kyrie eleison

I can't sleep. And it's all thanks to Judee Sill.

For those who aren't familiar, Judee was a singer-songwriter from the early 1970s who wrote ethereally baroque, lushly layered, and religiously- and sexually-charged songs that simply don't fit into any music category, though she was initially grouped with Joni Mitchell et al. I won't get into too much bio stuff here, but suffice it to say that Judee burned very brightly for a very short period of time, before fading into obscurity and dying of a drug overdose at the decade's close. She was so reclusive by this point, that many of her friends didn't learn of her passing for a solid year. Her childhood was marred by family deaths and her own deliquency.

I discovered Judee's music randomly about three years ago, when her two albums were still unavailable on CD (a mistake which has since been rectified by Asylum Records). There's no way to describe how powerful Judee's music is, or how much it affects me...she's everything I aspire to be. She's someone I return to listening to several times a year, bringing somber thoughts and fantasies of what could have been had she lived. All the songs she could have written. But some people can't work past their lot in life...it's as if they're destined to have a few hours in the sunlight, like some anchor, before being forever plunged into the deep.

Her song "Lady-O" (which was covered by the Turtles) has got to be the most beautiful thing on record, and it's so stuck in my head right now that I can't sleep. Always one for a good old emotional purging, I recorded a cover version of my own tonight. As she's relatively obscure, I figured I'd post it so others might get turned on to her. See what you think. No sueing, please.

Lady-O.

your own chosen speed

I just finished watching Don't Look Back, a 1960s documentary about Bob Dylan, which proved to be as fascinating as I'd been led to believe it would be.

Dylan always has a profound effect on me, as anyone who's read this blog before will attest to. I've made room for other artists in my radar recently, but this has brought back his enormous blip, sending all the smaller ones flying offscreen. He's amazing to watch, not only while performing, but especially when other people are performing; his gears turn so clearly. He's the real deal, no bones about it. Every second of every minute is pregnant with musical fetuses that blossom and fluoresce in that curly-haired cranium. Some are fortunate enough to grow, others wilt and erode away for good. But the process is remarkably noticeable, and it's proof that he's something else.

This got me wondering of course, as I can't help but be a human about this sort of thing. Am I the real deal? Underneath every personal encounter, every mindless routine, every moment of hot- or cold-blooded emotion -- is there a layer of music-truth? Maybe there doesn't have to be in order to be "the real deal." And it probably doesn't do any good to ruminate on it. Dylan probably didn't sit at his typewriter, debating his own integrity on the vaguest of scales. But he had the devotion of millions to dissuade him from such idle activities. I don't got that.

What I can say I have, at least in the last two weeks, is such an involuntary, overwhelming pull to my music, that I can't focus on anything else. This happens to be good, as there are several unsavory things I'd rather not focus on at all.

I was going to try having some new songs recorded and ready to post by this weekend, but that's looking doubtful. How about some lyrics I'm working on instead? Yes, you say? You'd love to peruse them? Well, splendid. Work in progress, mind you. In case you're curious, each verse is two stanzas, and each chorus is two stanzas.

"insect angel"

tarred and feathered
by request
ten years of blood
vitamins and microchips

they gave me lights
so I could see in the dark
and cut me like a diamond
so none could see me

break my skin
plant a pill
they smell your smarts
before you think of the end

dread Gilgamesh
left ancient dragons boiling in me
I’ve written it on mile markers
but no one believes

through fishflesh eyes
look long, look long
see the indiglo dials
see the secret codes

eraserburn
I checked their hands
and saw the spots
they’d tried to forget

blood from the sky
smells sweet
but they’ve torched my files
and now I can’t reach what I need

what will I be?
all the televisions burst around me
at the symphony
I hear different things

obsidian
are the laws and the liturgy
radars cannot see
the fiberglass coming out of me

this insect angel
is still fixed on the starball
bulbous and stuffed with light
hideous, hideous

I’m classified
and stuck in time
like a sugarmelt
I could swear I once was good

roy g biv
in an oil slick
manta rays blot out the sun,
blot out the sun
think of the end

The end times...

are clearly drawing near. Futurama's contract on Adult Swim has ended.

I'm holding out hope for Comedy Central.

I'm also dedicating tonight's busking to every Earthican's favorite ill-fated cartoon about life, love, and biting shiny metal asses.

Dark Ages

I've decided that I'm okay with being ignored, as long as I can spend 15 minutes with Rachel Weiss every week in return.

So far, that's worked out. (That's right, I'm serious.) But the second week approaches...

I'm not one for being ignored, and it's currently happening. Girls are a complete mystery to me, so I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. I just champion the "can we just talk about this?" way of life, which never seems to click with females, this year being a prime example.

