If you lived in Troy, New York or any such winter-laden place, you would understand well why I've not written in some time. Spring came a bit early this year and after so many months of single digit temperatures, I have found it hard to take my relatively limited amount of free time, and use it sitting in front of this machine. There are also the facts that my wife has recently had eye surgery (she is doing quite well), we are moving back to the west coast in a matter of weeks, I am in pre-production on a new documentary which begins shooting in a matter of days, my finger is slowly healing from an aggressive though accidental dog bite, etc., etc., etc. (you will notice bandaged finger in above video).
Anyway, much going on these days. Though I feel like writing at the moment, the boxes (etc.) demand my attention. The above segment is from a 30 minute solo gig I did recently.
While walking the dog last night, I said to my wife that I have these fantastical moments wherein I wish that I could make a living doing this five nights a week. I know that most people probably find that idea rather absurd, and many likely find the music __________ or ____________, but that is mostly the product of a capitalist, consumer driven society, that has sadly come to value the homogenization of all things over that which requires devoted and focused attention. But I don't have time to elaborate at the moment. Woe is me.
I am currently at work on a new record which is growing close to completion. As always, there are far more recordings than will/should fit on the project so the time for editing has arrived. I confess that I am somewhat haunted by the sentiment of the previous post from February 23rd. I wonder if the more "successful" musicians are somehow capable of accepting the fact that the sounds they make that they do not like, are their essence.
I'm still not entirely sure this is true, but it certainly makes sense that the majority of what we do has already been done. Especially in the case of music, where it seems that we are often simply regurgitating the things that we've heard, altered by our own "voice." Now that is not necessarily a 'bad' thing, but if our (my) intent is to develop our (my) 'own' voice with my instrument, then it would reason that the best strategy is to embrace the aspects of my playing that are the most singularly me. Does that make sense?
Or to ask the question in a more direct manner: Do I put the piece on the record that I really dislike? It is my least favorite (though not due to mistakes or technical inadequacy) and I just don't enjoy listening to it at all. Is that somehow the one that people will respond to as being uniquely me? I'm not sure I want that, but then maybe we have no choice in these matters.
The above photo was taken at a gig a few months past, a set that I was quite displeased with. Though I've not heard a recording of that night, I wonder if for that very reason, it was a truer representation of my playing. Oh what a mystery it all is.
Sometimes I am astounded at how good the band Built to Spill sounds to me. I don't necessarily mean the song writing or the arrangement, I just mean the sound. The wonderful soup of those guitars. There are certain bands, that when they sound good, they sound so inconceivably good. I'm not entirely sure why this is, but it is an undeniable aspect in the world of music.
On another note related to a recent post of mine about guitars, I stumbled across this writing about sound by luthier Ron Kirn a few days past, and find it both wise and astute. A worthy read for sure.
"A few years ago when discussing how one develops their "own sound" and what that really means, the trumpeter Steven Bernstein remarked that when one hears something back on a recording of them that they don't like, THAT's their sound- everything else in their playing is something they only like because it reminds them of music they are familiar with."
Like the author, this strikes me with a great amount of truth, albeit a bit difficult to ingest.
It is all too often that we complicate our ideas, be it the simple matter of making a pizza from scratch, or composing. I have for a very long time, quite unsuccessfully in my opinion, espoused the idea that less is indeed more when it comes to making music. I heard of the below idea some time ago, and just now stumbled upon the video for the piece. Simple and elegant and beautiful I think.
I wonder to myself, "why didn't I think of this?" a common response to the best ideas.
I read these books between September of 08 and 09, intending to write about them here. Of course life has a way of ensuring that some things just don't happen. So for now they can sit there in a pile, looking heavy, full of the stories that make our lives. Some of them were great, a few were truly brilliant, and a couple just sort of there, but they were all good. ( I will list them below as some are hard to read, and if I can muster the time, will write about them soon)
For now, I am fascinated by a piece I am currently reading in the previously mentioned Acrana IV (see a few posts down for link) by David Dunn. He writes:
"The issue of how language may have evolved has long been the concern of philosophers and linguists. A new twist on this ancient question was recently put forth by paleoanthropologist Steven Mithen in his book, The Singing Neanderthals: The Origins of Music, Language, Mind, and Body. Mithen built upon the work of linguist Alison Wray-whose "holistic" theory of proto-language evolution has challenged the mainstream of "compositional" theories-to assert that early hominid proto-language was a root of communication modality from which both human speech and music bifurcated."
I find the implications of this really quite staggering.
From above photo, in order read:
Middlesex, Jeffrey Euginides.
The Fixer, Bernard Malamud (brilliant).
Atonement, Ian McEwan.
All the Names, Jose Saramago (brilliant).
Arcana III, Edited by John Zorn.
Arcana, Edited by John Zorn.
Wolf Totem, Jiang Rong (brilliant in some entirely inexplicable way).
Why Art Cannot Be Taught, James Elkins.
Ways of the Hand, David Sudnow (quite bad in an odd way).
Wildlife, Richard Ford.
The Sheltering Sky, Paul Bowles (brilliant).
The Old Man and the Sea, Ernest Hemingway (brilliant).
The Power and the Glory, Graham Greene (brilliant).
Mercy Among the Children, David Adams Richards.
Let's Talk About Love; A Journey to the End of Taste, Carl Wilson (brilliant). Through Black Spruce, Joseph Boyden.
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, Michael Chabon.
The Shipping News, Annie Proulx.
Amulet, Roberto Bolano (will not leave me in the same odd way that The Sun Also Rises will not leave me.)
A Short History of Progress, Ronald Wright (necessary and daunting though great).
Crow Lake, Mary Lawson.
My Name is Red, Orhan Pamuk (this one will not leave me either though in an entirely different way form Amulet. A strangely challenging read).
Reading Lolita in Tehran, Azar Nafisi. (brilliant)
The General in His Labyrinth, gabriel Garcia Marquez. (come on, it's Garcia Marquez).
Life is Elsewhere, Milan Kundera.
True North, Jim Harrison. (Thank you Jim for rekindling my faith in your wondrous writing.)
Infinite Jest, David Foster Wallace. (brilliant. just totally unbelievable and out of this world brilliant.)
Derek Bailey and the Story of Free Improvisation, Ben Watson. (if you already have a certain respect for Derek Bailey as do I, this will likely push him into the realm of deity.)
Arcana II, Edited by John Zorn.
A Moveable Feast, Ernest Hemingway. (dare I say both Hemingway books I read last year were brilliant? Yes.)
Baltasar and Blimunda, Jose Saramago.
The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Junot Diaz. (poor Oscar.)
The Lives of Rocks, Rick Bass.
The Dharma Bums, Jack Kerouac. (Oh, my beloved Berkeley.)
East of Eden, John Steinbeck. (come on, it's East of Eden by Steinbeck.)
From The Story of Edgar Sawtelle by David Wroblewski:
"And for a simple factory man like me, an effort must be abandoned once its hopelessness is exposed. Only the artist perseveres in such circumstances."
