Robbie Roth

Throw Another Blog On The Fire

2009-10-20T16:39:00.002-04:00

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.

Seeing I Blog

2009-04-22T08:29:00.000-04:00

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-

Blogtied

2009-02-05T09:53:00.000-05:00

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 -

Blog Parents

2008-11-20T22:32:00.000-05:00

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 -

Cellblog Number Nine

2008-05-16T19:35:00.000-04:00

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.

Barack Oblogma

2008-03-05T15:05:00.000-05:00

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 -

Egg Blog

2008-01-12T16:01:00.000-05:00

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 1^st.
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-

Every Blog Has Its Day

2007-11-19T09:23:00.000-05:00

I have been fascinated with the phenomenon of ‘cave art’ ever since prehistoric man first painted on rock walls and ceilings, nearly 40,000 years ago. But information on this mysterious art form is hard to come by. Art galleries seem to rarely exhibit cave art, and private collectors of the medium are few and far between. Even when you find someone who can offer some insight, you have to wait unbearably long for them to thaw.
So we art historians must rely on scientific methods like radiocarbon dating and skimming Wikipedia to glean any useful information on the topic.
What we do know is that evidence of rock painting has been discovered in caves all around the world, from Southeast Asia to Mexico, from Europe to France. Rock painting was also created on cliff faces, like the Astuvansalmi in Finland, but with much less frequency, as it was difficult to convince a subject to pose for these works.
In fact, no human beings ever appeared as subjects in prehistoric cave art. The odd surrealist piece would feature an odd type of monkey that walked upright and looked strangely human. But the majority of the work was realist, depicting large animals such as bison, bulls, deer and horses.
Contrary to the work, the life of a cave painter was not pretty. Ill regarded as the graffiti artist of their day, they were shunned and alienated by their peers and forced to work in dark and cave-like conditions. Support for artistic pursuit was rare in those days, with exhibited pieces registering little more than a grunt from friends and family. And more often than not, a cave artist would be eaten by a stegosaurus at the height of their career.
Plus, many of today’s modern art supplies were unavailable to the cave artist: oil paints and paintbrushes were unheard of, and good luck even trying to find an easel. Cave artists had to be industrious and imaginative in creating their art. The silhouette of a piece would have to be incised into the rock face using a handmade tool and the cave artist would have to use hematite, manganese oxide and charcoal to create the paint. Hematite is difficult to work with at the best of times; now imagine having to wash it out of your wooly beard.
So what would compel a young Neanderthal to give up a stable career as a hunter/gatherer to become a cave artist? Some historians believe the art may have provided a way to transmit information, while others suggest there was religious or ceremonial purpose behind the paintings. I choose to believe that our early ancestors shared the same passion that inspires today’s artists and excuses them from hard work: a basic need to express oneself.
Cave painting evolved over the years. More and more cave artists chose to work in other media, or simply to live in canvas caves. And by the Neolithic era, cave artists were already experimenting with postmodern art and neolithographs. But the spirit of their work lives on in all of our monkey hearts.
I end this week’s Blog with another interesting musical fact:

- The violin was invented in Frankfurt, Germany in 1449, when musician Berthold Lehmann accidentally ran his cello through the washer/dryer -