On a somewhat related note, break ups are a weird thing. I'm still recovering from my last one, over half a year ago. It was on my mind a lot today, and I realized that in a way, I'm still in love with her, and with everyone I've loved before. And not in some fancy pants Oversoul kind of love -- I still feel a romantic tether of sorts. There are, of course, other, less attractive feelings braiding said tether, but we won't get into those. It's just a weird thing. Endings. I don't end relationships, at least I don't think I do. But some people REALLY end stuff, really give it the ole guillotine treatment. It's never occurred to me to exile someone from my life. But everyone seems to do it. Parents get divorced. Lovers ditch ya. Friendships can actually split and evaporate. The latter is always the most surprising to me.

I was listening to John Prine on my way to work this morning. It was a song I'd forgotten about called "Taking a Walk," and I don't think I'd heard it since March. The most at-ease, relaxed, and enigmatically bittersweet song. It was a really nice moment. And I wondered, wow, what if John Prine decided I couldn't listen to his music anymore? All his CDs and mp3s just vanished from my possession, and I'd never be allowed to hear so much as a refrain of "Bruised Orange" or "The Other Side of Town" again. Not even look up the lyrics to his songs, not see the covers of his albums. Or, not to do too much qualifying, but what if that happened with Neil Young? Bob Dylan? I'd spend a good portion of the rest of my life struggling to replay their wayward melodies and rhymes in my head, until they melted and reformed as something off-centered and ghastly, a far lesser version of themselves. And I'd never quite remember them the way they were.

Feels familiar.

So that's what happens. Someone decides we shouldn't be a part of their life, and as we sit there, trying to comprehend what just took place, their memory is already distorting itself, taking on a life of its own. And it would be easy to let this happen. The harder choice is to cut ties and let that person go completely. I've never been able to do that.

But what is the better choice? To let this replay mode happen? Or to cut the canker right off? Can you ever really get over anything? Can I, anyhow?

With all these thoughts floating in my blood since summer, it didn't help that my for first time up at bat in a while, I went out swinging like a fool. But lesson learned, I guess. It just happens to be a lesson that makes me more bitter and jaded, so I'm resisting slightly.

I performed as the musical guest for improv group Busker last night. That's right: an improv group that takes their suggestions from the performance of a busker! Good gravy! How awesome is that? Awesome to the nth, would be one answer, and a good one at that. I had a swell time being a part of their show, and seeing how my songs influenced their scenes. Folded Fox made an appearance, and I rounded off the set with some of my favorite covers. Had a few friends come as well, which is always nice. It was a strange sensation performing on stage like that....though I'm an actor and improviser in my own right, I'm not used to performing music in an environment where people are -- at least -- arranged so as to be watching me. Usually they just walk right past me, or linger for a moment and chuck me a quarter. So I was a little tense. Nevertheless, good practice, as I'd like to be playing more bars eventually. Many thanks to the fine folks of Busker for having me.

My computer's hard drive pooped out at the start of this week. Not a nice experience, but I'd thankfully done a pretty good job of backing up my important stuff. I lost the garageband file for Folded Fox, so it's more or less set in stone now. I also lost three days of chances to record, as my mind was teeming with thoughts like those above. I was not to be thwarted, however. My recently resurrected reel-to-reel reigned in the responsibility of recording rather regally. It's a little too old-school for my tastes, as I've been spoiled with having all of my scraps arranged as mp3s, but it did the job. I also took this opportunity to go back and make super basic recordings of some stuff in my notebooks that never got put on tape.

So here I am, procrastinating work on my Wicked audition because I can't stop moping over some girl who isn't worth the trouble, while my friends are all partying in New Jersey, and the chunks of my family are strewn across the country miles away. I don't think I could feel any more alone.

Refolded Fox

I started thinking about the point of my new song, Folded Fox. The basic premise is people are made up of what they are, their experiences, their memories. And it's better to let those things have an effect on you, otherwise you're not made up of anything if you pretend the bad stuff never happened. Whether or not "that which does not kill me makes me stronger," it certainly does make me me.

After ruminating on this for a bit, I did some substantial rerecording of the song, most of which I'm rather happy with. Wanting to have an unpolished, semi-lo-fi sound to reflect the idea of an imperfect history, I ran one vocal track through my reel-to-reel, then recorded it into my computer, while still leaving the original vocal track the way it was. The goal was to make a present/past sound that merged into a mellow little pool of lyrics...who knows if it worked at all, but it was fun to make, and I'm enjoying listening to it.

Just like First Snow of the Year (which I think I talked about recently), I got a lot of new ideas for tiny guitar parts that thread in and out of the main progression, in a muffled spray.

