Electric or acoustic?

Ah yes, the eternal question. Since Dylan pissed off an entire generation of folkies by plugging in and cranking it up it's been a controversy, though not really. Not that this is a fair comparison, the audience I'm most likely to piss off would be my downstairs neighbors. And with the electric, at least I can turn it down in a pinch.

For me it should be a matter entirely of the heart, but it's also logistical. The acoustic is easier to carry, no amp. Also, in the first band, many blue moons ago, I watched my guitarist pals endure endless cycles of anxiety and despair in search of the perfect guitar. And, just as the climbers of Everest realize when they reach the summit that their journey is only half complete, obtaining the perfect guitar meant beginning the search for the perfect amp. So I was wary of the electric.

The acoustic has just always felt good to me. I like it on my body, the vibes are good, to hear it is to also feel it. But I've been playing the acoustic for many years now, and it just seems a time to change it up a bit. I have an electric that I picked out with Ed many years ago, and it's been my go-to for recording. It's my poor-man's partscaster, I've changed pickups willy nilly to try things out. I've always plugged right into the board through a little direct box of some sort, and a couple of years ago Ed sent me a little multi purpose guitar amp, which is fun and useful.

But I wanted more, after all, variety is good for the brain and fingers, keeps 'em curious. So in a fit of retail therapy, I bought a decent electric and an amp in one throw. I have to say I fell in love with the combo in the store, and I'd been itching for a new sound for some time. I don't want to get into brand names, I'm not really superstitious in that way. Because I know that just as the gods of tone love may smile down upon me with that thrummy feeling of playing a nice instrument, I may find myself one day falling out of love with it. I hope this never happens, but I've seen it before and I worry.

Until then, I've got some switches to flip and knobs to turn. My new favorite old thing: tremolo. Dang.

New Gig! Thursdays in 2010!

Got a new gig, very excited about it. Dixon Place has asked me to take Thursdays in their upstairs space, called The Lounge. It's been acting as a lobby, but they got their liquor license, and when they got their first shipment of alcohol, for some reason, they thought of me.

I get to do my own thing and have guests as well. I'll likely be starting out solo acoustic with that whole singing thing I do. I've been working on a crop of cover tunes for the people and I'm keen to try that out.

It'll be at:
The Lounge at Dixon Place
161 Chrystie Street
7pm until 10, more or less
Every Thursday starting January 7th
No cover, we'll likely pass the hat so I'll be sure to wear one.

I'll keep y'all posted.

Upcoming good stuff

• I'll help to produce Ed Summerfield's first solo album. He's got a pile of great songs that need tapin'.
• Record some new Bill Pace songs. He says he's got some, and I have no reason to doubt him.
• Alison is making her singing debut at Lincoln Center, in one of the cool little halls. Gonna record it, you bet.
• Ukulele Cabaret is back at Banjo Jim's, coming up in a couple of weeks.
• Kent says he's working on a story about a language. I'm looking forward to reading it.
• The laundry will be done in about 10 minutes, once it's folded, it shall be finished.

Ok, I think I'm back.

I do see the light, way off over there. Go...towards...light...

Update, progress, new

Things a touch better, maybe not better, but trending more positively...

Progress Report

Weird summer, now it's fall. Emptiness continues, don't like to complain, but feel need to keep it straight up. Things are very good and not feeling good at the same time, I tell myself this is the normal state of life after a certain point. How happy is a person supposed to be?

Usually busy with a million projects, now feel more like occupied with a hundred plans but don't know where to start. Like at this moment, trying to microwave some raviolis, but must thaw them out first. The beeper keeps beeping before I think it's over. I go to the microwave, it says "turn".

Turn. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

Progress Report

And yet again, today, not really that much either.

Progress

Today, not so much.

Jim Bradley memorial to Tom Humphrey 10/10/09

------ Forwarded Message
From: Jim Bradley <xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
Date: Tue, 13 Oct 2009 07:41:42 -0400
To: "Bradley, James"
Conversation: TOM
Subject: TOM

Lights up on audio – opening track from “Apocalypse Now” soundtrack – The Doors, “The End.”

Tom liked The Doors. He admitted that to me once.

Tom Humphrey. TH. Tom. Coach. My teacher. My mentor. My friend. He was Mr. Humphrey for the first 3 years I knew him. In the crowd I hung out with in high school, it was a rite of passage when you could call him Tom. It is the middle of the night here in NY and thanks to Carmen I have just finished watching the 2 plus hour North Carolina memorial video on the web. I feel a little lost. Lonely. Sad. Mad. All of it...

I make my living as a director now. And Tom was there at the beginning of it all; he opened the door to this world of creativity and helped ignite this passion for bringing ideas to life that still singes the inside of my skull -- at times it literally hurts my head. First at Newark High School in 1974 and then at Weathervane Playhouse and later at Millbrook Playhouse and finally in San Diego. The thing I remember most about Tom's work was his uncanny sense of setting the table. Preshows. Music to set the tone. Establishing the spine from the first sound/light/set cue. I find I use that sensibility every day. It all has to connect to your thesis.

I have lived in New York for the last 20 years and remember when my desire to be here began. And again Tom was there. August, 1979. He and I spent a whirlwind few days together running through museums and seeing shows. And in those few days my life unmistakably changed. First, "Sweeney Todd" at the Uris, to this day the most unforgettable evening spent in a theatre audience (talk about your preshow!). And the next day my introduction to 70MM film, my first movie (front row, rear section) at the Ziegfeld, and the first afternoon matinee of "Apocalypse Now" (they handed out a program with the credits as there were no opening or closing titles for the 70MM version of the film). From the helicopter pan of the theater in the dark that opens the movie to the final sound of the rains falling at the end, my little brain got bigger and bigger. Don't remember what time the show was but I remember exiting the theater with Tom afterwards and sitting in the Plaza just outside the Ziegfeld in the bright sunlight, feeling numb and a little woozy. It was around this time I had the dawning realization that movies -- and not theatre -- was what I wanted to do with my life. It was strange to be there with Tom, my theater mentor as it slowly dawned on me that his world -- the theatre -- was not my future. But somehow it made sense that he was beside me at that exact moment. We talked about the movie for hours.

