Getting On With It, Somehow

The bed is warm, the room is cold.  There is no particular thing to be done outside the bed on any given day, except everything undone that has been that way for months or years.   It is a luxury and a sentence, staying under the covers where it’s warm since I am not running late, no matter what the clock says.  

Think, man, while you stay warm, there must be something you haven’t thought of that you can do out there.  The dream you’ve worked on for the last few years, and proved again and again is hearty enough to walk in the world, bring happiness and engagement to everyone it touches… well, if you don’t figure something out soon you’ll have to nail it into its tiny coffin.

When three queries are unanswered, and then five, when pitches fall silently into silence, your best shot at a short promo is deemed “almost good enough” by the people with the most media savvy, when the City and State agencies designed to help small businesses have no concrete help to give, don’t even return calls and emails, when the friend of a friend at a large nonprofit declines to forward your pitch to her educational director, as she promised, when the mentor you spoke to once shies away, overwhelmed by the immensity of the challenges your stalled, perfectly working program faces, you start to get a certain picture of your chances.   It is possible that a real winner would not be deterred by the cumulative weight of this, I suppose.  

Bad luck has played its part, the early death by cancer of one of the few people who really got the potential of the program, overpaid for it,  put it in three schools.   Our fees for the sessions at the last school, months after her death, never paid, her business went under, angry parents also ripped off when they brought their kids for the first day of summer camp and found the program gone.  No current workshop to sustain my spirits, the program’s viability.

Making a convincing, winning pitch, closing deals like a successful salesman in Glengarry Glen Ross, seems to be the only way this thing can be sustained.  Read a good book on the subject by a guy who set up a consulting agency to help people get it right the first time.  He teaches them to speak well, to the point, convincingly, and close the deal.  They do indeed have a discounted rate for non-profits, I learned yesterday when I finally called them at a friend’s urging.  One four hour session, the recommended dose, special price for not for profits:  $3,000.  

“What’s your budget?” the breezy receptionist asks when I seem to balk at the number.  “Maybe we can work with you.”  She later recommended that perhaps the budget two hour session would be helpful, only $1,500 at the discounted rate, and probably more than half as valuable as the full session.

There must be some kind of way out of here, as the song goes.  Working on a soundtrack the other night I pictured the five way headphone splitter, four kids and I sitting around the laptop with garageband open.   I’m getting them started.  Listening to the beat with a bass track open, I’d show them how to lay down a simple bass line, let one of the kids play it.  Add a piano track, pick one note in that key (we’d use A minor, the white keys), lay it in on or off the beat in a spare pattern over the bass, see how music is starting to suggest itself?  The next kid adds a touch, the fourth kid adds a drum, kid number one adds a sound effect.  Showing them the importance of really listening to the other parts, playing sparely and leaving space in the mix for other things to be heard.   There are many music making apps that let you create music tracks intuitively, no knowledge of music necessary, but showing them how to lay parts against each other, using actual notes, seems the better way to go.  A kid or two will discover she is a musician and begin to pursue it.  

I am day dreaming again, clearly, to keep from screaming at the frustration of the situation I have gently placed myself in by not knowing the first thing about business and marketing, and knowing much too much about fucking creativity for its own sake.  Meantime, it’s cold in here, I have to get into the shower and into a shirt and pants.

 

is the bass too loud?

The recurring cackle is by Robin Williams, from a 2010 interview during which Marc Maron, the interviewer, elicits this reaction.  I have remixed this improvised track several times.  Is the bass too loud on this mix?

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embed experiment

Experimental embedding of an audio file.  Check it out, the opening scene of Shagsbee’s Julius Caesar, with a bit of crude improvisation by one of the rude mechanicals, and then some page flipping for a random soliloquy and some other chance dialogue.   Apparently recorded on July 3, 1998.

Animation by several creative adults

Animation created by several inventive women in four July 2014 sessions at the Creative Center, NYC.  Beautiful stuff.

with thanks to Django Reinhardt (1910-1953) (I’ll See You In My Dreams, Low Cotton– with Barney Bigard on clarinet) and Paul Greenstein (glistening glissentar on my track “Now Before I Go”)  Although this not for profit use is “fair use” I should get permissions from whoever currently owns the rights to Django’s genius…

Don’t Blow It!