All in all, I think it's a better song now. It's going to be really hard to not keep tweaking it forever, though. I usually don't do much with the songs I record; two, maybe three or four tracks. But every so often I'll start working on something and wind up opening Pandora's Music Box of endless (and likely needless) ideas.

Anyhow, thanks for the feedback. Here's the new Folded Fox.

Folded Fox

Taken by a feverish fit of fabricative faculties, I finally finished the finer facets of a song I'd been working on since Fune. Ahem, June.

Folded Fox.

Technically, I came up with the guitar part close to a year ago, but didn't set any words to it until the infamous Bummer Summer of '07. It's by far the most revised song I've recorded yet, I'd say. The lyrics got redrafted around 7 times, and I'm sure they'll still continue to be tweaked (the middle section is especially wonky to me).

Spurred on by some recent flurries, I had been listening to one of my first recorded songs, "First Snow of the Year," (I know that sounds really self-absorbed...I just get really into retracing my steps), which I still think is one of my personal favorites. It had a very warm, analog sound to it due to a space heater being on during recording, and it's a sound that I like a lot. I wanted "Fold Fox" to have some sorta soft chugging sound to it, so I kept all the tracks going even when they weren't being used, so there'd be a dose of white noise in there. Sounds okay, I can't really tell if it works. Some of the lyrics aren't half bad, but I can never judge this sorta thing.

At least it's done. I have three or four songs from the summer still unfinished, a hopefully dwarfing number, as I'd really like to make good on that "I'm gonna write some happy songs now" claim.

Alarum

Last night:

Commenced busking circa 7:00 pm. Just wanted to go out for a while, wind down, get my mind off stupid things. Played John Prine song "Speed of the Sound of Lonelyness" (sic) and Elliott Smith's "Pretty (Ugly Before)" for the first time. The latter was pretty popular. Also debuted "Hands & Knees", something of my own I've been tweaking. All was good with the world. Money was made. Somebody even gave me a 20 (though they swapped it with some singles from my guitar case).

Around 9:15, decided I was tired. One more song. Finish whatever it is I'm playing, then I'll wrap it up with "Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands." I hear a little ruckus going on at the ticket counter behind me, but mostly ignore it. "He's allowed to be playing here" seeps through. I ignore. I play. I get interrupted by clatter on the dividing bars behind me.

"Hey, buddy."

Great. A cop. Scratch that, two cops.

I've dealt with this before. He'll tell me to go away, I'll act like a snot and end up packing, then wishing I'd played it cooler when I think back on it later. So I take a deep breath. I will be cool. I won't act like a douche.

"What's up, man?" I ask, totally chill, friend to the world and all its creatures.

"Look man, I'm not gonna tell you you can't play here, but you gotta be at least 50 feet from the ticket booth. Move around the corner."

"Why, is it poisonous?"

"What?"

"Is the booth poisonous?"

"No. Why?"

"Why can't I be this close?"

"Look, it's the rule."

"Okay, that's cool. I'm not trying to argue, it's just I've either been told to pack it up or nothing at all. I haven't heard the booth thing before."

"Well, it's the rule."

"Okay. Man. That's just weird. Have you ever been down here before? People play in this spot all the time."

"How old are you?"

"Huh?"

"How old are you?"

"I...uh, I think that's neither here nor there."

"Just tell me how old you are."

"30, let's say."

A blank look. The beginnings of a protesting response. I chime in:

"All right, I'm 24."

"You're 24? I've been working this area for six years, so I don't need you to school me on what goes on down here."

"Okay, I --"

"You're not supposed to play so close."

"Okay. I've been playing here for two years, this is what I do, and I'm not arguing, all I'm saying is people play in this spot and this spot alone down here, so I'm --"

"You wanna see the rule?"

"I'd love to."

"It's upstairs in my car. You wanna go upstairs?"

I get the implication. "No, on second thought, I'm comfortable here."

Pause. Pretty long. Me:

"So, this is a pretty interesting stand-off we have here."

"There's no stand-off."

Pause. I finally begin to pack up to migrate "around the corner". Figures that no trains have come to take my audience away in like 10 minutes, so they're seeing all of this. Cop:

"You should do your research. Look up the rule."

As I round the corner: "Yeah, I'll be sure to do that."

I unpack almost literally next to the track, because the platform shrinks greatly after the booth area. As I'm sorting my harps, my peripheral vision picks up the cop's partner stalking up to me. Double great. Cop 2:

"Hey, I gotta say: he defended you. The station master reported you, and he (his partner) defended you. He didn't have to do that."

"Okay, it didn't really come off as a defense --"

"And you acted like a dick. He defended you and you acted like a dick to him."

"Well, I'm sorry, but--"

"That's all I'm saying."

