Those funny little plans that never work quite right...

"When the Beatles were depressed-thinking the group is going nowhere, and this is a shitty deal, and we're in a shitty dressing room-I'd say, 'Where are we going, fellas?' And they'd go, 'To the top Johnny!' And I'd say, 'Where's that fellas?' and they'd say, 'To the toppermost of the poppermost!' and I'd say 'Right!' Then we'd all sort of cheer up."

A few days before Christmas marked a year of recording for us, but that's deceptive. For the most part, it's been a few hours here and there, and waiting for the mailman to bring new parts from elsewhere, or paychecks to cover expenses.

Everything was inspired by Richard Brautigan, and in no small part, Jimi Hendrix (really), and almost everything was guitar driven, most of it by the same strumming pattern that everyone uses for six/eight. Our first sketches of the songs didn't have any bass (although Chris played bass lines on a 7-string guitar), and only one song had drums.

I read a lot about the music industry. I'm not sure if Napster and Kazaa really killed it, but even if they did, I still think Lars Ulrich prick. That said, confronted with the numbers for pressing and printing, as well as distribution, I'm pretty sure that there's no way I could make an EP work.

In June we started recording 6 more songs, so we could release an album. I'm not sure we have an album. The difference between songs written when there were no plans for them, and songs written when you know you'll be supported by the kind of players we've been lucky enough to surround ourselves with is a lot of distance to close.

I'm focused on the full length, with the latest recordings, and two nights from now we'll be in the studio starting to record the songs that will flesh out the album.

I suppose delays are inevitable. I hope it all proves worth the wait.

This is the New Year (Bandido Americano)

New Year's Eve has never meant much to me, I only really have a clear memory of one of mine. My parents took me and my brother to a hibachi restaurant where I was convinced every woman at our crescent-shaped table was a prostitute, before dumping us off on a slightly older cousin with odd ideas about child-rearing and age appropriateness, who took us to screening of short animation films, most of which were pornographic, terribly violent, or both. Back at the hotel, Oliver and I fought as we always did, it could have been over anything, but most likely about who got control of the tv remote. I stormed out, headed downstairs to the lobby, which was across from a ballroom where people were doing the electric slide. Women who should have known better justified offering me drinks because it was New Year's. I couldn't have been more than twelve.

I remember my friend Bob's New Year's (the year 2000?) better than my own. He got up early and went to airport to watch the sunrise.

Bob's a lot cooler than I am. He did a remix of a Sound of Arrows song that ended up being used on Gossip Girl, and he didn't even know what the show was (although he has been living in Japan the entire time it's been on - listen to his own music at Bobcat).

I resoluted last night to watch the sunrise over Cleveland from Lakewood park this morning. Some of the pictures turned out a little like Mark Rothko paintings, and probably better than seeing the sunrise in person.



Only one other person came down to the park. I'm not sure if they didn't want to jump the chainlink fence (which I learned today isn't that easy to do with snow boots on), or if I scared them, I kind of gave off the air of a crazy Vietnam veteran with my militaryesque coat and scarf across my face. I know I looked nothing like him, but for a second I thought about Paul Newman as Butch Cassidy in Bolivia.

I saw the sun rise over the Pacific Ocean, from a plane, once. With the curve of the earth, the night sky was still starry and dark behind us, with a perfect sun rise in front. It wasn't that far off of pictures from space, I'm not sure any other sun rise will ever compare.

Salvation is Created

Angel Trumpets and Devil Trombones

My dad had a trombone in the attic when I was growing up. I didn't really want to play it, but my parents had pretty good reason to think that I wasn't the kind of kid that would stick with an instrument.

The trombone was good to me. I'm not sure I would have made it into a music program for college with an instrument that more people play, and I certainly wouldn't have had the opportunities that I had.

Mozart said the trombone is the voice of god. He could have been right, but for this project I like the trumpet better.

Alex Schecter recorded a few tracks for us today, on a song (Emptiness Swallows Heaven and Earth) that I posted for the first time in any form today. I left the studio before we had a chance to reference the mix on regular speakers, and there are going to be some adjustments that need to be made, but it's going to be great.

And I’ve become what I thought was dumb (dumb).

If I were truly paranoid, I'd probably think Doug Martsch was thinking about me a lot. There's something in the way he captures his contempt for other people's shortcomings that matches up with my fears of what people think of me.

Best not talk too loud, you're not as smart as you require of them...

Most of my fears are entirely irrational. In middle school I always raised my hand to read aloud, hoping to prove I wasn't illiterate to my classmates that surely thought that.

Summers home from college I could feel myself losing my faculties, I sensed myself talking slower, almost as if I was out of practice. It's an unsettling sensation I had again a few days ago.

