Tube.
Well, Solebello had bestowed her spot in the band upon another lady, and stayed at home to give birth to her first son, and spend time with her family.  Nowadays, she still writes and performs solo, and once a month she volunteers by nurturing a local songwriting community.  She was great.

Back to the disaster at hand.

Stepping up at Christopher St.

I am not sure what all contributed to the overwhelming stage fright that hit me like a freight train, but it could have been any number of things: the fact that 14 people signed up for this open mic, as opposed to 5 from the last one; the skin-wringing cold that bit through all the layers that I had on me; the spotlight that they shined on the performers, the lack of preparation that I had with one of my songs, which I just finished writing the night before, bla, bla, bla.

The truth is, I did not expect at all to have such stage fright.  I have been nervous before, but this was an animal I hadn't encountered yet.  I guess I was unjustifiably overconfident. 

So, I folded. It was horrifying.

The ol' cliche of a train-wreck in slow motion is the best depiction of the feeling.  I just wanted the nightmare to end.

For this open mic, there is a strict maximum of two songs per performer.  I performed Cross That First Mile again, because I love singing that song and because I want to get as much practice performing it. Then, I performed a newly-written song called The Tempest.

Bombing at Christopher St.

 
When I sat down, the first image that came to my mind was comics speaking of how they had "bombed".  Surely it was nothing like it because I had no one booing me off the stage and throwing tomatoes at me (Do people still do that?  How does that work?  Do you walk into the Apollo with pocket-fulls of tomatoes?  Do they hand them out? I do wonder...)  But it felt like the biggest, self-inflicted let-down that one could endure.

I fumbled through my chord progressions, my hands felt as if someone poured concrete through my veins and lathered the palms with molasses; I missed chords, I forgot chords, and then in some instances my fingers simply wouldn't move!  I sang off-key, I missed single notes, and on, and on.




The one thing that I truly feared prior to standing up - didn't happen: forgetting my lyrics!

Bombing at Christopher St.

I knew that my wife was recording a video of it all.  I was so disappointed with it that the moment I sat down, I had already decided to not post the video of it.  Like a pouting kid that takes his toys and goes home.

I couldn't speak for a while afterwards.  J asked me how I thought it went, and I mumbled "Awful".  She knew to leave me alone for a while (read: leave the pouting kid alone for a while).  It was another 15 minutes before I reciprocated the question. 

She says: "I didn't think it was that bad at all".  So I watched the video.  

Actually, watching the video made me regain some confidence, there.  It is still a mediocre performance, but nowhere near a disaster that I made up in my head.

So, now back to the woodshed.  The best thing coming from this experience is that I got a pretty clear idea of what kinds of improvements I must focus on.  For instance: singing into a microphone,  practicing controlling my breath, practicing my strumming without staring at the guitar (you can even see me glancing over in the video.

With singing, our vocal coach, Janie, always makes us sing into mics, but I had (obviously) never given it much thought.  Luckily, I have enough gear at home that now I can invest hours into just practicing my songs with mics.

Looking up at Christopher St.

As for moving on: new goals!  Looking up and recording all the songs to pitch to some local song circles that perform.  I am going to continue rehearsing and attending the open mics, nonetheless.  Not only is it good practice for me, but the community is great and everyone shares their work and respects others'.  With all this, the new goal is to get a gig.


Open Mic Chris St Coffeehouse from Skika on Vimeo.

The new season of Portlandia...

... is the best so far.  And if you don't think so, you just hop on your fixed-gear bike and move to Williamsburg.  Pronto.

Breaking Ground

I finally mustered the courage (and practice) to start attending some open mic nights.

Last night I went to the Christopher Street Coffeehouse Open Mic, which is held at the St. John's Church in West Village.  This open mic is acoustic, but they have one that is run on a different (regular) schedule, that is mic'd.  It also attracts a larger crowd.  That will probably be the next step.

I like this place.  A friend of mine introduced me to it.  The community is very welcoming.

I performed Cross That First Mile, and Breaking Heart. I was extremely pleased to see my wife, J, walk through the doors, halfway through the first song.  She supports me in everything.  She was quick with the iPhone and snapped a video of the performance.  It flips around in the beginning, but you can get the idea.

Open Mic Chris St Coffeehouse from Skika on Vimeo.

It had been a long while since I last performed in front of an audience.  I was inexplicably nervous, and botched some fingerpicking and sang a few notes off key, here-and-there.  I need to continue doing these to get over all that nonsense.

Blowhard.

#%(*#%!@(^%@#)(%& !!!!!!!!!!!!!

Well, all along my path of learning, I read about this problem many a time, but never thought it would happen to me.

I must have overblown on one of the notes in my harmonica and damaged a reed.

The funny thing is that I know exactly when it happened.  It is my D harmonica and the last time I used it was in a song circle to booth "Me and My Old Man".  I hadn't used that key since then and last I picked it up, it has a dead note on hole 4 draw. 