And soon after we hopped in Tom's piece of shit yellow car (what the hell WAS that thing anyway?) and drove like a bat out of hell from NY to San Diego. I think it was 70 or 80 something hours that we were in that car together eating, sleeping, singing, talking -- no hotel rooms -- just drive, switch seats, sleep, switch seats, drive. We did pull off into a parking lot somewhere in Kansas but neither of us got out of the car, just slept in our seats ("Never get out of the boat, absolutely god damn right...") And then, bleary eyed, we emerge from our smelly cocoon and we’re in Las Vegas -- Tom liked Vegas -- so that he could feed his gambling Jones. It was Labor Day and the fucking Telethon was going on and there were people in wheelchairs and metal crutches EVERYWHERE collecting money for Jerry's kids – (“What the World Needs NOW, is LOVE, SWEET LOVE...”). And me, poor college student that I was, stumbling around Las Vegas, broke, bleary, dirty -- freaking because I don't gamble and because it was/is really REALLY weird in Vegas, even during a "regular" day. And finally I can't stand the constant begging for "the kids" and I step back into Circus Circus and Tom is just finishing up, losing the last of his money, cigarette dangling from his lips, drinking and pokering and as happy as can be, truly like a pig is shit, IN HIS ELEMENT...

Finally we get the fuck out of there and march on to the sea, Cardiff by the Sea. And it was my first time in California. And I would move there when I graduated from college in 2 years. And of course Tom had a hand in it…

I am mad that you didn't take care of yourself. That you continued to run the redlights through all the warnings signs for all those last years until it was too late. I am sad that I didn't respond to the last email from you because I didn't know what to say and just kept putting it off until I had the time to say it. I am sad that you never got that thing you were after in your life (did you?). I am deeply sad that I won't get to see you again. I am sorry that the whole world didn't know you and mourn along with us at your passing.

But most of all, I am forever glad to have known you. You changed my life.

Love forever, Jimmy.

FADE OUT.

------ End of Forwarded Message

The NYC version of the Tom Humphrey Memorial

Date: Sat, 3 Oct 2009 08:59:25 -0400
Subject: The Tom Thing

Hey y'all,

So here is the scoop for Saturday 10/10

We are gathering around 6:30 at Carmen's place of work - Du-Art Media Services at 245 W. 55th St. between Broadway & 8th on the 9th Floor. Access to the building can sometimes be funky, so if you have trouble getting in, call Carmen or DB and we will come down to get you in.

This is a BYOB affair, but we will have water, cups, glasses, ice and munchies.

Once we are all assembled we will figure out what to do about dinner - we'll probably order in, or there are various pubs in the neighborhood where we could go if people prefer. Some people are bringing old photos so if you have stuff like that to share, bring it, baby!

Phones: Carmen 917-607-4332 DB xxx-xxx-xxxx

As for the entertainment portion of the evening - here are the highlights: Jim Bradley and Charlie Sullivan are nearly finished with their multi-media presentation inspired by Kristina Katz called "Behind the Bleachers", while Jim Simpson will be reading a short epic poem by Christian Northcote. Russell will decide between giving a modern dance rendition of "As Tom plunges through the west wing floor" or "Baseball-headed men I have known" and while Val will be singing "The Ballad of Kyle and Jane...and Tom".

Can't wait to see you all again!

XOXOX

DB

Progress Report

Still nothing, really. Maybe soon.

Progress report

Not today. Maybe tomorrow.

Progress report

Today, nothing.

New CD: The Red Circle Line

Okay folks, it's been a nutty couple of weeks. South is down, for now, and I've divided my new schedule between catching up with my actual job and sleeping.

Now for all of you who may not have been fortunate, or crazy enough to make it to New York City for South, I've naturally got another thing going. Somewhere in the rehearsal process for South, I wrapped a new CD, The Red Circle Line. The title honors my daily commute into midtown by subway to extract money from the man, or a man. Or sometimes the Woman. Whatever. In any case, it's a wonderful piece of musical output, and you will be certainly pleased by it if you pick up a copy.

Now I'm not going to get into that "hey, support me because I'm an artist" thing, although I do crave support. No, you should check it out because it contains some truly great music and I think you will like it. These songs are good. A guy at work said, "It would be great if you could get some guitar and drums in these like a normal album, but even with the ukulele or whatever that is, I was humming these tunes on the way into work today. Weird."

See, people like this stuff.

Go, listen to some pieces, and if you're interested, then buy it online, because unless you come ring my doorbell in the Bronx, that's where you're going to get it.

If you'd like to be supportive, but don't want to spend any money, I have another offer. Listen to the snippets on itunes or CDBaby, post a comment on CDbaby or itunes, let me know you did it so I can check it out and I'll send you a copy for nuthin'. Of course, if you do not wish to waste precious time reviewing the actual music, you may simply provide a testimonial on those sites regarding my character and I'll honor the commitment. Writing is good for you! Even if you trash me out with a scandalously negative review, I'll still send you a CD. You may be able to make a few bucks selling it on ebay (where most of my sales occur), but whatever, I'm into redistribution of wealth, even my own, such as it is. This offer is especially good for Kent, as he pontificates so beautifully about quality music, and I long to be included in his commentary.

A few facts: I wrote all of it and played most of it. Some spectacularly sexy vocals by Alison Davy, to whom I'm married. (TMI?) Eric Garfinkel played guitar on one song, and I should have used him on more. Brian Dewan did a beautiful painting for the cover. Alan Silverman of Arf Digital in NYC mastered it for that extra special something. All in all, it's a no-miss event.

