Okay, I realize my last blog may have ended on a down note. When we left our hero, he was a beaten man on a perilous promotional trail, a collision victim of public transport, days spent navigating murky UK weather, cold nights beneath a single-layer Travelodge comforter. It’s amazing what a little sun can do for your spirits. The past week and a half in and around London has been miraculously blue and clear, not a cloud in a sky. It’s equally amazing how quickly my pessimism/cynicism/realism has been replaced by a genuine optimism. Maybe it’s getting a full 8 hours sleep, or a return to boiled eggs, bagels and marmite in the morning, but there’s an extra pep in my step lately. I’ve been hitting the Piano with a renewed vigor, like a boxer coming off a knockout round. Such is the seesaw life of this self-pronounced artiste! But this would not be your typical, pontifical JV blog entry if I didn’t use my considerable writing prowess to whinge about something, specifically a British something.
As a native New Yorker, I consider walking in an urban environment to be an area of expertise, something of a birthright. I have been living in London for close to 15 months and still have no comprehension of pedestrian/car etiquette. This may seem a simple, trivial, even ridiculous matter, but I assure you, Right Of Way is a very complex thing here in England. The nation that made Darts a sport has also made the act of crossing a street a labyrinthine, mystical process. Just like Hercules’ Hydra, I chop off one of the beast’s heads only to find two grow back in its place.
Point in case: last night I was traveling through my Islington neighborhood to next-door Dalston in the pursuit of Vietnamese food. I was headed along Southgate Road, a major two-lane cut-through for drivers trying to avoid the congested Angel center. During the day, this street is pretty busy and with no crosswalks (they call them Zebras here), a force to be reckoned with for the average man-on-foot. During the evening however, the road is clear, allowing motorists to speed with no consideration for people, as I find London drivers tend to do (I have a theory this is because of all the twisting and turning. As soon as drivers see a straightaway, they gun it. I would too. Driving can’t be much fun here with all the sharp angles and speed bumps, or humps as they say. Not like I would know. I can’t drive).
Amidst my quest for Pho and Duck spring rolls, I was walking in the direction of traffic, crossing what I would call a side street, i.e. a small road leading off the main thoroughfare, one without a foot traffic light. Behind me, I felt the hum of a speeding engine, and twisted my head to see a car quickly rounding the side street, headed straight for me. To my knowledge, there are no clearly defined rules in this situation. I would like to think common sense prevails. In my mind, if I’m walking straight, it means I have the Right Of Way. If a driver, while trying to change course, sees a pedestrian halfway across an intersection (in this case the driver was coming at me from behind, making me, the pedestrian, blindsided), Right Of Way dictates the driver wait for the pedestrian to finish crossing before completing the turn. I was reminded again tonight, as I have been so times before, this is not the case in London. As Bill Hicks astutely observed, “In London when a driver sees a person crossing the street, they turn their wipers on.” If you, as a pedestrian, do not relent completely to an automobile, and thereby cause the driver to apply any degree of pressure to their break pedal, he/she will honk and gesticulate violently at you, perhaps shout something along the line of, “ For Fuck’s sake!” Before I came to this country, I didn’t know Fuck was proper noun, let alone something you can act in the interest of.
I hate to be the squeaky wheel. I believe that when you are a stranger in a strange land, you should do as the locales do, assume their customs as your own. To quote Ron Burgundy in Anchorman, “When In Rome.” But riddle me this: what kind of city gives cars the Right Of Way over people but not cyclists? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen cyclists in this town, smack dab in a bus lane in the middle of the morning rush, leisurely pedaling away with a jam-packed bus of commuters right on their tail. Bikers in London truly are the chosen people, self-righteous green priests of the environment who rule the road with an iron fist, delivering a swift and brutal judgment on anyone obstructing their path. The scolding you get for blocking a car is nothing compared to incurring the cyclist’s wrath. The few times I made the mistake of placing so much as my foot in front of a bike, my ears were assaulted by a cascade of slurs that would make even the most hardened sailors blush. These fetid tirades coming from the mouths of some the cutest, hipster women my eyes have ever seen. It’s enough to make this musician cry.
I dunno whether it’s the card carrying liberal, eco-driven mentality of powerful lobbying groups, or just they way they roll in London, but it appears bikes are indeed king, and we walkers are merely flies on the proverbial windshield, playing cards in the proverbial spokes. Last night was a reminder that while I live in this city, no matter how intrinsically bizarre they may seem to me, I must do my best to comprehend and obey the English rules of Right Of Way. But, from time to time, these Brits must forgive an instinct from deep inside my being to call out, in the words of quintessential New Yorker Ratso Rizzo in Midnight Cowboy, “HEY, I’M WAH-KING HERE!”
THE WORLD WIDE OF JV!
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Tuesday, 24 March 2009
Sunday, 15 March 2009
Survival
I’m finally relaxing on a Sunday, drinking coffee, and watching Louis Theroux dissect the phenomenon of plastic surgery. For those of you who don’t know, namely Americans as Mr. Theroux’s show is a BBC production, Louis is a TV journalist of the highest caliber who does one hour documentaries on the cultural insanities of the United States, from evangelical cult members to degenerate Vegas gamblers to hardened criminals in San Quentin prison, and everything in-between. What makes Louis so good is his innocence. He identifies with his subjects, asking them simple, direct questions without judgment. He makes people feel safe so they open up and give the camera an insight into their psychology.
