Living In the City... pt 1

Got into New York on Wednesday Morning. I have been exhausted every moment since.

My friend, Matthew, is letting me invade his life and his apartment until I can land a job and some decent cash. We're 3 blocks from Washington Sq, so Rosco goes to the dogpark a few times a day. He needs to be "fixed" soon. He's getting humped by every mut out there, and it's gone beyond embarrassment into being totally annoying.

Had a few interviews so far. They've all gone well, I thought. Doesn't seem like it will be hard to find a job, but finding the RIGHT job may be a whole other monster. There's a great market for Certified Flash Developers here, so I'm excited about the possibilities.

The record is coming along great. I've got to figure out how to setup in this tiny-ass apartment in order to be able to remix and record some more. There are so many incredible venues within walking distance that I can easily get ahead of myself and want to just start burning demos and bringing them into these legendary places like CBGB, Sin-E, the Knitting Factory, and others. Patience, grasshopper. I gotta slow down.

Anyway, I'm tired, and ready to nap, but I thought I'd post the latest.
- meshach

I think her name is Deborah...

I just realized that I have a thing for titles of blogs with elipsis (elipsi?) on the end.

...

Whatever.

Look, I know you guys may not care, but I just have to say something. Beck Hanson is a mother effing GOD. He was not born, not hatched, he simply appeared.

My friend, David Rios (aka "the wrestling mask guy" on my friend's list) bought me a ticket to see Beck at the Backyard for my birthday (last Monday was it... it's all down hill from here), and I didn't realize (cause I hadn't seen this show before) that it would put me in debt to him for life. It has. It was worth it.

Beck's stage setup was normal enough, drums on a riser stage-right near the bass amps, percussion / keys / guitars stage left, and a miniature replica of the entire stage center-back(!!!).

"WhaH?!?!?!" you say...

"Zackly" I say. This tour features a travelling group of Marionette Masters who dance and sing 5 puppets (all dressed and combed to look like their fleshy counterparts) while ALL of the cameras, lights, and special effects were focused on the aforementioned mini stage. "Puppetron" was then projected onto the screen overhead, so that if you had a seat far enough back and were forced to depend on the screen for your show, you would never actually see Beck, but rather, an authentic, old-Mexico style Marionette with his very own boom stand and fender strat ... jamming to Guerro, Deborah, Where It's At, and more.

Beck is also in the process of bringing back "the hype man". He travels with at least one person who doesn't actually "DO" anything, but who is very much a part of the show. The guy is by no-means a great dancer, but he dances. He also bangs on cups and plates (during the dinner table portion of the show(?)), and apparently plays a mean-ass banjo.

Beck also gave a pretty significant shout-out to D'Angelo, which was nice to hear, while he sarcastically slammed R. Kelly, and explained the lyrics to "Deborah".

All in all, it was a great birthday

I know who I want to take me home...

In the two weeks that I've been in Nashville, I've gone completely broke, been fired by the US Navy, given my notice to cancel my 1 year lease on my apartment, played baby-sitting nurse for an epileptic pitbull, learned that Franklin TN is like the mecca of christian music (or even better, the Baskin Robbins of Christian Music stars - a new flavor for every day), and apparently I'm going to be putting out a record in a completely different way than I imagined.
Roy and I have finally been able to spend quality time together (though we were good friends before, we've actually been at each other's throats now, which always helps any friendship grow). ***
Wendy, Roy's wife, has made me feel simultaneously at home, comfortable, and totally home-sick as I envy the family that Roy has in her.
Rosco has new scars from his much bigger, older female friends.
And most significantly, I feel like I've been through music industry boot camp in this time around friends, hearing the back-stage goings-on of MuteMath (one of the hardest-working, most insanely talented bands on the planet), and learning from Roy about how to approach a song, a rhythm, a melody, an album, a vocal take, a chord voicing... all things that I thought I understood before, but was utterly wrong.

People, this record is going to kick ass.

Mine.

