I spent much of the last two days working on Julie's material. I've played her stuff in the studio several times but haven't played on her music live very much, and I was excited to have a bit of time this visit to work out some arrangements together. I ended up choosing seven tunes to play on, which was pretty much her entire set save one song. It's fun for me to play guitar as a sideperson, something I rarely get the chance to do.

The venue, Annie's Social Club, used to be called the Covered Wagon Saloon, which was known for its especially raucous shows. While there is still often rock happening at Annie's, they have a much more diverse calendar and have cleaned up the place a lot. When I arrived early for my soundcheck, I was immediately impressed by how nice everyone on the staff was, from the bartender to the doorperson to the soundperson. They put Husker Du on the PA while I was setting up, which made me feel even more at home.

When Julie showed up, we ducked into a back room to go over a few things. I was going to be singing some backup harmonies, which I almost never do, and I was more apprehensive about that part of the show than my own set or the guitar playing I'd be doing on all of her other songs. But the quick rehearsal sounded good and I felt reasonably prepared. I ran a quick soundcheck with the soundperson, who proved to be as capable as she was friendly, and started my set.

During the last tour, I would stand up to sing, and sit down to play instrumentals, as some of my pieces are a lot easier to play sitting down. This time around, I resolved to stand the whole time, as I think it's kind of a drag to see a performer in a club on a stool. It looks...lazy. Plus I like to move around when I play guitar - it feels like dancing, which is about as close as I ever get.

My first tune was an instrumental, and I launched into it, standing. Whether out of excitement or from the more-rocking attitude that standing carries, it came out about double the tempo it should be played at. This does often happen to me with the first song of a set, actually. Maybe I need to start my shows with a dirge just to calm down a bit...this night, I did manage to get through it without being too sloppy despite the breakneck pace, and the second tune came out better.

The set went well, in my opinion, and the two brand-new vocal tunes I pulled out seemed to get a good reaction. It was over before I knew it (always the sign of a good set) and I stayed onstage while Julie plugged in. It was a blast playing with her, our voices seemed to blend well on the harmonies and more than anything it was great to play guitar alongside a favorite voice. Her tunes also zipped by, and I was sad to have it end.

Then Pi came on, with Julie's guitar (she'd flown up, glamorously, with nothing but a shoulder bag) and did a terrific set of her own. I love her Brazilian jazz sense of harmony, and of course her voice which is just delicious. By this point, there were maybe 15 people watching, and though it was an enthusiastic group, I felt bad that I couldn't provide a better audience for Pi, having traveled for this one show. Apparently there was a big Burning Man cooling-off party that night, and being in San Francisco, an awful lot of our acquaintances were participating. They missed out, man.

Driving on a Friday afternoon from one large urban center (San Francisco) to another is no picnic, and the journey took roughly double the time it would have taken with no traffic. I arrived at Luna Cafe a bit worn out, and ready to dump my stuff inside and go find solace in a tony sushi place down the street. But the crowd of largely black-clad male noisesters were so friendly and welcoming that I decided to just stick around and get a cheese sandwich at Luna's, a full meal for the price of two slices of yellowtail.

I sat at a table and soon struck up a chat with someone who, surprisingly, was not one of the 12 acts appearing that night. He didn't look the part at all; probably in his fifties, with a ponytail and a gentle expression. But he told me he always comes out to the Noisefest, and in fact had bought the three-day pass in order to catch everyone. Our conversation was soon interrupted by the first act, which consisted of a fretless bassist and a partner with a pile of electronics. It was a heinous, uninterrupted roar - and it felt great. Setting the tone for the evening, their set didn't even last ten minutes (we were each given a quarter-hour slot) and the next act went on with a tableful of pedals and what seemed to be old radio equipment. Again, there were harsh tones, but a bit more varied dynamically.

As the evening went on, I found myself entranced by the whole spectacle. There was no telling what the next obliquely-named (Cerebral Roil, Vankmen, Joltthrower, Nullwerk) act might produce, but for sure it was going to be a wash of surprising sounds with absolutely no boundaries. There were only three or four groups that produced sheer catastrophic white noise like the first act, but the one thing that everyone had in common was the lust to explore sound for its own sake, whether through a heap of junk percussion or an electric guitar run through 20 pedals. The short sets seemed very appropriate given the sheer intensity of the performances, and they also meant that things never got old. One of the sets lasted only five minutes.

My set came about halfway through the evening, and I was glad to have seen the other sets to establish a point of reference (i.e., that I could do whatever the hell I wanted, as loud as I wanted, and the crowd could take it). Though I usually do short pieces of about 3-5 minutes in my solo improv sets, this time I thought I'd just do one longer piece as the other acts did. I started out quietly, but soon was creating a whole mess of howling oscillation feedback between my tape machines and having a grand old time. People seemed interested, whether by my tapes, my odd-shaped travel guitar or the music itself, and when I finished up after 10 minutes or so I heard a number of nice comments. I felt exhilarated and spent, and completely satisfied with my contribution.

I stuck around til the end of the night, which was capped by Xome, a solo guy who apparently has closed the Friday night Noisefest show for the last five years or so. Like many of the others, he had no instrument other than a table full of pedals, which appeared to be taped down (I later found the entire surface was covered with sticky grip tape). For sheer performance value, he was unmatched. He launched himself bodily into his table, bending it this way and that and lifting it up while pawing at his boxes, coaxing out the most terrifying noises. Everyone stood up to get a better view of his enthusiastic deconstructions, and exploded into applause when he ended by ripping a handful of cables out of his mixer. Awesome.

Everyone crowded around the merch tables afterward, trading CD's and Myspace pages. While some might see this kind of music as an expression of nihilism and pure negativity, I found the entire evening to be a celebratory atmosphere, a joyous party of the extremes of sound. I'll look forward to taking part in this again, and was sad I couldn't stick around for the next two days.

I got the impression that these students didn't play out much, evidenced when they displayed no rush to clear the stage of their ample equipment after their set, instead chatting with their sizable group of friends, despite the fact that we were waiting to go on next. By the time we went on, the crowd had thinned out, possibly due to this wait. But a good group stuck around, and remained for our set.

It's very interesting for me to do improvised guitar loops with a horn player. Horns have a massive command of dynamics, and in a space such as the Luggage Store have no need to amplification whatsoever, whereas I am completely dependent on a PA. They also have options for sustain and legato I can't even touch. On my side, a guitar has polyphony and many of the qualities of a percussion instrument. With the loops, I also have a number of textures available which an acoustic instrument doesn't have. So it's a nice pairing.

I think Alan (on soprano sax and bass clarinet) and I played really well together, doing short pieces as we agreed on beforehand as opposed to a long block of sound. I realized after a few pieces that he would look to me to define the nature of a piece before beginning to play. I didn't intend to arrange things this way, but with the wider range of sounds available from my gear, perhaps it was natural to do so. I found myself adapting to his playing as well; finding that his preference follows the free jazz tradition in generally avoiding diatonic playing, I leaned towards nontonal stuff, and even when setting up a big drone I would include dissonant notes that would blend better with what he was doing.

I love the Luggage Store for being such a nice space and supportive environment, and tonight was another great experience. I hope that more people will start to recognize the interesting music that happens every week there.

I'm very excited about this short tour of CA. There are no "filler" shows this time around (I'll be the first to admit that in my big summer tour, there were a number of gigs that I booked with no idea what I was getting myself into, just to have a stage to show up on), and some of them are a big deal indeed for a small-time dude like myself. Every gig has something about it I'm really looking forward to.

The summer tour was a learning experience for sure, and I think this tour will be better for it. I learned pretty quickly, for instance, that playing by yourself in an unknown venue in a town where you have no contacts is almost certainly a dead end. It's always, always better to hook up with a local, or two. At the very least there will be someone else to share the misery if nobody else comes out to see the music, and generally speaking they'll have some handful of a crowd who will hear your stuff. And of course, you find friends this way, too, and the next time back you'll have somewhere to start from and somebody to hook up with.

The price of gas also puts much more into relief the fact that driving around costs money. I used to just fill up the tank and not really worry about it if a route took me three hours out of the way. But now, I can calculate that those three hours will cost me about twenty-five bucks, and then figure out if it's worth it.

After this tour, I don't have plans to play live again until 2009, probably until at least spring. Though that's disappointing in some ways, I have a ton of projects on the way, with lots and lots of writing and recording to do. It'll be good to have a big chunk of time at home. I've found that when on tour, and in the run-up to tour which starts at least a month beforehand, I don't get much done in the way of composing since I'm focused so much on practicing the stuff I'm going to play, not to mention dealing with booking and travel arrangements. In the two months since I returned from the summer tour, I have written or at least begun large parts of seven or eight vocal tunes, and two instrumentals, which feels good. But doing serious composition in the vein of the wedding stuff really requires single-minded devotion, and it seems that I can't muster that unless I can work on that alone for a long period of time without having to break to run through set material. As time-consuming as it is, writing the "serious" guitar instrumentals (the more classical-style pieces) is something that definitely calls to me, and I want to give that a bit of rein, especially since everything I've written in the past year has been vocal stuff or song-oriented instrumental tunes.

But for now, I'm all about these ten shows. I'm genuinely excited for it, and feel ready to pucker up.

But when I saw the opportunity to take part in a benefit concert for a good cause, at a fairly well-known club in downtown Oaxaca, I felt like I couldn't say no. I accepted the show, though my nails were in terrible shape. Just before the last show of the tour, as my fake nails were just about to grow beyond a reasonable point, I bent back my index nail while lifting my suitcase and it split just below where the fake nail ended. I know this is kinda horrible to describe - believe me, it was no fun to experience - but my nail split sideways, about halfway up. So my primary "pick" was turned into a swollen marshmallow. Then a very similar thing happened to my thumbnail, although at least it didn't separate completely. And though I'd by now removed all the fake nails and was enjoying playing with my real, though stubby ones again, just two days ago my middle finger nail broke off.

I decided to get very short fake nails just on the middle, ring and pinky and to wing it for this show. It was a good exercise, in a way, figuring out how to play all my tunes without using the index whatsoever. I learned that there are a few tunes that I can't possibly pull off this way, but most of the songs I've been playing in my live sets can be adjusted without too much trouble. The biggest change was one of my newest (and most favorite) tunes, called "Berimbau del Bosque", which normally involves a quick pinky-to-index roll on the body just after a thump with the thumb. I had to scrap that riff entirely and make up for it with a loud downbeat on the bass string with the thumb, which was kind of a nice substitution.

The place was called La Candela, and normally plays host to big salsa dance parties. There was a good-sized stage, a well-powered though well-used PA with massive subs, and a big dance area in front of the stage. When I arrived, I found an exasperated-looking woman plugging a guitar directly into the aged board. Though the sound was coming through well enough, she looked fit to be tied, and when I introduced myself as a fellow performer, she spit out a tirade about the club staff, who apparently weren't being any help because this was an unpaid gig for them (I gather the club donated the night to the cause). Indeed, after she unsuccessfully tried to get her drum machine working, an authoritative-seeming fellow came over, pointed out to me a couple of free channels that we were "allowed to use", then disappeared again. She yanked her cord out of the board, declared loudly "I'm not gonna play", and stomped out.

I plugged in my own acoustic, got a basic sound going, then found the organizer. Though obviously under a lot of stress, she was appreciative of the fact that I was there AND planning to play, and thanked me again and again (as throughout the evening) for being understanding of the disorganized atmosphere. It really wasn't a big deal to me, as by this point I'm quite accustomed to dealing with absent staff, weird sound systems, and unforeseen changes in how a gig is intended to go.

Thankfully, there were people streaming in, and finally just about every table in the place was full. Some friends showed up and I chatted with them for a while, every once in a while checking in with the organizer about the schedule; though I originally was slated to play second, after two singers and a band, the one singer I'd met had left in a huff, the other hadn't arrived yet and the band had broken up (!), so it looked like I was going to be the only performer. The next update was that there was another band who was now going to play, and possibly at least one other singer, but nobody was quite sure about the order of things (I thought it'd be up to her...). Finally, she said I should go first, but that I should continue to wait to see if more people arrived. At this point, nearly two hours had gone by since the doors had opened, everyone had well partaken of the buffet and the cheap beer, and there was a palpable sense of annoyance mixed with boredom that indicated very strongly that we should get this particular show on the road.

I pushed a little bit to let me get started, and after ten more minutes, she gave me the green light to go. However, first there was going to be a speech by a representative from the beneficiary of the evening, a local non-profit clinic. After her warm welcome and short speech, there was an American couple who had their own story to tell, in very bad Spanish, regarding the clinic. Finally the stage was clear, and I practically ran up there to start my set.

I introduced my first tune in both English and Spanish, as the crowd was pretty evenly split between ex-pats and locals, and I think it gave me a bit of advantage even before I started playing to be able to address both halves - I could see entire tables snap to attention when I switched from one language to another. Though during the quieter tunes, I was competing a bit with conversation from the back tables, I felt like people were paying attention, and a couple of kids were making good use of the dance floor to do some interpretive movement to my music which is always fun (and seems to happen a lot with my stuff in family-friendly places..I take it as a high compliment). I stuck with a fair amount of covers - Beatles, "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" - which I'm starting to enjoy more and more, as I'm approaching these tunes much more in a jazz sorta fashion, fooling around with the arrangements and inserting some melodic improvisation here and there.

Probably as much due to the hours spent in the wooden chairs as anything complimentary to me, most of the crowd left just after I finished. I guess it was nice of them to stick around til the end of my set. At first I felt bad for the band who played after me, stuck with a greatly reduced audience, but they quickly displayed a lack of intonation and a preponderance for endless soloing, so I left myself after half an hour of caterwauling sax and violin. Still, I call it a good show for my first in my adopted home.

I'm in Philadelphia, at the home of a friend who has gone off to work, and it feels a little strange to be on my own for the day. A tour is an extremely social experience. At each gig there is venue staff, other musicians, and audience members, and interacting with each of them is necessary to make the show happen. And when touring as I do - I build my trips around places where I know people - my time after and before the show is spent catching up with my peeps. I spoke yesterday with my girlfriend, who I haven't seen since the end of the California leg of the tour a month ago, and we both talked about how it can be an overwhelming experience to travel and catch up with many different people on the same trip. The successes, tragedies, joys and frustrations that are shared with a traveler become part of one's own experience, and it can start to feel like a flood of different emotions that never lets up. The drives in between towns are a welcome time to process all this stuff; out on the interstates by myself, if I'm not thinking about music, I'm thinking about people.

One important thing that I've realized on this trip is that I'm capable of playing day after day and still enjoying it. It was great to have booked a mix of improvised and composed music shows, which kept things fresh, and I think the very different sorts of music helped feed each other, too. Often when driving to an improv gig, I'd be listening to singer-songwriter music in the car, and the next day on the way to a quiet restaurant show I'd find myself just wanting to hear really out electronic noise. I don't think musical worlds have to be as alien as some people think...

I just really can't believe it's over. It's been a blur, particularly the past week with all the moving around up and down New England, from Vermont to NYC to Philadelphia to Boston, then back through NYC to Philadelphia again. Shows that I did a few weeks ago now seem like ancient history; there have been so many places and so many people to remember since then.

And so it ends, with some amazement at how full of experiences the last two months have been. In spite of flat tires (I had luck with me at the end, and Alamo didn't notice the one mismatched tire - whew!), often-small crowds and a whole lot of hours alone behind the wheel, I'm already looking forward to October when I hit the road again, albeit more modestly.

There have been several shows set up by or featuring artists I've met through a listgroup dedicated to looping (Looper's Delight). Dennis Moser, who I met through the list, helped to coordinate this show and fleshed out the bill, which featured himself, Jim and I (Chinapainting), Tim Nelson from Maine, and Rob Byrd, another Boston local. The venue was The Nave, which is a very active gallery space inside a Somerville church. When Jim and I showed up (utterly soaked after a quick visit to Faneuil Hall where we were encountered a sudden, torrential rainshower) we expected to set up in the gallery, which is one of many good-sized rooms inside the sizable church. However, the other players were already setting up inside the main sanctuary, it having been decided that with our numbers (and our gear, which resembled a postmodern Mission Control in some cases) we needed the main space. No complaints there, churches are fun to play in and this was a particularly lovely building with a high-arching ceiling.

Since our plan involved an eventual all-members jam, and we wanted to minimize the between-set turnaround time, we all set up our gear, with two of us on the stage and the others on the floor. I didn't altogether like the way this suggested some sort of hierarchy, as our positions reflected our set order, but it did make a nice visual and it was terrific having enough space for us all to be ready to go at the start.

Jim and I led off a bit after 7 p.m., sweating from the heat and humidity of the early Saturday evening (only slightly assuaged by a couple of fans working hard inside the huge sanctuary). I didn't feel altogether composed at the start; though we had a good amount of time for setup, the combination of five players all working out their individual equipment issues at once had created a somewhat stressful atmosphere. Also, I was smarting a bit at the small crowd, the other players and their spouses literally made up more than half the audience. But Jim and I started out with a few quiet notes, and the venue was so lovely and spacious and the guitars sounded so good in that big room that I started to settle down. It ended up being one of our better sets ever, leaning more towards our more pastoral side. On the third piece, I backed the treble way down on my guitar, which had been sounding a little harsh through my mini PA, and was rewarded with a really nice, round tone. I started messing with something much more bold and melodic-based than usual, which ended up building into a great little piece, I thought. We did a Frisellian kind of thing in G, then Tim Nelson joined us for a cool trio piece before he continued on with his solo set.

I enjoyed everyone's music very much (particularly Rob Byrd, who improvised some beautifully modulating pieces on heavily treated and reverbed guitar), and the transition between sets was extremely smooth with everyone's gear already set up. The shared handoff tune at the end of each set was a really nice transition, too. However, I started to regret our decision to have each set be 45 minutes. Simple addition will tell you that with four acts, even if everything goes as planned it's three hours of music, which is an awful lot for most people at one sitting, especially if that sitting is in wooden pews. We started a little late, and some people went a bit longer, so before our concluding group piece it was already 10:30 and everyone had left except people directly related to the musicians. Oh well. The group piece was very nice, and then as we were packing up, the organizer handed us each a set of CD's with a well-done recording of the whole evening. Sweet!

Jim and I found our way to our crash pad for the night, at a friend's house not far away, loaded in our gear then headed out close to midnight in search of sustenance. Boston isn't known for late night food, as we were told by everyone we talked to - nobody could even point the way to a diner or (shudder) Denny's - but we managed to find a Stop n' Shop supermarket and created a vegetarian feast of hummus, bread, Dubliner cheese, chips, salsa, and taboule, which we downed gratefully in our friend's kitchen, whispering about our shows together while trying to stifle the crunch of the chips.

When my tour itinerary looked to include a stop in Boston, I remembered Jonathan and looked him up online. It was great to catch up a bit, and we discussed doing a show together. The thing I love about improv music is being able to make music with people with no preparation; you just set a date to meet up, and go for it. We booked a date with Todd Brunel, a bass clarinet player with a regular improv series called Vortex. The series takes place at at venue called Outpost, formerly known as Zeitgeist which apparently was around for quite some time.

