Sunday, June 22, 2014

somewhere. sometime.



Somewhere or was it sometime when I was twenty, one, two, five,
somewhere in that decade of fog,
when on the edge of some midnight and an encroaching dawn,
in the midst of smoke and empty bottles,
the music gone flaccid
the air deflated
I made promises to no one in particular.

Somewhere or was it sometime in the decade of dyed hair and pierced skin,
broken knuckles,
tables and chairs,
drowning in words:
HST, Henry Miller, and Bukowski.
Broken, blind men leading the blind
into some hedonistic heaven.
I followed
fist raised
eyes closed
with no fear
of edges and misdirected hope.
I followed without the need for anything
as abstract or useless as success.

Somewhere or was it sometime in the decade of amateur love,
loneliness and broken hearts,
in beds with strangers and friends
waiting for the dawn,
hands between legs
breasts and flesh
minds lost in ether.
Every word I whispered I believed true,
lost in my own mind,
I brought you in
and promised to get us back out
again. 

Somewhere or was it sometime in the decade of dropping out
when my mother called your mother and cried.
Asking where she had gone wrong.
Driving all night from San Diego to San Francisco
searching the miles and the darkness
for a place to belong. A home. A love. Some answers.
Only to get lost on barstools on Sundays
and chicken pox alone in the rain. Bones shivering
another bum on the Muni. 

Somewhere or was it sometime in the decade of car crashes,
hospital rooms, so close to death it just made sense
to cross over—
on one of those nights I told you
I didn’t plan on making it passed thirty-six:
what would be the point I proclaimed? 
(The brash audacity of youth a thunderclap)
If I’m alive passed forty, I will have failed somehow,
is how the thinking went in those days.

Somewhere or was it sometime in the decade of my youth
I never imagined these quiet Sunday afternoons,
where the darkness has been carefully
closeted waiting to be observed like a carnival show.
The rich embers glowing like blood on fire
molten in their heat
simmering just beneath the surface—
the occasional spark,
reminds us of
somewhere
some
time.

Thursday, March 20, 2014

Wednesday Jams

Another week. Another batch of songs.

Fortunate Son by Credence Clearwater Revival

My Back Pages by Bob Dylan

Oh Me by Nirvana

Girl In The War by Josh Ritter

Wednesday, February 26, 2014

Wednesday Night Jam

It was a mellow night tonight. But was able to record a few songs.

Hard Rain's Gonna Fall by Bob Dylan

Guaranteed by Eddie Vedder

Landlocked Blues by Bright Eyes

One by One by Wilco

Sunday, February 09, 2014

The Elegant Simplicity of Song

"It's amazing how much he's changed." I say aloud to Viv as we head to the car. And how much he has stayed the same I say to myself.

"I mean, can you remember the awkward, insecure, almost shy dude from the MTV unplugged show?" Hat on, spinning on the stool, covering his arms with political epitaphs, unsure of how to act beneath his massive new spotlight.

"It makes me wonder, that if he has changed so much, then we must have changed that much too. But I don't feel that I have changed that much. Do you? It's confusing." Viv nods noncommittally indicating that he understands, but I am not sure if either of us do.

I have seen Pearl Jam perform countless times across the years in as many varied venues. Even when I am not actually in the same city or arena as the band, I track their set lists through a tour to see what they are playing. I have written ad nauseam about Pearl Jam, and for fear of repeating myself, I will once again confess, early in this piece, that Eddie Vedder is my hero. An idol, I have respected and for lack of a better word, an artist I have loved for most of my life. So there was little question that I would fly from Singapore to Perth for a whirlwind trip to see him perform a live solo show this past weekend.


Lifting up an empty cup, I ask silently
All my destinations will accept the one that's me
So I can breathe...


Recently, I have been watching some Youtube clips of shows to see how he and the band are holding up. Surprisingly, part of me has been slightly disappointed by the fact that my hero has changed to the point of not fitting into the tight carefully crafted box into which I have placed him and would prefer for him to stay. I think back to that MTV Unplugged show and am reminded of the change and the growth that Vedder underwent in subsequent years from VS, Vitology and into No Code.