So that's the deal at the moment. Download it on itunes for 10 bucks (fire up itunes, type in Carmen Borgia in the itunes store) or buy the CD on CD baby for 10.99 plus shipping. More info can be had here on my Web site. Come on, go do it!

Man, marketing my own stuff is hard. Almost makes me wish I was on a record label.

Sonny's sub recipe, first recollection

Recipe for Sonny's sub, to the best of my recollection:
This works best with a time travel device that takes you to 1975 or so.

- 1 Hero roll, white flour based, custom made to order at the IGA bakery on Mt. Vernon Road
- 3 slices cappicola hot ham from DiPaolo distributors, Columbus, OH
- 3 slices hard salami from DiPaolo distributors, Columbus, OH
- A leaf or two of sliced iceberg lettuce
- A ring of thinly sliced onion
- A small ladle or two of equal parts shaken oil and vinegar plus Sonny's secret spice mixture
- 3 or 4 oz coarsely grated low-moisture mozzarella cheese from DiPaolo distributors, Columbus, OH

Slice the hero roll lengthwise. Sprinkle the grated mozzarella on BOTH SIDES of the sliced roll, bake it in pizza oven at 325 degrees until mozzarella gets a bit brown on the peaks. Slip it out of the oven and quickly spread out the cappicola and salami over the molten cheese, dress with iceberg lettuce and onion and then hit it with a generous wash of the oil and vinegar dressing. Pop the top on that sucker, slice it into two halves and eat it before it cools.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

In a moment of lazy nostalgia in NYC around 1990 in the East Village, I went into an Italian pizza shop that had subs. I asked the guy, "Make me your regular sub, but can you toast the cheese on it and then put the meat and everything else on cold?" The cook behind the counter said, "Oh yeah, I know about that way."

I went back about five more times over the next few months and each time the cook saw me he just nodded and started making the sandwich. Deep.

The Day After Closing South

Had a very fun and packed final weekend. Thank you to everyone who attended, supported, listened, put up with and cheered from the sidelines. What a hoot this has been!

I don't want to go overboard with the thank you's (You like me, you really like me!), but what a great team effort. It's been a truly fortunate time for me to have been able to play with so many talented and dedicated people. I can only hope that this has been as much fun for my collaborators as it's been for me. Cast, direction, design and tech crew all put out hugely, and people could see it on stage. Dixon Place was of course there from the beginning. The love and support they provide to artists such as myself is essential. I believe that many great works will emerge from the Chrystie Street theater. Maybe we'll be one of them. What a cool thing to be included in this opening season.

Now we get to load the scenery, props and costumes out of Dixon Place. The crate and props go to the apartment (!), the instruments back into the studio and the costumes back to the Costume Collection.

I've been asked what's next for South, and the truth is, first, a long nap. Then, dunno! We have great video of the show, and that must be edited so we can show it around. Another run? A CD? Film it, animate it? Hmmm...anybody looking for a show for their theater?

Onward!

A few reviews of South

Only one weekend to go! Here are some reviews...

A few from theatermania.com:

Crazy Fun! by theaterlady

Ive been losing faith in the off-off-Broadway world because, so often, the playwrights try so hard to be edgy or different they forget that theres an audience that may want to be engaged and, god-forbid, entertained. SOUTH is simple and complex, deep and frothy, meaningful and playful. The staging was creative and unique, the performers, just dynamite! THANK YOU!

posted on 06/15/2009 at 8:34:00 PM

Review: Excellent option! by lisasf

For those who appreciate creative, talented, off beat, poignant, funny, you'll LOVE South! The love child of Carmen Borgia, a quirky, hip, brilliant musician, with Bill Pace directing, its no suprise South takes you on an unexpected journey. Its refreshing when a musical surprises you with a destination you never imagined getting to. Since Broadway has turned Hollywood, you need to go downtown for all the exhiliratingly original pieces, which South has in plenty! Not only is the writer an amazingly accomplished musician/singer/songwriter, but the cast is filled with top notch performers. This supremely talented, highly enjoyable cast will impress in all the right ways. With Doug Skinner (Bill Irwin's partner in crime for years), Bill Tost (The Fantastiks), alongside Robb Sherman, Sadrina Johnson, Michael D'Emedio and Alison Davy you'll want to have seen South when it opens with the original cast, trust me! You'll be one of the cool kids who can say, "I was there when South was in a 100 seat theater in the East Village, how cool is that??"

posted on 06/06/2009 at 7:03:00 AM

Review: RE:Worth a look by jerrynick

Caught a preview, pretty cool music - Magnetic Fields meets Wilco....

posted on 06/03/2009 at 10:53:00 PM

- - - - - - - - - -
Various email salutations and encouragements...

Just got back from seeing South, a nautical musical by Ukulele Cabaret regular, Carmen Borgia. All I have to say is, GO SEE IT! It also features Ukulele Cabaret Regulars Doug Skinner and Alison Davy.

Ted Gottfried, Sonic Uke
- - - - - - - - - -
CONGRATULATIONS my friend !!! What a great work!
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The show was great fun and I look forward to seeing and hearing more from you!
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Hey Carmen, saw the show over the weekend and really enjoyed it- particularly the ukulele number. Awesome work man! Congrats!
- - - - - - - - - -
I loved the show last night! Hope we can catch it again the last weekend...
- - - - - - - - - -
What an incredible show! So many quotable lines, singable tunes, stunning characterizations...I LOVED IT! If you are ANYWHERE close to NYC in June, you must see it!
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What a delightful and delicious romp!

What's my motivation?

photo by Alison Davy

As an adoptee, family for me has long been a concept that I’ve felt I could rise above. If a child can be efficiently moved from one set of parents to another, then why all the fuss about where one came from, nationality or even the nature of one’s self? For many years it all seemed so simple.

