My new favorite song

This morning I woke up and did something I haven't done all year.

"What'd you do, Stinkrock? Wake up in your clothes? Wake up hungover? Wake up in a bowling shirt given to you by a 60-year old man named Mommy who offered you oral sex?"

Yeah, yeah, baby, I *did* all that. I turned down the BJ. It's okay!

No, what I'm talking about has nothing to do with Saturday night and everything to do with Sunday morning. I woke up and wrote a song.

The weird thing about being involved with so many projects is that I'm a utilitarian songwriter. I slot time to come up with ideas for something that might be a Microdot song, or maybe a Strikes Again! song. I work on a songwriting project I'm doing with my good friend Sari, putting her words to music. In an ongoing tribute to the Replacements, I occasionally put myself through an exercise to write and record loud fast (sometimes silly) rock songs in as short and thoughtless a time period as possible. But all this is preplanned, specific, controlled. Not once this year have I written a song just to write a song.

So one came out this morning. It's a minute 25, a minute 30. It's only got two lines. But it came out of nowhere, it has no attachments, it's mine, and I'm proud of hell as it. I feel consolidated, unified. And, I confess, a little uneasy about the shirt.

I make a year-end mix of songs I heard for the first time during the year that had an impact on me. I think I'll tack this one on at the end, and call it '2005'.

WHY I LOVE SAM ASH

Just got off the phone with some boob. We'll call him Rusty. And for kicks, let's call me Hotcakes:



RUSTY:"Thanks for calling Sam Ash."

HOTCAKES: "Hi - I need to replace the power cord on my Roland RD-100 digital piano.."

RUSTY: "Wow!"

HOTCAKES: "...?"

RUSTY:

ME (er....HOTCAKES): "Uh...?"

RUSTY: "I mean, those are pretty rare."

Wow indeed. So I opted not to spend $1700.00 on the new model of digital piano so I'm facing derision from someone who makes...$9.50/hr? Just a guess. Thanks.

Roland was much more helpful. Eliminate the middleman...

Brooklyn record stores?

Anyone out there record shop in Brooklyn? Where do you go?

here's where the strings come in

This week, I'm arranging strings for a House of Blondes session on Friday. I wrote a cello line on the fly for a Moneyshot song several years ago, but I've never done any arranging for other musicians. I, of course, have no idea what I'm doing, and that is what draws me to the whole experience. It's a challenge.

I wasn't really sure how to prepare - I guess I could've listened to some of my favorite songs with strings on them? But hell no! In fact, I'm hard-pressed to name one off the top of my head.

Are there rules to this sort of thing? I don't see why. I just figured I needed to know which notes each instrument - the cellocellocellocello, the viola and the violin - could play.

I went online to find the range of each instrument, and found a load of viola jokes. I guess the violist is the string section equivalent of the drummer, the butt of all the jokes. some of these jokes are harsh:


How do you keep your violin from getting stolen?
Put it in a viola case.

What's the definiton of "perfect pitch?"
Throwing a viola into a dumpster without hitting the rim.

What's the difference between a viola and a coffin?
The coffin has the dead person on the inside.

Why do so many people take an instant dislike to the viola?
It saves time.

(One day drummers and violists are going to be tired of getting picked on and are going to revolt against the Guitar/Violin Machine [G/VM]. The streets will run red with blood and catgut. We will build crosses out of rosewood & maple. And as we're rhythmically nailing them to the crosses, the drummers will undoubtedly rush the beat.)

Rather than going with the classic quartet (two violins, viola, cello), I think I'm dropping one violin for another cello - cellos sound cooler. I'm not crazy about the violin, not sure why. I have no opinion on the viola, having never spent much time with it, but as a drummer I empathize with its underdog status, so I think we may end up featuring it out of spite.

So I'm home Monday night, watching football, mindlessly playing cello and viola lines on guitar and violin lines on my melodica over a version of the song. I know I don't want it to sound sappy, but so far it sounds crappy. So I have to fix it, then dump it into an mp3, run it by John from House of Blondes, fix it, repeat steps two and three, skip step four, say 'fuck it'.

Then I'm half done - I have to notate it all. I haven't had fun with notating music since I took a gut class in my senior year of college (and I still got a bad grade because I refused to miss 'A Price is Right'). Is a quarter note 2 beats or 3 in 6/8 notation?

Should be a fun thursday night. I anticipate a lot of confused looks at the session tomorrow night. But I'll roll my eyes, shout a lot, say "this is the way it has to be", and generally act like an asshole. And that's arranging strings, right? Now who wants a horn section?

