Can an atheist be an artist?

I’m an atheist, I admit it. I used to say I was an agnostic, but as I’ve gotten older and read more and thought more about religion, I’ve decided that every one is humankind’s creation. I’m cool with my beliefs, but I wonder if society really is, especially among those who, like myself, think of themselves as artists.

My uncertainty stems from the countless interviews I have read with songwriters, most of whom claim that their songs do not come from within, but rather from without, either as gifts of god or as creations of a force greater than humankind, creations that can only be gathered by those who pay attention. I disagree with these conceits, and let me tell you why:

First, I think art is the most human of achievements, and to give some deity credit for it devalues people.

Second, claiming that some god wrote your song is not the height of humility, it’s the height of arrogance. After all, you’re basically saying that of all the people on earth, the god you believe in chose to give you a particular song. Wow, you must think you’re pretty special.

Three, claiming that all songs are all out there, floating around in the universe, set free by some Prime Mover, and you just happen to hear them first, is not only pretty damn arrogant, it’s also utterly preposterous. In addition, it devalues all the thought you have given to your music. I mean, why bother, right? Just sit down, tune in, and wait for a song to drop out of the ether.

Last, and least, all these great songwriters proclaiming how their works are divine makes me sound like a total ass when I talk about how I think my songs come from me, thank you very much!

And that’s my point: because of the way artists talk about how they create, namely, some deity does it for them, a perception has been created that true artists are somehow closer to god than the rest of us. Well, for the record, I do think I am an artist and do not think there is a god of any kind.

Stepping off my podium…



The paradox of the red sailboat.

I live right above a harbor and in it there is a red sailboat. Every time I see the boat, and I mean every time, I think about how it would make such a perfect photograph: a red boat against the blue water, singular, simple, pure. But such a photograph eludes me.

And the feeling I get as I stare at the sailboat — knowing the photograph the boat could become — is the same feeling I get when I look at lyric fragments, and know in my heart the songs they could become. Both the boat and the lyrics are right there in front of me, taunting me with what their potential, yet they always elude me, leaving me frustrated and inspired all at once.

But I know what I need to do. I need to approach both boat and fragment with true intent.

For the red sailboat, I need to start watching the clock and observe the time of sunset, and thereafter for several days in a row, weather permitting, I need to walk down to the water with my camera, zoom lens and tripod, and get set up a little early, maybe 15 minutes before the gloaming begins, and when the light is right, I need to shoot and shoot and shoot. And repeat.

The same is true of my lyrics. At some point, I need to pick a fragment — the fragment that stands out for whatever reason — print it out, pour myself a tall glass of fizzy water, and grab The Maton (all hail!) and a pen and get to work, deliberate, focused work, and then go until I can’t go anymore and if I have nothing, I need to do it again and again and again.

In the end, there will be a photograph of the sailboat, a good photograph in which most anyone can see that I see — and more — in the real life scene. There will also be a song. And despite all my intent, both will most likely be the result of some sort of accident. I will have tried something, out of desperation I suspect, that opened a door in the wall that separates inspiration from art.

And that’s the paradox of the red sailboat. Namely, the creation of art demands intent, yet intent, in the end, is rarely the flash that leads to art.

America and rock and roll defined.

When I see stuff like this, I get a touch patriotic. I just love how a car like this is so quintessentially American, from it’s brash chrome-clad blackness, to the aggressive grill, to the oozing pride. But what really makes this car American is the license plate. You just don’t see vanity plates like this outside of the U S of A. Truly, I mean, I lived in Europe for years and I don’t recall seeing a one. But even better than the fact that the plate is a vanity plate is what the plate says. I mean, how great is that? A great big fat middle finger to the Pope and every other religious “leader” out there spouting fairy tales and expecting you to believe them or live in eternal hell or whatever. Super cool. Best of all, this car re-fires not only my love for America but also my love for rock and roll. On first seeing the car, I thought of the song Hot Rod Lincoln, an ode to youthful joy, the open road and the simple fact that breaking the law can be downright fun and harmless and necessary (on occasion) – all intrinsic to the American ethos. Damn, I kinda want a cheeseburger, Coke and fries right about now.

.

Hot Rod Lincoln - Commander Co...

