Rethinking the NEA.

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A street grate in SF. Art is everywhere.

A few weekends ago I got into a debate with my sister-in-law about the NEA. Fueled by a little wine and more than a little rudeness (she was a guest and makes her living in the arts), I stridently pointed out that the NEA is an organization that takes money by threat of force and gives it to artists, thereby putting the government in the role of determining what is and what is not art.

A bit over the top, I admit, but fundamentally true as the NEA is funded by taxes. I pontificated further to say I did not believe the government had any role in something so subjective as art and that if NEA funding were cut off the arts would hardly suffer for it, while society as a whole would probably benefit.

But…

In thinking about it more in the days that followed I came to a different conclusion. I think pursuing art with no commercial intent is like basic research in that its primary value lies in the pursuit not the outcome. In other words, the pursuit of art for art's sake is valuable. But who can afford to do that, especially folks who are no longer in their teens and early twenties? No one. And that's where the NEA comes in. It allows people to pursue art in a society that would otherwise deny them. Yes, they could work day jobs and do their art at night, but so could basic researchers and if I'm going to fund someone I'd like him to be no more sleep deprived than necessary.

As I hit "save and publish" for this post, I admit, I have doubts. My favorite artists all did their thing without NEA money. Big picture, though? I just think we're a better society to support the arts with a little government money than to not do anything at all.

Creativity in fits and starts. Can it work?

Sam Bevan at Hyde Street Studio C, SF, tracking Java Junkie.

I read somewhere that Robert Pollard of Guided by Voices was afraid to stop writing songs because he believes that his profound ability to create at a rapid, nonstop pace would stop. He might be right. I’m no Mr. Pollard but, like him, I believe that creativity begets creativity. In other words, the more creative projects you take on the more creative you become; creativity is not something you use up, it’s a perpetual motion machine as long you keep it in motion.

I didn’t use to believe this. Back before my accident, I worried that pursuing creative projects outside of my work as a creative director would rob my advertising output of good ideas because I would be spread too thin. But after falling and damaging my brain, I see things differently. Instead of worrying about being too creative, I worry about not being creative enough.

So despite a very busy job, twin toddlers, sporadic attempts to do a little exercise and attempting to stay in touch with friends (and failing) I still write songs. Gone are the days when I used to pluck my guitar for hours as I worked out ideas or just searched for them. Now I write when I can, a few minutes here, a few minutes there, more minutes on walks to work and occasional nights when Catherine goes out with friends. My quantity is down, no question, but I think my quality is holding.

The very first tune I wrote under my new, as Jon Kabat Zinn calls it, “Full Catastrophe Living” conditions, was “I Found Out the Hard Way I Should Have Done it the Easy Way.” Check it out.

And just this weekend, I was back at Hyde Street Studio C, a place that has become like a best friend to me, someone you can go for years without seeing and when you do finally get time to spend together it’s like those years never happened. And so it was on Saturday when Jaimeson Durr, Sam Bevan (pictured) and I gathered at Hyde Street to track bass parts. I’ll be posting the results in a few more months.

Stay tuned

Why the acceptance of selling out could be a sign of social progress.

I remember the 70s. I was a teenager for about half of them and I was also, in my opinion, a very discerning lover of music. My stereo system was always pretty decent, in my car and at home, my record collection large and getting larger. I knew my Dolby settings and grew to prefer cassettes without either B or C and recorded on normal bias tape, but never liked cassettes, regardless. I listened to all kinds of music, from Paul Simon to Judas Priest and the one constant among all the musicians I liked was that no one was a sell out.

Hard to believe in today’s world, but back in the 70s, to my knowledge, big musical acts did not sell their songs for use in advertising, no one played corporate parties and, overall, everyone believed that if your music was being used in marketing it was because your music wasn’t good enough to stand on its own. No more.

Is this a problem?

Is it a problem that the Stones sold Start Me Up Microsoft?

Is it a problem that Led Zeppelin sold Rock and Roll to Cadillac?

Is it a problem that Jay-Z sold his entire latest album to Samsung?

I’m really not sure. But in my opinion — call me a victim of my generation — I think when a song is tied to a brand, it denigrates the brand, the composer and/or performer, the listener and, of course, the song. For example, whenever I heard Start Me Up during Microsoft’s mid-90’s ad blitz, here’s what went through my mind: Microsoft sucks because their products don’t Start Me Up, they stop me with their complexity, bugs and counterintuitiveness; Mick and Keith suck for polluting Start Me Up with images of a shitty operating system; I suck because I’m still listening; and Start Me Up becomes a lot less killer.

But that’s my problem. What does the world at large think?

I don’t think anyone cares, certainly not a number that matters. And I think it might be in large part because rock and roll was a response to an overly uptight culture and it has done its job. Well. Maybe too well.

Don’t get me wrong. I miss the days when steering clear of being overtly “commercial” was a badge of honor, when being a rock star meant not being beholden to anyone (myth that it was), when tours were not underwritten by American Express. But again, that’s my problem. The genie is out of the bottle and she ain’t going back in.

So now here is the real question: with music being so respectable, what is the next art form for social agitation? But that’s another post (and I have no idea).

Digging up exquisite cadavers.

Virginia Beach, VA

Virginia Beach, the beach not the city, stretches for what must be a good few miles. It is a classic sandy beach, exactly what you imagine when you think of a Southern California beach if you’ve never been to a Southern California beach: wide, covered in soft, hot sand and lapped by warm watery waves pushing more than the occasional surfer.

I visited this beach recently for two weeks. My wife and little girls were there, my sister in law, my brother in law and his girlfriend and my mother and father in law, some friends. It was bliss. And though my mind most assuredly contemplated the wind, earth, water and sky, as well as the inexpressible joy of watching my girls run along a beach and run to and from the surf and feelings of love in general, me being me, I also became fixated on an exquisite cadaver.

I came across the term exquisite cadaver on the flight home. It appears in a book I am still working my way through and was penned by bored French surrealist poets (is there any other kind?). I thought what a perfect term for that old song I had unearthed in Virginia and performed a lengthy autopsy on before determining, like Frankenstein with his corpses, that it could be brought back to life, or more accurately given life since the song had never really, truly lived.

