Tag Archives: Rock and Roll

Not To Be Deterred

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Since I began streaming at the beginning of COVID, I’ve been chasing improvement in the audio of each subsequent stream. I did okay when I played everything on the acoustic, save for the first disastrous foray with YouTube’s live streaming option. What they do is “squeeze” bandwidth if you are using the free version of their live service.

To be fair, YouTube’s strong suit is that it allows you to store your videos and not chew up bandwidth on your own website. For that, they are awesome.

Of course, everyone uses Facebook for everything—including streaming. I get it. You can roll out of bed, push the hair out of your face, grab a guitar and warble out a few tunes.

But what if you are like me, trying to capture a live sound that’s more than you plinking out three chords on your ukulele? Rock and roll (the lo-fi variety) with an electric guitar pushed through an amp and—oh my God!! Distortion!! Then, if you top it with some drums—what the fuck?

Anyways, I decided that OBS might be the way to go. Then, when I began ironing out my mix, then tested it last Thursday on Facebook—major problems. That was it for me and Facebook. I don’t like Zuckerberg for reasons I won’t bother with here. But the major reason is I can’t do what I want to do with Facebook.

Then I had a great idea. I’ve had my JBE WordPress site—this one—since 2013. I’ve been kind of neglecting it the past year, or maybe, a better way of framing it is this way. Rather than recognizing WordPress is a site for my writing, it’s actually quite capable of supporting my music endeavors. With a plug-in or two, I should be able to stream on this site, right? Well, not necessarily.

For those of you who consider technological nirvana, turning your smartphone on and off and setting up your voicemail, this isn’t for you. Hell, I’m not going to elaborate any further than to say, there were more speed bumps than I anticipated. Due to that, I couldn’t capture the actual live stream via video, so I took some time Monday after work to create a facsimile. It comes pretty damn close in capturing the music from Sunday’s first service of the First Bunker Rock Church of Lo-Fi Salvation.

JimBaumerMe delivers, per usual, even if it’s his Plan B, or Plan M.

Stay tuned for the next advisement about our next service—it will be here, not on Facebook.

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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The Worst

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Falsely (this is born out to me, daily), I’ve held onto some delusional notion that for a few days and perhaps—even weeks—humans in America can dig deeper and find their better natures. And after all their efforts at excavation—actually extend their humanity beyond the end of their noses. It’s probably a case of too many times viewing “It’s a Wonderful Life,” or Hallmark’s endless parade of holiday happy-ever-after schlock.

I know I’m living on another planet. Just days before Thanksgiving—that most American of holidays in terms of myth and nostalgia—I was reminded yet again in a very in-your-face sort of way of how shitty nearly every human I manage to rub elbows with, or come close enough to, and having their noxious aura leak into my own personal space. Did I tell you that I hate most humans (or many of the ones I am forced to endure, daily)?

At work, there is a tree. Someone thought we could all write what we’re thankful for on a blank leaf. Then, hang it on the tree. I don’t hold it against them. They meant well.

For more than a week now, I’ve been trying to think of something I could write that wouldn’t sound snarky, or be considered mean, or end up simply being sad. It occurred to me today that I won’t be adding a leaf to the tree.

Before Mark was killed, I had a dream. In the dream, I was asked to front a band and play guitar. This from the guy who was years out from beginning his year-long journey into simply surviving, picking up a guitar and playing it nearly every day. In the dream, somehow, I faked my way through songs and they sounded really good. I woke from the dream and thought, “I wish I could play like that.” Continue reading →

Barre Chords are Hard

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It’s a rare day when I don’t spend at least 30 minutes with one of my guitars: whether it’s strapping on my electric or cradling my acoustic. Often, I’ll spend time with both. This has yielded improvement I never expected. Still, I have a way to go to play as well as I’d like to.

The internet is chock full of videos on all aspects of guitaring. But like all things interwebs, this plethora of information doesn’t always guarantee that you’ll learn things in a systematic manner. Also, you can spend more time searching for or simply watching videos rather time in the “wood shed” actually practicing your chops.