My current UK tour over the past couple weeks has been, at times, reminiscent of a Theroux special. Problem is I can’t tell whether I’m Louis or one of the people he interviews. I’ve been doing a promotional work, playing each night at Living Rooms, a bourgeois chain of restaurants fitted with white digital Pianos in the bar area. My 45-minute set is routed through the house speakers, gently backing people’s dinner conversations, a gig reminiscent of my cabaret days in NYC. My mornings are spent visiting music colleges where I play for eager students who throw a barrage of questions at me, desperate for direction in the wild world of the Music Business. So far, I’ve lost my voice twice from singing through inadequate sound systems, and been in a car wreck, our van totaled by a side on collision with a commuter bus in Edinburgh. I keep waiting for my cockney tour manager, Jamie Franklin, to pull off his fake mustache and shout, “Smile, you’re on Candid Camera.”
Jamie has been great company, keeping me sane during this sometimes torturous journey. He’s the positive to my negative, the Laurel to my Hardy, the Derek to my Clive. All the madness has been chronicled on my Video Tour Blog, its regular updates the reason this Blog is so long overdue. Throughout conversations with Jamie during the long drives, I’m slowly coming to terms with the fact that I’m a glass-half-empty kind of guy. The definition of a Cynic is a person who believes people are motivated purely by self-interest rather than acting for honorable or unselfish reasons, someone who questions whether something will happen or whether it is worthwhile. Reading this now, it sounds more like the description of a realist to me. I dunno if it’s the streets of New York coursing through my veins this sunny London afternoon, or watching Louis interview a Hilton Casino Marketing Executive about keeping gambling addicts at the tables as long as possible, but I find that nobody gives anybody a break. You get a break when you win it.
It’s in the midst of this self-examination and search for generosity I find myself each morning trying to give 18-year olds good reasons to become musicians. This is, perhaps, the deepest irony of all. What I am supposed to tell them? Yes it’s possible to sign a record deal, make a classic album, sell millions based on the merit of your work and live happily ever after with your supermodel wife and beautiful children, be honored at awards ceremonies for your contributions, future generations forever influences by the unflinching honesty of your music. Here I am, a 29-year old boy who can’t cook for himself, traipsing the countryside playing dinner music, lucky to be alive after a disastrous crash, all in the pursuit of some farfetched dream I had when I was their age.
But then I take another look, and I see myself as one of the fortunate ones. In a time where people are losing their jobs left and right, the world facing the darkest economic gloom of the past 80 years, here I am playing my tunes to strange people in a strange land. In the past three years I’ve toured England, Scotland, and Ireland, played shows in Paris, Amsterdam, and all across the continental United States, including Montana. Just recently, my record label put me on a plane to LA to work with some of the best producers in the business. And even though I’m in the middle of an ill-advised promo tour that feels like a massive step backwards, it still beats boarding the A Train on 172nd Street at 7:15am, traveling an hour plus in a packed car to downtown Brooklyn to teach 5-year olds how to Hula-hoop. It’s times like these I must remember that it’s the experience, with all the glorious and shit moments, that is the reward, truly the break that I’ve won.
And this is the message I try to impart to the wide-eyed would-be Rock Stars every morning. There are no guarantees in this world. People will fuck you if you let them. Life as a musician is continual series of somersaults. Your best move is to look down, tuck your chin, and perfect your form. And eventually, though you’ll be dizzy and dazed, you will get somewhere. And who knows where that somewhere is, be it commanding 80,000 people on Glastonbury’s Pyramid Stage, or a Wednesday night in Newcastle playing Piano tucked away behind the hostess stand (yes this happened to me a week ago). Take the highs and the lows in stride, not out of modesty, but necessity. It’s survival.
If Louis Theroux asked me a few simple and direct questions about being a musician, this is what I would tell him. Hopefully I wouldn’t come off as crazy as the desperate, body modification obsessed middle-aged men I’m watching right now. However, there are no guarantees in this world.
My current UK tour over the past couple weeks has been, at times, reminiscent of a Theroux special. Problem is I can’t tell whether I’m Louis or one of the people he interviews. I’ve been doing a promotional work, playing each night at Living Rooms, a bourgeois chain of restaurants fitted with white digital Pianos in the bar area. My 45-minute set is routed through the house speakers, gently backing people’s dinner conversations, a gig reminiscent of my cabaret days in NYC. My mornings are spent visiting music colleges where I play for eager students who throw a barrage of questions at me, desperate for direction in the wild world of the Music Business. So far, I’ve lost my voice twice from singing through inadequate sound systems, and been in a car wreck, our van totaled by a side on collision with a commuter bus in Edinburgh. I keep waiting for my cockney tour manager, Jamie Franklin, to pull off his fake mustache and shout, “Smile, you’re on Candid Camera.”
Jamie has been great company, keeping me sane during this sometimes torturous journey. He’s the positive to my negative, the Laurel to my Hardy, the Derek to my Clive. All the madness has been chronicled on my Video Tour Blog, its regular updates the reason this Blog is so long overdue. Throughout conversations with Jamie during the long drives, I’m slowly coming to terms with the fact that I’m a glass-half-empty kind of guy. The definition of a Cynic is a person who believes people are motivated purely by self-interest rather than acting for honorable or unselfish reasons, someone who questions whether something will happen or whether it is worthwhile. Reading this now, it sounds more like the description of a realist to me. I dunno if it’s the streets of New York coursing through my veins this sunny London afternoon, or watching Louis interview a Hilton Casino Marketing Executive about keeping gambling addicts at the tables as long as possible, but I find that nobody gives anybody a break. You get a break when you win it.
