Mortality, immortality, and critics

Came across this crazy picture of Frank Zappa tonight, courtesy of European superfan Paul Berkholst.



I know Zappa was no sentimentalist, but this image, taken shortly before his death, moved me. Maybe it's because we took Thandie to the beach the other day, and she panicked when I tried to show her that the ocean was nothing to be scared of by wading into it. It was as if she was afraid that all that water was going to wash me away, mercilessly. It wasn't like I wasn't already aware of the extent to which little kids depend on their parents... but that moment was something more, something that cut straight to an awareness that I'm not going to be on this fucking planet forever.

How does one live completely? In my case, I want to be a great artist and a great human being (father, husband, friend). Is the tradeoff, well, dying of prostate cancer at age 53? I used to think I was willing to make that kind of sacrifice -- one of the reasons I've developed such poor sleep habits. (Health be damned! There's more music to be written!) Now I'm not so sure. I need another solution.

It doesn't help when the rest of the world is unbelievably slow catching up with the "art" part. But thanks to Mr. Berkholst, I discovered more forcefully than ever before that Zappa went through the same shit. Here, for instance, is a clipping from PB's collection (check out his blog at the site above): a generally bad review of a live performance with the LSO (you'll need to click on it to read it):



(Who the fuck is "Howard Brubeck," by the way?)

The IJG actually hasn't gotten many bad reviews, though there are a few if you search for them (google "Industrial Jazz Group" and "Ken Waxman" sometime). But we definitely haven't "broken through" like we should have by now. I've started imagining myself stuck in the same pattern when I'm 80: writing strange, beautiful, interesting music, and continuing to be unable to afford to keep a band together.

This is a scary time to be an artist.

More commentary

This sentence was uttered by Thandie when I asked her why she was refusing to help me clean up her high chair, which she had liberally decorated with peas, meatballs, and strawberries:

"I'm just a baby."

Dumb question

Why isn't it called a "webl" instead of a "blog"?

Commentary

From Billy Jenkins:

"The musician is losing ground in this DIY technological age. You're looking at the screen now and maybe half listening to music. And a lot of that music is 'found sound', cut and paste and machine originated.

"The real musician has quietly been shown the door. You might enjoy them safely within the cages of a concert hall, regurgitating the only repertoire deemed safe - that which contains revivalism, nostalgia and familiarity.

"'Art' music, that deemed non commercial and worthy of government support by way of the Arts Council, not only has the above ingredients, but must also be 'culturally inclusive', 'educational' and above all - controllable.

"Not only does the creative musician have to compromise their artistic vision to suit 'funding criteria', they also, to satisfy educational addendum, have to reveal (and thus weaken) the mystery and magic of their art."

Thoughts?

A new review

How's that for a generic headline?

Anyway, this one's from Scott Yanow at LA Jazz Scene:

"It is fair to say that the Industrial Jazz Group plays unpredictable music. Heard along the way are strong hints of rock & roll, blues, Eastern European folk music, dixieland, r&b, dance music, avant-garde ensembles and Stravinsky, and that is only in the opening number 'Doo Wha?' Led by pianist Andrew Durkin and consisting of seven horns and a three-piece rhythm section, the Industrial Jazz Group can almost be thought of as an American version of Willem Breuker's Kollektief. Alternating complex written ensembles with jammed sections and overheated solos, their music is avant-garde but never dry or meandering; not with their wacky sense of humor and knowledge of earlier styles.

"The band's strong musicianship and ability to instantly switch styles keeps it from merely being a musical comedy act although there are sections on Industrial Jazz A Go Go (available from www.evandermusic.com) where it will be difficult not to chuckle. Mixing together satire and reverence for the many musical idioms, the Industrial Jazz Group is both a crack up and a memorable musical experience. This is a band that certainly deserves to be much better known."

Thanks, Scott!

Click this

If I had a remote that could control the universe, I'd probably never let Adam Sandler make another movie.

T-H-A-N-D-I-E

That's how you spell "Thandie."

At least according to my 2 year old daughter, who spelled her name for me this morning.

Yeowza.

I'm so fat

Went to the movie theater for the first time in ages today (saw the third X-Men movie--which was a big blah, by the way), and noticed this rather amazing little concoction while waiting in the vicinity of the concession stand.

Let me set the scene: in the background, a startlingly fat little girl (maybe 3 years old) is playing a game projected on the floor; she stomps on digital popcorn, spiders, race cars, and so on. It looks like the most activity she's gotten in months.

Daphne and I are standing in line trying to decide what size popcorn to get.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice that one of the items on the menu is a giant pretzel in which is ensconced a glazed cinnamon roll. The entire thing is probably the size of a small frisbee. I feel a vague desire to retch.

I try to imagine the mindset that would create such a thing. "Let's see, I could buy this pretzel, and then buy this cinnamon roll, and eat them separately. OR, I could buy the pretzel-cinnamon-roll-colossus, and save myself the extra effort it takes to guide my fat fucking hand back into the bag to pull out the cinnamon roll once I'm done with the pretzel! Yeah! Pure genius!"

This is how the world will end. Not with a bang, but with a burp.

So as I said...

I recently posted this "review" of myspace on an email list I belong to:

"I was a little hesitant to get involved in myspace, but people kept recommending it to me, and a month or two ago I took the plunge. In the interim I have become pretty enthusiastic about its possibilities. I wouldn't use it as a standalone promotional tool (though who knows, maybe someday it'll be capable of that), but I do think it has the potential to be extremely powerful. (And, by the way, I have found some awesome music with it.)

"At the same time, there are some things that would make the site a better tool for indie musicians. Obviously, networking is not just about being able to easily amass large amounts of data (something the myspace interface is really good at). One needs to be able to organize and filter that data to use it effectively. So, for example, I find it very frustrating that except for the 'top eight,' one can't personalize the organization of one's 'friends' (say, by geographic region, genre, or even just alphabetically). Right now the order is determined by myspace, and to the user it appears basically random. What if we have a gig in city X, and I want to send a message to our friends in that city? Or what if I want to seek advice about venues in that city? It would be great if I could just go to a folder or a page that lists all my friends who are living there.

"Maybe this isn't such a big deal when your friends list is still in the hundreds (as ours is), but once you start working with four or five digits, it's got to be a bit of a headache. As I see it, the 'friends space' should be like a digital rolodex, configurable in any way you want. You should be able to make notes about your friends, tag them, stuff like that. (Let's say for instance you want to follow up personally with people who have added you -- something that can be time consuming if you choose to compose some relevant sentences and don't just post an all-purpose image -- it would be so helpful to have some sort of tracking system so you could see at a glance whose profiles you still needed to add a comment to.) In short, to realize its full capabailities as a networking tool, myspace should really enable you to go from the macrocosmic (your entire friends list) to the microcosmic (any specific subset of that list) more or less instantaneously.

"There are, of course, workarounds for these things (adding the friends you find into a separate database program, for instance). But of course, that all takes additional time. And as a wise man once said, 'Time is the thing.'

Just a few thoughts... thanks for the discussion."

Is that supposed to make me want to go to the show?

A recent Pollstar article has the headline: "Kanye, Tool on the Scene."

True, the effect would be more egregious if there were a colon instead of a comma, but still, come on. I'm no Kanye West fan, but doesn't anybody proofread this stuff?

Flaming Tuba

No, really. Fire dancers and a burning tuba performing "Oops I Did It Again." In the words of the anonymous sage: hilarity ensues.

Go ahead! Check it out!

Pod People

That, I think, is going to be the name of the IJG podcast series that I'm hoping to get off the ground this month. But in the meantime, here we are as featured in someone else's podcast. (The show is Taran's Free Jazz Hour. Thanks, Taran!)

Little Things Mean A Lot

Sometimes ya gotta go with whatcha got. I don't know, I find this project funny, poignant, surreal, disturbing, sad, and (effectively) critical all at once. Bravo, little soldiers.

Talk about poignant, disturbing, and sad, I caught a bit of HBO's Baghdad ER documentary tonight. Not very surprising, alas, but it made me wonder just what obscure corner of whose ass Bush supporters continue to pull out the malarky line that "things are getting better over there." (I know, I know, we're over there now, can't pull out, blah, blah, blah. You got your way, already. But those of us who opposed the Iraq war from the beginning still get to point out the hell you have created.)

Aggy, we hardly knew ye

I've been trying to start a feud with Christina Aguilera for a year or two now. Part of me wants to challenge her to a battle of the bands. Part of me wants to keep taking veiled pock shots at her (and American Idol) through IJG song titles, liner notes, and live concert interludes. For whatever reason, she hasn't taken the bait.

My motivation here goes back to an incident in the history of the IJG in which a certain motherfucker trombonist (who shall remain unnamed) bailed on some crap-ass gig of ours in order to play with the barely legal ex-mouseketeer. It became a sort of in-joke (in my own head, anyway) to tease said trombonist about his decision, based on the premise that his talent was out of all proportion with the ex-mouseketeer gig. It was a sort of backhanded compliment; he was, the joke stipulated, much better (musically speaking) than that.