I'd spent the night before in Philadelphia, an great evening going out with a couple of my friends to a fantastic restaurant called Pumpkin. I left for Boston around noon, but got seriously turned around getting out of town (at one point, crossing the Ben Franklin bridge thinking I was leaving, but in fact, was re-entering from another angle, so I had to turn around and cross the bridge again) so I didn't really get on the road until close to 1. It was at that point that I started to regret not having left that morning; it was a Friday afternoon during the summer, and I'd be passing through NYC. Oy. My fears were realized when, an hour outside of Philly, traffic ground to a halt. It picked up again for a little while, but once I entered New York, I spent two hours traveling 14 miles. Even after that, up through Connecticut, every time I reached the outskirts of a sizable town (and there are many in CT), progress slowed to a crawl.

I finally hit open water in Massachusetts, at which point I had 45 miles to travel, and 45 minutes to make the gig which was schedule to start at 9 p.m. I called Jonathan and told him I'd do the best I could, then pointed the Yaris toward Boston and floored it, finally careening through the narrow streets of Cambridge. At 5 minutes to 9, I pulled up to the Outpost, sweating profusely as I made my introductions, greeted Jonathan warmly and dragged my gear inside.

The Outpost is a nice room with a bay window and a good acoustic sound, perfect for this kind of thing. There were people there waiting for music, and though everyone was understanding, I wanted to get music happening as soon as possible. I found a flat surface to put my tape decks on, a kind of monolithic pedestal (I really need to get a portable table..), figured out power cords, and was ready to go in about ten minutes. Still hyperventilating from the ridiculous journey, I suggested to Todd that we start with a trio piece so I could settle in. He agreed, and the three of us picked up our respective axes.

Both Todd and Jonathan are fantastic musicians - Todd is a monster on the bass clarinet, while Jonathan is equally adept on bass, violin and the electrified Mr. Potato Head (no, really) - and I soon forgot about the traffic. It was heady stuff, very interactive (as opposed to the blowout at ABC No Rio, which was more about creating a massive sonic movement) between us and all kinds of sounds happening. For the rest of the evening, we all traded off on solos, duos, and another trio piece or two. I loved it all, especially the opportunity to rediscover a musical relationship with Jonathan. He expressed surprised at what I was doing - after all, the last time he heard me playing, I was in a loud prog-rock band while studying straight-ahead jazz - and I returned to him many compliments about all that he's accomplished.

People seemed to really enjoy the music that was happening, and I experienced some of the most positive reactions yet for my contribution. Afterward, Jonathan and I tracked down some late-night falafel, then retreated to his place by the shore to spin vinyl and sip tequila until five in the morning.

It was pretty dead at 8, and I started with a batch of the lesser-exciting tunes in my repertoire, but then a few friends showed up and I started digging in a bit more. I was having a great time in the comfortable space - very much set up for music listening - but it still was nearly empty. The people who were there seemed to be enjoying themselves, but as the hour grew later I allowed myself to get just a bit frustrated. Still, I've been mindful on this tour to always keep focused on the guitar more than the environment, so I managed to mellow out and played better for it (and seemed to be rewarded with more appreciation). I finished up a few minutes before 10 o'clock, and not fifteen minutes later, people began streaming in. By 10:15, the place was completely packed, with every stool and table taken and folks standing in all the other space. I just don't get it..!

I loved the players that came after me - a local duo called The Hippynuts, then Adam Levy with his trio - and I heard some kind words about my music, which allowed me to forget about the fact that the huge crowd completely missed my contribution. This, I suppose, is just how it goes sometimes.

I do admire that intent, but the execution was lacking. Being summer in New York, the room was rather hot, and though we asked for the fans to be turned off during the music, one was left whirling, creating a loud hum that made normal-voiced conversation difficult, and acoustic music challenging. I made the quick decision to play my loudest solo pieces, which seemed to go well, and Jim's steel-string cut through decently too. During our improvised duo pieces, though, I felt pretty limited and unable to provide much nuance. Some members of the audience crowded closer to be able to hear us better, which was kinda flattering but frustrating, knowing that we weren't being heard.

We finished up our sixth piece, a duet, and I was tuning up (had terrible intonation problems all night, probably due to humidity and the air motion) in preparation for another solo piece when the booker told us we had only time for one more. Huh? She had started us 15 minutes late, and since we had been told we had an hour to play, we'd assumed we'd be going til 9:15. But it was only 8:50, and we were getting cut off. I wanted to do a solo piece to end strongly, but after a brief discussion we decided to finish up with another duo piece. I was pretty pissed off at the early curtain, so it was hard for me to settle into anything, and I think that tune turned out to be the weakest of the night.

There was nice applause and comments following the set, though frustratingly, at that point more people started drifting in. The performer after us was a singer-songwriter with a bongo player, and obviously had a bit of a following as all the tables were soon taken. I couldn't stand him, though, and soon regretted my decision to stick around; I thought his songs were lame and his singing weak. Oh well.

We were there as part of a weekly improvised event called COMA, which always involves two acts, followed by a open session. We met the other artist, John Gilbert, as we were setting up. He'd driven up from Florida just for this show with his one-of-a-kind microtonal guitar. It was fascinating to look at; he has some seriously deep theories which resulted in what he calls an "ocular-tuned" instrument. While every fretted guitar I've ever seen, even the 15 or 20 microtonal axes at the Sonic Arts Gallery in San Diego, uses straight frets, the neck of Mr. Gilbert's guitar was covered with circles and loops (made from picture-hanging wire, he told me). Thus, there is not only a microtonal relationship between notes on an individual string, but also across the strings. Awesome!

A nice little crowd had shown up by the time Jim and I started. At Stain the previous night, the tiny audience and cafe atmosphere made us (unconsciously) gear our material just a bit toward the more pastoral, at least until Will joined us. But at this venue, we knew that the audience was up for anything, and in fact was probably expecting us to stretch things pretty far. I found myself using the dictaphone a lot, then on the third or fourth tune, really let loose with some oscillating no-input mixer feedback that evolved into something almost metal, with some hammering distorted chords screeching out. Definitely the noisiest thing we'd done together so far this tour, and it felt great.

It felt like the crowd was right with us for the whole set, and I think it probably was one of our strongest ever. Then Gilbert went up, and launched into some seriously crazy music. He described himself as "Schoenberg meets Cecil Taylor", which wasn't a bad description, though I'd probably add "meets Kerry King". He had unbelievably fast technique, right out of the speed metal school, but was applying it to his microtonal axe which was further fitted with a synth pickup, giving him access to a limitless palette of tones. He was knocking everyone out with his ferocious attack, wedded to otherworldly harmonies and sounds ranging from pipe organ to bird chirps.

After his set - which included a meandering ten-minute dissertation on his philosophy of tuning, which was equal parts political scree, science lesson, and stoner metaphysics - we took a short break, then began the open session. Jim, John and I began together, then we were joined by a violinist, then four or five horns. It slowly grew to an Ascension-like blastout, where I felt I could contribute very little except deeply detuned bass notes, so I mainly stuck to tape manipulation. Blaise Siwula, the organizer, had joined in powerfully on alto, and at one point he pointed to a seated fellow with a bow and a saw. The rest of us got the hint and began to quiet down, then drop out. The sawist (?) took a brief solo, then other people joined in one by one, and once again we reached a frenetic crescendo before knocking off for the evening. It was exhilarating, kinda terrifying, and not a bit deafening. Jim and I have never played together in an ensemble this size, and it's been many years since I played in Moe Staino's large group improvisations, so it was a wonderful and unusual thing to take a part in.

I experienced an afternoon of slowly ascendant culture shock, driving from my brother's place on a gravel road in rural Vermont directly into NYC and its attendant toll bridges, construction detours and jaywalkers. I've always had a love for NYC (I was born in the Bronx, though only lived there for four years before my family moved to small-town Pennsylvania) but have never really spent much time there as an adult. On my tour last year I was recording up in Woodstock so didn't get to hang out much in the city, so am looking forward to doing some of that this time around, in between three CP shows and a solo gig (my last one of the tour).

The Stain is a spacious, comfortable beer n' wine art cafe located in one of the less-hip corners of Williamsburg. It doesn't seem to get a lot of business, which is too bad because it's very charming, with a large garden in back decorated by a massive facsimile of a demented nickel. There were three or four patrons there when we arrived, being entertained by the bartender who'd taken up a place on the stage and was peeling off some chiming, spiky chords in a sort of Jeff Buckley free stream. He stopped when we started setting up, explaining he'd just been filling space as the songwriter scheduled to appear before us hadn't bothered to show up.

Tonight was special for CP not just because we hadn't played together live in nine months, but because we were playing for the first time as a three-piece, joined by Will Romano on percussion. Jim and Will have a lot of history together, and we'd done an exploratory Ninjam online session a few months ago, but Will and I hadn't met in person before and CP has never been more than a duo. The Stain is a low-volume place, so we asked Will to leave his snare and bass drum at home. He brought along a hi-hat, some bamboo sticks and mallets, a slit drum and a bullroarer made from a vacuum cleaner hose. Before starting, he upended an empty beer bottle on top of the hat. Even before we started, I was excited by his creative approach.

Jim and I did a set on our own before inviting Will to the stage. The first set was a little slow to get going, I think just getting used to each other always takes time and there are always technical issues to work out with our various instruments. Halfway through we had a couple of really nice pieces, though, and started settling in.

Between sets, a fellow came up and introduced himself to Jim, saying he'd heard Jim and Will play before and that he'd kept up on Jim's doings since then, though he hadn't made it to another show. (As it turns out, Jim told me later, the show he'd seen had taken place almost five years ago...!). He then explained that he does projections, and had his projector and transparencies along in the car, would we mind if he did some live projections while we played? Naturally we agreed - our kind of music can always benefit from visual interest since we kinda just stand there working our buttons and frets, and many people get bored without a vocalist to focus on.

While our visitor set up his equipment, Jim, Will and I started making some music. We seemed to click instantly, Will fit in effortlessly and I loved the addition of percussion. During our next piece, Will stood up and started whirling his bullroarer, which generated a ghostly whine that somehow was perfectly in key (and looked very cool as well), stepping up the harmonic series depending on how fast he whipped it around. By this point, our projectionist had started flashing images above us, switching out found transparencies by hand. Though I couldn't see much of what was being shown, our crowd was displaying signs of interest, which is all I hoped for. It was a great set, I wish more people could have seen it.

The show started on the late side, and most people were finishing their dinner when I set up to play. The very helpful staff directed me outside, which was a little disappointing since there was no speaker for the people inside (not that it would have taken much to run a cable under the door), who made up the bulk of the remaining patrons. Plus, as I discovered midway through the first tune, mosquitoes are heavy this time of year - I had a bloodsucker draw a big welt on the back of my left hand, while I played. Insulting!

I've learned that the first song will foretell much about how the rest of a show is going to go. At nearly every venue, there will be applause after the first number, though interest will probably fade thereafter if it's pretty minimal in comparison to the number of audience members. This evening, there was absolutely zero feedback after I finished that first tune, and I knew I was already relegated to background dinner music status. I quickly re-geared my set to focus on light material, and didn't bother to do any singing (it's crushing to see one's original words fly into the nothingness of an inattentive crowd; I'd prefer playing, say, Beatles covers).

I took a break after 45 minutes or so, and when I returned, there was some turnover at the tables outside. I quickly realized that people were doing more drinking than eating, and more listening too. There was some actual clapping after my first tune of the second set, and I felt reinvigorated. Though it wasn't exactly a groundswell of attention, there was enough interest that I really started to enjoy myself, and I was a bit sad to have to end when the restaurant began to close.

The venue was a place called Le Cagibi, a good-sized cafe with a regular Tuesday night new music/improv series called Mardi Spaghetti. I walked in, mentally rehearsing my French introductory phrases, when a dark-hair fellow turned toward me and asked, in perfect English, "Hi, are you Daryl?" It was Pierre-Yves (he's French Canadian - no, really), one of the bookers and a very talented player as well. I soon found that everyone spoke at least a fair amount of English, though several times I'd hear a whole bunch of rapid stuff that just passed me by before the speaker noticed my glazed-over expression and switched over to Anglo. Pierre-Yves and the two other people he was playing with that night were setting up a mass of electronic gear and trying to figure out the PA, which was set up in an odd fashion. I made a small contribution to getting it working, then set up my tape decks on the small stage.

I like cafes like this that have the bar and espresso machines in a room separate from the music, one doesn't have to deal with the blending, grinding and milk-foaming noises and the people in the coffeeshop portion often get interested and pop over to hear what's going on. Though I found the flat tire occasionally coming to mind, I think I played well and tried a lot of different things, including the wood koto bridges my father had made for me. My last tune was especially nice, I thought, and there was a lot of very kind responses afterward, particularly from my fellow musicians. While Pierre-Yves and the others plugged in, I ran out to the car to get a start on changing the tire later. I found the spare tire in the trunk - a donut, to my great disappointment - and half of a jack, but I couldn't find the rest of it, even when I emptied the whole trunk onto the darkened sidewalk and scoured every corner. Not wanting to miss any of the next set, I grabbed the owner's manual, threw my crap back into the car and ran over to the cafe.

Pierre-Yves was playing a viola de gamba, a Renaissance-era instrument resembling a small cello, but with six or seven frets and seven strings. The two other players onstage with him were both sampling and his input, and adding to it with a shortwave radio and some other unidentifiable devices. They sounded great, especially as Pierre-Yves really knew what he was doing on his vintage axe, working a lovely vibrato and a great harmonic sense even when preparing the instrument with felt clips and other foreign objects.

Too soon for my taste, it was over and I had to deal with my tire. As everyone packed up their gear, traded CD's and wished me well, I scoured the car's manual, trying to find out where the rest of the jack was. The information wasn't in an obvious place, and neither was the rest of the jack - hidden under a screwed-on cover, beneath the driver's seat. Weird. After midnight now, I jacked up the Toyota on the darkened street and switched out the tire, cursing my luck. I could see a deep gash in the sidewall, and remembered now that earlier I had tried to fit into a tight parking spot next to a pallet with construction gear on it. It turned out to be too small for me, but as I backed in I hit the pallet pretty hard, and apparently I hit the corner which tore a hole in my tire. Blast.

I wheeled slowly back to McGill, where I've now spent a long time flipping through dozens of Net connections, all of which are protected. McGill has its own wireless network, and even an ethernet connection in the rooms, but they don't allow us humble travelers any access. I guess $49 only buys so many comforts.

It took place at a venue called Bread and Circus, in the Kensington Market area of Toronto. It's an interesting area full of cheese shops, chocolate, vintage clothing stores and a whole lot of people walking around. When we pulled up, there was a seriously heavy band doing Sabbath covers - w/baritone sax. Now THAT is heavy. They sounded great, though I stayed outside to save my eardrums for later use.

I set up for soundcheck with Ted Harms, a bassist from Kitchener. The soundman was harried and, I think, alarmed by our whole setup, particularly when I told him that I needed to send the headphone output from the four-track through the PA, and further when he heard Ted's double bass sent two octaves down (!) through a pitch-shifter. Still, he put it all together and we got a decent sound, though I was pissed off there were no monitors. (When a site advertises a "full PA", that implies speakers for the band to hear itself, people!).

The first half of the night was the "typical" cabaret, meaning a real variety of stuff. There was a comedian, a singer-songwriter, two dancers and a duo (www.mimomusic.com) who created a sound piece entirely from using an espresso machine and its associated equipment - glasses, water pouring, a coffee grinder - sent into a laptop. I found them to be brilliant.

The second half was a bit more focused, all involving myself and my tape loops. I started out with two solo pieces, which both turned out rather moody and tonal (I think I was feeling eager to please this diverse crowd who weren't necessarily there for improv music). Then Ted joined me, and as we'd agreed beforehand, our first piece together was the loudest and nuttiest, very fun with great sounds from Ted. During our second piece, during which I attached my new set of koto bridges my father made for me, I heard some crazy vocal stuff going on; Lisa had grabbed a mic and was re-interpreting bits of conversation heard around her. Great stuff. Then she and another dancer joined for two more pieces. I loved what they were doing - far beyond the contact dancing I've mostly had experience with - and found myself interacting directly with them. The last piece was a bit more reined in, but also more locked in, and we ended beautifully together. Though I'd wanted to invite Mimo up for a final piece, the PA was limited in direct boxes and, moreover, it was such a nice piece that it seemed perfect to end there.

A very special night. I need to get involved more with dancers (and bassists), it was a great thing to play with other instruments.

The second day was altogether different. It was a live taping for a show called Take Five, which is a daily news program that has interstitial music and interviews (a la NPR). I was met in the parking lot by the host, who asked if I was Daryl Shawn (nice to be asked for) and then told to park across the street as only students and faculty can park in the lot without getting a ticket (boo). I was then led into an underground cave of a recording studio, with stone walls, outdated equipment and a general damp. Still, the host and the engineer were more than professional and got me set up quickly. The format was three separate short interviews, followed by three tunes. I stuck with instrumental pieces - I wasn't sure if I trusted myself singing in the A.M. - and had a lot of fun answering questions, which focused a lot on my new record composed of pieces written for weddings, and my current tour. I talked about vocal and instrumental stuff, but left out any mention of my improv tape loop work - no need to complicate matters. They burned a CD of the session for me (no small feat, requiring four reboots of their ancient Power Mac) and, after signing a disclaimer, I was out the door. Very fun, and nice to know that my music would be mixed in with the newscast in the morning.

I'm a member of a listgroup dedicated to looping (loosely defined as the technique of using technological means to effect repetition, usually of a live sound source - see Kid Beyond, Imogen Heap, Robert Fripp, et al). The folks on this list have always impressed me by being of a singularly intelligent, open-minded, creative and generous sort, and it's been great to meet several of them in the flesh on this tour. Tonight's was set up by Michael Klobuchar, a multi-instrumentalist who I knew through the list. He had access to a venue, and I had a free night, so we thought we'd put something together and try to get other people involved.

All seemed to be well in place, but then first one, then the other person who had expressed interest in being part of the evening canceled their involvement. They both had good reasons, but it was still a big disappointment. Still, one of the beauties of improvised music is that any arrangement of persons can create together, so Michael and I simply carried on the show alone.

The International Children's Art Gallery is on Penn St. - perhaps twenty blocks from the charming, renowned Strip which has great Italian markets and other food stores (I'd stocked up on some seriously snooty cheese before leaving town on Wednesday) - but in a rather downscale area, where galleries of this sort tend to be located. I brought all my luggage and gear in from the car - I'd noticed the car behind me had a smashed back windows - and found myself in a high-ceilinged, brick-walled space with some terrific art on the walls and Michael's gear already set up, including PA. Sweet.

After a warm welcome from Michael, I plugged in my tape machines and we did a few pieces together to check the audio. He has an unconventional setup to run his keyboard and guitar through, with three or four of the same Alesis bit-reduction boxes, and he creates an amazing array of sounds. The soundcheck went fine, though I didn't have success getting Ninjam to work, which was disappointing as I'd hoped to dial in my Chinapainting partner Jim remotely.

A few people showed up to listen, and though for some reason they all soon went to hang out in other parts of the gallery (could we have been too loud? I don't think so..), one woman was utterly fascinated by our sound and approach. For one piece, she stood between us, checking out first what I was doing, then Michael. It was great; it felt like she was taking part even without playing an instrument. It struck me that I wouldn't mind playing in the middle of an audience so that people could easily see what I do and could perhaps feel more a part of the event.

We wrapped up with a few solo pieces, packed up the equipment, then headed back to Michael's for some chow, many beers and conversation on his charming back deck. Great stuff. This was dubbed the first PILL - Pittsburgh International Live Looping festival - and I hope to be part of the next.

