Another cycle 'round my sun is complete.
I wonder if I have another 50 left in me.
What does the phrase "The more things change, the more they stay the same" mean?
It means that every situation I encounter is just a variation on another situation, with the faces, times, places, and contexts different. Here I stand, above the waters that swirl below me, seeing human drama and strife played out in the most ordinary of ways. The players playing parts all seek something, and are constantly searching. Some incapable of love, others addicted to it. I see the musical chairs, revolving doors, and spirited debates and arguments, and I choose to rise not partake. I choose to observe. The more things change, the more I stay the same.
You see, this one loves that one,
this one hates that one,
this one uses this one,
this one uses that one.
There's nothing else to it, at its most primal level.
Once in awhile, someone will pluck me underneath the waters, and I will gasp and claw upward toward air.
I will circle around, swirl amongst those who haven't seen what real priorities are, what a moral compass does to one's self, or how a quick fix spells demise.
We all lie to each other down there - we mislead, spin, employ games and devices and machines - to either gain someone, lose someone, or use someone.
We fight currents that have existed for centuries. Currents that are currently still current.
Yet I never seem to stay down there, and I've grown to almost detest being down there. Down in the depths. Swirling in cycling seas. Searching.
I'm easy to find. Just look up. And there is much, much more to me than meets the eye.
I've grown so accustomed to being solo, in all respects, to being up here above the waters, that when someone pulls me down, and I narrowly escape, it's alot worse than if I had already been down there.
Others used to join me up here, but slowly I see each one of them below, and perhaps the human experience is based on such happenings: I am up here because I do not want to be there, and I have chosen not to be there, and chosen to be here, if that makes sense.
The more things change, the more I stay the same.
The more the themes remain the same.
I am destined to love. To have a family. To share. From up here.
A clean slate is not a blank slate.
It means I've wiped it off.
Then I washed my hands, rubbed my brow, and picked it up again.
July 30, 2007
2240 Miles, 45 Hours, 5 Days Later Part III
...is not really going to happen. Sorry.
North Manchester was great, flat, quiet, and the ride home was exhausting and tedious, but worth it. That's about it.
I haven't written in so long. I had played the Knitting Factory Main Stage a week and a half ago, I played another show at the Back Fence and another at Wicked Willy's too.
There's alot of things I would have wanted to say in here, events to discuss, situations playing out, struggles, frustrations, etc., it is best I think to start anew. Clean slate.
North Manchester was great, flat, quiet, and the ride home was exhausting and tedious, but worth it. That's about it.
I haven't written in so long. I had played the Knitting Factory Main Stage a week and a half ago, I played another show at the Back Fence and another at Wicked Willy's too.
There's alot of things I would have wanted to say in here, events to discuss, situations playing out, struggles, frustrations, etc., it is best I think to start anew. Clean slate.
July 20, 2007
2240 Miles, 45 Hours, 5 Days Later Part II
Back in Brooklyn, ready to go to Buffalo.
I had decided awhile back that I would rent a car to go to Buffalo, and spent almost a month doing extensive research on what would be needed when I rented. A major credit card, a valid driver's license, and enough credit on the credit card to cover the initial cost of the rental. So, I now have my first major credit card, a Visa, with a very moderate-sized credit limit. I never had one before because I heard nothing but horror stories and bad things about them, and I also never thought I had the credit to actually go ahead with it. Anyways, there's a world of unknown when starting anything new, but I was confident with arranging my ride to Buffalo - credit card + Avis rentals + $$$ = comfort and ease on my trip.
I got up early on Thursday to go to Avis and pick up my rental. I had forgotten to pay off my credit card the night before so it would be clear for today, so I just called and made a payment. I was told, however, that this payment would not be seen until the next day. Therefore, the funds needed to be held on my credit card would not be there, and it would be declined. By tomorrow, I would need to be in Indiana. They also did not take debit cards here in NYC, like they do at home, so I was really in trouble here. I had no way to get home, it was 8am, and Elliot was supposed to come with. I started to panic. My heart racing, saying to myself "think John!"out loud, I started to feel like this trip just might not happen after all. Or, at least, I would be going alone. I decided to run home and talk to Elliot about options. I tend to think better when discussing with people than on myself mulling something over. It's not dumping on them, it's more using discussion to help channel nervous energy into solutions.
I could take a train home to Buffalo, and I looked at Amtrak. Completely sold out. I could take a bus home, and those left at 11am, all the way at 42nd st, not very close to me. They were also enormously expensive. Lastly was a plane from JFK, and that, too, was incredibly expensive, but more doable, seeing that its only 90 minutes to Buffalo in the air. All of these scenarios would mean my mother would need to pick me up from the airport, bus terminal, or train station, and I'm sure she would not be pleased about that. Not to mention, I was still unsure about the possibility of renting a car once I even GOT to Buffalo, given all the red tape and uncertainty. The other looming possibility was to just not go. But, my mother had switched her day off from work, and countless other people were already planning on coming to see me in Buffalo to play. What to do. What to do.
After explaining to Elliot how a rental car is booked (which is hard for anyone to wrap their mind around - I don't think the workers know the process even), he said he had a credit card that should cover the hold, and I would then pay in cash when we returned it. We decided we would go ahead with this option, as it seemed like it could work. If it wasn't possible, I would just fly home, and rent a car in Buffalo. I would also have to play the shows solo if I had to fly.
I'm a firm believer that stress is caused by, at least in one way, by either the lack of or perception of lack of options in any given situation. Knowing that only one way will possibly work for a particular situation is the direct cause of angst and tension. However, knowing that there are at least two options, that very notion, immediately relaxes pulses, returns bleathing to only slightly elevated, and widens one's perspective. Feeling more relaxed, knowing I would find a way, we departed for the Avis location in downtown Brooklyn.
We were given the rental car without incident, and my corporate discount from my hospital was a great help, giving us unlimited miles, and waiving the fee for being under 25. We now had a brand new PT Cruiser, in a wonderful blue-green color, and a world of driving ahead.
After scrambling home, we quickly got ready, and left at 11am. If we hauled ass, we could get home by 6pm, and have a minute to catch our breath, and then play. We were armed with a portable DVD player, two laptops with internet connection, two iPods, and Sirius Satellite Radio. Plenty of things to distract, entertain, and keep me going I think. We had to stop more than I normally would, since we left in such a frenzy, so we had to arrive in Buffalo much later. A GPS device we got from the rental company made the navigation of the trip very easy. After dropping Elliot at home, I arrived in Buffalo at 7pm, 30 minutes before I was slated to play the show. My mother was home, and had her nurse friend and her husband over. She had bought some clothes for me, and had them laid out so I could quickly change. I had wanted to get dinner with her and my sister, but I just wasn't able to anymore. I left in a flash, and arrives at Caz Coffee Cafe at 7:15am.
I hadn't seen Debbie, the owner, since I left Buffalo last year. Since then, I heard she had the unfortunate news of learning her sickness had returned, and she would need further treatment. When I saw her, she looked so full of life, but very thin, and her bandana undoubtedly was covering signs of chemotherapy. It was great to see her, and she give me a big hug and a kiss, saying how glad she was that I was there. I also saw some of the staff that used to work open mics when i played. The Caz hadn't changed much, and if anything, looked that much nicer than I remember it. There was now wonderful artwork everywhere by local artists, and I felt that it really had a wonderful home in South Buffalo.
Mendez was late since I asked him to buy some extra guitar strings for me, since I still had broken ones from my Maine trip. I set up some of the sound equipment, and then just waited for him to arrive. Debbie did not mind that I started late, as she knew the big crowds that always turn out to see me in Buffalo. So Mike showed up, we set up the sound, and we were off and running...
