My interest in sampling should have started with the Casio SK-10 I had as a kid. Here I had the ability to record and warp short bursts of any sound I could think of, and the best idea I could come up with was getting the built-in demonstration songs to play symphonies of armpit farts. I sampled the TV a few times, but that was as creative as I got.
In the mid-2000s I heard a Bjork song in a restaurant. I think it was right before I really got into her music. I’ve never been able to figure out which song it was, but I remember there was this sound swimming through the whole thing — something like a field of wind chimes being upended by a swarm of locusts.
“Sampling!” I thought. “Yes! I must get a sampler! I must make sounds like this! No more farting with my arms! I’m a grownup now!”
I could have had a lot of fun with the SK-10 right about then, but it was collecting dust in a house full of people I never wanted to see again. So much for an emotional, armpit fart-free reunion.
The Roland V-Synth looked like an attractive option for a while. Then I discovered I already had a synthesizer with sampling capabilities — a Korg Triton LE. For a fraction of the cost of a V-Synth I could get an EXB-SMPL sampling board, slip it into the guts of the Triton, and go nuts.
I can’t remember if the sampling board came with instructions. If it did, they weren’t very helpful. Johnny Smith helped me wedge the thing inside of the Triton, but we had no idea what we were doing. We couldn’t get it to work. One of the high A# keys stopped functioning not long after that, and I’ve always wondered if it had anything to do with my little sampling misadventure.
A few days ago we opened the Triton up for the first time in close to fifteen years. I thought it was about time I got some use out of the EXB-SMPL. Thanks to a helpful YouTube tutorial, it wasn’t going to be so difficult to set up this time.
What we found was…well, this:
What you see there is an empty space where the sampling card is supposed to be. We must have taken it out when it didn’t work and chucked it back in the box. I guess that high A# stopped working all on its own.
Maybe I was never meant to sample anything with this synth. The way it worked out, I found other solutions.
In early 2014, a few months before work began on YEAR OF THE SLEEPWALK, I bought a circuit-bent Casio SK-1 off of eBay. An unbent Yamaha VSS-30 followed a little while later. For the last five years, I’ve been having a blast sampling all kinds of things. As great as the SK-1 is — and most of the time I’m not even engaging the bends — it’s the VSS-30 that’s become an indispensable sonic weapon. From here on out, I can’t imagine making an album that doesn’t feature it in a pretty integral role.
There’s one specific sound that’s always appealed to me. It’s what happens when a human voice gets chopped up and bent out of shape. You hear a lot of this in different strains of electronica-driven modern pop music.
A few examples:
That’s right. I just posted a song featuring Justin Bieber, and not in an ironic way. Be afraid. The high-pitched distorted synthesizer-sounding thing you hear during the instrumental choruses is the Biebernator’s voice, believe it or not. That’s what sampling and mangling can do.
Now, if I had access to something like this, I would be in heaven:
Disembodied voices, all primed and ready to be manipulated? Sign me up.
Alas, I don’t use a computer to record, so software like this isn’t an option for me. If I want to get sounds that live in that world, I have to create them myself.
(I know I said I was done sharing excerpts from the SLEEPWALK documentary thing. I lied. Jesus, look at all that grey hair.)
I’m loving the Zoom H1 for voice-capturing purposes when I’m recording video and my face needs to be on the screen. It’s easy to put on a mini-stand and point in my general direction, allowing me to speak freely regardless of where the camera is. Whenever I was using one of the Flip cameras, I always had to try and get my face as close as possible to the camera if I wanted to get something resembling clean, present sound out of the built-in microphone. Now it’s not an issue. Even when I point the H1 at the monitors so the playback takes precedence over my voice, what I’m saying still comes through loud and clear.
Compare the above video to something like this and I think you’ll hear what I mean. You might notice a bit of a difference in the visual quality as well. Three cheers for the Canon T5i (and for opening the blinds to let in some natural light).
Sort of related, a little bit, maybe:
For years I had this itch in the back of my brain. I couldn’t stop myself from wondering what would happen if someone else produced/recorded my music. I was pretty sure I would try handing the reigns over to someone else someday, if only for a song or a quick EP, so I could satisfy that curiosity.
It’s not something I wonder about anymore.
For better or worse, I’ve developed a recording aesthetic that’s very specific to me and what I do. By now it’s as much a part of my music as my voice or the way I play piano. Strip that away, put someone else in charge of dialling in the sounds they believe are appropriate and keeping the performances they like best, and I don’t think the results would sound a whole lot like me anymore.
Very few of the sounds coming out of professional recording studios right now do anything to move or inspire me. That’s just my own personal taste. The few producers I would have an interest in working with are nowhere near Windsor, and they charge such a disgusting amount of money for their services, I’d maybe be able to afford five seconds of studio time with them. Even if I won the lottery, after all the time and work and money that’s gone into building my studio into what it is today, it would make no sense to pay someone else to bark orders at me and spend two hours getting a drum sound they’re only going to obliterate later on with samples they bought in a bundle from Waves Audio.
I want to make it clear that I’m not dumping on this way of working. I’m only saying it isn’t what I’m after as a producer. I think any way of working is valid if it gets you the results you’re after.
Earlier this year, Ryan Lewis (owner/operator of RadSouls Studio) came over to record some piano and vocal tracks. When he told me to do whatever I wanted with the basic tracks, I saw it as a unique opportunity to compare my work to another producer’s. Though the song wasn’t my own, this was the closest I was ever likely to get to hearing what someone else would do with my music. We both started with the same source material and took it in very different directions.
As dissimilar as our mixes are in terms of instrumentation and arrangement, what really stands out to me is the use of compression. In my mix the piano is allowed to breathe in a natural way and the snapping is treated as just another sound. In Ryan’s mix the snapping is emphasized, the piano is pumped up with a ton of compression, and everything is a lot louder.
I’m not sure I could come up with a much better demonstration of what I mean when I say my sensibilities are almost violently out-of-sync with what most other producers seem to want to achieve. It’s right there in black and white.
Here’s a bit of a breakdown of some of the elements I added to my take on the song, showcasing some of what the VSS-30 can do when you take the time to create your own samples.
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.
I wonder how often this happens to other songwriters. You write a song, you think it’s finished, you let it sit for a while, and then it doesn’t evolve so much as grow a vestigial head that pops off one day to reveal a fully-developed body of its own. It’s not a twin, but a sibling, sometimes so unlike its older brother or sister it’s hard to believe they’re related.
Over the space of seven or eight months in 2002, a song called “You Could Never Be” mutated from a rough, venomous band vehicle:
In both cases the words stay the same (a few ad-libs notwithstanding) while the music goes through some serious changes. The final version of “You Could Never Be” is almost unrecognizable from the first unrehearsed stab I took at it with Gord and Tyson the night of an unused recording session for the album STELLAR. Some months after the band broke up I dropped those lyrics on top of new music (played in standard tuning, no less) and found they worked better than they had any right to. What felt before like an attitude in search of a song now felt complete.
With “Skinny Ditch” the structure is the same in both versions — at least until the words run out and both instrumental end sections develop minds of their own — but the change in instrumentation alters the mood in a pretty profound way. On WHO YOU ARE NOW IS NOT WHAT YOU WERE BEFORE it’s practically a synth-pop song, even in the absence of anything resembling a conventional verse/chorus structure. On the NOSTALGIA-TRIGGERING MECHANISM EP it becomes a dreamy guitar-based piece that’s much more open-ended.
I’ve always felt the singing was better and more committed in the first version, but the “redux” take on the song has an atmosphere all its own. It also offers one last chance to hear the more frenetic kind of drumming I would slip into when I used more microphones on the kit, before simplifying things with the stereo ribbon mic forced me to change my approach in order to get the sounds I wanted.
More examples abound. “Hiraeth” existed for twelve or thirteen years as a simple acoustic guitar duet before it grew some unexpected psychedelic appendages when it was recorded for STEW. “Psychotic Romantic”, one of the highlights of the Mr. Sinister album, was written as caustic piano rock — a universe away from the blackhearted ballad it became. “In My Time of Weakness” was written as a pretty straight waltz and sounded nothing like the spacious album-ending track it became until a last-minute impulse forced me to rethink the whole thing.
Here’s a much more recent example.
It began as one of the many things written for YEAR OF THE SLEEPWALK. I was messing around with synthesized rhythms on the Alesis Micron when I found a groove I liked. I recorded it while manipulating it in real-time and tried out a few different melodic things to layer on top before hitting on a moody little organ lick. I wrote lyrics for it, which led to a title (“The Evil Angel on Your Shoulder”), and I meant to flesh out the recording…only to turn around and decide it was too slight to be album material, so there was no point in doing anything more with it.
Long after that song was forgotten, I reminded Gord of an old riff we messed around with once:
This was recorded in November of 2002 at the house on Chilver. My guitar is in the right stereo channel. Gord’s is in the left. There wasn’t even the shell of a song there, but I thought the interlocking guitar bit at the beginning had some serious potential. Once Gord faded from view I toyed with the idea of recording it as a solo piece for THE ANGLE OF BEST DISTANCE. My friend Maya has the word “bee” in her email address. I must have had that and one of Luke Chueh’s evil rabbit drawings in my head at the same time, because the only words I could come up with were, “Maya is a demon bee / Maya is a demon bunny,” sung to the melody of my guitar part.
Fourteen years later, with Gord back in the picture, the fragment developed into something that sounded like a finished song in a matter of minutes. Maybe it was eager to prove it could amount to something after all those years in the wilderness. The most meaningful addition ended up being the simplest chord progression you could imagine — C, G, F — but it was clear they were the right chords.
When the structure was more or less hashed out, we recorded it with Gord playing the Futuramic archtop he favoured on STEW and me playing the same Simon & Patrick I used on the original demo. I went with the same setup I used on the last PG album for the songs where we both wanted to play acoustic guitar at the same time — the Pearlman TM-250 on Gord, the Pearlman TM-LE on me — and then we double-tracked it for a four-guitar spread with some nice bleed to glue everything together.
Right away I thought of the lyrics I wrote for the abandoned synth-based song called “The Evil Angel on Your Shoulder”. They were a perfect fit for the first section of music. After that I had no more words to sing, and there was a lot of music left that wasn’t meant to be instrumental. I wrote an additional rambling verse without bothering to figure out how many measures I had to work with, overshooting the mark quite a bit. In one of those “you can’t make this up” moments of hilarity, it became a much better set of lyrics once I had to chop out a few lines in order to get everything to fit.
I thought it would make for an interesting contrast if I let my voice stand on its own for the first bit and then switched to the well-worn triple-tracked vocal sound for the body of the song. I added bass on my own, along with drums and more acoustic guitar. That could have been enough. The gut said it wasn’t there yet. It still needed to marinate.
I came back to it with a fresh sense of purpose once I knew this Papa Ghostface album was going to be a solo mission the rest of the way, getting down clean electric guitar, lap steel, a new drum track, some more vocal harmonies, and a mangled piano sample care of the Yamaha VSS-30. I mixed it, but something felt off.
About a week ago I tried re-recording the drums for just the first part of the song. Instead of hitting the snare on the second and fourth beats, I chopped the tempo in half and came down on the snare every third beat. A change that simple, and everything opened up. It was ridiculous. I went from treating it as an out-take to being certain it was going on WHAT WE LOST IN THE FLOOD (the name of the Papa Ghostface album that’s inching closer to the finish line by the day).