Ah spring, a perfect time of year to tell the Demon of Why Bother to go f--k himself.

Today is a April 1, a day most people attempt to fool others – or maybe even themselves. But not me. I am deadly serious on this most un-serious of days, for it is the first day of a very important month, the month during which I will finish my first album.

Standing in my way, as he has my entire life, is the Demon of Why Bother, a particularly loathsome creature that likes to wait until the last possible minute before jumping in front of me and saying things like, “What are you doing this for?”, “No one really cares, you know”, and the always effective “It’s not going to change anything”.

Despite his limited range of thought and vocabulary, the Demon of Why Bother is awfully persuasive, but this time he has waited too long to stop me. If I still had songs to finish, it would be a different story, because the process of songwriting brings out a whole host of demons for me, any one of which has the power to stop me cold. But all I’ve got left to do right now is a check-list. And despite the Demon of Why Bother’s massive uptick in activity of late, it’s cool. I can ignore him (mostly).

So hear this, Demon! I will beat you and come May you will have to listen to my album EVERY GODDAMNED DAY FOR AT LEAST A MONTH — PROBABLY MUCH LONGER.

Harumph.



Sitting at Café Centro and musing over the travails of the music business. Part two.

Yesterday, I posted my theory about how a massive increase in supply against a constant level of demand is the real reason behind the music industry’s travails. Today, I propose my answer for how musicians can succeed in this new reality. A caveat: my answer probably won’t seem very deep, but, in my opinion (unlike Obama’s!), great complexity is no indication whatsoever of a thing’s merit.

In a nutshell, just as the problem lies in supply and demand, so does the solution.

SUPPLY – The situation in music today is, as I posted yesterday, akin to what would happen if we could suddenly all make large, high quality diamonds at home for next to nothing. In such a world, the jeweler would rein supreme. After all, a diamond would be no big deal, but cut and set in a certain way, it could once again be precious. Music is not that different. Since any idiot can now create vast quantities of music, craft is all you have to set you apart. So, part one of The Answer to the Musician’s Plight in Today’s World is to work harder than ever at your craft. If you are a songwriter, take the time to really study the greats, be hard on yourself, go beyond friends and family for opinions, try, try, try and never quit. If you have some talent*, effort is all you need (and luck). Success will be yours on the supply side if you can honestly listen to your own material and be happy with it. If you want to make a living, then others have to be happy with your work, too.

DEMAND – Here’s the paradox: there are more ways than ever to generate demand for your material, yet it is harder than ever to generate demand, given that there is so much supply. What to do? Well, you could send off your songs to Tunecore and see them pop up on every major music site across the globe, but all this does is create availability, which, of course, is not the same as demand. Equally concerning, this approach will assure you a very, very small royalty payment per song (roughly $.10, according to info I can find). Instead, I think the answer to creating demand is the now well-known notion of 1000 True Fans, which is pretty self-explanatory. Critical to attracting 1000 True Fans is selling direct, so you can build a relationship with those interested enough in you to buy your stuff. Using this approach, here’s my plan for creating demand (for health reasons, I’m not a performer, so there is nothing in here about concerts):

1)   Post my album to bandcamp, a direct music posting/selling service that does not keep even a penny of revenues, and set the price at “name your own”, with a $5 minimum, which bandcamp research has revealed to be the best pricing strategy.

2)   Announce my album on my blog, Facebook and Twitter.

3)   Send everyone I know an email announcing my album and showing where it’s available.

4)   Respond to every email I get in reply to mine and do everything I can to be engaging and personal with people who have been kind enough to write me back.

5)   Over time, use bandcamp’s email capture service to generate a list of whoever buys my album, and follow up on each and every purchase with a thank you note and a free download (I think, gotta work out the details for offering a free download).

6)   Build until I have 1,000 True Fans.

7)   Celebrate

8)   Go for 2,000 True Fans!

That's it! Stay tuned and in about a year I'll let you know how well it's working!

*I'm one of those annoying people who believe in talent. Some have it, some don't, and for those that don't, all the effort in the world can be for naught.



Sitting at Café Centro and musing over the travails of the music business.

Part one of a two-part series.

