“The purpose of art is not the release of a momentary ejection of adrenaline but is, rather, the gradual, lifelong construction of a state of wonder and serenity.”
– Glenn Gould
Hi All,
I spent last Saturday night, with the neighbours gloriously away, ripping into my guitar, creating some far out sounds for the live set. I’d peeled away everything on my rig early in the summer and got back to basics. A few months and a million stompboxes later, I found a configuration that really worked. Last night was a psychedelic coup de grace. The guitar is the band, really. As it’s just me performing, I’m asking my parlour guitars to perform well beyond the laws of physics that accompany their design and construction. For them to incorporate all the dynamics and colours of the recorded arrangements, while supporting my voice and the story in each song.
It’s been an intense few weeks, with the record and book so close to completion, my day gig at peak requirement, Dadding, householding, all the things. I’ve also been releasing a ton of old stuff stored up in my body. I started seeing an osteopath recently, as the next step in managing the chronic pain issues I’ve been beset with. After each treatment, I’ve had the most feverish dreams. We’ve a ways to go, but it’s nice to feel a bit better. I’ve also been reading some great stuff about trauma and the nervous system. I find myself in the throes of the abovementioned old stuff shaking the foundations. Revisiting that which infects and informs our way of being is never easy. I’m grateful, but, damn, it hurts.
On Sunday morning I woke a bit groggy and fuzzy and poured myself into the studio to finish up the final tweaks on the premasters for the record. I sent the last three tracks off to my pal Howard, who is mastering. He leaves tomorrow for a week abroad. We’re trying to put the squeeze on these last few, so I can listen down while he’s away and, hopefully, tag the masters and wrap up the recordings.
The book needs one minor tweak and then it goes to print. Working on finalizing that in the next two weeks and having the first run printed.
It took Howard and I far longer than I expected to nail down the mastering chain. To find the right alchemy of sonic toys to best represent the mixes. There’s been, for me, a huge learning curve at each step of the record. This is the first full length I’ve recorded and mixed on my own. It’s the first time I’ve taken such an active role in the mastering of one of my records.
The first track on which the mastering chain came together is actually the last track in the running order of the record. The closer. It’s called The Beautiful Season. It’s about a lot of things. As always, I’ll leave the painting of the pictures to your own imagination when it meets the song.
Here it is. It’s best listened to through a good set of headphones or phat speakers. Also best served loud:
“Yesterday we obeyed kings and bent our necks before emperors. But today we kneel only to truth, follow only beauty, and obey only love.”
“Are you a politician asking what your country can do for you or a zealous one asking what you can do for your country? If you are the first, then you are a parasite; if the second, then you are an oasis in the desert.”
– Khalil Gibran
I’m sitting in the window at the local, in my usual spot. It was an adventure to get here. I live a block away. I’ve been staying at an Air BnB, courtesy of my own voice and advocacy with our local Metrolinx community rep, referred to herein, for the sake of anonymity, as “M”.
After five sleepless nights over a seven day period, due to overnight Ontario Line work on the Queen Street bridge, my continual, kind and firm communications with M resulted in Metrolinx footing the bill for the Air BnB stay. I’ve been dividing my time between sleeps there and working from home during the day. What a pain in the ass. It’s proven to be a trade off of which flow is more tiring. I’ve let our rep know that I’m grateful for her going to bat for Ava and I, but that there’s much left to be done to ensure peace for all of us living here and elsewhere, affected by the ongoing work, especially after learning that the project’s end date has been extended from 2027 to 2031 (Eglinton Crosstown, anyone?).
A friend of mine recently appeared in a Toronto Life piece, entitled Train Wreck. She’s a local dog-mum and lovely person. She, along with a few others, tell their stories. These all involve how the company has repeatedly shat on us. Lies, deceit, deflection, all underscored by greed and ego. So-called Captains Of Industry sneaking and bullying their way to impotent grandeur. A CEO in our current premiere’s (lower case intended) pocket. A CEO to whom the same premiere has given a $750,000 raise between 2017 and 2022. That’s our tax dollars at work. Padding the bank account of a wretch, who’s led a campaign of dirty pool and cut corners.
Inevitably, this is where one usually gets called out, claiming the necessity of better transit and NIMBY (Not In My Backyard) leanings. I’m all for better transit. That’s not what this is about. It’s about transparency and spending the right amount of money on ensuring the peace of mind and wellbeing of the locals in the communities in which this project is happening. Metrolinx has not done this. The Train Wreck article outlines all of this: damage done to people’s properties, foundations, possessions, the sleepless nights, the constant runaround from the company, the lack of transparency.
To me personally, it’s about much more than the above. I look at the bridge, only a few feet from our front door, and it’s a representation of what’s so wrong in our current climate. We were long ago drugged by TV. Add social media, dopamine and smartphone addictions to that list. We are idle and distracted while this elected official robs us blind, giving our money away to cronyism and for his own personal gain. It’s Corruption 101. There’s the attitude that we live in a democracy. That this provincial leader was appointed by the vote. The only problem with this is that there are a lot of gullible people out there. There are two types of people who voted for this person: Those too stunned to understand the damage he’s doing, and those who know exactly what he’s doing and stand to gain financially from it.