Over the weekend I revisited the unfinished first version. There was less there than I remembered — only the beat and a bit of organ so I wouldn’t forget the melody. I recorded a proper organ part and some synth sub bass. Tried adding colour with a lot of different synth sounds but couldn’t come up with anything I liked. Wednesday I finished it off, adding vocals, electric guitar, and another mangled piano sample care of the Yamaha VSS-30. It’s pretty close to the stripped-down bluesy electro-funk I heard in my head before I abandoned it, if a little less synth-heavy than it would have been if I finished it in 2014 like I should have. Still probably not album material, but a fun misfit.
Aside from sharing some lyrics and a rhythmic vocal delivery imposed by those lyrics, they have almost nothing else in common. The first version has no real structure to it. The bass line that’s introduced at the beginning never changes. It’s more of an exercise in creating movement or the illusion of it through the addition and subtraction of sounds.
(The synth bass probably won’t register unless you’re listening on a full-range system or some good headphones. All the other important stuff should come through.)
The second version sprints in the other direction. It’s all about movement. Even the instrumental bit that acts as a link between the two main sections of the song isn’t the same when it returns near the end to serve as a backdrop for the final few lines.
The VSS-30 piano samples also serve two different purposes. The first time around the idea is to throw things off-balance a little and introduce a sense of unease. In the final version of the song it’s more of an ambient textural thing, at least until it becomes the unexpected star of the show during the instrumental coda.
That little keyboard has become a great friend. Now when a song feels like it’s missing something and I can’t put my finger on what it is, I’ll try sampling something random — wind chimes, Wurlitzer, my voice, a soup pot, a pop can tab — and experiment with how and where I can incorporate it. It doesn’t always work, but when it does it can lead to an absorbing arrangement of organic and manipulated sounds with varying levels of fidelity.
It’s amazing to me how much character a touch of lo-fi weirdness can bring to an otherwise well-recorded song. But the VSS-30 isn’t a one-trick pony by any means. I’ve used it to generate entire soundscapes all on its own, and some of the sounds it’s capable of creating have a real old-school analog synth vibe to them. With all the onboard effects and the ability to oversample, it’s a much more powerful tool than you’d ever expect a glorified toy keyboard to be. There’s going to be a whole lot of it on both FLOOD and YEAR OF THE SLEEPWALK.
Remember this guitar? It just got a slight facelift.
It’s been more than a year since Gord dumped it on me in a near-unplayable state like a pet he didn’t want anymore. He’s never asked for it back, though if he knew I put some work into bringing it back to life I imagine he’d be glad to take it off my hands.
That’s not happening. I consider it my guitar now. If nothing else, I look at it as partial compensation for all the times I had to pay for album-related things without any help from him.
After cleaning it up and making it as comfortable to play as possible, there was one thing still bugging me. It was that pickguard. It looked tacky, and even a generous helping of Gorilla Tape wouldn’t get it to stay put. It kept sticking its goofy face out no matter how many times I pushed it back into place.
Johnny Smith suggested scrubbing off the ugly residue the old pickguard’s glue left behind with sandpaper and putting a new ‘guard on. I asked a luthier about making me a custom pickguard. He quoted me a price of $200.
$200 for a strip of material that’s worth about as much as a bag of chips and ten minutes of work to cut and glue it. I don’t think so.
I found a nice sheet of tortoiseshell online for less than a tenth of that price. It was a glorified sticker, but to the eyes and fingers it would look and feel the same as any other pickguard. When even the coarsest sandpaper was having trouble with the stubborn glue residue and starting to take some of the finish off, we decided to go ahead with cutting the tortoiseshell adhesive to shape. Easier to cover up the mess if it was that reluctant to leave.
First we traced the shape of the tacky old pickguard onto a thin piece of cardboard that came with a calendar. I don’t know why I was hanging onto it, but it sure came in handy here. After cutting it, we used the cardboard stand-in as a guide for how to cut the new pickguard. The full sheet was a little bit too small for this Hummingbird-style design, so the very top doesn’t quite touch the side of the fretboard the way it’s supposed to. You only notice if you take a close look, and it doesn’t bother me. It gives a guitar that was already imperfect more character.
This isn’t the best picture. It was tough finding good light at this time of night. But I think you’ll agree this funky axe is a lot prettier now. The old pickguard looked like something someone designed while they were high on Windex. It didn’t fit. This one makes a lot more aesthetic sense, playing off of the sunburst finish in a nice way. And it sits flat! Oh joy of joys!
Unrelated but worth a mention — the other day there was a nice little capsule review over on the Ride the Tempo blog for Jess’s song “This Body” (off of QUIET BEASTS). The guy who wrote it has written flattering words about almost every single thing I’ve recorded and produced for other artists over the last few years, and yet he seems determined to ignore my own music until the end of time.
I once sent him a Facebook message thanking him (he complimented my lap steel playing on “Howler”, after all) and offering to send him some CDs in the mail. It wasn’t about trying to drum up any attention for myself or hoping he might write something about me. My only agenda was thinking he might have some interest in hearing the solo work of the person who recorded all those albums he seemed to be a fan of. It was an attempt at expressing gratitude through sharing some music he otherwise never would have known existed. I asked for his address and included links to a handful of songs so he’d have something to listen to in the meantime.
He sent a terse reply saying he’d listen and write a proper response soon. That was in May of 2016. I think it’s safe to say “soon” is never going to come.
I’m not miffed about this. I think it’s a fun little running joke. I expect him to write something about Ron’s album when it hits Bandcamp while continuing to disregard me as a musical force in my own right. Gotta keep the streak going.
Ten years ago, when I was in the middle of working on the album that would become AN ABSENCE OF SWAY, I was paying for some CDs and used records at Dr. Disc when Liam handed me this little orange thing that looked like a dictaphone.
“Have you ever used one of these before?” he asked me.
“No,” I said. “I don’t even know what it is.”
“Take it,” he said. “Maybe you can have some fun with it.”
I figured it was something an electronics-savvy friend made for him and assumed the letters “FM” on the front were a reference to frequency modulation synthesis. A volume knob doubled as an on/off switch. A button toggled through a dozen or so weird little lo-fi loops. I used it on the song “Roof Rats”, holding the internal speaker up to a microphone, messing with the mixer’s recording speed to bend the sounds even more out of shape.
Then I noticed there was a headphone jack I could have used as an output for cleaner sound. D’oh.
I more or less forgot I had this strange little orange noise-generator until I was working on a really psychedelic-sounding song for the soon-to-be-finished Papa Ghostface album. I thought one of its drones might make a perfect little five-second ambient intro. I used it on one more song after that (more of an immersive semi-electronic thing), and then I thought to flip it over for the first time in ten years and look at its bottom.
All the information I wanted was right there the whole time, if only I would have known where to look for it.
This little orange thing has a proper name after all. It’s called the FM3 Buddha Machine. It was created by the Beijing-based musical duo Christiaan Virant and Zhang Jian. Special editions have been made in collaboration with Throbbing Gristle and Phillip Glass.
I sent an email to Christiaan and Zhang through their website to ask about sample clearance. The two songs I used the Buddha Machine on incorporate its loops as short-lived ambient touches. We’re pretty far away from a “Bitter Sweet Symphony” situation here. Even so, I wanted to make sure I did right by them. I sent links to MP3s for both songs so they could hear which loops I made use of and how I used them, and asked if there was a clearance fee.
It’s been at least a good month now and I’ve yet to hear back. I’m starting to get the feeling I’m never going to get a response. With a limited amount of time left in this house (long story), there’s no way I’m holding off on releasing an album that’s weeks away from being CD-ready until I hear back from a few guys who probably have much more pressing things to attend to.
Here’s what I’m thinking. This album is going to sell zero copies, because it isn’t going to be for sale anywhere. So I won’t be making any money off of it. There will only be forty or fifty copies made, tops, and those are all going to friends. There’s only one radio station on the planet that might give the music some airplay, and that’s CJAM. The Buddha Machine loops I’ve dropped into two of the songs have been used in a transformative way. I didn’t use them as building blocks to write the songs around the way some producers do. I stitched them into original music of my own. And I’ll make sure to credit the Buddha Machine, its creators, and the specific loops used in the CD booklet.
I think I’m in the clear here. I tried to do the right thing the right way, and it’s not as if I’m sampling something uncredited and trying to pass it off as my own work.
One thing I have to say: hearing pristine recordings of the Buddha Machine over here is almost freakish. I didn’t realize just how gritty-sounding my FM3 had become. It’s been living off of the same two AA batteries since 2008. In that time, the pitch has dropped at least half a step and some distortion has crept into the sound. I kind of like it that way.
Ric was over here tuning the piano on Valentine’s Day. My Yamaha U1 has the Piano Life Saver System installed, pulling double duty as an internal humidifier and dehumidifier. It’s helped a lot during those times when the air has been less than kind to instruments that crave moisture. Even so, Ric said it might not be a bad idea to pick up a hygrometer and a room humidifier, to guard against the damage the cold months can do and keep the piano happy.
Enter this little guy:
And his co-conspirator:
The humidity in the studio is now hovering between 30 and 40% all the time. Not quite ideal, but a marked improvement over the horrifying 16% the hygrometer was reading before the new humidifier started doing its thing. It should help pick up some of the slack so the Life Saver System doesn’t have to work so hard.
It’s funny what a difference it can make when you’ve got something to counteract the way your furnace sucks all the moisture out of a room. Breathing the air in there even feels better now.
I thought I’d take the opportunity to perform a little humidity treatment on a 1939 Kalamazoo mandola. I have a habit of leaving this instrument out of its case for long stretches of time (not smart, I know), and when winter shows up it lets me know it isn’t happy. It’s about as upset with me right now as it’s ever been.
The other day I shoved a Dampit inside of each F-hole and stuck the mandola on top of the Ace Tone combo organ, as close as I could get it to the humidifier without putting it somewhere I might forget about it and knock it over. Already we’re down from four or five dead frets to just one that’s a little bit buzzy. Talk about a fast turnaround. If I promise to make sure the mandola gets the moisture it needs from now on, maybe it’ll find it in its headstock to forgive me.
The dying gasp of that residual coughing crap is still hanging on, but my voice seems to be fine. Time to get back down to business and regain some of the momentum I had going at the end of 2017 before stupid germs stole it from me. To paraphrase the great Dolph Lundgren: “If I cough, I cough.”
I wanted to post a song to make up for the relative scarcity of blog updates so far this year. Of course, instead of working on something new, my brain made a direct beeline for the past. I had to go along for the ride. You really don’t have a choice in a situation like that, unless you want to experience spontaneous psychic decapitation.
If you were around during the infancy of this blog, you might remember a little sketch I posted in July of 2009. Here it is again. Blast from the past!
(Washed-out image care of the Flip camera’s protective adhesive plastic lens cover, which I didn’t realize you were supposed to remove until a day or two later.)
It took a while for the sketch to turn into a finished song. The music was easy. That came right away. The words were the tricky part. I got a verse or two right off the bat, and then nothing for a few months, until the rest of the words decided to show up one day without any fanfare.
Over the back half of 2009, Mark Plancke (owner and operator of Sharktank Productions, a long-running Windsor recording studio) reached out to just about every music-making life form in the city and invited them to be a part of a compilation he was putting together called From the Tank. I was one of those life forms.
The idea behind the compilation was this: he would record as many artists and bands operating in as many different genres as possible. The end result would be a convenient musical business card he could use to advertise his services. In return, the musicians involved would get to record a song in a professional studio environment.
Sounded interesting in theory. I’ve written before about how some part of me will always wonder what would happen if, as an experiment, I tried recording in someone else’s studio and let an outside producer have their way with my music. With the passage of time that part of me has shrunk down to almost nothing, but I think some vague echo of it will always be there.
When I was mulling it over, the first and only song that came to mind was this one. It was a very clear, immediate thought: “If I decide to go through with it, this is the song I want to record.”