It’s in the midst of this self-examination and search for generosity I find myself each morning trying to give 18-year olds good reasons to become musicians. This is, perhaps, the deepest irony of all. What I am supposed to tell them? Yes it’s possible to sign a record deal, make a classic album, sell millions based on the merit of your work and live happily ever after with your supermodel wife and beautiful children, be honored at awards ceremonies for your contributions, future generations forever influences by the unflinching honesty of your music. Here I am, a 29-year old boy who can’t cook for himself, traipsing the countryside playing dinner music, lucky to be alive after a disastrous crash, all in the pursuit of some farfetched dream I had when I was their age.
But then I take another look, and I see myself as one of the fortunate ones. In a time where people are losing their jobs left and right, the world facing the darkest economic gloom of the past 80 years, here I am playing my tunes to strange people in a strange land. In the past three years I’ve toured England, Scotland, and Ireland, played shows in Paris, Amsterdam, and all across the continental United States, including Montana. Just recently, my record label put me on a plane to LA to work with some of the best producers in the business. And even though I’m in the middle of an ill-advised promo tour that feels like a massive step backwards, it still beats boarding the A Train on 172nd Street at 7:15am, traveling an hour plus in a packed car to downtown Brooklyn to teach 5-year olds how to Hula-hoop. It’s times like these I must remember that it’s the experience, with all the glorious and shit moments, that is the reward, truly the break that I’ve won.
And this is the message I try to impart to the wide-eyed would-be Rock Stars every morning. There are no guarantees in this world. People will fuck you if you let them. Life as a musician is continual series of somersaults. Your best move is to look down, tuck your chin, and perfect your form. And eventually, though you’ll be dizzy and dazed, you will get somewhere. And who knows where that somewhere is, be it commanding 80,000 people on Glastonbury’s Pyramid Stage, or a Wednesday night in Newcastle playing Piano tucked away behind the hostess stand (yes this happened to me a week ago). Take the highs and the lows in stride, not out of modesty, but necessity. It’s survival.
If Louis Theroux asked me a few simple and direct questions about being a musician, this is what I would tell him. Hopefully I wouldn’t come off as crazy as the desperate, body modification obsessed middle-aged men I’m watching right now. However, there are no guarantees in this world.
Wednesday, 18 February 2009
The Song Remains The Same
This Saturday I’m getting on a plane and flying 11 hours to a place that is the antithesis of everything I believe in. Last time I was in L.A. was nearly two years ago, right after my first ever trip to London. If only I had known that precious week would be my last serious dose of sunshine till now. As I type my mind is racing with images of cruising the 101 in a convertible, top pulled down and that radio on, brown skin shining in the sun. My love for you will still be strong. Thank God for Don Henley.
Why, you ask, would I take time to kick back and relax when my new single, ‘Love Again For The First Time’ is set for release in coming weeks? The sad truth is I’ll be spending very little time outside the soundproofed walls of studios. I’m flying to Los Angeles for 3 big time writing sessions in the hope of churning out another single for my debut record, The Planeteer. I’m insanely excited to be working with top-notch writers and producers Greg Kurstin (Lily Allen, Little Boots, The Bird & The Bee), The Matrix (Avril Lavigne, Liz Phair), and Beau Dozier, son of Motown writing legend Lamont Dozier. Accompanying me to the sessions is the man I wrote my new single with, Martin Brammer (James Morrison, Tina Turner). I consider myself incredibly lucky to spend seven days with these very talented people. I plan to suck them dry.
Some of you may be saying to yourself, “That’s madness. From what I’ve seen (in concert and on YouTube), JV is a certified hit machine. The man eats, sleeps, and breathes Pop. You could wake this guy up any time of night, put a Dictaphone to his lips, and record a number 1 smash in 9 countries. Why would someone who turns a tune effortlessly need to fly 5,000 miles to write a hit? Well my friends, justified as you may be in asking the question, the answer is simple: what makes a hit a hit has changed.
I was a strange child, as you may have guessed by now. While all my friends rocked out to Nirvana and Nine Inch Nails, I was grooving to Annie Lennox and Stevie Wonder. Yet all of these acts were innovators in their own right. Each had their own sound, their own unique sense of melody, harmony, rhythm that made them stand out. I don’t think you’ll find four songs more varied Heart-Shaped Box, Closer, Sweet Dreams, and Isn’t She Lovely. These days I turn on the Radio (I don’t own a Radio, but it’s a metaphor dang it!) and I hear the same songs sung by new people. Pop culture is eating itself. Listeners are no longer being challenged by Music. Instead, programmers cater to the lowest common dominator, conditioning people to hear most simple sounds with simple messages. Music has become subservient to the Brand, and songs have become the advertisements.
I’m not saying Pop music hasn’t always been plagued by the inane and obvious. It’s easy to remember greatness and let mediocrity slip into oblivion. Several acts from my youth instantly spring to mind, once ubiquitous, now a footnote: Hootie and The Blowfish, Candlebox, Blues Traveler, Spin Doctors, Extreme, Color Me Badd, Sugar Ray, Goo Goo Dolls, Third Eye Blind, Jewel, and everyone’s favorite rapper-turned-movie star, Will Smith. But these days, the similarity between current hits and past hits is more and more alarming. I’m finding it increasingly difficult to tell the difference between a band’s singles. It was one thing when hip-hop was sampling tunes and turning them into hits twice over, giving credit where credit’s due, i.e. every one of Sean “Puffy” Combs’ hits. But we’re at a point where I don’t think artists are even aware of what they’re ripping off. Below is a list for your perusa of recent hits that I think sound dangerous close to existing songs. Cubic Zirconium followed by Diamonds.