I understand very clearly now why Che Guevara took up arms against dictatorship and stood up for socialism. If you’re gobsmacked by me comparing the attempted violent overthrow of past dictators to our relatively docile Canadian landscape, I’ll say this: I’m very grateful to live in Canada and enjoy the benefits of safety and help from the Guv’nor in the form of things like the Canadian Childcare benefit. As a single Dad and Musician, this alone has helped me make ends meet. I’ll add that, while the premiere and CEO made mention here have not sent out men in black to murder their naysayers, their modus operandi is more insipid. These are people who will gladhand us and smile sweetly in our faces, while dipping an unseen hand into the national coffer. These actions and lack of care paint an ugly picture of suffering. I see Southern Ontario floods if the greenbelt is sold off to questionable developers. Yes, we need more housing, in particular, more affordable housing. Do we need it on the greenbelt. No. Any developer considering building here is part of the problem and is only looking out for themselves. I see the billions of taxpayer’s bucks being lost to the private sale of alcohol. Funds that could be spent on healthcare and education, instead of the decimation of these. I see the suffering of people in hospital emergency wards across the province, sitting on floors for lack of space, at the hands of a politician working hard to privatize health care, no doubt in alliance with those willing to practice private care and rake in the dough. For anyone with a lick of sense and curiosity, all of this is so obvious.
I was happy to come across both of the Khalil Gibran quotes above. The former means more to me than the latter. There were many times over the course of writing this where I felt sick in my heart. I needed to express all of this, but it’s energy I’d rather be spending on connecting us, rather than expounding on the ills of our society. Ills which, if we all had the capacity to care for each other first, and temper our lust for money, would not exist. It gets harder and harder to maintain a peaceful reconciliation of this stuff, especially as we’re seeing the cost of living skyrocketing, while the wealth divide increases and the middle class becomes obsolete. While I continue to advocate for my family and community, I’ll look for the the strength to kneel only to truth, follow only beauty, and obey only love. To cultivate my Muppetite For Destruction. It’s a tall order in the face of modern life and all our challenges from without and within. May we all find the strength to continue to tear down all of that which doesn’t serve us, and to continue to love one another.
“Grace is what matters in anything – especially life, especially growth, tragedy, pain, love, death. That’s a quality that I admire very greatly. It keeps you from reaching out for the gun too quickly. It keeps you from destroying things too foolishly. It sort of keeps you alive.”
– Jeff Buckley
Rolling around in bed of a Sunday, I met the day with the usual thoughts: yesterday’s news, the past, the future, today’s todo list, music, the record, the book. More present than these was a terrible level of chronic pain and whether or not I have a future playing live music. I watched a YouTube short of artists from Robert Plant and Jimmy Page, to Chris Cornell, to Brandi Carlile, to Adam Levine, talking about the late Jeff Buckley’s influence and incandescent glow. The clip ended with Buckley himself saying the first few words of the quote above. Not long after I sat down in the window at the local to start this writing, I came upon the full quote. Undoubtedly, someone had asked him why he called his debut album Grace. There is was, in full form, after my seeing snippet of it just hours ago.
I chose it today because of it’s timeliness. I’m on the verge of releasing Stereophile, my record and small format book that’s been, mostly due to stress and trauma-based chronic pain, the longest process I’ve experienced seeing a project from start to finish. That I’ve made it this far is a massive victory. In the face of daily adversity, I did it. I’m not without a huge sense of gratitude and pride that it’s all come together so wonderfully. The current issue lies elsewhere.
Earlier in the year, I did two shows. They checked all the boxes: connection, vibration and decent pay. The latter is an often shat upon aspect of art. The commercialism of it. The “desire” for money in exchange for scraping the guts from the skin of our souls, collating it all within a song and sending it out there, with a hope for connection and validation. With the pain I was experiencing, along with my day gig, parental engagement, domestic requirements, and the record and book hanging unfinished from the bleak February trees, it was too much. I took a step away from the live stuff.
As the record got closer to completion, I revisited the live thang. I started tweaking my live rig, simplifying everything. Getting back to the very foundation of the solo acoustic troubadour (plus some dub delays thrown in for cosmic measure). The setlist was revamped. I added some new songs to the running order. I say new songs, meaning these are new to me. I realize none of you have heard Stereophile yet, so those songs are new to you. I’ve been living with them for so long and they’ve been in studio process for so long that, in the meantime, new joints were written. I’m never short of fodder for the mill. It’s all good stuff. The new songs make the setlist that much stronger.
While all this was happening there was, in the back of my mind, the little voice, asking me whether or not all this preparation was going to come to anything. I’ve not yet parsed out if it was the kind, authentic voice or the voice of trauma and discord disguised as a helping hand. Whatever the case, I’m very much aware that I’ve learned to distrust my body’s ability to muster the energy required to deliver a killer live show. To give every ounce to the music and not feel afterwards the mingling of joy for being where I should be, doing what I love, with feeling like I’ve been rolled over by a tank. In the moment, there is no pain. I’m in the music. It’s only post gig that I feel my body and brain collapsing.