As I was getting equipment out though, a man was sitting in the room I was about to play in with some friends and family of his. I bought out the gigantic speaker we use to play out of, and he looked at me and said "You don't really have to use those in HERE, do you?" It kind of rubbed me the wrong way, and I just smiled and said, "Yeah, we sure do." He then asked me the standard questions, "So what kind of music do you play?" "What does it sound like?" "Where are you from?" which I am very used to at this point. I think those questions function for only a small amount of reasons.
First, they can be sincere and out of genuine curiosity about who I am, what I do, and why I do it. I meet this line of questioning with honesty and sincerity right back, and I welcome people who take a vested interest in who I am as a player. These type of people tend to stay at the shows for awhile, and then leave after a set or two, grab my business card, and apologize for ducking out early. I have hope they ultimately would come back to see me, but who knows.
Second, there is the people who ask me those things as a line of questioning, almost as if I was filling out an application for the opportunity to entertain them. If I don't say the right combination of influences or styles, they brush me off. If my life story isn't as compelling or dramatic as others, they usually leave before I begin. The inquisition I am under is usually done destructively, and I sense that music snobs often take such roles, feeling that someone with talent couldn't POSSIBLY be playing at the local coffeehouse in South Buffalo. I say destructively, because I sense that they're looking for a way to duck out, and way to unplug from the connection a performer makes, and any reason to hate. These are the tough sells, the types I have to be on my A-game around. When I am, they will stay for the entire set, and they will be more impressed than the sincere passer-by I described above. You've taken them on a journey if you've impressed them, bringing them all the way from the extreme of "here we go again, you're gonna cover Tom Petty," all the way to "holy shit, this is great, I can't leave." They're the people that become die hard fans, if you can swing it with your performance, because you take them to a place they love beinf. The way they felt when they first heard "Tommy" by The Who, or the wonder they felt walking into the Rock-N-Roll Hall of Fame for the first time. If you can touch these people, you have succeeded that night.
This guy at the Caz was the "destructive" asker. I could tell just by his tone. He was readying himself to be annoyed and uncomfortable, and ready to leave after the first song. As much as it pissed me off, it also challenged me. Every stage is a new task, a new feat to accomplish, and being at my old stomping grounds would be no different tonight.
I rocked it, in a more folky way. I've learned that screaming and loudness do not equal depth, and decided to hold back some on my songs, opting to reach out to people's sense of love, truth, and space. Space gives us the opportunity to think, and makes mundane things interesting. Much in the same way that baseball is so dramatic, or the way an open G chord, with the proper space, can entrance someone. I played with this space, and I could tell it was working. There was not a peep out of the entire crowd, less the blender in the other room making smoothies for my friends and family. I played my new song for everyone, and I could tell people got it. I could tell people in the audience were either engaged or newly single, and "Ophelia" touches on all that with its message.
Anyways, the set went on, and I played well, and took a break when Elliot arrived to set up his kit for a neat little set we were to put on. He had modified percussion, drums without the "drums" really - the parts of the drums I love, but without the loud, cutting noises and expectations that drums carry with them. The drums would be an extention of my guitar, and subsequently, of my voice. The vocal is the center, which moves all other things with it, and I've learned to embrace that. I used to think the melody moved it, but it's more the actual voice. Sorry, abstract singer/songwriter-type jargon. The point is, we were going to explore the space, and prop up the acoustic guitar to give it the flight to help the vocal out, aiding in dynamics, and keeping a rhythm people can bob their heads to.
We played well, and played off each other well. People really enjoyed it, and were saying how interesting the space was with just the guitar, vocal, and drums. Debbie was happy to have us, and had a great night of business at the Caz. All my friends came out, some of their parents too, and stayed the entire night. My family was there as well, and we all decided to go to my favorite bar back home, Doc Sullivan's, for the best wings in the city, as well as the wonderful drinks and people.
I started to pack up my things, now around 11pm or so, after playing for 3+ hours, when a felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the guy who had asked me all those questions, the one I labeled as a dick; he had stayed the entire time, and I hadn't noticed. His family and friends had also stayed. He shook my hand, and had really genuine things to say, and wished me well. He wanted my card, and said he was sure to buy my new CD that is coming out. He told me how he wasn't planning on staying, but he really liked what I was doing, so he and his family decided to make a night of it. It was a wonderful moment, and I was hoping it would turn out that way.
_______________________
Doc's was hopping, as usual. The drinks flowed, the wings were fried, and I had a great time talking with my friends and family. It was as if I never left; home is a place you never really "leave." You just notice you're there from time to time, wherever you are in the world or life.
I drove Elliot home, and headed back, my eyes burning from the sweat earlier draining into them. They would be red for the remainder of the weekend, but it didn't matter. A good trip home, touching people by song. That's what is rewarding for me. That is what home is.
Evening passed, and morning came. Saturday.
More on North Manchester, Indiana tomorrow. Stay tuned.
I had decided awhile back that I would rent a car to go to Buffalo, and spent almost a month doing extensive research on what would be needed when I rented. A major credit card, a valid driver's license, and enough credit on the credit card to cover the initial cost of the rental. So, I now have my first major credit card, a Visa, with a very moderate-sized credit limit. I never had one before because I heard nothing but horror stories and bad things about them, and I also never thought I had the credit to actually go ahead with it. Anyways, there's a world of unknown when starting anything new, but I was confident with arranging my ride to Buffalo - credit card + Avis rentals + $$$ = comfort and ease on my trip.
I got up early on Thursday to go to Avis and pick up my rental. I had forgotten to pay off my credit card the night before so it would be clear for today, so I just called and made a payment. I was told, however, that this payment would not be seen until the next day. Therefore, the funds needed to be held on my credit card would not be there, and it would be declined. By tomorrow, I would need to be in Indiana. They also did not take debit cards here in NYC, like they do at home, so I was really in trouble here. I had no way to get home, it was 8am, and Elliot was supposed to come with. I started to panic. My heart racing, saying to myself "think John!"out loud, I started to feel like this trip just might not happen after all. Or, at least, I would be going alone. I decided to run home and talk to Elliot about options. I tend to think better when discussing with people than on myself mulling something over. It's not dumping on them, it's more using discussion to help channel nervous energy into solutions.
I could take a train home to Buffalo, and I looked at Amtrak. Completely sold out. I could take a bus home, and those left at 11am, all the way at 42nd st, not very close to me. They were also enormously expensive. Lastly was a plane from JFK, and that, too, was incredibly expensive, but more doable, seeing that its only 90 minutes to Buffalo in the air. All of these scenarios would mean my mother would need to pick me up from the airport, bus terminal, or train station, and I'm sure she would not be pleased about that. Not to mention, I was still unsure about the possibility of renting a car once I even GOT to Buffalo, given all the red tape and uncertainty. The other looming possibility was to just not go. But, my mother had switched her day off from work, and countless other people were already planning on coming to see me in Buffalo to play. What to do. What to do.
After explaining to Elliot how a rental car is booked (which is hard for anyone to wrap their mind around - I don't think the workers know the process even), he said he had a credit card that should cover the hold, and I would then pay in cash when we returned it. We decided we would go ahead with this option, as it seemed like it could work. If it wasn't possible, I would just fly home, and rent a car in Buffalo. I would also have to play the shows solo if I had to fly.
I'm a firm believer that stress is caused by, at least in one way, by either the lack of or perception of lack of options in any given situation. Knowing that only one way will possibly work for a particular situation is the direct cause of angst and tension. However, knowing that there are at least two options, that very notion, immediately relaxes pulses, returns bleathing to only slightly elevated, and widens one's perspective. Feeling more relaxed, knowing I would find a way, we departed for the Avis location in downtown Brooklyn.
We were given the rental car without incident, and my corporate discount from my hospital was a great help, giving us unlimited miles, and waiving the fee for being under 25. We now had a brand new PT Cruiser, in a wonderful blue-green color, and a world of driving ahead.
