Most of this one was recorded over two days in April. Zara played my Gibson LG-2 for the first time since her first album and brought along her own ukulele. I tried recording her playing and singing at the same time for a song or two, but that approach was abandoned pretty fast. There was too much bleed. I still haven’t found a way to record someone playing acoustic guitar and singing live off the floor that satisfies me. The microphones I use now are too sensitive to get enough separation, and the dynamic mics I used to pull out for live guitar/vocal recordings sound a little too thin now that they’re not plugged into a low-end mic preamp.
Funny how that works.
There was a lot of laughter and joking around between the songs. I mixed one of the silly moments and included it in the WAV files I sent Zara just for fun. I had no idea she was going to keep it on the album, but I’m glad she did.
I also captured her playing a bit of an idea that wasn’t yet a proper song. There were a few ukulele chords, there was an improvised vocal melody, and that was it. Something about that little sixty-second sketch really grabbed me. I thought it was kind of perfect just as it was. I sent that one along too, and it’s also on the album.
I’ve grown so used to people stamping out anything that resembles a human or random moment in their music, it’s almost a shock when someone wants to hold onto these things as much as I do. It’s a good kind of shock, though. Like waking up to discover they’ve started making Choclairs chocolate bars again.
Damn you for discontinuing those sticks of deliciousness, Neilson.
At the top of this post is a video for one of the songs on the album. My plan was to open the blinds and flood the room with some nice natural light, but every time Zara came over it was a grey, rainy day, so it wouldn’t have done much good. Even in a less than ideal lighting situation, I’m enjoying how much better this camera makes everything look. There’s a lot less grain than I was getting with the Flip cameras, and everything feels more vivid and real somehow.
Imagine what I could do if I got some decent lighting happening in that room for a change…
Mixing these songs was a bit of a challenge, just because of how dynamic the performances were. I had to get creative with compression settings and riding some faders to control things without squashing them. I think I found the right balance in the end.
Who wants a “set it and forget it” mixing job anyway? That stuff’s no fun.
Things have been downright tumultuous around here.
I wanted to get in the habit of blogging more often so I could hold myself accountable on the recording side of things. I haven’t managed to do that. I havebeen making good progress with the album. I’ve also had to accept this sad truth: there’s no way to get it finished in time for the show. It’s turned into too tight a race. I can get it close, but not all the way there.
This is a handbill the wonderful Katie Schram designed for me.
Beautiful, isn’t it?
It would be great if I could print a bunch of these and start handing them out to people. I can’t. For the first time in my life I have promotional material I can’t use, because the show it’s supposed to promote isn’t going to happen.
First my trombonist pulled out after committing to the show. Then my cellist stopped talking to me with no explanation. Before long my drummer was out of commission and unreachable, the only person I could get to agree to show up for a rehearsal was the bassist, and many of the most important musicians either wouldn’t acknowledge me at all or were pretty vague about when and if they might grace me with their presence.
Sounds a bit like a lame comedy sketch.
You might say, “Well, the musicians involved in this are talented enough that they don’t need much preparation. They could turn up the night of the show with a single rehearsal under their belt and fake their way through it just fine.”
Even if that’s true, the whole “rehearse very little and pray for a miracle” approach doesn’t work for me. It never has. It would be one thing if we were a band with some history. We’re not. I’ve only worked with these people one-on-one in a recording situation. Playing live as a group is a very different beast. You need time to build chemistry and work out arrangements.
I’ve played as a supporting musician in bands that half-assed everything and hoped for the music to glue itself together in the ninth hour. None of those performances were anything to write home about, and I was always a nervous wreck onstage. Why would I want to put myself through that when the music is my own?
The last time I played at Mackenzie Hall I had a three-piece band. We only had six or seven songs we needed to learn as a group. The rest of the show was made up of me doing solo pieces. We must have rehearsed a dozen times over a period of three months. The idea was to get to a place where we were comfortable enough with one another to take off on an improvised tangent in the middle of a song and navigate whatever twists and turns it took with confidence — to be able to pick up on tiny physical cues and execute pin-point dynamic shifts.
We put the work in to toughen ourselves up until we were a real band, and it paid off big time at the show.
That isn’t going to happen this time. Even if every necessary piece of the musical puzzle showed up to rehearse for every Saturday that’s left between now and August 17th, I don’t think there would be enough time for us to get good. At best we would be okay. And that’s not going to cut it.
I may go out of my way to leave mistakes and human moments in my recordings, but I care a great deal about what I do. I’m not going to half-ass my first serious live performance in eight years and the biggest show of my life to accommodate the absent asses of others. If people can’t be bothered to show up and put in the work, there’s no point in losing my mind trying to salvage something out of the chaos. I won’t march into a public humiliation out of some misguided sense of duty, and I didn’t work to get that grant so I could pay people for being a bunch of fucking deadbeats.
I wouldn’t be able to rehearse now anyway. All the stress has caught up with me and made me sick. Ain’t that a kick in the nuts?
I already had my mind pretty much made up about cancelling the show before I got sick, but I took some time to think it over. During my thinking-it-over time, the ghostly cellist popped up to say she’d be available to rehearse about three weeks before the show. As if that would somehow be enough time to get up to speed when she’s never played any of these songs before. The person who was supposed to be my main backup vocalist and a fill-in lead singer for other absent vocalists said she wouldn’t have any time to rehearse with me until the end of July — this after telling me she’d be available to start getting together in early June. Better yet, after letting me believe for months that she was going to be an integral part of the show and one of the main performers, she changed her mind. Now I could only choose three songs I really wanted her to sing on. That was all the material she felt like learning.
There’s no putting a good face on this — she lied to me. She misled me about the role she was prepared to play and how much time she was willing to set aside for me. She’s second-billed on that handbill up there. Someone who’s a glorified walk-on guest doesn’t deserve to be second-billed. And I don’t care how busy you are. If you’re not going to be honest with me, I don’t want to know you.
Any doubts I had about cancelling the show died a violent death right there.
The singer who didn’t want to do much singing wasn’t the only person who was full of shit. Not by a long shot. It’s as if some of these people believed the simple act of attaching their names to my show should have been satisfaction enough for me, and whatever near-nonexistent amount of effort I could get out of them beyond that was supposed to be a bonus.
Someone told me, “You have to understand…most musicians don’t operate the way you do. They have their heads perpetually stuck up their own asses, and their main concern is themselves. That’s just the way they are. You can’t take it personally. It isn’t about you.”
How am I not supposed to take it personally? What other way is there to take it? “Laziness” is not a valid excuse to me. You don’t get to treat your so-called friends like dirt just because you’re talented.
Actually, let me correct that: in most cases you do get to treat your so-called friends like dirt. A lot of people get away with being pretty awful human beings because they have some amount of talent — or at least the ability to convince others they do — and they can be charming and ingratiating when they feel like it. I don’t swim in that ditch. A talented piece of shit is still a piece of shit.
You can make all the excuses you want. My music is who I am. You blow that off and you’re blowing me off. It doesn’t get much more personal than that.
I understand now that I made the tactical error of devising a show that relied on a large supporting cast of characters in order to succeed. Many of the most important players let me down. My dream was to give a multi-faceted gift to the community through music and visual art. The indifference of my peers has decimated that dream.
So I’ve cancelled the dates at Mackenzie Hall (dress rehearsal and performance), and a week ago I gave the grant money back to the city. I refuse to compromise my vision to the point that the show no longer resembles what it was supposed to be. This was going to be something special. It was the culmination of more than five years of work. I put it together a specific way and worked my ass off to make it a reality. Limping into Mackenzie Hall with some half-formed version of what could have been would feel even more like defeat than pulling the plug and walking away.
Could I have done something with just a rhythm section? Sure. Could I have done a one-man show? Yeah. But I’ve already done both of those things at Mackenzie Hall (and I think I did them pretty well). I have no desire to repeat myself.
Most of the people who were going to be my “special guests” were great at communicating with me. I didn’t have to chase them. I’m grateful for that. Darryl and Christy Litster, Ron Leary, Jess O’Neil, Jim Meloche, Dave Dubois, Natalie Westfall — all these folks have been wonderful every step of the way.
In the end, it just wasn’t enough. I felt like I had one big show left in me. This was it. Now it’s dead.
Lesson learned — I won’t try to do anything like this again. And if anyone accuses me of being a weirdo recluse who doesn’t play well with others after this, I will bite their head off and spit it back into their jagged blood-spurting neck hole.
You might think this is an extreme overreaction to a situation that wasn’t beyond help. Unless you’ve been through it, you have no idea what it’s like to put your heart and soul into something like this only to watch it collapse in slow-motion. You can’t force people to show up. You can’t force them to care.
I’m told I’m the first person in the history of the ACHF to refund their grant money. It felt like the right thing to do. The event as I pitched it to the jury ceased to exist, and I didn’t want to abuse the system. I know there are people who do that and get away with it. I would rather be honest.
Maybe someone else with better luck will be able to use the money to realize a dream that’s more realistic than mine was. I hope so.
I’m not as disheartened as all of this might make me sound. I’ve gone through the grieving process and more or less made my peace with things not working out. As a wise woman once said, “[You] can’t hug every cat.” I won’t pretend it isn’t disappointing, though. I was pretty proud of the set list and supporting cast I put together. I think it could have been a night to remember.
We’ll never know now.
On a lighter note, the J, K, and L keys on my MacBook stopped working a few weeks ago. Every once in a while I could mash the other keys around them and trick them into cooperating with me for a little bit. After a few days my subterfuge no longer did any good. I was hoping it was just some dirt on one of the contacts. Nope. Had to get the whole keyboard replaced. That was a $200 expense I could have done without. At least the people at Experimax were great to deal with and they fixed it the same day I brought it in.
You don’t notice how much you rely on certain letters until they’re no longer accessible to you. The S key on my crusty old video-editing laptop died years ago, but it’s easy to work around. All I have to do is copy an S from an existing document or file and paste it whenever I need it. When you have to do that with three different letters it becomes much more frustrating and time-consuming, turning what should be a two-minute email into fifteen minutes of tediousness. It’s nice to be able to type freely again.
It hasn’t all been janky laptop keys and crumbling dreams of ambitious live shows over here.
For the better part of twenty years I’ve been trying to track down video footage of my March 2000 performance at the Air Jam (Walkerville’s quirky name for a talent show). I’ve mentioned this a few times before.
I knew of two tapes — the one Gord’s high school girlfriend Amanda filmed, and the one the school filmed. I saw both of them in the summer of 2000. Then I never saw anything that was on either tape again.
I started trying to talk Amanda into letting me borrow her tape so I could make myself a copy when we were still in school. I kept trying after we graduated. Nothing happened. When Facebook came into our lives I started pestering her over there. I tried to get Gord to help. After a lot of false starts, in 2010 Amanda said she had the tape I was after. I rejoiced.
My rejoicing didn’t last long. I spent a month or two trying to arrange to get that tape from her. I offered to pay her just for showing up. It didn’t do any good. She was either noncommittal in her responses to my messages or she ignored me. She wouldn’t give me her phone number or her address, so I couldn’t go to her. I was stuck in limbo.
I nudged Gord into sending her some messages in 2014 and 2015 when we were working on STEW. He said he thought there might be some kinky business on the tape, explaining Amanda’s apparent reluctance to share it with either one of us. I told him to tell her I would give her the money to have a video place transfer the tape into a digital format herself, allowing her to snip out anything she didn’t want me to see. That didn’t do the trick either.
In 2017 I sent Amanda one last heartfelt message. I told her this was a piece of my musical history I felt incomplete without. I explained how much it would mean to me if I could somehow see it again. I also wanted to try and incorporate whatever archival material I could into the DIY documentary I was — and still am — making about YEAR OF THE SLEEPWALK. This stuff was the Holy Grail of archival material.
She wrote back and apologized for the long silence. She said she wasn’t sure what tapes I was on, but she was able to narrow it down to seven possibilities. Years ago she bought some equipment so she could transfer the tapes at home. Then her camera stopped working and she gave up. If I was willing to transfer the tapes myself, I could have all of them. All she asked for in return was that I make her copies of the digital files.
Gord was supposed to swing by her place and grab the tapes before bringing them to me. He couldn’t do a thing with them, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to help pay to have them transferred. He was just another barrier between them and me. It would have made a lot more sense for me to pick them up myself. I couldn’t do that. Amanda still wouldn’t give me her address or phone number.
I don’t like relying on other people for things like this, but I left it in Gord’s hands. He rewarded my trust by almost ruining what looked like my one real shot at a happy ending. The night he was supposed to pick up the tapes, he blew it off.
This is a guy who’s known me since I was fifteen years old. He knew how long I’d been trying to gain access to this material. He knew what it meant to me. And he couldn’t even take five minutes out of his beer-drinking time to make good on what he told me he was going to do. He didn’t care. It didn’t mean anything to him.
I was ready to end our friendship right there. Lucky for him, Amanda took time out of packing for a vacation to bring the tapes to his door, and he was forced to pass them on to me.
Victory at last? No. Not quite.
I paid Unique Video Systems to convert all those 8mm tapes into MP4 files. I found some great footage I didn’t know existed — some of it featuring a skinny, beardless teenage version of me. But the Air Jam footage wasn’t there.
I told Amanda. She dug up some more tapes. This time I wasn’t on any of them.
I was discouraged but not defeated. There was still the matter of the second tape — the one filmed by the school.
I emailed John Vacratsis. He was a teacher involved in all kinds of art and media-related things at Walkerville during my time there. If anyone was going to know anything about the tape or its whereabouts, it was probably going to be him.
This was the crappiest of crapshoots. I didn’t have a great relationship with Vacratsis when I was a student. He seemed to resent me for not taking any of the music classes he taught, going my own way instead of letting him develop me into another talent Walkerville could be proud of, and he once chewed me out for some material he found offensive on a collage I made for grade twelve English class.
(That our English teacher, who was really a transplanted drama teacher, would have us making collages like children and answering questions about movies untethered to anything in the curriculum so he would have something to base our grades on without having to teach anything that resembled an English class — that was the more alarming issue to me than some goofy thing I put on a collage. But never mind.)
I expected Mr. V to remember me as a troublemaker if he remembered me at all. It didn’t matter. I would play nice in an email and see if it got me anywhere.
To my amazement, it did. He sent me a very kind response and tried to help as much as he could. He gave me the names of media students who might have been operating cameras on that day, he gave me the name of a media teacher who was still teaching at Walkerville, and he wished me luck in my epic quest.
I felt a renewed sense of purpose. Now I had something solid to work with.
One film student said he remembered my performance but didn’t know where the tape might be. The others ignored me. I wrote a letter to the media teacher outlining my plight, with a few albums included as thanks, and left it for him at the front desk.
Stepping inside my high school for the first time in almost nineteen years was a bizarre experience. I was happy to see they now had an upright piano in the hall and anyone was welcome to play it. I sat down and noodled a little. There wasn’t much volume or tone there, but hey, a real piano is a real piano.
Something about being there made me angry. No one was unpleasant. No one ogled at the long-haired bearded guy who was way too old to be a student. I don’t even have that many bad memories from high school, so it wasn’t a matter of old hurts coming back to haunt me. Believe it or not, I wasn’t an outcast or a loner. I was one of those odd students who managed to become popular and well-liked by refusing to be anything other than myself.
Maybe it was just one of those days.
Mr. Allison — the media teacher — sent a very thoughtful email in response to my letter. A lot of people probably would have blown me off, but he did some detective work on my behalf. What he found out wasn’t encouraging. In the days before they had digital video equipment, the school would routinely reuse and record over existing tapes instead of buying new stock. Everything pointed to the Air Jam tape being one of many victims of this recycling program.
This was it. The end of the road. There was no one left to talk to, no lead left to follow, and there were no tapes left to digitize. I was a few hundred bucks poorer and no closer to that Holy Grail footage. There was no reason left to believe it still existed. I had to accept that maybe I just wasn’t meant to ever see it again. Maybe all my efforts had been for nothing.
A few weeks ago I got a message from Amanda. She told me some things that did a lot to explain her apparent standoffishness over the years (I always assumed she never liked me; turns out it had nothing to do with me). She also told me she found three more tapes while going through some things in her basement. She didn’t know what was on them, and she thought it was mostly personal stuff, but she figured it was worth sharing them with me just in case.
I brought those tapes to Unique Video Systems and got my MP4 files. I went through them at home. The first tape had footage from Amanda’s trip to visit a post-high school boyfriend in 2002. The second tape was full of video messages she made for that same boyfriend and some bits of her hanging out with a few friends. I took a look at what was on the third tape and braced myself for more disappointment.
I saw some chunks of what looked like high school performances. I jumped to a random place in the video and landed on an image of myself seated at a digital piano, wearing a black t-shirt and blue jeans, and I knew at once what this was.
The 2000 Air Jam. The Holy Grail.
This is what I’ve been chasing for my entire adult life. There was no reason to believe I would ever find it. Now I have it on my hard drive. The absurdity of it all is still sinking in.
I’d chalk that up to the best $61 I’ve ever spent.
Some backstory might help explain why this footage means so much to me, and why unearthing it feels a bit like winning the lottery.
Gord and I tried out for the Air Jam for the first time when we were in grade ten. The “brain” of my very tiny home studio was a Roland VS-880 digital mixer/hard disk recorder. I didn’t have a CD burner that was compatible with the mixer. We recorded a few passes at John Lennon’s “How Do You Sleep?” and the Clash’s “Should I Stay or Should I Go?” and I dubbed the best takes onto a cassette tape. A friend’s sister was part of the group of students organizing the show. I gave the tape to him to give to her.
We didn’t get in.
Later that same school year, a few other students announced they were putting together something they called an Arts Night. It was really just an after-hours Air Jam. Gord and I auditioned in the music room. We did a rowdy version of “Sweet Jane” (the original Velvet Underground arrangement, not the Cowboy Junkies remake) and I did John Cale’s “Paris 1919” alone at the upright piano.
In those days I had this idea that playing cover songs was a better bet than playing my own material live. I’m not sure why. At least I had good taste in covers (I think). Before settling on those two songs, the Talking Heads track “Drugs” was another consideration.
We passed the audition with flying colours, but the students in charge didn’t feel like putting in the necessary work to make the show happen (sounds familiar, doesn’t it?). It died before it even got off the ground.
In grade eleven, Christian Masotti was one of the head organizers of the Air Jam. We were good friends. We respected each other as musicians. This time I knew I would make the cut. Auditioning would be little more than a formality.
My idea was to flesh Papa Ghostface out with another member or two. I had some classes with a guy named Isaac Osmer. I got the chance to jam with him a little when I played another John Cale song in the music room one day before the morning bell. Mr. Ross kicked me out before the song could really get going, but Isaac seemed like a solid drummer and a nice person. When I suggested we do something together sometime, he said he was into it.
Then Christian and my pal Jesse almost sabotaged the whole thing.
Jesse wanted to put a band of his own together for the Air Jam. He wanted Adam Cohen on drums, Max Marshall on lead guitar, and me on bass. He had a song about a young boy losing his mind called “Something in the Attic”. After recording a whole slew of songs with Jesse that didn’t stray far from acoustic love song territory, I was kind of looking forward to being his bassist and rocking out a little on something dark and moody.
Jesse wanted more time to prepare. He had friends on Agora — Walkerville’s student council, named for the public square built in Athens in 500 BC. He pulled some strings and convinced Christian and the other Air Jam organizers to put on two shows instead of one. He claimed he needed the extra time to study and get some of his grades up.
No one believed that story for a second, but he got what he wanted.
Two shows didn’t sound like such a bad idea at first. Christian told me the plan was to have the first show at the end of March. The focus would be on solo performers — students strumming acoustic guitars and wailing cover songs, Faith Hill clones singing to pre-recorded country music on cassette tape, and the like. Two months down the road, the second show would be for full bands and performers who wrote original material. This way everyone would have a chance to shine.
With that kind of structure, it seemed to me the first show would be boring beyond belief and all the good stuff would land in the second one. I told Christian I was putting a band together and had no problem pulling double duty in the second show, backing Jesse up in his band before stepping into the spotlight with mine. Even if we didn’t get anyone aside from Isaac to play with us, Gord could move over to bass and I could play guitar or keyboard. I thought a drummer would give our music a whole new punch.
