fRomUNDerTHefLoOd.blog

2010-02-12T09:36:00.000-08:00

Our tour ended Tuesday in snowy Chicago. We played WGN studios, home of Bozo the clown. In his old studio, there were still pieces of the set. Dawn snapped pics of us, pointing out that Bozo seemed to be giving a gang sign in both paintings. Having always wanted to be in Bozo's club, I assumed the position.

Then we played an afternoon news show for WGN. Before we played, a guy named Ralph played with his children's band. Come to find out, this is the same Ralph who stole Opus Ditty's "Folsom Preschool Blues" remake idea for his own version of "Folsom Daycare Blues". I didn't know this at the time of our meeting and proudly showed off the new Opus Ditty album which Kevin had given to me before I left New York. Good thing I didn't have an extra copy to give away or 'ol Ralphy would probably be sitting home this weekend trying to cop all the great music from Let's Go Fishing.

Check our our WGN segment here.

2010-01-15T13:08:00.000-08:00

Dawn's "Young Girl" video premiered today. Sassy. For the line dancing I nudged myself to the third row so Pascal and Hunter had more room to swing. And because I sucked.

Dawn Landes and The Hounds start our tour NEXT WEEK!!!

January 19-Cambridge, MA-Club Passim
January 21-Fairfield, CT-StageOne*
January 22-New York, NY-Mercury Lounge (presented by Brooklyn Vegan)
January 23-Arlington, VA-Iota Club and Cafe
January 25-Louisville, KY-Zanzabar
January 26-Indianapolis, IN-Radio Radio*
January 27-Nashville, TN-Mercy Lounge*
January 28-Knoxville, TN-Barley’s Taproom*
January 29-Asheville, NC-The Grey Eagle*
January 30-Carrboro, NC-The Arts Center*
January 31-Atlanta, GA-Eddies Attic*
February 1-Mobile, AL-Callahan’s*
February 3-San Antonio, TX-Sam’s Burger Joint*
February 4-Austin, TX-Stubb’s*
February 5-Houston, TX-McGonigel’s Mucky Duck*
February 6-Dallas, TX-Granada Theatre**
February 9-Chicago, IL-Beat Kitchen

*Supporting Justin Townes Earle
**Supporting Justin Townes Earle and Chris Knight

2010-01-05T12:24:00.000-08:00

Here's a new web missive featuring Ray Rizzo. He is one of two Ray Rizzos I have found within 100mi. (That's not him pictured - he shows up after the pit bull.) This Ray is a Crip and raps and lives in Newark. The other Ray is a poet and musician who travels in new age/yoga type circles. I want to have a Ray Rizzo show where we all jam. (Okay, I'm more interested in playing with this Ray). I think we could unleash some universal Mayan-scale what-have-you into the earth's atmosphere. But I'd have to ask that we agree to either check firearms at the door or have a firing range set up somewhere at the venue. Is that lame? I just can't do my Fred Sanford moves with guns on the dance floor.

2009-12-08T08:44:00.000-08:00

I got home last night at almost 3 a.m., feeling pretty beat up. The Corporal record is ready to mix. 9 days of work over a year and a half. Traci woke up and we had burnt cookies and rye in bed. No matter how bad I was feeling, I did not stray from the satisfying pull of absolute gravity. Beneath any bruises and overworked nerves, there is the satisfaction of knowing.

2009-11-21T05:20:00.000-08:00

Further on down the road...

We spent last night in Bigos where Jorge, Josh and I ate traditional country cooking and talked about our favorite concerts ever. Josh saw a big Bob Dylan anniversary concert at Madison Sqaure Garden in the early 90s where everyone in rock music played Dylan songs and then Dylan himself came out, only it was after the house lights had come up and people were starting to leave. But Bob didn't care and played 4 songs including "Song For Woody" (which I thought was a poem and did not know was a song.) Then I gave context and personal anecdotes for a powerful account of seeing Prince on the Lovesexy Tour in Cincinnatti. In the middle of my telling, Josh bit his tongue so bad he thought he might have swallowed some of it with his pork. But he didn't flinch once. I must have been mezmerizing!

Tonight we play a Women's Festival in Ourense. There's a story to tell later about this but for now I will recount the time just after 4pm when we were pulled over by police on the highway. They said they had a picture of our van traveling at 145km and the limit for vehicles like ours is 100km. The police told us to wait because they had to leave for an emergency. When they left they took the van's registration and Jorge's license with them. While we waited Dawn read to us stories from Dean Wareham's rock biography. The police came back in 15 minutes with a ticket for Jorge: 300Euros and a loss of 3 points on his license. Jorge had extra points added last year because he's never had a violation before. And the fine, which is a lot, isn't as bad as he expected.

"I'll still be able to pay my rent," he said, forcing a smile. Then when we got to Oursense, Jorge took us out for a glass of local white wine that was so crisp, I am still puckering. As he paid the old man behind the counter, he said, "Today I have near disaster, and the only thing to do is greet it with enjoyment." Salut, Jorge!

2009-11-21T04:39:00.000-08:00

"Wow you're getting stripped in many ways on this tour," Dawn said. I had just learned that the bag with all my clothes was not found at the hotel in Madrid. "How does it feel not to carry around a big bag," she asked.

My back answered first, followed by my brain, and both were in total agreement.

"It feels great," I said.

On the way to Castellon I had spent some of my perdiem on toothbrushes and deodorant. This was when I knew I had no toiletries (left 'em in Birmingham), but had not yet learned that my bag was not in the van. Now the toothbrushes (a 2 brush value pack!) and the deodorant were all I had.

"That's kind of all you need," said Dawn. She knows a thing or two about living out of bags. Her blue ASCAP shoulder bag has been her most reliable band member, making more tours and carrying more stuff than anybody. In the early days, Dawn's blue bag would house her guitar pedals, her toothbrush, and all of her clothes.

There's a book by Maya Angelou that we used to keep in our bathroom called "Wouldn't Take Nothing For My Journey Now." I love that title and thought of it on my last night in Bushwick when Traci and I were packing my bag. It had been years since I packed so specific and thoroughly, meditating on the need, mood, and weight of each piece of clothing. I was excited for every stitch. I have not been sad to see them go. Whoever possesses them next will enjoy themselves.

Besides, before we left Barcelona, our new friend Maria brought by some old shirts for me that belonged to her roommate. One of them (seen in the above picture along with Dawn's blue bag) says "Granada" and has a drawing of the Alhambra. That it is a little small in no way diminishes the warm reminder that I am, at all times, provided for.

2009-11-16T18:01:00.000-08:00

When we arrived in Madrid on Saturday Jorge was there to greet us. (He's the one on the left greeting Josh.) We met Jorge last September when we toured with Elvis Perkins in Dearland. Jorge was driving EPnDL around Spain and playing bass with them on a song called "Stop, Drop, Rock and Roll." At the time Simon (our UK tour manager of late) pointed out that next time we came to Spain, we should call Jorge and not waste Simon's time with our pithy Spanish excursions. (Kidding, Simon! Ahhhh! Get fucked! HAh! )

Okay but seriously, Simon's advice was taken and we have been looking forward to seeing Jorge this week. Jorge's been looking forward to seeing us, too. And he says he's glad for the work. Ain't we all.

Jorge made music to a film he made of his girlfriend underwater. He's made others filmsongs, too, and he has a show coming up. (He's passing out cards about it but I don't have one yet so I can't tell you more.) Jorge can play many instruments and will sit in with us this week on Kids In A Play and maybe anything else we can rope him into. He is a gentleman and a good driver. And Bonus: Jorge knows how to ask for toast and coffee with milk in Spanish. He's good at ordering lots of food and drink, actually.

D L and the Hounds are loving every meal in Espania. Dawn says Spain is giving France a run for it's money food-wise. Today Jesus and Coche treated us to a great lunch in Madrid. Tonight the promoter in Castellon took us out for another amazing meal. In each city, warm hands wagged forks across the table for little bites of joy. Both meals ended with yellow Herbal Liquor I can't spell properly, especially after drinking it.

Which makes for a funny segue to another event of the day.

My bag with all my clothing was left in Madrid. When we had come back from lunch to collect our bags and leave, the hotel attendant had given me cause to think it had already been taken from the storage room and put in the van by one of my party. Argh. I should have double checked.

When I told this to Jorge he smiled and said, "Okay, so I'm going to watch you." Yes, Jorge. Watch me so I don't leave anything else behind. I might start losing track of band members or what's left of my sanity. Keep singing "Where Is My Mind" to me Jorge. I'll keep smiling. Watch me and please help me get toast and coffee. I need help, Jorge. And I'm not too proud to admit it.

(sigh)

The only shirt I have right now is the one on my back from last night. It still says, "Very Modern, Very Italian, & Very Good."

DL&Hounds Tour Day 7, pt. 2 (or Day 8?)

2009-11-15T23:23:00.001-08:00

Amazing what a few hours of sleep and some nice wallpaper can do. I woke up looking at this bird on my wall with "Rockin' Around The Christmas Tree" playing over and over in my head. It wasn't Brenda Lee's version I was hearing, but the rendition that we played last night for Spanish Television. We had a fine fine time singing and shaking some jingle bells while Dawn sang and Josh and I "Ooohh"d and "Ahhh"d. We did it just before we played our set at Clamores Club. My electronic fiasco during the show made it easy to forget the earlier high point, but now things are a bit more in balance. Know what else was great last night? The tapas meal we were served after the show. Water, wine, gazpacho, veggies and tortilla. Coffee, too, which Dawn decided this morning was not such a good idea so late at night.

...oh, Wow. Dawn just got a song sent to her from her friend Joan. A few years ago, Dawn wrote a song about Joan, singing about how she wanted to be Joan. Joan's brother created a techno-trash-electro-crash song called, "Don't Envy Me Dawn". Hard to dance to, but it's distorted nastiness mixes naturally with the X-mas tree rocking in my head. Oh wait....is this a hangover I'm starting to feel?

Off to have breakfast and then play a radio station before driving to tonight's show in Castellon.

DL&Hounds Tour Day 7

2009-11-15T15:17:00.001-08:00

Okay, seriously? You want the truth about tour? Can you handle the truth? I woke up today in Madrid having dreamed about Louisville being visited by a foreign and beguiling brown fruit that grew from every plant in the city. These dreams were interrupted by the muscles in my lower back freaking out because the bed was so hard. A bed like the one I slept in should be a beautiful thing, with powers to will a spine into proper alignment, but my twisted muscles were having none of it. I woke up at least 5 times in pain and tried to roll into a position of comfort. What could have wrecked my body so, you ask? Packing and transporting my equipment from New York to tour.

Then, tonight I plugged my equipment into the power strips at Clamores Club in Madrid and half of the electronic trash I broke my back to bring over here fuzzed out. I didn't even get the satisfaction of electric fireworks or the smell of melted circuitry. Nothing. Kaput. During our set, I tried in vain to plug my mic and sampler in and out of the remaining working components to approximate the music I have been making. Vain vain. It was all in vain.

For years I put off exploring electronics in my performance because i didn't want to suffer from being dependent on them if ever they turned on me. Tonight was the incarnation of the worst case imaginable.

Everyone else on stage and in the room were genuinely pleased with the show, and while this should have made me feel better, it only added insult to injury ...do the things I do even matter? What the hell am I doing?

But this is where the story takes a turn.... I'm in Spain. I don't know anybody, and it's not necessary with Dawn and Josh to put on like I'm pleased when I'm not. I can sulk all up and down this city and no one will give a fuck. These are passionate people, after all. They can appreciate a sulking douchebag like me.

So I sulk. And a little sulking relaxes me. I go to the bar for a Jameson on the rocks and don't care when the bartender charges me most of my per diem. I can't remember the last time I said out loud to no one "I need a fucking drink goddammit!". In a few sips, things start to turn around.

So there's a little slice of tour: the occasional opportunity to do and feel your absolute worst, but with a cool shirt on, no one will notice. In fact, chances are good that while you're in a miserable sulking state, you might radiate some kind of broken honesty that will make you glow in someone's eyes. (I had great conversations while I sulked!)

...and my shirt, by the way, is by far one of the coolest shirts in Madrid. It was my Dad's and it says, "Very Modern, Very italian, & Very Good". It was THE coolest shirt in the city until Josh turned his "Fun Is First" shirt inside out.

DL&Hounds Tour Day 6

2009-11-15T02:42:00.000-08:00

Dawn lost her wedding ring in Brooklyn and Josh found it by the toilet at Ronnie's in Birmingham. Josh found a book he was reading on last tour just before starting this run, and picked up where he left off. Josh watched Madonna's Truth Or Dare last night in Madrid. In it, there's a scene where Madonna is on tour in Madrid and has dinner with Amaldovar and Antonio Banderas. Josh is mixing his new Rocketship Park record while traveling in a van playing rock shows. Josh can sniff out the great places to eat in a town or city you've never been to. Josh has superpowers.

DL&Hounds Tour Day 4

2009-11-12T19:50:00.000-08:00

You have to have the wide eyes of a visiting alien to keep up with the world passing before our eyes. Liverpool was cold and grey, but the people were warm and the hotel by the Mersey felt just like we were staying in our building in Dumbo (except it was clean and had no rats.) Josh and Simon were troopers in Manchester, taking the brunt of the load in and load out at Dry Bar to let my aching back have a rest. Dawn has had a hard time swallowing but no problem singing, and today's drive to Birmingham included Lucinda William's Car Wheels On A Gravel Road, which we all agree is one of the greatest albums ever. I ate some curried kidneys today and threw up a little in my hands, but there are no ills while we stay for the night with Ronnie and Adam on Rotton Park Road. Tonight we sipped cognac and learned "Rockin' Around The Christmas Tree" for a performance on Spanish television in a few days.

Tomorrow we play here in Birmingham and then leave at 6 a.m. on Saturday to catch our flight to Madrid. Simon is looking at his ad in the paper for "Tour Manager available for bands cooler than Dawn Landes and The Hounds" as he sadly anticipates dropping us off at the airport.

2 for U

2009-07-29T15:05:00.000-07:00

2 people I know recently sent me e-mails. They both had tags at the bottom of their e-mails.

One said

"The information contained in this transmission may contain privileged and confidential information. It is intended only for the use of the person(s) named above. If you are not the intended recipient, you are hereby notified than any review, dissemination, distribution, or duplication of this communication is strictly prohibited. If you are not the intended recipient, please contact the sender by reply email, or fax and destroy all copies of the original message. Thank you.

The other said

" ...the thought has come to me that the old world in which our people
lived by the work of their hands, close to weather and earth, plants
and animals, was the true world; and that the new world of cheap
energy and even cheaper money, honored greed, and dreams of liberation
from every restraint, is mostly theatre. this new world seems a jumble
of scenery and props never quite believable, an economy of fantasies
and moods, in which it is hard to remember either the timely world of
nature or the eternal world of the prophets and poets. and i fear, i
believe i know, that the doom of the older world i knew as a boy will
finally afflict the new one that replaced it."

-wendell berry

Scam on. Y'knowit.

2009-07-29T11:17:00.000-07:00

PROLOGUE: on an evening on July 16th (I think) I went online to sign up for unemployment. Googling unemployment, I clicked the first site I saw, a clean looking site called File For Unemployment. I recognized the site was a "step to the desired step" type of operation which always costs money, and soon figured out that it was a publishers sweepstakes type of scam. But when I saw I could get a gift card for Whole Foods if I walked through their maze of signups and questions, I did what every broke and curious soul would at least consider doing, if not do.

ONE

I tried for the third time in a week to complete my unemployment application. I was using the phone this time, but riding on the train was making it difficult to hear. The processing was not going well. My other line rang and with not a thought I flashed over. I was offered a free trial for selling stuff online for kids and pets. I told the woman I didn't want to waste her time, that I had a use for the EBay kit I signed for, but this pet thing was too much.

"You're contacting me though the unemployment scam I went through to get free food," I told the woman. "Now you're calling me with free offers and I haven't even filled out my unemployment application yet. I don't have time for your free trial. I would get it, not use it, forget to send it back, and you'll charge me for it."

"But Raymond," said the woman. "I thought the point was that you needed to make money."

Can telemarketers be penalized for psychological harassment? Even, swift, and clean as a blade I replied to the woman and said, "I have designs for the EBay kit - and the colon cleanse I signed up for. But there is no place in my life for pet supplies and kids toys."

I thought of Traci hearing those words, laughing, and then getting a little sad. A few nights earlier she had sat and watched me do the online questionnaire.

"You will get to the end and they'll tell you you don't qualify and then they'll have your information," she'd said.

I didn't care. I was scared for our needs. also but playing around with Dimitri, Brian's scam buddy had given me a shot of fearlessness. I was out of body like a Camus character. I'd been worried since I lost my passport that someone was already playing around with my identity. Thinking back on it all, I'd say that at that point, I was ready to give it all back and start over.

Sometimes I think about people who would steal an identity only to make constructive changes for the people who's name they borrow. Fix their credit report, make a donation to a local cause the original person doesn't have time to do. Answer e-mails from O.P.'s family, register for more free stuff on the internet...

I stand on my head upon a thin thread these days. If Traci and I had action taken against us for non-payment or poor scam choices, there are places we could land securely. There have been many a great moment lately when we realize life could maybe be better, but that the present is a great place to be. The financial losses we face now are mostly healthy ones that wrere taken with the risks firmly noted. We have our tails between our legs about a few things, and wish our credit wasn't a mess, but we pay as we can. I'm doing the best work of my life.

PART TWO

Traci sat on the bed and I at my t.v. tray desk and we went over bills. in the course of things the phone rang. It was Macy's. We made a plan to pay in the store on August 12th. The next call was the Student Loan Servicing Center. This is not my favorite bill to be late on, especially after missing our first payment post-forbearance. The third caller said he was with publishing something, or EBay publishing. Another result of my participation with fileforunemployment.net

"Will you be using the E Bay professionally," he asked.

"I'm not sure I understand the question."

"You want to use it to make money, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Will you be using it for your primary source of income?"

"I am hoping it can suppliment my income if that's what you mean."

"Will you be selling your own stuff or other people's things?"

"My own stuff. I don't really know EBay," I said. "I am sure once I understand how to use it I may get some ideas."

"Thank you for your honesty," said the man, who wished me a good day and got off the phone.

These people already got my credit card purchases (under 10.00 for E Bay package and 30 day colon cleanse!). But the payment is not the half of it. They are after information. The more this unemployment scam goes on, I realize that The Royal Scam in the Obama age is a strong one, utilizing the dream of goodwill in the lower income class. A strong front in the war of the soul which came in full technicolor to me on 9-11.

I always wanted to try a colon cleanse. And learn how to sell on EBay. I still have not been able to finish my unemployment application.

THREE

I finished my unemployment application yesterday on the phone. My attempts to file the claim had a few glitches. Apparently I said I was handicapped.

"You must have been filling it out quickly and made a mistake," the kind woman said.

FOUR

Macy's has started calling again. I answer today for the first time and tell the caller no. No I will not pay today because I already made arrangements. We get off the phone. The next time it rings a woman answers. I take the offensive. "Hello, Macy's," I say before she can introduce herself. I already feel bad for her.

"Your business is terrible, " I say. "I already made arrangements with your company and you are still calling which means your records or something is not consistent with my last conversation. What do I need to do to get this straight? My credit is bad enough as it is." I go on.

I am told again that it is being recorded in the computer that I will make an in-store payment on the 12th. " can hold off the calls until the 9th," she tells me.

"Then you will call to remind me about the 12th," I confirm.

"Yes," she says. While we'd been on the phone I had logged into our bank account to see if there might be 15 dollars to squeeze out for Macy's prior to Aug. 12th. I see that our account was 85 dollars over drawn. A purchase had been made of 79.00. For a colon cleanse.

"Anything else I can help you with today,' the Macy's woman asked.

"No."

Brian Checks In

2009-07-15T12:37:00.000-07:00

This morning I listened to Jerry Reed, Pat Metheny's 80/81, and Stevie Wonder's The Secret Life Of Plants" on vinyl. The joy was brought to me by Brian Vinson, Louisville friend and fellow Days of The New player, who brought his stereo into the apartment last night. Since arriving in New York last Thursday , Brian has attended the 12th Night closing party, partied with lesbian German ladies at a gay bar, taught a bass lesson to a gifted young musician, and been frisked by cops on our street (learning in the process that the word "dope" means something different in New York than Kentucky.)

Brian makes a great pasta dish with tomatoes and basil and is putting Traci and I to shame hustling work: he rounded up 340.00 in jobs in his first week in the city.

A few minutes ago he was working on his resume when I pointed to the UPS letter package that had come for him this morning. In the package was a check made out to Brian for $2975.00.

Immediately I had a flashback to the bogus Tool ticket I bought outside the Hammerstien Ballroom a few years back, but the way Brian's luck was going, I had to pause and wonder the odds. "This sounds just like a scam my neighbor told me about," Brian said. "They send you a check then tell you the money needs to be delivered immediately. So you deposit the check, deliver money to someone, and before you know the check has bounced, they have made off with your money."

This didn't stop the instantaneous daydreams of where the money would go.

"How much do you owe on rent, Ray? Let's go pay it!"

There were no watermarks.

"That weed dealer got anything bigger than an 8th?"

The check appeared to be from an account belonging to The New York Foundling at 590 Avenue Of The Americas. A search online revealed that there was indeed a New York Foundling Hospital at that location. A 140-year old non-profit New York institution dedicated to the children of the community. Their motto is "Abandon No One".

The signature on the check was a bloated pixilated computer signature from somebody named Hayes. The participating bank was Commerce Bank at 90 Fifth Ave. Another search and a few phone calls and we learned that 90 Fifth Avenue is the bulding by Union Square that houses Guitar Center and they have space available. We also learned Commerce Bank was now TD Bank, and the validity of the check was, according to a bank employee "supect".

The UPS package was from an unnamed person residing in White Plains, New York.

Brian continues working on his resume and I play Joao Gilberto. Brian's phone rings. "What? Who?"

A man on the other end identifies himself as Dimitri.

Brian: "Oh, yes sir, I did get the check in the mail, But its for 29-uh, but our arrangement was for eight hundred. Not twenty-nine hundred - "

Brian turns down Gilberto. "I was expecting a phone call from you before I got the check. I just got it an hour ago... you would like me to do what with the 2100.00? How, uh... I said, how would I go about doing that without putting this check in my account?...[long pause]... if I can get it cashed at the Commerce Bank then sure - I'll get the money to your landlord. What's your landlords number? ....[longer pause] What's not possible?"

"Well, if its in New York, I can get it cashed and run it by him."

"If this check will cash at the bank, then yes."

"Alright, well, what's your landlord's name and number?"

"Yeah, but you didn't send the landlord's name and number did you?"

"How do you spell your name?... D D or just D? Okay, go ahead....(writes) okay...okay...uh huh. Okay...okay...access to a computer, yes. I'm on it right now. Want me to check my e-mail? Okay, so...have the realtors name and address of what the apartment is..."

"...well the banks are probably closed now - its 4:30 so I'll have to do it first thing in the morning. Uh, it's 4:30 here in New York and the banks are already closed..."

"Sir." Brian's voice is sharper and deeper. "Well, if I can go by the bank and cash it, we can get the money to your landlord. Yeah. That'd be great. Send me the e-mail. Thanks."

Dimitri. I ask Brian what nationality he seemed to be. "Who knows it wasn't no English." Brian cops an accent that could have been African or Egyptian and tones Dimitri's reply when Brian told him he hadn't cashed the money yet. "Oh, I thought you were going to do that already."

Brian leans into the laptop in front of him. "Yeh. Dimitri here. He said he would send me an e-mail. Let's see if he's sent it yet."

I remind Brian that he'd already talked to TD bank and the check is "suspect".

"Yeah," he says. "But they didn't really look it up."

We're gonna go to the bank tomorrow.

12th Night: Meet The Illyriacs!

2009-07-08T13:48:00.001-07:00

Our band for 12th Night affectionately named ourselves The Illyriacs. Chris on pipes and flutes, myself on bodhran, Steve and Jon Patrick on guitars, Andrew on violin and guitar, and Leslie on flute. We have to admit to ourselves every so often that we are a pretty good band. Over the past 5 weeks, we have made as much of a tradition as we can of meeting behind the Delacorte stage before the show begins to warm up. Herb Foster (who plays Valentine) is always there ahead of everyone, settled upon a folding chair, gazing out at the evening's Turtle Pond activity. Leslie is quick, too, usually sitting next to Herb playing her flute. Steve will arrive, have a quick bout of tuning with his funky guitar, and then we play our opening song and anything else we have time for. By time Stage Manager Kaus calls places, our pulses are usually settled into a collected tempo.

12th Night: Layerian Pipes in Illyria

2009-07-05T14:32:00.000-07:00

It's an hour before we'll be called to places and Christopher Layer sits next to me in the dressing room, tuning, warming up his Uilleann pipes. I have discovered that there is no greater instrument to make my tennitus pop off with a chorus of Ode to Joy than Chris' pipes. The ringing in my ear mixes with the otherworldy sound of Chris' instrument in ways intoxicating and excruciating. Some nights I cannot take it and have to leave the room and get some aspirin. Other nights I succumb to the sounds, jump to the center of the dressing room and do my Fred Sanford jig-dance.

The other night before our pre-show warm up, Steve Curtis commented that he and Chris were not in tune.

"These pipes," Chris said smiling." You play them in tune."

I like Chris' use of the word play.

Steve said that when Hem got a list of recommended musicians be a part of 12th Night, he was handed 2 pages of pipe players. Chris was nowhere on the list. This doesn't surprise me in the least. In the words of the madly used Malvolio, I don't think Chris is of the element of the musicians who get on lists. He is his own walking list, a superstar in some circles, the only instrumentalist in the western hemisphere licensed to play a number of compositions written for the uilleann pipes. Christopher Layer hails from Lafayette, Indiana, an internationally regarded flute and pipes player. Chris exudes a personal journey every bit as musical, specific, and idiosyncratic as the pipes he plays. He is a list of one. When The Public tracked Chris down, he was in New Orleans. The producers had to wait until he came back from Jazz Fest to audition him.

Our first 12th Night music rehearsal wasn't 10 minutes old before Christopher demonstrated without trying that he knew more than anybody in the room about Irish music. I later learned that Leslie our flautist showed up to the same rehearsal surprised to see that her teacher was playing the bagpipes in the band - again, "Ladies and Gentlemen, Christopher Layer... " When we looked at the pictures of Old World locales that had been posted for inspiration in LuEsther Hall, Chris said, "I've played a concert in that castle." No one was surprised.

One night early in rehearsal we were on dinner break. Chris asked a guy in line at Famiglia if his "Blackwater" golf shirt was a joke. The guy did not have a sense of humor. "You can't come to this city and not be social," Chris said. "Plus Blackwater is so fucking horrible." Chris didn't learn much about me over that dinner. I was too interested in what he had to say.

"New York City is going to have to figure out what they're doing about the water," said Christopher Layer. "It's the real problem facing us now."

Chris has on more than one occasion thanked his fellow Illyriacs for putting up with him and his ways. The apology is totally unnecessary and to me, reeks of the sad fact that if the artists roaming the world haven't had to homoginize their manners in order to play together and get on lists, they have probably suffer too many expectations of civility. I don't think anyone in this cast hasn't walked around for at least a day convinced that no one likes them. (I've clocked in at least a week with such a condition.) But I think this feeling results from the priviledge of actually having been given freedom to work in a collaboration where no one has dramatically drawn lines with their fellow artists. There is no music director for the Illyriacs. Everything that has happened has been the result of combined input from everyone involved, and everyone agreeing to listen to one another and solve the problems as a group...and we're still getting along! I guess sometimes apologizing is a good way to check in and be reassured.

Besides, Chris has a knack of keeping his gift of gab interesting, not to mention useful. Everyone from the Hem composers to me (playing the bodhran for the first time) would perk up our ears when Chris made a suggestion or, when directed at me, a wisecrack.

