Who really said it best, John Lennon or Tom Petty?

Note: wrote this yesterday (Saturday) but had to go as things progressed!

As I sit high above San Francisco in a labor & delivery room at UCSF (which, by the way, has a very nice view, see photo), I have two phrases in my head (among other things): John Lennon’s “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans,” and Tom Petty’s “The waiting is the hardest part.”

Which feels more appropriate? I have to go with John Lennon. In fact, it’s not even close. I mean, two days ago, my biggest concerns were a freelance gig I had just finished, but wasn’t sure had gone super well, and a song that refused to be written. Today, while neither of these seems trivial at all, they have been definitively tossed into the backseat of life as Catherine’s labor progresses. Most likely, this will be my last post for a bit -- a few days at least -- but throughout the next hours, days, weeks, months and years, I hope to write ad amuseum about three things: family, music and friends and about how they will form the new core or my life, replacing Career. Yes, I will still work -- have to, want to -- but I vow never again to let it dictate my every move, as it once did. And even though John Lennon was right about life, I will continue to make plans, but I will strive to not let their being changed by forces beyond my control bother me so much, as it once did. Most important, I vow to stop always trying to wait until things are just right before doing anything (except for my album!).

Off to visit the babies!

Water breaking. A tale of Water, water and babies.

Just yesterday, I was out for a run and mulling how on earth to fix my song Water Under The Bridge. The night before, engineer Jaime Durr had sent over a first pass at a mix for the latest arrangement of the song, and I knew immediately it wasn’t right. What I didn’t know was why. Eryn’s vocal was brilliant, Tim’s guitar work swampy and rocking, Andy’s drums properly thumpy and Sam’s bass McCartney-esque in its groove and melody. And yet...

As I ran, I was crestfallen and confused. The song, rewritten and re-recorded for the third time, was still wrong. As I reached the point on my run at which I turn around and start heading home, my phone rang. (I know, who the hell runs with his phone? I started doing it after I had my brain injury as a emergency precaution in case of a fall, and now I do it because it gives me something to read afterwards as I cool down). I looked down at the number and didn’t recognize it but figured it might be a client I had just done some freelance for so I answered. “It’s Emily,” said the voice on the other end. I knew right away it was Catherine’s boss, but still, being a DENSE, I did not surmise what might be happening. Emily got right to it and explained that Catherine’s water had just broke and that she would be driving Catherine home from the office NOW. Honestly, I was so stunned I don’t think I sounded very surprised, but I was. I s-p-r-i-n-t-e-d home (hey, it was a few miles!). I arrived back at the apartment just as Emily and Catherine were pulling up. A frantic bit of packing and showering and organizing ensued -- made much easier by the calm, cool, collective presence of Emily -- our doula arrived, confirmed that it was time to head to the hospital and off we went.

And here we sit, Catherine, her mom and I, all waiting for labor to begin, but hoping it waits a bit, as the babies are a bit pre-mature. The hospital staff is hoping for two more days before anything happens, but if labor does start, they won’t stop it. They know what to do and everything will be fine. I wish I could say the same thing for my song, but right now, it’s not exactly top of mind.

To the voters in today’s Wall Street Journal on who of our top aging pop stars should retire, I say, “I hope you’re convicted of white collar crime someday and sent to prison where you will die. Alone. In a cell. Underground."

Before I even read today’s WSJ article on aging pop stars, titled When to Leave the Stage, I clicked to the voting page, where I picked Carly Simon, confident I would be with the majority or at least close. (Just for the record, the choices were James Taylor, Carly Simon, The Rolling Stones, Neil Young, and Paul McCartney. The voting results popped up and... WHAT? Dylan is the one most WSJ readers think should hang it up. Now, the WSJ is not what it used to be: I regularly see typos, I see “serious” articles that just seem flat out ludicrous (my fave was one about Sarah Palin on monetary policy, moose policy I could have swallowed, but c’mon, she’s a cavewoman) and I see less integrity, but today’s article truly makes me question whether I should remain a WSJ subscriber. Actually, the article was pretty good - but the voting results... Christallfuckingmighty, who are these people? Oh, right, they’re the type who support throwing out the fundamental principles of the country at the first sign of threat (Patriot Act, etc.). But back to music. In the article, Dylan is maligned for changing his songs during live performances, for not being able to sing as well a he used to and for, god save us all, taking chances. Never mind that he is the only one of the WSJ’s choices who can lay claim to having done truly great new work in the last 15 years or so (Time Out Of Mind, 1997). Here’s what it all comes down to for me: what would you do? If I were an aging rocker, I would absolutely continue to play and I would try my damndest to write new material and not trade on my past. Dylan is doing this, and I’m not sure I can say that for any of the others. And so, Bob, this is one instance in which you most emphatically do not have my vote.

