2.10.2004
Wednesday, February 4
I’m looking at the last post (which I edited, re-edited, and uploaded instead of getting proper sleep last night), and I do declare that when I’m writing big chunks of text, my writing kung fu isn’t as ferocious and fluid as it usually is. To overwork and improperly use another metaphor, I’m a sprinter on the page. Can’t go for those long stretches where I cover more than three paragraphs at a time. Maybe that was my state of mind last night coming out on the page, though—dull, lethargic, tired. If anything, I certainly need to lay off the expository and get right to the good bits. After all, everyone knows how these rock shows work, right? I don’t want to explain all the moving, sitting, jabberjawing, and ponderous slow moments that go into a night’s work.
So where we? Ah. It’s now Wednesday, February 4, and I’m switching gears from Cobra Verde’s rock n’ roll to the pulsing wave of sound that is Vernacular. I’ve been through the various stages of friendship/acquaintanceship for several years with two-thirds of the band (Chris Kulcsar, from the Chargers Street Gang, and Lawrence Daniel Caswell, from Lives of the Saints), but it’s only through seeing this band make a stand in Cleveland’s musical underground that I’ve come to know, respect, and truly love their music. Even though we do have bands in town like Birth, who’ve built a sound out of electronics, free jazz, techno, and pure chopsmanship, we haven’t had anything at all like Vernacular in a while. They’ve taken the rawness of punk and returned that back to its original source—free jazz revolutionary mother***ers like Sonny Sharrock. And then, they shift forward like true iconoclasts, hands on the wheel but eyes shut tight, to a future place—think Pere Ubu, Sonic Youth, all those legendary art bastards of decades ago. And still Vernacular’s still holding onto that wheel, they’re headed straight into the future of me and you by just trying to be timeless. It’s free jazz, it’s noise, it’s punk, it’s pure sound crafted from cheap gear and the ability to just sometimes barely make a song happen. As you can tell, I’m just tossing accolades and adjectives like confetti. All of the above is true, and all of it is baloney. I know this: I was at the birth of their first (and only) full-length recording, and let me tell you, I did not know that a mixdown could be so inspiring.
I’d like to think that some of the respect I extend to the Vernacular boys goes both ways, which is why they asked me to sit in on a couple of songs for their 2nd anniversary gig. They asked my friend Brian Straw as well, which is when I knew that I needed to part of this. I’ll spare you another ‘graph here and just say that people WILL be hearing about Brian Straw someday; or maybe they NEED to hear Brian Straw right now. His electric folk music is as challenging as it is beautiful, but as those are also two tenets firmly upheld by Vernacular, a collaboration seemed inevitable and necessary. I’ve been a fan of Straw for years—hell, he was the subject of my first feature for the Free Times—so I was doubly excited.
Over the course of weeks prior to the 2nd Anniversary Party, ideas were thrown around for rehearsals. One was the magic number. I don’t know if that was by design, or scheduling, but there I was, working on the songs “Memphis (First Song)” and “Needle” (I’m sure I have that title wrong), and realizing that my ears hadn’t been tuned to an improv frequency for a long time. I was lost. Where was the backbeat? Where are the changes? Intellectually, I know that those signposts don’t exist in the music that Vernacular plays—or I should say, they exist in different quantities and qualities. Emotionally and instinctually, however, I had been made blind. Furthermore, Straw couldn’t make it that day. I wondered what was going to happen at the show, which at the time, was only four or five days away.
[click here for the rest.]
So where we? Ah. It’s now Wednesday, February 4, and I’m switching gears from Cobra Verde’s rock n’ roll to the pulsing wave of sound that is Vernacular. I’ve been through the various stages of friendship/acquaintanceship for several years with two-thirds of the band (Chris Kulcsar, from the Chargers Street Gang, and Lawrence Daniel Caswell, from Lives of the Saints), but it’s only through seeing this band make a stand in Cleveland’s musical underground that I’ve come to know, respect, and truly love their music. Even though we do have bands in town like Birth, who’ve built a sound out of electronics, free jazz, techno, and pure chopsmanship, we haven’t had anything at all like Vernacular in a while. They’ve taken the rawness of punk and returned that back to its original source—free jazz revolutionary mother***ers like Sonny Sharrock. And then, they shift forward like true iconoclasts, hands on the wheel but eyes shut tight, to a future place—think Pere Ubu, Sonic Youth, all those legendary art bastards of decades ago. And still Vernacular’s still holding onto that wheel, they’re headed straight into the future of me and you by just trying to be timeless. It’s free jazz, it’s noise, it’s punk, it’s pure sound crafted from cheap gear and the ability to just sometimes barely make a song happen. As you can tell, I’m just tossing accolades and adjectives like confetti. All of the above is true, and all of it is baloney. I know this: I was at the birth of their first (and only) full-length recording, and let me tell you, I did not know that a mixdown could be so inspiring.
I’d like to think that some of the respect I extend to the Vernacular boys goes both ways, which is why they asked me to sit in on a couple of songs for their 2nd anniversary gig. They asked my friend Brian Straw as well, which is when I knew that I needed to part of this. I’ll spare you another ‘graph here and just say that people WILL be hearing about Brian Straw someday; or maybe they NEED to hear Brian Straw right now. His electric folk music is as challenging as it is beautiful, but as those are also two tenets firmly upheld by Vernacular, a collaboration seemed inevitable and necessary. I’ve been a fan of Straw for years—hell, he was the subject of my first feature for the Free Times—so I was doubly excited.