One day, looking at the box of bright colored percussion instruments I'd brought, Chris said, "Did you rob a clown?" He was particularly intolerant of one saucy little instrument I used for a while - a jingly Pier One holiday napkin holder. "It sounds like a candy wrapper!" he said. His initial subtle attempts to get me to put it down didn't work, but eventually I agreed it wasn't the sound.

Then during tech rehearsals, I pulled the offending instrument out once more to hear it for a run through of the finale song. Immediately and before I had a chance to play it, Chris recognized the sound, turned to me and snarled, "I thought we were through with that thing!" It was an unfortunate moment: however much I might have wanted to impress upon Chris the outdoor acoustics and the way I was using the micing to get my colors, I told him that if I could appreciate the sound of him warming the fucking bagpipes, he could be patient while I mixed my sounds.

But Chris and I get along fine in this moment, of course. (In the end I still did not incorporate the jingly napkin holder.)

Chris wrote the funeral melody for 12th Night that reprises as the introduction to "Come Away Death". Some nights, the intro is played so strong that I worry for Raul and Annie who must then work their magic as Orsinio and Viola discussing the trappings of women and love. But everyone rises to the occasion, and Annie punctuates the famous line about "dying even as they to perfection grow" with giddy poignancy, so rock on Layer!

Other nice things about Chris Layer

1- he's an inventive cook.

2 - He's the first person to have recognized the impending lunar cycle upon our production (which just completed with a mind blowing full moon last night.)

3 - a mockingbird lives on Chris' street. It has made national news for mimicing the car alarms.

4 - Chris is a nudist ("especially when I'm on a raft going through the Grand Canyon"). On his personal blog, there used to be a picture of him playing a flute on a rocky waterfall, looking like a mancicle. The lantern in the background of the picture would make you think the photo was taken at Turtle Pond behind the Delacorte Theatre, but it wasn't.

One more Chris moment: before a recent show he was venting about an unsavory turn with one of the ensemble members, and I said, "That's mean spirited."

Without missing a beat, Chris swaggered and said, "I am mean spirited in case you haven't noticed, Ray. Which reminds me. I brought some licorice for J.P.."

Dinner Break (18th night pt.2)

2009-06-30T23:07:00.000-07:00

I'm eating the loneliest slice of pizza in New York.

The second loneliest, I guess. The first and most lonely slice was a little further north on Columbus. Eating it gave me some energy and immediately I didn't feel so much. But when i finished, I was still hungry, and I decided if I was in for another lonely slice, it should be Ray's.

This one is much better.

On the radio is Sheryl Crow singing, "If it makes you happy, it can't be that bad. If it makes you happy, why are you so sad?"

Maybe it's is a sad slice.

I wonder if in the time it takes to eat this slice I could get it out of me. There's a black shriveled leaf of basil in the middle of it.

(Paul Simon "Something So Right.")

I am sad because sometimes, today especially, I feel so far out of my element that I don't know how to act. My shyness and reluctance to speak has weighed hard on me in the past weeks. It's an unnatural behavior that I've made habitual. I am pretty sure I am the only person in the cast today who was lying down in the dressing room with the light off, scared to step out into the hall. I haven't had a vacation in over 18 months and it's wearing me down. I see the difference it makes with people around me as I fumble through our limited exchanges. I feel like I've been in the presence of random passing people for so long that I've forgotten how to talk. (Gram Parsons "In My Hour Of Darkness) I am awkward in instances, or come on with such force its too much. I have become more rather than less self conscious.

Kierkegaard has written about the man who imposes introversion. I am reading it in Denial Of Death and its freaking me out. But more on that later. (Days Of The New "Last One")

Yesterday the lovely cadaver.
Today Tim Krekel passes.
The rain it raineth.

I thought in moving here that we would make good friends in New York City. But I feel like Traci and I have barely got to know anyone much less feel like we've grown with anyone.

It's better than this. I'm just having a hard day.

(Lyle Lovett "Church")

Traci has been happier lately which is a direct effect of my having such a good and steady job. This has relaxed me and that has been great for both of us. On a day like today, I am already dreading it ending, and this is making it even weirder to relate to the people around me. I've been here before. I don't think I have the strength to feel this way any more. Something's got to change.

My brother Mike is coming home tomorrow for a 2 week break from Iraq. This is so impossible for me to conceive of. I have barely spoken with him.

I talked to Dad today. On a day like today, where my mind goes...

Paul Simon in Central Park. Slip Sliding Away. Feste and Come Away Death. It's a big, sad cocktail, isn't it?

People Are Giving Less On The Subways

2009-06-30T23:06:00.000-07:00

by Little Willy Shakes and Ray aboard the long A Train

I watch twelve o'clock turn to twelve o one a.m.
My mistress I'm misdressed, night mayhem clocks
at midnight but I rock Big Ben

Brother can you spare a stroke

".can you please help a homeless person?"
again dragon's feet and knees, hollow teeth
grey braided hair
fingers long and jaded
pressing a word to the flat floor

) (

I could have helped before the door opened and left him
nothing
did I say

Hello Hi Hey n"Ice E U in Eighties

dungarees nice undegrees

I didn't do nothing, I did worse. Seeing a second time both times in the same mind
he knew I knew the times a'make you loosen your ties, improvise

calling lies
in2
questions
revise
retention
Be
lies in intention
all is one
all is ice
in Hades

Play these, tune awhile
from now be gone and
smile

Courteous curtsy,
bow
wow wow yippee
O ditty say

"Kin' rain again some sunny a'day?"
away from hysteria
the element is clearing. YEah.
I'm so pleased I'll ear in ya mouth
ear in ya mouth

clearing
hearing
speak
in the
south

ear in your mouth
I'll ear in your mouth
I'll earn 20 an hour if i go pro
ear in your mouth, I'll ear in ya mouth
or do my best when I'm all alone
I'll ear in ya mouth

Uses are uselessly calling me home
I'll never go without you
I need to know, need to grow
into your ratatouille
you in my chop suey

"Uses are useless"
:kiln baked motto of a single mind
dead.
An end of a
voyage of nothing

With hat's off like mathematicians
gave it over to the innervisions

joy is a strong thing
to support your moves
find some proofs
and flush the suit

18th Night

2009-06-30T22:35:00.000-07:00

Rehearsals for the musician/actors of 12th night began the week of May 12th. May 18th was Mom's birthday. On that evening I left the apartment with Traci's ipod on shuffle.

It started with "Fall"? from Vivaldi's The Four Season's, which was the c.d. I played when I would give her a massage. The next song was an Afro Cuban drum and voice performance of "I Wish You Love". Then, Paul Simon singing "Have A Good Time". Then the Pointy Kitties "So Unreal". Then more Cubano. Ba ba ba.

On October 14th it will have been ten years since Mom left. Mom would be 71 this year.

I always remember the day she died.

This was the first year in !0 I felt the day she was born.

There is a song in 12th Night called "Come Away Death". it is the bulls eye of sad song lyrics, and when we play Hem's version of it, I truly believe that every soul in earshot feels the warm insulation of utter sad despair that Orsinos everywhere will cloak themselves in. it's a drug rush, this kind of sadness. It can become addictive.

"Come Away Death" has in it the saddest line in a song I have ever heard.

"Sad true lover never find my grave to weep there."

It is a lyric that could make Hank Williams mute in a "the rest is silence" kind of way. I used to think "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry" was the saddest song ever written. But Willy Shake put to Hem's melodies, played by the Illyriacs and sung by David, Raul and Annie takes the cake.

A week ago I watched a filled body bag on a stretcher be taken from the house across the street. There were only the medical team members present. it reminded me of when Mom was sick.

"You don't know how lucky she is," Nurse Judy told me. "Many people go through this alone." Judy also told me I was lucky. I got to mourn Mom while she was alive.

One day during tech David Pittu saw the book I'm currently reading and said, "Oh, stop denying death, Ray!"

I did.

12th Night :"Karmic Debt"

2009-06-24T10:57:00.000-07:00

The rain is falling nicely on the understudies as they run through the scenes in the roles they have prepared to cover.

Julie is Viola.
Robin is Olivia and Maria. (A dangerous feat to behold.)
Slate is Toby Belch.
Dorien is Andrew Aguecheek
Kevin is Malvolio and Antonio.
Baylen is Duke Orsinio.
Clifton is Feste
David is Sebastian
and Leslie our lovely bandmate is understudy for Olivia's ladies.

Andrew and I are "male swing" understudies, which means that in the event that Dorien, David, Slate, or Clifton are needed to cover a principal role, one of us may have to step in to their roles as soldier or attendant. Kaus just laid the specifics on us: Andrew is tracking Dorien. I am tracking Slate.

Andrew immediately asked Dorien which roles he was tracking. It's a reasonable possibility, suppose, that Andrew would need to know the lines - the understudies are tracking multiple roles and it could happen that on some wild night, two roles Dorien is tracking would need to be covered.

But I think Andrew and I pretty much understand the real possibuilities of such things, so presently I am typing on the computer in the stage manager's office while Andrew plays his guitar and sings in the next room. He is playing songs that a friend of his wrote, songs that would resound comfortably in a singer songwriter spot like Rockwood Music Hall.

"I'm not ready for the spotlight, not quite yet," goes the song Andrew sings. "I'm still paying off this karmaic debt."

I frankly wish Andrew would sing the Over The Rhine song that he covers so well. I've heard the song he is singing now too many times to ignore the fact that I just don't understand how "the spotlight" can be the brass ring of a wistful and breezy introspective 6/8 song. I wouldn't be as beguiled if the word "spotlight" was replaced with "your love", but I would still wonder too much how someone could have such a clear grasp of their karmaic ledger. It sounds really, um, Puritan. So okay - I'm being a dick, which means its hitting close to home, this song of Andrew's friend. Every time I hear Andrew sing it, an uncomfortable knot twists in my gut, and it won't be untwisted by simply railing on what a goofy song it is or name calling. There is an element of the song that is indestructible, which comes from the questionable but grand values of it's writer and the out and out commitment of Andrew the singer who clearly feels every word.

And it's exciting that Andrew has a song like this to pour himself into on the eve of his audition for an international tour of "Fame". Kick that song in the ass my friend! Then please sing Over The Rhine.

12th Night: The Best

2009-06-24T00:17:00.000-07:00

I have wondered and continue to wonder as 12th night rolls on... what does Shakespeare think about relationships and marriage in particular? Clearly marriage makes everyone happy at the end of the play. But Feste: "She has no folly. She will keep no fool until she be married."

In the last song, "When I came alas to wife, with hey ho the wind and the rain, with swaggering I could never thrive..."

I relish Raul Esparza's delivery of Orsinio's line: "For I myself am best when in least company." For the past few shows it has come across a little embarassed, but also proud, as if he is revealing a superpower that he knows no one can appreciate because they are simply not there when it reveals its force.

I want to know how a woman could love with a guy like that, partly because I want to know better the woman who sleeps down the hall from me as I write. Part of me is always, for better or worse, unavailable. And the unavailable part is the part that Orsinio says is his "best". Even if no one around him agrees that the best of the Duke unfolds in their absence, this is what he thinks. It is this image of himself that is affecting his reality, and this has to be okay with her.

I love the scene in Act 1 when Cesario/Viola listens to Orsinio go on about what Olivia must be told about his love. I love the scene because at this point the audience knows Viola loves Orsinio, and we see them as they cannot: as a woman and a man communicating to one another. Viola speaks out of love to the man in front of her who is too absorbed in his ideas of his romantic ambitions to see things for what they are. You get the feeling that Cesario could be a woman at this point and Orsinio still would not see. Do we think that part of this not seeing is also part of his attractiveness to her? Is it just me or is Shakespeare rocking some serious relationship dynamics here?

My drummer character in 12th Night is fucked up by what happens in the first minute of the play until he hears Orsinio talk romatically about Olivia's mourning. At that point, the drummer sees in Orsinio the things that Viola will: a guy in need of saving from his own indulgences. Maybe its true that our best comes when we're alone. I certainly can't write with anyone in the room.

12th Night : "Have You Ever Seen The Rain?"

2009-06-23T10:52:00.001-07:00

Last night's Hootenanny is still echoing in my head. Early in the evening, Kevin Kelly sat in with mandolin for a few rounds of song and on break, two comics wandered by and gave us a taste of their craftiness. Then The Doctor, his nephew, Jesse, Colin, Robbie and I managed our best Bachata and Merengue before The Doctor's family and Willie took over. A dance floor was made of the dirt and loose wood on the garden ground. Traci's Mac and Cheese, Nash's lentil soup and Israeli cous cous sated the Pot Lucky. Even Pee Wee at the end of the night had a guitar out and sang a few verses.

I set up the instruments under the portico next to Willie's Bodega because after a week of rain in Central Park, my nerves could not handle getting rained out. The night before, 12th Night was cancelled for rain - it was the ONLY night in a week and a half of rain when we didn't manage to do the show.

The way it works at the Delacorte is this: even on rainy nights, management can wait as late as 8:45 to start the show and still have the audience out of the Park by midnight, which is city law. This factors into rain delays, too - every night, our 8p.m. show has 45 minutes in its back pocket to give to the rain.

It was still raining at 8:45 on Sunday when Audra, Annie, Raul and Julie walked out onstage to tell the audience that we had to cancel.

"Couldn't you just start and then stop if you had to," asked one man in the audience.

Backstage, Brian Gold, one of our Production Assistants, had water drops on his glasses and was drying himself off after tending to Stage Right during the rain that started at 7:35 and had not let up. "What people don't realize is the amount of work it takes to make a show happen," he said. I hate to think about the disappointment of a cancellation after waiting in line all day for tickets. It would make it hard to appreciate the factors involved in doing Shakespeare In The Park for free. These matters range from insurance to health and city laws, spot operators in high towers exposed to the elements, not to mention the megafolly of trying to negotiate with Mo' Nature on a minute to minute basis.

By now everyone in cast and crew has learned that iPhone and online weather reports are not trustworthy indications of whether our show will go on. Last week, before our second night of rain, Annie had been sick, and with dark skies at 7:30, she thought for sure the night would be called. "There are going to be six people out there," she said, walking from wigs. "I know three of them," I offered. Actually, I knew six, and I was feeling very responsible to them for the rain that was sure to fall.

But even if our performance could have been called on account of low attendance, this was Queens night. Earlier in the day, Shakespeare Festival had passed out tickets in the borough and Queens had shown up with their rain gear, dressed for a football game. They weren't going anywhere. At 8:05 p.m. drizzle fell on the guy from the Queens Borough President’s Office as he made a quick speech relating Joe Papp's vision for Free Shakespeare to Queens being the most ethnically diverse area in the world. There was some clever wordplay using “Twelfth Night” and “thirteenth night of June”, and then he ended with, “Let’s hope this rain stops.”

That night the rain delay came earlier in the play, during Jay O Sanders’ and Julie White’s first moments in Act 1 Scene 3. Their energy was barely buckling under the downpour when the round and assuring voice of Production Manager Steve Kaus came ver the God mic to halt the scene. The audience cheered when Julie stuck her hands out, huge raindrops exploding in her skyward palms, and shook her head as if to say, “What? We’re stopping for this?”

It seemed miraculous that night when, shortly after 11:30, we made it to the end of the performance.

"I learned my lesson," Annie said later.' The show will always go on."

But there she was, this past Sunday at 8:45p.m., onstage with the rest of the principals and an umbrella, trying to make the audience feel alright about the bad news.

"There actually is no nudity in Act 2," she joked. "That was last summer."

As Sunday's rain shower continued and it grew closer to the time that the show would have to be called off, the cast had loosened up backstage. "We're going to do two shows tonight," announced Hamish Linklater. "A midnight show!" replied David Pittu. Zach Villa stepped into a jam session in our dressing room and played a song he had written that sounded like John Mayer writing an early Springsteen epic. Stark Sands described the odd experience of wearing the brown contact lenses he was given to make him more twinning with Annie. "I have MacKenzie Phillips AND Bonnie Franklin in the audience," pouted Pittu.

Hamish looked at the backstage doppler and Herb said he got a call from people south of us who were slammed by rain. Both reported dismal prospects. Every few minutes, Kaus the Production Manager made an announcement from his cinderblock stage manager's office. When he did, the cast gathered in the hall between the dressing rooms to listen. At one point, Kaus reported that things had cleared up and Pittu walked to the Vom entrance and back to tell Kaus he was wrong. "I'm not going to believe you anymore," proclaimed Pittu. Grinning, Kaus walked to the Vom entrance and back. "I guess it picked up again."

We had endured such a wet performance the night before that when we'd arrived, Kaus had set up a table of baked goods backstage with the note" OK...maybe it WAS more than just a mist. - Kaus" At 8:45p.m. on Sunday night, I am certain Kaus was looking at the sky still wondering if we could pull it off when the clock ran out. Finally, he came over the p.a. with the final call, asking some of the actors to come to the stage to make the official announcement.

"Ya'll should know," said Julie White to the audience, " that most nights we will do the play when it's raining like this, so come back some night when its raining. You can walk right in!"

I felt for Steve and Hamish and others who had family in to see the show. Traci was there, too, but having seen the show last week, she took the opportunity of the rain delay to explore Shakespeare Garden and Belvedere Castle for the first time. She was deep in enchantment mode when we met back up to walk with everyone for drinks that hardly seemed earned.

I was glad for Brian and everyone else who would relish the night off after such an intense week. It was nice thinking of Herb getting an early start with his drive out of town, listening to Chris Layer's cd as he rode.

But it hurt to walk out of the park at 9:30 on Sunday night behind some of the people who had come to see the play. A slow moving portly woman in front of us and another before her in an electric wheelchair both had their Shakespeare In The Park rain ponchos on, the printed skulls upon them looking like a sick joke. It didn't help that in the time it took to walk from the Delacorte to Central Park West, the need for umbrellas was gone and it never rained for the rest of the night.

12th Night : "Forces of Nature"

2009-06-20T12:04:00.000-07:00

Every night when I watch Audra McDonald and Anne Hathaway play together through a swarm of bugs, I remember what Lucas Papaelias told me about his time doing Romeo and Juliet 2 summers ago: “Being in the band for Shakespeare In The Park is the best job. Those actors will go through hell being outside. You get to sit and watch it."

Last night was the first night that everyone in the show felt the bells ringing. Even the bugs gave their best performance yet. Entering at the end of Act 1 Scene 5, they clearly had their choreography together, sending to the stage a fraction of the numbers that have flown around the actors on previous nights. In the moment when love overtakes Olivia, they formed a perfect dazzling thought bubble in the air around her.

Perhaps Mimi Lieber our choreographer had worked with the bugs on their moves earlier in the day or perhaps after showboating for the past week, the bugs finally decided to leave their egos backstage and be a part of the ensemble. But I suspect they finally realized they are no match for the force of nature that is Audra McDonald...

It's the final moments of the same scene on Tuesday night. Olivia gives Malvolio the ring and sends him off after Cesario. Then Audra McDonald turns strongly to give the audience the totality of Olivia's feelings in her final lines.

"I do not know what - " she starts, her eyes wide with the wonder of love. Her next inhale perfectly takes in an air born marauder.

There is a most dramatic pause. Olivia's face hardens and her eyes dart to the ground. In the instant, you can see Olivia confronting an uncontrollable wave of anguish following the love that's just bloomed in her. With yellow flower in hand and watering eyes, you can feel Olivia, terrified, asking her brother if it is okay to proceed towards the possibility of new life before her. She is stiff, still, holding herself together, and you imagine that Olivia's time of mourning has now reached it's end.

You can experience these things most completely if you do not think of the bug that presently wanders the rich interior of Audra's golden throat. Like a tourist at Notre Dame Cathederal, I imagine it tiptoeing around, appreciating the warm acoustics, taking pictures and calling home to say, "Guess where I am!"

Then Audra McDonald as Olivia swallows hard. She continues, eyes still to the ground.

"-and...fear to find...Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind"

I marvel at the display of focus and control it must take to deliver these lines while suppressing a gag reflex. The effect gives Olivia an angry truth, placing her thoughts even more within the shadow of loss.

At this instant, I become aware of the Hem score which will come up in a few seconds to transition the scene. It's a bright and uplifting melody that perfectly suggests a progression out of melancholy. So no matter what the dramatic possibilities might be for Audra to end the scene within her present painful response to love, she knows we're headed to happy land. Audra, the amazing actress and singer that she is, knows this.

"Fate, " she says, a harsh address, "Show thy force".

...Olivia, tired of mourning has grown impatient, and speaking to fate as she might a servant. But then her body relaxes. A greater, natural sense seeming to overcome her.

"Ourselves we do not owe," says Olivia roughly, but with her head now raised, her eyes returning to search the bright places in the distance before her.

"What is decreed must be -" A brilliant musical note rings within the word "Be" and cuts though the humid air. Audra and Olivia are singing again.

"And be this so!"

The music comes in, perfectly in synch with the world thanks to the timing and rhythm and tone of Olivia's last words. And Audra McDonald as Olivia exits the Delacorte stage as she does most every night...to great applause.

12th Night : "Rain Delay, Part 1"

2009-06-18T14:41:00.000-07:00

It’s raining in Bushwick an hour before I have to leave for rehearsal. I am never sure about the weather, but from the outset, this looks to be the worst day of weather for our play since previews started last week. I don my Kentucky Colonel rain jacket and head for the train, forgetting for ½ a block to check if my backpack is open. It is unzipped, proud rain drops chilling in the firewire ports of my laptop.

So far we have had two nights when our performance has been delayed for rain. The first rain delay occurred on the night of our second show, moments after Andrew Aguecheek’s arrival in Act 1 scene 3. As he and Toby Belch spilled their drink following Maria’s exit, the voice of Stage Manager Steve Kaus came over the "God mic" to interrupt the scene.

"We are going to pause for precipitation," Kaus says, asking the audience to bear with us.

The announcement of the delay is met with discernable laughter from the audience. On my way back to our dressing rooms, a woman walking behind me says, “Pause for precipitation! That’s the funniest thing I ever heard!” I can’t tell if she is leaving or going to the wine vendor.

Once the ensemble is backstage and dry, Kaus comes over our in-house speaker, this time asking us to bear with stage management. “Once the weather clears and we clean the stage, we will return and pick up from Cup of Canary, Cup of Canary.” The protocol for returning from a rain delay is to pick up at the previous beat or from the top of the scene, whichever makes the most sense.

The rain stops. Johanna, Brian, Maggie and Buzz hit the stage with squeegees and wring the set as dry as they can while the sky continues to spit. Backstage Kaus asks us to take our places to reenter for “Cup of Canary, Cup of Canary”.

Waiting on the wheelchair ramp for our cue from Buzz, we hear Kaus over the God mic once more requesting that the people in the audience close their umbrellas. Down go the beaten colorful things to reveal faces that pucker in anticipation of the raindrops that quickly hit them.

Buzz says “Standing by” and leans into her earpiece for the message that comes over her headset. Then she nods a pleased co-conspirators smile and says, “Ah, you may go.”

The band return to the stage to deep and gracious applause befitting a baseball game or rock concert. I want to applaud back. Hell yes - we are doing this. Then Hamish and Jay come back out to even greater applause. Andrew and Toby drink their second cup of canary and things roll proudly forward.

Steve “Tally” Curtis leans over his guitar and says, “The audience looks bigger.” I look around and take a deep breath. During the delay, people moved down to take the empty seats closer to the stage, heating the area around us. I am awed feeling the will of the audience, cast, and crew to make the night happen. It cuts through any and all bullshit. This is it. The collaboration. Make the space for it to happen, and with nature's mercy it may be so.

12th Night : "Parade"

2009-06-18T14:07:00.000-07:00

Somewhere past the turtle pond and behind the castle, the thundering rhythms of the Puerto Rican Day Parade - it's deep bass rumble soaked in the sound of yelling and cheering so steady and strong that it seems like a recording. You feel the sound emotionally whether you acknowledge it or not - a whole people are gathered close by, shaking their skin from their bones. Puerto Rico has gone for a walk today and Puerto Rico is very excited. I decide that for this year, imagining the parade through the sound it makes will be better than seeing it. Next year I will seek out Boricua weekend first hand. This year I'm sitting on the edge of stage of the Delacorte Theater rehearsing.

Onstage the ensemble members involved in the finale dance are storming through their new and improved choreography. They cook in wet sunlight and keep time with the recorded portion of Hem's song, "The Rain it Raineth", the title of which I imagine Hem might have thought twice about in a band meeting: Steve pipes up from behind his coffee “Uh, guys, what can we do with this? I just wonder if ‘raineth’ really our best option here? Anyone have a Thesaurus?” Then Gary drops his fist on the top of the piano making the meteronome fall in Dan’s lap. “Dude, these are Shakespeare’s words you’re talking about. You don’t fuck with the Shakespeare!”

The band is called onstage to add our parts. I grab my bodhran, my tipper, and my shaker and meet Steve, Leslie, Andrew and Chris at the top of the fantastic stage-crafted hill. Chris and I have monitors that we wear in one ear to make sure that the live band stays in time with Hem’s orchestrations. Except for a technical glitch on the first night where the volume of my earpiece was compromised and the audience, dancers and band played the whole finale a half beat off, we've had no problems. From our present position onstage the thunder of the parade through the trees is actually giving the recorded track a run for it's audible money.

"The Puerto Rican Day Parade is the best parade in the city," Christopher says. "Much better than the St. Patricks Day Parade." These are serious words coming from a man with bagpipes. "So boring," he continues. I tell him that by comparison to what we are hearing, I can easily imagine St.Pats Day as far less fun. No pulse to dance to, boring colors. "Plus, they don't let in gays," Chris adds. Well, there you go.

Unreal

2009-06-15T20:02:00.000-07:00

Tim called today to tell me that the Bill Gates Foundation came by his Salvation Army outpost on Saturday with a glistening new tractor trailer decorated and filled with computers to give away to needy foundations. Tim and I have been biting our nails trying to get internet into his kitchen for our COHR streams - I immediately identified with how cool this could be.

"They were all set to give us computers and then they told us that they wanted to wait until Monday so they could get better press," Tim said. The SA director in charge of this matter is a young 25 year old guy who was hyperventilating all weekend preparing for today's visit and the press conference that he would have to participate in.

But the Gates Foundation never came back. No calls, no nothing.

"They must have found someone else to give the computers to," Tim said, an audible smile in his words. The total absurdity of the whole scam.

I have noticed that when you commit to things the way one does when working for Salvation Army, you develop a sense for savoring the ridiculous that plays out as you try, by any means made possible, to do your work with what the world can give you. People value so much the idea of charity that the government created whole new tax laws to inspire big businesses to buy big busses, load them with computers, and go around looking for all the free press and tax write-offs they can get. Maybe Bill Gates Foundation deserves a better shake than this, but prioritizing their effort based on media coverage makes them open for the shot: Douches! Every rock star has long since known the best press is NEWS! You reach more people and its free. Just ask all the new pr firms popping up that specialize in benefit operations and non-profit operations.

Even Kind Monitor got some juice out of an idea of making a benefit cd where they decided afterwards (by asking the artists) what organizations to give money to.

I'm gonna knock my balls around the chinashop here for a minute more ...Tim and I have had many discussions about the ideas of non-profit work. I think that soon the matter is going to have to be held in different regard. Non-profit is, or was, the 8th largest economy in the world. And it is highly unregulated. It has been a haven for people who have abuse tax laws, but it is also a choice for people looking to be creative in their business structuring, a viable means to an end. The problem is that the title "Not for profit" suggests a kind of benevolence, as if the NFP business got certified as official do-gooders and are therefore to be trusted. You're then not just playing with people's money, you are playing with their trust.

In planning Motherlodge, the theater people I spoke with took it as a foregone conclusion that I was or would soon be a non-profit. And no wonder! We would not have what meager theater there is in this world if not for people using the non-profit fundmaking to support their program. No harm in that, but I have to say I am interested in seeing what comes from the independent theater once the effects of the funding dry-up pulls the financial carpet out from under and we see who still can't stop writing, producing, and performing.