As someone who hopes to one day make a dime, maybe two, in the music business, I read a fair number of articles describing how the business fairs. A few discuss what’s going right, but mostly the articles are about what has gone wrong. The positive articles tend to focus on supply (there is more music than ever before!), while the negative articles focus on demand (no one wants to pay for anything anymore!). Oddly, however, I have never read an article that tackles the overall issue on the basis of these simple terms, supply and demand. Instead, everyone wants to talk about clouds and social media and content and on and on and on and on and on.

But what of venerable supply and demand?

Here’s my theory: Supply is way up, and demand is up maybe a little, as a result pricing has dropped. Too simple? Perhaps, buy hear me out:

SUPPLY – There is more music out there than ever before, because the tools for making it are not only widely available, but they are cheap and easy to use. In addition, the cost of distribution is nearly zero, and even if you choose to go all pro for distribution and use something like Tunecore, you’re still talking tens of dollars, not tens of thousands – even if you go GLOBAL. I mean, it’s incredible how cheaply music can be distributed these days.

DEMAND – In my humble opinion, there is not appreciably more demand for music today than there was ten years ago. Sure, people have MORE music than ever before, but I’m not so sure they WANT more; instead, music is so easy to come by and store, why not have a virtual warehouse full of the stuff everywhere you go?

To sum up, I think what has happened in music is akin to diamonds suddenly becoming cheap and easy for anyone to make at home. If this were to happen, the price of diamonds would fall, don’t you think? But here’s the weird thing about music: every effort is being made to hold prices constant in the face of an exponential increase in supply. Don’t believe me? Consider the price of tracks on iTunes, there $.99, or roughly the same as a per track cost of a physical CD. This is not Apple’s fault. Instead, it’s the result of record companies trying desperately to maintain cost structures devoted to manufacturing physical products, even as the market for those physical products dries up. Pretty pathetic.

So what is a starving musician to do? Tomorrow, I bring you Part Two, The Solution!

Did I write a song last night?

I’ve been toying with a new song idea for a few weeks, but so far, all I’ve got is a phrase, which is “There are things we can't forget that we don't want to remember.” I’ve been rolling this phrase around in my head on runs, walks, during conversations with others (sorry!), over dinner, under the (mild) influence of booze.

Everywhere!*

So far, nothing. But this morning, I woke up with that feeling you have when you’ve dreamed something cool but just can’t remember what it was. Suddenly, it hit me: I’d finally written this song! In the dream, it was something kind of electric, had a cool groove, interesting changes, nice melody. Hallelujuah!

Just one problem.

I can’t remember what I supposedly dreamed I wrote. Argh.

*I have not yet picked up the Maton (all hail!) and tried to come up with anything. Once I do, I’m positive I will have a song in short order.



S--t my Dad says.

If you’re a Twitter user, as I occasionally am, you’re probably aware of S--t My Dad Says,which is written by a guy who describes himself as follows:

I'm 29. I live with my 74-year-old dad. He is awesome. I just write down shit that he says [No period on his! Either a typo or somehow periods are not cool.]

Recent samples of wisdom from this Twitterer include:

"I lost 20 pounds...How? I drank bear piss and took up fencing. How the fuck you think, son? I exercised."

"Science and Mother Nature are in a marriage where Science is always surprised to come home and find Mother Nature blowing the neighbor."

"Sprain, huh? Did you go to medical school?... Well I did, so spare me your dog-shit diagnosis and lemme look at your ankle."

Pearls of wisdom, to be sure, but I’ll take s—t my Dad says over this guy’s dad any day of the week, especially today, as it is my Dad’s birthday.

These days, we do most of our talking on walks, either in Portola Valley, where my folks have lived since 1971 (and where the above photo was snapped), or during our too infrequent breakfast get-togethers. If I had to distill all that my Dad has taught me, I’d probably express it in terms of my political make-up, which is socially liberal (meaning live and let live, not public housing for all) and fiscally conservative (meaning the government wastes about 10 pennies for every penny it takes in, so give the government money only as a last resort). Here in SF, if a political discussion starts up, I am always the lone guy preaching small government, etc., but I relish the role, as I think my Dad has always relished his even more conservative views (not conservative in the sense of making us all live by God’s law, but rather not being so quick to question stuff that has made sense since the dawn of civilization).