Plus, two of the four musicians I was going to be playing with in Pittsburgh at my first looping event in two weeks canceled. They both had perfectly valid reasons, and don't hold it against them, but it's still disappointing.

One nice thing this morning was noticing the release (which may have been some time ago) of a live session I did as part of Moe Staiano's Moe!kestra, almost five years ago. It was great fun and I'm looking forward to hearing the recording. I'll be putting up a discography soon of my stuff just to keep track.

The last two shows have been alright. Connections Cafe in Pittsburgh is an interesting venue, with a massive sound system in a living-room-feeling kind of place. The soundperson was pretty helpless - anytime he did anything at the board, peals of feedback erupted - but once things were dialed in it sounded ok, and it was fun having two powerful monitors. Sadly, there was almost nobody there to see us. My co-player for the night, Keith Hershberger was playing three other times in the same area that week, so his crowd probably was taking advantage of the weekend opportunities. But his girlfriend was there, and she and the very sweet venue owners (who didn't blame us a bit for the weak turnout) sat on the easy chairs and couches as we traded sets. I stuck with vocal material, to better match with Keith's generally quiet acoustic indie folk, except one time when he played a particularly gorgeous tune to end his set and I felt like I needed to underscore that a bit with something matching, which I thought would best be an instrumental. Musically speaking, it was a decent night. Afterwards, I devoured a Pittsburgh burrito (no, really) with rooster chili sauce and Yuenglings.

I have some very dear friends in Cleveland, with a lovely house just down the street from Lake Erie. We spent the afternoon hanging out with their young son, then eating grilled swordfish with some other old pals who live in the area. I hadn't seen either of these couples in ten years, and it was a wonderful thing to reconnect. I was rather impressed by what I saw of Cleveland, too; lovely old Arts & Crafts buildings, a diverse ethnic makeup and the ever-present lake.

I left early for the Barking Spider (supposedly named not for an arachnid, but something unspeakable), where I was booked with Hillbilly Idol, a straight-up Western swing band. I followed my Google directions and was confused when I found myself on a campus, with the address denoting an alumni building. Hmm. I parked and wandered around a bit, thoroughly confused. Then I finally saw a sign for the pub in a parking lot behind the red brick structure, which led me past a chain-link fence to an open garden with a path which continued into the establishment. Whew.

The Spider is an old carriage house and low stable, with massive doors that completely open up the sides. It's a good thing, too, as the playing area is in the stables which are insufferably hot. Though my friends were brave enough to sit inside, everyone else was at outside tables, out of sight to the right and left. I did my "regular" mixed instrumental and vocal set, which I'm not sure was entirely appropriate for the venue (the calendar is mainly stocked with country and folk stuff), but there were some nice words afterwards, in lieu of substantial applause or attention except from my own crowd. The place sends out the bartenders to collect tips after each set, which had a surprisingly high success rate and which I accepted as at least a bit of appreciation.

Arefa's Espresso is a great place to play, with regular traffic coming in and an atmosphere where people are interested in listening. Both of us got a very nice reaction, and though we're doing very different stuff (especially tonight, as I was doing mainly instrumentals), I think there were enough common threads that we fit together. We sold some music at the end, and one lady bought a cd from both of us, which was a great feeling. In her rush to get cd's, she forgot a half a cake in a takeout tray, which I and my friend Keith Hershberger (who I play with tomorrow) demolished later for dinner. Sweet.

I played well, mainly for my own ears, but there was some listening going on. One very nice fellow who stuck around the whole time bought a few cd's, which was much appreciated. You could say this was a modest night, but a few nice words from one individual can make it all worthwhile.

Tomorrow I drive to Pittsburgh. I'm ready for it, I'm getting itchy staying in one place (my home base is Lancaster, PA) for four days. The daily gigs (and some good time with my family) have made it bearable but it still feels like stasis. The road calls.

With the same setup as the last two shows - two hours for me to fill in front of a minimal, not necessarily interested crowd - it felt very routine. But I remembered from last night to just keep my head down and focus on playing well, and I did a pretty good couple of sets. A lot of people were talking throughout, and one fellow loudly answered then carried on a cell phone conversation (to which I responded by playing my loudest faux-flamenco tune, sending him out to the patio), but I generally ignored all that and just did my thing. There were smatterings of applause, and afterwards there were some good tips. More surprisingly, I sold a CD to a fellow who was there the whole night - but had appeared to be glued to his laptop with his earbuds on the whole time. Oh well; it was appreciated anyway.

My co-player for the evening, Kurt Houff (who kindly set up the show after only knowing me from online communications) showed up soon after I did. He set me at ease a bit, with his extremely friendly manner and genuine skill in getting the sound set up. We decided to split sets, trading back and forth, and I offered to go first.

I opened with a number of instrumentals, as typical. Kurt was an enthusiastic listener, which was nice, especially as few others were paying attention. But the monitor was crapping out, and soon the smell of freshly fried chicken wings wafted through the joint, and as some noisy patrons settled at the bar, loudly ordering shots, I got seriously distracted and my playing went downhill. This added to my stress, my playing got worse, and I ended my set as soon as was polite.

Kurt got up, and completely OWNED. He's simply a monster player, with a well-thought out sound and a nice, deep voice that complimented his mix of originals and classic covers (lots of Neil Young). The people in the bar were watching and listening, he was getting applause, and as much as I enjoyed watching him, the dread inside me began to grow to ferocious levels; I really didn't want to do my second set. He finished up and called me back to the stage; sigh.

I ducked into the bathroom to try to clear my head, and resolved to come out swinging. I opened up with two of my boldest acoustic singing tunes, hoping to hit a new groove. They went fairly well, but with that material gone I had to settle back on my more sensitive numbers, which simply weren't right for this place. I felt the crowd slip away, my mental anguish grew, and again my playing got sloppier. I wished that every tune could be my last, but when I tried to stop after eight tunes or so, Kurt motioned that I should do at least a couple more (and to be fair, I really owed that). I managed to squeeze out a handful more, forgetting all the words after the first verse for one tune, then slunk offstage. Kurt again same on and did his thing, masterfully.

He was sweet as pie afterward, disavowing my negative viewpoint on my own performance, and introduced me to a younger guy who had enjoyed my set and said some nice words. That was very nice, and much appreciated, but couldn't overcome the pit of frustration that had welled up in me. I practically ran out of there after we exchanged our pleasantries, not even bothering to thank the very generous club owner.

I have got to be able to focus on guitar when I'm playing, and just forget about my environment. I really destroyed myself tonight.

I don't think we ever expected to get together in any form again. But then Douglas Witmer (our singer, brother of Denison Witmer) and Blake Lehmann (the bass player, now leader of Happy Accident) ran into each other in Philadelphia at a Mark Eitzel show and realized they'd been living in the same city for years. Last year I visited them both while doing some East Coast shows, and we started talking how much fun it'd be to play again. When I told them of my tour plans for this year, it seemed incumbent on us to get together and do a show.

Due to our various schedules (they both have kids and summer vacation plans, and I had my tour plans already in motion) we only could fit in two rehearsals. Somehow, that didn't bother us. We practiced on our own, sent some new songs to each other electronically, and when we met up it felt completely natural.

The Fire in Philly is a small club, with a bar on one side and a listening room on the other. It had the classic soundguy - cynical, crusty, and absolutely the self-determined master of his own domain. We had the briefest of arguments with him because the show was scheduled for 8:00, but we'd gotten an email today that I was to start my opening set at 9:30. This was going to make things difficult for a lot of our friends, who had gotten babysitters and such. So we made an agreement with the booker that I could start at 9:00 sharp. When I told this to the sound dude, he kinda reared back and declared that the start times were completely up to him, and he said 9:30. I kept pressing, and finally we agreed on 9:15. Okay.

With Landscape being the first band after my solo set, we got a much-desired soundcheck. The monitors were barely audible, so we kept pressing for more. I literally put my ear on top of the wedges and could just hear a bit of the singing. Mr. Sound threw his hands up and said it was all up to us, we'd have to turn down (we already were pretty judicious with the noise, I didn't even think of needing earplugs). We turned down to what seemed like barely living room stereo volume, and finally got what seemed to be a decent mix onstage. To my annoyance, he'd let the crowd gather during soundcheck; we were playing our opening tune, and having the crowd hear a businesslike rendition kinda blew that magical moment I'd been looking forward to of hearing us fresh after all that time. Oh well.

My abbreviated solo set went well - fun to play on a real stage, and especially in front of friends I hadn't seen in forever - then the band came on. I strapped on the DiPinto and Alec (our drummer) counted off. Man. The release of energy was palpable, it was just such an anticipated moment for us. I really blew the solo on the first tune, I think from excitement, but after that we were all on fire and I must modestly say that we kicked some ass. I was getting great feedback, Doug was in fine voice and I felt locked in with everybody. It was over before we knew it.

After us was Blake's band Happy Accident - whom I love (I call their stuff "workingman's haiku"), then Faux Slang, another Philly band with a great tight noise-rock thing going on. After the exhilaration of our set, it was great to decompress with a few beers and more top-notch loud underground rock.

I still can't believe we pulled off our reunion, as a better band than we ever were before. Who knows what the future holds, but this one is in the bank and I couldn't have asked for a better night.

I love staying at my old friend/singer's place. He's a wonderful painter, and I stay in his studio, kept company by a wall full of his current work. It's evocative, deep, thoughtful stuff, and provides an inspiring sort of mental bed to live around. Plus, he's got a nice Strat. I'm borrowing a sweet DiPinto Galaxie from our bassist for the show (he's been the guitar player/singer for his own band for something like 13 years now, so is having to work on his bass callouses), but I've been readjusting to electric playing on the Fender. It's such a different beast than the nylon-string which has become my main instrument, and I can't deny the terrific fun potential in a loud amp. I'm loving my Effector 13 Aenima too, though it tends to obliterate the rest of the band when I kick it on. Pure chaos volume. And something about the Galaxie caused me to assume an A-frame stance (a wide stance, some would say...) I've never sported before. Funny.

Man, Philadelphia is humid. It's like walking around inside of a rain cloud.

So this time, in a sort of penance, I decided I wouldn't sing at all in SF. Thursday I had a great night at Luggage Store Gallery with my tape loops, and then tonight, an event I've been looking forward to almost more than any other this tour. I've never done an all-instrumental show with my guitaring as the main focus (as opposed to, like, a restaurant background music gig), and I thought I'd do it properly and treat it in a formal fashion as a recital. So I booked the Meridian Gallery, a beautiful place I played at last year with Chinapainting, and even took the step of printing out programs. I stopped short of the ridiculous tradition of entering and leaving the stage before/after each piece, but I did kinda get dressed up.

The Gallery is a three-story Victorian (the last undivided Victorian mansion in downtown SF, they say), and normally the performances take place in a room on the third floor, far above the street noise. This time, though, that room was filled with massive (and very interesting) bronze sculptures. They'd told me about this beforehand, and had given me the option to set up wherever I wanted, even around these artworks if I wished. It would have been kinda fun, but many of them were mounted very high on four skinny vertical legs, and I feared for the stability of the works in case there was a particularly enthusiastic crowd response to my music (or more likely, my bumbling around). So I picked the first floor, which has a wooden floor and high ceilings like the top story does.

There are streetcar tracks just outside the front door, and I was a a little concerned that the noise might be a distraction. I was really excited about the idea of playing without amplification, though, so I sat and played for a while to get a sense of what it would be like. I love playing without amping up, and the acoustics are wonderful in the building, so I had a great little time there by myself hearing my chords echo around. I had my PA as a backup in case, but decided to stay unplugged.

At the time I was supposed to go on, only two people had showed up (sigh...), so I pushed it back. Fifteen minutes later, another person had come in, which felt like critical mass, so I started. It felt so good to be completely in control of my sound, and I played with dynamics more than I usually do, especially taking advantage of the times when the street noise died down at the same time as a quiet section. By intermission (yep) a few more people had showed up, and then a few more as I started the second set, so it felt like a nice crowd in the end. I played pretty well, I thought, and when I finished people asked for an encore, which I hadn't planned on. Someone suggested repeating one of the tunes I'd played earlier on (Danza del Campo), which I was more than happy to accommodate.

I need to do one of these again; I loved the format.

After my set came John Hanes (well-known as a drummer) and Jonathan Segel (violinist with Camper Van Beethoven, who played a huge reunion show in SF last night), doing a joint improvised set. Mr. Hanes had a fascinatingly tiny setup of the little red Kaoss Pad and a Nintendo DS loaded with some custom sound software. With nearly imperceptible movements of a stylus, he dropped atonal squiggles, boops and bleeps, plus some serious bass bombs. I found it fascinating to watch the microscopic process, as compared to Segel who alternated brief violin phrases with long periods of mouse-clicking on his laptop, which I found much harder to relate immediately to the music. About halfway through their unbroken set they started to gel together and some really beautiful stuff emerged; they could have played double the amount of time they did and I'd have enjoyed it all.

The Gallery is, of course, on what is the most notorious corner of San Francisco at the intersection of 6th Street and Market, so you need to be prepared for the local atmosphere. I felt a wee bit nervous, waiting for my ride after the show with all my equipment out on the sidewalk, as a panoply of the most chaotic side of urban humanity staggered by. Up in the cloistered gallery, two stories above, one can easily forget this if not for the occasional drunken yell or police siren.

Ever since last year's debacle, I've had a bit of a superstition about playing in Fresno. It really was one of the worst gigs I've played, ever. Compounding that was the fact that the local paper promoted the date with a nice color photo and event description..except with the entirely wrong date. So a large group of friends showed up on the Monday after the Friday when I actually played, only to find a locked door and my having long slunk out of town.

It was hard finding a venue this time, and nearly all of the ones I contacted never bothered to respond (even gallery spaces which normally are very on top of communications) but Javawava seemed ideal. It's a good-sized coffeeshop with good reviews and a popular open mic. The owner was friendly and more than willing to book me. However, he did mention during our first conversation that he'd been having some thoughts about selling the venue. A warning bell went off in my head, but I accepted the date as it seemed my only real option.

It was only after advising my friends there about the show, two weeks before the date, that I saw a notice go up on the cafe website - they were actively looking to sell. Oh no. I called the owner and he said that, while he couldn't promise anything, in case the joint was suddenly sold he was going to do everything in his power to urge the new owners to honor existing bookings. But...he couldn't promise anything.

Even as I solidified plans with my friends there for dinner before the event, and booked a hotel, I continued to check the venue site every day, terrified that I'd see a dreaded "under new management - closed for remodeling" notice. Thankfully, the date arrived without a single change on the website, so everything seemed to be good. However, then I noticed their special summer hours - 9 to 5, every day. My gig was booked for 7:30 - oh no. I called the place in a panic, at noon that day, hoping against hope that my show hadn't been overlooked.

The owner sounded a bit surprised to hear me, and I suspected that he'd forgotten about the show. But he reassured me that it was still on, they were going to stay open late for me. Whew.

Thank goodness for my friends, they were the only warm bodies in the place other than the barista - one could assume that the posted daytime closing hours might have affected attendance. Playing went well, with decent attention being paid, plus two kids who came up close to peer curiously at my fingers, then danced with utter abandon during my more rocking tunes. There was even some air guitar.

The spell is broken!

Tonight was not a great coffeeshop show. Viento y Agua in Long Beach is a nice venue, physically, with an actual stage, PA, a large airy space and comfortable chairs scattered around. But things got off to a bad start when the barista behind the counter continually insisted that he be the one to set up the PA and remove the chairs from the stage. I had no problem with that, but it simply wasn't happening, he continued to pour drinks and chat with his co-workers. The hour got later and later, as I offered again and again, and he kept refusing my assistance. At ten minutes after the time I was supposed to be playing, I finally just did it all myself, grumbling and sweating. I didn't have the opportunity to warm up or go for a quick walk before playing, which is my ritual, and the stress manifested itself in my forgetting the chords to my very first tune, which I've been playing at nearly every show for the past three weeks. I stumbled around a bit, trying to make myself remember, then halted the carnage abruptly and pretended to fiddle with the PA, blaming "tech issues" before starting a different tune which thankfully presented itself complete.

I wasn't playing too well, and other than my handful of friends and a scattered handful of others, I didn't feel like any attention was being paid to me. Worse, a couple of women in the back talked continuously and loudly through the whole set. Ironically, afterwards they were the only ones outside of my friends to pay me any compliments. They said they "loved it". What? I accepted it with a smile, but it sure felt like a meaningless compliment.

The talented Gayle Skidmore played after me. I liked her music, especially when she played banjo and mountain dulcimer, but her manager (!) grabbed ahold of my ear and simply wouldn't shut up about this and that webpoll or download or video or radio list that Ms. Skidmore was, apparently, creating a massive buzz with. Dude. I'm at the show, listening to her. Your job is done..! Just shut up and start working on getting your Artist booked at an actual venue..!

It unfortunately colored by experience of her music, as did her unwillingness to trade her $10 6-song EP with my $8 18-song album afterward (everyone trades CD's on the road). I know times are tight, but...whatever. She is worth seeing, but beware her entourage.

Without a website calendar to check, I got a little nervous and called again in May to confirm the date. Everything was fine, and the booker seemed a bit surprised that I was calling; of course everything's still set. I confirmed it with Twas Writ, and let my friends know about the show. Cool.

Monday night, though, I received an email from the booker telling me to call him, that there was a scheduling conflict. Uh oh. I gave him a ring and he said that an Irish jam session had been on the schedule before me and that our appearance was off. I was dumbfounded. As often happens, I knuckled under, said it was ok with a heavy sigh, and hung up, before gathering my bearings and my guts and calling back to insist that he give me the name of the jam organizer, perhaps we could go on before that. He apologized for the error but refused to try to work anything out; we were, simply, not gonna play that night.

I was fairly fit to be tied, as they say. Nothing against Ireland or the jam sessions featuring its music, but it didn't seem right that an open stage event would get absolute priority. It'd be different if it were, say, San Francisco, where there are plenty of venues to play. I felt like I'd invested a lot into this, what seemed to be my only opportunity, and now I felt like even future dates would be out of the question - I can't book somewhere that doesn't have the ability to stay on top of its schedule, knowing that I could be screwed again with little notice. I let my work friends know, and with even deeper regrets Twas Writ. I was really looking forward to hearing her play, and also felt rather lame for needing to cancel for such a stupid reason.

In a funk, I arrived at the office I needed to work at that day and began cracking. Soon I noticed that some of the people were laying out food on a table near where I was working, nice stuff. I assumed it was some sort of community function, but thought it was weird they'd be setting up in this particular back office as opposed to some sort of common room. Finally I asked what it was all about, and they replied, "You". Me?

Of their own accord, after hearing of my show cancellation, they'd planned a noontime concert in its place. Chairs were set up, people served themselves a pile of food and they all sat down to listen. It was by far the most intimate and focused setting I've played at in forever, and it was incredibly rewarding to know that I was being heard, free of distractions. I played for 40 minutes or so, then they bought every CD I'd brought with me. My originally scheduled show couldn't possibly have been more successful.

I was planning to just wing it all-acoustic, but the barista in the back said he couldn't hear me over the espresso machine and since he represented one full third of my audience at the outset, I accommodated his needs and plugged in. I started with a few of my second-tier instrumentals, warming up, then did some Beatles and other covers, waiting for people to show up. "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" got a huge response; being an expressly gay-friendly place, I wasn't altogether surprised. Hee hee.