Prepping the release of my double album.

If you’ve been reading this blog for a bit, you definitely know that I’ve been working on an album for a VERY long time (over three years). What you might not be as aware of, however, is that about seven months ago I started on a double album. It’s a co-production with my wife, Catherine, and will only be available in a physical format, no digital downloads possible. Plus, it will not be available for free to anybody, ever. Sure, anyone can listen, but no one will be owning any copies of this album, save for my wife and me. So here’s the question: how on earth will we monetize this monumental work? We won’t. Because this is one album that truly is not, has not never been, and will not ever be about making money. Spending money? Well, that’s a different story. But I digress. There will be two “songs” on the album, Amelia and Avalon, but they will not be in the typical verse/chorus/verse/chorus/middle8/chorus structure, or any variation thereof. No, these musical entities will be of the D/N/A structure, uniquely engineered and mixed by Catherine and me. The album’s release is expected soon -- could be just a few weeks and while no world tour or live press events will be used to promote it, expect to see post after post after post after post after post of its days, years, months and decades in this world. Oh, and there will be a single released just after the double album, which will be a traditional song. It’s called Welcome to the World, and is currently in the womb of Hyde Street Studio C. Stay tuned.

Ladies and gentlemen, Sam Bevan.

When I first heard Sam Bevan play bass, I knew I was in the presence of a virtuoso of the best kind, the kind who can play anything but always plays the right thing. Then he said, "You know, if you need some keys I can help you with that, too." I was skeptical. Now I'm not. To hear why, play the video. Damn, I am lucky.

After 30 years, why do I finally like the songs I write?

Way back in October of this year, an article appeared in my Google Reader titled “Does Your Music Always Come Out The Way You Want It To?” It was inspired by an article in the New York Times by Michael Cunningham called Found In Translation, which eloquently investigated how ideas for novels progress from writer to reader through a series of translations, including, especially, translations into other languages. Reading both of these reminded me of an article I read a long time ago in The New Yorker called The Eureka Hunt about how ideas form in the brain. And all three of these articles together have helped me form a clearer understanding of how, in my mid-40s, I have changed as a songwriter.

To answer the question posed by the first article, the one about my music coming out the way I want it to, I would say yes (mostly), which is amazing, because it never used to. In the past, I was usually depressed after finishing a song. From the ages of 15 to 42, save for three or four tunes, the quality of my musical output typically fell far short of what I wanted. Even worse than knowing that my work was bad was not knowing how to fix it. Nowadays, most every song I finish I like. Which is not to say that they all come out the way I imagined them, because what I imagine and what I ultimately end up wanting are usually different. Ninety nine times out of 100, what I imagine turns out to be wrong in some fundamental way. Maybe the story of the lyric doesn’t really work, the instrumentation is inappropriate, the tempo is too fast. The possibilities for failure are endless and much needs to be explored. But in the end, after more work, I like them.

And here is where the second article comes into play. As I work on a tune, it goes through a series of translations, starting with the noise in my head being translated into guitars, bass, drums and voice via my home demo process, then a second translation happens as I play the demo for the musicians I rely on, Sam, Andy, Tim and Jaime and the various vocalists I use, and then a third translation happens when what’s been placed in their heads gets translated through their fingers and feet and mouths and into Jaime’s mixing console where it gets translated again before re-entering my head. What's my reaction as a listen? Usually a smile. Even the ultimate translation -- when a friend or even a stranger hears the the tune -- seems to go pretty well.

Why would this be? Why would I -- a person who has written precious few songs that he is proud for most of his life -- suddenly write close to 50 song I am genuinely happy with in roughly about three years? Did my severe traumatic brain injury in 2006 have something to with it? I think it did, and I think it was my tipping (over!) point as a songwriter, which brings me to the third article.

The New Yorker article describes how insights form in our brain. I highly recommend reading the article, but to summarize: insights, which all great ideas actually are, happen via the following process: there is a puzzle the brain needs to solve > the pre-frontal cortex tells the rest of the brain to be cool as it seeks to limit distractions that could compromise the brain’s computational power > the brain starts to look in all of the potentially relevant places for an answer > moments before the insight forms there is a burst of activity in the right brain (your hippie, creative brain) > you literally say, “Eureka!” (Well, maybe not eureka, but...) To put it another way, following some sort of input, the raw, emotional holistic feelings in the right brain get translated into cognitive actionable thought. But not just any thought, the “right” thought, which could be anything from the answer to a math problem to the chord your song needs to go to next. For example, I once read that Tom Petty had the intro to The Waiting for a week before he finally had the idea to stay on the D chord and sing, “Oh, baby, don’t it feel like heaven right now.” But the idea arrived in an instant; more important, he knew it was right, just knew it. Before my brain injury, I had a lot of ideas for songs but they never became insights, moments in which instinctively knew I had “the answer”. After my brain injury, insights started happening a little too fast (truly, I have struggled to keep up with the song ideas I have had that I think are good). Why would this be? No one knows, but according to my doctors my brain underwent shearing forces that changed how the various parts of it communicate, and in my opinion, this neuroquake has altered -- and improved -- my brain’s ability to turn flashes that would ordinarily go nowhere into flashes that become ideas.