HELL DIASTER

"Hello, my name is Hell Disaster."

That's how the nametag read last Saturday, where Strikes Again! played a blistering show at Sin-e. The room was crowded with friends, but we were on. On's a tricky switch in a band--there are notches, bumps and shorts, and when the switch flips, a good 15-20 minutes can go by before you know it's working.

But back behind the drums, I get a great view of what's unfolding. I know within 5 minutes what's in store. Facial expressions of my bandmates are pretty good indicator, but the infinitywatt/governmentissue stage lights turn my eyes into sweatpots within a few minutes. It doesn't really matter. If the energy's there, I can feel the band push out into the audience, and in the split seconds we give them to react between songs, I know immediately whether it's pushing back.

At the tough gigs, it doesn't come back. You rely on your bandmates to keep pushing and make something happen. If it does come back...well, that's it. It's everything you've worked for. It's beyond description. It's true beauty.

**********************
I've been on both sides of the bass drum for many shows, and none of this happens to me when I'm in front. Singing, playing guitar or just following along on bass, all I can smell is chaos. I can't think. I can't make sense of what's happening. I have to rely on eyewitness reports and check the stage floor for chalklines. Everything's a blur.

On the surface, this is an easy argument - drums add a barrier between me and the crowd. Even an out-of-petrol John van Atta can't keep me from playing drums; at last Saturday's Strikes Again! show he fell into the drums and took out a crash, a ride, and the floor tom. But I had plenty left to play with.

But it doesn't matter. The whole point is that it doesn't matter. If you get 30 minutes a month to forget everything you'll make it through that month.

Left of the Dial

You can hear Microdot perform the Replacements' Left of the Dial here. With a sickness and no monitors, I strangle their legacy to within an inch of its life. Dave's guitar is in tune though, so it still probably sounds better than any time they ever played it live.

Thanks for posting it Chris.

Munchkinland

They've forced out a Ukrainian laundromat at my corner and put in a Dunkin' Donuts. Did I write about this yet? No.

Since coming to New York in 1994, I've moved 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9 times, so I've never lived in a neighborhood long enough to see things you like & need go, and chains come stomping in to take their place.

Well, this is not one of those times. There's a better laundromat on the other Avenue that's cleaner, open later and always has driers available. And as for Dunkin Donuts, Munchkins rule. I've got my midget costume all picked out and plan to serenade my new DD sugar-meth franchise with The Lollipop Guild when they open their doors later this year.

Westerns (#30 of 50) - The Man from Laramie

I'm back on the 50 western kick. 21 in 50 days. It can be done.

The Man from Laramie is the 5th and last western Anthony Mann made with Jimmy Stewart. Along with The Naked Spur, they're two of the best I've seen this year. Gritty, smarter plotlines, and some really intense uncomfortable confrontations. On a scale of 1 to 10 shots of Early Times (I watch westerns while drinking shots of bourbon), I'd give it 7. Unfortunately, I already took 'em last night and fell asleep; I had to watch the rest of it this morning. These are puny shots too. Quit momming me.

Jimmy Stewart's been in a helluva lot of Westerns by 1955, but it still takes that cowboy a full 6-7 seconds to get on a horse, and the camera has to sit there and watch it. Funny stuff.

Up next - Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid.

microdot

Dave Cavalier, aka The Misanthrope, doesn't hate people. I will go to bat for him and say that he's a very kind person when he's not talking about politics.

In this post, he describes in detail the thought process behind where he is/we are in our songwriting efforts. It's a fascinating read; Dave's a super guitarist and songwriter (shout out for 'Madeleine') but he mentions a map, and alludes to me. Funny, but I have no idea what he's talking about.

In my experience, songwriting is a hairy business. When I first started writing songs, I couldn't write them well enough to even sound like my favorite band. The second song I ever wrote was supposed to sound like Twin Tones Minneapolis, but it came out sounding like AC/DC Xerox. The Xerox model they made in the '80s. The early 80s. And I don't mean the Pat Beneleotardatari2600 80s.

Two of my favorite* three Microdot songs, 'Beauty Mark' and 'X-ray', are written with Dave in the most collaborative way imaginable. We sit down with guitars in an otherwise empty room, I play him a verse, he plays me a chorus, but we don't know it yet. An hour goes by, and we mash them together, and we have a song, or in this example, two songs. That's an amazing feeling.

And that's where I am today. There's no map, there's no formula. Music's language -- your ears perk up when you hear something interesting.