The song is called You Can Come Back But I Can’t Stay and first arose in the mind of a an old college friend who sent me the lyrics about 10 years after we graduated, or maybe it was longer ago than that, I really can’t remember. I was in a U2 phase and especially into Achtung Baby and wanted to write a song in that vain -- bass driven, simple but cool drum beat, ethereal guitar, melodic vocal -- and the words my friend sent seemed to evoke exactly that kind of song.

At the moment, I have music for the verse and chorus and lyrics for the first verse and chorus. I’m massaging the original lyrics pretty heavily so as soon as I have enough of a song to present to my old friend I will. I don’t want to bastardize his lyrics too much because they’re good and better than what I could write.

To help me finish, I will stare out the window at the West Coast water that fills the bay I live by. Perhaps the cold slap of snow run-off mixed with fog shrouded tidal currents is what my exquisite cadaver needs to finally wake up.

Stay tuned.

What exactly is it like to turn 50?

It’s a bummer.

But wait! Before you (understandably) assume that this post will be all woe is me please bare with me a read a bit further.

For me, no birthday of my own has ever been cause for rejoicing. I can’t explain it, that’s just the way it is. And though many friends have looked at me with me confusion about my attitude toward my own birthday and have told me things like “this is your day”, “this is the day you were born”, “aren’t you happy to be alive?”, it has all been for naught.

But this year, as I cross yet another arbitrary birthday milestone, I can feel my attitude changing. There are two reasons: Avalon and Amelia, my baby daughters. When I think about their birthday I cannot think of a happier day. It’s the day they were welcomed to the world, the day the world changed ever so slightly for most and in the greatest and best possible way for me and my wife, Catherine, the day they will forever call their birthday. And though I will most likely never be one to celebrate my own birthday with much of a celebration I will always want to celebrate theirs in grand style.

So, yes, turning 50 has me a bit down. But not as much as past birthdays and not as much as every birthday of mine to come, because I am starting to look at my own birthday through the lens of how I see Avalon and Amelia’s, and this is no mere rose tinted lens but rather one that lets me see the rose that actually, truly tints the world.

Here's my song for my babies! (Yes, I've posted it before but today's my birthday!) 

What would John Lennon say about the NSA?

As the whole NSA story continues to unfold, I think we can all be sure of one thing: nothing, at least with regard to what the government is saying and what the companies affected by the NSA’s actions are saying. But we can also be sure that what the NSA is doing is un-American, a mushy concept, I confess, but, you know, certain things just feel unlike what the country proclaims to stand for, and the NSA’s changing role is one of them. And of all the questions I have about the NSA, the biggest is what would John Lennon say.

In fact, let’s not stop there. We know he would be speaking out, goading the government to shut him up, taking a personal risk for what he believes is right. Is anyone in music doing this? I get the impression that the answer is NO but I truly do not have any idea. I’m too out of touch with pop culture. But I’m not totally out of touch and I think if someone in music were taking on the NSA in the way John Lennon took on Uncle Sam during Viet Nam I’d have heard about it so I’m going to assume that whatever protests are being held are small.

But here’s what I think John Lennon would be saying and what I wish someone were saying now. (Wait, I know, I bet The Daily Show is all over this but I don’t care. Stewart is smart, I agree with him a lot, but this NSA crap demands more than his smug, funnier-than-thou delivery. This demands a bit of anger. So here’s what I think Lennon would say.)

“It’s Tricky Dick all over again, can’t you see that? You’re being lied to, your Constitution is being dragged through sewage, your freedoms are being taken away. You think this is all being done in the name of national security? Well, ask yourself if you think becoming like the very countries you hate is right for the country you love. I mean, it’s that simple. It’s like fighting for peace. We’re all for the thing we say we’re against to protect the thing we say we’re for. Obama, how do you sleep at night knowing that this is the exact behavior you claim to revile?”

Obviously, Lennon would do a better job than I just did. And he’d be heard by more people. So my simple request is that at least a few of today’s biggest musicians go after Uncle Sam. Let’s not let rock stars sell out anymore than they already have (another post).

PS - Here’s a tune I wrote about this topic. It’s about Joe Strummer who was a lot like Lennon. I miss these kinds of people

The problem with Seth Godin’s problem with getting picked.

Seth Godin has recently been writing blog posts about the wrongheadedness of trying to get picked, or trying to get someone with influence to invest in you. His point is that you are better off picking yourself than you are trying to get someone else to pick you. For example, don’t wait for some record company honcho to call you and offer you a deal, just get out there and do your thing.

But you see the problem, right? Either way, you’re hoping to get picked. I, for one, am most certainly not trying to get a deal with a label but I am most definitely trying to get people to listen to my songs and spread the word (good or bad, by the way). So what’s the real difference? I guess it comes down to being picked by one person who will try to sell you to many people vs. trying to sell yourself to many people all by your lonesome.

In other words, the end goal is the same and even the means of getting there aren’t all that different. Either way, you’re trying to get picked. In fairness to Godin, what he’s really commenting on is the shift from a world where you absolutely had to pass through gatekeepers to gain wider exposure to a world where you can create massive exposure on your own. It’s a powerful difference, but I don’t think Godin has quite nailed the right catch phrase to define today vs. yesterday.

Maybe he will read this post and help me out? Would be cool, for sure. (Wait, did I just try to get picked? Heck yeah!)

Creation vs. promotion. Which matters more?

I read The Lefsetz Letter a lot. It’s written by a guy named Bob Lefsetz who has been in the music business for decades and is seen as a straight shooter who knows of what he speaks. One of his main themes is that in today’s world the musical artist’s only hope of standing out is to create something so good that people have to hear it and again, that they want to shout from the rooftops about how great it is, that they want to say to the world, “shut up for a second and listen to this.” As for promotion? Don’t bother. You’re far better off relentlessly creating new songs than constantly Tweeting or Facebooking. I suppose he’s right, which means that, so far, the number one reason I am still laboring away in total obscurity is that I simply have not written a song good enough to catch fire — or even glow and flicker a bit — and I just need to get back into the studio and get to work.

