Unfinished music.

In the novel Housekeeping, by Marilyn Robinson, a book that holds some of the greatest English prose ever written, there is a passage that describes the layers of water that make up a mountain lake: there is the groundwater, the water in the lake itself and then the water aloft that rises and dissipates high above the mountains that ring the lake.

I thought of this passage the other afternoon, when I was out walking by the Bay. There had been rain, and as I looked out on the seawater, the fog above and the clouds higher, I mused that the suspended water was like my songs, a thing in-between, transient, unresolved, uncertain.

I cannot put into words how desperately I want to finish/record all the songs I have written and started writing. Sadly, the finish line seems to be something I can only ever get halfway closer to. I was SURE I would be finished with at least one collection of songs by now, but I had to cut the last recording session short for health reasons, and so I am still ever so close, but ever so far.

Argh… this has happened to me so many times and I confess I am tired of it. But, onward, right?  And in time, my dissipated, unformed, mist-like music will coalesce into something solid, possibly even something vinyl.

Why Philz coffee is like rock and roll.

Every morning, these days, I head to my hyperbaric oxygen treatments (HBOT) and then afterwards, I head over to the nearby Philz.

For those who have not been to Philz -- ye of spiritual desolation -- it is a chain of coffee shops in San Francisco and it serves the best coffee I have ever had. Why? Because it’s just like rock and roll: the ingredients are simple, anybody can create it if they care enough, and it’s still great after a zillion times.

What’s the magic ingredient? Love. Just as every rock song of note was recorded by people who deeply loved what they were doing, so is every cup of Philz brewed by people who love making coffee. Go ahead. Sip a Starbucks, then head over to Philz. At first, you might be a little overwhelmed, as you will be forced to pick your brew from as many as 19 different beans. To ease your mind, the Philz staff will actually talk to you about what you like (something no rock band will do, I admit!), then your cup will be made individually. And just as a great rock band transforms simple elements into something transcendent, so does a cup of Philz, taking water, beans and a little technique to something way beyond any brew you have ever had.

Go to Philz. And rock out!

Getting passed: More thoughts on running.

I’ve been a runner since my teens. Not a serious one – I’ve never done a marathon or a half marathon or even a 10K – but I’m reasonably dedicated. Why do I like running? Two reasons: it helps my health and it helps me think, and it’s that latter reason that is the more important of the two. What do I hate about running? Getting passed.

Before my accident, I almost never got passed, and when I did, I stopped thinking about whatever it was I was thinking about and sped up, passed the bastard who passed me, then kept going hard until I was far enough ahead that I could turn onto a side street and, more often than not, stop and heave heavy breaths for a good long time. Stupid, I know. After my accident, I was just glad to be out there running, and if someone passed me – even a girl, god forbid – I would remind myself that I had a brain injury, dammit. 

But lately, getting passed has started to irk me again, only it’s not for the reasons you might think. Honestly, it doesn’t bother me that I’m a bit slower than I used to be. As I’ve made clear, I have a brain injury and it’s a pretty solid excuse, I think. No, what bothers me is that those runners passing me by have become metaphors for life passing me by. Some are career opportunities, some are simple, feel-good situations free of dizziness, some are just plain old what-ifs that are no longer what-ifs for me. It’s upsetting.

But I’m not going to stop running. It remains one of my favorite and best times to think. And now when someone passes me, as though I am walking, I no longer snap out of my running reverie and transform into some sort of competitive crackpot. Instead, I try to count my blessings: I remind myself that I could be so much worse off, given the nature of my injury; I remind myself that I am loved and in love; I remind myself that I am writing songs again after years of not writing a single one; I remind myself that I have grown closer to my parents, that I got my Les Paul back, that I live in beautiful city — and most important of all, I remind myself that life is still very much worth living. And then I speed up, just a little.

Reflections on “It Might Get Loud.”

Last night, I watched "It Might Get Loud". To look at the DVD cover, you might think the documentary is a paean to Jimmy Page, The Edge and Jack White, but the true subject and star of the film is a powered plank with six strings.