I don't know what to plan for in the next few months as so many of my plans have crumbled before my very eyes lately. But I can assure you of this - my life in every area - musically, professionally, relationally - is just beginning. I'm chalking all of this up as birthing pains, and I'm keeping my head down to get this crap finished. Thanks for you guys being supportive and patient. I'll be back online from ATX soon. Until then, go right now and search like crazy for the new Thom Yorke record, and bring a sack lunch, 'cause you'll be there for a while.

word.
D.
(singer for "Tino's Pinche Dozen")


*** So apparently, Roy claims to have never heard of "Closing Time" by Semisonic. I knew he was lying. I told him about a book by Jacob Slichter called "So you wanna be a rock n' roll star" about the life and death of the Dan Wilson band. He was interested in the story, but claimed to have never heard of this insanely over-played, severely abused hooky song that actually had nothing at all to do with "last call" at your neighborhood bar. Just thought I'd share. Roy's a great friend, but apparently a damn liar. (I love you, Roy).

I want to be sedated.

Got some new ideas tracked for four more songs today. This is turning into more of a tracking/sampling/idea gathering trip than an actual studio/record an album trip. Roy is so great to work with in that he's relentlessly professional about music, and generous with his encouragement at the same time. He's got a great "producer" hat that he wears quite well.

We hit another bump in the road today. Mainly in that we tried to show a song to a friend (hi Bryan) and afterwards I felt dizzy and gross by how displeased I was with what I heard. I'm overly self-critical, but at this point, the record has already cost me too much to put it out half-assed. This process is gonna take a while, I think, so I may as well just get comfortable in recording mode, and get ready to start playing some shows to put ideas together.

By the way, this may be a good time to mention that I won't be in Austin for much longer. I'm going back this weekend to have a few yard sales to get rid of a bunch of things, then I'm moving in with a friend to save some money for a while before my eventual relocation to NYC sometime this fall. I'm hoping to make it sooner, but i'm learning not to make plans that I can't control, so unless I find a place to live for free in New York for a few months, I've got to take what I can get in A-town.

As for the tunes, I'm still encouraged in the sheer resolute dedication that Roy has and inspires in making this record sound great. I don't know if I need to warn my friends that this will sound almost unrecognizable from anything I've done before, but if you were expecting some sequal to my previous efforts, you may need to look elsewhere.

I'm rambling now, but I'm in a strange place somewhere between rugged determination, total exhaustion, and a slow wave of depression. I'll be fine. Don't flood my inbox with "hang in there" letters. I'm just saying, I've got a long road ahead of me. This record may become "raising david jackson".

BTW... check out my photo section. I'll explain later.
d.

PS - "Chuckfamous" is a brilliant musician who is so horribly underrated it's absolutely dispicable. Check out his profile, and his band "Club of the Sons" now.

For the love song of a cricket's heat...

:: I think I wanna build a better myspace. All the other things popping up suck, and myspace is getting old. It's officially a Kludge (look it up). ::

:: Got a lot done today in the area of vocal treatments and other mind-numbing processes. Mixing and more tracking tomorrow. To give our ears a break, Roy and I watched the making of Medula by Bjork.

Ho.
Ly.
Hell.

I feel small enough to sleep on the hair on a cricket's legs. She is an alien. I knew the first time I heard that record that I'd have to listen 3985089p more times to understand it, but now that I've seen how they made it... I'm more lost than before. It'll be closer to 8x(apple) - [that's for you, Mario Brothers]. ::

:: I think Jerry Gibson (see my profile pics), may actually appear on the record, beyond my expectations. There are also a few instrumental ideas that may end up being used. Lots of instrumental moments already, but I'm liking where they go, so we may have more of it. ::

:: Roy found some ridiculous samples today, so we may also be building some things around them. ::

... the pleasure is all mine.
d. (aka "Rhinestone Druggy", or "Submit button", or "The So-Bots")

A spoonful of sugar...

Of Eariness & Lyricism:
"For what it's worth, we all fall down." - Those 8 words just saved a song. And with it, three full days of work. You may never understand their importance, but if you listen to the record, and you get to the point of hearing them, and you sense their significance, pour one out for it's saving.

Of Dogs & Suppositories:
Roy and Wendy now have a whole new list of Meds to give Dakota (see: other blogs) WHILE she's having a seizure. Awesome.

Of Rejected Band Names:
some new ones: "Mastermind and the Sumos", "Tongue Fu Cowboy", "Coyote", "The Digital Underground" (I hear it's taken), "Thai Kwan Flow".