But without my team of translators -- the musicians I work with all the way through to my most trusted listener, Catherine -- I would still be unable to have my music come out they way I want it to. So to all of you who have taken the time to listen -- and listen again -- and to play -- and to play again -- and then to listen -- and possibly play it all again -- I say thank you. You all rock.

Thanksgiving.

Hyde Street Studio C, where I do all my recording, is located in SF’s most troubled area, the Tenderloin. It’s a place where drug deals go down by the minute, taxis won’t pick you up and cops prefer to patrol in squad cars. Everywhere you look are people in severe distress, some know it, some are too far gone to care, all could use a helping hand, though they might very well refuse it. So the other day, when I lost my balance in the middle of the street, fell, and sent my camera and the contents of my small bag of snacks for the session I was heading to skittering across the asphalt, the last thing I expected was help. But there they were, society’s forgotten surrounding me in an instant and offering to get me a new grocery bag, handing me a piece from my camera and inquiring, earnestly, if I was okay. Then I fell again (happens!) and suggestions of an ambulance came from the small crowd, more inquiries about what was wrong with me (I was now twitching quite a bit), but I assured everyone I was okay, I just needed to sit down for a minute. Traffic was blocked as I made my way back to the sidewalk, where the man who runs the Cadillac Market, the grocery store I always visit before sessions, greeted me with a fresh bag (mine was torn) and offered me any assistance I might need. The sheer decency of everyone -- and I mean everyone -- who witnessed my mishap was profound and heartfelt and their generosity of spirit was immediate and given without the slightest hint of expecting anything in return — though I am sure they all needed far more than I ever will. So on this Thanksgiving day, I give thanks to the residents of the the Tenderloin. Truly, I have not been moved like that in quite awhile.

See the sausage being made: a brief video of the recording process.

Just in case you were wondering what my recording process actually looks like, here’s a video of a very typical full pass at a tune. The song we’re working on is called “Cold Pizza and Coffee” and is still in the early stages of development (it won’t be on the album). Should you make it through the entire six minutes of scintillating action, you will see me look, on occasion, exasperated. I’m not, these movements are just the result of my brain injury and have recently been diagnosed as torsion distonia, which I’m still learning about. Let there be rock!

The real ace of bass: Sam Bevan layin' down a blues walk.

I've been in the studio a lot lately in a mad dash to finish my album and whatever else I can before the twins arrive sometime in late December early January. Recently, I did a a two-day stint with Sam Bevan, during which we put bass and piano and organ (Sam is also a MASTER keyboardist) on several tracks. In the video above, Sam NAILS the bluesy bass part for "People Change" in ONE TAKE. Damn, this dude rocks. By the way, the bass he's playing is called a Messenger Bass and you can read more about it here.

Pardon the dust. Some changes happening on ye old blog.

Over the past few days, I've been in the process of tweaking my blog in order to better serve my growing fan base (I think I can count you all on TWO hands now, instead of just one!). To wit:

- I've added a column to create more useful real estate.

- The email box has been moved up to where it is more visible. Please use it to send me a note, especially if you don't like leaving comments.

- I've added what, in my opinion, is a complete list of all the online resources you will need to go from anonymous to nonymous.

- I've cleaned up the goodlinks4musicians page.

- I've added some more photo albums.

More to come!

CD Baby wants to know about your songwriting. Here are my answers to their questions. REVISED.

Not too long ago, I was perusing Nicholas Tozier’s songwriting blog and noticed a post about how CD Baby was asking DIY musicians about songwriting. I immediately cruised over to CD Baby’s site and set to answering the questionnaire. If you’re a songwriter, you should do the same, for two reasons: 1) if CD Baby likes your one or more of your responses, they will include them in an e-book with full credit; and 2) the process of answering the questions is good, I think, as it forces you to put into words a lot of stuff you’ve probably thought about but never fully articulated. When I first answered the questions, a comment from my friend Dave made me realize I'd goten a bit too self-important. Here are my new answers:

1. What does your songwriting process look like? What are a few of the more common ways in which you compose a song?

It looks like an accident, because it is. As for common ways that work, if you’re talking about coming up with an idea, there aren’t any. If I am fortunate enough to have an idea, I don’t think the ways in which I develop it are much different from anyone else’s.