Makes me think of Mike's lyric in "Unreal"

"It's so thoughtful when billionaires are philanthropic

our cultrual landscape might wither and die if not for their help"

I lit a candle so I can fart to the darkness, and this soap box won't be a polarized position. If non-profit big money funding can make possible something as incredible as Shakespeare in Central Park, it won't be hard to get me to kneel before the concept from time to time. I have no axe to grind, really, except with pompous bullshit. I am just curious why a benevolent for-profit business that works to break even don't get the same respect as a lazily conceived concept waiving a 501(C) banner? This is a casualty of unexamined anti-capitalist feelings and an easily abused system called Not For Profit.

What are we saying about the value of building community when businesses labeled as "community building" are non-profit? I don't know about how it works in Peoria or Illyria, but in Bushwick, a little profit can build community just fine. I guess it just doesn't seem as trust(news)worthy.

Night off, nearly.

2009-03-20T21:12:00.000-07:00

I'm exhausted but I know I'm going to wake with my heart pounding. I finally sent the last Motherlodge press e-mail with the full schedule today....now I get to turn and see the stacked-up pile of "need to's" that has been sitting next to me while I was down that rabbit hole.

Like, "need to be all lovin' with my lay-day"...

Hay hay.

A quick list:

1) next year, take into account SxSW when sending press stuff. Too many out of office replies today...

2) Make packing list - clothes...taxes for Dad..band equipment...merch...uh....

3) Call the performers and say hello.

4) Now that I got a social security card, get a photo i.d.

5) Facebook my brother.

6) Birthday invitations for Dad's dinner next week.

7) Send Chef Tim his DVD so he can prepare for his CNN interview on the 28th.

8) Sip bourbon.

9) Have sex with cat.

10) Surf porn, erase history.

11) Beg every human I know to come to Motherlodge Louisville.

...I met with David Van Asselt today from Rattlestick Theatre on Waverly. We talked for 10 minutes about getting together with Scott Morfee at Barrow Street and laying plans for Motherlodge West Village in January 2009. When I texted Bob this news he texted back, "God spoke to you on the vernal equinox and declared you a New Yorker for the indefinite future. And an artistic direc"[cut]

Does that go in the bio?

I know, but...

2009-03-20T00:56:00.000-07:00

It's hard to explain, but some of the ideas that I couldn't get together for this Motherlodge were not necessarily time consuming. Some of them are a matter of a phone call. But they are, as I often say, "one call too many" - if I numbered the great suggestions I've got and then considered how easy they would have been if the person suggesting them had started with, "How bout I do this for you..." what a change that could have made.

I dunno. Maybe I'm blowing it up because I am someone who from being so over extended all the time can easily spot someone who is too consumed to ask for help. These are the people upon whom it's easy to try out one's generosity and helpfulness. "What can I do", I'll ask them (like so many people have asked me lately) even when I know that they are too overwhelmed to know where to begin in answering. So I feel like I offered, and don't have t sweat being expected to follow through.

Here's my list for anyone who is reading this and has good follow through ...

We need a morning show! Terry Meiners, WHAS!

We need posters to go up for Taylor Mac and our opening concert on March 29th.

We need big audiences!!! (If for no other reason than because it makes it more fun. But there are other reasons as well...)

Today I planned the last Motherlodge event. It will be a panel discussion about ideas of profit and not for profit with regard to artists getting funding, making a living, and having freedom to do so. I don't know if it will be a discussion open to the public or just something we broadcast on our soon-to-be network channel. But 3 speakers are confirmed: me, Julia, and a puppet.

Curation Creation Motherblog Paddy Day

2009-03-17T14:44:00.000-07:00

If you were a flower bud in the ground, how would you know the count of your pedals or even what color they'd be before you bloomed? If you were bacteria in a skin pore on the nose of a 13 year old, how could you predict what you'd come to look like in the mirror until you became a zit?

These are the kind of wise rhetorical questions my attempts for complete understanding of Motherlodge have brought me. Every once in a while I'll have a moment of "Oh, so this is what it is going to be!" Sometimes the realization catches me off guard. Other times, it's the incarnation of my earliest hopes for what could happen.

Yesterday, mogulus.com contacted me and they are very excited to partner with Motherlodge in time for Motherlodge Louisville. So one of my very earliest ideas for Motherlodge - a network channel for the greater creative community around me - is going to happen.

Then, today, Mark Langley of Clifton's Pizza called me to tell me that after many years and numerous attempts, the kitchen crew at Cliftons finally has a bona fide cover band. "We're playing our first paid gig this weekend at Longshot Tavern". Motherlodge on March 30th after Less the band will be their second. (Now if only I could get them on a double bill with Chef Tim Tucker's Shelby Park Soul Stew... ahh - next Motherlodge.)

The Clifton's Kitchen Band settled some questions for me regarding what I have been up to with Motherlodge. (Aside from upturning the schedules of my friends and risking complete financial ruin for my family.) What I'm doing is multi-tasking, but that's hardly news - I've been multi tasking since I learned to suck a nipple and shake a rattle - it's the tasks themselves that have been hard to identify. Now, a nearly fresh realization of what I have been up to...

1) creating Motherlodge, but also, especially for this first Motherlodge Louisville, I have been 2) curating Motherlodge Louisville.

People like to throw titles around as if it says something about themselves that they need to convince other people of. I tend to come from the other direction hoping that the work will make it obvious, but that's not always been the sanest approach and here lately, I've learned that a fair grasp on naming your tasks helps everyone understand what's going on. I sent an e-mail to everyone who appears to be on the Motherlodge team to write me back with descriptions of what they are doing. I had failed to respond up to this point. This seems like a good place to start: I'm creating. I'm managing/producing. And I'm curating.

From Sunday's Opening concert at Salvation Army to Molly Rice's Saints Tour.... Taylor Mac and A Boy Called Noise....Lady Rizo and Big Diggity....live theater in Ear Xtacy records....Joe Hanna, Tom, and Opus Ditty's children's concert....RONNIE DORSEY (you will have to meet her to understand) and Adam Rapp having a week to do everything he does except maybe a game of basketball (next Motherlodge, Adam!)....no one could be more pleased by the universe that is coming together than me. And having Less the band and Clifton's Kitchen Band share a bill takes the cake. (That one kind of curated itself.)

Every exciting new understanding of the mechanics of Motherlodge comes joyfully with a task to mark for the not too distant future...CURATORS for the next Motherlodges!

skeleton of an invisible man

2009-03-13T22:53:00.000-07:00

Adam texted at 3:30 that he couldn't make 4:00 rehearsal. He was pissed, but two conference calls with HBO "came up". I texted him back asking him to make sure HBO had my new number and proceeded to Dumbo where our already skeleton-crewed Less rehearsal was down to Rob and I.

I've been tired of playing drums so I pulled out the Guild and found a space in which to maneuver with some ideas Rob had. At the end of our second burst of energy, I started thinking of Aaron Stout, and I felt a vastness stirring in me, with words to say and melodies to spit.

You left at dawn to be first in line for the beheading. You came back wide-eyed and asked me do you realize where we are heading. It's been hard to talk to you.

The words are not the thing yet. It's the feeling. Here's some more:

.......(uh)......

Okay, I can't think of it now, but this line - the one I can't remember - woke me from my sleep the other night and it was good. And it's somewhere in the dusty apartment I call my head. It went something something something something, "over the bridge unabridged, from 1 to 5."

Today was a day not to think about Motherlodge too much. I got up at 5:30 a.m. and went to the Fulton Street Social Security Office to apply for a Social Security card. With my birth certificate and marriage license I was approved. If I'm lucky I might get it before we leave for Louisville.

On the way out of the building, I was mocked by the security man at the door for not holding the door for a blind man. But I was confused. I'd just gone through applying for the SS card feeling like no one was going to be convinced that I was who I was. Walking out to see the blind man who had no regard for me, my first reaction was to feel even more convinced that I was not there. And on top of this, the guy was going in the wrong door. So I didn't know what to do - Do I help him go through the wrong door, or direct him to the - "HEY!" (before my thought was complete the security guard was on me) "That's great, sir! Thank you. Thank you for holding the door for him! Can't you see the man is blind?"

I had my reasons, but reasoning aside, as they say, the facts the facts: Today I stood aside and made a blind man open a door himself. I did some cool shit, today, too, but this is the story to end the day with.

And this completes today's blog from Ray - the guy who still sometimes thinks more than he acts.

Motherblog 12 Mar. 2009

2009-03-11T09:29:00.000-07:00

Needs for the day: 1) help with contacting for Louisville High Schoolers who WON'T be leaving town on Spring Break. We need volunteers. We need actors. We need responsible drivers. 2) someone to contact potential food sponsors for our meals. 3) someone with printing capabilities to help with programs the week of Motherlodge.

Commence naval gazing...

We lost Moby a few days back.

Okay. That's just fun to write. Really, we never had him, he's just cool enough to have considered coming to Motherlodge. He thought it sounded like fun, and said he'd check his schedule. I can't argue with him passing us up to play a benefit for transcendental meditation with Jim James and Sir Paul McCartney.

"Hopefully next year!" said Moby.

Yes Mobes, yes.

I can see why J.K. McKnight visualizes a ship for his Forecastle Festival. Organizing our humble first Motherlodge feels like equal parts witnessing and navigating the balance between natural systems and structures that have uniquely different behaviors and rhythms. (Like ships to water, venues to bands, or, say Brigid Kaelin and Shannon Lawson.) Yet somehow amidst the crashing of seemingly unrelatable manners, THE VESSEL that is the thing takes on shape and a direction.

Seriously - this wasn't the best Motherlodge for Moby. Or Jim James or Paul McCartney for that matter. This is the year for me, Traci, The Rud, Melanie, Bill, Derek, Myron, Matt, and everyone else who is going to be involved in Motherlodge to discover what it is.

Motherblog #1

2009-03-10T22:17:00.000-07:00

Bill had another great idea.

"Why don't you blog about the Motherlodge as its coming together, that way next time you'll have notes on what happened and what to improve on."

My first note of what to improve on has been with me since day one - never schedule as many shows with me in them again. But there was no way of avoiding that this year. To start, the only way I could imagine filling 8 days was to think of the people and ideas within my reach.

The Opening Concert is going to be the last thing that ultimately comes together, which figures, because it is the mission statement of Motherlodge. And like every good mission statement, it eludes containment like a dolphin covered in vaseline writhing on the deck of a tuna boat.

To start, the centerpiece of the concert is meant to be the audience, not the performers, but how exactly do you get people to come without a good reason? So tonight, a little over 2 weeks out, I am scrambling with the list of performers to advertise. The poster has yet to be made (!) It is going to say "10.00 suggested cover. Pay what you can. Just come." The emphasis is on just come. It stems from an idea that Chef Tim at Salvation Army and I feel strong about - everyone at some point can use a free meal. But for some reason, we attach a meaning to the kind of person that accepts a free meal. And this is block one in us being able to understand ourselves and anyone else in the context of our community. I hope some people who can barely afford the cover pay, because we will give them something worth paying for. And I hope some people who can afford to don't, so they can enjoy being taken care of. Don't get me wrong - we need to make money from the show. Quite a bit of money would be great, because the idea of Motherlodge is that everyone gets paid as well as possible. But for this, our opening concert, it is more important to stress community. There are nearly 1300 seats to fill. Just come.

The name of the opening concert is a tricky bugger, and I imagine at this very moment our co-organizer Todd Hildreth stretching his best German Mother Frown across his face as he reads some of the titles we have come up with for the opening concert.

But I should share some ideas before I get to the title options (which, by the way, are only options in my head because Tim and I settled an hour ago on a title - I'm just still pondering in my usual Ray way.)

So, some backstory - a few years ago - 15 or so actually, Craig Wagner and Joseph Castriota and I came up with a concert idea for our jazz trio. We were students at Bellarmine at the time and in our short jazz careers we had what I now think was a surprising knack for arrangements of spiritual songs. We also loved the soundtrack to Jesus Christ Superstar (the funky one with Ian Anderson and Murray Head). So Bellarmine College (at the time they hadn't found their way to University status) could only say yes to our idea to do a themed concert of music that turned a secular eye to the last story of Jesus.

Keep in mind, this was long before Mel Gibson or Southeast Christian.

I'm not sure what I mean by pointing that out, but there it is.

We never ever addressed the idea of Jesus resurrecting because we thought it was the part of the story that sold out the intelligence of the people who found inspiration in the man's story. In terms of song selections, we had some missteps. I really had no business singing "Simple Song" or "They Won't Go When I Go". And one year, when Craig failed to edit down a video we borrowed, the program ran with 4 excruciatingly long minutes of a televangelist hitting his peaks accompanied by overdubbed fart sounds.

But by the third year, there was a focus and drive to what we were doing that made for some of the best theater, music, and live art that I've ever participated in.

These days we are post Gibson and present Southeast Christian (a Louisville Church that has the budget to take out full page adds for their Passion spectacular show that sells out their church which seats thousands). With the Jesus story staying current with the modern temper, I don't see anything wrong with the next gospel contextualizing Jesus as an X Man, or a South Park character for that matter. But what has changed for me since our last concerts has come from living in New York: whatever you believe had best be of use to your neighbor or else it's not worth a shit. And by neighbor I don't mean the neighborhood, the demographic, the high school. I mean everyone sharing this world with you.

In his poem "Motherlodge", Kipling writes, "We met upon the level and parted on the square". He talks of the distinctions of religions recognized in the outside world, but of the little consequence they had inside the Motherlodge. (Which was, by the way, a Free Mason lodge).

Sure, Kipling didn't speak of women or homosexuals, but giving him the benefit of the doubt, we arrive at what I hope will be the core of the concert on the 29th - a warm, inviting place where everyone is welcome and encouraged to belong. Because of this it is my hope that Jesus stories are just part of the meditation, and that we land more firmly in the contemplation of everyone's story.

Tim and I like the title: "The Passion Fruits". I also like "SUP". Whatever it's named will taste and sound marvelous.

Spacemen have Orbituaries

2009-03-02T16:27:00.000-08:00

Published yesterday by the Indy Sun...

Aaron Joshua Stout, 29, died February 27, 2009. He was a loyal and cherished friend, brother, and son. He was a singer, songwriter, musician and composer, poet, artists, actor, and filmmaker. He is loved and missed by his parents, Stephanie and Jim Stout; brother and sister-in-law Simon and Liz Stout, James and Shalonda Cheatham; girlfriend Amia MAdole; grandparents Ronald and Carolyn Sue Doak, James and Eileen Stout; uncles and aunts MArk and Christi Doak, John and Gloria Comstock, Tim and Joan Doak, Doug Stout and Jill Warvel, Bob and Penny Stout, and Beth Coleman-Valdettaro; cousins Liz, Loren, Andrew, Tim, Christopher, Anna, Jordan, Betsey, Colleen, Bobby, Jeff, and AJ. Born August 6 1979, Aaron graduated from North Central High School in Indianapolis and attended Indiana University and University of Prague, Czech Republic, and wandered the world making music. He was blessed with rare creativity and passionately pursued his dreams. Aaron had thousands of friends. He brought much happiness and inspiration with his wacky humor, kind heart, remarkable intelligence and his wonderful talent. Aaron leaves a body of artistic works as his legacy. Many knew him by his art and we are left with sadness that we will not be able to create the new music that was his vision. He never knew how amazing he was. In lieu of flowers, contributions may be made to the Indiana Organ Procurement Organization or The United Way. Donations made to the family will support Simon's congregation Adonai Roi in Israel. Come visit with friends and family at the Conkle Funeral Home, Speedway Chapel, 4 p.m. to 7 p.m. Tuesday March 3, 2009, with a service to celebrate Aaron's life at 7 p.m.

Before/After

2009-02-24T00:15:00.001-08:00

Tomorrow night Corporal will play with Caithlin DeMarrais. While setting up the show, I had a moment when I wasn't sure what would make the best order for the bands. Caithlin and half of her band are from Ranier fuggin' Maria. This will only be Corporal's 5th show I think, but with Mike fresh from the Oscars, a lot of friends are psyched to check in with him... no one in either band really cared and the matter was easy to decide, but it had me reflecting on some stories where order made a difference.

One of the best band-order stories was told to me by Ben Daughtery. In the late 80's, Squirrel Bait opened up for GG Allen in Cinncinatti. Even for soundcheck, GG was the consummate professional, knocking a light tech off a ladder and checking the mic by sticking it up his anus. When it was Squirrel Bait's time to check (for those that don't know, soundcheck order goes in the opposite of show order), Peter Searcy had to use the mic GG had christened. (As the story goes, later that night the show was raided and Squirrel Bait, most of whom were underage, were locked in a closet with GG who had been in the middle of a set where he was painting himself with his excrement. Showbiz!)

I realized writing this that Ben told me this story on the way to a Love Jones show in Phoenix Arizona where LJ was on a bill with All and (I think) The Descendents. Ben had a bit of a meltdown with the billing and we never played.

Which reminds me of the time I travelled with the Impressions for a show in Houston, but that is a whole story unto itself.

Other band order memories:

Playing after Foo Fighters. This was back when their 3rd album had just come out. It was my 5th show with Days Of The New. This went amazingly well in part because after seeing them destroy the stage, I felt like there was no point in being psyched out. I never noticed David Grohl and Taylor Hawkins sitting behind my drum riser during the set, which would have freaked me out. I remember Taylor's drum tech telling me about when FF's had played with Alanis Morissette that Alanis had made a stink about who played when and Grohl stormed into her dressing room, said he didn't give a fuck and played before her for the rest of the tour.

Playing after Black Keys at Rudyard Kipling. That sucked. This was the first time the BKs came through Louisville and I, being afraid of nothing, did not count on how less confident I could feel singing and playing guitar rather than drums, which was what I was doing at the time. I spent the set staring at every open space in the room, which seemed to be many after the Black Keys set.

IAJE 1991. Craig Wagner and John Skaggs and I were made the "host band" for a late night jam session. What a mess.

Days Of The New and Sevendust at Louisville Gardens. Travis and his management felt that because it was Louisville, Days Of The New should headline no matter what. By this time, (5 weeks after the Foo Fighters show,) I was beginning to understand the virtue of playing next to last. It is really the best time slot. It saves you from watching hundreds of drunk people stream out of the auditorium while you play the forth song of the set. I have great memories of the show, though. It was Dad's first quasi-arena show. Sidestage videotaping the topless chicks makes any set time a good time.

The week that totally was

2009-01-23T23:10:00.000-08:00

I'm not making this up. We really have a new President. Traci really got a client. Shannon really got an Oscar nomination and Lucas really got a gig at Humana Festival.

There isn't enough money between Traci and I to have a significant trip to the grocery this week, but there is food in our bellies, a world full of staggering change, and warm nights to share at home where we can shake our heads, look at each other and say, "Can you believe this?"

Inauguration Day

2009-01-19T17:28:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I woke up in a place I could have killed myself in. I was feeling the age in my bones and thinking that every decision I'd made in the past three years was wrong. It took most of the day to recognize that I was only thinking of the choices I'd made that were unfortunate. They were piled like dirty clothes on the wrong side of my bed and they were the ones I rolled myself into when I woke. But I wasn't thinking of all the choices I had made. Some of them haven't sucked.

The last line of the Hopi poem says, "We are the ones we have been waiting for." In the new year that started at 12 noon, I would hope that these words can be appreciated without a) sacrificing the whole of the poem they came from or b) being taken, mistaken or assumed for a slogan of arrogance. This Is about Inheritance. It is the work of the responsible to articulate all that can be imagined, and turn dream to action. These next few months are shaping up to satisfy those who can think freely. The searchlight for new ideas may not likely be this bright again (...one speech cannot sway nearly half a life of guarded cynicism...) or it could keep getting brighter.

I listened to the man speak, kicked myself in the ass once for the times I checked out and didn't continue to apply myself, and then resumed the uncharted program.

The end always feels near if you feel yourself nearing the end.

I spent Inauguration night with people who had been checked out of the system longer than I've been. Every one of us found reason to take a step closer, and reach for more in our thinking.

A mouse walked into a hole...

2009-01-18T06:37:00.000-08:00

This morning there are holes in the new snow that covers the sidewalk on Goodwin. These drops of nothing in the pristine white reveal dark wet concrete beneath, glistening like lizard skin. I think today that I could be the snow, boundless and insistent, or a hole, which I'd describe as an absence of something expected that is more remarkable for what it makes room for than what it is. I'm definitely not the ground under my feet.

No, today I am a hole. Definitely. I make my footprints respectfully, and with caution.

In the shower I heard a quote from a Monk who once lived in Bolognia. He said something like "in the world of todays poetry there are many mice who, when dusted with flour, consider themselves millers."

But the holes in the snow are what speak loudest.

People ask "What" and "How"

2008-11-24T01:17:00.000-08:00

Astroland is a Phantasmallegory (put Trademark symbol here).

The story continues to reveal itself in clangs and whispers, just as the problems of arranging it come clearer. (We are two weeks from our dress rehearsal.) [Cue sound of teeth popping off hard candy to sound like biting nails.]

There's THIS...Less the band started focused work on Astroland a year ago, but the seeds of the story started shaking in a few of us much earlier.

OR...In early 2005 I took a hit of weed in the back of a rental van traveling east from Pittsburgh to New York City and had a mild yet transformative breakdown. On the previous day, Less the band had breakfast with my Dad at North End Cafe in Louisville. Afterwards, we got in the van and I left Louisville for what seemed like permanently. We had to drive to Pittsburgh to play Gooski's, and then we would drive to New York City where I would wait for Traci to join me to begin the rest of our life. I was on my pilgrim's ride to a new home, to a place where I would always be a visitor, with four guys I barely knew.

By time the van pulled in to the rest stop on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, I'd cleared up the whole fascination with aliens thing: "Of course we relate. We're not at home, either. We think of aliens because we are them." (Things I've added since that talk: we think of God for much the same. If only we didn't have to spend so much time getting over ourselves.)

We ate Mc Donalds outside on the handicapped ramp. Two pudgy kids in cardboard-colored Boy Scout uniforms locked the doors of a station wagon and walked into the food court.

"Poor bastards," said Paul.

Everyone has memories of that talk at the Rest Stop on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. It is part of the picture of Less the band. It's in our history. Thank God.

Last night at Mercury Lounge Paul told the audience anytime we played an "old song". (Funny to have old songs when we've played less than 75 shows in our lifetime. ) Later as we rode in the back of the Zip Car with Rob's ten speed banging our knees Paul said, "Ray, remember after that one trip, how you had to piss real bad and we pulled over on Canal Street so you could do it?"

How could I forget? It was the end of the big trip, my first moment in New York feeling like a New Yorker. I stood on the curb and filled two McDonalds Extra Large cups with warm piss. Adam held one of the cups for me just for the hell of it.

Riding in the Zip Car last night I had another flashback to the "old days". It was also a day when Less the Band returned to New York from a run of shows and mixing our record in Chicago. Unlike the first trip, this one was a little more tense. No one was volunteering to hold the cup.

But as we crossed George Washington Bridge, Chernus told us that a photographer friend of his had called and asked if we wanted to play a battle of the bands at a metal club that night. Chernus thought the guy might take band photos for us if we did. We discussed extending our time together one more day.

"Are we fucking high?" asked Paul. But then he volunteered to go rent a U Haul for the gig.

We didn't qualify for another slot in a future band battle, but we played the best show of the year that night.

Blue Tooth

2008-10-28T21:42:00.000-07:00

I got a root canal. The tooth on the back lower right part of my jaw couldn't handle it anymore. The nerve was too big to stay exposed like it has been and it had been through a lot in a matter of weeks. Two dentists tried to put it back together before dentist #2 yanked out a sliver of broken tooth and said it was hopeless. It was time. I had been unreasonable with the foods I'd asked the tooth to chew for a long time. The Welsh I think first I cracked the enamel years ago biting on an olive pit, but the final irreparable split of the tooth's walls came from a piece of breakfast sausage containing a mean and nasty fennel seed. CarrRACKK!

Tomorrow I'll visit my dentist to make my weekly payment for her work and inform her that the right side of my jaw hasn't taken well to all the recent attention. I am worried about any more bad news (really hoping to put off the crown work). Everything had been going great until last week's appointment to fill the root canal. I could not physically sit still and deal with any more mouth trauma. I tried to get it under control, breathe deep and think myself a ut eventually she finished with, "I did as good as I could with you moving." I told her I understood.

If this were Facebook, I could post that Ray Is Chewing Up A Bowl Of Popcorn With The Left Side Of His Mouth.

She's gonna love seeing me.

Why Wouldn't We say...

2008-10-26T23:48:00.000-07:00

"Have you ever heard people say that they are worried about figuring things out because then they'll die?"

"I've heard you say it."

"Seriously?"

"You say it all the time - "

"No, I mean seriously I'm the only one? Because I hear a lot of people saying it. (pause) Men mostly. Maybe its a guy thing."

"Everything ends in death with boys."

"No, no. I think when you hear someone say, "I'm figuring it out", they have pulled themselves from their usual strand of living towards a new approach, a new idea. Some of these new ideas can completely shift a person from their axis and by doing so, give them a new life. As the new life starts to take hold, the old struggle, or the old life, disappears. This can be very frightening for people my age who feel like they are figuring things out."

"Your age?"

"Forget I said that. The point is, when a revelation of that which is happening around you comes, you feel yourself in that same moment one step closer to nothing. Someone might take these feelings for the sensation of being near death - "

Traci has the keys that get us through the door of our apartment.

"- and that sensation could make people afraid to see things in a new light. Afraid enough to remain with the things they know. Because knowledge, my love, is destructive of many things we aren't sure we don't need."

She opens the freezer door. The sound of ice in a glass.

"Bourbon?"

"Yes. Please."

Oh. (or Lost in Space)

2008-03-15T00:25:00.001-07:00

I excused myself from the rest of the house guests here in Austin and rushed upstairs.

"I have to go take my passport photo off of the internet and go to bed."

The conversation had been winding down when Traci finished her description of soft red winter wheat by turning to me and saying, "...that reminds me. You have to take your passport picture off of your my space."

My first thought: "Huh. Usually I’m the one being paranoid..."

My second thought: "..........................................."

"What’s the matter with it,"asks Kat. "Is his picture that bad?"

"No," says Traci. "Its that has a picture of his whole passport up there. A scan of his entire passport!"

"Oh," says everyone else in the room.

My second thought finally arrives. "That’s not good, is it?"

"No," says Guitar Shorty, shaking his head lightly and grinning. "Somebody could have some fun with that."

With that I excused myself and came upstairs. If you spied my passport while it was up on my My Space, I'm sure you were as stunned as I am now to see the precision and detail with which my HP Officejet 7410xi All-In-One Scanner/Printer rendered my document. Amazing.

If ever I thought identity theft was something worth putting on my list of worst case scenarios, it is at this moment as I read all the letters and numbers of my passport from my My Space page, displayed in erotic clarity on the screen of somebody else’s computer. If ever I questioned the integrity of my liberal come-one-come all attitude towards accepting My Space friends, well, that's now, too.

Now I am definitely the one being paranoid. What happens to our Gmail accounts when we move on or die? Did Google really just make search engines for advertising? ARE WE ON LOCKDOWN????

I think being paranoid is the best alternative to asking myself what kid of idiot puts his passport online. Therefore, in these final moments when my internet naivete still lingers in Texan air, I must go full Rooney.

Does every space we cut out for ourselves in this universe an eventual pit for someone else’s stuff? Are we really this ready to give our world away, or make commerce with it? Some of my friends wondered how Borat got those people to say things in the movie. I thought they were crazy. Look all over this My Space Facebook world. Most of us are all too ready to hand it over. And we don’t even know what it is.

The space.

What to give to the space?