Dad, for all you’ve said and taught me with your words and deeds, thank you. And Happy Birthday!



I hope this wine and my songs have something in common.

The other night, Catherine and I wanted to celebrate a little bit, so I raided the dwindling wine closet. As I perused my remaining few bottles (back when I was a wine snob, I had CASES, but my accident made me go from being obsessive about wine to being pretty passive), I noticed a Bordeaux from the 2000 vintage that I had never really noticed before. There it lay with nothing about it to grab my attention, save for its mystery, as I have completely forgotten when, where and why I bought it. I pulled it from the rack, pulled the cork from the bottle and poured a small bit into a glass. Swirl, sniff… hmmm… sip. Wow, really? Sip. Yup, really, the wine was great; dry but with enough fruit to create some real complexity, not too tannic, smooth, earthy. And the best part: I simply did not see it coming. In fact, I was prepared for the wine to be mediocre, or, at best decent, but was stupendous.

I hope something similar happens for my songs someday.

I hope some mover and shaker overcomes his indifference to my CD, pulls it from the shelf, pops it into a player and waits with low expectations for the music to start and when it does feels his low expectations transform into inspiration and he picks up the CD again and reads the label and finds my URL and visits my web site and sends me an email and inquires about the song and others I might have.

And on that day, I will open one of my two remaining bottles of that humble Bordeaux. Heck, I might open both.



A hard day’s afternoon.

Sometimes nothing goes right and yesterday’s recording session was mostly one of those times. Instead of going to Hyde Street, I went to a yoga studio I can rent for $25 an hour. I figured I’d save a few bucks, right? I mean, Hyde Street is over $500 a day, not counting musicians, so I only like to use it if I really have to.

The session was supposed to start at 3:15 in the afternoon and go to about 5:30, but five minutes after arriving (on time even!), I realized I’d forgotten the power adaptor to my computer. Mind you, I had remembered my mic, mic stand, mic cable, pop screen, MBox, two pairs of headphones, a headphone extender cable, headphone mini-to-¼ inch stereo adaptors, a headphone pre-amp, a music stand, 2 sheets of lyrics, a pencil, a camera, a tripod and a computer -- and ALL OF IT became POINTLESS in that instant I reached for the AC adaptor and found it wasn’t there.

Gloom.

Minutes later, vocalist Dave Brogan showed up and I had to tell him about the disaster and that I needed roughly 30 minutes to scoot home and get a G-----N F-----G ADAPTOR.

Side note: when things go wrong, I think I handle it fairly well outside (save for a slight perspiration issue), but inside I am roiling with emotion. There’s self-loathing, anxiety, a sense of failure, a voice saying, “You loser”. I always imagine myself as Charlie Brown with a scribble above his head but it’s not funny. That scribble expresses perfectly what I feel: a mass of confusion, tangled thoughts (all of which are bad), blackness. And now with my brain injury, the scribble sensation is even worse, as my head always feels a little jumbled and light, no matter what’s going on.

I returned to the yoga studio at just about 4:00 and we got going, only to have Pro Tools fail. ARGH. Digi or Apple or somebody must have created a bug during the Snow Leopard update, because after I loaded that mangy, maggot-ridden cat into my computer, Pro Tools has not been the same (yes, I have the latest version). The situation got worse over time, with Pro Tools ultimately failing to even go into record mode, despite several system reboots. Finally, we got a track down, but it will only serve as a guide for next time, which, of course, won’t be for awhile because Dave and his band are headed to Australia to play a big festival. Shazbat.

And you know what the worst part of this whole story is? When I was digging though my computer bag this morning-- the same computer bag I brought to the recording session -- guess what I found: yup, an adaptor.



“Days full of rain” or what I aspire to in song writing.

I am a literal soul. I want things to be clear, I want to know, sometimes I even want to understand. As a result, I get frustrated when I hear a song and the lyrics don’t make total sense to me. Funny thing, though… my favorite songs are the ones that hook for the way they make me feel, not the literal meaning of the words, and then, as I learn more about the songs, they sink their hooks even deeper into me. And the very best don’t transform lead into gold, but rather weave gold into jewelry. In other words, the lyrics and music are both equally precious and together they become art. So what song stands above all others for me? What’s the one song in the universe that I hope to possibly equal (hah!) or at least approach in quality someday?

