Country Gentleman

Patriotism is frequently like an old suit that we keep around for certain occasions. We always have it, but it's not always on. When we do wear it, we notice how uncomfortably it binds in places, and vow that we're going to get it tailored. But it's ours. If we didn't care, we wouldn't keep it around.

And if we weren't Americans, we probably wouldn't bitch so much about how it fits.

Anyways, when I woke up this morning wondering how my son and I were going to celebrate the holiday, I kept thinking back to the family celebrations I had growing up. And for better or worse, the 4th was generally pretty low key. Cookouts at home, visits from friends and loved ones, piling into the car to see fireworks at the beach, and then complaining about traffic all the way home.

Later on I would add my own twists on the formula (the annual Twilight Zone marathon on the Sci-Fi Channel, concerts and fireworks downtown instead) -- but the basic premise is still pretty much the same.

Thinking back to when I was a little kid, I remember a lot more parades being involved. Standing in the hot sun waiting for free candy to be thrown from floats and having to hear John Phillip Sousa songs slowly stroll by. The pageantry of it all was cool, but to be honest -- parades tend to be a little dull. I'm not really surprised that as a tradition they've kinda fallen to the wayside in many places.

The same can be said for Sousa, who's music tends to pound you over the head with it's military overtones. There's just not a lot of room for personal expression with Sousa, no real use for flexibility. As such, it's not much wonder why it hasn't aged very well.

At the same time, what makes those old marches so memorable is their construction. The way all those pieces are built on top of one another so that they work just right. It's why you rarely hear them played by anything other than a full marching band or orchestra.

It's also why this rendition never fails to blow me away.

Before I was really ever aware of Rock and Roll, I knew Chet Atkins. One of the true masters of the guitar, Atkins was equally adept at Country, Jazz, and Classical playing. His trademark style is nearly impossible to master, and yet when you see him play it looks like he's hardly doing anything at all.

For all my love of shredders, punk rock, and thrash metal, I'd kill to one day be able
to play with a fraction of the style and grace that Chet Atkins brought to the table.

He lent his style to countless artists -- and in a way shaped a certain part of my musical upbringing. My father was never as obsessive about players as I was -- but he loved great songs. As such, I wonder if he even knew that many of the artists he liked to listen to (Jim Reeves, Glen Campbell, Waylon Jennings) featured Atkins' guitar work. Or that many of the artists that were played around the house when I was a kid (Willie Nelson, Dolly Parton, and Jerry Reed) were all produced by him.

And yet, whenever you see footage of the guy -- he couldn't be more soft-spoken and unassuming.

-- Dig the sweep arpeggios during Chet's solo. Suck on that, Yngwie.

It's amazing to think that this quiet man who had sometimes to be dragged out of his shell by his more socially magnanimous friends was the same person who stood alone by his convictions even in the racially charged environment of the civil-rights 60's (not to mention the assumed social attitudes of most country music fans at the time) to convince RCA records to sign country music's first African American artist Charlie Pride.

But he did.

It's easy in today's world sometimes to forget that true character isn't what you say or how loud you say it, but what you actually do.

This day -- regardless of how loud the fireworks, how drunken the revelry gets, or how bad the traffic is on the way home -- is about all the men and women who understood that, and all that we enjoy as a result.

And I know that might sound preachy, especially in our fast-food, culture-shocked society -- but that's what kinda makes this place what it is.

After all, if it weren't for all of Chet Atkins' hard work to add class and professionalism to Country Music, we might never had the chance to hear something like this (which despite all my high and mighty talk still remains one of my all-time favorite songs).

Have a great holiday, everyone.

[Listening to:  Bury Your Dead - "Womb Disease" ]

Rubber Ducky of Death

It takes more than a village to raise a child. It takes Slayer.

[Listening to:  Alicia Keys - "Diary" ]

Size Matters Not

The other day before heading into the theater to watch Transformers 2 (an unbridled mess of a film that managed to surgically remove all the parts that made the first installment so much fun and replace it with so many robots and subplots that they didn't even have time to name them all or resolve half of them) my 9-year old son pulled me aside and addressed me in something I've come to call his "thoughtful voice."

Kids are amazing creatures. They're driven by desire, yet easily bored. They're hungry for new challenges and experiences, but can be slow to hold on to the common sense lessons they glean from them. Yet what I discover as I enter my ninth year of parenting is that my son is not just experiencing or staying along for the ride -- he's taking everything in, always thinking, always considering the world around him and the people in it.