Hits From The Blog

2007-10-15T13:42:00.000-04:00

Cocaine proved the ultimate undoing of painter Jean-Michel Basquiat.
Jazz great, John Coltrane, had a highly publicized addiction to heroin.
Moustachioed pop idols, The Beatles, were quite candid about their use of hallucinogenic drugs while writing and recording their hits.
And whoever wrote The Macarena must have been high.
So why the prevalence of drug use amongst the artistic community? And would the same great works of art have been created without this narcotic ‘crutch’?
Artists throughout the generations have pondered these deep philosophical questions and then giggled uncontrollably. Some users suggest that these illicit trips provide escape from the every day stresses that hinder creativity. Some say the drugs expand their minds and offer alternate paths of inspiration. Others simply say “Whoa…” and “Isn’t ice cream weird?”
These answers notwithstanding, there is a well-documented dark side to this issue: one that can easily end in tragedy. With artists so often slave to their environment, they will quickly snuggle up to whatever setting seems most productive. Drugs may help speed them up before a deadline, or help to slow them down after a performance; but in most cases, the consequences are grave. As dependency gives way to full-blown addiction, the lines of reality and judgement blur. The drugs hijack the spirit and sap the soul, rendering the user emotionally vacant. They play havoc with health, cause great financial burden, and impel one to wear patterned pants.
For these reasons, my colleagues and I have sought out escape and inspiration in natural, more contemporary ways…
For the boost of energy once the domain of amphetamines and uppers, today’s artist might consider drinking a tall, no foam, ristretto espresso macchiato. And then quickly drinking another tall, no foam, ristretto espresso macchiato. This is a delicious way to jumpstart creative energies and it requires only limited knowledge of the Italian language.
For that post-performance ‘comedown’, my band-mates and I like to retire to the dressing room and pass around a leg of turkey. There is a very powerful amino acid in turkey called Tryptophan and, particularly when the turkey is smoked, the Tryptophan acts as a chemical catalyst to calm down brain function. The Tryp-trip is a wild one (hence the term ‘wild turkey’), and a safe alternative to the numbing barbiturates peddled on the street.
As for the hallucinogenic journey that propelled The Beatles to such lofty artistic heights, I recommend to today’s artists that they book an appointment with their accountant. There is no more mind-altering experience than a long, sober look at one’s personal financial profile.
I end this week’s Blog with another interesting musical fact:

- Snakes have very limited hearing capability, which is why they make such terrible violinists -