Maybe so, maybe I do need to just keep putting out song after song. But if a tree falls in the forest... I dunno, I think that promotion must count for something. Plus, I work in advertising, goddamnit, I should be able to do promotion well, right? Even with my far-from-bodacious budget.

But what is promotion these days? The old model was all about being selected by a mainstream tastemaker, probably via a hardworking publicist. I mean, if you got onto the cover of Rolling Stone or on stage with Letterman or simply mentioned somewhere in Oprah’s vast mediopolis you were going to have, at the very least a good couple of weeks, maybe even a month. Those days are gone. Now, being in mainstream media does not seem to count for much of anything (not that I would say no to Letterman, mind you!). But here’s a little secret: then and now the number one publicity tool is not a tool at all, it’s just word of mouth. Give people something they want to tell their friends about and they will.

So creation wins. Always has, always will. But if you’ve got something you think is good — and I confess, I do think I have good songs — you’ve got to get a few people talking, got to. And one way to do that is to just put stuff out there and hope. But another way, a better way, I think, is to go a step further and take an active role in promoting your stuff. Don’t try to ram it down people’s ears, but, you know, make your friends aware and make whatever fans you have aware, too, and then hope: hope that you’ve created something good enough for them to tell a few folks, hope that those folks will tell a few folks and so on and so forth. And if, after awhile, the silence is deafening, then put out something new and start the process over again. Harsh, but aren’t artists supposed to suffer?

The genius of AND vs the tyranny of OR.

I was at a press event for Cloudera, a big data company, earlier today and one of the speakers started off with the statement “the genius of AND vs the tyranny of OR.” It was a good statement for the data world, where cost forces hard choices between what data to keep vs. what data to toss. But what about songwriting? Is there a tyranny of OR? And is AND really genius?

No and no.

In songwriting OR is good. If you’re not making hard choices, not carving away fat and discarding your babies for the greater good, you’re probably not coming up with much that’s worthwhile.

And what of AND? Is it really a good idea to layer on harmony after harmony or more chords or bridges or pre-choruses? Probably not. Don’t get me wrong, I like pre-choruses and middle 8s to a fault, but I know that the real challenge is to write a verse and chorus so good you don’t need extra elements to keep the song interesting. Creedence was the best at this.

In songwriting, OR is genius. (Okay, a tyrannical genius.)

When does a song become a soung?

When Doves Cry by Prince.

A Day in the LIfe by the Beatles.

Good Vibrations by the Beach Boys.

All of these are more than just songs, they are what I call soungs, or musical expressions that are as much about the notes as the are about the sound of those notes.

When I first started doing serious songwriting/recording back in 2008, I thought mostly about music and lyrics and just wanted my songs to have good sounds. I wanted good guitars through good amps, properly mic-ed up drums, punchy bass, warm vocals. In other words, I wanted the expected in the hope that the song itself would be enough to grab people. Think Honky Tonk Women or Alright Now or any number of other great, great songs that are distinctive for their music and not so much their sounds.

Now consider those soungs I mentioned at the start of this post. When you first heard When Doves Cry you had never heard anything like it? Same with A Day in the Life and Good Vibrations. The sounds that these songs are built on are as important as the songs themselves. Sure, you could record them with just an acoustic guitar and they would still be great but they would not be the indelible marks on music history that these songs have become.

Have I written a soung yet? I wish. Mostly I’m just after a good song, I find that to be challenge enough. Which reminds me. Have you ever seen this video? It’s by Gotye and shows what he is willing — even eager — to go through to create soungs. Amazing.

And here’s another one:

I think the closest I’ve come to creating a soung is Old Wounds Still Bleed, but only one sound is truly different from my usual approach, not every sound. It’s a guitar played by Tim Young through a device I call The Spooky Box, which is a rotating speaker thingamajiggy Tim bought from some guy in Oregon who built it by hand out of wood and found-parts.

If you see ever see a Spooky Box in person you will think it a beast. Black, clearly home-made, not in the least bit sleek or refined, big. Pick it up and you feel it’s heft and solidity and you are a little nervous about it all because you’ve just never seen anything quite like it. Now plug it in and play through it. What comes out at first sounds like a chorus pedal that just escaped from a SuperMax but then you hear the beauty and the delicacy and the mystery.

On Old Wounds, the Spooky Box creates ethereal textures that are meant to enhance the lyrics and evoke the kinds of haunting feelings that rise up out of the past and engulf you in your present and drag you backward; a ghost hugging you, drawing you in, pushing you away. It’s the one instrument on the whole song that’s unconventional but it defines the sound of the song and pushes the song toward being a soung. Is it enough? No, because a soung has to be about every instrument sounding new and a little strange and adding up to a whole that cannot survive without all its parts. But it’s the best I’ve been able to do, so far.

Just wondering, do you have a favorite soung? Leave a comment if you do. I’d love to compile a list of favorites.​

A new song. Sort of.

I confess, I’ve sat on this song for awhile. I wrote most of it back in 2009, a year that now seems forever ago. Since then, I’ve become a proud papa of twins and gone back to work full-time, which has pushed songwriting to the sidelines. But new responsibiltites are not all that has caused me to hold back on releasing this tune.

Sometime in the past year I asked a non-musician friend what he thought of my music. I’ve got honest friends so he gave it to me straight and said, to paraphrase, the lyrics were always melancholy and then he asked why didn’t I write more positive songs. He pointed out my babies, my marriage, my recovery from brain trauma, my job. He had a point. In fact, I had been thinking the same thing. Worse, not only were most of my tunes downpressing, but they were also very similar thematically. Sometimes I felt I was writing the same song over and over again, at least from a lyrical standpoint.

After getting his note, I resolved to broaden my lyrical pallet and, so far, I’ve got one song half in the can that is more upbeat but as for finished stuff... well, Old Wounds is all there is and it was written, as I said, way back in 2009.