On stage, gone was the overly timid and tortured introvert who I saw as a mirror for myself, and in his place stood and glared and sang and raged a man who had learned the power of his own voice, both literately and metaphorically. And either through my own life experience or through the power of his music, I too had brought upon my own metamorphosis-- from bashful boy to…well something else.

Someone wild and free and determined never to sit quietly again. Someone demanding to be heard. Someone with a confidence boarding on violence, but rooted in the humility and honesty of the voiceless. Vedder helped us give a voice to everything we had always been told to hide. In the early years, he helped to show us how to transform shame to rage and would eventually teach us show to change it again into something less volatile. Something I dare call happiness? Wisdom? But at what cost? Can we look back and observe this transformation as anything but depressing. A fading of a light? Of growing old. Of domestication?

Today, Vedder reminds me of a jovial slightly drunken uncle.  He seems to wear the same clothes every day, jeans, t-shirt and button-up shirts make up his uniform. And his short hair, awkward dancing and onstage antics are more akin to Bruce Springsteen than say Ian Mckaye. In short, he has grown old and slightly dorky. I compare clips from the nineties to the present and worry that perhaps, the man I felt would always be my barometer of cool, might not be anymore. (I do not want to beat you over the head with the parallel story I am telling here, but please remember the earlier mirror analogy I began this story with. Am I too becoming old and irrelevant and uncool?)

A mind full of questions, and a teacher in my soul
And so it goes...


So if I can observe a domesticated joy in Vedder, does mean that others notice it in me too? The songs from the early years, as I have repeatedly noted, are still a crucible of emotion for me. A catalyst of transformation and a place where I go to remember and relive the pain, the suffering, the change, the growth, the renewal. When I watch old footage and look into his eyes,  I am reminded of the fire that forged the man I am today.  In a way, I need him to always be the source of that fire, for this nostalgia is necessary for me to keep my fire stoked and burning.  Or is it? Is it possible, that I too am ready to allow the flames to grow warm and simmer.  For although we have both grown old, the fire has done its job. The metal has been forged. Perhaps it is time to enjoy the heat in different ways.

What can one really tell from a Youtube video? How can one feel the passion of one of the greatest rock bands in history, through a three minute clip on a tiny screen? I needed to see for myself. I needed to make certain that Eddie Vedder was not becoming some depressing old lounge act, rehashing old hits for his adoring yet faithful fans. I needed to be certain that I was not getting old. So off to Perth I went.

From the second he took the stage, before he said a word or played a note, I knew that he was more relevant now and more important to me than he has ever been. I realized that it had been unfair to hold on to what I needed him to be--a beacon of my past, a symbol of my pain, a well for my rage. I was being unfair to both of us. Heroes if they are to be true, cannot remain stagnant. He cannot be a romantic yet impotent nostalgia. 

I've got my indignation, but I'm pure in all my thoughts
I'm alive...

Wind in my hair, I feel part of everywhere
Underneath my being is a road that disappeared


Aging is a slow process. It is not sudden or painful in the way that one expects. It is a low moaning ache that one feels in his joints every time he wakes up. Growing old is an ongoing revelation of ones successes and failures. A daily balancing of the ledgers of the promises you made in your youth. A cashing in of promissory notes. Have you become the person you wanted to be when you were young? But the reality is that when you are young, you have no idea about the possibilities and choice of the people you could  become as you age. And these new choices can be excited. Dare I say rejuvenating.

So while the younger me could not imagine an Eddie Vedder singing love songs on a Ukelele on a stage lit by artificial starlight, he also could not imagine a future self sitting calmly in his seat nearly crying because of a tender awareness that made the night so perfect. Gone was the sweat and the need to mosh and crash into other lost young men to prove something not one of us could name. Gone was the ferocity and rage that kept us all, audience and band, chained together. And in its place the graceful honest aging of men and woman stewed in the same cauldron of celebration. There no longer seems a need to attack.