As people started to show up, I eased more into my regular set, avoiding a few of the rockingest tunes as they just didn't seem appropriate at 4 p.m. on a lazy Sunday. Other than one dude who was there the entire time and never looked up from his laptop, I felt like people were really listening. One of the blessings of playing a really tiny place is that ten audience members can feel like a massive crowd, and I was energized by the attention. Though modest in just about every respect, this turned out to be a really nice show, in fact the best so far for a coffeehouse.

Dry River is an anarchist collective that hosts a lot of classes and meetings in addition to shows. It's one of the most unlikely-looking venues I've ever played at, from the outside, a rough one-story structure of crumbling adobe walls and raw concrete. Inside, it's full of life, with a very well-stocked periodical library representing leftist causes and plenty of artwork, music gear, and rotating fans jutting from floor, wall and ceiling (remember, it's Arizona, and AC is doubtless beyond their budget).

There were five acts scheduled to play including myself, and as befits an anarchist joint, the order hadn't been determined beforehand (so as not to suggest a hierarchy..?). First went Michael Huerta, a hushed-voice songwriter accompanying himself with some very ingenious acoustic guitar. His Elliott Smith shadings got a great response, and I was pretty taken with his stuff too.

I was up next, so plugged in my gear, and started suffering frustrations immediately. My dictaphone microcassette was seizing up after the first 10 seconds of play, no doubt finally giving in the excessive wear on that part of the tape (that's the only part I ever use). I had a spare, but it was in my luggage at my friend's house. Argh. Also, there was no monitor and I could just barely hear my loops. It's one thing to mime a composed piece, playing through the motions and hoping it's in tune, but for improvised music one really needs to hear what's going on. I myself prefer to be completely bathed in sound for this kind of thing, as subtle details can suggest other things. On top of this, it seemed as if some of the tracks on the tape were recording at a very low level (which sometimes happens with my homemade tapes) so I was never quite sure if what I was playing was going into the mix or not.

Though a nice little circle of listeners had seated on the floor in front and appeared to be in deep concentration, things never quite jelled for me. I found myself relying on one-chord crescendant drones, which are fine but hardly groundbreaking. I cut things short and left the stage. A few people showed appreciation - the booker/organizer gave me a big hug - and I ended up selling or trading a few cd's, all of which improved my rather dour mood a bit.

Next up was Great Job, a local trio. They played acoustic, on the floor in front of the stage without amplification, which was charming and perfectly fitting to their clever, often hilarious, lo-fi and ironic folk-freak-pop. Bird Names also set up on the floor, though with plenty of amps scattered around. They were simply amazing, with a sort of African feel in their exuberance, interlocking rhythms and massive vocal sound (often all five members would be singing at once, in addition to whipping out some really demented chords and rhythms). I was grinning like an idiot by halfway through their set.

Paul Barbireau finished out the night with his nervous energy, nimble guitar and terrific songs, all pounded out without amplification. Lots of people seemed to know his stuff and were singing along. It was heartening, really, to see this sort of troubadour aesthetic carried on. He's a real charmer.

This was a damn fun evening, I enjoyed every set and loved the lack of pretense. Everyone just seemed to be absolutely committed to doing their own freaky thing, and though beforehand I wasn't entirely sure how my sound collages were going to fit in, I think my set was as accepted as anyone else's.

I put a lot of work into this show, finding the venue, booking it, finding a local opener, inviting friends to come, promoting it online and to local papers. And it's just gone now. I'll never book a show there again - how could I, based on what happened here? Big bummer.

Also disappointing is the cancellation of a looping show I was really looking forward to in Sacramento next monday. Not the booker's fault, the venue (True Love Coffee House) had some kind of management shakeup and sudden renovations need to happen, with less than two week's notice to the bands on the schedule. Suck.

To add insult, I had tickets to see Bill Frisell tonight - the only show by another artist I can catch on my travels - and it was cancelled, also last minute.

All of this is a real downer. Still, I did manage to catch another set by Bird Names, who I fell I love with in Tucson. They're brilliant.

Fiddler's Dream is an all-acoustic establishment, meaning not just acoustic instruments, but no PA whatsoever. The first act of the night, the Mass Wasters (that has to be some kind of Dylan reference) clearly didn't need sound reinforcement as they filled up the place with sound, though of course they were four fellas, sometimes utilizing three guitars plus mandolin. They did all classic folk/rock stuff; Neil Young, lots of Dylan, a bit of Dead, other big hits. They had a crowd there who were loving this music, and I started to feel a bit of dread; how was I going to please this kind of (40-plus, folkie, hippie-leaning) audience? I also was was little miffed that they stretched their 40-minute slot into 50 minutes, after which much of the crowd left (it was getting a bit late for that demographic).

The second artist, Mike Lopez, played solo doing original stuff, mostly on nylon-string, but otherwise was completely different from me. He was a top-notch entertainer for the folk crowd; engaging, full of stories, with a deep, rich baritone and a passel of charming, accessible tunes about his family and his heritage, ideal topics for this kind of venue. My heart sank a bit further; he represented something perfect for this crowd, and I did not.

I was reminded, alarmingly, of my show last year in Fresno, which was a disaster. The venue had heavily promoted my appearance to the local Latino crowd as if I was a traditional Mexican artist; the opening act sang in Spanish, and even introduced me as a "Oaxacan singer" (!) though they'd met me beforehand and knew my story. I took the stage in front of fifty people who were clearly disappointed even before I played a single note; I am clearly NOT Oaxacan, and there was a palpable hostility as I began, which I can't blame the audience for - they'd ponied up the cover charge thinking I was something I was, in fact, not. Though I spoke mostly in Spanish and did my best to entertain, the audience began to ebb away immediately with not a small bit of hostility. I rank it among the worst gigs of my life, and it seemed as if I was doomed to repeat that dreaded situation of being not what is expected.

Mike finished up, and after briefly considering grabbing my guitar and bolting for the exit, I took the stage in front of the now-diminished audience with much trepidation, wondering what I'd got myself into. I began with an instrumental, which I've been doing on all the shows, and followed immediately with my most Western tune, which I hadn't even planned on playing this tour (but if ever a situation called for it, this was the time). It got a very nice reaction, and I relaxed a little bit. A few more people straggled in over the next couple of songs, adding a bit more life, and soon I was genuinely enjoying myself. I realized how nice it was to not have to worry about the monitor mix, the balance of guitar to voice in the mains, or even finding the microphone when I close my eyes to sing. It felt liberating, really, and at the same time created a much more immediate, intimate relationship with the listeners. I was very attuned to their reactions, and felt as if they could hear the words more than at any other show (I even got laughs at a few lines I always intended to be amusing, though they never seemed to work that way before).

Most unexpectedly, it turned into the best show so far. A great night.

Today was to be a day off from playing, and I finished my work early, so I dropped by an amazing place called the Sonic Arts Gallery. It's basically a museum/studio dedicated to microtonal music; absolutely amazing. I got to play all kinds of instruments, from a 19-fret-per-octave mbira to a sort of table-mounted Stick, and about eight microtonal guitars. Super cool.

I then decided to drop in on an open mic at a place called Rebecca's Coffee House. For being an acoustic solo player, somehow I've avoided ever taking part in a true open mic, and this seemed to be a great place to start. It's a roomy joint with a true stage that seems to be the focus of the room, and the owner is a true sweetheart (she was fascinated by the fact that I was from Oaxaca, so I brought her some chocolate, and she thanked me in an extremely generous way. Thank you, Rebecca).

I signed my name to the list - I was thirteenth, oy - and settled into an overstuffed chair to listen to the other players. Without fail, the most professional, polished performers were the ones doing cover songs, while those doing original music were rather, well, rough. I much preferred the latter, embarrassing though it sometimes was; the covers were really just karaoke without the beats, and who needs more of that?

My turn finally arrived, two and a half hours after signing in, and I played the two tunes that seem to get across best. I'd hoped to play at least three, but a couple of the pro imitators on before me had overfilled their slot, playing four tunes sometimes, so in the interest of time those of us at the end had to chop our sets. I played well, but in a way disturbingly similar to last night, I felt almost no feedback (except for that coming from my low A and E strings, which resonated continuously whenever I struck them - c'mon soundguy, it's called a graphic EQ) from those assembled. Earlier in the week, I was developing a complex about my vocal stuff being weaker than my instrumentals, but now I'm getting a complex about everything I'm doing. I know my tunes make sense, are generally well-played and aren't the run-of-the-mill cafe fare - how am I failing to connect?

Afterward, I intended to drown my disappointment in some good Vietnamese food - there was a place I'd discovered for lunch that had great chow, and extremely pleasant service. Something had happened, though; it took 15 minute for someone to come to take my order, then they forgot the drink I requested, and didn't bother returning to the table again until I'd finished my plate, which was decent but not as nice as lunchtime. It was even the same staff, now turned lazy and forgetful.

Also today, I learned that a show I was particularly looking forward to has been canceled, because the venue is remodeling. That's probably the worst thing that happened today. Big bummer.

Things got off to a strange start when I met the booker, who was obviously marinating in THC. He met me pleasantly enough, then said, so, you want to talk about Saturday, right? Uh, no, I actually want to talk about the guitar I'm carrying and it impending use on your stage. When I pointed out that we had talked just two weeks ago about this date, he registered complete surprise. "Really? Tonight? Uh...okay!" He then asked if I had a PA. Luckily, I decided to bring my new portable Yamaha PA, mainly for monitoring. This place has music all the time, so I figure it had to have a PA. It did have mic stands, a mic, and an acoustic guitar amp, but the mic cord was fried so I had to run buy one, as I'd left my own cord back at the hotel. There went $25 to the one music store in town...aargh.

I got arranged on the very nice stage in one corner, against windows on the street which is my favorite playing situation, and started out with a passel of instrumentals, happy that there were quite a few people there, buried in laptops, laughing with friends, reading. It seemed quite promising. Halfway through the first tune, a lip-ringed hipster deposited, with a huge flourish, one shiny dollar bill in the large urn labeled "Tip". Yes, just "Tip".

Now, one thing I've noticed is that the first tune of the evening always, without fail, gets applause. After that it's a crapshoot, but whether it's an audience of one or one hundred, you'll get some claps after that first song. Tonight, I finished up my first piece, an old standby which came out very cleanly, to...silence. There were a good twenty people in the room, but nobody bothered. I gulped a bit, a little flummoxed, but moved on to the next piece on my list, a louder, strummier tune with a few showy touches. There was some scattered claps after that one, though nobody made eye contact or seemed especially interested.

I soldiered on through eight or nine instrumentals, then switched to a few vocal tunes. Everything was coming out great, I was limber and relaxed, the sound was good, and the place was lively. My music was just, literally, falling on deaf ears.

I took a break, more to refocus than to give my fingers any kind of rest - they were doing fine, it was me that was having the problem. I just didn't understand it; in every crowd, there is at least one person who gets turned on when I'm playing well. Not tonight. I may as well have been washing windows for all the love I was getting.

I returned from my break and had a brief conversation with someone who was complimentary, though he seemed more impressed than moved, if that makes sense. Plus, he was leaving. I launched into a few of my very favorite pieces, good loud ones that always get a reaction, with a bit of venom from my frustration. I was working it, and it felt great, like I was really breaking through. But once again, I finished to a faint patter of almost-embarrassed applause.

With my favorite vocal tune, I came closest to a reaction. I saw two faces in the crowd actually upturn and seem to listen, and it inspired to dig deep into the heart of the song. At the end, I looked up...and saw each person back in conversation or in their laptop. I played one more and left the stage, smarting.

I asked the dude at the counter where the booker was. "He has peaced out", was the solemn reply. Though I've many times heard it as a parting statement, I wasn't aware it was a state of being that one could achieve, simply by, seemingly, going home. Not unkindly, he added "Thanks for playing," though with about as much enthusiasm as that reserved for customers who bus their own table.

Packing up, I visited the offering urn, and saw, there, the solitary dollar left there at the start of the evening. Apparently the label wasn't kidding; at the E Street, one must rein in all expectations, not be demanding of attention from the crowd, and be content with one's Tip.

The worst thing, though, was getting cut off early. My understanding was that I had a 45-minute set, based on the fact that I had an email from the booker telling me that my set started at 8:00 and ended at 8:45. But after six songs, the sound-person whispered to me that I had one song left. What? I most unprofessionally had a few polite though confused words with her onstage (should have just adjusted immediately without question), but jumped to my last song and finished up. When I talked to the booker afterwards, she claimed that she had sent an email telling us of 30-minute sets. Looking back, that was actually true - I'd forgotten it in the subsequent flood of emails about the show being canceled, then not, then moved to anther booker, etc - but much more recently after that email was the one giving me 45 minutes.

Up to that point I'd been playing fairly well - though my first vocal tune still seemed to be getting away from me in tempo, I think my songs were getting across better than Friday - but was just getting started on my instrumental set when I got shut down. It was incredibly frustrating. I don't like 30-minute sets, and if I'd known from the beginning that I'd be playing a half an hour in a cattle-call evening of five artists, I probably wouldn't have accepted the show.

I also had an annoying time with the soundperson, who did fine for my set but was baffled in trying to accommodate poor Toddy's simple request to send a vocal feed out to the pedal and back into the PA. I'm afraid I came across as an ass, but the truth is that it's not complicated. I'd started off with a good rapport with the woman working the board but I believe I ruined it. Though Toddy had to make do without her loops, I did play one tune with her which was fun and I thoroughly enjoyed the rest of her short set; I love her stuff.

After us was a true 60's songwriter, then a crazy-loud duo who had zero relation with the music preceding. I took my leave, with a cold goodbye from the booker (probably just pissed I didn't bring more people and/or had the words with her about the short set). Oh well. I don't plan to play here again.

I wasn't sure quite what to expect from Fantastic Ego and Warm Climate, the two other bands. The music I'd heard online from them was, in both cases, extremely diverse, with a lot of instruments going on and often very song-oriented. I had a bit of a fear that both would show up with a team of players, doing straight-ahead tunes, with me in the middle doing my improv on my own and trying to fit in. But Fantastic Ego showed up as one fella, who set up a massive modular synth and a couple of looping pedals and began creating huge, sprawling loops that whirled deeper and deeper into chaos, and I knew that I was going to fit in just fine. I thoroughly enjoyed his set and was disappointed that he cut it short at less than half an hour; his sounds were amazing.

Art spaces like this are great to play in, because they're made for modest crowds - there were probably a dozen people there tonight, at most, but it seemed to fill the place with humanity - so they never have the depressingly cavernous feel that a full-on rock venue with a dozen people in it does. Plus, the walls are always covered with interesting work of all kinds, seeming to beg for more creativity.

My set started out a bit roughly; with no monitors, I couldn't hear my loops too well, and I'd mistakenly loaded the four-track with one of my backup loops which I hadn't tested too well. One of the tracks had a very loud bump at the splice point, and every once in a while the third and fourth tracks wouldn't record at all, and I started getting frustrated and tensing up. But by partway through the second piece, I finally settled in and began to listen and respond more to the loop sounds, rather than trying to drive everything from the guitar. It seemed like the people there, seated on thoughtfully provided pillows on the floor, were really listening, and sounds began to emerge from mysterious places, the fortunate occasional product of leaving things up to chance and chaos. I was having a blast; it was over too soon.

Warm Climate - appearing as one dude, as with Fantastic Ego - closed out the night with a great and noisy set involving clarinet, keys, guitar, a slew of pedals and a little sampler. Towards the end, the monstrous sonic soup gave way to a few (fairly twisted) voice and guitar songs, which I thought was a terrific progression, really putting the songs in an interesting context.

Afterwards, many CD's and compliments were swapped. I'm still amazed at how supportive these small arts venues are; it's unbelievable how different it is from a rock venue or coffeeshop, just in terms of openness to new music and generosity with time, effort and the little bit of money that comes in. In a lot of ways it's absolutely the best playing experience one could ask for.

However, I was reminded of the conflict when neither of the bands booked with me tonight bothered to show up, also neglecting to contact the joint. I call that unequivocally..lame. I can sympathize if they felt a responsibility to follow the original booker, but to leave a venue hanging on a Friday night, with no communication, is a wack act.

It took me time to warm up, which I expected (and why I was glad this was a low-impact sort of show). I was starting the tunes way too fast in my excitement to hit a stage again, leaving me barely able to keep up with fingers or uvula. It wasn't until I started into my gaggle of instrumentals that I started to relax and find my niche in the evening. From then on, it felt great. People asked to sign my mailing list, and a fella I know only through Myspace introduced himself, having bothered to come out and hear me play. That was extremely sweet and much appreciated.

Afterwards, they made me a very nice off-the-menu vegetarian grilled pepper sandwich. Between the reception and this good bite, I felt well-compensated.

Afterwards, I went to pick up a huge mound of packages which have been arriving - copies of the new instrumental record, a few portable four-tracks, a small PA - and most excitingly, a new guitar. I'm no collector - I rather like playing one guitar, and one guitar only - but this is a beautiful little thing made for traveling. It's just a few inches over two feet long, with a Steinberger-like body, but has a full scale and this nicely figured wood. I like small, portable, efficient, well-made things, and this fits the bill in all regards. I've rather fallen in love with it and may pull it out at some of the shows, in addition to late nights in the hotel which was its main purpose.

Tomorrow, an improvised set. I'm very much looking forward to that.

Tour is ON.

Still, seeing their complicated, tech-driven, gear-heavy performance before a big rock crowd (the first live rock show I've seen in close to a year) made my solo performances seem daunting. My goal is to evoke the same (or bigger) kind of cathartic musical release, but all I have is one guitar and a nice, new, shiny set of nylon nails. Maybe its a noble (if not overnoble) aspiration, but truth is, getting across as a solo person is challenging for everyone. And Saturday night, I'm doing a set where I literally have no plan for what I'll be playing. It's a nice venue in a good slot between two really good and interesting bands (doing more-or-less composed music), and I'm going to go up there solo and hope inspiration strikes. Yikes.

This, likely, is not the strong note of confidence one should be sounding on the eve of the commencement of a tour. Then again, there's nothing wrong with realizing one's challenges. I still can't wait to get started in addressing them.

There are still things happening on the booking front. In a tour this long, I may still be booking shows at the end of the circuit while playing the first ones. Two more gigs with Chinapainting have been added, including a big bang-up event in Boston with three other improvisers which will make a great last date of the tour. On the down side, there are two shows that I'm having a lot of trouble getting confirmed, including one that happens a week from Tuesday (I'm afraid it may be a lost cause) and one in Montreal which was my only lead there. But the vast majority of the dates all look in good shape, and there may be another two or three added to the list.

Though I'm still fitting in all the practice that I can, in between sending out press and all that stupid stuff, I feel ready for the shows. I think the mix of different situations - vocal, instrumental, improv, a bit of Rock - will break any monotony that could creep up. It's also going to be a very social tour, involving a lot of reunions with old friends, which I'm really excited about. The combination of playing music, traveling and hooking up with chums is, as previously stated, my favorite thing.

Let's get it on.

Now, my focus is turning towards trying to finish up the instrumental record. I have to record four more tunes, mix those plus four others, master it and design the artwork in time to get CD's in hand in two weeks, on top of designing posters, contacting press and nailing down gear, cars and crashpads for the tour. And practice as much as possible, in between doing a whole lot of paying work that needs to get finished before I leave. So my hands are full, but the best part is that, two weeks from tonight, I'm going to be hitting a stage.