I was curious to see how the other half lived — how people did things in a “proper” studio. And Mark had an impressive list of gear. But I had some good gear of my own. A lot of money and time and effort went into accumulating those tools and teaching myself how to use them. For someone who’s spent a lifetime working in untreated rooms, I’ve had a ridiculous amount of luck, never finding myself saddled with a space that’s posed any serious acoustic problems. I was happy with my room and the recordings I was making in it.
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to get involved or not. What knocked me off the fence was the discovery that the Tank, like most other local studios, didn’t have a real acoustic piano. Once I got my upright, there was no going back, and no amount of expensive processing was going to make a digital piano sound like the real deal.
I recorded the song myself in the summer of 2010 while working on MY HELLHOUND CROOKED HEART, knowing it was destined for THE ANGLE OF BEST DISTANCE if it ended up anywhere at all. The whole thing was built around a nice Larrivée acoustic guitar I was trying to make a point of playing more after neglecting it for a while. I spent one afternoon in June working on it and then left it unmixed for over a year.
In late 2011, after getting GIFT FOR A SPIDER out of my system, I gave it a fresh listen, added some combo organ and a bit of melodica, and mixed it. Around this time, someone told me they thought the snare drum didn’t come through in my mixes as much as it should. That got stuck in my head for a while, and I ended up making some mixes that were far too drum-heavy in an effort to make up for that supposed oversight.
Good sense prevailed before too long, and I decided the drums were right where I wanted them to be. But the original mix of this song is one that came out of that short-lived Jack up the Drums period of uncertainty. For more than six years I’ve been meaning to revisit it and give it a new mix. Today seemed like a good day to get it done.
I didn’t change much. All the HELLHOUND-period effects — the medium delay I was favouring on my vocal tracks at the time, the reverb on the organ, the ping-pong delay on the piano — were left intact. The drums got pulled down quite a bit, but not so much that they disappeared. They sit in the pocket better now, driving the music without getting too vocal about it. The electric guitar came up a titch, and I snipped out a few lip smacks and unwanted ambient noises I was too lazy to get rid of the first time. Other than that, I left it alone.
I like how the bridge section feels kind of aimless, with the singing sounding unsure of what melodic logic it wants to follow, and then everything kicks back in after the first of two false endings with a renewed sense of purpose. The piano and electric guitar are both first-take scratch tracks I meant to either re-record or get rid of. I improvised them without knowing what I was doing. All this time later, I like the way they provide a bit of colour without ever settling down into conventional or studied “parts”, and the way the piano drifts into jazzy dissonance now and then to keep things a little off-balance. So they get to stay, unedited.
The little lead melody during the instrumental break was supposed to be a guitar solo. For whatever reason, it seemed more compelling to me when I played it on the combo organ and then doubled it with melodica. Take that, intended guitar solo!
The piano line at the beginning might sound familiar if you’ve listened to a fair amount of my music. When I wasn’t sure if this song was album material, I took that little musical idea and repurposed it, sticking it in the middle of the instrumental bridge section in “No Better Than Before”, the opening track on MEDIUM-FI MUSIC. Most of the time I try to avoid recycling melodies and riffs with about as much force as I try to avoid being subjected to the musical halitosis of my old pal the Paddle Pop Lion, but every once in a great while you come across an idea that wants to get out and make some friends. To clip its wings would just be cruel.
The title can be read as either one fish shaking another, or sound frequencies causing the salmon to vibrate. If you want to get absurd, it can even be an action performed by a bass guitar with a mind and a will of its own. I still haven’t decided which reading I prefer, and none of them have anything to do with what the lyrics have to say.
You can look at it as a Choose Your Own Adventure sort of thing.
For some weird, logic-defying reason it’s one of my favourite ANGLE songs. It’s more of a lazy lope of a deep album cut than anything, showing up well past the halfway mark on the first disc of my failed attempt at sequencing and finishing the album back in 2012. I can’t explain what it is. There’s just something about the song I’ve always really liked.
Today I kind of wish I could say I went ahead and tried recording it at the Sharktank around the same time I was recording my own version at home. It would be fun to be able to compare two very different recordings of the same source material, interpreted by two producers with profoundly different philosophies and methodologies. I can only guess at how the recorded-by-someone-else version of this song would have sounded. The drums probably would have come out sounding a lot more “produced”, with more microphones on the kit. You’d have Wurlitzer in place of the piano part and Hammond organ in place of the Ace Tone. The melodica-and-organ solo would probably be the more conventional guitar solo it started out as in my head. The mics and their placement, effects, and mixing choices would all be very different.
It would have been interesting. But I’m not sure it would have really sounded or felt like me. So maybe it all worked out the way it was supposed to.
Speaking of the quadruple CD that almost was…
In 2012, THE ANGLE OF BEST DISTANCE had my undivided attention. I was convinced I would be able to shape that years-in-the-making mess into something that made sense as a self-contained album. I was so sure of myself, I went ahead and sequenced the first two discs of an intended four-disc set, paid to have inserts printed, copied a large batch of CDs, and gave everything a copyright date of 2012.
The plan was to put a different picture I’d taken on the cover of each individual CD. Then those pictures and others would form a collage that would serve as the “master cover”, and all the CDs would be housed in a fancy slipcase. All I had to do was finish the other two discs, get a huge lyric booklet printed, and work out how and where to get a slipcase made.
I thought it was a smart move. It turned out to be a serious tactical error. By dating the back of those first two CDs, I gave myself a limited amount of time to tie up all the loose ends. I took my best shot at it, recording a lot of new songs, mixing and remixing a lot of old ones, but I just couldn’t get it done in time. 2012 gave way to 2013, I started feeling overwhelmed by the whole thing, and before too long I’d kicked it to the side and given up on it — not for the first or last time.
I was at least able to repurpose the CD jewel cases for other albums. The hundreds of inserts I had printed became useless, along with the hundreds of CDs I spent hours copying and printing myself. I had to eat those expenses.
Lesson learned: don’t package your album before it’s finished.
I have no idea what the sequencing of ANGLE is going to look like when it’s finished, but I know it won’t even begin to resemble what I put together in 2012. Half the songs that made it onto those two discs back then might not even make the final cut. Whatever album it might have been had I managed to pull it together six years ago, I’m convinced it’ll be a much stronger piece of work when it finally sees the light of day in 2089.
In the early summer of 2008 I still had a Myspace page. Once in a while I used it as a place to post a song or two from whatever album I was working on at any given time. One day I was floating around to see what I could scrounge up when I came across a music page for this guy named Joshua Jesty.
I had no idea what to expect. Thought I’d hit the little play button just for fun. I listened to one of the songs on his playlist.
“I like this,” I thought. “This is catchy. The kind of catchy where you want to get it stuck in your head. This is good.”
I listened to another song, and then another. The more I listened, the more I liked what I was hearing. I checked out his website, which was rich with information about all the different music he’d made over the years. His writing was like his songs — smart, funny, and full of life.
I wrote him a long, rambling email telling him how much I dug his songs and sharing a few of mine. I also told him I was his long-lost twin brother who looked nothing like him, and though he’d never been told of my existence, I’d been watching him with pride from a distance for all these years. As you do.
I have a long history of being ignored by most of the artists I try to start a dialogue with, whether they’re local or a thousand miles away. In those pre-CHICKEN ANGEL WOMAN times it was about as one-sided as it ever got. I kept trying to connect with people, and nothing would come back. It felt like I was screaming into a void. So when Josh responded to my goofy email, I almost fell out of my chair and broke my collarbone.
We started firing emails back and forth. We sent CDs to each other in the mail. Nine years later, we’re still sending emails and sharing music. We’ve had a lot of laughs, shouted about our triumphs, wept hot, salty digital tears when life has knocked us on our asses, and though we’ve only met in person once, Josh has become one of my favourite people and one of my most trusted friends. In a way he’s like the wise big brother I didn’t have growing up.
The outlines of our respective musical lives are almost mirror images. We both made a lot of wild and silly music when we were younger, on our way to finding our voices as songwriters. We both fronted bands that sometimes made pretty aggressive music and tested our vocal cords with the kind of screaming we’d probably be a little afraid to attempt now. We both turned to recording on our own at home and playing all the instruments ourselves when those bands broke up, making some of the most ambitious music of our lives when no one was looking.
Even now, we’ve both started bringing other singers and musicians into our solo music to introduce new textures, and we’ll both take on the occasional gig producing someone else when we really like them and their music.
We also both enjoy making videos that incorporate hand puppets.
Josh once told me if we traced our family trees back far enough we’d probably discover we’re related somehow. I believe it.
We have different approaches when it comes to live performance (he’s toured and played a lot of different places; I tend to play live about as often as it rains shrieking badgers from the sky) and distribution (he’s embraced the online tools at his disposal, while I’m too stubborn and set in my ways to let go of my physical-albums-only philosophy). But even twins who look completely different and were born on different days, in different months and years, and on different sides of the Canada/US border are going to have different philosophies now and then.
One other thing we have in common: we’ve both made a whole lot of albums. Visit the Joshua Jesty Bandcamp page and you’ll find a bewildering selection of music that touches on many different sounds and emotional states. All of it is well worth exploring, but the best starting points for my money are 2009’s Girl and 2011’s Portugal— self-described “big” albums that take in everything from power pop, to folk, to ambient interludes, to acoustic guitar-driven salsa, all without ever losing the feeling of being self-contained artistic statements pulsing with deep personal meaning. Girl remains one of my favourite albums by anyone.
Both These Violent Young Lovers albums are great fun. All four of the “Like Rabbits” EPs are full of beautiful songs. And the stripped-to-the-bone Skeleton makes for a harrowing but rewarding listen.
What I’m saying here is you should listen to everything he’s done, pretty much. In an ideal world, the man would be a household name.
The two of us have been talking for years now about making some sort of long-distance collaborative album. Life and other musical commitments keep getting in the way, but I’m pretty confident it’ll happen one of these days. We’ve at least taken care of some of the preliminary world-building, working out the kind of album we want to make and how best to approach it.
If/when that album comes to fruition, if someone writes a review they’ll probably tell you there’s a sort of Lennon-McCartney dynamic at work, with Josh more of the thoughtful craftsman and me more of the anarchist. I’m not sure that’s true, though. We can both get pretty demented when the moon is right. For every “How We Float When We Shit” and “Mary Anne Says Grace” in my catalogue, there’s a “Freaky Sexy Clown Jam” and “Dirty Talk” in Josh’s. And while I think he tends to be more open-hearted in his songwriting and I tend to get pretty cynical in mine, we’re both serious fans of a good old-fashioned BSME (Big Sprawling Musical Explosion).
The first Joshua Jesty song to dig its fingernails into my ribs way back when was “From Invincible to Invisible”. The juxtaposition of sounds that might have been awkward in someone else’s hands — DI’d electric guitar set against a looped disco beat, weird underwater-sounding synth during the instrumental bridge, a lot of chord changes over an unchanging bass line — felt like the only arrangement that ever could have made sense, and there was something quietly devastating about the whole thing. It was like a naked admission of defeat made alone in the dark, with synthesized handclaps.
Late one night when I had a horrible sinus infection and Girl wasn’t finished yet and was calling itself Finally, Joshua Jesty is making a record with a short title, and the title of the record is “Girl”, I spent more time than most people would want to admit syncing up the music video with the rough mix of this song Josh posted on myspace, just so I could hear it in stereo on headphones while I watched. When I finally managed to time it just right, I forgot about being sick for a few minutes and lost myself in the music.
That music video proves you don’t need a big budget, a fancy setting, or a fifty thousand dollar camera to make something great. All you need is any kind of camera that shoots video, some open-minded friends, and your imagination. I keep holding out hope an HD version will sneak out into the world someday, with the mastered album version of the song on the audio track.