Though I continue to milk the joke (because, well, I find it funny), I completely understand the mechanics of the decision to take an Aguilera gig over an IJG one. Not only is there beaucoup bread in the former, but most of the cats I play with have this sort of perverse obsession with the little blonde diva, as if she's actually hot or something.

Whatever. In all seriousness, I do think she can sing. To paraphrase something Zappa once said about John McLaughlin: one would have to be a moron not to recognize her talent. She's just not terribly interesting. I personally think she should do a "girl group" album, introducing a new generation to the Ronettes and the Crystals, et al. Instead, she decided to do this.

Everyone knows it's windy

So last week it was Portland; this week it's Chicago. The search continues.

Actually we have no real designs on Chicago, just came out here for Thandie's birthday and to visit Daphne's folks (as well as a few other scattered friends from days of yore). Chicago is a fun, somewhat abstract place with a downtown that I adore. I've written elsewhere about the wonders of Millenium Park. And it was eerily enjoyable this afternoon to watch the fog roll in off the lake. And of course there is some great music (and some great music history) here.

But we couldn't live in this town. One of the silliest reasons is that the superabundance of food, fatty fatty food and the culture that surrounds it, would wear on us very quickly. Last week Conan O'Brien joked that he could only do his show in this city for five days because his cholesterol level had already shot up in that time. Sometimes it seems like all people do here is eat, drink, watch sports, and try to run each other off the road (I know that's a bit of a cliche, so my apologies for offending any of youze). Don't get me wrong: some of the eatin' is quite delicious. We had a stupendous soul food breakfast this morning, and I doubt whether there are very many other places in this country where you could top off the first meal of the day with some delicious peach cobbler--at least without someone looking at you askance. But living here would be like dealing with Thanksgiving all the time. I would find that a bit depressing.

In music news: lookit! Lookit! The IJG has its first festival: in Carson City this August. More information on that soon.

Back in LA on Tuesday. All kinds of plans a-bubbling, IJG-related projects to see through, and yes, I'm writing more music (as my friend Joe used to say, "will it ever end?"). Hang on, let's see where this all goes.

Birthdays, travel, stock-taking

May has been quite action-packed so far. Got a generous last-minute no-way-you're-gonna-refuse sort of invitation to spend Daphne's birthday up in Portland, Oregon, courtesy of some of our oldest and dearest LA friends, Sarah Shute and Matt Smith. (Sarah took the above photo of my little familial unit waiting to board Portland's efficient-as-hell public transportation system. Looks sunny, right? We got caught in a beautiful rainstorm not two hours later. It was great fun.)

While in Portland, we watched the kids play in the yard (which was deliberately full of clover), drank way too much (apparently, Sarah and I are bad influences on one another in that department), ate some amazing food, and just took a break from the rat / crack race that is LA. Oh, yeah, and Daphne and I got the hard sell ("move! move!"), which included being driven around to several cozy, artsy, urban-yet-livable neighborhoods, and being flabbergasted at how affordable they are.

It's a bit overwhelming, now that LA is putting the screws to me and the wife both artistically and financially (oh, did I mention that I'll be leaving the IML in June? It's good riddance, really (sometime I'll tell you about it), but you know how nice it is to have a steady income). I'm painfully aware that we have to do something about the situation (though I don't want to be an alarmist); I'm just not sure what. I especially don't want to lose the network of musicians who have collected around the IJG; we've come too far for me to just throw that away and start from scratch elsewhere. It's no secret: I love those guys. So I'm thinking that if and when we do leave, it should be to go to a place where I can remotely maintain the group as an LA ensemble. Portland might be too far for that scheme (though perhaps not). The SF Bay area, on the other hand, might be just what we're looking for...

It's all too early to tell at this point.

Anyway, that was the first week or so of May. Got back on the 4th, played an IJG quintet gig at Club Metropol on the 5th (opening up for wicked cool east coasters Gutbucket), and now we're getting ready to head out to Chicago for another week or so; we'll be celebrating Thandie's second birthday there (did I ever tell you that all the women in my life were born in May?).

The quintet gig was fun, by the way. We had a few less people at that show than at the Barnsdall debacle two weeks back, but it didn't matter because the space was (a lot) smaller, and the vibe much more casual. I do love playing the quintet music (it's certainly more sedate and subtle and jazz-like than the big band), but somehow I don't think it's as, well, compelling. The big band sticks out like a sore thumb: a point of pride with me. It may not be for everyone, but it's different and unique, and I'm crazy proud of it. The quintet probably isn't so far removed from other jazz things that are happening these days. But it's (obviously) far easier to maintain. Ah, this fucking business.

It was a thrill to play with Gutbucket, by the way (you can get some of my take on them in an AAJ article I wrote about their first appearance in LA a little over a year ago). With all the struggling the IJG has been doing of late, it's comforting to know that there is a similarly "non-commercial" group a few steps ahead of us, and actually surviving at it. We can learn a lot from them, and I sure intend to.

Edmund Welles

Just stumbled across this group while browsing myspace. Four bass clarinets playing a combination of "who woulda thunk" covers (my favorite being the Knight Rider theme) and eerie originals. Sounds gmmicky, I know, but it ain't.

Oh, yeah, so the IJG is now on myspace. For a little whiile I was a little trepidatious about delving into this new tool, honestly. But I'm glad a few dedicated folks and fans talked me into it. If nothing else, so far the music I'm coming across is much cooler than most of the stuff I ever heard on mp3.com all those years ago.

A report from the audience

Courtesy of Ryan McCracken at losanjealous.com.

Cut and pasted below for your convenience. Or, get the original here.

* * * * *

Friday, April 21. LA begins its weekend. Fresh from his inclusion in the LA Weekly 100 People 2006, Yo! List, Rocco Somazzi mans the door of the Barnsdall Gallery Theater in Los Feliz. The grounds surrounding the theater are quiet. Inside the theater…a different story. The Industrial Jazz Group is celebrating the release of Industrial Jazz a Go-Go.

I enter the theater a few minutes late with Soy Pudding, aka Betty, in tow. Horns cover the stage. They blare. They blaiiiiize! They brattttt. They bwaaa~iiiilllll! I suddenly need total and complete tonal immersion.

“Front row, Beth,” I nudge her. We sit down front and center. Things begin to get interesting. I count eleven horns, one guitar, electric bass, drums and pianist/conductor Andrew Durkin. One interpretive dancer. One chanteuss/singstress with a good set of pipes. Strangers from the audience and band members occasionally walk up to the microphone between songs and, accompanied by a soft horn or two, proceed to deliver Moondog- inspired epigrams, deadpan. Trumpeter Phil Rodriguez is wearing a sombrero, a multi-colored serape and mirrored cop shades. The guitarist sports swimtrunks, flippers and a snorkel. Everybody’s got a trick here. Not Durkin. Not the leader. He looks like George Lucas. He’s in t-shirt and jeans.

“They look like an IT department!” Betty giggles between songs.

“Beth, you have to understand jazz musicians. I went to North Texas. I was surrounded by these guys. Jazz cats. They’re probably world class. If this Industrial Jazz thing doesn’t work out they could turn around and book a session for Boz Skaggs in a heartbeat. Hell. Chicago? Jimmy Pankow? Memphis Horns? Nothing on these dudes. Listen to them. Don’t look at ‘em. Just listen. Beth, listen.”

I’ve been know to blow more wind out of this mouth than anybody on stage. I continue.

“Mingus Big Band? Hell. Just listen, damn it.”

The problem is, interesting things keep happening. We can’t just listen. We have to watch. The horns leave the stage mid-song to mingle with the audience [photo], honking all the while. The dancers keep doing freaky stuff. Some guy with a beard and coiff that would make George Lucas (and Durkin) green snaps photos, nonstop. The theatre is a hive of activity.

After the break a quintet appears on stage, led by Durkin. I must admit I’m enjoying the break from the guitar - he’s a solid player but admittedly unnecessary with all that windpower on stage. The bass however is mandatory, especially in the quintet. He’s spot-on. I suddenly remember that I need to get my fretless back from that girl in Hollywood before she craigslists the bejesus out of it.

The full group reappears and the madness continues for another half-hour. The bottom line: I don’t know when they’ll have this many people playing live again, but I intend to be there.

Pix from last Friday

Courtesy Gary Davis... these are two of many. More to come.

Insult to Injury

So out of the corner of my eye I just caught part of an episode of Neat, some dumb show on the Discovery Home channel. The premise? People with sloppy homes get them cleaned up by a team of anal retentives. But the kicker, during the episode that I saw anyway, was that the source of the clutter was a collection of 3000 CDs (as if that's a lot). The solution? Purge the collection! The first CDs to go? Obscure jazz!

Oh, yeah. That's what I'm talking about.

