A Guitar Saved My Life

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The governor has shut me down. Just when I was starting to slide into a groove of sorts with my guitar-playing and getting out to various open mics, the governor in what seems like simply a random dictate—has snatched away these weekly chances for me to take my music from the basement bunker onto a stage. It’s become a way to push myself to become better, which only comes when you perform. Song lyrics and chords that you nail flawlessly when it’s just you alone in a practice space suddenly disappear when nerves hit prior to going on before strangers.

Mark was killed in January 21, 2017. During the second year of living through grief and loss, things seemed to get worse, if that was even possible. The summer of 2018, I became deeply depressed. I contemplated ways to kill myself. The loss of Mark and the isolation of being alone all day in a large house with no one calling or even emailing me made life seem untenable. As much as I loved Mary and didn’t want to inflict even more pain on her than she was already carrying around, I just couldn’t see any options.

On the darkest day of my life other than the night we learned Mark was killed, I was moving towards a final decision. But, for some reason, I walked towards the corner office I had in our house we were renting in Brunswick. To this day, I still don’t know why. Maybe to buy some time before making an irreversible choice.

Sitting in the corner was my guitar case holding the Yamaha acoustic I bought back in 1989 at Buckdancer’s Choice in Portland. Just recently, Mary found the original sales slip. I paid $140 for an instrument that has brought me joy, along with frustration for 30 years. I say “frustration” because at that point in my life, I’d never managed to push through that “wall” that all guitar players have to pass through on the journey towards being proficient on their instrument. I read a book earlier this year and the author said something to the effect that “the guitar is an easy instrument to learn: it’s a difficult instrument to master.”

Until 2018, I never committed to mastering the guitar. Oh, I’d have periods that would last a few months to a year when I’d play enough so that I built callouses on my fretting hand. I’d learn Christmas songs for the holidays, or in 2001, while attending a Vineyard Church in Lewiston, I became the small group worship leader, the guy who played simple songs on my guitar and led us in worship songs each week. That’s how I learned about Michael Pritzl and The Violet Burning, a band I now cover.

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Working Out More Songs

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Another attempt to find a drummer today. These inquiries launched into the digital void haven’t delivered a timekeeper, yet.

All-too-often, some guy wants you to “hit him up,” which seems to be code for “when you do all the work of writing the songs, scoring the gigs, call me and maybe I’ll show up for the payday.” Or something like that.

A week ago Tuesday, I followed a three-piece in Mechanic Falls that were amazing. The band were two brothers (I think) slightly younger than me. They’d been playing for awhile. The drummer who was co-hosting with Chris Floyd was a young man from Jay named Bobby. He has a band of his own, The Only Hope. I appreciated Bobby (and Chris) backing me on “Creep” by Radiohead, and my own song, “Walking Down the Road.”

For the past week, I’ve been thinking how my experiences at open mics might become remarkably different if I could show up with a bunch of songs that I’d been working on with a drummer, instead of hoping the band that I just met minutes before playing will be able to follow me in my own original songs. Then, in some settings, I have to have what I want to play vetted, ensuring the house band knows the song. Maybe I don’t want to learn a bunch of songs that everyone else plays.

Yesterday on my drive back and forth to Brunswick to see my chiropractor with a side jog to my old hometown to see my sister, I listened to Teenage Fanclub. The Fannies are one of a host of bands I could probably listen to daily and not grow tired of. I’m so glad I made the trek to Boston a year ago in March to catch them. It was another one of my solitary adventures.

Prior to my trip to the Hub, I tried banging out some of my faves by the Fannies. For whatever reason, I didn’t have much success. I’m a better player now than I was back then. Maybe that’s why I was able to work this one out, even transposing it in a different key so I wouldn’t be forced to play it dropped down a step and could keep my one electric in standard tuning. That will be good when I roll this one out, live.

