12.31.2003
santa came late
When I looked into my crystal ball at the beginning of this year, never did I in my wildest dreams imagine that I'd be the owner of not one but TWO goddamn bass heads.
My usual tool of the trade is a Gallien-Kreuger 400 RB. You may have seen them before. They're grey boxes. They don't really have much on 'em. It's a bunch of grey knobs on a gray box and you plug your bass and your speaker cabinets in, and away you rock. They sound fine, other than the fact that when I push for louder volumes, I get all sorts of nasty distortion. I don't much like all that buzz and fuzz in my bass. I prefer a controlled, defined sound onstage. Now, I don't need to hear exactly every finger scrape and bad note I pluck (and there are many of those, let me tell you), but I'd like to feel what I'm playing without the sensation of being loosed from the musical binding that keeps me hooked to the rhythm and the melody of whatever song I'm playing.
Thanks to the magic of eBay , that's about to change. In the mail, brought into work by a huffing, puffing UPS man, came a massive Peavey MAX head. The ad written by the bidder said "800 watts". Imagine my surprise. And for $200, I couldn't beat the price. So I finagled my way, won the bid, and now own the musical equivalent of a Sherman Tank. It took two of us to open the tightly-wrapped package, and two of us to lift this metallic monstrosity on to my two cabinets. Deciding to use it was daunting; a shload of knobs and other twiddly things in front, a bunch of outputs and other doodads in the back. And all housed in a steel roadcase. I stared at this alien artifact, and with help from a friend, figured out how to use the contraption. Not that it was difficult to figure out. I was simply intimidated by this formidable-looking piece of big black machinery.
I'm pleased to say that upon plugging all the plugs and playing the appropriate notes (not too loud, of course. I don't know if my little speakers can handle the obnoxious amount of wattage the MAX throws down), it sounded pretty good. From what I'm able to gather, the sound of the 85-lb. MAX isn't "warm" or "punchy" or whatever terms bass nerds like me use. But it's going to do just fine, as long as it sounds like my bass and my fingers--thick and slightly sloppy, a sandwich of sound served well after midnight, baby.
An acquaintance of mine heard me play bass recently, and noted: "When I listen to you, I feel like I should be watching Sanford and Son." Once the MAX was set up and ready to go, I made up the clumsiest funk progression I could think of and just played it, my eyes wide open to take in the sight of my fingers strolling on the fretboard. And lemme tell ya, it felt damn good to be home, with the speakers just kickin' waves all over my body and the bass humming and resonating with every cheery pluck.
My usual tool of the trade is a Gallien-Kreuger 400 RB. You may have seen them before. They're grey boxes. They don't really have much on 'em. It's a bunch of grey knobs on a gray box and you plug your bass and your speaker cabinets in, and away you rock. They sound fine, other than the fact that when I push for louder volumes, I get all sorts of nasty distortion. I don't much like all that buzz and fuzz in my bass. I prefer a controlled, defined sound onstage. Now, I don't need to hear exactly every finger scrape and bad note I pluck (and there are many of those, let me tell you), but I'd like to feel what I'm playing without the sensation of being loosed from the musical binding that keeps me hooked to the rhythm and the melody of whatever song I'm playing.
Thanks to the magic of eBay , that's about to change. In the mail, brought into work by a huffing, puffing UPS man, came a massive Peavey MAX head. The ad written by the bidder said "800 watts". Imagine my surprise. And for $200, I couldn't beat the price. So I finagled my way, won the bid, and now own the musical equivalent of a Sherman Tank. It took two of us to open the tightly-wrapped package, and two of us to lift this metallic monstrosity on to my two cabinets. Deciding to use it was daunting; a shload of knobs and other twiddly things in front, a bunch of outputs and other doodads in the back. And all housed in a steel roadcase. I stared at this alien artifact, and with help from a friend, figured out how to use the contraption. Not that it was difficult to figure out. I was simply intimidated by this formidable-looking piece of big black machinery.
I'm pleased to say that upon plugging all the plugs and playing the appropriate notes (not too loud, of course. I don't know if my little speakers can handle the obnoxious amount of wattage the MAX throws down), it sounded pretty good. From what I'm able to gather, the sound of the 85-lb. MAX isn't "warm" or "punchy" or whatever terms bass nerds like me use. But it's going to do just fine, as long as it sounds like my bass and my fingers--thick and slightly sloppy, a sandwich of sound served well after midnight, baby.
An acquaintance of mine heard me play bass recently, and noted: "When I listen to you, I feel like I should be watching Sanford and Son." Once the MAX was set up and ready to go, I made up the clumsiest funk progression I could think of and just played it, my eyes wide open to take in the sight of my fingers strolling on the fretboard. And lemme tell ya, it felt damn good to be home, with the speakers just kickin' waves all over my body and the bass humming and resonating with every cheery pluck.
12.29.2003
Underachievers Fight, March--and Win!
This post-Christmas eve saw Coffinberry, yours truly and the Cobra Verde gang, and Detroit's beloved Dirtbombs rocking out in front of a healthy crowd of about 300 at the Beachland.