When the lineups for both shows were posted on the bulletin board in the hall, I did a mental double-take. It wasn’t at all what Christian told me to expect. Neither show had any real theme or focus. Bands, karaoke singers, and solo acoustic performers were thrown together with no apparent thought given to who went where.
Jesse was in the second show. I got bumped to the first one against my will. I didn’t have Jesse’s connections. There were no strings for me to pull. And it was March already, so there would be no time to get tight with Isaac now.
Hot on the heels of that foul-smelling revelation, I learned I wasn’t going to be playing bass with Jesse anymore. Max never showed up for rehearsals. Instead of moving forward with a three-piece band, Jesse decided he would go it alone with an acoustic guitar.
My first impulse was to drop out of the Air Jam as an act of protest. Between Jesse’s machinations and Christian’s shitty organizational skills, I felt like I’d been painted into a corner for no good reason. Then I got a better idea. I would repurpose my frustration and blow it out of my system during our performance. Maybe it would just be the two of us on the stage, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t pull out all the stops.
“Fuck ‘em,” I said to Gord. “If they’re going to screw up our plans, we’ll give them something to remember us by.”
The song we chose to perform was “Pacing the Cage”. It was the first song Gord and I ever wrote together. We ran through it once and knew we wouldn’t have to run through it again. It was in our blood.
There was one mini-rehearsal at school. Everyone played truncated versions of the songs they were going to play at the show. They cut us off halfway through “Pacing the Cage”, just as I was starting to ramp up my voice.
The day of the first Air Jam show, Gord and I slipped into the auditorium after lunch to see how things were going. There was only one mic stand on the stage. I asked Christian if they had any more. He said no. That wasn’t going to work with Gord playing acoustic guitar and me singing at the same time, and I was pretty sure there were other performers who would need more than one mic stand. I walked home and grabbed a few SM57s and mic stands of my own to lend to the cause. It was one of the many times living a two-minute walk away from school came in handy. I also grabbed my acoustic guitar, my harmonica, and my harmonica holder, though I had no idea what I might need them for.
There was no keyboard on the stage. Christian told me I would probably be able to borrow one from one of the music classes. A few teachers turned me away before someone told me I could use one of the two keyboards collecting dust in the back of their classroom. Jesse saw me and wished me luck in the show. Then he asked me what I was doing in his class. I told him I needed a digital piano for my performance.
“One of those is no good,” he said. “It’s got sticky keys.”
I thought I’d try them both. Neither keyboard had any internal speakers, so Jesse grabbed one, I grabbed the other, and we carried them to the auditorium along with a keyboard stand.
The one with sticky keys wouldn’t make a sound. The other one worked, but it only had sixty-one keys. It felt like a toy. The piano sound was thin and one-dimensional.
I tried to set it at a good volume so I wouldn’t have to mess with it later. Jesse climbed up on the stage, sat down at a drum kit that was set up behind me, and started playing. He noticed my harmonica.
“Can you play that thing?”
“Sort of,” I said. “I just play chords on it most of the time.”
“Play something, man!”
I blew a few chords into a microphone. Jesse laughed. “Is that all you can play?”
“It makes more sense when I’m playing the guitar or the piano at the same time.”
“Is it just you and Gord playing?” he asked me.
“Yeah, just the two of us. We were gonna get a drummer to play with us, but we were moved from the second show to the first. That threw things off a little.”
“I could have played drums for you. Why didn’t you ask me?”
“I never even thought to ask.”
“What’s your song like?”
I played a bit of “Pacing the Cage” for him. He hammered out a steady 4/4 rhythm. It was all wrong for the song. I tried to explain how I needed something more along the lines of a polyrhythmic funk beat, where the snare didn’t fall on the two and the four. He asked me to give him an example. I took his place behind the drums for a minute and showed him what I meant.
I moved back over to the keyboard. Jesse started playing the same 4/4 beat again.
“The song’s okay without drums,” I said. “It’s way too late to figure it out now anyway, and it wouldn’t sound right without bass. But thanks for the offer.”
When it was time for the show to start, I met up with Gord in a hallway that led to the stage wings. It dawned on me that I left my leather jacket on one of the chairs in the front row of the auditorium. I waited until Cerah Steele’s band finished their three-song set and made my move during the brief lull between acts.
Then this happened.
I’m almost positive that’s Matt Strukelj screaming, “John West!”
What you don’t see, because the camera didn’t catch it, is me approaching a guy who was sitting on my jacket and asking him if he could stand up for a second so I could grab it. He didn’t move. I asked him again. He looked at me like he didn’t know what words were. The people around him had to liberate it from beneath his uncomprehending body.
Back out in the hall, Christian was trying to get a handle on the chaos swirling around him. No one knew when they were going to get their turn to perform. A tentative list was taped to the door, but it was incomplete and subject to revision. First we were supposed to be the third-last act. Then we got pushed to second-last. We would have been dead last, but Steve Mitchell was slated to close the show.
All along we were told to prepare one song. Now Christian was telling me we might have five minutes, and we might have ten. He couldn’t offer a definitive answer one way or another.
“Pacing the Cage” was good for four or five minutes. There was no way to stretch it out to ten. Gord and I took our acoustic guitars to the outside of the front entrance of the auditorium where things were quieter, tuned up, and tried to figure something out. We had four full-length Papa Ghostface albums to draw from by now, plus the in-progress SHOEBOX PARADISE, but a lot of our songs were improvisations that were never revisited after we recorded them, and nothing jumped out at me as being appropriate for a school performance. What could we pull off with no time to practice?
We could do “Fatties”. That would be a hit with all the pot-smokers. But the vicious impressions of a few well-known teachers wouldn’t go over so well, nor would the sex talk. We’d be remembered for all the wrong reasons.
There was “Ballad of Bob and Marie”. It was simple enough. Just a few chords. I wasn’t sure how many students would appreciate a song that was little more than a vehicle for my Bob Dylan impression, but I thought I remembered most of the words from the initial improvisation.
We recorded this song for the double-CD HORSEMOUTH (AND OTHER BEDTIME STORIES) on August 17, 1999. It was the day after my sixteenth birthday, and twenty years to the day before the doomed Mackenzie Hall show was supposed to happen. We started out with a little live instrumental improv. I got a drum loop going on the Yamaha W-5, ran it through a distortion effect built into the synth, and played synth bass with my left hand and an atmospheric synth pad with my right. Gord made barking dog sounds with his electric guitar and a wah pedal. He brought over an old harmonica he had in the key of C, so I strapped it on and blew into it a little.
My grandfather was supposed to call me to wish me a happy belated birthday. I kept thinking I heard the phone ringing, so we would stop recording mid-improv only for me to discover it was the sound of the harmonica’s wheeze tricking my ears. After the third or fourth fake-out he really did call. Once our conversation was over, I thought it would be fun to treat the little instrumental jam as an intro and cut straight to a song that had nothing to do with it. I swapped out Gord’s harmonica for my own and did my best shouty young Bob Dylan impression. After we got down a live performance with me on acoustic guitar and Gord on electric, I overdubbed some shaker and shouted some distant backup vocals. Gord overdubbed acoustic bass.
I remixed this song about a week ago, just before I got sick. It had some serious issues, and if I was going to post it here I wanted it to sound as good as possible. Twenty years ago I knew almost nothing about mic placement, and I knew less than nothing about things like EQ and compression. I would stick an SM57 in front of anything with strings and hope for the best. No surprise then that the acoustic guitar and acoustic bass tracks were muddier than mud, and my vocal track got pretty out of control during some of the more forceful passages with nothing to tame it.
It’s pretty amazing what you can do with a VS-1680 to fix up a mediocre recording. “Ballad of Bob and Marie” was recorded on a VS-880-EX before I upgraded to the sixteen-track machine, so I had to import it into the 1680. Everything past that was smooth sailing. I was able to carve out all the low end mud with EQ. Some limiting got the acoustic guitar and bass sounding pretty crisp and controlled. A little EQ and compression on the vocal and it was sitting right in the pocket.
Everything was done “in the box”, and I left all the original effects intact. The chorus and delay on the lead vocal felt essential. I didn’t want to do anything to alter the spirit or soul of the song. I just wanted to undo some old mistakes.
I can hardly believe how good I was able to make the acoustic guitar sound. It was a crappy instrument to begin with, even before my half-assed recording job. But the real shocker for me is the electric guitar. That’s not a real amp you’re hearing, and this was before the Digitech guitar effects box came into the picture. I plugged Gord’s B.C. Rich Virgin straight into the mixer and used one of the 1680’s built-in guitar amp modelling effects called “Vin.Tweed” (it’s supposed to emulate an overdriven 1950s tube amp). Everyone will tell you Roland’s speaker-modelling technology is beyond outdated now, but to me it sounds a lot more realistic than anything I ever got out of a POD.
I wish I’d thought to start backing up whole albums earlier in the game. I could give some of the early solo and Papa Ghostface CDs a whole new lease on life with just a little tasteful remixing. I did at least back up a few other songs from HORSEMOUTH. Though some of them are things I considered borderline filler at the time, it might be fun to revisit them and see if I can clean them up in a similar way.
I digress. We decided “Ballad of Bob and Marie” would be our second song if we needed one. Just in time, too, because few minutes later Christian told me we were up next. We walked through the wings. Christian asked if we had enough material for ten minutes. I told him we did. We made our way onto the stage. I laid my guitar on the floor and sat down at the crummy keyboard I was stuck with. Gord sat down beside me. Christian helped us both set up our microphones. After making sure my vocal mic was working, I went off.
“All right!” I screamed. The audience screamed back. I felt like a psychotic low-rent preacher.
“I’d like to tell you something before we start,” I said. “Originally we wanted to put a band together, but because of time constraints and being shifted around and shifted around, we weren’t able to do so. That makes me angry! But maybe I’m not the only person in here who’s angry right now. Maybe some of you are angry. Maybe your boyfriend left you. Maybe your girlfriend left you. Maybe things aren’t going too well for you in general, ’cause ain’t life stink? And so, I want you to scream when I tell you to let it out at the end of this song. All right?”
We launched into a version of “Pacing the Cage” that made the original recording sound like a lullaby. I slipped into the skin of the character narrating the song — an unrepentant killer who murders his unfaithful wife and her lover, relating the tale from prison not with pride or remorse, but with the belief that he was hardwired from birth to do something horrible and in committing these crimes he found his true purpose in life. My hands were shaking. Every time I hit a bad note, I mashed the keys and went out of my way to hit every bad note I could. I twisted my voice into a guttural groan when I wasn’t screaming, pounding on the keyboard I hated until I was punching it more than I was playing it. In the absence of a music stand I balanced my lyric sheet on top of the keyboard. All the turbulence sent it flying to the floor.
When the lyrics ran out I addressed the audience again. “LET IT OUT!” I screamed, and a sea of voices screamed back at me. The song dissolved into dissonance and everyone went nuts. We got a standing ovation.
The Bob Dylan piss-take was a little anticlimactic after that, but I felt invincible even with my voice half-shot from the vocal cord brutality of the first song. If anything, the diminished vocal range probably helped my Dylan impression. I lost my pick inside the sound hole of my guitar mid-song and kept going, improvising new lyrics when the adrenaline wiped my brain clean. We got another standing ovation (well, half of one this time) and left the stage to thunderous applause.
Jesse appeared in the wings with a look of bewilderment on his face.
“THAT WAS FUCKING AMAZING!” he shouted at me, giving me a bear hug, my harmonica holder coming between our chests. “I love the way you play guitar! I love it!”
This was almost as shocking as the audience’s response to our performance, coming from someone who just a few months earlier was belittling my “fucking lap guitar” playing as if it was the lowest form of musical expression. For all of our musical differences and the tug-of-war we waged as collaborators (with Jesse trying to get me to write more conventional songs like him, and me trying to get him to let go and get a little weird), it felt like he finally got what I was doing and I managed to bring him over to the dark side, even if it was only for an afternoon.
“I gotta go,” Jesse said. “I just wanted to come back here and see you guys. Fuckin’ amazing.”
Then he was gone, and I was left with a buzz that wouldn’t go away. The afterglow seemed to extend throughout the entire school. Even Steve Mitchell got on board. He closed the show with Steph Sarafianos backing him up on guitar for a version of Van Morrison’s “Brown-Eyed Girl” that was rewritten as “Blue-Eyed Girl” in Steph’s honour.
The first thing he said when got onstage was, “How about that John West?” and everyone went crazy all over again.
The rest of that day is a bit of a blur to me now. I remember jumping up and down like a manic kangaroo in the hallway with Max and Paul Clairmont (at least I think it was them), feeling a natural high I didn’t know what to do with. I remember walking back to my house with Gord and talking for a minute to Amber Hughes, who was sitting cross-legged on the grass. I remember Gord saying, “She digs you, man.” I don’t think she did. She was just friendly.
That’s about it. The rest is gone, including the weekend that followed.
I wasn’t unpopular before that performance, but it seemed to catapult me once and for all into the realm of “those who are considered cool”. The thing that strikes me now is what an out-there performance it was. There’s no guarantee an audience is going to stick with you when you do something that confrontational and unconventional. It wasn’t even a great musical display from a technical standpoint. It was more about the energy. And to the great credit of that group of students, they were with me every step of the way. I could feel it. Maybe I tapped into some universal angst pretty much everyone feels at that age. I don’t know.
Even some of the teachers got into it. On the Monday after the show, Mr. Zawadski — my math teacher in grades nine and ten — pulled me aside on my way to society class and said, “I have to tell you, John, I really enjoyed your performance. There’s a market for that, you know. It’s avant-garde!”
Along with the grade eight talent show, it was one of the formative musical events of my life. To play your own material live, to do nothing to compromise it or make it more palatable for an audience, and to have a bunch of teenagers — in some ways the most difficult age group to impress — respond like that…there’s nothing quite like it.
I see now that everything going wrong was a blessing in disguise. If things had gone my way and we’d been able to put a larger band together, I’m sure we would have given a good performance. But it probably wouldn’t have turned into interactive musical theatre. It took a perfect storm of inconveniences and injustices to get me pissed off enough to take command of the room the way I did. People still remember that Air Jam performance to this day, which is insane to me.
The second Air Jam show in May was a complete disaster. Half the scheduled performers skipped out on the event, forcing the few who did show up to stretch themselves pretty thin as the emcees improvised lame banter to fill up time. It made the March show look like the best-organized event in the universe. The audience got bored, with a lot of students shuffling out of the auditorium while the show was still going on. Best of all, Jesse — the guy who pressured the organizers into putting on a second show in the first place — didn’t even show up.
I was able to put a full band together for the 2001 Air Jam, but that’s another story for another time.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “If you can see the value of turning adversity to your advantage in a situation like that, why didn’t you do the same thing with the Mackenzie Hall show?”
I’m not the same person I was in March of 2000. I watch that footage now and the raw energy on the screen almost scares me. I had a lot of anger taking up space inside of me, most of which stemmed from hearing what a piece of shit I was all the time from certain family members who have been dead to me for a number of years now. I used it as creative fuel on a regular basis. And I was fearless on a stage. You could have chopped off one of my fingers and I would have kept on going and incorporated it into the performance.
I don’t have that wellspring of boundless energy anymore. I also feel like I’ve been fighting against one form of bullshit or another in this city’s music scene ever since I got out of high school, from complete indifference, to being treated as a novelty, to being misrepresented, misunderstood, and lied about by talentless coattail-riding douchebags with agendas.
Even this album I’ve been working on forever has had its share of setbacks. Sure, it’s been a grand adventure. It’s also been another thing: a profound test of my patience, my resilience, and my ability to absorb one rejection after another. You know how many people in this city ignored me, blew me off, flaked out on me, or stood me up on my way to getting almost thirty singers/musicians and a dozen visual artists to contribute to the album?
Many of those eighty-two people claim to have an immense amount of respect for me and what I do. And that’s just Windsor people. I tried to bend my own self-imposed rule and involve some talented folks from Detroit and other not-so-far-flung places, with disastrous results.
For every singer I got to show up and sing on something, another ten either never acknowledged me or made a commitment to work with me only to come up with some bogus excuse to use as a last-minute escape clause. My favourite, though it’s hard to choose, is probably the singer who spent more than half a year sitting with a song and telling me it was right in her wheelhouse, only to claim she forgot her own vocal range the day we were supposed to record. It takes a special kind of idiot to come up with a story like that. It must have taken me twenty horn players to find two or three who would talk to me. And I lost count of how many visual artists said they were enthusiastic about contributing to the lyric booklet and then never spoke to me again no matter how many times I tried to follow up with them.
Maybe it isn’t surprising that for all the guests appearing on the album, more than half the songs still feature me doing everything on my own. If I’d been crazy enough to put an actual band together to play on every song, there wouldn’t be an album. You can’t work with people who won’t show up.
I’m proud of the songs I’ve written and the performances I’ve been able to get out of a colourful cast of characters. It might end up being one of my best albums when all is played and sung. And I won’t ever do anything like it again. I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to banging out a guest-free album inside of a few months, the way I used to do it, once this thing is out of the way.
Really, it comes down to a very simple thing — I’m tired. Tired of fighting an uphill battle against a music community that, for the most part, never wanted me around in the first place. Tired of eating shit. Tired of a lifetime of rejection from people who are too apathetic or self-important to have a conversation with someone who isn’t already a part of their selective inner circle.
I want to make music and live my life. That’s it. I don’t have any energy left for the other garbage.
I hope cancelling the show sends a message to the musicians who forced my hand. I take this stuff seriously. I always have. I always will. If you can’t come to the table with at least some degree of reverence, you have no business pulling up a chair.
Note: if you’re wondering why I didn’t post the Air Jam footage, it’s because I feel I’ve already shared more bits than I should have from the SLEEPWALK documentary thing and I’d like to keep at least a few surprises up my sleeve. I’ll probably come back and put it up here once that’s done.
Zara was back in the studio this past week to record the songs that will make up her third album. We got started on Monday and wrapped up on Friday.
This time there was a pretty even division between guitar songs and ukulele songs. Zara brought her own uke but gave my wizened Gibson LG-2 some more run after playing it on UNCERTAIN ASSERTIONS way back in 2014. One new wrinkle: we double-tracked her voice on a few songs. I always enjoy hearing the way a voice almost morphs into something new when it’s doubled or tripled to become an exaggerated version of itself.
As intense as Zara’s music is, she’s great fun to work with. There’s a lot of laughing, and it doesn’t feel much like work. All I really do is move a few microphones around and try to capture the way she sounds in the room, and then mix the results in such a way that the dynamics are left intact.
It feels good that she would want to keep coming back here five years after we recorded her first album. Makes me think I must be doing something right.
I should have everything mixed by the end of the month, or early May at the latest. There’s a bit of video footage to share as well. This time I used the Canon T5i instead of one of my little Flip friends. We’ll see what impact that has on the quality. The lighting in the room on the day wasn’t great, so it might still be a little grainy.
Most exciting for me — I asked Zara if she would be up for singing on another song of mine. She said yes. The trick now is writing the right song. I tried to get something ready for Friday. In a rerun of what happened with Tara, a bunch of ideas came tumbling out, and none of them quite felt like “the one”.
I would love to drape her voice over some weird ambient electronic ballad. Knowing the way my brain works, I’ll probably end up with something folky and acoustic guitar-based instead. She’s in town for another four weeks (she moved to British Columbia a while back), so there’s a bit of time to play with.
Oh yeah — yesterday was 420, the day of celebrating all things marijuana-related. To mark the occasion, here’s a grainy video still of me taking a drag from a joint in 2002.
Most of the time 420 doesn’t register for me. I haven’t smoked pot in more than twelve years now. Even if I had a debilitating illness and marijuana was the only thing that would alleviate my symptoms, I don’t think I would touch it again.
Don’t get me wrong. I used to smoke. I caught a buzz for the first time in late 2001 while working on SUBLIMINAL BILE, and it became a fun weekend thing for a while. I appreciated the way it made every conversation feel profound. Stupid things became hilarious. Music I already liked seemed to develop new dimensions, and music I had no interest in became almost tolerable.
I cut out everything a year later after getting a good amount of self-destructive energy out of my system. I tried smoking again in 2005, found it was still fun, and started using it as a substitute for going downtown and getting drunk on the weekend. Why waste my money on an aching bladder and a hangover when I could stay home, light up, and watch a Werner Herzog movie or listen to Miles Davis, waking up the next day without feeling like I got hit by a bread truck?