Soothing as these deep thoughts are, I'm still little anxious and, well, paranoid. So since I am fairly certain in this moment that someone who peeked my passport on my My Space page is capable of being an identity thief, (I don't mean you necessarily - but maybe) I feel that its time to start clearing out of the My Space digs and have Tom spray for bugs. This may seem extreme and I don't want to make too much of this, but in the wrong hands, my identity in particular (compared to, say, some other peoples identities) could be, well, lets just say DANGEROUS!

In the meantime, I’m wondering if this blog is better transmitted from my more secure, as-yet-to-my-knowledge unbreached site at www.mooselamp.net

At mooselamp.net get Vicodin for .12 each.

I want to mooselamp.net and ssee big penitty stuff.

Rayd

This blog ownedz by Google.

Nate Dawg

2008-02-11T18:18:00.000-08:00

Last week on a date that doesn't really matter, the second anniversary of life without Nathan quietly passed. Phil and I observed it simply and in a way Nate would have appreciated - we went to a bar and got drunk.

If Days of The New are a constellation (and we are) then Nathan Robinson is very likely the black star at the center, keeping up the gravitational pull.

At the time of Nathan's death, Travis and I hadn't talked or seen each other in a few years. We got back together to play a memorial for Nathan. We played "Wish You Were Here" and Nate's brother accompanied us on guitar. It was the first time we had played in four years and, in ways that I still don't think we understand, it was the beginning of a new chapter that runs up to and includes this moment. The following is a piece I wrote for the Louisville Eccentric Observer (LEO) the week of the memorial.

Nathan Robinson Remembered

by Ray Rizzo

I cannot tell you about Nate in 500 words. I will try to find him in a few haikus printed in a paper that I am pretty sure he never read. Not that he disliked LEO. I think Nathan appreciated LEO because his friends and the musicians he spent his time working with read it, if only to see their names written inside.

It is good for the paper – hell, this city - that Nate’s friends are among its community.

It is good of this paper to give 500 words to Nathan Robinson, sound engineer, musician, friend, brother, son, grandson. All over the city this week, many of Louisville’s Most Eccentric Observers can gather upon this quarter page memorial, smoke a Red or a Green, toss back some Makers and ask our newest space traveler, “S’uuup?”.

It isn’t good that we’re here and Nate is gone.

For those who didn’t know him, Nate would like you to take these 500 words and rearrange them in any manner you see fit so that they may work for someone you know who might leave this world loved but with not as much in print.

Now you know.

For those who did know him, 500 words are just not enough. And yet – Nathan: one word opens a universe. Nathan, a memory: “Let me eat it!” Nathan, a sign: “Peace!” Nathan, a sound: “The bass tone is the fuunk!”. Nathan is reaching beyond his body now. That is some wild shit, Nate! It’s crayyyzy!

You better cut this out and put it on your fridge. Because any place of Nathan’s was a place worth gathering. Dog shit on the floor, ashtray runneth over, fuck it. In Nathan’s home, pizza from last night’s crew was daily bread. You bet your ass I gave thanks to have it. Nathan showed me that there was nothing in the loaves, ya dummy. It was the people you broke the bread with. He also tried to talk me out of eating stale pizza.

Nathan never sat at table, at a bar or recording studio where he didn’t take you in as a friend. I believe the ledger of Nate Dawg balanced all debts, graces, and minor thefts in the currency of essence. Now, Nathan would be first to say that “essentials” like friendship, sonic alchemy, and laughter were not as good as cash when you are starting your own recording business, but he was just starting to get calls from people who understood his worth. In his presence I always felt lucky.

I’ve thought about Travis Meeks a lot this week. The day Nathan died, Travis told me he saw Jesus once. In Los Angeles, late into an emotional night. Travis looked upon his couch to see Jesus sitting smoking a Marlboro Red. When he outed Jesus from his disguise, Travis says Jesus sat back on the couch, got real quiet, and grinned a shit-eating grin until the sun rose.

Nathan, the word in Hebrew: “God has given!”

One more thing – I’m sure I’m over my limit, but this is important. I’d like to tell the other driver, on behalf of at least a few of Nathan’s friends gathered here at the Quarter-Page Memorial, there is nothing you need forgiveness for. But if it helps, you are forgiven. I mean, I am sure if Nathan could have got up and kicked in your bumper and cursed for a month, you would have heard nothing like it, laughed your ass off, and eventually become “cool”. If he were here Nathan would tell you that this is just some fucked up shit that happens. I know you don’t know me, but here it is in Nate’s 500 words.

Or you could take Travis’ Mom’s word for it. When she called Travis she said, “Goddammit, Trav, I know that boy, and when he went into critical condition I knew he’d take one look at the other side, look back at us and say, Fuck ya’ll!”

Van Talk #3

2008-02-03T23:57:00.000-08:00

So the Saudis really own a shitload of this country.

Don’t rule out the Chineese.

Its amazing that there haven’t been any attacks in a while.

There have been some attempts while we were out.

Really? What?

Fort Dix.

The London Subway.

That was years ago.

No, this just happened – or they say it just happened. Who can really tell.

In 400 feet turn back.

There it is.

Its huge.

In 350 feet turn back.

This is the best Starbucks ever.

Look. Super Target.

This compound of stores could be any American city we have passed through. The Express are next to the Limited, Barnes and Noble likes to be near the Whole Foods.

It’s a dick sucking planet we live on.

Whoa. Look.

Yeah, but she’s been out in the sun. If you put your face down there it will smell.

Who do you think wants to control more?

I think at first the Saudis would have been fine leaving themselves from -

I have this dream about this country being taken over by the worst. Someone else running this country. Right now we are delusional slaves. We’re slaves and we don’t know it. But soon we’ll be slaves and we’ll know it.

I will be dead.

In a strange way I look forward to that.

A manifestation of what hell is will be here on this continent.

People have been leaving for years.

Phil says the Bible says Bear from east and Roman government.

Those decisions the government is making – its not staying true to the Declaration of Independence.

Theres a few trillion, a couple billionaires, some million and a whole lot of Milli Vannillionaires who think they have a lot money but don’t have shit.

It would even be benieficial to have jars of seeds. If we get nuked, there might be places where you can’t grow food.

Seeds don’t last forever, bro.

Like in Total recall when they...ah...fuckin...

I’ve never seen Total Recall.

Like last night when I was taking about my reality – this is it.

That’s why I worried about you calling it all delusion, because some of it is just the frustration of living when things are fucked up. Some of it is your sanity.

I know how to get with God. I’ve known how to get with God my whole life.

What if this is between God and man and there is nothing an angel can do. It’s like, nooo - you can’t go back to your air conditioner.

It’s between man and God.

I think its between man and man.

I can agree with all that because I think we are God. The conversation is between us and us.

Instead of meditating and communicating with God I am going to turn to my computer. Son, come to me. No, I’m just gonna go to my computer. It’s comforting.

This is beautiful when it ends how are you ever going to describe it when it’s over. This is peace. Embrace it.

The awesome thing is I don’t know if you mean the world outside the van or inside the van, but I say yes to both of them.

We were given the little things to exercise our appreciation…. Did you know those are the words to Touch of Anger.

Yes.

Instead of blowing up buildings, that was me crying to God.

Emrace the mistakes. That’s all he asked.

Some people would say the mistakes are the best part.

Yeah, but that would be the punk rockers and fuck them.

I dunno man, you with your acoustic guitar and how we play to these rooms – it’s pretty punk rock. What you're calling punk is cartoon music.

They’re all makin deals now. Its all been a movie that’s been going on. People think they’re right it’s like wrestling they’re not really mad. They’re just acting. They’re all in on it.

Does anyone know this band Chevelle?

Yeah. Yeah.

What are they like?

Nu Metal?

A hard working suck-ass band of imitators. But that was 6 years ago. They may have refined their suck-assed ness to something cool.

Someone broke into their trailer and stole all their shit.

My fear is that theres a big ass lion coming to eat me.

What is the greatest betrayal is that what is happening on top isn’t really what is happening.

That is the hoodwink.

All betrayal is is that within yourself. You’re coming into another knowledge.

Like the Matrix.

This isn’t Matrix dawg, its Constantine. I’ve seen that shit my whole life.

I’m getting used to the fact that the two films that best express the collective understanding of this van both star Keanu Reeves.

Yep. I really conjured up some fear. Its scary all that stuff we talked about. I spend a lot of time avoiding giving any light to that subject.

Outside Lake Charles

2008-02-03T23:28:00.000-08:00

Everyone piles back in the van to leave Baton Rouge for our next-to-last show in Houston.

“Dos Mas,” says Fresta.

Outside Lake Charles we stop for gas. I reach Traci on the phone.

“I have eaten like shit on this tour.”

“I thought you were going on a raw diet with Malcolm.”

“Didn’t do it.”

“That’s a good thing,” Traci says. “Remember - before you left you were giving up red meat. It sounds like you’d have to eat a lot of it.”

“I know.”

“ Think of your cholesterol.”

“All they have to eat here is chips, Community coffee and tamales.”

“I like that they drink coffee called Community,” my awesome wife says. “Because that’s what coffee should be.”

I grab a curious looking black bag of Doritos. Under the brand logo, printed in block black lettering it says:

This is the X-13D Flavor Experiment, the bag says. Objective: taste and name Doritos flavor X-13D. Receive additional instruction at snackstrongproductions.com or text “X-13D” to 24477 (‘CHIPS’).

Tasting notes: An All Amreican Classic.

“I’m getting Doritos,” I tell Traci. ”But they won’t tell me what kind they are. They need me to verify that they actually taste like something and then tell them what they should be named. In New York, I have been paid upwards of 150 dollars an hour to do this kind of work. Test marketing they call it there. But our here in the humid mossy regions of Louisiana, Doritos expect me to pay the .99 and do the work for free. I even bet they already know what flavor it is."

“Doritos?” Traci says. “You could eat better than that.”

“Not here I can’t”.

“Don’t they have any pork cracklin’s?”

“I’m sick of pork cracklin’s. The X-13D’s will be fine. Plus, if I’m going to eat shitty food, this way I can be productive. These van rides are hindering my sense of accomplishment in the daylight hours.

"Actually, this is a great idea. Why don’t we go into business making shitty food products that we bag in non-descript packages, then tell people to call us and tell us what it is. Make a few bucks on the phone call while we’re at it."

“You’re so smart," Traci says.

Van Talk #2

2008-01-25T18:22:00.000-08:00

Glad you’re here

I just had to make up my mind.

But then again it is a miracle

Parts of it, I made a conscious decision. Other parts were working for me.

That’s wickid.

Its amazing.

(Sung) Very superstitious writing on the wall.

Van Talk #1

2008-01-24T09:23:00.001-08:00

“Dookie juice can be poo juice, but it can be anything. If you stay in the place of open mindedness it evolves.”

“A friend of mine told me her husband would get these porns where these chicks shit in spaghetti then ate it then puked in each other mouths.”

“That’s deep, bro.”

“Have you ever seen a snuff film?”

(Silence.)

“Yeah, but snuff films…shitting in spaghetti and then eating it – you gotta live with that shit. Snuff films you die.”

“Well, you are right there”.

“You know what would be more appealing to nut cases? Pooping butt to butt.”

“There would have to be a narrator saying, ‘There is no exit here.’”

Rockford

2008-01-24T09:22:00.000-08:00

Alpine Lodge is an all-purpose reception hall with a wild west façade. It is located behind the race car track where tonight they will be playing car soccer.

As we set up the stage, Phil says, “The radio DJ said last time Days Of The New came to town Travis dumped a gallon of milk on his head and pissed out a second story window before the show. Do you remember that?”

I tell Phil I do remember, which is true, but I cannot see it in my mind. I don’t remember Rockford, Illinois with an image of a venue or a freak out. Its not like Providence, Mercedes, Los Angeles, or Carbondale, whose memories come back with everything from the first song of the set to the smell of the back stage.

“What’s the weirdest thing that ever happened,” Malcolm asks. Before I open my mouth I know I’m going to disappoint. I start to tell them a story that is a strong emotional memory.

“Once before a show Travis took mustard put it on a piece of bread and smeared it down a dressing room mirror…”

My heart isn't in it. Malcolm and Phil give me blank looks and go back to setting up the stage.

A little later Travis returns with Steve the radio DJ who is still talking about the last time we came through.

“You guys were playing in De Kalb,” he starts.

“De Kalb! Holy shit,” I say. "I totally remember De Kalb!" As the memory surges back, I realize the milk and second-floor window piss were only supporting details.

I tell Steve the DJ, “I did not think we would make it through that one.”

“Really,’ Steve says, and proceeds to repeat his story for at least the third time that day. “I remember being up in the band room and Travis dumps milk on his head and pisses out a window and then the band up and leaves him and gets onstage without him. And I’m like, Travis, your band just left you. What is going on?

“Yeah well –“ I say, uncomfortable.

Steve continues: “So I walk down to the stage with Travis and the band is playing and he gets up there and I’m thinking, is this even gonna happen? And suddenly it was like a switch went off and you guys started rocking. It was amazing.”

“I know,” I say. “It became a kind of thrill-addiction for me – cliffhanging before the show, wondering if we were going to go down in a ball of fire and then turning around and playing some of the meanest music I’ve ever played.”

I want to talk, but my heart still isn't in it and, having no clear indication that Steve is interested or listening to me, I quit while I’m ahead. I would have enjoyed telling him that the perspective of Travis suffering, caged, and left backstage by his band didn’t say enough for the other people involved who were, like Travis, trying to negotiate a caged, maddening situation. I'd like to have sat, had some coffee, and explained the experiences with some relaxed perspective sharing. But there isn't time. Steve is a great DJ and DJs work best with soundbytes, antecdotes, and quick one liners.

Travis exhales smoke and tells Steve, “Ray’s been with me longer than anybody. I had to suck his cock just to get him to come back out with me.”

“Now he just does it for fun,” I say.

“Good comeback,” Travis says.

Exactly.

Marvin

2008-01-24T09:21:00.001-08:00

The sun goes down before we reach Chicago. In the passenger seat Travis is excited for the ride, turning the lights on occasionally to look for cds and smokes and . I fall asleep listening to “Here My Dear”. For the first of what will be countless listens, I am immediately struck by the tone of Marvin Gaye’s voice at the beginning of the album. It is a tone I have never heard on any of his records – contempt. This is going to be a hard listen.

Porno for Jesus

2008-01-24T09:19:00.000-08:00

South of Indianapolis Travis gives the signal for a pit stop,“Yeurrrinn!”, and we pull into a quaint gas station across the street from an Adult Store. Outside the fence of the porn store parking lot a wooden shack has been erected for protesters who have been present since the store opened. A bus is unloading well-dressed citizens from elsewhere as we pull up. They appear to be reinfoorcements for the ranks of do-gooders in the shack.

There is some picketing involved with the protesting, but more impressive is the group’s paparazzi tactics. Poking out of the tent are lenses from cameras. “WE WILL TAKE YOUR PICTURE AND SEND IT TO YOUR EMPLOYER” says a big wooden sign by the shack. When Malcolm and I see that there is a photo op for walking in the store, we check our hair and press our shirts and get ready for our close up.

For being along the side of an Indiana Highway, the porn store is as clean and neat as The Pleasure Chest in Manhattan. The attendant is very helpful with Malcolm’s request for certain titles and performers. Then Phil comes in and asks her where the Hustlers are and buys one.

“There she is,” Phil says proudly. In the centerfold of this month’s Hustler is the dear Tera, complete with a purple dong in her snizz and a message for every man looking to receive the love she transmits from the photo.

Malcolm becomes so comfortable with being filmed that on his way out he takes a piss behind the dumpster right under the security camera. Then we load into the van and drive out for one last photo op with the protesters. Only this time we take the pictures.

Every generation is represented by the protesters, making it easy for me to see that what for some is an idealogical battle is for others a safe place to be involved and purposeful. The protesters are of a Christian bent, but I don’t see how threatening a truck driver with unemployment can be considered charitable. What distresses me the most is the protesters’ use of shame as a primary force in their methods. This distresses me because generationally-bred shame is often what divides people from themselves in the first place, making it difficult for them to coexist with natural sexual impulses, and making things like pornography such an irresistible and unhealthy digression. Taking pictures of such people will not make things better – it only intensifies the divide within them. So if the main goal of these porno protesters is the health of their suffering community, they should really go the fuck home.

Porn isn’t perfect, it could use some improvement. I can’t really get into some of the material that gets passed around the van. There is this one with a girl and bananas and a monkey with a video camera that is pretty dope, but for me I like to see porn with better story lines and more for the imagination. Rather than curse the candle, I offer a submission:

RAY’s 10 Minute Porn

Fade in to wide shot of Indiana Countryside. Camera pans past the corn and soybean fields to a seven foot concrete wall surrounding the perimeter of the pastel colored porn store. Camera pans along the wall past wooden signs saying “Porn kills” “Smile, we’re taking your picture.” “Truckers, we will send your photo to your employer.” Camera settles on the image of a makeshift wooden shack built like a kids jungle gym and a tree stand for a deer hunter. Camera closes in on the door.

Cut to Interior of shack. REVER, JORDAN, and CURTIS are seated around a small table. Behind them a calendar with a picture of the Virgin Mary has dates crossed off for the two years they have been at their post. Curtis is loading data from a video camera into a laptop. Rever is crossing off another day on the calendar. Jordan is sipping coffee from a thermos.

JORDAN: Two years and they still haven’t got us a portopotty.

REVER: When we did a Strike at Ford a few years back the union pulled up a mobile latrene and had food catered. At least for the first week they did.

JORDAN: Here’s one.

Curtis has finished loading the laptop and hands the video camera to Jordan.

CURTIS: Make us proud Man Ray.

JORDAN: It’s a van – with a trailer. Must be four or five guys in it. Looks like a few of them have beards..

REVER: Be sure to get a picture of the license plate.

JORDAN: Holy - (Turns nervously towards Rever and Curtis) Fellas. Their liscence plate – (takes a quick picture) Look at it!

Jordan shows Curtis and Rever the photo on the camera’s display screen. Rever hasps and makes the sign of the cross, taking a step backwards. Curtis takes the camera from Jordan and stares at it closely, then looks up as if to the setting sun.

CURTIS: Still Saving Lives.

JORDAN: Now, I know Jesus when I see him and that there is Jesus fucking Christ on that license plate. I know it!

CURTIS: Still saving lives.

JORDAN: They got big ass beards.

REVER: Fellers – fuck the portopotty. They sent us the big guns this time. (Takes a look at the Virgin Mary calendar) Our forty days and forty nights are over!

CURTIS: What are they doing now?

JORDAN: I can’t see they went behind the wall.

(Sound of van doors opening and closing. From far away the sound of a sprite like voice)

VOICE: Yerrrin! Oh, Yerrin! I yearn for your yerrrin!

Voice is followed by sound of a hanging bell on the front door of the store. Curtis Rever and Jordan stare at each other.

REVER: They went inside.

CURTIS: Surely he will be turning over tables in the market.

JORDAN: And making his body flesh for us to eat.

Curtis and Rever stare at Jordan.

JORDAN: We must prepare ourselves, right? Do something.

REVER: Let’s genuflect.

CURTIS: Out loud or in silence.

JORDAN: Oh, in silence please.

CURTIS: So be it. SO BE IT!

Rever, Curtis, and Jordan kneel on the floor of the shack in silence. Minutes pass. A few passing cars go by. At one point, Curtis sneaks a self portrait of himself with the camera. There is a noise outside and the flap is pulled back on the entrance. CHASTITY walks in with a casserole.

Jordan, Rever, and Curtis look up at Chastity and the food.

CHASTITY: Well, don’t ya’ll just stare at it – eat it! Momma was worried ya’ll was hungry so she made me bring you some casserole.

JORDAN : Shut up, Chastity!

CHASTITY: You shut up. The fuck are you doin?

JORDAN: We’re genuflecting you dumb cunt.

CURTIS: Jordan, don’t talk to your sister that way! (turns to Chastity) Little one, your Lord and Savior has arrived. Now get down on your knees and shut up like the rest of us.

Jordan grabs his sister and pulls her down to the kneeling position.

REVER: He’s still saving lives.

JORDAN: They’re inside.

CHASTITY: Who?

JORDAN: Jesus and his guys. They’re tearing the den of evil from it’s foundation.

REVER: Sanctifying our blessed nation and laying to waste the wicked infidels!

CURTIS: What happened to no talking? GENUFLECT!

CHASTITY: (Starts to cry) I didn’t bring enough casserole.

JORDAN: He can multiply it if he’s hungry.

CURTIS and REVER: Shhhhh!

The four kneel in silence. Two more cars pass. Then they hear the sound of the front door bell.

JORDAN: He has come.

CHASTITY: Oh, shit.

In the distance the same voice as before makes a cackling laugh. Then the sound of doors opening and closing on a van and the van starting up.

REVER: Here he comes.

Sound of van gets closer and then stops. All gasp. Door to van opens and there is the sound of approaching footsteps. They stop just before the entrance. All look down to see the feet of the one who approaches.

:JORDAN: His sandals are worn.

REVER: And his toenails are silver.

CHASTITY: Jesus, I’m sorry I didn’t know you were –

Suddenly an object is hurled into the shack and lands in front of them. It is a 14 inch dildo. As they stare, they hear the footsteps walk away. The door to the van closes, and the van rides off.

JORDAN: Sweet manna from heaven!

REVER: What is it?

CHASTITY: It’s a 14 inch silly swizz rocket double dong.

CURTIS: No doubt it was pulled from the dead carcass of the beast who did reside in the den of evil pornography.

CHASTITY: There’s a note on it.

EVERYONE screams.

JORDAN: What does it say?

REVER: No no no, don’t read it – if you look right into the word of God your heart will explode.

CHASTITY: It says, Enjoy.

CURTIS: Enjoy.

REVER: It is a gift from the Lord Savior for our hard work. Should we share it with the rest of the group when they get here?

CURTIS:” No, no. This holy gift meant for us. It is here to engender us with joy so we can administer to the multitudes. Yur – IN. En – Joy. Like the oils used to rub down our mighty savior on the eve of his destruction, we must not let temperance guide us in this moment. We must celebrate. And enjoy. For he has come and bestowed joy upon us, we must open ourselves wide to receive that which he has administered. Children! Let us be children again to feel rapturous joy with every inch of our bodies!

CURTIS CHASTITY REVER and JORDAN have every kind of sex imaginable with the dildo, each other, and the casserole. When they are done, they are overjoyed. On her way out, CHASTITY looks at the Virgin Mary calendar, circles the date and takes the calendar with her.

The End.

Departure

2008-01-24T09:15:00.000-08:00

We could hear the van pull up from inside Phil’s house. The stereo is that good. Phil started laughing. “Mutherfucker’s jamming to Thriller,” he said. “This is gonna be a good trip.”

Outside Travis jumps out of the van holding a tall cup from Starbucks. “Yo Ray Ray!”

Taylor is packing for his first trip out with us. All week during rehearsals he has jumped to any task that is within his grasp to do. I wonder how long it will be before his enthusiasm is tempered.

I pack my drum cases and luggage and go sit with Phil’s roommate Mike to watch a few minutes of “American Psycho”. Our entourage walks in and out of the room as it plays. Everyone knows the line “Sabrina, don’t just stare at it. Eat it.”

Tracey from Massachusetts and her dog Zeus are along for the first few days of the trip. Zeus is intoxicatingly happy running around sniffing Mike’s dog Duncan and playing with his tennis ball which had the air blown out of it long ago. Tracey has a trailer with Harley Davidson logos that she bought cheap. I give it a once over to see if we might rely on it in the event our trailer is blown apart in a wind tunnel.

Christian Bale has just dropped the chainsaw down the stairwell when Travis walks in.

“We’re a bus, yo.”

This means it’s time to go. But its still two and a half hours before we will cross the Ohio and drive North through Indiana. Wal Mart. Big Lots. Music Go Round. Mc Donalds and Jiffy Lube. While washing the windshield at the gas station I coin our newest phrase: Dookie Juice. It takes it’s rightful place among the ranks of Dewey, Dewger, and Warm Worm Pee.

The Mound

2008-01-22T09:55:00.000-08:00

I pointed at the mound of raised earth at the edge of the field. It started to move.

“There will be times when this is going to be this in front of you,” I said to Phil. Phil had been discussing getting over a painful breakup so I thought I'd to give him some of my extra crispy - the type of wise shittalk I used to drop on girls in High School. “Emotionally, mentally, there will be things that block the view. When you can’t get over them you need to get high enough to see past them.”

“Or turn them into frogs,” Phil says.

“Not that kind of high,” I said. A wave of nausea washed over me and I leaned harder against the wall of the Days Inn. “Ugh. I think I smoked too much.”

“It was that second cigarette,” Phil reminded me.” That’s what got you.” I was turning green. My mind wandered back to the mound.

“You’re totally right,” I finally say to Phil. “How great it would be to be able to transform our inner obstacles into living creatures. It would be closer to the truth to treat our problems with the respect of living organisms.” I said and looked at the mound. “Turn them into frogs.”

“And then eat them,” Phil said. “Make frog legs.”

Baby Wipes

2008-01-22T08:51:00.000-08:00

I took pictures of myself and the graffiti on the wall of the Agora Theater then walked back to the van. Taking my seat I could tell the mood was more relaxed. Travis was in mid sentence explaining to Phil how I would write about the moments just before I got out of the van.

“Ray’s gonna write, Travis slams the insence burner on the dashboard and yells at Taylor,” he laughs, adding “But what makes it good is the Baby Wipes.”

“Totally,” I say.

“It could have been about anything,” Travis says. “A coke, a soda, cigarettes…but it was over Baby Wipes.”

“That’s what makes it awesome,” I say.

“I know.”

“I’m sorry I forgot them,” Taylor says from the back seat.

“Those were good Baby Wipes," Malcolm said.

“I know," says Travis, still feeling the loss. "They had Aloe Vera and shit.”

Every person that has handled our rider on this run has commented on how little had been requested. Water. A few soft drinks. Perrier. Three avocados. And a box of Baby Wipes. When getting so little, there is the potential for the items to take on greater meaning. Last night Malcolm was bemused that they gave him San Pellegrino instead of his Perrier. “These don’t even have twist tops,” he moaned. “How am I supposed to open this?

“Fuckin bullshit, brah.”

But Malcolm was also quick to spot the jade green plastic box in shrink wrap. He knew immediately that whoever had handled the rider at Machine Shop knew their Baby Wipes.

"Has Travis seen these," he asked me, holing up the Wipes.

"I don't think he's been in here yet," I said.

"Well he's gonna love these," Malcolm said. And he was right.

“I really got excited about those Baby Wipes,” Travis reminisces. “I went on stage at the Machine Shop and played the set and the whole time I was thinking about those baby wipes.”

Travis left town for this week of shows and forgot his black jacket. This was a serious matter in the realm of comfort and security and much was considered about stage dress before the first show in Illinois. Luckily, Travis had his cool mulit-colored shirt to settle into. But two days ago Travis left the shirt in a motel in Michigan. All of this was met with frustrated resignation, making for a palatable build up of tension by the end of the week when Taylor, the nubie on tour, leaves a box of Aloe Baby Wipes at Machine Shop.

Travis’ freak out was, like the Baby Wipes themselves, safe, non-abrasive, and containing no alcohol that can irritate sensitive skins. The dashboard took a beating, Taylor was maybe a little unnerved, but no one was hurt, which is why less than 5 minutes later, Travis was writing the blog for me and everyone was laughing.

Hilton Head (Show day)

2008-01-22T00:20:00.000-08:00

Freddie at Monkey Business is a hospitable guy, running a pleasant venue with an army of guys around him who make sure stuff gets done. His reputation is nationwide. The catering person at the Hinder shows told us of Freddie’s greatness. Monkey Business is a venue that makes all its money doing hip hop on the weekends and opening during the week for national rock bands that are either on their way up or on their way down or , as some might suggest of Days Of The New, are holding steady in Netherland.