The frustrating thing is that I have been researching harmonicas and this was one of my expensive ones, the Hohner Marine Band.  Originally, I had bought the bargain set of 3-for-$10 from Jambone and was happy for a while, until I tried a higher end harmonica and realized that they can play so much smoother.  So I started investing into Marine Band and loved them, at ~ $37.  And there is no guarantee that it's the last of this mishap, everyone around the harmonica forums and tutorials says that you will ruin a few in your learning process until you get a complete control of your breath. 

I am very paranoid now, I used my C Marine Band the other night and noticed myself compensating for breathing by overblowing/overdrawing.  Sucks.  Pun intended.


Not sure whether I want to blow my way through Marine Band, at $37 per, while learning.  I will probably find something in the middle, like Blues Bender.  Another trip to Guitar Center, ugh.

Artist Highlight: Gregory Alan Isakov

Artist Highlight: Gregory Alan Isakov

Well I had started off by calling this the "Artist of the Week" column.  Quickly realizing that I am nowhere near as consistent as it would be required for that sort of title, I am switching it to "Artist Highlight".  Let's be realistic here.


Today, I am discussing a singer-songwriter that I found very inspiring: Gregory Alan Isakov.

As has been true for me recently, (see: On The State Of Music) Isakov's songs slipped into my ear canal via the trusty Pandora.com.  His melancholic melodies along with the soft voice and beautiful lyrics was a combo to which I could relate. 

If you visit his site, you can sample his tracks, and read all his lyrics. 

The first song of his that I stumbled upon was The Sea, The Gambler, from the eponymous album from 2007.  It is simply great.  The vibe, the melody, everything about it.  It sings almost like a shanty and it speaks of the sea, death, and love.  Once I heard this, I bought the album.  I did not regret it.  All the songs are marvelous, but some that are really worth a listener's time are:  Stable Song, which opens with the anthemic line "Remember when songs were just like prayers?"; and 3 a.m.,  which showcases the songwriter's fingerpickin' prowess that is sure to lure you down into the rabbit hole.


Isakov issued the second album, titled This Empty Northern Hemisphere in 2009.  I have not acquired a copy yet.

One thing that stuck out to me, from a fellow songwriter - most of his songs do not have any percussion in them.  They are composed mainly of string instruments: his guitar, a bass, and the occasional banjo, piano, mandolin.  It is an interesting combination that he makes work extremely well.  This is also the way in which he performs them live - he has a bass and a secondary string accompaniment.

The Universe Shall Conspire ...

Well it happened.  I am still in utter disbelief.

My wife bought me a gift for our wedding anniversary that cut me right at the knees.  It is what I consider the embodiment of guitar perfection.  I have been coveting this guitar for a very long time.  I recently got to play it at the Martin factory.

What makes this gift so much more sentimental is that we are (for many reasons) in absolutely no position to make these kinds of expenses at this moment.  She pulled a few extra shifts just to be able to get this for me. Sigh.

She has been the only, real pillar of support that I have been leaning on, in the path to my newly-discovered "Personal Legend".


Here is the guitar porn...

The specifications:

• MODEL HD-28VS
• CONSTRUCTION: Mahogany Blocks/Dovetail Neck Joint
• BODY SIZE: D-12 Fret
• TOP: Solid Sitka Spruce
• ROSETTE: Style 28
• TOP BRACING PATTERN: Standard "X" Scalloped
• TOP BRACES: Solid Sitka Spruce 5/16''
• BACK MATERIAL: Solid East Indian Rosewood
• BACK PURFLING: HD Zig Zag
• SIDE MATERIAL: Solid East Indian Rosewood
• ENDPIECE: Grained Ivoroid
• ENDPIECE INLAY: Black/White Boltaron
• BINDING: Grained Ivoroid
• TOP INLAY STYLE: Bold Herringbone
• SIDE INLAY: none
• BACK INLAY: Black/White Boltaron
• NECK MATERIAL: Select Hardwood
• NECK SHAPE: Modified V
• NUT MATERIAL: Bone
• HEADSTOCK: Slotted/Square Slots/ Diamond/Square Taper
• HEADPLATE: Solid East Indian Rosewood /Small Old Style Logo
• HEELCAP: Grained Ivoroid
• FINGERBOARD MATERIAL: Solid Black Ebony
• SCALE LENGTH: 25.4"
• # OF FRETS CLEAR: 12
• # OF FRETS TOTAL: 19
• FINGERBOARD WIDTH AT NUT: 1-3/4''
• FINGERBOARD WIDTH AT 12TH FRET: 2-1/4''
• FINGERBOARD POSITION INLAYS: Diamonds & Squares - Long Pattern
• FINGERBOARD BINDING: none
• FINISH BACK & SIDES: Polished Gloss
• FINISH TOP: Polished Gloss w/ Aging Toner
• FINISH NECK: Satin
• BRIDGE MATERIAL: Solid Black Ebony
• BRIDGE STYLE: Vintage Belly w/ Drop-in Long Saddle
• BRIDGE STRING SPACING: 2-1/4''
• SADDLE: 16'' Radius/Bone- Drop In Long Saddle
• TUNING MACHINES: Waverly Nickel Side Mounts w/ Butterbean Knobs
• RECOMMENDED STRINGS: Martin SP 4200 Medium Phosphor Bronze
• BRIDGE & END PINS: White w/ Tortoise Colored Dots
• PICKGUARD: Tortoise Color
• CASE: 540 Geib style
• INTERIOR LABEL: none
• ELECTRONICS: Optional
• OTHER OPTIONS: Available left-handed at no additional charge