South is a hummable response to my journey of searching for - and meeting - my birth mother. What started as something like intellectual curiosity tumbled for me like a log rolling down a hill, picked up momentum and ultimately became a personal odyssey. The dramas were small on the outside, but I found myself questioning my most basic assumptions of family and birthright. The emotions that I felt over the course of a year of phone calls, navigation between two clans and actually meeting a person who was eerily familiar in spite of being a total stranger screamed more or less into my ear to be shared, but how? I’d become acquainted with the standard search and reunion texts of Springer, Winfrey and Dr. Phil, but they all felt a bit vulgar… in a bad way. And so, a musical!

The whole trip for me was undeniably nautical; it felt lawless and far from terra firma. It was also a journey back in time, so it had to be a period piece. Since I’d met a number of unusual and helpful people along the way it would be a road trip. And because I’d always hoped – ultimately in vain – that my biological parents would be itinerant Cuban gymnasts, I went with Latin flavors of music, which I’ve always loved. I wanted to hit every permutation of family connection and abandonment: people leave, are taken, torn from one another, welcomed, feted, sold and freed and in the end we find our true families where we may. I hope that South reflects the curiosity, hope, hilarity, shock, acceptance and joy that may happen on a voyage such as this one. I also hope to have made some songs worth singing along the way.

South Opens This Week

"South" opens at Dixon Place this week! Come and check it out. Here's the draw:

It's a beautiful and hilarious nautical journey set in 1860 on the north coast of South America aboard a leaky merchant ship, the Worthy. As you may have heard, it's got a sailor, a cook, a captain, pirates, lesbian cannibals (the good kind), a monk, nuns, filthy townspeople and bandits. There may be more, a lot happens. Of course it's got that music I write; lyric-driven tunes that celebrate the tricky aspects of life. It's accompanied by guitar, ukulele, accordion, percussion, autoharp, marxoharp and upright bass.

It's a full production in an intimate space.
We have an excellent ensemble cast:
Carmen Borgia
Alison Davy
Michael A. D'Emidio
Sadrina Johnson
Robb Sherman
Dan Shuman
Doug Skinner
Bill Tost

It's been brilliantly directed by William Bradley Pace and choreographed by Kriota Willberg. The whole shebang was commissioned by the new Dixon Place for their state-of-the-art theater because they thought people oughta see it.

The deets:
Three weekends in June - 12, 13, 19, 20, 26, 27 @ 7:30 pm
Dixon Place 161 Chrystie Street, NYC
$18 General admission, $12 Seniors and students
212-219-0736
www.dixonplace.org
Reservations are probably a good idea.

This one is not to be missed!

Theatermania

Hey, we're on theatermania. I feel so New York. If you're feeling participatory, join the site and post a comment there... :)

9 days out

Moonlit night at sea by Mary Rasure

Opening next week and all is well. Some highlights of the past couple of days.
- I heard Bill Tost sing Yonder tonight and it made me weep in the good way.
- Sadrina and I tried When I Find You in another key, and it really sprung to life.
- Doug and Alison and I worked on Bless The Creatures and chose to err on the side of beauty.
- Michael not only nailed the guitar feel for It's An Adventure To Talk To A Stranger, he improved it.
- Last night we ran the entire first act and the wheels came off of the bus only once, where a tricky guitar handoff did not go unnoticed.
- Got to see some projection art by Mary, I've included my favorite above.

Ukuleles Of Love! The Benefit for South!!!

What it is:
A benefit for South, buy dinner if you like and consume it.
Very talented people play their songs on ukuleles in our honor,
we pass the hat.
Full menu available, drink specials benefit South.

Where it's at:
Satsko
245 Eldridge Street (Between Houston and Stanton)
NYC, 212-358-7773

http://www.satsko.com/

When it is:
Tuesday May 26th, 7-9pm

Who's hosting:
Ted Gottfried and Jason Tagg, fathers (mothers?) of the Ukulele Cabaret!

Why you must attend:
It will be good.

Who's playing:
Carmen Borgia and Doug Skinner - doing some songs from the brand-new musical South.

David Hornbuckle - Songwriter, singer, author, Birmingham exile with a uke and an axe to grind, be it standards, originals, lo-fi, hi-fi, sheet music or the rest. A comprehensive artiste!

Jamie Scandal - The finest femme fatale ever to crush a ukulele to her breast, always fun, always sly. Has a dirty laugh, and is good at heart. If we're lucky she does the song about Leonardo DiCaprio. Having said that, it's impossible to choose a fave.

Sonic Uke - Jason and Ted will rock hard and perhaps even be rock hard. Grass skirts, lycra pants or both, who can predict what they will do?

Sweet Soubrette - Talented and sexy, the queen of the nylon string plays the most fetching tunes of her own devising. I love her yearning songs of hope and betrayal. Will you break her heart or will she break yours?

Reggie Wingnutz - Superior British invasion rock with a uke. I play a game where I try to recognize him after the show and usually lose.

Khabu Young Dog - The jazzy heart and soul of the ukulele, a brilliant arranger and conceiver of songs. His version of Row Your Boat is quite moving and I'm not kidding, even a little.

A few thoughts on the ukulele:
I've met people who feel the ukulele is a silly or trivial instrument, presumably because it is small. This is like saying a diamond is ugly because it is tiny. Some uke players develop a complex about this and project a negative outlook. Others revel in their difference and stride through the world, brave and proud. I'd like to cut through all of that to say simply that the ukulele, in the proper hands, is as lovely an instrument as can be had. It may convey beauty, victory, loss, transcendance, despair, joy, hunger, struggle, hilarity, and even silliness and triviality. Like a fine violin or a flute, it has the advantage of being easy to transport, and thus can be present for discreet duty at a variety of functions, from the triumphant to the tragic. I know these things because I've heard them all myself at various times, by some of these very players.

I use the ukulele here and there in South, it was one of the instruments that helped to shape the piece, even when it didn't end up in the final arrangement. Doug Skinner will be performing some of those tunes, and he is certainly among my favorite players, with a special talent for the articulate strum - he somehow gets definition from every string with each stroke of his hand - making the instrument feel magically larger and more intricate than one would imagine, which I take to be a fine outcome for any musical performance.