The usual default is that this is old guy shit. That’s not the case here. I aware enough to know the difference between the possible limitations and afflictions of age and the underlying forces causing my chronic issues. I’ve been smart enough, after years of booze and drugs, to start taking care of myself. It’s an insight into how insipid stress is, and how both experienced and generational trauma can make a mess of good things.
I recently went to see an osteopath, whose work is intuitive and deep. I’ve seen her twice and it’s so far promising. I can feel shifts. I’ve also recently dialed back the pain meds I’ve been relying on daily for a few years. It was going well, until it wasn’t. I was limping across the finish line at the tail end of this week.
It’s been a weekend of reflection and making lots of music. I’ve been pickin’ like a hero and also leaning back and breathing. It’s my daughter Ava’s eleventh birthday this week. I had a ball going out and getting her prezzies, then wrapping them yesterday. There’s so much good in my life. I’m surrounded by abundance and Love, in this mad age where we blunder along, so often lost in survival mode and all manner of distraction.
I hit our local park two weeks ago, on a tired afternoon, knowing that I needed to sing. I packed up the busking rig and headed across the road. Barefoot, I let ‘er rip. It was so good. It was the reminder I needed. I was doing what I was put here for. I’ve been back out a few times since. I’ve met a bunch of folks who confirmed and validated me. They reflected back to me what I was offering. I left each experience higher that I’d been prior.
That high has always been there, after every show, after all these years. It’s a constant. I know any of you out there who play music for people know what I’m talking about. I’m not sure what the future holds. I’m afraid. Afraid to commit to a string of live dates in the face of the distrust I feel for my physical wherewithal to see it through. I don’t feel a pull towards being a digital creator. Real time is where it’s at, where we see and feel each other. Meeting, music, smiles, hugs, farewells until next time. This is the stuff.
I’ll keep on going like it’s going to happen. The live set will continue to develop. I’ll continue to look for friends/players who want to form a musical gang and play shows together. I’ll keep working on managing the sometimes unmanageable pain. With courage, humour and, hopefully, grace, I’ll rise to meet the road ahead.
“I want to wake up in the city that never sleeps…”
– Sinatra
“Now you’re in New York/These streets will make you feel brand new/Big lights will inspire you”
– Alicia Keys/Jay Z, Empire State Of Mind
“When you first took my hand on that cold Christmas Eve/You promised me Broadway was waiting for me”
– Shane MacGowan/Kirsty MacColl, Fairytale Of New York
“When you leave New York, you are astonished at how clean the rest of the world is. Clean is not enough.”
– Fran Lebowitz, Metropolitan Life (1978)
“I’m walkin’ here!!”
– Al Pacino, Midnight Cowboy
It’s been a minute. I’ve been missing the regularity of writing for you (and for me!) while the irregularities of the summer schedule play out. One of those irregularities was a very much welcome one; Ava and I recently took a four day whirlwind trip to New York City. It was Ava’s first time on a plane and, for both of us, our first time in New York. We got back a week ago and I’m still processing. I think I will be for a long time.
Anyone who’s been to New York might well attest to its immediate effect. We took an Uber from Newark Liberty Airport in New Jersey, across the bridge into New York. Total gridlock at 1pm. The traffic and our hunger after travelling couldn’t quell the excitement. We landed at our AirBnb in Harlem and dropped off our bags. Our host had left us snacks, which we made short work of, so we could get outside and start exploring. We were three blocks east of Central Park. Our first afternoon and evening was spent exploring the immediate area and finding a bodega to buy breakfast supplies at. So to sleep…
I’m writing this morning, not to give you a total play by play of the trip. I think that would be a ponderous exercise. I’m writing because I need to get the experience out of my head and onto the page. Since getting home, I’ve been met with intense flashbacks of our experiences, to say nothing of the level of havoc the amount of walking we did wreaked on my chronic pain issues. I could’ve posted a bunch more quotes to lead off today’s writing. The ones above all directly apply. I always assumed that Frank Sinatra and writer Paul Anka were talking about living the high, showbiz life when they talked about the city that never sleeps. I’ve always pictured Broadway and the eyesore that is Times Square when hearing this line. It was also true in our little neighbourhood; there was noise all night long: trucks, people, voices…constant vibration.
Grand Central StationGrand Central TracksNYPL: The lions out front are called Patience and Fortitude. Patience indeed.The turtles of Central Park.Fay Wray and King Kong are somewhere in the mist.
I’ve not travelled much. When I have, it’s never been in the tourist spirit. I prefer to take enough time to feel what life there is like. Well, what life is like from the perspective of someone curious beyond tourism, but nonetheless on vacation. I won’t pretend to know what living anywhere is like without experiencing all the usual suspects of adulting. I’m a helpless romantic, but even my romance has limitations. Life is hard. The cost of living is real. I will say that my attraction and connection to New York City were immediate.
