Late-Night Drinking

I'm writing this a little late, and more than a little foggy in my head. This has not been a good week for sleep. Sorry to my wife for all my restlessness, but those things come in waves. Just the consequence of living for music.

The last two weeks have been non-stop, so I took yesterday evening with the guys and stayed out late-night drinking, having talks that were way to involved, books, writing, race, all those fuzzy speeches, that spill out of late-night podiums from pseudo-philosophers like myself.

It's too much I know. But I can't help it sometimes.

I can say being that guy is all terrible. A lot of good ideas come from venting. Pushing out all the weird ideas I carry and letting them go.

It was when I got home, the house completely quiet and dark except for the light over the sink, that I took a long breath. 

It was good.

I threw off my shoes. Made a snack of cheese, hummus and a slice of bread, not very creative but delicious none the less, and ate standing over the stove top, humming a song, and thinking this was a really good place to be. And I didn't just mean snack-wise.

The tracks with Larry are sounding amazing. We will be finishing the last song on Saturday, before the Mixing phase. 

Idyll Green is putting together a song to give away which will be out soon along with some really cool visual stuff. 

Tuesday night we recorded the first episode of the podcast that I think came out great, and I have a lot more to do. 

So much that it is intimidating. 

And exhausting. 

And fun. 

Through all of the work. This whole experience of collaborating, building, and creating Idyll Green has been one of the most fun projects that I have done in a long time. And that's a lot to be thankful for. 

And last night I found that, in the dark of my house. Alone. Tired. Content.



until next week



-rene



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Where Is This Going?

"Where is this going?" 

My words hung unanswered in the dark of the van.

The road felt endless that night, the last few miles to the club was a beat up gravel track down a red brick alley, getting narrower and narrower.

'...beep....beep...' our GPS was freaking out, endlessly beeping and saying '...reconnecting.'

Abe drove focused on the narrow beams from our headlights as we inched past a set of dumpsters and bounced into a pothole with a full thud. The stacked cases in the back of the van rattled and slid before resettling.

"It was supposed to be a mile and a half. Should be... somewhere... here?" Jaime said from the passenger seat, "maybe?"

'...reconnecting...'

"Looks like it's just warehouses out here... I don't even know if we're close," I said mostly to myself.

The rain was soft. It didn't even feel like it was falling, but the air was incredibly wet and the heat from hours of sitting inside the van had fogged the windows.

"There are no signs... no names... ughh... this street sucks," Abe pulled to a hard stop under a lone streetlight, beside a chain-link fence that poorly guarded half of a parking lot.

'...beep... reconnecting...'

"Annnd we're lost," Jaime laughed, while Abe fought to get the GPS back.

There was a long silence as Abe restarted the GPS again. 

I thought about grabbing a book, but my eyes were exhausted from staring out the road and the words wouldn't sit still.

'Where is this going?' I thought again, but this time just in my head.

Click...Click... 

Someone tapped softly on Abe's window. 

Almost out of instinct Abe re-locked the doors before lowering it a crack.

"Looking for something?" a woman asked from the side of the van. I tried looking out my back window at her but couldn't see anything. 

Abe told her we were a band. 

"Club's down there," she pointed into the fence, "other side of the lot. Black door."

Abe thanked her then turned to Jaime, "it's gonna be a weird one," he said as the tires sloshed through the dirt and a small shaded figure with a flashlight stood by my window as we drove past her.

'...reconnecting...'

The club was a warehouse cut into four uneven rooms. If I walked in from the front door and stood in the middle of it, 2 o'clock would be the largest room and the stage with a narrow hallway that went towards the green room and the bathrooms. 

At 10 was a small sheet metal bar pushed against a wall, only selling beer bottles and well drinks. A handwritten, neon sign flashed in the corner advertising a PBR and an unnamed shot for 3 dollars, probably the brightest thing in the building.

Between 7 and 8 was a small area for a pool table, an old cigarette machine, a wall rack with most of the cues missing, and one of those big 20 something inch bulky TVs for sports.  