After scrambling home, we quickly got ready, and left at 11am. If we hauled ass, we could get home by 6pm, and have a minute to catch our breath, and then play. We were armed with a portable DVD player, two laptops with internet connection, two iPods, and Sirius Satellite Radio. Plenty of things to distract, entertain, and keep me going I think. We had to stop more than I normally would, since we left in such a frenzy, so we had to arrive in Buffalo much later. A GPS device we got from the rental company made the navigation of the trip very easy. After dropping Elliot at home, I arrived in Buffalo at 7pm, 30 minutes before I was slated to play the show. My mother was home, and had her nurse friend and her husband over. She had bought some clothes for me, and had them laid out so I could quickly change. I had wanted to get dinner with her and my sister, but I just wasn't able to anymore. I left in a flash, and arrives at Caz Coffee Cafe at 7:15am.
I hadn't seen Debbie, the owner, since I left Buffalo last year. Since then, I heard she had the unfortunate news of learning her sickness had returned, and she would need further treatment. When I saw her, she looked so full of life, but very thin, and her bandana undoubtedly was covering signs of chemotherapy. It was great to see her, and she give me a big hug and a kiss, saying how glad she was that I was there. I also saw some of the staff that used to work open mics when i played. The Caz hadn't changed much, and if anything, looked that much nicer than I remember it. There was now wonderful artwork everywhere by local artists, and I felt that it really had a wonderful home in South Buffalo.
Mendez was late since I asked him to buy some extra guitar strings for me, since I still had broken ones from my Maine trip. I set up some of the sound equipment, and then just waited for him to arrive. Debbie did not mind that I started late, as she knew the big crowds that always turn out to see me in Buffalo. So Mike showed up, we set up the sound, and we were off and running...
As I was getting equipment out though, a man was sitting in the room I was about to play in with some friends and family of his. I bought out the gigantic speaker we use to play out of, and he looked at me and said "You don't really have to use those in HERE, do you?" It kind of rubbed me the wrong way, and I just smiled and said, "Yeah, we sure do." He then asked me the standard questions, "So what kind of music do you play?" "What does it sound like?" "Where are you from?" which I am very used to at this point. I think those questions function for only a small amount of reasons.
First, they can be sincere and out of genuine curiosity about who I am, what I do, and why I do it. I meet this line of questioning with honesty and sincerity right back, and I welcome people who take a vested interest in who I am as a player. These type of people tend to stay at the shows for awhile, and then leave after a set or two, grab my business card, and apologize for ducking out early. I have hope they ultimately would come back to see me, but who knows.
Second, there is the people who ask me those things as a line of questioning, almost as if I was filling out an application for the opportunity to entertain them. If I don't say the right combination of influences or styles, they brush me off. If my life story isn't as compelling or dramatic as others, they usually leave before I begin. The inquisition I am under is usually done destructively, and I sense that music snobs often take such roles, feeling that someone with talent couldn't POSSIBLY be playing at the local coffeehouse in South Buffalo. I say destructively, because I sense that they're looking for a way to duck out, and way to unplug from the connection a performer makes, and any reason to hate. These are the tough sells, the types I have to be on my A-game around. When I am, they will stay for the entire set, and they will be more impressed than the sincere passer-by I described above. You've taken them on a journey if you've impressed them, bringing them all the way from the extreme of "here we go again, you're gonna cover Tom Petty," all the way to "holy shit, this is great, I can't leave." They're the people that become die hard fans, if you can swing it with your performance, because you take them to a place they love beinf. The way they felt when they first heard "Tommy" by The Who, or the wonder they felt walking into the Rock-N-Roll Hall of Fame for the first time. If you can touch these people, you have succeeded that night.
This guy at the Caz was the "destructive" asker. I could tell just by his tone. He was readying himself to be annoyed and uncomfortable, and ready to leave after the first song. As much as it pissed me off, it also challenged me. Every stage is a new task, a new feat to accomplish, and being at my old stomping grounds would be no different tonight.
I rocked it, in a more folky way. I've learned that screaming and loudness do not equal depth, and decided to hold back some on my songs, opting to reach out to people's sense of love, truth, and space. Space gives us the opportunity to think, and makes mundane things interesting. Much in the same way that baseball is so dramatic, or the way an open G chord, with the proper space, can entrance someone. I played with this space, and I could tell it was working. There was not a peep out of the entire crowd, less the blender in the other room making smoothies for my friends and family. I played my new song for everyone, and I could tell people got it. I could tell people in the audience were either engaged or newly single, and "Ophelia" touches on all that with its message.
Anyways, the set went on, and I played well, and took a break when Elliot arrived to set up his kit for a neat little set we were to put on. He had modified percussion, drums without the "drums" really - the parts of the drums I love, but without the loud, cutting noises and expectations that drums carry with them. The drums would be an extention of my guitar, and subsequently, of my voice. The vocal is the center, which moves all other things with it, and I've learned to embrace that. I used to think the melody moved it, but it's more the actual voice. Sorry, abstract singer/songwriter-type jargon. The point is, we were going to explore the space, and prop up the acoustic guitar to give it the flight to help the vocal out, aiding in dynamics, and keeping a rhythm people can bob their heads to.
We played well, and played off each other well. People really enjoyed it, and were saying how interesting the space was with just the guitar, vocal, and drums. Debbie was happy to have us, and had a great night of business at the Caz. All my friends came out, some of their parents too, and stayed the entire night. My family was there as well, and we all decided to go to my favorite bar back home, Doc Sullivan's, for the best wings in the city, as well as the wonderful drinks and people.
I started to pack up my things, now around 11pm or so, after playing for 3+ hours, when a felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the guy who had asked me all those questions, the one I labeled as a dick; he had stayed the entire time, and I hadn't noticed. His family and friends had also stayed. He shook my hand, and had really genuine things to say, and wished me well. He wanted my card, and said he was sure to buy my new CD that is coming out. He told me how he wasn't planning on staying, but he really liked what I was doing, so he and his family decided to make a night of it. It was a wonderful moment, and I was hoping it would turn out that way.
_______________________
Doc's was hopping, as usual. The drinks flowed, the wings were fried, and I had a great time talking with my friends and family. It was as if I never left; home is a place you never really "leave." You just notice you're there from time to time, wherever you are in the world or life.
I drove Elliot home, and headed back, my eyes burning from the sweat earlier draining into them. They would be red for the remainder of the weekend, but it didn't matter. A good trip home, touching people by song. That's what is rewarding for me. That is what home is.
Evening passed, and morning came. Saturday.
More on North Manchester, Indiana tomorrow. Stay tuned.
July 16, 2007
2240 Miles, 45 Hours, 5 Days Later Part I
He played no paycheck, he played too many bills
He played a boring life, he played no thrills
He played they don't, they don't, they don't, they don't
He played they don't, they don't, they don't
He played they don't, they don't, they don't
Give a damn
About him
No one's gonna miss him at work today
No one's gonna say, "it's just not the same without what's his name"
No one's gonna miss him at work today
No one's gonna say, "it's just not the same without what's his name"
-Rachel Griffin, Portland, ME
___________________________________________________
Let's start in Maine. My deepest venture into New England, met with anticipation and angst, as I longed to see crashing waves...for lighthouses.
My bus ride up was rather quick. A small stop in Boston, and I was on my way North. The roads leading into Maine are lined with dense pine trees, coming very close to the road. I feel as if I was apart of a expedition into a thick wilderness, where the path was barely cleared by a convoy ahead, and mysteries linger in the Thick. Maine is "good for a weekend - good for a lifetime" it is said, and the rigid pines and hilly roads told me I was headed to a place that had its own way of doing things. I like that - almost the way Buffalo feels, or Ediburgh, Scotland.