2. Think of your favorite songs. What do they do to or for you? What is it about the song (technically, emotionally, thematically) that moves you?

At their core, my favorite songs have something I can’t get enough of: a riff, a lyric, a drum beat, a sound, whatever.

3. What are your common frustrations with songwriting? What are the ways in which you get stuck?

Too many to mention. Besides, there’ll be a new frustration tomorrow, so what’s the point of trying to list them out?

4. How do you overcome the frustration? How do you get un-stuck?

Frustration is part of the gig, if you’re over it, you’ve given up. As for getting unstuck, I don’t know, it just happens. Then I get stuck again.

5. Do you envision an audience or outside listener when you write? If so, how would you describe that audience? What effect does this have on the writing process?

No.

6. Do you collaborate or enlist outside opinions during the writing process? What effect does that have on the writing process?

Sure, but the effect is unpredictable and never the same.

7. Songwriters are known for loving most of their “babies” equally. This is why artistic coaches have the mantra “Kill Your Babies!” How can you tell when one of your own song is really good? How can you tell when one is bad or misbehaving?

Maybe I’m a sociopath (or is it psychopath, can’t keep those straight) but years in advertising have made me a cool, cold competent killer of my “babies”.

8. What do you get out of being a songwriter? Do you imagine you’ll write songs forever?

Release. No, because sadly, I’m not going to live forever.

9. What roles do “inspiration” and “perspiration” play in your writing process?

Tough call. Without inspiration, what’s the point of perspiration? And if you have a good idea, you owe it your life.

10. Imagine the greatest song you’ve haven’t written yet. Describe it.

If I could imagine it, I would write it.

A fine spiritual for Sunday morning.

I GOT RELIGION (AND IT ALL WENT TO HELL)

I was a godless man in a god-fearing town
And Frankie’s Bar
Was my sacred ground

I was true to myself but I cheated on the wife
Wore rattlesnake boots
I was living the life

And all the money we saved
(Well) I gambled every penny away
And I didn’t give a damn
About God or any plan

Then late one night just about dawn
I was driving home
I was pretty far gone

When out of the dark came a blinding light 
I could not see
Everything went white

(I) woke up in a hospital bed
All the doctors said, "You should be dead!"
And it was that very night
I asked God to set me right

And I got religion (Ring them bells!)
Yes, I got religion (Hallelujah!)
But if Jesus loves me I can’t tell
‘Cause when I got religion, well it all went to hell

I confessed to my wife, she called me a liar
She called me worse
Then she called a lawyer

I confessed to the judge and he said, “Son,
This is one of those days
My job is gonna be fun.”

Then my Visa got declined
I called the bank they said, “You need a co-sign.”
Then the alimony got set
She got more than she could get

CHORUS

(And) If there’s a lesson here
(Well) Call me dumb but it’s not clear
I don’t see what all the praying was worth
It didn’t get me heaven on earth

CHORUS

----

Here's how the song starts!

Religion Intro by jeffshattuck

Why San Fracisco’s Embarcadero is like a guitar neck.

Just as I have traveled the neck of a guitar too many times to remember, so too have I driven or walked SF’s Embarcadero from the Ferry Building to Fisherman’s Wharf. You wouldn’t think that roads so well traveled could offer up anything new by now, and yet they can.

For example, not long ago -- in fact, just before a slew of headaches laid me low for a few weeks -- I made the trek from the Ferry Building to home on a sunny afternoon. Not far from the Ferry Building I noticed a sign saying something about public access and so I turned left into the pier buildings and toward the water.

I found myself on a path behind some the buildings that line the waterfront. It wasn’t long, maybe 50 yards, but what it lacked in scale it made up for in grandeur. To one side water, on this day calm and blue, and filled with an eclectic collection of boats, ranging from a ship-shape tug boat to a faux paddle ferry that would be more at home in New Orleans and has clearly outlived its useful life (unless you consider ferrying people around the bay to nowhere in particular so they can take in the view and imbibe a bit useful, which I do). To the other side were patios, all protected from the winds and cold by plastic and glass, yet needing no protection at all on this particular afternoon. As I thought about how nice it would be to cruise on that old ferry boat or have a sip of wine or coffee in one of the waterfront restaurants, I muttered to myself, “How have I missed all this?”

