Well… Hello again.
I really didn’t have another post prepared tonight, but your warm and generous response to the last Blog has beckoned me back.
So, if there are no specific requests, than I’ll just assume you’d like to hear something similar to the last piece…another offering of advice to the young rock n’ rollers out there; and in this case, it opens with a bit of history – French history, no less.
Novembre, 1668 - After years slugging it out in the comedy clubs of Paris, observational comic Marcel Henri D’Encore had developed a strong local following and a near-perfect sixty-minute routine. He would warm the crowd up with some cogner cogner (knock-knock) jokes, and then segue into a hilarious bit about the differences between French men and women (something about the way each respectively eats a baguette). He’d do sight gags and musical parody, and then really work the crowd over with some risqué religious material.
D’Encore was quick-witted; if ever a heckler yelled out from the crowd, he or she was summarily and sharply silenced. Like a featherweight boxer, D’Encore would bob and weave, landing comedic blow upon blow, while remaining virtually unscathed.
“Votre mère est si grosse, elle utilise la lune comme un beret”.
Really phenomenal stuff.
One fateful night, Marcel was met backstage by two representatives of the King.
“Monsieur D’Encore” they began, “His Royal Highness loves a good chuckle. And we’re certain that your act would kill at this weekend’s feast.”
‘Ooh la la’, thought Marcel. To have audience with the King was a treasured opportunity for a comic, and would surely increase the odds of landing a TV pilot.
But Louis XIV was a volatile ruler, and he’d beheaded men for lesser crimes than an errant punch line.
So on the night of the feast, Marcel took to the palace stage with less than his usual self-assuredness. But by the end of the 1st cogner cogner joke (in which the baker’s wife is at the door), the Sun King’s face had lit up, and his laughter echoed through the halls of Versailles for the remainder of the hour-long set.
Marcel was a hit, and when he finished, he hurried backstage to celebrate his good fortune. But the King was a man of great excess, and his appetite for a laugh had not yet been fully sated.
“Encore”, cried the King. He wanted more, and he was determined to get it.
“Encore”, he screamed again, and his king’s men followed suit.
Upon hearing his name, Marcel stepped gingerly back onto stage, but was uncertain of how to proceed; he had spent so many years refining his sixty-minute act, that he had no other material of which to speak.
So with no clear alternative, Marcel launched into the very same set, anew.
Cautiously, he knock knocked, and the Sun King playfully asked who was there.
But when his majesty realized that the baker’s wife was once again at the door, he grew angry. And so Marcel Henri D’Encore, gifted young comic, was beheaded, so abruptly that his moustache skidded clear across the floor.
There is much to be learned from Marcel’s ill-fated demise. And though Louis XIV seemed to know how to handle an ‘Encore’, few performers can say the same; debate rages as to ‘who should expect an encore’, ‘how to guarantee an encore’, ‘whether to leave material aside for an encore’. To this day, my musician friends still wrestle with these questions of proper encore etiquette. And that is a shame (not just because musicians are too delicate to be wrestling). The storied encore can be easily demystified and mastered with a few choice bits of advice:
1. Arrange to have a plant in the audience… A good plant can be counted upon to initiate the call for an encore, even if one isn’t really warranted. For even greater certainty, get a human to do this, instead of a plant.
2. Determine a way to inform your audience that there will be no further encores… Rock audiences often demand multiple encores from their prized performers (Madison Square Gardens, 1987 – After countless encores, rabid fans at a Bruce Springsteen show were surprised to see the New York Knicks come out to begin their warm up). Without some definitive signal to declare an end to the evening, the crowd will just keep on asking. Elvis Presley would bring an end to his shows with an announcement that “Elvis has left the building”. Mod rockers, The Who, would mark the finale by destroying their instruments beyond repair. Many contemporary acts choose to finish by bringing up the stadium house lights. I used to signal the evening’s end by wandering back on to stage in pyjamas and fixing myself a mug of warm cocoa.
3. Lastly, think objectively about whether or not to actually plan on an encore. If you are the opening act on a bill, don’t anticipate the call. If you are a stripper, you might want to think twice (unless you plan to exfoliate). If you are delivering a eulogy, or presenting a play, it’s best to leave things ‘as is’. And as Beethoven was quick to learn, classical composers shouldn’t heed the call (audiences don’t want to sit through your 8th, after having just heard your 9th).
These few tips, and a little bit of ‘histoire’ should allow you to keep your head about you.
And with that, I bid you all a good night. That’s all I’ve got. I’m outta here.
Seriously, good night.
I end this week’s Blog with another interesting musical fact:
In the musical theatre world, a ‘swing’ is an actor who is responsible for learning and covering many different roles in a show; the swing must be prepared to take over the part of any absent performer at a moment’s notice. This can be particularly daunting for a swing if they are in a production in which one of the roles is written for a castrato.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Seeing I Blog
With this week’s Blog, I’d like to tear away at the façade, and talk openly about what makes me tick. A real tick talk, in which I can finally share my innermost feelings.
I tend not to do that; artists oft prefer to hide behind a character or a melody or a painting of a bush, rather than create with any forthright representation of self.
But that’s a shame, because some of the finer artistic works of our time are of the confessional sort…
When John Lennon sings, “I’m Just A Jealous Guy”, we are intrigued and enticed by the vulnerability and candor of the lyric: one of rock n’ rolls coolest icons, felled by an all-too human frailty.
