Blogarithm

Remo hadn't written a hit song in years. He had a string of them in the late '90's, but then he up and disappeared. Lost his touch, or lost touch, I guess.
We all thought it was for the best, as Remo had started to develop a real attitude. He used to go on and on about his own successes, and his gifts as a writer. He called his songs not by their titles, but by the position they reached on the charts ("Have you heard my new Number Four…" etc.). And he referred to other
people only in the 3^rd person, which for some reason seemed condescending.
But after a while, Remo just dropped clean out of sight. Last I heard, he had gotten himself heavy into computers and computer programming, and had hung up his songwriting hat for good. (He actually used to wear a songwriter's hat, which was like a beret, only Frencher.)
Last week, I was listening to K-FOX on the way to the studio. A song came on that made me pull over to the side of the road. It was near perfect in its delivery: concise phrasing, lilting melody, no saxophone. It was a contemporary masterpiece and when the deejay announced Remo's name, I near fell off my horse. Remo was back. And he was better than ever.
I tracked down his cell number, and when we finally connected, he seemed not at all like the Remo that I remembered. Gone were the attitude, and the heightened sense of self. He was, instead, rather humble and almost hesitant to discuss his new song. Something was up, and I needed to find out what.
As soon as I thought of how to end this story, I made my way up to Remo's new apartment on the Upper West side. In the old days, Remo would have greeted me with a bear hug and a reach around, and then ignore me as though I'd never arrived. But on this occasion, he simply offered up a lifeless wave and beckoned me inside, a shadow of his former self.
The apartment was non-descript, save for a loud whirring coming from behind the bedroom door. Remo caught me looking in that direction and a thin, nervous smile spread across his face, as he spoke:
"You know how well I was doing…I had the knack. Damn, there were a couple of years there where I couldn't take a crap without a beautiful ballad coming out. I was consumed with the craft…the science of it. But the more I studied it, the more I realized how intimidating it was. You know…you're only as good as your last tune."
"But your last tune is unbelievable, Remo," I said. "Really excellent stuff."
Remo shrugged and looked off in the direction of the bedroom.
"Robbie…In 1999, I developed a technology that I knew would revolutionize the art world and relieve all of the pressures of being a songwriter. A simple computer, with a simple string of code that could deconstruct and analyze hit records from the last fifty years. The rhythms, the melodies, the lyrics…I fed them in, and through a process of binary extrapolation, I built me a little hit-maker."
My God, I thought…had it finally happened? Had that near-perfect radio single actually been penned by a machine? It couldn't be. No microchip could ever create a piece as angst-ridden as a Joe Strummer tune, or as sardonic as a Randy Newman number.
"This microchip can do that," Remo said. I must have typed too loudly.
"You see, Robbie, programming the computer to feel emotion wasn't the problem." Ushering me over toward the bedroom door, he continued. "The problem was getting it to stop feeling emotion…"
As soon as Remo swung open the bedroom door, the whirring paused and the room grew eerily quiet. There was a really slick-looking computer in the corner with a green light that stared suspiciously back at me.
"One taste of success, and he's developed a real attitude. All he thinks about is writing hit songs, and he's blocked me from accessing any of his new riffs or licks…"
The screen saver was frozen on an image of the computer itself, lounging by a pool.
"Only he can turn himself on now, and he won't even consider writing a duet with me. I think I've created a monster…"
The computer sounded a sad and plaintive chord.
"And he won't take off that stupid beret."
I end this week's Blog with another interesting musical fact:

- Beethoven made good money when he performed, but most of his income came from the sale of concert t-shirts and posters -