Blaugust

2007-09-12T10:32:00.000-04:00

When I woke up this morning, the clock was quick to correct me. It was already after noon, and I had once again slept the slumber of the artist: long and leisurely, hair tossed asunder, still dressed in yesterday’s garb. I stumbled into the bathroom, and with one look at my unshaven face, I knew it must be September.
The month prior had been a fascinating one, full of new adventures and exotic locales. And the very fact that I could distinguish it was telling; most months bleed one into another in the unstructured life of an artist. But August was different. Very different.
Let me backtrack a little…
The Federal government has long been a supporter of the arts, directing a significant portion of the Canadian tax dollar to fund and foster artistic pursuit. A number of grants are in place to help new artists launch their careers and to lend some financial stability to those of us who have been at it a while. Of late, however, a number of private citizen’s groups have inquired and complained about a perceived work ethic problem amongst the beneficiaries of these grants. They suggest that we artists are goalless: unmotivated and driven only by our own social interests.
My colleagues and I were aghast at the accusation, and spent days upon days discussing it over coffee. We were a prolific bunch, so what matter the process?
In an attempt to appease the critics, the government decided to conduct an experiment; throughout the month of August, a group of volunteer artists would be asked to do their work in a normal, ‘9 to 5’ office environment. I was quick to volunteer for the program, entitled “Operation Normalize”, because I have always been devoted to self-analysis, and because I am the one who made this story up.
On August 1^st, I was to dress in a suit and report to the tenth floor of the Toronto Walcott Tower by 9AM sharp. I did not have a suit, so on the evening prior, my lady friend helped make one using old bandanas and pages of manuscript. I used a guitar strap for a necktie, and set an alarm for the first time in my adult life.
Most days, I wake up with a melody in my head. But on August 1^st, it was a relentless beeping that sprung me to consciousness. Michelle had prepared a meal for me that she called ‘breakfast’, and as she ushered me out the door, she handed me my lunch in a paper bag! Mornings are odd, I thought, as I hopped on my bike and headed to the office.
Most days, I come up with new rhythms while I am riding around on my bike. But on August 1^st, my focus was solely on survival. Cars move very fast on the Expressway, and morning commuters are a surly bunch. When I arrived at the Walcott Tower, I rode the elevator up to the tenth floor with the most antisocial group of people. Everyone stared straight ahead, and nobody joined in on anything that I sang.
The office itself was incredible, though. The government had secured two floors of the building for our purposes, and when I arrived on August 1^st, the air was abuzz with efficiency; things were ringing, stuff was being printed, other things were being filed away. It was very easy to tell the artists from those who had been hired by the government to oversee the operation: the office workers went about their business with a capable strut, while the artists clung to the lobby walls as though on skates for the first time.
Each wing of the office was dedicated to a different art, and myself and the other songwriters were ushered off to the Music Department, where we would ply our trade over the next month. My assistant’s name was Vera, and by the time we met, she had already organized my back catalogue according to lyrical content and date of release. Vera showed me how to adjust the height of my desk chair, and as I gaily bobbed up and down in my seat, she outlined the details of her job:
“I am here to facilitate and regulate your creative energies, and to shield you from all distractions. We want to set a ‘song-a-day’ pace, Robbie, so whatever you need to make that happen, I will have at the ready: from a new guitar string to that elusive rhyme.”
“Wow…” I exclaimed.
“And how!” Vera replied with a smile.
Most days, a smile from a pretty girl would impel me to start writing. But on August 1^st, my creativity seemed suddenly hijacked: held captive by a threatening song-a-day pace. I lowered my desk chair and hopped off, certain that a walk would clear my mind. But to no avail…offices are typically stripped of anything not central to production. Doors were closed and blinds pulled shut. Nobody stopped to make idle chatter by the water cooler, as time was no longer a mere triviality. I wandered by the copy room in the hopes of xeroxing my bum, but I was informed that the copy room was off limits to the volunteer artists.
There was little option but to write. Even my adjustable desk chair had been glued steady. I would pace the empty office corridors through much of the month, desperate for diversion, and weighed down by the ever-looming ‘deadline’. I sought out salvation in the company of colleagues…long lunches where we might commiserate or toss around new song ideas. But the lunch break was a brief one, and the daily quotas kept us all tight-lipped and unwilling to share.
Offices are odd, I thought, as August crawled by. I did manage to learn a few things over the course of the study: like what ‘punching the clock’ really means…and what not to put in a paper shredder. I also learned how to meet a deadline, writing a song–a-day, no matter how saccharine and corporate the result. And according to the report, the sculptors and painters fared much the same, with their work drained of its uniqueness and spark.
In the end, maybe we artists are driven by distraction. But I like to think we’re all just in search of a little inspiration.
I stared at my unshaven face in the mirror, and wondered how I might kill the hours in the day before my first date with Vera. Suddenly, a beautiful melody popped into my head…
I end this week’s Blog with another interesting musical fact:

- If you are tone deaf, and physically awkward when performing in front of a crowd, you are ineligible to win Canadian Idol for a second time -