Over the course of weeks prior to the 2nd Anniversary Party, ideas were thrown around for rehearsals. One was the magic number. I don’t know if that was by design, or scheduling, but there I was, working on the songs “Memphis (First Song)” and “Needle” (I’m sure I have that title wrong), and realizing that my ears hadn’t been tuned to an improv frequency for a long time. I was lost. Where was the backbeat? Where are the changes? Intellectually, I know that those signposts don’t exist in the music that Vernacular plays—or I should say, they exist in different quantities and qualities. Emotionally and instinctually, however, I had been made blind. Furthermore, Straw couldn’t make it that day. I wondered what was going to happen at the show, which at the time, was only four or five days away.
[click here for the rest.]
Tuesday, February 3.
Urge Overkill had a lot of stuff. Like so many of the higher-profile acts we play with, they've got a van, a trailer, roadies and other minions, in addition to a music store full of gear, and, oh--the actual musicians. Counted among that number were Mike Hodgkiss (who played guitar for the Gaza Strippers and even with Cobra Verde for two shows), and drum guy Nate (booking dude at the Double Door in CHI, drummer about town, and an otherwise nice fella I met through Mike last year when CV played South By Southwest). We may not be as high-profile as UO, but we do need our help lugging crap, too. Hence, the presence of Jason Conrad Schafer (who I've mentioned before on these pages), who played "roadie" for the night, mostly due to his desire to see the gig on little or no dough. On the other hand, this new Peavey bass head of mine (“MAX”, as it says on the back) is an aberration of nature, an unpackable freak, and just plain goddamn heavy. Therefore, extra hands were needed. Furthermore, J.'s funny and observant commentary on any situation make him a gas to be around. It's good to have company that can both induce laughter and help with the heavy-duty gear-lifting situation.
Jason and I couldn’t pass an opportunity to gab and ogle women, so down we went to the B-Side Lounge located downstairs. [Click here for more]
Jason and I couldn’t pass an opportunity to gab and ogle women, so down we went to the B-Side Lounge located downstairs. [Click here for more]
my week in rock, part one
(Editor’s Note: This was written on Sunday eve)
It used to be that I could sleep anywhere, at any given time. I've found that this doesn't apply to moving vehicles. It used to--I'd take the Lakeshore Limited from Cleveland to Poughkeepsie fairly frequently back in those college days and sack out for the long haul, which averaged about 10 hours if the weather kept its end of the bargain. Now, after a weekend of doing the rock with Cobra Verde, I konk in the van on late-night rides, only to get home 'round 9 to crash until....oh, 4 pm. I lay down in the van and passed out as John and Mark made the cold drive back from Indianapolis, and that wasn't sleep--perhaps stasis, or hiberation, or a state that only psychologists can ascribe to those suckers playing what I call the "rock game", travelling on lonesome roads in vans, swirling and drifting like bitter flakes of midwest snow.
Enough with the bad metaphor. Perhaps this bit of dialogue will set the stage for the past week and these subsequent posts. It all seemed like a grueling marathon, but like any great race, wasn’t without its sweet triumphs.
[scene: A Speedway gas station at some unthinkable hour, in some unknown part of Indiana. The Cobra Verde rental van--an appropriate shade of green--sits in front of the doors idling while John and Frank come out of the Speedway with snacks and coffee. They are shivering and look utterly unkempt.]
Frank: Man, that guy in there (thumbs to the cashier sitting in the gas station) has got a thankless job.
John: Oh, yeah.
Frank: (pause) Hell, he’s probably looking at us, thinking the same thing.
John: "Man, those guys sure have a thankless job. I get to sit here in the heat by myself all night and sell smokes. They gotta drive to Cleveland in a van in the cold."
Frank: Oh, yeah.
It used to be that I could sleep anywhere, at any given time. I've found that this doesn't apply to moving vehicles. It used to--I'd take the Lakeshore Limited from Cleveland to Poughkeepsie fairly frequently back in those college days and sack out for the long haul, which averaged about 10 hours if the weather kept its end of the bargain. Now, after a weekend of doing the rock with Cobra Verde, I konk in the van on late-night rides, only to get home 'round 9 to crash until....oh, 4 pm. I lay down in the van and passed out as John and Mark made the cold drive back from Indianapolis, and that wasn't sleep--perhaps stasis, or hiberation, or a state that only psychologists can ascribe to those suckers playing what I call the "rock game", travelling on lonesome roads in vans, swirling and drifting like bitter flakes of midwest snow.
Enough with the bad metaphor. Perhaps this bit of dialogue will set the stage for the past week and these subsequent posts. It all seemed like a grueling marathon, but like any great race, wasn’t without its sweet triumphs.
[scene: A Speedway gas station at some unthinkable hour, in some unknown part of Indiana. The Cobra Verde rental van--an appropriate shade of green--sits in front of the doors idling while John and Frank come out of the Speedway with snacks and coffee. They are shivering and look utterly unkempt.]
Frank: Man, that guy in there (thumbs to the cashier sitting in the gas station) has got a thankless job.
John: Oh, yeah.
Frank: (pause) Hell, he’s probably looking at us, thinking the same thing.
John: "Man, those guys sure have a thankless job. I get to sit here in the heat by myself all night and sell smokes. They gotta drive to Cleveland in a van in the cold."
Frank: Oh, yeah.
