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 WORLD WIDE OF JV!
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Wednesday, 13 August 2008
Wednesday, 25 June 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, 12 June 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, 3 June 2008
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.
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.
Friday, 16 May 2008
My Favourite Movies
Head over to my MySpace to vote on which of these would be YOUR favourite!
1.Dr. Strangelove Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb
Review: Slim Pickens rides the Bomb! Peter Sellers is a Genius! All hail Kubrick!
2.Total Recall
Review: The finest Ahnold movie. I think he needs to have his own genre. There is a surreal quality to his acting - he's completely aware that he's in a movie at all times. See you at the party indeed.
3. The Thing (1982)
Review:This could be one of the most terrifying movies ever. There is something so deeply creepy about flailing tentacles and hundreds of eyes. It's as if John Carpenter and make-up wizard Rob Bottin discovered the primal nightmare. And Kurt Russell is a baddass. Nuff said.
4. Pulp Fiction
Review: The movie that defined my adolescence. How did anyone my age figure out what cool is without Tarantino? Unfortunately, we have to thank him for reviving Travolta's career (I much prefer Danny Zuko to Battefield Earth Monsters). Otherwise, this is one of the finest films ever! Period!
5. Starman
Review: Lost classic of the 80's. Stands as John Carpenter's best flick outside of The Thing. Jeff Bridges is brilliant at looking like a avian weirdo. I love you Jenny Hayden, as well as this movie. Soundtrack makes me feel like I'm 5 years old again.
6. The 40-Year-Old Virgin
Review: In my opinion, Steve Carrell is a has been. This is and will always be, his greatest achievement. The writing is pitch-perfect, and each character is beautiful drawn. I cry when I watch this film. Does that make me weird? Hits a little too close to home.
7. The Cincinnati Kid
Review: McQueen at his best. Ann Margaret is a sex bomb. Karl Malden is as solid as ever. And who doesn't love Eddy G., my man! Check it out, you won't regret it!
8. You Can Count On Me
Review: One of my favorite movies in the last 10 years. So well written, so understated. I really thought Mark Ruffalo was gonna be the next Brando after I watched this. What happened? 13 going on 30 and Just Like Heaven, that's what happened. Still this is a timeless flick.
9. A Clockwork Orange
Review: Am I creepy if watching this film makes me laugh? Something about Alex's journey is so deep, and dark, and funny. It's also one hell of a cool looking film, and the music is brilliant! I still worship Malcom McDowell even though he hasn't come close to this role in anything else he's done...maybe Time after Time and O Lucky Man, but that's about it!
10. True Romance
Does it get better than this? When I was in High School I wanted every I girl I talked to be like Patricia Arquette, and I wanted to sound like Christian Slater. It didn't really work out that way, but at least I got this movie. Best "I Love You' scene ever. No I'm not a wussie, just a true romantic.
1.Dr. Strangelove Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb
Review: Slim Pickens rides the Bomb! Peter Sellers is a Genius! All hail Kubrick!
2.Total Recall
Review: The finest Ahnold movie. I think he needs to have his own genre. There is a surreal quality to his acting - he's completely aware that he's in a movie at all times. See you at the party indeed.
3. The Thing (1982)
Review:This could be one of the most terrifying movies ever. There is something so deeply creepy about flailing tentacles and hundreds of eyes. It's as if John Carpenter and make-up wizard Rob Bottin discovered the primal nightmare. And Kurt Russell is a baddass. Nuff said.
4. Pulp Fiction
Review: The movie that defined my adolescence. How did anyone my age figure out what cool is without Tarantino? Unfortunately, we have to thank him for reviving Travolta's career (I much prefer Danny Zuko to Battefield Earth Monsters). Otherwise, this is one of the finest films ever! Period!
5. Starman
Review: Lost classic of the 80's. Stands as John Carpenter's best flick outside of The Thing. Jeff Bridges is brilliant at looking like a avian weirdo. I love you Jenny Hayden, as well as this movie. Soundtrack makes me feel like I'm 5 years old again.
6. The 40-Year-Old Virgin
Review: In my opinion, Steve Carrell is a has been. This is and will always be, his greatest achievement. The writing is pitch-perfect, and each character is beautiful drawn. I cry when I watch this film. Does that make me weird? Hits a little too close to home.