Though the final mix tightened things up and got a new vocal track, I’ve always been glad the soul of that rougher version I first fell in love with stuck around.
A few years back, when our projected Jesty Westy album came up again in conversation, Josh floated the idea of covering a few of each other’s songs. I reached for this one right away. In turn, he recorded a surprising, beautifully nuanced take on “Is You My Lover Still?” from IF I HAD A QUARTER.
I’ve wanted to return to my cover and give it a fresh mix for a while now. Today felt like a good day to give it a shot.
At the time I recorded this, I was going through a bit of a weird piano mic’ing period. I couldn’t seem to get things to sound right no matter what I did, when getting a good piano sound had never been a problem for me before.
Turned out the placement of the Neumann KM184s I use as piano mics was off in an almost microscopic way, just enough to throw things out of whack a little. You’ve got your sensitive microphones, and then you’ve got those guys.
It took me a while to figure out what I was doing wrong and set it right. At the same time, I was driving the mic preamp those mics were plugged into more than usual, hitting the transformers a little harder, again without realizing it.
Those two slight changes were responsible for a piano sound that was a little more bottom-heavy and compressed-sounding than usual.
The first thing I did today was strip away almost all of the effects. A few years ago I had a thing for using rhythmic delays all over the place. Here I had some pretty audible delay on most of the guitars and the drums, and it made things muddier than they needed to be. I got rid of the reverb on my voice too. Everything started to sound more intimate and better-defined.
The strangest thing was the piano. I was prepared to re-record it from scratch, but when I was working on making a new mix the existing piano track sounded better than I remembered. Maybe not quite as open as I might have wanted it, but more than good enough to do the job.
I wasn’t expecting that. Maybe the excessive delay was pranking my ears all this time.
The spastic-sounding piano-thing that kicks in during the instrumental bits is one of the first recorded appearances of my friend the Casio SK-1. I sampled myself playing a few notes at the piano, sped it up to an insane degree (before slowing it down at the very end), double-tracked it, and for some odd reason it felt appropriate. I wanted to respect the original spirit of the song, but I also wanted to put my own spin on it.
When I was finished I noticed some extra tracks that weren’t in use, so I gave them a listen. There were a few takes I tried behind the drums with sticks before deciding on brushes. I also messed around with the flute sound on the SK-1 over the bridge before hitting on the idea of the piano sample, and recorded some clean electric guitar through the whole song that was later replaced with the acoustic guitar that shadows the piano and a bit of backwards electric guitar that comes in later.
I have no memory of recording any of these things. And I don’t forget a whole lot of musical details. So it was a fun little surprise to stumble across these unused elements.
I think the sounds I chose to use in the end were the right ones. At the same time, I think it’s interesting to hear the different direction things might have gone. If I’d forsaken the acoustic guitar for electric and the brushes for sticks, everything would have felt a little dreamier.
No regrets. But man, I have to say I kind of like that different slant on it. Maybe I’ll make an alternate mix along those lines so they’ve got something to tack on as a bonus track when the after-we’re-gone reissue starts making the rounds.
I don’t know if this is still my favourite Joshua Jesty song. There are a lot of contenders vying for the top spot. But it’s probably still the one that speaks to me the loudest.
This is a Takeharu WTK-65H twelve-string acoustic guitar. It was built in Japan in 1977.
Gord found it at Value Village seventeen years ago. He left it at my house not long after getting it, for at least a day or two, so I could try it out. I remember putting it in an open tuning and strumming the chords to “The Ballad of El Goodo” and John Lennon’s version of “Be My Baby”, feeling the sound fill up the room. It wasn’t anything fancy as guitars go, but it had soul, and it showed up on a handful of Papa Ghostface and early Guys with Dicks songs.
If it came with a case, I don’t think Gord ever used it. He left the guitar leaning against a wall wherever he was living at any given time for anyone to play. Some drunk person would always pick it up and break a string.
It became a running joke: the twelve-string that never lived up to its name. Sometimes it was an eleven-string. Sometimes a ten-string.
For Gord’s nineteenth birthday I bought him a new set of strings, and for a moment the guitar was whole again. That lasted about a week before someone got drunk and careless and broke another string.
At some point in its life it either fell or was thrown into the Detroit river. I’m pretty sure it also caught some embers from a bonfire one night.
When Gord brought it over a few weeks ago for a long overdue visit, he left it here for me to borrow again. I think he just couldn’t get much use out of it anymore and thought maybe I’d be able to pull something out of its dust-covered guts because of the way I play. A thumb that’s spent years dancing across fretboards might be more forgiving than the other fingers.
The pickguard was hanging on through sheer force of will, the glue or adhesive solution having lost most of its hold a long time ago. It was so sucked-in it made the whole guitar look warped. The action was so high, about all you could do was play with a slide. Fretting a chord was almost impossible. When I tried, it felt like I was going to break my thumb off. The intonation up the neck was about the worst I’ve ever heard on a stringed instrument. Two strings and a bridge pin were missing. There were cobwebs inside the soundhole.
There’s neglecting a guitar, and then there’s this.
I brought it to Stephen Chapman, because he’s the guy I bring guitars to when they need work.
“Who gave you this guitar?” he asked.
“A friend,” I said.
“This is not a good friend. Give it back.”
You know it’s bad when someone who can find a way to fix a broken pair of studio headphones tells you a derelict guitar is a lost cause. He lowered the action as much as he could and said that was all he could do. “Don’t even try to tune it,” he told me. “You’ll just start snapping strings. Take it out back and shoot it.”
I’m nothing if not stubborn. Back at home I lowered the tuning so there’d be less stress on the neck and the messed-up bridge. I took it slow. None of the strings broke. It was pretty comfortable to play now, but one string was buzzing something awful. We raised the action back up just enough to get rid of the buzz. I found some extra bridge pins I had sitting around and replaced the one that was missing.
I have three almost-complete sets of strings for acoustic twelve-string guitars. They’re all incomplete because every time I’ve broken a string on my own twelve-string, it’s always one of the high E strings that goes. It never fails. And I never feel like restringing the whole thing.
Wouldn’t you know it — one of the missing strings on Mr. Takeharu was a high E. I had none of those left.
I improvised. I stole a high E from a spare set of strings for a six-string guitar. The gauge looked about right. It worked. Then I replaced the other missing string with one that was meant to live in that place. You wouldn’t think two strings would make much difference on a guitar that’s got twelve of them, but the change was striking and immediate. The sound went from just sort of being there to filling up the room again.
Johnny Smith peeled off the dying pickguard and tried to scrub away the ugly scar the glue on its underside left behind. It was slow going. We decided it made more sense to get a replacement pickguard and cover up the ugliness. But it turns out Hummingbird style pickguards are not a one-size-fits-all proposition. The new one I ordered was too small.
It was too bad. I liked the look of it.
I got rid of the cobwebs, rescued a blue pick with a skull on it that had been living inside the guitar for who knows how long, and we picked up some of this stuff.
That crazy tape gave the old pickguard a new lease on life.
Now it’s almost unrecognizable from the mess of a guitar it was when it landed here.
Somewhere along the line I realized I was in a tuning not far off from the one I used seventeen years ago when I first met this guitar. I started playing “The Ballad of El Goodo” again. It felt like making a full turn. Then I played some other things.
On a technical level, it’s still not a great guitar. I’m not sure it ever was, even forty years ago when it was brand new. But it’s got its soul back. All it needed was a little bit of affection and double-sided tape.
After an easy birth, a pretty happy childhood, and an interminable adolescence, the debut O-L West album has grown up and gone out into the world to fend for itself.
It’s called AFTERTHOUGHTS. It exists only as a physical album. You can’t buy it anywhere, because it isn’t for sale — though if you’re reading this, you probably knew that part already.
It’s the first thing I’ve ever been a part of where there are two distinct dominant voices throughout. Things are split pretty much down the middle between songs I sing lead on and songs Steven sings lead on. On some level, an album where we both share the writing and lead singing duties feels like a natural outgrowth of the work we were doing with Steven’s Tire Swing Co. songs. It was probably only a matter of time before we started writing together.
The thing is, you can never predict how — or even if — that’s going to work. You really don’t know until you sit down with someone and start bouncing ideas and creative energy around. Sometimes the energy is right. Sometimes it isn’t. I’ve had both experiences. With some people collaborating has been effortless, and with others it’s been about as easy as plucking out a polar bear’s ass hair with chopsticks.
With Steven, it’s as natural as breathing. We just click, in a way I’ve only ever clicked with a few people. It’s a joy making music with someone when that happens.
If you’re a friend and/or someone who contributed to the album, you probably already have a CD, or else one is on its way to you from one of us right now. If you’re not on my “mailing list”, or if we don’t know you but you’d like a copy, feel free to get in touch with me or Steven and we’ll do our best to get one to you.
Each Polaroid that makes up the collage on the album cover is related to one of the songs. Here’s what that’s all about, along with some of the stories behind the music — including most of the existing relevant demos, in case you want to compare some of those to the definitive versions and ruminate on what changed, what didn’t change, and which spontaneous late night arrangement ideas had staying power.
I suggest not listening to too many of these demos until after you’ve heard the full album. You don’t want to spoil too many surprises. But hey…I’m not here to tell you how to live your life.
Paint as You Like and Die Happy
Along with Trespassing, this was the true beginning of the O-L West. We jammed out the music one night in the fall of 2014 — Steven playing acoustic guitar, me on lap steel — and made a quick recording to preserve the idea.
Steven came back with some great lyrics the next time we met up. We got down his acoustic guitar and lead vocal, and then I added the bass and lap steel.
That felt like almost enough. But it needed a little more.
On a musical level, the song is all about drift, with long instrumental passages leading into and out of the verses and choruses — which aren’t really choruses, because the words are different each time. Any kind of extended solo or conventional drum part was going to chip away at the almost dream-like quality of the thing. What I needed to do was find the right accents.
One of my favourite things about working with Steven is the uniqueness of his voice, and getting to play off of it with my own voice. Here I threw in some high whispered background vocals on the chorus sections. Also added some piano to the second half of the song.
On a different kind of tune I’d float around and improvise a lot more. In this case, the simpler and sparser I kept my playing, the better it seemed to work. Sometimes just a few notes played on a piano can contribute an incredible amount of depth to a song. It’s a little nuts.
(Digital pianos need not apply.)
The little synth-sounding melody that runs through the second verse, never to recur, is the Casio SK-1 set on the flute sound with some subtle effects added. Even if it didn’t allow you to sample anything, the SK-1 would be worth the cost of doing business just for that flute patch. Though it sounds very little like a real flute, it’s got a great soul to it. It’s a sound that works in places you’d never expect it to.
Here’s the SK-1 on top of a small pile of things, staring at you all stiff-upper-lip-like, as photographed by Joey Acott.
The other synthy wash of sound that’s more of a background colour and doesn’t go away once it’s introduced isn’t a synth at all. It’s another lap steel track. I plugged the steel into the old Digitech guitar effects processor that’s been making a bit of a comeback lately, found an ambient-sounding patch I’ve always liked, and played around with harmonics and volume swells.
The problem with this patch is it can sometimes introduce some hiss when you’re feeding it a low-output instrument. It did that here. You probably wouldn’t notice unless you listened on good headphones or a nice hi-fi. Even so, as much as I like my rough edges, something like unintentional-but-audible hiss drives me batty. If I didn’t do something to cover it up, it was going to bug me for the rest of my life.
I recorded a soft brushed snare part to act as another little sonic accent, since nothing else seemed like a viable hiss-hiding solution, and hoped for the best.