*David Byrne gave an interview once where he was asked what his favorite Talking Heads songs were. His answer was that they were all his children and he couldn't pick between them. Bullshit!

stink rock

For the last several months, two of my seventeen bands have been able to leave the sacrosanctity of hourly studios to rehearse in a monthly joint in the music building. But last Friday, I journeyed back to Smash Studios to play with the House of Blondes as we attempt to wrap up the recording of songs we've been writing for 10 years.

The rehearsal room smelled like your great-great-grandfather guzzled a handle of gin every Sunday since the Crusades, extracted his liver and kidneys with forceps soaked in boiling garlic water, mashed them into sauna stones and threw them into a heater of fresh tar and skunk spray. The theory of evolution became incontrovertable fact that day at Smash, where I smelled 50,000,000 year-old perspiration.

An open note to the denizens of Smash: The solo to Takin' Care of Business sounds aces. Stop practicing and bathe. Maybe keep your clothes on when you do.

Puppy

Yesterday I got a food delivery at home. The delivery guy was really tired, and my 4th floor walkup wasn't helping. We had the following exchange:

Me: "You look beat."
Him: "It's my last delivery. It's been a long day."
Me: "I hear you. Here you go."
Him: "Thanks, puppy."
Me: "Wait...what did you just call me?"
Him: "mm...what?"
Me: "Did you just call me 'puppy'?"
Him: (walking away) Oh..sorry, sorry!"

I realized later that he called me papi, but that didn't ease my mind. I had already neutered myself and cut off my tail.

Westerns (part 1-29 of 50)

I'm an old movie buff. Until this year, I'd only seen a few Westerns, and I was okay with that -- I always had this notion that Westerns weren't worth my time. There were only three plotlines that I can think of. There are good guys and bad guys! The railroad's comin' - everythin's chaynging! I'm an old macho guy and I need to shoot you!

About a year ago, I saw The Searchers, and realized how wrong I was. If anything, the constraints of the genre draw the filmmakers out, and they tell intensely personal stories.

I decided to start gobbling up Westerns. I'm a member of Film Forum, and this past March they showed 30-40 Westerns. At that point I decided I'd make a goal to see 50 Westerns in 2005. Why 50? Because that's the number of eggs that Paul Newman says he can eat in Cool Hand Luke. C'mon people, that's the bragging benchmark.

So I saw 12 Westerns that March at the Film Forum. I devoured them. They were all running together, but I didn't care. The American Southwest is one of the most beautiful places on earth and it looks gorgeous on screen, even in black and white. They're quotable as hell. Bourbon is water, and cigarettes are air. Everything's so simple, and everyone's a loser. What an easy world to live in! No expectations.

Well, as I iterated in my 2nd post on this blog, I don't make any of the goals I set for myself, so I won't make it to 50. Since the 12 I saw in March, I've only seen 13, and I'm only up to 29. I'd have to see about 3 a week to make it, and it isn't going to happen. But I'm glad I took up this crazy cause, if only to grab one pearl of wisdom, taken from Sam Peckinpah's 'Ride The High Country', as spoken by Joel McCrea:

'All I want is to enter my house justified.'

Spinning Plates

One of my most vivid childhood memories (thank you, Panasonic) is watching Bob Newhart spin plates on Battle of the Network Stars. Although, until I looked it up, I could've sworn it was Circus of the Stars. I remember appreciating Bob Newhart taking time off from his busy schedule to attempt to spin plates for my enjoyment. Now I realize he was probably enslaved by his Network and forced to humiliate himself for my enjoyment. That, my friends, is a circus--screw the show title. Humiliation is a key element in a circus. Ask the elephants.

For some reason I remember Bob Newhart being a pro at plate spinning on this show. Well, I looked it up and this is completely false, he sucked at it. At least when he was on Cattle of the Kraftwerk Stars, or whatever I think I remember it was called.

This whole thing bugs me on two levels. One, the misremembering. If I've walked this planet for the last 25 years thinking Bob Newhart could spin a plate or two, what else have I got wrong?

More than that, I've found that I am myself a plate-spinner. Let's face it, I'm the Sisyphus of plate-spinning. if I don't have 6 or 7 things going on at once, I stop sleeping until I've found something to fill the "void". I'm a dish-spinning missionary.

So to find out that Bob Newhart is a bust...well, he was the only other one I knew. So now I question my ability to keep spinning plates. And after that, I'll question my desire. Damn you, Newhart.

Oh, and last week I was watching a little of the World Series of Poker and saw Network Star Gabe Kapler (Mr. Kotter) at a table. I'll be honest -- I have no idea why this applies. I started writing this post 6 days ago and fell asleep in my chair, and don't remember where I was going with the Kotter theme.

Ask the elephants.