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Thursday, January 17, 2002
TIMES SQUARE
I'm aware that this record I'm making, and the book I'm writing for that matter, may be good enough, and I now have maybe enough friends that if I work them hard enough, I might no longer need a day job. I have a chance, over the next year or so, to make my life mean something to other people than the ones I happen to meet and get in the face of personally. What making a difference ultimately means, I only have the slightest idea. I walk to work through Times Square every morning. There are hordes of people, a literal sea of humanity surging down the streets, stopping traffic and overpowering everything with their sheer numbers and relentless energy. It's a wonderful thing to behold. Every single one of these people not only has a story, but they get their kicks, they eat and think more than they'd admit about sex and watch movies and indulge in their vices and wish for more out of their lives than they've got and sacrifice more of their time, energy and money than they'd like, just to get on in the world. The cool thing about Times Square is that among these people, even early in the morning, you have tourists mixed in with them. They're looking up at everything, and many of them have made a little something for themselves, they come from the rest of the world and are here to enjoy the fruits of their labors. Some of them have spent their life savings to get and be here, knowing that to see the glamour of New York City is some of the proverbial More that they've been working so hard for, back wherever they came from. And even living here, it is glamourous. At least, I still feel it. The sheen of the world still glances off the every-square-inchness of the billboards and the old Paramount building looking over the Square like a benevolent old headmaster, and the energy that's naturally here still gives everything that rosy, utopian glow. Some of the tourists are obviously a bit better off than those who are spending their two weeks' vacation here. Whether they live up on Central Park West and are just picking up a few things for their next weekend shot over to Brussels, or the children of some highfalutin executive are running around the city like it's their own private Toys R Us, these people don't fall in step with the working people or even the regular turistas. They flit about, bags three-deep in each hand, smiling transparently at everything, and manage to find cabs when all around them cannot. (It's a genuine gift, and in this town, a marketable skill.) I pay way more attention to these people these days. I wonder how they got to that point in their lives that the sense of entitlement they feel is so ingrained that even this city, bigger than anyone in it, does not dwarf their sense of self. I wonder how they managed to achieve their station in life, and if I might ever get the chance to do something other than scrape by, making a decent wage in a place where a decent wage is enough to live on and not much else. I wonder how so many are able to genuinely make their mark on the world, or at least dance across the face of it. I wonder if I can ever become one of those people myself. I still think it's possible. If one great song, or one great album, can do it, then I can do it. I just have to, well, you know.
Wednesday, January 16, 2002
IRONY IS STILL DEAD, RIGHT? RIGHT?
The Super Bowl telecast this year is going to be a tribute to America (because really, none of the other Super Bowls that have ever been played and telecast around the world to the teeming hungry billions over the decades have had anything whatsoever to do with flag waving and Gee Ain't The USA Great, now have they, nope, not that I can remember). In this time of national crisis, it is especially important that we all come together in the spirit of unity and togetherness that the Super Bowl (and the Olympics, next month's patriotitism-for-the-world sporting hoedown; March we have college basketball, in April baseball starts, we're good for a while) brings to all families, be they white, black, asian, latino, or white, be they nuclear or dysfunctional, be they rich, or not so rich, or even poor, be they urban, rural or especially suburban, and bond, yes, bond beneath the red, white & blue flying above all our houses in loving tribute to those who have given and continue to give their lives and freedoms so that we can sit home and choke our proverbial pretzels while one group of rich steroided oxen plows repeatedly into another differently-attired herd for greater cultural glory, richer advertising contracts in years to come, and oh yes, our collective enjoyment. And while we hunker down at 8:00 in the blessed a.m. to put together the proper spread and make sure we have enough onion dip, Cool Ranch Dorito's and Country Club Malt Liquor on ice to get us and our pals through the long day ahead, we can listen to the musical acts that will serenade us, tug at the tender strings of our patriotic little hearts, and stir us into a jingoistic fervor not seen