There is never a day off for the hungry. I don't just mean the impoverished and homeless, but I mean for those who are always trying to get more done and explore. I have been working on a proposal for a second open mic night for two reasons. I'm hungry, and frankly, I've learned a valuable lesson about business.
Knowing your audience is a staple in almost every career. Writers, scientists, zookeepers, janitors, lawyers, the list goes on. Knowing who you report to (not your boss, but the consumer of your product or service) is the only way to get anything back from an occupation. This is why musicians who only play and write for themselves are accidentally famous, and their careers always either die out because they haven't enough staying power to seek out their audience and cater to it, or they bend too much to their perceived listeners and lose themselves. Its a tightrope in every job. And I have found that the three bosses I have to report to are my musicians, their audience, and my venue.
The issue here is that if my venue has not attracted a new crowd for my musicians, it could be either my fault because I haven't brought enough people in, the a fact of circumstance that the venue is not built to attract (or might even repel) the audience my show needs to sustain itself. So my options were to continue canvassing, and hope the crowd comes out in spite of surroundings which aren't generally their scene, or to move house.
The former proved to in fact alienate folks who were happy to support the show but uncomfortable in the venue which did not provide the same kind of atmosphere they wanted from an acoustic open stage night. One of my regular acts even took to the mic in between an original and a cover to say thank you to the 3 of us clapping and to warn the rest of the crowd that the upcoming tune was one he had written and that probably nobody would like. The other acts all loved it, and I realized I need to be set up in a space of people who come for the show, not stay in spite of it.
This is a tricky situation because it means that I need to seek out a space which wants a show like this which can bring in their existing guests and create a collaborative space for music to happen, but within a space that somehow hasn't caught onto this idea yet...
So today, with what I think is a rock-star-turned-music-manager outfit on, I am wandering the streets like a teenager fresh from grade 11 passing his resume around. Only I have done my research and know exactly why they should take me in.
So here goes phase 2 of this adventure. I feel I may have outgrown some contacts I've made so far in this business, and its nice to know that not everyone you meet ends up being someone who cares as much as you thought they would. Just because all artists are starving ones doesn't mean some of them aren't already full but passively accepting a second helping because they are still at the table. I never intend to be one of those, and will always offer something off my plate to the guy next to me who hasn't had a bite yet. Right now, I'm taking the old matriarch approach to this and deciding to eat last. But today I'm hunting and gathering for my flock of musicians who have somehow lined up behind me and deserve a crowd. Its now my job to go out and get them one.
Wednesday 27 June 2012
Tuesday 12 June 2012
The Me(n) Who Inspire(d) Me
Another tale of a long weekend, and this time I was the protagonist of every good 80's romantic comedy. I got the job and the girl, relatively speaking. I had my time up in the most heavenly place on earth, the camp, and I got to come home and run what turned into the best yet open mic night.
I find myself saying this often, that this week's show was the best it's ever been. This leads me to believe that at some point a small plateau period will occur, and sooner or later a string of nights will get middle child syndrome.
This is a theater term for the second, and second-to-last performance of a show. It hasn't the excitement of a debut or the bittersweet, heart-wrenching finality of the last night, so it becomes a little self-unaware. I know this is imminent with my show, but on a weekly basis so far we've had every night measure against the others as better than the one before in a new way every time. The factors that made this week so special had to do with how every element came together so well.
I had set three goals this weekend. The first was the introduce my relationship to the camp, my home, the truest of spaces on this earth where I can perfectly envision my past and future and make sense of all that swirls in the head of the ever-metaphorical musician. I got my moment at the end of the dock looking out at the horizon I grew up on, which has changed both of its own accord, and seemingly to my whim, bending to provide whatever it was I needed it to show me at any given moment.
I also got to bust out some sick tunes with my dad. So bonus on that.
The last was that I would be able to make this show somehow stronger and tighter than any others yet, and it turns out that what proved to be my most shining moment came on a night when I was tested in every aspect of my role in this machine I've built. Just like cars in soviet russia, sometimes the car drives you. This week was a testament to the fact that it still steers me now and then, but I've got the reigns on this beast. Mixing metaphors is fun.
After the night got off later to accommodate for this weather bringing people in as the sun goes down, a few regular players came out and killed it as usual. We had a disgustingly flawless keyboard player who torn to shreds some Ray Charles and got the biggest crowd and applause of any acts since the first night. He very politely asked me if he could return. That was the first moment when I realized how my role as a host had put me in a position to be asked permission for shit. Cool, huh?
Following him, and living up to his performance, were a twosome from a band who plugged in the first acoustic bass we've had and rocked out some raspy dark chocolately Joplin covers and got the crowd on the patio cheering and dancing in their seats. Not bad for a Sunday night at this point. All the while I was on top of controlling the noise after our show two weeks ago that brought a complaint from the neighbors when our 'its just a brush on a snare and a little bit of hi-hat' drummer got a bit too John Bonham (at 12:30 in the morning no less.) Cops came to say hello and tell us everything was cool, we made a rule to keeps drums before 11 from now on, and I turned down her slick vocals a bit to make room for some fluid basslines to drip outside into the street and hopefully lull the neighbors peacefully to sleep instead. This worked too.
As the night went on, a friend showed up with intention to drum as well. I had to break it to him tactfully that we had a new plan for man beat animal skin to make boom boom sound. He was respectfully disappointed, as he should have been, but I made sure he knew I wanted to give him priority space when he could come play before the noise cutoff, and explained that I knew how my parade raining made me kind of the slimy record exec that pulls creative control out from under his bands to appease the venue. Keeping the balance of your acts being happy while respecting what the venue can handle. It's all part of the gig. If you milk the cow dry today, how you gonna have your cereal tomorrow? He laughed, said I was 'alright', the way your favourite aging rock star would have said it , and I felt completely understood as a musician who gets it too, and as the host of this thing that requires attention to every detail.
As the night wrapped up with my co-host, who had spent this weekend away with me and still proves to be my greatest ally in the success of this show to date, we did a couple numbers together that won the approval of some of the best acts to grace that stage for me. She breaks my achy heart every time she sings, and she glad-hands the divas and the duds of every show as I would, as if they all deserve their fifteen minutes under the lights equally, even when we have to be aware of how unequal they really are. Its another odd and scary part of the gig to navigate. I owe her more than I've got for how she's given herself to this show. She turned out to be a decent golfer this weekend too, so bonus again.
When it was all done and I slept sound for a year of a night afterwards, I awoke to the view of paradise, and I simply looked around and viewed it. There came the realization that when you think you've hit the top of something, there comes a clarity that you haven't even begun to see how far up something reaches. Its the scariest excitement I've ever experienced. We don't know which direction we are going, and are certainly showing no signs that we are slowing.
I find myself saying this often, that this week's show was the best it's ever been. This leads me to believe that at some point a small plateau period will occur, and sooner or later a string of nights will get middle child syndrome.
This is a theater term for the second, and second-to-last performance of a show. It hasn't the excitement of a debut or the bittersweet, heart-wrenching finality of the last night, so it becomes a little self-unaware. I know this is imminent with my show, but on a weekly basis so far we've had every night measure against the others as better than the one before in a new way every time. The factors that made this week so special had to do with how every element came together so well.
I had set three goals this weekend. The first was the introduce my relationship to the camp, my home, the truest of spaces on this earth where I can perfectly envision my past and future and make sense of all that swirls in the head of the ever-metaphorical musician. I got my moment at the end of the dock looking out at the horizon I grew up on, which has changed both of its own accord, and seemingly to my whim, bending to provide whatever it was I needed it to show me at any given moment.
I also got to bust out some sick tunes with my dad. So bonus on that.
The last was that I would be able to make this show somehow stronger and tighter than any others yet, and it turns out that what proved to be my most shining moment came on a night when I was tested in every aspect of my role in this machine I've built. Just like cars in soviet russia, sometimes the car drives you. This week was a testament to the fact that it still steers me now and then, but I've got the reigns on this beast. Mixing metaphors is fun.
After the night got off later to accommodate for this weather bringing people in as the sun goes down, a few regular players came out and killed it as usual. We had a disgustingly flawless keyboard player who torn to shreds some Ray Charles and got the biggest crowd and applause of any acts since the first night. He very politely asked me if he could return. That was the first moment when I realized how my role as a host had put me in a position to be asked permission for shit. Cool, huh?
Following him, and living up to his performance, were a twosome from a band who plugged in the first acoustic bass we've had and rocked out some raspy dark chocolately Joplin covers and got the crowd on the patio cheering and dancing in their seats. Not bad for a Sunday night at this point. All the while I was on top of controlling the noise after our show two weeks ago that brought a complaint from the neighbors when our 'its just a brush on a snare and a little bit of hi-hat' drummer got a bit too John Bonham (at 12:30 in the morning no less.) Cops came to say hello and tell us everything was cool, we made a rule to keeps drums before 11 from now on, and I turned down her slick vocals a bit to make room for some fluid basslines to drip outside into the street and hopefully lull the neighbors peacefully to sleep instead. This worked too.
As the night went on, a friend showed up with intention to drum as well. I had to break it to him tactfully that we had a new plan for man beat animal skin to make boom boom sound. He was respectfully disappointed, as he should have been, but I made sure he knew I wanted to give him priority space when he could come play before the noise cutoff, and explained that I knew how my parade raining made me kind of the slimy record exec that pulls creative control out from under his bands to appease the venue. Keeping the balance of your acts being happy while respecting what the venue can handle. It's all part of the gig. If you milk the cow dry today, how you gonna have your cereal tomorrow? He laughed, said I was 'alright', the way your favourite aging rock star would have said it , and I felt completely understood as a musician who gets it too, and as the host of this thing that requires attention to every detail.
As the night wrapped up with my co-host, who had spent this weekend away with me and still proves to be my greatest ally in the success of this show to date, we did a couple numbers together that won the approval of some of the best acts to grace that stage for me. She breaks my achy heart every time she sings, and she glad-hands the divas and the duds of every show as I would, as if they all deserve their fifteen minutes under the lights equally, even when we have to be aware of how unequal they really are. Its another odd and scary part of the gig to navigate. I owe her more than I've got for how she's given herself to this show. She turned out to be a decent golfer this weekend too, so bonus again.
When it was all done and I slept sound for a year of a night afterwards, I awoke to the view of paradise, and I simply looked around and viewed it. There came the realization that when you think you've hit the top of something, there comes a clarity that you haven't even begun to see how far up something reaches. Its the scariest excitement I've ever experienced. We don't know which direction we are going, and are certainly showing no signs that we are slowing.
Tuesday 22 May 2012
Long Weekend
This was the first long weekend in many years that I didn't spend it in the traditional fashion with my dad and my best friend around a fire with beers and meat on a stick and the smog of the city behind us, the smell of smoke instead embedded in our jackets. I did manage to get my best friend down into the smog for a similar day of drinking and eating, with some sunshine as well. But its never the same as a trip away. She ended up getting the chance early Sunday to jump in with some friends and get goin' up the country. She needed it almost as much as I did.
There were only two rightful places I should have been Sunday night. Either I would succumb to the expense of travel and hop a bus, hitchhike or steal a car and get up north to see my pops, or I'd be coordinating acts and sound-checking at the open mic. Where was I instead? At a wedding.