That’s Not My Name by The Ting Tings – Mickey by Toni Basil
T-Shirt by Shontelle – With You by Chris Brown
Walking On A Dream by Empire Of The Sun – Dreams by Fleetwood Mac
6 of 1 Thing by Craig David – 1 Thing by Amerie
Fascination by Alphabeat – Modern Love by David Bowie
The Boy Does Nothing by Alicia Dixon – Mambo no.5 by Lou Bega
Kanye West’s 808’s & Heartbreak album – Something In The Air Tonight by Phil Collins
Cry For You by September – Clocks by Coldplay
And here are some bands with two songs that sound almost identical:
The Script – The Man Who Can’t Be Moved and Breakeven
The Fray – Cable Car (Over My Head) and You Found Me
Take That – Rule The World and Greatest Day
Coldplay – Clocks and The Speed Of Sound
Basshunter – (I can’t believe I’m admitting to knowing Basshunter’s singles )
Angel In The Night, Now You’re Gone, and All I Ever Wanted
The grand prize goes to Nickelback for How You Remind Me and Someday. Both were proven to be nearly the exact same song by Mikey Smith, a 21-year-old college kid in Alberta. Check it out - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a37hakpZjQA
If I come off sounding slightly angry and embittered, it’s cause I am. Over the past decade, the music industry has made choices that have consistently decreased the value of its product. Between illegal downloading, reality TV-show stars, corporate monopoly of media outlets, and just plain pandering, recorded music is no longer a desired commodity. People don’t feel like they should pay for records, and I don’t blame them. Why buy it if it’s crap? 7 of the Top 10 best selling singles in the UK this century have been spawned by X-Factor, 5 of which are dreadful, forgettable ballads (Bob The Builder’s Can We Fix It is the lone independent stand out). The stars of today are not exceptional people like Kurt and Trent and Annie and Stevie, they’re your average guy, the girl next door. Pop Music no longer sends a message of individuality and originality, but rather conformity (the proof is in the pudding: The lyrics to Shontelle’s T-Shirt read as a list of designer clothing ranges that rhyme). More and more I long for the innocence of my youth, when Paul and Michael would sing side by side in the back of a truck full of hay. Heck, these days I’d be happy with another Thong Song. At least that had a cool melody.
Stepping away from all of this, I hope to come out of next week’s sessions with a some cracking tunes. I’m working with the best in the business, and writing good songs will be my giant musical middle finger in the face of all things mundane. Let me leave you with the immortal words Mark Althavan Andrews, known to us Sisqo: Dumps like a truck, thighs like what. All night long, let me see that thong.
Feel free to email any thoughts or comments to jvfanmail@gmail.com
Why, you ask, would I take time to kick back and relax when my new single, ‘Love Again For The First Time’ is set for release in coming weeks? The sad truth is I’ll be spending very little time outside the soundproofed walls of studios. I’m flying to Los Angeles for 3 big time writing sessions in the hope of churning out another single for my debut record, The Planeteer. I’m insanely excited to be working with top-notch writers and producers Greg Kurstin (Lily Allen, Little Boots, The Bird & The Bee), The Matrix (Avril Lavigne, Liz Phair), and Beau Dozier, son of Motown writing legend Lamont Dozier. Accompanying me to the sessions is the man I wrote my new single with, Martin Brammer (James Morrison, Tina Turner). I consider myself incredibly lucky to spend seven days with these very talented people. I plan to suck them dry.
Some of you may be saying to yourself, “That’s madness. From what I’ve seen (in concert and on YouTube), JV is a certified hit machine. The man eats, sleeps, and breathes Pop. You could wake this guy up any time of night, put a Dictaphone to his lips, and record a number 1 smash in 9 countries. Why would someone who turns a tune effortlessly need to fly 5,000 miles to write a hit? Well my friends, justified as you may be in asking the question, the answer is simple: what makes a hit a hit has changed.
I was a strange child, as you may have guessed by now. While all my friends rocked out to Nirvana and Nine Inch Nails, I was grooving to Annie Lennox and Stevie Wonder. Yet all of these acts were innovators in their own right. Each had their own sound, their own unique sense of melody, harmony, rhythm that made them stand out. I don’t think you’ll find four songs more varied Heart-Shaped Box, Closer, Sweet Dreams, and Isn’t She Lovely. These days I turn on the Radio (I don’t own a Radio, but it’s a metaphor dang it!) and I hear the same songs sung by new people. Pop culture is eating itself. Listeners are no longer being challenged by Music. Instead, programmers cater to the lowest common dominator, conditioning people to hear most simple sounds with simple messages. Music has become subservient to the Brand, and songs have become the advertisements.
I’m not saying Pop music hasn’t always been plagued by the inane and obvious. It’s easy to remember greatness and let mediocrity slip into oblivion. Several acts from my youth instantly spring to mind, once ubiquitous, now a footnote: Hootie and The Blowfish, Candlebox, Blues Traveler, Spin Doctors, Extreme, Color Me Badd, Sugar Ray, Goo Goo Dolls, Third Eye Blind, Jewel, and everyone’s favorite rapper-turned-movie star, Will Smith. But these days, the similarity between current hits and past hits is more and more alarming. I’m finding it increasingly difficult to tell the difference between a band’s singles. It was one thing when hip-hop was sampling tunes and turning them into hits twice over, giving credit where credit’s due, i.e. every one of Sean “Puffy” Combs’ hits. But we’re at a point where I don’t think artists are even aware of what they’re ripping off. Below is a list for your perusa of recent hits that I think sound dangerous close to existing songs. Cubic Zirconium followed by Diamonds.