The first mistake I made was turning it into a solitary thing, and not something I only did once in a while in a social setting. Now that I had a consistent hookup and could smoke pot whenever I wanted, I found I liked it a little too much. It also made me lazy. It was a way to have a good time without having to do anything. Why work on music when I could sit around thinking about how great my ideas were? Why flatten them out into finished things when they were doing just fine floating around in my head?
My second mistake was buying a bong from a friend in the summer of 2006. I thought it would be an easy way to make my stash last longer. Since no one told me one toke from the bong was all I needed, I treated it like it was a pipe, got way too high, and found myself singing for my soul to two different higher powers. It was one of the most horrifying experiences of my life. The sound of a street cleaner set me off on a dissociative loop from hell, and I became convinced I was dying and stuck in some sort of limbo.
I couldn’t make anything that sounded like music happen on a guitar, but I still had my voice. Music became my weapon and my one hope for salvation. Over the next two hours I sang almost nonstop, improvising an entire a cappella concept album in which I bartered with both Satan (arguing I could be of some use to him if he allowed me to spread his message through my music) and God (promising to be a good Christian if he would save me). I felt the strong presence of both good and evil higher powers at different moments, and I felt myself being judged by both of them. As long as I kept singing, I knew I could at least buy myself more time. Being judged was better than being taken.
Right around the time my high wore off, I saw some sunlight filtering through my bedroom window. Instead of hearing a choir of angels singing and ascending to some heavenly afterlife, I went downstairs to get myself something to drink — my throat was killing me — and then came back upstairs and watched Millennium Actress.
To this day, part of me regrets not hitting the record button on my camcorder and capturing at least some of the madness. I remember some of the bits I sang. There were some pretty catchy song fragments in there. Whenever I was singing to Satan I would slip into this exaggerated James Hetfield voice. At one point I got into some beatboxing and borderline throat singing, coming up with some pretty strange vocal sounds. A much sweeter voice came out when I sang to God.
I stopped believing in most of the Christian ideology I was taught right around the time I went through puberty, so I thought it was odd how things split themselves into such clear divisions between good and evil. The whole thing fascinated me. I found I could laugh about it. More than that, I felt a swell of something resembling joy. It was as if I’d come through some dark night of the soul and emerged a better, happier version of myself.
Reluctant to cut my strong-smelling friend out of my life altogether, I chalked up the bad experience to smoking some stuff I bought from an untested source. It must have been cut with something nasty. A week later I tried smoking some of my “normal” supply out of the bong. I should have just gone back to joints and pipes, but I was confident I knew what I was doing.
The high that followed was much more frightening than my first bong experience. This time I felt no higher powers judging me. I lost control of my body — or my mind convinced me I did — and became a vegetable trapped in my bed, unable to move, knowing I really was going to die this time and there was nowhere for me to go. No sunlight was going to save me. There was nothing waiting for me on the other side but a vast expanse of oblivion.
I like to believe there’s something beyond this level of existence after we die. There are too many preternatural happenings that can’t be explained away as simple coincidences. I don’t pretend to know what comes next, but it gives me some comfort to think there’s some kind of afterlife, and that we go on in some way. Some atheists find comfort in the idea that there’s nothing more than this, and once we die it all goes dark. That scares me more than I can tell you. I don’t even know why. I think it’s something about the finality of it all that unnerves me.
The high wore off after a while, I was able to move again, and life went on. But this time there were after-effects. I felt disconnected from myself. I developed issues with stairs. I felt anxiety that didn’t exist for me before, and there were some borderline panic attacks — though they were nothing compared to the fun I experienced after the break-in of late 2008.
After a while I felt more or less like myself again. I’m not sure if my brain eventually got rid of whatever lingering weirdness was hanging on there, or if I accepted the new normal and adjusted to it. One thing was clear: I couldn’t smoke pot anymore. It was toxic to me now.
There was one more little adventure a year later when someone I thought was a friend pressured me into smoking one last time. I should have told him to get out of my house, but I didn’t have the guts. My reward for that bit of cowardice was locking myself out of my own house a few minutes after getting high. This time the universe decided to cut me a break, and an ex-con friend who just happened to be passing by took it upon himself to help me break back in. Which we proceeded to do. In the middle of the afternoon.
You can’t make stuff like this up.
The high wasn’t as bad this last time, but there was none of the euphoria or false sense of heightened mental acuity I got from marijuana in the past. All it gave me now was a feeling of dread that fanned out over everything like a filthy blanket.
I thought I would miss it. After that last hurrah, I didn’t have any trouble leaving it behind.
I bring this up because a few weeks ago someone was over at the house to get down some piano and vocal tracks. My name might not carry much currency in the local music scene anymore (thank God for small miracles), but apparently I’ve become known as “the guy in Windsor who has a real piano in his studio that isn’t a hunk of junk and will maybe let you use it if you ask politely”. I got a message from a guy who also has a home studio, asking me what I would charge to record him playing piano and getting down some vocal tracks so I could then send those raw tracks to him and he could build around them in his own studio.
It struck me as a somewhat convoluted way of going about it — wouldn’t it be easier to record the tracks onto his rig and then have his way with them? — but I have this impulse to help people in situations like these, when what I should probably say to them is, “If you want the sound of a real piano in your songs, do what I did and buy a real piano.”
I told him if he wanted to throw me twenty bucks to put toward my next piano tuning it would be appreciated. Other than that, I felt funny charging anything. I looked at it as one producer helping out another.
I won’t get into the specifics of the recording session. The one bit I want to mention is this. Before we got started, the guy asked me if I smoked. He said when he mentioned he was paying me a visit he was told to bring a joint as a peace offering.
It seems there are still some people out there who assume I’m this massive pothead based on the amount of music I’ve made and its refusal to stay in one place. Here’s the thing about that. If I hadn’t stopped smoking pot more than a decade ago, none of the music I’ve made from 2008 to date would exist, and what little work I might have done in its place wouldn’t be any good.
Drugs inspire some artists and open them up to different ways of thinking. They never did that for me. At least not in any way that had a positive impact on my music. Pot didn’t just sap my motivation, leaving me content to brainstorm forever — the few times I did try writing or recording while under the influence, the results were unusable. When I was high I thought all my bad ideas were good and all my good ideas were great.
I would try to record a miserable song about a dying relationship with Gord and Tyson and laugh my way through the whole thing after forgetting the lyrics that were right in front of me. Like so.
Fun? You bet. Album material? Not on your life. Compare this to the version recorded two months later for BEAUTIFULLY STUPID and it’s not even a fair fight.
My point, if I have one, is this: I don’t judge anyone who smokes pot or puts any other foreign substance into their body. Their life, their choice. But I never got one good song out of being high, and I feel it does something of a disservice to the body of work I’ve built when someone assumes it’s the product of an altered state of consciousness.
Life is bizarre and maddening and inspiring enough as it is when viewed through the prism of a clear mind. If you need a drug to help you come up with your ideas, I’m not sure you’re trying hard enough.
Here’s the song Tara came by to lend her vocal magic to. I’ve spent the last few mornings picking away at editing the recording footage I grabbed along the way, and as much as I’m trying to keep things under wraps until the album is finished, I can’t resist putting this one out there as something resembling an advance single.
The thing I can’t get over is how catchy it is. I didn’t go out of my way to make that happen…it just happened. Must be the groove. I blame the djembe and the shaker that almost looks like an edible pepper. They’re always up to no good.
Editing this was a bit of a pain in the posterior, with everything I had to find a way to fit in there. It was rewarding to see it all come together, though, and I think it’s one of the better editing jobs I’ve done along these lines. It’s always fun when your cuts move in rhythm with the music. It’s a subtle thing, but I find it makes for a video that feels like it breathes a little better.
Also, dig those pyjama pants. Lately I find myself doing a fair bit of recording in the morning, before I’ve put on normal people clothes for the day. When you’re recording drums at 9:43 a.m. the last thing on your mind is throwing on some jeans. Me wearing boxer pants in a video is nothing new, but I don’t think any pair has ever been given quite this much screen time. Maybe these ones are special.
While I’m proud of all the elements that make up the thick soup of this song’s sound, the real secret sauce is the Yamaha VSS-30. I swear it keeps finding new ways to sneak its way into a song and add the texture that’s needed. It’s ridiculous how useful and versatile a little “toy” keyboard from the 1980s can be. You can get so many different sounds just out of sampling a bit of Wurlitzer and warping it (which is what I did here).
In less pleasant news, here are some words I never thought I would type, say, or even think: I won’t ever do business with Minuteman Press again. I won’t even recommend them for the simplest of jobs. If you’re in Windsor and you have any printing needs beyond what you can do yourself at home, I urge you to go somewhere — anywhere — else.
Here’s the deal. In early 2003, when I first thought it would be worthwhile to try giving my CDs a somewhat professional appearance, Johnny Smith said, “I’ll take you to Minuteman Press. That’s where I get my business cards done. I bet they’ll be able to help.” And they did help, printing a two-sided insert I slipped like an embarrassed apology into the abomination that was the initial album art for OH YOU THIS.
In short order, Minuteman Press became my go-to place for all things related to album packaging. Over a period of sixteen years they printed the booklets and inserts for fifty different albums (that’s not a typo), along with two posters and a handful of redesigns when I decided I wanted to “reissue” something or print the lyrics for an album that got slighted the first time around.
In the beginning it was pretty clear they’d never done this kind of work before. The initial inserts (or “tray cards”, if you like) for NUDGE YOU ALIVE had only one tab with the album’s name on the spine instead of the traditional two, leaving one side of the CD jewel case bereft. For my part, I had no idea what I was doing when it came to arranging text and images. We both got better in a hurry. They started producing more professional-looking results with more experience, and I taught myself how to handle the layout side of things.
By 2010 we were a well-oiled machine. I started handing in polished image files with proper bleed lines instead of asking them to set things up for me, and Heather and I almost had our own verbal shorthand. She was always great to work with. If I still sometimes got inserts that were a hair too tall to fit into a jewel case and I had to take a little off the top with my own cutting board to compensate, it was a small price to pay for being able to give my albums the visual presentation I wanted on a DIY budget.
Heather left a few years ago. The people who stayed on still did pretty reliable work. Then the ownership changed altogether in late 2017, and every familiar face was gone.
The woman who took over the business was a great surprise. Her attention to detail was incredible, and the packaging for both the long-overdue remaster of YOU’RE A NATION and the Papa Ghostface sign-off WHAT WE LOST IN THE FLOOD came out looking better than I thought possible. It seemed safe to assume I could keep giving Minuteman Press my business forever.
Everything changed when I swung by a few weeks ago to have the booklets and inserts for MEDIUM-FI MUSIC reprinted. The woman with the great attention to detail was gone. Another woman she once referred to as her “colleague” was now running the show. I’ll call her Esmerelda, because it’s a world away from her real name and it sounds a little evil.
There was a disgruntled customer ahead of me in line, and she was giving Esmerelda the business. The conversation went something like this:
I paid a professional designer to put this flyer together. The printing is all wrong. The bleed lines are off, and there’s all this white space.
Yes. It’s like because the format we were like given. We can only like play with it so much.
No…this was done by a professional. There’s nothing wrong with it. Something went wrong with the way it was sized after I gave it to you. You’re the ones who made the mistake.
Yes. Like when you give it to us, like we can do almost nothing. You have to like give it to us in a different format.
My event is a few days away. I can’t use this. This is no good.
If you want to like give it to me in a different format maybe we can like fix it, but the way you gave it to me there’s nothing we can do.
Put that on a loop for about ten minutes and you get the idea. The Smithster and I got tired of waiting after a while and turned to leave.
“No, no,” Esmerelda said.
“We’ll come back tomorrow,” I said.
“No, I can wait on you.”
She slid a smiling man with grey hair into her place and took my order. I gave her my original materials and asked for another thirty copies of each. She said she’d call me in a day or two to come look at a proof, and then she’d print it. Easy as cake.
More than a week went by. There was no phone call. I called and got Esmerelda’s son on the line. He talked to me as if he was the new graphic designer of the operation. He told me my file of sixteen years — once a monster of a thing — was now all but empty, and almost none of the work any of the previous employees had done for me was in there. I would have to give him the art files for these booklets and inserts, and they would have to be printed from scratch.
I dug up the old art files from early 2011, dumped them onto a flash drive, and brought them in. Son of Esmerelda told me he would email me a proof later that day. He did no such thing. The next day I popped in to see my proof. It wasn’t ready.
“Oh, he had some car trouble,” Esmerelda said. “He told me he’s going to send you an email tonight. Like a hundred percent, for sure he’ll do it tonight.”
He did not, like a hundred percent, for sure, email me anything.
I came back the next day.
“I was just going to call you,” Esmerelda lied.
She printed up a proof for me. The insert looked fine. The smiling man stood there staring at the song titles, looking bewildered. I like to think “Taylor Swift Sings Death Metal in My Dreams” gave him a brain cramp.
The booklet wasn’t fine. It was a mess. The image and text on the cover were both too small. Inside, the size of the font increased and decreased five or six points at a time from one page to another. I always make sure to keep the font size consistent through all my image files, so it was a bit of shock to see things looking so out of whack.
Esmerelda’s explanation: “Yes. You gave us JPEG, and like we can do almost nothing. If you give it to me in like a Word document, then I can like size it myself and everything will be like perfect.”
For nine years JPEG files were never an issue. All Son of Esmerelda had to do was drag and drop the image files into whatever program he was using and make sure they were the right size. Instead, he took it upon himself to increase the size of the text on every page that had any appreciable amount of white space. Of course, Esmerelda wasn’t about to admit it, and he wasn’t around to answer for his screw-up.
She said she would email me a proof once I sent her the lyrics in a Word document. I sighed, went home, and put together what she said she needed. I emailed it to her the next morning. She didn’t email me back.
Thursday was the day of reckoning. I showed up to ask what the hell was going on. Son of Esmerelda looked horrified when he saw me walk in the door. He ducked into an office as fast as he could, where I assume he watched videos of dogs slobbering in slow motion while contemplating the nature of existence.
“Our server has been down all day,” Esmerelda said. “We haven’t been able to like do anything. But we almost have it like fixed now. If you come back at 12:30, I’ll have it for you. You don’t need to call. Just come back around 2:00 and it will be ready.”
Not just anyone can make an hour-and-a-half leap like that almost in the middle of a sentence without even acknowledging it. I had to genuflect in respect.
I should pause to tell you Johnny Smith was with me for each of these visits, and he noticed Esmerelda had a habit of looking at him instead of me when we were talking to each other. It was weird.
A little after 2:00, we came back.
“I just printed it,” she said. “I’ll have it for you in a moment.”
In a virtuoso display of lying to someone’s face and assuming they’re too stupid to notice, she walked a few feet to a printer and proceeded to print what she told me was already printed.
She brought the pages over, and I saw my body text in the booklet had morphed from Bookman Old Style into Arial.
“You changed the font,” I said.
“Yes. It’s much clearer now.”
“No,” I said, opening the original booklet to show her. “This is the font I used. See? I used the same font in the Word document I sent you, because that’s the font I want.”
“Yes,” she said. “It was Times New Roman. I changed it to Arial, but I can just like change it back. I just thought it looked better like this.”
“It wasn’t Times New Roman. But you know what…let’s do this. The other part that’s fine — the insert? Let’s go ahead and print that, and forget about the booklet.”
“No,” she said. “I can change the font back.”
“I’d like my original booklet back please, and we’ll just print the one piece that doesn’t have any problems.”
“I’ll just change the font back.”
“No. It’s been one thing after another. I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“Yes, but I’ll just change the font.”
Right here is where Johnny Smith took it upon himself to break the loop of stupidity, slipping into what I can only call “Punisher Mode”. He told Esmerelda we were done. She tried to come up with some bullshit. He told her to give me back my original booklet and insert. She wouldn’t budge. He had to cut her off at least ten times before it sunk in for her that this was one person she wasn’t going to be able to wear down with smiling condescension. She gave me my booklet and insert back, said, “Well, I’m very sorry to hear it,” and we walked out.
I’ll never set foot in that place again. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re out of business a few months from now. Word spreads fast, and awe-inspiring incompetence is not something most people look for when they need something printed.
It’s a shame. Once upon a time there were some good, honest people working there who did fine work. Not anymore.
We made a list of about half a dozen other local printing businesses to try. I brought the packaging for STEW to A&A Printing so I’d have something to offer as a sample. The manager came out to talk to us and I asked a bunch of questions. He told me they had a lot of experience doing CD-related work. PDF files were the best format for them. They would have a proof for me the same day I brought in my art files, the job would be finished the day after that, and for fifty each of these two pieces of packaging I could expect to pay a little over a hundred bucks.
Sounds almost too good to be true, doesn’t it?
He said all the right things. There didn’t seem to be any need to check out any of the other places on our list. On Friday, around noon, I spoke with a woman at the front desk. I asked if I could have a lyric booklet and a separate insert made, and presented her with samples of the original pieces (again for MEDIUM-FI MUSIC) and the relevant PDF files on a flash drive. She told me she would have a proof ready for me in two hours and she would call when it was finished.
Something I’ve learned: when someone tells you they’re going to call you for anything business-related, they’re almost always lying. We came back at 4:00 and a different woman claimed she’d called us to let us know the files I provided didn’t work. When we told her we never received a phone call, she said, “Well, I was trying to call you.” That made for two lies in less than ten seconds, unless in her mind “trying” meant “thinking about maybe doing something and then not actually doing it”.
She invited us into the work area and brought me over to her computer, where she showed me the files wouldn’t work when she tried to open them.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “I saved them all as PDF files. That’s what the manager told me to do. He told me that was the best format for you. Everything worked fine on my computer.”
She started laughing.
“Why are you laughing?” Johnny Smith asked her.
“Because the manager told you to do that, and the files don’t work.”
“What about that is funny?”
She didn’t have an answer.
Laughing at your customer’s misfortune isn’t a great way to get their return business. Just throwing that out there.
The woman who took my order earlier in the day tried the flash drive on her computer. She had no problem opening the files. Way to troubleshoot, people! She told us if we could wait five minutes in the other room she would print up a proof.
Half an hour later she had a sheet printed out to show me the paper stock they were going to use for the booklet. She said the binding would take three hours to do and she didn’t realize there were so many pages.
Johnny Smith told her we’d just left a printing business after sixteen years because of mishaps and miscommunications like this. She apologized and let loose with a stream of excuses. They had a lot of unexpected cutting work that day. There was more work involved in putting the proof together than she thought there would be. The printer jammed. She thought the booklet was a flyer with no pages in it (the second you touch or even look at the booklet, it becomes clear it isn’t a flyer).
She said she would work on it over the weekend and call us on Monday whether the work was done or not.
Believe it or not, on Monday there was a phone call. We came in to look at the proof with some sneaky feelings of optimism. Those feelings were dispelled soon enough.
The woman who showed me the initial printout wasn’t around. The one who laughed at us was there instead. She showed me a booklet that had the font at the right size throughout, but the print quality left something to be desired. The printout I was shown on Friday made the text look nice and smooth. Now it was bleeding all over the place. The text on both spines of the insert was way out of alignment, and instead of fixing it themselves she and the manager told me it was my job to edit the image file, guessing at where they needed it to be. I’ve been doing this long enough to know where the text is supposed to go. This was their mistake, not mine.
Worst of all was the cost. Because there were a few extra pages in this booklet, the price I was quoted on Thursday tripled.
The woman asked for a 50% deposit. I gave it to her and left feeling defeated. Over the next few minutes my attitude shifted from just wanting to get the booklets and inserts reprinted, to thinking this was more of the same garbage and I didn’t want to stand for it anymore.
We went back. When I brought up the bleeding, the laughing lady said she could try lightening the text to see if that helped. I told her the price was another sticking point. She disappeared into the back of the work area for a while, and when she came back she said the manager was willing to come down almost a hundred bucks. If you can afford to do that, either your profit margin is sickening and you’re cheating people out of their money, or your business isn’t as prosperous as you’d like your customers to believe it is. Either way, it wasn’t good enough.
I asked for my money back and we left. They still have my memory stick and original lyric booklet. I need to get those back sometime this week.