At 4 was the smallest room with a couple couches for people who were drinking and didn't want to watch the show. And even though it was only a mid-sized place it was too big for the night.

When I get to a new club, I try hard to read the room. The decorations. The lights. The stage. The equipment. The posters on the walls. How clean the bathrooms are. How sticky the bar tops and tables are. How clean the restrooms are kept. The feeling in the air. It's hard to judge an empty room and I've been wrong before, but I walked in and felt Abe was right. This was gonna be a weird one. 

I stood backstage looking out at a mostly empty room thinking again, 'Where is this going?'

Two guys were at the pool table playing their second game, drinking their fourth round. 

Three college-aged girls sat at the bar waiting for drinks. 

The sound guy was talking to a couple of regulars, and I know he really didn't care about us or the night having rushed through sound check while muttering things like, 'doesn't matter anyway.'

The bartender checked his phone with a look on his face like he just realized this wasn't the night he was hoping for.

The first two bands were outside smoking on the patio together with a couple of their friends.

And then I saw the stage set up with our gear. 

Unlit. 

My bass rested on its stand, ready to play. And it didn't care. It didn't worry. Just a machine ready to work.

I think those are the moments that can define a working musician. Separating the ones who want to play and the ones who just want attention. I'm not saying it's good to play those shows, or you have to play one as some sort of right of passage, or that you should be happy to walk out to sparse clapping. What I mean is that if you are in a band, you will probably have bad nights, a lot of them. It's part of being in a band, and when it happens, how you handle it will prove who you are.

"Time to go," Abe said grabbing four waters from our ice chest.

Slowly, into the dark silence, we walked out. 

No one moved yet. 

I kept looking down at my shoes. Not embarrassed, just focusing on the job, going through my check list:

Bass in tune, amp on, flip a pick between my fingers (if I think about the pick too much, it starts to feel wrong in my hand... There's a way the point turns into my palm, cause I use a short edge, where the pick feels like it disappears and it becomes part of me and I can play anything I need to, and I never think about it again).

The bartender yelled to the sound guy, "Ryan! TIME!" His voice cutting through the room and grabbing everyone's attention. 

With a disappointed nod, the sound guy finished his drink and headed to his console. 

The girls moved closer to the stage. 

The guys still finishing their game, looked up for a moment at the stage, then kept playing.

Finally the sound guy gave a thumbs up.

Jaime tapped his heel, and I could hear the high-hat whispering the beat. 

'Where is this going?' 

We were three songs in and I was already sweating from dancing around, singing, and the bright red stage lamps.

'Where is this going?' 

This set. This tour. This cycle. This music. The next string of shows. My life at home. A doctor's bill I had to pay, and a lonely merch table. Questions that could fill an empty room or crowd a sold out arena, bounced in my head.

'Where is this going?' 

An industry seemingly collapsing on all sides. People groaning about how bad music is today. How there used to be real bands. And what am I? Or how good it was before I was born. How people don't care about live music. None of which I believe by the way, cause music isn't about any of those things for me. And if it ever was, the purpose of writing, the purpose of playing would be lost.

I keep writing to make better songs.

I play cause it heals me. 

I sing to save myself from suffocating.

I dance when it moves me.

It should be an honest reaction. In this small of a show, there's no pretension. No reason for the girls to dance. No reason for the sound guy to clap after a song ends. No reason for the bartender to send a round of beers to the stage. No reason for the game on the pool table to be left unfinished. All that happened honestly.

And I look out to the empty room, to watch them watching me. Not because I need the attention, though attention is nice, but because I am amazed to reach anyone here. In the middle of nowhere. When everything should have gone wrong.

'Where is this going?' 

Sometimes I find that question stuck in my head. Usually on nights like this. When I'm loading out. When the 8 people who saw the show come together at the merch table for a drink. When I am re-stacking the gear into the back of the van, and my shirt is soaking wet from sweat, and the humidity makes me feel disgusting.