On the morning of our second day, Ava and I took the tube south to the Brooklyn Bridge stop. Leaving the station, we were met with the bridge itself, on a misty, rainy summer morning, disappearing in a vanishing point across the Hudson River. My breath caught. Shivers. It only got deeper and sweeter from there. We wandered everywhere. One World Trade still has a gravity to it. There we stood, in a place where, all those years ago, the stupidity of mankind resulted in a staggering loss of life. I recently read a quote that said something about not finding anything typical of America in New York. This was true for me. I’ve longed held the way by which America is run, and attitudes typical of that ignorance and self-proclaimed superiority, in deep contempt. The line between the people and it’s financial/political/military rule must be drawn. Everyone we met in New York was amazing (except the security guards at the Chrysler Building, who had too much time on their hands and not enough to vent their testosterone on).
All the tube station names are done in this beautiful mosaic tile. Old New York.James Davis Smith, Died December 1769.St. Paul’s GraveyardBrooklyn Bridge in the morning mist.
Since our return, some folks have asked what the highlight was. It’s almost impossible to pick one, but if I had to, it would be the revelation we received in the graveyard of The Basilica of St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral. The Basilica is an old church with catacombs beneath. Ava and I went in to ask what the tour was all about. Their 11:45 tour group didn’t show. We ended up having a private, guided tour of the church by a chap called Lee, who’d grown up in the area. He has a vast knowledge of local history. Martin Scorsese grew up in the neighbourhood, went to school across the road and was an altar boy at the church. The real life events from his film, The Gangs Of New York, took place where we were standing. The wall surrounding the church was put up explicitly to keep the church form being damaged by the warring religious factions. Ava and I are fond of graveyards and cemeteries, so this stop and our walk through St. Paul’s graveyard earlier in the day were high points, with their sacred sense of history and the Divine. We saw gravestones dating back to the 1700s. I still haven’t mentioned the highlight. While in the graveyard, Lee gestured to a building adjacent to it. It was an old brick buidling with a modern, grey addition added to the roof. Lee pointed out the terrace visible from where we stood. It was David Bowie’s condo from the time he bought it in 1999, up until the time of his death in 2016. Ava and I got all wide-eyed when he told us this. I have more shivers in the retelling. I pictured Davey coming out on to the terrace of a morning, coffee in hand and looking out across the big city. I saw him leaving the building to head to the studio to cut Blackstar, his last record and brilliant epitaph. I saw him in his final days, after the well-recorded courage with which he navigated his disease. This last image is the hardest, for obvious reasons. Oof.
The wall at the Old Basilica, where the Gangs of New York held court. 285 Lafayette Street, Bowie’s digsDavid Jones’ terraceWe’re huge Ramones fans. Had to stop by Joey’s old neighbourhood.Bad Brains mural in the Bowery.
The other highlight for me happened unexpectedly, on our way to the subway to begin our journey back to Toronto. We started the day at a cafe near the AirBnb, I didn’t get the name of it. Coffee and pain au chocolat were excellent, as was our host. The scary part was paying for our stuff and needing the bathroom, only to find it occupied by some dude who was taking his time, if you know what I mean. After a few days of restaurant food my bowels were, aherm, compromised. I began to sweat, literally, but willpower trumped biological need, as I felt strongly that shitting my pants on our last day in New York City would be poor form. To be clear, not shitting my pants was not the highlight. Read on…
I was about to fork over about $175 CAD for the Uber back to Newark. There was a chap on the back patio of the cafe, with his babe sleeping in the stroller beside him. He was clearly a regular, as the owner came out to chat with him. I told them we were on our way back to T.O. and asked if they knew about flat rates with the NYC Yellow Cab Co. They didn’t, but it turned out that the young Dad, called Ajay, grew up in Scarborough. He told us how to get to the New Jersey trains down at Penn Station, which went directly to Newark Liberty. This info saved us a ton of money. It meant more legwork, but, even though the crush to get on the Jersey trains at Penn Station is intense and overwhelming, it was worth it. Reason being is that we had to walk across the top of Central Park to get the right line going south. On the walk, which happened to coincide with a car free Saturday morning in the area, not dissimilar to Pedestrian Sundays in Toronto’s Kensington Market, we came across Malcolm X Boulevard. This was unexpected. Ava was curious as to why I wanted a pic, as she and I have never discussed Malcolm’s legacy. Malcolm is a hero of mine. I read his autobiography in my twenties and it was hugely inspirational. That someone could emerge from where he started, as a criminal in the streets of Chicago, to where he ended up, is something. After his trip to Mecca, in the face of being blacklisted by the Nation Of Islam and subsequently assassinated by members of the same, he returned to America with the realization that there was hope for black and white to coexist. Mecca was the only place where he’d experienced being treated with love and equality by human beings with blue eyes and blond hair. His was a life of evolution and great courage. I feel glad in my heart that this was my final experience of New York.
The view from Central Park, looking east.Poseidon flanking the Dakota apartments. Heavy energy here, where Lennon lost his life. Mugs.Me and my travelling mate.RIP El Hajj Malik el Shabazz. Here’s to Brother Malcolm and unity between black and white.
When we landed at Billy Bishop in Toronto and got in the Uber to head home, the first thing I noticed is how clean our city is. I was chuffed to come across Fran Lebowitz’s quote. It’s really true. I’m happy that my city is not filthy, but clean is not enough. There’s something about every aspect of New York City that gives it its depth. It’s magnetic. The city is magnetic. My most excellent travelling companion and I plan to return as soon as we can. We saw so little while we were there. What little we did see left indelible marks on our hearts and spirits. I see us being there together again. I see me playing shows there. I see more of New York in our lives.