When confronted by two roads that diverged in a yellow wood, Robert Frost ‘took the road less traveled by’. Had he been describing some other bloke’s route home, we’d have likely paid it no mind. But we care, because Robert Frost is a celebrated poet. And that, has made all the difference.
And what more compelling example than Frank Sinatra’s inspired claim to have done it his way, (in the song, 'My Way', written by somebody else).
Peering inside oneself is no easy task, however: it requires courage, objectivity and a number of angled mirrors. And while the self-reflective artistic pursuit is so often illuminating, it can be rife with potential pitfalls... particularly in the genre of self-portrait painting, where so many promising works have been sullied by a lack of forethought.
When beginning a self-portrait, be sure to pay close attention to the ‘location’. There is nothing more regrettable for an artist than completing a fetching likeness of one’s own face, and then realizing you’ve set it against a banal or embarrassing backdrop (see Botticelli’s 1481 piece, Botticelli At The Mini-Mall).
Try, instead, to choose a setting that denotes unique and lasting power: positioned over a slain enemy on the battlefield, or leading a parade down Main Street (though ‘parade’ portraits tend to require a real quickness with the brush). Also, be wary of the distance between the site upon which you pose, and the site from which you paint; as both model and painter, you will continually be running back and forth from the easel to the pose.
Of utmost importance, though, is the accurate rendering of one’s own visage. The well-captured self-portrait can help to immortalize an artist, and serve as a dazzling piece of I.D. when entering a nightclub. The self-portrait can also allow an artist to see sides of themselves that they never realized. Upon portraying himself in his classic 1656 painting, Las Meninas, Spanish artist Diego Velazquez was shocked to discover that he had a moustache.
Self-portraits have come in many styles over the years, from the beautifully colored oils of Henri Matisse, to the monochromatic, post-impressionist reflections of Van Gogh. Some artists choose to present themselves in true realist form, warts and all, while others prefer to idealize their depictions, or at the very least, paint over their warts. German painter Albrecht Durer went so far as to compare himself to Jesus Christ, in his self-portrait of 1550, enraging religious groups and prompting American kids across the Bible Belt to stomp on and burn all of their old Durer paintings.
At present, I am taking a third stab at painting my self-portrait, after two earnest but failed attempts. My first kick at the can ended in disappointment when it turned out that my eyes were closed in the picture. On second try, I decided to paint myself in the nude, but stopped halfway through, when I proved to be too ticklish to continue.
This third go-around feels right. It’s done in a realist style, with the expression on my face capturing my state of mind these days: lovestruck, optimistic and contented. And I am well-positioned over my slain enemy on the battlefield.
I end this week’s Blog with another interesting musical fact:
-Contrary to music theory, if every person on the planet stopped what they were doing, and sang the exact same note at the exact same time, there would be harmony-
I tend not to do that; artists oft prefer to hide behind a character or a melody or a painting of a bush, rather than create with any forthright representation of self.
But that’s a shame, because some of the finer artistic works of our time are of the confessional sort…
When John Lennon sings, “I’m Just A Jealous Guy”, we are intrigued and enticed by the vulnerability and candor of the lyric: one of rock n’ rolls coolest icons, felled by an all-too human frailty.
When confronted by two roads that diverged in a yellow wood, Robert Frost ‘took the road less traveled by’. Had he been describing some other bloke’s route home, we’d have likely paid it no mind. But we care, because Robert Frost is a celebrated poet. And that, has made all the difference.
And what more compelling example than Frank Sinatra’s inspired claim to have done it his way, (in the song, 'My Way', written by somebody else).
Peering inside oneself is no easy task, however: it requires courage, objectivity and a number of angled mirrors. And while the self-reflective artistic pursuit is so often illuminating, it can be rife with potential pitfalls... particularly in the genre of self-portrait painting, where so many promising works have been sullied by a lack of forethought.
When beginning a self-portrait, be sure to pay close attention to the ‘location’. There is nothing more regrettable for an artist than completing a fetching likeness of one’s own face, and then realizing you’ve set it against a banal or embarrassing backdrop (see Botticelli’s 1481 piece, Botticelli At The Mini-Mall).
Try, instead, to choose a setting that denotes unique and lasting power: positioned over a slain enemy on the battlefield, or leading a parade down Main Street (though ‘parade’ portraits tend to require a real quickness with the brush). Also, be wary of the distance between the site upon which you pose, and the site from which you paint; as both model and painter, you will continually be running back and forth from the easel to the pose.
Of utmost importance, though, is the accurate rendering of one’s own visage. The well-captured self-portrait can help to immortalize an artist, and serve as a dazzling piece of I.D. when entering a nightclub. The self-portrait can also allow an artist to see sides of themselves that they never realized. Upon portraying himself in his classic 1656 painting, Las Meninas, Spanish artist Diego Velazquez was shocked to discover that he had a moustache.
Self-portraits have come in many styles over the years, from the beautifully colored oils of Henri Matisse, to the monochromatic, post-impressionist reflections of Van Gogh. Some artists choose to present themselves in true realist form, warts and all, while others prefer to idealize their depictions, or at the very least, paint over their warts. German painter Albrecht Durer went so far as to compare himself to Jesus Christ, in his self-portrait of 1550, enraging religious groups and prompting American kids across the Bible Belt to stomp on and burn all of their old Durer paintings.