7. The Cincinnati Kid
Review: McQueen at his best. Ann Margaret is a sex bomb. Karl Malden is as solid as ever. And who doesn't love Eddy G., my man! Check it out, you won't regret it!
8. You Can Count On Me
Review: One of my favorite movies in the last 10 years. So well written, so understated. I really thought Mark Ruffalo was gonna be the next Brando after I watched this. What happened? 13 going on 30 and Just Like Heaven, that's what happened. Still this is a timeless flick.
9. A Clockwork Orange
Review: Am I creepy if watching this film makes me laugh? Something about Alex's journey is so deep, and dark, and funny. It's also one hell of a cool looking film, and the music is brilliant! I still worship Malcom McDowell even though he hasn't come close to this role in anything else he's done...maybe Time after Time and O Lucky Man, but that's about it!
10. True Romance
Does it get better than this? When I was in High School I wanted every I girl I talked to be like Patricia Arquette, and I wanted to sound like Christian Slater. It didn't really work out that way, but at least I got this movie. Best "I Love You' scene ever. No I'm not a wussie, just a true romantic.
Tuesday, 13 May 2008
A Heavy Brow
Sitting at a hotel bar in Edinburgh, gazing out the window at a castle on a green covered mountain. The best part is I’m not playing music in this hotel bar, stuffed in a corner pumping out tunes. No I’m just sitting here, sipping on a Kronenburg, occasionally glancing at my very cute Scottish bartender. I can’t believe the way people talk here. I find the accent welcoming, soothing. Everyone smiles and seems chilled out, not like New York or London for that matter. I’ve long dreamt of a place where I could live out my days, cool my fiery nerves next to a beautiful dame, breath fresh air in the countryside, but not too country; I am a serious city boy, need my delicatessen fix. In my first 12 hours, Edinburgh is making a strong case. Who knows, maybe I’m ordering drinks from my future bride? I’m here a day early, awaiting another two week stint with the lovely Amy Macdonald, which starts in her native Scotland, winds its way through the UK, and winds up in yet another lush paradise, Ireland. It’s nice to be traveling, especially with all the madness going on in the world. It’s a strange place to be: living out my dream while so many people on Earth are experiencing a nightmare. Right now I’m smack dab in the midst of the first promo blitz, running in and out of radio stations, grinning my grin, spreading the JV gospel. And all the while I have these images burned in the back of my mind of people being pulled from rubble, thousands need deep in refuse and the remnants of their villages. I try to stay positive, but it’s tough proposition. I lie in my hotel room and flip through channels of British newscasters forecasting doom and gloom, with even bleaker headlines scrolling across the bottom of the screen. Another person stabbed in Oxford Circus. Estimated death totals rise again. I have to ask myself what am I doing here? Shouldn’t I be helping? I’m sitting on my bed chewing a club sandwich, sick with paralysis. How can I make the situation better? It’s not like I can hop a flight to Burma and join a 24-hour relief team. They wouldn’t even let me in the country. Why do these disasters happen in the most cut-off, totalitarian countries? It’s heartbreaking to see people in need of help and not getting it. It makes me grateful that the ones I love and care for are happy and healthy. If anyone knows of ways to help, please lemme know, be it donations, writing a song, anything. Right now, I’m dealing with it by throwing myself into every interaction with extra abandon, letting people I’m around know how fortunate I am, that we are to be here and now.
Thursday, 1 May 2008
Portrait Of The Artist, Albeit A Commercial One
When we last left our hero, he was a man on the verge of a nervous breakdown, true John Cassevettes style, spouting nonsensical rants about wanting a cat. I’d like to say things have changed, but I would be lying. I’m just a helluva of a lot busier, there’s no time for depressive musings. All business the past couple weeks – video & photo shoot, showcases for Television executives, rehearsing ridiculous Whitesnake cum Barry White (Barry Whitesnake anyone?) covers for a Radio 2 showcase the middle of this month. I can’t complain.