There’s a local musician I’ve been following. He’s had some measure of success and a few Saturdays ago, he was playing at a local watering hole. I decided to drive down to the beach and catch a set of his. I also had an ulterior motive—I was going to ask if he’d be game for giving me lessons.

We talked and he said to reach out to him via Facebook. I waited a week and sent him a note.

I’m an impatient person. When I didn’t hear back, I began looking for another teacher.

The problem once again with the internet is that it’s great for revealing information—it really sucks in terms of accessing what that information means.

On Monday I put Danny in the back seat in the midst of a snow squall and drove to South Portland. I pulled up outside a nondescript real estate office. I had no idea what door I was supposed to enter for my lesson. I texted the teacher: he came downstairs. We had our lesson. Continue reading →

Another Late Start

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Back before Al Gore (or whoever) invented the interwebs, retailers like Sears and Montgomery Ward produced thick, colorful catalogs laden with merchandise. The introduction of the latest catalog into a household was a big deal. Sometimes siblings might even fight over who got the first pass at such a rich treasure trove of goodies.

Sears was the shizzle when Amazon was only associated with rain forests and tribes of warrior women. Their catalog, dubbed by some as the “wish book,” was for all intents and purposes an encyclopedia of the American dream.

The traditional department stores (Marshall Field’s, Wanamaker’s) sold higher-end fashion, but Sears had made its reputation selling less expensive but necessary items: socks, underwear, towels and bedding, which helped keep sales going even during the Depression. Sears also sold house kits. Yes, you could actually buy a house from the catalog and from 1908 to 1940, Sears sold between 70,000 to 75,000 homes.

In 1968, the Sears & Robuck catalog boasted 225 pages of toys and 380 pages of gifts for adults, for a grand total of 605 pages. Included in those 600+ pages were musical instruments: specifically, guitars and drum sets. Continue reading →

Democrats Plus One

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Yesterday, the crowded field of Democrats grew by one. This morning, the pundits had more energy than I’ve seen in months. Amazingly, they were talking about someone other than Mayor Pete (still having trouble with “Boot-edge-edge”).

American culture is strewn with the iconic. In terms of popular culture—especially music and rock and roll—there are few icons bigger than Bruce Springsteen. Everyone knows what you’re talking about when you say, “The Boss.”

On our Easter Sunday drive into Maine’s western mountains, I had Springsteen on Spotify shuffle. I was holding court with Mary about why his music mattered and how we need to make a point of seeing him before he hangs up his Telecaster.

Yesterday, I had some late afternoon time to fill. Like I’ve done countless times before in my life with unstructured time, I ended up at a library looking for books.

Sitting on the shelf, calling my name was Peter Ames Carlin’s, Bruce. Not the only bio of The Boss, but one of the better ones, I’ve already read nearly 200 pages in less than 24 hours. Students at tutoring wanted to know what book I was toting around with me last night and I got to give them my own Springsteen story, of “Glory Days,” and what that song means in terms of my own smoldering baseball embers.

Bruce bio by Peter Ames Carlin (2012)

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Gifted

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Back in 1996, Nada Surf had a major hit with their song, “Popular.” It was a take down of the fickle elements of high school popularity.

The band easily could have become just one more one-hit-wonder littering the pop-rock landscape. Their record label wanted another “Popular” and their follow-up didn’t have one. Then, like happens often, the A&R asshole at the label began imposing his total creative cluelessness on the true creatives who made up the band. This process never results in anything positive, and yet labels have been doing this kind of thing, forever. Elektra dropped the band mid-tour, while they were in Europe. So much for “developing talent,” A&R schmuck!

To Nada Surf’s credit, they persevered. This meant touring whenever they could to rebuild U.S. interest in their band, while taking on day jobs to pay the bills. Then, Let Go, their third record, and the true follow-up that they wanted to make to their debut record found a home on tiny Barsuk Records out of Seattle, Washington. The band got solid reviews and here we are, 15+ years later and Nada Surf are still going strong. Continue reading →

The Death of Anthony Bourdain

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I’m not sure when the fetishization of food began, a place in our culture where watching others cook and especially eat became a thing. I found an article that does a good job of capturing the hoopla around food. It’s especially fitting given the death of Anthony Bourdain, who the writer called “the Elvis of bad boy chefs.”