Instead of trying more local printing places I thought I’d contact a business that makes album packaging full-time. I sent an email to someone at Duplium, which is where Ron got Tobacco Fields manufactured. The lyric booklet for that album came out looking great. While I’m waiting to hear back from them, I might email another place in Canada that does similar work. I prefer to be able to go in and see a proof in person, but if I have to go through something like this again on my way to finding someone in Windsor who knows what they’re doing, I think I’m going to tear my own face off.
Hopefully something good shakes loose. I’m running low on booklets and inserts for a good half a dozen albums, and I’d like to be able to get more of them printed somewhere.
Damn it, man. First Mark Hollis, and now this? The year is already gunning for a failing grade in its stunning lack of preservation of the artists who have been mainstays on the soundtrack of my life.
If you want to know a bit about what Scott Walker’s music did for me (and to me), I wrote about that once over here. If his album Tilt hadn’t blown my brain apart when I was fourteen, I’m convinced my musical vocabulary would be very different. Maybe another album would have performed a similar mind-expanding role for me, but the experience and its aftershocks wouldn’t have been the same. Tilt upended all of my ideas about what a song could be, and after wrestling with that music to the point that I was able to understand and appreciate it, nothing ever sounded inaccessible again, no matter how far-out it went.
And then there’s that voice. There’s never been another quite like it.
Scott’s four self-titled albums from the late 1960s are chamber pop of the highest order, approachable without surrendering their twisted sense of humour and pessimistic worldview. His work from 1978’s Bizarro World Walker Brothers reunion album Nite Flights forward, on the other hand, is not for everyone. It makes for a musical journey into some pretty dark places (including the mind of Mussolini’s mistress as she faces her execution). The man seemed to delight in setting fire to his former pop persona and poking around inside of its charred husk to see what kind of reverb chamber it made. Some have found the results pretentious. I find a lot of the music thrilling. Even his obligatory “80s-sounding album” Climate of Hunter, with its period-correct drum sound and fretless bass groans, is like nothing else anyone released in the 1980s, with the weirdest Billy Ocean cameo of all time.
The whole idea of the maverick artist seems to be slowly turning into just that — an idea. It doesn’t help that we just lost two of the greats in the space of a month.
There’s this thing called the RPM Challenge. It started back in 2006. Participants record a full-length album that’s ten songs or thirty-five minutes long, and they do it inside the month of February.
I’ve never done this. I used to record albums in a matter of days all the time, but for whatever reason I don’t think any of them were started and finished in February. Not since I started working in the digital domain twenty years ago, anyway.
My friend Joshua Jesty, on the other hand, has been a proponent of the RPM Challenge for about as long as it’s existed. He hasn’t made a “February record” every single year, but I think his latest instalment is his sixth. That’s some serious commitment to the cause right there.
This time around he asked a bunch of different friends to contribute to the album. I was one of those people. The thing is, he didn’t just ask me to play on one of the songs. He asked me to make the cover art too. And if you know me, you know I’m not someone who’s ever asked by anyone to do that sort of thing, because I’m not really a visual artist.
I am, however, a little bit nuts. I like to make up for my inability to draw freehand by tracing on top of existing pictures in a computer program that wasn’t designed with that in mind and then warping the context. In this case I took a photo of Josh holding a bowling ball in front of his face and turned the bowling ball into a massive mound of crap. Then I added a gloating bull to make the album title Nonstop Bullshit literal.
He used that image for the cover art, unmodified.
The song he asked me to play on is a pretty, atmospheric ballad called “Endless”. Josh felt it needed some dobro at the end, so I pulled out this guy, who’s been feeling a little neglected.
I’m not one of those crazy bluegrass pickers who can play frenetic, brain-melting slide solos. I tend to gravitate toward simple, melody-based things. I sat with Josh’s song for a bit until I felt I’d figured something out, recorded a handful of takes with a single Pearlman TM-250, and picked the second-last one. It wasn’t the best technical take, but it felt the most like me. Then I sent it off as a WAV file and Josh stuck it in his song.
Check it out.
I feel pretty good about that solo, I have to say. It isn’t flashy, but it works.
Elsewhere, things are getting back on track. My pseudo-vampire sleep schedule, while workable, drifted to the point that I wasn’t seeing a whole lot of daylight anymore, I didn’t have a lot of energy, and I couldn’t get much done. After not having to go a night without sleep to reboot my sleep cycle for more than a year — a pretty monumental accomplishment when I used to have to do it every few weeks — I admitted defeat and did it again. I’ve now been back on days for almost two weeks, and though readjusting to eating meals at normal times was a little strange at first, it’s nice to be reminded just how much time a proper day gives you to accomplish things.
My goal now is to pick a song every day and either evolve it in some significant way or finish it. So far, so good. Guest-related fun is starting to pick up steam again as well. Tara Watts is supposed to swing by in a little over a week to sing on something (remember her? I used to play in her band six million years ago!), and a few days after that a flautist is supposed to come over to record magic flute things.
It’s an odd feeling when you get old enough that the deaths of your musical heroes are no longer isolated events.
I’ve loved a lot of music over the years, but I can’t say there are many artists who have had a profound impact on what I do. Mark Hollis belongs on the short list of those who have. As the main songwriter and voice of Talk Talk he helped to create some of the most glorious pop music of the 1980s. Then, at the peak of his success, he turned around and committed commercial suicide with music that played a large role in paving the way for what we now call post-rock, as his lyrics took on a new depth and left things like rhyming and conventional metric ideas in the dust.
I mean, how do you get from this (pre-Talk Talk, with a short-lived band called The Reaction)…
They’re all great songs, but all three of them live on different planets. Few musicians are open to allowing this kind of artistic evolution to happen, let alone capable of pulling it off in a way that feels not only natural, but inevitable.
Random thing: “New Grass” features what may be my all-time favourite recording of an electric guitar. There’s something so beautiful and pure about it — a sound in constant bloom.
There’s also evidence that Mark had this kind of music in him before Talk Talk existed. Maybe he needed the right people and resources to do justice to the sound in his head, and he was biding his time until everything lined up the way he wanted.
Spirit of Eden and Laughing Stock are albums that create an endlessly evolving world of sound for you to get lost in. They achieve this not with synthesizers or sonic trickery, but with real instruments recorded in the most organic, dynamic way possible, and with silence treated as an instrument in itself. Weaving in and out of the sounds and the spaces between them is Mark’s voice — one of the most unique in all of “pop/rock”. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to understand much of what he’s singing in a given song without looking at the lyric sheet. It doesn’t matter. It’s a voice that can move you even if you don’t know what it’s saying.
Those last two Talk Talk albums, along with Mark’s lone self-titled solo album, form a triptych of uncommon power. Each one grows quieter and more minimal, until there’s silence and nothing else. Few bodies of work have trailed off with such grace.
This music has taken me places little else has, moving me near to tears one minute only to scare the bejesus out of me the next. Years ago I was listening to Mark Hollis late at night. During one of the more turbulent instrumental passages I noticed a tree branch flailing against my bedroom window as if it was having a visceral reaction to something only I could hear. The song sounded like a storm, and here it was storming outside, the wind shaking that tree’s arm with almost enough force to pry it loose.
“This is music that knows the world,” I thought.
Then I wrote the thought down, because I don’t often think things that sound so poetic.
I think Mark felt he’d said all he had to say after his solo album was finished. It’s difficult to fathom where else he might have gone after those half-whispered tone poems. What was there left to strip away? He even explained his vanishing act in the songs themselves, singing about his family and the joy it gave him. He wanted to step away from the music industry and dedicate himself to being a good father and husband, making his life his art instead of the other way around. There’s a great nobility in that.
The one bit of new material to surface in recent years was a brief instrumental piece heard over the end credits of an episode of Boss. It sounded like the soundtrack to a made-for-TV horror film that had been disassembled and reinterpreted by curious robots. Whether it was the beginning of a beguiling new direction or just a one-off, we’ll probably never know. Maybe it was only a wink meant to say, “I’m still here.”
Now the man who fell off the face of the earth is gone for good. I doubt we’ll get the usual deluge of reissues and biographies to cash in on the renewed interest in his work, and that’s as it should be. In a strange way, the permanence of his absence feels like it’s brought him closer. When he sang he sounded like a fallen angel, but it turns out he was one of us after all.
My introduction to Mark Hollis and Talk Talk came in 1994. MuchMusic played the music video for “Life’s What You Make It” one Saturday morning. It wasn’t like anything I’d seen or heard before. I picked out the song’s insistent piano line on a rented keyboard, feeling proud of myself for being able to figure it out at a time when getting my fingers to play anything that sounded like music was a challenge.
You might think I’m going to start bragging about how I was hip to The Colour of Spring and Spirit of Eden when I was ten or eleven years old. I’m not. Because I wasn’t. I didn’t even catch the name of the band on the TV screen that day. I would read about Talk Talk a little later on when I found the book that would become my musical Bible for a while. It still took me much longer than it should have to go out and buy one of their albums. I didn’t get my hands on Spirit of Eden and Laughing Stock until I was in my early twenties. The first time I heard “The Rainbow” and that overdriven harmonica solo kicked in, I wanted to scream with happiness.
If there’s such a thing as perfect music, I think this stuff is about as close as it gets, but I’ve rarely tried to emulate it in any direct way. I think that would be a mistake. From the time I started banging on a tape case with a drum stick and singing in the absence of an instrument to play, my goal was always to develop my own voice without taking cues from anyone else. Besides, to take a real, honest stab at tapping into the specific magic of late-period Talk Talk would be…difficult. In a number of articles and interviews that are available online, you can read about how a lot of the songs started as nothing but a man-made click track of light percussion or a drum pattern and were then built piecemeal over a painstaking period of time. While the songs sound like continuous performances with all the musicians playing together in one space, that’s an illusion created through a lot of creative editing. A trumpet player might come into the studio to record ten improvised takes only to find what was used in the final mix was two seconds of them clearing their spit valve. Or a performance meant to sit in a certain space might find itself moved out of context to a different part of the song.
In a lot of ways it’s music as meticulous collage. That it sounds so spontaneous and untethered from time is a testament to the brilliance of all involved. The contributions of producer/co-writer Tim Friese-Green and recording engineer Phill Brown can’t be overstated here.
It might have taken me five years to finish an album I’m still not quite finished yet, and I might build things a piece at a time out of necessity (and a lack of Johnny clones), but I don’t have the patience or the technology to work the way those guys did in the studio. I don’t think I’d want to even if I could.
The inspiration I’ve taken from these albums lives somewhere deeper than the desire for mimicry, though I’m sure the way Phill Brown recorded Lee Harris’s drums on Laughing Stock — a great example of the “drums in a room being played by a human” sound we don’t hear too much of anymore — had as much to do with my decision to start recording my own drum kit in a more minimal way as laziness did.
A confession: there was this one time, in early 2008, when I did go out of my way to do something that sounded like a poor man’s version of a song that might have been recorded for Laughing Stock, just to see if I could pull it off. I played some unresolved chords on an electric guitar and gave them a lot of room to linger, without using a click track. I added a second guitar part, bouncing a pencil on the strings before playing in a more conventional way. Bass and drums followed. The vocals came last. Each part was improvised and recorded in one take without any preparation. I sang without knowing what the vocal melody was supposed to be, feeling it out along the way.
I didn’t have the assortment of instruments or the musician friends I do now. I couldn’t add piano because I didn’t yet have a real one, and it was clear something digital wasn’t going to cut it. I thought about buying a violin and trying to get something out of it before finding a cheap melodica at Belle Air Music. The melodica was the secret sauce I was looking for, and it felt like it tied everything together.
The freakout section a little over two minutes into the song is more me than Talk Talk. And I didn’t begin to try and sound like Mark Hollis. No one else can sing like that. But as homages go, I felt it was pretty successful. Eleven years later I still like it and believe there’s a place for it on THE ANGLE OF BEST DISTANCE. Given the circumstances, it seems appropriate to share it here.
Apparently Bob Dylan accepted a big smelly bag of money so Budweiser could use “Blowin’ in the Wind” in a new commercial they debuted during the most boring Super Bowl of all time. Somewhere someone who once believed Bob was the voice of their generation is vomiting up a winter scarf.
I’ve reached a point in my life where I can understand why a young or struggling artist would allow their song to be used in a stupid commercial. If they’re offered a life-altering amount of money, they can tell themselves the payday will enable them to make the art they want to make and get it into the ears of more people. That’s not a bad thing, assuming they’re not making bad music. I’m not going to tell you I wouldn’t at least be a little tempted if a good offer came my way, and I don’t even want my music to reach a lot of ears.
With Bobby, I just don’t get it. You can’t tell me the guy needs the money. If there was any doubt, at least we now know the man doesn’t hold any of his songs sacred.
Let us remember better times.
Worse than this weirdness — far worse — is the news that Disney is releasing a live action remake of Aladdin. Are they really that bereft of ideas? In the right hands it might not have been horrible. Guy Ritchie does not have those hands. His hands are wrong. Very wrong.
From what I can tell, he handed CGI duties over to a blind mouse with a drinking problem. A lot of what’s in the trailer looks less realistic than the animated film did. Hell, this looks more true-to-life than some of the backgrounds in the new movie:
Will Smith is playing the Genie. Nothing against Will, but his character looks like the most hilariously half-assed green screen creation in the history of film. Think “The Fresh Prince in blueface with the body of a random beer-swilling amateur wrestler Photoshopped beneath his head” and you’re most of the way there.
Enough about that.
My grant proposal went off into cyberspace about two weeks ago. It’s in the hands of four strangers now. I should get an answer in a month or two. Fingers, toes, and earlobes crossed.
WHAT WE LOST IN THE FLOOD has finally slipped off of the CJAM charts after nine weeks straight in the top thirty. That has to be a new record for me. I have no idea who was giving it airplay for such an insane length of time, but I bow before them in gratitude.
I’d like to be able to tell you I’ve been recording up a storm since my last post. That would be a lie. It’s been slow going so far in 2019.
I got my little replacement effects-generating red kidney, the piano was tuned for the fifty-third time, I was all set to get back down to business, and then I got sick. Again. At least this time it wasn’t so bad (I started eating zinc and vitamin D the second I knew something was coming, which seemed to cut my usual symptoms in half), but I still lost some time when I don’t have a wealth of it left to work with.
Motivation has been a problem. Even now that I’m not trembling beneath the covers with an upset stomach and angry elbows, it continues to be a problem. But you know what hasn’t been a problem? Writing songs.
The well kind of ran dry for a little bit. Well, that’s not quite right. It only felt like it did. See, I’m used to writing all the time. Musical ideas show up on a daily basis, pretty much, even when I’m asleep. Some of them turn into songs. Some don’t. And then the words show up when they feel like showing up.
For a while nothing much was showing up at all. I didn’t sit down and try to force it. I don’t work that way. Nothing good has ever happened when I’ve tried. It just wasn’t happening, and there wasn’t much I could do about it.
I started to think it was my first real brush with writer’s block. Then I looked at how much writing I was doing in the run-up to the supposed dry spell.
I started writing for YEAR OF THE SLEEPWALK in March of 2014. Not counting the latest batch of songs, and not taking into account any of the sketches that haven’t yet been fully fleshed-out, in that time I’ve written six songs with Adam (Mr. Shimmer Demolition himself), eleven with Steven, twenty-eight with Gord, and two hundred and thirty-six on my own. A dozen of those two hundred and thirty-six songs were meant for either AFTERTHOUGHTS or FLOOD. The rest were written specifically with SLEEPWALK in mind, even if a few ended up on STEW and a few more ended up on FLOOD because they made sense there.
Two hundred and twenty-four songs written by one person for one album might not seem like a whole lot when it’s spread out over a period of five years. That only averages out to forty-five songs a year. But consider: about a hundred of those songs were written in the last ten months of 2014, and the vast majority of the rest were written in 2015 and 2016. Things slowed down a lot after that. I wouldn’t be surprised if I only finished a dozen new songs last year. By my standards, that’s downright anemic.
What happened was, I went on a real tear for a while there. The sketches and undeveloped ideas from 2014 to 2016 might even outnumber the finished songs. I’ve been pretty prolific for a pretty long time, even if I haven’t released a lot of albums in recent years, but I don’t think I’ve written with a sustained fury like that since I was in high school and had to resort to writing lyrics in the middle of most of my classes to save my brain from atrophy.
When I look at the bigger picture, it makes sense that things would taper off at some point. You can’t keep writing like that without your brain exploding. And I think on some subconscious level the songwriting part of my mind probably said, “Maybe it’s time to take a bit of a break. You’ve got some serious catching up to do in the recording department.”
Still, going too long without writing has never been good for me.
Just as I was starting to get worried, I picked up a guitar and a new song happened. Then I sat down at the piano and wrote another one. And another one. And it snowballed from there. In the past week I’ve written eight new songs. Three of them still need some more words, but other than that they’re done.
There was no feeling of a switch being flicked. Songs just started coming again. You know what they say: visions come to prepared spirits.
I’m not sure how many of these most recent songs will end up on the album. I think at least a few of them are worth tackling. I’ve already recorded piano and a vocal track for one of them.
I didn’t mean to go so long without saying anything here. Things have been busy, and my brain has been dancing to music no one else can hear.
For one thing, I’ve been consumed with putting together a proposal for the City of Windsor’s Arts, Culture & Heritage Fund in the hope of getting a grant that will help cover expenses for a monster of a summer show at Mackenzie Hall.
Bet you never thought you’d read those words on my blog.
Even if I don’t end up getting the grant, the outpouring of support from every single person I’ve asked for any kind of assistance has been overwhelming. If you’re an individual and not an organization (raises hand), you need to submit at least three letters of support with your application. The letters people have written for me…they’re not normal letters. They vibrate with a passion my brain has had a hard time processing.
And don’t even get me started on the musicians. Oh man. Wait until you hear the lineup I’ve got in place for this show.
I know. I never thought I’d get excited about the idea of playing live again either. I figured I maybe had one show left in me, and I was in no great hurry to make it happen. But here we are. And here I am. And there you are. You’re slicing ham.
More about that when matters clarify. For now, just know something pretty special is brewing.
And hey, guess what’s at #1 on the CJAM charts again after coming in at #2 again last week? I swear every time I release an album I’m pretty sure won’t get much airplay because there’s a lot to take in, the Campus Radio Gods say, “Oh yeah? We’ll show you.” And then CJAM plays it like crazy.
Thanks again to all the DJs who support the noises I make.
There have been some “technical difficulties” in the studio that have stalled my work on this YEAR OF THE SLEEPWALK behemoth. I could have worked around them, but I’ve been lazy.
See, long ago and far away, Line 6 came out with this amp modelling device they called a POD. And lo! All the recording magazines in the land said, “Give us hollowed-out dildos stuffed with cash and we will write glowing reviews of your product, overflowing with superlatives.” And all was well in the land.
I bought the hype and got a POD in the late summer of 2000. I used it on everything for a long time because it made my life easier. It wasn’t until we moved into this house in 2007 that I thought, “Maybe I should try sticking a microphone in front of an actual amplifier again.” And when I did that, all the tone I’d been missing kicked me right in the nards.
It’s a difficult thing to explain. As amp modelling technology goes, I think the POD does a fine job. I don’t listen to any of the many things I recorded with my guitar plugged into it and cringe. But there’s this three-dimensional quality you don’t notice you’re missing until you’re recording the real thing.
For a while I was a purist reborn. From CHICKEN ANGEL WOMAN up to CREATIVE NIGHTMARES, for every electric guitar track I recorded I plugged my guitar straight into the amp with no effects in the signal path. If I wanted some reverb, I added it after the fact when I was mixing. I either used an SM57 on its own or I added a Sennheiser MD421 for a stereo spread, and my ears were happy.
Halfway through work on LOVE SONGS FOR NIHILISTS, I dusted off my POD XT — a supposed upgrade from the original POD. It had many more sounds under the hood, but I always thought the amp simulation was a step backward. So I never really used the thing. Now I started to wonder what would happen if I tried using it as a souped-up stomp box. I switched off the amp simulating effect and plugged it into the Fender Twin.
I didn’t unplug it again for almost nine years. As unhip as it probably is to say anything positive about a POD today, that red kidney-looking thing became an indispensable tool for me. It allowed me to access tremolo, delay, phaser, flanger, distortion, chorus, auto-wah, and other effects with the press of a button, without altering my clean tone in any nefarious way.
