Pages

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Who Cries Over Dead Spiders?

It's been a weird week. Nothing really seems to satisfy me and, like Jennifer Lopez after her hips go out, I'm not able to shake it. It's a bizarre state of despondency where everything feels mediocre and imperfect. Anthony Weiner. Quite possibly the best choice of name for one who sends lewd photos via numerous outlets. It's like a perverse play on the subconscious. Everyone hears it, then second guesses themselves, then confirms it, then laughs, then the cycle repeats. I don't want to touch on Weiner too long, but it's a stiff situation but I'm sure he'll pull through it with Clinton-esque form. I found this picture of myself by searching something to the effect of "Nashville Street Music" on Google the other day ------------->
It's a cool encapsulation of what I've been doing when I'm not on a stage or at work. I broke my tambourine in half that day. I've played 14 shows in the last 10 days and still stand out here whenever I get a chance. Friday I played three times; 2:30p, 6:30p, played on the street awhile then across town at 11p. I found a recording I did last june during a time when everything I'd built was in a painful state somewhere between cracked and shattered. It's like eight minutes long but there's something strangely beautiful about the whole thing. It's an emotional journal entry, begging things not to break and somehow set to music. I remember recording it. It was live in downtown Ybor City, FL, June 22nd, 2010. I'd dropped a Zoom H4N on the piano and completely made up the whole song on the spot. I'm so glad I caught it on tape. I was crying my eyes out and was terrified to try to play that night. You can hear every emotional strain in my voice and by the time I finished, the tension in the air was so thick you couldn't breathe. I finally let out this huge sigh of relief and everyone started clapping for what seemed an eternity. I've never had so many people hug me after a show as I did that night. I haven't been brave enough to listen to it until today. I'll email it to anyone who wants to hear it. Ironically enough, I found that recording on the same day that I wrote a song (on the same subject) called "Who Cries Over Dead Spiders?" touching on fact that the whole thing doesn't really matter. I like where I am right now. I've never been happier with my life, friends, family, music, opportunities, etc...((starts singing))...//my my my a man can't ignore the signs; depression will kill you just as much as dying. My my my a man can not deny that sometimes it's not even worth the crying...// 
I'm not playing for the first time in 10 days so am super excited to check out Nichole's show tonight then trying out my new tunes "Loneliest Tonight" and, the previously mentioned, "Dead Spiders" tomorrow. Gonna be a good time. They're considering inducting Johnny Cash into the hip-hop/rap hall of fame for his contribution to violent lyrics with Folsom Prison Blues' line, "I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die." I hope to God it happens. Nothing cooler than Johnny Cash touching all three music halls (Rock, Country and Hip-Hop/Rap). My truck smells like a civil war era plantation. It's a cotton-pickin' good, ol' fashion time in the modern age aluminum covered wagon...

Friday, June 17, 2011

OFF!!! WITH THEIR HEADS!!!

I scream at inanimate objects. It's been over a week now, and my horn is still going off without warning. In fact, it's gotten worse. In the past few days I've honked at a man in a wheelchair, an old woman, several drive-through attendants and just about anything that's near me when I'm driving slowly. It seems to only happen when people are at their most vulnerable or directly in front of me. It's the most annoying situation that could possibly ever happen to anyone. My natural reaction is to yell at my steering wheel and tell it to shut up. It works. Therefore, the shouting will continue until it works as intended. At a redlight two days ago, it was just going to town with its delightful squeal, so I reached under the steering wheel and ripped out everything that could potentially be connected to it. My horn didn't go off, but my airbag definitely did. I'm pretty sure they switched the bag with a mule hoof at the factory because I'd personally rather be hit by a freaking bus than have that happen again. "He would have been fine but the airbag deployed and tore his head off..."

Saturday, June 11, 2011

Strange Assistance: A Gerbil's Worst Nightmare...

So the weirdest thing just happened. I was standing in an ungodly-ly long line to purchase a soda when, to my surprise, a gangly young employee walks up to a second register and waves me to the counter. He asks what I want, I tell him I want a soda, he violently slams a cup on the counter and then steps back with this silly, goofy looking girlish smile on his face. We kind of sat there awkwardly for awhile before he raised his eyebrows in a sort of "why are you still standing here and aren't you going to thank me for the free soda" kind of way that made me get a kind of sick, cramping feeling in my stomach. Up to this point, I still hadn't picked up on what was going on; then the following conversation made it all make sense: Him: "I gave it to you for free. Didn't you notice I didn't even log into the register? I just saw you in line and wanted to check you out so I called you over here." Me: (awkwardly) "Oh, okay. Thanks." Him: (unbelievably awkward smile) Me: "Um, well, thanks again" (walking away) Him: (excitedly) "I really like your belt!" Me: (stopping, running the previous conversation through my head and finally realizing that he meant 'check me out' in a literal sense not check me out in an assist me in my purchase kind of way) "Uh, thanks?" Him: "It's a rope. That's, like, so rocker." Me: "Yes. It is a rope" Him: "Who thinks to tie a rope like a belt? You are so creative sometimes." Me: "Um, okay. I'm gonna go get my soda now..." (I walk away while he follows me all the way down the counter with this dumb grin on his face. He yelled after me to let him know if I needed anything else but I just left. It kind of made me feel weird having him watch me every second...