That’s Not My Name by The Ting Tings – Mickey by Toni Basil
T-Shirt by Shontelle – With You by Chris Brown
Walking On A Dream by Empire Of The Sun – Dreams by Fleetwood Mac
6 of 1 Thing by Craig David – 1 Thing by Amerie
Fascination by Alphabeat – Modern Love by David Bowie
The Boy Does Nothing by Alicia Dixon – Mambo no.5 by Lou Bega
Kanye West’s 808’s & Heartbreak album – Something In The Air Tonight by Phil Collins
Cry For You by September – Clocks by Coldplay
And here are some bands with two songs that sound almost identical:
The Script – The Man Who Can’t Be Moved and Breakeven
The Fray – Cable Car (Over My Head) and You Found Me
Take That – Rule The World and Greatest Day
Coldplay – Clocks and The Speed Of Sound
Basshunter – (I can’t believe I’m admitting to knowing Basshunter’s singles )
Angel In The Night, Now You’re Gone, and All I Ever Wanted
The grand prize goes to Nickelback for How You Remind Me and Someday. Both were proven to be nearly the exact same song by Mikey Smith, a 21-year-old college kid in Alberta. Check it out - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a37hakpZjQA
If I come off sounding slightly angry and embittered, it’s cause I am. Over the past decade, the music industry has made choices that have consistently decreased the value of its product. Between illegal downloading, reality TV-show stars, corporate monopoly of media outlets, and just plain pandering, recorded music is no longer a desired commodity. People don’t feel like they should pay for records, and I don’t blame them. Why buy it if it’s crap? 7 of the Top 10 best selling singles in the UK this century have been spawned by X-Factor, 5 of which are dreadful, forgettable ballads (Bob The Builder’s Can We Fix It is the lone independent stand out). The stars of today are not exceptional people like Kurt and Trent and Annie and Stevie, they’re your average guy, the girl next door. Pop Music no longer sends a message of individuality and originality, but rather conformity (the proof is in the pudding: The lyrics to Shontelle’s T-Shirt read as a list of designer clothing ranges that rhyme). More and more I long for the innocence of my youth, when Paul and Michael would sing side by side in the back of a truck full of hay. Heck, these days I’d be happy with another Thong Song. At least that had a cool melody.
Stepping away from all of this, I hope to come out of next week’s sessions with a some cracking tunes. I’m working with the best in the business, and writing good songs will be my giant musical middle finger in the face of all things mundane. Let me leave you with the immortal words Mark Althavan Andrews, known to us Sisqo: Dumps like a truck, thighs like what. All night long, let me see that thong.
Feel free to email any thoughts or comments to jvfanmail@gmail.com
Tuesday, 10 February 2009
The Dreaded Credit Crunch, A Musician's Perspective
I was recently asked by Gigwise.com to write a brief piece on being a musician in this rough economy. Here's what I came up with. As always, email your thoughts to jvfanmail@gmail.com. Hope you dig...
The Credit Crunch. I never heard the term before I moved to England. Now I hear it all the time, read it daily in the headlines, see it smattered across scattered pages of the latest London Lite on the tube. The BBC has a way with words. Poetic descriptions seem to float out the TV set every 15 minutes. Last week it was ‘Siberian Winds’ and ‘Flirting with Hypothermia’. But the dreaded ‘Credit Crunch’ has been their favorite phrase of the past six months. New programs pop up nightly on BBC 3 about how to save while shopping locally. Last week I watched Gordon Ramsay teach men with Moobs (that’s Man Boobs for Americans) to eat cheap and healthily, sandwiched between segments of him shouting expletives at McFly and running the London marathon. All this commotion caused by something that sounds a lot like my favorite sugary breakfast cereal. To be honest, I’m not too fussed. In fact, it’s the only time in my life I’m glad I’m a musician.
I’ve been playing music professionally for 10 years. It hasn’t been the easiest road. So many days I wish I had a time machine so I could go back and grab that curly haired 19-year old kid, shake his shoulders, smack him up and down and convince him to do something reasonable with his life, something where there’s a guaranteed check on Friday. I’ve had to work my fair share of jobs to make ends meet. Waited tables for years, bartended, even taught elementary school gym. By day I led vicious gangs of kindergarteners in jumping jacks and squat thrusts. By night I sang my songs in every hole in the wall club, hotel, bar and restaurant New York had to offer. Countless evenings I’d come home at 2 in the morning, lug my 45-pound, 88 key digital Piano up a 4 story walk-up, only to wake up at 7 AM and head off to 8 hours of pounding basketballs and twirling hula-hoops. I vividly recall frothing at the mouth while singing My Funny Valentine to a group of noisy investment bankers slurrping Beefeater Martinis in a midtown cabaret bar. They talked through the entire song, a brave, drunken few shouting that most sacrilegious of requests, Billy Joel’s Piano Man.