This is the main reason I had no interest in guitar pedals for so long. I didn’t feel I needed them. I had everything I could desire right there in the POD XT. And it wasn’t limited to a front end for one of my main amplifiers. If I wanted to record backwards piano, all I had to do was plug a mic into the POD, switch to the reverse delay effect, turn it up until it was 100% wet, plug it into a mic preamp, and I was golden.
Being able to do something like that when you don’t work with a computer program that allows you to reverse any sound you want with a click of your mouse is a godsend.
A few weeks ago the POD started making this awful loud buzzing sound. I messed around with some patch cords and it went away. I was able to record a few guitar tracks. Then the buzzing sound started again, and this time it wouldn’t go away. Everything seemed to be working fine electronically. The trouble was the input didn’t seem to be “hearing” anything anymore. When I turned the tuner on, it wouldn’t even recognize the guitar.
I assumed the 1/4-inch input jack must have worn out after all those years of constant use. I called up Steve Chapman and asked if he’d be willing to take a look at it. He said sure.
A few days after dropping it off, he called me up and gave me the news. Turns out the power switch broke off inside the POD somehow and there was serious heat damage obscuring some of the connections.
“Have you ever seen the inside of one of these things?” Steve said, laughing. “It’s pretty clear they weren’t designed for anyone with hands to ever work on them.”
He asked to hold onto it for a little while longer, because he doesn’t like to give up, but told me the POD was probably toast. If I wanted to replace it, I’d best start looking.
I checked out eBay.ca and found one in good shape for a very reasonable price. Best of all, it was in Canada and would get here within a week. I pulled the trigger on that and it should be showing up not too long after the weekend scurries away.
Funny how you don’t notice how much you lean on something until it’s gone. I thought I’d pull out my old first-generation POD and just use that for a while. None of those sounds are what I’m after anymore, and it doesn’t have any of the effects I need. Sure, I could simulate something close to the multitap delay effect I like to use on atmospheric lap steel tracks if I hooked up about three pedals and set them just right. It still wouldn’t quite be the sound I want.
Honestly, I think it’s been healthy to have this break. I was floundering a little, trying too hard to dig up some motivation to work on things when it wasn’t there. If you’re not feeling it, I’ve found there’s usually a good reason. In this case I think I just needed to recharge the batteries after working on one album or another almost without any significant period of inactivity since early 2008.
Putting things together for this potential grant has re-energized me. It’s allowed me to step back a bit and take a good look at just how much has been accomplished, even though there’s still work to do. I’m looking forward to getting back into it and finishing up this five-years-in-the-making album. As soon as my replacement kidney shows up, the game is afoot.
How about some random album review ramblings without any proper segue?
I’ve been an Iron & Wine fan almost since the beginning. I got on board when Our Endless Numbered Days came out in 2004. It was enthralling to hear Sam Beam start to open up his sound with the Woman King EP and the Calexico collaboration In the Reins before letting loose with the sonic explosion of 2007’s The Shepherd’s Dog.
What I loved about that album was the way it layered a multitude of new sounds around Sam’s songs without ever disturbing the delicate quality that made his work so compelling. His musical identity was still intact, but everything was so much more vivid and colourful. It felt at once like a giant leap and a natural progression.
I lost track of his work after that. It wasn’t because I stopped being a fan. I’m not sure what happened. I think I was exploring so much music, it became impossible to keep up with everything. I would read about another album or two that delved into even more sonic experimentation, but felt no great urge to investigate.
A few days ago Iron & Wine popped back into my head. I read there was a relatively new album that was something of a return to the earlier sound, and it was getting good reviews, so I thought I’d check it out. I picked up Beast Epic (the new-ish album) along with a long overdue copy of the very first Iron & Wine album, The Creek Drank the Cradle.
I hate to say it, but I’m finding Beast Epic kind of…well…boring. All the songs seem to blur together. They’re nice enough, but they don’t feel like they really do anything or go anywhere. Very few melodies stand out.
It’s admirable to make a point of getting back to basics, recording an album mostly live off the floor with acoustic instruments in this age of over-processed everything. And Sam still has a way with words. “Jesus and his trophy wives are praying for the suicides and the orphans” is a line that sticks in your mind for a lot of different reasons. For me the songs just aren’t there, and as a result the limited sonic palette starts to grate after a while.
The only thing that stands out so far is “Last Night”, which features some welcome jolts of dissonance and can only be described as acoustic chamber reggae.
The music video was clearly inspired by this one:
(Okay, maybe not. Sam Beam probably isn’t a closet Johnny West fan.)
Maybe the album will grow on me over time. I’d be surprised if it did.
What’s interesting is falling back fifteen years and following Beast Epic with a visit to The Creek Drank the Cradle, where it all began. This is an even more limited album in terms of its sonic makeup. It was recorded on a four-track tape recorder, and the only sounds are Sam Beam’s voice, his acoustic guitar, his banjo, and some muted leg slaps in one song. Where there’s a solo, it’s usually either a simple banjo flourish or some slide guitar.
The difference is this: these songs create a sense of place. Some music is lo-fi in a harsh, confrontational way. This album is lo-fi in a comforting way. All the sharp edges have been flattened out without losing their teeth. Beast Epic is beautifully recorded but bland. The Creek Drank the Cradle is much rougher, and yet it feels alive.
Almost all of the chord progressions are pretty simple. Then the singing starts and your brain says, “Wait…what?” So many of the vocal melodies are not at all what you’re expecting to hear. But they all work beautifully.
I wish I hadn’t waited so long to pick this one up. It’s a great album.
Last summer we got hit with what I believe was the residue of Hurricane Harvey. It has to stand as one of the worst floods in Windsor’s history.
I was asleep when it happened.
Earlier this year I stumbled onto a sleep schedule that works. It nods to my body’s strange desire to turn me into a vampire while affording me enough daylight to mingle with the other daywalkers, allowing me to pass for one of them without too much effort. After two decades of struggling with chronic sleep problems that progressed from “kind of irritating” to “near-debilitating”, you can imagine what a nice change that’s been.
I’d like to tell you I discovered some big shiny secret to better sleep health. The truth is I got lucky. I did the same thing I’ve been doing for years whenever my sleep gets messed up enough that I’m waking up in the dark and going to bed at noon or later, with any semblance of a normal day lost in a haze of fatigue and brain rot — I went a night without sleep, crashed around 8:00 the next night, and reset my sleep clock to get back on “normal” hours. That lasted for all of a week before my sleep started to shift, as it always does.
And then it just…stopped shifting. Since sometime in February I’ve had a pretty consistent sleep schedule. I think I’d have to go back to 2005 to find the last time I was in a similar position for any appreciable length of time. It isn’t perfect, and eating a normal breakfast is now a distant memory, but my body and brain both seem to have accepted the new programming without any serious complaints. I’ve almost forgotten what it was like to wake up most days (or nights) feeling like my brain was gummed up with motor oil.
“Relief” isn’t a strong enough word.
The day the flood hit, my sleep was a mess and I had no reason to believe it would ever stop being a mess for more than six or seven days at a time. I went to bed early in the afternoon. I had a dream I was catching up with an old friend I hadn’t seen in years. He was making it his mission to remind me why I was in no hurry to see him again. He made a big deal out of wanting me to walk with him through my backyard. It was muddy back there from a heavy rain. I wasn’t interested in getting my shoes dirty for no good reason. He was livid.
I swear people get mad at you for the stupidest reasons in dreams.
Other amusing/random dream things happened, and then the scene changed. I found myself alone, swimming through a flooded city. The sky was raining spasmodic scrap metal. Every once in a while a piece would fall and threaten to cave my head in. I always managed to get out of the way, but there were some close calls.
I thought I could sense the homes of a few friends nearby. It was impossible to find them. Every recognizable thing was submerged. I might as well have been paddling through the Detroit River at the end of the world. It wasn’t quite a nightmare, though it kept threatening to turn into one.
I came to a place where it looked like a few people had set up camp after finding a bit of dry land. Maybe it was a dock, or a bridge. It jutted up above the lip of the water just enough to separate itself.
There was one person in a tent. A woman. I asked her to help me.
She agreed to give me shelter on one condition. I had to convince her I was her female best friend inhabiting the body of an unfamiliar man. She asked me two questions only her friend would know. One was about an unpublished book she wrote. The other was about the one song she always screwed up when she played bass.
Somehow I got both answers right. Then she handed me a piece of paper that had a second set of questions on it.
Before I could try to bluff my way through this “test”, I woke up to a city that really was flooded, with streets turned to rivers, cars abandoned, homes destroyed. I saw pictures of washing machines floating in flooded basements like stranded rescue boats, and videos of people struggling to drive through water deep enough to wash them away.
I didn’t even know it was raining while I was sleeping. It was a mild, sunny day when I looked out the window before I turned in.
If you know me, you probably know about my lifelong fascination with dreams. I keep a dream journal, though I’ve been slacking off for a while now, getting down little more than the essential outlines of dreams most days instead of writing them out in exacting detail the way I used to. It never fails to amaze me what the sleeping mind can create, from fleshed-out songs that didn’t exist before a dreamworld-dwelling music supervisor planted them on the soundtrack, to outlandish erotica, to interactive psychological horror films.
I’ve had the odd dream over the years that’s told me something I needed to know. Most of the time it’s been emotional stuff. Things like, “This relationship was never going to work,” or, “These pants are not slimming.” But I’m not someone who has prophetic dreams. The closest I ever came was dreaming once that a lightbulb in my bedroom burned out, only to have it die on me in the waking world a few days later. You can chalk a thing like that up to coincidence without breaking a sweat.
This dream was different. It freaked me out a little.
There’s a bit of a twisted cosmic joke in here.
We rent the house we live in. Our landlord lives just down the street. His name is Jerry. Eleven years ago, when we first moved in, he lied about the house having central air on every floor. There’s no air movement upstairs at all — the side effect of an ancient half-assed ducting job. My bedroom just happens to be up there.
When confronted, Jerry said the previous tenants had children who must have stuck their toys in the vents. After he was presented with a professional assessment that noted an incompetent and toy-free ducting job, he made it clear he was never going to spend the money necessary to fix the problem. When he was pressed to do something, his solution was to have a friend who would work for free or next to nothing cut a vent in my bedroom wall so it would blow air into my closet.
It’s great if you sleep on the floor, inside your closet. I sleep in a bed. So that vent does nothing for me.
Jerry waited about five years to fix a leaky roof, letting rain eat through the ceiling and walls in four or five different places. In one part of the house you can look up and see the wooden beams that support the roof. He’s never going to fix the internal damage as long as we live here. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t have to look at it.
Every once in a while he’ll trim our hedges or rip some plants he doesn’t like the look of out of the ground and leave the mess behind. When the furnace crapped out one winter, he said, “Open up the oven and turn on a fan. That’ll keep you warm.” Only after we’d been here for more than a decade did he have the ancient knob and tube wiring updated and go to the trouble of fixing a persistent leak in the basement.
The maximum amount a landlord is allowed to raise the rent for any property they own in 2018 is 1.8%. That’s it. That’s the law. Because we wouldn’t allow Jerry to break that law (and he went ahead and broke it anyway), and because we wouldn’t agree to buy this house for $100,000 more than it’s worth, he’s kicking us out. We’ll probably be gone next spring.
That’s extortion. Not that it matters. People who do this sort of thing almost never get hit with any form of serious punishment. They fuck up your life and live to torment someone else another day, laughing all the way to the bank. It’s the way of the world.
Here’s the cosmic joke. It’s a good one.
Jerry paid someone to flood-proof his house a few years back. He didn’t extend the same courtesy to us. No surprise there.
When the flood did its business last summer, we got the least of it. There was maybe an inch of water in our basement. Nothing important was damaged. Nothing precious was lost. There was only a mess to clean up. A lot of ruined carpet had to be torn up and thrown out.
“You don’t need carpet anyway,” Jerry said when he thought he might be expected to replace it.
A lot of people got hit much harder. We were lucky.
As for Jerry and his flood-proof house? He got seven inches of water in his basement.
Sometimes I think karma is real, even if it tends to dish out a slap on the wrist when a kick to the nuts is what’s called for.
The city took its time cleaning things up in the aftermath of the flood. For weeks, if not months, one front lawn after another was littered with belongings that were water-damaged beyond repair — chairs, couches, tables, dressers, trinkets, and other things. Some people lost a lot. Some lost everything.
All that abandoned furniture and all those garbage bags full of things that were never meant to be thrown out created a solemn, powerful visual poetry. Taking pictures would have felt too much like I was stepping on someone else’s private pain. Still, the imagery wouldn’t leave me alone.
Out of all those thoughts came a potential album title: Things We Lost in the Flood.
I knew there was nothing groundbreaking about it. Things We Lost in the Fire was already a film, and a song, and who knows what else. Still, there was something magnetic in those words. I’ve always been drawn to elemental imagery — earth, water, fire, air — and I find myself returning to it again and again in my writing. Might as well embrace it instead of trying to run from it.
The first problem was working out which album to give this title. I had a few on the go, and a few more hanging out at the brainstorming stage. The second problem was finding someone to illustrate it.
I thought I’d come at it backwards and find an artist first. It never hurts to have cover art taken care of long before an album is finished.
I tried contacting people outside of Windsor. A lot of artists make a point of telling you on their websites that they do freelance work and they’d love for you to get in touch with them, no matter the size or scope of your project. Most of them are full of shit. They’re only interested in high-profile jobs that will help them build their brand. A small potato like me isn’t worth considering even if I do have the money to pay them what they want.
Then I started thinking local, and Alain Rocha came to mind. His art is like nothing else I’ve seen. I don’t know how to begin to describe it. Maybe it’s best if I let him do that. On his website, he says his work “focuses heavily on characters and organics, exploring the human body and its deep connection and harmony with plant life. Utilizing candy-like colours and bold line work, all of these elements intertwine to create eccentric and singular imagery.”
I shot him an email. He responded with an enthusiasm that surprised me. My idea was to give him the album title, send him some music, and let him interpret it however he saw fit. Actually, I gave him a few potential album titles in case something else stirred up some ideas. Flood just happened to be the one I hoped would stand out for him, and it did.
He sent me a sketch to see if I liked where he was thinking of going with it, we worked out the payment side of things, and then he sent regular emails to keep me posted on his progress. I was able to see the piece develop one step at a time over a period of weeks, from a rough monochrome drawing to the finished product. No visual artist has ever given me this kind of insight into their process before. It was fascinating.
I got to watch this…
…turn into this.
Alain was going to add some lettering. I asked him not to. I’ve come to feel that some album cover art is more effective when it’s left text-free, and I thought the imagery he created deserved to stand on its own.
He misquoted the title as WHAT WE LOST IN THE FLOOD when he shared the image on Instagram. Instead of correcting him, I thought, “You know what…I like it better that way. What instead of things. It sounds deeper. More all-encompassing.”
By then, I knew what I wanted to do with it.
I ran the idea by Gord, filling in the backstory. I told him about my dream and explained why I thought it was an appropriate album title for the follow-up to STEW. Given the subject matter in a lot of the songs we were working on, it made perfect sense. There was even a song called “Flood and Fists”, for rice’s sake. Second Stew was a fun working title in the early going, but this collection of music deserved a less jokey calling card.
Gord looked at me like I was speaking another language. He did at least like the cover art when I showed it to him. That was a start.
Recording had picked back up in January of 2016, a few months after STEW was finished. I knew I wanted to do something farther-reaching and less immediate for the tenth official Papa Ghostface album. Beyond that, there was no clear vision or endgame. By the time I had an album title and the art to go with it, work in the studio had slowed to a crawl and we were still nowhere near finished.
I started seeing a lot less of Gord. It was a gradual thing. His work hours and my sleep schedule became more difficult to coordinate. Somewhere along the line I came to realize we weren’t on the same page anymore. We weren’t even reading the same book.
I think a little friction can be healthy. This was more than that. When two people have very different goals, it can be difficult to sustain a creative relationship without feeling like a serious amount of compromise is involved. “Compromise” is a dirty word for me when it comes to music. It gets dirtier when I’m the one who’s expected to do all the bending.
That’s the diplomatic way of putting it. The whole truth is a little uglier, and it led to the death of a twenty-year friendship.
Even before things fell apart, I knew this album was only ever going to get done if I rolled up my sleeves and finished it by myself. It just took Gord being out of the picture for me to feel I had the freedom to do that. The first stumbling block was my desire to include him in the process as much as possible. You don’t get a lot done when the person you’re trying to include is turning into a ghost. Then I grew reluctant to work on my own because of some of the feedback I was getting when I did go ahead and finish things without him.
A few years ago Gord started trying to sell me on the idea of bringing a third member into the group. He felt my drumming was the weak link in our music. He was convinced a “real” drummer would catapult us to the next level (whatever that was).
For twenty years Papa Ghostface was a duo. The guests on STEW were only passing through, as brilliant and valued as their contributions were. The last time we added a dedicated drummer to the equation we stopped being Papa Ghostface and became a different band altogether. And while that was a great adventure for as long as it lasted, it was a one-time thing. Drummers as intuitive and open-minded as Tyson are hard to come by. I doubt a three-piece band would be enough to pull off what I want to do these days anyway.
The drummer Gord wanted to bring in was all flash. That was another thing.
I’m not a virtuosic drummer by any means. I’ve simplified my playing a lot over the years because of the way I choose to record the drums now, but even as a busier player with more mics on the kit I was never going to be John Bonham. At the same time, no one has ever said to me, “Hey, [insert album of your choice] was great, but it would have been better if you had a show-off drummer playing busy fills all over the place.” I’ve developed my own style, if you can call it that, and I think I know how to adapt my playing to suit whatever music I’m recording. There’s something to be said for subtlety and knowing when to lay back. As a rule, you don’t make a song better by using it as an excuse to show off.
(This is something I put into serious practice with the Ron Leary album I hope people get to hear soon. I had a few opportunities to go off on the piano during instrumental breaks. I chose not to. My piano work on that album is some of the simplest and sparsest I’ve ever committed to record, and I wouldn’t change a note of it. Just because you can play a flashy solo doesn’t mean you should.)
Every time Gord fell into one of his “we need a ‘real’ drummer” reveries, I would listen to what he had to say. Then I would explain how I’d need to mic up the drums in a completely different way for another player, leaving us with less tracks to work with and wreaking havoc with sonic continuity. He would drop it for a while…until it came up again a month or two later.
We were working on a song called “Rook” the last time this happened. It’s the one thing on the album that’s Gord’s work for the most part, though I revised the lyrics a little and contributed some musical ideas.
I got down a rough drum track. After listening to it, Gord said, “I like what you’re trying to do, but…” and he was off to the races. This time there was no mistaking the message.
You’re a shitty drummer and you’re holding our music back.
After that, I came up short every time I sat down and tried to record a keeper drum track. I could never get it right no matter what I did. Gord’s criticisms gnawed at me even when he wasn’t in the room. I started thinking maybe he was right. Maybe I was a shitty drummer.
Once I closed the door on our friendship for reasons that had nothing to do with him denigrating my drumming, I sat down and tried again. There was nothing in my head but the music.
I got what I wanted — and what the song needed — in one take.
Endings to creative partnerships are often as messy as any other breakup. Once in a while you get a situation like the one captured in the Pattern Is Movement episode of Shaking Through, where two people acknowledge they’ve reached the end of what they can do together and choose to part on good terms, creating one last great thing as a tribute to the body of work they’ve built. I had an opportunity to document a much more contentious goodbye the night of the final GWD jam session in 2002. I could have captured all the tension in the room and twisted it into what might have been one of the more interesting and intense songs we improvised together, but it never occurred to me to hit the record button.
Here it was a much more protracted thing. There were really two endings when one should have done the job.
The first ending came in 2004. I wasn’t seeing a lot of Gord anymore by that time. We were in pretty different places as musicians and people. The rot started to set in when GWD broke up in 2002. I wanted to keep evolving and pushing myself as an artist. Gord wanted to get another drummer and keep playing the same songs we’d already captured the definitive versions of. After a few bizarre auditions with musicians who were more interested in waving their dicks around than making music, I assumed we’d get back to the Papa Ghostface ways of old. Gord wasn’t interested.