At present, I am taking a third stab at painting my self-portrait, after two earnest but failed attempts. My first kick at the can ended in disappointment when it turned out that my eyes were closed in the picture. On second try, I decided to paint myself in the nude, but stopped halfway through, when I proved to be too ticklish to continue.
This third go-around feels right. It’s done in a realist style, with the expression on my face capturing my state of mind these days: lovestruck, optimistic and contented. And I am well-positioned over my slain enemy on the battlefield.
I end this week’s Blog with another interesting musical fact:
-Contrary to music theory, if every person on the planet stopped what they were doing, and sang the exact same note at the exact same time, there would be harmony-
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Blogtied
Guess who darted into the drugstore in front of my little baby and me yesterday?
Shock-rocker Marilyn Manson.
And though I wasn’t surprised to see Manson in the land of the prescription pill, I was rather ‘shocked’ by his appearance: worn and cozy moccasins on his feet, a gray sweat suit with CORNELL lettered across the buttock…nary a stitch of makeup on his newly faded, suburban face. Even Manson’s signature Goth-glam hairdo was gone, left to warm some wig stand somewhere.
He made a beeline for the cosmetics counter, desperate to avoid the gaze of those who might recognize him. Unfortunately for Manson, though, I had him pegged. And looking deeply into his big blue eye, I knew at once what he was going through.
“Come join me for a coffee,” I said. “I know at once what you’re going through”.
We walked in silence to the nearest café, where Manson took his coffee black, one last remnant of the angry artist inside.
“What do you want from me?” he asked, before committing to sit.
I smiled, and said nothing in reply, reaching instead for the leather satchel by my side.
Years ago, I wouldn’t have been caught dead on the street with a leather satchel. But after reading ‘the Diary’, I learned that style is but an asphyxiant; substance is, in fact, all that matters in this world. And this mature little satchel of mine kept my personals safe and organized.
One such ‘personal’ was, in fact, ‘the Diary’, and it sat well protected in the main pouch of the satchel. With some dramatic flourish, I laid it out on the table in front of Marilyn.
Now… to simply call it a Diary is a misnomer, for its very appearance had no equal before it. The pages were wildly varied in size, each lined with a different cured meat. The spine of the book, to which the pages were bound, was an actual human spine, and the back cover was perpetually hot to the touch.
Four simple letters graced the front cover of the Diary: a letter ‘D’, which hung boldly from a string…a letter ‘A’, that would spin around in circles when you smiled at it… an embroidered letter ‘L’, that was flecked with fine Spanish limestone … and a letter ‘I’, that sat humming and smoking on the bottom corner of the cover.
It was Salvador Dali’s diary. And for years, this surrealist Bible had been passed from artist to artist in their time of need.
Manson seemed intrigued. He picked up the book and opened it to an entry dated July 6th, 1932:
‘The problem’s getting worse. Where home was once the last vestige of normalcy, even my lover Gala has come to expect the bizarre. I made paella for dinner last night, and she looked at me as though I’d sold my soul! ‘How pedestrian!’ she said. ‘Paella is far too bourgeois for a surrealist genius to serve’. My God. I was hungry and tired. Can I never again be ordinary? And God help me, if I should want to make love to her in any simple manner. Our bedroom is now a vortex of pulleys, and monkeys and strange moustache waxes. I tell you…this constant struggle for originality has got me shackled. Hogtied and shackled. Literally. I had myself hogtied and shackled last night. Something’s gotta give.’
The entry was not what Manson had expected. He looked up from the Diary with a confused look in his eye. And then a tiny glimmer of hope in his other eye. It was the reaction that I’d anticipated: the very same one that I had when Gene Simmons gave me the diary last year.
“Flip back a few pages,” I bellowed. “Read on! Read on!”
Manson opened up the Diary to an entry dated September 10th, 1931:
‘I feel so silly. I really didn’t mean to paint it that way. I mean…it was just such a hot day. I didn’t mean to paint it that way at all. And now they’ve gone and declared it a masterpiece. A work of ‘surrealist genius’! When it was just supposed to be a couple of pocket watches on canvas. I figured watches were easy to paint. Gala had run out to the store for groceries (‘cuz everything in the house had melted from the heat…we lost a whole Camembert to the heat), and I went upstairs to take a cold shower. When I got back down… well, the whole painting had melted. The pocket watches had dripped down the canvas as though…well, as though the whole notion of ‘time’ was no longer rigid and deterministic. I thought it was ruined, but wouldn’t you know it – it’s up and made me a bit of a local hero. What now, I wonder?’
I decided to give Manson a little history lesson on how the Diary came into my possession. In 1950, Dali gave his diary to American painter Jackson Pollock, in a gesture of empathy that would enable Pollack to bring an end to his celebrated Drip Period. After Pollock’s death, his wife gave the Diary to ex-Beatle, Paul McCartney, who then wrote and recorded the saccharine AM hit, Silly Love Songs.
Sir Paul passed the Diary to controversial comic, Richard Pryor, before Pryor agreed to appear in The Muppet Movie. And Pryor later gave it to rocker Gene Simmons, a few scant months before Kiss appeared onstage without their iconic makeup.