since, well, ever. They're going to have America's greatest nutcase diva not currently in der cuckoohaus (and also not otherwise booked), Mariah Carey, sing the national anthem, and if there's one song that having a 9-octave range will serve her well singing, that is definitely it. Expect stellar performances from Mary J. Blige, Marc Anthony, Barry Manilow (YES! Do ''Mandy''!) and they'll be joined by those other three great American performers, Paul McCartney, The Barenaked Ladies, and U2. Now, I got nothing against any of the non-U.S. born artists. In fact, far as I care, those three acts will be the best part of the music portions of the show. (Oh, maybe except for Manilow.) And really, far be it from me to insinuate that my old buds the Barenaked Ladies don't belong there, or that I'm not proud as hell that they'll be playing for the biggest audience on the planet. But the fact that the organizers felt the need to celebrate how great America was by booking, let's see, an Englishman, an Irish band, and a Canadian band to play this superUSAfest doesn't quite seem in tune with the message they seem to be trying to convey, is all. You don't have to go to Lee Greenwood, who turns as many people off as on with his Civil War Uniform Helms-Buchanan schtick. What about Dave Matthews? What about Lenny Kravitz? Mellencamp's got a new album out. Pink could do her Let's Get The Party Started song that's all over the place right now. It'd be a blast. What about Aretha Franklin or Gladys Knight or Willie Nelson? Where's Ricky Martin? (Hey, where is Ricky Martin?) I'm not second-guessing, really. Well, okay, maybe I am. But by leading with Hey, ain't this country great as your stated theme for the Super Bowl and then the best acts you book, your marquee acts, the actual reasons a lot of non-sports fans are going to watch, are all foreigners, well, it's just a little funny. That said, McCartney and the BNL basically live here now, and U2 does happen to be the biggest band in the world. But still. The one message I get from all of this (and maybe it's the message they wanted to send out in the first place) is that in reality it is non-Americans are who truly Make America Great. (Note: Dorito's is a trademark of the Pepsico Corporation.)
Tuesday, January 15, 2002
OKAY, HERE'S ONE.
First off, I don't spend much time looking through my referral logs. I find they don't show me much that I didn't already know. You know why you're here, don't you? That's good enough for me, for the most part. (Now, I'd be lying if I said I didn't care completely. There is a little counter there in the corner down there, 'tis true. But really, it's not that important. I'm not in the information gathering business, least as far as this page goes.) But every once in a while, I find something interesting. Like this. Last week, on Fark, they were having a contest to find the shortest search phrase that when typed into Google, would only return one result. Well, someone found this site, and only this one site, looking for, of all things, "trailer parks of alabama." Now you'd think someone else, somewhere out in the online megaverse, would have mentioned such a thing. I don't think it's reinforcing much of an unfair stereotype to state that Alabama has within its borders many, many trailer parks, and I coulda swore said parks were the stuff of legend. I was actually listening to Lewis Black ranting about them yesterday at length, in fact. But someone (maybe you?) was looking for them, and their search led to me, and only to me. Not only do I seriously doubt this site had what they were looking for, but I hope they figured out a way to rephrase their search to find whatever the hell it was they actually were seeking. I hope they learned their lesson. Whatever the hell their lesson might have been. Anyway. Time to climb out of my haystack, pack up my needle and go off to work.
Monday, January 14, 2002
THE NEXT BIG GRIND
I'm finding it so hard to focus on news and world events these days. Maybe it's because there doesn't feel like any. Bush's little invasion into the old world to get Osama, or as I've started hearing him called from non-satirists now, "the new Hitler," is in the process of failing (He may have already escaped, which should surprise exactly no one). The heroes are still heroes, the traitors are still traitors, and maybe the whole meet-the-new-boss same-as-the-old-boss front-page monotony is dragging my interest level in what the hell's going on in the rest of the world down. (This Enron debacle is going to be a big deal, though, especially the Bush administration loses their little game of who-knew-what-when.) Maybe I'm just preoccupied with other things right now. I've been listening to the new scratch tracks for the record, and the songs are pretty good, all told. Okay, fine, some of them suck. But there's 18 or 19 songs that are redeemable. I'm going to try writing at least two bluegrass songs this week. Not only is it a good exercise anyways, it'll keep my mind off the headlines that aren't saying anything anyways. (The news-apathy will change, any minute now.)