My efforts to keep our friendship afloat outside of music didn’t go much better. For a while all Gord wanted to do was get wasted on my dime. When that got old and I wasn’t into smoking pot or drinking to excess anymore, he started standing me up or blowing me off whenever we made plans to do something.
He did try to get me involved in a new band he started putting together once he gave up on the second coming of GWD. I gave it an honest shot, but I couldn’t get into the idea of being second banana in someone else’s band. I had my own music to make, and these guys — no disrespect intended to them — weren’t the musicians to do it justice.
I kept trying to get together with Gord, kept trying to spark some meaningful collaboration, kept hoping the guy I made all that crazy music with once upon a time would come back. It was all for nothing. That guy was gone. Taking a drunken piss in a stranger’s mailbox and lighting gunpowder off of a passed-out bandmate was now more appealing than spending time with me.
One of the few times I was able to get him to talk about our music, Gord told me he thought we should reinvent ourselves as a cover band. “That’s where the money is,” he said.
My testicles cowered in fear.
Even if I wasn’t a part of it anymore, I wanted to support what he was doing. In October and November of 2004 I caught a few of the first shows his new band played. They were calling themselves the Shed Ninjas.
Gord’s friend Josh stepped into my old role as his best pal and main musical foil. The transition was pretty seamless. Josh was the nominal bandleader and did most of the singing. In the middle of a show at Changez by Nite, he introduced a new Shed Ninjas song called “Black Donnelly”. Only it wasn’t a Shed Ninjas song. It was an old Papa Ghostface song off of SONGS FOR DEAD SKIN called “I Got My Hair Cut and I Thought About You”. It was simplified, gutted of my contributions, and given a new name, but it was a Papa Ghostface song all the same.
I felt numb. I drank until I threw up and wondered how someone I once thought of as my musical soulmate could do something like that to me.
At another show, right around the time they changed their name to Surdaster, I heard the band play a few more recent song ideas Gord and I would mess around with whenever we saw each other. None of them were crafted into finished pieces. None of them had any words. As with “Hair Cut”, the parts I came up with — which constituted most of what made the sketches sound like they had some structure and movement — were removed. The “songs” became nothing more than unchanging riffs.
I’m convinced the only reason the audience didn’t throw beer bottles at the stage was because most of the people at those early shows were friends and family who would have cheered for anything.
I brought up the “Hair Cut” incident one night and asked Gord, half-joking, if there were any other songs of ours he decided to pass off as Surdaster tunes.
“Well, I tried with a couple,” he said, “but they didn’t work out as well, so we haven’t played them. I guess they were too complicated for everyone to learn.”
I couldn’t believe it. He came right out and admitted he was trying to repurpose songs we wrote together instead of going to the trouble of writing enough original material to fill out a live set with his new band. He never asked if I was okay with it. He just went ahead and did it.
Josh could tell I was angry. To his credit, he told me they wouldn’t play any songs I had a hand in creating at future shows. I have no reason to believe he didn’t keep that promise. But Gord couldn’t understand why I was so bothered by the idea of him prostituting our music for his own benefit. He didn’t see what the big deal was. He didn’t even consider the songs we recorded together real songs anymore. Now he was calling them ideas.
The Papa Ghostface and GWDpages on the sidebar of this blog suggest they were a little more than that.
When someone does something to mess with my music, that’s usually the end of whatever relationship we might have had. And what Gord did was about as bad as it gets. But it’s complicated when you have a lot of history with someone. You don’t want to believe they would disrespect you in such a repulsive way and not even try to apologize for it. You want to believe they’re better than that.
It was a wake up call, at least. Now I knew I couldn’t trust Gord. I turned down a number of opportunities to record the first Surdaster album in exchange for a case of beer, when in the past I would have jumped at the chance to help. I didn’t disappear all at once, but I started putting less of an effort into getting together with Gord. Since I was the only one who was putting in any effort at all, it wasn’t long before we stopped hanging out altogether.
We did touch base once in a while. Every few years we’d get together to play a little music for old time’s sake. It felt like blowing a few inches of dust off of a long-dormant alliance only to find more dust underneath. The one time we recorded something slouching toward a new song, Gord made it clear he was more interested in reworking old material, and that was the end of that.
Given all of this, what happened a few years ago was almost incomprehensible. Against all the odds, it felt like we were on the same wavelength again. I got so excited about the unexpected second life of Papa Ghostface, I gave Gord an undeserved coproduction credit on STEW.
He was excited for different reasons. He heard commercial potential in this music that didn’t exist in anything we’d done before. He was convinced we could be stars if the right people heard these songs. He thought I was nuts for giving the album away for free and not doing anything to promote it. There were even hints that he wasn’t happy with my recording abilities. More than once he mentioned how the backing of a record label would allow us to re-record the whole album from scratch in a professional studio (and we would want to do that…why?).
I explained my whole philosophy about music — how it’s something I need to create for myself, and how charging money for this stuff that’s quarried from my head and heart and guts would feel like asking to be paid for breathing. Instead of accepting it, he tried to convince me to change my ways, not hearing or not wanting to hear what I was saying. It was a conversation we would have over and over again, and another way he felt I was holding us back.
I’ll admit I got excited in early 2000 when I finally bought OK Computer and heard a band that was making such ambitious, unpredictable music while signed to a major label. “They remind me of us!” I told Gord. I didn’t think we were going to be the next Radiohead or anything, but hearing that album for the first time made my heart swell with a feeling of kinship. Knowing there were other people out there who were nuts enough to make music that didn’t sit still and aspired to communicate something beyond the same old platitudes everyone else was peddling…it made me feel less alone in what I was doing.
“Climbing up the Walls” was just like something we would have done if we had access to more equipment and a real drum set. I wasn’t pissed off about them getting there first. I was ecstatic anyone would think to go there at all.
Any aspirations I had of being a star withered and died a long time ago. And here I had a bandmate who was convinced — for reasons only he understood — that we could take over the world if I would just swallow my pride and let it happen.
I tried to sweep this weirdness under the rug, along with some other things I won’t get into, for as long as I could. I’ve been guilty of avoiding confrontation more than a few times in my life, and I know it isn’t the best way to handle things…but how do you have a serious conversation about the state of your relationship with someone who’s made it pretty clear they have little respect for what you think or feel?
Fate and Facebook intervened and made it easy for me. I caught Gord taking credit for something he didn’t do, just like he did all those years ago with the Shed Ninjas song that was a Papa Ghostface song. This was worse. He took a public dump on two decades of friendship so he could make himself look good on the internet for a few minutes.
I told him what I thought of him, and then I was done. That was the second ending. There won’t be a third.
When we were still working together, the old “Hair Cut” riff came up as an idea worth pursuing. We took the best bits from the original jam, added some new sections (most of which were my work), and rebuilt it into more of a structured song.
We didn’t get around to recording it together, so I recorded it by myself and gave it a new name. It isn’t a coincidence that the opening riff is the same “idea” I heard being played as an act of stomach-churning musical betrayal fourteen years ago after walking into a bar that became a safe haven for underage drinkers and hardcore bands.
The song isn’t on the album. As much as it appealed to me as a bit of delayed musical justice, in the end it felt like old news. At least you know the thought was there.
This may seem like a lot of score-settling that has nothing to do with the music. Believe me when I tell you I’ve left out the worst of it. And all of these things did have an impact on the music. I couldn’t have made the album I wanted to make if business went on as usual. We would have ended up with something more like Stew 2: the Reheating. STEW might be the closest we ever came to making a “perfect” PG album — something pretty easy to digest that doesn’t sacrifice experimentation in favour of accessibility — but I’ve never had any interest in recycling a successful formula. That way creative death lies.
I don’t think it would have been a bad album if Gord stuck around for the whole thing. At the same time, I think it became a much stronger and more varied piece of work thanks to his relative absence. I was free to do whatever I wanted without having to worry about a lack of enthusiasm on his end, and I didn’t have to invent things for him to do in musical situations where he was uninterested and I had a clear idea of how I wanted all the pieces to fit together.
I used to believe I couldn’t make Papa Ghostface music without him. First it was more of a nostalgic thing. I thought about giving a solo PG album a try in 2008 before CHICKEN ANGEL WOMAN happened, but it didn’t seem right. Later it had more to do with self-doubt, as some of the things he said to undermine my drumming and mixing abilities got in my head and I started to almost minimize my own role in creating the music.
For years I always tried to err on the side of being democratic and inclusive when it came to crediting other musicians for their work, sometimes giving someone a writing credit just for playing on a song when they were barely doing anything at all. That extends to Gord as well.
When you break it down, I could have — and would have — made almost all of the music that constitutes the Papa Ghostface catalogue without him. Some of the songs would sound a little different without his musical contributions, but most of them would exist in something very close to their present form. Remove me from the picture and it’s a different story. You’d be left with about five mostly-finished songs, some good guitar riffs and bass lines, and not much else.
Put another way: I recorded the better part of a Papa Ghostface album on my own. Gord plays on nine of the twenty-two songs on WHAT WE LOST IN THE FLOOD and only has an argument for being involved in the composition of five of them. There’s no loss of continuity when he fades from view.
I think that tells you something.
I probably sound like a musical megalomaniac when that isn’t what I’m going for. I’m just not sure there’s any way to say any of this without sounding self-important, and I think I’ve earned the right to say it. Maybe there’s no need. I can count the number of people who’ve heard a significant amount of the music we made on one hand. For all I know, they always assumed I was the driving force behind Papa Ghostface without being told. It doesn’t matter. Having a chance to set things straight with this album still feels like reclaiming a piece of my musical identity.
So how is it not a solo album if it’s mostly my work? I’m not sure. I thought about calling it a Johnny West album, or even releasing it as Papa Westface. Didn’t feel right.
In the early days, whatever I improvised when Gord was in the room was Papa Ghostface. Whatever I improvised on my own was solo music. With PAPER CHEST HAIR, when I started writing a fair bit of the words and music on my own in a more conventional, premeditated way, it became more about feeling. Some songs felt like they belonged on a PG album. Some songs felt like things I should keep to myself.
A lot of songs on STEW were created the “usual” way, where I was responsible for the lyrics and we both contributed to the music. In a few cases Gord cowrote the lyrics with me (“Situations”, “Fly’s Hive”, “A Question, a Thought, a Confession”), and the words for “Samhain” were his alone.
“The Devil Wants His Car Back” and “In the Name of the Impostor” were both solo pieces. I wrote them for YEAR OF THE SLEEPWALK. Likewise with “Movin’ on Loon”. That one was an idea I’d been kicking around for a long time without knowing what to do with it. I always meant to write some lyrics. It ended up working better as an instrumental segue than it ever would have as a conventional song with words.
Gord played on all three of those songs, but their shape was determined without him. And still, by the time I was recording them, I knew they were Papa Ghostface songs…even if I didn’t know that when I was writing them. Time has done nothing to dispel that feeling.
With FLOOD it was different. When the “split” happened I knew we had close to an album’s worth of material recorded. I figured I could throw a few coats of paint on what was already there, add a few more songs, and call it a day. In revisiting those songs, I discovered a lot of them were undercooked, and some of them weren’t even worth slapping on the grill. At best there was enough good stuff for a short EP.
I wasn’t about to close the book on Papa Ghostface without making one last substantial, sprawling musical statement. All at once I saw a very clear picture of what I wanted the album to be, and I took matters into my own hands, stitching the best of the work I’d done with Gord into a larger quilt of solo pieces.
I don’t think Gord would be a big fan of the album I ended up creating, but I’m not going to lose any sleep over that. I guess in a way that makes this a breakup album. It’s the sound of Papa Ghostface ceasing to be a duo and me taking back what’s mine, snarling and kicking all the while.
Short of a posthumous out-takes collection (which I’m already working on in my head), there won’t be any more albums released under the PG banner. I think separating PG material from JW material would threaten to become an exercise in unintentional self-parody as I tried to distinguish me from myself. This feels like a good way to bow out. It may not be the longest Papa Ghostface album of all time, but it’s the densest and most wide-ranging of them all by some distance, and it demands more of the listener than anything I’ve done since at least MEDIUM-FI MUSIC FOR MENTALLY UNSTABLE YOUNG LOVERS. I like that. Letting STEW stand as the last word on Papa Ghostface would have been way too easy.
Anyway. Enough about all that. Onto the music.
I’ve always looked at the first track on a Papa Ghostface album as an excuse to create something for the listener to get lost in. “She’s My Girl”, “Horsemouth (part one)”, “Yogamo”, “Rippin'”, “Don’t Go”, “Kissing the Bald Spot” — all of these songs take their time establishing a mood, exploring it, and sometimes turning it inside-out. They also each act as something of a litmus test. How you respond to them says a lot about how much you will or won’t like the albums they live on.
After STEW got an opener that was more of an appetizer than a main course, “Flood and Fists” serves as a triumphant return to the good old-fashioned album-opening epic, clocking in at just over nine minutes.
It began the way so many other PG songs were born over the years, with the two of us improvising to a synthesized rhythm track. Instead of relying on the Yamaha W-5 for extra nostalgia points, I triggered a beat on the Maestro Rhythm King — a vintage analog drum machine best known for its use on the Sly and the Family Stone masterpiece There’s a Riot Goin’ on. I ran my electric guitar into both the Montreal Assembly Count to Five pedal and the crusty old Digitech GSP-21 for some of the richest-sounding ambient racket I’ve ever recorded. Just bouncing a pen on a string or two created a huge wash of cascading sound. Playing actual riffs and volume swells made it sound like there was some strange synthesizer supporting the syncopated echoes of the guitar. Gord followed along on bass.
I cut it off when the ideas ran out and improvised some piano on top of the whole thing. The next day I recorded real drums, leaving only a small introductory drum machine bit behind. I need to start making more use of the Rhythm King someday soon. There’s a warmth and a real archaic charm to its voice. Running it through some effects pedals could get interesting.
After adding some shaker, I grabbed some lyrics that were meant for a warped torch ballad I never got around to writing music for, improvised a new first verse, threw out a few lines that didn’t work, and recorded a rough vocal track. My working title was “The Soft Slow Beating of an Underwater Heart”.
This bit came from a dream:
I only want to watch a dream
after midnight air
with my flood
and my fists.
Like dream music, dream dialogue is almost always a little off-balance, and not always in an obvious way. Sometimes there’s a strange poetry to it. I had no idea what that particular phrase was supposed to mean, but I remembered it after waking up, wrote it down, and found a place for it. It even gave me the final title for the song when something simpler felt more appropriate.
It sat for a little while in not-quite-finished form. Then Brent Lee came over and played some soprano sax. He’d never heard the song before, so he was coming in cold. It was almost as if he was in the room when the initial improvisation took place.
I think this was filmed somewhere around the third take.
There’s nothing wrong with that performance at all. I would have been happy to keep it.
Right after I stopped filming Brent looked at me, smiled, and said, “I think the next take is going to be the one.”
SWEET BADGERS FROM NEW BRUNSWICK, THE MAN WAS RIGHT. I hit the record button, he locked in, and for more than three minutes he developed one compelling melodic idea after another. Any hesitations there might have been in some of the earlier takes disappeared. It was “the one” and then some. His playing even inspired me to record a better, more committed vocal take.
I kept meaning to overdub some wild, discordant guitar stabs to punctuate certain moments. I thought that would be the finishing touch. When I did sit down to finish the song off, almost everything I tried felt unnecessary. Some simple acoustic twelve-string guitar strums helped to thicken the atmosphere. Other than that, I left it alone.
Mixing it was a challenge. There’s almost always one specific song on each album that gives me some grief, and I had a feeling this one was going to be the thorn in my side this time. The arrangement was what made it difficult. My electric guitar takes up a huge amount of sonic real estate, but it’s more of an atmospheric wash than a conventional guitar part. It has no percussive properties. The groove is what holds the whole thing together. Every time I thought the drums were a little too prominent, bringing them down in the mix took away too much punch. It was tough to get the balance right.
I mixed it nine or ten times. That has to be a record for me. It wasn’t as dramatic as that makes it sound. Most of the time I was making small adjustments. I had to walk away at some point and say, “This is as good as I’m going to get it.”
The intro was something I came up with when I was messing around with sampling. I found an old vinyl record of string quartet performances — I can’t remember offhand who the composer was — and ran a few bits through the Count to Five pedal, chopping them up, slowing them down, and reversing them. I got some pretty evil sound clusters happening.
I was going to end the song with those string samples. That idea got chucked out the window in the ninth hour because (a) even though the compositions I sampled are probably in the public domain by now, I’m not sure if this specific recording of them is, (b) it was a fun curve ball but made it impossible to create a clean segue right into “Rook” the way I wanted to, and (c) it broke the spell in a way that almost felt disrespectful to the song itself. There are plenty of other ambient interludes on the album, and I created all of those myself, without help from any prerecorded material. So I wasn’t too sad about losing one I “cheated” a little to make.
The same night I was messing with string samples, I sampled my own electric guitar and chopped it up. Over the next few days I added sampled vocals via the Yamaha VSS-30, bass, drums, a bit of unprocessed electric guitar, some strange public domain-dwelling vaudeville recording from 1923 I’m unable to find any information about now (this is where the disembodied trumpet sound comes from), and I got Gord to strum a few strange chords on acoustic guitar. Later on I got rid of his guitar track. He played with a pick, and the sound was too thin and bright for me. It didn’t fit into the massive murky mess I wanted to create. I replaced it with some chunky six-string banjo of my own, playing different chords, recorded a new drum track, and played some piano into a distant mic plugged into the Digitech. At the end of all that, there was less than a minute of the sort of music you might expect to hear at a jazz club in hell.
It’s been a long time since I’ve done something so demented to start an album. As much as I like throwing people off, it felt like a natural prelude to me.
“Rook” could be the best song Gord ever brought to the table, and it’s on the PG album he had the least to do with by far. He carried it around with him for at least a decade before we recorded it, and it changed a lot during that time. At some point he threw away his first verse and made the pre-chorus hooks the verses instead, shifting everything forward.
I don’t get the feeling Gord did much research before he wrote the words. There don’t seem to be any allusions to the true value or use of a rook in a game of chess. I’m guessing he liked the word, figured it wasn’t much different from a pawn, and chose to use a chess piece’s lack of autonomy as a metaphor for some larger thoughts about fatalism. Either way, it works.
Instead of playing guitar with him, I had Gord record the acoustic parts by himself. He played the Futuramic archtop that got a good workout on STEW. Then I asked him to lay down a guide vocal so I could write down the words. I made a few changes without altering their fundamental shape or meaning.
For every repetition of, “You alone and no one else can find out what it means to be a rook,”find out became fathom.I thought that was a little more elegant.
At the end of the first verse Gord sang, “With every branch the tree will spread unto,” and kept repeating “unto” over and over again. There probably weren’t any real words there, or maybe he forgot them. I fleshed that part out and it became this: “With every branch the tree will spread its roots anew. Soul’s brew. That’s you.”
I left the first chorus and the second verse as they were, with the exception of “every vision that you sent”, which I changed to “with every vision that they send” for extra mythology-building points.
In the second chorus, “taste it” became “waste it” and “walls at home” became “hallowed home”. The last verse mirrored the first, and to create a bit of contrast I tweaked, “With every breath you seek your death,” making it a fencing match: “With every step you parry death.”
Nothing too dramatic, then. I just wanted to punch it up a little and iron out a few clunky bits. Gord approved of the changes I made with an eagerness that caught me off guard, but again he had no interest in singing a song that was really his baby. I have no idea what that was about.
Gord’s clean electric guitar playing here (using my Telecaster) is a good example of the kind of unique shading he was capable of adding to a song. He alternates between emphasizing the chords and playing borderline lead lines without ever stepping on the vocal melody, generating all kinds of harmonic interest inside of a pretty standard chord progression.
His guitar solo was recorded with one mic. I prefer to use two unless I run out of extra tracks. He was doing a dry run without having prepared at all, and I didn’t think it was necessary to set up a second mic. Neither one of us expected the first pass to be as good as it was. It would have been foolish to ask him to do it again. I reinforced his solo by playing an identical solo myself an octave lower and then double-tracking it.
I don’t think I’ve ever doubled someone else’s guitar solo before. It was a neat little assignment, figuring out what he was doing and matching all the little nuances.
