The Shoe Dilemma (An Appendix)

Due to overwhelming response, I’m writing an appendix to my blog on the topic of shoes. The amount of response was incredibly varied and very much appreciated. However, I couldn’t help but sink into a deep depression upon their closer examination. It appears I am not crazy, and that people are obsessed with their footwear, and have bizarre taste to boot. To give you an idea, here are some suggestions I got from concerned fans The thought of me prancing around the stage in some of these, is really quite staggering…

Nike Dunks should solve the problem mate - Adam


Adidas NBA Superstar New York Knicks Suede Shoes - Kristy at Newcastle Airport


My dad is a fan of cowboy boots - Robby


Toms Shoes (neat cause) - Jenna


Crocs - Jay


Fluevogs - Natalie


Some kick-ass pumas - Megan


Reefs. Problem solved - Jessica


Timberlake. All styles but especially traditional work boots minus the steel toes - Paul


A pair of Diesel's and no one will think you're American - Bartek


Royal blue hi-top Converse with red insides... or green? – Kels


The nail in the coffin comes from Rachel Ratti of Wolverhampton. Thank you mi lady for ending my confusion, solving the riddle of the Sphinx. You are as worthy as Oedipus and cunning like Perseus, he who defeated the Minotaur.  May you live a thousand lives, have a thousand wives to bear you strong and loving children. Case closed.

The Shoe Dilemma

I’ve been taking stock of shoes lately. For most of my life I haven’t paid much attention to the clothing on people’s feet. That is I haven’t attributed them any extra importance. To me, a great hat is still just a hat. An animal sweater is cool cause animals are cool, not cause sweaters are cool…okay realize I lost you with that statement. Suffice to say clothing is not the most important thing in my world. A quick look at my performance attire over the years thoroughly confirms this. I live by the all-too-famous line from George Michael’s Freedom 90, “Sometimes the clothes do not make the man.”

But in London, it would seem that shoes make the man indeed. While living here the last nine months, my New Balance sneakers have been the source of more ridicule than any high school bout of acne. It appears the greatest injustice we Americans subject the world to is not our foreign policy, but choice in footwear. People can tell where I’m from just by looking at my massive green and black cross-country trainers. And when I say massive, this is no exaggeration. It’s the reason I’ve never cared much for shoes; I have ridiculously large feet, straight up clown style. ***Ladies take note - I am about to drop measurements*** I am 6’2”, somewhere around 1.88 Meters. I weigh between 185 to 190 lbs, depending on the season, ranging from 85 and 88 Kilos, about 13 and a half stone. In US sizes my feet are 13 EEEE. That’s size thirteen, quadruple width. That’s like extra, extra wide. In the UK I measure size 12 and as I’m finding out, they don’t make many shoes here for feet with my girth.

How does one wind up with such unusually fat feet? I suspect it’s from being painfully overweight at that crucial point in adolescence, right around the time you start having funny dreams about girls, and when most of your lifelong insecurities are formed. Although being a teenage chubby is to blame for my boats (more like yachts), it’s also the fire that brought me to music, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Dope songs for a pair of flippers is a fair trade any day.

Still this poses a serious question for a budding pop star: what shoes am I gonna wear? We all know how important fresh feet are to music. Elvis had Blue Suede Shoes. The Beatles wore the Beatle Boot. Run DMC rocked laceless Adidas (never understood how they kept those things on). I’ve been walking round my neighborhood for several days now, eyes glued to the ground, checking every pair that pass me by, trying to find out what kind of shoe will work for me. Here in London, people live and die by their shoes. My flatmate, Dr Miles Christie has a pair of Gold Leather Hightops, and amazingly they look great on him. In England, the Queen is Elizabeth, and the king is Kicks.

Do you have any thoughts on the matter? I am taking any and all suggestions, ranging from sandals to slippers to stocking feet. Feel free to email me at jvfanmail@gmail.com. Title your email, “The Shoe Dilemma.” All comers welcome.

Video Home System

I am sitting upright in a strange bed in London. Staying in strange beds has been the norm this past month and a half. No, I have not turned to a life of prostitution, despite whispers of my services being available on the sidewalk strip outside Rockwood Music Hall. May this blog put an end to the vicious rumor. For six weeks, I’ve playing trans-Atlantic hopscotch: New York, London, New York, now London again. While in New York I was sleeping in my sister’s bed, see youtube for proof. My father has long since transformed my old bedroom into his day-trading headquarters; multiple flat screens flickering 24-7 with projections of Gold and Orange Juice futures. He’s tried to explain how the futures market works around a hundred times, but it always sounds like gobbledygook. All I know is that it’s risky business. Maybe that’s why my Pop’s lair resembles an air-traffic control tower. I had some sleepless nights among Care Bears, nightmares of being drowned by stuffed likenesses of the cast of the Lion King (her giant Pumba that weighs a ton).