I remember the evening I wrote the first verse and basic chords. I was in Madison, Wisconsin, where I was getting innovative brain therapy from a former Russian military officer turned scientist, and the air was warm and still under a low sun and sky so I grabbed my guitar and a writing pad and walked down to the shore of the lake and got to work. The idea came fast, words, initial music, even structure. And before long, I was just lying there in the fading light and feeling that glow of knowing I had something pretty good, the hard work was done, I could relax (see pic above).

I finished the song over the next several months and then, while recording the demo, I hit on the idea for the middle 8. Originally, there was just going to be a solo, but at some point I turned around the rhythm in a weird way and I liked it so I kept it.

The details are already fading, but I think I worked with Tim, Sam, Jaime and Andy to record the music and then discovered the key was all wrong for Tim’s wife Eryn, who would be singing the tune. As with every other song I’ve ever worked on, if something wasn’t right, I started over and so it was with Old Wounds. In the end, the song moved from starting in D to starting in F# and Tim layered in a baritone guitar to keep things thick and warm sounding. Eryn sang her track beautifully, Tim redid the bass and added harmonies and, after a few mixing sessions, the song was ready.

I’m very happy with this one, sad lyrics and all. I hope you like it, too. Please comment or email with impressions!

OLD WOUNDS STILL BLEED

Sometimes it's hard to remember
​The things we thought would last
​But only for a moment
​Though years have passed

Then all our yesterdays
​They come back like a dream
​And I know nothing gold can stay
​But old wounds they still bleed

Sometimes I try to forget
​The things I know I've done
​I try to find forgiveness
​Where I know there should be none

And still I hold a candle out
​It burns like a need
​And I know nothing gold can stay
​But old wounds they still bleed

And I’ve tried most everything
​Everything I'm told will cure
​But still I feel the sting
​The sting of guilt I’ve felt for years

And time heals everything
​So I guess time is all I need
​But I have waited for so long
​And these old wounds they still bleed

Vocal - Eryn Young
​Guitars and Bass - Tim Young
​Andy Korn - Drums
​Engineering - Jaimeson Durr
​Recorded at Hyde Street Studio C in San Francisco and Tim’s house in LA

Coming to terms with the cost of listening.

At the end of last week a friend wrote to tell me that his son had a new EP ready and that I should check it out on bandcamp. The EP consists of four songs and has a total playing time of maybe ten minutes. I was having a very busy day at work when the email arrived so I did not log on and listen right away, nor did I listen when I got home because I had to feed the babies and put them to bed, nor did I listen after the babies were sound asleep because then I had to help with dinner, nor did I listen after dinner because I wanted to talk to my wife for a few minutes nor did I listen before going to bed because I wanted to go bed and also I was tired and did not want to listen to my friend’s son’s music when I was so sleepy I would hardly be able to pay attention to it.  

But guess how many days passed before I finally did listen.

About five.

And when I slipped on my headphones at last and hit play I felt rushed as there were so many other things I could have been doing, maybe even should have been doing. And it hit me. In the world of musicians many of us fret about how no one listens to our stuff, no one pays for it, no one tells their friends about it and anyone can get our music for nothing but here’s the thing: asking someone to listen to your music is asking a lot because it takes time and time is nothing like US currency. You can’t earn it, you can’t print it, you can’t trade it for time that will hold its value better. Nope, time is time and it's the world's most precious commodity and the one thing we always want more of.

And I finally started to feel a little better about my friends and acquaintances not listening to my stuff RIGHT AWAY or clicking Like on FB when I post a song or commenting here on my blog about a tune because the truth is they’re not ignoring me or slighting me or intending to make me feel low and sad (though I do); nope, they, just like me, have a lot on their plate and taking time to listen to a song, especially more than once and then take some sort of action (hit Like, write me note, share), is something they might intend to do but don’t because life just takes over. I should know because that’s what I do all the time. I intend to listen to a track, I plan to watch a video, I mean to read a blog post and then I don’t but not because I decided “nah, screw it, who cares” but rather because something else came along that was more pressing.

Back when I was 19 things were different, I had a lot more discretionary time, but not now and maybe never again. Family, work... they are non-stop, that’s just the way it is. And the simple truth is that if people take time out of their day to listen to my tunes, that’s no small thing. It’s a huge thing because they are taking some time they will never get back and using it to listent to my stuff. No greater compliment could be paid. So to all of you out there who have listened I very much appreciate your effort! And to those who have not, I totally understand. (And I will keep pestering you!).

Parenthood and songwriting.

I was originally going to title this post something like “Can parenthood and songwriting coexist?” and then I opted not to because of course they can. Many of the world’s great songwriters became parents and still produced magnificent material. Even Keith Richards (although I suspect he had a nanny). But I’m not one of the world’s greats, not by a long shot, and for me the arrival of my little girls, Avalon and Amelia, seems to have muzzled my muse. Wait, that’s not right, I still think of ideas for songs all the time, I just never have time to do anything with them. As of today, the last song I wrote and recorded that was not based on some earlier idea was Welcome to the World, which I wrote for the imminent arrival my girls. Since then, a period of well over two years, I have written only two new songs and one is based on a lyric idea had from maybe 2008 or 2009 but I have not had time to record them. Of course, it’s not just parenthood that keeps me from my guitar. It’s also work. Work, work, work, work, work. I am now a full-time madman again and as the agency I work for grows my job becomes ever more demanding. Don’t get me wrong, I am thankful to be working after being told by doctors that I would probably never work again, I am thankful to have the most beautiful, fun and funky girls I have ever met as my daughters, I am thankful to have a wife I truly love. But I miss playing my guitar, I miss writing songs, I miss being in the studio. How do people do it? Are their any parents out there who could give me a little counsel on weaving art into life no matter the limits of space and time? Any thoughts would be much appreciated.

A shoutout for earbits.

I few years ago I started using a service called Jango to get more exposure for my songs. If you've never heard of Jango think of it as radio for musicians who can't get on the radio. All I had to do was pay them a fee and they would play my tunes over their internet radio service. Great, right? Not so fast. Jango offers no integration with Facebook or other social services (at least not that I can figure out) and a lot of the email addresses I collected seemed less than legit. Now, I think the folks who run Jango are fine and not running a scam but, regardless, I became disenchanted. Then I heard about something called earbits. Can't remember how I discovered them, but earbits was immediately appealing to me in two key ways: (1) earbits won't play just anybody, you have to submit your music so the earbits crew can be sure your quality is at least decent; and (2) Facebook integration. Oh, and they don't charge you for incomplete plays. And they answer emails. And they're nice. I could go on and on but suffice it to say I think earbits rocks. Check them out by visiting www.earbits.com where you can listen to and discover new music for free. Pretty cool. 