Here's a clip of Elliott Smith covering Built to Spill:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jw0WcjNjzy8

November 4th, 2008

The first pass of Election Day canvassing started at half past nine. The goal was to knock on every door in Lakewood belonging to a person who the campaign had identified as either a 'soft supporter' or 'sporadic voter' three times before the polls closed at seven-thirty.

Campaign headquarters can be strange places, at least on the Democratic side. They seem to pop up in storefronts that can be had on the cheap, places where the plaster is falling off the walls onto floors that are unfinished. Everything is temporary, they're furnished with card tables and folding chairs, and in my experience they never have cable television.

The rabbit ears on the portable TV couldn't pick up PBS, and the networks were still airing soap operas as I tallied the numbers from my second pass in the afternoon. My only sense of how the day was unfolding was first person. Very few people answered their doorbells. I had walked past only one polling location, and it was quiet aside from a car full of college kids who were ambushing a stranger in the parking lot to take a picture of them getting ready to cast what I'd assume were their first presidential votes, instead of 'cheese' they proclaimed 'Obama'. If I had to guess, I'd say the photographer was about to cancel one of their votes. Part of me had hoped to see an unprecedented turnout, and part of me feared long lines could cause some would-be voters to have to abandon their efforts.

Earlier in the campaign season I developed a few voyeuristic habits while canvassing, nothing criminal or immoral. It started with looking for political bumper stickers on the cars in the driveway, and progressed to looking for a network logo if the news was on the television. After talking with hundreds of voters, knocking on thousands of doors, and walking down half the streets in Lakewood, I developed a pretty keen eye for picking up political leanings based upon such things as the type of Halloween decorations on display or the movies on a bookshelf. On November 4th, nothing gave me much sense of how things might be going.

As uncomfortable as we Americans can be with strangers, averting our eyes to the ground as we pass one another rather than giving a smile, there is a refreshing solidarity among the supporters of candidates or causes during campaign season. Many nights, walking home from the campaign headquarters someone I'd pass on the street, or waiting at a bus stop, would say Obama's name out loud after seeing my shirt, or a button on my jacket. Usually I wouldn't even break stride, I'd just say his name back, or clench a fist and raise my forearm a little.

On my third pass, when I saw an elderly black man walking to his car, wearing the same 'canvasser' button that I had on, I called out to him. I hungered for news, his experience at the polls, or maybe even something journalistic, though I knew that the news would be holding their exit poll results for a few more hours. What he told me had something entirely different to do with the day. As I crossed the street to greet him, a police badge clipped to his belt caught my eye, and after exchanging pleasantries, he pulled back his jacket to show me a faded blue shirt with the insignia of the Capitol Police embroidered on the left breast. Years earlier he had guarded not only the chambers of Congress, but the members, at times having been assigned to Strom Thurmond as a bodyguard.

I am not in a position, by skin color or age, to truly comprehend the realities of my parents’ and grandparents’ generations, from the Civil Rights movement to Vietnam, the height of the Cold War to the assassination of JFK. I know that November 4th, 2008 was only evidence of progress, and far from a culminating event, but when Ohio was called, and the map turned from white to blue, along with a shiver up my spine, I felt a renewed sense of pride in my country and countrymen.

Shake It Off (not a Mates of State post)

Ten days ago or so when I went to see President Clinton speak, I got there an hour early and ended up in the front row. Actually, I ended up behind the barricade for a few minutes when the organizers needed a little help setting up canopies in what was a strong wind coming off Lake Erie (another kid and I were selected by the Secret Service).

I knew it would be different for Barack and Bruce Springsteen yesterday (John Kerry ended his campaign four years ago in Cleveland, with The Boss, and drew an estimated 50,000, and Kerry certainly didn't inspire like Obama does).

We took the train downtown, which is important to this story for a couple of reasons. The first is that we by chance met Joe from Saint Ohio on the platform. They're great, so open them in another tab and listen to them while you read the rest of this.

The second reason is that it gave me the title. Besides Barack's rally, there was a home Browns game. We had hoped to beat a few people to the rally by taking the Waterfront line to the Rock Hall, which meant we went right past several parking lots of tailgating football fans. For a second it looked as though one particular fan was mooning us, but it turned out she was just urinating behind a bridge pylon, hidden from view from her friends, but aimed right at a packed train.

I really wish I had video taped the walk to the end of the line, which I read one estimate that had it at a mile (I personally would have guessed much longer).

In the end, we didn't even make it to the security gate, but ended up in an overflow area from which we could still see the stage, as well as a jumbotron. I didn't get any pictures worth posting, it was dark by the time things really got underway, and Bruce and Barack were between us and the world's brightest light. Here's a couple that I found this morning:





The speech was more policy than I would have expected 36 hours before the polls start closing. My favorite moment however was when Barack asked for a show of hands of those making less than a quarter of a million dollars a year, and told Bruce not to raise his.