I tried overdubbing some piano with Gord present. He liked what I was doing, but it was too much clutter for me. I tried some Wurlitzer and Omnichord flourishes before settling on the Ace Tone combo organ. When it’s used the right way in the right song, that funky old thing seems to impart a certain ghostly quality.
“Conscience of the Everyman” holds the distinction of showing up earlier on an album than any other spoken word piece I’ve ever done. Gord’s fascination with the telephone microphone a former friend made for me was the catalyst. He managed to get its erratic patch cord to work for a while, and he thought it would be fun to record a song in which we simulated the sound of a phone conversation by using an actual phone.
I had two ideas for where to take this. One was a monologue given by an inmate to his significant other through soundproof prison glass. The other was a story about an unexceptional person getting a disturbing phone call from the physical manifestation of their conscience in the middle of the night — inspired in part by this brutal takedown of a comedian by Jamie Foxx.
There are a few things to unpack here.
It came out later that this guy took some shots at Jamie Foxx before the roast they were both involved in, blowing off a genuine offer to help him with his material and acting like he was the future of comedy and Jamie was roadkill stuck to the bottom of someone’s boot.
Even if you happen to be a brilliant comedian on your way up, you don’t do that. You’re asking for trouble.
When his moment in the spotlight came, he got off to a decent start, but after getting a few laughs his jokes started to tank. It sounded like a desperate bid to get something going when he fired another shot at Jamie, downplaying his success as an actor and saying, “Thank God you got Ali.”
What you have right there is one of the most idiotic extemporaneous insults to ever come out of someone’s mouth. Ali was built around Will Smith’s starring role. It got some good reviews but didn’t do well enough at the box office to be considered a hit. No one remembers Jamie Foxx from that movie. Most people don’t even remember the movie itself. This roast took place in 2006. By that time Jamie had proven himself as a dramatic actor, first in a memorable supporting role in Any Given Sunday, then with a much larger role in Collateral (an underrated duet with a playing-against-type Tom Cruise), and he followed that up by winning every award in existence for his portrayal of Ray Charles in Ray.
I’m not even a fan, and I know this stuff. If you’re going to go after the guy and try to get a laugh at a roast, at least deliver an insult that makes sense and has some basis in reality.
You can see at that moment Jamie, who was content to let this guy bomb without getting involved, decides he’s going to mess him up. What follows is either an amusing example of someone getting their comeuppance, or a star with a dented ego going way too far, depending on your perspective.
Now imagine this. Instead of soldiering on and trying to finish his unfunny act while a real comedian ripped him to shreds, what if the guy rolled with it, threw away whatever jokes he’d prepared, and started having a dialogue with Jamie as his conscience? It might have made for a transcendent moment of bizarre improv, and he might have managed to redeem himself in the eyes of both the audience and the sleeping giant he pissed on long enough to stir from his slumber.
He didn’t have that kind of spontaneous invention in him, so what we’re left with is little more than one comedian heckling another.
Back to the song. I went with my second idea when the first one wasn’t going anywhere (what was I going to talk about — prison food?). The plan was to have Gord scream his head off in the role of The Conscience, but he was long gone by the time I started recording this song, so I handled that myself. Instead of using the telephone microphone I put some distortion on my voice as a bit of a callback to spoken word pieces of the past like “Nothing from Nothing”, “Something Pink”, and “The Old House”, adding a second voice with the pitch shifted down to make the one-way phone conversation a little more menacing.
The music started with the bass. I plugged into a Strymon Flint pedal for a little extra ambience. The drums were recorded the usual way, with an AEA R88 stereo microphone, plus a distant mic I ran through some distortion and phaser — the Digitech again. It felt appropriate to make liberal use of that old friend, since it was one of my main sound-sculpting tools on a lot of the “classic” Papa Ghostface albums.
I’ve grown so used to using the guitar as an initial building block, I don’t often treat it as a free-floating thing anymore like I did back when I had a proper band. It was fun to return to that approach here. I improvised two different parts and played through the Fairfield Circuitry Shallow Water, which is a really unique modulation pedal. It’s too subtle for some people, from what I’ve read. They must not have spent much time with it, because I was able to dial in some pretty extreme settings without much work. Of course, you can get some nice, mellow chorus sounds out of it. I opted for something that sounded more like the guitar was being played back on a cassette tape that kept eating itself but refused to grind to a halt.
Some jazzy piano and a backwards VSS-30 vocal sample added some nice texture, but something was still missing. I thought a guest musician might be able to help. When Austin Di Pietro was over here to record a half-written part on a bossa nova-tinged song for YEAR OF THE SLEEPWALK, I asked if he’d be up for improvising on top of this one. I rerouted the mic he was playing into so it passed through the Digitech and punched in my all-time favourite setting. It’s called “Like a Synth”. A more appropriate name might be “Ambient Chaos”.
A musician can react one of two ways when you hit them with such an extreme effect. They’ll either find it a little overwhelming, or they’ll enjoy exploring the options it opens up. Austin had a blast creating weird chords and massive washes of sound. As Brent did before him, he added a little extra magic dust to a song that needed it. Not only that, but I was able to take about a minute of him fooling around with some a cappella trumpet and move it to the beginning of the song, giving it a film-noir-on-hallucinogens intro that leaves the listener wondering what to expect.
A few bits of sampled Wurlitzer from the VSS-30 and some dissonant stabs from a Korg Monotron Delay later, the sound world was complete.
Not all of my spoken word tracks are created equal, but I’m really fond of this one. The story strikes a nice balance between slow-growing dread and lunacy, and I think the musical backdrop might be the best any of my talkies has ever had.
No Papa Ghostface album has been home to a larger or more diverse group of instrumental pieces than this one. On STEW most of the instrumentals served as little segues. Here they’re a much more meaningful part of the fabric of the album.
One night Gord brought over this bulky flute. He said he bought it from a guy who made them by hand. He got it for a good price because it wasn’t quite in tune with anything else in the world, living in some no man’s land between the keys of F# and G. In spite of that unfortunate quirk, it allowed him to play two notes at once, with a single drone note offset by any of about half a dozen notes spanning the next octave up.
I think the proper name for one of these things is a drone flute. I called it a wooden flute in the CD booklet, not knowing any better at the time. Don’t hate me, Flute Gods.
Even if the intonation was dodgy, it created an eerie, exotic sound. I recorded a few minutes of Gord playing a little motif he came up with and got him to double-track it. Then I sampled my voice with the VSS-30, singing in a few different octaves, almost delving into throat-singing territory with the low notes, and recorded a single track of that to create some harmonic movement, playing chords and countermelodies.
That’s “Peruvian Mountain Song” right there. I mean, that’sthe whole thing. Three tracks. Proof you don’t always need a lot of layers to build a solid soundscape.
The hazy sound at the end is the same vocal sample that runs through the body of the song, but with the “fuzz” button engaged on the VSS-30. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: that little sampling keyboard is one powerful secret weapon. I’m not sure how I ever did without it. I know I could do more with a “proper” sampler or the right computer software, but I love the simplicity and immediacy of being able to take any sound at all, mess with it, and make it musical with the touch of a few buttons.
“Just Can’t Seem to Get It Right” came out of goofing off at the piano. The first half of the first verse came to me right away. The second half was a little different to begin with.
Give me lozenges or give me halitosis, mama.
What the crap kind of crap is that crap? I’m pretty glad I rewrote that part and sang about a clever little torso dance instead. I recorded a bunch of vocal tracks with the microphone halfway across the room and then added a single close-mic’d vocal to play against the roominess.
I like to do this thing sometimes where I take one of the catchiest songs on an album and make it so short it’s sure to infuriate at least a few people. As such, this song is only sixty-seven seconds long. It felt like it said all it needed to say anyway, and I think extending it would have killed its charm.
This album might be home to some of my more adventurous electric guitar playing in a while, from strange textural touches to unhinged solos. Even on a song like this, there are discordant stabs of guitar slobbering all over the verse. A little saliva never hurt anybody, did it?
“The Evil Angel on Your Shoulder” is discussed at length in this blog post over here. It had an interesting journey, starting out as a song that felt destined for the out-takes bin only to become one of my favourite deep cuts on the album.
“Every Angry Element” was a sound before it was a song. I was mixing something that might end up on YEAR OF THE SLEEPWALK when I put a big chewy chorus effect on an acoustic guitar track just for something to do. Right away I knew it wasn’t the least bit right for that song. I also knew it was a sound I wanted to do something with.
I don’t tend to play a lot of conventional chord voicings on guitar. Because of the way I play and the tunings I use, what comes out is almost always at least a little bit different — and sometimes very different — from what you’d get in standard tuning with traditional fingerings, even when I’m playing “closed” major or minor chords.
As soon as I had the chorus-drenched acoustic guitar sound going and a blank slate to apply it to, I wanted to get away from anything that was at all familiar to me on the fretboard. A few unresolved chords arranged a certain way shook loose a vocal melody unlike anything I would normally think to sing. I scratched out a few lines of lyrics and recorded acoustic and electric guitar, vocals, bass, and drums. Everything was smothered in chorus or vibrato except for the bass.
Even after I added two quick fragments of drones from the FM3 Buddha Machine it still didn’t feel cooked all the way through. The next time Gord was over, I asked him to contribute some “noise guitar” without giving him a chance to get his bearings. I plugged him into the Count to Five and the Digitech. Soon there were a few huge swathes of semi-dissonant sound bouncing around. No more pink in the middle.
The idea here wasn’t to get a whole lot of definition in the mix, but to smear everything together so it feels like every sound is fighting to break through a thick haze. It’s fun to do the opposite of everything your musical instincts tell you to do every once in a while.
The little instrumental coda after my backwards electric guitar drops out was recorded during the STEW sessions. When we were working on “Fly’s Hive” I held my Casio SK-1 up to the amplifier while Gord was playing guitar and sampled a random snippet of what he was doing. I recorded two different pieces that involved me “playing” the sampled guitar on the keyboard. The mutilated lo-fi sounds were unrecognizable as anything that had once been generated by a stringed instrument. Gord said he thought what I came up with sounded like a dinosaur orgy.
I added some Omnichord to the first piece and made it a solo track. I wasn’t sure what to do with the second one. It struck me as something that would make a nice unexpected fake-out at the end of a song, followed by a slow fade. I dropped it in here and it worked better than I thought it would.
And so the most psychedelic-sounding thing I’ve ever done ends with a muted dinosaur orgy.
I meant to grab more in-studio video footage for this album than I did for STEW. I ended up filming nothing of any consequence. Phooey. Determined to make at least one DIY music video, I lucked into matching Walter Ruttmann’s Opus III with a song that’s almost the same length. Only a few small edits were necessary to get the music and images to play nice together.
“Stepping Stone on the Way to Better Things” kind of fell out of the air. Gord was messing around on my mandola when he hit on a riff I thought had potential. I recorded about a minute of him playing it, got him to double-track it, and wrote some words. It was a long time before I sat down and recorded the vocal track and everything else. When I did get around to doing that, it was fun to have an excuse to pull out some instruments that haven’t been getting a lot of use in recent years, like the melodica and the glockenspiel.
“Cessna 172 Skyhawk, Stranded” began as some music and a vocal melody. I was revisiting my long-neglected Simon & Patrick acoustic guitar at the time, and a lot of new ideas came toppling out. This was one of them.
The lyrics didn’t take too long to show up. They included a verse I didn’t use that found its way into a song called “Boy See” (another one slated for inclusion on SLEEPWALK).
I’m not sure why I ended up with the Cessna 172 as my plane. I must have been reading about small aircrafts. I was less interested in the specs than I was in conjuring a dazed amateur pilot’s fragmented thoughts after running out of fuel, making an emergency landing in some unfamiliar, unpopulated place, and going a long time without food or water.
My main electric guitar throughout the album was a Squier J. Mascis Jazzmaster. That axe has become my favourite electric guitar over the last year or two, and I haven’t swapped out the stock pickups or even given it a proper setup. Playing it just feels good. Here I gave the neglected Epiphone Casino some love and saved the Jazzmaster for the fiddly bits.
For most people it’ll probably be a mid-album mood piece that doesn’t call much attention to itself, but I really like the way this one turned out. Maybe it’s all those layers of guitar and wordless vocals. Or maybe it’s the surreal lyrics like, “If you want a man like me, just climb up the dead man tree.” I don’t know. There’s something kind of hypnotic about it to my ears.
“Meet Me in the Middle of the Ocean”…now that one came right out of left field.
When I was sifting through the things Gord and I recorded together before everything ground to a halt, I couldn’t believe how much garbage there was. Things that seemed like a good idea at the time now sounded uninspiring. Songs I remembered being somewhat fleshed out were barely there at all. This was another one I was expecting to be a disappointment. I remembered taking a few stabs at recording an instrumental improvisation, playing piano while Gord experimented with my hammered dulcimer. I didn’t think we came up with anything great, but I wanted give it a look-in for the sake of being thorough.
Revisiting the recording, I found not only was the final take a lot better than I thought at the time, but it was followed by a half-finished electronic workout that supplemented the piano and dulcimer with synth bass, a synthesized drum pattern, and some more weirdness from the FM3 Buddha Machine.
It had some serious potential. With a little creative editing and some overdubs, I was convinced I could make something pretty cool out of what was there.
The first thing I did was snip out a bit of aimlessness so the piano-and-dulcimer bit would transition into the beat-driven section in a less jarring way. Then I went to work adding things. The beat I used on the Alesis Micron sounded pretty bland. I dialled in some distortion and it came alive, with the extra grit emphasizing little accents that were buried before. I ditched Gord’s dulcimer in this part of the song — not out of spite, but because it drifted in and out of tempo. In its place I recorded lap steel and got some nice analog-sounding tones out of the VSS-30’s stock strings sound after tweaking the attack and release settings.
The industrial-sounding blasts of electric guitar are samples. I strummed a guitar with one hand and held the keyboard up to the amp with the other, somehow timing it just right so the sound I triggered was in rhythm with the song. There’s also a mangled vocal sample in there near the end, and I doubled back to add a different vocal sample to the first section.
At the end of everything I found a random piano idea I’d recorded so I wouldn’t forget it. It became the perfect ending to something that I think evolved into one of the most interesting PG instrumental tracks on any album. There’s something almost disquieting about it that really appeals to me.
“Blinded by the Evening Sun” was a little piano idea I had. Instead of developing it into something longer I thought I’d let it stay small. The second I recorded it, I knew I wanted it to lead straight into “Prayer for Redemption” (which is discussed in some depth over here). In some cases I can give you a sensible explanation for why one song follows another. Here it was something beyond logic. I felt it, and it needed to happen, and that was as far as it went.
Aside from “Rook”, “Prayer” is the only other song on the album that has a conventional chorus. I try to stay away from those, but every once in a while a song will decide it wants to walk down a more conventional path and there’s nothing to be done. I take some comfort from knowing both songs have a second chorus that shifts the meaning of the first one through a subtle word change or two.
“Crawlspace Waltz” was recorded on a night when Gord was telling me about a claustrophobic experience he had working on someone’s plumbing earlier in the day. He brought his own electric guitar over for a change (I can’t remember what kind it was), and I plugged him into this Hungry Robot pedal:
He started playing a melody that sounded like the perfect soundtrack for his crawlspace adventure. I played bass, picking out some counter-melodies. We worked out some structure for the thing, with the verses in 6/8 and a “chorus” section in 4/4. What kept the verses a little on-edge was the lack of a typical four-bar turnaround (each repetition of the melody ran for three and-a-half bars).
Then we forgot all about it.
This was another one I was expecting to be pretty useless. I remembered my bass playing being kind of lame. When I dumped the guitar-and-bass recording back onto the mixer I couldn’t believe how tight it sounded. All it needed was some additional instrumentation.
I made a bed of acoustic and electric guitars for Gord’s melody to float on top of and threw in some distorted ambient guitar swells for good measure. I recorded two different drum tracks, with the snare close-mic’d to emphasize the brush work during the first verse and the typical ribbon mic setup for some harder-hitting playing on the chorus, and then combined the two in the latter half of the song. On my birthday I recorded some bugle.
If there’s one thing life has taught me, it’s this: you can only go so long without making drunken elephant sounds with a horn you don’t really know how to play.
“Pop Song #82” gives me some pretty strong ABSENCE OF SWAY vibes. Maybe it’s just me. The demo didn’t offer much indication that it would turn into anything.
After it was a fleshed-out song, recording it was pretty straightforward, but I found myself again searching for the right sound to tie everything together. I tried recording electric guitar, organ, and electric piano, all to no avail.
I have no problem leaving a song alone and ignoring leftover tracks on the mixer when it feels right. Some things cry out for a little extra seasoning, that’s all. When that happens, I make it my mission to keep throwing things at the wall until something sticks.
As it has so many times before, the upright piano came to the rescue and gave me the salt and pepper I needed.
(My “ouch!” at the end is a direct response to playing Gord’s malnourished twelve-string that now seems to be my guitar. It may offer just the sound a song needs sometimes, but it’s the most uncomfortable hunk of junk I’ve ever played in my life.)
“Lean Years” gave birth to itself, strange as that sounds.
I had some lyrics I liked and a working title of “Chaos and Sedition”. There wasn’t any music in my head to go with the words, and that’s pretty unusual, but I thought it would be fun to build an abstract ambient ballad without knowing where I was going. The idea was to record some free-floating electric guitar with the tremolo cranked all the way up, negating the guitar’s natural attack. Then I would throw some random things on top of that and find a way to slip the lyrics in there somewhere.
Several guitar tracks later, I realized what I had on my hands was not an abstract ambient ballad at all, but more of a shoegaze folk song. This is what I mean when I say some songs have minds of their own. I had a very clear idea in my head when I sat down, even if I didn’t have a whole song yet. The song-to-be said, “Nope. Not gonna happen. This is what I want to be.” The unexpected direction the music took forced me to write a whole new set of lyrics, and the small amount of space I had to work with kept me from getting too ambitious with them.
It’s a song about a couple of fugitives (or a fugitive couple, if you prefer), like “Zebra Stripes” on AFTERTHOUGHTS. Where that song is overflowing with details, here the guts of the story have been sucked right out. It’s a fun way of turning a narrative piece on its head, offering a few blurry snapshots without any context or plot to ground them.
As with the direction the song itself took, the guitar solo at the end wasn’t planned. I had some room to do something there and thought I’d get a little noisy and spastic with distortion and some pitch-shifted delay from the Count to Five. I ate up so many tracks layering different guitar parts, I had to record the solo on the same track as the lead vocal. I did it twice, with a different vocal to go with each solo. The second time I sang an octave higher and used a different, more distant microphone on the guitar amp.
Though the more subdued vocal felt a little more appropriate, I’m sure the unused take will show up on a misfits collection one of these days. I’ve got half a mind to go all-in and make an alternate mix that emphasizes the clean guitars and uses an earlier drum take I recorded with the snare strainer thrown off for a more muted sound.
In the months that followed the dissolution of GWD in mid-2002, Gord and I didn’t record anything of substance. We did play a lot of acoustic guitar together for a while, usually at his place. This is when we polished the music for the songs that would become “Samhain” and “Hiraeth”. Gord would come up with a riff or two and I would fill in the rest. We developed a way of playing that was so interconnected, after a while it was difficult to pick out who was playing what.
Even if no new music came out of our brief reunion, it would have been worthwhile just to have the chance to document a bit of that kind of playing we got down to a fine art when no recording equipment was around. You can hear some of it on STEW, on songs like the aforementioned two, “A Question, a Thought, a Confession”, and “The Same Starless Sky”, but the single best distillation of it might be found on this album’s “Blue Rose”.
We started improvising together and the song pretty much wrote itself. We layered a number of tracks, both of us playing at the same time, and then I did the last looped-sounding bit by myself, double-tracking something like four or five different parts to build up the harmonies I wanted.
Gord wanted to accent this classical-flavoured instrumental ballad with — you guessed it — the harsh sound of a bullwhip cracking. I told him I didn’t think we’d be able to find anyone willing to lend us a whip, and even if we did, trying to record it would be a good way to destroy some expensive equipment or lose an eye. He said we could always just hit the floor with a belt.
I’m going to let that hang there for a second.
You know you’re living in different worlds when your collaborator thinks destroying the hardwood floor with a belt is somehow a valid musical idea. I’m all for experimenting, and I’ve made it my life’s work to carve out an idiosyncratic musical path, but…no. No to the no-ing-est degree of no-ness.