Last week I had a new booking experience, which is to say, a new performing experience. I was visiting the city of Puebla (capital of the state of Puebla, famous for its blue-and-white talavera tile), and was wandering around looking for a late-night bite. I passed by a nice-looking cafe and was amazed to see posters advertising a string quartet playing Shostakovich that night. Really? Unfortunately the performance was already over, but my interest was piqued enough to settle for a cheese sandwich and fries so I could hang out and check out the place. Adjoining the small bar area was a decent-sized room with 20 tables and a good stage at the end, with substantial sound reinforcement hanging from the ceiling. I asked my server who does their booking, and he said, "My dad - hang on a minute". A broadly enthusiastic man soon joined me at my table and asked me to describe what I do. I explained a bit, leaning toward the classical and jazz influences since that was obviously his interest (a Diana Krall video was now playing on the back wall - I feigned a deep interest), and he invited me to come by the next day to play a bit for him, shaking my hand with fervor and giving me a hug before parting.

Now, I haven't done a live audition for a performance, ever. At music school there were juries, but that was for a grade, not a gig. Judging from his gregarious manner, I thought it'd be a laid-back affair. But when I dropped into the space at noon, it was all business; we shook hands hello, he and his wife pulled up chairs, and he simply said, "Play". I pulled out one of my easier tunes, but was sweating immediately under their intense gaze. There was no reaction when I finished, just the instruction to play something different. I did a very tame version of "Autumn Leaves" (or "Dead Leaves", as it's translated in Spanish) - not a tune I have much fondness for, but it's certainly easy enough and familiar which seemed like a good route. I again finished to silence, and the entreaty to play one more song. I made my way through a fingerpicking piece without too many mistakes (I was cramping up from the cold start), and put the guitar down. There was a bit of a silence, then the owner asked, "Well, what do you have in mind?" Funny question. I told him the previous night that, though I was planning on bussing back to Oaxaca in the afternoon, I could stick around the city til the evening for a playing opportunity, so I suggested I do a 90-minute set that night. They looked at each other and murmured a bit, then responded, okay, that'll be fine. Oh, uh..I guess I passed?

I did. The show went relatively well, though translating all the song titles and bantering in Spanish added a level of mental stress that broke my concentration on playing and I wasn't too smooth. Also, the owner sat directly in front of me, watching intently, for the entire second half, which I guess was a sort of compliment but was also quite nerve-wracking. I really couldn't read his reaction to the evening, he offered me a beer afterward and we spoke for a few minutes, then I said good-bye and caught the midnight bus home.

Turns out he did like it, at least sufficiently enough to tell me, in an email the next day, that their place is "my home" whenever I come back to Puebla. Cool! I have a feeling that I'll be facing auditions in Oaxaca too once I start approach the local places, so I'm glad I passed this first test.

The biggest disappointment, yesterday, was finding what seemed like an ideal venue at a location and date I wasn't expecting anything. It's in the dead middle of the California desert, on a Monday, so I was counting on a day off. But I did a quick search, and found this place that has good, small-time acoustic music every night of the week. I figured I'd be in no sweat...but this place, in a town "with one stoplight" as the booker told me, is already booked up practically for the whole summer. Apparently it's a tremendously hopping joint; with whom, I don't know, but I'd have to be looking four or five months ahead to book there.

Still, there have been a few Chinapainting gigs coming in through my partner Jim, and also a very special (that is, borderline unbelievable) reunion of my high school band, Landscape Paperweight. We're even writing new material...craziness. I'm very excited about that. With these few shows, I'm now up to 23 confirmed dates. I think it's looking pretty good to reach 30, though time is getting short, in booking terms, and considering that I'm just about exactly three months away from the end of the tour, any more new venues I contact are probably going to say their calendar is already full.

I'm very interested in how things are different in the club world there. Will the staff be politer, better-looking, and healthier than their U.S. counterparts, as the rest of their society seems to be?

I have a fresh annoyance - clubs which do not respond to a booking request, but instead immediately put me on their mailing list. And it's already happened twice that I suddenly get email advertising the booker's own shows. Dude. Not only have I never expressed interest in your band, I don't even live in your country.

Responses have slowed down; San Diego is still a big unbookable blot; I need to find more venues. I wish there was truly reliable venue list out there, I know Jambase tries but I'd say most of the venues I hit aren't in there, so I can hardly depend on it as a source. But my own database is growing (almost 300 venues by now), by the time this tour is booked maybe I should make it public. (If anyone wants my list, let me know).

I've contacted about eighty venues, have eighteen bookings, and three outright rejections. Seems like a decent percentage, though the fact that I simply haven't had a response from 75% of the places I've gotten in touch with is frustrating. Better to have a rejection than to have to wait two months to hear about a date, long past the time when it's possible to book another show.

I'm continuing to find the most acceptance and generosity in the improv/experimental music world. I'm a little humbled by the enthusiasm I've found. I'm going to be doing more of the solo looping gigs that I originally thought, simply because these shows have been the easiest to book and the people involved have been so great. I have, actually, encountered one more of those hard-to-understand rejections, where the venue seems like it's a perfect fit for what I do, but there is no interest. Rejection is never fun, but there's no accounting for taste, I tell myself (often).

I need to book a night in Montreal, which will be interesting. I can speak some very basic French, but even so it's a little intimidating to think of going into a performance and getting up onstage. How will I deal with hecklers? Can I communicate "a bit more monitors, s'il vous plait"? Can I make change for CD's in a new currency and strange tongue?

Or maybe everyone speaks English anyway. We shall see.

What's been happening this week; bounced emails. Now, I know I can't complain too much, since the advent of the Net has made booking so much easier in comparison to how it used to be it's unbelievable. I used to buy printed lists of venues, call each one to get info, get 8x10 glossies made, print up a whole press kit and stick in a binder with a physical CD, ship it off, then follow up with more long-distance phone calls during the "booker's hours" each week. Now I just find club websites and drop them an email directing them to mine. Awesome. But these email boxes fill up (I mean, really, does that even make sense?) and the club never bothers to empty them. San Diego has been the worst offender, out of eight venues I've contacted, over half of them keep rejecting my tiny, modest, innocent messages. Do I really have to use the telephone? I've come to LOATHE calling, even though Skype makes it almost free. Laziness encroaches.

I'll start here, then, with three shows already booked, two vocal/instrumental and one solo looping. I have a fairly ambitious plan for how many shows I'd like to end up with this tour; particularly on the East Coast, I'm going to try to play just about every night. Being able to do three distinct things - the singing, the guitar instrumentals, and the improv looping - is going to help fill the dates, I think, and I believe the variety will help keep me sane. There's going to be more looping shows this time, which I'm excited about. I think it'll feel like a relief to have an improvised set now and then in contrast to the very structured shows that will make up the rest of the nights.

Every tour there's at least one venue that looks perfect; great location, good rep, and a schedule that makes it seem like I'm a shoo-in. But then, I either get ignored completely, or receive a cool brush-off. Such is the case with a venue on the Western leg. It actually advertises "looking for avant-garde, experimental and unique musicians" - and I don't think anyone would argue it's stretching the truth to call the looping stuff a la the new Rentintwain record "experimental", most likely what most people would recognize as "avante-garde", and I'm pretty sure "unique" - but for whatever reason, it just ain't gonna happen. I know there's no accounting for taste, but especially in venues that program improvised/noise music, it really seems they'd be open to anything in the broad genre. And the amount of support coming from that community has been amazing, so far; it seems like with less people interested, those who are involved are much appreciated. It's so nice, especially coming from the rock background where clubs quite literally resent unknown bands.

The most frustrating area so far has been San Diego. I'm trying to book two if not three nights there and have contacted seven places, and to date not a one has responded (and two of them can't be bothered to clean out there email inboxes, I keep getting bouncebacks). The place I played last year was a bit of a waste, and I found better options this time, but I'm just not getting through to that particular sunny city.

Though I own most of the things that Bill Frisell has played on, and a fair amount of the other NYC "downtown" players like Joey Baron and Marc Ribot, somehow I was never really exposed to John Zorn's Naked City project, probably the most well-known group to come out of that scene. He formed it in 1987 as an improvisational workshop, and though the lineup stayed the same - Zorn on alto sax, Frisell on guitar, Baron on drums, Wayne Horvitz on keyboards, and Fred Frith on bass, plus occasional vocals from Yamasuta Eye (Boredoms) and Mike Patton (Faith No More, Fantomas, Tomahawk, etc.) - they explored a tremendously wide range of genres. One of their trademarks, particularly in the earlier work, was moving through this panoply of styles within the same song, with unbelievably tight transitions from hardcore to lounge to country to straight jazz, and back to hardcore again. They went on to experiment with everything from super-short ideas (30 seconds or less) to extended works like Leng Tch'e (death by a thousand cuts), a doom-filled 30-minute metal dirge. The use of shocking images for artwork and brutal titles like "I Die Screaming", "Pistol Whipping", "Copraphagist Rituals" and "Perfume of a Critic's Burning Flesh" (they clearly didn't lack a sense of humor) gained them as much notoriety as the music did, and they found their perhaps most welcoming audience when playing with thrash bands.

I've been listening to their collected works on Rhapsody, straight through all 7 cds, and always find it tremendously inspiring. So many ideas, and so uncompromising in pursuit of newness.

...is to do at least half of these things. In order from sure thing to distantly wishing.

• Chinapainting studio record (in the can, just needs mastering)
• solo guitar wedding music record (all written, gonna start recording next week)
• solo guitar collection of other compositions (all written - most of the Tiresome Toys will appear here)
• Felt Tip Toe tape loop soup group (one tape already in orbit)
• more Repetitive Miniatures (my original goal was 100 of these, and I've only done 12...weak!! maybe i'll put them on cd - with the reminder to use the repeat button - when I get halfway, at least)
• solo noise record, just tape machine feedback, no instruments
• well-produced "pop" band vocal record (I have the key players on board and maybe half the songs)
• acoustic vocal record #2 (have about five songs toward this)
• acoustic nu-jazz trio (have five tunes toward this)
• acapella record (probably lots of speaking, loops and noise, I can't pull off that much actual singing and keep it interesting)
• solo non-idiomatic improv record (with a hip hip hey to Derek Bailey)
• loud, evil prog metal duo/trio (probably a long ways off, though I already have a partner, a name and some "lyrics" for this...)

I do not read books anymore. I was a huge bookworm from an early age, which I know developed my later saleable English skills (and probably my songwriting too), not to mention of course the enlightenment, expansion of the universe, growth of empathy, etc., that books can bring. But, as lame as this excuse is, for the past five years or so I just haven't been interested. There's simply too much I want to accomplish, and I can't justify the hours it takes to go through a book. Hell, seeing a bad movie (I haven't entirely shut myself off from that form of entertainment which occasionally can pass for art) genuinely pisses me off. I really want those two hours back.

In a larger sense, I am also currently indulging myself in the notion that the first 30 years of my life were involved with taking in, through serious listening to many genres of music, or exploring visual arts as an observer, or simply the experience of living in a number of different places and interacting with a lot of different people, or yeah, reading. And now I feel like I must give out. Return the favor, as it were.

When I lived in Boston and then my first years in San Francisco, I would often prowl bookstores looking for a magic book, of sorts. I'd buy those big glossy art tomes, or collections by random poets, or the Rubaiyat, or the "great" novels, convinced that someday I'd happen upon the right alchemical combination of images or words to finally, set me on fire. I was ready to create - I did well in my various bands - but on my own with a guitar and/or notebook, I often felt that I just didn't know what to do. I could only think through the context of a band, and a band (big revelation here) does not require that much work on one's own. You write songs, you bring them to the group, then you hash out your tunes. There are only so many new songs a band can take on, especially in a collaborative situation. Even with Maxwell Horse, where all the songs were mine, it was more important for me to be on the phone doing booking than to be writing new things. Ten good songs will keep a group busy for a year, arranging, then recording, then playing. It seemed that something from outside is what I required, some massive influx of concentrated encouragement, to help me start creating on my own.

Ultimately it was a fruitless search, and it really wasn't until coming to Mexico - and probably, being forced to play without a band - that I realized that I could simply create my own music. A band can only practically write so much music, but hell, I can compose, write and practice for my own purposes day and night if I wish.

And this, I do wish. And as I don't feel any shortage of things to say or need for more inspiration, with a touch of sadness I do not seek out literature. I admit that I do feel kinda guilty, because I know what an amazing experience reading a book can be (and actually I did read one book not long ago, it was a gift and I'd been looking forward to reading it for a long time - also, it was rather short and extremely readable so it skirted the regulations), but it seems like at this time, I simply have to do without.

Sometimes the way a song comes about means a great deal to me, even if it's not reflected in the song itself. (Perhaps it's this way for any artist and their work...) For instance, about six months ago I had a dream of a train, and though the details were fuzzy when I awoke, I remembered that there were two brothers who were engineers, with one somehow taking a fall for the other. It struck me that stories about brothers and trains sounded like a classic Western topic, so I pulled out my lyric book and started writing with a kind of stereotypical Johnny Cash figure in mind, a C major chord with a bass going root, fifth, root, fifth, etc., just like all good Western tunes. Though I usually just write for an hour at the most at one sitting, it was a Saturday morning and I was home alone, and I kept pushing myself to keep going and finish what I started, with the vague idea from the dream in my head. Three hours later, I had a complete song that told a story I had in no way imagined when I set out.

This makes the song very special to me. It doesn't have personal references as some of my other songs do, but I find it fascinating on one hand because I've never written anything in this kind of style, and on the other because I've never written directly inspired by a dream before. Though it's a simple song in essence, and doesn't really involve any kind of clever guitar or poetic wordplay, I'm immensely proud of it. Starting with a blank piece of paper and seeing it filled with something I found interesting just a few hours later was an amazing experience. It felt like "pure" creation, without even the chance to consider an audience or whether I could fit this kind of thing into a set or album or anything like that.

And what does this background mean to the listener? Probably very little, if anything. In a way the enjoyment I have with these circumstances of creation is just my own personal reward for putting in the time. I can savor that even if nobody would ever hear the song.

"Ballad of the Black Midnight", 5:06 (from In Descant)

Though I know it sounds like tortured-artist hooey, I've always experienced birth pangs associated with letting something loose into the world. Often just after an inspired writing session, I'll feel drained and moody, even though I'd been so excited a minute before. (Furthermore, the tune repeats itself maddeningly in my head until I start to hate it so I need to quickly listen to something, anything else). Even more, though, when I offer something up to the public, it does feel like I'm losing it, in a way. Having a good gig or a positive review will partly assuage that (never said I was immune to criticism, good or bad), but there's still something that changes and the song becomes its own thing without such an attachment to me, anymore. (Perhaps this is more like empty-nest syndrome...)

Thus it is with having put "In Descant" out there. It feels great to have it done and nice to hear some good things about it. But I still feel a sense of jealous ownership that it's no longer all mine and under my control. Bye-bye, Birdie.

The other thing, either when releasing an album or even just completing a good song, is the fear that you'll never do something that good again. I can recall this feeling coming to me for the almost 20 years I've been songwriting, so it doesn't seem to be a feature of growing out of my youth or anything. Thankfully, I've always managed to come up with something that, if not immediately better, at least seems interesting enough to be worth continuing.

So it's with relief that songs have been coming together for the next vocal collection. I think I have a strong opening tune; with Descant the opening song was also the first complete thing I wrote, "Steal Your Thunder". This new one is further along than the other ideas, so it seems like the same pattern is happening again. I can only hope I have at least one more in me to top this one.

Though we hadn't even decided we were taking part until the month was partly gone, Chinapainting participated in the Record-Per-Month challenge and managed to squeeze out a compete ten-song album. Of course, "writing" material is easier for us than most typical bands since we improvise; just hit "record" and we're writing. The bulk of the work was in editing. As we normally do, we "met" online in a Ninjam room and played most weekends in the month, for an hour or two at a shot. Though I find almost everything we do to be interesting, what we look for when editing for something like this are song-like passages, where something develops nicely over a palatable period of time. Though we generally kept to typical song lengths, there was one bit that simply refused to be cut down from 12 minutes. For me personally, it doesn't seem even half that length, as it grows and changes in a very organic way and never gets bogged down, so it made it to the compilation.

It's been fascinating for us to compare this group of tunes with those we put together for our first collection, which we completed in December with material since from we began playing in October. This newer music is much more experimental, often noisier, and not such a natural fit for the "new instrumental" bin normally stocked with Windham Hill material. It also provides a focus on some new equipment for us, with Jim's new fretless six-string being used for the entire collection and my microcassette Dictaphone getting a lot of play. It's given us some good direction on where to go next, too, and we have a lot of ideas for things to try out in our next sessions.

This new collection is called "Trick of Amethyst" and is available from us for $15, postage paid in the U.S. There are five complete tunes available to stream or download from our new site, too.

Enjoy!

Mixing is upon us, which is always an interesting time. First, there's the pleasure of listening back to everything again, and the things that were tracked first are always nearly forgotten among all the concentration on other music since. Soon, though, comes the realization of errors, bum notes, things that you can't believe passed the QC test when the mics were set up. I'm making out pretty well with this set of tunes; the only real issues I've noticed are the clicks coming from my fingernails hitting the face of the guitar on the strummier tunes, and some tuning problems on the vocal double tracks. That's part of the nature of recording a double - you do want it to be just a hair different, to thicken up the sound - and it's pretty much impossible to duplicate every small detail of a sung phrase anyway. But I'm finding in some cases that the difference (though I spent an awful lot of time working on the double) is distracting, and I'm having to minimize the double to rely much more on the lead track.

One interesting thing I began to realize while tracking is that listening to a song at an extremely low volume, just loud enough to be audible and have a bit of low end, reveals tuning issues extremely well. When something is being blasted, the air is filled with sound and the small problems are washed into the entire sonic flood, where they seem to hardly matter. But played extremely quietly, perhaps counterintuitively, all kind of details become apparent. Since I'm monitoring on headphone which can't put out much bass and thus highlight the vocals more, I really notice problems on the vocal tracks. It's an excellent lesson to learn, and good to notice any issues, but it's kind of a bummer to have something feel so good cranked up, but realize upon quieter listening that it won't always sound that great.

I have five songs mixed, and am taking a bit of a break before reviewing them on a number of different systems before continuing. Since I'm going to be mastering this stuff myself, without the benefit of good speakers or any outboard gear, I need to take my time and make sure I'll be happy in the end.

Well, I met my own goal; I wrapped up tracking tonight at about midnight. Happily, I managed to get the questionable tune into form, though it took an awful lot of work. After much sweat and a couple of hours of punch-ins and outs, I was pretty pleased with the lead vocal. Then I started thinking about what it needed for backups, and it seemed apparent that it really needed countryish harmonies throughout the whole thing, which was the most laborious option. I finished up with just enough time to break one of the rules I just mentioned two days ago - I did an overdub. God help us! Appropriately, it was on the dramatic song that I'd been planning to track last of all, but didn't because time didn't allow the luxury of waiting an extra day. There's a section toward the end that has a fingerpicked tremolo, which I'd been practicing and planning on tracking in one go, with chordal support from the thumb. But that way of playing it doesn't produce much power, and that section needs to be somewhat climactic, so in the interest of the song I recorded the chords first and then the tremolo separately tonight. I was terrified doing it, because I had to punch in a second after a lead vocal which I absolutely did not want to lose, and of course, I screwed up the part a few times so I had to keep doing it, praying that I wouldn't kick the punch-in pedal early by accident. But it all came out well, and it was with great satisfaction that I rewound the tape and put away the microphones.