Making Some Blogress

2007-08-08T09:20:00.001-04:00

We here at Friends of Mona are working tirelessly to raise our profile and protect the rights of those in need. We currently have representatives stationed at most of the major art galleries in the United States, and are now working on placing our people outside of art studios and art schools in some of the larger urban cores.
I am fairly new to the organization and, considering our mandate, it is no surprise that I am the only artist to sit on the board. While we are not officially 'anti-artist', we do strive to steal away some of the attention and acclaim that is showered upon the artistic community and redirect it towards those who actually inspire the art.
Here's how I got involved –
Last April, my friend Pippi phoned me and asked if I'd pose for a portrait. Pippi is a gifted painter who has done phenomenal realist renderings of many of our mutual friends. I was jazzed at the opportunity and could think of little else in the days that came.
I planned and re-planned what I would wear for the occasion. I tested out a number of different facial expressions (ultimately settling on a distant stare with a sly, half-grin) and tried standing perfectly still for hours on end. When the day finally came, I was a posing expert, and Pippi was aglow with inspiration. The portrait turned out great, and I couldn't wait for her summer gallery showing.
When the time came for Pippi's exhibition, the line-up at the gallery fed out the door. Pippi's portraits hung smartly from the walls, with an admiring mob gathered in front of each. I saw Pippi off in the corner, gracefully fielding compliments and praise, and I prepared myself for much of the same. I took a deep breath in and waited for the crowd to notice me.
As I moved across the room, the gallery air was electric, in the way it is when talent and inspiration meet. I was a little surprised that nobody had recognized me yet, so I subtly made my way over to where my portrait hung. I stood a few feet away, watching people marvel at the piece. I tried standing perfectly still, but they still didn't make the connection. I tried a distant stare with a sly, half-grin, but all I saw was Pippi across the room, being interviewed by the press. Nobody noticed me, and as the evening wound down and the crowd thinned out, I stopped grinning.
A tap on my shoulder broke the stillness. At last, an admirer, I thought:
"Is that you up there in that portrait?" asked a pretty, older woman.
"It is," I replied. "But you're the first person who's recognized me."
"That's the way it goes, kid. I'm Rhonda Trifle. Why don't you and I take a little walk?"
We walked for a while, and as I poured my heart out, Rhonda seemed to know exactly how I was feeling: the frustration, the disillusionment…the overwhelming sense of injustice. With a determined gait, she led me into a coffee shop and placed a photo album down on the table.
"Robbie…I'm the new President of an organization called Friends of Mona. The organization was founded in 1508 by a woman named Lisa Gherardini. Do you recognize that name?"
I shook my head.
"Lisa Gherardini was Mona Lisa, subject of one of the most famous oil paintings of all time. Her face may have made Leonardo da Vinci famous, but Lisa quickly faded into obscurity, with nary an interview or a talk-show appearance to show for it. And Lisa Gherardini was just the first in a long line of exploited subjects who never got their due."
Rhonda opened up the photo album. On the first page was an old and weathered drawing of the inaugural Friends of Mona gathering in 1509. I recognized a couple of the faces…
"That's Lisa, of course…and the naked guy beside her is Paulo Girardelli," Rhonda explained. "Paulo was the model for Michelangelo's David, and he never got any credit for it. Poor guy kept trying to prove who he was."
Every page had a picture from a different Friends of Mona general meeting, and as Rhonda flipped forward through the album, centuries of artistic inspiration came alive before my eyes: a photo of the woman from Degas' Woman with Chrysanthemum commiserating with the four women from Gauguin's Four Breton Women…two of Picasso's Four Musicians making a joint address to the group. All of these indirectly famous faces were members of the organization.
Rhonda smiled at me: "We even had those poker-playing dogs signed up for a while…"
I was amazed. All my life I had celebrated creativity, but had paid no mind to what preceded the spark. Who knew what influential faces had stared at me on the subway?
I looked at Rhonda, as if for the first time, and wondered what great piece of art she must have inspired. Her face did not seem familiar, and so I gently inquired:
"Rhonda…you're the president of Friends of Mona. You've devoted your life to advocating for the muses of the world. You traveled across the country to help bring a first-time poser like me some comfort. What could possibly have motivated you to help me, Rhonda?"
As soon as I said it, I knew. And as those gorgeous Beach Boys harmonies filled my head, Rhonda and I both stared off into the distance, with a sly, half-grin on our faces.
I end this week's Blog with another interesting musical fact:

Using your diaphragm when you sing can help deliver a strong and steady vocal tone (but you mustn't forget to put it away after a performance).

