Last week, on a whim, Rachel and I decided to play an open mic at a small seaside tavern in San Francisco. We happened to be in the area and I for one had had a rough day, so there was a lot to sing about, a lot of emotion I wanted to express, but had had to bottle up hour by hour, beginning at 9AM. Plus I'd found myself particularly fearful of singing in public for the entire week prior, so it seemed the perfect time to push myself a bit, get in front of a bunch of strangers, embrace my inner Knight of Faith ("Fear and Trembling" is one of the best books I read in college), and do it anyway. The frustration I'd felt for the entire day had to get out somehow, and dammit, I love how it feels to sing. So that trumped my stage-fright, hands down.
Sign up was purportedly at 8:30. We showed up to an empty bar, went to get some quick and mediocre Chinese food nearby, returned at 9, and found the place packed and the list to perform booked 10 acts deep. Ah well. I wrote our names as #11 (yes, we go to 11!) and we took a seat to listen.
I've been to quite a few open mics and the results vary greatly – much like microsmic South By Southwests. I generally like open mics because they are, by definition, safe spaces in which to present new things, sharpen your chops in front of crowds, etc. Nobody has high expectations and everybody's nice. In fact, the only bad experience I ever had at an open mic was when I debuted one of my original songs with Rachel in the audience at the C-Note in New York at least four years ago. I was so ridiculously self-conscious that I found myself essentially cowering, not controlling the situation or leading the crowd, and owning nothing about my performance.
Let me interject some wisdom from my first great jazz teacher, the late Maria Rodriguez of Washington, DC: “Put some salsa into your fingers! Don’t play like you’re apologizing for it!” So I always try to bring the salsa to every show I do. And a few pimentos, to boot.
And oh, was I ready to pour on the hot sauce that evening in front of those strangers at that SF tavern. But I had to wait my turn.
First up was an energetic woman in her 40s with dreadlocks and an accordion. Interesting. I was unconvinced until she started leading the crowd in a cover of Janis Joplin’s “Piece of my Heart,” which was wonderful. She worked the crowd and entertained better than a handful of stadium acts I’ve seen. I felt lucky to be there.
The evening continued. A middle-aged man did an Alice In Chains cover. A young, spiky-haired singer songwriter sang a tune called “Murder the Government,” which I admittedly took guilty pleasure in. And then it was almost 11pm, they’d only reached #5 on the list, and we were sleepy. Given that we both had big days ahead of us at work, we jetted.
It was sad to walk away from the chance to perform, but I felt satisfied that we had at least shown up with intent.
When we got home, I still felt bottled up and I still wanted to sing. Rachel sat on the couch and I stood in front of her and poured out that frustration and longing and whatever else had been simmering since the beginning of the day through the words and melody of a song I’d written on the NY subway five years earlier.
It felt wonderful, cathartic, and terrifying. She said it moved her to tears – in a good way. I’ve been performing professionally for over twelve years and have never, to my knowledge, had that effect on an audience. Wow.
To be that honest in a performance, to have my technique be that transparent, was not something I expected that night. And being able to reproduce it? I most definitely will try, but I fear that I still have a ways to go before I can claim that level of mastery/consistency over my voice.
It scares me to even think about trying it again in front of Rachel, much less in front of a crowd. Which means that we’re planning on going back to that SF tavern this coming Monday to try again. And we won’t duck out for Chinese food this time.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Torching Honesty
As a resident of San Francisco, I was pleasantly surprised to hear, several weeks back, that the Olympic torch was to be paraded through the city as part of its journey around the world. How cool that San Francisco, this weird and beautiful city full of slackers, activists, Burners, hipsters, aging hippies, yuppies, protesters, innovators, technical geniuses, floaters, musicians, bankers, students, and me, was to be the only United States stop on the tour. We had a chance to show the country, and whichever parts of the world happened to be watching, that SF is not the pit of liberal sin some demagogues of Middle America might have it be. Rather, it's a sophisticated and mature metropolis that welcomes the pre-eminent symbol of international cooperation - and is willing to deal with whatever controversy might accompany it with style and dignity.
What happened was cellophane. Nutrasweet. Fox News. Plastic sushi. It lacked courage and character. Above all, it was dishonest.
But isn't this a music blog?
Well, honesty is of the utmost importance to me when I make my own music, and I know I'm not the only musician who feels this way. When I perform, I struggle to overcome fears and insecurities and to, in the words of virtuoso violinist Nadja Solerno-Sonnenberg, "play without a net." I want whatever's on the inside, whatever I'm feeling and trying to communicate through my music, to pour out as sincerely as possible - ugly/beautiful/complex as it may be. To do this, a musician must develop considerable courage and at least a little self-knowledge, as well as enough technical and theoretical mastery to make his or her instrument a transparent conduit of emotion. None of these are easy goals, and to master them can take a lifetime.