Of my boyfriend's best friend.
I chose to spend the sunny day all decked out in a dress and heels instead of a ripped shirt and messy tresses as the bbq or the show would have normally found me. While I've exhausted the first-time-you-leave-your-kid-alone metaphor, I would like to state that the feeling is especially strong when you've left your kid alone to go someplace where you could easily buckle and go check on them. I am proud to say the show went swimmingly and my co-hosts majorly killed it. It was clear to me immediately that this was more important to me than the fact that I didn't perform or see the show myself.
I want to leave a mark in the planet. I dug a giant hole once, which I imagine is still there, so I suppose that is a solid start. But jokes aside, this whole thing has become more to me that I was prepared for. So you have the kid, and you love it cuz you gotta, and then it grows up and starts doing things on its own that you couldn't have guessed at and are tearfully proud of.
The show went long, and lots of people got up there, including some friends of mine who came out to support what we've been trying to do knowing I couldn't be there.
I also had the fortunate/unfortunate business of hearing about the ways in which the night was shit. All the details of sound quality, or friends of friends being kicked out for minor but still foolish behaviours, some acts not getting to perform because the show was running late already and they were tardy...
I began to pick apart each of these items, and deal with them all. I didn't have to spend more than a minute or two on how to proceed. I panicked upon hear some of the hiccups, but quickly discovered an innate ability to identify and target the issues. I burned no bridges, found out the strengths and weaknesses of myself as a host and my stand-ins, and was confidently able to (somewhat) gracefully work out the kinks for the next show. Its an odd feeling accumulating peers in the industry you want to be a part of. I have invested so much of myself into this that I don't want to let anyone down, but I'm also only piecing together my identity in this capacity. I think my best advice to myself (and to you readers if you feel you have some use for it) is that the best answer is usually the one that leaves you feeling like you can walk away from the question smiling, or at least not frowning. This may sound cliche or useless but so far its been a fantastic yardstick. I imagine myself deciding how to talk to the owner or the bar, or the act who didn't get to go on, and I am reminded of my father.
He says the best answer is the simplest one. He also spent the first few years running his restaurant having as much wont for the place to feel like a family as to function like a business. This is both the peak of our strengths and the most difficult of our faults. The nature of his, and my, endeavours is rooted in people and community. He and I have such desire to please everyone around and to befriend the world that we aren't taken seriously or given the respect we might feel we deserve. The is little room for cold, calculating business at an open stage show, or a family restaurant. We both needed to learn how much of it to inject in to run our figurative shows as best we can. I don't want to become the hosts I've seen who slot their friends in, sling their band' merch like drugs and can't plan enough time into their breaks to thank their performers and staff at the venue. I also have to maintain a standard of professionalism with my colleagues, and set my prices accordingly. All of this takes thought, instinct and attention. This weekend I learned how to put things in place, let them go, and debrief with an eye toward where to go next.
I suppose if I'd made it up to the lake and sat on the dock with my feet in the water and a beer in my hand, I might have intellectualized all this. But living it out in the city might have been what I needed, more than a getaway. The show went on, the tunes were good, my hosts got to really push themselves and had a blast, and I got there at last call in time to hear all of this after spending an amazing night celebrating love with the man who had so much to do with this show happening from the start. Why would I want to getaway from that?
There were only two rightful places I should have been Sunday night. Either I would succumb to the expense of travel and hop a bus, hitchhike or steal a car and get up north to see my pops, or I'd be coordinating acts and sound-checking at the open mic. Where was I instead? At a wedding.
Of my boyfriend's best friend.
I chose to spend the sunny day all decked out in a dress and heels instead of a ripped shirt and messy tresses as the bbq or the show would have normally found me. While I've exhausted the first-time-you-leave-your-kid-alone metaphor, I would like to state that the feeling is especially strong when you've left your kid alone to go someplace where you could easily buckle and go check on them. I am proud to say the show went swimmingly and my co-hosts majorly killed it. It was clear to me immediately that this was more important to me than the fact that I didn't perform or see the show myself.
I want to leave a mark in the planet. I dug a giant hole once, which I imagine is still there, so I suppose that is a solid start. But jokes aside, this whole thing has become more to me that I was prepared for. So you have the kid, and you love it cuz you gotta, and then it grows up and starts doing things on its own that you couldn't have guessed at and are tearfully proud of.
The show went long, and lots of people got up there, including some friends of mine who came out to support what we've been trying to do knowing I couldn't be there.
I also had the fortunate/unfortunate business of hearing about the ways in which the night was shit. All the details of sound quality, or friends of friends being kicked out for minor but still foolish behaviours, some acts not getting to perform because the show was running late already and they were tardy...
I began to pick apart each of these items, and deal with them all. I didn't have to spend more than a minute or two on how to proceed. I panicked upon hear some of the hiccups, but quickly discovered an innate ability to identify and target the issues. I burned no bridges, found out the strengths and weaknesses of myself as a host and my stand-ins, and was confidently able to (somewhat) gracefully work out the kinks for the next show. Its an odd feeling accumulating peers in the industry you want to be a part of. I have invested so much of myself into this that I don't want to let anyone down, but I'm also only piecing together my identity in this capacity. I think my best advice to myself (and to you readers if you feel you have some use for it) is that the best answer is usually the one that leaves you feeling like you can walk away from the question smiling, or at least not frowning. This may sound cliche or useless but so far its been a fantastic yardstick. I imagine myself deciding how to talk to the owner or the bar, or the act who didn't get to go on, and I am reminded of my father.
He says the best answer is the simplest one. He also spent the first few years running his restaurant having as much wont for the place to feel like a family as to function like a business. This is both the peak of our strengths and the most difficult of our faults. The nature of his, and my, endeavours is rooted in people and community. He and I have such desire to please everyone around and to befriend the world that we aren't taken seriously or given the respect we might feel we deserve. The is little room for cold, calculating business at an open stage show, or a family restaurant. We both needed to learn how much of it to inject in to run our figurative shows as best we can. I don't want to become the hosts I've seen who slot their friends in, sling their band' merch like drugs and can't plan enough time into their breaks to thank their performers and staff at the venue. I also have to maintain a standard of professionalism with my colleagues, and set my prices accordingly. All of this takes thought, instinct and attention. This weekend I learned how to put things in place, let them go, and debrief with an eye toward where to go next.
I suppose if I'd made it up to the lake and sat on the dock with my feet in the water and a beer in my hand, I might have intellectualized all this. But living it out in the city might have been what I needed, more than a getaway. The show went on, the tunes were good, my hosts got to really push themselves and had a blast, and I got there at last call in time to hear all of this after spending an amazing night celebrating love with the man who had so much to do with this show happening from the start. Why would I want to getaway from that?
Wednesday 16 May 2012
What Else Could I Be?
All apologies. Its been a month nearly and I suppose my journal has also suffered with my life so full of stuff. I wonder if it bodes well for readers of blogs that when they get something from us it's when our lives have calmed enough to see us type them up. But this reflecting aside, there is much to explore on the front of what else I could be, other than a foppish quoter of lyrics. Raise your hand if you saw it coming.
I could have been a teacher, although right now I AM in some capacity. He knows three chords already! But my real aim here was to take the two things I am most in love with right now and put one in the hands of the other. Like all teachers, my end game is a relatively selfish one. It must be an ancient animal instinct to want to see a man holding/using/building something out of wood. Us ladies can't seem to resist a man splitting a log, carting a little one in a wagon, or playing a guitar. The command of an instrument is not unlike the taming of an animal. Its magnificent and sexual to watch somebody masterfully (or adorably stumblingly) use an instrument that mystifies, excites, and eludes them.
I could have been an erotic novelist.
There was room in my head a long time ago for social work or psychiatry. If there were such a specialist willing to desert themselves in the most vivid and terrifyingly cerebral landscape: the artist's mind. Everyone else who I would deal with would surely leave after one diagnoses. I don't agree with the idea of normal, and generally speaking people seek out the comfort of that title. I would be happy to tell every patient they were functionally f*cked up and let them go on, with some guidance perhaps on how to deal with the un-crazies they'd unfortunately encounter in our sometimes very plain world.
I could have been a philosopher. And I'm by no means money-hungry, but this kind of a gig is really only lucrative if you have an empire who funds your work while you graze in fields all day and converse with civilians in the streets to rouse some heady dialogue. And for this, it would need to be both a very different political system, and probably also 400 BCE.
Failed scientist, mathematician and engineer are also career options for me. I guess right now I'm failing excellently at these, and will count them in the win column.
But for today, it seems, I have lined up two co-hosts for this week's open mic which I won't be able to attend, and it has become a symbolic moment for me. If I can create something that can't be easily measured or contained, whose future is unpredictable and whose potential is immense and completely dependent of my own efforts, I can do a lot of things in this lifetime.
I can run it into the ground, or I can run away from it, or I can just run. Just run it. There's still time for me to be all kinds of else.
I could have been a teacher, although right now I AM in some capacity. He knows three chords already! But my real aim here was to take the two things I am most in love with right now and put one in the hands of the other. Like all teachers, my end game is a relatively selfish one. It must be an ancient animal instinct to want to see a man holding/using/building something out of wood. Us ladies can't seem to resist a man splitting a log, carting a little one in a wagon, or playing a guitar. The command of an instrument is not unlike the taming of an animal. Its magnificent and sexual to watch somebody masterfully (or adorably stumblingly) use an instrument that mystifies, excites, and eludes them.
I could have been an erotic novelist.
There was room in my head a long time ago for social work or psychiatry. If there were such a specialist willing to desert themselves in the most vivid and terrifyingly cerebral landscape: the artist's mind. Everyone else who I would deal with would surely leave after one diagnoses. I don't agree with the idea of normal, and generally speaking people seek out the comfort of that title. I would be happy to tell every patient they were functionally f*cked up and let them go on, with some guidance perhaps on how to deal with the un-crazies they'd unfortunately encounter in our sometimes very plain world.
I could have been a philosopher. And I'm by no means money-hungry, but this kind of a gig is really only lucrative if you have an empire who funds your work while you graze in fields all day and converse with civilians in the streets to rouse some heady dialogue. And for this, it would need to be both a very different political system, and probably also 400 BCE.
Failed scientist, mathematician and engineer are also career options for me. I guess right now I'm failing excellently at these, and will count them in the win column.
But for today, it seems, I have lined up two co-hosts for this week's open mic which I won't be able to attend, and it has become a symbolic moment for me. If I can create something that can't be easily measured or contained, whose future is unpredictable and whose potential is immense and completely dependent of my own efforts, I can do a lot of things in this lifetime.
I can run it into the ground, or I can run away from it, or I can just run. Just run it. There's still time for me to be all kinds of else.
Thursday 19 April 2012
Judgement Day
Not the apocalypse. Although I did see someone riding a full elliptical bike down the Danforth. No seat; just standing and riding. But this judgement day to which I refer is not the end of the world.
In fact it is an affirmation that the (my) world is going to keep turning. We have another month of the open mic!
This means a number of things to me. First off, it means that I have more time to prove that this little engine that could, CAN. There is a market for us, and the people who are coming to play are slotting Sunday nights into their schedules to keep playing for us. All of a sudden I'm starting to bridge the gap between the two things I want to do in this life. Make music and provide others with the ability to make music.