What's worth saving in rock and roll history?

The other day, Catherine and I were out for a Sunday adventure with our twin girls and we decided to check out The Bay Model, in Sausalito, CA. Sadly, it was closed and so we turned around and started to drive off to downtown Sausalito when I looked up and there before me with no fanfare whatsoever was The Record Plant, or rather the building that used to house The Record Plant. I recognized it because I recently read Making Rumours about the recording of Fleetwood Mac’s defining album and the book has more than a few few photos of the the famed studio. I turned to Catherine and told her I had to get a few photos. I mean, this was THE RECORD PLANT, birthplace of so much great music. After posing for a few snapshots, I turned around and fully took in the building. Rundown, a bit decrepit even, most certainly empty and looking very much out of hope for any sort of return to glory. How could this be? And I got to thinking...

Surely, it was worth saving, right? And surely there were rich musicians out there who had recorded at the place and seek its preservation and renewal, no? No and no.

First, music -- and all other art -- must always move forward. To constantly recreate the past or to live slavishly by its methods is a fool’s game. The point is to create something new or, at the very least, create something old in a new way. Besides, what’s a building? Just because you record at The Record Plant (one still operates in LA) doesn’t mean a thing, other than you’ve got a lot of money. Now, keep in mind, I’m a bit of a hypocrite. I record all my music at a historic San Francisco Studio on Hyde Street and I love that I’m doing my music there. But if it were to close and I were loaded would I buy it? Probably not. I’d build something new, something better, something with clean toilets.

Second, a rich musician did try to save The Record Plant in Sausalito but he failed. Here is his half-assed video effort:​

If only 1/10th of the people who bought "Rumours" donated $1 each - we could save this building, and jumpstart our non-profit programming. http://www.plantstudios.org

That’s the best you’ve got, Mick? But maybe Mick’s effort lacked effort because he didn’t really believe in his pitch. Times change, the studios of yore have been largely replaced by home studios capable of way more sonic range and providing, possibly, better ambience. I mean, that was The Record Plant’s breakthrough, a comfortable environment (along with innovative drug delivery systems). And surely Mick knows all this — as do all his rich friends. Just as surely, he has a home studio that puts the Record Plant to shame and costs him nothing to run.

Time moves on. Yes, I was sad to see The Record Plant so long past its glory days. But new music glory days are happening elsewhere. That’s the way the world is. That’s the way art is. And that’s the way the world should be.

Notes on Cerebellum Blues, Playlists One and Two: the songs start.

Welcome to my series of posts about how I got into music and songwriting and the events that ultimately led to the 2012 release of my first album. Here are the posts, so far

1. a little bit of blood, lots of sweat, a few tears (the launch!)
2. what’s with the title?​
3. beginnings
4. from high school to LA and back
5. the talent question
6. the lost years
7. walking away from music, part one
8. walking away from music, part two
9. Europe, part one.
10. Europe, part two.
12. the accident.
11. my life in advertising begins.

If you read anything that strikes a chord please let me know in the comments section or via email. As always, thank you for reading.

In all the years before I suffered a brain injury writing songs was never easy for me. Sure, every now and then a song would seem to write itself but it would suck just as bad as all the others, maybe worse. My finest moments were novelty songs — jokes, really — with titles such as Jesus Christ Has Jock Itch, Down to the Whorehouse, Turkey Franks. Oh, and who can forget White Punks Dance Too Fast? (Everybody, that’s who.) I did have one shining moment, a song called Weird Things With A Gun, which became a staple of Germano Warfare’s live set (Germano Warfare was the only original band I was ever in), but mostly, my songs were terrible. What was I missing? What was the secret? How did Keith and Mick do it? Townshend? Lennon/McCartney? Paul Simon? It seemed like it must be so easy, but, of course, the things that look easiest are often the hardest. But I had a friend, Toby Germano, who could do it.

Toby and I first met years and years ago on the front lawn of Woodside High School and he and I have remained close friends to this day. Early on, Toby wrote a song called She Makes Me Hit Things with My Car and when he played it for me I swore up and down I thought it was a hit. Later, when we played it in Toby’s band, Germano Warfare, it always got the crowd going. I studied that song up one side and down the other but could not suss its secret. Over the years, Toby has written so many songs I’ve lost count and they are all good, some more commercial than others, but all good if good means they rock and do something new and sound a touch familiar but always fresh. I have always tried to learn from Toby, by watching him play, by seeking his counsel and by taking his advice, and yet... nothing. He was born with it; I was not. The world is hard that way.

But I fought my genes. If songs were not in my DNA I was going to put them there. I listened to music all the time, worked harder on the guitar, played in bands, went to guitar school, lived a little and still... nothing. Ideas for songs came to me all the time — lyric snippets, riffs, drum beats — but they would never fully reveal themselves to me. I could sense there was something more but I could never get to it and and I would feel like I was back in school and trying to work out a word problem in math and knowing the answer was right there and no doubt simple and obvious in hindsight but being unable to figure it out and feeling my fragile confidence crumble and then falling into a void of hopelessness and on and on. I began to think of this barrier between me and songs as an infinitely tall, infinitely wide and infinitely smooth wall that was translucent enough to let me know something was behind it but offering no clue how to proceed. What do you do? How do you solve a creative problem, what’s the method, the secret, what did Toby know that I did not? Invariably, I would begin the hard work of making a demo knowing I did not have a complete idea, and hope that the process would help me crack it. It never did. But I kept trying because what else could I do? It was all I wanted in the world.

Then I fell and hit my head and everything changed.