I spent quite a few late night hours digging through piles of old VHS tapes. Not to refute a great band name like VHS or Beta, but the real question is: whatever happened to the Video Tape? Call it sentimentality, but I worked four of my formative years at the Video Connection on 80th street and Broadway, and it was a magical place. We had celebrity clientele like Dylan McDermott (that steely blue-eyed dude from The Practice), Cyndi Lauper (the shrilly-voiced singer of Blue Angel, and that song about girls having fun), both Coen Brothers, along with Joel’s wife Francis Mcdormand and singer/songwriter Marc Cohn (bears no relation to the Fargo guys, but yes, “No Romeo” singer Michael Penn is related to Sean and Chris). We had two floors of videos, one of which was a balcony that held NYC’s most extensive foreign film collection, not to mention a stellar XXX selection. Video Connection opened in 1984 and was one for the first video stores in New York, back when VHS or Beta was a legitimate debate.

Most audiophiles will tell you that digital has nothing on analogue. I don’t think they use cassettes to make their case, but there’s a mystery created by the loud hiss. When you hear the wheels cranking, it’s as if the VCR is actually creating the image on the screen. Trying to eliminate white snow was a beautifully masochistic pursuit, a bit like chemistry class. You had to apply ‘special cleaning fluid’ to a ‘head cleaner.’ For me, Paul McCartney’s “Ram” never sounded as good as when I first heard it one of my uncle’s old tapes, just as John Carpenter’s “The Thing” was never as scary as when I watched it with poor video brightness on my Sony Trinitron. What exactly does that shape shifting creature look like? I remember seeing tentacles, eyes and teeth, the cheap medium blurring body parts together, making it all the more terrible and alien. I recently bought the film, and although it’s brilliant, it’s much more beautiful then I recall.

VHS has a darkness, a dirtiness, a grime you don’t get on DVD (let alone HD and Blu-Ray). Sometimes it makes things all the more real. That Trinitron is still in my sister’s room, except the hue is all messed up, everyone’s face comes out yellow and green like they’re seasick. Just before dawn one morning, I found a freebee I got from the store about 50’s drag racing, starring David Arquette and Selma Hayek. Apparently I taped over it with a terrible porno called “Catalina 69.” You don’t see me taping over my DVD copy Titanic. You could fit both Pee-Wee movies on there.

A Vacation?

My cravings for America have reached their climax. It's 11 am in Westbourne Park and I'm sitting, jet lagged, in an 50's style diner called Lucky Seven's, awaiting a fresh mug of coffee and a dish of eggs. This may seem commonplace to those of you in the 50 States, but in London it's a rare feat. I've searched high and wide for a morning eatery to replace the NYC Greek diner and this is the closest I've come. Diners are the staple of the touring life, a lifeline in times of need – being hung-over in Northampton with Ryan Montbleau comes to mind, after a night of shotgunning beers we found a middle-eastern breakfast spot complete with Turkish coffee: that stuff has a serious kick and I strongly recommend it to the caffeine inclined.

If you're wondering where I've been the past two months since my last blog (my longest break without communiqué, I am deeply sorry), why I'm jet-lagged, or what I'm eating this morning, I'll tell you - been laying-low, watching loads of movies (see Appendix A at the bottom of this entry). The past two weeks of which were spent back home showing the sites of The City to a certain British friend of mine. Back in toward the end of June, I hit a wall. Everyone occasionally hits a wall and at the speed I move, when I hit a wall it's a massive collision wreaking havoc on my emotional and physical state, not unlike those crash-test dummy commercials. Nothing was going my way. My phone broke, sending hundreds of blank texts at a time, my email wouldn't receive messages, I gained 15 pounds (that's over a stone for y'all the UK. Don't worry, got it under control. My weight-loss secret: No More Hobnobs). I kept trying to write music but nothing was coming out. The muse can be tricky, like a groundhog. Sometimes he doesn't wanna come out. So what did your faithful hero do? I took some time off. Since I started gigging for a living in 2001, I don't think I ever consciously took a vacation. A weekend here, bank holiday there, but for the most part, I was chugging along to the next place, be it the recording studio or Annapolis, Maryland. I know what you're thinking; the musician's way of life is a vacation, a nice long walk in the sun. I can't argue with that.