Sucker Punch

So on Friday we had our big CD release show. You know, the one I’ve been hyping for about three months now.

I’m not going to mince words here. The experience was pretty disappointing for me. Oh, the group played beautifully (I’m convinced that these cats could pull musical inspiration out of a paper bag found in the street), and the venue sounded amazing (there is just nothing to beat the sound of a big band at full blast in an acoustically strong hall), and we finally accomplished my longstanding goal of adding a dancer to the show (the brave and amazing Valerie). Plus, we began to realize the more “theatrical,” dada-carnival conception of the IJG. And, hope against hope: a bunch of people in the audience actually wore costumes. So all the elements were present for an evening that would be memorable for all the right reasons.

But the performance was seriously compromised by a low turnout. Now, I wasn’t so clueless that I expected to fill the place (which seats around 300), but given that it was a Friday night, at 8 PM, in our home town, and given that we got a good (even intriguing) writeup in the Weekly, and given that we did a whole lot of other promotion (including grass roots promotion by everyone in the group -- you do the math), I did expect -- indeed, I think we deserved -- to have at least a hundred people get off their asses and check it out. We got maybe half that many.

On a “school night,” I’d be less bothered by such a thing. But on a Friday? At 8 PM? At a beautiful venue with plenty of free parking? I’m perplexed.What does it take to get people to come out and hear live music in this town? Is it not enough to have stellar musicians, unique compositions, singing, dancing, drama, and comedy? Do I need to throw hookers and cocaine into the mix too?

Is $10 too much to charge for two hours of live entertainment? I’m not convinced. I know people often drop more than that (especially when you add in the price of a bucket of popcorn) to go see a movie. And movie-going often doesn’t seem to be driven by any burning desire to see a specific film, but rather by a vague motivation to “go out.” Why are people less willing to take the same risk with live music? Maybe Glenn Gould was right, and the latter really is becoming an antiquated art form?

Do people just assume that a band like this will always be here, and that they can just catch us “the next time” (or the time after that, or the time after that…)? Do they expect that we’re satisfied with doing this sort of thing as a hobby? Do they lack any conception of the amount of work or the number of sacrifices that go into creating a show like this (work done and sacrifices made by everyone involved)? Do they even know what they’re missing? Or (worse still) is the problem deeper than all of these things put together?

Look, LA people have been bugging us to perform here on a weekend for a long time; the last local weekend show we did may have been as far back as 2003. So that adds to my bafflement. In fact, a month or two ago I had an email conversation with a few of the other guys in the group in which we were brainstorming strategies to bring the IJG to the “next level” economically, and at one point I argued as follows:

“In the case of LA, I suspect that more people would come out to see us here if we played weekend evenings instead of ‘school nights.’ At least the fans I know personally have told me this. It seems to be an unwritten rule: people just don’t come out to hear live non-pop music on weekday evenings in LA. I was astounded at the paltry audience that turned out to see Billy Childs, and him with LA Times coverage and a fucking grammy, for chrissakes [Childs played an Alternajazz triple bill with us on a Sunday back in February]. Jim Carney (who had prestige and honors to burn) had the same problem, sometimes even when he did play the [Jazz] Bakery. It’s one of the things about this town that drove him away. (Think too about the late Monday Evening series at LACMA: did you ever see more than 25 people there?)”

“If we don’t get a good turnout on April 21, then I’ll need to revisit this theory.”

Okay, so obviously, I need to revisit this theory. My new theory? It’s the “deeper problem” I hinted at above: LA doesn’t give a fuck about new or interesting music.

Disagree, LA? Prove me wrong, then.

Don’t misunderstand me: I am not throwing in the towel when it comes to cracking the mystery of producing a successful LA gig. I know there is a core group of local people who come to our shows on a rotating basis (thank you all), and I know there are others who have every intention of coming to a show soon, but haven't been able to because of life issues (a new kid, for example). But in a city this big, it is just statistically impossible that there aren’t more like-minded music fans out there. So this is not so much about hounding specific people to come and hear us; rather, I’m calling out a particular (and lethal) quality of LA “cultural life” (or what passes for it).

In any case, I’m not ready to follow my friend Jim Carney to NYC (yet), though time may reveal that he made the wiser choice. No, I’m not throwing in the towel -- I’m throwing down the gauntlet. LA likes to think of itself as a cultural tastemaker, and as a result, tends to think that it actually has good taste. (Isn’t that sort of backwards?) Again, I say: prove it. Demonstrate that you can live up to the hype, and that (to embellish an old cliche) you’re not so in love with the box that you can’t imagine anything outside of it. Otherwise, chances are good that there won’t be any community of live, acoustic performance at all in LA when the Big One hits; and what are you going to do for entertainment then?

Promote it, baby (part three)

Oh, and we made Tom Hull's "Jazz Prospecting" List:

"Industrial Jazz Group: Industrial Jazz a Go Go! (2004 [2006], Evander Music): The previous record by Andrew Durkin's group confused me with its intricate scoring and fancy counterpoint -- what's industrial about that? This one feels like they've had a Sex Mob transplant, but it's still on the fancy side. The most prominent sources, cited in "Apologies/Thanks To" along with Dion and Elmore James, are Perez Prado and Oliver Nelson -- that should give you a good idea what this sounds like, and not just for the three pieces with Spanish titles. Durkin plays piano, but the seven horns are so domineering you rarely hear him."

Promote it, baby (part two)

Just noticed this real nice LA Weekly writeup by IJG ally Greg Burk:

"It’s a circus, and it’s totally fun. So Andrew Durkin, who leads Industrial Jazz Group, risks not being taken seriously, risks getting his cleverness mistaken for shallowness. Avoid that error. Watch chrome-domed Durkin, flailing his arms in a generally successful effort to get 17 excellent local musicians (Kris Tiner, Rob Jacobson, Ben Wendel et al.) on the same page — which they’d better be, since they’re constantly switching tempos, time signatures and styles. Dig the way sidelong tributes to Oliver Nelson or Ray Charles are broken up like spastic clutches on the remote control, yet unite thanks to their author’s imagination and overboiling energy. Best, though least obvious, is Durkin’s dense harmonic writing, which perfectly gathers harsh modern conflicts into a viable human bloodstream. Wear a costume, get a free CD (they’re all good)."

Nice.

Promote it, baby

Just had to share this totally bitchen logo designed by Kio Griffith as part of the promotion for our upcoming Barnsdall gig.

(This Friday! Egad, I'd better get my shit together...)

Great Grande Mothers

Had the best concert experience in a long while on Friday night, when I went to see the Grande Mothers at the Redcat Theater. Who are the Grande Mothers, you ask? Zappa alums Don Preston, Roy Estrada, and Napoleon Murphy Brock, plus Chris Garcia and Miroslav Tadic on drums and guitar, respectively.

The first set featured Preston, Estrada, and Brock performing Stravinsky's Histoire de Soldat with a killer chamber ensemble (featuring Dan Rosenboom, one of the esteemed members of my own group). The second set was a smorgasbord of Zappa tunes. The Stravinsky set was fun (in part because of the Mothers' bad acting), but the Zappa set, which I realized later went on for over an hour, seemed to fly by.

It was just beautiful to be able to hear this music (from the front row, no less) played in the spirit in which it was originally conceived, by some of the guys who were originally involved. And though it wasn't a flawless performance (it was the first of two nights), it had more balls and verve and energy (especially given that these guys are approaching geezerhood) than a lot of the newer music I've been hearing lately. Napoleon Murphy Brock is particularly amazing--there just seems to be no limit to his energy, and I don't think I ever got from the records how truly skilled he is as both a singer and a reed player. But Estrada too was a trip--what fun to hear that wacky falsetto of his live!

There is a tendency with posthumous performances of Zappa's music to err on the "prog rock" side of things--to go for the cleanness of the 80s groups as opposed to the rawer, sloppier sound of the Mothers. That's probably a good thing when it comes to the chamber or orchestral stuff (which was rarely well-performed in Zappa's lifetime), but in a rock or jazz context it's an approch that can be deadly. The Grande Mothers understand that even though Zappa never embraced rough musics like punk, he knew the value of musical rawness. And though the Redcat show clearly wasn't the sort of carnival experience that it probably would have been if Zappa had been involved, it was pretty damned close--which is good news for shmucks like me who never got to see the real McCoy when he was alive.

The proof is in the gumbo

Anyone who knows my music (even going back as far as Evelyn) knows that I am intrigued by odd time signatures: 3, 5, 7, and, more recently, 9, 11, 13, 15, and 17. In some ways this love of oddness goes against the current of jazz. In fact, some critics have complained that it makes what we do too "cerebral." But odd time has always felt "natural" to me, and in fact, like Zappa, I've always had more trouble playing in a square meter like 4/4.