Alligator sushi after sound check. Malcolm watching cable in the band room. On MSNBC a child pornographer has been captured in Asia. On MTV a young man is interviewing two girls for a date while his buddy gives him direction from a remote location.

The sound at Monkey Business that night is hard to deal with. Its like we are playing in a furniture store showroom. Its never easy to come off of an amazing show and play as well the next night, but I know the real lack of greatness for our show in Hilton Head: I try for one last time to wear the beard. I knew better, but I had to give it a shot – just to be sure. Bad move.
After the show, Malcolm grabs his bass to sit in with the guy playing piano and singing in the lounge next door. I grab my snare and hi hat and follow. An overly enthusiastic rocker guy who seems to be a regular at this hang almost spoils “Superstition”, growling the few words to the song before Malcolm asks him to stop. Then Big Momma comes to the stage and lays out “Down Home Blues” and “Chain Of Fools.”

Travis is agitated after the night is over. On top of the issues on his mind, he is also agitated with being agitated. “I wish I had a manager who saw me for what I really am,” he says before exiting the van and heading to his hotel room.

Malcolm, Phil and I congregate in our room. A few minutes later my phone rings. “You have your computer on you,” Travis asks.

“Yeah.”

“Look up Aspergers.”

I do so.

“This is why I am how I am,” Travis says. “And it’s why this whole thing may not work.”

As we talk I move from the computer to pace the apartment, eventually walking out the door and up and down the sidewalk in front of the hotel office. When Phil heads up to bed, he takes the outside stairs and is able to see that over the roof of the office, Travis is also outside, also pacing.

“Those fools,” Phil says to himself.

Travis finally spots me and we end our talk face to face. Aspergers moves on to the dysfunctions of our situation. It is the first discussion I have with Travis where we address the real work before us, considering each other and Phil and Malcolm and Fresta as people who might be working together for a while and not just some guys willing to get in a van.

"When this started I had all kinds of ideas about Nathan and how Phil was meant to be here," Travis said, "But I have to let that stuff go. This is a business. And it has to be done right."

I don't see how one point excludes the other, but I can agree: this has to be done right. I tell Travis I'm not sure what I'm ready for exactly, but that I am here to make more of things and not less. If it means more responsibility I'm willing, I say.

Travis think about this. "I ask alot," he says finally.

"I know," I say. I feel anxiety that comes when I fear I am in too deep, but I don't step back. I don't step any closer either, not now, but I don't step back.

When I get back to the room I chat Malcolm up until he passes out on his bed. I have to admit to myself that I am tired, too. Part of me wants to sit still all day and write tomorrow, but I have decided that whatever happens when I wake is what I will do.

To Hilton Head

2008-01-21T23:54:00.000-08:00

I am starting to love the midnight rides after shows. Everyone seems to be getting in the groove. There is no complaining or agitation. Travis and I discuss the greatness of the show we just played …and the beard extensions.

I feel a little bad that I played the beardage as real to some fans I spoke to, but in ways explainable and unexplainable, it was what I had to do.

To start, I thought of the excess beard as a celebration of our return to playing together. I felt like it would be part of the visual language of Days Of The New for the first shows we played together and I liked that it suggested age and wisdom. Plus wearing it made me feel like our old soundman and friend Gus.

As I nightly clipped the extensions onto my real beard I also appreciated that after our first show in January, Rick the Manager had suggested to Travis that the beard I was growing was evidence that I wasn’t a good fit for Travis anymore. I half expected this after the Tampa show when he said, “I know you have to grow the beard for a role, but why no long hair anymore?” (This is a guy who doesn’t think I’m playing good drums if my arms aren’t flailing like an octopus.)

The beard is also one of the things I brought on tour from great experiences I have had since Travis and I last worked. There is the tattoo on my ring finger from Traci’s and my wedding. The beard and OM shirt are from the two roles I’ve played in Adam’s plays. My gut is from Stromboli’s Pizza on 1st Ave and St. Marks, and my penis extentions are from the goodie bag I got at CMJ.

However the beard looked, it felt right – right up to the point before the show when I got so upset I had no choice but to bring only the bare essentials. After my meltdown, I could not dress up.

When I tell this to Travis he says, “You finally were in a place where you needed to be yourself. That was the difference. I mean, I’m sure you’re a good actor and all and those things probably work well for your characters, but at some point this is no longer about being character. It has to be you that you bring.”

With much gratitude, I place the extensions back in the Ziploc bag where they remain.

Birmingham (Show day)

2008-01-21T23:29:00.000-08:00

Phil drives to the airport to pick up Malcolm, who seems refreshed from two days at home with his wife. For the rest of us, the days off has been invigorating as well. In fact, next to playing, I’d say my favorite part of touring is the talks during the long drives on days off. I’d like to think it does everyone some good to ride a stretch without a show schedule, let the mind wander, and feel your place in the geography.

But okay, Fresta did wake today saying,” I don’t think I am respected here,” and he has more reasons than bogus laundry detergent to be missing the warm glow. During the long ride south we discussed ideas about what’s happening with Days Of The New and more than a few times Fresta’s name was left off the proverbial roster of “players in the game”. This was probably most overt when I spoke, but I wasn’t being mean or playing power trips. I spoke from the truth that, like it or not, Fresta’s role in the grand web has yet to come clear to anyone currently on tour. I (hope I) spoke with respect for everyone in the van who was trying to figure out how and where to dig in to this crazy operation and move things along. At this point in our journey, Fresta was 100% bro, but his position in the touring constellation had yet to identify itself.

( NOTE: at this point you should know that my imagination is pretty limited but I have a few choice metaphors to describe relationships. Webs. Constellations. Symbiotic parasites within the intestines. Some of my metaphors are so pretty they impede anyone from making a distinction for what might, by any lesser metaphor, be called a “shit deal”.)

But Fresta isn’t showing signs of a shitty deal – not yet anyway, and he really doesn’t seem the type. He’s a New Yorker for Chrisssake. But he is bumming. When we talk, I learn that Travis and Phil have, at different times and in ways I can only call “well-intentioned”, communicated to Fresta their frustrations over expectations that he would be selling merchandise on this run. Without t shirts or cds to sell, Fresta’s position on the field (another good metaphor!) remains nebulous, his ascension to the role of Meister of the Merchandise without bloom.

Of course no one knows the ridiculousness of this better than Fresta, who came out expecting to get Travis’ tour store in shape and make some money from commission to offset the weeks he took off from work. As Fresta and I talk, he tells me he feels taken advantage of. I’m pretty sure getting fired from washing the windshield at the truck stop burned, too, but he doesn’t mention it. There is only so much I can say to the man because his perspective on everything actually seems to be the most rational and logical. It’s just, well, out of place.

A surge of fear or false weightlessness is in my body when I realize this. I then tell Fresta the only useful thing I can think to say – “You and Travis need to talk.” “I’ll do it when the time is right,” he says. Almost on cue, Travis comes to the door.

“How are you doin” he asks Fresta.

“Fine,” says Fresta.

Travis leaves and Fresta continues watching Mystery Science Theater on his laptop.

What a great glow I have in Birmingham. It is truly a High Pro Glow. Rah tour, rah bonding with dudes, rah when I stand by and watch as a scheduled radio interview falls through our fingers due to our lack of competence. I’m pretty sure any one of us could have prevented it, (except Fresta) but no one in our group feels themselves in a position to assume responsibility for making it happen. Before we know the window of opportunity is past, Phil decides it is more important to get to sound check than deal with the confusion and he pulls the plug. I could see that he was making the wise call considering how much resistance he had to deal with, but as we drive to the venue I am mad for the first time on tour. So I am cautious about who I talk to and what I say. My level of aggravation is intensified watching Phil take 10 minutes to back the trailer up to the door of Zydeco. I quietly implode as he drives and navigates the vehicle on a tricky incline where there is no even ground to settle.

When the van is parked a guy walks up and says he’s here to help us load in. Then he asks me, “Is that Travis over there?” Without looking I say yes. He walks up to Phil.

“Hey, man. I saw you on Intervention – “

“Wait,” I say. “Not him.” I point to Travis sitting under a tree against the building.

“Him.”

The guy tells Travis that he was in rehab and fucking up when someone showed him Travis’ Intervention episode. Later he tells me “When I saw that I was like, “Man, if that dude can do it, I can.” He has been sober for a year and a half.

We are in a different world this time around.

Steve is the soundman at Zydeco and he is immediately a great collaborator with Travis, who, not having the interview to do, is able to take part in sound check. (There is always an upside!) It is divine intervention that we have Steve to work with on one of the days when we can take time for Travis to completely and properly check the guitars, which have been a significant source of the sound problems. The sound check is very long and productive. Travis gets behind the drums and demonstrates ideas for Flight Response that have been missing in my approach and we finally wrestle the song into shape. Everyone leaves sound check knowing a great show is ahead.

But it is a law of humanity and certainly of Days Of The New that many a beautiful event will end with someone taking a shit, and on the ride back to the hotel the van becomes a venue for mad frustrations to be voiced at the expense of sanity. Thank God Malcolm has had a break for a few days. He has stamina to remain the voice of reason. As for me, any remaining threads of resilience I have are shredded. When I arrive at the hotel, something has broken. Another level has been reached, but what to say of it? Suck ass shitball? Fuck wad doody puss dick? No metaphor feels right. I grit my teeth as all things in the tiny universe come down to me and God and no one else. (Such states of being are often denoted by my screaming, “Fuck everybody!”) Maybe if I wasn’t so disposed to the metaphors of being part of a group, I could channel my resilience in ways that would keep me from feeling so shitty about the moments when I finally breakdown and expel the bad ju ju that has been vexing me. But I usually just feel mad and ashamed and alone.

But especially I am uncontrollably pissed, which is often the state I'm in when I finally catch a new breath for things.

I leave my beard extentions in the room.

Travis apologizes in the van ride to the show.

During the set, Malcolm’s bass farts through the busted speaker in my drum monitor, making it sound like a bow played against a double bass.

From the first note played by Days Of The New in Birmingham Alabama, we have the best show of the tour.

After the set we meet with fans who give back the good energy. I meet Charlie who used to roadie for Yes back in the 70s. “You know, you know,” he said winking at me, “You know the drummer was that band.”

"I like you, Charlie," I say. Our show was so fucking good.

In the dressing room, two drunk dudes are drinking our Red Bulls. One says, “Man, when are you gonna bring the metal? Pull out an electric guitar? I hear it in your music.”

“If you hear it in the music then it’s there,” I say. Do we need to spell it out?

We say goodbye and thanks to Steve the awesome soundman and head back to the hotel to grab our things for the late night drive to Hilton Head. I hit the one hitter and leave my toiletry bag with my tooth guard and favorite soap in the room. I also leave the battery and battery charger for my headphones there, too. Fuck. It is the most stuff than I have ever lost on a tour.

I read the news today, oh, boy.

2008-01-21T23:28:00.001-08:00

Last week there was a disaster at Ground Zero. A demolition company had been hired to destroy the Deutsche bank Building at the World Trade Center and things went badly. Fire and death of two firefighters.

The demolition company had been hired by the city after many other demolition companies had been passed on because they did not have enough integrity or reputation to do the job. But now, as the tragegy is being investigated by - who else? The Department of Investigation - we are learning that NO ONE knows anything about the demolition company or the corporation that runs it. The apparent head of the company had to be located by searching city records (didn't anyone have his card?) and then said that his contract for the job prohibited him from talking to the media.

It is not uncommon for a corporation to be created in order for a smaller company in order to avoid liabilities associated with dangerous jobs like demolishing buildings at ground zero, BUT - did I already say this? - no one has ever heard of the company that was hired to do the "monumentous" job.

No doubt, the people on my street who continue to watch the fallout results of 9-11 with an eye on cover-up have just been handed a plump fish to fry.

...but so have readers of Ayn Rand.

...the Mystery Corporation's name is JOHN GALT.

And no one seems to know where he is.

So beginning with todays headlines, everyone in New York - from the workers with conscience to the homeless asking for your quarter - could ask, "Who is John Galt?". Just like page one of Atlas Shrugged, a book that describes the "machine" of man's society. A head trip to say the least. But to my mind, there are no accidents.

Atlas Shrugged is a book I never finished, so I'm gonna go back and read the second half and see what happens.

Birmingham (day off)

2008-01-21T23:27:00.001-08:00

The manholes of downtown Birmingham have steam rising from them 24 hours a day. I sleep late on our day off. In the late afternoon, Phil, Fresta and I head into town for food. We almost settle for Chick Fil-A, which is, in my opinion, a shitty meal on a day off, but providence reigns and it is closed. The Roots are on the stereo in the van. We persevere and find good barbeque. Fresta has never had Fried Green Tomatoes. We find a record store and music store where I get sticks. Jack Dijonette (sp?) and a weird mallet stick. (Both by Vic Firth for any drum geeks.)

For those who don't know, wash day on the road is serious fucking business. While we are out Travis wakes and asks that we pick up detergent. "What kind should I get," Phil asks me. "Why don't you call the olfactory genius," I say. Phil calls Travis back - liquid detergent with fabric softener. I suggest we stop at a market downtown but Phil waits until our only option is the gas station by the hotel. Fresta emerges from the mart, snaps a photo of a bumper sticker on a black woman's car that says "Forget the thrills, Dope Kills!", and shows us a box of powdered soap called Trend. Uh, oh. As Phil already knows, this is not going to bode well. When his assumptions are proven right, Fresta feels like he was set up to do the wrong thing, and Travis and Phil head back out for the right stuff.

Later that night Travis and I take a walk. We walk down dead end roads behind the hotel and talk about being kids. The air in Birmingham is warm like an Oxycontin buzz. Behind the gas station a black man is relentlessly hitting his crack pipe. "Poor guy,"Travis says. "He'll never get high off that stuff. It's meth that has the real high." Travis tells me more about Meth addiction than I ever imagined we might discuss. His awareness of the need and the consiquence of his addiction is scary - it has a kind of self-awareness that one could, if not careful, use to justify the drug as much as steer clear of it. But Travis is careful. "Being sober means telling the truth," he says. "If I don't stay with what is true, I'll get high. And then it's all over." We walk down Arkadelphia road to a truck stop. When we walk in, an older black man sees us, and with an air of recognition says, "Old Testament brothers! Born in fear!" I get an AC adaptor for the van, waters, and a live Gram Parsons cd. Emmylou Harris is from Birmingham.

Travis and I walk back and take the van out into the city. It doesn't take long before we are gloriously lost. We listen to Midnight Marauders, although I think we'd be just as happy with silence. We drive though poor parts of Birmingham with the windows down singing,"Suka nigga - Nigga Nigga!" We talk about drugs, porn, God, and being children, all subjects intersecting at various points of essence. "My old dealer will be coming to one of the shows," Travis tells me. "Will I know," I ask. "I won't tell you until after its happened." I believe the heat and air of Birmingham in the middle of the night would make the mind of anyone who has used turn to drugs. But the only crystal scored on this night starts with a K and comes on a square bun. We call Phil so he can lead us back to the hotel with his GPS.

Clarion to Birmingham.

2008-01-21T23:26:00.001-08:00

Stress often jars me awake between the hours of 4 and 5 a.m. luckily, this morning Traci is next to me and we have a great talk that calms me down. She says she is ready to be Queen. I tell her she is Queen. When I share this later with my Father he says, "You kids have to define your terms. Find out what she means by Queen." Thank you, wise man. Will do.

Somewhere south of Cincinnati, Travis, Phil and I have our first talk of the tour about how things are being run. The words expectations and boundaries resonate through the van. Travis prefers if we begin our suggestions with "What if…" He is resolved to play music with or without anyone and he has a lot to be protective of. We seem to respect everyone's personal place. Everyone is here for something, and as Phil says later, "I just don't want to be here under a false reality." That is true for me, too. There are numerous ideas I'd be eager to see happen if the time was right for us, but at this point I'm just as satisfied to learn what isn't possible. We need to know where each other is coming from. At times like this I cure any overthinking by borrowing Malcolm's outlook. "I'm just riding this out right now seeing what happens," he'll say. "If I become meaningful to things, that will become apparent later down the line." True dat.

We stop in Louisville. Phil's Mom and Bob take him to his house so he can pick up a p.a. for the road and visit with friends and girlfriends for a few minutes. Thre's a party going on and Phil barely gets to visit with his lady and doesn't have time to eat any Barbeque. Fresta, Travis and I drive to Travis' Mom's house where we unload the van and organize the space so it is a little more sanity-inspiring. I am understanding more than ever what it means to make conditions livable for each other on the road. In some cases, this means obsessing on details that may seem extreme: where does the cooler go? Who empties the trash bag? How many personal bags can we have in the van? What brand air freshener is used? Do we have good air circulation? Who gets to plug their laptop into the AC adaptor? The shit is crazy and necessary to work out. Like all good artists, we organize the van with all of our creative energies peaked. Whether we will follow through in the duties for the remainder of the tour is another matter.

Travis' Mom is as sweet as the last time I saw her. She tells me she's glad we're playing together again. "Me, too," I say.

"Oh. His music," she says rolling her eyes to the sky. "It just gets me. He hears so many things. I actually like it when Travis goes on the road because it's the only time I can listen to him. He won't let me play his records when he's around."

On the ride to Birmingham Travis is driving and I am shotgun. I am being discreet about my tokes on the one-hitter, which keep me awake for the late drives. After a 4-20 at the truck stop, I pitch in as Travis gets down to cleaning the windows of the van. Seated in the van, Phil laughs when I put the wrong end of the window wiper to the window. This inspires some amusing discussion about experiences washing the windshield of the van. Travis is not impressed with Fresta's technique and becomes maddened when Phil doesn't take his request to help seriously. By time we pull out, there is serious heat from Travis aimed in Phil's direction about things only two brothers would understand. Ten minutes later, Travis' voice is still raised when we get pulled over for doing 84 in a 70 zone. Even as the officer returns to his car with license and registration, the yelling continues. If it wasn't all so intense I'd be laughing my ass off. As we pull out, Phil acknowledges that the guy didn't say anything at all about the lack of plate on the trailer. Thank you, Jesus.

We listen to Slayer, Dead Can Dance, CCR, and Tool and have great talks about music. We dream of what Tree Colors could be and imagine the kind of shows we could put together. When we arrive in Birmingham, a black guy staying at the Days Inn sees Travis and says, "You're looking for the soda machine, aren't you?" (Tricky talk for cocaine.) Goddamn. We've pulled into crack central.

Clarion, PA.

2008-01-21T23:25:00.001-08:00

Soundcheck. Mudpackers have set up their kiddie tent in the rain. The stage and crew are different than last night. I give Fresta money to pitch in on the next box of Nicorette. Traci thinks the headliner should form a bluegrass band called Yonder Hinder. Before the show she and Marni and I find The Tavern downtown and have beers and a pickled egg. Gross.

When I return to the venue, the mood in the bandroom is gloomy. Travis is bumming pretty hard at the thought of facing the Hinder crowd again. Fact is, there could be – and usually are – hundreds of people cheering our set, but the eight or twelve hecklers by the stage will be all the voices Travis hears. Travis asks me to take off my new sunglasses before we go onstage. With a spirit of solidarity, I comply.

At one point someone yells "You suck."

Travis looks up from tuning his guitar and says simply. "I know." Then he starts the beginning of "The Downtown". "Ain't no one can kick my ass as good as I can," he says.

Although I think we play pretty well, it seems that for most of the set the negative energy gets the better of Travis – until the last song. Travis begins "Provider" and then stops. A few twists of his guitar strings and he starts strumming familiar chords we have not yet heard on this tour. We are closing with "The End."

The beginning seems a little shaky. After all, we haven't played the song in years and Malcolm has never played it, though you would not know it by how deftly he lays the shit out. The muse is eventually summoned, and Travis starts surging with electricity. "The children are insane," he sings directly into the faces of the crowd. Yes they are. After the words "Mother I want to fuck you all night long" echo through the gymnasium, the room explodes. As the murderous moment of the song dissipates, the lighting engineer in a stroke of genius turns off every light in the gymnasium. Thousands of kids scream in the dark as Travis intones "Kill…Kill…Kill..." It is a dangerous moment. We have conquered.

Fear not the dark cloud that rises yonder hinder.

The Ride To Clarion

2008-01-21T23:24:00.001-08:00

Marni and Traci and I follow the van in Marni's car. Our first gas stop is in Suffern New York, where nestled back in the woods stands the studio once owned by the sax player in Spyro Gyra. This is where we mixed the first version of the Red album with Bill Klatt in 2000. At the gas station, the Middle Eastern guys are insane with late night delirium, screeching the tires of their cars and yelling to one another. When Travis tells the cashier it's his birthday, the guy fakes like he draws a gun on Travis. Then two Tibetan Monks in yellow robes enter the store, and walk down the aisle where the chips are, buy nothing, get in their mini van, and drive off.

Two hours later at a truck stop on Pennsylvania, Marni holds up a green license plate with a picture of Jesus on it. Below his joyous face it says, "Still Saving Lives".

"Why don't you put this on your trailer," Marni asks. Brilliant!

I buy the plate and a kick ass pair of sunglasses, stoned for the drive. Traci endures Marni and I talking the whole time about coke snorting friends, the band, and Travis. In the final hours of the drive, Travis takes over driving the van and in a patch of dense fog hits the side of a concrete highway divider going 75. The caravan continues and after a while I am not sure if it happened. 20 minutes later my cell rings.

"Did you see that?"

"Yeah. That was nuts."

As I stare at the trailer I wonder if its my eyes playing tricks or if the axle is bent. Then I fixate on the plate. Still Saving Lives. Yes, I guess so.

Fairfield, CT.

2008-01-21T23:23:00.001-08:00

We are up and out early for the rainy drive to Sacred Heart University and our first of two shows with Hinder and Operator. I am psyched because my lovely Traci will be meeting us in Fairfield. When Travis wakes there is a message from Rick the ghost manager waiting on his phone:

"Happy Birthday, T. Want you to know that The Showdown are headed back to Tennessee and will not be on any more shows for the run."

The news is bittersweet. With all the bad routing of the first shows and the sense of neglect the band has felt where the management is concerned, it's kind of nice that Rick took an interest in trying to better our touring conditions. At the same time, no one was so upset about The Showdown that we needed them thrown off tour. But the bottom line is there's too much shit to think about to spend much time pondering the decision. The upside may be that a message has been sent to the booking agent that we'd rather not play shows with RAWK bands opening. (Unless it's Not Of This World).

In any case, The Showdown, and especially Rowdy, wherever you are, I bid thee well. Tell Ozzy I say hi.

The Hinder shows are part of a College tour show called Mudpackers.com. Mudpackers produce concert tours that play smaller colleges around the country. They set up a big tent and lights that turn Sacred Heart University's gymnasium into Chuck E. Cheese.

YAY! Traci arrives with Marni! Seeing my wife standing across the parking lot with her chocolate mint hat looking for me in the crowd makes my heart skip beats. I'm not the only one having a reunion. Malcolm's wife Aimee, his Mom and friend (Ed?) also drive up from New York City. Malcolm's Mom has brought him raw fish for dinner. It's like Malcolm is her baby penguin.

Tonight is the first show of the tour where we are playing a large concert-size stage and I enjoy getting to stretch my arms when I play. Travis wears a tie for his birthday show and we play a great set. He does not stress the Hinder fans that think nothing of us and make sure we know it. All through the set, he speaks his mind to the crowd, connecting lyrics he wrote 5 and 10 years ago to what he is feeling right now. Midway through I take my leave and stand stage side as Travis plays Dancing With The Wind to a gymnasium of three thousand people. Watching him stand alone in front of three thousand people, unflinchingly true to himself is balls-out inspiring. I become aware that I am witnessing Travis evolve into a focused, realized performing artist who has his energies in command. Such a moment in an artist's lifetime is something few people ever witness and tonight myself and three thousand kids have a ringside seat for the transformation.

After the set, I can't relax until I see Traci."Was it okay," I ask her. She has seen so much music being with me that I have to know. She says it was great. "I like seeing you back on a big stage." Sweet.

Marni has brought cake and sweets and presents for Travis. We sing Happy Birthday to Travis in a converted girls locker room on Sacred Heart University's campus. Traci asks Travis,"How does it feel to be 28?"

"I sat for a while with 27 to say goodbye to it," Travis says. "I didn't go out like Kurt Cobain and Jim Morrison and Jimi Hendrix. So now what?"

On this day our dear Jason Fresta seems to have reached a precipice. He is none-too pleased by how little he is being regarded (Phil would not let him stand onstage during our set), and with good reason. We haven't figured out how to disperse roles and delegate authority and Jason, who took unpaid weeks off from Mtv to join us on the road, has had the biggest challenge for integrating himself into the fold. With no merchandise for him to sell, there is some discussion as to his usefulness for the rest of the tour. It's a frustrating predicament and because he is very close to his home, he thinks about packing and leaving. Lord knows many people would.

But he does not. He decides to stick it out. (And this, dear Fresta, will make all the difference.)

Music Listened to in the van

2008-01-21T23:22:00.001-08:00

Slayer – CHrist Illusion/ God Hates Us All

The Roots – Game Theory
CCR – Willie and The poor Boys
Nick Drake – Pink Moon/Way To Blue
Tool – 10,000 Days
Rage Against The Machine – Evil Empire
William S. Burroughs – Dead City Radio
Glenn Kotche – Mobile
Dead Can Dance – All
Black Label Society – some shit
Tribe Called Quest – Midnight Marauders
Days Of The New – Demos
Michael Jackson - Thriller
White Zombie - Super Sexy Swingin Sounds

Allentown (Show Day)

2008-01-21T23:21:00.000-08:00

Days Of The New played Alligator Lounge in October of 2001. At the time, we watched terrorist alerts all day on the bus and when we pulled into town, the F.B.I. searched our Penske Truck for explosives. The night ended with someone on the bus trying to hurl themselves through the bus windshield. The memory gives me a shot of anxiety and also a sense of relief. Things are so much calmer now.

Tonight we play with Goatwhore. GOATWHORE! While we soundcheck, Travis goes to the hospital because a zit in his nose has become infected and is starting to eat into his sinus cavity. Earlier he tried to pop it with one of the dream catchers from the van. We are prepared not to do the show, but Travis shows up to Alligator Lounge ready to rock. Bill Klatt has driven in from New York. ("I drove here thinking, 'What am I gonna tell Ray – I don't come to see his bands play in Manhatttan but I drive 2 hours to Allentown to see Travis' band.) It's cool, Bill. I know whassap.

Before the show Malcolm is livid, pissed, and furious because Rowdy from The Showdown has moved his bass amp. Rowdy is a stand up guy who should have respected Malcolm's request to keep things where they were. It's a bummer to see him on the smelly end of the poop stick. The scene has an unfortunate escalation in the moments before our set.

After having had a promising sound check- SURPRISE! The sound for the show is the worst all tour. It puts Travis in a firey zone for "Flight Response" ("RUNNING INSANE! I AM INSANE!") and we are unable to pull things together until Perpetuate rigorous Ghost. Towards the end of the set, Travis says, "Tomorrow is my birthday and I'm playing with Hinder so I just wanna play some songs by myself right now." The crowd is down for a solo set and I perch myself at the bar with Bill Klatt and we listen to Travis finish the night with four new songs.

On the van ride back to the hotel, it is finally revealed why Malcolm went for a walk after the show in Springfield. The man has been growing increasingly frustrated with the state of the sound of the shows and our performances. "I told myself I would only go on tour if things were artistically pleasing," he says as he drives us to the hotel. "This is not." His frustration is understandable for many reasons. Here are some I readily think of.