What an amazing fucking scene from 1992. It’s Reading, in the rain, and the crowd is being transported to some other place by a bunch of 20-somethings who’ve managed to continue making meaningful music nearly 30 years later.

“Everything Flows” is not the type of song a 25-or-so-old kid writes: a plaintive ode to the passing of time with lines like “see you get older every year/but you don’t change, I don’t notice you changing.”

Looking forward to playing this one live in the near future.

Oh, and the biz card makes it official: I’m now calling myself a musician along with writer.

The business of music.

And since one can never have too much of the Fannies in their lives, here’s a show they did in NYC back in ’93 for some Japanese television station.

My Own Terms

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We are in that transitional time between late summer, segueing into early fall. I have felt a sense of being adrift. Six months into Covid, with little abatement in sight, the looming darkness and colder days don’t bode well for anyone preferring light and summer breezes. Simply, summer has offered some respite from Covid lockdown. What’s coming, I’m afraid, is a dank, Dickensian dystopia to be endured over the course of the winter.

Last week, a well-known local musician touched down on Facebook about his bookings drying up as the summer places began shutting down for the season. A drive along East and West Grand in Maine’s premier tourist Mecca, OOB, on Sunday revealed summer’s dying embers. Many of the places that had outside entertainment like the Sunset Deck and Myst have closed until next May. Others are open for another three weeks at best. Who knows if The Brunswick will have indoor entertainment come late October.

For the past 44 months I’ve been journeying through the loneliness that apparently is endemic in those relegated to living with the loss and associated grief that accompanies the death of someone deeply loved. During my sojourn, former associates have disappeared. Not sure why. I’m guessing that surface relationships can’t come to terms with darkness of death, subsequent depression it delivers, and all the associated fall-out from an event inflicted on someone.

On days like today, my first inclination used to be to sit down and write a blog post. Given that Mondays don’t require me to check-in at Whitey’s Farm until later in the morning, I went down the stairs to my bunker and picked up my acoustic. As I’ve intimated before, I’m not certain I’d still be here if on that dark day in August of 2018, I hadn’t opened the dust-covered guitar case housing my Yamaha guitar, rather than seeking the alternative hidden in the closet upstairs. Continue reading →

Words Don’t Matter Anymore

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When I launched this blog in 2012, I was passionate about blogging. At that time, I still believed in the power of words—that words truly mattered. I no longer hold that as a truth.

Back in 1995, after coming to the end of another job and place of employment, I took the summer off. I read, I ruminated, and I planted a garden. There was a particular richness to that brief respite from work and busyness.

In many ways, that summer changed my life at the time. I made a transition in my thinking and outlook. I also read Neil Postman for the first time. What Postman taught me about the world is something I’ve carried with me ever since, especially in terms of how I view technology.

In 1995, there was no Facebook. News and presidents didn’t take to Twitter to make proclamations. I would not learn of the internet for another year. It was the perfect time to come to Postman’s ideas and live amidst the wreckage across the following 25 years, watching a world altered by technology.

Unlike 2012 when I’d spend copious amounts of time researching and organizing my thoughts in order to write a lengthy post that would ultimately be read by very few, these days, I simply present some truncation of a greater truth, or the more detailed ideal that I am working from. I am reading less these days than I did in 1995, but I still read. I’m probably reading and writing less because I’m playing guitar more. Since words matter no more that’s a worthwhile trade.

I don’t believe science and technology will save us, greatly improve our lives, or bring about anything particularly special to how we currently live. That thinking comes from internalizing Postman 25 years ago.

Here is Postman on technology, in five points:

One, we always pay a price for technology; the greater the technology, the greater the price.

Two, there are always winners and losers—the winners always try to persuade the losers that they are really winners

Three, embedded in every great technology an epistemological, political or social prejudice. Sometimes the bias is greatly to our advantage. Sometimes it is not. The printing press annihilated oral tradition; telegraphy annihilated space; television has humiliated the word; the computer, perhaps, will degrade community life. And so on.