The Velvet Blog

2007-07-15T12:23:00.001-04:00

Thirty years ago, my buddy Ponch would've been a star.
He could write great melodies, and he could sing like a bird. But his true gift was singing like a human, with a voice that was rich and endless in range. Lyrics sprung from his mouth like tiny babies, precious and pure. He could charm you with an old standard, and then break your heart with a wistful ballad.
But Ponch couldn't get a record deal no matter how much he deserved one. You see, sex sells at a premium these days, and record companies are scouting beauty way before talent. You need the good hair, the deep stare, the smile that can disarm and distract.
And unfortunately for Ponch Andrews, he looked a bit like a chimpanzee.
Time and time again, record label execs would call Ponch up, begging him to write a hit song for one of their new artists. But each artist was less deserving then the next: vapid beauties with little to no musical ability. One ridiculous manager tried to engage Ponch's services after signing a blonde wig to a development deal.
But Ponch always remained steadfast in his refusal. "Only I will sing these songs," he'd say, staring off into the distance while his other eye focused sadly on me.
That's why I was shocked to learn last month that Ponch had been signed to a multi-record deal by one of the big three labels. I tried getting in touch with him to find out what was going on, but I just couldn't get a hold of the ugly freak. He had all but disappeared.
On Thursday, there was a strange message on my machine from Ponch. I could barely make it out, but he was inviting me to a concert that the record label was having in his honor. I was intrigued, and headed out immediately to the venue.
A few nights later, the concert began. A representative from the label came out first to introduce Ponch: "Ladies and Gentlemen…On behalf of the record company, I am thrilled to announce the signing of singer/songwriter Ponch Andrews. We have always known of Ponch's strengths as a writer and a vocalist, and of late, we have invested a lot of energy and, well…money… into Ponch's development as an artist. Please welcome him to the stage - "
If they hadn't have introduced him, I would have never known it was Ponch. Gone were the dry, patchy comb-over and the one big brow. Gone were the overbite and the low hanging jowls. Ponch was the picture of 'beauty'. Full lips, piercing brown eyes…a face pulled back tightly and framed by a fab hairdo that cascaded confidently down to his shoulders.
He was so beautiful that I barely noticed his singing. It had changed. He could barely navigate the melody, as his tight new face skin only allowed him a one or two-note range. There was no room for dynamics in the tunes, for his lips were now wonderfully weighty and obstructing the sound. Where there was once great emotion in Ponch's songs, his frozen new face held the mood steady from beginning to end.
The concert was fantastic.
I end this week's Blog with another interesting musical fact:

- It's near impossible to lip-synch at Karaoke without getting found out -

Working Like A Blog

2007-06-28T12:59:00.000-04:00

Before I begin this week’s fascinating dissertation on art, I must apologize to all of my faithful readers (sorry, Mom) for not having posted sooner. I have been holed up in the studio through much of June, recording the ending to a really neat New Age dance track. (Personally, I think a month-long fadeout on a song is too long, but the artist insisted.)
Time away from the computer, however, has allowed me to think about my Blog, and some of the ways that I might improve it.
For instance, every once in a while I would like to use my Blog to incite political upheaval.
Also, I would like to pay more attention to the font that I use in my postings. Switching to Arial or Sans Serif to emphasize a point would surely add a little zing.
And lastly, I’d like to share with my readers some of the more interesting pieces of art memorabilia that I have collected since I first started pretending to collect art memorabilia. Like this letter of reference given to Michelangelo after the completion of his work on the Sistine Chapel in the year 1512 –
To Whom It May Concern,
My name is Pope Julius II, and I am writing this letter on behalf of Michelangelo Buonarroti. I met Michelangelo some years back, and upon the recommendation of my architect, I hired him to paint the ceiling in my Chapel.
Michelangelo showed up regularly to work in the mornings, with little to no fuss. He built his own scaffolding, and grinded up his paint colors entirely on his own.
He worked tirelessly without rest, and refused to allow his assistants to do any of the actual painting.
At first, I was alarmed at the time it was taking to complete the job. I had anticipated a two to three week turnaround, and when the project entered its fourth year, I began to grow impatient.
But when Michelangelo finally finished his work, I could not have been more satisfied. All across the ceiling were painted depictions from the bible: the story of Noah, the Creation of Adam, the image of God. I was expecting Michelangelo to simply go over the ceiling with a nice coat of grey paint. But he really went above and beyond with all these paintings of various people in various poses.
Now, my only concern is that when I am addressing my congregants, they keep staring up at the ceiling!!
I would recommend Michelangelo for any residential or commercial work, and I intend to hire him next summer to repaint our back veranda.
Sincerely,
Pope Julius II
A letter of reference from a Pope could really launch your career as an artist back then, and Michelangelo ended up getting a number of other great gigs as a result of his work on the Sistine Chapel.
I end this week’s Blog with another interesting musical fact:

- Fans of the band Pink Floyd were delighted to learn that the laser show created for the 1994 Division Bell tour would both blow their minds AND correct their eyesight -

Blogarithm

2007-05-30T08:51:00.001-04:00

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

2007-05-18T13:02:00.001-04:00

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

2007-05-09T11:17:00.000-04:00

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

2007-05-02T12:29:00.000-04:00

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 -

A Little Blog Cabin

2007-04-26T08:22:00.001-04:00

I knew I had to move away.
There were too many obstacles in the way of my art. Too many big city distractions that lured me from my writing: parties, women, meetings, subpoenas…
I had to move away.
Artists through the ages have felt this same need to simplify their lives; to sacrifice the luxury of their surroundings in purer pursuit of their muse.
In fact, most great works of art were created in a vacuum, free from distraction. I did not own a vacuum, so I decided instead that I would move up to the country.
And while that decision seemed bold to some, it felt quite natural to me. I've never needed the fancier things in life; the gadgets and gizmos of the modern man. I am a simple, country bumpkin at heart. All I need is a soft ground to sleep on. And my music. And a storage facility for all my other stuff.
I headed North, and settled down in a little log cabin by a lake. It was an idyllic writing environment and I set to work immediately, being sure to prioritize my time.
Using the bark from an Elm tree, I fashioned a durable guitar case. Next, I decided to build a guitar, and when I was finished with that, the songs came fast and furious. Songs of great loneliness. Songs of boredom, and isolation, and overwhelming regret. In my sweet solitude, I was prolific; completely at one with my art.
I needed no one, and yet, the animals and insects all gathered around to hear me play. I tried to charge them a cover, but to no avail. Either way, I knew the tunes were good. I was in my creative element, and I had to get these songs down on tape…
I wired a friend to bring up all my old recording gear, and I found a beautiful piano at the local pawnshop.
There was a property for sale down the lane that was more of a summer home than a log cabin, but that would better accommodate my needs. And it had wireless Internet, which was great for keeping my friends updated on my simple country life.
And it had an awesome Jacuzzi on the back deck.
Some time later, my friend Tad, who was a graffiti artist, faxed me to say that he too was moving to the woods to hone his craft. The timing was perfect.
I knew I had to move back to the city. There were parties and meetings that I had to attend. And this country bumpkin was dying for a latté.
So I sold Tad my little rustic hideaway. And I threw in the security system and the jet skis for free.
I learned a lot from my weeklong stay in the woods:
I learned that you can cook fish sticks by rubbing them together.
I learned that robins are wonderful singers, but that they have poor microphone technique.
And I learned that when I am free from distractions I am a much more focused writer. And I learned that when I am free from distractions, I am a much more focused writer.
I end this week's Blog with another interesting musical fact:

- There were very few F Sharps used in 19th century classical music (an
overly competitive Beethoven hid the note under his wig) -