Sunday, January 13, 2002
FISH SIZE vs. POND SIZE
My excellent friend Kate had a less than perfect experience with the Godfather of antifolk and the central evening of the East Village songwriting scene last Monday. (And I'm only getting around to mentioning it now. I know, I know.) Thing is, in her rant (read her rant and come back - it's worth it, and I'll wait), she's not wrong. The New York Antifolk scene is a cloistered clusterfuck of bitter people who for the most part don't interact in any good way with each other, led by a delusional self-obsessed man from a little red planet. Okay, I'll give Kate that much. But isn't that how the whole world is, sometimes? I know this is a feeble defence, but - what kind of person goes into songwriting, or performing, in the first place? Laches are everywhere, predatory, unaware of their effect, uninterested in what doesn't apply to them. And if you as a performer are truly well-adjusted and comfortable inside of yourself, then you don't knock yourself out. You don't forego sleep, sanity and global perspective to sit in a dark smoky room listening to dozens of other performers do varying degrees of shitty music before you get up and play a song or two of your own to the chairs, hoping to suck less than whoever came before or after. The Antihoot is an open mike, and a popular one at that. Of course it's openly corrupt and stale. Of course Lach plays favorites. He's been doing this for going on twenty years now. I'd love to say it was better a couple of years ago when I started hanging out there, but I can't say that it was. I happened to make a few friends there and put together a pretty good band, most of whom I still hang out with, and we've all stopped meeting there and moved into other nights, other clubs, other situations, hopefully at least marginally better ones. But I have this - this problem. It's partly the need for validation for my existence on this earth, it's partly the need for attention, it's partly because I'm so damned shy that singing in bands is a bit of an icebreaker around strangers. It's cool to have a light shine in your face and sing something you wrote and have people clap for you every three minutes or so. But I know better than to think I'm doing this to set a good example for anyone. I do my best, but I'm as flawed as Lach or anyone at the Monday night antihoot is. Anyone who's genuinely happy isn't torturing and demeaning themselves by knocking themselves out in music (certainly not for the money I'm seeing from this so far). Those who find happiness, genuine cosmic happiness, at some point disappear from the lives of the uncool as if called up into heaven, and sure their art starts to suck, but oh, they sleep sweetly at night like little children.
BOOTY CALL
I didn't get a huge amount of presents for my birthday this year (which was fine, because one, I didn't get nobody anything for their birthdays or Christmas over the last year or so myself, and two, aside from the fact that I have for the most part a pretty excellent circle of friends for whom I'm damned grateful, the only two gifts I really care about are getting the book and now the album finished, and thems is on their way), but I had to mention the excellent dinner I had with a disturbing number of my closest friends at the Gould Finch (it was not cheap, and I feel both wrong to tax my friends like that and extremely grateful that they did), and more importantly to this note, the loot I got from Jon Berger. He brought me a homemade Christmas stocking (Jon's Jewish; no, I have no idea) containing: * A shuttlecock hacky sack, with multicolored plumage (perfect for the next Phish concert! Hey, when is the next Phish concert, anyway?)Now, even given that most of this stuff (maybe all of it) was picked off his apartment floor during a big cleaning jag (Jon's a bit of a packrat with a large apartment in a not-so-great neighborhood; no, I have never been there), and it is worth noting that some things have been used (the Pez dispenser, for example, had a single multivitamin wedged into the inside of it), even so ... there is a lot of cool crap here. Especially, as I said, I haven't been terribly generous myself. (Jon's birthday was two weeks ago. Shit.) Now I have to be a whaddyawhaddya, a model citizen or something just to keep my karma in line. Jon, you have my private thanks for being so gracious and wonderful. Accept my public thanks as well.
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