I recently learned some more valuable shit about myself in the process. Not only am I slightly qualified and horrifyingly passionate about musicians, but I am also decent at seeing this entire situation from the business angle. That said, I'M SELLING OUT!
Bullshit. Selling out is not about money. If the show, or any band, or your mom with her customized knitting outfit, if these entities earn money from their craft, GOOD FOR THEM. Its not about money, or sponsors, its about keeping the vision you have. If I rake in the dough playing small gigs in indie clubs and getting Now Magazine critics drooling at my feet, but all I ever wanted was to don a glittery tube top and shoot fire from a crown while I belt out candy pop, I'm a sell out.
The vision is the thing. The mission comes first. And if we start to grow, and it becomes a real destination for some folks and we get some stickers from some music peeps who represent the man, then bring it. This is about success by the standards we set for ourselves. This is not a contest of restraint or a battle of who has the better starving artist story. However, I did sneak into the movies today for the first time ever because I spent my last dime on bug traps for the hole I call an apartment. (I'm not proud of having cheated the filmmakers or the industry, and I love Joss Whedon but I own every bit of film and television he's ever touched, so the man can do without my ticket price for now. By the way, everyone go see The Cabin in the Woods. And pay. I plan to go again. AND PAY.) Point is, it's about measuring success as to the individual.
Trivial details of my still poverty-stricken existence aside, this weekly gig I put together still holds so much meaning in so many interesting ways that I can't dwell too much on all the things it says about me and what I'm doing with my life. It's such a ride that I just have to not stop to reflect just yet, not too much anyway. For now I think the course of action is to keep going, keep building.
Its an odd thing to consider, defining yourself. I have always been a lot of things, but host is a very different role from performer, from marketing chick and roadie and back-up guitarist and harmonizer and that girl who works at second cup and is inevitably also creative in some way. All of these labels excite and inspire me to live up to them. I'm still a little foggy about the version of me that made this happen, because now I'm her sometimes, and other times I'm also a fumbling fop who plugs some things in and makes a night of music happen for a bunch of people who then say that they enjoyed themselves. Still got to wrap my head around these things. But in the mean time somebody smart decided I have more time to keep doing this. Maybe before it's all over I'll figure it out at least a little bit. Doubtful though. And I wonder, does it really matter if I ever completely 'get' it?
In fact it is an affirmation that the (my) world is going to keep turning. We have another month of the open mic!
This means a number of things to me. First off, it means that I have more time to prove that this little engine that could, CAN. There is a market for us, and the people who are coming to play are slotting Sunday nights into their schedules to keep playing for us. All of a sudden I'm starting to bridge the gap between the two things I want to do in this life. Make music and provide others with the ability to make music.
I recently learned some more valuable shit about myself in the process. Not only am I slightly qualified and horrifyingly passionate about musicians, but I am also decent at seeing this entire situation from the business angle. That said, I'M SELLING OUT!
Bullshit. Selling out is not about money. If the show, or any band, or your mom with her customized knitting outfit, if these entities earn money from their craft, GOOD FOR THEM. Its not about money, or sponsors, its about keeping the vision you have. If I rake in the dough playing small gigs in indie clubs and getting Now Magazine critics drooling at my feet, but all I ever wanted was to don a glittery tube top and shoot fire from a crown while I belt out candy pop, I'm a sell out.
The vision is the thing. The mission comes first. And if we start to grow, and it becomes a real destination for some folks and we get some stickers from some music peeps who represent the man, then bring it. This is about success by the standards we set for ourselves. This is not a contest of restraint or a battle of who has the better starving artist story. However, I did sneak into the movies today for the first time ever because I spent my last dime on bug traps for the hole I call an apartment. (I'm not proud of having cheated the filmmakers or the industry, and I love Joss Whedon but I own every bit of film and television he's ever touched, so the man can do without my ticket price for now. By the way, everyone go see The Cabin in the Woods. And pay. I plan to go again. AND PAY.) Point is, it's about measuring success as to the individual.
Trivial details of my still poverty-stricken existence aside, this weekly gig I put together still holds so much meaning in so many interesting ways that I can't dwell too much on all the things it says about me and what I'm doing with my life. It's such a ride that I just have to not stop to reflect just yet, not too much anyway. For now I think the course of action is to keep going, keep building.
Its an odd thing to consider, defining yourself. I have always been a lot of things, but host is a very different role from performer, from marketing chick and roadie and back-up guitarist and harmonizer and that girl who works at second cup and is inevitably also creative in some way. All of these labels excite and inspire me to live up to them. I'm still a little foggy about the version of me that made this happen, because now I'm her sometimes, and other times I'm also a fumbling fop who plugs some things in and makes a night of music happen for a bunch of people who then say that they enjoyed themselves. Still got to wrap my head around these things. But in the mean time somebody smart decided I have more time to keep doing this. Maybe before it's all over I'll figure it out at least a little bit. Doubtful though. And I wonder, does it really matter if I ever completely 'get' it?
Friday 6 April 2012
How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Shameless Advertising
The other night I spoke with the owner of the Fox and Fiddle where the open mic is held (and by this I mean he let me do one, he's letting me do another, I suppose this is how things start). He gave me a stack of amazing posters and some advice: "Take these everywhere. Go to Timothy's and Starbucks (I daylight as a barista- at Second Cup) and tell everybody." As if I haven't called my own mother 3 times to make sure I tell her that I'm doing this. Then he says "get birthdays and suggest parties on the night of the open mic." I suspect that most birthday parties would be best enjoyed at wild kareoke or live bands, but perhaps a certain group really wants to hear some nice soft unplugged stuff to celebrate a year gone by. So I considered this.
He is an ad man. He runs two other very successful restaurants among other ventures, so I trust his advice. I also take it with a grain of salt. (After all, the artist must do all in her power to fight 'the man' and bite the hand that feeds.)
Also, my ignorance about strategic selling has me in a spin. I know how to tell friends and regulars at work about my project, but I estimate half of that is small talk white noise to them. I hope more of them come to support, but it's akin to tossing a bag of denim cutoffs off the roof of a downtown office building onto a hundred pedestrians. Maybe 10 of them take a pair home. The real gold is in the other 25 or 30 who tell of the miraculous heaven-sent shorts. They tell their unfashionable friends who then show up the next day in wait. What I need is to find some really unfashionable people who want my demin shorts.
So I went out on the town. I really went to town on the town. I plastered my posters anywhere that would have them. It's actually starting to excite me to consider where else I can take my campaign. Where do musicians go? Hopefully to my open mic night. But the question is, where are they now? Do I know how to sell them on this? What kind of suit is somewhere between the effortless charisma of Janis Joplin and he smoky charm of Don Draper?
He is an ad man. He runs two other very successful restaurants among other ventures, so I trust his advice. I also take it with a grain of salt. (After all, the artist must do all in her power to fight 'the man' and bite the hand that feeds.)
Also, my ignorance about strategic selling has me in a spin. I know how to tell friends and regulars at work about my project, but I estimate half of that is small talk white noise to them. I hope more of them come to support, but it's akin to tossing a bag of denim cutoffs off the roof of a downtown office building onto a hundred pedestrians. Maybe 10 of them take a pair home. The real gold is in the other 25 or 30 who tell of the miraculous heaven-sent shorts. They tell their unfashionable friends who then show up the next day in wait. What I need is to find some really unfashionable people who want my demin shorts.
So I went out on the town. I really went to town on the town. I plastered my posters anywhere that would have them. It's actually starting to excite me to consider where else I can take my campaign. Where do musicians go? Hopefully to my open mic night. But the question is, where are they now? Do I know how to sell them on this? What kind of suit is somewhere between the effortless charisma of Janis Joplin and he smoky charm of Don Draper?
Monday 2 April 2012
Its All Happening
The first open mic ended a mere 3 hours ago. Am I on top of the world with giddiness and joy?
Sure. But more so than this, I feel exactly the same as I did yesterday. This I am counting as a massive success.
It means that this didn't factor in fear. It means that I felt safe on that stage. I felt at home up there. This is almost a more terrifying thought than the notion of being so engulfed with nerves that I came off this night in a fit of glee at the surprise of my accomplishment.
Hands down, the ultimate figure to count tonight was the feeling I had walking down from that stage during breaks to chat with friends and family, with musicians who might sign up, with myself about where to take it next. It felt as if I were completely in my element.
It was raw and rough in a lot of ways. The crowd was receptive, nobody left as a result of me, and in fact a few people stayed late to hear.
The total sign ups (not including me) was 3 people. I played for most of that time. And there were a million tunes I didn't play that I am now sitting here excited to play next week.
There was talk tonight of how to end the show. The beginning is easy, its all energy and lights and the first stuff of the night. The last few have to be very specific. They need to follow an arc that reels the crowd back in and makes them hostage until next week.
Tonight my most memorable moment came right after my dad, who killed it by the way, was about to leave. We were unpacking, stowin away all the equipment, and the love of my life and I started tearing down. My father, the reason this became an idea in my mind way back as a child. My boyfriend, my partner who made this come to fruition tonight. We untied the cords and loosened all the mics from their holsters, and I said "you know the song my dad sang to his girlfriend on their first date?" And he smiled because he and I designated this particular tune to ourselves a long time ago as the reigning champion of any kind of musical challenge. The ultimate send-off tune.
The seats are all empty, let the roadies take the stage.
Oh won't you stay just a little bit longer. I am no where close to done. No where close.
Sure. But more so than this, I feel exactly the same as I did yesterday. This I am counting as a massive success.
It means that this didn't factor in fear. It means that I felt safe on that stage. I felt at home up there. This is almost a more terrifying thought than the notion of being so engulfed with nerves that I came off this night in a fit of glee at the surprise of my accomplishment.
Hands down, the ultimate figure to count tonight was the feeling I had walking down from that stage during breaks to chat with friends and family, with musicians who might sign up, with myself about where to take it next. It felt as if I were completely in my element.
It was raw and rough in a lot of ways. The crowd was receptive, nobody left as a result of me, and in fact a few people stayed late to hear.
The total sign ups (not including me) was 3 people. I played for most of that time. And there were a million tunes I didn't play that I am now sitting here excited to play next week.
There was talk tonight of how to end the show. The beginning is easy, its all energy and lights and the first stuff of the night. The last few have to be very specific. They need to follow an arc that reels the crowd back in and makes them hostage until next week.
Tonight my most memorable moment came right after my dad, who killed it by the way, was about to leave. We were unpacking, stowin away all the equipment, and the love of my life and I started tearing down. My father, the reason this became an idea in my mind way back as a child. My boyfriend, my partner who made this come to fruition tonight. We untied the cords and loosened all the mics from their holsters, and I said "you know the song my dad sang to his girlfriend on their first date?" And he smiled because he and I designated this particular tune to ourselves a long time ago as the reigning champion of any kind of musical challenge. The ultimate send-off tune.
The seats are all empty, let the roadies take the stage.
Oh won't you stay just a little bit longer. I am no where close to done. No where close.
Wednesday 28 March 2012
Style
How do you decide the things you will define yourself by in life? The copious shit you own, line your walls with, wear to the gym/grocery store/casual friday etc. The one I've been contemplating is what music counts as within my potential repertoire and which will always elude me or be forever unknown.