To meet my stated completion date of February 28, I have two weeks to mix, which feels luxurious. Two of the songs are already mixed, and with only four tracks and no effects (that is, if I don't decide to scrap that rule, too) there are only so many options, so it should go fairly quickly. The main challenge is going to be riding the faders for the vocal tracks, trying to minimize all of the punch-in clicks (and of course, the dogs, cats, firecrackers and VW-mounted public address systems that provide a continuous sonic backdrop in our neighborhood). I can't wait to have this done; I'm really, really excited about this collection of songs and think it contains some of my best vocal work. I plan to burn some cd's to bring with me on my next tour, which'll probably happen this spring.

I've already got more new songs going, one or two with near-complete arrangements and a verse or two of words, another couple with chords and a line or two, and five or six that are just titles at the top of a blank page in my lyric book. About half of the tunes for this new collection were created in that way, by having a good title that sat around for a long time waiting for the inspiration to make it into a song. It feels so great to be in the mode of song creation, I hope I never quit it again.

Tonight is the first night of tracking that hasn't gone very well. I should have known; yesterday was such a peak experience that I still feel a bit shell-shocked. In fact, it was my plan all along to record the tune I did yesterday after all the rest were done, but this other one is brand-new and I just couldn't nail the guitar part last night. I decided to make the best use of time by tracking vocals for the one that I did (and am glad I did so), but now I'm afraid this other less-dramatic one is suffering a bit in comparison.

Plus, I just finished the lyrics an hour before the red light went on tonight (red for recording, sillies), which doesn't really work well for me. The one Maxwell Horse tune that I'm not very happy with lyrically was done in such a manner, where I was finishing the words in the studio; that's a rock and roll cliche, and sounds exciting, but my stuff comes out best when I ruminate over it for a long time and I shortchanged that one song. I really am happy with the lyrics of this particular tune, but I haven't had the opportunity to get comfortable with it and I think that's why it was being so difficult.

And the guitar part is challenging, it's some intricate fingerpicking with a lot of big stretches and quick jumps. I tried last night for an hour with no success, and tonight worked at it for close to three. At one point I had four hard-won takes on tape, each of which had problems, particularly this one jump that happens about ten seconds from the end. One of the takes almost made that jump, and I was counting on patching that together with the good parts from the other takes, but that felt kinda ridiculous so I felt like I had to try one more time. This one came out great, up til that little spot at the end..which utterly flopped. I didn't have the heart to erase it and try again, hoping everything held together long enough to take another crack at that spot, so I punched in halfway through the tune (something I hate to do, and haven't had to otherwise) and made it through that section intact, leaving me, finally, with a complete track to sing over.

It was frustratingly late at this point, but I had an about an hour of time left before I'd get too conscious of neighbors sleeping (not like it matters in Mexico, no one would ever think of complaining about noise, but I hate to be a source) so I quickly set up a vocal mic. I blew through a lead take with my lyric book in hand, glancing at it between verses and often getting the timing wrong. Listening back, nothing was usable, it just sounded contrived and forced. I went back to the beginning and started working on one small section at a time. I got a few stanzas done more or less acceptably, but then got stuck on one phrase. I went over it again and again and just couldn't get it to come out right - it must have been twenty or thirty tries before I called it quits. I just couldn't quite place the feeling, intensity, or volume level that should go with the song, and no matter what I tried, it just sounded bad.

Tomorrow I want to be my last night of tracking. I'll get an early start and will give this another shot, and if it doesn't want to play nice then I may have to leave it off the collection. There's nothing wrong with nine tunes, and as nine is my favorite number I have a ready excuse.

Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, the providence moves too. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents, meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamt would have come his way.
- W. H. Murray in The Scottish Himalaya Expedition, 1951

This is a quote I found once and had to hang onto; personal experience has shown that this statement holds much water, and it's good to be reminded of this. Now as I'm recording, I find it to be applicable; preserving a performance is nothing if not committing - the phrase "committing to tape" is a damn good one - and appropriately, once you head down that path, things happen that weren't planned but are extremely helpful to your objective*. A big part of recording as I see it is an attempt to lay a trap for the happy accidents that inevitably come, and to then use good judgment in figuring out how best to use them.

Along with the happy accidents - the vocal note that matches the resonant frequency of a room and creates an ominous background hum, the phrase begun at the wrong time that creates a new melody, a car's backfire or firecracker that times perfectly with the start of a dramatic section, all of which happened these past few weeks - is the process of willfully trying new things and being able to capture the moment they were born. Tonight, I was working on the vocal for a tune I've been saving for last, since it's pretty heavy subject matter and also will probably be the last tune in the sequence of the collection; it seemed right to sing it last. (It's not going to be the last recorded after all, as there's one other tune I just couldn't get done in time). The first couple of verses were going well, sung pretty much as I'd planned when writing the song, fairly quiet and reserved. The third verse ramps up a bit, with the guitar switching from (rare) barre chords to some chimey open-string voicings, and though I had a fairly tame but acceptable version on tape, I thought I'd try singing louder and putting some guts into it to see what happened.

Well. It's a little hard to describe what happened, and in fact it would sound a little ridiculous for me to really describe how I felt upon hearing back that verse. It was as if the song suddenly came alive. And I don't want to be too precious about it, I generally like to take a workmanlike attitude towards making music, but this was a powerful moment. I suddenly thought about Kristen Hersh (a big hero) and how she famously described songs as "coming out of the walls". She's actually a very funny, earthy person in her written voice (I adore her blog), but every once in a while she'll bust out and talk about songs as if they're people who get born and then walk around with her. I think I realize what she meant; this song friggin' came out of the wall, I tell you, and not at the time of writing, but the time of recording.

I was originally planning to do some doubling and maybe harmony, but I didn't bother, the tune had all it needed. There was one little bit of the verse that needed fixing, but instead of trying to punch in, I recorded on the other free track, planning to just switch it out when mixing. I didn't want to take any chances on messing with that lead vocal track. And in fact, I'm even nervous just knowing that for now, that music just exists on one single cassette. One of the things I like about recorded music is that numerous copies exist; unlike a painting, where the object IS the object and like the poor artist in Vonnegut's novel Bluebeard, if that painting is destroyed (in the novel, the paint used turns out to be defective) your work is gone, a recording is almost guaranteed to keep existing one a certain amount of copies are in circulation. So I'm a little anxious to get this tune mixed and at the very least put on a site for downloading, just to preserve it if nothing else.

*I find this true for looping, too, especially an improvisational outfit like Chinapainting; it's often impossible to predict what's going to come off the tape and be incorporated into the music, but frequently it's a very positive surprise.

Guitars are done for all but one of the ten songs, and vocals for all but two. I really hadn't anticipated getting this much done in a relatively short period of time, but I think the limitations - four tracks! - have helped keep things moving along.

Of course, though it's been a good amount of work done in a few weeks, there are still things that have taken frustratingly long. Tracking vocals is an arduous process; I do my first take of lead vocals, which almost always has a certain character to it that I can't recapture on any subsequent tries. But that first take is never, ever free of things that shouldn't be fixed, so I go back to the beginning and painstakingly punch in every part that needs to be replaced. There are problems in almost every stanza, and with a relatively crude four-track as the early Tascam I have with me here, punching in (that is, putting the machine into record mode quickly to fix a small part of a track that needs to be preserved otherwise) causes audible artifacts that will have to be dealt with in mixing. Listening to a vocal track by itself, there are clicks, pops, room noise and cut-off breaths everywhere.

After the lead is done, I go back and double or add harmonies. In nearly all cases, I like having support of some kind behind the lead, even if the double is mixed very low. I tend to find it pretty easy to copy my own vocal part (when writing the song, the melody is so specific to the words that I rarely ornament), but even so there are often pitch issues and once again I need to punch in all over the place. And when using natural room reverb as I am, the atmosphere a vocal has needs to be decided on now, not in mixdown, so sometimes I'll do an entire doubling vocal close to the mic and then realize that it'd be a lot cooler to have it be totally washed out by singing away from the mic, so I'll need to do it again.

Though it wasn't my intention starting out, I've found that I'm adhering to some simple rules, and as tracking wraps up I've decided to stick with those rules even when it might make it easier to break them. I'm only doing one pass of guitars, recorded in stereo, with no overdubs. I don't like the sound of doubled guitars, particularly acoustics, so this wasn't a big deal to follow, but I'm also ruling out any kind of melody or lead part that can't be played on the primary track, to have at least this part of things be as close to a live performance as possible. I'm also not using any outboard effects, which really wasn't a big deal at all since the only things I have here are a couple of fuzzboxes and an analog delay. Early on I was experimenting with re-amping the guitar track through my tube mic pre-amp to give it some more bite, but ruled it out and am making do with what I can get acoustically by shifting mic position or changing the way I play.

I continue to be amazed at how songs reveal themselves in the recording process. The second of the two old songs that I'm making part of this project also got a dramatic boost through some funny vocal textures that I generated my manipulating the four-track with some of the tricks I use when looping. At least for me personally, the song is now much more exciting and has an entirely different kind of mood.

The two songs that remain are both the newest and the most emotionally involved. I've been looking forward with anticipation to tracking them and seeing what happens with the vocal. I did try a guitar track for one of them tonight, there was a sudden rainstorm and though it's an obvious cliche, I thought the rain and occasional thunder might add something. It was a quick take and I haven't listened back to it yet, but I'll need to decided tomorrow if it needs to be re-recorded, sans weather.

As I mentioned earlier, mixing won't involve any outboards, so I won't have a lot of choices other than level control. However, with all those punch-ins I mentioned, as well an array of different vocal approaches, the levels (and panning) are going to take a lot of thought and rehearsal. I hope to wrap up all ten tracks by the end of February, though.

I've been putting a lot of time into recording vocal tunes, I have a loose goal of having ten songs finished next month. At this point, I've got guitars down for five songs, and vocals nailed for four of those.

Ear fatigue is very real, especially when monitoring through headphones (and in fact, all I have at the moment are earbuds, as my nice open-ear Sony's crapped out). Tonight I got a very late start, as I've been looking fruitlessly for a chrome cassette here. One interesting thing about Mexico is that there's not a lot of evidence of the progress of technology; anything vaguely tech-y was made in the last five years. You'd never find some Radio Shack computer from the 80's, for example. I'm not sure why; the most obvious reason might be that things have to get established enough to bring the price down before they appear generally on the marketplace. Or perhaps it's that the States has the luxury of people interested in things for their esoteric value, whereas here it's more about getting the job done. At any rate, it's easy as pie to buy blank cd's, but tapes are near-impossible to find, whereas in California you can still pick them up in any Walgreens. I decided to take the plunge and visit the indescribably massive market here to try to find them, and though I found many stalls with tapes, every single one - I am not stretching the truth - had the same damn tapes, Sony C90's, which are normal bias. I just need one simple chrome tape, and I can't dig one up anywhere in this, the capital city of the state.

Anyway, as a last resort I thought I'd re-use a very old chrome cassette I have. It had one two-minute piece at the beginning I wanted to save, so I mixed it to a .wav file (sniffling as I did so - bye bye, precious sine waves). The mixing took a long time as it's an abstract piece, just four guitars stabbing in and out, so I needed to rehearse my moves for quite awhile (sure, I could have saved each one to a file then digitally re-mixed them, but I can't stomach that). Once I did that, I erased it in real time, then set up and took a few tries at recording another tune. Finally I had new tracks to work with, but when I listened back, I couldn't believe the sheer volume of tape hiss that had accumulated. It was a working tape for bouncing mixes to for awhile, and I suppose it's just been erased too many times, rendering it pretty much unusable. Crap.

This stuff, along with the everpresent lust for cool gear and the hassle of connecting wires and cables, is the price to pay for an incredibly enjoyable artistic process, new in the last century. The greatest thing about recording is the way that it uncovers the possibilities in a song, ones that weren't imagined when writing it and even playing it live. Even the simplest recording of a tune reveals details not apparent when listening to it at the same time as playing it. And when the documentation process becomes creative and one begins to add layers beyond what was previously played in performance, myriads of new directions appear, and sometimes the new ideas become even more important than the original ones.

Along with eight new songs, there are two which I've been keeping largely to myself for something like six or seven years. One of them I played a few times in the original duo version of Maxwell Horse, the other I've only played live in very scarce solo shows. I'd been wanting to record them for some time, and when I thought of doing this collection it seemed natural that they be included, but they've lost a lot of luster compared to the spanking-new tunes, and I started to toy with leaving them out entirely. But then three days ago, after laying down a guitar track for one of the new tunes, I thought, ah, what the hell, I'll run one of the old ones down. And for some reason it felt so good to play it, and it really came alive - the other tracks have been pretty businesslike in the guitar end (these songs aren't difficult to play, and sometimes I make the mistake of focusing my most critical eye on the vocals), but this one decided to come out all smokin', even though it's just chords and strumming. It restored my faith in the tune a bit, and I put down a lead vocal, which also came out pretty nicely; I decided to try it close up to the mic, though all the other vocals have been done from three feet out which gives much more of the room's reverb and adds a nice ethereal cast which I think helps my voice. The next day, setting up to track a doubling vocal, I thought it might be interesting to flip convention and double with a very different vocal sound. Just off the room where I've been tracking is a tiled bathroom, and I've used it for effect on some backgrounds, turning 180 degrees away from the mic and singing directly into the bath, which bounces the sound around for awhile before it emerges and bounces some more in the tracking room before hitting the mic. I tried this technique on the double, and loved it - very Beatley, in fact often reminiscent of their Leslie speaker'd vocals.

That got me even more excited about the song, and I wanted to try something on the chorus to really make it pop out. The guitar track for all these songs has been recorded stereo (and will be hard-panned in the mix), so I've just got two additional tracks to work with. I liked the original vocal track, so I started messing around on the remaining track. I hit on some simple descending ah's in falsetto, which I loved upon listening back. But the lead vocal sounded too dry after the very lush doubled verses, so it really needed a double of its own. But I was now in love with my ah's and the song felt incomplete without them (a good example of recording creating evolutions). I'm not a fan of bouncing, since every generation adds hiss and, more, it means that the balances can't be fully adjusted at mixtime, which I really depend on. But to get three vocal tracks - lead, double, and ah's - I needed to bounce. But then the stupid realization hit that two tracks can't be bounced down to one without an additional one to bounce to - duh - so I needed to record the ah's while recording the lead to the remaining track, freezing the mix of those two, which would then allow a double on the original vocal track.

I began my ah's - facing the bathroom - and loved the sound, though it took dozens of tries to get it right. There were too many factors, between matching the proper level, hitting the falsetto in tune, and timing the ah's to fade in and out nicely. But when it was done, it really sounded excellent. The hardest part was next - recording over the original vocal track. I HATE to be locked into a mixing decision at this stage. I really liked the original vocal and it felt horrible to record over it, so I had to be absolutely sure the ah/lead track had a mix I'd be happy with later on. So I went back and listened again, and found a number of spots that needed a redo. Finally, though, I was totally happy with it and I went to the top of the first chorus and doubled the lead as I had the verses, at a distance. It sounded good, but even with the ah's it was too samey with the verses. I wanted it to really pop out. I kept replaying the tape, trying to figure out what it needed - more dry? more wet? more panning? - but it seemed another vocal was the only thing to do. I'd need to bounce the ah/lead track while adding some new part, hoping the mix would work. I wasn't sure what to do, but finally tried harmonized falsetto ah's with more falsetto ah's, which rocked my little, obsessive world. I ran down the first chorus, and couldn't believe the results. With this angelic backing mini-choir, the song seemed to take on a whole new cast; it was as if it finally woke up.

Thing is, my ears were so fried that I felt incapable of making any judgment on the very pertinent question of whether this additional bounce was going to result in a critical loss of fidelity. I decided to quit for the night, and will listen to the mix tomorrow. I really hope it can work; I LOVE the way it sounds (the bounces even managed to add some nice tape compression). I'm becoming quite attached to this rendition of the tune.

I came up with a tune several weeks ago that I like so much that I really want to try to include in the upcoming vocal collection, even though I don't have the lyrics done yet. I actually came up with a title very soon after writing the music, and a concept as well. Usually after that, it's a very slow, but steady process of putting together a complete set of words.

But this time, after that promising start I wasn't getting anywhere. I came up with enough couplets to have a beginning and end and some kind of framework, and finished one entire stanza, but it didn't feel like a song that went anywhere. It felt like it told a story of a sort, but the story didn't mean much to me and the words reflected the ambivalence. The concept is that I was picturing my niece, who is four, growing up and moving to a big city, but missing the rural Vermont where she was raised. This was nice enough, but I realized I simply couldn't muster enough emotion about the concept of missing home to write and sing a song about it. I just couldn't put myself in the subject's shoes and describe what that feels like. Finally I gave up on that angle entirely, scrapping two pages of scribbles and starting all over again. (The song is now about broken hearts n' stuff, which is much easier to get worked up over. Everybody can relate to that particular concept).

I had an interesting discussion with a friend a couple of months ago about home. He asked me if Oaxaca had become home, and I answered that I supposed it had. It's true that when I think of returning from a trip, I think of this place as where I'm going to come back to. But I wouldn't say this is that mystical place where I "belong"; it hasn't become so important to me that I can't say I won't leave someday and create a home somewhere else with no regrets.

I'm not sure if it's the fact that I was so eager to leave the Pennsylvania where I was raised when I did, or that my parents lived overseas for most of the time I was in college, or that the house I was raised in was sold five years ago that the state doesn't really mean anything to me anymore. It certainly isn't a place I could conceive of "returning" to; if I were to live there again (which is fairly unimaginable), I think it would have little more innate emotional connection than anywhere else on the planet, beyond a few landmarks to jog the memory.

I suppose I could be a case study in second-millenia Western rootlessness; I'm not consciously carrying on any particular parts of my heritage, my relatives mean something to me in terms of friendship more than some blood connection, and this peculiar home construct doesn't really carry any weight. It doesn't bug me, though it might seem sad to some; it is what it is and I don't feel like I'm missing anything critical in my life.

My entire guiding philosophy could be neatly summed up by the statement: tomorrow, I may get hit by a bus.

Sure, there are many popular ways of saying the same thing, from high-falutin' ("Carpe Diem") to breathless ("live every day as if it were your last") to tragic ("Dream as if you'll live forever. Live as if you'll die today") to practical ("Be happy while you're living, for you're a long time dead") to classic hedonistic ("eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die") to modern hedonistic ("party like there's no tomorrow") to sage ("you may delay, but time will not") to poetic ("though love be a day and life be nothing, it shall not stop kissing", from ee.cummings). You get the point. There's a bazillion of these.

But I like the bus. It's the most immediately understood. I walk on sidewalks all the time while buses pass me by; if the driver sneezes, that could be it for me. (I know those of you of a religious persuasion may differ on the "it" part, but I'm sure you'd agree that this life is the only one we have, regardless of what we think may come next). And I know I touched on this topic before, and invoked The Bus as well; forgive me. It's an important motivator. In that earlier post I was referring to a certain degree of satisfaction with the portion of my life that has passed. What I'm talking about here in more detail is the motivation to get things done, to accomplish, to get out of bed because of the fact that I could cease to exist in a matter of hours.

Of course, this works in the opposite direction too; "life's a bitch then you die, rehoboth beach '97" on a turquoise baseball hat, etc. Why bother trying, if you're gonna lose it all anyway?