I was expecting this grand entrance into Portland, and that certainly was not the case. I was expecting steep sea-cut rocks with waves crashing on them as the wharfs and city buildings co-existed as a product of our nation's love of seafood and our system of capitalism. I foresaw cobblestone streets, victorian street lamps, and weathered faces to be bopping around. Instead, I think I entered into a transitional neighborhood, near the Maine Medical Center. The houses looked disheveled and in need of repair. The people were all out on their front step, watching the cars, and me, pass by. Not exactly the pristine Maine in my head.
Fortunately for me, my Inn that I stayed at is right across the street from the bus terminal. The Inn at St. John's it was called, and it reminded me of living in England. My room was way up on the top floor, and the amenities were very much like living in Manchester. A sink in the room, with an attached toilet room, a nice closet, beautiful bed, and wonderful view. I was excited to sleep in a bed not my own for once, to sleep peacefully.
I arrived with 3 hours to kill before my show. I decided to walk along Congress St., the main drag in Portland, so I was told. The consierge at the Inn had given me a map of Portland, about two feet by 1 foot in size, and told me Congress St. was where all the main sections were located. I started my walk along Congress, and Portland was starting to weird me out. Depressed housing, downtrodden peoples, and little to no signs of culture or arts made me worried this trip might be fruitless. But I kept walking. By the time I arrived around Bramhall St., I noticed little quaint pubs, vintage shops, and other boutiques beginning to pop up. I went into one of the pubs to get a bite to eat and a pint, the Bramhall Pub. It was located in a basement, and its European qualities seemed to be just what I needed. Unfortunately, the bar was blasting old Boston records, smelled of stale beer on the floor, and was filled with much of the same type of people I encountered on my walk up the street. There would be no tourists in this bar, and apparently there was no kitchen either. I had to settle for a pint of local beer, which was tasty. $3.25 too. Shocked at normal drink prices.
Leaving the pub, I decided to enter the Sal-Vo located nearby. They had a crazy record collection in the back, but I think all the hipsters raided through them, because all that was left was obscure Tammy Wynette records and the greatest hits collection of Englebert Humperdink. Or it seemed that way at least. They were about to close, too, so there would be no purchases there, and I would press on towards the city centre.
Crossing over State St. was like entering a new world - the bustling traffic, little art shops, record stores, restraunts, and clubs all seemed to have a place on the blocks I passed. The people changed too, seeming to be more my speed, and I knew this was getting closer to what I had longed to find up North here. I decided to stop in one of the local Mexican restraunts, located next to a really hip coffeehouse. The meal was amazing, a humungous chimichanga with rice and beans and shredded beef - I could not finish it. $15 for the whole meal, too. Nice.
I walked a little further down, but upon inspection of the time, decided to double back towards the Inn and start getting ready for my show. To my surprise, I hadn't really walked all that far, but just uphill. The walk back was nice and quick, and I still had time to relax before my show.
The room was so cozy, and I lay down and watch some episodes of "Top Chef." I never really understood why food needs to be so complex. To me, freshness means goodness, and always will. To make my meal overly complex is to take some of that away, and it will undoubtedly be lost on me. Anyways, I readied myself and called a cab to head out to the show at the Dogfish Bar and Grille.
The Dogfish was also very different than I expected, and the room felt more like a Buffalo bar than I think I initially would have thought. The people were all chatting with the bartender, who knew them all no doubt, but I got the impression that passers-by would be just as welcome. I met the soundguy, and he had a sense of selflessness that was a bit odd, but refreshing. He was glad to be there, but don't ask him too many things, because he's just there to be doing sound. He was excited to hear me play, and that make me feel comfortable.
I can never get used to seeing my picture plastered on a window or wall, and when I walked into the Dogfish, it was no different. But a musician must have an image nowadays, and I think my shot with the UB t-shirt, looking off somewhere will fit just fine. But I digress.
I was hoping that Rachel Griffin would turn up, an INCREDIBLY talented singer and piano player from Portland who I found on MySpace. Her song, "Lighter than Air" is so beautiful and swirling, it is a wonderful example of conveying an image through song. Please look her up sometime.
Well, in terms of the show, it started out slow, with everyone talking and doing their thing while I played. Whenever that happens, I have a big decision to make as a performer. You either meet them at their loudness, rise above it, and make them notice you, or you quietly pour your heart out, and let the word catch on slowly, the way fog creeps in on a cool Sunday morning. I chose the latter. I kept playing slow song after slow song, each time putting my life out there in the hopes that everyone in attendance would stop their conversations and take heed. But they persisted. It wasn't until I played a cover song, much to my dismay, did the room focus more on me. This was the purpose of my entire trip, and therefore, it was important that I was heard by everyone. Once I grabbed them, I never let go. And song after song took hold of the room, and I saw the heads bobbing, the eyes widen, the claps louden, and the whispering begin. A couple in the back of the room moved up to get closer, and a crowd of people entered who starting hooting and hollering after every song. My set ended to much praise, handshakes, and tip-jar-passing. I did okay on tips, and had a dinner entree included in my "fee" for playing. As I sat back listening to other people come up to play, each a little different, some truly excellent, some very new, I began to feel that there was a truth in me I was sharing with the world; that I was slowly and on a small scale telling people what a life is like, what a spirit sounds like in song. I felt accepted into their clan that Wednesday night, I felt respected.
I do not know a single soul in Portland, so when Zuppe walked into the bar, I did a double take! Apparently he was recording someone that night up there, and decided to suprise me and check out my set. Unfortunately, he missed it, and I was eating my dinner when he arrived. It was still really great to see him, and he brought his friend John, a bassist in a well-known Portland band. Open mic was about to wrap up, when one of the local girls shouted out to the host, "We want to hear John again! WOO!" and the whole bar echoed her sentiment. I couldn't really believe it, and after I had broken a string on my guitar, I was definitely not expecting it. The host obliged, and it ended up working out for everyone, as Zuppe got to hear me play, the crowd heard me sing some more, and I felt even more welcomed in a city I was beginning to fall in love with.
After my set, Zuppe and John invited me out with them. We must have went to 5 different bars, never staying too long, seeing bands here and there, and hearing stories from Zuppe on how "the farther North you go, the worse the pussy gets" (direct quote). I didn't know what he was talking about though, because the women there, some of them at least, had an aura about them that intrigued me. John told me about how he works at a radio station, and how the lead singer of his band is a genius and nutjob all at once. I wonder why I can't seem to find the solace others do with being unreasonably off-the-wall. I must maintain a healthy balance and rapoire with my own selves, that I can never let a single part of me take over and start dictating. We stopped at the swanky NYC-style bar, and that's where I started to feel drunk. The beers all hit you at once, you know, and they sock you. I was socked, and ready for bed. Last call, 1:30am, time to cab it home to the Inn.
I plopped into bed, feeling utterly comfortable and satisfied. I felt confident, whole, and looking forward to the days ahead of me.
_________________________________
Waking up the next day, I lay in bed most of the day, less a stroll to the lobby to get a free bagel and orange juice. I missed breakfast, the way the tea smells in the morning, as you squint in the face of the blazing morning sun. Good morning, Maine, how are ya?
Check out was uneventful, as was my bus ride home to New York. I arrived home at night, to spend the evening with Jay shooting the shit and raving about how we needed to go back to Maine as soon as possible. I wish I had left something there that I care about, like my driver's license - to give me an excuse to hop a train and enjoy the Thick.
Evening passed, and morning came. Friday morning.
(More to come about my travels to Buffalo and North Manchester. Stay tuned.)
He played a boring life, he played no thrills
He played they don't, they don't, they don't, they don't
He played they don't, they don't, they don't
He played they don't, they don't, they don't
Give a damn
About him
No one's gonna miss him at work today
No one's gonna say, "it's just not the same without what's his name"
No one's gonna miss him at work today
No one's gonna say, "it's just not the same without what's his name"
-Rachel Griffin, Portland, ME
___________________________________________________
Let's start in Maine. My deepest venture into New England, met with anticipation and angst, as I longed to see crashing waves...for lighthouses.