There is a John Philips Sousa march, bluegrass, Chopin, blues, jazz and more. All music, but some of it moves us, some doesn’t. Different drummers, different strokes, fashions change, sometimes stay the same. It’s a nervous world out there, and I know you know what I’m talking about. As the music is about to start a friend yells “don’t blow it!”

Doesn’t yell, in so many words, it’s conveyed by the look on her face. “Oh, God, he’s gonna blow it…” wincing and tension as I wait to jump in, splash, just off the beat. When I’m playing I’m not worried, not counting, splashing in it like a kid, but she’s nervous for me, I can see the blood beating in her temples. Certain I am not suave, in the moment, able to groove along with the groove with no thought but the groove, the whole groove and nothing but the groove.

“When did you turn into Homer Simpson?” she asks and I go “Doh!”. So cruel, even if true, it’s like a hammer right on the fingernail. But not enough to make me drop a beat, and it stings only for a second.

“That’s what 35 years since the last time we made it’ll do for you, dollface,” I tell her, bending a note, raising an eyebrow like a glass.

“What is this raising of the glass?” she asks, “I thought you were on the wagon.”

“The world is a wagon, sweetheart,” I tell her, having no doubt she does not buy a word of it. Here comes the B part, I hit the telltale bass notes going in hard, with body language, land on the chord, nod, signal the other guys we’re here.

“Don’t blow it!” she chants like a mantra as we make our way around the chorus and back to the top.

“The head, you mean,” she says.

“Since the procedure I don’t need to go to the head for hours at a time,” I think to myself. The cops refer to the unwashed room with the toilet in it as the head. Ask for a bathroom they’ll point and tell you “the head’s the second door on the right.” Me, I always piss in the first room no matter what.

“Tough talk from a cartoon character,” she says, not without a small smirk.

“Too bad the guy who does my voice makes all the Doh!” I tell her, and then I’m done with the conversation. The music is too engaging, got its claws raking my back in the most pleasurable way. I have no time at the moment to worry that people are worried for me. I’d worry myself, but we’re heading back into that beautiful B part.

A little more love for Florence

I wrote to thank Florence’s children and grandchildren for a wonderful and inspiring celebration of a remarkable and brilliant old friend.  I’d been moved and distracted yesterday, when I spoke briefly at the memorial, during one of the breaks in the string ensemble’s performance of some of Florence’s favorite pieces, and wanted to make sure to add these thoughts:

Florence was an inspiration to many people, and to me in particular.  Her embrace of every aspect of creativity, and her nurturing of creativity in others, had a deep influence on me.  Her gentleness, her wide-ranging intellect, her humor, her love of life and her art work exerted a subtle but strong transformational force.  I attribute much of the best of who I am today to her generous, kind, whimsical influence, and her love.
 
Her beloved little brother told me, under a gentle interrogation, that she took some piano lessons for a while but never got that far on the instrument.  Still, this most musical painter’s love of music, and understanding of the underlying geometry of Bach’s music, was so profound that she could effortlessly put a counterpoint melody in exactly the right place against and among the beats and notes in a two part rock guitar jam.  It delights me as much now, remembering it, as it did when she sang that invention in real time late one night in the living room on Aberdeen Road, not long before her 90th birthday.
 
It could be said that her art deserved to be more widely known, and that she should have had some measure of fame and financial security from her brilliant, deep and masterfully executed paintings and other works.  Though she would have no doubt liked those things, I don’t think it bothered her very much as she went about her life and work.   She had more substantial things on her mind.   As Russ pointed out (and as she described in that wonderful piece about the creative benefits she derived from smoking), all of her many interests and loves seemed to focus themselves more and more into that hard to describe source of light and life energy that emanated from and flowed into the center of many of her paintings and her octamandalagons.  I watched happily as the mysterious force that Russ described shone out of the images in the slide show, as her favorite music was beautifully played and she was present, smiling, in that room.
 
I wrote this shortly after she died, and I meant to share it as well:
 
 
and two links to Florence’s work and words