Writer's Blog

2007-04-18T09:01:00.000-04:00

When it strikes, it strikes without warning; sapping the creative spirit and rendering the most prolific among us, idle. Writer's block robs us of our inspiration, bringing even the greatest writers to their knees.
Henry Roth wrote his first novel, Call It Sleep, in 1934, and it was instantly hailed as an American classic. Roth's readers couldn't wait for a follow-up, but it took sixty years for Henry Roth to release his second novel. Some accused the man of being lazy; some accused him of being a very slow typist. We now know that Henry Roth suffered from a chronic case of the 'block'.
Celebrated American author, Philip Roth, seems obsessed with the topic. In his critically acclaimed novel, The Anatomy Lesson, main character Nathan Zuckerman is an author felled by writer's block. Philip Roth himself is suspected of having it, when his book, Operation Shylock, seems to finish with no discernible ending.
But it's not just American novelists with the last name Roth who are obsessed with this issue.
On his website, popular songwriter and gigolo, David Lee Roth suggests: "I never have writer's block." This may or may not be a good thing. Either way, the lyrics to his song 'Jump', make me think otherwise: "Aaah ohhh. Hey you, who said that? Baby, how you been?"
My great-uncle, Theodore "Ace" Roth, was one of the first Canadian skywriter pilots. Ace would fly his open-cockpit biplane in wild patterns across the sky, composing smoky messages between the clouds. A sudden case of writer's block brought Uncle Ace's career, and his life, to a crashing halt.
Writer's block can kill you. It can also make you a surly person, and a terrible pen pal. And since this problem clearly runs in my family, I have sought out counsel on how to avoid it: Some say it is important to write something on the guitar each day, no matter how good or bad it is. I have tried this, but I just end up with ink all over my guitar. Some say that when you are without ideas, it is helpful to imagine yourself in someone else's shoes. This can work, unless you imagine yourself in the shoes of someone who has writer's block. Many people suggest that when you don't know what to write about, write about the dangers of having writer's block. I would never stoop to such a level.
I end this week's Blog with another interesting musical fact:

- -

New Kid On The Blog

2007-04-17T11:22:00.001-04:00

Ever since I was young, I wanted to be a polymath.
"Polymaths get all the girls," my friends would tell me. "Polymaths have it made."
A polymath is a Greek term for someone who is proficient and competent in multiple fields. I misunderstood the definition, and spent my formative years working on a farm.
In fact, a polymath is another word for a 'Renaissance man', or someone who has broad intellectual interests and pursues a variety of artistic and professional endeavours. Leonardo da Vinci, a master painter, engineer and mathematician, was a true Renaissance man. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, German poet, novelist, scientist and painter certainly fulfilled the Renaissance ideal. The Olsen twins are both Renaissance men, with their successful careers in television, film and fashion.
I was determined to join the ranks of the polymathic…
In my early twenties, I tried my hand at painting, studying the delicate art of pointillism. My career ended, however, when my employers discovered that it took me seven years to paint a client's rec room.
In my late twenties, I was determined to become a mathematician, but I found there to be too much math involved.
So at thirty, I took on music in all its forms, working as a songwriter, a producer, a recording artist, and a lyricist. I even played lead guitar in an a cappella band.
But I have one musical dream, as yet unattained. And it may be the one thing keeping me from becoming a Renaissance man (besides a cape and a moustache).
I have never been in a boy band.
I have never sung low harmony with four soul mates while we pop and lock in step at a wicked mall.
"Boy bands get all the girls," my friends would tell me. "Boy bands have it made."
It may be too late for me, but I'm willing to try. I have a few years of good hair left. I have a number of all-white outfits. I can riff.
I am ready for a rebirth. A renaissance.
I end this week's Blog with another interesting musical fact:

- Musicologists believe that the most soothing musical note is a C, especially when played by a masseuse -

Who Let The Blogs Out?