So yesterday I heard this a Talk of the Nation report on Leah Chase, co-owner and chef at the famous New Orleans restaurant Dooky Chase, which was one of the many casualties of Katrina. Apparently Ms. Chase is gearing up to return to her (revamped) eatery at long last, and as she was describing her recipe for Gumbo Z'herbes, she declared matter-of-factly that one of the secrets to this dish's success was that she always put in an odd number of greens (7, 9, 11), because, don't you know, odd numbers are good luck.

I felt strangely vindicated.

Who knew? Kazoos

An appreciation of this, er, instrument (is that the word?) can be found here.

It's a little overblown, mayhap. Consider the last bit:

"The kazoo has turned into a toy for children and a funny little input in songs without meaning in a world without sense.

The kazoo has lost its influence and impact. It had its breakthrough in the 1920s but none of the great artists gave the kazoo a chance.

The kazoo was originally ment to be a sophisticated disguise of the voice. Like the mask worn by the actor. Now the kazoo weares a mask. A clown's mask- only to step out in the light when the serious musicians have left the stage. A fill in without impact.

It’s time to bring the kazoo back into the top of musical influence and significance.

It’s time to tear off the heavy mask of the kazoo."

Hmmmm. Indeed. Discuss.

(New fans of "The Job Song" might be amused to learn of the significant role the kazoo played in an earlier incarnation of that tune, thanks to the intrepid Ms. Danielle Franklin.)

This Just In: Farts Inherently Funny

Actually, this one is not "just in"; however, I was reminded of it recently:

Sometime not too long ago, Thandie discovered what farts were (in both word and deed). Remarkably, even without any social context (right out of the gate, as it were), she found them rather humorous.

Like Shakespeare, little kids just know comedic gold when they see (hear / smell) it.

Feedback Man

I know I should provide some sort of context or explanation. Oh, well. Sue me.

Here's the link.

Via WFMU.

(Doesn't this also count as a kind of torture?)

Dumbing it down

I know I probably complain more than my share about the vacuity of current mainstream American culture--especially mainstream American music--but I don't think I realized the extent of the problem until I had a kid of my own and saw the sort of pablum that an energetic entrepreneur can unload on unwitting (or sometimes just witless) parents.

Exhibit A: Music Talking (er, excuse me, "Music TALKING") is a company that offers "fun, upbeat, original songs by original artists," which deliver "positive messages through character development topics." These folks get points for presenting "original recordings" (though for some reason Otis Redding's version of "Respect" doesn't count as original), as opposed to versions sung by a chorus of exceedingly treblefied kids. But the whole "fun," "upbeat," "positive" vibe seems to me to be a put-on motivated by an assumption that children can't handle interesting, or, dare I say it, instrumental music (i.e., music as music, sans lyrics). And I suspect the compilers in this case didn't get the irony or humor in Joe Walsh's "Life's Been Good to Me", which is more a sendup of the excesses of the 1970s pop music industry than a paean to good fortune. (If they had, this would probably have been a more worthwhile enterprise.)

Then there is the Jazz Baby series, which essentially takes standard kid fare like "Row Row Row Your Boat" and "Rock a Bye Baby," and filters it through the mad creativity of heavy hitters like Taj Mahal and Dr. John. Nice idea, sure. But after watching my not-yet-two-year-old daughter sit in rapt attention to the first fifteen minutes (or so) of Mingus's "Live at Montreux" concert DVD (longer than most adults, I daresay), I've got to disagree with the basic premise of the Jazz Baby people, that "Adult music was way too sophisticated for the kids [...]" Let's put it this way: if you ensconce your kids in a plastic world o' Disney, or subject them to numnuts like the Wiggles or Dan Zanes, then of course they're not going to "get it" when you introduce them to something more interesting later on (assuming you even bother). But I submit that kids can handle a lot more than we typically give them credit for. When we shield them from complexity, we're really just preparing them to be the sort of adults who get addicted to religion or patriotism.

(At the moment, Thandie's jukebox features the Talking Heads (her favorite by far), Howling Wolf, the Beatles, the Beach Boys, Frank Zappa, Prince, Sarah Vaughn, Mozart, and Wendy Carlos.)

Announcement no. 2

And we'll be here!

Announcement no. 1

It's here!

Why I love my wife

Reason no. 354.567: the other night while watching John Lennon's Jukebox, which featured a particularly vacuous manifestation of that ever-more-insipid former frontman for the Police (yeah, you know the one), she tossed off the following hilarious observation:

"Sting is the Keanu Reeves of music."

Oh, yeah. You know you want to marry her too.

(Need more proof that Sting sucks? Check out this list.)

(Drawing by Luke Pepper.)

Another one bites the dust

So the musical incarnation of the great barbeque bods blog is at last kaput -- bod was part of a somewhat undergroundish movement amongt bloggers to share old (mostly) out-of-print vinyl through the avenue of digital technology. His departure is a shame (and perhaps an early warning that the whole scene is going to collapse soon, thanks no doubt to the ever vigilant, ever pricky RIAA). But it also points to one of the paradoxes of the "digital age": when at last you can have access to all the music you ever wanted, who the fuck has time to listen to it? Check out the comments on bod's April 1 post (especially the string that starts with blip) for a brief discussion...

The keytar lives

And it kills, too.

Thanks to David Adler for the link.

Man accidentally divorces wife in sleep

via the AP

March 28, 2006

NEW DELHI --Village elders ordered a Muslim man in eastern India to leave his wife after he accidentally divorced her in his sleep, a news report said Tuesday.

Aftab Ansari uttered the Urdu word for divorce, "talaq," three times in his sleep, prompting his worried wife to discuss the matter with her friends, according to the Press Trust of India news agency.

Under Islamic law, a husband need only say "I divorce you" three times to secure a permanent end to his marriage.

Muslim leaders in the couple's village in West Bengal state found out and decreed that Ansari's unconscious utterances constituted a divorce, PTI reported.

But 30-year-old Ansari said he had no intention of leaving his wife of 11 years.

"I have not given talaq. When I uttered talaq three times I had taken medicines to help me sleep," he was quoted as saying in the report.

The religious leaders said that before remarrying, the couple would have to be apart for at least 100 days and that the wife, Sohela, would also have to spend a night with another man and then be divorced by him.

PTI reported that the couple has been ostracized because of their refusal to abide by the decision of the village leaders.

How to recognize an email scam

Tip #24: email scammers can't spell or proofread. Exhibit A:

"If you choose to ignore our request, you leave us no choise but to temporaly suspend your account."

I'm mad! I want revenge!

Kris Tiner forwarded this to me this morning:

"In what is a not too subtle dig at Bush's subpoena of their search records, Google is getting their own nasty dig at 'W' before the gag orders go into effect. I don't know how long this will work [once the link is taken away you can find the relevant page here], but go to Google and type in the search word: asshole. Don't hit the 'search' button, hit the 'I'M FEELING LUCKY' button right below the Search."

(How much cooler this would've been if they'd've used Zappa's "Broken Hearts Are For Assholes"--you know, the "You're an Asshole / And you're an asshole / (That's right!) / You're an asshole / And you're an asshole / (Yes! Yes!)" part.)

How I hope the worm is finally getting off its collective apathetic backside and TURNING!

Another possible sign of positive change: Harper's Magazine is running a cover story advocating the impeachment of Bush. I saw the author, Lewis Lapham (also the currrent Harper's editor), on C-SPAN early this morning, and was pleased to note that at last a fairly mainstream publication is making this case rather forcefully.

I'm sure you've all noticed Bush's sinking numbers. It's actually a little frustrating that everyone is coming around so late in the game--there were those of us who understood even before 2003 that going into Iraq in this way was a horrible mistake. It may serve something like justice if Bush is actually impeached, but I suspect that would be cold comfort. The damage is already done. We need something that will undo it.

Mesa Boogie

Woah. Can it be? Is San Diego actually becoming a hipper town than LA?

I know the latter's conservative reputation, and have experienced it directly in many of my non-musical trips to the region, but every time I bring the IJG into town, things seem to get better and better. Indeed, there seems to be a bona fide scene emerging. Exhibit A: our yearly pilgramages to Dizzy's, which have been less and less successfully promoted (compared with our first trip there, which got a major push from TV, radio, and newspapers), and more and more well-attended.

Exhibit B: yesterday, which took the cake. We played a single set for Mesa College's lunchtime Recital Hour series. There must have been more than a hundred people there, certainly a record for us. And even though thirty or so of them had to be (as students enrolled in the course attached to the series), the whole bunch was extremely enthusiastic. At one point (the little chorale section in "Fuck the Muck"), according to Mr. Schnelle, an elderly man seated off to the side actually cried, he was laughing so hard.

This little boost couldn't have come at a better time, I must say.

Major, major thanks to Bing Luu, Igor Korneitchouk, Jim Romeo, and Joe in the Mesa College music department for making this thing happen, and for getting the word out across campus. (Extra thanks to Jim and Igor for treating us to some killer Vietnamese food after the show.)