Coffinberry came out strong and laid their claim to one of the best bands in town. I've been up and down with these guys; I liked them with Stephe DK on the tubs, and then wasn't sure what they were going to be doing upon his sudden departure. A few unsteady gigs with a temporary drummer and as a four-piece, they returned as a four-piece unit, and damn, yeah, they were good. I told my friend Eric that if I had to really reach for a comparison, I'd have to say they reminded me of the Wedding Present--but only marginally. They've got a lot of gangly jangle in their tunes which are only loosened by wayward melodies and rhythms that trundle as opposed to rock and roll. Despite these elements they don't sound like someone's art music project; there's still enough of a pop element there to bring out the boogie in the Kids and other assorted random thrillseekers in the audience. And thanks to soundguy Tom, they sounded thunderous and tight. Hopefully they'll keep up the good work and commit these songs to tape...and hopefully they won't sit on the music too long!
After the taut jabs and feints of Coffinberry, we came out swingin' like an elder statesman of the boxing ring. Sure, we can pack a wallop--when we connect. And it's connection that wasn't happening the first few songs. We slammed the first two cuts too hard, didn't pace ourselves, but by the time we got around to the middle of the set, we found a nice chugging tempo which seems to be the happy medium that drummer Mark and I can find. That's when it all went awry: from all my silly jumping around, I actually broke my strap, the part where the stitches and screws connect one piece of vinyl to another snapped. My bass fell. I scrambled after a tune to find another strap in one of guitarist Tim's cases to no avail. A couple got married on stage--it's true. A lovely thing to be a part of had I been in the game.
Instead of hauling ass down to the basement to find another strap (which is on my lonely Epiphone bass that sits in the office), I grabbed a chair from the Ballroom's green room and proceeded to get the set going. It was actually rather nice sitting there, swaying, and singing into the mic. I could hear the drums and the bass as loud as day and clearly, too, since my ears were just about level with everything. Once the song was done, Tony of Coffinberry ran up with a strap and helped this poor brother out. I thought I could get back on track, but my mojo was definitely off. The new strap kept coming undone; I knocked my tuning pedal out, and in general just made a mess of myself and the show. What else to do? I just laughed it off. We had John's friend, Danielle the Belly Dancer, up on stage, so at least I had something else to focus on besides my own inepitude. Botched set or no, I had a good time with the guys, and from what I hear, people seemed to like the music and the whole comedic shebang. Like with so many of my ensembles, I'm terribly surprised that we're actually liked. I guess I'm used to the rigors of actually being a fully armed and operational war machine up there instead of a vehicle for others' pleasure. I do prefer option two: it's much easier on me, and much more fun for the crowd. Everyone wins!
Today, after a crap day at work (mostly exacerbated by my lack of food and three days' worth of no exercise), the New Lou Reeds got together for a practice wherein we nailed a short, aggressive set, and worked on two new cuts. I'm excited: three, four more songs, and we're all ready for a brand new record. And hell, we're having a pretty damn good time doing it.
Coffinberry came out strong and laid their claim to one of the best bands in town. I've been up and down with these guys; I liked them with Stephe DK on the tubs, and then wasn't sure what they were going to be doing upon his sudden departure. A few unsteady gigs with a temporary drummer and as a four-piece, they returned as a four-piece unit, and damn, yeah, they were good. I told my friend Eric that if I had to really reach for a comparison, I'd have to say they reminded me of the Wedding Present--but only marginally. They've got a lot of gangly jangle in their tunes which are only loosened by wayward melodies and rhythms that trundle as opposed to rock and roll. Despite these elements they don't sound like someone's art music project; there's still enough of a pop element there to bring out the boogie in the Kids and other assorted random thrillseekers in the audience. And thanks to soundguy Tom, they sounded thunderous and tight. Hopefully they'll keep up the good work and commit these songs to tape...and hopefully they won't sit on the music too long!
After the taut jabs and feints of Coffinberry, we came out swingin' like an elder statesman of the boxing ring. Sure, we can pack a wallop--when we connect. And it's connection that wasn't happening the first few songs. We slammed the first two cuts too hard, didn't pace ourselves, but by the time we got around to the middle of the set, we found a nice chugging tempo which seems to be the happy medium that drummer Mark and I can find. That's when it all went awry: from all my silly jumping around, I actually broke my strap, the part where the stitches and screws connect one piece of vinyl to another snapped. My bass fell. I scrambled after a tune to find another strap in one of guitarist Tim's cases to no avail. A couple got married on stage--it's true. A lovely thing to be a part of had I been in the game.
Instead of hauling ass down to the basement to find another strap (which is on my lonely Epiphone bass that sits in the office), I grabbed a chair from the Ballroom's green room and proceeded to get the set going. It was actually rather nice sitting there, swaying, and singing into the mic. I could hear the drums and the bass as loud as day and clearly, too, since my ears were just about level with everything. Once the song was done, Tony of Coffinberry ran up with a strap and helped this poor brother out. I thought I could get back on track, but my mojo was definitely off. The new strap kept coming undone; I knocked my tuning pedal out, and in general just made a mess of myself and the show. What else to do? I just laughed it off. We had John's friend, Danielle the Belly Dancer, up on stage, so at least I had something else to focus on besides my own inepitude. Botched set or no, I had a good time with the guys, and from what I hear, people seemed to like the music and the whole comedic shebang. Like with so many of my ensembles, I'm terribly surprised that we're actually liked. I guess I'm used to the rigors of actually being a fully armed and operational war machine up there instead of a vehicle for others' pleasure. I do prefer option two: it's much easier on me, and much more fun for the crowd. Everyone wins!
Today, after a crap day at work (mostly exacerbated by my lack of food and three days' worth of no exercise), the New Lou Reeds got together for a practice wherein we nailed a short, aggressive set, and worked on two new cuts. I'm excited: three, four more songs, and we're all ready for a brand new record. And hell, we're having a pretty damn good time doing it.