Townes Van Zandt’s “Flying Shoes”, which opens with the line “Days full of rain”.

I first heard this song at a Lyle Lovett concert, then learned it was on Lovett’s album “Step Inside This House”, which I owned. Somehow, I had passed over this song! HOW? Anyway, I dug up the album, found the song and hit play. It was even better than I remembered, and every time I listen to it, even now after so many years, it is better still. Recently, I actually took the time to find Townes’ version and it’s great, but Lyle’s version is the one for me.

In fact, this song hits me so hard, I fear listening to it. I know what it’s going to put me through and most days I’m just not up for it. But if I do hit play, I will hit it again and again and again. There is something about the way words and chords combine in this song that is related to how my DNA combines. It is woven into me.

Have a listen.

Flyin' Shoes - Lyle Lovett, Je...

And here is Townes' version, the original.

Flyin' Shoes - Townes Van Zand...



The gloaming. And capturing fleeting ideas.

I first heard this word from Catherine and, according Webster’s online, it simply means twilight, but it’s a little more precise, I think, as it truly refers to that fleeting moment between the time when the day is more light than dark and when it is more dark than light. It’s a moment that can last up to 30 minutes, but more likely is over in under 10.

To me, the gloaming is the equivalent of the moment when good ideas form. I mean, let’s face it, we all have ideas all the time, but good ones? No, those are rare. Sadly, the gloaming for ideas doesn’t happen at roughly the same time each day, nor can it be forced, so the key is to somehow always be ready for when the moment occurs and to be willing to stop and take in what your mind is saying to you. Ideally, you will be ready at all times to whip out your fountain pen and parchment and elegantly capture your thoughts in calligraphy-worthy ink, but that’s just not very practical, so what’s second best? For me, it’s my BlackBerry. No matter where I am, I seem to have the thing with me, and I just email myself whatever song idea is on my mind. I always make the subject the same, song idea, then, later, when I want to gather up my fragments for further musing, I just search for the phrase “song idea” and up they all pop. As for capturing melodic ideas, that’s a lot tougher, since I can’t write music, but I can at least try to describe what I’m hearing and write things like “up a major third” or “against I-IV-V”. Works okay. Oh, and I also hum the idea to myself over and over, like when trying to remember a number. Works okay, too.

Does anyone else out there have thoughts on capturing the gloaming for ideas?

Judgment day.

A little while back, I submitted a song to a service called soundout.com, which bills itself as “an online track testing and consumer insight and analytics service for artists, record companies and music industry professionals.”

Soundout.com works by taking $40 of your hard-earned cash to pay 80 reviewers around the world to listen to your song for at least 60 seconds and then fill out a review form. The results are compiled into a PowerPoint-worthy report that shows you how your song did overall and then dives deep into age brackets and other demographics.

Yesterday, the report arrived for my song Demons & Saints (to hear this song, use the player to the right!).

Now, I’ve worked in advertising for a long time, so I am comfortable scanning research reports and I know with utter certainty that more effort goes into making the report look good than filling it with high-quality information worth making a big bet on. Irregardless (one of my favorite words, by the way, because people who like to use often work in advertising in an attempt to sound super fucking smart), when my report arrived I zeroed in on my overall score.

I got “above average” which is below “good”, “very good” and “excellent”.

I was bummed, but honestly, I didn’t feel quite up to heading over the Golden Bridge to jump, so I read further, consoling myself with the knowledge that Demons & Saints was certainly never meant to be a hit song, just a good song. The details, I confess, were interesting:

- Men like my song more than women do.
- I do better with an older crowd.
- The song’s best quality is its production (Jaime Durr rocks).

There were also some interesting quotes, but the grammar is so bad in all of them, I don’t want to bother re-printing them. Actually, the lousy lingo of the quotes reveals that the listeners aren’t really taking that much time to think about what they’ve just heard. In fairness, though, that’s the breaks of the song market; you either hook ‘em in a few seconds or you don’t.

Will I submit more songs to soundout.com? Yes, in fact, I already submitted Here Comes the Weather (to hear this track, use the player on the right side of this blog), but I am NOT going to get obsessive about this service. As my friend Dave wrote me after I sent him my report, “Write for yourself, create for yourself… have faith.”