These days I almost always record drums in one very specific way, with a stereo ribbon microphone set up in the middle of the room. It gets a slight boost from a tube EQ to counteract the high frequency roll-off inherent in most ribbon mics, a bit of compression, and that’s it. No close mics. No other ambient mics. I did throw in a distant room mic a few times on MY HELLHOUND CROOKED HEART so I could slap a gated reverb or some delay on it for a bit of additional texture, but that’s not the norm for me.
There are three reasons behind this:
(1) I’ve grown to like the natural, unhyped, “drums in a room being played by a person” sound this approach imparts a lot more than the “close-mic’d up the wazoo, sound-replaced, and smashed to hell with compression until it doesn’t sound anything like a real drum kit anymore” sound I hear coming out of most modern recording studios. If I want drums that don’t sound a whole lot like acoustic drums, I’ll use a synth or a drum machine. If I’m playing a drum set, I want it to sound like a drum set. That’s just my own personal taste.
(2) With only sixteen tracks on my mixer and more ambitious arrangement ideas than I used to have, every track counts now.
(3) I spent years messing around with different drum-mic’ing configurations. I don’t have the patience for that anymore, unless someone’s paying me to record them and they want something other than my typical homegrown drum sound.
By the time I started thinking about drums in the context of this song, I didn’t have two leftover tracks to work with anymore. I only had one. I sort of close-mic’d the snare with a Pearlman TM-LE since it was the only part of the kit I planned on playing anyway, and left it at that.
The sound lived in just the right frequency to mask the hiss. It even added a little bit of extra glue to the drift.
Don’t you find your drift needs some extra glue sometimes? No? Just me?
There’s one last thing to tell you about this song, and that’s the weird trembling sound that comes in for the last chorus. You’ll never guess what it is.
It’s a ukulele pitch pipe.
Late one night, I got the idea to try sampling that little thing with the SK-1. For some weird reason it worked really well. The way the sampled sound took the natural vibrato created by the way I blew into the pitch pipe and altered the speed of it based on what notes were being played, generating a sound much more complex than its humble origins would ever suggest, was a total happy accident.
I like how this song sounds like it’s going to stay a stripped-down thing for the first few minutes, and then out of nowhere it fans out into a much wider, deeper soundscape. I think we both knew it needed to be the opening track pretty early on. Sometimes you gotta kick things off with something quick and punchy. Sometimes it needs to be a more immersive track the listener can get lost in for a while.
As for the picture, that’s Steven sitting on my front steps holding the actual photograph he’s singing about in the first verse. Pretty nifty, eh?
This song is about a mysterious Russian shortwave radio station no one has been able to explain for three decades, with the second verse made up of snippets of cryptic dialogue listeners have picked up over the years. It’s probably the closest the album gets to “moody rock”, Afterthought No. 3 notwithstanding.
It didn’t start out sounding like that. The rough jam that planted the seed of the song was acoustic guitar-driven.
And I thought the non-demo version would keep it that way. Many of these songs were born while the two of us were playing acoustic guitars. It made sense to use that as a starting point and build from there. But after a while, I got to thinking it might be a nice bit of contrast to have one or two songs not lean on acoustic stringed things at all, and I started to wonder what this one would sound like electrified.
I grabbed the Kay Thin Twin and gave it a try. Natalie reminded me what a great friend that guitar was when she played it for a few songs on CAT & CORMORANTafter I’d been neglecting it for a while. The two interlocking main guitar parts were played on the Kay. The other guitar accents and the distorted not-quite-lead guitar that comes in for the instrumental end section were all played on a Telecaster. The little harmonica bits from the demo carried over, along with the hazy wordless vocal stuff near the end.
It took me a while to get the lead vocal right once I wasn’t singing it cross-legged on my bed into a tiny laptop microphone I couldn’t see. Too much force and the meditative mood would be broken. Not enough and it would sound like I was sleepwalking through the song.
I think I found the right balance in the end.
I wanted to wedge a small shortwave radio inside of a tree with a hole large enough to accommodate it and small enough to hold it in place, and then take a picture of that. It wasn’t to be. I couldn’t find the little shortwave feller I’ve got kicking around somewhere in the basement (or the garage, or Switzerland…who knows where that thing is), and I was going to have a tough time finding a tree sympathetic to my plight.
Took a picture of this big old tube-driven character with shortwave capabilities instead. It was the first picture I shot with TheImpossible Project’s temperamental black and white Polaroid film that didn’t come out overexposed to the point of being unusable. The framing is a little askew, and now I kind of wish I took another run at it, but it works well enough in the context of the collage. And in these troubled times, collage context is more important than ever, isn’t it?
This one is discussed in detail, complete with all the demos, over HERE. It’s a musical dialogue, with Natalie’s singing on the choruses-that-aren’t-really-choruses adding something special. The way the story unfolds, I think it almost feels more like a short film than a song.
By the time we were thinking about images to accompany the songs, the house that inspired Steven’s initial concept for this one wasn’t looking so abandoned and evocative anymore. I always had the Walker Power Building (aka “the Old Peabody Building”) in my head. Some of the imagery in the first verse came from thinking about that place.
A picture of the whole building felt too distant, in every sense of the word. Then I got closer and lucked into seeing the No Trespassing sign.
Maybe that’s a little on-the-nose. But when it’s right, it’s right.
I kind of hijacked this one, similar to what happened with Trespassing.
It started as a jam. Steven had the verse chords and a vocal melody, but there weren’t words yet. I heard him singing what sounded like “and I know” a couple times. It got stuck in my head and wouldn’t leave. The same night of the initial jam I added some more music, wrote a bunch of lyrics, and sent along a demo of the finished thing at about one in the morning.
There was no concept in my head when I was writing these words. They were just the words that came out in the moment. But it was fun to find a way to work some boxing-related imagery in there, and now I’m pretty sure the bridge section has to do with faculty-dulling substances and the recklessness of darker days.
There isn’t a single proper guitar solo in any of the other songs on the album. So it stands to reason that the one song to buck the trend would have not one, but two solos.
Getting down the solo at the end was pretty straightforward. The first one was a different story. I recorded a bunch of takes of a totally different, flashier solo without ever quite nailing it to my satisfaction. Then I threw it out and tried something simpler and more melodic. That worked a whole lot better.
The arrangement for this one vexed me a little. It was the last song left that needed some work before I could focus on final mixes. It got almost all the way there, but it was missing one last bit of sonic wallpaper. It needed something to give that long bridge section a bit of a different feeling.
I tried lots of things — backwards piano, additional electric guitar, lap steel, synth. Not one proverbial coat of paint I threw on felt like it was the right colour.
I sat down with Steven and we knocked our heads together to try and figure it out. I played him a rough wordless ambient vocal thing I tossed in as an idea when I was trying out anything I could think of. He liked it. He suggested building on it and then taking out the drums for almost the whole bridge section.
That did the trick.
The intro…now that was a bit of a surprise.
I thought a dreamy little ambient piece might act as a nice segue into the song proper, to shake things up a little. A few different ideas toppled out in one night, but the one thing that felt like it could work in the context of this song wasn’t so dreamy after all. It was this evolving loop I made using the Strymon El Capistan’s sound-on-sound function. I can’t remember if I ran the El Capistan into the Yamaha FX500 or if it was the other way around, but I know the FX500 was in the signal path adding a little extra ambience.
You can do some interesting things with the El Capistan’s tape emulation settings, forcing a loop to keep degrading until the source sound is unrecognizable. Every sound in this loop was made with a guitar, and it’s just one track, but there’s something weirdly menacing about it in a muted sort of way. I like how it smash cuts to the start of a song that’s a lot catchier than the intro sets the listener up to expect.
The clean electric guitar lines that run through the body of the song also got some help from that pedal. There it’s more of a background effect, adding a bit of shimmer that doesn’t call much attention to itself but would be missed if it was gone.
For a long time I wasn’t much of a guitar pedal guy. I’ve turned around on that over the last little while, building up a small group of pedals that might someday live on a board (if I ever get a power supply to run them all at once). The El Cap is a versatile beast that does pretty much everything I think I’d ever want a delay pedal to do, and I haven’t found a way to make it sound bad yet.
So, all else aside, this song is a bit of a showcase for a few of the tricks the El Capistan has up its sleeve.
The “gospel” vocal wailing in the background near the end before the final section really kicks into high gear was just me being silly, singing from behind the drums to kill time until I had to start hitting them again. I never dreamed it would end up in the final mix. But I grew to like it as a little bit of unexpected oddball character, and Steven was into it too, so it got to stay.
I had no idea what to do for a picture for this one. All I knew was, I wanted an image of something eaten by time. Wasn’t sure what the eaten thing should be. It wasn’t a bust of Jennifer Connelly’s face with a wounded nose, though I gave it an honest try.
One afternoon, hunting for things to photograph around the city, I snapped a picture of a heap of scrap metal. It came out a little overexposed and ancient-looking.
You could build a pretty convincing argument for this song being inspired by William Kotzwinkle’s Swimmer in the Secret Sea. It wouldn’t be true, but it would be an easy untruth to sell.
I haven’t read that book. I didn’t know it existed until after the song was written. I’m going to guess Steven hasn’t read it either.
What happened here was, we’d written all the songs we wanted to put on the album. We were kind of holding back from letting ourselves write any more, because there’s this thing that happens when the two of us sit down with a few guitars: we can’t seem to avoid coming up with song ideas. Even if we’re going out of our way not towrite, we’re probably going to end up writing something anyway. It can’t be helped.
This one wanted to come out. It didn’t care what we wanted. I set up a microphone or two in the room as really rough audio floodlights, not even trying to place them sensibly or get good sounds — just trying to capture enough of what was happening to make a useful documentation of what we were doing — and we played for a while.
I listened to it later that night and was struck by how well the improvised lyrics worked. I tweaked a few lines and added a few new ones to introduce a little more shape, but left the bulk of it alone, as you can hear. The end result is about a 70/30 split, with what Steven improvised making up the larger portion of what’s there.
Only when the song was finished did it hit me that it seemed to be telling the story of a couple struggling to hold themselves together in the aftermath of the unexplained death of their young child. None of that was in Steven’s head when he was winging it, or in mine when I was transcribing and tidying up what he winged. The song decided for itself what it was going to be about.
These are almost always the most interesting songs for me — the ones that tug you somewhere you’re not expecting to go and construct their own hearts out of materials you didn’t know they had access to.
There was a sleepy quality to Steven’s singing in the demo we both came to really like, and he was able to tap back into that without any trouble. For my part, instead of singing straight harmony I messed around with wordless backup vocals over the “chorus” sections, stacking one line on top of another until there was a blanket of four-part harmony.
This is the only song where I thought to grab video footage of the whole recording process so I could edit it into something like a music video later on. I meant to put an effort into documenting more of what we were doing, but it kept slipping my mind. What can you do?
The picture fell into my lap the same day I snapped the pic for Trespassing. Getting a shot of a little raincoat wasn’t happening, but there on the grass, feet away from the Walker Power Building, was a broken child’s umbrella. Less literal. More atmospheric. Even better.
We played this live once at Taloola as a three-piece O-L West/Teenage Geese hybrid. My wave of overdubbed four-part vocal harmonies over the long coda were impossible to reproduce, for the obvious reasons. Our workaround was layering live three-part harmonies one voice at a time. Steven started it, then I came in above him, and then Natalie came in on top of both of us.
Hearing a thing like that happen live and being a part of it made the hair on the back of my brain stand up.
Afterthought No. 3
(Shining a Light, Making a Scar)
As a rule, I don’t go into a solo album with all or even most of the songs that are going to end up on the album already written. Usually I’ve got a couple I think I might want to group together, or maybe just one idea I want to develop, and I start recording. Then I write more, record more, maybe pull a few things from the giant pile of songs that have been hanging around waiting to find a home, get rid of some things that don’t feel like they fit anymore once more pieces are in place, and figure out what the album wants to shape itself into along the way, making adjustments as needed, improvising, experimenting, seeing what happens.