At first I adopted the notion that since I can wear a ratty tee shirt to the gym (or to pick up dinner) and have worn more dressy clothes to fridays than on mondays, the same should stand for music. Give me a rocking out 80's hair metal piece and I will adapt it to me. Give me Rhianna and I will do the same. Being the hippie that I inevitably am, and not being one to hear 'you can't' without a valid reason, I am drawn to this notion of anything goes. Its abut conquering again. Going to a foreign land and taking it on as your own in order to have it be part of you instead of you, part of it. So with this in mind I've been hearing every song out there with new ears. I've been trying to determine if I have a line that I won't be able to cross. Funny thing happened.
I realized there might be something noble, maybe pure, maybe vital, in the preservation of certain songs as there are and have been to me. By this I mean, there might be a few tunes that fall into a category where my passion for my craft and my less than ripe status as a musician means I don't yet (or ever) deserve to wander their path. It might be about keeping those meanings and tracks in my memory as untarnished by me, untouched and virgin, but it might also be my fantastic contradiction about musical philosophy.
I want to be able to conquer all, but I also feel it a necessary evil to maintain some mortal status in not allowing myself all the knowledge I might want. The only thing worse than growing up to find you know nothing in growing into a space where you feel there is nothing left to know.
At first I adopted the notion that since I can wear a ratty tee shirt to the gym (or to pick up dinner) and have worn more dressy clothes to fridays than on mondays, the same should stand for music. Give me a rocking out 80's hair metal piece and I will adapt it to me. Give me Rhianna and I will do the same. Being the hippie that I inevitably am, and not being one to hear 'you can't' without a valid reason, I am drawn to this notion of anything goes. Its abut conquering again. Going to a foreign land and taking it on as your own in order to have it be part of you instead of you, part of it. So with this in mind I've been hearing every song out there with new ears. I've been trying to determine if I have a line that I won't be able to cross. Funny thing happened.
I realized there might be something noble, maybe pure, maybe vital, in the preservation of certain songs as there are and have been to me. By this I mean, there might be a few tunes that fall into a category where my passion for my craft and my less than ripe status as a musician means I don't yet (or ever) deserve to wander their path. It might be about keeping those meanings and tracks in my memory as untarnished by me, untouched and virgin, but it might also be my fantastic contradiction about musical philosophy.
I want to be able to conquer all, but I also feel it a necessary evil to maintain some mortal status in not allowing myself all the knowledge I might want. The only thing worse than growing up to find you know nothing in growing into a space where you feel there is nothing left to know.
Wednesday 21 March 2012
Tools
Looking down into the cribs and settling you eyes on your very own babies is one of the most rewarding, unsettling and indescribable feelings in the world. The day you get to swaddle them and take them home is a day forever ensconced in memories as the day your life really changes.
My babies of course of my MX12 400 watt mixer/amp, 2 12-inch passive sub-woofers, and 2 Seinheiser mics (with stands and cords!).
There is little feeling greater than when all of the fantastic things you love in life are surrounding you at once. Driving through the city I love, with the man I love next to me, the sunshine in my face and the meter creeping up on the cab back from Long and McQuade with my NEW AWESOME EQUIPMENT IN THE TRUNK!!!!
So a big deal was made about this stuff. It's just stuff. But once I got it home and really saw what it was, it became more than a few chunks of fabric and metal and dials and cords. It felt like potential. SHIT GOT REAL as we say in the hood.
After a fantastic evening of more detail planning and still yet no real feelings of terror (I'm saving it all for the first night), I played around with some tunes and got to know my newest arrivals.
They sound delicious.
So I went out to another open mic night which I love, at the Old Nick, and saw everything very differently. Their host is fantastically fluid, organized and impossibly cool. She knows everybody, and every kind of musician stereotype was there, though they all seemed so genuine and sincere in their craft. I even had a brush of celebrity, meeting the frontman behind a fantastic jazz funk band I saw in a jazz fest this past summer. Apparently all the good musicians live on the Danforth :) hint hint.
My time there watching the dynamics of an open stage further confirmed my belief in this concept and in my innate ability to do this. I try to avoid it but- like many artists and entertainment folks- it also has a lot to do with me not being able to do anything else.
My babies of course of my MX12 400 watt mixer/amp, 2 12-inch passive sub-woofers, and 2 Seinheiser mics (with stands and cords!).
There is little feeling greater than when all of the fantastic things you love in life are surrounding you at once. Driving through the city I love, with the man I love next to me, the sunshine in my face and the meter creeping up on the cab back from Long and McQuade with my NEW AWESOME EQUIPMENT IN THE TRUNK!!!!
So a big deal was made about this stuff. It's just stuff. But once I got it home and really saw what it was, it became more than a few chunks of fabric and metal and dials and cords. It felt like potential. SHIT GOT REAL as we say in the hood.
After a fantastic evening of more detail planning and still yet no real feelings of terror (I'm saving it all for the first night), I played around with some tunes and got to know my newest arrivals.
They sound delicious.
So I went out to another open mic night which I love, at the Old Nick, and saw everything very differently. Their host is fantastically fluid, organized and impossibly cool. She knows everybody, and every kind of musician stereotype was there, though they all seemed so genuine and sincere in their craft. I even had a brush of celebrity, meeting the frontman behind a fantastic jazz funk band I saw in a jazz fest this past summer. Apparently all the good musicians live on the Danforth :) hint hint.
My time there watching the dynamics of an open stage further confirmed my belief in this concept and in my innate ability to do this. I try to avoid it but- like many artists and entertainment folks- it also has a lot to do with me not being able to do anything else.
Sunday 11 March 2012
An April Fool's to Remember SLASH the BIIIIGGGG step
Finally, after less than 2 months of blogging, and almost no effort, I've made it!
How disgusting would that be if it were true? It's more like this: after 2 months of obsessive posting, reflecting, pushing myself, bragging, uploading music, conquering fears and crying about whether I'm even doing it right, somebody said yes.
Somebody is going to pay me to provide them with music. Some of it by others, some of it by me. What the hell?
Starting in April. So I still have some time to be a vagabond.
I twisted and arm, pined over the details, wrote a proposal, kept showing up to convince him, and he left a big job in my as-yet-to-be-determined-capable hands. I spent two weeks looking up anything on how to host an open mic night and then the chords to every song I can imagine hearing played on a guitar (and then about a million that NOBODY can imagine on a guitar, just for good measure.) I read up on the rules and etiquette of an open mic. My friends and family gave me advice on what to say (ok folks, tonight is so and so's birthday, lets make her feel welcome) and what not to (ok folks, nobody has heard this asshole play before, its his first time! lets hope he's not terrible. give' er!). Then I added up everything I know about music (actually quiet a bit) and hosting a crowd (enough to not pop the mic or insult anyone who doesn't deserve it) and then, finally, about being a musician who has to organize other musicians. Its not a bud summation.
This is the part that I am most excite-terrified about. Mostly because musicians are a temperamental, broody, and unpredictable breed. Factor in that these are amateurs trying out their stuff. So in both ways I can relate, which gives me a slight advantage. They cast Zach Braff as the lead in Scrubs at tender 22, and his newbie-ness was a direct informant to his very real character and the feeling of terror and nervousness that comes with being thrown into the role of leader.
Here's hoping I don't lead anybody down a dark alley or into an unfair fight. A guitar is not a sturdy fighting implement. But at least it sounds pretty.
How disgusting would that be if it were true? It's more like this: after 2 months of obsessive posting, reflecting, pushing myself, bragging, uploading music, conquering fears and crying about whether I'm even doing it right, somebody said yes.
Somebody is going to pay me to provide them with music. Some of it by others, some of it by me. What the hell?
Starting in April. So I still have some time to be a vagabond.
I twisted and arm, pined over the details, wrote a proposal, kept showing up to convince him, and he left a big job in my as-yet-to-be-determined-capable hands. I spent two weeks looking up anything on how to host an open mic night and then the chords to every song I can imagine hearing played on a guitar (and then about a million that NOBODY can imagine on a guitar, just for good measure.) I read up on the rules and etiquette of an open mic. My friends and family gave me advice on what to say (ok folks, tonight is so and so's birthday, lets make her feel welcome) and what not to (ok folks, nobody has heard this asshole play before, its his first time! lets hope he's not terrible. give' er!). Then I added up everything I know about music (actually quiet a bit) and hosting a crowd (enough to not pop the mic or insult anyone who doesn't deserve it) and then, finally, about being a musician who has to organize other musicians. Its not a bud summation.
This is the part that I am most excite-terrified about. Mostly because musicians are a temperamental, broody, and unpredictable breed. Factor in that these are amateurs trying out their stuff. So in both ways I can relate, which gives me a slight advantage. They cast Zach Braff as the lead in Scrubs at tender 22, and his newbie-ness was a direct informant to his very real character and the feeling of terror and nervousness that comes with being thrown into the role of leader.
Here's hoping I don't lead anybody down a dark alley or into an unfair fight. A guitar is not a sturdy fighting implement. But at least it sounds pretty.
Friday 2 March 2012
Identity Crisis
So since this takeover, there's been some question among friends and foes about the name change. About the concept itself, about what it means, about why Jesse doesn't write this and Jane Lady does.
The concept:
I'm about to repeat myself. I don't often do, but in this case my high school english teacher's words ring true that if somebody says it once, its intentional, but if they say it twice, its important. So here it is. The concept has to do with saving myself form myself. To hide behind an alias gives one the freedom to create what they will of a character, and use them to highlight the best parts of that personae, and maybe get a chance to bring in some much needed, lacking attributes. For instance, the fear is something Jane Lady doesn't take to. There is also a strong point to be made in naming a band after something inspiring and something that creates some branding.
What it means:
The notion of being plain, of being Jane, is something I love. It's liberating to feel normal, to be basic, simple and unrefined. It lets me have all the flaws and fears I (we) struggle to get a handle on. Now here comes to poetry. To be the Lady of any place is to rule it, to be the upholder of all feminine ideals and manners, to act with only the kind of elegance and grace that one expects from royalty. In the ultimate music story ever told, the woman behind the man who inspires the music and the madness, and whose youth informs and designs the arch of every other characters' progress? Her name is Penny Lane, and she's perfectly executed by Kate Hudson in Almost Famous. Over the film it's questioned what her real name is. She reveals that her mother always advised her to 'marry up, and marry someone grand. and that's why she named me Lady.' There are also a few varying ways these names are anagrams. And I love nerding out with worgasms as much as I love to sing.
So there you go. That's the what and why. Now here is the revelation for today.
A concept that has been only literal to me now has recently become very metaphorical. Jesse Daly and Jane Lady are one in the same. My words are hers are ours. We are one. I don't have to hide. I don't have to fear. It's time I start owning up to what's what and who I am.
That said, a stage name is always a good business and marketing strategy, and, face facts, its fun.
From here on out, I'm Jesse Daly. AND Jane Lady. Any combination of these ideas is possible at any given moment. But for the purposes of some very big news that is potentially about to befall me, I have to choose one definitive identity. As me, as musician.
I have the opportunity to host an open mic night.
There are of course a million and one other more pressing questions which I am working on answering for myself about how this ridiculous notion has come into my life. But the first and foremost right now for me, what in high heaven do I call myself when I get up there for the first time?
I like J. Lady J.
Let's see if anybody else likes her.