As a side note, this is why I rail against much indie rock. It revels in detachment and weirdness. The only emotion that seems to be behind it is a passive-aggressive flavor of disdain. And while some blues-men can communicate the deepest of emotions with a single bent note, many indie rockers say less than nothing with the three chords they know how to play and the slurred syllables they know how to sing. Ugh.
San Francisco did not play without a net when it came to hosting the Olympic relay. It did the social equivalent of lip-syncing, going through the motions of creating a compelling public event, but then chickening out at the last minute and succumbing to that fear and artificiality that the best musicians spend lifetimes fighting. Our city was not honest to its citizens, or to the Olympic committee, for that matter. Why accept this honor if you can't do it right? And furthermore, what does this say to the national and global community - that SF and the US can't get themselves together enough to handle a parade and some enthusiastic protesters? They have to engage in cat-and-mouse trickery instead? It's borderline shameful.
San Francisco is not ready to be a headliner touring on international stages. If this is the best it can do, the city needs to brush up on its Hanon and take a few good piano lessons.
What happened was cellophane. Nutrasweet. Fox News. Plastic sushi. It lacked courage and character. Above all, it was dishonest.
But isn't this a music blog?
Well, honesty is of the utmost importance to me when I make my own music, and I know I'm not the only musician who feels this way. When I perform, I struggle to overcome fears and insecurities and to, in the words of virtuoso violinist Nadja Solerno-Sonnenberg, "play without a net." I want whatever's on the inside, whatever I'm feeling and trying to communicate through my music, to pour out as sincerely as possible - ugly/beautiful/complex as it may be. To do this, a musician must develop considerable courage and at least a little self-knowledge, as well as enough technical and theoretical mastery to make his or her instrument a transparent conduit of emotion. None of these are easy goals, and to master them can take a lifetime.
As a side note, this is why I rail against much indie rock. It revels in detachment and weirdness. The only emotion that seems to be behind it is a passive-aggressive flavor of disdain. And while some blues-men can communicate the deepest of emotions with a single bent note, many indie rockers say less than nothing with the three chords they know how to play and the slurred syllables they know how to sing. Ugh.
San Francisco did not play without a net when it came to hosting the Olympic relay. It did the social equivalent of lip-syncing, going through the motions of creating a compelling public event, but then chickening out at the last minute and succumbing to that fear and artificiality that the best musicians spend lifetimes fighting. Our city was not honest to its citizens, or to the Olympic committee, for that matter. Why accept this honor if you can't do it right? And furthermore, what does this say to the national and global community - that SF and the US can't get themselves together enough to handle a parade and some enthusiastic protesters? They have to engage in cat-and-mouse trickery instead? It's borderline shameful.
San Francisco is not ready to be a headliner touring on international stages. If this is the best it can do, the city needs to brush up on its Hanon and take a few good piano lessons.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Old Cousin Fud
That title refers to an email exchange between me and my cousin, who we'll call Cliff (I'm unsure if Cliff actually cares about remaining anonymous, but better polite than sorry). Cliff is indeed older than I am and sometimes makes light of that fact; in this particular correspondence, he addressed it "Dear Hipster" and signed it "Old Cousin Fud." In other words, I'm the cool young trendsetter who's in on the latest everything and stays up all night (while the first assertion is less than accurate, that second part's actually pretty true more often than I'd like it to be... try combining them hours with a rigorous 9-5....) and he's the old fogy who enjoys music that was popular a decade before I was born.
So hm. The fact is, being at SXSW made me feel a little like an Old Cousin Fud myself.
Let me elaborate. Out of 1,000+ bands, I'd heard of, oh, 20. And I'm a professional music journalist. I get *paid* to know about this stuff. That, and a lot of music teenagers are listening to these days just doesn't make sense to me. I loathe Vampire Weekend. I think most Indie rock has the soul of a moldy shoe - it's so detached, aloof, dumb yet cerebreal, pointless yet insistent, completely and utterly devoid of honesty and rawness and purity, and really damn annoying too. I do like the Bravery, though. But are they even Indie? Dunno.
I'm 27, which is young, unless you're trying to be an Olympic gymnast. And I am in touch about more relevant music than your average monkey. Perhaps there are gems in there that I haven't discovered. Or perhaps I'm growing up and becoming an Old Cousin Fud myself, someone who thinks that rock reached its pinnacle with Pearl Jam's second album.