Four, technological change is not additive; it is ecological, which means, it changes everything and is, therefore, too important to be left entirely in the hands of Bill Gates (or Jeff Bezos).

Five, technology tends to become mythic; i.e. perceived as part of the natural order of things, and therefore tends to control more of our lives than is good for us. …. When a technology become mythic, it is always dangerous because it is then accepted as it is, and is therefore not easily susceptible to modification or control. Continue reading →

Give the Drummer Some

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On Sunday, I ran through 8 songs in my basement and posted the video(s) on YouTube at my music page. I figured these 8 songs were a good representation of where I’m at in terms of songs and music I’m playing, at least electrically. My hope is at some point to find a drummer, hence the name of the video (parts 1 and 2). I split the set due to a glitch right about midway through.

The title is a reference to both a Big Star song, when drummer Jody Stephens sings “Way Out West,” and Alex Chilton says, “let’s give the drummer some.” Of course, if you know your popular musical trivia, then you know that James Brown says “I wanna give the drummer some of this funky soul, here…” in his song, “Funky Drummer.”

I actually just finished A Man Called Destruction: The Life and Music of Alex Chilton by Holly George-Warren Here’s a review of the book, here. Actually, I like this summation of the book, better.The book was kind of depressing (at least in parts) due to how Chilton pissed away his considerable musical talents through the trifecta of rock and roll, “drugs, booze, and sex,” or at least that was my perception. I’ve written a song about this and will be rolling that out in an upcoming video or recording.

I received positive feedback about the videos from those who watched them. A couple of people asked about lyrics.

Here’s lyrics to my songs and links to the covers (below):

Walking Down the Road

Verse 1

Walking down the road alone, I saw a country lost at home

A mission of hope carried me forth, I lived each day for all it was worth

A president came while I was away, I planned to counter him every day

Hate and division won’t carry us forth, come together and be a force

Chorus:

I wish I had just one more day, I know I had so much more to say.

I love my dad, I love my mom. I’ll miss my friends forever yon

Verse 2

My family back home sent me their love, I wished I got back to give them a hug

We all know what we think we know, but can we strive for a greater hope

Friends I lost along the way, but still I walked another day

Saving earth was what it’s about, some of the haters would jump and shout

Chorus:

I wish I had just one more day, I know I had so much more to say.

I love my dad, I love my mom. I’ll miss my friends forever yon

Verse 3

One hundred days of joy and pain, my feet moved ‘cross the fruited plain

A dirty hippy or something more, why can’t they see my higher road

My face and words live on today, I often wonder what people say

I gave it all held nothing back, but in the end was it done in vain

Chorus:

I wish I had just one more day, I know I had so much more to say.

I love my dad, I love my mom. I’ll miss my friends forever yon

[Instrumental break]

Verse 4

Walking down the road alone, I saw a country lost at home

A mission of hope carried me forth, I lived each day for all it was worth

My family back home sent me their love, I wish I got back to give them a hug

We all know what we know, but can we strive for a greater scope

Chorus:

If I had just one more day, I often wonder what I’d say

It hurts my dad, it hurts my mom. Please remember them from where you roam

[Fade]