Emerging from the path back onto the noisy concrete of the Embarcadero sidewalk, I noticed that I was at a pier I have always admired. Built solely for the purpose of letting people stroll out into the bay and enjoy the view, it is a structure built for the ages. Wooden planks form its walkway, and along the sides low, simple iron rails mark its lines. I walked past it, for I have been down it many times, and then I came across something almost entirely new: Tcho chocolate. From the road, I had noticed this business before, but I had never realized it was a tasting room. In I went, and the surprises continued. Among all the chocolate were “beta” packs, version A and version B of a milk chocolate Tcho is developing. The idea is you buy your beta packs, head home, try them, then enter your favorite along with a few notes into a browser. Presumably, Tcho will use this data to make the best milk chocolate possible. How very dotcom!

After Tcho, I made the rest of the trek home without seeing much new of note. And that’s exactly how the guitar neck is. Mostly, it doesn’t surprise me much, as I travel from fret to fret, voicing various chords or plucking out single note passages. But every now and then, just like that recent walk down the Embarcadero, I notice something I have just never noticed before and therein lies the magic, the reason I will always strive to travel old roads with new eyes.

Finally, the right way to finding the right singer.

We’ve all heard the phrase “the singer not the song” and I believe it. The right singer can transform a good song into a great one and a mediocre song into something tolerable. Conversely, the wrong singer can sink a masterpiece into the muck of mediocrity. But how does one go about finding singers? For me, this has been an on-going Holy Grail-style quest, as I am always on the earout for good vocalists, wait, make that extraordinary vocalists. And I’ve been lucky. I’ve found Josh Fix, Larkin Gayl, Dave Brogan, Jeff Tuttle, RodDammit, Elliot Randall and Heather Combs. But my process is haphazard, at best. I simply ask friends and then listen to a track or two. Then I try to imagine a singer’s voice on a song and if I like what I “hear”, I book studio time. I never actually meet with singers FIRST, then record. Stupid, no? Well, in my defense, until recently, my health issues coupled with other stuff simply did not allow for much in the way of rehearsing.

Recently, however, one song has defied two singers and four recording sessions. In each case, it was a combination of vocal style and lyric choices, so each session, while not yielding a final take did yield a lot of learning. First I started with Larkin Gayl, but our session was rushed, I was ill-prepared and not feeling well and the lyrics were just wrong. Then I enlisted Dave Brogan, but technical difficulties killed the mood of the session and though I had made substantial changes to the lyric, the words still did not resonate. Another rewrite, another session, this time Blue fucking Angels we’re flying over SF and the noise was overwhelming. Besides, the lyrics still weren’t right. Jaime and I did our best to rescue the session with some effects and EQ, but to no avail. Then I mused out load, “Do you think Elliot could sing this?” Neither one of us was sure.

I went home from that last session and listened to the song yet again, took another pass at the lyrics, rethought some of the melody choices and finally felt ready to foist the song on Elliot. Only this time, we would meet first and go over it, talk about it, make sure it fit his range, his style, make sure he was into it.

Elliot stopped by just after the sun at had set. Catherine was still at work, so we had the run of the apartment and after sharing thoughts in the kitchen on songwriting and the music business in general, we headed to the living room, where I picked up The Maton (praise be!) and handed Elliot some lyrics. From the very first line, I knew he was right. Encouraged, I asked him to sing one other song and this one too just bloomed.

Recording is set for Monday. The singer has been found.

PS - Yes, this means the album will have one more song than planned!

Another studio out-take video.

On Friday, Sam Bevan swung by Hyde Street to put some bass on several tunes. I've been having a hell of time with headaches (nearly FIVE years after my brain injury, very frustrating), so I had to leave early, but not before I captured a some video clips of Sam with his upright electric bass. I love the music he creates with this instrument, just so melodic and groove-heavy.

Album update. Or why execution is the perfect name for getting something done.