Likes me.
The concept:
I'm about to repeat myself. I don't often do, but in this case my high school english teacher's words ring true that if somebody says it once, its intentional, but if they say it twice, its important. So here it is. The concept has to do with saving myself form myself. To hide behind an alias gives one the freedom to create what they will of a character, and use them to highlight the best parts of that personae, and maybe get a chance to bring in some much needed, lacking attributes. For instance, the fear is something Jane Lady doesn't take to. There is also a strong point to be made in naming a band after something inspiring and something that creates some branding.
What it means:
The notion of being plain, of being Jane, is something I love. It's liberating to feel normal, to be basic, simple and unrefined. It lets me have all the flaws and fears I (we) struggle to get a handle on. Now here comes to poetry. To be the Lady of any place is to rule it, to be the upholder of all feminine ideals and manners, to act with only the kind of elegance and grace that one expects from royalty. In the ultimate music story ever told, the woman behind the man who inspires the music and the madness, and whose youth informs and designs the arch of every other characters' progress? Her name is Penny Lane, and she's perfectly executed by Kate Hudson in Almost Famous. Over the film it's questioned what her real name is. She reveals that her mother always advised her to 'marry up, and marry someone grand. and that's why she named me Lady.' There are also a few varying ways these names are anagrams. And I love nerding out with worgasms as much as I love to sing.
So there you go. That's the what and why. Now here is the revelation for today.
A concept that has been only literal to me now has recently become very metaphorical. Jesse Daly and Jane Lady are one in the same. My words are hers are ours. We are one. I don't have to hide. I don't have to fear. It's time I start owning up to what's what and who I am.
That said, a stage name is always a good business and marketing strategy, and, face facts, its fun.
From here on out, I'm Jesse Daly. AND Jane Lady. Any combination of these ideas is possible at any given moment. But for the purposes of some very big news that is potentially about to befall me, I have to choose one definitive identity. As me, as musician.
I have the opportunity to host an open mic night.
There are of course a million and one other more pressing questions which I am working on answering for myself about how this ridiculous notion has come into my life. But the first and foremost right now for me, what in high heaven do I call myself when I get up there for the first time?
I like J. Lady J.
Let's see if anybody else likes her.
Likes me.
Wednesday 29 February 2012
Kareoke Night
One of the many ways our western world has poached a great Japanese idea and adopted it to our narcissistic traditions is the karaoke night. It stirs up so many feelings inside me.
Firstly, is a shamed sense of excitement and expectation. But I will get to that.
After the death of a great voice in pop music recently, I heard a very white, very red-headed woman belt out my favourite Whitney song, 'I Have Nothing,' in tribute at last weeks karaoke. She made me cry. not because I knew or missed the woman she was paying homage to, but because this chick has serious chops and soul. And it is intimidating.
Karaoke is the perfect thing for a musician when they are drinking with friends, and laughing at how terrible every act is. But when someone great, AND I MEANT FANTASTIC, takes their turn, it has a terrifying effect. I'm not talking about fear of them being better in any way (though that is sometimes true, and that's ok. There's a whole thing here about confidence in music and how not to compare yourself to others who differ and so on and whatever, she was good and I was a bit green about it. Sue me.) I'm talking about something bigger. If she is better, if a lot of these people are up there really killing it, why aren't they in a band at some other bar getting paid? Why are they sandwiched between the drunken frat boy rappers and fresh-from-a-breakup balladeers? And if I'm only sitting laughing from the shadows, how can I call myself a supporter of the arts, of music, a musician at all?
These kinds of doubts about myself and contempt for the industry are healthy and human, but sometimes they just make me remember I'm an asshole.
Karaoke is also a great release for musicians in between bands, those too busy with life to have steady gigs, or budding music lovers testing their courage. But its hard to see the things in life that don't just answer the selfish questions we ask ourselves. Like why it's still a struggle of nerves every time i step up to the plate.
Coming to a night like tonight is always about appreciating the guts it takes, and the passion that comes out. After learning what I have about my feelings on this ridiculous and fantastic concept, I will never laugh again. Unless it's at me belting out Total Eclipse of the Heart.
Firstly, is a shamed sense of excitement and expectation. But I will get to that.
After the death of a great voice in pop music recently, I heard a very white, very red-headed woman belt out my favourite Whitney song, 'I Have Nothing,' in tribute at last weeks karaoke. She made me cry. not because I knew or missed the woman she was paying homage to, but because this chick has serious chops and soul. And it is intimidating.
Karaoke is the perfect thing for a musician when they are drinking with friends, and laughing at how terrible every act is. But when someone great, AND I MEANT FANTASTIC, takes their turn, it has a terrifying effect. I'm not talking about fear of them being better in any way (though that is sometimes true, and that's ok. There's a whole thing here about confidence in music and how not to compare yourself to others who differ and so on and whatever, she was good and I was a bit green about it. Sue me.) I'm talking about something bigger. If she is better, if a lot of these people are up there really killing it, why aren't they in a band at some other bar getting paid? Why are they sandwiched between the drunken frat boy rappers and fresh-from-a-breakup balladeers? And if I'm only sitting laughing from the shadows, how can I call myself a supporter of the arts, of music, a musician at all?
These kinds of doubts about myself and contempt for the industry are healthy and human, but sometimes they just make me remember I'm an asshole.
Karaoke is also a great release for musicians in between bands, those too busy with life to have steady gigs, or budding music lovers testing their courage. But its hard to see the things in life that don't just answer the selfish questions we ask ourselves. Like why it's still a struggle of nerves every time i step up to the plate.
Coming to a night like tonight is always about appreciating the guts it takes, and the passion that comes out. After learning what I have about my feelings on this ridiculous and fantastic concept, I will never laugh again. Unless it's at me belting out Total Eclipse of the Heart.
Sunday 26 February 2012
I'll Miss That Bus
LA would be great if I could get to work on time
I'd be always indisposed by all that damn sunshine
And I'd sure like to love you, in another state of mind
It's not like my kind
Italy now she's for me, she never makes a fuss
Another bowl, hello every old soul, all in among the dust
True, I'm overused, but I'm still new I need some time to rust
I'll miss that bus
Small towns mostly bring me down but they got a lot to say
Mostly bluffs I would like to huff, if I could only find a way
Warm when I was there, but unprepared to ever have to leave
Be a loose thread to such a tight weave
Friday 24 February 2012
Something From My High School Days, Something About Why to Do This
This is about the people you surround
yourself with and how they have an uncany ability to raise you up or crush you.
Last night I remembered why there is talk of social circles and how networking
works. I have always been afraid to show people what I can do because there are
few who believe in it. Its tough to believe in your own work when you know its
not about whether you love it to death but if someone will one day fork over
some money to witness what you've created. It’s not just a selfish desire to
create, it the need to give a voice you've heard from silent people back to
them.
When I sing a song about a prostitute who is proud of what she does, then
the man who sells her and holds mostly resentment now for his place in the
world, and finally the women whose husbands’ seek solace in the paid company instead of
their wives, I am trying to tell a story that has no voice behind it. By no
means am I a crusader or vigilante justice-seeker, but I know from experience
the important of being told you are not alone. It can be an amazing thing when
someone connects so deeply to what they have heard, and if that is something I
am capable of, who is to say that is not noble? I think the most respectable
choice anyone can make is to choose to do the things they are good at because
it scares them to try, to be vulnerable to criticism. And maybe there is a part
of me who just wants to show the bastards I'm not just a struggling student
with a splintered definition of family and a guitar my dad bought for me. Maybe
I am a little bitter, a little vengeful. But I'm not just vengeful for myself,
I want to get stories out there and make people feel because I know they need
it. I might be righteous in my attempts to be the hero, but if I have seen the
power of these things then I can't turn my back on my ability to do them.
Outside of arguing for the arts of film, music, theatre and all that, is the
truth of the situation that doctors are necessary for the human race, but how
are musicians not? They don't physically save lives? How many kids wrote to
Metallica after Fade to Black saying they put the pills away and saw what
they'd be missing if they went through with it? And how many people marry their
husbands and wives and have that terribly fluffy but lighthearted romantic tune in the memories of that first date? To say that music has the power to
help change the world is not a refutable thing anymore when we have Marley and
the Beatles or Elvis, and Michael Jackson, breaking down racial and political
barriers, and even the early jazz greats like Coltrane and Miles Davis in our
canon. So it's a triumph that these people exist and can create such a staple
in our lives as we grow up.
And for too
long young people with gifts and passion have been discouraged because the
business is shark water.
Well my question is :why did they decide we wanted to
be in it just for the business? I do not believe there is such a thing as
selling out, because if you truly love something and can be paid to do it, why
wouldn't you do whatever you could to get that out there and get your pay? But
equally as important is our desire to be respected by our peers and to have
affirmation that what we do matters to someone. Aside from the arguments of
validity between the kinds of music or film that we make, aside from the pigeonholed
groups of fans we are told to sell to, there is a simple question: Does it make
an impact you can be proud of? Does it reach someone? Did you get a solid buzz
getting up there and wailing?
Money is a necessary evil, but so is music. It hurts when your
fingers bleed but if you are playing to ears that truly hear you, the
commitment is not lost on them. And to say you want to make music, to make
films, is not an unattainable goal. It's not outside your reach. It's not
invalid. It is worth your time and within your grasp. It will take all the work
they say it will, and you will always have to learn new things about how to get
your music out there. But if you are willing to, you do it. Because music and
filmmaking and theatre are breathing to people like us. Why do we do it?
Because we can't NOT. So do it!
Wednesday 22 February 2012
Never One to Make Plans
In recent days, a bout of cowardice has plagued me regarding my hunt for work, shelter, and my mind. One Katie Rodgers, a dear old friend who told me when I was 6 and singing along to Killing me Softly that I was good, and who is responsible for roughly one fifth of my musical confidence, came out for a beer with me.
Amongst our girly catching up and many gin and sprites, two things became overwhelmingly clear: our current dramas are almost in complete parallel (yay for grown-up responsibility and youthful confusion), and, we were at an open mic night.
How did this happen to little ol' me without my knowledge? Well it was strategic, to be frank. I knew what was afoot. And I decided to trick myself into a position where the temptation for song would outweigh my fear. It worked.
Several brews into the evening, and my lust-on for the tunage only growing (and this particular brand of acoustic soulful bluesy rock and pop at the Old Nick on Danforth) Katie begged me to go up. I won't lie; it gives me worry lines. I feigned nervousness. I pulled out all the stops with my feminine blushing and fake protests. I mulled over what songs I had in my back pocket that would further reconcile the common commisteration we had been indulging in all night. The petite plucky pixie-cut brunette who hosts the evening stepped out from the street-lit window stage and I bombarded her with 'you were fantastic' and 'how does one get on up there' and 'all i need is a guitar' and my name was inked into the list.
After a fantastically soulful, Dolly Parton-sounding Sarah Harmer-looking too-little-for-her-guitar but with a voice that cracked perfectly on cue, I wandered up with my napkin-written setlist. I felt too drunk to remember the chords to some of the songs I'd considered, but I knew suddenly that this long journey from our table to the 3inch step-stage was less about me and more about my old and dear friend, and what she wanted from me in a time of some cloudiness. So I suppose I played as much for her as for me and the 20 people in the room.