Good advice, I think.

If your wife is going to tell you your lyrics still don’t work…

having wine and oysters in front of you, and a rare warm sunset just outside can soften the blow.

Last night, SF was warm, really and truly. Instead of the usual fog, wind, wet and cold, there was sun, soft breezes and warmth. To take advantage of the weather, we headed over to the Slanted Door in the Ferry Building for a drink and some appetizers. I was expecting throngs, but we walked in and found seats almost immediately.

Just after the food and drink arrived, Catherine said she had seen my post about finally finishing the lyrics to the final song for my album. She said she loved the new words, but… but, she still wasn’t sure what the song was about. I fired up Google Docs on my BlackBerry and she studied my BLOOD, SWEAT AND TEARS and then calmy proclaimed, “I don’t really get what’s going on.” I took a slow sip of wine and chomped a freshly murdered oyster and explained the song to her. “Huh, well, there’s no way I would have gotten that. Maybe you should start with the third verse.” Another oyster carcass was dragged from its shell and liquefied between my back, right molars. Wine washed its remnants down. And I had to admit…

SHE WAS RIGHT. ARGH.

So, today, I am reworking the lyrics yet again. Thank you, Catherine. And thank you to the oysters who died so that I might live.



Finishing the final song.

If there is one thing I have learned about making records, it’s hard work. Very hard. And I do not want to look back on this process and ever say, “Woulda, coulda, shoulda.” Obviously, this is impossible, so next-best would be to be able to say, “But I did the very best that I could do.” So that’s the plan.

As a result of my relentless pursuit of perfection, I have re-written nearly every single one of the songs that will be appearing on my first album not once, or even twice, but two/three/four/five/six/ten/20/30 times. Not the music, mind you, that I seem to be happy with early on in the songwriting process, but the words, gawd, they just defy me.

However, despite my desire to achieve that which simply cannot be achieved, not even by Axl Rose, I am, as of today, FINISHED with the songwriting phase of my album. The final song to be completed is titled, aptly, Happiness. I first started this song the day after I got married and it was originally about experiencing happiness for the first time in ages and wanting happiness to stick around for awhile. But when I took a demo of the song to a song pitching session, the producer/songwriter we were all presenting to said she felt the lyrics were not quite right. I grudgingly agreed, but for different reasons from the ones she gave. Further, my friend Dave Tutin suggested that I should have a male vocal, instead of a female. Together, these comments, along with my own inner angst of having failed the song, prodded me to rewrite the words top-to-bottom. I’ve saved a few lines from the original, but very few.

This morning, I finally recorded a scratch vocal of the new lyrics, and next week, I will have Dave Brogan sing the final track, then I’ll try to get Larkin Gayl to do the harmonies and then I will be DONE, with little to do but mix.

Hallelujah!

Happiness

Happiness,
Won’t you come on in?
It’s been awhile, it’s good to see you again

(But) Happiness,
I confess I am surprised
The last time we met I was telling you lies

And I do not deny
I once pushed you away for money and pride
But those days are far behind
So, happiness won’t you please come inside?

Happiness
I can see you hesitate
You know I understand but you are not too late

Happiness
Just tell me what to do
Tell me what to say, give me some kind of clue

And I do not deny
I can beg, I can borrow, I can cheat, steal and lie
But I can change inside
Oh, happiness, I just need you to try
There’s nothing to decide
So, won’t you please come inside?

And don’t make me guess
Won’t you put my fears to rest?
You know just what I want
And all you need to say is yes

Happiness
Won’t you come on in?
It's been awhile
Won’t you please
Won’t you please
Won’t you please come inside, my old friend?

The house of yesterdays.

Just south of the ballpark, San Francisco’s industrial past is still very much present. There are brick warehouses, piers sticking out into shallow waters, train tracks running underfoot and everywhere the detritus of decades of labor. And if you stand in the middle of it all and look north, you can see the city’s skyline looking down on you.

A few days ago, I drove into this place to snap a few photos. I was there in terrible light – noon, gray sky, no shadows – so I viewed the expedition as more recon than mission. On my return home, I uploaded the photos to my computer and viewed them, not expecting to find anything of use (by which I mean appropriate for this blog). But the above photo held my attention and finally I figured out why: to me, this building evokes the recesses of my mind that I need to enter in order to write a decent song.