So if you're new to the uke, or if you're an old hand, come and check it out. Not because we need the money, though heaven knows we do, but because it will be a good night out.

The Director Must Have A Ship!

And this is the lumber with which I will build it! (Expect the ship to resemble a crate.)

How The Show Is Like A Child

The show is hungry.
It's favorite foods are actors, music and a good story. It must have clothing, toys (props & scenery), housing (a theater); things that enable it to play and develop and grow. It must have a gun and a sword and a rubber fish.

The show cries.
It wants another song, more dialogue, rehearsal time and time off from rehearsal. It must have the banana tree but is anxious the bathtub filled with water - the best idea I've ever had - will fall through the floor. It demands a play space as big as a theater. When it is unhappy, it lets me know.

The show keeps me up at night.
Worrying, planning and interpreting strange dreams that sometimes wake me.

The show naps.
It can't always be busy.

The show learns to walk.
Yesterday the actors started to become the characters all by themselves, which made the parents proud.

The show delights.
The singers made some amazing harmonies in the first group vocal rehearsal, which was like having eaten all of it's vegetable without being prompted.

The show acts out.
It craves attention, puts on cranky-pants and behaves irrationally. I can't allow the show to set the agenda! I am stern, I must be a grown-up! I cajole and negotiate and strive to give it things that are good for it. Sometimes I try to make it happy just because that makes me happy.

The show needs love.
And I need to love it.

5 Questions for Bill Pace

Photo by Hillary Bradley

1. What is your role in South?

My official title is "director", but I also like air traffic controller because I see an important part of my job being that everything on-stage flies clearly, cleanly and beautifully ... while also making sure there are no mid-air collisions.

2. What is the show about?
For me, SOUTH is learning that finding the truth about yourself goes beyond just locating who gave birth to you.

And that you can't trust over-caffeinated monks.

Or stinky ship cooks.

But you can trust cannibal lesbians!

3. What music have you listened to in the past week?
Oh man ... if I tell you, I could be banned from this musical! Oh well, here goes:

Street Sweeper
Nashville Pussy
K'naan
Nine Inch Nails
The Vacation
Supersuckers
Bon Iver
LA Guns
The New Pornographers
The Toxic Avenger Musical (seriously!)
Devi
The Donnas
Jay Rock
Heartless Bastards
Cracker
Mad Science Fair
Oh, and some guy named Carmen Borgia.

4. What other gigs do you have going on lately?
Too many!!

Screenwriter
Screenwriting & Filmmaking teacher at New School
Program Advisor for New School
Screenwriting consultant
Videographer
Running Open Caption screens for deaf groups at theaters

5. Who is your hero and why?
Hmmm ... right now I'd have to say Pres. Obama. First off, just the fact that we have an African-American president with an Arabic name is just amazing beyond belief! But beyond that, he was asked not to run yet, to wait and let Hillary have her turn while he gained more experience in the senate, but he wanted the presidency, went for it and made it happen, all while doing so in a very classy manner. On top of that, he said he represented change and since getting in office he is proving himself to be just that.

And the fact that he's a fellow Illinoisan don't hurt either!

5a. You may change the questions.
What about the answers?

The South Fan Page on Facebook is Here.

Back East

It's midnight and my nerves are jangled
Down the jetway at a Batman angle
They strap us into narrow seats
And feed us trays of runny eats
And jet our sorry asses back east

Back to the land of subway rails
Where oven summer heat prevails
People sweat on rooftop decks
The new arrivals curse and wreck
Their taxis in the traffic back east

In the west the weather's nice
And everybody has a car
All the people like themselves
Just the way they are

We're flyin' down the BQE
The driver breaks some laws for me
It's great to be in old New York
My baby called in sick to work
To spend the day with me back east

From the CD, "The Red Circle Line" by Carmen Borgia

Dixon Place

Our first "South" reading at the old Dixon Place on Bowery.
Photo by Norberto Valle

I've heard it said that New York is over, gone, wiped out by Wall Street, real estate, the Web, progress, everything. And it certainly is. But it is also ever here if you know where to look.

About a week after I landed in New York in the late 80's I went to see some friends play music in the East Village. The show was good, but what really stuck was the space. It was on First Street, you came down a few steps and entered a little apartment with a couple of sofas and a bunch of unmatched chairs arranged before the stage, which was the width of the apartment, maybe twelve feet, and about eight feet deep. The back wall of the stage had a door that led to the kitchen/bedroom, with a little window beside it. The window was the bar for pre-show tea and cookies. The audience filled the whole space while the performers set up and chatted, then for the show everybody took their seats to enjoy a lovely, intimate evening with the performers.

After the show I met the proprietress, Ellie Covan, and nervously gave her a newly-minted cassette tape of my songs. In a day or so she called me excitedly, "This is really great music! You've got to come play here!" I didn't even have a band, but her glowing enthusiasm set a fire under me and I put one together with my girlfriend and a drummer pal. Over the years I have done innumerable gigs at Dixon Place as a solo performer as well as accompanist and sound designer. In those primordial days of spirited performance art and unguided struggle, Ellie would open each show with a short tune on accordion, casting forth a vocal performance as notable for it's pluck as it's intonation, and the audience would sing along with "Goodnight Irene" or "Sentimental Journey" as they saw fit.

Dixon Place hosted works-in-progress, high value was placed on inventiveness and the glory of impulse. Each night, two new performances, 20-40 minutes each. If you went a few nights running you might see one pretty good show, one WTF gig and another with gleamings, and maybe even the steady glow, of pure brilliance. Writers reading, songwriters singing, puppeteers hiding behind papier-maché alter egos. One on one, before I ever had a client; no guest, no host, just some people in a hot room packed and intent and fighting a constant climatic battle with air conditioning or steam heat. Close enough to smell the actors, close enough to feel things. This was a place for the honest and the curious as well as those who liked to watch. When I think of theatre at it's most essential, this is the memory that manifests most clearly.