Drowning in Darkness: A Gerbil's Worst Nightmare (Pt II)

Yesterday I was so frustrated by the fact that I'd felt like trash for five days that I forced everything soothing or vitamin c oriented into my broken, tattered body. From peach/honey tea to orange juice to lemon aid to lemon everything else to flat out lemons and triple action cough-drops and tuna. I can't really feel my teeth due to the high acid content but I feel a lot better today. I think I've got album art figured out. I'll post it on here once I get the final product out. The whole thing is kind of a really dark, Lucero meets Bob Dylan and Johnny Cash's broken-hearted-yet-smiling-and-hopeful-for-better-days-son kind of feel. It needs some work but I like it a lot. I wanted to approach things differently, so the whole record is a sort of portrait depicting the constant battle between sorry and happiness and parallels dark situations with hopeful resolution. It talks about heaven in a depressing way and sorrow like it's the best thing that ever happened to someone. I wanted people to feel conflicting emotion; emotions that don't typically walk hand in hand, when listening to the songs. I hope I did it right. It's extremely raw and stripped down so it's easy to fall into that awkward "nice try but you really missed it" category. We'll see. In 7 songs, it touches on love, abortion, orphans, divorce, getting shot, death, dirt, drowning, Woody Allen and heaven (not necessarily in that order). I have elven minutes to finish this post before my time runs out at this internet-stingy Panera. On a side note: rather than correcting the spelling error on the word eleven in the previous sentence, I'll just make up an excuse and say that I meant to type that. Elven minutes are slightly shorter than normal minutes, have pointed ears and run at a much quicker pace. I need to fly down to Florida and record a couple more tracks. I need to fix something. I really want to track this song I wrote last night. It goes like this...*starts humming the first verse*...

Monday, June 6, 2011

I Feel Sick to My Stomach...

I woke up at 5am with a pounding headache and a bizarre feeling in my chest. I think I might have eaten sand paper in my sleep because my throat is raw as sushi. I feel kind of dizzy. I don't really feel like writing this anymore. Something is wrong with my housetruck and my horn goes off randomly. It's absolutely hilarious because it not only scares everyone in the surrounding area, I also get to join in the terrification as I never know when it's going to occur. One time it stayed on for 2-3 minutes. People were flicking me off the whole time. I'd just wave back. I went to Joseph's birthday party the other night. It was a good time. There were fire dancers and we played music. I got hit on pretty bad three chicks who were arguing over who I should go home with. I ended up going home with the Walmart on Dikerson Pike and writing a song about it. It's weird to me how society views a male who is sexually active with numerous partners as successful and people seem strangely proud of him. However, when a girl does the same thing, she's considered a trashy whore. No wonder our society is in shambles. Why should it be considered normal for a guy to perpetually offer himself out there and leave the girls, unprotected, and on the defensive? If you don't give yourself away you're mocked as a pious prude and if you do you're a slut. I don't get it. Whatever happened to relationship? It's weird, I was at a movie the other night with two amazing girls and got a text from someone I've known for years. As soon as I saw the name I smiled and got excited. What the heck was that? I felt like an insecure middle-schooler passing a teenage crush in the hall and making eye contact for the first time. It was the weirdest thing. Turns out she only needed something and doesn't really care that I'm alive, but it made me think; what makes me more excited to hear from her than to be with two super cool, attractive broads in person? How did she get that magnetism? What causes emotion like that? Isn't emotion optional? Well, I guess the reaction, at least, is optional. It made me happy, though, knowing I still haven't shut myself off. I've worked hard this past year to ensure that I didn't become despondent and emotionally aloof after everything I went through. I'm glad I still have a sense of sensitivity. I guess it opened me up. I used to never let on how I felt about anything. Now I'm writing exaggerated stream of consciousness in a freaking blog that anybody and their mother can read. Most of it is through the roof, blatant sarcasm expressed in the exact opposite emotion I'm really feeling though; so I guess that keeps me safe and keeps people from really knowing me. There's still a wall there. I realized I have zero talent for throwing a frisbee yesterday. I'm pretty sure both Caroline and I lost half our body weight running after each other's godawful throws. One cool thing, though. While we were walking this bird kamikaze dived straight into the ground and killed himself (see picture). I just threw up the spaghetti we made last night. I guess I'm getting sick. My throat is killing me. I'm going to walk to Panera and get some hot tea and honey. I'll finish this over there [15 mins later] the CMA's start thursday here in Nashville and the amount of cowboy hats is unbearable. Broadway is blocked off and there are tour buses everywhere. This weekend is going to be amazing. I actually had an alert go off in my phone this morning telling me not to plan anything for this weekend because I can make so much money playing outside of the Bridgestone Arena that it would be stupid to not take advantage of it. I shouldn't have walked here. Now I have to walk all the way back to my truck. I didn't think this one through very well. I can't believe it's taken me over an hour and two locations to write this blog that really has no real significance whatsoever...