Marilyn Manson flipped frantically ahead in the Diary. December 31st, 1936:
‘What have I done? I am stuck…a prisoner of my own creation. Last month, I began work on a simple oil. A rose, in a vase, on a sun-filled veranda. It was a near-perfect rendering, but apparently…not a true ‘Dali’! I had to paint genitals on the rose before my agent would even return my call. My God, I long to be free. Free to paint as I now feel. Free to once again embrace the familiar warmth of convention.’
Manson put the Diary back down on the table.
“How’d you get it?” he asked, his expression softening.
I reached into my parka and pulled out my own personal journal. Years ago, I wouldn’t have been caught dead on the street wearing a parka. But I’ve really bought into the whole ‘style is but an asphyxiant’ thing…
Anyways, I read to Manson from the recesses of my heart. Read aloud the truth of how I had always wanted to be a father, but did everything I could to keep it a secret. How I thought that no one would take me seriously as an artist if I fell prey to my domestic yearnings. How I thought that artists had to live selfish and unrestrained…wild and fancy-free. And how I knew that fatherhood meant responsibility. Newborn babies required constant monitoring and care, and with my work as a songwriter taking off…well, it just never seemed like a smart career move.
I read to him how, on that special day, Gene Simmons brought Dali’s Diary by my studio and implored me to read the long last entry. And how, upon reading it, everything became clear. I went home to my girl that very night, set up the pulleys and the moustache wax, and nine months later, I became a father; a father who can still write hipster music.
Manson picked up Dali’s Diary and thumbed to the infamous last entry. He paced the café as he read, tears welling up in his eyes. It was dated August 14th, 1949:
‘It’s clear to me now, after so many years of feeling trapped… True art is not about a genre or a signature style, but rather, the pure expression of one’s self at any given moment. It need not be new or original. It need not be daring or divine…or surreal! Style is but an asphyxiant, and substance is all that matters in this world. The real masterpiece is the piece that best defines the master, however impassioned or banal he or she may feel at the time. Find joy in the boring details; pleasure, in the simple colors and frail brush strokes that make each of us human. Every morning upon awakening, I experience a supreme pleasure: that of being Salvador Dali.’
Marilyn Manson closed the Diary with an air of relief. He leapt up from the table with a broad smile, and bowed gracefully, first to me, and then to all the rest of the folks in the café. It was the curtain call for a man, tired of trying. Together, we two ordinary artists marched arm and arm back to the drugstore, where Manson symbolically returned his black makeup, and I tried to find my infant son, whom I had left behind in one of the aisles.
The next day in the trades, I read that Marilyn Manson had once again shocked his fans by announcing the upcoming release of an album of romantic soft-rock ballads.
Now that’s surreal.
I end this week’s Blog with another interesting musical fact:
- Only the very longest of music studios can properly facilitate the recording of a marching band -
Shock-rocker Marilyn Manson.
And though I wasn’t surprised to see Manson in the land of the prescription pill, I was rather ‘shocked’ by his appearance: worn and cozy moccasins on his feet, a gray sweat suit with CORNELL lettered across the buttock…nary a stitch of makeup on his newly faded, suburban face. Even Manson’s signature Goth-glam hairdo was gone, left to warm some wig stand somewhere.
He made a beeline for the cosmetics counter, desperate to avoid the gaze of those who might recognize him. Unfortunately for Manson, though, I had him pegged. And looking deeply into his big blue eye, I knew at once what he was going through.
“Come join me for a coffee,” I said. “I know at once what you’re going through”.
We walked in silence to the nearest café, where Manson took his coffee black, one last remnant of the angry artist inside.
“What do you want from me?” he asked, before committing to sit.
I smiled, and said nothing in reply, reaching instead for the leather satchel by my side.
Years ago, I wouldn’t have been caught dead on the street with a leather satchel. But after reading ‘the Diary’, I learned that style is but an asphyxiant; substance is, in fact, all that matters in this world. And this mature little satchel of mine kept my personals safe and organized.
One such ‘personal’ was, in fact, ‘the Diary’, and it sat well protected in the main pouch of the satchel. With some dramatic flourish, I laid it out on the table in front of Marilyn.
Now… to simply call it a Diary is a misnomer, for its very appearance had no equal before it. The pages were wildly varied in size, each lined with a different cured meat. The spine of the book, to which the pages were bound, was an actual human spine, and the back cover was perpetually hot to the touch.
Four simple letters graced the front cover of the Diary: a letter ‘D’, which hung boldly from a string…a letter ‘A’, that would spin around in circles when you smiled at it… an embroidered letter ‘L’, that was flecked with fine Spanish limestone … and a letter ‘I’, that sat humming and smoking on the bottom corner of the cover.
It was Salvador Dali’s diary. And for years, this surrealist Bible had been passed from artist to artist in their time of need.
Manson seemed intrigued. He picked up the book and opened it to an entry dated July 6th, 1932:
‘The problem’s getting worse. Where home was once the last vestige of normalcy, even my lover Gala has come to expect the bizarre. I made paella for dinner last night, and she looked at me as though I’d sold my soul! ‘How pedestrian!’ she said. ‘Paella is far too bourgeois for a surrealist genius to serve’. My God. I was hungry and tired. Can I never again be ordinary? And God help me, if I should want to make love to her in any simple manner. Our bedroom is now a vortex of pulleys, and monkeys and strange moustache waxes. I tell you…this constant struggle for originality has got me shackled. Hogtied and shackled. Literally. I had myself hogtied and shackled last night. Something’s gotta give.’