One thing a recession teaches you is there’s no such thing as a guaranteed check on Friday. This past fall I recall watching footage of ex-Morgan Stanley employees aimlessly idling at Canary Wharf, flocks blue-shirt oxford boys looking like deer in the headlights. These guys knew exactly what they were gonna do with their lives. They had a 10-year plan: work 100 hours a week till your 30, then sit back and watch the cash roll in, a steady stream of bonuses whether their clients make or lose money. And here was a generation of Gordon Geckos standing around like Footballers at halftime. Brilliant.
Being a musician offers something that few career paths do: purpose without money. Apart from a few notable, extremely talented exceptions who are typically self-absorbed (Sting, Chris Martin), self-righteous (Springsteen, Bono), pompous (McCartney), or bloated egomaniacs (Kanye West) who look at music as a path to fame (Beyonce) and use songs as marketing slogans (Jay-Z), most musicians make a modest living at best, and at worst live off credit cards and take-out menus for the bulk of their lives (that was me before my record deal, and may still be me in the future. Time will tell. I’m praying I get to become one of the self-absorbed, pompous, egomaniacal ones!) The one thing we are never want for is purpose. I find most musicians so wide-eyed and naïve that they actually believe quality will prevail, and their goal is to be a part of, or get as close to that quality as possible. Money is just an afterthought. I suspect that’s why the music business is full of sharks and opportunists. Musicians are a biggest bunch of suckers I know, myself included.
Sorry if I sound unsympathetic, but in the midst of a world-wide downturn, I find myself on the same path I’ve always been on: a slow, grinding gravel trail up the mountain, pushing my financial boulder as always, forever Sisyphus. Except now I see a lot more people alongside me, pushing even bigger boulders, trying to get back on top in this crumbling economy, when in the end, the boulder always rolls right back down to the bottom. I’m happy to sing songs for you guys while we push. Just don’t ask for any Billy Joel.
The Credit Crunch. I never heard the term before I moved to England. Now I hear it all the time, read it daily in the headlines, see it smattered across scattered pages of the latest London Lite on the tube. The BBC has a way with words. Poetic descriptions seem to float out the TV set every 15 minutes. Last week it was ‘Siberian Winds’ and ‘Flirting with Hypothermia’. But the dreaded ‘Credit Crunch’ has been their favorite phrase of the past six months. New programs pop up nightly on BBC 3 about how to save while shopping locally. Last week I watched Gordon Ramsay teach men with Moobs (that’s Man Boobs for Americans) to eat cheap and healthily, sandwiched between segments of him shouting expletives at McFly and running the London marathon. All this commotion caused by something that sounds a lot like my favorite sugary breakfast cereal. To be honest, I’m not too fussed. In fact, it’s the only time in my life I’m glad I’m a musician.
I’ve been playing music professionally for 10 years. It hasn’t been the easiest road. So many days I wish I had a time machine so I could go back and grab that curly haired 19-year old kid, shake his shoulders, smack him up and down and convince him to do something reasonable with his life, something where there’s a guaranteed check on Friday. I’ve had to work my fair share of jobs to make ends meet. Waited tables for years, bartended, even taught elementary school gym. By day I led vicious gangs of kindergarteners in jumping jacks and squat thrusts. By night I sang my songs in every hole in the wall club, hotel, bar and restaurant New York had to offer. Countless evenings I’d come home at 2 in the morning, lug my 45-pound, 88 key digital Piano up a 4 story walk-up, only to wake up at 7 AM and head off to 8 hours of pounding basketballs and twirling hula-hoops. I vividly recall frothing at the mouth while singing My Funny Valentine to a group of noisy investment bankers slurrping Beefeater Martinis in a midtown cabaret bar. They talked through the entire song, a brave, drunken few shouting that most sacrilegious of requests, Billy Joel’s Piano Man.
One thing a recession teaches you is there’s no such thing as a guaranteed check on Friday. This past fall I recall watching footage of ex-Morgan Stanley employees aimlessly idling at Canary Wharf, flocks blue-shirt oxford boys looking like deer in the headlights. These guys knew exactly what they were gonna do with their lives. They had a 10-year plan: work 100 hours a week till your 30, then sit back and watch the cash roll in, a steady stream of bonuses whether their clients make or lose money. And here was a generation of Gordon Geckos standing around like Footballers at halftime. Brilliant.
Being a musician offers something that few career paths do: purpose without money. Apart from a few notable, extremely talented exceptions who are typically self-absorbed (Sting, Chris Martin), self-righteous (Springsteen, Bono), pompous (McCartney), or bloated egomaniacs (Kanye West) who look at music as a path to fame (Beyonce) and use songs as marketing slogans (Jay-Z), most musicians make a modest living at best, and at worst live off credit cards and take-out menus for the bulk of their lives (that was me before my record deal, and may still be me in the future. Time will tell. I’m praying I get to become one of the self-absorbed, pompous, egomaniacal ones!) The one thing we are never want for is purpose. I find most musicians so wide-eyed and naïve that they actually believe quality will prevail, and their goal is to be a part of, or get as close to that quality as possible. Money is just an afterthought. I suspect that’s why the music business is full of sharks and opportunists. Musicians are a biggest bunch of suckers I know, myself included.
Sorry if I sound unsympathetic, but in the midst of a world-wide downturn, I find myself on the same path I’ve always been on: a slow, grinding gravel trail up the mountain, pushing my financial boulder as always, forever Sisyphus. Except now I see a lot more people alongside me, pushing even bigger boulders, trying to get back on top in this crumbling economy, when in the end, the boulder always rolls right back down to the bottom. I’m happy to sing songs for you guys while we push. Just don’t ask for any Billy Joel.