He's not always able to verbalize what he comes up with -- but he sees everything through unique lenses.

I have a feeling we all did this as children, and in a lot of ways continue to do it as we mature -- but I'm starting to wonder if as you gather experience and age, if you don't begin to put filters in front of those lenses. Like sunglasses to block out the sun, it seems like as adults we frequently color our sight with the comparisons of the past, the philosophies we develop, and the ideologies we find ourselves aligning with along the way.

These differences are in a lot of ways what identifies our individuality. I find that when I'm at work, even though I'm not too far off in age from many of the people I work with (and in several cases actually older than them), that I find their attitudes to be "old." There's a lot of hesitation around here when it comes to changing procedures, approaching things differently, or just throwing caution to the wind. I find myself constantly saying things like, "If we do all these studies and planning you're talking about -- we'll never actually do anything. Lets just develop an action plan, and start getting shit done!"

But then when I tell my son I'm going to see a concert and he asks
if he can come too -- I always say, "Maybe when you're a little older."

I'm at a different level than my coworkers, my son is at a different level than me, my father is at a different level from both of us, my brother and his wife different from all of that, my friends and their families different from that. Even when the goals and occurrences are similar, the approaches are different.

And that's not to say that different approaches are bad, or wrong. My brother and I approach most things in life in our own ways, it's just the way we are -- and his kids are awesome.

What's interesting though is that you're never so locked into one mindset or approach that you can't see those differences. If anything, you're keenly aware of it when you come in contact with them. Some things you wish you had more of in yourself, some things you're ecstatic that you seem to don't have any of in your system.

Every time I encounter people who seem to have a natural sense of priority, an instinctive ability to multitask towards an actual goal I find myself envious. Yet whenever I meet folks tied to planners, schedules, and paper I recoil in horror. Perhaps part of it is in the attraction of opposite polarities or something, I don't know -- but I tend to like people who have their shit together.

..I do wonder about anyone who thinks I'm one of them, though.

When I'm at my best, I'm laid back. Cocky in my abilities. But I worry sometimes that a big part of that comes from swimming at the end of the pool that I can stand up in. I still take chances, but not quite the same ways I used to. Worst of all, I'm harshly aware of that difference. Of the erosion that time and experience seem to have had on my overall approach to the world that I experience.

I'm the best guitarist you've never heard play.
I'm your favorite unpublished writer.
I'm going to make some lucky girl very happy ..someday.

My son has been described by a number of people as being a "young 9." When he was playing little league earlier this year, the differences in approach that marked him from some of the other kids (especially the ones who had played for a few years and had "really driven" baseball parents) was striking. He did surprisingly well in the batters box, but even after playing a full season hasn't shown much interest in watching baseball or following a team. The other kids really liked him, even when his inexperience showed on the field -- but they tended to get on him now and then for not knowing pro player's names or things like that.

When I was growing up, people told me I had an "old soul."

Nowadays I get accused of trying to hard to hold onto
the past. Of comparing too much. Of not acting my age.

Years get lost. Periods and plateaus. Directions you thought you were going to go, places you never thought you'd find yourself in. Stages of recapturing, recharging, re-evaluating, and recalibration. I know I'll never be 20 years old again, but was there something in that 20-year old me that got lost in the shuffle of pushing too hard to be more mature and more settled that needs to come back? By the same token -- how much of that crap just needs to be tossed out the window and forgotten?

By not having the clearest picture of which image in the mirror is the real me versus the person I've become (or the image at times I've attempted to project), I frequently find myself caught in questions of personal authenticity. Am I really a musician, or just a guy who plays guitar? If I finally understand that being a good father is more important than anything else I do from this point forward -- does it mean that nothing else I enjoy doing is worthwhile at all?

Because I don't feel that way.

I want my son to know I'm there, that he'll always be cared for, loved, and protected. But I don't think there's much value in him thinking that I don't have a life. That I'm just a passionless deliverer of toys who announces bedtimes, cooks breakfast, and only exists to make sure he washes his hands after going to the bathroom.

He knows when I'm unhappy. He sees it with those lenses of his, and never hesitates to let me know it.

Our best times are when we're both having fun. When we're both locked into the emotion of the moment. Whether it be playing a video game or finishing homework. He's got a look, a certain glow when he's really happy (as I think we all do) -- but what's really clicked for me recently is that that glow is easier to create when I'm happy too.