I haven’t written much about my album of late, but the reason is simple: I am in full-on execution mode, only the album is not all that’s being executed  — because this process is killing me. God, execution is hard. I love creation, I live for when songs come into being. There’s that moment you get the idea, maybe it’s a riff, maybe it’s a line, maybe it’s both. You think to yourself, “Hey, that could be a tune.” Then you work on it. The riff flows into chords, the lyric tells you a melody, the part reveals a song. In every case, the process is the same, at least for me. I sit on the couch and I play and mumble and hum and play and hum and play and humble some more. I use a scrap of paper and a mechanical pencil with ridiculously fat lead to scrawl out phrases, notions and chords as I work. When I hit on something I like, I play it over and over and over and over and over. Maybe I’ll record it, but I believe the best ideas can survive a night’s sleep, maybe even get better with the ruminations of R.E.M., so I trust the survival instincts of the idea and turn in, leaving little more than scrawled phrases and crumpled cushions as notes. Once I reach a point where I can hear the song in my mind — the guitars, the drums, the bass, the vocals, all of it, sometimes as though I am wearing headphones and listening to a stereo system — I go to the computer and start making my demo. This is where the first hints of the agony to follow make their appearance, because the shift has begun from creation to execution. But creation still prevails as I try take after take of the guitar part or burble out a bushel of bass lines or warble the vocal line. When things work as I expected them to, it’s glorious. Mostly, though, whatever ideas I had at the outset evolve into something better, as I hone the way the parts fit together and nail down a song structure. At some point, though, the song must be declared done and ready for execution. No longer am I in total control, no longer is every last bit up to me, no longer is the song pure potential, now it must become reality, be locked down, set in stone, perfected. And as others join the process to make this so, nothing, and I mean nothing, ever sounds quite right as it’s being played or sung by someone else for the first time. I compare it to my internal stereo track and it’s not the same and therefore not right and so we put the demo on the monitors and honestly it’s not that different so we hit Record again and my brow stays furrowed and while I do my best to stay positive on the outside on the inside I’m asking myself why I bother with all this and telling myself I should just go home and wow is that a headache coming on damn I’m dizzy and I hate being dizzy why am I doing this again who am I kidding oh great that drum hit was out of time or was it the bass etc. In the end, after the execution part, usually a few days or so, I am almost always stunned at what the players who have helped me have created. Without fail, so far every song on my album smokes the demo version and far surpasses whatever my internal stereo system was playing. But for some strange reason, all of this evidence that things are going to work out fails to convince me that they will work out next time. And so, as I near the finish line with a mere two songs left to go, it’s not getting easier, it’s getting harder. It’s murder, in fact.

Why I sometimes wish I were a photographer or a painter instead of a songwriter.

As I songwriter, I occasionally hi-jack small gatherings of friends with the phrase, “Would you like to hear a few songs from the album I’ve been working on?” Of course, they say Yes!, as they are usually guests and concerned about being rude, but as the music starts to play I always start to feel acutely aware of how the energy in the room changes. What seconds earlier had been like a classroom before the teacher arrives becomes like a classroom once the lesson has started. A calculus lesson. All convivial conversation stops, all eyes become fixed on either the stereo or the floor as people listen intently, any conversation is done quickly and quietly, brows furrow. For about 30 seconds. Then someone says something like, “My pedicure sucks, I mean, look at my big toe.” Or “Can you believe the Giants won the World Series?” Often, this reversion to everyday life can happen before the chorus. To quote Dr. Smith, “Oh, the pain.”

At this point I always feel much maligned. I feel insulted, ignored, uncared for and unloved. It’s awful. But then I think about what I’ve asked of people. I’ve asked them to stop what they’re doing, to shut up and to pay attention. Who’s being rude? And therein lies the curse, or a curse (there are so many), of being a songwriter: to share a song with others is to ask a lot of them (unless you’re using the Internet!). Seriously, get a stopwatch and set it to four minutes. Now, wait. And wait. And wait. See how long that is? Christ, it’s an eternity, especially at a social gathering. In fact, it’s so damn long that I have on more than one occasion hit Stop after the first chorus. Hell, by then people are usually chattering away, so what’s the point? I’ll mutter something like, “Well, you get the idea.” And I will be visibly pouty and a little mad.

But what if people do pay rapt attention from first note to last? Then how do I feel? Oddly, not much better. Early in the song I start to become aware of the silence in the room save for the music and how everyone is listening but maybe wishing they could say a word or two and not just ,“Wow, you’re even better than the Beatles!’, and so I TALK. Weird, I know, but I will start pointing out things I will fix, things I wish I hadn’t done, things I like. My hope is that by talking I send a a signal to everyone that it’s okay to talk, just so long as it’s about the song!

But here’s the thing — it’s a rule in Internet marketing and it works for the humble songwriter, too — you can convene but you can’t control. In other words, you can gather people into a group, but you can’t control what they’re going to do (at least not without guns, riot gear and tear gas). So when I gather people around a stereo to listen to a track, once they’re gathered, my role is done. Now it’s up to the music and crowd, and usually the crowd decides to talk. A lot. Loudly. And so I wish I were a photographer or painter. Unlike music, pictures don’t demand silence, on the contrary, people talking about the picture make the picture easier to see, as you start noticing what others notice. Also, a picture can be taken in fairly quickly, you can glance at it, turn to your friend a say something about his nose hair and then go back to looking at the picture again. After a few more glances at the art, you might actually start talking about it and that’s great. Unlike music, art and conversation go together as they can happen in parallel. Music, on the other hand, demands a sequential process, first listen then talk.

Or maybe my songs just suck and after a few seconds people have heard enough?

Why I left my MySpace page in the rearview mirror. Then backed up and ran over it a few times.