'Where is this going?' 

I didn't start for attention.

I didn't start so anyone would like me.

So I don't let it bother me. 

Not when there's 2 people, not when there's 2 million. I haven't gotten nervous yet, knock on wood. Reminding myself why. Asking. It helps me keep my way, as long as I keep asking.

-rene

The Ocean and Then This

I didn't want to move. I definitely didn't want to go back to the party. I was alone on the beach, and I mean surrounded by the splendid multitude of nature, only absent of humans. 

I'd walked far enough from the neighborhood where I could see the lit up windows, and all the talking, smoking, lies and music were overtaken by the heavy breaths of ocean. So loud and powerful, the wind and wave, yet not near as exhausting as talking to the party crowd. 

Example:

Apparently there was an underground band in the 90's and nobody went to their shows. Yet everyone had a story about seeing this band play to literally an empty room. Also, it was repeated to me many times that I had to hear them, but I probably couldn't because the band only made one rare cassette that's nearly impossible to find... but if I could it would be amazing... L.A. voice, "I mean it was like me and my boyfriend and the bartender... that's it... gawd can you believe it? They're just so good...so good. And then we broke up and the ba***** took all my tapes."

I'll admit if I'd passed by the window, having never been inside, I'd probably be envious... I'd probably want to be mingling and drinking and making up stories, but not now. Not once I've sat on the floor breathing in smoke from vanilla cigarettes, waited for an hour to use the bathroom while people took care of their noses, or drank any that awful metallic punch.

So I left. 

Oh beautiful ocean. I love the things you say. The stories you tell. Now the party is only filled by distant shadows and I'm safe to take off my shoes and socks. To sink in. It felt so good my shirt came off too.

"You are what I came for anyway," I said to the beautiful mouth of the Pacific. It's not hard to understand how it got it's name.

Travel mile after mile of field, desert, mountain. The pain. It must've taken a lot of pain to be the first settlers to get here.
 

Then this...

The moon watching from above like a loving mother. The soft sand pulling in at my feet as if it wants me closer, and the ocean. The great mystery. That perfect embracing vastness. I felt the wind. Pushing hard against my bare chest. And the motion. My world was stillness and motion. The blackness, the space, and me. Listening to the freezing waves come from the dark-beyond, rolling across the sand, over my feet.

I fell on my back, spread myself out across the sand, and closed my eyes.

Open. The water's up to my shins, soaking through my jeans. The night was colder and darker than before. The lights from the party were gone.

"Had they all left?" I picked myself up, dusted off a layer of muddy sand. It wouldn't be the first time the band went back to the hotel without me, but getting lost in Spain is another story. There was laughter in the wind, but from whom, I couldn't say. Maybe people further down the beach. It was too dark. 

I reached for my clothes along the sand brushing my fingers around me... can't find anything. My eyes slowly started adjusting to starlight. I could see the tops of waves coming in from the black waters. And the laugh again from nobody.

It was like a bump. I felt something buried just under my hand. The end of a rope about as thick as a quarter. Slowly I began pulling it towards me and the rope went on and on.

The water was singing. Washing out, hi-hatting in the night, keeping time with the deep bass thud of crashing wave. Striking an old song about the great loneliness in life, and separation. From shore to shore, longing. The laugh came back but this time it came accompanied by a girl.

She was dark and thin, and her hair was long constantly lifting with the wind like the way movies fake it. "What are you doing?" She asked.

I said I wasn't sure, but I had pulled so much I wanted to know what was on the other end.

She laughed. 

Further down the beach her friends were calling her back, but she bent down beside me.

"What if it's supposed to be left alone?" She asked playfully, or maybe she was serious and her sweet accent made it sound gentler, I don't know.

"I'm a little late for that," I didn't let her stop me, and kept pulling the rope out of the water, hand over hand.

"What if the other end holds something you don't want?"

I stopped pulling for a moment and the sounds of droplets falling off the rope, hitting the surface of the water caught my ear.