The entry was not what Manson had expected. He looked up from the Diary with a confused look in his eye. And then a tiny glimmer of hope in his other eye. It was the reaction that I’d anticipated: the very same one that I had when Gene Simmons gave me the diary last year.
“Flip back a few pages,” I bellowed. “Read on! Read on!”
Manson opened up the Diary to an entry dated September 10th, 1931:
‘I feel so silly. I really didn’t mean to paint it that way. I mean…it was just such a hot day. I didn’t mean to paint it that way at all. And now they’ve gone and declared it a masterpiece. A work of ‘surrealist genius’! When it was just supposed to be a couple of pocket watches on canvas. I figured watches were easy to paint. Gala had run out to the store for groceries (‘cuz everything in the house had melted from the heat…we lost a whole Camembert to the heat), and I went upstairs to take a cold shower. When I got back down… well, the whole painting had melted. The pocket watches had dripped down the canvas as though…well, as though the whole notion of ‘time’ was no longer rigid and deterministic. I thought it was ruined, but wouldn’t you know it – it’s up and made me a bit of a local hero. What now, I wonder?’
I decided to give Manson a little history lesson on how the Diary came into my possession. In 1950, Dali gave his diary to American painter Jackson Pollock, in a gesture of empathy that would enable Pollack to bring an end to his celebrated Drip Period. After Pollock’s death, his wife gave the Diary to ex-Beatle, Paul McCartney, who then wrote and recorded the saccharine AM hit, Silly Love Songs.
Sir Paul passed the Diary to controversial comic, Richard Pryor, before Pryor agreed to appear in The Muppet Movie. And Pryor later gave it to rocker Gene Simmons, a few scant months before Kiss appeared onstage without their iconic makeup.
Marilyn Manson flipped frantically ahead in the Diary. December 31st, 1936:
‘What have I done? I am stuck…a prisoner of my own creation. Last month, I began work on a simple oil. A rose, in a vase, on a sun-filled veranda. It was a near-perfect rendering, but apparently…not a true ‘Dali’! I had to paint genitals on the rose before my agent would even return my call. My God, I long to be free. Free to paint as I now feel. Free to once again embrace the familiar warmth of convention.’
Manson put the Diary back down on the table.
“How’d you get it?” he asked, his expression softening.
I reached into my parka and pulled out my own personal journal. Years ago, I wouldn’t have been caught dead on the street wearing a parka. But I’ve really bought into the whole ‘style is but an asphyxiant’ thing…
Anyways, I read to Manson from the recesses of my heart. Read aloud the truth of how I had always wanted to be a father, but did everything I could to keep it a secret. How I thought that no one would take me seriously as an artist if I fell prey to my domestic yearnings. How I thought that artists had to live selfish and unrestrained…wild and fancy-free. And how I knew that fatherhood meant responsibility. Newborn babies required constant monitoring and care, and with my work as a songwriter taking off…well, it just never seemed like a smart career move.
I read to him how, on that special day, Gene Simmons brought Dali’s Diary by my studio and implored me to read the long last entry. And how, upon reading it, everything became clear. I went home to my girl that very night, set up the pulleys and the moustache wax, and nine months later, I became a father; a father who can still write hipster music.
Manson picked up Dali’s Diary and thumbed to the infamous last entry. He paced the café as he read, tears welling up in his eyes. It was dated August 14th, 1949:
‘It’s clear to me now, after so many years of feeling trapped… True art is not about a genre or a signature style, but rather, the pure expression of one’s self at any given moment. It need not be new or original. It need not be daring or divine…or surreal! Style is but an asphyxiant, and substance is all that matters in this world. The real masterpiece is the piece that best defines the master, however impassioned or banal he or she may feel at the time. Find joy in the boring details; pleasure, in the simple colors and frail brush strokes that make each of us human. Every morning upon awakening, I experience a supreme pleasure: that of being Salvador Dali.’
Marilyn Manson closed the Diary with an air of relief. He leapt up from the table with a broad smile, and bowed gracefully, first to me, and then to all the rest of the folks in the café. It was the curtain call for a man, tired of trying. Together, we two ordinary artists marched arm and arm back to the drugstore, where Manson symbolically returned his black makeup, and I tried to find my infant son, whom I had left behind in one of the aisles.
The next day in the trades, I read that Marilyn Manson had once again shocked his fans by announcing the upcoming release of an album of romantic soft-rock ballads.
Now that’s surreal.
I end this week’s Blog with another interesting musical fact:
- Only the very longest of music studios can properly facilitate the recording of a marching band -
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Blog Parents
You can’t imagine how many women contact me, the world over, asking for parental support and guidance.
“The children look up to you,” they say, “and now they want to become musicians.”
Horror of horrors.
Mothers… do whatever you can to dissuade the kids from this career path. The life of a musician is a demanding one, if for no other reason than the number of children you end up having to support, the world over.
And musicians are an exhausting bunch: self-consumed, quick to lose focus and very
We whine, we gossip, we incessantly riff. Some of us even play the saxophone, for which there can be no excuse.
So do the world a favor, moms, and dash these dreams at once. Take the guitars and drumsticks out of the hands of the children, and replace them with instruments that might one day better the world: like surgical instruments.