My bus ride up was rather quick. A small stop in Boston, and I was on my way North. The roads leading into Maine are lined with dense pine trees, coming very close to the road. I feel as if I was apart of a expedition into a thick wilderness, where the path was barely cleared by a convoy ahead, and mysteries linger in the Thick. Maine is "good for a weekend - good for a lifetime" it is said, and the rigid pines and hilly roads told me I was headed to a place that had its own way of doing things. I like that - almost the way Buffalo feels, or Ediburgh, Scotland.
I was expecting this grand entrance into Portland, and that certainly was not the case. I was expecting steep sea-cut rocks with waves crashing on them as the wharfs and city buildings co-existed as a product of our nation's love of seafood and our system of capitalism. I foresaw cobblestone streets, victorian street lamps, and weathered faces to be bopping around. Instead, I think I entered into a transitional neighborhood, near the Maine Medical Center. The houses looked disheveled and in need of repair. The people were all out on their front step, watching the cars, and me, pass by. Not exactly the pristine Maine in my head.
Fortunately for me, my Inn that I stayed at is right across the street from the bus terminal. The Inn at St. John's it was called, and it reminded me of living in England. My room was way up on the top floor, and the amenities were very much like living in Manchester. A sink in the room, with an attached toilet room, a nice closet, beautiful bed, and wonderful view. I was excited to sleep in a bed not my own for once, to sleep peacefully.
I arrived with 3 hours to kill before my show. I decided to walk along Congress St., the main drag in Portland, so I was told. The consierge at the Inn had given me a map of Portland, about two feet by 1 foot in size, and told me Congress St. was where all the main sections were located. I started my walk along Congress, and Portland was starting to weird me out. Depressed housing, downtrodden peoples, and little to no signs of culture or arts made me worried this trip might be fruitless. But I kept walking. By the time I arrived around Bramhall St., I noticed little quaint pubs, vintage shops, and other boutiques beginning to pop up. I went into one of the pubs to get a bite to eat and a pint, the Bramhall Pub. It was located in a basement, and its European qualities seemed to be just what I needed. Unfortunately, the bar was blasting old Boston records, smelled of stale beer on the floor, and was filled with much of the same type of people I encountered on my walk up the street. There would be no tourists in this bar, and apparently there was no kitchen either. I had to settle for a pint of local beer, which was tasty. $3.25 too. Shocked at normal drink prices.
Leaving the pub, I decided to enter the Sal-Vo located nearby. They had a crazy record collection in the back, but I think all the hipsters raided through them, because all that was left was obscure Tammy Wynette records and the greatest hits collection of Englebert Humperdink. Or it seemed that way at least. They were about to close, too, so there would be no purchases there, and I would press on towards the city centre.
Crossing over State St. was like entering a new world - the bustling traffic, little art shops, record stores, restraunts, and clubs all seemed to have a place on the blocks I passed. The people changed too, seeming to be more my speed, and I knew this was getting closer to what I had longed to find up North here. I decided to stop in one of the local Mexican restraunts, located next to a really hip coffeehouse. The meal was amazing, a humungous chimichanga with rice and beans and shredded beef - I could not finish it. $15 for the whole meal, too. Nice.
I walked a little further down, but upon inspection of the time, decided to double back towards the Inn and start getting ready for my show. To my surprise, I hadn't really walked all that far, but just uphill. The walk back was nice and quick, and I still had time to relax before my show.
The room was so cozy, and I lay down and watch some episodes of "Top Chef." I never really understood why food needs to be so complex. To me, freshness means goodness, and always will. To make my meal overly complex is to take some of that away, and it will undoubtedly be lost on me. Anyways, I readied myself and called a cab to head out to the show at the Dogfish Bar and Grille.
The Dogfish was also very different than I expected, and the room felt more like a Buffalo bar than I think I initially would have thought. The people were all chatting with the bartender, who knew them all no doubt, but I got the impression that passers-by would be just as welcome. I met the soundguy, and he had a sense of selflessness that was a bit odd, but refreshing. He was glad to be there, but don't ask him too many things, because he's just there to be doing sound. He was excited to hear me play, and that make me feel comfortable.
I can never get used to seeing my picture plastered on a window or wall, and when I walked into the Dogfish, it was no different. But a musician must have an image nowadays, and I think my shot with the UB t-shirt, looking off somewhere will fit just fine. But I digress.
I was hoping that Rachel Griffin would turn up, an INCREDIBLY talented singer and piano player from Portland who I found on MySpace. Her song, "Lighter than Air" is so beautiful and swirling, it is a wonderful example of conveying an image through song. Please look her up sometime.
Well, in terms of the show, it started out slow, with everyone talking and doing their thing while I played. Whenever that happens, I have a big decision to make as a performer. You either meet them at their loudness, rise above it, and make them notice you, or you quietly pour your heart out, and let the word catch on slowly, the way fog creeps in on a cool Sunday morning. I chose the latter. I kept playing slow song after slow song, each time putting my life out there in the hopes that everyone in attendance would stop their conversations and take heed. But they persisted. It wasn't until I played a cover song, much to my dismay, did the room focus more on me. This was the purpose of my entire trip, and therefore, it was important that I was heard by everyone. Once I grabbed them, I never let go. And song after song took hold of the room, and I saw the heads bobbing, the eyes widen, the claps louden, and the whispering begin. A couple in the back of the room moved up to get closer, and a crowd of people entered who starting hooting and hollering after every song. My set ended to much praise, handshakes, and tip-jar-passing. I did okay on tips, and had a dinner entree included in my "fee" for playing. As I sat back listening to other people come up to play, each a little different, some truly excellent, some very new, I began to feel that there was a truth in me I was sharing with the world; that I was slowly and on a small scale telling people what a life is like, what a spirit sounds like in song. I felt accepted into their clan that Wednesday night, I felt respected.
I do not know a single soul in Portland, so when Zuppe walked into the bar, I did a double take! Apparently he was recording someone that night up there, and decided to suprise me and check out my set. Unfortunately, he missed it, and I was eating my dinner when he arrived. It was still really great to see him, and he brought his friend John, a bassist in a well-known Portland band. Open mic was about to wrap up, when one of the local girls shouted out to the host, "We want to hear John again! WOO!" and the whole bar echoed her sentiment. I couldn't really believe it, and after I had broken a string on my guitar, I was definitely not expecting it. The host obliged, and it ended up working out for everyone, as Zuppe got to hear me play, the crowd heard me sing some more, and I felt even more welcomed in a city I was beginning to fall in love with.
After my set, Zuppe and John invited me out with them. We must have went to 5 different bars, never staying too long, seeing bands here and there, and hearing stories from Zuppe on how "the farther North you go, the worse the pussy gets" (direct quote). I didn't know what he was talking about though, because the women there, some of them at least, had an aura about them that intrigued me. John told me about how he works at a radio station, and how the lead singer of his band is a genius and nutjob all at once. I wonder why I can't seem to find the solace others do with being unreasonably off-the-wall. I must maintain a healthy balance and rapoire with my own selves, that I can never let a single part of me take over and start dictating. We stopped at the swanky NYC-style bar, and that's where I started to feel drunk. The beers all hit you at once, you know, and they sock you. I was socked, and ready for bed. Last call, 1:30am, time to cab it home to the Inn.
I plopped into bed, feeling utterly comfortable and satisfied. I felt confident, whole, and looking forward to the days ahead of me.
_________________________________
Waking up the next day, I lay in bed most of the day, less a stroll to the lobby to get a free bagel and orange juice. I missed breakfast, the way the tea smells in the morning, as you squint in the face of the blazing morning sun. Good morning, Maine, how are ya?