Please don't get me wrong, Eddie has not become fat Elvis. The intensity and veracity with which he approaches his art has not diminished in the least bit. In fact, it has been carefully honed and perfectly crafted. It was funny to watch Vedder the man, still bumbling incoherently through stories and uncomfortably addressing the crowd. Still the timid troubadour unable to express himself in anything other than song. Vedder is still the awkward introvert when not shielded behind the walls of his songs. But oh the songs! Stripped down and laying vulnerably naked on the stage were the perfect mirror I needed. The lyrics part spiritual hymnal, part philosophy are still all the religion and/or therapy I need.

Leave it to me as I find a way to be
Consider me a satellite, forever orbiting
I knew all the rules, but the rules did not know me 


Life works in stages, in chapters, in verses and acts, and the actors must know the needs of the characters.  As I approach forty, on the precipice of an inevitable mid-life crisis, I am thankful I have an idol, a rock-star role-model, a man who is once again a few steps ahead of me scouting the landscape and warning of pitfalls and sharing with me the joy of maturity. And since I have built a relationship, not with the man, but with his songs, he has gained my trust. By never letting me down and not allowing me to pigeon-hole him, he has forced me to acknowledge my own transformation.

He asked that no one record the show as he wanted us to enjoy the moment and enjoy the privacy we had earned by being in the room, so I cannot share with you any Youtube clips of the night, but trust me the clips would not have done justice to feeling of sitting fifteen rows back, dead center, watching your hero do what he does best- allow people to understand themselves and each other through the elegant simplicity of song.


The complete set list and official poster:

Walking The Cow (Daniel Johnston),  Picture In a Frame (Tom Waits),  Better Man, Wishlist, Speed Of Sound,  Can't Keep,  Without You,  Light Today,  You're True, Hide Your Love Away (The Beatles),  Driftin',  Setting Forth,  Far Behind,  Guaranteed,  Rise,  Long Nights (with Glen Hansard), Just Breathe,  4th Of July (X (the band),  Porch

Encore: After Hours (Lou Reed),  Immortality,  Lukin,  Sleepless Nights (Bryant, with Glen Hansard),  Society (Jerry Hannan, with Glen Hansard),  Falling Slowly (Hansard, Irglová, with Glen Hansard)

Encore 2: Rockin' In The Free World (Neil Young),  Hard Sun (Peterson)


Tuesday, January 28, 2014

Put The Don't Cry Single In

Sixteen years old and you are madly, wildly, uncontrollably in love. In love like no one at any other time has ever been in love before. All you can do is to think about and dream about and think about, did I already say that, well I’ll say it again— all you can do is to think about this girl. For the first time, there is a girl who says she loves you too. And while neither of you have any idea what this could possibly mean, you both know exactly what it means. It means you are IN love and you love THAT too.

And with this new, fresh, never-been-expereinced before love there is touching and kissing and deep stares into soulful eyes. There is hand holding and hugging and rubbing and other new frontiers that only a love so pure and profound and unique could unlock. Nobody else could possibly feel this deeply enamored and obsessed with another human being. You are adults now and your love is proof. These are not emotions for children. What child could handle a love like this?

It is heavy and volatile and hard to handle. Sometimes it blows up and leaves you painfully scarred and damaged and hurt and confused, but this is okay, because this love is so fecund that you know that all you have to do is wait it out and you will be in love again, usually more so than before.

This love will make you cry— alone or in groups. Sober or drunk. It makes you yearn and reach out and reach in. It makes you share and expose and it leaves you pleasantly vulnerable. It helps you build intricate shells and masks and invisible defenses. Teaches you to break them down and lay naked, waiting to be drenched once more.