Of My Profile Image:
For those who've been asking: "Yes, I drew it.", "No, Rosco isn't dead", "I don't even LIKE asparagus"

... drowning.

the names of things, or the way we speak to fear.

I woke up to my own voice in my ear again. This time it was Roy playing a loop of "One more night, drinking terpentine" over and over again while adjusting tones and sounds. I hadn't showered in days, so I enduced the Bacterial Hollucost for about 5 minutes and started working.

We went to bed at... correction: Roy hasn't been to bed yet. I went to bed at around 7am. We worked like crazy to get the right vocal takes for this song so I could move onto the next one. This process is so frustrating, I really hope it's worth it. At this pace, we'll have a record in a year or so. But Roy goes back on tour this weekend, so that's not an option.

Dakota had another seizure yesterday. This one while Roy and I were tracking. Roy's Hispanic roots come out in tragedy, I've discovered. Namely, he turns into a Mexican woman ("Aye No! Mamma!") and nurtures his dog out of her trance. I, on the other hand, apparently lose my vocabulary completely, as I was the first to notice she was convulsing, and I sorta yelped "dude!" with the drawl of a texas high school footballer.

I'm debating on changing the name of this project, and I feel justified in thinking about it as I've yet to play a show, or release a single song as this band. I basically just think the project may need a name more concise and vivid. Something like "Whale"(??) or "12pt Garamond"(?!?!).

holes.

Seize the day like an epileptic with a hangover...

Not much to report, but lots to tell. The record is coming along. I'm excited, tired, and frustrated. We keep hitting brick walls within minutes of every breakthrough. Vocals are an everloving bitch to track if you don't want to sound like an idiot AND you don't have disposable money to spend. Not everything here is about music, but it's damn near close.

Roy has one of the most beautiful Blonde American Pitbull's I've ever seen. Her name is Dakota. She and Rosco (my 5 mo/old Boxer) are getting along fine, but Rosco is wearing her out a little, I think.

Roy and Wendy (his wife) went to church this afternoon, and left me here to work on vocals for the record, and to get some time to try some things with the mixdown. At about 4:30, I thought I heard someone walking around downstairs. Assuming they'd come home, I mozied down to the kitchen to find Dakota locked up in the corner in an epileptic seizure that scared the hell out of me. I rushed to get a wet cloth and some water for her, and lifted her head out of the pool of her own foamy drool. It sucked. It was such a deeply sad moment to watch her come out of it and not know where she was, or what to do with herself. She lay on her stomach after the seizure broke, and just stared at the wall in a trance for a few moments which seemed like an eternity, while Rosco and Pudge (the black Lab?) went nuts outside because they knew something was going on. It wasn't the first attack she's had since I've been here, but it's the first I've seen, and I saw it alone with a huge feeling of responsibility resting on my back while it happened.

After all that's gone on here (I also have now been fired for the first time in my life, because I wasn't paying nearly as much attention to my employer as I was this record. At least, according to them), we needed a break. We went out tonight to meet up with some of Roy's friends. Genuinely sweet and cool people. It's great to meet sincerity and honest interest in new people, and I found it in everyone I met tonight. ZERO pretense, even less tension. I felt at home, which was nice, since I haven't in a while.

Oh, and the record is starting to sound good too.

Living in the hole I made.
d.

... live in the hole you make

I'm in Nashville, recording my record with Roy Mitchell-Cardenas (Bass player for MuteMath), and I'm ridiculously tired. My schedule is about the equivalent of doing business in Tokyo and New York simultaneously. (Huh?)

Anyway, I had a dream last night. I was standing over myself while I slept, and whispering into my own ear, "you fall like a comet to the earth, and you live in the hole you make."

Not sure what the dream means, but that sentence is resonating with me lately. I have had a year worth remembering so far, and worth forgetting as well. I hope this experience of working with Roy (a long time dream of mine) brings some things together. It's a lot of fun, at least, but it's all moving along VERY slowly.

'Till next time, Live in the hole you make.

D.

Karma is a bitch. A whiny, sniffling, little bitch.