Check out was uneventful, as was my bus ride home to New York. I arrived home at night, to spend the evening with Jay shooting the shit and raving about how we needed to go back to Maine as soon as possible. I wish I had left something there that I care about, like my driver's license - to give me an excuse to hop a train and enjoy the Thick.
Evening passed, and morning came. Friday morning.
(More to come about my travels to Buffalo and North Manchester. Stay tuned.)
July 9, 2007
The Story of How You Begin to Remember
These are the roots of rhythm
And the roots of rhythm remain
A well-deserved recap.
I took off of work on Friday to go play in Corning, NY. I decided to take a bus there, and Lindsay and I would just drive back to Brooklyn the following morning.
The subways were all messed up in Brooklyn on Friday, so it took me forever to get to the Port Authority. I made it to my bus about 5 minutes before it left, but that was fine.
The bus ride was beautiful, and being so high up, it made the trip I've done so many times seem like brand new. I saw the Susquehanna River like never before; the way it winds and bends around the Appalachia, with the rapids, the white water acting as a mirror to the droopy, low hanging clouds that always seem to resemble a cartoon character I grew up watching. The shallowness of the river was starkly constrasted to the ferocity and depth of the rapids, all bordering the other and minding their own business. Life passes through each, and I spectate. The Delaware Water Gap is striking, the way the mountains, with their up-ended sedimentary rock, cut swathes into the water, so it seems. The truth is, the water has cut the swathes into the mountain, but I digress. I longed to pull over, hop over the rail, and take root amongst the trees and jump in the shallow water. To feel wet sand, and be unable to get rid of it from between my toes for the next three days or so. But that would not be this trip.
I missed my connecting bus from Binghampton to Elmira because of some heavy construction on I-81 going into Binghampton. I began to panic, and had to find a way there in time to play. I had to take a cab to Elmira, costing me (well, at the time, my mother) $120. I arrived in Corning 20 minutes before I was supposed to start. An otherwise beautiful, touching day was completely up-ended by the huge financial hit and anxiety that was missing the connecting bus. My sister and mother came out though, and their presence was wonderful, even if they kept to the back of the venue for the most part. Scott played with me, and that too made me calm down. He was very even-keeled, and such a great help. Deb and everyone at the bar were incredible, as always. Lindsay showed up right as I was about to play, and it certainly raised my spirits. Still, I felt really frustrated by the day, not being able to see Brandon very long, putting my mother and sister in a huge inconvenience and frustrating them, and putting me in the dreaded position of playing immediately following a long road trip. It was not going to go well, I thought.
We started playing, and the bar was otherwise non-responsive. They didn't seem too into it, and while I know I was playing well, it seemed like I wasn't "touching" the people the way I usually can. My back ached like no other, I was sweating terribly, and my leg was bleeding from scraping against something. It was not going well, and it was just another thing contributing to a shitty evening. On top of that, after the expensive cab ride, I was only going to break even from the show, something I've been really trying to avoid lately.
At the end of my first set, a group of about 10 people came in, ranging from a woman about my age, all the way to two elder women. They all had green on, with green party hats and necklaces, very much like St. Paddy's Day. When they came in, I played some Irish music, and they all perked up and started dancing. One of the younger women came up on stage and started singing with me, and everyone else was drunk and swaying back and forth. After the song finished, she pulled me close and began whispering in my ear. She said "listen hon, we're all here tonight for our two aunts, _____ and _____." [editor's note: I forgot the names, but that's not the point] "They both have cancer and are not doing well, and we decided to take them both out as a family and show them a great time...would you mind playing a song for them?" I immediately agreed, and a sense of what tonight was about began to seep into my head. I played song after song for them, not taking a break, and they all kept dancing, even the elder aunts, as if they were all 16 again. They would scream, shout, clap, and do all the things we all do when music takes hold of us. Smiles, laughs, drinks.
I started to play "Mrs. Robinson", and the family kept on dancing. When I got to the part of "Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio? / Our nation turns its lowly eyes to you" I noticed one of the aunts, now dancing with her much younger nephews or cousins, stop dancing altogether. She stood there and reached out both arms to the boys on either side of them, and pulled them in as tight as she could. The boys danced through this gesture, and brought themselves in closer to her, and a moment was had. It was not lost on me, and when I saw that one small thing, I started to weep. I immediately turned my eyes towards my mother, now standing at the bar, and she saw it too. My eyebrows raised, my forehead crunched, and it was as if a Mack Truck hit me. Family. In it's most tangible form. Family.
I know knew why I had been put through the ringer trying to get to Corning. I could not possibly have profited monetarily from something like that. The lessons of the evening would have been completely overlooked if I kept thinking about the tremendous payday I was going to get. No, instead God (or whatever you wish to call it, fortune, luck, fate, etc) placed me there to experience that and learn from that. I had been careless with my family as of late, and when chips were down, I am always there for them, but I had been terribly inconsistent. Missing calls, leaving cards and gifts at home when I promised to bring them, fighting or mal-treating them, and ultimately expecting them to bend-over-backwards to dig me out of either a self-imposed mess or being dealt a bad hand by life. It's not fair to them, and I owe them much more than I could ever give them in times of crisis. My family had been through enough in the past few weeks, and I should not be another stressor for them. My music seems to always make them happy, but I feel that should not be enough on my end. It's just a shame that it took something like that hug to jolt my mindset, and make me see how selfish I really can be. It's not the way to live a life, the way to treat people you genuinely love. I have to do better.
The show finished without incident, and the family tipped me $40 dollars for helping make their night out a good one. I gave it to Scott for all his help, reluctant as he was to take it.
Lindsay and I spent the night in the hotel provided by the bar owners. It was wonderful, a suite with kitchen, living room, and huge bedroom. The bed was comfortable and welcomed. I was so dehydrated from playing that my body frightened me with the signs it was displaying. I won't go into it on here, but I was worried for awhile. I fell asleep a wiser man watching Family Guy with Lindsay.
The next day we ate and drove back to Brooklyn. The trip was nice, and I got to hear all about the work Lindsay is doing in the greenhouse in Fredonia. She works with Dr. Titus, a man I enjoyed having as a teacher, and she really knows her stuff well. She is so bright, and so sharp, it is welcoming to speak in depth about things like native plant life in Chautauqua County, or the way non-native species such as Japanese Knotwood invades and smothers species throughout the region. It's fascinating stuff, but you have to love it.
She got her first dose of New York, and sadly, it really rattled her. She was dreading driving home as soon as we got there, and I sensed she never really was in the moment while we were in Manhattan, looking around to see things the way I would. It was too bad, and when we got home we both felt ill. We ended up staying in, and she planned on leaving the next day to return upstate. I'll be seeing her on Friday though when I go home, so not all is lost.
We watched almost the entire Live Earth concert, chock-full-of flubs and missed notes, interesting collaborations, and a wonderful message about helping to reverse the climate change and our global footprints. Global warming, and I have done extensive reading and listening as part of my biology coursework and as a concerned human, is a very real and grave concern, and is not a product of normal weather fluctuations that occur throughout history. There is now indesputable evidence that is a general consensus from the scientific world, from the physicists, chemists, biologists that I have encountered in my college years. Across the board, the knowledge (not a "belief" anymore) is that Earth is getting too hot, too fast, and too much CO2 is being generated. We must try to curb this before we permanently hurt the world of the many generations to come. We musn't be the cause of our own demise.
Lindsay left on Sunday, and I played a show. The show went well, and that's about it. Nothing truly insightful about any of it.
Family. Trials and faith. Sense of togetherness. Unity. Knowledge. Happiness. Struggle+Family=Ability. Love.
And the roots of rhythm remain
A well-deserved recap.