He's very sensitive to the emotions of people around him, and tends to react to them. Maybe all kids are like that. I know I can still be that way a lot of times -- even though one of the things I've noticed about adulthood that there is a value in being able to stay levelheaded when others are going batshit, in having the ability to create laughter when everyone else is feeling down, in being the sunshine in other people's rainstorms.

All things you can accomplish whether or not you're feeling happy about it.

My son sees right through it.

It's one of the many, many amazing things about him.

So when he takes on that thoughtful tone in his voice, as he did outside the theater the other day -- I make sure I take the extra effort to listen. Because even though he's not always able to find the right words, he's always speaking directly, purely, and unapologetically from his heart.

This is what he said,

"The other day when I was at my (grand) Papa's house, I saw some pictures of you when you were skinny and had hair -- and I realized that you um.. You look like somebody."
"Really? Who is that?"
"You looked like Anakin Skywalker -- you know, before he was Darth Vader ..but not when he was a little kid."
"Wow, You think so?"
"Yeah. You don't have the scar on your face, but everything else was just like Anakin."
"Well thanks, buddy. I'm gonna take that as a compliment."

And then he hugged me, looked me in the eye again, and said:

"I know you want to be skinny again, like you were in the picture. And I think you can be -- if you keep working on it..

..But your hair isn't coming back."

[Listening to:  Dub War - "Words of Warning" ]

That's My Jam: Stop Standing Still

One of the things that I think that largely sets hip/hop and pop music apart from other genres these days is the way label owners and producers work to build "stables" of similar artists. For years if an group showed up on Def Jam, Grand Royal, or Bad Boy you sorta knew what you were getting into with them, and that association many times was enough to launch an artist further towards success than just being tied to whoever would sign them first.

Although certainly not a new idea (the Beach Boys, Beatles, and Led Zeppelin had them), the Vanity Label craze that sort of reappeared in the late 90's helped solidify (even if it was ultimately for a short while) clique genres -- enabling artists like Fred Durst to use his Flawless imprint to surround himself with artists like Staind and Puddle of Mudd -- ultimately stretching the lifespan of that whole awful strain of crap-rock through package tours and group promotions.

More frequently though, Vanity Labels withered and died on the vine as the "artist" in charge lost interest, and passed day-to-day operations on to underlings or the very same sort of record industry bottom-feeders that they had initially created the Vanity Labels to avoid being under the thumb of. As a result, many of the artists who thought they'd gotten a golden ticket to the Wonka Factory found themselves lost in a shuffle of under-promoted, over-produced albums on labels like Madonna's Maverick, Prince's Paisley Park, or 50 Cent's G-Unit.

There are obvious exceptions out there (Jay-Z, Dr. Dre), but it's almost like the circle has turned
again and being a "stable artist" is in many ways more of a albatross than a blessing these days.

Which is why I feel exceptionally lucky to have struck gold many times over with the artists who work with independent Florida label Bieler Bros. records. It's funny, because during the late dying days of the Hair/Pop Metal movement one of the bands I always felt was a bright spot was Miami's Saigon Kick -- so when I found out that a number of bands I really liked (Skindred, Nonpoint, Ankla) were currently being produced and managed by that groups former guitarist Jason Bieler it all sort of clicked into place.

All of which led me to take a flyer on an Australian Band called Karnivool, who I
had not heard of before until I got a message on the Bieler Bros. mailing list.

Sitting somewhere between melodic rock and prog, Karnivool immediately grabbed my attention. The playing was intricate, built on twisting, constantly shifting rhythms -- and yet the tunes were catchy as hell. The disc was sorta glued to my player for a while from overplaying -- which made me even more excited to find out that they were going to be the opening act for an all-Bieler Bros. artist package tour last year called The Great American Rampage.

But somewhere between the full-on thrash of Ankla, the aggression of Nonpoint, and the sheer fun that you get anytime Skindred takes over a stage anywhere, the band from Australia that I had been the most curious about somehow got lost in the shuffle.

Why?

Probably because although they recreated their songs faithfully and brought passion to the playing, they just sorta stood there.

Look -- It sucks to be the band on a big tour that no one really came
to hear, but it's an opportunity that you have to take advantage of.

You can't just go out there and treat it like a chore.

And in a lot of ways, Karnivool (at least on the night that I saw them) just went through the paces.

I'm no lover of forced jumping around, choreographed guitar antics, or showoff stick twirling -- but you've gotta look like you want to be there. You've got to get the energy that made the song worth writing and playing from the stage into the audience. And for whatever reason, that night in Orlando -- Karnivool didn't really deliver.