Time passed and stuff happened, maturity finally caught up with me, sort of. The city appears to have become something completely different, neighborhoods that terrified me then are now where the well-off reside, which terrifies me in a different way. People who I thought would always be a quick subway hop away have wafted far off to a misty distance of weird recollection. My own goals and routines have shifted through so many variations over the years that I can make neither head nor tail of any of it at all, nothing is as it was and all has changed irretrievably.

But the Place is still there. A spot to gather, pour forth, express - still downtown, nearby in a neighborhood where cookware is sold and cars drive by too fast, soup lines unwind, street musicians riff and random doors are lit at 1am. Dixon Place left the 1st Street pad years ago and moved to a loft on Bowery. From there it did a stint at a theater on 2nd Avenue, and then returned to a smaller conversion of the loft. Now more than 20 years after I first laid eyes on the institution, Ellie and her amazing crew of conspirators, after a persistent and arduous campaign lasting several years, have succeeded in building a brand-new, several million dollar space on Chrystie Street, and it is inarguably great. It's got an intimate 100 seats, a computer lighting system, a crack tech crew and support staff, and the paint is still drying in places. And, in yet another of their many instances of exquisite judgment, they have given me the fine honor and happy opportunity to do South as part of the opening season.

It's not the supa-tight squeeze the original venue was, but what could be? And I couldn't have fit this show in there anyway. I'm trying to talk Steve, the technical director and lighting designer, into letting us put a bathtub on the stage, and there is no way that would have made it into the old place. Progress!

So as we go about our rehearsals and preparations, Bill, Jenny and I frequently find ourselves asking, how can we use the new space? Where should the seats go, and might we use a platform or a scaffold? Hang up a big sail to project upon or have someone sing from the balcony? It is unusual in New York City that one gets to present in a venue that can take so many forms in which audience and performers may share an evening. Plus, we get the time-honored benefit of hanging with the Dixon Place regulars while we're putting it all together. Life is good!

The South Fan Page on Facebook is Here.

Heading South

So, I went and wrote a musical. It's called South, it's set in 1860 and is about a young sailor's search for his parents. It's a grown-up nautical yarn wherein we meet pirates, filthy townfolk, well-adjusted lesbian cannibals, an over-caffeinated monk, a curious dealer of religious artifacts and...well, I wouldn't want to spoil it.

Last week we got mostly cast and then had our table reading on Sunday. I played guitar and sang the songs, which felt like a bit of a celebration. It was marvelous to hear the script out loud with the real people. This show has been in my head forever, and for it to spool out into the room was not only flattering and fun, but also a relief to hear people read and respond to it. When I heard the first ripple of laughter at what was actually a laugh line, I started to strum a little easier. Of course, we've got a lot of work ahead to make it happen, but I call this a great day.

Really excellent cast and crew, here come the credits! Alison is doing the cool worldly ladies. Sadrina Johnson is playing Arabella, the disgusting cook's spicy daughter. Robb Sherman is Wheeler, the questing Sailor. Bill Tost is Captain Spar, the aging commander of the similarly aged ship Worthy. Bill was in the Fantasticks in it's original run for years and is an amazing dude. He's so venerable he doesn't even have a web page! We've got Doug Skinner as Pym, the itinerant merchant spreading faith, or at least articles of it. I'm playing the monk with the coffee problem and music directing the lot. We're still looking for Hurley, the cook, so anyone who would like to play a disgusting person and sing an entire song about a bone should give a call.

It's being directed by Bill Pace and choreographed by Kriota Willberg. I've worked with both of them on other projects and it's always been a hoot. Jenny Rose is my co-producer, a veteran of many a fringe festival show, and is helping me to understand exactly what the heck I am doing.

We're doing the show at Dixon Place in NYC in June. It's going to be fun and challenge to get back into a theater and mount a show.

Them's the basics, details to follow I'm sure.

It's Love, Boys

I gave my gal a cookie, she let me see her underwear
I touched her on her fuzzy thigh, she didn't really seem to care
I got into her t-shirt
I got into her bloomers
But what the people say are just a bunch of nasty rumors
Because it's love, boys,
This time it's really love, it's really love
Because it's love, boys, this time it's really love

Pretty Polly 2x4, she slipped right through my bedroom door
She switched off the TV and put her hand upon my shorts
She kissed me on the cheek
She whispered in my ear
She sent me up a creek and she took away my fear
Because it's love, boys,
This time it's really love, it's really love
Because it's love, boys, this time it's really love

Later in the boudoir I got into her lingerie
We spent the night together and all my worries slid away
I paid my girl a visit
I crept behind her mirror
I touched her rosy fingers and I slept beside her feet
I listened to her dreaming and I flew into her sleep
Fluttering of eyelids, dreaming all the time
Never let 'em tell you that getting close is such a crime
Because it's love, boys,
This time it's really love, it's really love
Because it's love, boys, this time it's really love

Battlestar Galactica Toaster

Hi you two.

Thank you so much for the deluxe BSG toaster. I was tempted to blast it out of the box when I first saw it, so great was my fear and hatred for the cursed thing, but upon checking the label on the box I realized just in time that it was from two very wonderful people who could not possibly be Cylons, and so I let it live.

But then I started to think. It came delivered in a box. A boxed toaster, could this be some sort of subtle message sent to me by David and Colleen? What would motivate them to send me a virtual envoy of my sworn enemy, that while rendered harmless, is still my foe? At first blush, it was clearly a gift, given generously and freely to bring some joy into my life, joy that another member of the vile, mechanized Cylon race has fallen, converted to a utilitarian device to be used in the preparation of perfectly browned multi-grain foodstuff, but as the day passed it sat there, a mute, inert, yet malevolent presence on my kitchen table. It was boxed but might it possibly be able to somehow un-box itself?