"Or what if the end is right behind the surface, just underneath where it is falling in now, you could get it with one more good pull."

I tightened my grip and started pulling again.  

It was not the end.

"Or then again," she said, "maybe it just goes on and on for miles covering the whole ocean floor with no end." 

"That's ridiculous," I said coldly before trying to soften up, "I mean it's a rope... it has to have an end." 

I think I offended her, cause she got up to go back to her friends. "You know," she yelled as she turned back to me, "Don't be so sure. There are lots of people pulling and pulling without ever getting anywhere."

-rene

Fiery Indignation. Family Pt. II

So we can all be family bands. But still there's something different, something unique about a band of blood.

I am two years under Abe, three over Jaime. That's some distance, not as much as others but enough. As I went to middle school, Jaime still in elementary and Abe into high school, the three of us drifted.

Sure we hung out all the time on weekends and after school, but it wasn't close. I don't remember any deep talks, we played video games, watched tv and movies, had our inside jokes, but the personal stuff was kept private. Maybe that's because our parents were private people and we inherited that, but maybe it's because middle, elementary, and high school kids just don't hang out.

I internalized. I kept a lot of things hidden, not just from my family but from everyone. Anyone that knows me from that time, knew I had a temper and a tongue. It might be hard for friends now to picture who I was, or for those people to realize I've cooled off... but I have, and I was.

I was a fighter, quick to fists, quick to fits. My teenage years did me no favors either. My tastes in music and books,pushed me further from the friends I used to have. Deeper into my own thoughts, until I was happy being on my own. Happy living life on the fringes. Making jokes under my breath. Keeping my thoughts hidden away in secret journals, of fiery indignation. Turning isolation into creativity. Turning reaction into desire. My purpose: to observe, to write, to find inspiration to live fully in dreams and thoughts.

My brothers were always there, but not as close as we are now. It wasn't until we found music that we drew back together. We shared CD's, shared bands, stories, dvds, and became friends. And from there it was unstoppable.

I can't tell you how other bands feel about their bandmates, but for me, it's about as perfect as I can hope. I get to carry home with me when I travel, which is good cause the road is a distant and lonely place sometimes. I get to collaborate with artists I respect. I get to laugh all the time. But most importantly, I get to be myself.

My brothers know me. Know my jokes. Know when I need space. Know when I need to talk. I don't pretend, I don't have to be anybody else. This industry has a lot of pressure to be cool. To dress cool. Talk cool. Drink cool. And I hate that. Might be one part of the job I really hate. Cool is nothing. Cool is substance love. Cool is a form of control other people throw on you. Cool is as real as Dirty Harry, or The Fonz. Cool is a dream to laugh at. Cool is trading originality for fad. And writers shouldn't suffer that. I'd take honesty over cool any day of the week. 

Family gives me honesty. Luckily my work is family, so I get reminded when I'm being fake. When I failing myself. When I'm falling into traps. When I'm running off cliffs. When I'm losing. Cause it's so very easy to go.

-rene

Dirty Harry worked in a shop
Every day till his hands were shot.
His stomach grew wide, his hair fell thin
And his wife gave up counting his chins.
Her heart, alone so many years
Malnourished, shrunk, fed on fears
Of loneliness, but holding right
Like long winter's root, for spring's delight.
It should be no shock, this young sun
Found her, with a little time, and won
What was so long lost. Harry kept on
Squint-eyed at work, pushing it down.

Away, away, waiting for the morning.

A bell to strike 3 or 4. A warning

To Harry with force, get yourself home.

To lover to leave. To wife alone. 

- Don't... there's still a few minutes... -

and how do I feel? Like the wind over the shoreline, clouds under stars. I move nothing.

- ...not till the guard calls. -

and she smiles again like we have hours. When the night begins, and dawn is no closer than the body that should be warming this spot.

- and tomorrow? When he goes... -

she doesn't need to ask. That's not the when we need to know.

- here again. And you, Elaine. When will this be over?  -

the bell rings.