If, however, the young rockers refuse to relent, then pass along these two initial tips to get them started them on their musical journey.
(1). Pick A Stage Name -
Nothing screams gold record more than a happening moniker.
Just ask Declan McManus, who could barely pump it up before he became Elvis Costello.
Or Paul Hewson, who after years of toiling in the nightclubs of Dublin, still hadn’t found what he was looking for. (He ultimately changed his name to Bono, and a music icon was born).
Schoolteacher Gordon Sumner couldn’t get arrested, he was so non-descript. Changed his name to Sting, and within a few months he had a band and a Police record.
Sticking with a stage name can be a challenging process, (particularly in the early “C’mon guys…I told you to call me Prince” days). But it is an invaluable step on a youngster’s path to rock greatness.
(2). Develop A Guitar Face –
I can’t overstate the importance of early guitar face development.
Mothers… forget about enrolling the kids in music class. They need to be in front of a mirror as soon as possible practising a repertoire of snarls and sneers. There is no sense in learning to play complex musical scales and solos if you haven’t learned how to look like you’re playing complex musical scales and solos.
Behold the faces of the greats: Jimi Hendrix, and his spacey psychedelic stare…Jimmy Page, with his signature tight-lipped scowl. Bluesman Eric Clapton would bend and pull his face with every bend and pull of the string. Baby had done him wrong, and he needed his audience to know it.
Because the fact is, when we have paid to watch a performance, we want to see the passion and strain on the faces of the participants.
And mothers… this advice need not only apply to guitar players. Aspiring musicians of all stripes should take heed. And for that matter, any devoted professional would be well served to develop a guitar face. Can you really trust that you’re getting the best possible root canal, if your dentist merely gazes at you blankly?
Frankly, no.
One more thing to tell the kids... An emotive visage is always appreciated in the act of lovemaking. Because the fact is, when we have paid to watch a performance, we want to see the passion and strain on the faces of the participants.
I end this week’s Blog with another interesting musical fact:
- Scientific research has suggested that babies are born with perfect pitch, but that they often have trouble remembering lyrics -
“The children look up to you,” they say, “and now they want to become musicians.”
Horror of horrors.
Mothers… do whatever you can to dissuade the kids from this career path. The life of a musician is a demanding one, if for no other reason than the number of children you end up having to support, the world over.
And musicians are an exhausting bunch: self-consumed, quick to lose focus and very
We whine, we gossip, we incessantly riff. Some of us even play the saxophone, for which there can be no excuse.
So do the world a favor, moms, and dash these dreams at once. Take the guitars and drumsticks out of the hands of the children, and replace them with instruments that might one day better the world: like surgical instruments.
If, however, the young rockers refuse to relent, then pass along these two initial tips to get them started them on their musical journey.
(1). Pick A Stage Name -
Nothing screams gold record more than a happening moniker.
Just ask Declan McManus, who could barely pump it up before he became Elvis Costello.
Or Paul Hewson, who after years of toiling in the nightclubs of Dublin, still hadn’t found what he was looking for. (He ultimately changed his name to Bono, and a music icon was born).
Schoolteacher Gordon Sumner couldn’t get arrested, he was so non-descript. Changed his name to Sting, and within a few months he had a band and a Police record.
Sticking with a stage name can be a challenging process, (particularly in the early “C’mon guys…I told you to call me Prince” days). But it is an invaluable step on a youngster’s path to rock greatness.
(2). Develop A Guitar Face –
I can’t overstate the importance of early guitar face development.
Mothers… forget about enrolling the kids in music class. They need to be in front of a mirror as soon as possible practising a repertoire of snarls and sneers. There is no sense in learning to play complex musical scales and solos if you haven’t learned how to look like you’re playing complex musical scales and solos.
Behold the faces of the greats: Jimi Hendrix, and his spacey psychedelic stare…Jimmy Page, with his signature tight-lipped scowl. Bluesman Eric Clapton would bend and pull his face with every bend and pull of the string. Baby had done him wrong, and he needed his audience to know it.
Because the fact is, when we have paid to watch a performance, we want to see the passion and strain on the faces of the participants.
And mothers… this advice need not only apply to guitar players. Aspiring musicians of all stripes should take heed. And for that matter, any devoted professional would be well served to develop a guitar face. Can you really trust that you’re getting the best possible root canal, if your dentist merely gazes at you blankly?
Frankly, no.
One more thing to tell the kids... An emotive visage is always appreciated in the act of lovemaking. Because the fact is, when we have paid to watch a performance, we want to see the passion and strain on the faces of the participants.
I end this week’s Blog with another interesting musical fact:
- Scientific research has suggested that babies are born with perfect pitch, but that they often have trouble remembering lyrics -
Friday, May 16, 2008
Cellblog Number Nine
Exactly one year ago today, I published my first Blog entry a few months earlier. In my Inblaugural Address, I promised to provide readers with a weekly analysis of all things art-related. And while the ‘art’ part of the Blog has proven to be a fascinating read, it is the ‘weekly’ part that has frustrated so many, including myself.
In my defense, I had no idea that a once-a-week deadline would roll around so consistently. And why should a Blogger, so devoted to the facts, have to burden him or herself with trivialities like timetables, and deadlines, or responsibilities around the house?
No…to patiently research and prepare erudite comment on an artist or an art form requires the luxury of time. As well as patience and preparation. So lay off.