When I first played an HD-28 I was taken aback.  It stood so far above the other Martins.  The specific bracing that it is used in it produces an unbelievable sound.  Many people believe that the only difference between an HD-28 and a D-28 is the ("H") herringbone inlay.  This is not true.  Tony from Music Villa explains this much better than I ever could:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BQZ3npQ5wTo

I am not much for pizzazz.  But this guitar has just enough.  The combination of the HD-28 sound, with some of the aesthetic features that appeal to me, is really what attracts me:  the sloped-shoulder dreadnought, the slotted headstock, the soft-shaped V-neck.

Bliss.

Thanks J, I love you.

The First Mile

The inspiration continues kicking in.  It's at an all time high, it's got me soaring the clouds of my subconscious.

I have finally managed to achieve the life arrangement that I wanted to have for my writing.  I had never before been in such a situation and all I could do is speculate that this is what I needed.  And once I reached it, my suspicions turned to be true.  And below I will write what "this" is.

What I am about to say might be specific to personality types.  I have not delved into the psychology of it all yet, so it is just my experience.
I firmly believe that there is a certain mental state which the artist must achieve, and subsequently constantly remain situated.  This mental state I call the "writing trance".  When I am constantly thinking about the songs I wish to write, it is like having an open door for ideas.  I briefly mentioned it in the previous post.  When I am in this trance, verses hit me during the day, and they develop into entire stanzas.  Interesting and poetic ways of saying things come to me with astonishing ease.  It also comes at a price - to the world outside of this shell, I must occur like a zombie.  I get no productivity at work, I am constantly pensive, etc.

Now, what is absolutely key for accomplishing what I need to accomplish is this dire combo: when caught in such a trance, that I get overwhelmed with emotions.  Nothing creates a better out pour of ideas as emotions running high.

Recently I had a particularly bad morning in which I was overwrought with a mosaic of emotions;  I was furious, I was sad, I was disappointed, etc.  Being that I had all these great lines in my head, and some on paper, from being in the "trance", I sat down and started writing.  I wrote an entire song in all of 10 minutes.  Then I spent about an hour sitting back and staring at those lyrics.  They were perfect.  No matter how I twisted it, no matter from which angle I looked at the story, I would not touch them.  They were perfect.  The entire day I worked, I played, I did different things, but I kept going back and glancing at them lyrics every now and then. I felt infinitely powerful.  That is the most I ever accomplished with my songwriting: to be able to complete a song in so little time, start-to-finish.

And so, "Cross That First Mile" is born.  It will be simple, just guitar, vocals, and perhaps harmonica.  I have the chordal structure, but I haven't figured out the best key for my voice, hence the harmonica key is to come as well.
I can't wait to record this one. 


On the other front, I boothed "Slow Burn" with my song circle friends that I met in the Gotham Songwriting Workshop.  I got some great feedback from them, as well from other random friends I asked to give a listen.  I am still, however, struggling on the decision whether to make it electric.  To quote a recent listener: "It sounds like it should be played in a small, smoky blues club, where the singer just grabs the microphone and opens by smoothly saying into it: 'Slow Burn'."
To the woodshed on that one.

Inspiral.

Recently I have been hit by a flurry of inspiration.  I have been writing incessantly. I started several new songs and have them half baked.  I completed a brand new song in a matter of a week.  I called it "Slow Burn".  I must get an account at Reverb Nation, Sound Cloud, or similar, and start making recordings for it.

My new gear is really exceeding my expectations.  I will write, separately, about the gear, but I must just say that my Oktava MK-319, the Presonus Audiobox, and Studio One v2, they are a mighty combo.  I am getting the cleanest, clearest signal I ever have.  Studio One is not as robust as I found Fruity Loops, but that may just be the familiarization with the new DAW.  Time will tell.  It does the job right now.

Back to the inspiration.  I have been stuck in a sort of trance.  A writing trance, I should clarify.  All day, every day, my mind gets hit with thoughts, ideas, sayings, entire verses, entire stanzas!  It's like getting spam email of the useful kind, as a straight gunshot to the head.  It has made me certainly happier.  I feel like I have a neverending, zen smile on my face.  It has also made me infinitely less productive at my day job. 

One thought comes through very clearly: now, more than any other time in my life, I am certain about what I wish to do professionally, what I must do.

It is spiritual, of sorts.  Akin to the countless tales of experiences I have heard of someone "finding their purpose".  It is also a bittersweet thought, for to trudge the path to get where I want to get seems almost unattainable.  But I keep believing that I have something to offer that is unique.  Surely this sounds infantile in the mind of anyone who has tried an artistic outlet as a profession, but this is the only thing I have to cling onto. Sustainability, curse you.