- Don't make me, - she says in a breath. - You need me here. Like Harry for his work. Like the author for this story. Like the bell in the tower. I'm struck. -

I don't know why she would bring the story in to this, having forced me to break my meter. But she is right. Never blame someone else for you writing. Especially your own character. It's cowardly. So I nod. Finding my shirt, the bell rings a forth time. Then a fifth. And we hear him on the stairs.

- Tomorrow then. -

- Tomorrow. -

I left the window open a crack. Moving softly down the fire escape. The metal floor creaking beneath my steps. I hear the door close. And he doesn't say hello. He never does.

Mamas Cooking, See The Flow.

Mama's cooking on the big piano
Been cooking on the big piano
Come back home and that's where I found her
She's knows I should be sleeping but to stop she'd need a better reason
Mama's cooking on the big piano
Ny mama she's a lovely teaser, way she's banging I'd love to please her

Live vs Record. Everything changes. Writing for either takes a different approaches. Mama's Cooking was originally written for Loud Is The Night. There is a version recorded from that session, different from the one on Big Red and Barbacoa.

It was a mistake to leave it off the first record. If I could go back that might be one change I would make. Live, this song was already a staple of our show, often working as the closer on the set. Getting bigger and louder the more we played. Becoming a sweat soaked rampage capable of blowing down the garage rock door. It didn't start that way.

It was written as an acoustic song. I wanted to be sort of a weird White Album earthy drone. When I was first working it out, we weren't playing a lot of shows so I was more focused on sounds. But as time between writing the song and recording increased, and more shows were played, the sound evolved.

Three in the morning and the neighbor's calling
Ain't no peace when we start balling
Dogs all bay and the dead start waking, she's got soul that can't be faking
Three in the morning and the neighbor's calling
Better stop before the cops come over, but me and my baby gonna play it all night

There are some bands with live shows sounding exactly like their records. Some completely different. Sometimes for better and sometimes for worse. Great records can sound like they were recorded live. I've only rarely been a fan of live records though.

I've always liked treating them as different but maybe that's changing. I love the sound of a band planning together, but not listening to uncontrolled jams. As a musician I love to jam, but as a record listener I don't have the patience for it. It's not that I think songs need to be short. I just like the song to be thoughtful in it's progression.

The wildness of experimentation easily wears thin on me. My patience can be extended for a live show. The experience, the energy, the visuals all permit the song to travel, to breath, and to live beyond the length and precision of the record. I can watch that journey. It is a story. To see the faces...Is it fluid? Is it a fight? Are they worried about where to go? Are they happy when they got there? It's all over their bodies.

When you are that involved in music, you can't hide frustration, joy, or terror. It just broadcasts. Seeing that keeps the jam interesting for me. On record everything seems purposeful. It's too easy to say -I meant to do that. Making it less of a trip.

The second version of Mama's Cooking was done all live in one room including vocals. Probably not too different from an early Little Richard, or Elvis track. The first version we did featured Dan on Background vocals singing harmony with me, how cool is that... I love hearing the double kick stomp to kick it off. The bass line is furious. I always play it hard, like I'm attacking the strings. I know I've had strong performance when my right hand bleeds a little bit, usually from the index.

In a live show, I look for moments where we can reach out beyond the song. To interact with the audience. To say- this is happening only tonight. That type of playing and arranging can sound flat on record, without a good audience to interact with. So it becomes about building flow. It's hard to say if what you are recording will work at all. There is not that initial reaction from the audience. Just like the faces of the musicians give away how they feel about a song, so does the face of the crowd.

Keys are flying, and the walls are shaking
ain't gonna stop till the whole place breaking
doors are banging and the phone keeps ringing
Keys are flying and walls are shaking
Me and my baby go for bacon fat, don't you know we're always down for that

 Recently we've been narrowing our sound. For the first time we have a sound that is cohesive. More focused. We are going to keep the sound of playing together in the studio. Drums and bass have to be locked in. No other way about it.