© EverysongYeah  2019

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National Disgrace

Verse I

You’re a national disgrace

A fucking public shame

Trashing all your rivals

Can’t ever shoulder blame

Verse II

Talk about corruption

Should be your middle name

Bait and switch the shell game

It’s how you set your frame

Chorus

Deny global warming

Call it just a hoax

You’re a pox on the planet

Tides are rising at the coasts

Greatness offered suckers

No lightning in that jar

History will show us

Exactly who you are

Verse III

Tiny hands and fingers

Grabbing all you can

All your daddy’s money

Won’t float another sham

Verse IV

Some see through illusion

Your divisive world of hate

Fake news is your mantra

You deserved a Watergate

© EverysongYeah  2019

———————————

Spaceship Blues

Verse I

Life it sucks and then you die

Storm clouds in a darkened sky

Fucking morons are all around

All I wanna’ do is leave this town and roam

Verse II

Idiots tell you just to smile

Don’t have a clue, ain’t walked one mile

In land that’s filled with shit

Jump in a spaceship and be done with it and fly

Verse III

Coronavirus its shut us down

Like sheep we’re led to town

Trust the experts they’re rarely right

Load up that spacecraft with supplies and leave today

Verse IV

Facebook friends are posting crap

Take the bait you’re in their trap

Ideology will dead-end

Fly to outer space never to return again

© EverysongYeah  2019

Covers/lyrics

JM (Strand of Oaks)

September Gurls (Big Star)

Berlin Kitty (The Violet Burning)

Motor Away (Guided by Voices)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wisdom Out the Window

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Back in 1985, I’d recently walked away from fundamentalist religion. I’d been a student at a school run by a Baptist megalomaniac named, Jack Hyles. I’ve written many posts about Hyles across the footprint of my blogging that dates back to 1993. Of course, in 2020, blogging is as anachronism, just as outdated as a rotary dial phone. Doesn’t mean it’s bad—it’s just not the way the ignorant masses roll these days, especially the impressionable kids.

I was just an impressionable kid myself back in the mid-1980s when Ray-Bans were all the rage. But, I had determined to dry the wetness behind my own two ears. I figured broadening my understanding was the way to go. Moving beyond mere Bible verses and jeremiads offered in daily chapel services at Hyles-Anderson College seemed like a step in a new direction.

Mark was two-years-old and Mary was working the breakfast shift at the local Wendy’s. I was working the afternoon shift keeping the prisoners at Westville Correctional Center healthy and medicated (I was a medical assistant employed by the Indiana Department of Corrections).

With my morning free save for childcare, I decided to take my three semesters of credit at the University of Maine and see if I could ramp up my hopes of success in higher ed. Purdue University had a satellite campus about 20 miles away from where we were living and just up the road from the prison where I was working in Westville. Not sure why at the time, but I enrolled in Philosophy 101. It was probably a morning time slot thing.

Thinking college was the way to go (Purdue satellite)

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Trekking Back (to the Past)

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Someone I met during the time I used to be a regular at morning business breakfasts told me the best decade of her life was between the ages of 50 and 60. The context of that revelation was my mention (at the time) that I wasn’t looking forward to turning 50. But, given her positive orientation—she was telling me that I had things in place to have a rousing decade of my own.

Back in January 2012, the future did seem bright enough to don shades. However, the subsequent years have disavowed me of that optimism. I think that decade for me has been a nightmare, really.

I’m not one given to nostalgia for the sake of being nostalgic. I do enjoy reading about the past, though. I’m a historian at heart and learning more about “the good ole’ days” is something I still enjoy in a life where joy has been diminished by time and tragedy.

I wrote a blog post about the past (back in the past) and I quoted a Danish author, Martin Lindstrom who wrote that consumers “in the face of insecurity or uncertainty about the future want nothing more than to revert back to a more stable time.” That would seem to be the time we’re living in. No?

When we were first told to shelter-in-place by our all-knowing governor, I was taking a class at USM centered on the Civil War and then, the Reconstruction period following a war that cleaved our country in two. Spending time immersed in reading and study focused on the middle part of the 19th century was strangely comforting—especially when all certainty in the present had been suspended. Continue reading →

Locked up for now (but not, then)

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Do you remember the early days of coronavirus? It was only two months ago, but it seems like years. Maybe our perceptions of time change when we’re under house arrest.

If you are like me (and you’re probably not), you’ve been searching high and low for some variation on what’s been the equivalent of fear-mongering and propaganda by the mainstream media. I’ve used the term “fear-fogging” on this blog to connote the idea of fear being spread like the way fog rolls in off the ocean and envelopes everything in its path, reducing visibility to zero. The media’s kind of like that these days.