Sometimes you need a vacation from the vacation. And that's just what I did. Caught more than my fare share of flicks, grew a beard and generally chilled out. It wasn't graceful, lemme tell you. I was bitching and moaning the whole time and everyone around me was in misery, but weirdly enough that's how I wind down. I wasn't able to admit to myself it was time to take a break. Looking back, it's just what the doctor ordered. I strongly recommend it, along with Turkish Coffee, to some of my musician mates, a one Ryan Montbleau coming to mind yet again. Us busy-bodies, we gots to chill sometimes.

FYI, it's Huevos Rancheros with Poached Eggs and Chorizo, along with Coffee and a tall glass of OJ. Boo-yah!

APPENDIX A
Films I have watched since June 20, some for the 1st time, some for the 20th time.
Note: TV series of DVDs count

Wall-E
Hancock
The Mist
Wanted
The Forbidden Kingdom
Pulp Fiction
Jackie Brown
Kill Bill Vols 1& 2
Reservoir Dogs
The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly
A Fistful of Dollars
For A Few Dollars More
The Outlaw Josey Wales
Dirty Harry
Planet Of The Apes
Beneath The Planet Of The Apes
Escape From The Planet Of The Apes
Conquest Of The Planet Of The Apes
Battle For The Planet Of The Apes
Sweet Smell Of Success
Battle Royal
Battle Royal 2
Sympathy for Lady Vengeance
Time Bandits
The Night Of The Hunter
The Red Balloon
Badlands
Hellboy 2: The Golden Army
The Dark Knight
Who Framed Roger Rabbit?
John Carpenter's The Thing
The Goonies
Poltergeist
South Park's 10 Greatest, Vol. 1
Aeon Flux, The Complete Series
Knowing Me, Knowing You - The Alan Partridge Show, 6 episodes
Trapped In The Closet, Part 1-22

The year of The Planeteer

Lying supine on my ikea mattress in London, listening to the new Coldplay record while I type through the night. I am one of the masses. Apparently everyone on Planet Earth bought this album. This is much needed proof that I am indeed human and not an observer from another galaxy. This whole 'lonley at the top' vibe was making me wonder. Before clicking computer keys behind Chris Martin's charasmatic wail, I ran down the 10 tracks that will make up my record, The Planeteer. Outside of the sequencing session at Metropolis studios next Wednesday, the record is finished, finn-ee-to, kaput! It is strangely depressing to deliver my major label debut nearly a year to the day of my signing. Kinda of like climbing to the top of Everest, looking out and posing that famous Julian Casablancas query, 'Is this it?'. One year for 10 tracks hardly seems a fair equation, but trust me when I say I have made the perfect pop record. This is not a boast, simply a mathematical reality. In the words of Roger Greenawalt, my former mentor, sometimes collaborator, and good friend, greatness is the absence of all things sucking. I have spent hour upon hour, day upon day pouring over these songs, my children, showing no mercy or favoritism, killing any sign of weakness, destroying all doubt in my way. No, the record does not sound like the robot called Britney Spears! Enough big-upping myself, you guys be the judge. Here's the track listing:

1. Love Again For The First Time
2. Joni
3. Automatic
4. Little Demons
5. Lawfully Wedded Wife
6. End Of An Era
7. Jimmy Dean & Steve McQueen
8. Merry-Go-Round
9. Do It Alone
10. A Dream

Those of you clamoring for Been This Strange, All in All, You Wouldn't Wanna Be Me, and All Right For You (which has been renamed Family Tree), do not fear: all of these are going to be available on the iTunes release, and as B-Sides as well. But for the physical release, only the strong survive, and these are definitely the strongest. You will not be disappointed. I have spend every ounce of my energy, used all of my musical superpower to ensure this record takes it's place alongside Coldplay's Parachutes, Bob Dylan's Time Out Of Mind, Van Morrision's Astral Weeks, Stevie Wonder's Innervisions, Elton John's Tumbleweed Connection, Bjork's Homogenic, The Beatles' Abbey Road, David Bowie's Ziggy Stardust, XTC's Skylarking, Jeff Buckley's Grace, Miles Davis' Sketches of Spain, Charles Mingus' Mingus Ah Um, Steely Dan's Aja, Marvin Gaye's What's Going On, Tom Waits' Mule Variations, Laura Nyro's Eli and The Thirteenth Confession, Jellyfish's Bellybutton, Elliot Smith's Either/Or, Cocteau Twins' Heaven or Las Vegas, Matthew Sweet's Girlfriend, Radiohead's The Bends, Daft Punk's Discovery, or any of the other great records ever made. My job is done. I guess the rest is on my record label. The ball's in your court EMI. Take me home baby.