Slow Burn is a slow, bluesy song.  I have recorded the track that is missing just the vocal take and a guitar solo. In total, it will have a small percussion backing, an upright bass (courtesy of Studio One packaged virtual instruments), my acoustic guitar rhythm strum, vocals, and a very small acoustic guitar solo.  I am trying to keep it simple, honest.  It almost sound complex when I write it out like that, but it is not at all.

My next song circle with some friends is this coming Thursday, I have to add these two parts before then.  I am overwhelmingly eager to continue working on it.

Mumford in Hoboken

We went to see Mumford and Sons in Hoboken, NJ, on August 1, 2012.


http://artsbeat.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/08/02/mumford-sons-begin-u-s-tour-in-hoboken/

http://www.nj.com/entertainment/music/index.ssf/2012/08/hobokens_pier_a_welcomes_mumfo.html


15,000 souls gathered to chant the band's classics, such as "Little Lion Man", "The Cave", and others.


The young men hailing from Great Britain certainly left nothing to be desired, in the first concert of their North American Tour.  Now, what was particularly interesting, is that they chose a venue that never held a concert before.  Pier A, in Hoboken, is a pedestrian-style, paved, walkway Pier on the Hudson river, that may be used for fairs, and similar activities.  I have heard from other sources that some of the other stops that they are making on this tour may lean on the same ideas - to use a venue that has not been used before.  I have not formally confirmed this before, but I do wonder whether they are pursuing some sort of pioneering in this venture.


The concert was just an all-around fantastic concert.  With sunset-New York skyline in the backdrop, bathed in tawny glints amidst the indigo buildings, the stage held two opening acts - Dawes, another great, folky band, and Aaron Embry, also a wonderful artist




The Pier was set up appropriately.  Plenty of beer stands with equally plentiful beer waiting lines.  The port-a-potties were also abundant.  All in all, I would call the management of the concert as "done right".


When M&S took the stage, the crowd pressed up a bit closer.  It also got denser.  It appeared that plenty of people disregarded the opening acts.





Now, I said in the beginning that the band left nothing to be desired and I meant it.  They are as impressive and accurate live as they are on the albums.  I did not really know that they are all multi-instrumentalists.   Marcus' strumming technique and singing passion comes through much more powerfully live.  He played his usual Martin dreadnought (not the slope-shoulder D-18VS which I really wanted to see in action) vigorously, to say the least, while tapping the kick pedal for the bass drum or for the tambourine.  In several songs he traded it for a mandolin, and a full drum set!  He was the only one to step behind the drum set, all while singing.  Honestly, his Irish- or Bluegrass-style strumming is quite impressive on the album and the YouTube videos, but I had no idea he would execute it so perfectly live.  It was spot-on.

Ben Lovett, the keyboardist, picked up Marcus' guitar when the latter drummed.

Winston Marshall, the all-too-famous-banjolin player did not bring the banjolin this time, much to my disappointment.  He, instead, used a regular banjo, and played lap-slide guitar and acoustic guitar.

Ted Dwane rocked the upright bass like a madman.  He also played eletric bass on one or two songs.  At some moment, I cannot recall the song, he picked his entire upright bass up on his shoulder, and rocked maniacally.  They delivered a live show worth 15,000 people.


The band played a mixture of songs from the "Sigh No More" album, their EP, and even a song from the new album.  I have the entire "Sigh No More" memorized, and at least four or five songs I did not recognize.  "Little Lion Man" was played early on, so was "I Gave you All".  "The Cave", of course, was saved for the encore, which drove the crowd mad.  Just as Marcus announced that they really have to leave the stage, because it is 10PM, and the city ordinance does not allow them to proceed further, fireworks lit up the sky over the Hudson.  It was magical.

Not having heard "Feel the Tide" was a bit of a disheartening for me.  I love that song and it was from the EP.  However, t'was nothing to diminish the value of this show.


The tickets had gone sold out within days at $55.  We waited too long and missed out on that.  In the very last minute we decided that this show was too much to miss out on it and picked up a few from Stubhub for 2.5 times that cost.  Worth every penny.


Pictures are HORRIBLE.  Sorry.  It's what I could grab with the iPhone from afar.

Heinz 57

Yes, in spirit of my neverending corniness, I am writing in my comeback post only to say that I intend to play CATCHUP and what better way to announce that then the classic, American staple of >>>>>>>>>>>

Ah, where would one start, so much has happened! So hard to believe that the last post was in November!

Things that have happened and I have yet to put here... well, let's see, there's Louisville, more Blitzen Trapper, Z and Cesca, Gypsy music, Napa, new gear, songwriting, new gear, UofL basketball, new classes, and more, in no particular order.

So, yea, I am living, breathing, and in the next few days, I will dump a bottle of Heinz upon these pages.

It's so dumb, really. The whole purpose for this blog was for myself to be able to document my own thoughts / sentiments. Yet, I keep finding it complicated to document them once I am caught in the moment, and wait until later when they are almost evaporated from my head.

I will do my best to recollect all the accounts. Let's see how much I succeed.

Artist of the Week

Speaking of Blitzen Trapper (last post rant), they just recently released yet another album!  It is called American Goldwing and I downloaded it from iTunes.  It is also available on Amazon MP3, but iTunes offers a bonus track (and yet you pay two dollars more!)