No clearer is this the case than with this week’s Blog, which has taken over two months to finish. You see, I have wanted to score an exclusive interview with American painter Telly Mastiff, ever since I first created him as a character. But I knew it would take time. Mastiff’s work is in great demand these days; and with his incarceration at Atwater Penitentiary, access to the artist was obviously limited. I knew what I’d have to go through to face Mastiff one-on-one, but I would stop at NOTHING to get his story.
The guards escorted me to a darkened cell off of the prison courtyard. This was Mastiff’s home and makeshift ‘studio’ for the past five years. The cell looked no different than any other I’d seen, save for the glorious canvases adorning the walls. As I sat waiting for Telly to be ushered back in, I looked through my notes, the guards watching my every move…
Prisoner art has gained in popularity over the past decade or so, with both the casual observer and the avid collector taking notice of the work. Where it sometimes suffers in aesthetic and technique, a good piece of prisoner art can offer insight into both the psyche of a criminal offender and the repressive condition of correctional facilities in America.
Telly Mastiff had actually never picked up a paintbrush before he was picked up for counterfeiting. But Atwater Penitentiary happens to offer a course in rehabilitative arts, and prisoners are openly encouraged to learn an artistic discipline and a healthy new means of expression. Mastiff showed an innate ability at the easel, and though he never believed his stuff was all that special, it served him well. As he immersed himself in his painting, the days and months of his sentence flew by. And while a white-collar convict as diminutive in stature as Mastiff might have faced a rough ride in the pen’, his way with the brush gave him instant credibility among the inmates…
Prisoner art is often simplistic in its imagery; unresolved lines that depict feelings of loneliness and despair. Critics decry the work as derivative, and likely no more or less developed than the work of any sample of the outside population. Some even suggest that the artists in the prison system are, in fact, more interesting than the art itself.
Telly Mastiff’s work is the exception, I believe, with a character and reach that belies his station in life. He may not have been a painter before he was a prisoner, but his pieces are objectively good. And now that they are fetching top prices on the outside, Mastiff’s success is proving to be a clarion call for some of Atwater Penitentiary’s less notable artists-in-hiding. Rocky Strauss’ six-month stay in solitary could have unnerved him, but instead, it inspired him to create a wonderful series of oddly similar still life paintings. Herman Dangle, convicted of tax fraud back in ’04, just finished a fabulous set of figure drawings, whereupon the closer you looked at them, the more the figures seemed to change. Even wily Reggie Garson, who is doing time for forgery, got his art career started by signing his name on all of Herman Dangle’s pieces. The prison had come alive, with a swell of artistic energy…
Over the past decade, a growing number of correctional institutions in the United States have incorporated arts programs into their daily routines. Prison officials are reporting a decline in the number of violent incidents over that same period, and though studies have yet to confirm a causal connection, it is certain that artistic pursuit in our prison system provides the prisoners with a necessary boost of morale, and a renewed sense of purpose.
My interview with Mastiff was scheduled for 8PM, sandwiched in between his parole hearing and the call for ‘lights-out’. I was excited to be speaking to the artist on such a monumental day; having always been a model prisoner, it was widely believed that Telly Mastiff would be granted an unconditional release at the hearing. I only wished the guards had allowed me a writing utensil to document the interview. I looked back at my notes, and thought of all that I had braved to get to this point…
Prisoner art is finally gaining recognition as a valid and contemporary form of Outsider art (see my May 2007 Blog entry on Outsider Art, entitled Blog Wild). Art historians have begun to regard the works with both a critical eye and an open mind, in the hopes that somewhere amongst the rank and file, a Munsch or a Van Gogh might be toiling away at his craft.
It was 8:18PM, and something was clearly amiss. Mastiff had not returned to his cell, the interview was in jeopardy, and the guards were beginning to lose their patience. With each moment that passed, my heart sunk. I re-read my notes, and wondered what might have happened.
“C’mon, Roth. Time to go. It’s lights out in forty…”
Over the days that passed, the events of Telly Mastiff’s parole hearing were the talk of the cellblock. Apparently, Telly had been his usual calm, collected self throughout: smiling, and quietly sketching away in his notebook. But when the time came for his release papers to be signed, Telly leapt up suddenly from his seat and lashed out at the parole board. They say he had to be forcibly restrained; and when control was finally restored, Telly had assured himself a much-extended stay at Atwater. The official reports suggested he snapped. But I knew better.
Telly Mastiff had never believed his stuff was all that special. And in the end, he traded his freedom for a splash of P.R. It saddened me to think that an artist’s bio could outsell his art, but such is life on the inside and out. At least with Mastiff back on the inside, I could still score that exclusive first interview... even if it took the full 5 to 10.
Like I said before, I will stop at NOTHING to get his story. I will sit patiently in my cell, serving out the rest of my sentence. In retrospect, maybe I am a little too devoted to my Blog. But with all this time on my hands, I should easily finish next week’s entry by the fall. And who knows, maybe it’ll be worth some money now…
I end this week’s Blog with another interesting musical fact:
In the late 1950’s, manufacturers of the bass guitar switched to using wood, after years of complaints from marine biologists.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Barack Oblogma
My goodness, it’s been a while…
I don’t think I’ve posted a Blog since the very last one. And you can be sure that I’ve had important things to say, for I am a songwriter, and songwriters have important things to say.