I started with a particularly apropos tune for the audience, in keeping with their twangy country-tinged blues, and covered a Sam Cooke ditty called "Thats It, I Quit, I'm Movin On." I felt it in my gut that I was emoting myself with every line. Katie's eyes met mine with a knowing smirk on some of Sam's words that had really been ours that night. I couldn't help but look into the crowd at their attentiveness. It was freeing. A glimpse of two men at the bar, nodding their heads in appreciation or perhaps recognition, then a sight of myself breifly in the mirror to my left, and back to the barkeep, a quirky blonde brit named Siouxie (who entirely deserves to spell it like the Banchees did.) A look back to my scrawled song list. I fucked up some chords on Dreams. I belted my heart out on Basement Apartment. I was there for nobody but me, and then I was there for the room, and for Kate.
I ended up unsure of where to end my little dream and played off a few random chords I really love and put the guitar back in its holster, having left a few bullets in it for next Tuesday.
Amongst our girly catching up and many gin and sprites, two things became overwhelmingly clear: our current dramas are almost in complete parallel (yay for grown-up responsibility and youthful confusion), and, we were at an open mic night.
How did this happen to little ol' me without my knowledge? Well it was strategic, to be frank. I knew what was afoot. And I decided to trick myself into a position where the temptation for song would outweigh my fear. It worked.
Several brews into the evening, and my lust-on for the tunage only growing (and this particular brand of acoustic soulful bluesy rock and pop at the Old Nick on Danforth) Katie begged me to go up. I won't lie; it gives me worry lines. I feigned nervousness. I pulled out all the stops with my feminine blushing and fake protests. I mulled over what songs I had in my back pocket that would further reconcile the common commisteration we had been indulging in all night. The petite plucky pixie-cut brunette who hosts the evening stepped out from the street-lit window stage and I bombarded her with 'you were fantastic' and 'how does one get on up there' and 'all i need is a guitar' and my name was inked into the list.
After a fantastically soulful, Dolly Parton-sounding Sarah Harmer-looking too-little-for-her-guitar but with a voice that cracked perfectly on cue, I wandered up with my napkin-written setlist. I felt too drunk to remember the chords to some of the songs I'd considered, but I knew suddenly that this long journey from our table to the 3inch step-stage was less about me and more about my old and dear friend, and what she wanted from me in a time of some cloudiness. So I suppose I played as much for her as for me and the 20 people in the room.
I started with a particularly apropos tune for the audience, in keeping with their twangy country-tinged blues, and covered a Sam Cooke ditty called "Thats It, I Quit, I'm Movin On." I felt it in my gut that I was emoting myself with every line. Katie's eyes met mine with a knowing smirk on some of Sam's words that had really been ours that night. I couldn't help but look into the crowd at their attentiveness. It was freeing. A glimpse of two men at the bar, nodding their heads in appreciation or perhaps recognition, then a sight of myself breifly in the mirror to my left, and back to the barkeep, a quirky blonde brit named Siouxie (who entirely deserves to spell it like the Banchees did.) A look back to my scrawled song list. I fucked up some chords on Dreams. I belted my heart out on Basement Apartment. I was there for nobody but me, and then I was there for the room, and for Kate.
I ended up unsure of where to end my little dream and played off a few random chords I really love and put the guitar back in its holster, having left a few bullets in it for next Tuesday.
Tuesday 14 February 2012
Finally I Finished Something
What better reason for music is there than love?
After the fancy meal, high heel, dress-wearing portion of our early St Val's day, myself and my fella went home for 4 solid hours of 'togetherness.' This is known to us as "The Challenge: Valentines Edition"
Competition began with my hours-of-work super homedmade gift, which I realized upon further thought would have completely won me the music-off. Would have been too easy. And I won anyway :)
<----- So here it is.
For every line and note is so perfect in its original, but its words and sounds are worth more to me now that they are shared with so many people I love.
Happy Valentine's Day. To music, to Neil, to everyone who might have read this or clicked play, I'm still in love with you.
After the fancy meal, high heel, dress-wearing portion of our early St Val's day, myself and my fella went home for 4 solid hours of 'togetherness.' This is known to us as "The Challenge: Valentines Edition"
Competition began with my hours-of-work super homedmade gift, which I realized upon further thought would have completely won me the music-off. Would have been too easy. And I won anyway :)
<----- So here it is.
For every line and note is so perfect in its original, but its words and sounds are worth more to me now that they are shared with so many people I love.
Happy Valentine's Day. To music, to Neil, to everyone who might have read this or clicked play, I'm still in love with you.
Wednesday 1 February 2012
Verdict
So what two things are equally as inspirational and discouraging to you JL's music career?
The boyfriend and the father.
This is not about blame. This is about seeing their faces light up so much over dinner and drinks as they crack jokes at my expense and conveniently forget the time. I'm set to go on for 10 30, too late for dad and now too late to leave for the open mic night, as watches are peeked at and eyes made across the table asking if I'd rather be here, now, with the men I love.
So the audience that night was one. But an important one. A step one. I suppose that is what I meant.
And I went home, and I played some tunes, with the kind of soul and fervour that I would expect of myself in the best of times. And it might have been 4 ears instead of 20 or 30 but it was real and right and what I needed that night.
This is not a disappointment people. If you feel that way, you miss the point and its unfortunate for you that your minds are too small to see what my eyes were blind to until that night. What was said, in brief:
"If I feel inspired, let me be. My terms are simple. Play the next song that needs to be in the air."
"Twelve minutes of silence needs to be heard on track 11 before you get to the bonus song. It's worth twelve years of silence. Trust."
"How will we live together, with desks faced away, blowing our smoke out the the side and cueing up new sounds for ourselves and our other ears? Oh, that's how. That's house. That's home."
What was played, at length:
Bobby McGee
One Flight Down
Poker Face
Dreams
Some Sam Cooke, not in the memory space to say what
Adele
Beatles
Old Apartment
Some games involving musical competitions of djing and such. I lost to the dj, but really we both won. Want some wine for that cheese?
J. Lady is ready to steal herself some spotlight. I want to put it off to the side though, so it can give me a quiet fuzz and let the room spin on its own axis. But there will be the few who see the sounds float in the haze. They will love me. I will shine for them. It's not always for me.
The boyfriend and the father.
This is not about blame. This is about seeing their faces light up so much over dinner and drinks as they crack jokes at my expense and conveniently forget the time. I'm set to go on for 10 30, too late for dad and now too late to leave for the open mic night, as watches are peeked at and eyes made across the table asking if I'd rather be here, now, with the men I love.
So the audience that night was one. But an important one. A step one. I suppose that is what I meant.
And I went home, and I played some tunes, with the kind of soul and fervour that I would expect of myself in the best of times. And it might have been 4 ears instead of 20 or 30 but it was real and right and what I needed that night.
This is not a disappointment people. If you feel that way, you miss the point and its unfortunate for you that your minds are too small to see what my eyes were blind to until that night. What was said, in brief:
"If I feel inspired, let me be. My terms are simple. Play the next song that needs to be in the air."
"Twelve minutes of silence needs to be heard on track 11 before you get to the bonus song. It's worth twelve years of silence. Trust."
"How will we live together, with desks faced away, blowing our smoke out the the side and cueing up new sounds for ourselves and our other ears? Oh, that's how. That's house. That's home."
What was played, at length:
Bobby McGee
One Flight Down
Poker Face
Dreams
Some Sam Cooke, not in the memory space to say what
Adele
Beatles
Old Apartment
Some games involving musical competitions of djing and such. I lost to the dj, but really we both won. Want some wine for that cheese?
J. Lady is ready to steal herself some spotlight. I want to put it off to the side though, so it can give me a quiet fuzz and let the room spin on its own axis. But there will be the few who see the sounds float in the haze. They will love me. I will shine for them. It's not always for me.
Wednesday 25 January 2012
Step One
Today is Thursday. I will wake up again to almost darkness. This shouldn't be such a big deal to me.
Hump day is over (what a day it was for old J Lady, ;)
My dad comes into town. I will be making some music for myself while people watch and listen. The nerves may drive me to a bottle, a touch of tobacco or some other such rock star indulgence I have yet to experience or understand.
Setlist ideas have been in my head and suggested by dear friends, and some feeling comes over me regarding preparedness. A question appears in my soul that my head tries to sayd 'f*ck you' to. What am I, a boyscout?
I plan to go into this in the same way as I spend every 'performance.' Imagine them in their underwear? Hell no. Imagine them around the campfire in your backyard. Imagine them in their own world, with their own dramas and conversations and revelations, swaying in and out with your words and your rhythms. Maybe they are intellectualizing your lyrics, maybe they are missing their boyfriends, maybe they are ignoring you entirely (in their conscious minds) and simply feel some haze of the atmosphere that you've contributed to without so much as a thought about who you are and what you are doing there. Maybe they are falling in love with you all over again. Maybe they never fell out of love.
In any case, I will go up there with no forethought, because that kind of thing belongs to somebody else. Ms. Lady doesn't gel with the concept of forethought. How can you know anything about yourself until the moment is upon you? This leads into my experience in killing a man with my bare hands in self-defence.
Kidding.
But you wondered, didn't you?
So will I slay this audience tonight in the west end? The trip alone from my little nestling spot in the east makes it feel removed from me. I don't know how it will end. But I intend on watching Almost Famous to prepare myself for sheer embarrassment and inspiration. When Jason Lee's character says "I look for the one guy who's NOT getting off, and I MAKE him get off, and actually, THAT you can print' I strongly want to cream my jeans at his intensity. At his conviction. His goal is simple, his eyes are clear (maybe save for the cloudyness of a room that one Ms. Mary Jane is likely gracing her presence with.)
But his intention is akin to my own. I will go in there, I will do what I feel, and I will walk out with the love of my family. My friends. Maybe a few unsuspecting listeners who feel something. Who knows? I can't decide for them. I can resolve to just grow a pair and get right in there. Like a dirty shirt, as my good friend Ed would say. In fact, he'd tell me all this thinking and typing is bullshit anyways. I know he'd be in the crowd if he could. But even from across the world he really is ehre anyway.
And now that it's gotten predictably syrupy and emotional, I should end this. For the sake of balance though, I also want to proclaim that while half of me is doing this for the glory and pride in conquering this first fear, part of me also knows that, if nothing else, it WILL get me super laid. Thanks T. Fighter.
Wish me luck, break my legs, do what you want, have a beer and a laugh and come on out if you're diggin it. Aspetta Cafe. Kensington. 8ish. No dress code I know of.
Hump day is over (what a day it was for old J Lady, ;)
My dad comes into town. I will be making some music for myself while people watch and listen. The nerves may drive me to a bottle, a touch of tobacco or some other such rock star indulgence I have yet to experience or understand.
Setlist ideas have been in my head and suggested by dear friends, and some feeling comes over me regarding preparedness. A question appears in my soul that my head tries to sayd 'f*ck you' to. What am I, a boyscout?
I plan to go into this in the same way as I spend every 'performance.' Imagine them in their underwear? Hell no. Imagine them around the campfire in your backyard. Imagine them in their own world, with their own dramas and conversations and revelations, swaying in and out with your words and your rhythms. Maybe they are intellectualizing your lyrics, maybe they are missing their boyfriends, maybe they are ignoring you entirely (in their conscious minds) and simply feel some haze of the atmosphere that you've contributed to without so much as a thought about who you are and what you are doing there. Maybe they are falling in love with you all over again. Maybe they never fell out of love.