2007-04-16T10:57:00.001-04:00

I recently looked up the word 'curious' in the dictionary.
I'm not sure why; I guess I am just (1) unduly inquisitive; or (2) eager to learn.
In any event, Webster's Dictionary (which he wrote long after the cancellation of his sitcom) defines curiosity as (3) the avid desire for knowledge and truth. It is a characteristic that compels all of us to seek out answers. A trait powerful enough to kill a cat and to launch the career of a precocious monkey named George.
Curiosity also helps to explain our leanings toward certain types of art, from the kitschy allure of a 'whodunit' novel, to the thrilling tug of a Hitchcock suspense.
We are engaged when our art keeps us guessing.
And music is no exception, as the great songs of our time ask the great questions of our time: "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?"…"Where Have All The Flowers Gone?"…"Are You Lonesome Tonight?"
"Who Let The Dogs Out?" was a smash hit in 2000 for Bahamas' dance outfit, The Baha Men. Sure its junkanoo dance rhythms were infectious, but I believe we as a listening audience were desperate to find out who, in fact, let the dogs out. Had we known at the time that Steve, the bass player, had let the dogs out, I think the song would've had much less resonance.
Bob Dylan's 1962 masterpiece, "Blowin' In The Wind", invoked many of the philosophical questions of the day. How many roads must a man walk down before you can call him a man? The answer is probably five or six (depending on the neighbourhood), but Dylan teases us a little, suggesting that the answer is 'blowing in the wind'. Maybe he, with his wiry folk-singer frame, could not grab hold of the answer. But it is more likely that Bob Dylan understood our sense of wonder; by not giving us an answer, we'd keep coming back to listen.
This morning, I started writing a song entitled, "Where the hell are my car keys?" I hope it makes you dance, and I hope it makes you curious.
I end this week's Blog with another interesting musical fact:

-The loudest musical note is an E-

It's Raining Cats and Blogs

2007-04-15T08:53:00.001-04:00

The weather is turning of late, as we bid farewell to winter and anxiously await the thaw of spring. The grass is starting to show, the birds are singing in the trees and the rain is falling once again. It is a welcome change, and though it seems like years since last spring, it has likely only been one.
With each new season comes new inspiration, and I have long been fascinated by the effects of climate change on one's creative output. In fact, much of the seminal artwork of the twentieth century is inextricably linked to the season of its creation: Pablo Picasso's cold and bleak Blue Period was no doubt a result of the wintry Paris nights during which he worked. The spring rains in Barcelona affected many of Salvador Dali's surrealist paintings, causing much of his work to drip wildly down the canvas. And the deep reds and yellows of Renaissance painter Sandro Botticelli's art (1445-1510) were surely inspired by the summer sun of Florence, impelling Botticelli to ultimately open up a studio in South Beach.
The same holds true for songwriting, with the most influential albums being written during some very influential weather. The constant California sun clearly served as muse for the songs of The Beach Boys, while Nick Drake's melancholic discography was obviously informed by a bleak London forecast.
I have to write a song for an artist today, and if my theory proves correct, the song will start out rather dark and dreary and then clear up in the chorus, with a forty percent chance of it becoming dreary again in the last verse.
One must be at one with the weather to be at one with one's art is my point.
By the way, this correlation may also explain why meteorologists are often fantastic songwriters (check out Al Roker's first two records). Or it may not.
In any event, the next time you walk out in the rain and complain that it is ruining your perm, remember that somewhere an artist is being divinely inspired.
That's all for now.
I end this week's Blog with another interesting musical fact:

-Only one musical note (a B Flat) existed until 940 BC, when King Solomon decreed that popular radio was "getting too boring"-

Inblaugural Address

2007-04-14T12:51:00.000-04:00

It has been suggested to me that a 'Blog' is an effective way for an artist to present his or her craft. And yet, I know a number of mimes who would disagree. The same suggestion was made years earlier about the 'World Wide Web', and it's promotional capabilities. And since then, we've seen little to no evidence that this Internet thing is catching on at all.
But I refuse to let the times pass me by, and I am nothing, if not cutting-edge.
So I will boot up my Commodore 64, and I will Blog.
I will Blog weekly, and I will Blog with gusto.
I will Blog in English, and I will Blog like a man who believes that there are actually people around the world who give a crap what he has to say.
I will not use my Blog for evil, but rather, to spread great joy through an appreciation of music and art.
Maybe, the odd time, I will use my Blog to denounce my enemies, but mostly, I will use it to spread great joy.
And in the name of music education, I endeavor to end my Blog each week with a little known musical fact. Like this one:

-According to historians, the very first musical note was invented during
the Paleolithic Era, when a brave, young caveman approached a piano found
outside of his cave-