American Goldwing Album Cover

It seems that Eric Earley and the boys have been quite busy.  It feels just not long ago they released the colossal work of art that Destroyer of the Void album was.  Following their trail, I had noticed that they had not stopped touring, yet somehow they found time to put out yet another compilation.

The first impression of the album: 7 stars out of 10.

The album seems to be a definitive separation of Blitzen Trapper from the rest of genres that they dabbled, and further into the hardcore prog rock that they emanated throughout their previous work.

I used to enjoy their folksy and acoustic pieces, and I miss them in this American Goldwing.

The album opens with the extravagant Might Find it Cheap, an epitome of prog rock with heavy riffing and an exquisite 12-string-acoustic lead that is bound to induce flashbacks of a golden era of rock and roll.

What seems to be the beacon piece of the album, Love the Way You Walk Away, is my favorite song on it.  It possesses certain elements of a country ballad, coming both from its vernacular as well as the rhythm guitar play. 

As with Destroyer of the Void, American Goldwing keeps a theme throughout the album, yet with each song paying an homage to a different substyle or a different artist.  For example, Your Crying Eyes (song 4), to me, resembles even some David Bowie sound.

The lyrical prowess of Earley is still heavily present, and quite enjoyable.

There are a few mellower songs on the album, but we are certainly not getting another acoustic, "murder ballad" such as Man Who Would Speak True (Destroyer of the Void), or Black River Killer (Furr).  And, we are certainly not getting a grandiose folksy piece such as Furr, or even Tailor. This is my personal bias.  If you are a die-hard prog rock fan, you will get more out of it.  I find it somewhat monotonous.

I would still recommend it and would buy it again, knowing what it was about.

On the State of Music

Recently, my favorite, local radio station had shut down.  It was called 101.9 WRXP, The Rock Experience, and it was headlined by Matt Pinfield, and his co-host Leslie Fram.

Matt Pinfield in Village Voice

For a while, this was my main source for obtaining new music.  Their show was promoting smaller bands from all over the country.  They would always have a guest band or artist that would perform in the studio.  We (my wife and I) learned of so many bands that we ended up going to see live in the area: Rocco DeLuca, Audrye sessions, etc.  They would also promote local music, featuring a weekly session called "Local Licks" and during this time they would play bands from the local, tri-state area.

Evidently, their show was not only about new R'N'R, new bands, local bands.  They played plenty of ol'school Rock and, with the musical historian Mr. Pinfield at the helm, their selection was exquisite.


Now that their gig is up and gone (Pinfield is back on MTV2 for 120 Minutes), I found myself in a very frustrating situation - here we are, in one of the most affluent metropolitan areas in The World, and I could not get a good radio station.  Well, this statement should be qualified.  I could not find a good station that goes out of their way to promote and preserve good music.  That sounds so pompous and esoteric, but take it as you may.
When I lived down in the Philly area, my favorite stations to listen were the College radios, especially the Ivy Leagues' - UPenn and Princeton.  Heck, I learned about Spoon on Princeton's 103.3.  Up here, I tuned into Columbia, Seton Hall, NYU, and found nothing appealing on the waves.  Nothing. 

After this debacle, I turned to my trusty Pandora.  Pandora had become my favorite means of obtaining new music.

However, by poking around the Interwebs, I found that there are still some good sources around the U.S. that invest themselves into preserving good music.

One such station is WNRN in Charlottesville, Virginia.  I subscribed to their YouTube channel after seeing many of my favorite bands and singer/songwriters featured in their studio (e.g. Delta Spirit, Blitzen Trapper, Ellis Paul, Jesse Malin,etc.)  I started checking out new artists I'd find there, and going out to see them live, when they come through the area.  I, thus, discovered really cool new music like Head And The Heart.

Now I get alerts about their uploads in my YouTube account and check them out religiously.  Great acts appear constantly and good music flows my way.


So, what the hell am I talking about here?  What is this rant?  What is this preservation and promotion of good music bullshit that I am spilling?
The way I see it, it is the modern-day radio DJ's responsibility to show us up and coming music acts, all entwined with reminiscing of what good music we've had in the past.  And these reminders should consist of playing the obscure pieces of great bands as well as the most widely known ones.  We've all heard "Like a Rolling Stone" on a radio show three bajillion times; play us something like "Talkin' New York" or "Masters of War".  Those lesser known pieces that defined the artist in his/her era what they really were.

Surely, the media landscape has changed so much in this digital revolution and we can all recur to Podcasts, Music genome projects, instead of our local radio - but the job of the DJ is still the same.

It should also be said that I tend to not discriminate against musical genres.  Though I have been lately, heavily leaning on the side of folk-rock, alt-folk, alt-bluegrass, indie-rock, indie-folk or whatever similar labels are applicable, I can enjoy anything from a good country song to a trance groove.

On another note, my cousin showed me this station in Louisville, KY that seems to be doing the exact same thing.

91.9FM, Louisville WFPK.  They stream and play a plethora of great rock, blues, indie music, folk. 


Why can Louisville, KY have a great station that will play Head and The Heart, and NYC does not???