In my travels across France, however, I had little access to the Internet; and even if I’d had a chance to sit down at a computer, frustratingly, the letters on the keyboard would have been in French.
Alas, I am home now, and eager to Blog: to offer to the world my nuggets of deep social commentary and vine-ripened philosophy. You see, my ability as a songwriter to create catchy melodies means that I have the right – nay – the duty to comment on subjects about which I know very little. If a listener bought my record because it made them want to dance, than surely they must want to hear my opinion on the current geopolitical climate.
Which is why I am using this week’s Blog to offer special counsel to Senator Barack Obama in his bid for the Presidency. Obama has run an admirable campaign thus far, and his lofty rhetoric has managed to stir the soul of America. But if the Senator from Illinois truly wishes to secure himself a seat in the Oval Office, he must learn to play the drums.
Of course, I am not the only songwriter to have ever waxed political.
Over the years, many artists have used their artistic status to express partisan viewpoints: John Lennon, with his highly complex ‘Give Peace A Chance’ agenda… The Sex Pistols, with their lucid call for anarchy in the UK… and in more recent days, U2 frontman, Bono, with his public and practical appeal to ‘end world poverty now’. Sure, the world could’ve long ago heeded the advice of PhD’s and expert economists on the poverty issue, but it took Bono to shed light on the topic: a man as awesome as the appeal itself.
So it is imperative that we artists continue to ignore the boundaries of our calling, and use the pulpit to spread whatever political message seems the most awesome.
Now, the opposite also holds true. It is imperative for politicians to use music to further their cause. And that is why I implore Senator Obama to take heed of my advice.
Back in 1992, Democratic nominee Bill Clinton may have been running an intelligent and inspiring political campaign, but it wasn’t until he broke out the alto saxophone on late night television that America began to take him seriously as a presidential candidate.
This year, right wing Governor Mike Huckabee vied for the Republican nomination; and while he turned off some with his vehement pro-life, anti-gay marriage platform, he won the hearts of others by playing bass guitar at every campaign stop. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SkeflmkFCj0
Huckabee may not have believed in evolution, but he could rock the four-string bass, and sometimes that’s all that matters.
So Senator Obama… if you really hope to capture the pulse of the nation, take a few days off from politicking and learn to play the drums. Strong words and ideas are great, but bang out a rhythm that is literally in step with America, and the election will be yours for the taking.
Trust me… I am a songwriter, and I have important things to say.
I end this week’s Blog with another interesting musical fact:
- Being a roadie for an a capella group is an excellent gig -
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Egg Blog
It’s been more than a fortnight since Jesus’ birthday, and yet still today, a sense of glee lingers in the air: that blessed, Yuletide musk that freshens our souls and our malls.
And while you can still see the glow on the faces of America’s children and the faces of their children, the glow and the glee are gloing to fade soon enough. The bulbs on the tree will burn out. The wreath on the front door will shed its needles and that Virgin Mary hanging up in the bedroom will head back east to college. Yet again, the hope of Christmas will give way to the crushing reality of another new year.
So what can we as artists do to help perpetuate the joy of the season? (Non-artists, please refrain from answering). How can we use our talents to keep the holiday spirit alive? (Non-talented artists, please refrain from answering).
I posed these questions to a couple of artists whose work I respect and who celebrate Christmas around the same time each year…
Todd Milkton, a renowned sculptor living just outside of Prince Edward Island, had this to say, while bobbing on the surface of the water:
“Today’s sculptor need not rely on predictable materials like plaster and clay to construct their work. I take great strides to preserve the festive spirit in my art by incorporating seasonal materials such as tinsel (which is useful if you are sculpting elderly hair), and myrrh (which is useful if you are sculpting a reddish-brown resinous type of dried sap).”
For his first freestanding sculpture of ’08, Milkton chose to use the Christmas fruitcakes he received from his aunts to form the great contiguous mass of the piece. The result, a monument to the abstraction of light, is quite stunning, and the very sight of it brought me back to the holidays of my youth. And it tasted delicious.
Chart-topping Christian rock outfit, The Sunday Best, have always strived to maintain a sense of piety in both their music and lyrics; but with the release of their new record, Rocking The Good Book, they have upped the ante considerably. Their manager, Sol Bernstein, explains:
“There will be no stadium or arena tour for The Sunday Best this year. Instead, the boys have decided to uphold the spirit of the holidays by repeatedly walking the food courts and shopping concourses of America, ‘caroling’ the new singles from their record. This type of mobile performance is no easy task, particularly for the drummer. But the boys are committed to continuing the Christmas cause. They’ve even decided to forgo their usual hotel accommodations for a less glamorous booking in the local manger of every city.”
There is no reason why the joy of the holiday season need fade so quickly. And the artistic community has the cultural reach and sway to ensure that it doesn’t.
So fashion designers…keep us donned in gay apparel. Let’s make red and green the new black, and giant stockings the must-have for spring. Screenwriters…remember that nothing sets up a chase scene more than a well-written Nativity scene.
For with a few subtle shout-outs to St. Nick, we artists can surely help stave off the February blahs and the certain pall of tax season; at least until the sights and sounds of Christmas come ‘round again next November 1st.
I end this week’s Blog with another interesting musical fact:
-The very first DJ to scratch records was Murray Badner in 1976. His employers at the radio station were none too pleased-
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