Well, I have no rock-solid reposte to that query. But if you are excited about what might happen in your few years, then we can talk. And I can try to convince you not to put anything off, not to be lazy, not to watch tv all the damn time. Try things. Spend your money, being prepared for the possibility that the bus won't come tomorrow, but buy the things you want, especially if you can USE them, or if they make you feel something. Make stuff happen. Justify the air you breathed today.

This is all well-worn territory, I know. But it's important, in fact, really really important. It has...applications.

Stewart, hi. First off, I dig you. My first rock n' roll instrument was the drums, and you were the first thing I liked about the Police. You were unpredictable, nuanced, always commenting with the hi-hat and those cymbals that go "pish". You related once in an interview that in reggae, the bass drum provides the backbeat, and I'd listen for that in your songs, happy when I could hear that and fascinated how it worked.

So I start in a position of some fandom. And it was my admiration that led me to your website, wondering what you'd been up to. A few months ago, I saw a video of the quick show with the two other blond boys at your induction into the Hall of Fame. You seemed overexcited and things started off with a hiccup, but soon the sound gelled and you were slashing away like you used to. Then the other day I saw a quick sentence on some news site, saying there were rumors that a reunion might be in the works for the 30th anniversary of the band.

My interest was piqued, so I thought I'd check each of the bandmember's sites to see what you all might have to say. First was Sting; predictably, he's high-falutin' as all hell (an album with a lutenist?), but is admirably busy and still looks damn good. Andy Summers is showing his age, a bit, his site just a wee bit out of touch and somewhat stridently proclaiming the majesty of his oeuvre, including an autobiography called "One Train Later" (cuz he met you, my skinbashing friend, on a train, and if he had hopped one train later, the world would not have been shaken to the core by the insightful poetry of "Dee Doo Doo Doo"). His last album features Gregg Bissonette (best known for his blond wig and tenure with the David Lee Roth band circa "California Girls", not to mention the The Pat Boone Heavy Metal Big Band - a project so embarrassing it's been scrubbed from the Pat Boone discography) and a whole complement of the most predictable jazz standards ever. We really need another version of "Footprints"? "Goodbye Pork Pie Hat"? "Afro Blue"? Don't get me wrong, I dig Andy too, but all the chorus in the world isn't going to help his British white-boy ass breathe any life into these tunes that hasn't long ago done been breathed enough.

Your site was the last one I hit, and I was pleased to see lots going on; lots of Flash, lots of media, lots of you. Naturally, I had to check out the "drums" link, and enjoyed your loving descriptions of each cymbal and tom (and that's a lot). "Silvery ping", "dry intensity", "dark, warm smoky sound character", "soft buttery stick feel"...don't hit it, Stewie, I wanna eat it!

I was most curious about your current activities, though. First I read a Tour Log of you spending a few days with the Foo Fighters, who are living it up in disgusting fashion though I never really thought they were that big. Shows what I know. Anyway, you have an amusing writing style, and I moved on to another Log, this one detailing the activities of the "Gizmo" project. Hey, Armand Sabal-Lecco on bass, Dave Fiuczynski on guitar, pretty promising! I was enjoying the tales of the origins of the project and the rehearsal, which is always interesting (and that bit about the bass drum beater getting stuck in your pant leg was killing me). But then you hit a nerve. What's this, then?

"...anything that sounds like jazz receives a curt reprimand from me, but as soon as I leave the room, the players degrade into those fetid figures of harmonic Hades. Fact is, virtuosity is fun, and jazz, a music that elevates dexterity over spirit, is an evil temptation that lurks around the highest calibre players. My immunity to the stuff comes from a childhood immersion in it. My daddy raised and trained me to be a jazz musician, which is why it holds no mystery for me."

A music that elevates dexterity over spirit? Dude. Sir. Kind of Blue, 'Round Midnight, My Funny Valentine? A Love Supreme, Blue Train, Giant Steps? Monk's Music, Mingus Ah Um, Waltz for Debby? Need I go on? You want "spirit", look no further. And I'm not cherry-picking here; these albums represent THE HIGH WATER MARKS OF THE GENRE. Jazz wouldn't exist without its spirit, of exploration, interaction, and innovation. Dexterity is necessary to play this detailed music, but it's a requirement, not a feature. Sure there have been offshoots of jazz that are known for their many notes, but I doubt you'd defend every subgenre of the pop music you apparently hold above all else.

I don't know what jazz ever did to you - looking for the source of your bile, I think "daddy raised and trained me" might be the culprit I'd visit first - but you owe your livelihood to it. Yup. Your instrument, the drumset was invented by jazz; the pedal bass, the hi-hat, even the arrangement of drums around one person, were born in the early days of the music. Andy's ninth and seventh chords, Sting's harmonies and rhythmic pizzicato; the POLICE, my brother, couldn't have existed without jazz.

And I don't need to mention that "dexterity" is your friggin' calling card, and you've often been accused of the abuse of the same in pursuit of its own end. Heh. A little sensitive, perhaps?

Anyway, you owe a little respect, mate. As I likewise owe you; and with that I bid adieu.

yours,

Daryl

After a few days in Los Angeles, I was off to Wichita, Kansas. My main reason for going there was the wedding for which I had composed the music, but since it was my sister who was getting married, there would be a lot of family in town who had never seen me play and it seemed like a good idea to set up a separate show so they could hear my vocal stuff. There weren't a lot of cafes that I could find online, but I managed to hook up a night at a place called The Artichoke, which was advertised as a sandwich place that had frequent live music. It turned out to be a standard bar, with jukeboxes and pool tables and the regulars tossing it back at happy hour, but with a sandwich menu you could get if you asked for it. It was NOT what I pictured it to be, and when I arrived there I saw nobody that I knew, so I kinda cowered in one corner warming up while some bikerish dudes cussed it up around the billiards to the verdant strains of Dokken.

I thought I was in for a rough night, and had already begun excising the more sensitive numbers from my setlist when a crowd of relatives arrived, straight from the airport. I said a brief hello and plugged in, figuring I would just pick a few songs and see how they went, between the tough nuts at the bar and my Mennonite relatives at a table in front. I was to play two sets, 50 minutes each, which I'd arranged as instrumental first, vocal second. I launched somewhat gingerly into a fairly ethereal fingerpicking tune, and was surprised to hear an enthusiastic response afterward, even from the barflys who had barely looked up when I started. I ended up keeping my set as I'd originally planned it, even including some of my faux-classical material, which elicited a much weaker reception than the more sentimental folkish tunes. I ended the set, said a fresh round of hellos and ducked into the bathroom for a moment of privacy to warm up my voice and try to get my mind clear before singing.

As might be expected, singing is a much more emotionally vested activity than playing an instrument, at least for me. Perhaps it's the direct connection, with your body being the instrument. I wonder if wind players feel this way...at any rate, even though I really get into the instrumental tunes, when it's time to sing, the emotional involvement goes to a whole 'nother level. It becomes very important to have one's head in a good place beforehand.

In this case, it was quite challenging getting to that good place. Though I seemed to have pleased both the lushes and the Mennonites with my opening set, I wasn't at all sure that my words would appeal to either group. Once again I devised an escape plan, with a drastically trimmed setlist ready in case tomatoes started flying my way. But I was pleased to see a decent reaction, again, with more people paying attention than for the instrumental set. That was to be expected, I guess; the general public most often expects live music to be songs with words. It's a common currency. And the faux-Western stuff, the kinda Johnny Cash one and this other new murder ballad, really went over well (we were in Kansas after all).

Before the show, the bartender/impresario discussed the cover charge with me. When I booked the show, he'd told me there would be a cover of $4, which sounded reasonable to me. But when I arrived, he said, you know, things are a lot easier if there's no cover, because then the people who don't want to hear the music have to be sent to the back room, and there's always a tip jar. Now, my experience with tip jars has been that they're hardly worth the bother, for the few quarters and crumpled dollar or two that you usually end up with. But I wasn't there to make money, and I wanted to remove any possible obstacles to people listening to me. So I said, ok, sure, forget the cover.

During my first set, the barkeep interrupted me after a few tunes, said a few nice things about my music and made a big show of stuffing a few bills in the jar. That was a nice gesture, and I figured that would be the sum total of my income for the night. But after the second set, while I enjoyed my reward of a Guinness pint and a surprisingly good vegetarian sandwich (that is, one of their regular sandwiches with the meat removed), I poured out the jar and found a pile of dollars. It was more money than Maxwell Horse would sometime get as a guarantee on our touring shows, and probably more than what I'd have made if we had charged a cover. Amazing! Though the place was hardly an ideal situation, what with its lack of monitors (in fact, I had to ask to borrow some generous soul's PA, thanks to whoever that was), saloon atmosphere, and loud pool room adjacent to the playing area, I have to say that the generosity and warmth made up for it.

Next stop on the tour was Los Angeles. I'd been angling for a place to play in Santa Monica, as I have a number of friends on that side of town and it's a pretty active area at night, and booked a slot at the Talking Stick cafe, which like the Argus I'd never visited before. I was a bit disappointed to see how far away from the trafficked area of town the cafe was, but there were some regulars inside when I arrived and it was an inviting scene. I did a quick setup with the barista/soundperson, then asked for a bottle of water - and was charged a neat dollar for it. I know I'm oversensitive, but I found this humiliating - I don't believe I've ever played any show, of any kind, ever, where a performer gets charged for their first drink, especially WATER. People come to the place to see me who wouldn't have come otherwise, buying drinks and snacks, and especially when there is no actual payment for my performance as in this case, a complimentary beverage is the tiniest courtesy. Bah.

I left for a quick walk around the area before starting, another habit I've picked up over the years. I don't find it comfortable to make much conversation before showtime, as I'm quite distracted with my approaching task and would rather concentrate on keeping a good mental state than greeting and meeting and making small talk. I also have to admit (and I know it's laughable at this kind of level) that if I'm going to be playing, I'd rather have people see me first onstage, and afterward do the social thing, rather than having to switch from pal to performer and back to pal again.

In this case, actually, I was very glad to chat for a minute beforehand with some friends who showed up, it was just long enough to put me in good spirits and know that there's be familiar people listening. Then I walked up to the playing area (no stage here, just a funny little room) and began with four instrumental pieces. I haven't done a mix of vocal and instrumental tunes before, but as the slot was fairly long (75 minutes) I thought it best to break things up a bit, and instrumental seemed like the best way to kick things off. I felt like people were paying attention, it was a comfortable environment and I played well. It felt a little funny to stand up, adjust the mic and immediately move from generally delicate instrumental music to generally bashing-out-the-chords-while-yelling music, but those gathered seemed to respond well to the switch and I'm glad I did it this way. More so than at the Argus, I felt like the tunes were coming alive and when it came time to finish up, I didn't really want to stop.

The one positive thing about playing at bars is that they're open late, so there's time to decompress slowly from a set with some drinks and conversation. Here, the cafe closed its doors just a few minutes after I finished, so I barely had time to pack up and say hello to friends before we were kicked rather rudely out the front door. I still felt amped up from the show, so had to work it out by blasting Hot One's political glam at an unbelievable volume as I ticked off the freeways down to Orange County where I was staying that night. I'm starting to understand substance abuse problems among musicians; you want to keep that rush going. Myself, I'm more inclined to gorge on a basket of fries than to kill a six-pack (or worse).

First stop on my mini-tour in December was San Francisco, and a venue I'd never been to before. Though in other places I've found booking a simple acoustic show very easy (part of why I'm really liking these solo outings), it was surprisingly hard to nail down anything in the city by the Bay, with slots having been taken three months in advance. But the Argus Lounge was willing, and though it looked more like a standard bar than the cafe atmosphere I prefer for this kind of stuff, I booked a night with my pal Julie Zielinski.

The playing area is at the extreme front of the place, next to the street, which is a location I generally like a lot as anybody entering will see you; it's harder to be ignored. But here, because the building is so narrow, from the stage one mainly has a great view of the bartender and a single-file perspective on the line of barstools, meaning that to watch you, people have to comically lean forward or back to get a glimpse past the person sitting next to them. This is not ideal. To the great credit of the establishment, they had an actual soundperson and onstage monitor, but the output was tinny and weak. All this plus the glare of the large TV (many places will turn the tube off) competing with me made it a difficult situation. However, once I got going and managed to leave behind some of my awareness of the annoyances, I felt pretty good about the show, it seemed like people responded well to the new material, in particular the Cash-esque "Ballad of the Black Midnight". I wasn't sure how people would react to a tune that's pretty much a straight-up Western, but familiar chords and uncomplicated lyrics do provide a good access point for something otherwise unfamiliar.

I played with Julie for a few tunes during her set, which is always great fun, I like her music a lot and it's a pleasure to add my own touches to it. At the end of both our sets we harmonized on Low's "When I Go Deaf", the second time rocking it out a bit longer at Julie's quick suggestion. I haven't done much in the way of harmonizing with another singer, and never a female one, but it sure feels great to have the voices lock in and I think we pulled it off.

After a show I'm always starving - I can't really eat beforehand, not due to nerves as much as excitement - and the location of this club in the outer edge of the Inner Mission made sustenance easy to come by. Though it was nearly 1 a.m. by the time I finished up conversations and left with my old pal and sublime Maxwell Horse bassist Atsushi, the taquerias were still open and I had a classic San Francisco pinto bean, flour tortilla, rice-filled burrito, not remotely like anything I eat at home with the possible exception of the salsa and so its own kind of pleasure. Perfect. Even better was the short walk home to Atsushi's place, where we drank tea while he schooled me on fine Scotches of the world.

I've heard from people who have done acid (haven't touched it myself) that the most terrifying thing can be the sensation of losing grip on oneself; ego death, they call it. But if the feeling can be endured, that's when insights and reflection can happen, and it can be a very deep experience.

Letting go of one's self-awareness needn't be a drug-induced experience. There have been numerous times when I'm listening to music, recorded or in person, where the connection with the sound gets so intense that the only word to describe it is transcendence. In these moments, the only thing happening to me is the music; I'm gone.

It works out nicely that when actually creating music, the best way to experience this is to simply remove one's conciousness of self from the act of playing. That sounds really odd, but it can be done. I've found that if I watch the people who are watching me perform, I get intensely self-conscious. Then if I see someone laugh, or yawn, or leave, my enjoyment of the music is ruined and I'm stuck back in that little corner of a haggard room, only too aware that it's late on a Tuesday night and I haven't eaten and my B string is going out of tune and the TV in the back playing bloody Ultimate Fighting championships is getting more attention that I am. Predictably, the music starts to suck, and I want to be dead.

But if I can forget all about where I am and who may or may not be listening, then my concentration is on the music so it tends to come out better, and on a deeper level I can begin to feel as if I'm not just making the music but part of it.

I don't mean to be too metaphysical about it, but in these last performances I was very conscious about trying to be, well, unconscious, and my enjoyment of the events (and I believe my playing, to some degree) was pretty elevated when I was successful.

Sorry I've ignored this blog for so long. I've been very busy, but with music, so I don't mind.

Speaking of blogs, this is my favoritest blog ever. Not only does Kristen Hersh rule as a songwriter, singer and performer, but she's just awesome as a person. I saw her on the road with Throwing Muses, 6 months pregnant at least, asking the club to refrain from smoking but still strapping a Tele around her swollen belly and Rock Ing.

I was listening to a performance by a solo acoustic artist, one who's doing pretty well on a local level in San Francisco, and even though he had good command of the guitar and an incredible voice (singing Beach Boys tunes in their original key!), his performance just left me unmoved. It just seemed so typical of the "folk" singers I've seen, with an offhand delivery, self-effacing comments between songs, and the tunes themselves all about me, me, me and my sad heart. Aargh! Okay, sad tunes have their place (I might have a few songs that fit in that category), but for heaven's sake, you gotta sing it like you mean it, like it really did happen to you. Everytime you perform, you should leave a piece of yourself there, a bloodstain on the stage. Otherwise why bother?

Some might say this belongs under the "Guilty Pleasures" heading, but I love this pair with no irony whatsoever. Really. In my personal canon, they're up there with the Beatles in terms of the enduring power of their songs. Really. A good 80% of their entire catalog is absolutely classic, tireless, timeless.

They're best as an acoustic duo, of course; the layers of studio treatments that mar some gems like "America" (panned bass wanking) and the "The Boxer" (faux-Native American tom-tom pounding, jewharp, and that cavernous snare gunshot) nearly always just serve to distract from the delicate lyricism and perfect harmonies. Paul Simon was pretty killer on the 12-string, too; check out their "Live From New York City" record, from '67, for some amazing pre-Bob Mould heavy riffing, especially on the caustic "You Don't Know Where Your Interest Lies".

So many moments of brilliance that break well outside anything else folk-pop has ever produced; the jarring flat-nine figure that opens up "Kathy's Song"; the unexpected modulations of "America"; the chilling wonder of "The Sound of Silence" (the acoustic original, from their first album before their record company pasted on cheesy mid-60's rock-band backing and made it a big hit, is the one you need to be listening to); the crushing final chord of "Flowers Never Bend With the Rainfall".

The words of the prophets, yo.

No, I'm not talking about the late-60's, Peter Green-led, respected blues-band Mac. It's the phase-shifted, cape n' stack-heels, blow n' infidelity-fueled, big 70's hits period. I just love that stuff, "Dreams" and "Landslide" and "Go Your Own Way" and "Rhiannon" and...ack.

Their singing is just gorgeous, always, and an honest, yearning emotional core visible in their best work that's unlike that of nearly any other band, especially of those in the top-charting-albums-of-all-time category. Give it up to the white witch and posse.

Please don't make me explain the title.

The first Ojas gig as a trio was in the Berklee cafeteria. I'd borrowed a massive Boogie power amp from someone in the dorms, and turned every knob to the maximum for the gig. The receptionist working upstairs told us afterward that we'd made the loudest sound she'd ever heard in the building.

While on tour in the Midwest, again with Ojas, we played an excellent show at Hairy Mary's in Des Moines, Iowa. Afterward, we were approached by a 40-ish woman in dark glasses who invited us to crash at her house for the night; "All the bands stay at my place". We gladly accepted and three of us distributed ourselves around the living room, while an unnamed one of us took the cushy bed in the basement. Late that night, this bandmember was successfully seduced and, we later discovered, given a classic case of crabs. The next morning at breakfast, her five-year-old told us about Clawhammer staying there the previous week; it sounded like they were really nice to him. I wish now I'd have asked who his father was...

(If you ever heard the phrase "all the bands stay at my place", it's probably true, and is more than reason enough to get a hotel for the night.)

The Deferens played a Halloween gig at a remote house off campus. I shaved my legs and wore a miniskirt with a drum major's jacket and enormous white beehive wig. Strings were breaking left and right as the keg got emptied, until I was playing with just an A string and a G string. I did a few tunes like that, then took a break and drove back to campus, interrupting a snooty fundraiser while I dove in the music room closet to swipe someone else's bass to finish up.

However, by far the most rock n' roll thing I've ever done was to sing the Circle Jerks' "When the Shit Hits the Fan" for an assembly at my Mennonite high school, accompanied by my candy-apple-red Western-themed acoustic guitar and a pre-programmed Casio beat. Of course, I left "shit" out of the choruses, leaving it at "we do whatever we can, we gotta duck when it hits the fan", but my friends "helped out" by all hissing "shhhhh" at the appropriate spot.

This is closely followed by another event the same school, when I and a friend played the Velvet Underground's "Jesus" during a morning chapel service. It...sounded religious.