I took off of work on Friday to go play in Corning, NY. I decided to take a bus there, and Lindsay and I would just drive back to Brooklyn the following morning.
The subways were all messed up in Brooklyn on Friday, so it took me forever to get to the Port Authority. I made it to my bus about 5 minutes before it left, but that was fine.
The bus ride was beautiful, and being so high up, it made the trip I've done so many times seem like brand new. I saw the Susquehanna River like never before; the way it winds and bends around the Appalachia, with the rapids, the white water acting as a mirror to the droopy, low hanging clouds that always seem to resemble a cartoon character I grew up watching. The shallowness of the river was starkly constrasted to the ferocity and depth of the rapids, all bordering the other and minding their own business. Life passes through each, and I spectate. The Delaware Water Gap is striking, the way the mountains, with their up-ended sedimentary rock, cut swathes into the water, so it seems. The truth is, the water has cut the swathes into the mountain, but I digress. I longed to pull over, hop over the rail, and take root amongst the trees and jump in the shallow water. To feel wet sand, and be unable to get rid of it from between my toes for the next three days or so. But that would not be this trip.
I missed my connecting bus from Binghampton to Elmira because of some heavy construction on I-81 going into Binghampton. I began to panic, and had to find a way there in time to play. I had to take a cab to Elmira, costing me (well, at the time, my mother) $120. I arrived in Corning 20 minutes before I was supposed to start. An otherwise beautiful, touching day was completely up-ended by the huge financial hit and anxiety that was missing the connecting bus. My sister and mother came out though, and their presence was wonderful, even if they kept to the back of the venue for the most part. Scott played with me, and that too made me calm down. He was very even-keeled, and such a great help. Deb and everyone at the bar were incredible, as always. Lindsay showed up right as I was about to play, and it certainly raised my spirits. Still, I felt really frustrated by the day, not being able to see Brandon very long, putting my mother and sister in a huge inconvenience and frustrating them, and putting me in the dreaded position of playing immediately following a long road trip. It was not going to go well, I thought.
We started playing, and the bar was otherwise non-responsive. They didn't seem too into it, and while I know I was playing well, it seemed like I wasn't "touching" the people the way I usually can. My back ached like no other, I was sweating terribly, and my leg was bleeding from scraping against something. It was not going well, and it was just another thing contributing to a shitty evening. On top of that, after the expensive cab ride, I was only going to break even from the show, something I've been really trying to avoid lately.
At the end of my first set, a group of about 10 people came in, ranging from a woman about my age, all the way to two elder women. They all had green on, with green party hats and necklaces, very much like St. Paddy's Day. When they came in, I played some Irish music, and they all perked up and started dancing. One of the younger women came up on stage and started singing with me, and everyone else was drunk and swaying back and forth. After the song finished, she pulled me close and began whispering in my ear. She said "listen hon, we're all here tonight for our two aunts, _____ and _____." [editor's note: I forgot the names, but that's not the point] "They both have cancer and are not doing well, and we decided to take them both out as a family and show them a great time...would you mind playing a song for them?" I immediately agreed, and a sense of what tonight was about began to seep into my head. I played song after song for them, not taking a break, and they all kept dancing, even the elder aunts, as if they were all 16 again. They would scream, shout, clap, and do all the things we all do when music takes hold of us. Smiles, laughs, drinks.
I started to play "Mrs. Robinson", and the family kept on dancing. When I got to the part of "Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio? / Our nation turns its lowly eyes to you" I noticed one of the aunts, now dancing with her much younger nephews or cousins, stop dancing altogether. She stood there and reached out both arms to the boys on either side of them, and pulled them in as tight as she could. The boys danced through this gesture, and brought themselves in closer to her, and a moment was had. It was not lost on me, and when I saw that one small thing, I started to weep. I immediately turned my eyes towards my mother, now standing at the bar, and she saw it too. My eyebrows raised, my forehead crunched, and it was as if a Mack Truck hit me. Family. In it's most tangible form. Family.
I know knew why I had been put through the ringer trying to get to Corning. I could not possibly have profited monetarily from something like that. The lessons of the evening would have been completely overlooked if I kept thinking about the tremendous payday I was going to get. No, instead God (or whatever you wish to call it, fortune, luck, fate, etc) placed me there to experience that and learn from that. I had been careless with my family as of late, and when chips were down, I am always there for them, but I had been terribly inconsistent. Missing calls, leaving cards and gifts at home when I promised to bring them, fighting or mal-treating them, and ultimately expecting them to bend-over-backwards to dig me out of either a self-imposed mess or being dealt a bad hand by life. It's not fair to them, and I owe them much more than I could ever give them in times of crisis. My family had been through enough in the past few weeks, and I should not be another stressor for them. My music seems to always make them happy, but I feel that should not be enough on my end. It's just a shame that it took something like that hug to jolt my mindset, and make me see how selfish I really can be. It's not the way to live a life, the way to treat people you genuinely love. I have to do better.
The show finished without incident, and the family tipped me $40 dollars for helping make their night out a good one. I gave it to Scott for all his help, reluctant as he was to take it.
Lindsay and I spent the night in the hotel provided by the bar owners. It was wonderful, a suite with kitchen, living room, and huge bedroom. The bed was comfortable and welcomed. I was so dehydrated from playing that my body frightened me with the signs it was displaying. I won't go into it on here, but I was worried for awhile. I fell asleep a wiser man watching Family Guy with Lindsay.
The next day we ate and drove back to Brooklyn. The trip was nice, and I got to hear all about the work Lindsay is doing in the greenhouse in Fredonia. She works with Dr. Titus, a man I enjoyed having as a teacher, and she really knows her stuff well. She is so bright, and so sharp, it is welcoming to speak in depth about things like native plant life in Chautauqua County, or the way non-native species such as Japanese Knotwood invades and smothers species throughout the region. It's fascinating stuff, but you have to love it.
She got her first dose of New York, and sadly, it really rattled her. She was dreading driving home as soon as we got there, and I sensed she never really was in the moment while we were in Manhattan, looking around to see things the way I would. It was too bad, and when we got home we both felt ill. We ended up staying in, and she planned on leaving the next day to return upstate. I'll be seeing her on Friday though when I go home, so not all is lost.
We watched almost the entire Live Earth concert, chock-full-of flubs and missed notes, interesting collaborations, and a wonderful message about helping to reverse the climate change and our global footprints. Global warming, and I have done extensive reading and listening as part of my biology coursework and as a concerned human, is a very real and grave concern, and is not a product of normal weather fluctuations that occur throughout history. There is now indesputable evidence that is a general consensus from the scientific world, from the physicists, chemists, biologists that I have encountered in my college years. Across the board, the knowledge (not a "belief" anymore) is that Earth is getting too hot, too fast, and too much CO2 is being generated. We must try to curb this before we permanently hurt the world of the many generations to come. We musn't be the cause of our own demise.
Lindsay left on Sunday, and I played a show. The show went well, and that's about it. Nothing truly insightful about any of it.
Family. Trials and faith. Sense of togetherness. Unity. Knowledge. Happiness. Struggle+Family=Ability. Love.
July 5, 2007
Bosstone
The eyes burn. That means I didn't satisfy the daily slumber requirement set forth by the cells in my body.
I'm slumping today, working out of necessity where I would have otherwise called in. Too many other days to not be here for that are coming up.
Went to Boston to play and celebrate America's birthday yesterday. Had no sense of direction, no idea of the street layouts, no idea what to expect. It was a dreary day at best, but not too hot. I took the Chinatown bus, because of the cost, there and back.