After writing all that, I feel that I can confidently go with the former. My editorial scope - aka the music I'm paid to learn and write about - leads me to perform more surgical strikes than carpet bombs. I learn about the important players on the scene and tell their stories, and if the band and style of music is important, I learn about that too. But it's not the focus. I have in fact heard some damn good new music. I also pride myself on breaking the now skyrocketing Sara Bareilles - if I remember right, the 1-page artist feature I wrote on her before she signed her major label deal was the first international press she received. So I'm proud.
I want to keep up with the newest developments. I want to see the gems and be able to reject the poo because I've really checked it out and can say for sure that yes, that is indeed poo, so stay away. After spending 8 hours a day doing surgical musical journalist strikes, though, my appetite to seek out the Hot New Thing is suppressed to the point of nonexistence.
I think I need to stop here, since continuing to write on this topic will take me into territory that is currently dangerous. But regardless of whether today has me feeling more like Hipster or Old Cousin Fud, I love music, and I love good music, whatever form it comes in. And I'll always be hungry to seek that out.
So hm. The fact is, being at SXSW made me feel a little like an Old Cousin Fud myself.
Let me elaborate. Out of 1,000+ bands, I'd heard of, oh, 20. And I'm a professional music journalist. I get *paid* to know about this stuff. That, and a lot of music teenagers are listening to these days just doesn't make sense to me. I loathe Vampire Weekend. I think most Indie rock has the soul of a moldy shoe - it's so detached, aloof, dumb yet cerebreal, pointless yet insistent, completely and utterly devoid of honesty and rawness and purity, and really damn annoying too. I do like the Bravery, though. But are they even Indie? Dunno.
I'm 27, which is young, unless you're trying to be an Olympic gymnast. And I am in touch about more relevant music than your average monkey. Perhaps there are gems in there that I haven't discovered. Or perhaps I'm growing up and becoming an Old Cousin Fud myself, someone who thinks that rock reached its pinnacle with Pearl Jam's second album.
After writing all that, I feel that I can confidently go with the former. My editorial scope - aka the music I'm paid to learn and write about - leads me to perform more surgical strikes than carpet bombs. I learn about the important players on the scene and tell their stories, and if the band and style of music is important, I learn about that too. But it's not the focus. I have in fact heard some damn good new music. I also pride myself on breaking the now skyrocketing Sara Bareilles - if I remember right, the 1-page artist feature I wrote on her before she signed her major label deal was the first international press she received. So I'm proud.
I want to keep up with the newest developments. I want to see the gems and be able to reject the poo because I've really checked it out and can say for sure that yes, that is indeed poo, so stay away. After spending 8 hours a day doing surgical musical journalist strikes, though, my appetite to seek out the Hot New Thing is suppressed to the point of nonexistence.
I think I need to stop here, since continuing to write on this topic will take me into territory that is currently dangerous. But regardless of whether today has me feeling more like Hipster or Old Cousin Fud, I love music, and I love good music, whatever form it comes in. And I'll always be hungry to seek that out.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Voice and Keys
I'm a singer as well as a piano player and keyboardist. I started on piano when I was 5 and was probably singing/yelling as young'uns do. But my training was on the piano, and that's the musical vehicle in which I became the most comfortable.
22 years later, there's still a gap. Sitting down at a keyboard feels like home, like speaking in a language I've known my whole life. Singing, on the other hand, is risky. It feels unsure to a degree, only partially formed.
A few weeks ago, something happened to change that ever so slightly. My fiancee, a talented singer herself, gave me a tip on using my diaphragm to power my voice. It was a simple concept and a simple exercise she taught me, but I tried it and something clicked. Suddenly my singing felt untethered. I was hitting pitches spot on and adding more expression to passages than I'd ever done before. It felt closer to home.
I still have far to go before my comfort and expertise with my voice rises to meet that of my piano playing, but this was a big step. Maybe I was in the right place to hear the advice she had to offer, and to try it just so, and to appreciate and latch on to the added power and control it gave me. Maybe my singing just had to develop and age, and she was the catalyst that pushed me to that slightly higher notch of technical comfort.
Whichever way, I'm singing with more resonance, more passion, and more balls now. And my throat doesn't hurt when I'm done. I wonder what the catalyst for the next bit of growth will be.
22 years later, there's still a gap. Sitting down at a keyboard feels like home, like speaking in a language I've known my whole life. Singing, on the other hand, is risky. It feels unsure to a degree, only partially formed.