Me and Mister Brauer

Rubbing sleep-filled eyes, lying in my sister's bed at 7:30 in the morning in muggy NYC, I am having a staring contest with Babaar. Babaar is winning. I'm too tired to be challenging the Elephant King to a duel.

Back home for a few days, mixing with the one and only Michael Brauer. Michael is one of the top guys in the game, the man behind the sound of KT Tunstall, John Mayer, James Morrison, Aretha Franklin, and one of my fave records of all time, Coldplay's Parachutes. Michael is also the mirror image of me. Born in New York, and shuttled between the Upper West Side and Paris in his youth, our backgrounds are disturbingly similar - we both have a French parent, went to some of the same schools. Chilling with him in Quad studios, running down neighborhood haunts over cappuccino, I see myself in 20 years time, discussing flip taxes and the best place to get sushi.

Michael and I went for sushi and a couple sakes after the session; talking with him about records is a bodily experience. He's constantly feeling grooves and rocking vocals. It's amazing how much the sound of a record is what makes the difference between it being relevant and outdated. I can say, without a doubt, he's nailed the mix for Love Again For The First Time. It's glorious and majestic and intimate and personal, and most importantly, I think it's a hit!

The drunker I got, the more I saw the myriad connections between myself and Luther Vandross. One voice, floating over a deep groove, singing about the Power of Love. It's a good sign I should go home when I start comparing myself to Luther. Swung by the Mac Store off Central Park South (did you know it was open 24 hours! That's what I'm talking about New York!) and got myself back in the internet game. This morning I've got about 11 pages of Myspace to look forward too. Yippie.

Indiana Jones and the Temple of Westlife

Last thing I remember, I was running for the door. I had to find the passage back to the place I was before. Walking across a bridge in Belfast, two erstwhile companions at my side (the trusty Doctor Miles Christie, and the legendary Jonny Ray, my tour manager), that cheesy Eagles lyric popped into my head. Maybe it was trigged by the gloomy Irish skyline shrouded in mist, making me feel like a wizard wandering through Middle Earth. Whatever it was, there couldn't be a more appropriate turn of phrase.

The three of us were eagerly skipping, practically racing to the Odyssey Arena/Open-Air Mall/Monstrosity to catch the new Indy flick. Last time I was this excited to see a movie, it was 1999, and me and my crew drove two hours into the heart of Massachusetts with the Beastie Boys' Paul's Boutique blaring on repeat. The movie in question was Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace. We stayed awake for 30 hours on the ticket line, and went to 3 screenings that day. To say I've never been so disappointed in my life would be the understatement of the century. How could something so perfect from my youth be so completely destroyed? Needless to say, I approached Indy with an air of caution, after witnessing what George Lucas could do to one of my favorite things ever, not to mention Steven Spielberg!

Coupled with the air of an impending Westlife concert in the heart of Northern Ireland, and it being the night of the Sex In The City premiere, I knew we were in for one helluva ride, not unlike Doctor Jones' wild one through the Temple o' Doom. I hate to do this, but I am compelled to give it to you straight, from one human to another: Indy sucked. I had hope the first 45 minutes, but as soon as an alien skull was introduced as the major artifact in the film, I knew it was a stinker. Not even a Russian Cate Blanchett, or a bumbling, stumbling, mad professor John Hurt could save us. Our trio emerged 2 hours and 15 minutes later with heasd swelled by the memory of Shia Lebeouf's face (how the hell did they let this guy get a hold of summer movies?!).

Walking out to the lobby balcony, we overlooked the ravaging horde of Westlife fans heading for arena exits, a river of bleach blondes carrying glow sticks, three generations worth. The sight was astounding, like something out of a National Geographic TV special. A large group of women were flowing toward a sleek, onyx-colored club called The Box. We debated going in, but decided in the end that a good night's sleep would be the best way to cure our LaBoeuf hangover. I had a Napster session the next day, Jonny had to drive home, and Miles had to be Miles.

Walking back in the rain, I felt a little poetic, even sentimental. Somehow, this was the most perfect, bizarre way to end my May tour. I felt myself at the beginning of a great adventure, one involving saber-toothed tigers, the Lost Ark of the Covenant, maybe even a girl. My future lay at the other end of that drawbridge, my past behind me. There would be no more Indy's, no more Lukes, no more Pee-Wees or MJ to fall from grace. I was my own man. Da-da-duh-da, da-duh-da! Sometimes I wish could get John Williams to score my life. That would be dope.