The thing is, I do not understand Chinese people and culture, far beyond the language. The food we bought before we left was from the Chinese bakery, and while it was really cheap, the bread was stale, the hot dog loaded with nitrates, and even the bottled Snapple tasted like crap. Everyone else on the bus was content with their purchases, and it makes me wonder if W.A.S.P.s like me just don't have the stomach that others may have. Anyways, before I knew it I had abdominal pain and heartburn, on a non-stop bus to Boston. I know the Chinese supermarket near my house smells like rotting fish, and I cannot bear to enter it again. I don't get their sense of humor. It is so closed-off, and other times it's blatant enough that I've seen someone point and laugh at a perfect stranger. I dunno, I'm just saying I guess.
Boston is a ghost town, at least from what I saw. Even Quincy Market and the state house, popular tourist attractions, seemed sparsely populated. I was expecting more urban sprawl, since everyone I've ever met from Boston likes to talk it up, saying how great it is. I don't know, I mean, you can feel the history in the city when you arrive, and everything is really clean, with new buildings interspersed with old colonial ones, but I think people make a place have a pulse, and there was none to be found. Zuppe told me once that it's like Albany, but cleaner. Touche.
I played at Revolution Rock Bar, for about 10 people, early, so the bar could close 'cause it was so slow. The people I knew in Boston weren't able to make it, and a few strangers-turned-fans stayed to hear me play, and then bailed when I was finished. I played well, and the bar enjoyed my music, and apologized for the lack of people. We gotta go back on Friday or Saturday night and show them what we're made of.
I opened with the new song, "Ophelia," a bit faster, with new voicings and lyrics over the bridge as per Zuppe's constructive criticism. He mentioned that Ophelia walks into the river and drowns after going mad in Hamlet, and this was an interesting perspective to bring to mind. I wrote the bridge, then, on the bus ride down. Everyone keeps saying it is my best work to date, and I really think it could be. It's not 1000% complete yet, so we'll see how the days and the ways shape it.
Corning, NY tomorrow, meeting up with Lindsay and playing. Then she and I drive back Saturday, and spend the weekend finally relaxing. Yankees game and another show on Sunday, leading up to a week of Maine, Buffalo and Indiana next week. I jump at the prospect of travelling so much, so many miles under my belt, so much Americana unfolding before my eyes. It will be my third and deepest trek in New England, with each time testing the waters further and further. Every little waterside community I see seems to be a portent of my future. I want a little girl and a son. I want a wife, and I want Sunday afternoons on a boat. I want to wash the sea salt out of my clothing every Sunday night; to wake up at dawn, make breakfast for my family, and hold them tighter as the weeks go by.
All this is very fleeting
But my spirit is strong
And I look skyward
To know I have come correctly.
Boston sucks.
Go Yankees.
I'm slumping today, working out of necessity where I would have otherwise called in. Too many other days to not be here for that are coming up.
Went to Boston to play and celebrate America's birthday yesterday. Had no sense of direction, no idea of the street layouts, no idea what to expect. It was a dreary day at best, but not too hot. I took the Chinatown bus, because of the cost, there and back.
The thing is, I do not understand Chinese people and culture, far beyond the language. The food we bought before we left was from the Chinese bakery, and while it was really cheap, the bread was stale, the hot dog loaded with nitrates, and even the bottled Snapple tasted like crap. Everyone else on the bus was content with their purchases, and it makes me wonder if W.A.S.P.s like me just don't have the stomach that others may have. Anyways, before I knew it I had abdominal pain and heartburn, on a non-stop bus to Boston. I know the Chinese supermarket near my house smells like rotting fish, and I cannot bear to enter it again. I don't get their sense of humor. It is so closed-off, and other times it's blatant enough that I've seen someone point and laugh at a perfect stranger. I dunno, I'm just saying I guess.
Boston is a ghost town, at least from what I saw. Even Quincy Market and the state house, popular tourist attractions, seemed sparsely populated. I was expecting more urban sprawl, since everyone I've ever met from Boston likes to talk it up, saying how great it is. I don't know, I mean, you can feel the history in the city when you arrive, and everything is really clean, with new buildings interspersed with old colonial ones, but I think people make a place have a pulse, and there was none to be found. Zuppe told me once that it's like Albany, but cleaner. Touche.
I played at Revolution Rock Bar, for about 10 people, early, so the bar could close 'cause it was so slow. The people I knew in Boston weren't able to make it, and a few strangers-turned-fans stayed to hear me play, and then bailed when I was finished. I played well, and the bar enjoyed my music, and apologized for the lack of people. We gotta go back on Friday or Saturday night and show them what we're made of.
I opened with the new song, "Ophelia," a bit faster, with new voicings and lyrics over the bridge as per Zuppe's constructive criticism. He mentioned that Ophelia walks into the river and drowns after going mad in Hamlet, and this was an interesting perspective to bring to mind. I wrote the bridge, then, on the bus ride down. Everyone keeps saying it is my best work to date, and I really think it could be. It's not 1000% complete yet, so we'll see how the days and the ways shape it.
Corning, NY tomorrow, meeting up with Lindsay and playing. Then she and I drive back Saturday, and spend the weekend finally relaxing. Yankees game and another show on Sunday, leading up to a week of Maine, Buffalo and Indiana next week. I jump at the prospect of travelling so much, so many miles under my belt, so much Americana unfolding before my eyes. It will be my third and deepest trek in New England, with each time testing the waters further and further. Every little waterside community I see seems to be a portent of my future. I want a little girl and a son. I want a wife, and I want Sunday afternoons on a boat. I want to wash the sea salt out of my clothing every Sunday night; to wake up at dawn, make breakfast for my family, and hold them tighter as the weeks go by.
All this is very fleeting
But my spirit is strong
And I look skyward
To know I have come correctly.
Boston sucks.
Go Yankees.
July 2, 2007
New song: "Ophelia"
"Hamlet to Ophelia:
'Adieu, love, adieu.'
Echoes through millennia
'Adieu, love, adieu.'
And we play these plays
And say these parts
And dance through all these issues in the dark
Feigning madness
From the start
While we dance through all these issues
in the dark
"Hamlet to Ophelia:
'Adieu, love, adieu.'
Echoes through millennia
'Adieu, love, adieu.'
I just can't take the stage
And say these parts
And dance around these issues in the dark
Feigning madness from the start
And we dance around all these issues
in the dark
And Kings will kill kings
And marry their queens
But love always seems
to be lost
on me.
So, to my Ophelia
'Adieu, love, adieu.'
Echoes through my heart and lungs
'Adieu, love, adieu.'
'Adieu, love, adieu.'
(and kings will kill kings)
'Adieu, love, adieu.'
(and marry their queens)
'Adieu, love, adieu.'
(but love always seems)
'Adieu, love, adieu.'
(to be lost on me)
'Adieu, love, adieu.'
(to be lost on me)
'Adieu, love, adieu.'
(to be lost on me)
'Adieu, love, adieu.'
recording on the way. Should be done today. Will post when finished.
'Adieu, love, adieu.'
Echoes through millennia
'Adieu, love, adieu.'
And we play these plays
And say these parts
And dance through all these issues in the dark
Feigning madness
From the start
While we dance through all these issues
in the dark
"Hamlet to Ophelia:
'Adieu, love, adieu.'
Echoes through millennia
'Adieu, love, adieu.'
I just can't take the stage
And say these parts
And dance around these issues in the dark
Feigning madness from the start
And we dance around all these issues
in the dark
And Kings will kill kings
And marry their queens
But love always seems
to be lost
on me.
So, to my Ophelia
'Adieu, love, adieu.'
Echoes through my heart and lungs
'Adieu, love, adieu.'
'Adieu, love, adieu.'
(and kings will kill kings)
'Adieu, love, adieu.'
(and marry their queens)
'Adieu, love, adieu.'
(but love always seems)
'Adieu, love, adieu.'
(to be lost on me)
'Adieu, love, adieu.'
(to be lost on me)
'Adieu, love, adieu.'
(to be lost on me)
'Adieu, love, adieu.'
recording on the way. Should be done today. Will post when finished.
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