A few weeks ago, something happened to change that ever so slightly. My fiancee, a talented singer herself, gave me a tip on using my diaphragm to power my voice. It was a simple concept and a simple exercise she taught me, but I tried it and something clicked. Suddenly my singing felt untethered. I was hitting pitches spot on and adding more expression to passages than I'd ever done before. It felt closer to home.
I still have far to go before my comfort and expertise with my voice rises to meet that of my piano playing, but this was a big step. Maybe I was in the right place to hear the advice she had to offer, and to try it just so, and to appreciate and latch on to the added power and control it gave me. Maybe my singing just had to develop and age, and she was the catalyst that pushed me to that slightly higher notch of technical comfort.
Whichever way, I'm singing with more resonance, more passion, and more balls now. And my throat doesn't hurt when I'm done. I wonder what the catalyst for the next bit of growth will be.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
The First
Several weeks, ago I found myself at South By Southwest (SXSW), the Burning Man of the indie music scene. Thousands of bands converge on Austin, Texas and fill it with (mostly) beautiful noise. This was my first time attending, and I found myself getting off not on any act in particular, but on the energy of the place - lots of creative people working hard to share and develop something they love.
In my journalistic role there, I found myself interviewing a young up-and-comer signed to a major label. He'd been taped for a national TV broadcast there and I'd been lucky enough to see his performance. Strong, charismatic, unpretentious, and exceedingly musical, this artist (and he actually does deserve the title "artist," as opposed to many performers who are mistakenly referred to as such) put on the rawest performance I saw at the festival. It was nearly brilliant.
So as I sat down to hang with this fellow, I discovered that one of his songs was being used on a national reality TV show. Amazing, I said. You must be making a fortune in publishing.
For those unfamiliar with music publishing, here's the short version - when you write a song, you can register it with ASCAP, BMI, or SESAC, organizations that tracks when your composition is used on the radio or TV, and funnel royalties to you accordingly. A musical mentor of mine once wrote a song for a presidential inauguration; since that song was broadcast on every channel in the world shortly before El Presidente took his oath of office, my sensei received a check from SESAC for nearly $100,000 dollars. Not a bad payoff for two minutes of music.
So to return to my SXSW interview buddy, I figured that he should be making quite a bit, now that his song was being broadcast far and wide. His response when I asked him? "Um, dunno. Should I be getting something for that?" Oh dear.
It's a bit of a stereotype that young artists are courted by major labels who offer them dreams of stardom, and then they get utterly taken advantage of when it comes to the actual label contract. I assumed that, in this age of music self-production and self-promotion, everyone would be a little wiser and read the fine print. So either my interviewee had a very good lawyer who handled such things smoothly, or this gentleman's label was getting riiiiiich off of him.
As I pursue business matters with my own bands and independent projects, I find myself learning more and more about the music business. It's complicated and messy, but navigable. I find myself having to remember that this is a means to an end, that making music professionally is the goal. In fact, I recently signed my first official band contract ever. More on that to come.
In my journalistic role there, I found myself interviewing a young up-and-comer signed to a major label. He'd been taped for a national TV broadcast there and I'd been lucky enough to see his performance. Strong, charismatic, unpretentious, and exceedingly musical, this artist (and he actually does deserve the title "artist," as opposed to many performers who are mistakenly referred to as such) put on the rawest performance I saw at the festival. It was nearly brilliant.
So as I sat down to hang with this fellow, I discovered that one of his songs was being used on a national reality TV show. Amazing, I said. You must be making a fortune in publishing.
For those unfamiliar with music publishing, here's the short version - when you write a song, you can register it with ASCAP, BMI, or SESAC, organizations that tracks when your composition is used on the radio or TV, and funnel royalties to you accordingly. A musical mentor of mine once wrote a song for a presidential inauguration; since that song was broadcast on every channel in the world shortly before El Presidente took his oath of office, my sensei received a check from SESAC for nearly $100,000 dollars. Not a bad payoff for two minutes of music.
So to return to my SXSW interview buddy, I figured that he should be making quite a bit, now that his song was being broadcast far and wide. His response when I asked him? "Um, dunno. Should I be getting something for that?" Oh dear.
It's a bit of a stereotype that young artists are courted by major labels who offer them dreams of stardom, and then they get utterly taken advantage of when it comes to the actual label contract. I assumed that, in this age of music self-production and self-promotion, everyone would be a little wiser and read the fine print. So either my interviewee had a very good lawyer who handled such things smoothly, or this gentleman's label was getting riiiiiich off of him.
As I pursue business matters with my own bands and independent projects, I find myself learning more and more about the music business. It's complicated and messy, but navigable. I find myself having to remember that this is a means to an end, that making music professionally is the goal. In fact, I recently signed my first official band contract ever. More on that to come.
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