The best way for me to lock in with kick is to track my bass while watching the drummer. I keep my eye on the movements. Watch the energy. See the flow. It's not anticipation, but co-operation.That is enough to give a track life. I don't know if we will record another song all live with vocals. But never say never, right?

Mama's Cooking sounds live, because it is. It also makes it stand alone a bit. It's also the only song written from Loud Is The Night onto a later album. Anyway you cut it, it is one of my proudest songs. It is rock and roll thru and thru.

The old star-eaten sky

sends no safety

means no harm.

Night waits,

wanting to be used.

His eagerness

persists in the air

like breathing late-Saturday

atmosphere. Not to offend

the next, once her edge drops a bit.

-The night'll go where you go.

-rene

Doomsday, Echoing on

How I waited so long for this
melt into eternal bliss
steal me, break me down
while we are burning out
If it's a dream please don't say
I need to know you, doomsday


Imagine a moment when reality becomes so clear everything clouded and murky is wholly removed leaving only a feeling of completeness. In a beautifully violent moment, like seeing the black expanses of space after the world rips away from underneath. So unreal it might only seem like a dream, but my wait for this experience is the root of Doomsday.

Doomsday isn't a song about the literal end of the world, but the end of a thought. A spiritual moment when I lost an idea of myself. It is not a negative moment, though the song plays dark, but it is a jarring one. The unexpectedness of a realization can be frightening and tinted with sadness but it is also soothing. The change itself is beautiful.

Nothing ever so loud
than the silence after a cloud
darkness ain't never so black
to look inside all we lack
if it's a dream, please don't say
I need to know you, doomsday

Everyone has lost, and will continue to lose, but that doesn't make an interesting story. But what if I'd needed the loss? Waited for it. Anticipating. That was more unexpected to me. That was the part of the story that drew me. Wanting change. Loving it, because when life is altered so drastically, more of our self emerges. And that revelation can be devastating and blissful. Every moment that has brought what initially felt like an ending into my life: graduations, birthdays, relationships, deaths, has been an opportunity to learn change.

Doomsday wasn't originally as modern or synth-y as it came out, but I love the vibe. Dan really pushed the direction and he was right. The soundscape is beautiful. The song structure is folk-blues, with a warped solo for a bridge. Recently we have reworked the song for a three-piece and I have gotten to take over the solo duties, which is a lot of fun. The solo is brutal and destructive: mountains falling, volcanoes erupting and all the bombast. The falling chord progression underneath really carries emotion. The beat and the main riff are almost studio one-style, it is a bit of a mind trip to play and sing, but really fun once I start feeling and stop thinking about it.

*

How do you know when it's done? When is anything over? Events rarely erupt in one catalyzing moment that defines the future. Life moves slower. Dies slower. And also continues on, echoing on into the future. Giving another frame after the one before. The moment a relationship ends is usually not when we try to name or define it, but long before. In some unassuming look, or a careless word. A seed of doubt. A drop of poison. Growing. Quietly building strength, 'til the moment there is more doubt than trust. That tipping point, the closest thing we can call an end, is always unknown, but is the moment I was looking for. I don't think it is ever discoverable.

How I waited so long for you
faith, my soul, kept me true
even here, at times end,
it's true some faith must bend
if it's a dream please don't say
I need to know you, doomsday

The When... Now I'm sure that when is unimportant. Change is inevitable. I have to accept impermanence rather than resist it. It comes to my door like a stranger, on a day like any other. I don't need to worry about when or how, that is exhausting. The value in anticipating change comes from having an open heart. Not trying to shut it out, but welcoming it in. The character is ready, maybe a bit obsessively, but completely open.

As one moment ends, another comes in to take its place. And so moves on, being moved.

Do you know how many times we've cut out this weed?

Wrapping a hard fist over root...how many times it came back again?

I heard- less than you the have strength to pull it,

More than the hands to wrap around it again

-rene


*Image from: http://what-buddha-said.net/Pics/impermanence.of.body.jpg