Bruises tender and the low-moan-ache— in the car just the boys (men) Talking bases, and fingers, and conquest, to cover up the pain. How far did you get? After the braggadocio and bravado subside.  In the darkness of the waning machismo. There is a silence.  Each of you sits alone with the memory of this new found love.

Ari, put the Don’t Cry single in.  Four boys (men) driving to Tahoe listen in silence. You miss her already.

It’s funny how a song can not only take you back in time— allowing you to relive moments you felt had faded or worse vanished, but sometimes if the right song is matched with the right period in a life, a person can be made to regress emotionally and possibly feel the same emotions that one worked through, albeit not gracefully, the first time. And no other song, when I was in this state of fluctuating ecstasy and pain, could mirror my emotions, no other song could touch and soothe every raw nerve like this one:


Wednesday, January 22, 2014

Wednesday Jam Flood

It's been a while since I recorded and shared some music. I have still been playing on Wednesdays, but recently two friends have been joining me on bass and drums. It has been a humbling experience to say the least. It is so hard to sing and play and keep time, but I am slowly learning I guess. We have a few songs I can muddle my way through. Hoping to maybe play some kind of set at some point in front of a few people.

But tonight neither Jeff or Joe could make it, so I was back to my solo antics, and it felt pretty damn good. It has been a while so I was just belting out the tunes. I was able to record eight songs! From  Lynyrd Skynyrd to the Grateful Dead.

Broken Down Palace by The Grateful Dead

Mad World by Gary Jules

New York by Blind Pilot

Sweet Caroline by Ryan Adams

Like A Stone by Audioslave

Bird On A Wire by Leonard Cohen

Journey To The Past by Neil Young

Four Walls of Raiford Lynyrd Skynryd

Feeling pretty good a bout a few these. I need to do some research and find an open mic soon.

Sunday, January 05, 2014

The Voice

Sometimes, more often than not actually, I think that maybe after eight-and-a-half years of sobriety, I might be able to throw in the towel on the teetotaling, and enjoy a nice robust Chardonnay with the rest of the civilized people of the world when I go out to eat dinner on a river in the fading glow of a well-spent day. Or maybe, I too can "grab a cold one," with the other parents as we watch our kids frolic and swim in the pool with the pregnant South East Asian clouds simmer overhead threatening rain.

But then I think about what I just did to that bag of Salted Kettle Potato Chips, And I think again. 

image by appleswitch

I'm laying in bed, my fingers covered in grease, half the bag gone before I take my first breath. I hear that all familiar voice over the tender crunching of chips, "Man these are good. Can we eat them faster? There is no point in stopping now, there are not enough left for a satisfying session next time. You are more than half way done. Just finish the bottl...bag."

Addiction is about that voice. The one that pretends to be you, but really is only manipulating you to do the things you know you shouldn't. It's a familiar voice no doubt, one I hear every time I over indulge on anything: chips, batch of cookies, a vegan chocolate bar. I have never been able to moderate or negotiate with that voice. It's all or nothing.

As my vices dwindle with age, I am left wondering why I have to abstain entirely from the things I want. How do normal people just have a few chips? Or one or two glasses of wine, without the need to inhale, annihilate, devour, and.....see, just talking about it gets me excited. 

Perhaps my problem is that I know the voice too well. We have been through so much. He has saved me from many a painful realization, all the while making dousing me with shame and regret. Food for me, as of now, is harmless, so I will quell the voice with a bag of chips now and then, but I am still distrustful with the glass of wine on the river.

Sometimes at a party, while getting my wife a glass of wine I will discretely smell the aroma wafting from the glass. Fruity and light, the glass lightly moistened with condensation. It smells like a tart fresh apple with a hint of pear and, is that..... yes some pineapple sweetness. That is when I hear the voice, "You could drink that entire bottle in one sip like a cool Snapple and just be getting started." 

I hand the glass to my wife and reach for a cold glass of water and think about later in the night when I will binge on a bag of chips. Keeping the voice satiated once again.

UpTweet

Related Posts with Thumbnails