It’s all so long ago now. Over seven years. A few months after I fell, I remember I was feeling well enough to be out on the living room couch. Maybe it was April? I don’t know. But still, I remember being on the couch in the living room and I was sunk back deep with my Steinberger guitar across my lap and I began to noodle on People Change, a song I had started way back when I lived in Europe, probably 1992. The song had thoroughly flummoxed me for ages, with the middle 8 being an uncrackable bit. True to form, I recorded the song anyway, hoping I would hit on the solution in the process, hoping the work would bring it out, but no matter how I tried, I just could not find chords that flowed. They either set up a section that was too different or not different enough and so I ended up, yet again, with a song I knew could be a lot better but I just could not figure out how to make it so and I was stuck. But on that day in maybe April of 2006 I began to be unstuck. I did not figure out the middle 8 that day, but the ideas I tried were better than any I had tried before. I was encouraged and kept at it.

And the ideas kept coming, not only for People Change but also for brand new songs. And they hit everywhere: when I was out on walks, while I meditated, once during acupuncture and many, many times after getting a cup of coffee at my local Peet’s. It was as though some sort of internal bottleneck had been shattered and the musical ideas planted in my head by all those years of listening to The Beatles and the Stones and Paul Simon and so, so many others could flow from wherever they resided in my brain to where I could process them and work on them and complete them. My doctors even said as much might be true. They mused that somehow my accident had disrupted the communication between my older, emotional brain (cerebellum) and my modern, rational brain (cerebral cortex). Or maybe it was just that I had more time on my hands, also a theory my doctors put forth. Regardless, by the end of that first year after my accident, I had more than enough songs to do an album. I figured what the hell. I had gone on disability from work and had plenty of time so I scheduled two days to record bass and drums at a friend’s studio, guessing my total production time would be maybe a week.

Planning has never been my strong suit. Production actually took about 6 years — with breaks for health issues, innovative brain therapy in Madison, Wisconsin, freelance ad gigs, my wedding, my honeymoon, hyperbaric oxygen therapy, babies (the stork brought Catherine and me twins on December 5, 2010), complex legal proceedings, and a side musical project called Deep Salvage. Thinking back on the whole process, if there is one person more responsible than any other for helping me along the way, for keeping my hopes and spirits up, for comforting me during bad times and celebrating with me during the good it’s Catherine. At the beginning of this journey, we were boyfriend and girlfriend and now we are not only husband and wife but also parents. Catherine, I love you very much and I could not have done this without you. For the first time in my life, I’m making music I’m proud of and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for being forever encouraging (even though I’ve spent an obscene amount of money!).

Presenting Cerebellum Blues 3.0. And a new song.

Way back in February of 2007, I launched this blog on Typepad with a short, simple post. I just had a cup of coffee with my friend Scott Thibodeaux as he told me about some new web service called "squarespace" and I went home and looked it up. Straight away, I could tell it was exactly what I was after for my music blog and set to work building my site. Later, when I thanked Scott for the tip he looked at me blankly and to this day, I have no idea what Scott actually said, but "squarespace" turned out to be The Best Blogging Service on the Planet, and so I signed up and moved my content from Typepad and launched Cerebellum Blues 2.0. Today, I've finally made the decision to move from squarespace 5 to squarespace 6 and while there are sure to teething troubles (the photo galleries still need a LOT of work), I think this new format will be better for me and you. Best for me, is that the new design is more of a web site than a blog, which suits me because I am blogging much less often. Best for you because the content is presented in a much nicer format and, drum roll, comments are now threaded, meaning you can reply to a specific comment rather than just add yours to a long list. Oh, and here's a new tune, appropriately called The Leaving. Hope you like the new site! (NOTE: TO LEAVE A COMMENT, PLEASE CLICK ON THE THOUGHT BUBBLE LIKE THING ABOVE THE WORD "COMMENTS" AT THE BOTTOM OF THIS POST. LAME, I KNOW, WORKING TO FIX!)

• Notes on Cerebellum Blues, Playlists One and Two: the accident.

Welcome to my series of posts about how I got into music and songwriting and the events that ultimately led to the 2012 release of my first album. Here are the posts, so far:

1. a little bit of blood, lots of sweat, a few tears (the launch!)

2. what’s with the title?

3. beginnings

4. from high school to LA and back

5. the talent question

6. the lost years

7. walking away from music, part one

8. walking away from music, part two

9. Europe, part one.

10. Europe, part two.

11. my life in advertising begins.

If you read anything that strikes a chord please let me know in the comments section or via email. As always, thank you for reading.

For those of you who know me or have been following this blog for awhile, you already know all about my severe traumatic brain injury and how I think it somehow made songwriting easier for me. For those who are new to my tale, here’s a brief re-cap:

The accident happened in late January of 2006. I wish I could say that I was performing deep cover recon for a Navy SEAL operation or drinking Keith Richards under the table but, no, I simply fell. In the bathroom. Without a helmet. The medical reports described my injury as having been precipitated by vasovagal syncope, which caused me to lose consciousness and collapse against the bathroom wall hard enough to shatter a small part of my skull, driving bits of bone into the back of my brain, and flinging my head forward fast enough to cause whiplash. I awoke with my head wedged between the toilet and a wall and promptly threw up. Catherine and I had been to a questionable culinary event that night so I thought I had food poisoning, and once I was pretty sure I was done being sick, I tried to stand up, but I was surprised and mystified at how hard it was. I felt as though I were made of metal and the floor a magnet. But I finally made it to my feet and thought that if I could just get back to bed I would wake up in the morning and all would be well. Of course, I fell again, a fast spinning fall, and I hit the ground on my back and my head bounced off the floor, which, luckily, was carpeted. Catherine awoke with a start and though I explained to her with calm, perfect clarity what was going on, she looked at me with fear in her eyes and called 911.

I spent the next six days in the hospital and then six months at home recuperating. My injury was small, but complex. The bits of shattered skull had been driven through the dura, which is the membrane surrounding the brain, and into my cerebellum, causing a hematoma (which simply means blood on the brain). The biggest risk in the days right after my fall was that my brain would swell, but it did not. In fact, one doctor even said I’d be able to make the ski trip I was planning, although in hindsight I think he was just trying to make me feel better. Little did I know I would feel positively awful for about a year and suffer constant sensations of dizziness and lightheadedness to this day.