When I first saw MySpace, I didn’t get it. Further, I was appalled that something built so obviously without any love could be so loved. I signed up anyway.

This was probably 2007, but I can’t remember for sure. Anyway, I uploaded my music and some photos and then... nothing. What else was there to do? Sure, I told my friends but my heart wasn’t in it. I simply didn’t want people to get their first impression of my music from MySpace, as it was so ugly and cheap looking. Not too long after signing up, I was talking to a friend about MySpace and I predicted its imminent demise. He asked why. I answered with a rant about the horrific user interface (UI) and utter lack of design. He countered that people liked MySpace’s UI because it required exploration and the more you explored the more you could change it to meet your own needs. I thought that this was an absurd argument. I mean, why have navigation at all if no one likes it or can figure out? Worse, even once you customized a MySpace page it still looked like utter crap, cluttered with ads and flashing shit. And those fixed text links? Nauseates me just to think about it.

Still, my MySpace page lived on, like a zombie, but not nearly as cool. Then I discovered bandcamp.com. Clean, fast, bounteous of simple beauty, bandcamp won my heart straight away. And when I attended a conference to hear Ethan Diamond, the founder of bandcamp, speak I was not surprised at all to learn that he, too, saw MySpace as a pox upon this earth. As a music lover, he was insulted that something so ugly and shitty and crass would be the number one way for musicians to share their music on the web. Luckily, Ethan was rich, having just sold Oddpost, which he co-founded, to Yahoo. Also, Ethan is a geek, full stop, and the man knows and loves code the way Shakespeare knew and loved English. He got to work and bandcamp is the glorious, poetic result. Once I was “encamped”, I nearly forgot about MySpace and never checked my page anymore.

Last week, there was a flurry of activity around something called Quit MySpace Day. I read a bit about it on Hypebot and learned that it was actually started on October 23, 2009, and was celebrating its first anniversary. Then Hypebot published Six Reasons Not To Quit MySpace, which I found semi-convincing, mainly because it pointed out that if you leave MySpace, you give up your URL and may live to regret it. A few days later, I read an article (can’t remember where!) that changed my mind once and for all and I crushed my MySpace page with glee. The article’s main point was that your MySpace page could do more harm than good if your presence looked pathetic, which mine most certainly did. I had just a few songs posted, some random photos, no design tweaks and few “friends”. Why would I want anyone to see me in such an unflattering state? Being seen on MySpace is like being seen in a sex shop. Sure, nobody really holds it against you but it’s still a little embarrassing.

Next up, why I also quit Reverbnation.

Analog vs. digital. What's the difference and does it matter?

I think the best way to describe analog vs digital is to just slog through an explanation. Besides, I've been trying to think of a killer analogy for days and all analogies limp so I ain't got nothin'. Here’s goes.

Analog is waves and digital is steps. And because of this fact, everyone generally agrees that analog does a better job of reproducing sound waves than digital. In fact, some would argue that digital can't actually make curves, only approximate them, and they would be right. Magnify any digitally reproduced sound wave enough and you will see steps; no so with analog.

Making digital sound analog.

There are two keys to making digital sound like analog. The first is the sampling rate, or the number of steps within a certain time frame (typically one second). Think of samples as pictures in a reel of film. When you have enough, you perceive smooth, fluid motion. Not enough and you've got claymation. Sound is the same way. A high sampling rate means smoother, more fluid sound. A low enough sampling rate could lead to a machine gun effect. Also, sampling rate affects frequency response, which is why high sampling rates are required for high frequencies. The second factor is what's called bit depth. This is a little geeky but the concept is simple. Think of bit depth as the accuracy of each sample. When you have a high bit depth, each sample is like a high resolution photo shot by an DSLR. With a low bit depth, you're in camera phone 1.0 land. Bit depth determines dynamic range.

So, CDs with their crummy bit-depth and sampling rates sound horrible, right?

CDs use a sampling rate of 44.1 KHz (44,100 times per second) and a bit depth of 16. From everything I’ve read, this should theoretically do the trick, but most decent digital recording gear for studios samples at up to 88 KHz or even 96 KHz and uses a bit depth of 24. To play back this level of quality, you need a DVD-Audio or Super Audio CD (SACD) player and who has one of these? But, here’s the KICKER: According to Wikipedia, a year-long double blind test conducted by the Audio Engineering Society and using professional recording engineers revealed that people could pick between SACD and CD recordings with roughly a 50% success rate (same as chance). This blows my mind because I KNOW my Super Audio CDs sound way better than my standard CDs. Weird.

The future.