Here's to the next one!

Some overdue pix

From the short Reno-area tour we did February 24-5. These pix feature the quintet only, as my camera crapped out before I could get any shots of the big group. Alas, someday I'll get my shit together.

(The bottom shot, L-R: Damon Zick (soprano), Oliver Newell (bass), Dan Schnelle (drums), Cory Wright (alto), Mike Richardson (bone). From there you should be able to figure out the rest.)

An open letter to Barry Manilow

Dear Barry:

If your face is so fucking nipped and tucked and botoxed that you cannot ever ever change your expression even slightly, then you don't get to use the word "passion" in the title of your show.

Thanks for understanding,
Andrew

(Oh yeah, and while I'm at it, an open letter to PBS: what the fuck?! This is part of your mission to present the best of American culture?! This is how you use the public trust?! Are you fucking kidding me?!)

If only "legendary" actually meant people came to the shows

More on our recent trip north, courtesy of Mel Shields at the Reno Bee (?):

"To call the Industrial Jazz Group 'eclectic' would be an understatement. Its legendary unpredictability means only the band members know what will be in store for the Carson City Brewery Arts concert Saturday."

Ah!

Anyway, sorry for the blogging lull of late. I've been working through a series of problems with the CD manufacturers; I do believe it's all straightened out now and that I'll have discs in hand by our next gig (March 15 at Mesa College). I'll keep you posted...

Best Review Ever

Well, maybe not exactly... but it features what may be one of my favorite lines about an IJG record:

"You will never, ever hear it on commercial radio [...]"

Amen, brother!

This, by the way, is from the small flurry of press we received on our recent jaunt up to the Reno area (it may also be the first review of the forthcoming Go Go). More about that trip soon, but in the meantime you can find a PDF copy of this at Truckee's Moonshine. It's on page 30-something, I think.

* * * * *

One Guy’s Critique

by Taylor Parsons

‘Jazz’ has become a funny word in these mostly-postly-modern days. For some, it has come to describe haughty art music that has soared out of the reach of the casual listener. For others, it brings to mind a group of old men in tuxedos playing grandpa’s favorite Gershwin tunes in a dusty old ballroom. Still others see jazz as an antidote to contemporary popular music, one of the few remaining genres in which artists remain connected to and responsible for their creative musical production. Indeed, thousands of potential definitions exist for jazz. For me, though, the most important and significant connotations of the word ‘jazz’ signify spontaneous improvisation and honest—that is to say, not commercially driven—creative expression.

By that standard, the Los Angeles based Industrial Jazz Group, an experimental and constantly evolving ensemble formed by pianist and composer Andrew Durkin in 2000, must certainly be seen as a jazz group—indeed one of the better jazz groups around right now. Sporting a brass-heavy eleven piece lineup and featuring some of the best and most vibrant players in the emerging West Coast scene, the IJG provides the ideal musical field for Durkin’s meticulously written, wryly ironic, and broadly influenced compositions. Each of the five albums the IJG has released to date showcases a slightly different side of the group’s unique sound, and always opens up a novel and usually interesting way to defy categorization or critical pigeonholing.

Industrial Jazz A Go Go! is the IJG’s fifth and latest release, and it speaks volumes about why the group has received such cult acclaim. Drawing on everything from classical European brass concertos to American doo-wop to mariachi to revival gospel, and encompassing just about everything in between, Industrial Jazz A Go Go! is undoubtedly a fun record. It’s also a funny record — Durkin’s pervasive humor and ironic selfconsciousness is apparent on virtually every track, and it’s hard not to laugh along with him. And, of course, like the group’s earlier releases, it’s very well made, not only with respect to the technical virtuosity of the musicians and the incredible and unusual precision of Durkin’s writing, but also with respect to the finer points of recording quality, mixing, and mastering.

All that said, however, let there be no mistake: Industrial Jazz A Go Go! is neither an easy nor instantly likeable record. It isn’t the kind of album that would be welcome on the stereo at an evening soirée…unless of course you hang out with the hippest, edgiest people in the universe. Nor is it the kind of CD I would personally want to play on a relaxed Sunday afternoon at home, or in the car on the way to work in the early morning. You will never, ever hear it on commercial radio (although the world would be a better place if you did).

Indeed, Industrial Jazz A Go Go! offers a challenging listening experience that is most notable for how it pushes and blurs boundaries, similar to the work of avant-garde greats like Anthony Braxton, Steve Reich, and Frank Zappa. Like the work of its experimental forebears, Industrial Jazz A Go Go! demands focus and attention, and simply will not work as wallpaper music. If that sounds like your musical bag, go grab a copy and check it out for yourself. Better yet, go see the Industrial Jazz Group at the Brewery Arts Center in Carson City or here at Moody’s Bistro in Truckee and buy a copy there.

Blinkin' Lights, episode v

“LOOK AT YOU WITH ALL THE BLINKIN’ LIGHTS!”

a recording memoir by Leo McClusky and Gordon’s Gin

* * * * *

So now I’m mixing this fucker. Today is Sunday July 17th. The show was a month ago already. Mr. fucking “Recording Engineer” was supposed to be done by now, and on to the next MultiPlatinum success. Douche.

Woulda been nice if:

-I’d recorded ALL the fucking horns.

-the bass was properly recorded on its own track

-I didn’t like rum so much

-with lime

-the fake kind. Comes in a fake plastic lime and really does a grave disservice to limes, much like I do to live multitrack jazz recordings.

-Am I bveingto hartd on m,yuselg?

-Not Hayftd enj459!

-Typing in extreme hete with not air conditionsing afgter some rum with lime (the fake kind, comes in a plastic lime and tastes like soks marinated in the bitter sweat of farm aminals ., ! ) is a lot of funn.

Anyway, the drums sure do sound purty. Turns out Dan Schnelle is one finesse-ful motherfuckah behind them drums, and you gotta love old small fucking drumsets played by a THINKING and FEELING drummer in a big ass room with some large diaphragm condensers over the set yee ha.

More cheap-ass rum, please!

Author’s Note:

Ta Da, it’s AUGUST 27th!!!

What the fuck have I been doing??

Well, there were the six big band shows Ron and I did sound for. Almost no money, long hours, and 3 or 4 “experts” we could always count on to tell us what we were doing wrong.

There was the classic car show the Fakers played. Our set was cut down to eight songs so as not to preempt the Tricky Tray. What’s a Tricky Tray?

There was the punk rock session that blew up in our faces.

Oh yeah, and my day job.

In the midst of this, I quit smoking. Shitty timing.

After all this insanity I have finally brought my gear home and rebuilt my little bedroom studio to resume mixing the IJG show. Sometime recently Paul suggested to me that I let Andy know I am actually alive. I chose email – I’m not really a phone guy. This is a major shortcoming on my part.

Fortunately, Andy is a very “no-sweat” kinda dude to work with. Some people I will always give away the store to - not only because they’re great musicians but great people, too. As for whoring myself out to the unappreciative, that policy is due for radical change. No more el-cheapo rates just to have some bozo yelling “more reverb” at me for four hours. Unless I’m won as a prize in some sort of Tricky Tray.

December 7, 2005

Fucking gin, man. You leave a bottle lying in the freezer for 3-4 years and the damn stuff starts to TASTE like a juniper bush… or a Christmas tree.

Almost-Merry-Frigging-Christmas, by the way. Did that CD go out to IJG fans yet? Fuck-a-no. But we’re actually close. A few months back I sent Andy a terrible batch of mixes for him to listen to. I did a “homemade mastering” job on them – so that he wouldn’t have to turn up his CD player at home to bring the playback volume up to commercial levels.

What a noisy piece of crap I sent him. How many times before I learn not to bother trying to “master” without the tools, experience, perspective…? In one afternoon it is really easy to destroy the mixes you’ve spent months laboring over. Luckily the destruction was reversible, but still… what a dewwwshhh. From now on I’ll take the 15 seconds and write “turn up the volume a little” on unmastered CDs I give to people.

Anyway, from those 12 or so songs Andy selected and sequenced the tunes he wanted. The plan now is (and this is underway) for Paul to listen to Andy’s sequence and offer commentary and critique.

January 1st 2006

Cold, so cold…

Ahem. Really, really embarrassing. It’s…

FEBRUARY 2006

And we’re not quite there. Actually we’re really close. I sent Andy the last round of tweaks – sans crappy mastering process – about a week ago. Hopefully this madness will end. I really love the material. I’ve played copies for people. All in all it sounds pretty good.

Via email from Andy, 2/7/06…

"Cool with you if I make the copies from this CD, then?

cheers
A."

Haley fuckin lou ya.

We done here? I think we’re done here.

There’s more I could tell you. Mostly technical. But I’ve got to get on with my life. Besides, the Fakers are headed back into the studio this weekend and I’ve got to pick up gear all over northern New Jersey. Old, smelly gear.

Ron has since punched holes in the top of the Akai to allow more heat to escape.