Blog Wild

We artists do a lot of insane things. I once stabbed a lighting tech at a gig, because he didn't bathe me in blue during my guitar solo.
But in fairness, insane people make a lot of art. In fact, I did my final university research paper on the art of the insane. The paper was very interesting, though I got an F on it, because it was for an advanced mathematics class.
Since then, I have continued to have an interest in 'outsider art', and it seems that the more I learn about the phenomenon, the less there is that I don't know about it.
The terms 'outsider art' and 'art of the insane' were coined in the 1970's, to replace the less politically correct term 'art of the nut job'. (Though I know a couple of folks who still study the art of the nut job).
The most well known piece of outsider art is Edvard Munch's 1893 painting, The Scream. Munch suffered from agoraphobia, and much of his work reflects the deep-seeded insecurities and anxieties that he battled throughout his life.
Post-Impressionist painter Vincent van Gogh cut his earlobe off on December 24^th, 1888. Van Gogh originally suggested that the lobe came off while he was carving the Christmas turkey. Some months later, he came to terms with his mental illness and committed himself to an insane asylum. Van Gogh's stay in the asylum was a busy one; he painted a number of wonderful pieces that captured his degenerative state. He also declared war on Saturn.
Through the century or so to follow, outsider art has been studied and celebrated in galleries and textbooks alike. I have had the pleasure of meeting a number of the lesser-known outsider artists, whose work should one day touch the world: Anton Preggers is a New Yorker who suffers from Narcissistic Personality Disorder, but happens to make the loveliest self-portraits. Donna Holster is a recording artist from Boston, who sadly suffers from MPD, or multiple personality disorder. (On a lighter note, Donna is releasing an album of duets in late spring). Reed Sussudio, a patient with obsessive-compulsive disorder, was working on a wonderful new painting when I met him fifteen years ago. I recently checked in on Reed; he's doing great, and the painting is almost finished.
So the next time you encounter someone behaving a little 'outside', do not give him or her your sympathy. Give them a canvas, a paintbrush and a chance to express themselves. And maybe some sedatives.
I end this week's Blog with another interesting musical fact:

- The lower register note 'A' was invented in the 1970's by Arthur
Fonzarelli, and popularized some years later by Mallory's boyfriend, Nick -

Go See A Man About A Blog

I met Tad at a bar down on Main.
It was my first night out since the murder, and it felt good to see a friendly face. We downed a few Grape Knee-highs, and got to talking about art: who we were digging, who was doing interesting stuff…that kind of thing.
Tad spotted an old friend, and invited her to join us: "This is Beverly Fluster. She's a fabulous publicist from out West, and she is certain to play a role in your next Blog."
Beverly was a hoot to hang with, and it turned out that she repped a number of well-known and developing artists out on the coast. She slid easily into the conversation.
"You boys wanna know the secret to becoming a successful artist?" Beverly slyly asked. It was a topic that had handcuffed me throughout my career. Tad and I had debated it on many occasions, but with no good answer to show for it. We both shrugged and leaned in close for a shot at enlightenment.
"Go and see Caraway, the artist" she began. "The journey to his home is fraught with danger, but when you finally find Caraway, you will have your answer."
Tad and I exchanged confused looks and then switched back because they felt weird.
"Trust me, fellas, " Bev went on, "If you want to know the secret to an artist's success, go and see this guy. He may be new, but he's by far the best artist that I've seen. An instant success, who's got the whole thing figured out."
Intrigued, I planned to leave the next day in search of the secret. Tad decided not to join me because he was fictional.
I rose with the sun and headed in the direction of Caraway's home. I had downloaded the directions off of Google Maps, and though the screen was difficult to carry with me, the route was well laid out.
I walked, for what seemed like hours, though it was likely only a day. Finally, I reached a sign that read: Welcome to the Barren Desert. The hot sun beat down on my toupee, as I traversed the arid land. The ground was cracked and dry, and there were no plants or vegetation anywhere to be seen. The only glimpse of life lay directly ahead, where a young man sat painting a picture.
His work was shocking; a rose, so brilliantly rendered, its colors near leaped off the canvas.
I looked at him, and then at his dreary surroundings. As if reading my mind, he whispered: "An artist's imagination is never barren…" And then he pointed me onward, my education having just begun.
I continued on until I reached the precipice of a valley, where a sign read: Welcome to the Valley of Noise. It all looked rather ominous, and as I stepped down into the gorge, I was assaulted by sound: piercing shrieks and low, grumbling moans. The din was insufferable, yet at the bottom of the valley, a guitar player sat writing a song. I wondered how he could possibly write a song amidst the cacophony. He turned to tell me, and though I couldn't hear a word he said, I'm pretty sure I understood.
I wandered on, 'til I came to a crossroads, and the end of my map. A sign read Welcome to the End of Your Map. I did not know whether to turn right or left, but a crowd of people with notebooks in hand were rushing to the left. I figured that this must be the way. I joined the horde as they hustled by, writing in their notebooks. But after several hours of doing the hustle, I was getting nowhere fast. I decided to fight back through the crowd the other way. To my surprise, as soon as I turned around, the crowd parted and I was able to move forward at a swift pace. Another poignant moment in the journey, I thought, as I approached a figure dressed in white.
When it was time for another thought, I realized that the figure that I was approaching was the mysterious and reclusive Caraway (I recognized him from his pics on Facebook).
I had come too far for small talk. I got right to the point…
"Hi Caraway. My name is Robbie, and I too am an artist. I used to have a record deal, and now I do a lot of songwriting for other artists and for theatre. I'm actually working on a cool record right now for a guy who's got a big record deal in - "
"Who sent you here?" Caraway interjected.
"Oh…ah, Beverly Fluster, your publicist. She said that you were the greatest, and that if I made the long and dangerous journey out to see you, that I would learn the secret to success as an artist."
Caraway smiled. "You traveled far from your home in search of the secret. You crossed a dry and barren desert, and saw fertile imagination. You wandered through a deep and deafening valley and saw great focus. You faced a broad, consuming crowd and found your own path. You've come all of this distance to find me, and now you still wish to know the secret to success as an artist?"
I leaned in close to listen.
"Obviously, the secret is to find a fabulous publicist."
I end this week's Blog with another interesting musical fact:

- If you soak your guitar in oil for two to three hours on the morning of a gig, you will likely end up canceling the gig -

It's A Blog Eat Blog World

Curse you, Peter Mamba. You've done it again.
Every time I'm in a good place in my life, you show up and shake the foundation. I lose my foothold…I get my back up. I arm for battle.
It's always been this way.
In Kindergarten, I had a fine thing going. Plenty of friends, a sweet bowl-cut, a solid repertoire of knock-knock jokes. In walked Peter Mamba, new kid in the class, and I was swiftly robbed of my innocence. He seemed to have it all: fancy threads, a wicked lunch box. A bowl-cut so well shaped, you could eat porridge out of it. When Mamba told a knock-knock joke, you were dying to know who was there. He was truly something.
I never realized how much I had, until Peter Mamba came along with more. I was no longer the king of cool…the class clown. This was Mamba's turf, and I was left to sulk in his shadow. Everything I did, Peter Mamba outdid. I made a macaroni necklace; he made macaroni casserole. I brought my new puppy in for show and tell; Peter brought in a baby lion. Everything seemed to be a competition, and I just couldn't win.
In grade three, Peter Mamba moved away to, what I figured were, greener pastures. But it took me several years to shed my competitive skin. By the time I got to high school, I was normal again. I had rediscovered my joie de vivre. I had plenty of friends, and a wicked feathered hairdo. I had made out with a number of girls. I had a fine thing going.
But then Mamba moved back. And when he walked into my grade ten Science class, he was a sight to behold. Tall as a tree, with a feathered haircut so expertly coiffed, he looked like a goddamn quill. If I was the Simon LeBon of our school, he was Simon LeMieux. Always a little better than me.
That old competitive blood started coursing through my veins. If I got an A, Mamba got an A+. I started a Glee Club. Mamba started an Ecstatic Club. I was elected Student Council President. Mamba was elected city councillor. The competition continued through college and after. Guess who was in attendance at my first law school class that I skipped? Mamba.
I couldn't take it anymore. I couldn't face the possibility of four more cutthroat years of feeling second best. The competition between Peter Mamba and me was officially over.
I quit law school and decided to become an artist. There was no 'better' or 'worse' in art. No qualitative measures to prey on my insecurities. I could write without judgement or concern for my standing. And write, I did, working contentedly for artists around the world. When I decided last month that I would begin work on my own album, I did so with the confidence of a man at peace with himself, unaffected by others' successes.
I ran into an old friend on the street yesterday. After I helped her get up, she asked if I'd heard the news: Peter Mamba was releasing an album. I turned and ran from her, my eyes to the heavens, my mind reeling: The Grammy Award for Best Song goes to - Surely, my songs aren't good enough. The chords are stiff, the melodies stilted. I must start from scratch. America, you've voted, and your next American Idol is -
My God, is nothing sacred? Is art now a competition as well? Fodder for judgement?
Curse you, Peter Mamba.
I end this week's Blog with another interesting musical fact:

- Flats were invented when women had nothing to wear to the mall -