I realized with a reeling surge of panic that I would need to devise a procedure to determine that it was actually safe to allow it aboard. I spent several days concocting a solution of toothpaste and Drano (common household items) that would irrefutably show that the Cylon DNA contained therein had indeed decomposed into a state that was purely and conclusively harmless. But in doing so I stumbled upon some very disturbing facts. The first was that, though apparently mechanical, the toaster in question had subtly biological characteristics wherein the plastic casing and metal undercarriage were seen to manifest a distinct cell structure, indistinguishable from those of human bones and organs. And then there was the observation that the cells appeared to be evolving in some unspecified vector, a very slow evolution, but an undeniable change nonetheless.

I must confess I was a bit overwhelmed with the facts as they came to light. In a weary and dizzied state I contemplated my options. Should I continue this disturbing and randomly reasoned experiment to it's logical conclusion? Should I bolt, jaw clenched, fit and determined, down to the flight deck and strap in as the ace pilot with the incredible record of survival against demonically incomprehensible odds? Should I abruptly and nepotistically take command of the other, failing, battlestar only to use it as a disposable shield in some vast and abrupt military operation? Should I just hit the bistro on the lower deck and, later that night, sleep with Gods-know-what smokin'-hot, sweat and grease stained woman I might catch the interest of, just for an episode or two? Or should I pursue my formerly repressed, yet now obvious lifelong dream of blossoming into the most brilliant, yet perilously unseasoned attorney to pass through this star system in a millenia? It was all so confusing. If only I could coax season 4, episode 4 to stream onto my computer in its entirety before the malignant viruses on the illegal host Web site brought my smoking CPU to a scorched and crackling halt. If only those fracking frackers hadn't annihilated my home planet in a hateful and effective attack.

Now I am on the run for all eternity (or at least until this season ends), across the skies, beyond the galaxies, fleeing, surviving, questing, searching - for the perfect slice of toast. With jam please.

To be continued.

She Speaks To Me

You got to do and you got to see
You must come through and you’ve got to be
You got to save and you’ve got to sin
You get more out than what ya put in
She speaks to me! She speaks to me!
She speaks to me! She speaks to me!

Some are born to dream and fly
Some are made to cheat and lie
While I struggle and while I try
She brought me to life and she makes me die
She speaks to me! She speaks to me!
She speaks to me! She speaks to me!

And she say…
Zoob zaba sayay
Zoob zabah zooyah
Zoob zabah zayah zooyah,
Zoob zaba zayah zoob zabah zooyah
Zoob zaba zayah zooyah...

I debarked upon this place
I had a smile upon my face
Lately I’ve been on the ropes
And when I lose my stupid hopes
She speaks to me! She speaks to me!
She speaks to me! She speaks to me!

You got to do and you got to see
You must come through and you’ve got to be
You got to save and you got to sin
You get more out than what ya put in
She speaks to me! She speaks to me!
She speaks to me! She speaks to me!

And she say…
Zoob zaba zayay
Zoob zabah zooyah
Zoob zabah zayah zooyah,
Zoob zaba zayah zoob zabah zooyah
Zoob zaba zayah zooyah
Zooyah...

Valentine's Day Top Five

5. Wake up at 9.
4. Exquisite apple raspberry tart thing for breakfast.
3. Nap for 2 or 3 hours.
2. I'd rather not talk about this part.
1. Battlestar Galactica season 4 on the web.

Ukulele, [you-kuh-lay-lee] - noun:

A small, stringed instrument native to the Hawaiian Islands, superficially resembling a guitar that has been shrunk through careless laundering.

Known to inspire playfulness in some musicians and defensiveness in others. In the case of the former, it may induce the donning of grass skirts, leis and coconut brassieres. In the event of the latter, be alert for exceptional musicianship, overblown self-respect and mislaid sense of humor.

A poet of lost origins adds additional perspective:

A girl with a wee ukulele
Plucked and picked her strings daily
She strummed and she strummed
Till she audibly hummed
And then had to lie down somewhat frailly

There's a Song I Can't Write

I dropped off the new CD for replication and have signed off on the artwork, so the manufacturing begins! I'll have a bunch in a few weeks, very good to move it along. In honor of the event, a set of lyrics from the upcoming release...

There's a Song I Can't Write

There's a song I can't write and I'm singing it now
Singing it now
Singing it now
There's a song I can't write and I'm singing it now
Anyhow

There's a lot I won't do but I'll do it with you
Do it with you
Do it with you
There's a lot I won't do but I'll do it with you
Anyhoo

There's a lot on my mind that I should leave behind
Places to go and stuff I don't know
There's a lot on my plate that'll never get ate
There's a lot to be found if I ever get round...

There's a song I can't sing and I'll write it one day
Write it one day
Write it one day
There's a song I can't sing and I'll write it one day
Hey, what do you say?
Hey, what do you say?

Plan, [plan] - noun:

An approach to achieve an objective. An indispensable and unavoidable expenditure of effort which may include, but is not limited to: lists, goals, materials, budget, discussion, haggling, Excel spreadsheets, Power Point presentations, contingencies, assumptions, getting one's head around, reaching-out-to and bouncing things off of. Plans fall into two categories: Plan A and Plan B. Plan A is a fanciful stretching of the imagination for the purpose of inflating expectations to the point that one may become bouyant, possibly causing the feet to leave the ground. Plan B is the plan that is actually executed, at least in the early stages of Plan B. In practice, it is abandoned no more than a day or two into it's execution and replaced by activities constituting the reality of achievement of the objective. Some refer to this as Plan C, while others doggedly insist upon referring to it, erroneously, as The Plan.

Though seemingly useless in hindsight, plans are, in fact, essential. Without them we would be consigned to an aimless and dark existence of things that simply occur, for no apparent reason and with no obvious intent. Furthermore, it has been empirically shown that the act of planning stimulates the same area of the brain that deals with self-esteem and ego gratification. Planning also releases endorphins. This is seen to be a necessary balance to the overused and slightly charred areas of the cortex that are responsible for putting on your pants, getting out of the house and actually getting the thing done.