I can't even begin to tell you the number shows I've been to where the opening acts stole the spotlight from the headliners, and how being able to do that helped spark my interest in checking out their albums.

That's not to say that Karnivool doesn't rock -- but that in a lot of ways they have become an album band for me. They create great songs in the studio, but they're not so much fun live. Which when I think about it is a category I could put a lot of groups into.

Performing live to me is a premium ability. It's many times what makes good bands into personal favorites, because I love being on the floor when things get intense -- even when it's not in a rock setting. Erykah Badu live is, in my opinion -- so much more fun than her albums (and I love those discs), but even with the promise of wild visuals and performance surprises -- I'm not in a real hurry to see groups like The Gorillaz or Tool -- who I tend to appreciate more on disc.

Anyways, if you're looking for something a little deeper than the normal scream and growl, you could do a lot worse than checking out what Karnivool has to offer.

But like I said, try to do it with headphones instead of general admission tickets.

[Listening to:  Bloodsimple - "Death From Above" ]

The Holy Hand Grenade

At this point, my vote goes to Joe Jackson.

(Men's Room Wall, The Eclipse - 6/29/09)

So, who gets your nomination?

[Listening to: Erykah Badu - "Back in The Day (Puff)" ]

That's My Jam: Sure Thing, Gordo

One of the most hauntingly somber songs I know is Thelonious Monk's 'Round Midnight. But the strange thing is, whenever you hear performances Monk himself did of the song you'll notice that he tends to approach it with a slight bounce. I wouldn't say he makes it a happy tune by any means, but there's something in the rhythm he puts into it that makes it more like a brisk memory-filled walk down a moonlit road rather than a heartsad lament of a lover far away and the quarrels that separate you.

So as much as it's recognized as Monk's signature song and perhaps masterpiece, it's been the renditions of this song by others that have touched me the most. Consider the flavors that Miles Davis, Joe Pass, and Wes Montgomery added to it as an instrumental, or the unique character and emotion that Ella Fitzgerald, Sarah Vaughn, Dakota Staton, and a host of others brought to the lyrical version.

You know who really kills with this song? Mel Torme -- the Velvet Fog himself.

Perhaps it's because Monk was able in the original to make the melody so natural. To my way of thinking, 'Round Midnight isn't so much a musical line as it a conversation you have with yourself, or to a half interested bartender right before (or perhaps severely after) closing time -- something more naturally suited I think to singers than it is to many saxophone players.

And yet to sing or play it, you have to think so much outside of what you'd normally do, even in the open contexts of jazz. As such, it's become a study piece for students, a standard that groups and singers include to show their range. It happens to standards over the years -- they get so retreaded and played to death that players lose their love for them, or their connection with the emotions behind it.

Perhaps that's why even though it was written and originally envisioned as an
instrumental, I've always personally been more fond of the vocalized versions.

That's not to say that people don't mess it up left and right. That they try to make it more formal and organized than it was ever meant to be. It's a strange thing about Jazz songs where singers take melodies intended for other instruments and make them their own, they all too often try to sing them as if they were just a different kind of saxophone, guitar, or piano. They forget that they have the gift that all other players seek to find when they play, which is personality and emotion that's naturally built in to the tones they create.

Which is probably why, even with so many immortal names and admittedly greater versions associated with this song -- I still find myself drawn to this interpretation; recorded for an tribute album, yet rarely played anywhere as far as I can tell.

Sting himself can be a pain to deal with, and his late period albums have gotten increasingly lamer -- but the guy has a wonderful voice, and for my money seems to always get more mileage out of collaboration than he ever did coming up with new ways to stroke his own ego.

Which is a good thing -- because despite the grace he brings
to the melody, this one is (and should be) all about Andy.

[Listening to:  Wes Montgomery - "Four on Six" ]

Trou

Bra straps dig into shoulder blades, underwear rides up, shirts creep and bunch when you sit down for long periods of time. Body parts itch, earrings beg to be twirled, cell phones shift in your pockets. Adjusting our coverings has become as natural an instinct as wagging a tail to brush off insects or cleaning your own paws.

All that being said, coworker -- if you insist upon having to re-tuck in your business shirt, perhaps consider going somewhere slightly more private than your cubicle before undoing your pants and jamming your hands down in there during business hours!?

..Did not need to see that.

[Listening to:  Down - "Nothing in Return (Walk Away)" ]