Wednesday, 21 January 2009
The Last Days of Video
I’ve addressed this topic in my blog before, but the problem won’t go away. Years pass, seasons change (not in the
When I was 14, my first job was working as a delivery boy for The Video Connection, my local video store on 80th and Broadway. Back in the heyday of VHS, video stores had names that implied futurism while feeling ancient at the same time, as if they’d always been there and would be for millennium to come. Names like Video Vault, Pegasus Video, Royal Video, and Champagne Video, the lone survivor of the VHS boom. I recently walked through Champagne Video’s doors over the holidays. It was as if I’d entered a time warp: row upon row of rectangular plastic black boxes with poorly laminated covers. Movies grouped by section signs with cheesy, oversized bubble letters. Colorful displays on the checkout counter offering five flavors of microwave popcorn. It felt like 1994 all over again
Those were the days when the world was mine to discover. Every afternoon after school I’d pound the all-to-familiar blocks of my neighborhood, knapsack filled to the brim with tapes like Santa in his youthful prime. During the day I suffered all the indignities high school had to offer, but from the hours of 4 to 8, Tuesday through Thursday, I was in charge of my own destiny. I became a welcome sight to the uptown bourgeois elite, bringing them new releases of the day like Sirens with Hugh Grant and Elle Macpherson and Angels and Insects with Patsy Kensit. The titles and stars of countless, seemingly meaningless films were forever etched in my mind.
Back then (we’re talking the 90’s folks), movies came out on video no sooner than 6 months after being in the theater. This was when the Major Studios were king and had complete control of the supply chain. Whenever they decided to put a movie out on tape was the only time you could see it outside the cinema. Peer 2 peer networks didn’t exist. Pirated copies were made by a guy in the back row holding an off-center camcorder. If you wanted to see the movie you had to rent it. In addition, Studios would price VHS tapes at $89.99, making them impossible to buy for home entertainment. The Video Stores were the only places with enough capital to purchase cassettes and the clientele to make their money back. The Video Connection would get 5 copies at most of a new release (It was a big deal when they bought 10 copies of
It was at this job was where my love of Pop music blossomed. I have an overzealous clerk by the name of Derek Davidson to thank for beginning my education. Derek was a guy from Canarsie who’d been living on the Upper West in a one bedroom for ages, and still does to this day. Derek had a serious love of music and movies, and very definite opinions on what was good and what was crap. It was Derek who first gave me Elton John’s Tumbleweed Connection, 10cc’s The Original Soundtrack, and Steely Dan’s Katy Lied. It was Derek who introduced me to the films Stanley Kubrick, Martin Scorcese and David Cronenberg. Derek was the first guy I ever played in a band with, and he was the first guy to kick me out of one. I have so many wonderful teenage memories of trolling the streets of
After high school, things became a blur. I went off the college as big chains like Blockbuster and Hollywood Video pushed independent video stores out of business. A few years after graduation, Blockbuster, once a towering Goliath, was humbled by online rental services like Netflix and Lovefilm (which have a much better selection I must say. Who needs 50 copies of the new Will Smith movie?). VHS made way for DVD, which will soon make way for HD DVD and Blue Ray, or some other medium (whatever happened to Laserdisc?). In the next decade, movies and music will be usurped by video games as the main source of entertainment. Today’s Pop Stars are entrepreneurs, business moguls hyper–aware of the power of their brand. Clothing lines and perfumes are just as important as the song or the screenplay. Old-fashioned storytelling and heartbreaking performances have been replaced by CGI special effects and Super Hero movie franchises. The auteur of the future will be more informed by Halo, Resident Evil, Call Of Duty and World Of Warcraft then ET, Star Wars, Raging Bull or Clockwork Orange. The days of dreaming in the Video Store are gone. Maybe it’s for the best. I can’t tell you how many hours I’ve wasted, wandering in the wonder of the aisles.
Monday, 12 January 2009
Slumdog Singalong
Other fodder includes songwriters trying to cash in on their catalogs, creating flimsy plots to fill their publishing coffers. Billy Joel’s Movin’ Out, The Beach Boys’ Good Vibrations, John Lennon’s Imagine are prime examples (they even made a Boney M musical called Daddy Cool). Movies are just as guilty of perpetrating this trend, the High School Musical series an all too familiar reminder (they have confirmed 5 sequels. Someone save us please!). I ask the simple question: What’s so silly about someone stopping in the middle of the street to sing and dance? If Marlon Brando looked cool doing it in Guys and Dolls, it can’t be all that bad.
Back in the 1920’s, and moving well into the 1960’s, the musical was considered a serious art form, attracting the best and brightest songwriters, directors and performers. Virtually the entire catalog of standards, the songs of George Gershwin, Richard Rogers, Jerome Kern, and Cole Porter, had origins in Musicals. Movies studios did their part, producing musical masterpieces like Singing In The Rain and An American In Paris, creating vehicles for song & dance stars Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire. There are still serious autuers out there in stage and film who have tried over the years (some more successfully than others) to breathe new life into the genre. Stephen Sondheim, Jason Robert Brown on Broadway, and Martin Scorsese, Woody Allen, Brian De Palma, and Lars Von Trier just to name a few.