1) Unlike most rhythm sections who set up next to each other, we are working with a set up that has us on opposite ends of the stage with Travis in the middle.
2) I am less shows in with some of the arrangements, and I have a different way of playing than Paul, who Malcolm and Travis first played the songs with.
3) Malcolm and I haven't yet hit on a telepathic vibe and any telepathy I have with Travis cannot reach all the way across stage to where Malcolm is.
4) Travis and I are not locking in as quickly as in the past because the language we are exploring to play the songs is so different from four years ago. As a band, we are as new to the songs as an expert college rock cover band would be to playing them. So while I don't think we've really played a terrible show yet, the three of us are only sometimes in synch. If those synchronious moments are compromised by terrible sound on stage, it might not seem likely at all that we are ever getting anywhere.
5) The soundmen of many rock clubs are used to only mixing loud, Who-Gives-A-Fuck-If-The-Bass-Rig-Craps-Out-In-The-Middle-Of-The-Set-We're-Running-Direct-The-Bass-Drum-Is All-Click-And-There's-Gates-On-The-Drums-And-Compression-On-Every-Instrument-Because-No-One-Here-Plays-Anything-But- RAWWWK Music.
6) (5 b.) Don't get me wrong – this describes many of my favorite bands. It just sucks trying to play with a soundman making us sound like that. I mean, check this out - every night Travis sings songs about Satan and "the other person" and then tells the audience at some point, "I'm here for your soul." Now tell me: how can we deliver the fire and the place and commandeer the souls of the heartland with live shows mixed like Green Day?
7) We have had terrible sound onstage for other reasons. Here they are:

a. the three of us have been figuring out what we need our sound to be as we go.
b. Crazily amplified acoustic guitars like to feedback.
c. we often have sound checks where Travis isn't present because he was up all night driving and needs to sleep before he has to sing his ass off.
d. The point of focus for some parts of the songs is still being discovered by all three of us.
e. As Malcolm said, "Ray, you are taking a far greater dynamic approach with the songs than these rock clubs allow for.

I could go on - Malcolm sure did, finally ending with "If the sound systems are going to continue to be this bad, I'm not sure I can play with you." Yikes!

By time we sleep, all the necessary frustrations have been aired out. Travis ends the band discussion saying, "Ray, I feel like I need less from you, and Malcolm, I feel like I need more." The train whistle blows loud outside the window. I dream of leaving Allentown for better shows ahead.

Virginia to Allentown (Day Off)

2008-01-21T23:20:00.000-08:00

At some point during the drive to Allentown, Malcolm wakes and takes off his ear buds. "Dude, have you watched The Showdown?"

"Just heard them though the wall in the band room," I say. I've meant to watch them every night and haven't made it yet.

"It's really weird, Malcolm says. "They play intense guitar rock but they really remind me of Warrant." Malcolm pauses. "And I don't know if that's a good thing."

From the looks of how well Showdown are getting on, I'd say whatever they are doing works. I mean, what the fuck do any of us know? I didn't listen to radio rock bands back when I first joined Days OF The New – I certainly don't know what's happening now. (I'll save navel-gazing about the state of rock for later.)

All I do know about The Showdown is that we haven't really hung with the guys yet. We are kind of keeping to ourselves (read: anti-social dweebs) and The Showdown seem to be pretty mellow dudes. My only exchange with one of the guitarists went like this:

Guitarist: "You want a Monster ™?"

Me: "No thanks, man."

Guitarist: "Let me know. This guy from the company came by the other night and gave us an endorsement. We have a case of them."

Me: "Awesome."

Guitarist: "You should talk to them. They might hook you up, too."

Me: "Thanks."

I vow to watch Showdown in Allentown tomorrow.

Its raining when we arrive in Allentown and everyone except Malcolm goes to the Mall. In the van Travis gets a call from a friend who wants to join us for a few days on the road. He asks if he can call her back so he can discuss with us. So soon in the tour we are still very cautious about messing with our van vibe. Being the wise master of group dynamics that I am, I suggest to Travis that if the young lady joins us, she must put it in the Dewey. This is a deft double-team of a comment that references a very inside band joke (too deep for My Space readers) while also easing the seriousness of the matter, which allows our decision making to end quickly, simply, and along a train of thought that we can all relate to. Travis nods and calls her back.

"You have to sleep with the band," he says.

"Okay," she says.

"I mean the whole band," Travis says.

There is a pause on the other end of the phone.

"Well how many are there?" she replies.

"There's me, Phil, Ray, Malcolm, and Jason Fresta," Travis answers.

"Okay,' she says.

"Really," says Travis.

"Is that so strange," she asks.

Guess not.

Later that night, Phil, Fresta and I head back out looking for food. A few bat hits and "Dark Side Of The Moon" on the stereo and we are lost in Allentown. But the night is golden and GPS is a great traveling companion. We find Jellybean's Southside Jam where we get dinner and film some of our "On The Road" documentary. Then Fresta and I do some balls-out Karaoke.

Set List
Wish You Were Here (me)
Blaze Of Glory (Fresta)

Springfield, VA

2008-01-21T23:19:00.000-08:00

Meatball is the name of the guy at Jaxx rock club helping us to load our gear. He wears an Alice Cooper shirt from the greatest concert he ever saw. Later in the evening when the roadcases are back in the trailer and Phil and I are stoned, Meatball will demonstrate how he can jump from the stage to the railing of the balcony, executing a perfect sprite-like toe tap in mid air. It is breathtaking. The three Ukranian women working the bar at Jaxx moved to Virginia three months ago. "It's too conservative here," the bartender with the see-thru shirt says, smoking her cigarette. "We're going to Hollywood."

After our sound check Rowdy the tour manager/roadie for The Showdown asks if we'll move our gear back to make room for their amps. Rowdy gets shit done and seems to be the backbone of the hard working The Showdown who have played almost ever night for year and are on Ozzfest this summer. In St. Pete, Rowdy arrived before we did and left a carpet for me to put my drums on so I could slide them out of the way for his boys. They have no problem asking the headliner to move their shit, which deserves respect even if it's a little chafing.

Tonight I've added to my drum kit the Pioneer subwoofer from the van which I am playing like a cajon. My kit is getting harder to move, so I meet Rowdy's request halfway and strike a few pieces. (Strike is stage lingo for "remove") Rowdy asks Malcolm if his bass amp could be moved. Malcolm says, "No. Sorry bro."

Major Dan Eagan of the U.S. Coast Guard comes to the show and brings his step daughter and two friends. Dan used to handle the financial books for Days Of the New and is offering assistance as Travis gets business started up again. His 16 year old step daughter is hot and excited to braid my beard, which makes me uncomfortable, but I let her do it anyway. Anything for Dan's family.

Before the show, Travis suggests we try "Orch(estration) of the Medium" in the set. This is kind of a big deal. Firstly, the piece is a heavily thought-out, intricate instrumental opus straight out of Travis' genius brain. And second: we've never rehearsed it. Malcolm's never even heard it. The gauntlet has been thrown.

After such a great show in St. Petes, I don't expect to achieve such splendor, but the sound onstage is especially difficult for us. In the end, Orch of The Medium not part of the set.

After the set Malcolm walks out the door of the club and disappears. Travis and I talk in the parking lot for 45 minutes about the new sound the band must achieve. It's a breakthrough conversation during which Travis' arms flail with every point he makes, his Einstein hair wild in the wind. He looks like a mad composer. Or Dr. Frankenstein. Malcolm calls and tells us where to pick him up.

We pick Malcolm up on the side of the highway and head back to the hotel. Phil and I sit up talking about what the future might hold. Before we pass out, Phil says, "We ain't got shit to do tomorrow and we can do it at anytime."

Drama Desk

2008-01-21T23:18:00.002-08:00

In Allentown last week I got a call from Carolyn Cantor, director of Essential Self Defense. "I'm just calling," she said, dragging out the syllables of "calling" in a way that made me see her smiling as she spoke, "to congratulate you."

"Awesome," i said. "For what?"

Turns out that I along with Lucas and Adam have been given the nod by Drama Desk, the New York Theater Award Committee that concerns itself with Broadway and Off Broadway productions. We have been nominated for an Award for Best Music in a Play. It is much deserved if I do say so myself.

Brother Paul Sparks has also been nominated for best actor for his work in Essential Self Defense, and it is more than well deserved. It is fucking justice. Paul took a beating in some reviews for the artistic choices he made playing Yul, and it is nice to know that his genius was not lost on everyone. Paul is like the Susan Lucci of Drama Desk, astounding the committee year after year with his work and consistently getting nominated, but coming in second to other known stars like Liam Neeson, Philip Seymour Hoffman, and the like. He takes it all in his stride, but because this year Traci and I will be sitting at the table next to him, I'm inclined to think something special may occur. At the very least he will have fun with his lady Annie, who was also nominated for Best Actress and is up against Meryl Streep. Crazy, right?

Dad says "Well, at the very least you can put it in your resume." True, Dad. I love getting awards, and I hope Essential Self Defense sweeps the categories we've been nominated for. (The brilliant David Korins also got a nod for his set design, as well as a nomination for another show he designed. Jeez.) But even though it's the cool thing to say "It's nice just to be nominated," that is the truth. Two weeks ago I was clearing my drums out of Playwrights Horizons. It was the morning after our last show and already the stage and room felt cold, empty, awaiting new life, but holding no reverberations of the energy we had worked to create night after night. The Drama Desk nomination lets me know that other people were watching and feeling what we were doing, and for one night, some of us will have the chance to celebrate together the great achievement that the play truly was.

Day Seven

2008-01-21T23:18:00.001-08:00

Moments before taking off we are sitting in the van in the Econo Lodge parking lot. A guy in rattly black clothes, a black ball cap and long grey blond hair and no teeth rides up on a ten speed dirt bike. He knocks on Travis' window. Travis rolls it down.

"You need any rock seed," he asks.

"No thanks," Travis says.

"Don't hurt to ask," the man in black replies.

"Yes it does,' says Malcolm.

We have what should be a 14 hour drive from St. Pete to Springfield Virginia. But we stop so many times I am sure it will be closer to 20 hours.

Malcolm's transformation of the band is on. An hour south of the Florida boarder he is feeding us raw coconut with honey. He cuts it with a ridiculously dramatic looking knife his father gave him. Malcolm is Sylvester Stallone in First Blood. The other night he offered me raw honey to use as hair gel. The shit worked.

Travis has been on the phone most of the day. The producers of the A and E show Intervention are going to come out to a show and do a follow up.

Last night's show opened a door that has needed to be opened for a while. A little more confident in our abilities, we have our first philosophical musings of the tour.

"It's wild that I did 'The End' with The Doors before 9-11, isn't it?"

"I could see it that way," I say.

"Yeah. I guess I see it differently," Travis says, afraid that I may not agree with him. "I see musicians as prophets. I see Rick Rubin as a prophet. All the energy flows out of him, making things happen. But it's a silent story its not supposed to be told. It's supposed to be acted." Travis seems to process eighteen impulses in a matter of seconds. "I got a big mouth," he says finally.

This is one of those Travis exchanges that brims with hard wisdom, mixed and scrambled by many thoughts going on at once. In a nutshell, I agree with him. In my best moments I even aspire to the Rick Rubinesque nature he described.

"I don't think we are doing our job as artists if we are not writing the books for the next era," I say. Lofty as it sounds, we all agree, and that's good, because there is much more than paychecks and wish-fantasies of record deals happening here. Maybe we see the same, maybe we don't, but if anything is going to come together for us, it is going to require many people and many parts. As Travis said the other night onstage, "These instruments are alive."

Yes we are.

Day Six

2008-01-21T23:15:00.000-08:00

The ride from Port St. Lucie to St. Petersburg should only take 2 1/2 hours. We take the advice of a security guard at The Mojo Room and avoid the Interstate, instead driving directly across the state of Florida on Highway 70. It is beautiful and open. Travis naps in the back. The highway stretches through small towns that look a lot like Jeffersonville, Indiana.

25 miles into the ride, I hear a worried Jason Fresta in the seat behind me. "We've lost cell phone reception." Jason has never traveled outside of the New York/New England area. He is truly worried for our safety.

Somewhere west of Acadia we are pulled over. The officer asks us how long we have been traveling without a license plate on our trailer. We tell him we didn't know we needed one (a lie for all of us but only some of us have admitted it to ourselves.). In front of the kind policeman I act like this is really gonna suck, because we have many more states to travel through on our tour. "We're in a band," I say. I think I hear Fresta gasp.

Phil is driving but he's lost his wallet. The officer accepts my license and runs a check on the van. We all start looking for Phil's wallet, but to no avail. When the officer returns, he serves me a warning for faulty equipment and lets us go. "What's the name of your band again," he asks.

"Days Of the New", I say.

"What kind of music is it?"

I know Travis is in the back and listening. If he were answering, he'd say "Acoustic World Music", but being the vanilla diplomat I am, I say, "Rock, basically. Acoustic." Consider the audience.

"I'm into country music mostly ," the officer says, "but my girl likes the modern stuff."

"Check us out on line if you get a chance."

We pull away and Malcolm suggests again that things might have been smoother if we'd taken the Interstate. In my best granny voice, i politely disagree. "This was a blessing from an angel", I say. Not only did we get off with a warning, the officer clued us in to avoid more tickets by presenting the warning to anyone else who might pull us over and to tell them that our plate was missing. Thank you, Florida.

That evening our concert at State Theater is the show we have been waiting for. "All the shows have been great," Travis says afterwards," But this one was amazing." For the first time since getting back together last year, Days Of The New is casting spells. The room at State Theater becomes a chamber with no walls, and we take off. I walk into the crowd during Travis' solo Dancing With The Wind and watch him transform himself into all the characters of each of the movements of the song. Provider ends the night on a high. Kelly Mettling's presence before the show seems to have had a great affect. He brought Travis a birthday present. A book called "The Power Of Now."

Set list

Flight Response
Touch Peel and Stand
Shelf in The Room
Dancing With The Wind
Touch Of Anger
Downtown
Perpeuate R. G.
Dirty Road
Die Born
Provider

Day Five

2008-01-21T23:14:00.000-08:00

I take a nice morning walk to the Donut Castle, get a coffee and plain cake donut and talk to Traci, which makes me feel better after a long rough night. Donut Castle sells Crème Rammed donuts, which reminds me of a few tour stories to tell my wife.

Phil, Malcolm, and Fresta pick me up to go to The Mojo Room for soundcheck.

"Florida is like Long Island but with better weather," says Malcolm.

Soundcheck seems really promising. The stage is big and everyone is nice. I learn that my second bass drum resonates at 80 hertz. Our runner Chris gets us Chicken Caeser salads. Malcolm's wife calls him from a wildlife preserve and lets him hear the sound of a legion of frogs over his cell phone.

The show is in some ways another step forward for us musically, but the stage sound ends up being so bad that we are robbed of feeling good by the end. Afterwards, I stay in the band room and play Tetris. Fresta walks in and hands me a photo that a fan has asked me to sign. it is a panoramic photo of the drum kit I used to tour with. From the way the drums are set up I can tell it was taken during an early Green album tour.

I follow Fresta out the back to meet the owner of the photo and am reunited with Steve, one of the most memorable people I ever met while touring. He has brought his son Connor to the show. Before I get around to asking Steve about another of the most memorable people I ever met, he tells me that his beloved Ginger succumbed to cancer three months ago. I don't know what to say. I feel so sad for Steve – even in my eight year old memory, I know he and Ginger were full of love for each other. They deeply enjoyed being together. Meeting their son Connor for the first time was powerful. I wished I could get in their red van that was parked nearby and go to the beach and talk, but time was tight. Another time.

Parts of me had been road buggered enough to forget that most of what we'd been worrying about was insignificant shit. Everything comes down to the moment and what we do with it. I don't know that I will ever stop needing to be reminded of this, but the memory of Ginger brought me back to reality. I am very happy to be back in touch with Steve and to meet Connor. Such things are, for me, the blessings of the road.

"Travis' songs help me," Steve says in a way so real I am humbled. He quotes Dirty Road. "Get up and open your eyes. Don't let yourself ever fall down."

I go back to the hotel and sleep for 11 hours. Malcolm drives around Port St. Lucie looking for a lost jacket which he finds in the passenger seat of the van. Travis stays up for most of the night in a meditative state that he later says puts him back in his pure and best state of mind.

Set List

Flight Response
Touch Peel and Stand
Shelf in The Room
Dirty Road
Dancing With The Wind
Touch Of Anger
Downtown
Perpeuate R. G.
Die Born
Provider

Day Four

2008-01-21T23:13:00.002-08:00

It's 4-20! Phil's birthday! Some pot smoker I am...I didn't know what 4-20 meant until Travis and Phil explain it to me. Phil is 24 today.

The routing of this tour is so bad Travis and Malcolm are convinced our booking agent is out to punish us. Seven hours back north to Tallahassee! Lord have mercy! We are loading in gear 30 minutes before doors are supposed to open, but no one is stressed until the soundman tries to impress us by playing the radio spot for the show. Hearing all of the hits mashed behind the monster truck-announcer voice, Travis screams "I hate the fucking radio!". Amen, brother. We sound check and get out of the way of the openers who will barely have time to line check. (Sorry guys.)

Jason Fresta is in town to join us for the rest of the tour and help out. He and I walk to Moes where I have a really nasty burrito. Moe's sucks. When we return to the hotel room, there is much intense talking before we head to the club. Rick the manager from far away is called. Life on the road needs to stay healthier than this. Everyone resolves to get through this run of shows but there is no denying we are already stressed with the routing, lack of sleep, and close quarters.

Before the show at Floyd's Music Store, Malcolm, Travis and I each poop backstage and use towels because there is no toilet paper. Then we play. Whimsical is played for the first time on the tour. A friendly face from that horrible Florida tour from four years ago pops out of the crowd in mid set and literally stares Travis into messing up "Dirty Road". "Provider" gets some new juice. Travis is feeling the need to conduct Malcolm and I as we play which is a little distressing for everyone. We are still in search of the divine cohesion.

Phil says that the stage-side soundman reminds him of Nathan. "Sometimes I catch Nate's vibe in people," he says. After the show I meet a couple who brought their son(s?) to the show. The man is bearded with cherubic cheeks and warm eyes. "You look so much like our friend," he says. "I am your friend," I reply. His name is Nathan. The guys from Psychedelic Blues Train are at the show.

Afterwards, Fresta, Phil and I watch drunk college fools exiting the Daquari bar next door and causing fights in the parking lot. We don't leave town until 2:30. Our friend from way back tells Travis and I that the evil tour manager from our last tour returned to Florida to see her and was arrested for stealing an oxygen tank from an ambulance. Shortly before dawn the plan to stop at Fresta's parents house is aborted. It is the low point of the trip. I am relieved to check into the hotel at Port St. Lucie and sleep.

Set List

Flight Response
Whimsical
Touch Peel and Stand
Shelf In The Room
Dancing With The Wind
Touch Of Anger
Dirty Road
Downtown
Pertetuate Rigorous Ghost
Die Born
Provide

Day Three

2008-01-21T23:13:00.001-08:00

I am tripped out when we pull up to The Culture Room. Travis and I played here four years ago on the very last tour we did together opening shows for Robbie Krieger. That tour was such a nightmare that I never thought I would ever return to the club. It was the place where the evil tour manager showed up with a bags of Harley Davidson clothes and asked us to wear the t-shirts onstage so we could keep the jackets. "Fuck no," Travis said, and the guy ignored the store's request to return the merchandise after the show. When I remind Travis of this he says," Oh, yeah. Get ready. We're goin back to ALL the old places."

At sound check, it gets tense between Travis and I. After years of getting the vibe so easy, Travis and I have been having a hard time communicating things and getting on the same page. It is equally hard for Malcolm who is getting to know us both for the first time and who has his own way of playing music. Travis and Malcolm have also done a handful of shows with Paul Culligan on drums and they are both anxious for us to fall into the vibe that they had built on the last tour. Ultimately, time and playing a few shows will bring us to the right place. But will it happen by tonight? I'm a little worried.

I turn on my mystical antennae for any signs to guide me. The soundman is from Louisville. Bingo! He tells me that Buster Brown (famous 80's Louisville band) used to have an inside joke about a kind of cow tipping they invented that involved sticking the fuzzy end of a mop up the ass of the cow. The soundman waits for me to laugh but I am stunned to silence. Is this the omen? Is this…mystical?

"Fuzzy end up," the soundman says again and laughs.

Before the show I decide to walk from the hotel down Route One to get my mind ready. As I walk out of my hotel room, Travis is walking out of his.

"I'm going to get coffee," I say.

"I'm going to get cigarettes," he says.

"Let's go."

At this point, I know you could accuse me of enabling. I wouldn't argue, but with so much intensity around our first tour in four years, it had crossed my mind that this might not be the most optimal time for Travis to quit smoking. I am fine bumming Nocorette, but I'm not going to draw a hard line about smoking with a guy who is clearly going through a lot to get back out with the band. As it turns out, when it appears that there is no place nearby to get cigarettes, Travis heads back to finish getting ready. When the van picks me up on Route one 30 minutes later, Travis is chewing Nicorette.

"I need to say this to you guys which means I need to say this to myself," says Travis. "We need to find a way to better rehearse on the road." We discuss. I am excited for the show. My beard is tingling.

Before the set, Rowdy the tour manager/roadie for Showdown comes in the dressing room. He tells us that when he was in high school one of his best friends was so into Days Of the New that he put a band together to play Days Of The New songs for the talent show. "He even dressed like Days Of The New," Rowdy says. It runs through my mind that after so many years of not playing together, I am dressing up like I'm in Days Of The New, too. Oh, well. Gotta start somewhere.

Shortly after 10:30 we take the stage. Flight Response gets us off the ground and Touch of Anger, a new song, feels epic even with some mistakes. After it, Travis holds up his guitar and says to the crowd, "These instruments are alive."

When a fan yells "What are you drinking," Travis says, "Diet Coke. I've done enough drugs to kill an army."

The show is intense, thoughtful, and probably a little too careful. Still, Travis walks offstage and says "That's the greatest show I've ever played in my life." I think he's probably exaggerating to be kind and avoid saying some other things that he could say to us, but there is no lie in the fact that we all feel really good. Our first show is done. Afterwards, we reunite with some old friends, one of whom does not believe I am the same Ray that used to play with the band. "But Ray was such a good drummer," she says. Ah, well.

Phil and Malcolm find the ocean and go swimming before the night is over.

Set List

Flight Response
Dirty Road
Touch, Peel, and Stand
Shelf In The Room
Touch of Anger
Dancing With The Wind
Downtown
Perpetuate Rigorous Ghost
Die Born
Provider

Day Two

2008-01-21T23:12:00.001-08:00

Malcolm doesn't smoke. He is overjoyed that Travis and Phil quit smoking about a month ago. As a result, I have gone from bumming cigarettes to bumming pieces of Nicorette, which feels pretty good. Malcolm eats raw food only. I wonder if his influence will have us eating raw steak and avocado and drinking raw milk with egg before the tour is over.

Malcolm is driving when we pass South Of the Border in South Carolina. An hour later he reports that the engine is overheating. There is a freak out as we pull off at the next exit. (Travis: "I knew something was gonna happen on this trip.") We had all been smelling the sick burned maple syrup smell for miles and had been collectively ignoring it hoping it would go away. There is a pin hole crack in our radiator hose.

What seems like a disaster ends up being a beautiful stop. We have happened upon the the I-95 Tire Repair Shop which is located in an abandoned Truck Stop that sits exactly on the Mid-Continental marker. Lou is the owner of the repair shop. He is originally from the Bronx. He also runs The "Big Tyme Riders" Motorcycle Club. His repair shop is attached to "Club Big Tyme Sports Bar" which is housed in the carcass of an old Texaco Food Mart and has signs on the door that say "Private Party".

Malcolm sits in the van and watches "Office Space" while Travis and I walk the expanse of the parking lot talking on our cell phones. Phil deals with Lou's mechanic who fixes the hose in no time and charges us a very reasonable price for his labor. After Phil pays him, the old man looks at Travis and I pacing with our cell phones and laughs.

"Look at these motherfuckers walkin a hole in the ground out there while I'm fixin the fuckin van. Motherfuckers coulda walked to Florida – what you got me fixin the mutherfuckin van for?"

Hose fixed, we pull out and drive to the other side of I-95 to the Wilco Auto Center to gas up. I search with no luck for a piece of fruit in the food mart. "Remeniscing" by Little River Band comes on the in-house stereo and I, Phil, and Malcolm break into a series of very focused and strategic B-Boy dance moves. Song over, we exit the Wilco Mart, buying nothing, hearing the laughter of the cashier ladies in our wake.

The sun has just set when we are back on the highway, making the rest of the trip to Fort Lauderdale. Travis and I sing to Coldplay as we ride South into the future. Tour is on.

Day One

2008-01-21T23:11:00.002-08:00

Our first drive of tour is ridiculous. 24 hours from New York City to Fort Lauderdale. We don't leave Dumbo until 7. Before we depart, Travis and I get take out from Rice on Washington Street. The blonde woman who runs the place recognizes Travis and said she loved the first Days Of The New album. "Me and my boyfriend would be all [makes universal sign for smoking weed] and listen to that album over and over." The bathrooms at Rice have mirrors placed so humans of both sexes can see their genitalia and urine streams when they use the toilet. The food is awesome, too.

As the van gets on the BQE, Travis admits that he was paranoid that we were talking about him when he didn't help us load the drum cases. (We weren't). He emphasizes that to get through this tour we will have to be very "open minded" and talk a lot so we can understand each other - him especially - and get along on this trip. "Open minded" is a favorite phrase of his. It's a good one.

We watch "Limony Snicket's Series Of Unfortunate Events" on Travis' laptop. "The colors are amazing," Travis says. Children without parents have bad things happen to them and Jim Carey mugs. Afterwards I watch "The Departed." I love the line when Nicholson's character quotes John Lennon: "I'm not a musician an artist. Give me a (vacuum?) and I'll make something out of it." (Did I even get that partially right?) Around 3 a.m. we stop at an Econo Lodge south of Richmond Virginia.

DOTN TOUR Problogue – The Club Wagon and Dream Catchers

2008-01-21T23:11:00.001-08:00

The Blue Club wagon that rolls south through Virginia right now perhaps the longest and most reliable member of Days Of The New. Sometime around 1996, Travis' father bought the van (pulling favors from his used car dealer friends, I suspect) and piled Travis and the other three original members of Days Of The New into the van to tour with Kenny Wayne Shepard. Two years later the van was parked while the group left on busses to open for Metallica.

It has been ten years since that Metallica tour, ten years since the first Days Of The New album was released and went platinum. I started playing with Travis weeks after the original band split up. On my first tour with Days Of The New, we had two buses, a band of seven and crew of nine. Three years later on my last tour with Travis, the band was just two of us. We traveled south to Florida in the Club Wagon, using a borrowed license plate for the trailer and praying no one searched the van for drugs. The tour manager used Travis' fame to walk into a Harley Davidson store and rip off hundreds of dollars of clothing in exchange for the "promoting" that he promised the band would do at our shows. The infrared video made in the back of the van was smashed and thrown out the window in a state of paranoia. At our last gig on that tour, there was not enough cash to pay for gas to get home so I used my credit card to drive us home so I could be in Louisville in time to propose to my girlfriend.

Travis and I spoke little after that tour. He was sick and I was not a part of that world. Traci and I moved to New York where I've been working magic with friends, freaks and geniuses. As he moved from Louisville to Los Angeles to Utah, Travis never stopped composing and writing songs all while going to the depths of meth addiction and back out again. After a few struggles to get clean, (with one very public attempt on the A and E Intervention show) Travis overcame the drugs. In doing so, he managed a level of self-awareness that I feel foolish to even try to describe. He is still aggravatingly, beautifully insane, far beyond driven, and approaching his second year of sobriety. We will celebrate his twenty-eighth birthday on this run of shows.