Thanks so much for reading. I realize this is a longer entry and it’s not linear. It’s representative of the way the images and feelings of the trip continue to hit me, at random, inducing a fluttering of the heart and a wistful feeling for a city so new to me, yet so familiar. New York City had always been something that was almost a fictional point of reference. Some place I saw on a map and in movies, music and culture. Now it’s in me. So many cultural dots were connected on this trip. My world is a little bit smaller for the experience. There’s so much more to say, but I’ll leave it here for now. Maybe the rest will appear in song at some point…
I bunked off work early yesterday with much excitement. Last week I’d tracked vocals for Tattoo, the last song I need to add anything to. It was a bust. The intro is the most sensitive as far as needing quiet to record. The recording of vox and acoustic guitar for this record have been anything but quiet. We live only feet away from the streetcar and main street traffic ripping by, to say nothing of the orange men on the DeGrassi Street train bridge, whacking away at the the Ontario Line all hours of the day. I was able to make the rest of the vocal tracks happen, along with traffic noise and life sometimes audible on the vocal tracks, but Tattoo needed some real quiet.
I moved my vocal mic into the anteroom outside of our bathroom and reran the studio leads accordingly. I then headed off to Canadian Tire and picked up some moving blankets, at a friend’s recommendation, to help buffer the noise. I got home and excitedly hung the blankets and got my MacGyver vocal booth cooking. I noticed that the blankets were a bit stinky. I thought it was because they were just out of the package. After a special afternoon visit from a friend, I had some dins, went for my usual night walk around the east end and arrived back home, not sure if I’d record then, or spend the night kicking back and wait until today, when I was fresh with Saturday’s promise, to lay this final track down. The latter won. With the lights down low, I went slack and took in all the proper British crime drama that my inert, self-flagellating self could handle.
I woke this morning with my lungs and sinuses on fire. Our place is not that big and is open concept. The whole place bore the funky smell of yesterday’s newly opened blankets. I checked the material label for contents. Turns out some sod thought it was a good idea to put propylene in the blankets. I’d heard of this chemical before, but didn’t know much about it. Turns out it’s shite and should not be huffed in. Small wonder, on the heels of lifelong asthma and two recent, back to back respiratory infections, that I felt like crap after sleeping with these olfactorily strange bedfellows.
A quick shower and some brekkie, then off to return the offenders. I’m at the local now, having a coffee and feeling good about getting the Tattoo vox done. I’ll go old school and hang up some blankets and go for it. When the recording is done, I’m planning some studio upgrades. I’ll add the acoustic treatment to the list and get something dope cooking for future vox and acoustic geetar recordings. It’ll be crucial, as I’m planning for the next round of recordings to be live, off the floor solo voice and acoustic.
In the meantime, I’d like to share the premaster of The Pass, which is the first track on the record. Some of you have already heard it and have been in touch with your praise, which makes it all worth it for me. Thanks so much for that.
Father, why are all the children weeping? They are merely crying son Oh, are they merely crying, father? Yes, true weeping is yetto come
– Nick Cave, The Weeping Song
I bunked off work early, the strains of the week pulling at my spirit, headlong into Friday’s reprieve; the wages of love, parenthood and finishing Stereophile jostling for the top spot on the neverending to do list. The plan: To kick back for a few, then head down the hall and finish mixing the last of the premasters for the record. The reality: With chronic pain at the redline, a few hours flat out in a haze of medically approved cannabis oil, searching the interwebs for musical redemption.
After a YouTube trip into Live At KEXP and NPR Tiny Desk Concert land, I came across Kingdom In The Sky: Nick Cave and Warren Ellis Live At Hanging Rock. It’s a forty-two minute doc and live performance from their show there last year. I was curious, but reserved. The setting at Hanging Rock is beautiful and these two chaps are both amazing musicians, but I’ve been a bit put off Nick after reading about his late-found Christian zeal.
I’ve loved Nick Cave for many, many years. I was turned on to him when he was well into his career with the Bad Seeds. I feel blessed to have grown with him over the years. In the time I’ve been listening to his music I’ve watched us both evolve. He’s become a kinder, more compassionate human being, with a wonderful perspective on humanity.
Not too long ago, I saw a clip of Cave at his Q&A tour and someone asked him about religion. His answer had to do with all of us reaching for something. It was eloquently profound and applied to all. Shortly thereafter, I read an interview where he talked about his Christian acceptance. I happened to be listening to one of his records at the time and it hit differently. All the aspects that felt like questions about Christianity now felt like devout proclamations. I said earlier that I’ve been put off, but I think, more accurately, I’m struggling to find a place for it, for the obvious reason that many of us find aspects of Christianity and the church questionable, and I am one of those.
I’ve often looked to Christ for guidance myself, though without the dogmatic trappings and hypocrisy of the institution that bears His name. I’ve often wanted to find comfort in the church, or something like it, for a foundation in which to live my life when the storm feels so relentless. Who that seeks understanding wouldn’t want a harbour so safe as this?