Over the holidays in
Cut to a week later, I’m back in
I nearly choked on my Turkish breakfast. Is this man reading my mind? The guy who created 3of my favorite movies of the last 15 years (Trainspotting and 28 Days Later, and now Slumdog), a very-arty sci-fi flick (Sunshine), a glorified travel film (The Beach), a Hitchcock style thriller (Shallow Grave), and a beautiful piece o’ shit (Life Less Ordinary) wants to do a musical? Consider this blog my job application, my CV, my ad in the personals – DANNY BOYLE I AM YOUR MAN! If you guys have any ideas on how to pitch me to write the songs for his next movie, if you know anyone who may have his ear, please drop me a line at jvfanmail@gmail.com. This needs to happen.
Akon, eat your heart out.
Wednesday, 17 December 2008
Soul of an Artist
Below is a piece I wrote for the online publication Muso’s Guide. I was asked to provide a few bytes on the buzz word, “Soul.” What I came out was a slightly snarky, two page tirade about Pop music today. Apologies if I come off a bit righteous, but living with little or no sunlight can do that to a man, as per my last blog entry (I’m posting your responses before year’s end, don’t fear. Some funny notions you readers have). As always, you can email me your thoughts about this blog, or really anything at jvfanmail@gmail.com. You’re guaranteed a response from yours truly. And now…
A DISCLAIMER FROM THE ARTIST:
WHAT YOU READ BELOW IS JUST MY OPINION. IF YOU FEEL A VIOLENT REACTION ANYTHING HERE, PLEASE CONSULT A PSYCHIATRIC PROFESSIONAL. I DO SO ON A WEEKLY BASIS AND AM ALL THE BETTER FOR IT.
Soul is a curious thing. It's its own genre, but weirdly, to me, most modern soul music lacks soul. The All Music Guide defines soul as "the result of the urbanization and commercialization of rhythm and blues in the '60's.” I imagine the term was born from more earnest beginnings, from artists possessing an abundance of the quality. In my world, it starts with Billie Holliday, moves through Ray Charles, then James Brown, on to Otis Redding, Aretha Franklin, Sly Stone, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder and wraps up somewhere around Prince (with a few notable exceptions like D’Angelo and Jodeci – yeah that’s right I like Jodeci!).
Finding soul in modern Pop music is not as clear-cut. For example, the retro-musings of Amy Winehouse are very soulful, while Duffy’s Dusty-style, cupcake R&B is not. Will Young and James Morrison have soul, but Leon Jackson and James Blunt are devoid. R. Kelly has soul to spare while Akon is the most soulless man in R&B (I heard him talking on 4Music about the ‘European Market.’ Any artist dropping the word ‘market’ in an interview does not have Soul).
It is my theory that soul is directly linked to pain. The one thing an artist cannot fake is the experience bestowed by life from pain. An artist can relate this experience in many ways; through their voice, their dance moves, even off-the-cuff comments made on daytime talk shows. I’m pretty sure that Soul is something you’re born with. Artists and Labels can do their best to dress things up, but in the end, Soul always rears its lonely, aching, wrinkled face, much like Miles Davis’ visage on the Montreux Jazz Festival poster.
If you’re confused about who’s got Soul these days and who doesn’t, below is a list fit to my standards:
Justin Timberlake – A corporate, Disney puppet. But he’s got Soul and he’s very, very, talented. Let’s hope one day he stops endorsing cologne that looks like an MP3 player and gives us music chock full of what we know is inside him.
Chris Brown – more in touch with his Soul than Justin, but still confused.
Rihanna –She’s got it. Flaunted it in the beginning with ‘Pon The Replay,’ but it got blurred somewhere along the way. Justin’s in her new video…maybe he had a hand in covering it up.
Beyonce – So much Soul despite herself. Anyone who doubts it, watch her new ‘Single Ladies’ video.
Britney Spears– She’s from Kentwood, Louisiana, the Deep South. For years she was trapped behind the Mickey Mouse veil. Somewhere between childbirth and attacking paps with umbrellas, she let her Soul show.
Keane – very white but soulful.
Kings Of Leon – Soulless. I’m sorry but they are. Anyone who names a record “Youth and Young Manhood” is too cool to have Soul. In a lot ways, cool is the opposite of Soul.
The Killers – I still don’t know. Brandon Flowers being a Mormon throws my radar off (though Big Love is a great show). Plus the guy keeps on asking that question: “Are we human, or are we dancer.” All things considered, he’s got it.
Coldplay –Chris Martin is in so much pain, I sometimes wonder. One listen to ‘Yellow’ and you know Soul is there. Maybe it’s hiding beneath a Gwyneth, Apple and Moses sandwich.
Take That – Great tunes but completely soulless
Boyzone - Ronan’s got it. Met him and I was proved right. Life is a rollercoaster indeed.
Mika – No soul. Imitating Freddie Mercury, the most soulful man in the history of Rock, still doesn’t get you it.
Pink – Soul, soul and more soul. A bit annoying how she rubs it in your face all the time, but who cares. She’s got plenty to go around.
Katy Perry – Got it. Can’t sing or dance, but has Soul. It’s her best quality.
Girls Aloud – I dunno about this one. Lemme get back to you. Does being extremely fit count toward soulfulness? They are my Achilles’ heel.
In conclusion, anyone having a hard time finding Soul in modern Pop music, just take a listen to Kayne West’s new album, 808s and Heartbreak. Despite the blatant overuse of Vocoder and uber-80’s beats ala Phil Collins (the most soulless artist of the 80’s), the record is oozing with pathos. Oh and this little known fringe act Julian Velard. He’s got it in spades.
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