I hate hospitals. I hate the smell, the harsh light, the tension of worrying about seeing something truly awful or hearing a scream or both. Being a patient makes hospitals even worse, but also somehow better. You feel safe, you’ve made it, you’re going to be okay. And they’re going to give you drugs to make you comfortable, right? Not in my case. From the moment I entered the hospital I kept thinking I would be given a shot or a pill to make me sleep or, at least, to no longer feel so sick and dizzy but hours passed before I got anything. Ultimately the drug the hospital settled on was Ativan which, I admit, worked wonders. But nothing made me feel better than Catherine’s presence.

From the moment she called 911, Catherine was with me. She did her best to help me answer the barrage of questions from the paramedics, road shotgun in the ambulance, walked alongside my gurney as I was transported from the ambulance to the emergency room and then to some kind of special room that wasn’t quite the ICU but certainly for higher risk patients, stayed up all night that first night as I was shuttled between CAT scanners and other devices. In my room she made a home out of a corner chair and monitored the nurses and me and my meds and everything else. In all the days I was in the hospital, nearly a solid week, she left only to run the few blocks to our apartment to shower, but only when my parents were present for a bit to look after me, which was mostly every day. If she slept at all, I was barely aware of it and whenever I awoke there she was.

Waking up. I did that a lot because I slept so much, probably 20 hours a day, punctuated by brief periods of wakefulness. I dreamed a lot, too; strange, vivid dreams. I only remember one. I was catapulted to an island that was a mashup of Las Vegas, a Maldives resort and a Thomas Kinkade painting (for the light). It was so real and fantastic I remember trying in vain to get a newspaper before I was catapulted back so I would have proof I had been there. But sleeping never felt good, I could never get comfortable, every change in position triggered dizziness and even when I lay absolutely still I “moved”. It was awful.

Depression is a very real worry for anyone who has had a traumatic injury and I was certainly depressed but far less so than if Catherine had not been there. I can’t imagine the strength she had to have to put on a bright encouraging face for me no matter the news, which careened from “you’re going to be fine” to “we’re concerned you might go into cardiac arrest”.

After six days, I was finally allowed to leave the hospital but only after Catherine assured the staff she would be with me 24/7. They did not doubt her for a minute, how could they have after all she had done? I left the hospital in a wheel chair and climbed into my parents’ car and headed home where I went straight to bed and stayed there for several more days, weeks really. Catherine placed a trash can by the bed because I was sick so often and tended to my every need, even giving my sponge baths, since I could not shower on my own. No food stayed down long, save for yogurt and oranges and Ensure drinks, and nothing tasted good. And there were so many doctor appointments, none of them encouraging, a few heartbreaking (and wrong, thankfully), and there were therapy appointments (physical and mental) and Catherine drove me to all them, plastic bags at the ready. My parents helped a lot, too, driving me places and staying with me to give Catherine an occasional break. After a few months, Catherine’s parents flew all the way from the East Coast to visit, several friends came by, but mostly it was Catherine and me just getting through each day. As I got a bit better, we started to go to movies and for walks and even out lunch at the local Johnny Rockets, where the staff was unfailingly tolerant of my odd twitches and tendency to have to leave unexpectedly. As I got better still I would go to my local coffee shop and read the paper. After six months I went back to work part-time, but even though my creative abilities seemed heightened I was mostly unable to work effectively and after six months I chose to go on full-time disability.

There’s so much more to tell about that year of 2006 but the only story that really matters is how Catherine helped me, which is a story I could write 10,000 pages about and still not do justice. I did write a song about her and and of all the songs I’ve written it’s the one that means the most to me. The song is called Coming Together (By Falling Apart) and I tried very hard to write it so that it would be as beautiful as Catherine and, though I didn’t achieve that, not even close, that’s okay because it was an impossible task and all I could do was try impossibly hard, which I did.

• Notes on Cerebellum Blues, Playlists One and Two: my life in advertising begins.

Welcome to my series of posts about how I got into music and songwriting and the events that ultimately led to the 2012 release of my first album. Here are the posts, so far:

1. a little bit of blood, lots of sweat, a few tears (the launch!)

2. what’s with the title?

3. beginnings

4. from high school to LA and back

5. the talent question

6. the lost years

7. walking away from music, part one

8. walking away from music, part two

9. Europe, part one.

10. Europe, part two.

If you read anything that strikes a chord please let me know in the comments section or via email. As always, thank you for reading.

Late in 1994 I had been back from Europe for nearly a year. I was living in Palo Alto in a converted servants quarters behind a large, shingled mansion and one evening I grabbed one of the two Cuban cigars I had brought back with me from Germany and a small glass of bourbon and I headed outside into a foggy night and walked down the street to where there was a flat, no-back wooden bench under a redwood tree. I lit the cigar, took a sip of my bourbon, laid down on the bench and blew smoke up into the wet air and into the branches of the tree. Was this what I wanted? Had it all been worth it, leaving Munich and Michelle to come back to the States and get a job in advertising and get some experience so that I could return to Munich and live and work there? Because that’s what had happened. I was working in an agency now and building that portfolio and plotting and planning — and doubting. What had I done?

When I walked back to my apartment I was dizzy. It wasn’t the bourbon, it was the cigar and just like that Cuban cigar, my first and so full of promise, my new life was a letdown. I missed Munich. I missed Michelle and the people I’d met there, the way they treated me and talked to me and listened to me and engaged with me. I missed the schnecke rolls at the Marienplatz subway station, the coffee made with an espresso machine, Bavarian butter. I missed walking along the Isar river and watching the ducks. I missed having to pinch myself that I was indeed living in Europe.

Back inside my tiny apartment, there it all was, just as it had been before my years in Munich, my music gear. Since high school, my room/apartment has always been cluttered with guitars and amps and multitrack tape recorders and my place in Palo Alto was no different. There was a multitrack, my SansAmp, a mic, guitars, and cables, cables, cables — all gathering dust yet making me believe that I would dust them off any day now. I never did. After getting back from Europe, I recorded just a couple of songs, none of which were any good, save for maybe People Change, and I never again played in a band. No, I had a career now, aspirations, focus. I was through with the hobbies of youth.