Over the years a few people have labelled me a “reluctant editor” of my own work. I think the assumption goes something like this: I make long albums. Some of those albums have a lot of songs on them, and some of those songs are weird and/or very short. Therefore, I must never throw anything out, and I must have a pretty murky concept of the dividing line between what constitutes album material and what belongs in the out-takes bin. Otherwise, I would make compact ten-song albums like a normal person.
That couldn’t be more wrong.
The amount of written and recorded material that doesn’t make the cut on any given album sometimes outweighs what’s allowed to see the light of day. You don’t want to know how many things I’ve got slated for inclusion on the followup to the first volume of OUT-TAKES, MISFITS, AND OTHER THINGS. And you would either think I was lying or you’d want to punch me if I told you how many songs I’ve written just in the past two years or so for the still-in-progress “solo album with many guests” that’s calling itself YEAR OF THE SLEEPWALK.
I write a lot. I record a lot. I don’t release everything I write and record. Not even close.
A lot of time and thought goes into discovering what each album wants to be and what makes emotional and sonic sense taking up space on it. Album sequencing alone involves a great deal of consideration. I never put anything out there just for the sake of putting it out there, and I don’t believe in “filler” tracks. Even the most random-seeming segue has a purpose, and some of my favourite things end up on the proverbial cutting room floor. That’s just the way it goes.
The point is, I make long, unwieldy albums by design. And while I value imperfection and make a point of retaining and sometimes emphasizing it, it doesn’t mean I don’t put a lot of work into what I do. The absence of excessive gloss isn’t a manifestation of laziness, and it isn’t an accident. It’s a deliberate choice.
Perfection, especially when it’s achieved through artificial means, bores the shit out of me. I’m more interested in getting at something that’s got some character, that has something emotionally interesting crawling around in its guts. Give me that over technical precision without feeling any day.
Even when I have a pretty clear picture of where I think I’m going, I almost never end up with an album that’s much like the one I thought I was going to make when I started. That’s not because I need an outside producer to reign me in or focus me, though a stranger showed up here once to make that suggestion. It’s because I let the albums tell me what they want to be.
Going about it this way keeps the process fresh and engaging. I don’t think creative energy is something to be bent or bullied where you or someone else thinks it’s supposed to go. I think it’s best served by letting it find its own way, and letting yourself be surprised.
The day the music ceases to surprise me, there won’t be any point in making it anymore.
I say all of this because this album — even though it isn’t a solo mission — is pretty long. It’s also one of the more crafted things I’ve been involved in. Steven and I went on such a songwriting tear together, very early in the recording process we already had a group of about a dozen songs we knew we wanted to make up the framework of the album. And almost all of those songs are here. But new ideas kept falling out anyway. And in spite of our best efforts to hold them back, we liked a few of them far too much to keep a lid on them. So we let the most convincing of them squeak through while doing our best to keep the quality control pretty unforgiving.
We decided to call the songs that came a little later and didn’t want to be denied “afterthoughts”. Another Turn was an exception, and the one late addition to get a proper title.
We wanted the album cover to be a collage of pictures that commented on each of the songs in one way or another (that was Steven’s idea, and man, was it a good one). The more songs there were, the more difficult it was going to be to come up with an appropriate image for each of them and then create a collage that made some amount of visual sense. Elbowing a few songs into a different category did a neat job of getting rid of that potential stumbling block.
It was also a nice way to play off of the album title. We called it AFTERTHOUGHTS, in part because it began as a very casual thing, sort of an unassuming detour, before exploding into something that obliterated whatever our expectations were. TIME AWAY would have been a full-length album if this one didn’t strong-arm its way in there and demand our attention.
At the same time, a lot of the reasoning behind the name has nothing to do with the “tossed-off” connotation the word sometimes carries. This album is a lot of things, but tossed-off it ain’t — it took two years of intermittent work to finish. It has more to do with things that are thought of, said, or felt after a bit of distance has grown between you and whatever you’re commenting on or turning over in your head. There’s a lot of that going on in these songs.
The first afterthought we wrote and recorded didn’t make the cut. As with several other songs, we liked it but it didn’t belong here. It was that emotional thing. The other three were sequenced according to feel rather than strict chronology.
This is why you don’t see an “Afterthought No. 1” anywhere, and why the first one to appear is the third one we wrote.
This afterthought is one of the shorter, sharper, catchier things on the album. When it was just starting to hatch, it sounded like this.
It cracks me up to hear us talking about me hijacking it over the next few days, and Steven predicting it won’t even take that long for it to turn into a fleshed-out song. He was right. Later that night I recorded this.
On the demo all the singing is me, and I carried over that little seesawing guitar riff of Steven’s (which didn’t make it into the final recording). On the album it’s him singing lead for the first two verses with me backing him up. Then I take the wheel for the big chorus that not only never comes back but ends the song just as it’s picking up steam, letting the bottom drop right out.
I love doing that sort of thing.
I snapped into “let’s make a rock song” mode here and tried building everything around some pretty distorted electric guitar. It sounded a little too obvious. Letting acoustic guitar drive it instead and using the electric guitar to play off of that seemed to get everything breathing a little better. The drums were getting lost a little in the last section when more electric guitar came in, so I overdubbed an additional drum part with a single room mic to give it a little extra excitement.
This is one of the few places on the album where the “textural ambient guitar” thing I mess around with sometimes comes to the forefront. I try not to overuse it, but it’s something I really enjoy doing when a song is agreeable. I blame the great John Berry.
West Coast Blues
Another one that came out of a jam early on, though it was really Steven’s song from the get-go. The words he improvised when we recorded the rough demo were so good, he was able to keep most of them when he was putting the final lyric sheet together.
The above is another pretty lo-fi sketch, recorded with a few distant mics and the preamps saturated like crazy just to see what would happen.
Post-demo, we recorded some group backup vocals with Jim Meloche, all of us standing around a single microphone, and I added more harmonies on my own a little later. Jim’s voice brings something to the song that’s difficult to put into words. You don’t always hear him that well, because there’s no separation between our voices, but you feel him there. If you’ve only ever heard the great fire he forces from his lungs when he’s singing with Orphan Choir or Worry, you might be a little surprised by what he does here.
There’s an even bigger Jim-shaped surprise at the end of the album. But more about that when we get there.
When we all come in together, I always picture us huddled around a piano in a saloon, half-drunk, sad about something but smiling through the pain. I can’t explain it. There’s just something evocative there, and it wouldn’t exist without Jim.
Thought about adding drums and electric guitar and some other things. In the end, the feeling of the stripped-down demo felt too good to deviate from much. So this one stayed percussion-free, and I held back a little when it came time to play piano over the instrumental passages. It didn’t feel appropriate to go too crazy there. I did add a little bit of bluesy harmonica, though.
This is the one place where the acoustic guitar Steven’s playing isn’t my old Gibson LG-2. He brought in his Martin (the one mentioned over here — I’m going to guess it’s a D35), and it added all kinds of tasty glue, playing really well off of the sound of my own double-tracked 000-15.
For the picture, we wanted to capture someone sitting on some stairs looking forlorn. Finding a model wasn’t going so well. Steven asked his fair lady Danielle if she’d be willing to help us out, and she saved the day. It seems fitting somehow that hers — and not either one of ours — is the only face to appear on the cover.
You know what I always say: “If you’re only going to have one person’s face on your album cover and it isn’t going to be your own, make it the face of a beautiful woman.”
The Yuan Dynasty
I was feeling a little guilty about some of my hijacking tendencies and thought it was Steven’s turn to get in on some of that action. I sent him some sketches I had that kind of stalled before they could become finished songs and asked if he had any ideas for lyrics. This was one of those.
He came up with the story of a fleeting connection on a train, retaining my refrain from the demo (some of the only coherent words I threw in there), making for one of the more playful moments on an album that’s pretty dark stuff for the most part.
Not that I’d have it any other way. You know me. I like those shadows and dark corners.
True story: that’s Steven hitting the gongs at the beginning of the song.
In one of those “you can’t make this stuff up” moments, we found out he had a period-correct vase that played right into the whole Chinese history theme. Trouble was, it was impossible to get a picture that captured its personality and did it justice.
I took a picture of some train tracks instead. As with the image for Time Erodes, it came out looking like something very old that got dug out of an attic-dwelling shoebox.
Sometimes you get lucky with these things.
I wrote this thinking it would be fun to have a song where we both kept trading off on singing lead — something where our voices would give the “A” and “B” sections very different personalities. Did my best “poor man’s Matt Berninger” for the verses when I demoed it.
Then Steven did his best “rich man’s Steven” when we were recording it for real.
Before it had drums, he played some djembe. It was a nice touch, but once the drums were in there it wasn’t working anymore. Someday after we’re both gone someone will restore that lost djembe part for an “alternate mix” and they’ll make it a bonus track on an unauthorized reissue released in an effort to give their fledgling record label some added credibility, selling something that wasn’t made for money and was never meant to be sold, and Pitchfork will hail it as “the best obscure reissue we’ve heard since last week’s re-release of Wilford Brimley’s long-lost prog-metal/rap album from 1982”.
Just you wait and see.
I played a lot of harmonica on this album. I think it’s the most harmonica I’ve played on any album in my life. It was one of those things that happened without any real thought going into it. On this song it gets a little more impressionistic.
That I’ve reached a point where “impressionistic harmonica” is even a feasible thing I can do is kind of mind-boggling to me. I have no idea how that happened.
The thing that comes in during the last chorus-that-isn’t-a-chorus and sounds a little like a wheezing carousel organ is sampled recorder, courtesy of the Yamaha VSS-30. That thing and the SK-1 play very well together.
The stop-start drumming was really the only approach that made sense here. I tried a more conventional drum pattern first. All it did was lay there like a dead thing. Filling up the spaces between guitar strums with a more unpredictable rhythm gave the whole thing a much more interesting pulse.
Getting a picture for this one was tricky. The lyrics are more imagery than story. You would think that would help, but it was maddening trying to find an image to pluck from the song. Tried barred-up windows. Didn’t turn out. Tried to find a diagram of a hand’s inner workings in an old medical journal. Couldn’t find an old medical journal to save my life. Tried to get someone to eat an apple so I could snap a picture of them mid-chew (you know, to tie in with the whole “original sin”, apple-in-the-Garden-of-Eden thing). Couldn’t get anyone to show up and eat an apple.
Then I thought, “What if I stop trying to come up with an image that’s related to the lyrics? The song has a pretty prominent harmonica part. I’ve got this cool-looking big old harmonica. Maybe I should throw it on top of my battered snare drum, take a picture, and see how it turns out.”
It came out looking better than I thought it would. And that was the end of that.
Afterthought No. 4
(Waiting for Armageddon)
The most non-afterthought-like afterthought of them all.
There are more than a few places on this album where I’m singing words Steven wrote, or he’s singing words I wrote, or one of us is singing words we both wrote together. There are some things that are more or less solo pieces one of us wrote on our own, but for the most part who wrote what is all over the place.
This is the only song where we’re both singing lead and whoever’s taking the lead at any given time is singing their own words. It starts with Steven backing me up and ends with me backing him up, though our voices blend together to the point that it can be difficult to differentiate.
We each wrote lyrics without having any idea what the other was writing. There wasn’t even a basic concept discussed beforehand. When we got together to compare notes, it was surreal how well my two verses and Steven’s one long verse worked together. Each part completed the other.