 I wish I were different. I wish that songwriting for me was more fun and forward looking, but it’s not. Instead of dreaming about my most excellent future and putting that into organized sound, in delve into my past. And not the good times, but the bad. I mine regret, loss, missed opportunities. Worst of all, I put myself back into emotional states I would prefer to leave behind.

When I look at the photo of this building, this is what I see, a house of yesterdays, a place filled with what should be left behind and best forgotten, a place where no one in full charge of his senses would pay a visit to unless he had to. And there’s the rub. I have to. If I were to stay away from this place forever, there would be no more songs. I lived that way once, never writing songs, and I won’t live that way again.

So, in I go.

Another crummy video!

Okay, I'll never be a threat to Hollywood, but I am determined to learn the basics of video production, so I am showing up everywhere with my trusty Canon point-and-shoot, which also has a video mode. I'm starting with iMovie, but I plan to move on to Premier, since I own it and I think it would offer a lot more creative possibilities than iMovie down the road.

This video starts at the entrance to Hyde Street Studios, where I do all my recording. I meant to shoot from the OUTSIDE all the way in, but I'm an idiot and started INSIDE. Anyway, the video takes you from Hyde Street's posh, elegant lobby up to the inner sanctum of Studio C. The guy at the end is Jaime Durr, THE BEST ENGINEER ON THE PLANET!

Oh, and I apologize for the crap quality of the music track. I wanted to use the version from Hyde Street, but I could not figure out how to make a loop in Pro Tools, so I fired up the drum machine and the SansAmp and re-played the riff I wanted. I don't sound nearly as good as Tim Young and Andy Kkorn, who play on the final track!

If you're wondering about the riff, it's from a tune called Waitress Blues that I wrote with Dave Tutin. It will appear on Deep Salvage, which will be released sometime before I die.

To Kornify.

Yesterday, drummer Andy Korn was crushingly good at Hyde Street. He pounded out beats to three songs, and every song blossomed under his assault. In fact, I think it’s high time the OED added a new word to the English lexicon, Kornify. Here is the definition I propose:

Korn-i-fy [korn-uh-fahy] verb,-fied, -fy·ing.

1. To make rock

2. The opposite of “Don Henley”

3. To add that which is thumpy

Thank you, Andy!



A good day to rock!

The above photo of SF Bay was taken from my window just minutes ago. I’m just back from a run and in about 30 minutes I will step from cool sun into the cool dark of Hyde Street Studios, where Andy Korn will be pounding out beats for four songs, Jaime Durr will be at the mixing board, and I’ll be in my usual position, sprawled on the couch.

The songs we’ll be doing are:

Borderline Love (co-written with Dave Tutin)

The Road Back

Water Under The Bridge (I recorded this song once before, but I was unhappy with the music, so I’m giving it another go! )

Weird Things With A Gun (a rocker from my college days)

One, two, three four!

What I have in common with junkyard dogs.

The other day I was out taking a few photographs of a run down area near SF Bay, just south of the ballpark. The light was bad – it was mid-day – so I wasn’t able to get the shot I wanted, but on leaving I heard a WOOF. Peaking around the corner I saw a classic junkyard dog, a big, solid, black animal that looked like a mix of Pit Bull and Doberman. He saw me and barked again, putting his all into it and pointing his snout in the air, as though he were a howling wolf.

And I thought of myself.

I mean, we’re not that different. The dog and I are both trapped in situations we’d rather not be in. He, no doubt would prefer to run on the beach and terrorize seagulls, whereas I would prefer to escape my brain injury-induced dizzy state and get back out there in the world and participate fully (and maybe terrorize a few seagulls while I’m at it). But we’re both powerless to change our fates. Now, I don’t know what the dog has tried, but I’ve tried yoga, acupuncture, meditation, tactile stimulation (my BrainPort), hyperbaric oxygen therapy, etc., and while I am sure each has helped none had cured.

So I’m just going to have to make the best of a bad situation, which I try very hard to do every day. And I think the dog does the same. Because despite his bodacious bark and fearsome stance, he was doing one other thing with equally intense furry: wagging his tail.