Malcolm rides in the van with in-ear headphones pumping his iPod. He is the raw-food eating bassist who placed an ad in the Village Voice last Fall that said "will take quality over money". Malcolm has been finding his groove and getting to know everyone, being very respectful of the relationship quirks that are present even when we're not speaking them. And there's Phil, the everything man, who drives, tour manages, tunes guitars, and snores as loud as I do. Malcolm and Phil have both made more Days Of The New shows than I have this year, so any allusions of seniority I might entertain are futile and pointless. (The great Paul Culligan filled in for me for shows in March.)

We are men of differing backgrounds who gather to bake a birthday cake for God. Communication is paramount and defining our terms cannot be rushed. We travel in tight quarters with all the old buffers gone. No tour manager, no roadies. Travis hands us the money, we help Phil with the driving. I want to believe that what is forming now may be a kind of solid constellation of minds who each contribute to the gestalt of an emerging music machine, a vessel upon which a group might sail. But that's pretty fucking rosey talk. In reality, who knows. What I know is, Travis says this is the trip where we work stuff out, and I know any success is going to be a concerted effort, with no shortage of emotion as we revisit old venues where some unthinkable shit went down. We are relearning the songs that we played for 3 1/2 years straight, seeking a balance between what of the old is still resonant, and a new terrain upon which we can expand the universe.

The Club Wagon rolls with Indian dream catchers hanging from the felt ceiling. I look at them as fly paper and air purifiers. The chimes catch the lower tones of my tinnitus in ways harmonious and excruciating. But I cannot imagine asking that they be taken down. At the start of our first tour in 4 years, the dreams of the passengers are bloated and immense, and have precious few shared visions among them. The dream catchers are pulling double shifts.

I advance with quiet faith that the act of making music is the best way to find a compass. Like the dream catchers, I work overtime to get the job done. Until i get tired. I love to sleep on tour.

Essential, Kong, and on

2008-01-21T23:09:00.002-08:00

One week ago Sunday Essential Self Defense was staged for the last time at Playwrights Horizons. Jumping in a van and leaving on tour after closing has been a great way to avoid post-show depression. Under the very supportive roof of Tim and Billy's Theater, the team of Lucas, Heather, Paul, Chernus, Joel, Guy, Cheryl, Courtney, Annette, Carolyn, Adam, Ry, Carrie, Kate, Brandon, and myself gave all we had to tell Adam's story and move people. Every night when Lucas and I would start the Overture, my breath would be short. When Joel, HEaher, and Paul took the mic for their first Karaoke songs, it was never hard as an actor or a songwriter to play my response.

So many moments, some which only happened once or twice in the run - Cheryl climbing on the table to thrash...Lucas's guitar cord getting tangled with his Rat pedal so when he jumped off the band platform to rock his solo, his guitar had cranked itself up to face-melting volume.......Sadies banshee scream at the end of Run to Your Mountain...Issak shaking his ass to the Russian two step....Guy's voice booming out to MC the Roller Boogie... when Yul actually thinks about hitting Sadie before turning her request down...when Sadie spilled her drink on herself as Issak and Sorrel kiss... when Chuck would say "It was hilarious", or on special nights, drop the comb...when Klieg would storm the stage after a Karaoke song with his "YEEEEAAHHHH!!!"

I had moments of my own. Doing Klieg's Death Metal MAntra, staring Issak down after he tells Bob Beard how to play his drums, and my once scene in front of the drums with the great Guy Boyd.

I wrote earlier that the real critique that matters is the one we give ourselves. It did not come clear to me until the final two weeks how important the word Essential is to describe the realm in which I think we were doing our best work with Adam's play. Much like the driving aesthetic of Less the band, the play worked its strongest magic when the audience felt the story as much as they witnessed it. I have not heard Adam or anyone who worked on the play discuss what I think was the unique theatrical language that we brought to the play with the music, so maybe this is my own perspective that I leave with. For me, writing songs that more deeply showed us the characters and so strongly centered the music of the play was a an immensely satisfying artistic experience. Things I resolved in myself about my own direction as a writer, musician, and performing artist during Essential Self Defense were the greatest reward.

It was powerful to perform the play on the day Vonnegut died. (Sorrel describes book banning going on in town and mentions Slaughterhouse Five.) Another intense experience that I could have done without was the Virginia Tech MAssacre that happened the day after the play closed, and then the hostage story in Texas the next day. It is hard to admit that I think Yul's words about Corporate Warlocks is already passe: The culture of fear is running itself. It was the shootist who had the brains to send a picture of himself pointing a gun at us to the media. The kind of space Adam tried to open in the play to consider someone such as Yul is being closed tighter and tighter .

On a lighter note, while Traci and I would have loved my last night in town to be spent at home with Sophia, we were both stoked to be at Union Hall on Monday when Less The band opened for Ethan and Willie and King Kong. We ate beer cheese, danced to Kong with Emily, and stayed way late drinking with Scott Morfee and Chernus.

It was amazing to have all five Less guys on stage and hitting it in concert, but in the week leading up to the show, I wasn't sure it would happen. I had asked Ethan and Union Hall if we could play without being sure what the band was up to, but certain that if we could do it, the night would be sublime. Paul was filming a movie. Chernus really wanted to go to a gala that we were invited to, and Adam was going to be honored at it, so i could understand him not being too keen on missing it, although he never made any bones to me about the fact that playing with the band was way more important to him. Chern and Adam arrived for soundcheck. Kevin showed up ready to play for Paul, but at the last minute, Paul was able to leave the movie set where he was working a few blocks away. (Apologies to Kevin). In the past months Less the band has been seperated by the great work everyone has been up to. During our set the universe truly felt to have be a little more restored - just in time for me to leave on tour with Days Of The New.

For the next few weeks I will be blogging from the Days Of the New tour. I don't know if anyone reads this but if you do I hope you enjoy

Essential, 2.

2008-01-21T23:09:00.001-08:00

That was the week that was, was it?

Wednesday night the cast is burning extra electricity for the opening of Essential Self Defense, the excited energy goosing certain moments of the performance. The audience applauds us the minute we take the stage, and cheers the karaoke singers before they sing a note. Dad and Millie are there. Traci. Rob and Jessica. Kev and Ali. Anthony Rapp, Lili Taylor, Sam Rockwell. Through Traci's eyes the moment of walking into West Bank Cafe and taking pictures for the (press?) was pretty sweet. My favorite part of the evening was Dad meeting everyone, including Paul's girlfriend Annie, whom Dad is particularly fond of from her year on Law and Order. At the bar, the bartender gives me two Makers on the house and says "Great show". I turn, two fisted and Carolyn and Tim are posing the question : what about a cast recording? Well...lets see if we can't talk about that sometime next week, K? Things are looking good.

The next day Mike and Amy are in town. They, me, Dad and Millie are at Mud coffee talking about what other shows they might see while in town. I spot a Times on an empty table and excuse myself to the bathroom to dig through the pages. Sitting on the pooper could not have been a more appropriate position from which to discover the Times' review of Essential Self Defense. A man by the name of Isherwood spent no amount of economy to TRASH the play, and in particular, Adam and Paul's performance. Artifice! Artifice! Artifice! he yelled from the tower, making sure that any plausible response he had to the play would be easily dismissed by his thorough and complete refusal to consider the mind of the piece. He hated it, pure and simple. It was not his idea of what a good play is, and it was easier for him to speak from the conventions of theater that the production is very purposely driving against than to consider what new ground the work is striving for.

For a few good moments of reading, you could look the review up online and then go to Lucas' My Space site (myspace/lpfunk) where his e-mail to Isherwood (and Isherwood's rebuttal) are posted in his blog section.

As for my response, later that night I would mourn for the greater group of us the fact that Isherwood's review killed any real chance of the play extending. But in those moments on the pooper I found my artistic sanity restored - what I had been so nervous about was someone saying we failed at what we were attempting. THAT would have stung, but ultimately, such criticism belongs to me and my collaborators. It has been our joy to take a risk on what for us has been new territory in staged art. We will, in time, have great wisdom from this experience that will carry us to the next endeavor. In the meantime, reading the words of a critic who invested no time in actually starting a dialogue about our work but simply wanted to shut it down is not gonna make me lose any sleep. It even made me a little proud that we'd affected him so. It made me consider the play as one of Yul's Easter Eggs (for those of you who have yet to see the show, sorry for the inside reference.) I did feel a little more protective of Adam and Paul - if either of them didn't already have a career, this review could have killed them, too. But they both showed up to Less practice the next day with no signs of bruising. Adam was a little upset at how Isherwood attacked his character, but he shrugged it off.

And then the kicker: the next night we had a transcendent performance of the play to a sold out house of under 30 year olds. Afterwards, Less, LP Funk, and Run Run Riot played in the lobby of the theater. There was beer, hot dogs, corn, and mac and cheese. The night ended shortly before 2 a.m. It was the way the whole live experience should feel. "You guys are saving theater," one person said to me, and I felt that he might be right. At least I knew that for me, while still so new to NYC theater, a struggle had been identified and I knew where I stood.

Essential

2008-01-21T23:07:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I finally emptied my voice mailbox. It was a record - full for over a week. It had 26 messages. And it was the 26th. Crazy.

One of the calls that couldn't get through - Lincoln Center. They were trying to reach me to ask my permission to include "Essential Self Defense" in their archives. They eventually reached me through one of the other writers. (Ray blows on knuckles and rubs them on his chest.) It seemed I was too busy or stupid to be bothered with their request.

So many great moments have occurred in the past weeks, muted ever so slightly by the consistent onslaught of work to be done. On the eve of opening night for the play, I feel like a little blogation is called for...

The greatest gift - sharing an amazing process with a cast and crew of immeasurable character and resonance. While I could focus on many folk, Guy Boyd seems to be at the epicenter of many things great, so I'll start with him. On Sunday Guy claimed to have had a love bomb go off in him in the last scene of the first act of the matinee and everyone has been feeling the fallout very since. Anyone that works with Guy becomes his friend, as evidenced by Mattew Modine and his daughter, who came to the matinee to see Guy and then took Guy and Chernus and Joel and I out for Thai food. Guy worked with Matthew on the first film he ever did, (Robert Altman's Streamers in 1982) and they have stayed in touch ever since. It would cheapen things to call Guy a legend. He's not. He's a treasure of a human being. This is why he has so many friends and so consistently and effortlessly throws little asides of his amazing life into the conversation - he was friends with Warren Zevon, he has a character in the Star Wars family (The father in the Ewok movies), he's worked with Sam Shepard, Tommy Lee Jones - tons of stuff I've forgotten and tons more he hasn't laid on me yet.

All this sets up my favorite story of the show so far - Saturday's matinee was attended by John Guare, the playwright who wrote, among other things, Six Degrees Of Seperation. Paul Sparks did Guare's Landscape of the Body last year with Lili Taylor, so after our show it was Paul that Guare approached first to see if someone could explain to him what he had just seen. While Guare did not seem to be dissing our show, he outwardly claimed to not get it and did so with enough vigor that Paul and Heather Goldenhersh (our leads) were fucked up for hours afterwards. Presumably after Paul and Heather had run off, Guare turned his feelings towards Guy Boyd. "I didn't get on the train," Guare told Guy, using one of those creative dismissals all the greats seem to have at the ready. To which Guy replied. "That's too bad, John. Because its a punk rock party train and you should have been on it."

(For whatever reason, a few hours of reflection seemed to help matters for the Pulitzer prize winning writer. The next day Guare e-mailed a self-described love letter to Adam and Carolyn about the play, praising the production and calling Paul and Heather's performances "chilling". Pretty cool.)

There's so much more to say, but I'll end by taking my temperature. I am proud to say that I have not been so anxious about how a project is recieved in a long long time. In a world that is driven so strongly by reviews (a good review can make or break a show's longevity) I usually manage a healthy distance from being shaken by such things. But because I love so much the play and people in it and the great work that has been put into it, (and because I want to do more of it in the future,) I'd be lying to say that I didn't hope the reviews were good. But with Dad and Millie, and soon Mike and Amy in town for the weekend and tommorw's opening, none of the worrying will keep me from celebrating the fantastic story that we've put up on the stage.

Drafting on Exile

2008-01-21T23:06:00.002-08:00

Writing my play Clinic Concert has been a 2 1/2 year ordeal. Each time I go back to it, I simultaneously feel that it is "right there" and so far from finished. The worm turned for me last week when I finished making notes on my most recent draft and then went back to my very first draft of the play to discover what i was writing about in the first place. (Mucho thanks to Bill who referenced Shopenhauer's The Will in his notes.)

In the Fall of 2004, what started as a kind of love letter to my actor/musician friends in New York became a play by the end of the writing. It is about a member of an extremely recognized psychedelic rock band returning to a town where his band played their last show and then everything going crazy. In the Spring following my first draft I had a mind blowing reading that included the members of Less, Guy Boyd, Di Di O'Connell, Lucas, Lethia Nall, and Patch Darragh. I walked around for weeks in a daze at having heard amazing actors read my words, but even in my bliss I knew the piece was not formed nearly enough for anyone to take it very seriously. (As one director said who read it, "I'd love to talk to you about your play - or should I say Plays.") Put kindly, there was a lot going on in my mind and on the page.

Since then I have busted my fucking ass to understand the practical and magical points of playwrighting, the structure and poetry and cause/effect that drive all the great stage works. I still don't know what I am doing, but it feels more like the right kind of not-knowing: a lot of wandering through rooms with no clear purpose.

For example, on Monday, Traci and I cased Virgin Mega store so I could try and find some music to buy myself for my birthday. It had been so long since I had allowed myself into a record store, and I had developed a habit of talking myself out of any music purchase. Finally and with much dread, I made my choices. One was a record I had a copy of that I had lost: Smile by Brian Wilson. The other was a record I'd always known I would one day get intimate with but had thus far never listened to: Exile On MAin Street by the Stones. Needless to say, I'm glad I didn't talk myself out of the purchases.

I went straight to Exile, and by Wednesday night, the album finally unravelled itself to me, inspiring some powerful connections to my play that had remained elusive and suddenly I found myself plunged back into the heart of Clinic Concert.

Then, on Thursday I left my backpack in the back of a car on 42nd street. The notes are gone. But I am not deterred. It's all in me and its time to harvest. I know that before the phase of my first exposure to Exile On Main Street finishes, the draft will be done. I don't know how, I just know. So to prove it to myself, I responded to a birthday e-mail from my friend and mind blowing writer Ron Fitzgerald and told him I needed some advice. He asked me to send him the draft. Now I have to do it. And I have decided I am staying up all night until it is done or I pass out which ever comes first.

Pretty sure I'm passing out.

The first week of the thirty-sixth year

2008-01-21T23:06:00.001-08:00

My week started with the best birthday I have had in years. The gumbo came out great, and great people came out to Bushwick to eat it. Leah, Rob, Lucas, Ali, Kevin, Amelia, Malcolm, Andres, Don, Laura, Jay and Sonia joined Traci and I at the apartment and were present for the unwrapping and christening of one of the greatest birthday gifts ever (from TRaci of course) ...my very own hookah. The Aveda soap bar in a pound of coffee was wikkid, too, and I am devouring the Geoff Emerick book. I was really stoked that Amelia was comfortable enough to take a nap before dinner, and that Don and Laura came. Also, turns out Lucas and Malcolm grew up in the same town. Fucking nuts.

Afterwards, we piled in cars to go to KAraoke on St. MArks. The only sad part of the evening was that Traci was too sick to go. I wish she could have been there to see the crew that joined us: Guy, Jason, Patch, Chern, Eric, Christine, Annie, Dana, Simon, LEthia, and two friends of Sonia and LEahs whose names I forget. At the end of the night the bill was staggering, and perhaps one of the nicest gifts of the day was allowing myself to be cool with the fact that everyone was willing to pay it, especially after Ali negotiated like a pro with the owners to knock 100 bucks off the bill.

Monday I got up to do my cleaning duties at Shala Yoga Studio and then Traci and I met at the Barnes and Noble in Union Square and did damn near next to nothing (I recall a great talk at a coffee place on university, but I can't remember what we said. Gettin old.) I hated for her that she was still sick but it was so nice to have a day where we could just wander and sit. We broke our day up so I could meet with Kevin, Lou and Co. for the first meeting for a project that Kevin and I will be recording and co-conceiving with the group. (Because of certain circumstances and because it is not a fully formed project yet, I will leave details out for now.)

Tuesday morning, I was at Playwrights Horizons for the first day rehearsal of Essential Self Defense. Meet and greet. We heard the designer's plans and did the first read-through with most of the staff present. Every day since has been continuing the process and I am very excited for what already is coming out of the work.

At night on Wed, tonight, and for the next two nights is Los Angeles by Julian Sheppard down at the Flea. It has been a cool challenge and a joy to work up the music with Eric, Amelia, Julian and ultimately Adam. It's also cool witnessing what was the inevitable event of Amelia and Adam finally being in a room together long enough to riff and realize that they are kindred spirits. But love for my friends aside, the real thrill is the actors. Granted I can still count on two hands and two feet my in-depth hands-on theater experiences, but I have never been so inspired by a cast as I am when watching the "Bats" tell Julian's story. Also, it is a new experience for me to be working on two plays at the same time. Thank God both plays are so awesome or I'd be suicidal.

God damn it's late. I must get to work or bed.

Seriously - anyone know a good manager/agent?

2008-01-21T23:04:00.000-08:00

From the time I first worked on Essential Self Defense with Adam, I've been looking forward to it's premiere, which will happen in March. As the piece has developed, I have enjoyed my responsibilities for the world of the music of the play, which I ultimately share with Lucas, Adam, and the cast. Last week, my sense of responsibility in this realm prompted me to mention to the theater manager that it would be important to go over music credits so everything was correct and represented everyone appropriately.

Around the same time of the week the manager for Days of The New e-mails me the "spring tour dates", half of which are during the run of Essential Self Defense. I take a deep breath: the e-mail arrives THREE WEEKS after a conversation where I had reminded the manager that I had given him my available Spring dates back in December and I would not be free until the play ended. I send an e-mail reply expressing my disappointment. Later that day he leaves me a message telling me that he personally pushed the dates back until after the play's run. (Travis told me later that he made the manager do it). But before the manager finishes his message about the trouble he'd gone through to change the dates he adds," Just showing you how committed we are to you Ray." Sure thing, pal. So committed you neglected to pass my dark dates onto the booking agent. I called back and left him a message telling him I'm ready to talk commitment whenever he is. He hasn't called back yet.

Yesterday, I get an e-mail from the theater manager telling me that "this is how the credits have landed for Essential Self Defense". The word "landed" denotes a back-and-forth negotiation that transpired sometime last week between the agents of my collaborators. Now, I mentioned my responsibility in matters. Just to fill out the meaning of the term a little better, I've overseen the collaborative musical process and, barring any ditties that may materialize in rehearsals, I've composed the bulk of the material for the piece. You would think I'd at least have been invited to the table. The only indication I'd had that there was a dialogue going on about music matters was a single call from an agent last week that left no message as to what it was regarding (I got it on Friday and called on Monday). As for the information contained in the credits: significantly incorrect.

Now, I see little to gain in bitching or complaining at length about the plasma sucking moments of the world I have chosen to work in. The bottom lines are as follows: I love my collaborators very much and hold in high regard the work we do together. It's usually worth the headache. Near as I can tell, my friends have matched their immeasurable talent with a strong agent or manager who will do everything that is in their client's best interest, regardless of how accurately the results reflect the work that got them and their client to the point of needing to negotiate in the first place. Only under the very best of circumstances will the efforts of these business professionals nurture the creative environments that their clients work in, and the people they work with. And the very bottom line: I fucking want one. Manager, agent, whatever. A good one preferrably, but at this point, anyone willing to exercise some forethought upon my affairs - or offer protection - will do.

So, yesterday was one more deep breath, another call, and two e-mails. After one agent (a rather stand up fellow, actually) sends me to his client to resolve the matter (a 60 second conversation between friends) the incorrect credit information is rectified. Only today, as I replay the whole thing, I realize I was knocked so off-balance by the matter, I missed the fact that a second credit matter may have been overlooked as well. The urge to let it go seemed like the best and worst thing to do, so, free agent that I am, I write another e-mail to Adam and the director to get this one more issue resolved (it has been taken care of).

Anything worth doing, anything worth having - well, I tell you nothing you don't know: the shit don't come easy. To all my friends who worked their ass off to reach a point where someone else wanted to make a career out of representing you, I salute you tonight with warm nips off the Old Fo. I envy you as much as I wish you luck.

www.savetheinternet.com

2008-01-21T23:03:00.000-08:00

www.savetheinternet.com

In the time it would take to read a blog you can read about Internet Neutrality. I hope it moves you to action.

The Java Men My Space Memorial is up

2008-01-21T23:01:00.000-08:00

What a new world this is.

Because of My Space and I Tunes, souveniers and artifacts of the 12 year reign of Java Men will slowly be organized and available for your consumption.

www.myspace.com/javamen

My bio

2008-01-21T23:00:00.000-08:00

I hate writing bios.

Part of what started me writing at all was composing bios for bands I was in who could not get a review (or could not get a review that, you know, really GOT what the band was about).

[NOTE TO ASPIRING BIO-WRITING BANDS: no one is needing to read how you are different from the other thousand post-rock, neo-soul, hip-hop bluegrass bands. Tell them who snores, who skips out on the bill, who gets the tail and how. Make them laugh. Entertain - it ain't about music. The music is about the music. The bio is about getting attention. That's why people drop names. It's not that they necessarily care who the people are, it's that they think YOU care. And you might - or you might not - but either way, you'll pay attention to them a little longer if they ate a bagel with Jennifer Aniston, even if only to throw ice at them.]

Ahem. Where was I?

Okay, so sure, yeah: I long for the day when someone will tout my genius FOR me and I can just walk in the room after everyone has been debriefed on my myriad accomplishments. But until then, I am very proud of the work I've done and I sweat each time I write a bio. I just don't know what I'm doing. I get overwhelmed. And I forget. A few years back when a.m. Sunday scored the music for "Touched" at the Kentucky Center for The Arts, it was pointed out that I'd made no mention of my musical accomplishments in the bio that was sent with the grant proposal and used in the program.

"Now Ramundo," I'll often tell myself, "why go through the trouble of moving to New York only to get modest when asked what you're about?" And I have to agree with myself on some level, but in the context of a theater program its confusing to me. What is relevant in 50 words or less? I list band names. Roles. Responsibilities. Donations (when I've had it to give). Play titles. Charity work (not really). Film titles. Notable directors (ones I know, anyway). Works in progress. I try to make the shit pop but without seeming desperate, you know? I'm always over in my word count. (Desperate!) But no matter how many times I rewrite the bio, by the end I realize I am still on some small level always going to be expressing how my brand of neo-realist hip hop post rock bluegrass crunk prose-ack jive is like noneother. For the few minutes I write my bio, I am brought to a place of self doubt, where I wonder if the perfromance they see will not be enough for them to know I am the Lord and Savior Only Son Of God, eternally begotten and returned in flesh and blood to play upon the lighted stage for their terrible sins. Hard, I tell you. It's hard.

Anyway, tonight, after I sent what had to be the umpteenth sad draft of my bio to a theater, I wrote what I really wanted to say:

"This is what I do. I sit in a room. Sometimes alone, sometimes with people I can't believe I'm lucky enough to be around. We think, we chat. We hit stuff, we make noise, we let things arrive. These things may be expressed into a guitar, a microphone, a recording console or a word processor. My role in the process might be classified as playing, nursing, arranging, writing, drumming, acting, singing, producing, witnessing, or cooking. Thank you. (myspace.com/chezrizzo)"

1978.

2008-01-21T22:59:00.000-08:00

In Alexandria, Virginia, a paved bike path connected the Stratford Landing subdivision to Fort Hunt Elementary school. Beginning behind a cul-de-sac of homes, the path led for probably 300 meters through thick dark pine and oak trees before reaching a clearing where a wooden bridge carried grade school kids over a creek choked with cattails, dropping them at the foot of the school playground.

In the denser part of the wood, at a time long before I discovered the path as a firstgrader, trees were removed and veins of dirt trails were worn in the steppes for dirtbiking. A few of the trails completed circles through the low ground of trees and honeysuckle, but most of them started at the top of cliffs and ended abruptly with dirt ramps of varying grades.

After school my brother Mike and I would get our bikes and head to the trails where I'd work out enough energy to be able to go home and focus on Super Friends. All the other kids had Mongoose bikes and they made fun of me and Mike because we had matching Huffys. (But it was Ronny who's handlebars cracked after his jump and sent him home crying with a bloddy nose.)

There would always be a point in my trailblazing when the excitement filled me with energy too ticklish and aggravated to contain in my Toughskins and I would sing my song - it is the first song I can remember writing:

Motherfuckin tittie suckin two-balled bitch
everytime I see you my tittie balls itch!

Then I'd scream "Big Balls!"* and throw myself over the cliff and into the rush of unknown danger and previously unattained velocity.

Occasionally my battlecry would get the attention of the Mongoosers. They'd look over from their pack and scream "Huffy Fag!" But I rarely heard them. My pulse had quickened to a point where my ears were shut off to outside ambience. Every atom in my brain was responding to the gnarled branches and rain divots in the trail. I was using all faculties at my disposal to gain as much speed as possible before hitting my mark on the ramp. If I caught good wind, this would only be the beginning, and I'd aim my vessel for the void in the trees that led deeper into the woods.

-------

This blog is a toast to last night's recording session at Kevin's which was one of only two times I've tried to record songs I've written over the years. Following in the spirit of "Huffy Cry, 1978" the songs that resounded most strongly during the session were the ones that started from a flood that could not be contained, an energy strong enough at the time to make me forget that I didn't really "know how to play" guitar/piano, etc. But more than the songs (which may or may not suck) it is the willingness to jump again for the first time into the void that I am humbly grateful for. I don't think it would have been nearly the evening it became had I not had the earlier opportunity to read for an absent actor performing in Julian Sheppard's play. Thanks to Adam and the cast for the opportunity, and thanks to Kevin for the great night that followed.

* followed by a wickid guitar riff.

Christmas Eve

2008-01-21T22:57:00.000-08:00

Traci is sleeping on the couch behind me. I'm propped up on Dad's laptop with Christmas Story on the T.V. Fa Ra Ra Ra Ra sing the men in the Chineese Restaurant and Traci wakes. She wants to go up to bed like Dad and Mike and Amy have done, but I asked her to stay down here with me while I write. I like her sleeping next to me.

Yesterday's drive to Louisville was intense. We hadn't slept enough for the 13.5 hour drive, but this provided us with some needed steam blowing and reconnection after such a busy November and December. It also provided Traci the opportunity for her first 3 hours driving a stick. (Special thanks to Steve and Estella Salett for the wheels that brought us home. Traci did really good with the clutch.)

It is a tradition that every Christmas Eve I sit up and write. Because it is the end of a day spent with family, and because Christmas still manages to elevate itself above the rest of life as usual, I tend to have a lot on my mind. I'm usually upset, vowing things to myself like never be fake in the presence of loved ones again, quit wasting time, spend the next year saying what I mean, or suggesting some new romantic approach to my life endeavors. The passion with which I write of my atonement is usually fed by anxiety and alcohol on a full stomach. I can't belittle the means, however, because it gets the thoughts out of me and I advance better off with the words having been written. But I tend to find that when I write these things, I have a pretty poor appreciation for what I have been up to thus far.

My best memory of Christmas Eve atonement involved finding some hidden key to my personal matrix from chapters in a Dr. Phil weight loss book.

This year - or tonight anyway - is different. No Phil. No conundrum to decipher. I'm pretty peaceful. Being fake is not an issue. It is true, there are things on my mind to take into the next year: increased lust for life, more time with Traci, more brilliant execution of designs, make an assload of cash. But on the whole, I feel things moving forward. The first part of the year looks to be fruitful from the minute the ball drops on New Years Day. Music will be coming out of me in many configurations and situations. I'll have a reading of my first play. Adam's "Essential Self Defense" will premiere at Playwrights Horizons in March. There is no shortage of stories to write, and if I'm lucky, this will be the year for Motherlodge. (www.motherlodge.com)

Tippi is my Dad's Persian Cat. He is before me now whining to be pet in the same way he has done for the past 21 Christmases. (21!) This will be my last year to appease Tippi. Sad, yes, but there is a yin to the yang: this is also the last Christmas with the Rizzo house that won't have a little one roaming about. Our gift to Mike and Amy was a maternity shirt and a door knob for the child's room.

