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Thursday, June 26, 2003
Things were quiet and almost pleasant for a while, and then all hell broke loose again. So today, in the post-traumatic daze that seems more and more like the ordinary state of things, I am glad to report that I'm just plain blank.
The great news is that we've established genital confirmation regarding our forthcoming offspring: what we're dealing with is one penis, one vagina ("…memories are made of this…") So "Dean and Jerry" will not do as names, and we'll have none of that "Dina" or "Geri" nonsense. Back to the drawing board. The girl is mellow and relaxed… the boy is berserk.
I'm never resort to Ritalin, though... Percy Faith albums and a Similac/Ketamine cocktail oughtta settle the kid's hash.
One of each sex is about ideal, far as I can see. As this will certainly be our only foray into breeding …yup, we done fished our limit… a mixed pair provides a swell parental sampler.
Last night my pal and erstwhile violinist Meredith was kind enough to ask the old fool along to see Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds at Roseland. Nick Cave is one of the few living songwriters I consider GREAT. I mean it, too. Right up there. He's also one of the few performers I'm always eager to see; he's a compelling onstage character with a remarkable band. Meredith plays with a Bad Seed, Jim Sclavunos, in his band The Vanity Set, so she got me in to the show and backstage afterwards. The highlight for me was the older song "Sad Waters," which references "Green, Green Grass of Home" and builds steadily and unbearably like an out-of-control sobbing jag. It is a thing of awful beauty, and quite a surprise in a set of new stuff and reliable favorites.
During the show, several people I chatted with were complaining about the last Bad Seeds NYC show at the Beacon. Apparently it was too ballad-heavy for them. This reminded me of the Jonathan Richman shows I attended years back when Jonathan and the Modern Lovers played their irresistible, minimalist savant-rock over endless calls for "Pablo Picasso!" "She Cracked!" and other earlier numbers from his dark Velvet Underground phase. Seemed to me that "Hey There Little Insect" and "Egyptian Reggae" were as perfect in their own way as the other stuff, and far more original besides (meeting Jonathan was a riot… talk about the real deal… the guy is guileless). How audiences could scorn this sweet music baffled me, and I feel the same way about Cave's ballads.
They have a gracefulness and intensity I associate with old, old songs, without coming off as pastiches of antique forms. This goes for the wild-eyed showstoppers as well as the ballads ("Loom Of The Land" …oh my lord): a solid tangent off well-absorbed traditions as personal and obsessive as say, Monk's departures on Ellington and Willie Smith. And his sense of humor… the guy is a stone hoot, even though many people mistake him for a mere gloom-n-doomer. I just don't see why fan expectations should lead this middle-aged fella to carry on like he did in his youth. You play Romeo, you move on to Hamlet, and if you're real lucky and real good, someday you tackle Lear. Seems to me that audiences have a short window of cultural openness, then forever onward they want recreations of that. Ugh. As if I know what I'm talking about.
Afterwards, amid fellow schnorrers and well-wishers upstairs, I turned to find who else but Nick Cave standing next to me, and told him how stoked I was to hear "Sad Waters." It was great to shake the guy's hand; this ranked with meeting Leonard Bernstein and Brian Wilson as an encounter with someone whose music has meant a great deal to me for a very long time. While the other two were pretty much as I expected them to be - Wilson sweet and addled, Bernstein sort of warmly grandiose - I'd have figured Cave to be a snotty sort of cuss. While obviously exhausted from a typically intense performance and overwhelmed by the very hectic meet-and-greet, he was truly gentlemanly during our short exchange.
Cave gave me the kind of unexpectedly pleasant and open vibe I often sense from people with whom I "click" …some odd recognition behind the eyes. Nice surprise. I'm kind of sorry we couldn't have had a real conversation, and I'm certain Nick is similarly grieving his thwarted chance to "get to know" this tall, overstuffed sack of wet chalk that thrust out a humid paw, grinning and babbling about a number from 17 years ago. Somehow I know that - were we given half the chance - Cave and I would hit it off like beans and rice. We'd quickly agree to collaborate on operas and opuses of singular magnificence. Ours would be a friendship of legend… Van Gogh (Vincent) and Gaugin (Clyde)… Hemingway (Ernest) and Fitzgerald (Eddie). I would share with him the rare insights one may glean only from consistent, long-term rock-bottom failure, and he could, in turn, point out some of the finer pleasures of making lots of money and getting lots of respect. Say la Vee.
Speaking of which, I would recommend to Nick Cave that he cover Bobby Vee's "The Night Has A Thousand Eyes." Well, someone should… I would do it myself, but who'd give a shit?
Anyway, most enjoyable. Shame Blixa Bargeld is gone, though.
I missed the 1:26 train home by ONE FUCKING MINUTE and had to wait until 3:15 for the next one. This sucked. Then I got home and found myself locked out, with a bad headache and a mean thirst. Broke in eventually. By the way, train fare went up four bucks each way. Scumbags.
Anyway, Happy Birthday again, Mer. And thanks again.
On several recent nights, songs have come to me. Surprisingly full blown things, music and words. I lie there futzing around with them… imagining different chord changes, refining lyrics, mentally "arranging" them. Then there's a point when my mind says "get up and put this on tape" and that's the cue to drop the whole thing and start settling into sleep. It's really perverse, but a lot more fun than subjecting songs to the hands and ears and opinions of other people. We know what Jean Paul Sartre said THEY are.