The biggest fear of any creating individual is that the things you've already done are the best you'll ever do, that you'll never be able to top the works in your past. As time goes on, the feeling that you may be "losing it" is always present, always terrifying. Public figures don't help; many of the biggest stars cannot keep up the quality of their early work, quite possibly (and quite ironically) through the effects of their fame, but they continue to produce and we continue to buy, knowing we'll be disappointed.

In truth, I don't think that one's gifts necessarily have to decrease (again, with those public figures, I think part of the devolution is fully a result of their celebrity). If you remain true to your craft and muse, and at the same time remain open to whatever new ideas may strike you along the way, I don't think there's any reason why the value of your stuff will have to diminish.

Still, there are things I've done or been a part of that I don't think I'll ever best in the same way. For experimental rock music, for instance, I can't imagine a better band than Ojas (hell, I don't think I've ever heard one, much less been a member of. Nobody knew it, but we rocked. But...nobody knew it). There are a few songs I wrote with Maxwell Horse that I'm terribly proud of too, and I've often looked back them with some sadness, feeling like I'll never be able to pull something like that together again.

But hope springs eternal, and to my surprise there are a few songs I'm working on now that I'm really, really excited about, that have great potential by my taste. The funny thing is that it hardly deserves to happen; I've been putting all of my energy into practicing and instrumental composition for the past two or three years, and only have been working on songs as a lark when the inspiration is too strong to ignore. For some reason, though, good things are happening, and I'm starting to look forward to an opportunity to play these things for people. Whether others will find these tunes valuable too is entirely a subjective matter, but they're interesting enough to me personally that I can relax a little bit, feeling like I haven't entirely lost it quite yet.

Late at night, I find myself drawn towards metal these days. Odd, in that what I'm actually playing is still the classical/flamenco/ambient solo pieces, strummy singer-songwriter stuff, and the filigreed little looping experiments, all acoustic. And largely what I'm listening to is snooty modern classical, Steve Reich, Philip Glass, Bartok's quartets, John Adams (and still Imogen Heap...can't quit her!).

But I'm just loving that buzzola, that focused testosterone punch, the physical feel of the air around the knees from those nine-foot sound waves. Bands like Isis, Helmet, Meshuggah, Tool (great band, though I'm more interested in simpler, more brutal stuff at this juncture).

I dunno where this comes from, or where it might lead. But it's terribly tempting to imagine playing this kind of music with a band in a room, cranked up. I'm not even entirely sure I'd want to be playing guitar, either; I've never gotten much satisfaction out of playing power chords, all that gain flattens out the dynamics and turns the axe into a bit of a one-trick pony. But I can see grabbing a bass again, playing a with a pick to save my dainty fingernails, locking in with a good drummer and pumping out some double-digit hertz.

A waste of time in relation to what I really want to accomplish? For sure. But getting a little satisfaction can't be entirely criminal.

The girl is Pop-in-a-bottle (one memorable couplet - "Oh why'd you have to be so cute? It's impossible to ignore you!"), her records all bright, shiny and sequenced to hell, but she has this warm, velvety, haunting voice that's been stuck in my head all week. It's not often I get taken by somebody working in this style, but she has that certain something - Sarah MacLachlan comes to mind too - that can make even the tritest of lyrics take on an outsize weight.

There's an acapella tune on her last record, "Hide and Seek" (I believe it had the distinct misfortune of being featured in a "The O.C." season finale), which is not only the best-ever non-hip-hop use of a vocoder, and possibly the most interesting treatment of a I-V-vi-IV progression that I've heard, but it just kills me, each time. It's best to check out the clean studio version, but here's a video of her pulling it off in a noisy warehouse.

To her additional, great credit, Heap (what a surname!) does great things working all-acoustic with no additional tools but a looping box. (more moving pictures.)

Diggit in depth.

Sleeping is not a favorite activity of mine. I resent it, really. All that time, just...wasted. Do trees sleep? Or planets, stars? Why must we animals bother? I'm a fan of the popular saw "sleep when yer dead!", which I've discovered was actually coined by Benjamin Franklin, albeit in a bit more loquacious form - "There will be sleeping enough in the grave". Nice.

I've always been able to get by with six hours a night or so, but last year I decided to really make a focused effort to see how much I could scale back. Five and a half seemed to be alright, but any less than that and I'd be really nodding through the afternoons. I turned to the Net (of course!) for reliable physiological information (natch!), and discovered a way of sleeping called "polyphasic sleep".

(The obligatory Wikipedia link.)

The term "polyphasic sleep" is just an expression for sleeping in multiple blocks during the day. What it refers to here is the practice of using this kind of arrangement to cut down on the total sleep needed in a day's time. In its most extreme form, a person only naps at regular intervals, generally 20-30 minutes every four hours or so. I didn't even bother to give this version a shot, since it makes the daytime schedule so rigid that it'd be hard to have an actual social life. What I decided to try instead was a variation that involves one longer block at night, plus a few naps during the day. (I'm lucky enough to work from home doing largely project-based things, so I have the luxury of being able to try things like this.)

I read a number of accounts of the practice and made a plan based on others' experiences. The first night, I simply went to sleep a few hours later than usual and limited myself to five hours. Then I took two naps the next day. This went fine, and the following night I reduced the nighttime block to four hours, and again took two naps during the day. It was pretty hard to get through the day waiting for the first nap, but that night I felt fine and didn't even feel the need to get back in bed until very late. Still, it was a bit tough hanging on until 6 a.m., to make it my first day on the full schedule. I woke at 9 a.m., napped for 20-30 minutes at noon, 6 p.m. and midnight, and got all kinds of things done. That day and the following were pretty tough, but I stuck with it, and after a week it started to feel somewhat normal.

I've stuck with the polyphasic pattern for almost nine months now, barring periods of travel where I slept in the more standard fashion out of necessity (it is rather inconvenient to take road trips, make plans with people, or goodness knows try to work in an office, when you need to hit the hay at very regular intervals). I like it; I've always been a night owl and this way I can make full use of the dark hours. It's true that sometimes I have serious bags under my eyes (and my girlfriend has come to detest the sound of the alarm clock) but for the moment I don't mind the trade-off.

It's now 5:30 a.m. I want to get three hours in and wake at 9:00, so it's almost time for bed.

Sweet dreams.

There's a certain category of music that I've come to call "heat n' eat". By this I mean - not altogether linearly - music that is pure substance, quick nutrition in any amount. No extraneous preparation or undue time required before sustenance arrives. I can listen to this stuff anytime; it's not (necessarily) mood music, but education.

First in this category is Bach. Every note he ever scribed is priceless.

Then there's Coltrane. Not necessarily everything he did, though; I'd never slight any of his records, but "Giant Steps" and "My Favorite Things" have come to feel like pop albums, extremely listenable and interesting, but not really hard-core. Now, "Ascension", "Om", that's what I'm talking about. Difficult going for sure, but whatever you can get out of it is 100% direct. "A Love Supreme", too.

Sonic Youth, believe it or not. They've become kings of meandering, but their sound is always so charged and interesting that I find it eternally restorative.

Derek Bailey.

Bartok, Shostakovich, Stravinsky, Glass, Reich. all those 20th century cats.

In the canon of my guitar "heroes", I'm pretty selective about what I'd include here. (Derek Bailey, above, doesn't really count as a "hero" (this term cracks me up, bear with me as I indulge in it)...his music hasn't (yet, at least) come to mean much to me in the personal sense. He's just fascinating.) Bill Frisell's early-90's trio, for sure. Pat Metheny's solo work, or the noisy improv stuff. Anything Nels Cline does as a leader counts. Neil Young's "Dead Man" soundtrack. David Torn's "Best Laid Plans".

Most any really good improviser working solo, really.

Manitas de Plata, Ramon Montoya.

Anything the Anonymous 4 chooses to sing. Same with the Bulgarian Women's Choir.

Finally, I think I need to include Kraftwerk; though it's more candy than vitamin, if you know what I mean, anything they do just makes me so happy.

Funny, as pointed out below, I'm not especially young (and incontrovertibly not getting any more so) but my enthusiasm for music, and creative things in general, is higher than it's ever been. Everything I'd ever heard was that this kind of foolishness reaches its peak in, I dunno, high school or something, then gradually drops away - giving up the things of youth, et cetera.

What pushes me again and again, other than the fact that I really, really, love music, (suddenly I'm reminded of a great little essay from one of my favorite musicians and bloggers, Kristin Hersh), is thinking of the wonderfully talented people I've known in my life who for various reasons stopped the pursuit at some point. There were a couple of friends who had been playing their instrument since five or six years of age, showing immense promise, but had grown so tired of practicing that they grew to resent the discipline and looked forward to the day when they could quit, which happened as soon as they left their parent's house for college. Others graduated and immediately formed families, which took the place music once held. And most just simply let it slide away, keeping a guitar or violin in the closet for old time's sake, but hardly playing.

Somebody who didn't make the choice himself was a guy I knew starting in middle school, a drummer with a natural gift. He had contagious enthusiasm and a taste for any kind of music, from punk rock to the Police to Philip Glass and Rush and the Butthole Surfers, and constantly was recording four-track albums in his basement. It was with him that I played my first electric guitar and my first drumset, first learned what recording was and how a four-track player worked, saw my first rock shows, and heard my first compact disc. He left for college two states away as I started my senior year in high school, and I looked forward to joining him at the same school the next year. When he came back to Pennsylvania on Christmas break, three or four of us sat on the floor around him as he leaned back in a Laz-y-Boy like a king and enthralled us with stories about college life and the bands he'd become part of. We made plans to meet up later in the week to spend a day making music, and I couldn't wait to show him what I'd been doing with my own band.

We never got together, though. A few days after the party, he was heading out for the evening, speeding as always, when his car slipped on the ice and smashed into a tree. I couldn't believe it could be anything serious - he seemed unstoppable in every way - but when we heard the news, my brother and I drove out to the scene. We saw his familiar brown Honda twisted around a maple on a back road, five minutes from his house, and inside, red blood freezing on the edge of the driver's side door.

He'd suffered severe head trauma, and fell into a coma. While his friends at school made a thousand paper cranes to speed his recovery, I visited him nearly every weekend, playing him tapes and trying to say something to spark him awake. Several months after the crash, he finally opened his eyes with his mother present. He was barely conscious at first, mute and able to move his limbs only instinctively. I remember having to call for a nurse when he tried to crawl out of his bed; it felt too strange for me to try to restrain him myself. Over time, though, he became able to speak, and focus his eyes, and to walk with great effort. It seemed miraculous, as he progressed far past what doctors had said what we could expect, and we rejoiced and waited for him to return to college and make more music.

But his comeback slowed, and the miracle never finished. His personality and even his face had changed, making him seem like a stranger, and he would make unreasonable demands on those of us who knew him, calling us at midnight to bring him cigarettes or drive him to a distant city, until we had to ask that he only talk to us by phone when we initiated the call. He never regained his full coordination and motor skills and would never play drums again. He began making a lot of bad personal choices, smoking and drinking without restraint, and once nearly froze to death by taking his three-wheeled bike out alone on a major road, late one snowy November night, lucky that a passing motorist saw him struggling to pedal. And while he did eventually return to college, getting to classes with a walker and the help of his many friends, his cognition had suffered to the point that he wasn't able to do his schoolwork, and he had to withdraw after a difficult year. He returned to Pennsylvania, and after a few tries at having an apartment of his own, it became apparent that he needed an assisted living situation with a focus on head trauma survivors, which is where he's lived ever since. I've only seen him a few times in the past decade; while I want to support him however I can, he's a different person now and it's not an easy thing to spend time together.

If nothing else, for him I feel like I need to make use of what I'm still capable of.

sits hard for you to be the only one
sucked in the intake and burning up
your sad ghost haunts the jet stream
unable to forget the clouds you've seen

I hate weak writing. If you're gonna write, you've gotta be a genius or I don't even wanna bother with you. Nothing worse than a slightly talented writer working safely within their slight talents. I'm more forgiving with music, oddly; if you're trying hard I'll give you some credit. But everybody over the age of five speaks a language, and most of the world is able to express that language on paper, so it's nothing special if you're able to put a sentence together. You better be damn good at it to be worth the ink.

This goes for songwriters too. Words set to music are supposed to be poetry. Please make an effort.

I hate Gibson Les Pauls. The neck too flat, scale too short, frets too wide, sound too muscular and brutish, strings too high between the pickups and too low over them, bridge liable to slice your hand, and the whole thing too heavy.

I hate any kind of "modeling" or "imitation" product. Get the real thing! I don't care if we're talking about amplifiers or about cheese...pay the price and do the penance, the good stuff costs.

I hate a groove that drops a beat. Whether you're a DJ, a looping guitarist, or a bongo-slapping weed fiend, when you've set a pulse, make sure it's ON. Drummers: in this regard, yes, you do have to be perfect. Sorry.

I hate professional rock and amateur jazz.

I hate music that is played softly. I want to feel it around me, even when listening to "quiet" genres. I wish that human ears could be armored so that we could endure physically wrenching volumes (sans earplugs which muffle and distort) without inflicting permanent damage on the cochlea.

Come to think of it, I hate silence. It can be the whirr of a ceiling fan, a cricket in the distance, or just the wind through a cracked car window, I need to be floating in sound waves or I feel already sunk.

Thinking about travelling, with music. Funny, these thoughts come when I'm dying to finally have a place to call home, a place to stay with no rent and no upstairs neighbors, full of our crap. Even as that ideal draws closer, it's suddenly very exciting to think about doing a tour, hitting the places where I have friends, just playing any little coffeeshop that'll have me, for tips and a sandwich. I can still work when I need to, get a cell phone and check into hotels early. And in the evening, music.

Really odd, why this seems appealing. Life has been nothing but travel for so long, and I've been dying to have time, nothing but time to compose and improve, in a comfortable spot that belongs to me. But here's this idea, and I kinda wanna do it. I really could pull it off, with no need to make money from it, just to meet people and make connections and have my music listened to.

Funny. And what this has to do with living in Mexico, I have no idea.

I think, at the very least, when I do travel for other purposes, I need to try to book informal little gigs. I've always liked being onstage, modest as that stage might be. I miss it.

When the Music For a Wedding project started, I'd planned to document it entirely on paper, to improve my notation skills, to preserve ideas, and because it felt like connecting with a tradition of composition. At some point, though, I realized that I wanted to be able to give the bride and groom a chance to hear what I did for them, since they probably heard the introductory and end-ceremony music less than anybody there that day.

I'd had a four-track cassette recorder with me since moving to Mexico over a year before that, but I've hardly used it other than for recording progressions to work on harmony with. I pulled it out first for the project to let them hear some of the early ideas for approval. After the wedding was over, though, I decided to work on it in earnest.

The first song I did, with a mix of an SM57 and the built-in pickup on my Takamine, sounded surprisingly good. I found myself listening to it often, just because I enjoyed it. I went on to record all the compositions, eventually adding an omni condenser mic and a small tube mic preamp, which helped the fidelity.

At some point during that project, during the whole process from composition through practice and finally recording, and posting on the Web ("distribution"), I found satisfaction in what I'm doing in music, more satisfaction than I'd had in a long time. The fact that I'm interested in all these different ways and genres of making music didn't seem to matter anymore, when it once was such a worry and weight. Something about being able to see a project through to completion on my own, with my own resources, makes the choice of "direction" or "genre" seem meaningless. I can do vocal tunes, or experimental noise loops, or whatever, and bring them all the way to life without worrying about anyone else's perception along the way. I think I've always wanted that.

I realized yesterday, as I drove to our house-under-construction here in Oaxaca, Mexico, that in all likelihood I'm about halfway done with my life. I'm nearly 36, and by 72 my time will be up, the averages say. If I don't get run over by the proverbial bus before then, which is not statistically improbable. And my faculties may well be diminishing before then, but then again, I was a baby for awhile too, so I probably have about the same number of conscious, useful years left as I've had already. Maybe I'll have more time, maybe my vegetarian diet and high metabolism will grant me 20 years extra or something. But fingers won't be able to wiggle like they do now, and hearing will give out due to all the headphone use and high-gain amplifiers, and eyes will lose focus, and gradually I'll be less and less able to take part. Those years will be like a protracted falling asleep, tuning out, losing it....so I stand firm. Halfway.

This calculation is not a terrifying realization, interestingly enough. It comes at a time when I'm doing what I want to be doing with my life, my whole life. My situation could improve, but the goals are true, and I'm not far from a pretty ideal setup. I work at home, live with my lover, have access to good produce that doesn't cost much. And I've figured out what I want to be doing musically, not any one thing, but a whole lot of different things that I can pursue more or less at the same time. Why not? I don't have some kind of career trajectory that I need to be mindful of, some fan base wanting more of the same as before. I can do just what I feel like, and if folks are interested they can come hear it.

Beyond music, and this site, from this halfway standpoint, life is simple, as it turns out. Relationships, that's complicated. But life itself is not. We're born and we die, and we have some measure of choice about what happens in between, but by gum, we all end up in the same bonepile. It's not far away for any of us, and for me, closer than for a lot of humanity. It's not a big deal, anymore. How could it be? To invoke the cliche again, the bus could hop the sidewalk tomorrow, literally tomorrow, in eight hours as I stumble down to buy tortillas, it could all end. And it would be no more just or unjust than anyone else's own, special, very personal way to die. I'd just go, and whatever I did these 35-and-change years would stand as the sum total of My Life. Fair enough. I had good times, loved well, played some great gigs, had a hand in a few worthwhile records. By my own standards, I've lived a lot and seen a lot and most importantly, have made some minor contributions. There you go. My life.

One more thing. Make sure to burn my ass up, first take anything that might be useful to someone else, then turn me into tiny ashes and toss 'em in the water, the Pacific I suppose, somewhere on the Mexican coast, past the breakers. No part of me needs to stick around here taking up space that others will be needing afterward. Plus, I'm seriously claustrophobic. Throwing me in a box would be just plain cruel.

A natural place would be to end here, and if this is to be a a reading at my funeral (please, make it short, play lots of music and make sure everyone eats and drinks together afterward) that's good enough.

It's a fair question as to why I've spent so much time putting together this site which documents my musical life in such detail. Well, there's the obvious; because I CAN (and no one else really could, or would). And the pointed; because I do tend to spend a fair amount of thought on the past. (It's not a bad place to visit, the dull hours are squeegeed away and what's left is a whole lot of drama and some unbelievably hilarious stories. Did I tell you the one about getting abandoned in the bottom of the Grand Canyon?) The more practical, immediate reason, though, is that I think a lot of the recordings from my past are still worth listening to, and in most cases not a lot of people heard them the first time around. It seems like my duty to all the hours that went into them to give these songs the opportunity to be listened to, at the very least.

What about the rest, the instruments, and silly chronological tree? Sheer fun. It's interesting to me to look back and remember how I got to the point of really caring a lot about playing guitar and writing new music involving it. I'm not sure what it might mean to anyone else. Maybe just that a lot of important things are ones that we stumble upon without really intending it. And that picking up an instrument and giving it a try just might work for you. My girlfriend picked up bass this year and found it immediately natural. How can one predict that kind of thing?

I must admit that I had second thoughts about putting all this stuff out there, in lieu of a fully "professional" site. But really, I have nothing to lose in this little corner of the Web. It doesn't matter what casual visitors might think. They can hang out and read and listen, or just bolt after reading about my early Tuba life or whatever. Big deal. Nice of them to stop by, and if they can't take that kind of content, they probably wouldn't like me anyway.