Friday, June 3, 2011

I'll See You In Nightcourt!

I've never considered myself a songwriter as much as I have a three minute storyteller playing guitar. It's not even so much a guitar; it's more of a curvaceous best friend who allows me to release emotion and moans and weeps when I run my hands across it. Kind of a friend with benefits. The only real difference, I guess, is it's easier to hum and sing along to my stories than those by Charles Dickens. Not to mention my rhyming schemes are a bit more well crafted. Chaucer, on the other hand, was a rhyming, timing (often crime-ing) son of nobody with places to go, buddy, who could put me to shame in this old, rhyming game with lines to sweep my heart away and rock my world and make me say, 'hey hey, there friend, hey hey I say, the lovely words you gruffly bray move me and blow me away and make me want to sing and play the way that you do every day." I'll never be Chaucer. In fact, I'll never be anyone else. If you don't like me or my music than don't hang out with me and don't sing along. I don't think music should be so much of a contest. Competing musically is like putting the losing half of two recently divorced couples in a room and making them argue over who's been hurt the most. It's an expression. Granted, some people express themselves in a way that seems more appealing than others. I don't want to hear an over dramatic whining broad, whereas others would appreciate her sentimental expression. Therefore, as with anything, some bands come along, 'express themselves' in a generally accessible way, and make everyone else seem less important. It's like breaking your arm, entering a room expecting sympathy but the first person you talk with gets a phone call mid conversation, finds out her husband and three children just died in an accident and all of a sudden your broken arm doesn't really matter anymore. You're arm is still broken, you're still relevant; she just draws a lot more attention than you because her situation is something more engrossing. I think that's where most people go wrong. They keep a metaphorical cast on their arm because that's how they've always drawn attention and never consider that by doing the same thing they've been producing the same minimal results since the beginning. I'm convinced that the only way to stand apart is to simply do the same thing in a bigger way than everyone else.  i.e. be the one who falls from a plane when everyone else fell from a swing-set; get hit by a train when they got rear-ended or step on a land-mine when they had a fire-cracker go off a bit too early. In any form of artistic expression there's not really a wrong way of doing things, I just don't want to ever become content with complacency and always be the guy with a broken arm in an amputee clinic. You can be good; but I want to be better. I've gotten really into the bands Cadillac Sky and Dead Man's Bones here lately. You should check 'em out. Good slow stuff. I've found my new favorite activity to do when I can't sleep at night is sit in on nightcourt. It's absolutely amazing the cases that roll through. This dude who looked like a bearded nine year old came in un-announced, walked up to the judge and asked about getting somebody out of jail who was supposed to have been picked up four hours prior. The judge told him that he'd punched a security guard after being released so they'd have to post $5000 bail or he couldn't be released. No sooner had Too-Young-To-Have-A-Beard walked out when this gnarley looking broad come running in, interrupted the current case and walked right up to the stand. She's pregnant and holding a 1-2 year old child and, as it's 2am and the judge is behind glass. This crazy hooker dame grabs the mic like she's Madonna or something and screams directly into it. Everybody in the whole place jumps. She screamed about how stupid it was that they wouldn't let her get her fiance (pronounced Fee-Yawn-Say) and that the only reason he hit a security guard was because he was upset that he couldn't see her. The judge was like, "Listen, A) you're in contempt of court and I can have you arrested, and B) I already told the guy who just came in here that you have to go across the street and post bail." Without hesitation she replies, "Yeah he's my friend. He's the guy I've been sleeping with while all this #$%@ with my fiance has been goin' down." He pretty much told her he didn't really care and she could get out or go to jail. That kind of stuff happens every night. I'm pretty sure that Caroline has officially earned genius status for the brilliant suggestion. Well worth it. Screw dinner and a movie, take your date to nightcourt; she'll see how crazy you could be and be happy to be with you. I had a guy purchase a $2600 keyboard from me with a stolen credit card yesterday. I would absolutely love to be sitting in nightcourt and have that dude roll in. People who wear sunglasses inside might as well have a sign permanently stapled to their forehead that says, "Hi, I'm a douche." There's this pompous looking fellow sitting at the table across from me in a Wal-Mart fedora and diamond earrings, working on his computer and looking over the top of his Oakley sunglasses. I legitimately want to get up and punch him. On the other hand, he might actually be cool because he has, what appear to be, three bowling pins protruding from his man purse (satchel). I assume he juggles? Now my mind's going crazy trying to force this guy into various, over-the-top scenarios. I enjoy watching people. If you look hard enough, you find the weirdest things in the most common situations...