I don't know who he is. I don't care about him or his urinal!

- My wife J, on Marcel Duchamp.


The two of us were in Manhattan one day, and we visited MoMa. We made it a point to see their house collection which is impressive, since it has been a while that we'd seen it.  I forgot the Marcel Duchamp pieces that they possessed.  I find them ingenious, though I understand that readymade art is an acquired taste for a visual art neophyte, much like myself.

Duchamp: Bicycle Wheel (MoMa)

After a few drinks and some music, I began some ramblings on Duchamp in our taxi ride home.  I elaborated with an inebriated, incoherent exploration of the genius behind Fountain (or whatever limited knowledge I had on the subject), and I kept insisting after perceiving mild indifference on her part, which pushed her to utter that epic quote above.  It really tickled me that she used the word "urinal", in her outburst, because of the simplicity that Duchamp achieves in the abstraction of the urinal itself.
The urinal's metamorphosis happens somewhere between our ears, without much intervention from the artist itself, but a careful placement of the title.

Duchamp: Fountain

The truth is, without even having studied nearly the amount of Art History that I wish I would have, I am certainly curious about Dada, in the most romantic way possible.  I am infatuated by its origins, and its evolution.

The movement started as a revolution in sub-bourgeois circles in central Europe, and it propagated to the US and Asia as well.  The rebellion against the bourgeois capitalism and its tendencies for arousing conflict pushed artists, bohemians, intellectuals to convene in small circles and share their satires and parodies in as many forms as possible.

Thank you, Duchamp, for giving us the Fountain to drink from, for many years to come.  We don't care about you, or your damn urinal.

Careless post

The biggest loss in humanity has to, unequivocally, be the onset of, or transition to, apathy.

Apathy, the way I process it, is much more wretched than hate.  There is a certain connotation of care in hate.  You hate, therefore you manifest a feeling.  Merely thinking about the person you hate evokes a feeling.  Yes, this feeling is hate, but feeling nonetheless.  Perhaps you just hate them because you wish they were different, perhaps they wronged you in a way, perhaps you were indoctrinated into the mentality of hatred by your lousy parents, or perhaps you were just born a hateful, fundamentalist, ultra-racist piece of shit.  However, you do harbor a feeling for a person.  And it is better than no feeling.  This, I call "care". 

Evidently, the subject of your hate would not agree with me and my, albeit arbitrary, assessment of which is better and which is worse.  Assuredly, I retain only a globalized, sociological view on this subject, for the purpose of this post. 

Recently, I had a person in my life (with whom I interact on a daily basis) transition almost the entire spectrum of this, so-called care.  I went from not knowing them to liking them, from liking them to disliking them then hating them, from hating them to loathing them, and ultimately to simply not caring at all about them, and largely ignoring them.

This actually made me sad.  No one had to announce this to me.  There were no fanfare, banners flying, no big announcement with an even bigger speech.  One day I just realized that the care in me, for this person, is gone.  They did and said things that I just ignored.  And this is a fellow human being, for crying out loud!  Yet, I could not bring it out of me to care anymore.  This person's presence evoked no feeling.

I am not going much further into the external circumstances that we were in, this person and I, but it suffices to say that those circumstances exhaustively aided this onset of apathy in me.

This is what I call the transition to apathy.

If you actually do not care for someone, initially, then I hold that there is no loss.   But if certain feeling for a human existed in you, but progressively evaporated and is no longer there, that is the loss. 

Where, do you think, did that feeling go? 

You may have heard me say in person, or read my ramblings on this blog, about how I hate people.  I truly do hate people.  I just wish they weren’t the dumbfuck sheep that they are.  Just walking around is one disappointment after another, seeing the ridiculous things that we do without putting half a mind to our everyday actions.  One slip-up and I hate you, yep.

However, as an individual whose path I have not yet crossed, upon the initial meet-and-greet, I always give one the benefit of the doubt.  In my mind, based on your behavior, you might, then, move in either direction – I might like you or dislike you.  But now I >>know<< you and I certainly have a feeling for you.

What must transpire between us for me to lose that feeling?

And that is merely speaking about those we know.  What of those we do not know at all?  Where does the feeling begin?  Does it begin with apathy or does it begin lopsided on some scale of care?

A couple of fundamentalists flew two planes into 3000 innocent people.  Do you not loathe them?  Hundreds of thousands of Somalis are suffering under famine and villainous paramilitary groups.  Do you not sympathize?  We’ve never even met any of these multitudes and multitudes of people, yet somehow they evoke feelings in us.  How does it happen that we grow apathetic, then?  How does one say “I just simply don’t give two shits about that?”

Human loss, that is.  

Getting Schooled

I signed up for a Songwriting class. I have been dabbling in this for too long with no aim and I decided that it would finally be reasonable to get some direction, or expert advice, or even just plain old tools to add to my arsenal.

I plan on blogging about it to document my experience. I will post here my weekly findings and other things related to it, as I do my homework assignments, think about what we learned, etc.

I signed up with Gotham Writers Workshop, a community of educators in creative writing of all styles.