In any case, I will go up there with no forethought, because that kind of thing belongs to somebody else. Ms. Lady doesn't gel with the concept of forethought. How can you know anything about yourself until the moment is upon you? This leads into my experience in killing a man with my bare hands in self-defence.
Kidding.
But you wondered, didn't you?
So will I slay this audience tonight in the west end? The trip alone from my little nestling spot in the east makes it feel removed from me. I don't know how it will end. But I intend on watching Almost Famous to prepare myself for sheer embarrassment and inspiration. When Jason Lee's character says "I look for the one guy who's NOT getting off, and I MAKE him get off, and actually, THAT you can print' I strongly want to cream my jeans at his intensity. At his conviction. His goal is simple, his eyes are clear (maybe save for the cloudyness of a room that one Ms. Mary Jane is likely gracing her presence with.)
But his intention is akin to my own. I will go in there, I will do what I feel, and I will walk out with the love of my family. My friends. Maybe a few unsuspecting listeners who feel something. Who knows? I can't decide for them. I can resolve to just grow a pair and get right in there. Like a dirty shirt, as my good friend Ed would say. In fact, he'd tell me all this thinking and typing is bullshit anyways. I know he'd be in the crowd if he could. But even from across the world he really is ehre anyway.
And now that it's gotten predictably syrupy and emotional, I should end this. For the sake of balance though, I also want to proclaim that while half of me is doing this for the glory and pride in conquering this first fear, part of me also knows that, if nothing else, it WILL get me super laid. Thanks T. Fighter.
Wish me luck, break my legs, do what you want, have a beer and a laugh and come on out if you're diggin it. Aspetta Cafe. Kensington. 8ish. No dress code I know of.
Friday 20 January 2012
This Is The Journey
So I promised to be a good little puppeteer, and since she was slacking away being all moon-eyed in love and a
wee bit crippled by some fears, we've decided together that its best I
now run this town. Lucky for us, I happen to be her better half anyway.
In the long run it was only a matter of time before she gave up. It
takes a lot to let go. And as I've said many times, oh the places we'll
go.
From today on, I will be chronically wherever the journey may take me. If it has been so it shall be writ. If shit goes down, y'all get a tasty little nugget to nibble on. If it is written, so it shall be. This one I really like. There's no lying to the internet, after all ;)
I've never played for a crowd that didn't consist of campfire-drunk friends and family. That is going to change.
If JL wants to tote the 6-string to Kensington Market and bust out some tunes at Aspetta's open mic night on Thursday, then I suppose it has to be done. Fear is not an option.
So come on back to find out if I can really rock the house and get this show on the road. Not that I have any doubts. And in the mean time, perhaps a sweet surprise will pop up to give us a taste of what's to come.
Don't change that dial. Shoot the TV if you really have to.
From today on, I will be chronically wherever the journey may take me. If it has been so it shall be writ. If shit goes down, y'all get a tasty little nugget to nibble on. If it is written, so it shall be. This one I really like. There's no lying to the internet, after all ;)
I've never played for a crowd that didn't consist of campfire-drunk friends and family. That is going to change.
If JL wants to tote the 6-string to Kensington Market and bust out some tunes at Aspetta's open mic night on Thursday, then I suppose it has to be done. Fear is not an option.
So come on back to find out if I can really rock the house and get this show on the road. Not that I have any doubts. And in the mean time, perhaps a sweet surprise will pop up to give us a taste of what's to come.
Don't change that dial. Shoot the TV if you really have to.
Thursday 19 January 2012
You Say You Want a Revolution
This is the takeover, new friends.
Now that she has given in to my wits and ways, Jesse will no
longer be the wordsmith behind this page. Mostly it was the title; I couldn’t
let her get away with it. Oh the places we’ll go.
The excitement in me buzzes like a drug. Bright lights,
stage frights, it will all be here in due time. The exploits of adventures and
endeavors. Perhaps a pratfall or two to keep you guessing. At the very least
you can laugh at me if not with me. In high hopes I ask that you listen along
and don’t dare buckle any seatbelts you might have scrounged from this beat-up
old car, because this ride will only be worth my time, and yours, if we let it
be a bumpy one.
I should explain. But for now I will say this. I am a
musician. Do I yet deserve this title? This has yet to be debated and determined.
Jane Lady doesn’t like to be told no. She doesn’t take well
to fear. And since she is me, I un-solemnly promise to deliver the goods of my
time in the underbelly of the the beast. Maybe the beauty will be rearing its
ugly head on occasion too.
Welcome to the revolution. Be careful where you sit down and
don’t get comfy.
Wednesday 18 January 2012
Saving Yourself from Yourself
Last night after some complimentary drinks at my favourite pub, a fellow musician and producer explained to me two things. First, why his output of great tunage is so high despite working 25 hours a day, and second, why I am a complete dumbass for not also following his process.
His typical day consists of waking (sometimes baking; he loves brownies) and sitting directly in front of his home gym equipment. After heading to work in a sweaty kitchen all night, he saunters home and is met at the front door by both of his guitars. They hang inconveniently enough in his path that he usually has to pick one up on his way to shedding his coat and boots, which usually results in at least a few minutes of playing. Minutes turn to hours, and soon he's laying down tracks instead of laying down on the couch to play Halo. He even tells me he unplugs his gaming systems when he leaves the house so its really an effort to veg out and thumb away.
In my case, however, these smart tricks would be less handy. I have very little to do in my apartment at present besides play tunes, and this, it turns out, is why I have been slacking.
So you got a new man, with a swanky place to live, and working heat, and he's all cute and cuddly and fun to hang around, so you decide to maybe toss twice the food in the cats bowls and spend an extra night hanging with said fella. But maybe every now and then I should be unplugging him, so to speak. Making time, putting music in my way so I can't avoid the process.
That said, I wonder how easy it will be to explain to him that, much as I love spending time, his company distracts from the things I've been doing. And the great irony (which is absolutely my favourite part of this) is that my feelings and thoughts, and the content of the music I will be hopefully soon back into writing, are mostly related to this new person and our new relationship.
I love the man, he makes me want to sing. I love the music, but the man has just ordered another round. Do I want to be drunk off this love? Will it pull out some Joplin miracle and make the resulting tunes even greater? Or do I step back a minute and get myself some time with the first love for a while?
I pledge on this page here to come back within a week and have some new words and music. My process isn't quite the same as my friend, but the principal stands. I made this blog to get in my own way and stop me from avoiding the scary things I'm trying to get done. So if I promise it to the internet, maybe I will try to keep it.
His typical day consists of waking (sometimes baking; he loves brownies) and sitting directly in front of his home gym equipment. After heading to work in a sweaty kitchen all night, he saunters home and is met at the front door by both of his guitars. They hang inconveniently enough in his path that he usually has to pick one up on his way to shedding his coat and boots, which usually results in at least a few minutes of playing. Minutes turn to hours, and soon he's laying down tracks instead of laying down on the couch to play Halo. He even tells me he unplugs his gaming systems when he leaves the house so its really an effort to veg out and thumb away.
In my case, however, these smart tricks would be less handy. I have very little to do in my apartment at present besides play tunes, and this, it turns out, is why I have been slacking.
So you got a new man, with a swanky place to live, and working heat, and he's all cute and cuddly and fun to hang around, so you decide to maybe toss twice the food in the cats bowls and spend an extra night hanging with said fella. But maybe every now and then I should be unplugging him, so to speak. Making time, putting music in my way so I can't avoid the process.
That said, I wonder how easy it will be to explain to him that, much as I love spending time, his company distracts from the things I've been doing. And the great irony (which is absolutely my favourite part of this) is that my feelings and thoughts, and the content of the music I will be hopefully soon back into writing, are mostly related to this new person and our new relationship.
I love the man, he makes me want to sing. I love the music, but the man has just ordered another round. Do I want to be drunk off this love? Will it pull out some Joplin miracle and make the resulting tunes even greater? Or do I step back a minute and get myself some time with the first love for a while?
I pledge on this page here to come back within a week and have some new words and music. My process isn't quite the same as my friend, but the principal stands. I made this blog to get in my own way and stop me from avoiding the scary things I'm trying to get done. So if I promise it to the internet, maybe I will try to keep it.
Monday 9 January 2012
The Tease
So its another one about dj's. Sue me.
There's a Calvin Harris track (who would be recognized recently for some work with Rhianna) that my boyfriend spins a lot, called Bounce.
It has all the makings of a successful track, especially for it's catchy melody and its simplicity. But by far its most resonant quality is that the sample piece for it is so easy to tease with.
He gestures to me, waving his arms about like a giant puppet, and explains how he would dabble with this hook while he playe dother tracks, syncing up different cds on the same deck while he looped this one bit on the same one. I recall a day when he tells me he dreams one ay of a third deck so he could employ such msterful techniques without the ridiculous machine-hogging that one track would take.
A few weeks ago I nodded along enthusiastically, with mostly admiration for his passion, and maybe a touch of comprehension. Today I really do get it. I suppose this is a product of love. The same thing happens when my dad plays music.
When he plays Bobcaygeon, a classic T-Hip tune that is known now more as one of the songs I play,
he adds in a particular musical riff that I might use more sparingly, the way an old soul songstress would employ a run. But he uses it several times in his rendition. A more neurotic musician such as myself might want to save this bit for one spot in the performance. But my dad would sing it as he felt it, charming his audience all the way, perhaps overusing it. And they'd eat it up every time. It makes me envy his aloof ability for showmanship, because its organic and unrelated to his listener's reactions. Mine is a more apprehensive approach. It might be that his doesn't account for the fast-changing styles of today or the higher cailber of music trivia knowledge, but those things don't make the musician.
I can only dream that one day the small sample teaser piece of a melody will invoke the same aroused excitement as when my boyfriend spins a couple notes in a few tracks before he lets you really have the goods. Or my dad sings the same melody a few times to a few friends back-lit by flames and bathing in his soul. He could sing them into eternity and they would never regret a moment of that ending.
So new goal as musician is to reach some level akin to these two men. Unlikely, but a helluva ride it will be.
There's a Calvin Harris track (who would be recognized recently for some work with Rhianna) that my boyfriend spins a lot, called Bounce.
It has all the makings of a successful track, especially for it's catchy melody and its simplicity. But by far its most resonant quality is that the sample piece for it is so easy to tease with.
He gestures to me, waving his arms about like a giant puppet, and explains how he would dabble with this hook while he playe dother tracks, syncing up different cds on the same deck while he looped this one bit on the same one. I recall a day when he tells me he dreams one ay of a third deck so he could employ such msterful techniques without the ridiculous machine-hogging that one track would take.
A few weeks ago I nodded along enthusiastically, with mostly admiration for his passion, and maybe a touch of comprehension. Today I really do get it. I suppose this is a product of love. The same thing happens when my dad plays music.