I watched Bourdain’s various shows on Travel Channel over the years, especially “No Reservations.” He was an interesting dude. I always thought I’d enjoy meeting him. I loved the time he was hanging in the desert with his buddy, Josh Homme, of Queens of the Stone Age.

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Who Taught You To Live Like That?

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When I was typing out the title to this post, I accidentally pecked out “who taught you to lie like that.” I had to chuckle because I was thinking that very thing this morning while ruminating about a certain president who resembles a Cheeto, and the prevaricators who carry his water.

But I don’t want to write about him (today).

I blogged about emotional intelligence the other day. Another topic that remains in heavy rotation in my thinking.

Canadian bands and artists have colored my musical palette for quite some time. I think it dates back to a trip to Montreal that our unit of three made back in the early 1990s. I ended up finding a cassette tape by The Tragically Hip (RIP Gord Downie). I became a fanboy from then on for their north-of-the-border take on classic rock.

I finally got to see “The Hip” play live at The State Theater. There were probably 500 people there on a hot August night in ’98 to see Canadian rock royalty perform. The show wasn’t heavily promoted. Mary and I learned about it when a plane flew over Old Orchard Beach pulling a streamer that said, “Tragically Hip at State Theater” that night. I said to her, “we should go.” And we did. It’s probably one of five shows we’ve attended together in our 35 years of marriage. What our pursuit of live music lacks in quantity, I think it more than makes up for in quality, though: Cheap Trick (with UFO opening), Dave Mason, The Grateful Dead, Lucinda Williams (The Bottle Rockets), and The Tragically Hip. Continue reading →

Birthday blog-34

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[Note: I spent much of the weekend thinking and writing about the bond Mark and I shared around writing. We certainly bonded around sports and simply from spending time together when he was in his formative stage. But that doesn’t always guarantee a closeness later in life.

The driver who hit and killed Mark robbed his parents of many things. She robbed me of my only son, and a relationship I’ll never replace. She also took the brightest of personalities, one with passion (and compassion) from a world sorely in need of people like him.

As difficult as 2017 has been, one of the things that keep us going is knowing that Mark had a passion for Earth, other people (and bringing them together), and of course, writing. We founded the Mark Baumer Sustainability Fund earlier this year. We’re happy to announce that we are now a 501(c)3 nonprofit. We also have a brand new website that just went live. Check it out. Also, today would be a great day to remember Mark by making a contribution to the fund. It’s now tax-deductible and a great end-of-year gift to give for a cause that will support causes and organizations that cultivate traits that were part of Mark’s philosophy of life—love, kindness, and working towards building a better and more equitable world for all people.-jb]

 

Birthday Blog, Thirty-four (34)

 

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Developing any craft requires diligence, attention to it, and maybe more than anything else—a dogged determination in cultivating it—regardless of how many people flock to your doorstep. I think this an apt application for both writing and music, too.

I’m not a musician, but I’ve had a passion for various kinds of rock-rooted musicology dating back nearly 50 years. I know a thing or two about it, and what I don’t know experientially, I’ve gleaned from a longstanding tradition of reading what once was known as “rock journalism.” While no longer as prevalent as it once was given the demise of print, there are still outlets where this genre of writing resides.

Since we’re on the topic of writing, I think I can weigh-in on this with definite ink stains on my hands, or perhaps better, a worn keyboard on my laptop. It was 2001—I had read Stephen King’s On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. Afterwards, I decided not to be some occasional dabbler. I set a goal—I wanted to get published. Following King’s prescription, I got up early before work and wrote something every day. After a year of doing this, I got an essay published in Casco Bay Weekly just like King said would happen. I’d really become a writer. Continue reading →