Much as with our drive up, my wife and I are on the return leg of our Thanksgiving pilgrimage, and once again listening to random playback. In our attempt to evade the perils of traffic, we woke far earlier than reasonable for a Sunday morning and hopped in the Pot Roast wagon. This morning’s sleep-deprived playlist has included:
Nine Inch Nails, Avett Bros., Bruce Springsteen, TV on the Radio, Bon Jovi, Blur, The Talking Heads, The Pixies, Metric, Jonathan Coulton, Guns ‘n’ Roses, Soundgarden.
We still have 100 miles and 8gb of music left to go.
More listening has yielded Tenacious D and Cee-Lo. These seemed important inclusions.
Relating to Mark’s earlier post, Bob Dylan’s classic album Blood on the Tracks is also a $4.99 album deal of the day on AmazonMP3. You should already have this album, but if not you can pick it up now.
Writing music is like trying to remember the dream you had last night. It seemed so real for a fleeting moment, and you desperately claw at the memory as you tell it to others. Sometimes you get it right, and the story unfolds well. Sometimes, it’s close but not quite, missing something almost tangible. You get the gist, not the rest. And most of the time, it’s just gone, lost to the ether. But you enjoyed it while it was there.
Mixing music is like punching yourself in the face repeatedly. It’s like trying to win at yelling. It’s like playing the first Mega Man, and dying 147 times on the jump at the first level until you learn that painfully infuriating lesson that the controls are really precise, and this game is going to fucking own you. It’s like an exercise in Quantum Physics, where you ram your face into a brick wall a million times, expecting one time for the particles of the wall to separate and allow you to pass through like there was nothing there. After a while, sound, tone, timing, phrasing, everything loses all meaning. It’s a droning noise like tinnitus that rings in your ears.
In completely unrelated news, we’re mixing our new electronica album, You Have Died of Dysentery. It’s going great.
A last minute work trip has me heading out to Oakland. My hotel seems to be about 2 blocks away from the Occupy Movement’s common meeting ground. My office is about 3 blocks from the other side of the meeting ground. I have to walk betwixt the two before and after the work day.
This will be the second time I’ve traveled to Oakland and stayed in the middle of a protest (The first time was a union protest a couple years ago).
I’m thinking I need to travel less.
I’m honestly not worried about the protest itself. It’s the large gathering of people. Put a big enough population of people together in tight conditions, and someone’s going to be an asshole and do things like petty crime, etc. The whole of the protest seems well organized, but there are still those late night rabble-rousers that have ‘rioted’ and clashed with police violently. It is that crap I’m not looking forward to.
Maybe I’ll bring my ukuklele. No one attacks a guy with a ukulele, right?
Sweater Puppets - The Really Good Pot roast (And Friends)
This picture was taken back in July, at the start of a Really Good Pot Roast recording session. Rob and I joined forces with two friends of the band to ring in the weekend by having a scotch tasting. And by tasting I mean drinking an aggressive amount of scotch. We started off with thoughtful samplings, a tumbler with a splash of scotch, honestly trying to enjoy the different ages and flavors of scotch. Yeah, by the 4th bottle, we instituted some sort of self imposed penalty system wherein we were required to drink more scotch. I’m fuzzy on the logic of it, but the results were empty bottles and bold ideas.
A couple hours in, Rob and I played a few of the songs we’d just written. Mentioning the band name made someone wisely realize that we had no food to temper all the booze we were imbibing. The friends of the band set out to procure vittles, and left us with an edict: Record a new song to celebrate the evening before they get back.
So we did.
The music for this song was written and recorded in 20 minutes. Then we decided to add ‘vocals’. I put that in quotes because we opted for an idiots chorus of screaming some word. For reasons only scotch can provide, the four of us decided that word was ‘Titties’.
It took an hour to record the vocals. The hour ended with me having to use violent hand signals to indicate to the group their cues to scream.
The moral of the story: Scotch is a helluva thing.