I am attending a 10-week long course of 3-hour classes running once a week. My classes are on Wednesdays and they have a parallel course running on Tuesdays.

The first class was this past Wednesday.

The teacher is great. I tend to be very judgmental of educators in general. Subconsciously, I have found myself always trying to discredit them. It's sort of a defense mechanism built into us – if you are to participate in my edification, what makes you think you are qualified? Once they pass that barrier of mine, they are the Law, and I tend to absorb their every word.

I won't disclose the name of my instructor, because I didn't really consult with him. He has decades of experience in the business. He has written for all sorts of singers – from R&B to country, and anything in between; for film, for commercials, for pro-bono purposes, for pretty much everything. He has written hits for Gloria Gaynor, and Alan Jackson and he is currently signed as a songwriter for BMG. He has a cool dude aura about him, but he speaks very articulately and eloquently, utilizing a very rich vocabulary, which usually appeals to me.

The first class was good. I was twelve minutes late, no big surprise there. We are eight or nine students in a small room. It is very personal. I missed the introductions. I heard the teacher later say that we have a lot of musicians in the room. I am curious about who plays what.
The class was mostly about general introduction and history of songwriting in America. Then we went into most common structures of songs (particularly popular songs) and towards the end we touched upon ideas of initiating the lyric writing.

I expected that a lot of the initial material was going to be a refresh for me, since I've read some Rikky Rooksby books, and similar material from the Internet and other sources. However, I got from the class exactly what I expected: among the piles of repeat material, I learned some gems of very interesting, basic songwriting knowledge, that was very new to me. This, in and of itself, is already worth it all.

If I were to find one downside to it all, it would have to be the extensive listening of popular songs, that the teacher enforces in order for us to recognize the patterns and structures that he teaches.
I am not yet sure that this is a true flaw. I will wait to see if it is really bothersome or not. We do have three hours in this class, every week, so I seriously doubt it.

One interesting find on a personal note is – although I generally stay away from popular music and tend to not believe that the commercially-acceptable patterns (in any genre of art) are nourishing to artistry - I accepted the fact that some popular patterns taught are necessary. In music, an artist has a mere few minutes to capture a listeners attention, and convey a message. Our minds, as listeners, have simply been programmed over the years to recognize patterns that have been ingrained in us and are more pleasing, recognizable, and we tend to favor them. With this, I agree. As much as we would all like to make our art be unique and stand out, there is also the duty that we have, that is: communicate your message.

We have some homework to do.
We have to: a) write no less than two verses of a twelve-bar blues song; b) write two or three (no more, no less) titles for future songs – these titles must be accompanied by a paragraph, each, explaining what the concept of the song is. The blues song verses can be just recited, can be sung, can be sung along to an accompanying instrument, or can be even pre-recorded and turned in to the teacher to play in class.
It is Saturday now, and the homework must be ready on Wednesday. I have some ideas for the blues song, but nothing concrete. I will use some time right now, and get started.

So far, I'm happy with this class.

Formulate Your Thoughts

I somehow crawled up into some sort of wellness blog limbo. 

By following comments, and their respective owners, from a friend's blog, I found my way to a whole world of self-proclaimed savants of mental, physical, and spiritual well being. 

I must admit that I found some inspiring blog posts and inspiring personalities.  However, one pet peeve that got down to my subcutaneous tissues is the formulated post title.

"Seven Ways to Covet Love Today" 

"3 Amazing Ways Sorrow Can Fulfill You"

"57 Angles to Lay a Brick"

"11 Ways to Wax a Dolphin"




Evidently, these titles above are fictitious.  But, what is it that makes people believe that their writing will be more attractive if they apply this formula to their titles?  Is it those lame, self-improvement books, the likes of which plague the shelves of Borders?

One of those lame books, I am reading right now.  Perhaps therein lies my real frustration.

And you shall rest warm...

The storm was escorted by her entourage of clouds.  The remaining vision at the dusk of Sunday was simply stunning.  The skies got scrubbed and a new, fresh coat painted.

While it was drying, I had to snap a picture.

Hypnotizing, isn't it?

Dilated hurricane pupils

As we expected, Irene was a bit of a let-down (no, we are not masochistic or ill-wishing, or jinxing, or nothing of sorts).  She dissipated into a tropical storm as she reached the NYC area.

We really did not feel much in our apartment.  The night was fairly calm. 

In the morning, we woke up in the eye of the, then, tropical storm.  It sped up significantly and moved out of the area within an hour.  We let the rain subside before heading out to assess some of the damage. 

What we felt was not indicative of what it left behind.

However, what it harmed in Jersey City was nothing close to what it caused in other areas.  Here are some examples.

A knocked down tree ripped a fence of the Bergen Light Rail.

This is one of the many drains on a street intersection.  It is not doing its job well because the entire city drain system was overwhelmed.  Basically, we cannot drain the water in the streets if the drains are flooded.













Van Worst Park got smashed up a bit.  It is a miniature park.  There is debris all over the ground and the city blocked it off.


















One of the more interesting things to see is how the owners and inhabitants of brownstone-style buildings cope with the flooding.  The basements of these 4- or 5-story buildings imperatively flood when a rain snout passes through.