If it's a girl, they will name her Mary. Queen of the Sea of Bitterness.

If it's a boy, Nathanial. Gift from God.

Merry Christmas.

Undisputalble Elfidence, Theory, Proof

2008-01-21T22:56:00.000-08:00

Well, that's what I get for getting worked up on my soap box and chastizing the parents: I become example ..1 of what-not-to-do.

See, two weeks back, Jude and Ilona came to see Santa with Traci. YEsterday, their Father told Traci that the part of Santaland that Jude keeps talking about is Ray saying that "one of the Santas was mad at him".

Yep. They listen.

Such a dumb mistake! And it was in the first moments after they arrived - before they even went into see Santa! I was sitting with the kids in Au Bon Pain and Traci asked me how things were going. i told her I feared a certain Santa was not approving of my style. Immediately we both grew eyes as big as quarters and changed the subject. but it was too fucking late. i had delivered the awful wisdom to Mr. Jude. Good thing the kid is Jewish. But still.

Today another kid stood at the peek window and looked at Santa. in a loud voice that was meant to reach his father's ears, the boy said," Nope. it's not possible. He's too big. there is no way he can reach all those houses in one night and get down all those chimneys. nope. It's not possible."

His Father gave me a glance to let me know that he was proud of his son's deductive reasoning, to which I said quietly, "Quantum Physics."

That's right, kid. Every elf must know the basic spirit behind quantum theory before donning the hat. Nothing will turn the ears pointier than a few verses in String Theory. Infact, Santa insists upon it, because it is in this realm that he can deliver the biggest presents, if you know what I mean.

....I hope the kid grows to ask himself, what is the point to disprove Santa? For that matter, what is the point of exposing the shortcomings of a Department Store's attempt to join commercialism with goodwill and (for some) spirituality? I think we know most of the outcomes of these things. The question that I am much more interested in is, when does Santa exist? How? What kind of witness to mankind can Santa help us to be? Little glimpses upon the answers have been the real fruits of this 10 dollar-an-hour seasonal gig. When I have a minute to catch my breath, I'd hope to honor the best parts that have yet to be written about.

(Some) Parents jus' dont understand

2008-01-21T22:55:00.000-08:00

With a little over a week left at Santaland, I thought I'd impart to parents and guardians some wisdom I have gleaned from my time elfing.

If your child is crying, dispondent or otherwise non-plussed when he/she is waiting for Santa, finally laying eyes on the red man will RARELY change this. And forcing your child to sit with Santa when they don't want to is one of the cruelest, dumbest things you can do this holiday season.

Just imagine please: when was the last time you stood an hour in a line with your loved ones waiting for some presumed big experience (seeing a doctor or priest for example), and then once in the room were subjected to every one of your closest family members turning and barking orders at you about how you should respond to the situation.("Smile!" "Don't you have anythiong to say?" "We waitied all this time, etc. etc.") It is ridiculous how quickly parents let an awkward moment for their child turn into a nightmare by piling on more pressure with their demands. Some Santas will simply refuse to sit with an upset child whose parents are forcing the issue. The last thing Santa wants is for a child to be traumatized by their meeting. There is always next year.

This isn't to say that upset children don't take photos or that kids who are excited to see Santa won't lose it once they get to the doorway (many do). It's fact that sometimes upset childrten can calm down enough to take a picture. Some key details of such transformed visits.

1) PArent will sit with child and Santa for the first photo, then, if things look better, may step aside so the second photo can be just Santa and kid.
2) SOme Santas will produce their special santa gift earlier than usual in the visit in an effort to win the child's trust.
3) PArents who do sit with upset child and Santa will angle the child toward the camerA in such a way that they do not have to lookat Santa.
4) A kick ass Photo Elf like myself will time the photo for the exact moment when the child needs to interrupt their wailing in order to catch their breath. The face at such a moment can, with the right light and luck, almost look like the kid is laughing with Santa.

Another thing: don't ask the elves or Santa to let your child know they have been bad. Unless they are acting like idiots during the minutes that they will be with Santa, we simply don't have time to care. If you cannot parent your child without manipulating them, fine. Just don't expect us to be a part of it. Your kid is a jerk? Well they had to learn it from somebody, and judging from the way some of you act in line, maybe your kid isn't the only one on the naughty list.

Oh, and this is key, too: your kids and all of the other kids around you in Santaland? They LISTEN. The difference between them and you is they are not stupid, and they hear you, even if you think they don't. So if you want to start asking questions and theorizing about the realities of Santa while in Santaland, know that we elves have been instructed on how to tell you to shut up and not be an asshole. it sounds like this:

There is only one Santa Claus.

Finally, (And I'm only stopping here because I'm tired. I could go all night)... no one is happier than MAcy's Department Store that you have come to let us take a picture of your child with Santa. But for Gods sake, let your child sit and talk with Santa for a minute. IF Santa is in a rush, he'll handle it. Otherwise, don't try to usher your kids out as soon as the flash goes off. There are toys to discuss. And school grades

December 7th

2008-01-21T22:53:00.002-08:00

M&M World is impossible to miss, even being to the north end of Times Square, they have managed to stick out. On either side of the building on 48th Street, 100 foot television screens show dizzying psychedelic graphics of M&M's moving like the infinite cells that structure the universe. I use the screens as best as I can to help me wake up for the next ten hours of work.

(more story to follow. sorry. tired.)

December 6th

2008-01-21T22:53:00.001-08:00

I wake at 8:10 a.m., before the alarm goes off. A first since starting my job as an elf. Sophia got the benefit. In the morning when I have the time and put my mind to it, I can scratch her back in a way that makes her eyes roll into the back of her head and looking for things to lick. It freaks Traci out, this trick, but the cat seems to like it.

I stop at Rosario Food Mart, the bodega at the end of our street and get a 1.5 liter of Poland Spring, some Dentyne Ice and a proud cup of their weak coffeel for 3 bucks. The J train passes overhead as I walk to the station at Kosziusko, but I'm not worried about being late from missing it. I am protected from worry this morning as I walk down Broadway, filling with joy and sugary coffee-infused milk. We are living, Traci and I, in New York, getting by, and THIS is MY neighborhood. Christmas Lights on the tall pine in people's park, the woman sitting outside Lucky's CLeaner's with a glass display table selling calling cards. A woman by the deli at Kossuth asks if I have any change. I don't. It is really cold.

The book I am reading on the train is Argument Culture: Stopping America's War of Words by Deborah Tannen. In the first 50 or so pages, she seems to make her points slowly and with repeated examples. This is gooid and bad for me. Tannen is easier to read than Foucault, but not as unearthing of matters to me, but then, I don't think I've made it a whole 50 pages into a Foucault book. (I don't even know if anyone else would find them comparable.) In fact, many of D.T.'s points about the saturation of warfare language and the media seem almost too obvious to spend so many chapters on. But then, just as I reach the West 34th F Stop, she lays a good one on me - without reading the book you'll have to excuse my broad summation: over half of journalists polled who cover politics feel that politicians are trustworthy, upright people and it is actually the average citizen that the journalists don't trust.

I clock in at 10:32 at Santaland and am directed to one of my favorite jobs: Gatekeeper. I am the elf that greets everyone before they enter Santa's Village. I find out how many are in the party, and usually have time to ask the children if they know what they will ask Santa for Christmas. Today there are whole classes on fieldtrips to see Santa Claus. Groups as big as 35 are sent to the small 10'x8' room where Santa is waiting. Munchkin, Freckles, Jitterbug, and the other elves that escort the classes don't even flinch at the volume of people. Dawn Landes and her Father come through to see Santa just like they said they would.

At break, a manager and other associate ask if I got my name from Midnight Cowboy. Not many people make that connection I say. "I guess not a lot of people around here watch X rated movies", says the manager, and cordial laugh is shared between us. Heh heh heh...Elves watching porn. Seriously.

My next assignment is the Peek Window, where people can look in the window and see how Santa is doing. This is also a fine position for an elf. Despite the tediousness of having to remind people which way is the exit, I get to look in on Santa's visits and also enjoy the commentary and reactions from people who are looking in with me. Between his visits I see Santa belch and blow it to the side before he smiles at the next young one waiting at the door to see him.

My lunch is called very late in the day (4:02), but I don't mind - it will make my shift after lunch seem like nothing. Although I planned to nap for the second half of my break, I'm excited when Traci calls to tell me she's entered the building with Jude and Ilona. I meet them for a moment in the café and then rush back to work early so I can find them in the maze and visit Santa with them. I love seeing Traci - something about her seems full and alive in a way I haven't seen. She has an inner glow that makes her appear to be my old friend and lover and also like no one I have ever known. It's thrilling, and I like walking the maze with her and holding Ilona's hand as we walk. Ilona seems to like it, too, and tho I can't say for sure, I think at one point she tries to offer me some of her candy necklace.

Santa is in a great mood and Candy Cane takes, I am sure, great photos of Jude and Ilona. Later, I see Santa leaving wearing his street disguise so no one will recognize him as he walks through the city. Eyes darker and cap low, he says, "You have a beautiful looking family, Yo Yo." I thank him, but tell him that Traci and I were just borrowing the children. But it feels so nice to imagine if it were true.

After work, I realize I've worn the wrong shoes for the next job which starts in 5 hours. So I train it back home where I nap with Traci in the front room, wake and stuff cheese and crackers down my gullet before heading back to Manhattan.

At midnight I am standing before the M&M's World store. My next job begins

Vibrations

2008-01-21T22:51:00.000-08:00

I am tired tired.

Yesterday, for an instant, I held the aroma of a fresh cup of coffee in my nose and noticed that my body was completely relaxed. I could not remember the last time I had started sipping coffee with so little anxiety. Most days, as I anticipate the caffine's effects, I already have a restless electricity buzzing through my limbs, drying out the moisture in my meat. I was surprised to admit to myself that this affliction (if I can call it that) hasn't felt too bad.

Today I worked at Heller Gallery on 14th street with Kenny and his dog Shadow. The gallery shows and brokers glass work from all over. I held pieces in my hand that cost more money than I have ever made in a single year. A few pieces in the current exhibition were sheets of glass that had varying grades of color running horizontally across them. (Okay, I'm too tired to fully explain them and I don't remember the artist.)

I write about these pieces because the textures of the glass and the deep color grades would make them literally vibrate in the eye. Staring into one of them, I felt as if I was looking at the physical form of a song or a voice. It was a sine wave making a personal appearance, a cameo of the electricity from deep inside peering at me under a muted surface of cloudy, gorgeous ice. It looked just like I thought a soundwave would look like if ever I met one. It also recalled for me Dylan singing "The ghost of electricity howls in the bones of her face" in "Visions of Johanna" a song that, even two years into living here, is the greatest song I have ever heard about New York City.

I wanted to purchase one of the glassworks for 9,000 dollars. But I'll have to work a few more days at the GAllery to make that kind of money.

As I swept up the sidewalk one of the managers of the gallery came out to give me a dust pan.

"This is what your parents sent you to school for," he said to me in a pleasant voice. I didn't feel the need to tell him that after the Fall of 1989 when I spent 7 of the 11 thousand dollars I had for college on an 84 Ford BRonco that never ran right, I paid for school myself. (Who cares, really.) And I certainly didn't have time to explain to him how a job like sweeping or packing and unpacking crates of artwork can, aside from paying rent, be a welcome change from doing work where you are rarely sure that the work is DONE. At least here I could see and know what I'd done and not worry about anyone seeing it much differently.

Um, sleep is winning this one. I'm too tired to go on

Watching

2008-01-21T22:50:00.000-08:00

A friend of mine recently produced an album for a band from the Midwest and more recently participated in an intervention for the band's NYC-based manager, who has had difficulty kicking his latest binge. From what I could gather, my friend's role consisted of driving the 50+ year old guy to the airport and sending him off to detox in the presence of his 20-something age band. It's a story that I like to think is indicative of the next era of music making where the habits of the music business of the late 1900's are brought back to reality by the music makers themselves, but that's prolly just the rose colored glasses talking.

Anyway, my friend was taken by surprise with a comment made by the manager's wife, who rationalized the crisis in terms of good television. "Just imagine the twist," she says to him, "A reality T.V. show about a rock band where for one episode the band nurses the manager back to health!" She comes by the idea honestly: she has worked closely with her husband who has had past success producing film and television (reality shows) before embarking on the job of managing kick-ass bands.

She probably has some other ideas for her husband's recovery but regardless, her comment is further proof for anyone who still needs it that the future has arrived. From here on out, we should expect an ever-shrinking line of distinction between natural human responses and what is seen on television.

Dire as that might sound, I have to think it can't be all bad. I'll at least consider that in suggesting her husband's detox as a reality show episode, this woman is exhibiting a creative, proactive outlook in her dedication to her husband's health. Certainly he would feel the love in where she's coming from. The effects of television as an agent for human change might prove more penetrating for them than the average therapy session.

We may have much to gain from the uses of reality t.v.... greater insight into human behavior and more imaginative and exciting ways for people to participate as we kick drug habits, have babies, get married, get laid, make a living, foster hermit crabs, legislate, and so on. It seems reasonable to think, too, that we'll develop a completely different criteria by which we seek and participate in the creative act.

But I also think that as humans become more comfortable with the ease of divulging one's guts to a microphone, camera, or live audience, we will lose some things. In a response to this problem, a man named Driver Jim is in Louisville, Kentucky at this very moment working on a manual to help people speak to each other once e-mail and technology has destroyed our ability to communicate in person.

I better step down before my soapbox cracks beneath my genius for stating the obvious.

Howz It Goin? (Pt. 1)

2008-01-21T22:49:00.000-08:00

Thursday, November 02, 2006

Today Traci and I head back home to Louisville for a surprise birthday party for her Mom. (As popular as My Space is, I don't worry about letting the cat out of the bag here, but if you know Traci's Mom, shut your buzz-killing trap, Okay? It's a surprise.)

On the J TRain last night, thinking about the visit and conversations that could happen, I worked out some things. Serious things, not the least of which was the usefulness of String Theory. But let me start from a place with a more natural beginning.

Naturally, going home leads to giving the ol' update on life, which is something I enjoy immensely, even though the agony of the FAQ: "So, Ray, how are things going?" Truth told, I can give a smile and say "Learning how to live in New York City" and I wouldn't be lying, but that's not really what's going on. Then again, if I said I'm dangling with all my dearest posessions by the thinnest of threads which is both terrifying and intoxicating and occasionally good for intimacy with my wife, well, that's too much for the average "How do you do", now, isn't it?

Before you jump to your own answer, consider that the enduring the experience as I speak to you a live, in-the-moment response to your "How do you do" question calls for a completely different investment than what's required for you to read my blog. Getting the story from me doesn't come easily 73% of the time. You are most often subjected to the well-intentioned narrative spirit of a guy who read 15 pages of Joyce and thought he "got it" and then speaks with the word usage of a dyslexic scrabble player.

Matter of fact, getting to the bottom of seemingly innocent questions like "How's it going?" or "What's up" can really ruin my day. I mean, do people really think that's a conversation starter? Do they know what they're asking of me? Have they no regard for my time and energy? How dare they be so callous and insensitive as to ask me - soooo casually - "How's things"? HOW'S THINGS? Well FUCK YOU, TOO, BUDDY!

Okay, so anyway, I'm working this out as I ride the J Train because I feel that my Father In Law deserves a decent response when he asks me how things are going. I want to tell him just like I want to tell you the truth to "How's it going", but I haven't got quite the angle yet.

But that's not to say I'm without a paddle. There are a few key developments that have happened here lately that I know will impress upon him that things in New York have definitely taken a turn upwards.

I got a job. With a big player in the industry no less.

Perhaps you've heard of them. Macy's. Only that's not what I call them now that I've been in the door to sign my name on the line. I don't have to be so formal anymore. I have real people's names that I can use like Bob and Candi. These are the names of my soon-to-be employers who worked with me at length over the negotiations and paperwork. The care with which we measured up the pros and cons of the merger between me and their organization proved to me beyond a doubt that they were really invested in me not just as an artist but as a person. We inked the deal.

I'm gonna be an elf.

Yes. I know. Santaland Diaries. Everyone tells me to read the story of how the guy who worked his way up from being a Christmas Elf to become a successful published author and public personality. I'm hip. And so is Bob, my boss, who was very professional when I mentioned Santaland Diaries.

"Yeah, about that," Bob said, hands on his desk so he was facing me head on. "The thing is, Ron, what happens in Santaland stays in Santaland."

Bob is a cool gent of 23ish who recently moved to the city. As an elf under his direction, I aspire to only bring merit to his act of hiring me. I understood immediately the situation he was in and told him no problem. What happens in Santaland stays in Santaland. I can't promise what happens in my mind will stay in my mind, but I'm not out to be a booger in the ointment.

Besides, why on earth would anyone want to dis Santa? And I'm not being cute or nostalgic here - every year I ride my rusty sleigh through the pervading temper of Christmas Dismas. Bob and I discussed how there are many a soul who run around acting like the Christmas Season is the most terrible atrocity ever to be inflicted on the soul. Commerce, greed, lies about Santa, whatever....look. I'm gonna say this now and probably a few more times this season. YOU GOT BIGGER FISH TO FRY THAN CHRISTMAS, PEOPLE. Give it a fucking break! Evils of capitalism shattered dreams commercialism scam...Christmas? Horseshit.

Maybe you're frustrated that you've grown too busy to enjoy yourself? I'm with you, but don't take it out on people who can, K? (And by taking it out on others I mean thinking that your shitty Chritmas opinion belongs anywhere outside of your My Space blog. Shut it!) If you've never siezed the opportunity to consider the people close to you and actually give them a gift that says something about your feelings for them, I relate - that can feel a little, well, less-than. Just don't blame the season. That's for pussies. And you ain't a Christmas Pussy, are you?

My friend Steve said this to me one year. He said, "Christmas gift giving is the time when we see how well we don't really know the people close to us." Know what Steve got me for Christmas the next year? A holiday tin of fucking Altoids. I'm still working through that one.

But I don't think "knowing the people close to you" is a fair thing to lay on anyone. I mean if you're a friend of mine and you can't get past "How's it going" with me, how are you going to know what to get me? That's why people like me make it easy and we tell you what we want. We make a list. We hint. I won't be upset if you don't give me something that resonates with every fiber of our relationship. I love gift cards.

Just don't dis Christmas, okay? Because I am an elf with CONNECTIONS and you don't want to make me angry. Christmas is not a time to start bitching more, K?

Where was I? Oh yeah. String Theory. Another time perhaps.

Season In Flux, Acid Reflux, Travis Redux

2008-01-21T22:03:00.001-08:00

Sunday, October 15, 2006

Season In Flux, Acid Reflux, Travis Redux

I walk through the Fall air lit up from the inside. Some of this is emotions, some of it is acid reflux burning my throat. Traci has managed to tell me in the past that life could feel like this, but for most of the first part of 2006, I was too scared to see it. Thank God for her and her eyes.

One month ago I returned from the UK with Less the band and I had no idea where my next job would come from. Not a week later, calls started to come. In the past month I

1) Played drums for two musicals
2) Played children's music
3) Ran lights, sound and video for Laura Poe's One Person Show "Mothers OF Invention"
4) Played with Oxygen Ponies, Opus Ditty, Lucas and Kevin, The Reverend Vince Anderson, and the coolest wedding band that included Steve Salett (formerly of King Of France) and Jamie Krentz (formerly of French Kicks, bassist on their totally ill "Young Lawyer" recording). It also included Sara and Kenny who rock.

Music has taken me out of the city two weeks in a row to see the Fall colors. Bonus. First it was Edensong rehearsal up in Long Island, in a house somewhere on the sound. Then the wedding, which was in the Catskills.

Last week, my friend Travis came to town. He and I played together for four years in Days of The New and off and on over the last 3 years. We have loosely kept in touch while he and I have travelled to places where we've needed to go in order to remain close to the source. All week, the act of working up some of Travis' music has served to help us learn where we are and what we have retained from our previous time together. Travis joked that it's kind of like a boyfriend and girlfriend working out their manners after years apart but I think its better than that. We are forcing ourselves to confront how well we know one another. I think most anyone would laugh at how detailed our explanations are ("what I mean when we say such-and such is...") but that is the real work that helps identify the new language. Neither of us is sure yet what we're supposed to do with what we're discovering, but that stuff will work itself out. What pleases me most is that we have managed through illness, distance, addiction, and frustration to still see each other in the light of friendship. I'm very happy about that. And when I think of this, I think of Nathan. In a way I really can't put into words, I think he really did something for Travis and I that will stay with us for the rest of our lives.

I also think of Dawn who yesterday told me that she just wanted to play music with people who knew her when she was seventeen. I know exactly what she meant. Being around people who realize the power of creating stable environments in which to be mad is the thing I am most grateful for this week.

And again, I thank my lucky nose hairs for Traci, who knows me best of all.

2006-11-14T01:14:00.000-08:00

Recently at a show in France, Dawn Landes and I agreed that the band name "I love you but I've chosen darkness" is only good if the band deliberately picked the dumbest name they could think of. Know another band name I think is dumber than dumb? ---oh, I better not say. They might be on my My Space friend list.

But I'm also a guy who's band names have been:

Less the band
Yow
a.m. Sunday
King Kong
Days Of The New
lovesauce and soulbones (lowercase letters as a kind of mission statement)
Goodnight Maxine
Janitors Of The Apocalypse
Edensong
Orbits
Java Men
The Bellarmine Jazz Trio
A.K.A. Dino
Bloo Zoo
L'Woo
Shades Of Jade
Coffeehouse Comatose
Escape (Journey Cover band!!!)
Dow Jones and the Industrials
Love Jones
M
This

....Also, if you've been looking for me here, sorry. I was out of touch for a bit and have been blogging on my My Space and less the band's my space. But I must admit. Having blogged elsewhere for a spell. I like blogging here better. The colors are softer and the mood more pleasant. Also, I'm not as sure people can find me, which is a plus.

Watch what happens

2006-06-13T01:46:00.000-07:00

The title of this entry is one of my favorite titles for a jazz song or any song for that matter. It is by Michel leGRande. He played piano.

In the next 7 weeks, the critical jobs at hand are

1) keeping the bills paid and money tucking away
2) rehearsing with Less the band for the music portion of the Edinburgh Finer Noble Gases
3) recalibrating with a healthier orbit pattern, with more time spent on the ground
4) Completing a readable draft of Clinic Concert for a reading
5) Organizing a blowout Less show
6) Organizing four or five Europian shows in conjunction with Edinburgh
7) Launching the second Motherlodge installation
8) Organizing pr and LLC membership agreement stuff for Less

Things that will happen during this time:

1) Coat checking for the summer crowd at Lotus
2) Playing a show with Rev. Vince Anderson (June 30th)
3) (possibly) playing for a reading of a hip-hop Musical called "Kingdom"
4) Visiting Ursula and all in Maine
5) Spending a week in Cape Cod doing Essential Self Defense
6) Playing a show with Opus Ditty (June 17th)
7) Playing 3 shows with Lady Rizo and the Assettes (July 20, 22, and 23rd.)
8) Playing SIn-e with Dawn Landes (June 25th)

...All accomplished while enjoying summer with Traci, making and sharing sweet-ass love and good meals. (Tonight was pork and mango slaw. Ridiculous!)

If you're feeling kind you can wish me luck.

Ray

The children of Louisville

2006-05-31T16:11:00.000-07:00

Danny told us of the two great things that happened at Mc Donald's, with a best friend's soon to be ex-wife, and their fifth child John Paul. There was a book handed to Danny, she had found it at the goodwill. The transferrence of spirit through stellar atmospheres and his father's handwriting inside the jacket. "You should read this," he used to tell Danny. Then, in the middle of Playland, the hand of John Paul on his shoulder, three years old and an ageless grace: "I'm doing great."

I have never known living people with the names Kaden, Tristan, or Baxter until now. It is not foolish to learn of a thing by putting it in your mouth.

My Dad is dehydrated. Could have been the oysters, he says. I drive his car from the hospital to our house on Shelby Park. Napkin (not real name) answers the door and tells me that Daniel will have to explain why there is wood in the door where there was once stained glass. I believe that blacks being killed every week in the neighborhood is too difficult a matter to sum up in conversation with family, but I tell my father-in-law I am certain that part of it is because we live in a world where it is much more acceptible for black men to die.

I'm sitting at old Louisville Coffeehouse. A band from Brooklyn is in town and playing with a local band. Peter, the owner, is a deeply supportive merchant for the indie scene. The first band (from here?) is better in the first 20 seconds of their set than 90% of the bands playing in New York City.

The mental leap of recorded rhythms in a live act is going to be easier to grasp when the effects of RFID's on warfare become common knowledge. We are progressing down the channel in microscopic sparks. Life is fine and worth the effort to enjoy.

Tonight is the last Open Air Transmission Jam session at Rudyard kipling. I'll be bringing it to the end with Scott who has taken the event into a direction that is deeply personal to him. I don't know what to expect but I am sure there will be more than just music to explore tonight. I hear there is a sexual element to it, and I know from many years of playing with him that Scott's deepest expressions come with a cathardic explosion that can challenge even the most open-minded participant. I'm looking forward to the exchange.

Bushwick in the Spring

2006-04-14T00:24:00.000-07:00

Last night Traci and I were up until 4 after having our first sedar meal at a friend's home. Although she only got 2 hours of sleep before her intense day of work, I was sure that after the talking, gnashing of teeth and crying that it was the best 2 hours of sleep ever. Before she dozed she said, "I feel like we're a family." If I have to explain, you wouldn't understand.

Tonight I fixed a dinner of baked chicken, spinach, and deviled eggs and with windows open, we ate and watched "Dog Day Afternoon". We were seeing the film for the first time as residents of Brooklyn. The mounting tension of the film combined with the yelling from the street below unnerved us. I think this is because we could see in the film all the grades of madness that we see transfer from vessel to vessel in these parts. It may also be that we do not yet know what the thawing out from winter will turn our block into and tonight was the first night that the neighborhood was expressing its Spring side.

When the film finished, the voices outside were at their loudest, some cursing, some just shaking winter dust off their throats. Then the music started in the apartment below. Usually a thing of weekends and thereby much more tolerable, I am sure the good weather insisted they start a day early. In place of the usual latino dance mix came thunderous rap/metal basslines and deep voices intoning some pep cheer for misbegotten boys turned men. Through the walls it was as unintelligible as the spanish coming in from the street, but the feeling was intact: the natives are restless. Brooklyn had descended upon us.

Traci told me of the madmen she has encountered in the morning going to the subway. The first stared her down and spit "Morning BITCH!" in her face, while today's dandy encounter had no direct eye contact but violent tendencies. Traci said he nearly flung himself off the platform and onto the tracks.

Tonight I missed Louisville with specific desires for where I would be if I could be. On the porch, with a bourbon, listening to the quiet street of St. Matthews. Or Buckner. Or Shelby Park. A train, please. Not a subway.

Baby talk on the Vanguard

2006-04-05T01:48:00.000-07:00

Words that look nice

Words that see God

gone in the transcription

A meadow, a medal, a meadow, a medal

The new melody goes ,kasjfcqkwjfeccsuidhfakwenfckjfhlakhfv;mlakwfeemc

Sleep in the fur of the wounded

lose your extra weight

align

2006-03-27T03:42:00.000-08:00

I don't know why it is that I cannot sleep, or that when I find myself online, all the intriguing things I'd considered looking up are shot from my mind. There is toothpaste in my head many hours of the day. It makes the lucid moments special.

2006-03-21T20:29:00.000-08:00

We are
believe
something special