There were three tracks left on the mixer after all the acoustic guitars we recorded. I got down a bass track, thought about recording some piano, and then got rid of the bass and stripped it back to just the guitars. Some things you need to leave as they are.
The electronic-sounding outro is the VSS-30 again. I sampled Gord playing mandolin and played around with it until I had something that resembled an icy synth patch.
“Actuator” is the quirkiest of all the instrumentals, and probably the best example on the album of the VSS-30 kicking ass and taking names.
I was throwing an aluminum foil pan in the sink after eating lunch when I noticed it had a nice resonance to it. I brought the VSS-30 into the kitchen and sampled myself tapping out a rhythm on the bottom of the pan. I lucked out and the pattern I played was the exact length of the keyboard’s sampling time, allowing me to create the impression of a looped rhythm by pressing down on the same key every second or two to trigger the sound again as soon as it stopped playing.
I recorded that and then added sped-up and slowed-down versions of the same pattern played higher and lower on the keyboard, creating some fun polyrhythms. Next came an improvised melody played on one of the VSS-30’s unaltered stock sounds, and then some synth bass and strings from the Micron.
I wanted to see what other unexpected sources I could get useful sounds out of. I sampled the can-opener and layered some of that over a little bridge section. I drummed on a soup pot with my fingers and created new polyrhythms over the last chunk of the song when the extra aluminum foil pan tracks dropped out.
A bit of a funky way to build an instrumental song that’s all of ninety seconds long, I know. But I always enjoy starting from an unexpected place. You almost always end up somewhere you haven’t been before. In this case, I like how it all came out sounding like an electronic junkyard marching band strutting its stuff.
“Rivulets” was one that took a while to come together. The words lived for a long time without music. I thought someday I’d get around to sampling some glockenspiel or wind chimes, record a few layers of that, and get a female vocalist to sing the words. Never happened.
One afternoon I sat down at the piano, started playing some chords, tried singing these lyrics, and everything clicked.
The final recording was an exercise in trying a million different things only to pull back and simplify the mix in order to arrive at the treatment the song needed. All that’s going on there is piano, vocals, some clean electric guitar, bass, brushed snare, and sampled Wurlitzer processed by the VSS-30, but it still feels pretty lush even with all the sounds I didn’t end up using.
For a long time I was convinced piano ballads were off-limits when it came to Papa Ghostface albums. One of the few times I took a shot at recording one with Gord was during the SHOEBOX PARADISE sessions in early 2000, and the results were pretty half-baked.
“Rivulets” offers proof that a more subdued piano-led song can still possess an edge. Maybe I just needed to grow into a more interesting lyricist and get my hands on a real acoustic piano before I could write a proper PG piano ballad.
Gord would have shot it down without a second thought, edge or no edge. A few years ago we set up a Dropbox so we could send ideas back and forth. I must have sent him twenty demos of songs I thought might work as PG tunes. He never listened to any of them.
I listened to the handful of things he sent my way. There was one song I liked a lot. I brought it up once. He said we couldn’t record it because it was something he used to play with Surdaster and he thought the other guys would be upset if they found out he was recording it with me, even though they’d never done anything with it.
If ever there was a perfect moment to quote Justine Bateman’s character from the great and unjustly forgotten 2003 Showtime miniseries Out of Orderand tell Gord he had the most convenient morals of anyone I’d ever known, that was it.
I guess it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. With the exception of a few of the more aggressive songs on BEAUTIFULLY STUPID, he never paid much attention to my solo work. Given the volume of music I’ve made on my own over the years and how many different places it’s gone, you’d think there would be something in there that would appeal to him. And maybe it would…but he’d have to hear it first. Just the thought of listening to an album I made without him always seemed like some vile task he didn’t want to bother with.
I never dwelled on it. But when you really think about it, it’s pretty messed up to make so much music with someone who for twenty years has zero interest in any of the work you’ve done that doesn’t involve them. I’m not sure I’ll ever understand what that was all about.
“Winter Holds No Love” was one of the few demos he did listen to and express some affection for, even if I had to send it a second time in a Facebook message in order to get it heard at all. I thought he could play the second guitar part. Teaching it to him didn’t take, so I went ahead and recorded the whole thing on my own.
The vocal melody was meant to be played by a wind instrument. I was hoping to get someone to come in and play flute. Every flautist I was able to find in the area ignored me, leaving me with no choice but to stick to the wordless singing, since no other instrument did as fluid a job of navigating those twists and turns as my voice.
It was probably supposed to turn out this way, but being ignored by people who claim to do freelance session work when I’m offering them a pretty simple gig is getting old. And this is nothing. Just wait until I tell you about my YEAR OF THE SLEEPWALK adventures! Talk about an object lesson in the flakiness and apathy of (some) musicians.
It doesn’t happen much, but every once in a while I’m moved to record a song twice. Sometimes, with a song like “The Evil Angel on Your Shoulder”, it’s a matter of having mixed feelings about the first version and finding something more satisfying in a wholesale reinvention. Other times — and this is rarer still — I’ll abandon a song halfway through recording it because I can tell I’m not getting what I want. Either the performance isn’t there or the feeling isn’t right. Starting again from scratch gives me a psychological tabula rasa.
I recorded four different versions of “Born Free, Died Expensively”. I’ve never done that before, and I don’t expect I ever will again. The instrumental bridge section changed each time. I’d record the piano and a vocal track, and then I’d listen and feel no inspiration to add anything more. It wasn’t that the song wanted to be left naked. The performance felt flat.
I’d all but given up on it when I found myself recording a lot of piano songs at once and decided it was worth one last try. There was a false start or two when I hit a bad note, and then I got a take that felt pretty solid. I tried singing on top of it. That felt solid too. At last I had the right foundation to build on. All it took was getting to a place where I had no expectations because I thought the song was doomed.
Funny thing about this one — it felt much longer when I was recording it. It was a bit of shock to learn it didn’t even crack the four-minute mark.
I gave some serious thought to bringing in a horn player to play a ruminative solo over the bridge. Then I got on a roll when I was dressing up the basic tracks and forgot about it, letting my own lap steel playing serve as a glorified lead voice.
For the climactic guitar solo at the end I plugged into the Count to Five pedal again, this time using a crazy pitch-shifted delay some people refer to as the “birds” setting. You play a single note and get a cascade of singing sounds. Play a sequence of notes and you get some wonderful chaos.
This was another song that was tricky to mix. Some tracks were pulling double duty and I had to make a lot of split-second adjustments in order to get the last section to sound right. Unlike “Flood and Fists”, it only took me a few passes to get things where I wanted them to be. That was a relief and a half.
The last few songs as a group offer a good illustration of how this album is structured to work in a cumulative way.
STEW ends in pretty grand fashion with a song called “In the Name of the Impostor”. The instrumental coda is me on my own, playing all the instruments without any input from Gord (he played a bit of additional acoustic guitar and contributed a few cymbal swells to the body of the song). In hindsight you could say it was the sound of me moving beyond the confines of our collaborative relationship right at the end of our happy reunion…but that’s stretching it. The real reason Gord isn’t playing on that last bit is because he said he felt anything he added would take away from what I’d already done.
“Born Free, Died Expensively” was meant to be the big album-ending moment this time around. When the song came out a good deal shorter than I was expecting it to be, I saw an opportunity to do something different, ending the album in stages instead of with one big bang. So “The Mind Is Not a Tapeworm” functions as something of a comedown after the violent ending of “Born Free”, and the brief ambient mood piece that follows offers a comedown after the comedown.
I’ve mentioned before that I don’t hear a lot of people talk about album sequencing. Most of the articles you’ll find online that address the subject have to do with putting your most commercial foot forward, front-loading your album so it stands a better chance of getting noticed by radio station music directors and record label executives. This has nothing to do with crafting an album as a work of art, and it’s horrible advice for anyone who takes their craft seriously.
There are endless different potential albums to be made out of a given group of songs. Move just one song to a different place, or get rid of one, or add another, and the whole axis shifts. The more songs you’re dealing with, the stickier it gets.
For me it always comes down to two things: what do I want to convey with this album, and how do I get that across while creating an emotional and dynamic journey that feels right to me? What you’re doing every time you make an album, in a sense, is making a film for the ears. Some of my scene selections might seem strange or abstract, but I promise you there’s a point behind every one of those choices and a great deal of thought has gone into them.
What I never hear anyone talk about is how much silence you should leave between each song. How you transition from one scene to the next can have a huge impact on the way your album flows. It might not be as big a deal when you’re making an EP or a shorter album, but when a lot of songs are involved I think it becomes much more important. Whether you’re conscious of it or not, the spaces between the music help to create the rhythm of your album.
I used to chuck songs onto an album in the order I recorded them. Sometimes it worked out better than it should have. I think when you make enough albums that way, you start to think at least a little bit about the bigger picture, even if it’s only a subconscious consideration.
These days it’s different. I spend so much time thinking about sequencing, sketching out rough track lists and then making adjustments as an album gains shape, by the time I’m ready to commit all the songs to CD whatever I’ve worked out on paper almost always ends up being my final sequence. Even if something feels off, I don’t find myself making many major adjustments, because I’ve already made dozens of them on the way to working everything out.
What I don’t always get right the first time, and what I sometimes have to take a few cracks at, is the spacing between the songs.
There’s a world of difference between two seconds, four or five seconds, and no seconds at all. Two seconds is the default gap left between songs on a CD. It’s a pretty quick turnaround, but it feels natural enough because you’ve experienced it a million times. A gap of four or five seconds gives you a microspace in which to process what you’ve just heard. You’re alone in the dark for a moment. Then there’s the gapless transition, where the ending of one song smash cuts to the beginning of another without giving you any time to prepare for what’s coming.
Most of the time I’m dealing with spaces in the range of two to four seconds — sometimes a little more if a song is especially important to me and I want to try and make it hit a little harder than some of the others. The smash cut is something I only pull out when I want to get a little showy, when I want to mess with the listener, or when it feels so right there’s no denying it. In this case, jumping straight from the end of “Flood and Fists” to the beginning of “Rook” made perfect sense to me on both emotional and sonic levels, whereas cutting from the detritus of my guitar solo at the end of “Born Free” to the beginning of “The Mind Is Not a Tapeworm” was a more practical consideration. With “Born Free” flaming out in such an abrupt way, leaving any appreciable silence after it would feel clumsy.
Speaking of “The Mind Is Not a Tapeworm”, it’s the only song on the album to address the end of Papa Ghostface in any direct way. At the heart of the song is a simple message: when time has ravaged our bodies and undone our minds, I’ll still remember the good times. It’s easy to miss that bit of warmth with all the talk of putrefaction, but it’s in there.
Of all the songs that took some work to get the arrangement to a place where it felt just right, this was the one that almost drove me insane. I could make a number of alternate mixes using the elements I recorded and then abandoned — organ, backwards piano, different electric guitar ideas, and a whole lot more. I thought about writing a string arrangement, but nothing I came up with was any good. Beyond the acoustic twelve-string guitar (my own Washburn this time), the six-string accents, the bass, and the vocal tracks, I was stumped.
I tried to forget about it for a while. It wasn’t easy to do, knowing this was going to be the last proper song on the album. I had to find a way to nail it. When I came back to it for another go-round, I recorded some backwards electric guitar and a simple little piano line, and then I knew I had what I needed.
The only thing troubling me was getting the piano to sit where I wanted it in the mix. It sounded a little cold. Maybe I didn’t have the mics positioned where they should have been on the day. Or maybe it sounded off because it was one of the few unprocessed sounds vying for attention while the acoustic guitars had some flanger tickling them and the backwards electric guitar was swimming in chorus. Something as simple as running the piano track through a Leslie speaker effect took care of everything, adding some warmth and situating the sound right where it was supposed to be — in the background without being hidden.
The album ends as it began, with ambient sample-based weirdness. “Stars in the Shotgun Night” is nothing but my voice looped and bent out of shape by the VSS-30. Brief as it is, I think there’s something both open-ended and decisive about it.
The title is a quote from a Jim Morrison poem. I’ve been meaning to use that phrase somewhere for probably about half as long as I’ve been alive. At long last, it’s found a home. It comes from one of the last poems Jim wrote in Paris before his mysterious death. Another bit I’ve always liked, from the same poem:
Naked we come
& bruised we go
for the soft slow worms
Say what you will about Jim’s poetry — I’ve always been a fan. At its best there’s a music that pulses through it, and a line like, “I had a splitting headache from which the future’s made,” seems pretty prophetic now.
I don’t imagine WHAT WE LOST IN THE FLOOD will appeal to as many people as STEW did. It’s a very different kind of album. Then again, I’ve been surprised before. Whatever anyone else makes of it, I think I feel pretty good about it. As proud as I was (and still am) of STEW, this one feels like it’s much more in keeping with what Papa Ghostface was all about. It’s a more dynamic affair, too.
A quick note about that.
Some months ago I discovered the online Dynamic Range Database. There’s no better illustration of just how many albums have been victims of the asinine Loudness War and how much music continues to be compressed and limited to death for no good reason. It’s a great resource if you’re trying to figure out whether or not a remastered version of an album you love is worth buying. It’s also a little depressing to realize there are bands I genuinely like who have never released a single album with a decent amount of dynamic range.
Through this, I found a tool that allowed me to measure the dynamic range of my own music. You can add this to the list of things only I would be crazy enough to do: I built a dynamic range database of everything I’ve ever recorded (minus the many cassette tapes). It was an eye and ear-opening experience.
Some of the results were no surprise at all. I knew my earliest CDs would have a lot of dynamic range — too much, in some cases. And I knew the group of albums I remastered last year would be somewhat compromised in their first-issued forms. But I wasn’t prepared for some of what I saw.
Want to take a guess at what the most dynamic album I recorded was once I started to figure out what I was doing?
It’s got an average DR rating of 15. That’s almost unheard of outside the realm of classical music. Even vinyl records, which are given a lighter touch at the mastering stage because of the different format, rarely approach that amount of dynamic range.
It’s FOUR SONGS IN JULY, from 2000. That EP has an abysmal DR rating of 6. Nothing else I’ve ever recorded comes close to being that bad. And yet, in spite of the massive amounts of compression I used at the mastering stage to get it loud, there’s no audible clipping, and those songs sound pretty good to me.
The revelations don’t end there.
The late-period GWD albums and my three post-band solo albums from 2002 all have a ridiculous amount of headroom. You’d think their dynamics would be off the charts. They all live in the 9 to 11 DR range. Not bad by any means, and far better than most commercial CDs, where anything above an average rating of 4 or 5 is almost shocking these days. Still, that’s nowhere near what I was expecting.
What this tells me is the equipment I was using at the time — the cheap ART preamps and the Aphex opto compressor in particular — muddied the water to some degree.
Fast forward a year or two to albums like NUDGE YOU ALIVE and BRAND NEW SHINY LIE, and everything is DR13, DR16, DR17. The DBX mic preamps and compressor I was using then may be maligned by every recording engineer on the planet, but it’s pretty clear they let the music breathe a lot better.
Here’s where it gets really interesting. You know those eight albums I pushed too hard the first time around at the mastering stage? The worst of them is only DR8. The best is DR10. I was expecting much worse. Of course, the remastered versions are miles better, all coming in at DR12 or DR13, with no clipping anywhere.
To give you a frame of reference, Cat Power’s Sun, which is pretty fatiguing and horribly-mastered, weighs in at DR6. Codename: Dustsucker — a great Bark Psychosis album, and one I would use as an audiophile reference any day — is only two notches better at DR8. The gulf between them in terms of sound quality and perceived dynamics is monumental. How can they be so close in actual measured dynamic range? David Bowie’s Blackstar is worse than either one of those at DR5 but sounds much better and less choked than Sun.
It just goes to show there are different ways of arriving at a loud master, the numbers don’t always tell the whole story, and not all methods of compressing or limiting dynamic range are as hard on the ears as others.
With albums like STEW and AFTERTHOUGHTS I was no longer trying to make anything loud for the sake of loudness. I felt those were pretty dynamic albums.
They both have an overall DR rating of 9. Again, compared to most modern albums, that’s excellent. It’s more dynamic than the Bark Psychosis album. But I was disappointed when I saw that number. It told me I could still stand to back off a bit more.
When I added up the DR ratings for each song on FLOOD and worked out the average, I was a lot happier with what I got: DR11. That’s more like it.
I know numbers aren’t everything, and this is only one measurement. It doesn’t take into account LUFS, RMS, and whatever others there are. How things sound is much more important than anything a meter or reading can tell you. Still, it helps to have a visual reference for what you are or aren’t hearing. I’m glad to have something I can use as a guide to keep myself in check from now on.
As far as the graphic design side of things is concerned, I had some fun with this album, finding a family of fonts that played off of Alain’s cover art. A few years ago I went through a period of combing MyFonts for anything that looked like it might someday be useful. I bought a stupid amount of fonts. Some of them I look at now and think, “What was I seeing? I’ll never use this.” Others, like the vintage Swiss typewriter font used for AFTERTHOUGHTS, have come in handy.
This time around I used a group of fonts called Goodlife, designed by Hannes Von Döhren. Something about the combination of Goodlife Brush for the song titles and Goodlife Sans for the body text appealed to me. There was a nice amount of character without sacrificing legibility.
For the first time in a very long time I was going to break down musician credits for each individual song in the lyric booklet. I’ve figured out a way to include song-by-song credits for YEAR OF THE SLEEPWALK that doesn’t look clunky. I didn’t have as much luck with FLOOD. Given the fonts I was using, there was no way to add credits before or after the lyrics for a song without throwing everything off.
I settled for specifying who contributed to the album and what they did on the final page of the booklet, making it clear I was responsible for everything else. Good enough.
This is all probably more than anyone would ever want to know about an album only thirty or so people in the world will hear, but WordPress told me this was going to be my six hundredth post. I wanted to make it count. Plus, I’ve come to enjoy putting these longer missives together to make up for extended periods of blog inactivity.
I’m going to take a wild guess and say this is my longest blog post of all time. I didn’t plan it that way. Honest. There was just a lot to say.
Something else I wasn’t planning: I didn’t think I would get my booklets and inserts from Minuteman Press before the end of the week. They came through on Friday, so I’ve been able to start putting CDs together. An album never feels real to me until all the pieces are assembled. This one’s real now, and I can officially “release” it.
I gotta say this: I started working with Minuteman Press in 2003. They printed part of the OH YOU THIS insert. I had no idea what I was doing. Neither did they. They’d never made CD inserts before, and I’d never designed them.
Since then, I’ve had them print booklets and inserts for dozens of albums. I don’t even know what the number is. Probably close to fifty if you count all the 2010 “reissues”. Over time I started to figure out how to make things look less amateurish, and they got a handle on how to cut and print the materials. There were always small issues. If my inserts had a black background, chances were the scoring would be done in such a way that bending back the tabs would cause the material to crack or split a little. I hated that eyesore. I had to buy a cutting board because the back inserts were usually too large, even though I always gave them a jewel case to use as a size reference. I had to trim the top or bottom of almost every insert I got, effectively doing part of their job for them.
They were easy to deal with and the prices were reasonable, so I didn’t make a fuss.
In the time that’s passed since I redesigned the packaging for LOVE SONGS FOR NIHILISTS and had it reprinted, new owners have taken over. No one I know is there anymore.
I was a little worried at first. There were a few people I always knew I could count on to understand what I was after. We developed a shorthand. I had no idea how these new folks would do with the kind of printing jobs I need done, and I didn’t get the impression they’d done any work like this before.
You could say the inserts I had made for the remastered version of YOU’RE A NATION were a way of testing the water. I didn’t need to trim anything, and when I folded the tabs over (on a black background) there were no ill effects. FLOOD was a much more complicated job. They knocked it out of the park again.
I think the prices are cheaper now than they were before, and the quality of work is better. Who saw that coming?
For those of you who are used to getting mail from me when I have a new album to share, I can’t promise when this one will show up. Canada Post is in the middle of a rotating strike right now. They’ve got such a backlog of packages, there’s no guarantee anything will get where it’s supposed to go anytime soon. That’s not going to work for me. I’ll do my best to work out an alternate plan of attack with UPS or the Cosmic Carrier Pigeon Service or something.