It occurs to me that Nick’s Jesus thing might be the prime mover in his evolution and greater kindness as he ages. I know others to which this happens without religion, but I don’t know many of us who have gone through the great tragedies of losing a teenaged son and then losing a grown son only a few years later. Nick Cave lived these sorrows publicly, with rare grace and courage. The former tragedy spawned the record, Ghosteen, which is a work of unspeakable beauty. Cave and Ellis close the Hanging Rock show with the song Ghosteen Speaks, where Nick sings, in the spectral voice of his late son “I am beside you, I am beside you…”
All this said, I hit play last night, not sure I’d make it through much of the show, but wanted to give it a go. I was almost immediately enraptured and riveted, without even realizing it. The delivery, the feeling, Warren and Nick’s love for each other, Nick smiling at the band and the backup singers, Colin Greenwood from Radiohead on bass. Throughout the concert there are cutaway interviews with folks at the show, most of whom echo my own feelings of being there all along for Nick’s growth, as an artist and human being. It was beautiful.
Years ago, on the eve of going to have my first record mastered, I had a dream where Nick and I were sitting in a pub somewhere, in a horseshoe shaped booth of the deepest red velvet and black wood. He looked at me and said “So, you’re going Hollywood?” I didn’t know what he meant, but thought it was cool to have a dream where we were hanging out. Turns out the studio I’d booked was abruptly commercial and managed by someone full of himself, who was blathering on about some Hollywood starlet who had just been in to try her hand at being a singer. Nick had given me the heads up.
Since then, he’s visited me overnight a few times. It happened again last night. He and I were wandering through field, farmland, and country roads, talking quietly together. He was leading the way the entire time, as though showing me the way. We parted at a petrol station, where he jumped on a Vespa and sped off down the road, muttering something about having to get back to work.
I’m so thankful for the gift of writing. As I write this, I feel a greater understanding. There’s so much in our dreams. And so much in our judgement of others. There’s so much we know inherently, but it’s not physical or cognitive, so it goes unrecognized while we try so hard to fit the mould of a world that’s been set up so fucking backwards. Our magic is beaten out of us from the time we are born. We are taught to forget: We are Divine.
I chose today’s quote, from the Bad Seeds The Weeping Song, for two reasons. The band did a bang up version of the song at the concert, with a newly minted groove, but also because of this particular verse. I think it’s only as more experienced beings that we feel true, deep sadness, in the face of all that we’ve lost and all that we long to return to.
My back feels broken, my shoulders like crags of rock, my orbs are sore and red, my right arm feels like it’s telescoped from using the mouse, I’m irritable, I haven’t been the most patient Dad, the smallest inconvenience results in a reaction not at all on par with the inconvenience itself. In short, I feel like a bit of a wretched prick…and intensely alive and awake.
Making Stereophile, my new record and book, has been so many things. I’ve run the gamut of emotions, from despair to the highest elation. Little victories and many kicks to the nuts. I’m going to write more about the entirety of the experience when the record is done.
Currently, I’m in mix mode. This is my first attempt at mixing my own full length. I’ve released a handful of singles over the last few years. Mixing a standalone track is a different beast than getting a collection together. I usually mix as I go. When I finished the vocal tracks, I thought I was pretty much done with the mixes. Not so. As with each phase of the project, I’ve been learning on the fly. I’ve a old friend and mentor in Howard Ayee, whose experience dates back to the golden age of recording, the 1970s. I say the golden age, but we’re in a bit of a renaissance now. Technology now allows us to get analogue warmth with the convenience of digital editing. Howard’s directed me on how the greats did it back in the day, in the context of the gear available to us today.
This latest phase of mixing the songs to get them all ready for Howard to master sees me working, in particular, on the strength of where the vocals sit in the wormhole of the mix. The last week has been an immersion in the finer points of how the pros do it. While I grumbled at the thought of yet another learning curve, it’s been worth it.
There have been many days and nights of sitting at the console, having to pee. I’m not sure how many decisions I’ve made while nature called. Probably a bunch. Sorry, Len. Hopefully they haven’t been made in vain.
“La Niña de Los Peines had to tear apart her voice, because she knew experts were listening, who demanded not form but the marrow of form, pure music with a body lean enough to float on air. She had to rob herself of skill and safety: that is to say, banish her Muse, and be helpless, so her duende might come, and deign to struggle with her at close quarters. And how she sang! Her voice no longer at play, her voice a jet of blood, worthy of her pain and her sincerity, opened like a ten-fingered hand as in the feet, nailed there but storm-filled, of a Christ by Juan de Juni.”
– Federico Garcia Lorca, Obras Completas, Vol. 1
The passage above, from Lorca’s complete works, is preceded, in context, by the Spanish singer Pastora Pavon (La Nina) delivering a technique-perfect, but soulless round of songs to a crowd of the who’s who of the scenesters of the day. The audience sat quiet and still. No applause. Nothing. Nonina, as they say in Andalusia. Someone from the audience stands up from behind his brandy bottle and says ‘Here ability is not important, nor technique, nor skill. What matters here is something other.’