When he plays Bobcaygeon, a classic T-Hip tune that is known now more as one of the songs I play,
he adds in a particular musical riff that I might use more sparingly, the way an old soul songstress would employ a run. But he uses it several times in his rendition. A more neurotic musician such as myself might want to save this bit for one spot in the performance. But my dad would sing it as he felt it, charming his audience all the way, perhaps overusing it. And they'd eat it up every time. It makes me envy his aloof ability for showmanship, because its organic and unrelated to his listener's reactions. Mine is a more apprehensive approach. It might be that his doesn't account for the fast-changing styles of today or the higher cailber of music trivia knowledge, but those things don't make the musician.
I can only dream that one day the small sample teaser piece of a melody will invoke the same aroused excitement as when my boyfriend spins a couple notes in a few tracks before he lets you really have the goods. Or my dad sings the same melody a few times to a few friends back-lit by flames and bathing in his soul. He could sing them into eternity and they would never regret a moment of that ending.
So new goal as musician is to reach some level akin to these two men. Unlikely, but a helluva ride it will be.
Saturday 7 January 2012
National Film Board cartoons
Tonight my boyfriend and I spent a few hours watching the old cartoons that used to air during commercials and between shows on BBC and CTV. As kids, we had barely the wisps of remembrance, but the few that stuck out for us are somehow timeless and as touching today as they were at first airing, but also seem to so perfectly celebrate the traditions of representational storytelling as it was before this age of chasing realism. Our playlist for tonight went as follows, and I encourage you all to steal a peek:
The Log Driver's Waltz
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=upsZZ2s3xv8
We talked a while about the woman whose perspective lies behind this blue-collar celebration, and how she was a smart woman to know better than choosing the lawyers and doctors set out by her parents. There's no better judgment of a quality husband than the lightness of his feet on the dancefloor. But my boyfriend is a DJ and I'm a musician, so I grant there stands some bias in this.
The Sweater
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zca2y3fAqps
Some French-Canadian humour on the first real political separatism in Canada: Hockey vs the Church
The Blackfly Song
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qjLBXb1kgMo
A good old 40's tune set in blackfly-ridden North On-tar-I-Oh.
Mr Frog went a Courting
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Inywbpuj9qM
An offbeat arrangement sung sweetly and almost with terrifying joy (you will see what I mean near the end), this is sung about an inter-species love story and the unlikely scene of the animal kingdoms marshland creatures attending a wedding. Strange and adorable, not to mention catchy.
The Big Snit
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=90SIuISIVB8
Easily my favourite and the most oddball of the group, but a classic for its ability to spark some cold-war era nostalgia while exploring the intricacies of marriage and its smaller squabble and bigger rewards. A perfectly twisted and cozy ending to a bizarre and heartwarming tale. Such is life.
The Log Driver's Waltz
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=upsZZ2s3xv8
We talked a while about the woman whose perspective lies behind this blue-collar celebration, and how she was a smart woman to know better than choosing the lawyers and doctors set out by her parents. There's no better judgment of a quality husband than the lightness of his feet on the dancefloor. But my boyfriend is a DJ and I'm a musician, so I grant there stands some bias in this.
The Sweater
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zca2y3fAqps
Some French-Canadian humour on the first real political separatism in Canada: Hockey vs the Church
The Blackfly Song
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qjLBXb1kgMo
A good old 40's tune set in blackfly-ridden North On-tar-I-Oh.
Mr Frog went a Courting
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Inywbpuj9qM
An offbeat arrangement sung sweetly and almost with terrifying joy (you will see what I mean near the end), this is sung about an inter-species love story and the unlikely scene of the animal kingdoms marshland creatures attending a wedding. Strange and adorable, not to mention catchy.
The Big Snit
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=90SIuISIVB8
Easily my favourite and the most oddball of the group, but a classic for its ability to spark some cold-war era nostalgia while exploring the intricacies of marriage and its smaller squabble and bigger rewards. A perfectly twisted and cozy ending to a bizarre and heartwarming tale. Such is life.
Thursday 5 January 2012
Come on in, take off your skin, rattle around in your bones.
Much as that sounds like a terrifying experience, having a corpse jiggling its creaking joints while you catch up over tea, I like the sentiment. This was a John Daly Sr saying I'm sure, and has been passed down to my dad. Little did they know I would be selfishly celebrating my brilliant use of it here.
In any case, come as you are. I will never turn away a skinless individual. Birthday suits also welcome. If I weren't sending this from the free wi-fi at my local pub as a result of not paying my cable and internet bill, I would be less than dressed too. (Sorry Rogers, I know you so desperately need my money, but I thought eating dinner might be in my best interest today. We'll talk tomorrow)
So in the spirit of today's first quest, that being the job search, I have tacked a few shots up of my adventures through the Craigslist and Kijiji jungles. Now that my brother from another mother is back from saving rainforests, maybe she can lend a hand in sorting out the densely packed nutjobs and fake ads, and help me with the ultimate conundrum: dealing with the spelling and grammar errors in job postings.
For an admitted grammer Nazi, I find it reprehensible for employers to make such errors in ad postings. Normally (though I rarely am) I would pass over these as undeserving of my time. Surely a manager who types 'Busy restraint looking for qualified waitredd' is not responsible enough to run a business that I would want to work for. But today I had a thought.
Perhaps she was using her new iPhone 4S and hadn't gotten used to its auto-correct. Perhaps her pricey Loubutons got stuck in the subway grate and her finger slipped as she sipped her latte. Perhaps (with the glee of the Grinch when he wises up to the true meaning of Christmas, I realize), perhaps this manager might just be juggling such a thriving company that she typed this in between sexy hot tub parties and rolling around in piles of those new polymer hundreds! Eureka! I have solved the great mystery of the online job search! Apply for jobs with horrificly unfortunate mistakes, because if you want to be cool without smoking, the new 'in' thing is carelessness in spelling. Any ad willing to toss up whatever swill they've accidentally smashed into the keypad is too caught up licking Swedish Berries off the taught tummies of ripped strangers to care if you want that job. What does this mean? YOU WANT THAT JOB.
Then something came to me, as if in a dream. This was while I napped at 8 in the evening, after waking up for the day just 5 short hours before. Perhaps the Grinch was onto something with his distrust of those careless Whos. They had everything stolen from them, their homes broken into, privacy invaded, children lied to by suedo-santas, and yet their faith remained. This is admirable, I agree. This is heartwarming. Watching this over Christmas with my boyfriend reminded me of optimistic spirit, and its one of the reasons I love him. One of the reasons I began this journey.
And yet, it is also complete bull. The Grinch brought them back their presents, and in doing so restored their trust in him. They never lowered themselves to the illusion that a recluse on a hill practicing animal cruelty would have the ability to steal their thunder come Christmas day.
So I decided also that maybe the balance is the better option. Maybe it was best that the Whos didn't wake up to gifts, but their spirit in spite of such thievery was rewarded in the end. I want to take this lesson in the job hunt. Apparently for me, searching for a high paying job so I can pay my tuition in between going out and living it up downtown, is a situation that requires some serious soul-searching. Or maybe its the residue of the holidays and the enormous New Years pressure.
Whatever it may be, I'm going to resolve nothing, but I do promise myself to see my value, and not be blinded or distracted by the silly carelessness of Kijiji ads. After all, this day began as a job search, and instead reminded me what I'm worth in every sense. I deserve the kinds of success I'm willing to work for, and this is not something enough people in my life believe about themselves.
So I spell-checked this first blog post of mine, just in case any of you decided to miss my point and correct me. And after I (against my will) caught a few clips of the new season of Jersey Shore at the bar, decided to go home, write some tunes, and head back into the job market tomorrow. I may also have put up a few of my own fake ads on Craigslist. Solely with the intention to inspire others to look beyond the online hunt and put stock in their abilities to network or simply walk in someplace and declare that they hire you because you would never spell it 'Bartener.'
I think I'd make a good bartender. I know this because I loved Cocktail.
In any case, come as you are. I will never turn away a skinless individual. Birthday suits also welcome. If I weren't sending this from the free wi-fi at my local pub as a result of not paying my cable and internet bill, I would be less than dressed too. (Sorry Rogers, I know you so desperately need my money, but I thought eating dinner might be in my best interest today. We'll talk tomorrow)
So in the spirit of today's first quest, that being the job search, I have tacked a few shots up of my adventures through the Craigslist and Kijiji jungles. Now that my brother from another mother is back from saving rainforests, maybe she can lend a hand in sorting out the densely packed nutjobs and fake ads, and help me with the ultimate conundrum: dealing with the spelling and grammar errors in job postings.
For an admitted grammer Nazi, I find it reprehensible for employers to make such errors in ad postings. Normally (though I rarely am) I would pass over these as undeserving of my time. Surely a manager who types 'Busy restraint looking for qualified waitredd' is not responsible enough to run a business that I would want to work for. But today I had a thought.
Perhaps she was using her new iPhone 4S and hadn't gotten used to its auto-correct. Perhaps her pricey Loubutons got stuck in the subway grate and her finger slipped as she sipped her latte. Perhaps (with the glee of the Grinch when he wises up to the true meaning of Christmas, I realize), perhaps this manager might just be juggling such a thriving company that she typed this in between sexy hot tub parties and rolling around in piles of those new polymer hundreds! Eureka! I have solved the great mystery of the online job search! Apply for jobs with horrificly unfortunate mistakes, because if you want to be cool without smoking, the new 'in' thing is carelessness in spelling. Any ad willing to toss up whatever swill they've accidentally smashed into the keypad is too caught up licking Swedish Berries off the taught tummies of ripped strangers to care if you want that job. What does this mean? YOU WANT THAT JOB.
Then something came to me, as if in a dream. This was while I napped at 8 in the evening, after waking up for the day just 5 short hours before. Perhaps the Grinch was onto something with his distrust of those careless Whos. They had everything stolen from them, their homes broken into, privacy invaded, children lied to by suedo-santas, and yet their faith remained. This is admirable, I agree. This is heartwarming. Watching this over Christmas with my boyfriend reminded me of optimistic spirit, and its one of the reasons I love him. One of the reasons I began this journey.
And yet, it is also complete bull. The Grinch brought them back their presents, and in doing so restored their trust in him. They never lowered themselves to the illusion that a recluse on a hill practicing animal cruelty would have the ability to steal their thunder come Christmas day.
So I decided also that maybe the balance is the better option. Maybe it was best that the Whos didn't wake up to gifts, but their spirit in spite of such thievery was rewarded in the end. I want to take this lesson in the job hunt. Apparently for me, searching for a high paying job so I can pay my tuition in between going out and living it up downtown, is a situation that requires some serious soul-searching. Or maybe its the residue of the holidays and the enormous New Years pressure.
Whatever it may be, I'm going to resolve nothing, but I do promise myself to see my value, and not be blinded or distracted by the silly carelessness of Kijiji ads. After all, this day began as a job search, and instead reminded me what I'm worth in every sense. I deserve the kinds of success I'm willing to work for, and this is not something enough people in my life believe about themselves.
So I spell-checked this first blog post of mine, just in case any of you decided to miss my point and correct me. And after I (against my will) caught a few clips of the new season of Jersey Shore at the bar, decided to go home, write some tunes, and head back into the job market tomorrow. I may also have put up a few of my own fake ads on Craigslist. Solely with the intention to inspire others to look beyond the online hunt and put stock in their abilities to network or simply walk in someplace and declare that they hire you because you would never spell it 'Bartener.'
I think I'd make a good bartender. I know this because I loved Cocktail.
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