As digital relentlessly improves, I’m sure there will be a point at which even the editors of The Absolute Sound agree that it’s better than analog, but right now, the debate rages. As for me, even though the Audio Engineering Society says I’m imagining it, I will continue to make sure that my studio recordings are mostly 24-bit / 88 KHz* because they sound better, dammit.

If anyone out there has thoughts on all this, I’m (ahem) all ears.

* I use 88 KHz instead of 96 KHz because it means I can open files from Hyde Street at home. 

Audio format war! AIFF vs. MP3 vs. AAC and the winner is...

Recently, I posted a response to T-Bone Burnett’s notions that up and coming artists should “stay completely away from the Internet” and that MP3s are an “unlistenable” format. I disagreed with T-Bone on both counts. I was annoyingly sure of myself until my friend Cory left a comment.

Cory pointed out that T-Bone probably didn’t mean that new artists should never go online, rather that they should focus on their playing skills instead of their coding chops and number of Facebook friends. Fair point, and most likely true.

Cory went on to agree with T-Bone that MP3s suck, and considering Cory’s music and tech chops (he was one of the original staffers at Digidesign and now runs a major group at Apple), my certainty that MP3s could sound nearly indistinguishable from full, uncompressed CD files wavered. Then T-Bone Burnett himself commented, taking me to task for being a jerk (he was right) and hammering on MP3s a bit more. So I set up a listening test for myself.

THE SOURCE FILES

A quick refresher on audio file formats. Today there are three primary contenders in widely available music:

AIFF This is the standard audio file format on CDs. AIFF stands for Audio Interchange File Format and it is uncompressed, so file sizes are big (typically over 30 MB).

MP3 MP3 stands for MPEG-1 or MPEG-2 Audio Layer 3 and is the leading standard for “lossy” audio formats, meaning the audio is compressed to reduce file size. MP3 files are typically about 11 times smaller than AIFF, yet supposedly achieve a faithful reproduction to most ears.

AAC Advanced Audio Coding (AAC) was developed to outperform the MP3 format and is the format used be Apple iTunes.

AIFF is always the same quality level, but MP3 and AAC can change based on their bit rates. Typically, Amazon and iTunes use a bit rate of 256 kbps for downloads, whereas most streaming files are served up using 128 kbps (to save on bandwidth).

To compare the sound quality of these dominant formats, I imported “No Reply” from“The Beatles For Sale” (remastered), “Four Sticks” from “Led Zeppelin IV” (remastered) and “Up in Indiana from Lyle Lovett’s “It’s Not Big It’s Large”. I chose “No Reply” to get good old tube sound across the board, with plenty of dynamics; I chose “Four Sticks” for its complexity and because Jimmy Page was such an incredible producer; and I chose “Up In Indiana” because Lyle Lovett always hires peerless musicians and seeks to create exquisite sound quality, the latter of which should be best exemplified by this recording as it is one of his most recent.

THE PLAYBACK GEAR

I played the songs back on my Mac Pro and listened through my speakers, which are Audioengine 5s, then through my headphones, a pair of Grado SR80s.

THE RESULT

A full-on, no-doubt-about-it, definitive... draw.

WTF?

How can this be? How can an audio file that’s an eleventh the size of the original equal it? I don’t know, but it can and it does. Truly, I listened the reverb decay on Lennon’s voice in the beginning of “No Reply”, the complex musical interplay in the middle of “Four Sticks”, and the quivering cool of Lyle’s voice at the beginning of “Up In Indiana” and throughout I used iTunes to switch back and forth between file formats. And here’s the real shocker: the lowest quality MP3 and AAC files sounded identical to the AIFFs. I’m sure there’s a difference, but it is damn subtle.

Perhaps its my gear. Maybe if I had listened to these files on my $700 Denon CD player running through my Nakamichi amp and out my handmade, boutique speakers built in Oregon out of solid steal, I could tell the difference. Or maybe if I had imported the AIFF files into Pro Tools and used the DACs (digital to analog converters) in my MBox 2 Pro I would have heard a difference. But should the difference really require such high-end gear? I don’t think so.

Honestly, I’m depressed by this test. In fact, I’m convinced that something must be wrong. Maybe iTunes is defaulting to the AIFF file always? No, I removed them and listened again, same old story. Maybe my hearing sucks after too much time in front of loud guitar amps? I don’t think so, it’s been tested and it’s fine. Maybe my damaged brain hears differently now? Possibly, but I doubt it.

Despite the overwhelming evidence that compressed audio formats sound as good as CDs, I will still buy CDs. I can’t help it, I love great sound quality, and I need to know that I have the best source files around. What’s more, I plan to buy a new SACD player (mine is on the fritz) and I await Blu-Ray audio eagerly. I will go to my grave shunning MP3s, but I have to admit, they sure sound good.