Pastora then digs deep, lets go, and lets loose.
I’ve only scratched the surface of Lorca’s vast beauty. What I do know of his work is wrapped in glorious romance, sadness and bravery. Everything I’ve experienced of his writing and life takes my breath away. It was he that introduced me to the concept of duende. The translation of the Spanish duende, to English, is elf. I love that, because elves, but it means so much more. Lorca refers to it this way:
“With idea, sound or gesture, the duende enjoys fighting the creator to the very rim of the well…the duende wounds. In the healing of that wound which never closes lies the invented strange qualities of an artist’s work.”
– Sidebar!: I’m sitting at my local, which I’m always sitting at when I write. A guy came in earlier, seeing a pic of Jimmy Carter on the wall while he was passing by. He came in and started talking to everyone in the cafe about Jimmy Carter pardoning all the American draft dodgers of the Vietnam war. He spoke to one of the folks sitting here who happened to be a U.S. war vet. They had an excellent conversation about the currently morbid state of America (See what I did there? Groaaaannn). He named all the Jimmies on the walls, except for the one hanging behind me. I told him it was Jimmy Page. He thanked us for our smiles and disappeared to go get his haircut by George, our local Greek barber, only to return a while later, hair intact because George is closed today. He told the ladies that work here that, because he came in with a Timmie’s cup earlier, he wanted to come back and do them a solid and buy a cup from them. Solid character, that. He and I talked for a good half hour about motorbikes (Triumph vs. Harley and the shaft drive on his ‘83 Honda Goldwing) and English history. This man, Toby by name, and an Englishman by way of Ireland, has a deep knowledge of the Brit’s legacy. Fascinating. Turns out he’s a local. I hope I see more of him. I also kinda hope he doesn’t get his hair cut. He’s got an epic topknot. I love this stuff; our connections. My morning here has been peppered with visits from locals that I call friends. I would say I digress, but I won’t, because this stuff is what makes our lives amazing. So, back to duende…
It’s on my radar, this ancient thing, while I tussle with a modern problem…social media. The first time I heard about Facebook, I thought “No good can come of this”. Now, all these years later, it feels like the damage social media has done to us outweighs the good it’s wrought. My hunch was accurate.
My social numbers have never been great. I’m in the process of yet another attempt to reattune myself to going fully into them, to promote Stereophile, my new record and accompanying small format book. I’m told that the reason for my low numbers is the irregularity with which I post. I get that. I also get, and I’ve said it before, that art should not be reduced to content. We’re all struggling so hard to produce, produce, produce. FOMO. Keep that shit going, or fall by the wayside while the true hustlers get Instafamous. Malarkey. What this constant need to produce has resulted in is a lot of disposable, disingenuous shite, borne of a desperation to go viral in a world where the arts, especially music, have been decimated. There is little duende in the social media landscape. A lack of grit, shadow or depth. I don’t think that’s news. Liam Gallagher said recently that everything is beige. Artists I know who have great followings see the socials as an albatross around their necks. A tiresome, necessary evil. They’re a drag on art.
A week ago I had my finger on the DELETE trigger of my IG and FB. My site analytics gave me pause. Lo! Traffic was up, due to me consistently composing and posting my writings. I’ve spent the week researching the best way to take a solid crack at the crazy game of online promo. To find the most effective, efficient way to get the goods out, that leaves more time to create and hang out with family and friends. A friend is helping get this together and we’re discussing her coming on board to help manage the promo regularly. This weekend I had a first rehearsal with a rhythm section of two fine chaps (more on them later). The team is growing, which is amazing for me and long overdue. I’ve felt isolated for a while now, having others to create with feels wonderful. Moreover, having pals to hang with is giving me all the good fuzzies.
The music is going great, that’s what matters most. At least it does to me. I don’t care much anymore for wearing all the hats that a modern singer/songwriter is expected to wear. I’m still not sure how the social monkey business will go. When a certain mood comes on, I find my fingers again hovering over the delete buttons. Whatever the case, I hope I can make my way into and through this vapid online wormhole with some sense of substance. To strike a fine balance between consistency and art. To do battle with the dark elf and pin the little fucker to the mat, and then sing about it, honouring the wound that heals but never closes.
I’ll keep you posted (See what I did there again? Groaaaannnn).
K. xo
ps. Here’s a link to the full piece that I pinched Lorca’s quotes from:
“It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society”
– Jiddu Krishnamurti
Sitting here in the window at the local. It’s a rainy Saturday morning. The studio is whispering to me from a few blocks away. Urging me in. Urging me on. I’m in a weeks long cycle of pain, illness and procrastination. I am one guitar track and one vocal track away from finishing Stereophile, my new record. I am mustering the courage, the heart, to lay them down. To breathe it all out and elevate out of this hard place. I’m aware that, while I moan about the delays, I’m afraid to finish. Afraid to release this work into the world, these bits of soul made digital, and see it mostly ignored, if my previous work is any measure. I’m at once hopeful, while feeling the cold whisper of the voice of ridicule and shame trickling down the back of my neck.