This is Leo, signing off for now.

Blinkin' Lights, episode iv

“LOOK AT YOU WITH ALL THE BLINKIN’ LIGHTS!”

a recording memoir by Leo McClusky and Gordon’s Gin

During intermission we scrapped the bass DI and threw a mic on Kevin’s amp. I really like the Electro Voice PL95a. It’s a large capsule dynamic mic and Ron’s (another garage sale find) is the only one I’ve ever seen. Now we’d have all the bass tone we need.

So, we’re hanging out by our station, waiting for Set 2 to commence, when I hear

“Look at you with all the blinkin’ lights!”

It was another pal from high school. That was really his only comment, but it burrowed in my brain and cultivated new doubt. We really did bring a SHITLOAD of gear. Was I dooming the whole operation with my overkill?

Probably. Scooby dooby doo…

The second set opened with “Winter.” We used to play this song in the Evelyn Situation – it’s lyrically stark and compelling and I always got chills hearing the girls sing it. I was stoked to hear it in its new instrumental form – like visiting an old friend.

I realized I could no longer ignore the growing smell of metal and heat. It was the Akai tube deck – most likely just giving off a little olfactory reminder that it was on and tubes were glowing. Not to worry. Swing and bop.

A little while later Elaine got my attention.

“I think there’s smoke coming out of that thing,” she whispered.

I scoffed. “What thing, the Akai? Nah, it’s just a little hot.”

She was not convinced.

“Okay..”

Her incredulity led me to have my own doubts. I asked Ron. Ron thought everything was fine. He also said he was prepared to unplug the fucking thing and run it out the door.

Barely a minute went by. Elaine persisted.

“I saw smoke. Don’t you see it?”

Now I’m getting a little annoyed. After all, is she a Recording Engineer? Ha.

Oh, wait a minute. Smoke is FUCKING POURING OUT OF THE TOP OF THE AKAI. I tapped Ron and in seconds we had it unplugged and Ron ran out of the theater with it.

Thankfully the audience didn’t seem to notice this little fiasco. Thankfully we didn’t burn down the 90 year old theater. That just might have exhausted Lenny’s calm.

And now we had no kick drum going to tape for the last 3 minutes of “Winter.” We didn’t get the kick mic patched into a new preamp until just in time for the next song.

Sweet freaking crap. I can’t not mix “Winter.” What to do about the kick drum, though? I figured I would wind up relying on the editing ease of Pro Tools to fix the problem. I could copy one or two of the cleanest kick hits from the early portion of the song, and, by listening for Dan’s kick hits on the overhead tracks, paste them in accordingly.

I wasn’t overly enthused about this idea. Have you ever read “Pet Sematary?” Looks like the cat, sorta sounds like the cat, but brother, that cat smells a wee bit of the undead. Such was the best I could hope for with “Winter’s” kick drum. Ultimately I wound up scrapping this idea in mixdown. Dan’s kick drum part seemed to vary measure by measure – it would’ve taken weeks for me to learn, and by the time I finished it would most certainly reek of the Micmac burial ground. Instead I opted to choose my favorite sounding overhead track, compress the beejesus out of it, turn it way up, and mute the other drum tracks. Voila, a one-mic drum sound. To this day I really like the way this mix came out.

Blinkin' Lights, episode iii

“LOOK AT YOU WITH ALL THE BLINKIN’ LIGHTS!”

a recording memoir by Leo McClusky and Gordon’s Gin

*THE DAY OF THE GIG*

There is a vast, dark chasm that exists between The Plan and The Moment of Fruition. Inhabiting this chasm – maybe it is composed of them – lurk the Goblins of Random Malice and Spite. They are perverse. They exist to thwart and emperil (fuck you Spell Checkk I like this word) the Recording Engineer. Especially when said RE is a flailing hack with a mediocre complement of tools for combating the evils he IS capable of hearing. And morespecially when that flailing douchewagon has to worry about PA, too. But that was my choice. Better than risking a communication gap with the house sound guy - which could mean compromising our recording schematic.

So June 17th arrived. Show time was set for 8:00pm.

Ron and I loaded in around 3:00pm and got right to it. We set up on a large raised platform where several rows of seats used to be. This situated us in the rear/center of the theater. Originally I wanted to set up camp in another room and monitor with speakers, but we were hindered by numerous practical problems. We were also running PA, so our remote Control Room was not to be. We would have to monitor the recording with headphones.

I have a nice, inexpensive pair of Audio Technica M30s. They are very comfortable to listen to, however they tend to exaggerate low end in a dangerous way that might prompt excess cutting and shelving, thus leeching signal of crucial body. But after a few years of using them, I know this. Besides, we’re not EQing anything on the way in. The main thing was to listen for distortion as we dialed in optimum recording levels. We would also be able to listen for any source that just sounded plain bad or wrong due to bad mic choice/placement.

Faker drummer Johnnie D loaned us two Presonus M80 mic preamp units – each good for 8 clean, powerful signals.

For vocal recording we brought along the Joe Meek VC6Q British Channel. This thing has flattered every voice we’ve ever run through it. It’s also great for saving a shitty snare drum recording, FYI. Had we been monitoring on speakers I might have tweaked the EQ a tad – the built-in Meequalizer is a powerful and pleasing-sounding tool.

And the piece de resistance? The ancient Akai tube reel to reel recorder Ron picked up at a garage sale for $3.00. This thing kicks ass. I have no idea how old it is, or how much it went for new. It no longer plays tapes, but the built-in mic preamps are slamming. We set aside one channel of this puppy for the kick drum.

Oh yeah, track count? A whopping 15. 14 when you subtract the Center Room Mic I neglected to patch in. Ah… doucheIamdoucheamI.

Setup was fairly smooth. Despite our best efforts, we wound up with quite a tangle of mic cords onstage. “Neatening” meant shoving them all into one cluster at the back of the riser. I decided not to get too worried about the whole trip-hazard thing, though. I’ve never really seen horn players headbang a la Priest or run around the stage like Mary Lou Retton on crack a la Classic Van Halen. Although I might pitch this idea to Andy…

One little ripple during the setup phase:

Ron, always on top of safety concerns when we do any sound work, dutifully taped down every cable on that stage, and the 100’ snake harness that ran directly under the audience seats to our mixing station.

That’s when Lenny, the theater’s technical director approached me. To this day I applaud his calm – scarce and frayed as it may have been.

“Is that duct tape going to pull up our paint?”

The stage had recently been painted a fresh coat (or several) of flat black. We should have brought gaffer tape. Damn it, I knew this – but do I always think of shit when I should? Evidently not. And now the possibility loomed that when we went to pull the duct tape up at the end of the night it most certainly would grab every coat of paint with it. The results would be ugly.

Much as it killed me – seeing as this was a non-profit, volunteer gig in the first place, I swore to him I would buy paint and come back the very next day and re-do the whole thing. He did not warm to this idea.

(Has word of my criminally bad painting skills spread around NJ? The world? I knew my wife’s blog would be trouble.)

“Ron!”

Ron acknowledged.

“What?”

“Stop!”

Ron didn’t seem to think there would be a problem. Since this tangent is actually a little boring, I’ll conclude it by telling you that Ron was absolutely right. Thank Christ.

The band started to trickle in around 6ish. Horns, Piano (Andy), and the drummer.

The drumset had not yet arrived with the bass player – they were on their way in to Jersey from Brooklyn. A nightmare traffic scenario for a Friday night. Ha Ha Ha. We set about soundchecking the horns, vocal mic, and piano, which was useful as far as making sure individual mics and lines worked, etc.; but pretty friggin worthless as soundchecks go. It helps to have all the musicians playing, and at 7:30 we were still without the bass player and the drummer was without a drumset. He had sticks, though.

So my wife showed up, thank god. Elaine is, as, they say, a trooper. How many gigs – from the sublime to the subpar – has she come to now? Almost every one of them. She is my lifeline. She makes me smile and laugh, and stressful moments are less painful when she’s at my side. I could go on…

Unfortunately I tend to be kinda distant when I’m working, but she understands. Hell I bet she’s been paying attention, and someday will probably engineer circles around me.

So shit it is getting really close to 8:00. People are piling up in the lobby.

I don’t remember exactly, but I think it was about 7:45 when the bass player arrived. The drums were hustled down to the stage. Dan Schnelle (which I believe is German for “fast”) put the set together, well, fast. The mics were already plugged in and nearby, so we moved them into position.

“Are we good to go?”

It was Lenny. Or it might have been Bob. But anyway, why is Len/Bob asking me? Oh yeah, cause right now I’d be the guy that’s supposed to know. So, Ron and I did a quick checklist, confirmed with Andy that the band was ready and decided that yup, it was showtime.