Unfortunately, despite my best intentions, I’ve internalized some of this propaganda and groupthink, too. As hard as I fight it, sometimes when I go out in public, I’m scared that the ‘krona might get me, too.

Speaking of internalization; how about the idea that the last time there was a major pandemic in the U.S. (and across the globe) was the great pandemic of 1918.  That’s actually wrong. The U.S. had pandemics in 1949 to 1952 (polio) and 1957. I got this from the website for the Centers for Disease Control (for you scientists lurking out there, fact-checking any alternative storytelling) re: the 1957-58 global pandemic::

In February 1957, a new influenza A (H2N2) virus emerged in East Asia, triggering a pandemic (“Asian Flu”). This H2N2 virus was comprised of three different genes from an H2N2 virus that originated from an avian influenza A virus, including the H2 hemagglutinin and the N2 neuraminidase genes. It was first reported in Singapore in February 1957, Hong Kong in April 1957, and in coastal cities in the United States in summer 1957. The estimated number of deaths was 1.1 million worldwide and 116,000 in the United States.

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Holding More Than One Idea (The Err of Caution)

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What week of lockdown is this? I’ve lost track.

I hope everyone’s holding up, well. I’m guessing many are not. Actually, I know many aren’t.

My daytime job involves taking calls in a healthcare setting. Since early March, I’ve listened to people cry, melt down, and I’ve experienced and uncomfortable level of fear being projected my way for the past weeks and now, months. This has got to stop!

As a parent coping with the loss of a son, I’ve been struggling with the feeling of sliding back into that “deep dark hole” that’s taken me months to get to the lip of, and then, up into the light of living again. Why has this pandemic triggered these former emotions that were more painful than any human should be forced to endure? I’ve asked the question “why me?” so many times I can’t even come up with a reasonable guess.

I’m not sure why, but often following Mark’s death, I was so fucking angry. I simply wanted to hit someone or worse. Rather than acting out on this urge, I simply turned inward. I remember a former radio psychologist, Dr. Joy Brown, saying that depression was “anger turned inward.” I’d concur. I was so depressed that I contemplated suicide.

Picking up the guitar saved me nearly two years ago. I’ve played my old acoustic (or my newer electric) nearly every single day since August 2018. I’m amazed that two guitars (and a Vox amp) could have made such a difference, but they have. Still, the past 8 to 10 weeks have been difficult as hell, even playing and writing songs and performing via the interwebs. There’s only so much shit that even my guitars can deflect away.

When the Covid-19 outbreak ramped up, there were conflicting reports of its severity. Initially, some said that it wasn’t any worse than the common flu and that “people were overreacting.” Then, protocols were established as cases exploded, especially in the large, urban population centers like Boston, New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles.

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Friends and Enemies

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We’ve all heard the expression, “the enemy of my enemy is my friend.” What does this mean? Should it even matter?

For a few weeks now, I’ve been ruminating on several things during this period of lockdown, or as I call it, “house arrest.” One of them is how social interactions and the so-called “glue” that holds us together seems to have been altered (perhaps permanently damaged?) by the novel coronavirus—maybe even worse than the lungs of someone who acquired Covid-19.

I’ve been spending minimal time in Zuckerberg’s Lunchroom, aka, Facebook. Why? Because people I once respected, or at the very least—could tolerate—have become people I hope I never have to ever spend time with in real time, again.

I know that I’ve been scarred by grief and loss. To not recognize this shows ignorance about anything related to the loss of someone held dear. At the very least, when someone is snatched from your life, you forever carry that experience and it colors perceptions, emotions, and human interactions.

Having touched on that, the process of moving through the time of days, weeks, months, and even years after a tragedy forces you into various altered states. It’s an evolution back to some newly-constructed “normalcy.” Then, you are thrown into stasis induced by stay-at-home orders and you feel like you have been ejected back into a place of darkness, pain, and you’re flailing about struggling to stand again.

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