I kept telling myself I was going to stick to my original plan, which was to stay committed to Michelle and to work for a few years and build up a portfolio that would be strong enough to allow me to get me a job back in Europe. But this plan exacted a high price because it forced me to live in two places at once and to be unable to call either home. Every social occasion was tinged with loneliness as I would wish Michelle could be there with me and then my mind would drift from wherever I was and I would not be there anymore and eventually I would return to my apartment where I would sit alone and doubt would eat at me. And then there was the work, always the work. Advertising is like that, you get a project and you just can’t stop thinking about it until you are out of time and then another project starts and sometimes, most of the time really, you’re juggling multiple projects with overlapping deadlines and you never get a break. It was all too much — the loneliness, the job, my waning optimism — and I became desperate for a change, but I could not bring myself to simply go back to Europe. Looking back, I can’t say for sure why but part of my plight had to do with the fact that advertising was the first job I’d ever had that I felt I could turn into a career and I was convinced that my one shot was happening now and I could not pause even for a second, no matter the consequences because nothing could be worse than letting this opportunity slip through my hands. And I was 30. Time was running out! The follies of youth.

In 1997, Michelle and I finally acknowledged that I wasn’t coming back to Europe. We were both visiting New York, she to organize a shoot (her journalism career was taking off) and me to... well, I don’t even remember why, maybe there was only the hard business of parting, I cannot recall. We said our last goodbye as a couple under a grey, early morning sky as she rushed off to catch a flight. After that moment, I don’t remember anything else about that trip.

Back home in SF, I was now at McCann Erickson and finally had the freedom to think only about advertising for every waking moment—and that’s exactly what I did. I still noodled on my guitars here and there, still started a short story every now and then, but never for long because to leave my advertising muse unattended for even a minute was unthinkable. Now, I’ve never been the smartest guy in the room but even I could see I was on a road to ruin, of sorts. But how to get off of it?

I kept telling myself I would rise in my career quickly and soon reach a point where I would have enough money and security to take a step back, to stop, reassess, find something new. Well, I did rise fairly quickly. Within a few years of starting my career, I got into McCann, which was one of SF’s better agencies, and then into another where I rose to become the co-head of the creative department. But my big title and solid paycheck got me no closer to my goal of being financially set for life. Worse, I was getting farther from the fun work of creating ads and I was getting sucked into office politics and other swampish muck. Should I quit and go work somewhere else in a lower position? Should I ask to be demoted? Should I look for a different career? Would life as a homeless person be that bad? I truly asked myself all these questions but I could not bring myself to act. I was frozen. And so on it went. As for music, its siren song gone faint but still audible, it was only something I thought about in the way people think about winning the lottery.

About midway through my upward fall, I met Catherine and though I did not know it at the time and did not appreciate her for what she truly meant to me, I knew I felt happy again when I was with her and hope and optimism dared to show their faces. When we were together life was good but even during our best times, there, sitting on my shoulder, was the Ad Devil, who was always whispering things into my ear like, “Why are you out with her having a nice dinner when you could be home in front of your computer staring at a blank page? What about the brief? There’s a meeting tomorrow you know, you really sure your ideas don’t SUCK?” And fear, well, the Ad Devil is an expert at making fear a constant fact of life. Though I was doing well and producing good work, advertising is a “what have you done for me lately” business and one misstep and all your triumphs are forgotten. But in a perverse, masochistic way, I liked that about the business and still do. There’s real risk. Like music, you’re either producing hits or you’re a has-been. And you’re paid to think, even if your thinking isn’t always appreciated. Best of all (to borrow an adland phrase), those hits, if you can come up with one, can be life-changing. Advertising truly is like music in that if you can come up with one, bonafide, no ifs-ands-or-buts GREAT idea, just like the rock band that reaches number one on the charts, you are made for a good, long while — but not forever, never forever.

But no career, not advertising, not music, can be enough in life. You need a relationship, you need genuine friends, and while money is nice and even necessary there is such a thing as enough and to chase it for too long means you collapse into your grave unfulfilled. I chased money relentlessly. I always tried to do great work, but I wanted money, too, because I believed that once I had enough money (see where this is going?) I would be happy or at least able to take the time to figure out what would make me happy. I never did have enough. No, I had to complete my fall to the top and now I look back and it’s all such a shame: I wasted so much time and energy on things that, while important, are not the only things one should be concerned about, while all along Catherine was right there. Today, I cannot imagine life without her and the two beautiful babies we have. Through her I learned that no career in and of itself can be all that’s required for a fulfilling life, at least not for me. Through her I learned that family really does matter and that success is not measured by a paycheck or expressed in a title. Success is within, it’s where you feel joy. But to fully realize this very simple fact, something had to break. Literally.

• What’s the difference between Keith Richards and Lance Armstrong?

I was in a meeting yesterday and before we got down to business we got into a debate about drugs, specifically performance enhancing drugs. The catalyst was an offhand comment about how the people in charge of awarding Tour de France medals had had to go back several places to award a new first. In other words, it seems like all the top riders were either users or former users. A colleague blurted out, “What’s wrong with using drugs or plastic surgery or whatever to make yourself better?” He then added, “I mean, what’s different about John Lennon?”

I agreed with him. I think banning performance enhancing drugs is dumb but I also felt that there was a difference between musicians and athletes. So I asked myself, “What’s the difference between Keith Richards and Lance Armstrong?” Keith used drugs to enhance his creativity; Lance used them (or so it seems) to enhance his cycling. Both of them broke the law to get an advantage, right?

No so fast. If you do a little heroin, smoke some dope, drink a fair bit and then snort of bit of coke to stay awake, you might write a great riff but there is no guarantee. Steroids, on the other hand, will make you stronger, full stop. In other words, there are no guaranteed performance enhancing drugs for creativity so using drugs isn’t cheating. In sports, on the other hand, the drugs work and they are outlawed so using them makes you a cheater. And that’s the difference. Lance cheated to win a race. All Keith has ever cheated is death.