After a feedback-plagued introduction by Bob Carr (on the harmonica player’s mic. The harmonica-ist did not make the gig, but this mic was destined to become vitally important), the quintet incarnation of the group took the stage. They opened with “Pasty Mofo.” What a wild and brave choice for an opener, as there’s a long trombone-and-cymbals breakdown featuring lots of squeaks and gurgles. Screw you, commercial appeal! God Bless the IJG.

Oh and fuck, we’re not getting a bass signal to tape. Mother of crap. We had a DI on Kevin’s bass and now it was sending us nothing. I decided there was not much we could do about it without disrupting the band and wrecking their Mojo. The bass was plenty loud in the room, so I gave hope to the possibility of having ample low end from the ambient mics. The trick would be locating the detail of the bass sound in amongst the blend of the other microphones. Fuck indeed. But everything else was working, and the PA seemed to need constant attention, so I chose not to sweat it. We would fix the problem at intermission. Of course, this meant a discrepancy in the recorded bass sound between Set 1 songs and Set 2 songs, but what the hell - this is the fun of live recording. And besides, what was the likelihood of more gear crapping out on us? Chill, baby, and enjoy some of that swinging bop.

There was a funny smell in the air. Something… electrical? Hm.

A little while later we decided we could no longer stand to not have the bass going to tape. The anxiety it was causing actually resulted in us thinking up a decent plan. The plan was to move the kick drum mic so that it was pointed partially at the bass amp – since bass guitar and kick drum kinda work in the same department musically and sonically speaking, why not combine them for now? Ron handled this mission, and no musicians were agitated in the process. Soloing the track in the headphones revealed that the mission had been worthwhile. The kick sounded slightly thinner, but it was still good and present, and now we could hear the bass. Hah, cha cha cha…

Blinkin' Lights, episode ii

“LOOK AT YOU WITH ALL THE BLINKIN’ LIGHTS!”

a recording memoir by Leo McClusky and Gordon’s Gin

* * * * *

Back to the garage. Help yourself to a Parliament. And a beer if you can find one. The questions multiply quickly and run away from you in all directions.

Stereo pair or multitrack? Ideally, a recording like this would be done with two quality microphones selected carefully for the application. They would be placed in any one of several “textbook” configurations to allow for the best imaging, the least amount of phasing problems, and of course optimal sound quality. The ensemble would control and balance its sound levels naturally, and the mics would capture a pleasing blend of ambient and direct sound. One would be able to play a CD of this recording over one’s home stereo, sit between the speakers, and be made to feel as if they were at the show.

That’s all well and good, but we don’t have two high quality mics. We have some decent stuff, but nothing big-ticket. Yeah yeah yeah it’s not the gear it’s the engineer. I believe that to be true- I have heard solid, magical things done on very cheap equipment, but I couldn’t imagine any pair of mics in our collection – on their own – yielding anything better than “hey, good bootleg!” results. Not only that, but I actually employed forethought. I knew there would come a time during mixdown when a horn part might be too low, or the drums might get lost under a sea of brass. I’d be kicking myself in the head. Literally, I would FIND a way to inflict grievous injury upon myself if I couldn’t control the elements of a mix simply because I was too lazy to set up a multitrack system.

How many tracks, then? Eight? We’ll never get it with eight. Sixteen? For a while I was convinced we could get it with sixteen. Two out front, two overheads, kick, snare, bass, vocal, vocal, piano, horns. And then I started to obsess over the drums. Via email I peppered Andy with ridiculous questions that he probably had no time for in the midst of preparing for the tour: Which drummer are you bringing? How big a set? What is his average velocity per tom hit?

You see, having heard a good deal of the IJG’s stuff, I knew that a traditional jazz sound was not necessarily the objective. It would be tempting to just “hang a mic over the drumkit” and maybe stick a mic on the bass drum and be done with it, but there is usually some really wild drum shit going on in their music. The tom work in “El Grupo de Jazz Industriale” is especially exciting. I would hate to not hear the detail. Or not have access to that detail in mixdown. In a studio environment, or any situation where your drums are isolated from the other instruments – even partially, you can maybe get away with not micing the toms. Hope that your drummer is sensitive to dynamics (and arrangement!), crank your overhead mics, and blammo there’s your toms.

When faced with The Unknown, however, the tendency is to err on the side of “more more more.” We have to mic the toms and there’s just no way around it, so we really need twenty-one tracks.

Scary. The more mics the greater your coverage, yes, but you’re also getting into dangerous country. Phase problems you can’t fix, unusable leakage that blurs your total image into an indistinct pile of crap; and of course the more wires you have running all over the stage/venue, the more shit you have to clean up at the end of the night. But I had decided – with much pretense and melodrama - that overkill was the right way to go.

So, at eight tracks per deck that’s three DA38s, we might as well use all twenty four. Why not borrow another DA38 and make it thirty two? We’ll have ambient mics pointing at the stage and ambient mics pointing AWAY from the stage, it’ll be great! We’ll mic every fucking horn they got. We’ll mic their goddamn CAR horns. Spare tracks for guest musicians, dedicated “snare copy” tracks for lining up groups of eight after we transfer into ProTools, maybe some wireless mics to get audience chatter in the lobby before and after the show… oh yeah baby I’m a RECORDING ENGINEER, right?

Ron doesn’t say too much anymore when I get like this.

We have access to maybe nineteen good preamps – we’re gonna need adapters. Shit we gotta come up with a baffle system. Carpet tiles on mic stands? Perfect!

And so it goes. I’m designing recording schemes at home, at my day job (using Excel. Is there anything that says “hey, I’m working here!” better than a spreadsheet?), on napkins, Post-Its - my life is littered with hundreds of scraps of paper that all start with “AmbL, AmbR, OH1, OH2, KK, SN, T1, T2, Bass, PianoL, PianoR, AndyVoc, JillVoc..”

Then of course there’s reconnaissance. Gotta check out the theater in advance, lest we really hang ourselves with The Unknown.

Recon day went well. It was good to see Bob Carr after so many years. It also warmed my black little heart to see the love that is being poured into restoring the theater. I don’t want to botch their story – check out www.12mileswest.org...

Blinkin' Lights, episode i

So today I'm introducing a new feature on JTMOU: a guest blogger. This'll give me a little extra time as I 1. deal with continuing delays on the new record (oh, so that's why these smaller CD manufacturing companies are so much cheaper), 2. continue to digitize (or, rather, Sibelius-ize) many of the scores from the first three IJG albums (building up the quintet book for some upcoming shows and possibly a local weekly gig), and 3. iron out little details for our upcoming trip to the Reno area.

Leo McClusky is, as will become apparent in a moment, an old friend from way back in my callow youth. I always considered him one of the more tasteful of my various heavy-metal oriented guitarist peers--he could bang his head with the best of them, and yet he had no problem making the transition to musical styles that required a bit more, er, subtlety. That was one of the reasons he was so well-suited to the Evelyn Situation. During that beautiful, all-too-brief moment (maybe it was beautiful because it was brief?) that he and Paul Badalamenti were in the band, I felt like we could do anything.

However, what follows is not about the Evelyn Situation (thank heavens). Rather, it's a lengthy piece (so long it will be broken up over several installments) Mr. McClusky penned to document his experience recording what turned out to be the most complicated show in the IJG's debut East coast tour last spring. As you will see, the guy went pretty goddamm far above the call of duty with this project. I can do little in response except remain flabbergasted. That and thank him again publicly and profusely.

Oh, and I suppose the completion of this memoir means two things: first, I've got to "release" the disc all this work was destined for (it was, after all, intended as a special gift for people who came to see the show). And second, I've got to get my own writeup on the tour together. I've been promising it for months and months.

Anyway, enough prattle. Without further ado, I bring you episode i of:

“LOOK AT YOU WITH ALL THE BLINKIN’ LIGHTS!”

a recording memoir by Leo McClusky and Gordon’s Gin

It is with abundant nerve, and a persistent deaf ignorance to all my varied and numerous shortcomings, that I call myself a recording engineer. That is what I love doing most of all – calling myself a recording engineer. The day may come when I can back up this audacity, but until then I am just a hack who points mics at things and scrambles the controls hoping to hell that a listenable piece of music is being committed to tape or hard drive. Playback is the proof, and I’d say maybe one-third of my attempts to date are at best not-too-embarrassing. The rest of it amounts to thousands of hours of squandered time and miles of wasted tape -- ear-fatiguing sonic waste that destroyed the very music it was supposed to reflect and/or flatter.

Success is a combination of… hold on- … aw shit I’ll be right back.

OK, I’m back. Where was I? Success? Good one. Moving on…

I understand that simple approaches often work best, and yet I invariably find a way to use every channel, every cable, every last shitty Ratty O’ Shoppe adapter (by the way, guys, what’s happening to your selection down there? and do you really need my Zip Code AGAIN AND PLEASE STOP ASKING ME IF I NEED HELP JUST LET ME STARE AT THE ADAPTER WALL LIKE A CATATONIC TRUST ME EVERYTHING IS FINE!!!!).