This time last year I was playing in the corner of a Hotel Bar, peddling tunes for tips and wine, scamming salads and tuna steaks, loading up on instant espresso. Actually, reading that last sentence, it doesn’t sound half bad! Maybe I’ll pick up and go back home, resurrect my romantic, bohemian NYC lifestyle……nahhhh!
The prospect of becoming a Rock Star, while more demanding, is much more appealing. Still the frenzied push to plaster my mug across the United Kingdom (and soon elsewhere) gives me pause. During an interview the other day, I was asked how it feels to have a “Big Push” from a “Major Record Label”. I responded in an irreverent yet charming way, dismissing the question, disarming the bomb. But it did light a fire in my brain: am I an Artist? Do I make Art? It may sound ridiculously pretentious, but it’s a good question.
People come to a show, they watch a singer sing, a band rock. They see someone in the unconscious act of performance and lose their own consciousness, become one with the music (I am getting poetic here, apologies). And then a funny thing happens. People say to themselves, “Man, that looks like a lot of fun! What a great thing to be a Rock Star! What a way of life!” And right there they buy it, hook, line and sinker. They embrace the illusion. People are blending the wonderful selflessness that is music with a lifestyle that simply does not exist (note: some acts do live the life, but those are few and far between, and don’t tend to last long. Keith Richards is a legend).
Until signing to a major label, I was one of these people. Now each day my reality is redefined. Rock Stars don’t get up @ 5:30am. Rock Stars don’t have to stick to Cranberry and Soda cause they have 5 gigs in a week plus 10 promo appearances. Rock Stars don’t go to the Mac Store and buy copies of Civilization IV because they crave total mindlessness (okay most Rock Stars don’t do this. I am a nerd). Being a Rock Star is a job like any other, whether it’s playing Piano in a club, to running IT for a large investment-banking firm. Well maybe not like any other job. It IS a lot of fun. And you get a lot of free cabs. And, it’s the only job I was ever cut out for. Though I think I woulda made a good video store clerk. Rent Turkish Delight sometime. It’s one of Paul Verhoven’s first movies, Rutger Hauer as well. Saw it last night, raunchy but good.
This time last year I was playing in the corner of a Hotel Bar, peddling tunes for tips and wine, scamming salads and tuna steaks, loading up on instant espresso. Actually, reading that last sentence, it doesn’t sound half bad! Maybe I’ll pick up and go back home, resurrect my romantic, bohemian NYC lifestyle……nahhhh!
The prospect of becoming a Rock Star, while more demanding, is much more appealing. Still the frenzied push to plaster my mug across the United Kingdom (and soon elsewhere) gives me pause. During an interview the other day, I was asked how it feels to have a “Big Push” from a “Major Record Label”. I responded in an irreverent yet charming way, dismissing the question, disarming the bomb. But it did light a fire in my brain: am I an Artist? Do I make Art? It may sound ridiculously pretentious, but it’s a good question.
People come to a show, they watch a singer sing, a band rock. They see someone in the unconscious act of performance and lose their own consciousness, become one with the music (I am getting poetic here, apologies). And then a funny thing happens. People say to themselves, “Man, that looks like a lot of fun! What a great thing to be a Rock Star! What a way of life!” And right there they buy it, hook, line and sinker. They embrace the illusion. People are blending the wonderful selflessness that is music with a lifestyle that simply does not exist (note: some acts do live the life, but those are few and far between, and don’t tend to last long. Keith Richards is a legend).
Until signing to a major label, I was one of these people. Now each day my reality is redefined. Rock Stars don’t get up @ 5:30am. Rock Stars don’t have to stick to Cranberry and Soda cause they have 5 gigs in a week plus 10 promo appearances. Rock Stars don’t go to the Mac Store and buy copies of Civilization IV because they crave total mindlessness (okay most Rock Stars don’t do this. I am a nerd). Being a Rock Star is a job like any other, whether it’s playing Piano in a club, to running IT for a large investment-banking firm. Well maybe not like any other job. It IS a lot of fun. And you get a lot of free cabs. And, it’s the only job I was ever cut out for. Though I think I woulda made a good video store clerk. Rent Turkish Delight sometime. It’s one of Paul Verhoven’s first movies, Rutger Hauer as well. Saw it last night, raunchy but good.
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