"Wait. Think about it. Think about who I am, and who you are. I'm not used to someone like you defending someone like me, so I'm sorry if I didn't pick up on it, but it seems like he--"

"He defended you and you acted like a dick."

"Well, tell him I appreciate it."

Cop 2 strolls off, muttering under his breath.

I pause. Fumble with my guitar until the train of salvation removes my onlookers and leaves me alone. Then I go home.

But it's not over. With my newfound information, I cross to the ticket booth, knock lightly on the window, and wish the elderly man who's working in there a mildly sarcastic good night. As I move away, he emerges:

"Hey, wait!"

"What's up?"

"I want to let you know I think you're the most talented person down here. He made me report you!"

"Who did?"

"The station master! He made me do it! I like having you down here. All the other guys are broken records. You're the only good one."

"Well, thanks, man."

"It depends on what station master's working. No one's consistent. I say, 'is he allowed to play down here or no?' He says it's a volume issue."

"Weird. I've never heard that before...I've been down here two years."

"Yeah, I've been down here for four months. You're really great, I just wanted to let you know. It wasn't my choice."

"Well, thanks. What's your name?"

"Ed."

We shake, somewhat uncomfortably.

"Ed. I'm Rob. Nice to meet you. Have a good night."

"You too, Rob."

Gone.

What the hell? What's wrong with me? I really tried hard not to be an asshole to those guys, but I really hate cops. I hate misplaced, ridiculously machismo authority figures. It makes me sick. But here this guy defends me because the station master doesn't want me there at all, and I rattle on and act like the unavoidable douche, driving his help away. THEN I learn that even the booth guy didn't want to kick me out. Geez! If I'd only left when I had the instinct, the whole thing could've been avoided. The rest of my evening found me dwelling on the way I treat people, and how it could stand some serious improvement.

All day I'd been fretting over the dumbest personal stuff, basically being self-absorbed for no good reason, only to have the only actual impact I had on the world for the day be an overall negative one. If that makes sense. Basically, to use lame gym teacher speak, I need an attitude adjustment.

I tried keeping that in mind today. Remaining understanding at all times, or making that the challenge, at any rate. Not easy in customer service. Then I tried applying it to the annoying personal stuff. Still working on that...thankfully, there is no shortage of reasonable distractions at the moment.

it's alive.

Though the cost of the operation is to be forever resented, my reel-to-reel recorder has been brought back to the land of the living, to the elation of the general populous.

I originally purchased the tape recorder during the summer of 2004 (the original Bummer Summer, for those in the know), when songs were running wild and I needed desperately to document each sighting. I'd also procured an incredibly nice electric piano from my friend Kelley who needed a place to store it for the summer, so much of the aforementioned sightings involved me attempting to play things on an instrument I know very little about.

A couple songs that evolved from this era are "Lifeboat Violin" and "The Fly," both of which are on my .mac page. Most everything else I'd totally forgotten about. It had been an infuriating year and a half knowing there were songs sleeping in this AKAI sarcophagus with no reasonable means of rousing them due to a broken motor.

To be totally candid, a great majority of these forgotten "jems" were recorded while I was drunk after a long night of work at Legal Seafood. They're also not quite the jems that a year and a half of mythologizing had led me to believe they were, but I'm nonetheless always fascinated to hear my older recordings and see what things about my process have changed or remained the same. I guess I weigh out the work of actual recording artists in much the same way. Growth has always interested me. There seems to be a fair amount of really nice instincts I had initially that I've buried, and also a lot of pretentious inventions that deserved that fate. Raises the question: is growth really growth?

Most of the songs on my tapes are very small fragments that seem too devoid of context to make any sense, but a few are decent. "Angel Post" is the first real piano-based song I've written, and I still sorta like the very elementary melody it has. I was most interested in this character/confessional song about an old west pastor whose family all died during the process of building a chapel, all of which is of course chalked up to the wisdom of God. Not my outlook on things at all, hence it being a character song. I'm not sure how long it is, as there's no clock/timer mechanism on the reel-to-reel, but I think it must be around 12-15 minutes long, which is pretty crazy considering it was entirely improvised, and most of it involves lyrics (though, to be fair, there are some non-rhyming verses in there).

I don't have splicing tape. In a notorious incident dating back two years, cranberry juice found its way onto the recorder and soaked my tape. Thankfully, this didn't destroy anything, but it did make the tape sticky, and eventually caused it to snap in three different places. Not a big deal for tape like this, since it can be spliced together. Cue first sentence in this paragraph. Until that happens, my apartment will continue to be a hi-fi jungle, lengths of audio tape dangling from my cabinets like vines in an attempt at organizing them into some kind of order. I can already see this being something that never gets amended.