If you stopped reading at this point I wouldn’t blame you. You get the point. I’m an unfocussed mess. On with the story then?

Anyway, I know Andrew Durkin from high school. We really didn’t do much together musically, but if he did in fact write and perform a full-length rock opera for his senior year Independent Study project, then I in fact played guitar for the show and sang one of the tunes. If it really happened, then he really got an “A.” Might have been an A-, just to keep him humble. Cause everyone knows what an arrogant, loud guy Andy is.

I made a laughable attempt at forming a jazz band sometime around then. Andrew politely obliged, as did a few other kind people. We would be jazz, I reasoned, because we would have a cool name like “The Mellotones,” and because I had just discovered minor seventh chords. Mercifully we only had one practice and it was never spoken of again.

Paul Badalamenti and I joined Andy’s group The Evelyn Situation in 1994. That was a blast. Andy wrote these great songs with great lyrics, arranged wild three-part vocals for Jill, Donna, and Danielle, and played acoustic guitar or piano. As for me and Paul, Andy gave us carte blanche. The weirder our guitar parts, the more he seemed to like them. Did we step all over those beautiful vocals? Maybe.

Donna quit and was replaced. I wigged out, quit and wasn’t replaced. Not too long after that, Andy and a couple of the chicks split for the west coast and that was pretty much it for the Evelyn Situation. I don’t need to repeat their whole story at this point. Mainly because I don’t know what happened. Paul is still around.

Scrub forward to 2005. The IJG is coming East, man. Andy’s dragging the whole shootin’ match out here for gigs. One of em’s at a theater co-managed by Bob Carr (another HS alum) and it’s six miles from my house in New Jersey. Hmm…

I could just buy a ticket and enjoy the show, but that’s not me. It had to be recorded. No question. I suggested it to Andy and he was all in favor.

I would spend the two months leading up to the show thinking of nothing but. I also began to hound Ron at every cigarette break.

Now’s a good time to introduce Ron Strebel. I’ve known Ron ever since we played in Joyseed together. Joyseed, despite the goofy name, was yet another good band that spun its wheels in a rut until the motor died and everybody got out and walked home. But this is not the time for that story. Suffice to say, I wigged out and quit. Ron and I remained friends and developed a mutual interest in recording. We’ve also been playing together in the Fakers for around seven years now. The Fakers story, thankfully, is not over. Nor is it printable here…

So yeah, to know me and Ron is to know a smoky garage and an endless conversation about getting music on tape the best way possible. Not having the funds to secure a regular space, i.e., studio- for ourselves, we have to jump on whatever live or basement recording project we can find. We’re much happier when there’s a mission. Remember Martin Sheen in the beginning of “Apocalypse Now?” That’s me when I don’t have a project to occupy myself with. Thankfully I haven’t punched any mirrors yet. As for the drinking and hysterical crying….

[to be continued...]

Go Go: Re-drawn

This may be the one...

What the font?

Been doing a little research on fonts as we're fine-tuning the artwork for Go Go, and found this excellent site. It has an amazing search feature ("What the font") that allows you to upload an image of some text written in a certain font, which it then analyzes and tries to match. Great when you're trying to find an obscure retro font (the dilemma I currently find myself in).

And the test sentences (used to demonstrate the fonts the site finds) are hilarious (see sample above).

Go Go: Drawn

A draft of the cover for our next album. Courtesy of Becky H. at Lonely Records.

Almost done...

State of the P-Union

Up, down, up, down, up, down... is this the only exercise these assholes get all year?!

(Photo courtesy of the the BAG.)

Go Go: Gone

Well, it's off. The next IJG record, which I've been blathering about in this space for the last year, has been sent off to the manufacturer. Should get 'em back by mid-February.

Above are some shots of the (extremely talented and patient) engineers on this project, Michael Kramer (recording / mixing, left) and Chris Landen (mastering, right), as they (first) consider a mix, and (second) become entranced by the wonders of an Entertainment Weekly insert.

(Don't be fooled by the dates annoyingly provided by my digital camera. This session actually took place last week, late at night in the offices of Delos records, where Chris is the in-house mastering engineer.)

Big industrial-strength thanks to everyone who worked on this one. I hope it lives up to the hype. TRL, here we come!

My new theme song (at least temporarily)

"What's Wrong With Me," by the Gardenias. Available on the above compilation (can't get it in the US, so thank [insert deity of your choice] for blogs like this... and BTW, I'll have more to say about said blogs soon).

Anyway, the Gardenias sing:

What's the matter with me
I can't get around like I used to
What's the matter with me
I can't get around like I used to
Well I truly do believe
that old age is creepin' up on me

And so on. There's even a reference to "sweet arthritis"... which is sort of my problem, in the form of Ankylosing Spondylitis. Been flat on my back for over 24 hours now. The pain is, how do you say... exquisite?

Normally I can keep my AS in check, as long as I adhere to a routine of regular massage, yoga, exercise, and acupuncture (oh yeah, and for some reason it helps to go easy on the sauce / coffee, which requires a restraint I don't generally have these days). But every once it a while it sneaks up on me, and KA-BLAM! It's like root canal for the lower back.

Ah well. I gotta be more diligent. BTW, the above collection is highly recommended. Check out Don Gardner's "MY Baby Likes to Boogaloo," or Donald and the Delighters (they sure don't name them like that anymore, do they?) doing "Wang Dang Dula."

Lots of other gems too. Can you believe the labels just want to throw this stuff away?!

The Crow is Hiding in the Tree

Thandie's been throwing out individual words for a while now, but as far as we can tell, this was her first complete, relatively complex sentence.

Sounds like a good song title... hmmm...

Another thing I stumbled across while working on the cover concept for the new record

Don't want to turn this blog into a list of lists, but, well, here's another list. This time the topic is bad album covers. If you check it out, be sure to read the commentary, which is suitably wry. For instance, about the above cover, the compiler writes: "On the epic quest of a lifetime, a band of ancient adventurers cross the darkest oceans, slay the fiercest beasts and scale the highest mountains... in search of meatloaf."

Some of the selections are a bit sick (not in a good way), but most are just funny.

Definitely funny, definitely

The above comes from this photoshop contest over at Worth1000.com. Other notable entries: 12 Monkees and Munsters, Inc. But the whole list is worth a glance. (The contest: combine TV shows and movies.)

Yet even another

This writeup (on the Star Chamber) appeared at the KFJC online review site.

Hard to keep track of these after awhile...

Ain't google grand?

Why do we obsess over all the wrong things?

Why do we get all bent out of shape over provocative album covers, for instance? (Sorry, I'm working on the design for the new IJG record, and in my research I came across this website.)

We don't we care about the things that actually matter? (Thanks to David Corn for that last link.)

Hulled

Just found these words on The Star Chamber by the Village Voice Jazz Consumer Guide Critic, Tom Hull. Here's the link, but I'll cut and paste the relevant portion below anyway:

Industrial Jazz Group: The Star Chamber (2003 [2004], Innova). When rock met "industrial" the music emphasized the machines with their mechanistic rhythms and spurious noise. The industrial era, certainly in the artistic imagination, was marked by the growth of factories and foundries, by the production of steel and the spew of dark smoke. In the U.S. and Europe it took off in the latter half of the nineteenth century, and accelerated so relentlessly we called it progress, up to and through the cataclasm of World War II. Sometime since then we've started to inch into a postindustrial era, one marked by processing of data through electronics and ultrafast communications -- not that the industrial world has faded away, but at least it's been tidied up a bit and nudged out of sight. All of which has nothing to do with this orchestra, but given the misdirection of their name I had to get that out of my system first. The group itself is a nine-piece acoustic jazz orchestra, for all intents and purposes a big band. It is heavy on the horns, with three reeds, three brass, bass-drums-piano, with the piano not prominent -- leader Andrew Durkin holds that chair, but introduces himself first as composer/conductor. It sounds to me like the music is composed throughout, the musicians filling in well-mapped roles, and that may be the nominal concept -- even if the roles require skilled workers, they leave little room for individuals. Moreover, it sounds like it's technically rooted in late euroclassicism -- a music I abhor and have spent most of my life avoiding, but I don't know where else the clustering of trumpets and the interplay of flutes may have come from. But I don't find it cloying -- it's much too cold and clear for that, and that's not a complaint. I've many times quoted Adorno on his preference for ascetic music and lush life vs. the contrary. This music isn't exactly ascetic, but it lives that way. B+

I'm not sure if this actually made it into the paper, or if it will in future editions. Probably not.

Hull is a quirky, interesting guy, and a really great writer. He's got an elaborate, even obsessive rating system--you can find it somewhere on the main site. I must say, I can't imagine organizing my listening in that way--taste is such a flexible thing for me, and though I know what I like, I might like it in different ways at different times. Occasionally, Hull's school-marmish reliance on grades almost succeeds in leeching the fun a reader might have in following his expansive listening... but the site is well worth poking around anyway.