Fuck karma
What I need is grace
I’ve got no time for this sowing and reaping shit
My addictions to pride, and to feeding my own self-righteous indignation pulls me back
Again and again I not am snared by my own inability, rather my own unwillingness
My life will be far too short to reap all that I’ve sown and still make it out unscathed

I’ve got no excuses
What I need is forgiveness
There’s no reason for my doubting, insubordinate selfish whining and fear
None but my own self-loathing and destruction
I can reason away my resolution of arrogance and the need to bang what I deem to be “truth” over the heads of those around me who think enough of me to care
I cost myself their trust in me, their respect of me, their compassion for me, and their kindness to me
I hope they can be repaid for lasting as long as they have…
So maybe I believe in Karma after all.

So maybe it’s karma AND grace
Oil and water
The two don’t mix but may sometimes share a glass
Maybe what I don’t deserve is to get what I have given
Maybe I’ve done well with a spiteful heart and shouldn’t receive the reward at all
But damnit, I’d love to
Maybe what I have is an ass-load of excuses that I’ll never actually voice ‘cause they’ll instantly disqualify me for the unwarranted mercy that I seek
Maybe my excuses aren’t excuses at all
Maybe they’re my reserves of ammunition in case I ever feel I’m not getting what I need, regardless of whether or not I deserve it
Maybe what I actually need is to get what I deserve
Maybe it’s what I want that’s the problem

Okay, maybe what I want AND what I need.
Maybe what I deserve AND what I desire
Maybe it’s Karma AND grace
Maybe it’s Him…
... AND me.

On Mr. Primm, and his epic funeral

There’s a sign on the wall that reads as a stern warning to cowboys who feel the temptation to dance on the tables with their spurs on. Apparently, the management of Bill Miller’s Bar B Q would prefer that, if you feel the need to dance, and if that need drives you off of the floor and onto a shuffle atop their furniture, you kindly do so in your socked feet; or at least in boots without the noisy and destructive clanks and scrapes of those heal-mounted ninja stars. It’s Texas country humor. I hate it. I get it, but there’s something about it that I just can’t stand. I’m only here because the bus station is across the street, and I’m on my way home… in one more hour.

I didn’t know how this would feel. I definitely didn’t know how it SHOULD feel. Greg has been ill for years, and after a while it was like he was gone, without all that inconvenience of leaving. It isn’t like he just died. He didn’t. He faded. Like those epic 70’s southern rock ballads that never actually ended, Greg just got softer and softer as the studio engineer slowly slid down the volume on his air supply, until you couldn’t hear it at all. Just the same, it’ll be a while before you can convince yourself that the song’s over. That’s pretty much where the parallel stops, because after Free Bird grows completely silent, Skynard jumps into a new tune, and the album is back to life. Greg’s needle reached the center, and is now securely resting back a safe inch or so away from the vinyl, which is still spinning from shear gravity and momentum, with no motor turning at all.

I told you I don’t know how to feel. I can’t describe it. I can only use metaphors (and simile’s, Mrs. Mary… I know those were similes) to try and capture some of the moments of emotion that I’ve seen and heard in the last two days, and even a few that I’ve managed to actually feel for myself.

The hardest thing to me about someone being ill for an extended time before they pass away is that you have all of this time to work up courage. Only it’s not courage at all, it’s something a great deal closer to fatigue. I am speaking here completely as an outsider, considering my distance from being biologically connected to Greg in any way. Kelly says it was better this way, because she got to say all of the things that she wanted to say. She says that she got to spend time with him, and be strong for him when he needed it. It’s like slowly turning up the volume as the band fades so that you can keep the levels as consistent as possible for those last few bars of the solo. Still, she lost her daddy, no matter how slowly it happened.

She’s beautiful. Karla too. Karla wasn’t my age (and still isn’t, incidentally) so I never got to grow as close to her as I did with Kelly. Also, Karla’s married. She’s tough as nails, and she’s got this husband who, once you get to know him, confirms almost every one of the stereotypes that you’d give to him by his persona. He’d be totally willing to blow up a small country for Karla if he felt the need. He has the kind of face that you easily imagine covered in make-shift camouflage makeup, holding a grenade in one hand, and a picture of a beautiful pair of girls in the other. No one in their right mind would have pissed Karla off when she was younger; now that Troy’s in the picture, it’s just suicide. But in the mean time, Troy just wants to talk about Guns and Roses, and the way his new Harley sounds from his driveway. So, Karla is fine, but not Kelly. She’s not the same.