It seems that most of them are equipped with sump pumps and they begin dumping water as soon as they can.  Some have provisional piping for this temporary use, yet, some others have it built into their house entrance.

You cannot gather this from the pictures, but that water is gushing out aggressively. 

And after all that, nothing really interesting to add, but plenty of street flooding. 

Jersey City downtown has intersections that are like little pockets where flood waters tend to gather.










More flooding.
















And yet, more flooding.

This is Choo's old block.  Some poor car got stuck in the flood there.  Every building on this block got the basement flooded and they are dumping water on the street.








Zoom on the stranded car.  JC's finest are around.














One of the things on the positive side of the tale, that I particularly enjoy much, is the solidarity that comes out of people, in the light of a disaster. 

We saw people crawl out to the streets immediately after the rain stopped.  People gathered on street corners, people gathered in front of houses.  People helped people move debris, move the water, and people talked.  Behind the curtain of the remaining wind howl, chatter could be heard everywhere we went. 

Down the street, in Hoboken, a huge tree fell down onto the street.  In Long Island, more of the same, and much more flooding than here.  Somewhere, further North, a family had to be rescued from their own home.


Irene, August of 2011, people will talk about her.

The Harm Before The Storm...

Mass panic attack makes me laugh.

I cannot help this, it is a phenomenon of sorts.  For me.

Irene is at the door steps.  She is knocking.  She sent people into a shopping frenzy.  Stores ran out of batteries, flashlights, water.  They ran out of water.  
THEY FUCKIN' RAN OUT OF WATER.  I should come back to that some other time. 

They also hiked up the prices.  I paid $2.59 for a lame 1" candle.  J doesn't know yet, she'd throw a fit.

Back to the mass panic.

Things tend to slow down for me in these hectic scenarios.  As much as I hate people, I love watching people.  Oh, how I hate people. 

I am in the supermarket.  Shoppers scurry around paying no heed to others' faces.  They are on dire scavenger hunts for whatever it is that the store currently doesn't carry any more.  Outside, it is a sunny, warm, fading-summer day.  It speaks naught of the foreboding of the storm to come.  For that, you have to come into this supermarket.  Inside, you find a demonstration of the entropy theory with people for matter.  That's all we are.  Wasted heat.

People push through like a bee hive.  They are piled on top of each other.  Hearbeats are a-racin'.  Breaths grow shorter.  My claustrophobia is starting to kick. 
I am waiting in the neverending, serpent line now.  The back of my knee gets checked by someone's shopping basket, and the stranger is ten feet away by the time he utters the unwilling "Sorry".  I absorb the man in front of me and his cart heaping with stuff as I glance up to confirm that this, indeed, is the express lane with twelve items maximum.  What appears to be his daughter comes to him and utters something in Korean, all out of which I grasp only "Express!"  He looks around beffudled, searching for the mysterious Express sign.  I don't believe he still understood it.  An old Korean man, in a new Korean market.  Irene, you wretched succubus! 

I have been significantly desensitized toward disaster and panic.  Perhaps it's a number that War pulled on my psyche, perhaps I can tactically predict that I can handle a situation in an instant, but it is simply a disconcerting lack of care, and that's what it is. 

Here I get to the intent of this post.  There is a dimension of my ego that has gotten its jollies by always purposely inviting chaos into my everyday life.  Toyed with risk in most common situations.  I am not talking about taking up bungee jumping.  I am talking about making your car hydroplane.  I am talking about allowing yourself to be down and out.  There is an eerily playful aspect to knowing whether you could handle a situation, and how you would handle it.  It's like Kramer pushing the gas tank beyond "E". 

I am, obviously, not unique in this respect.  Men tend to have this quality more than women, as a stereotype. 

This, to me, comes confusingly coupled with sheer laziness.  I know I am lazy and everyone close to me knows it.  My mind is always working to find the optimal shortcut for carrying out a task - try to do it smarter, not harder.
So, you see, it is a vicious cycle.  When I've found myself in risky situations, is it because I am lazy or because I am not worried and believe that I can tactically handle that situation?  Consequently, with each iteration, does it make me worry even less, because now I have seen the most stress that I could see?


The panic that Irene caused reminds me of that day that I was sitting in the conference room with some colleagues and a manager stormed in, shouting "Someone just fucking flew a plane into World Trade Center", as he wielded the remote control, turning on the News.  As the room filled up with people, faces magnetically turned toward that television set.  They were all observing the horrors, I was only observing them.  Yeah, I love watching people.  You could see all five stages of grief pass over their faces like a shadow.  No one noticed that I am not looking at the TV.  I already made up my mind about what the TV was going to say, the moment I saw the thick, black smoke gushing out of the tower.  It wasn't until an hour afterward, that my boss approached me, saying "Hey how was all this for you?  You must have seen all this since you've seen war." I explained to him, then, my reaction to all of it.  And how I watched him and his open mouth.



Irene does not worry me. 

We can still see the statue.  The bridge is harder to see.  On a good day, you can see for miles.  For miles.

Somewhere, out there, Irene is brewing its ploy.  Bring it, you bitch!