You know you’re pretty in sync with someone when you can write pieces of a song separately and have them fuse in such an organic way no one would ever guess you didn’t write the whole thing together in the same room in one sitting.
This is a demo I made for the first chunk of the song before there were really any words at all from either one of us. I can’t help hearing, “It’s salami,” instead of, “It’s alarming.” Happens every time.
I tried a lot of different things when the words were there and it was serious recording time. I got the arrangement just about right, but again something was missing. What ended up pulling the whole thing together was some delay-drenched Omnichord.
The Omnichord is another one of those funky little tools that rewards you for sneaking it into places no sane person would think to put it. I love the uniqueness of its voice. Once you turn off the auto-chording function it starts to sound like some sort of ghostly synthesized harp.
This one crept up on us and became one of our favourite tracks on the album. It feels like a perfect fusion of our sensibilities, with elements of INAMORATA, TIME AWAY, and my post-GIFT FOR A SPIDER solo work all coagulating in the same pot. If a musical scientist stitched together a Tire Swing Co./Johnny West Frankenstein creature, this is what it would come out looking and grumbling like.
Dying to Be Born
The first dedicated O-L West writing session produced three song ideas and three demo recordings to go with them. The first was what became Paint as You Like and Die Happy. The second was a song we didn’t revisit. The third was this one.
I love the little accents and fiddly bits Steven improvised while I was playing the main fingerpicked part. I did my best to emulate them when I was recording all the guitar parts later on.
When I finally sat down and wrote some lyrics to go with the music, there was a clear idea behind them: aging in reverse, literally, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button-style. But you know what? In his own way, John Cassavetes brought the seed of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s short story to the screen long before David Fincher did.
There’s a movie called She’s so Lovely that came out about twenty years ago.It’s based on an unproduced script John wrote, given posthumous direction by his son Nick. You know Nick as the director of The Notebook and My Sister’s Keeper — sentimental Hollywood movies that are pretty much the embodiment of everything his father spent his life kicking against and offering a jarring antidote to in the fiercely uncompromising films he wrote, directed, and usually paid for out of his own pocket.
John tried to make She’s so Lovely when he knew he was dying. Back then it was called She’s Delovely. Sean Penn was supposed to star in it. But Sean wanted to draw up contracts and have all the details hammered out in advance with lawyers, and that wasn’t the way John worked.
There was another problem. Sean was married to Madonna. He wanted her to play the other lead role opposite him. That wasn’t happening on John’s watch. “I’ve worked with lots of non-professionals,” he said, “but I have to draw the line somewhere!”
The two had a falling out when Sean went off to act in Casualties of War without explanation after balking at John’s insistence that his friend Peter Bogdanovich serve as “backup director” in case his health broke down in the middle of filming. John put a solid year into trying to get the production going, but he passed away before he could get the script off the ground.
As it exists now, it isn’t really a John Cassavetes movie. It’s not even really a John Cassavetes script. Nick admitted to getting rid of whole chunks of the text that didn’t make sense to him and rewriting a lot of what he didn’t throw away because he felt it needed to be “simplified” for the actors. He pumped up the drama and filed down the heart, missing the whole point of his father’s work.
So the “written by John Cassavetes” credit is somewhat disingenuous.
John said he liked to make movies that didn’t “go”. The problem with She’s so Lovely is it goes too much. Jonathan Rosenbaum did a neat job of summing this up when he wrote in his contemporary review that the film offered “a fascinating glimpse at what Cassavetes was from the vantage point of what he wasn’t”.
If you know the man’s films, watching this one is a bit of a disorienting experience, even after you accept that of course it’s going to feel a little different because he’s not behind the camera this time. To offer just one quick illustration of how wrong it goes, there’s a scene where Eddie (Sean Penn’s character) talks on the phone with Maureen (Robin Wright’s character). She was his wife. They were in love. By the time they’re having this conversation, they haven’t spoken or seen each other in ten years.
As Nick directs it, the scene is loaded with feeling. But he doesn’t respect you enough as his audience to let you figure that out for yourself. He beats you over the head with it. There’s melancholy music swelling on the soundtrack while the characters are talking, all but screaming at you, “THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO FEEL. NOW FEEL IT, YOU MINDLESS IDIOT.”
I can’t stand that stuff. It’s the kind of simplistic cinematic shortcut John never settled for. Bo Harwood’s music is an important part of several of his movies, but it’s music that’s rough and human in all the right ways — not at all typical “movie music”. It’s an extension of the art, sometimes co-written by John himself. It’s never used to cheapen or simplify a scene, or to tell the audience what to feel. It doesn’t cheat.
Nick cheats. He embraces that shortcut, dry-humps it, and whispers something dirty in its ear for good measure.
Which is fine. That’s his thing. It works for him. It’s made him rich and successful. I enjoy Alpha Dog in an “unplug your brain and let yourself be entertained” kind of way. I can admit that without any shame. I think it’s good for what it is. Not everything has to be great, meaningful art all the time. And there’s a moment near the end that redeems the whole movie. Sharon Stone’s character is talking about the death of her son when her eyes, from behind an unnecessary and not-entirely-convincing fat suit, go to some dead place for a few seconds as she taps into a kind of horrifying primal grief — a pain beyond pain, where laughing and weeping are the same thing. It’s so real, it makes me flinch every time I see it.
But — Sharon’s unexpected grace notes aside — if that’s who you are as an auteur, save it for your own scripts or the ones you commission from other living writers. Don’t turn good writing into Swiss cheese and dumb it down so it can walk around in Hollywood without getting thrown in jail. And for God’s sake, don’t do it to a guy who risked everything every time he made a movie, who was always digging at some deeper truth, resisting easy answers. You don’t strong-arm his work into somehow being cute. You don’t do that to him after he’s dead and he can’t do a thing about it.
As much as the original vision has been gutted and diluted in She’s so Lovely, there’s still some of the father in there that the son can’t kill — enough to make it interesting and throw things off-balance sometimes. There are moments and bits of dialogue you can tell weren’t tampered with. A little bit of John’s soul is buried in that movie. You just have to squint pretty hard to see it.
There’s a small scene about halfway through that’s pure Daddy Cassavetes. Eddie’s been committed to a psychiatric hospital. This is the last time he’ll see Maureen for a decade, though he doesn’t know it. He’s in a straitjacket. And this is what he says to her.
There might be more going on emotionally in this minute-and-change than most films manage in their entire runtimes. And hey, Sean still got his leading lady of the time to be his leading lady in the movie. He was just in a relationship with a more capable actress by the late 1990s.
No disrespect to Madonna Louise Ciccone.
What could have been with John directing his original script (impossible dream cast: transplant it to the 1970s, before it was actually written, and have Cassavetes himself play Eddie, slide Peter Falk into the role John Travolta ended up playing, and substitute Gena Rowlands for Robin Wright)…well, that’s one of the great cinematic what-ifs.
But anyway. What was I saying? The lyrics. Right.
When I looked at them later on, it felt like they could also be read as a meditation on how aging in a linear fashion mirrors childhood. As my Bubi used to say, you’re a baby twice in your life — when you’re born, and then again when you die.
It works both ways. However you choose to interpret it, it’s not exactly the stuff of summer pop songs. But this is one of the side effects of a protracted, hopefully perpetual self-imposed exile from anything resembling a romantic relationship. It forces me to draw inspiration from other places and write about different things. I have to use my heart and my brain.
I don’t know what it is about this one, but it makes me think of a lullaby. Maybe it’s that delicate little guitar figure that drives the verses. It stayed a stripped-down acoustic thing for a long time, and then it got a little more layered and interesting all at once, with several interlocking guitar parts, lap steel, and some of my more effective harmonica-playing added to the mix.
I have no idea what pickup is in the Magnatone. It’s embedded in the guitar, hidden beneath the mother of toilet seat (MOTS) finish. It’s a magnet-based pickup — that much I know — and it’s a lot brighter than the Gibson P13 in the Silvertone. It’s not bright in a bad way, but I find myself rolling off a fair bit of tone to get it where I want it. That’s pretty unusual for me. I almost always play electric stringed things with the volume and tone wide open, altering my playing if I want a brighter or darker sound.
Those lap steels both have their own personalities. They’re both good friends to have.
We had a tough time getting a picture here. It felt all kinds of wrong asking someone if we could take a picture of their child, or a grandparent near the end of their life, or both, as powerful as the image might have been if it was done right.
I got the idea to have a makeup artist make the two of us up to look like old men and have someone take a Polaroid of us sitting on a park bench, creating the feeling of decades of shared history between us. I thought it might be a pretty unique experience to be able to see ourselves age half a lifetime or more in a day and then wash the makeup off and become ourselves again.
When that didn’t work out thanks to the flakiness of a few makeup artists, Steven suggested doing something with ashes. I took a few pictures of him blowing a handful of them on my front lawn with Danielle egging us on, not realizing until it was too late that I had the camera’s exposure set too bright for the amount of natural light we had to work with. None of those shots came out looking so hot.
I grabbed the best one and found it had a certain washed-out quality to it that worked. The sweater comes through with more clarity than the ashes. Maybe it’s supposed to be that way.
This is another one Steven hijacked. One afternoon he went on a tear, writing great lyrics for three or four half-formed musical ideas I sent him in one shot. Dude was a machine.
The lyrics he wrote for it caught me off guard. The last thing I was expecting was a meditation on Anne Frank and the difficulty of believing in a God who allows unspeakable things to happen to innocent people. It was a pretty far cry from my initial nonsensical improv. Sing it with me, friends: “Back then there was an opening for birds to shit and men to sing.”
I demoed the finished thing on acoustic guitar, because it’s hard to haul an upright piano up the stairs to your bedroom, and there’s something to be said for not always having to think about mic placement. It still surprises me how well that microscopic microphone built into my laptop acquits itself when I’m playing and singing into it at the same time on one live track (I never record vocals and guitar separately when I’m demoing things in GarageBand).
(For the record, the Steve referred to in the first verse is Stephen Hawking, and not our Steven with a v.)
Then it was back to the piano for the recording that would end up on the album.
I had an idea for a little string part. It was pretty disappointing when I tried it out with synth strings to get a feel for what it would sound like and it felt clunky.Matter of fact, each time I tried to dress the song up beyond the piano/bass/acoustic guitar bed tracks, everything felt clunky. It didn’t help that I couldn’t seem to get my singing right.
This album is home to some of the most restrained singing I’ve ever committed to digital tape. While I’m not that much of a belter these days as a rule, some of the hardest songs to sing are the ones where your range isn’t being tested, but you’re not pushing out a lot of air, and you’re trying to find a good middle ground between delicacy and strength. Especially when you’re singing about serious stuff like this. Wordless vocal weirdness wouldn’t cut it here.
What set me free was returning to the triple-tracked lead vocal approach that became a bit of a signature sound on CHICKEN ANGEL WOMAN but hasn’t seen a whole lot of action in recent years. After that, the arrangement fell into place. Keeping it simple turned out to be the best approach. Just some clean electric guitar, lap steel, and brushed drums — mostly floor tom and snare — on top of the bed that was there already.
Here I wanted a picture of a broken-down old bookshelf that looked like it had been through hell. Finding something scarred enough to fit the bill proved impossible. I got lucky with this old church (suggested by Johnny Smith), figuring it would play off of the whole “loss of faith” theme.
The picture came out overexposed in a way that makes it look a hundred years old. Just what the song wanted.
Afterthought No. 2 (Black Hole)
Within a day or two of getting my hands on that Yamaha VSS-30, I was showing Steven how you can sample your voice and manipulate it with the effects built into the keyboard to create a really cool, eerie sound. He surprised me and said, “We should do something with that.”