I drink my coffee and watch the people go by. I think of a better world. One where we are not so pressed and dented. Where art is not reduced to content. Where the substance of our silent accord is lived, rather than its loss bemoaned as a symptom of modern life. A place free of our Post Pandemic Disconnection, the cortisol coming in waves as we panic for breath, for a short reprieve.
I think I may be in the wrong lane. It may be time to hang up my modest public presence in the world and beat a retreat. I’m sick of the spiritual shithole we’ve made of this place, with all its potential for greatness and kindness. I’m tired of the helpless, hateful rage I feel towards our politicians, and the corporate world, who continue to refuse accountability for the widespread damage born of their relentless pursuit to hoard and boast. These for whom money has replaced the hardwired neanderthal idiot male need to compete and dominate. The depth of this greed is an uncommon stupidity in this day and age. For those of you feeling like this is a finger wag, make no mistake, I see myself in these people. I see all of us in each other and everything else. We all have the potential to shine or shit the bed.
Coffee is almost done. Time to head over to the studio and get embryonic, while my heart longs for more real time connection, to be among a group of souls. Maybe that’s what’s missing. Maybe, instead of retreat, I need to get out more. For me, and everyone I know, having the energy and making time for something as simple as seeing a friend has, due to the relentless hustle to make ends meet, become elusive.
We are fragmented. The societal machine we continue to allow to run is sickly and wrong. The silent accord I mentioned earlier is the feeling we all get, in the quiet moments, where Love comes in and fills us with its amber glow. That light is in all of us. It is the eternal, fixed point, like lights along the landing strip at night’s most impenetrable hour.
I’ve been sitting here for a while now, thinking about a succinct way to wrap this one up, but I can’t find one. This is an ongoing trip. One without end. We are Divine Misfits made flesh and bone, each with our own story, each flawed and returning, missing home and looking for the runway lights…
“Have we been so brainwashed by capitalism that you have to be busy to be worth something?”
The above quote is from an article I read in the Guardian this morning about millennial women pursuing the “soft life”, so named for a generational movement towards not working your ass off for so little in return. Millennials get shit on all the time for being lazy and of no account. In this case, the lifestyle pursuit is one I can get behind.
My music has made little money over the years. I’ve always had a day gig to make ends meet. The forty hour work week is something I only did for a short time. I found a way, while employed in food service, to survive on a four hour work day, to keep the creative and utilitarian plates spinning. I spent all my free time developing my craft, while learning to carry out all the other aspects the modern singer/songwriter is required to be good at.
I was never one to pursue a career in any area other than the arts or to have “something to fall back on”. I knew what I was getting into. The risk. The odds. The potential to be crushed under the weight of one’s dream not coming true. Still, I went for it. Over the years my music got better, I learned more about everything, my writing deepened, as should any writing, with the experience of life and years gained.
Seven years ago, my marriage ended. We lived together for three years after that, due to the cost of living in Toronto being so high. I became a single Dad and solo householder in the midst of the pandemic. All of the above, coupled with an empathy and sensitivity to the forces at work in this world started to take their toll. I then underwent a botched surgery for a labral tear in my hip that resulted in graver pain than the issue itself caused. This has become a chronic condition where each day is met with serious pain. All this said, I still wake each morning with art in my heart, mustering the energy to put forth sound. To, hopefully, bring a bit more light into our often dark and disconnected world.
I tell you the above, not to fish for sympathy, but to illustrate the reasons by which I came to feel supportive of these women saying fuck that to being on the endless, thankless wheel of shit that is the current societal system. The nose-to-the-grindstone approach of the generations of old no longer works. It’s not news that our politicians and corporations don’t give a fuck about us. The divide grows. The middle class is disappearing. Hard work is good for us, but there are no guarantees or securities as a result of it.
I’ve done the sixty hour work weeks, with the day gig and music hours combined. It hasn’t resulted in the success I’d planned on. I’m not the only would be rock star who’s reframed the original dream for humbler aspirations. I know there are many out there who didn’t put forth the effort, mostly due to fear of failure, but I also know many who, like me, have done their time in the arena, taking the hits and savouring the shining victories. We’ve put our 10,000 hours in. We’ve faced the anxious quiver of soul-become-art, released into the world with bated breath.
It’s all exhausting. It is for me, anyway, and clearly some others. How many of us are just knuckling down, unhappy every day, telling the people we meet along the way that we’re fine, when we’re so far from it? Our real time connections wane. Bullshit AI is on the rise, with cowards and fools using it to create fake plastic “art” that sullies the genuine, beautiful things that take time, soul, love and struggle to bring into being.
We could all use a softer life. I’m not sure how to get there. We’re most of us working at maximum capacity and still feel the waterline rising, as though any grace or space we might offer ourselves means compromising cash flow or conditioned definitions of self-worth. We need to keep working hard, though in areas that will result in greater peace and fulfillment of that which we are called to.
I write all this down today to stave off the extended gaze over the edge. To find solace in the process and getting it out of my head and onto the page. And to communicate it to you, to hopefully find common ground between us. We’re missing so much, while we run so fast and hard to stay ahead and above the undertow.
Damn, I’m tired. Here’s to more Love, Light and Ease in our lives.