When my mom called me, she said that Greg had been brought into hospice care, and that they gave him a few days… again. Somehow I knew from her voice that this was it. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say if I wanted to. But mainly, I just didn’t say anything. I heard once that some people speak because they have something to say, and everyone else speaks because they have to say something. I’ve been bouncing around like a pinball somewhere in between those two for the last few days. I can find something to say, and I think I should say something, but neither seems a good enough excuse to speak about something that I honestly can’t express.

With Greg and Mary, it was like this existing organism that was somehow still alive; this bond that was lasting after the separation that our lives’ paths had caused. The highways of progress and development had paved over the fertile and sturdy ground that our relationships had nurtured. Greg was the first to die. He was the first absolute confirmation of the mortality that blankets humanity, and the cold reminder that Liberty Ministries, and the life that it/we/they breathed into so many, was not shield enough to keep us breathing without a heartbeat. When the needle lifts, the record stops. And just like that, after years of sacrificial service to the widows and the fatherless, we are made aware that we have no immunity to wearing those titles ourselves. Greg is dead, Mary is his widow, Kelly and Karla are now fatherless, and all that I can be for them is here. We are a submarine crew on an epic dive, and Greg’s was the first bolt to come loose, as the walls begin to cave in.

Last night felt surreal and slowed down my life so much that, for a while, it seemed to go backwards, but didn’t bother to come to a stop in between. I had almost missed the bus here before the funeral, and I don’t really have a good reason. I knew that I was going to San Antonio, so I got up, and headed for work as usual. And, not completely out of character, I stopped at Starbucks and just worked there until about lunch. It wasn’t until I spoke with my dad on the phone that I realized what time it was, and that I was likely to miss the wake if I didn’t hurry back home and get my bag and my lazy, indecisive butt to the bus station.

After a short trip on the bus, miscommunication on the phone, and a $20 cab fare for a ride to the hotel (which must have been either Hampton’s blueprint experiment franchise or the chain’s embarrassing distant cousin location, considering their insistence in testing the limitations of their customers’ patience for subtle inconsistencies and terrible service) I finally saw my mom and dad, and we went to eat. Red Lobster sucks. Greg hated that word.

Greg Primm was the Principal of the small school that my parent's opened in south Texas, and which I attended (along with Kelly, Karla, and all of my brothers and sisters). One day I was called outside during class hours along with all of the other boys in the school. "Brother Greg" wanted to talk with us. I distinctly remember the cold winter day outside on the playground, and how cool I felt being included with all the older boys for this little discussion. It was classic Greg Primm. He wanted us to stop saying things “sucked”. He said it was a perverted word. He said it was a word that implied gay tendencies. This was around 1986 (so I was about 7). I was lost, but I remember thinking, “Wow, what a great word. Why is it dirty?”

When we got to the funeral home for the wake, I realized how long it had been since I’d seen Kelly, and how weird it was. She doesn’t seem like she could ever lose that sincerely energetic innocence in her laugh and her smile, but she also seemed tired and beaten. Had her father not been lying on padded satin in a wooden box 30 feet away, I’d have wondered who I needed to find and punish for making her feel the pain that her face reflected. Troy could help, I hear he’s good with explosives… or maybe he just looks like he would be.

The weirdest thing wasn’t that she had bad breath, which I noticed as I hugged her, having just stomped out her cigarette, but that I still didn’t want to be more than six inches from her. Like she was drowning and I had just enough air in my lungs for the two of us to make it out alive. I made myself walk inside and say hi to everyone else, but I wanted to pick her up, fold her into a ball, and lock her away from the world for the rest of our lives. She is a butterfly flapping slowly after having landed in glue, and can’t get off the ground alone. I’d be happy to help, but I’m afraid that her wings are too fragile, and I won’t risk breaking them.

Okay, I’m out of metaphors, and I’m only two feet into the funeral home. This is gonna be hard.

Greg died at 3:33 on Friday the 13th.

58 years to the day after breathing air on his own for the first time, he did it for his last. Happy Birthday, Brother Greg.