I sang into the VSS-30, did a little mangling, and improvised around the ghostly sampled vocal sounds. Steven grabbed my Telecaster (it was in a nonstandard tuning, plugged into the FX500) and did some improvising of his own. Then I added some distorted harmonica and we both gave a little mutual yell.
There’s no demo for this one. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, done and dusted before a demo could be made.
I experimented a little with adding other sounds later on. It felt like the more fleshed-out the music got, the more power it lost. There was something a little unsettling about it as a weightless thing. When the yell came in, it sounded like a desolate cry echoing through the ruins of a dying world. After the song had some bottom end and more bells and whistles, it just sounded like a yell.
We left it half-naked out of respect for that yell. It was the only sensible thing to do.
We started writing this one by throwing lines and ideas back and forth. Steven had most of the music already worked out. He hit on the image of an old Italian rug as a lead-in to a Bonnie and Clyde-type story, and we went from there. Later on I added some more lyrics to fill in a few blanks.
Getting into the crimes themselves felt like the easy way out. We attacked it from a different angle, giving more attention to the little details hiding in the margins of the story.
On a random note, “green side-gabled bungalow” is a phrase that rolls off the tongue a lot easier than you might think.
I handled the singing on the demo. You can hear there’s a verse missing that hadn’t been written yet (it showed up about ten minutes after the demo was recorded), along with a line or two that changed later on.
On the CD it’s Steven singing lead, with me backing him up. I think it’s got a good bit more gravitas in that form. Some of those low notes are tough for me to hit. Steven just sings ’em good and true every time. Plus, it’s cool to hear him inhabiting a darker character like this. He sang the words in a much more rhythmically unpredictable way than I did, which made adding harmonies a little tricky. But I enjoyed the challenge, and I think it makes the song that much more interesting. It feels less like you’re being sung to, and more like you’re being told a tale.
My idea of a working title was “And of Course in the End Hope Is Just Another Wrong Turn”. Steven came up with the much better, more concise Zebra Stripes. The song’s narrator/central character takes an honest shot at living the straight life, but he can’t escape who he is or who his partner wants him to be. That stuff won’t wash off.
The ghost of the main guitar figure that runs through The Yuan Dynasty returns here in the form of a very similar banjo part. Once I realized that was happening, I liked the little bit of unexpected continuity. In a way, you could look at this song as a follow-up to that one — one idea of what might have happened if the flirtation snowballed into a full-blown relationship once those two people stepped off the train and then everything went a little sideways.
The instrumental coda came about when it felt like there needed to be some sort of palate cleanser before the final track. It couldn’t just jump straight from those last banjo notes hanging in the air to the beginning of Pave over It All. Besides, it’s fun to keep things a little unpredictable. Every sound there is coming from the VSS-30. It’s all samples — electric guitar, harmonica, and piano.
The first time Natalie heard this song she said she thought the lyrics were Leonard Cohen-esque. Given the towering giant of song Leonard is, it was impossible to take that as anything other than a mighty compliment.
And then there’s the picture. There’s a line in here that goes, “Couldn’t say if they were tears of joy, or the runoff of ambivalence cooked by crooked power lines.” Sometimes you see exactly what you need to see when you’ve got your Polaroid pal in the back seat. That’s what happened when I noticed these power lines on one of those “driving around looking for inspiration” jaunts.
If I’ve taken one good Polaroid picture with my Spectra 2 and this sometimes-maddening black and white film, it’s this one.
Pave over It All
This must be one of the best songs I’ve ever had a hand in writing. It’s also one of the bleakest. As if the last few songs leading up to it weren’t dark enough!
Again it started as a jam. Steven had the first two chords and a vocal melody. I added the D major-to-A minor turnaround and the vocal melody that happens there. He wanted to incorporate the image of something being buried, and in the course of the jam I heard him sing something about someone taking a beating and something about someone’s crooked mouth.
I put all that in my head, let it stew a while, and later that night a song about separated-at-birth conjoined twins who hitchhike out of town after killing their abusive father came pouring out.
A little later we came up with the little musical tag that bookends the body of the song and I threw in a vocal harmony idea.
Then Steven got the great idea to have a rotating cast of singers — a different voice delivering each verse.
There are nine verses to the song. So we were looking at nine different singers. After accepting that the logistics of getting that many people to show up to sing on one song were a little insane, we downsized a bit. Decided two or three verses for everyone might work better. And I thought maybe we could all come in together for the last verse to bring things full circle as a group.
What we ended up with was a cast of four: me, Steven, Dave Dubois, and Jim Meloche, all of us taking turns telling the same tale.
Dave’s voice was made to sing a song like this. But the real revelation here is Jim. It’s a different Jim voice than you’re probably used to hearing, and he nails it. When he sings the bit about nothing coming out of Billy’s “dry, crooked mouth” and the strings paint a little counter-melody around him, that’s one of my favourite moments on the whole album.
Mixing this one was an interesting challenge, because all four of our voices live in slightly different ranges. It was tricky trying to get it sounding consistent, so no voice felt like it commanded more or less of the spotlight than any of the others. When Greg Maxwell told me it felt to him like the four of us were all the voice of the same character at different ages, I was pretty sure I had the balance right.
Almost makes me wish I’d invested a lot of money in a really good camera at some point. Almost. But I feel like the whole grainy, DIY, not-really-a-filmmaker thing works for me. Besides, the file sizes would kill me with a camera like Joey’s. I think a two or three-minute clip would come out to something close to a gigabyte.
There are more people playing and singing on this one song than on all the others combined. In addition to the singers-in-the-round thing, Kelly Hoppe contributes some of the best harmonica-playing you’ll ever hear in any genre. I know that sounds like hyperbole, but I’ve had the great fortune to have Kelly contribute sax and harp work to a number of different things over the last little while (most of which haven’t been released yet). I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say he’s one of the best living harmonica players.
What he does here is some of the best work I’ve ever heard him do. The amount of soulfulness and melodic invention he’s able to pack into a short amount of time is staggering. There’s a part where he “plays” the rain. Seriously. You have to hear it to believe it.
And Stu Kennedy becomes a whole one-man string quartet — and then, briefly, a sextet — playing both violin and viola, acting as a wordless Greek chorus, adding another emotional and dynamic layer to everything. I think he might have outdone himself too.
Those guys are two of the most talented people I’m lucky enough to call friends, and also two of the most genuine.
When all the elements were in place and I was able to dial up a rough mix of the finished thing for the first time, it hit me so hard I started to tear up a little. No music I’ve been a part of in my life has ever done that to me. And I’ve been making music for more than twenty years now, since before I even knew what armpit hair was.
For the picture, I was trying to get a good shot of a ditch out in the county. It was a losing game. Too much detail was getting lost. Right when I was about to give up I saw the No Exit sign.
Accidental existentialism for the win.
We were going to end the album with one more afterthought — the very first one we recorded — closing the book on a somewhat hopeful-sounding note. By the time this song was CD-ready, that wasn’t going to cut it anymore. You can’t follow something like this with a little sixty second burst of sunshine. You just can’t. It would cheapen the journey. The intensity of it needs to linger and be reckoned with.
So that’s the album, and those are the details, about as well as I can give them to you.
One quick technical note before you go (assuming you’ve made it this far and haven’t jumped ship or fallen asleep yet): this is the quietest mastering job I’ve done in at least ten years. More and more, the whole “everything must be louder than everything else” mentality seems a little pointless to me, and more than a little destructive. I’d rather get the stuff sounding as good as I can and leave it at that, instead of pushing the volume a little more only to look back in a few years and find myself wishing I’d used a lighter touch — which is exactly what’s happened with a few of the albums made during my short-lived “hey, I can make things competitively loud, so why not?” phase.
I need to kick off a little Quieter Is Better (2008 – 2011) remastering campaign someday soon for my own peace of mind. Been meaning to do that for a while now.
You can always turn up the volume on your computer/CD player/iPod if you’re listening to something that wasn’t mastered all that hot and you want it louder. With music that’s been hammered at the mastering stage to infuse it with built-in perceived loudness, no amount of turning it down is ever going to make it sound good again, and the more you turn it up, the harsher and more fatiguing it’s going to get, and the less your ears are going to like you.
Long story short, you’ll need to turn this one up a little. I think it’s worth the tradeoff. Dynamic range is our friend!
All in all, it always takes some time before I can pull back and look at an album with some amount of objectivity, but I think we did good. There’s a lot going on here, both lyrically (not a whole lot of rhyming, quite a bit of variation in subject matter) and texturally (I’m not sure I’ve ever put this much thought into the production of a thing). I think/hope it’s the kind of album that will reward careful listening.
On a visual level, the collage turned out better than I ever expected it to. The same is true of the layout of the lyric booklet, even if some of that comes down to luck, as it always does with me.
On a personal level, Steven is a great friend, and recording these songs with him — and getting to involve other great friends like Natalie, Jim, Dave, Stu, and Kelly — was a deeply rewarding experience.
I have no idea where the music will take us next (EDM, maybe?), but I’m looking forward to the ride.
The first time I heard an Omnichord in a song, I didn’t know it was an Omnichord I was hearing. Which is kind of silly, because the musician credits in the liner notes made it clear two different people were playing the Omnichord, and I’ve always been one of those people who pores over album liner notes, soaking up everything from them I can.
If you know this song, it’s probably because of the Romeo + Juliet movie that’s got Leo DiCaprio making out with Claire Danes (it also features “Talk Show Host”, one of the best Radiohead songs never to make it onto a proper album). The version in the movie is an alternate mix with a different bass line. The album mix rips it to shreds.
It’s always been my favourite Gavin Friday song. It’s got this cool slow-motion futuristic underwater dance club feeling to it, with a spacious mix that rewards careful listening on good headphones, and a vocal performance from Gavin that sounds a bit like Bono’s falsetto circa Achtung Baby bent out of shape and made much stranger.
It might be the single best recorded example of the Omnichord in any genre. It’s high in the mix and driving the whole song. But like I said, for years I had no idea that was what I was hearing. I just assumed it was some strange synthesizer.
The first time Omnichord awareness registered for me (anyone want to make Omnichord Awareness Week an actual thing?) was when I heard this song on Daniel Lanois’ debut solo album.
He makes a point of mentioning in the song-by-song blow-by-blow he provides in the CD booklet that there are only two sounds in this song other than his voice. One is a heavily processed electric guitar. The other is an Omnichord, and that’s what’s doing most of the heavy lifting.
Still, it took hearing his great atmospheric use of the instrument on the Sling Blade soundtrack years later, after not seeing that movie for ages, to get me to start thinking about buying an Omnichord for myself.
Suzuki still makes and sells them, but they call them QChords now. The Omnichord was analog. The QChord is digital, and while it offers a lot more in the way of preset sounds, it’s kind of cheap-sounding in my opinion. I’m not a big fan of the way it looks, either. They took a really cool, quirky instrument, and made it look and sound like a toy.
So I found an original System 2 Omnichord from the 1980s on eBay and bought that instead. And then it took me months before I recorded it for the first time. I kind of forgot I had it for a while.
It’s set up like a synthesized autoharp, but it doesn’t sound like an autoharp, or like anything else in the universe. I think Lanois likes to run his into a guitar amp for extra low end beef. One thing I’ve found: it likes a lot of delay and reverb. For one song, I ran it through a Strymon El Capistan and got all kinds of gooey goodness happening. Here I used my favourite ambient-sounding patch on the old Digitech guitar effects box. Turns out it was pretty much made for the Omnichord.
(There’s more to the song than this, but I gotta keep some things under wraps until the albums they’re going to live on are finished.)
It’s not a sound that’s going to be right for every song, or even most songs. But when it fits, it weaves an atmosphere nothing else can.
Long live the Omnichord, conjuror of ghostly sonic otherness.