Watching the movie I felt vindicated. All my life, the electric guitar has been the one instrument that has truly inspired me. Violins, pianos, cellos, trumpets, they’re all fine, but I never stare at them in wonder. I never dream of them. I never hold them and imagine entire worlds unfolding, refolding and unfolding again.

If you rent "It Might Get Loud" to see three legends rock out, you will be disappointed. The magic is not in the notes, but in the words, for when the movie soars – as it often does – you are not listening to someone play, you are listening to someone talk. And as each player describes the electric guitar and the role it has played in his life, you hear stories of first purchases, of custom creations, of sound and feel. I was enthralled. Here finally is the electric guitar being venerated the way it should be, up there with respectable instruments like violins and pianos. And what of acoustic guitars? Hardly a word, though each player plays one in the movie. No, as cameras float over pick-ups, knobs, switches and chipped, cracked finishes and the voice over speaks in tones of wonder, the object of desire is the electric guitar.

When I first wanted to learn an instrument, I’m pretty sure I wanted to learn the electric guitar. But I was expected to show interest in a “real” instrument before I could get in touch with my inner rock star, and so, I learned the accordion. Then, dues partially paid, I was allowed to start with the guitar. Not an electric, mind you, an acoustic. I lost interest. Nothing against the acoustic guitar, but I have just never been as enamored of acoustics the way I am of electrics. Also, why should the acoustic be the more respectable instrument, the one “real” musicians play? I’ll tell you why: culture. When I was a kid, the electric guitar was more of a novelty than an instrument, and the people who played them more performers than musicians. Thankfully, culture is changing. And "It Might Get Loud" is a positively glowing ember of evidence that the old view has burned down.

Long live the electric guitar.

Interlude: a song revisited after more than 20 years.

Everyone on the planet who pursues a creative path for love or money has a trove of old ideas. Some are unfinished, some are crying out to be rescued and revised, some are better left behind for good.

Back in 1987, I wrote a song with my friend Jeff Tuttle that I have been wanting to revisit ever since. We originally recorded it in our garage/studio in San Francisco, with me playing all the instruments and supplying my trademark, over-busy drum programming, and Jeff doing the singing, along with a co-worker of his. Truth be told, the original version has a lot of charm for Jeff and me, because of the memories it brings back. But I always wished the playing were better, the drums real and the lyrics a little more polished (we wrote them after smoking a bit of pot, a rare thing for both of us, and the words suffered for it)

Jeff and I have stayed best of friends over the years, and every now and then, usually after a glass or four of wine, we’d muse on digging up “that old tune”, which was aptly titled “Indecision”. Well, just the other day, Jeff was in town and he stayed with Catherine and me over the weekend, giving us ample time to finally act on our musical musings. Instead of going into Hyde Street Studios, we kept things casual and used a yoga studio for recording new vocals. I’d already worked with Tim Young and Andy Korn on re-doing the rhythm tracks, so all Jeff had to do was belt out the latest lyrics. We’re both English majors, so the lyrics got one more pass, but I am happy to report that after more than two decades, an old idea finally got it’s due.

The session, however, was not without a requisite recording freak-out.  Jeff and I had just arrived at the yoga studio and gotten set up, when I plugged in my fancy new microphone. I hit record and… nothing. I had purchased the mic on ebay, so I was worried I’d been had – to the tune of $450! Angry and worried, I plugged in my old Teac mic for test purposes and it worked fine. But my Teac doesn’t have a wind-screen, so it’s not good for vocals. ARGH. I decided to drive home to get my trusty Shure SM-57. Man, I was so peeved and very, very depressed (the week prior had been especially rough). Back home, I read the owner’s manual for my new mic and learned it needed a certain kind of power supply. I called Guitar Center to ask if they had one in stock and the guy on the phone, sounding a little confused, asked me about my gear. I explained I had an MBox 2 Pro, to which he replied, “Just press the 48V switch on the front and you’re good to go, dude.” He was right.

I’ll post both versions of the song when the new one is fully mixed. Stay tuned!

PS - I'll finish for For love or money series soon.