So, enough of this. Time to go create tonight's smash hit will o' the wisp.
The great news is that we've established genital confirmation regarding our forthcoming offspring: what we're dealing with is one penis, one vagina ("…memories are made of this…") So "Dean and Jerry" will not do as names, and we'll have none of that "Dina" or "Geri" nonsense. Back to the drawing board. The girl is mellow and relaxed… the boy is berserk.
I'm never resort to Ritalin, though... Percy Faith albums and a Similac/Ketamine cocktail oughtta settle the kid's hash.
One of each sex is about ideal, far as I can see. As this will certainly be our only foray into breeding …yup, we done fished our limit… a mixed pair provides a swell parental sampler.
Last night my pal and erstwhile violinist Meredith was kind enough to ask the old fool along to see Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds at Roseland. Nick Cave is one of the few living songwriters I consider GREAT. I mean it, too. Right up there. He's also one of the few performers I'm always eager to see; he's a compelling onstage character with a remarkable band. Meredith plays with a Bad Seed, Jim Sclavunos, in his band The Vanity Set, so she got me in to the show and backstage afterwards. The highlight for me was the older song "Sad Waters," which references "Green, Green Grass of Home" and builds steadily and unbearably like an out-of-control sobbing jag. It is a thing of awful beauty, and quite a surprise in a set of new stuff and reliable favorites.
During the show, several people I chatted with were complaining about the last Bad Seeds NYC show at the Beacon. Apparently it was too ballad-heavy for them. This reminded me of the Jonathan Richman shows I attended years back when Jonathan and the Modern Lovers played their irresistible, minimalist savant-rock over endless calls for "Pablo Picasso!" "She Cracked!" and other earlier numbers from his dark Velvet Underground phase. Seemed to me that "Hey There Little Insect" and "Egyptian Reggae" were as perfect in their own way as the other stuff, and far more original besides (meeting Jonathan was a riot… talk about the real deal… the guy is guileless). How audiences could scorn this sweet music baffled me, and I feel the same way about Cave's ballads.
They have a gracefulness and intensity I associate with old, old songs, without coming off as pastiches of antique forms. This goes for the wild-eyed showstoppers as well as the ballads ("Loom Of The Land" …oh my lord): a solid tangent off well-absorbed traditions as personal and obsessive as say, Monk's departures on Ellington and Willie Smith. And his sense of humor… the guy is a stone hoot, even though many people mistake him for a mere gloom-n-doomer. I just don't see why fan expectations should lead this middle-aged fella to carry on like he did in his youth. You play Romeo, you move on to Hamlet, and if you're real lucky and real good, someday you tackle Lear. Seems to me that audiences have a short window of cultural openness, then forever onward they want recreations of that. Ugh. As if I know what I'm talking about.
Afterwards, amid fellow schnorrers and well-wishers upstairs, I turned to find who else but Nick Cave standing next to me, and told him how stoked I was to hear "Sad Waters." It was great to shake the guy's hand; this ranked with meeting Leonard Bernstein and Brian Wilson as an encounter with someone whose music has meant a great deal to me for a very long time. While the other two were pretty much as I expected them to be - Wilson sweet and addled, Bernstein sort of warmly grandiose - I'd have figured Cave to be a snotty sort of cuss. While obviously exhausted from a typically intense performance and overwhelmed by the very hectic meet-and-greet, he was truly gentlemanly during our short exchange.
Cave gave me the kind of unexpectedly pleasant and open vibe I often sense from people with whom I "click" …some odd recognition behind the eyes. Nice surprise. I'm kind of sorry we couldn't have had a real conversation, and I'm certain Nick is similarly grieving his thwarted chance to "get to know" this tall, overstuffed sack of wet chalk that thrust out a humid paw, grinning and babbling about a number from 17 years ago. Somehow I know that - were we given half the chance - Cave and I would hit it off like beans and rice. We'd quickly agree to collaborate on operas and opuses of singular magnificence. Ours would be a friendship of legend… Van Gogh (Vincent) and Gaugin (Clyde)… Hemingway (Ernest) and Fitzgerald (Eddie). I would share with him the rare insights one may glean only from consistent, long-term rock-bottom failure, and he could, in turn, point out some of the finer pleasures of making lots of money and getting lots of respect. Say la Vee.
Speaking of which, I would recommend to Nick Cave that he cover Bobby Vee's "The Night Has A Thousand Eyes." Well, someone should… I would do it myself, but who'd give a shit?
Anyway, most enjoyable. Shame Blixa Bargeld is gone, though.
I missed the 1:26 train home by ONE FUCKING MINUTE and had to wait until 3:15 for the next one. This sucked. Then I got home and found myself locked out, with a bad headache and a mean thirst. Broke in eventually. By the way, train fare went up four bucks each way. Scumbags.
Anyway, Happy Birthday again, Mer. And thanks again.
On several recent nights, songs have come to me. Surprisingly full blown things, music and words. I lie there futzing around with them… imagining different chord changes, refining lyrics, mentally "arranging" them. Then there's a point when my mind says "get up and put this on tape" and that's the cue to drop the whole thing and start settling into sleep. It's really perverse, but a lot more fun than subjecting songs to the hands and ears and opinions of other people. We know what Jean Paul Sartre said THEY are.
So, enough of this. Time to go create tonight's smash hit will o' the wisp.
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