Unreliable Sources

Before Kent, I got music from unreliable sources. When I was in sixth grade a kid named William showed up to class with the first record album I ever felt a visceral covetousness for. It was the double album of "Jesus Christ, Superstar", the brown one that came out before the Broadway show or the movie. When Mrs. Rivers was out of the classroom probably having a cigarette or getting a little space, William laid one of the LP's onto the vinyl upholstered, educational-grade record player that sat near the door of the classroom. He dropped the needle onto the spot he liked best. Pontius Pilate screamed at a full tilt: "Don't let me stop, your great self destruction!" When it got to the screamingest part William, whose fingers rested nonchalantly on the volume control, would spin the knob up a touch to get a little extra mileage out of the system. The result was that my mind was entirely blown. As a mix engineer I've adopted this technique many times to positive effect.

That very first time I heard it, there in the classroom by the open door, with the sound echoing down the elementary school hall, at the instant the singer shredded his vocal chords, I had a wild sense of expansiveness overlaid by delicious terror. This sensation was brand new and I felt it as discomfort, fear. It must not have been so bad though, because I ran to the store and purchased the album for myself as soon as I could scrape together the dough.

"Jesus Christ, Superstar" constituted my entire on-purpose record collection for a year or so. I did have a few items in my library previously, but they were not obsessive objects of love. Somehow a Credence album landed there, I'm not sure why. My favorite song on that album was "Lookin' Out My Back Door". I listened to it about a hundred times before moving on to other activities that had to do with my bicycle. My Grandma heard I liked music and apparently bought the next album she saw, which was "The Very Best of the Cowsills" because it was an album. I don't recall any of those tunes, I'm not even sure I listened to it because the dorky cartoon representation of the band on the cover made my nose crinkle. Before all of that, when I was but a pup, I made my mom buy me a 45 of "Dizzy" by Tommy Roe at the supermarket because I was taken by the red label in the rack at the checkout line. I played the A side so many times that I actually became ill. Try it yourself, you'll get the same effect. That might have charted the depths of my musical obsession until William came rolling into class with his trophy. I liked everything about Superstar, the two-recordness of it, the ritual of playing the sides in a certain order, the fake leather texture of the classy cover. Even the music.

The next acquisition was a profound stoke of maximal dimensions. An unsophisticated guy named Dave who lived down the street decided to get out of the business of listening to records and divested himself of his entire collection. I bought all ten of his albums for a buck each. This gave me eleven albums in my collection. Kiss my former life goodbye, I was now a fledgling music fan.

Writer, [ry-ter] - noun:

One who practices a scribbling of language onto paper, or lately, digital form. In some cases, the content of said scribbling is of great value, if not of some utility, though for the most part it is neither. In the case of digital writing, especially that of blogs, a secondary writing known as comments, takes up the matter of precisely what value shall be assigned to a particular piece of writing. The comments are not writing in and of themselves, but they do determine that someone who has encountered the original writing has taken note of it to the extent that it merits an additional round of scribbling.

The toilet-stall bard Nickerson has composed a limerick describing the commitment required for quality writing:

A scribe with an intellect fine
Supposed he would write all the time
He picked up a pen
But just wrote now and then
While sipping a glass of red wine

Brazilian Serenade

Can you bear the longing
Of a day that won't surrender
To the car alarms shrieking in the street?
Even though the night has come
And tomorrow's far away
And the day has nothing left to offer...
I'd empty out my pockets
If the batteries would die
And give us just an hour's worth of sleep
I'll surrender all my language
And strip down to the clay
Get out the booze, I'll sing you
A Brazilian serenade!
A Brazilian serenade.

Can you feel the pull
Of a moon that is full?
Can you feel that hound dog wail across the yard?
Every night the shadows come
And every night that dog goes on
Until the sunlight presses on our window.
If we could only keep that dog from barking for one night
I know that all our problems could be solved
I'll surrender all my language
And I'll strip down to the clay
Get out the booze, I'll sing you
A Brazilian serenade!
A Brazilian serenade.

Can you feel the desire
Of a body that's tired?
Can you hear the neighbors fighting in the street?
Every night the crying comes
Sobbing 'till the morning sun
And the sweet golden rays come shining through.
If we could only keep that couple happy for one night
I know that the world could be ours!
I'll surrender all my language
And I'll strip down to the clay
Get out the booze, I'll sing you
A Brazilian serenade!
A Brazilian serenade!
A Brazilian serenade!
A Brazilian serenade.

The Album

I don't want to forget completely about the CD, it's very important to me and I wouldn't want people to think otherwise. I started working on it this past summer. I had five or six songs that were so good they constituted momentum. Just a few more and I'd have a whole album. This won't take long at all.

The idea of an album has become confused lately. So much is strewn about the Web in the atomized form of individual songs, if even an entire song, that I wonder if it matters to have an album at all. I referred to these songs as one-sided singles to my friend Alan and he lit right up. I don't want to spiral into nostalgia on this, like I've aged well and I have a special understanding of the value of an attention span. You know the rap. - You kids! When I was your age our records had two sides for a reason! People had principles and gave a sweet damn if your songs made sense one after the other! Today you groogle it on your internets or some damn thing and get just exactly what you want to hear without having to work for it! Where's the integrity in that? Now what the hell did I do with my glasses...? -

No, I don't want to be like that.

Sure, it's just atavistic sexual imprinting, but I won't abandon an art form that gathers songs into a physical object. I naturally think of songs being together in a collection. An album, named during the era when a bunch of 78rpm records were collected in a heavy, fragile book that looked like a photo album or an industrial era scrapbook. At the close of the reign of that demented troglodyte Reagan, when the object seemed to have settled for all eternity into a thirty-three and one third "long playing" vinyl record, it became suddenly obsolete. Our album collections devolved into long, sad rows of unplayed dust-catchers waiting to be escorted to the thrift store or the curb a few at a time to free up shelf space or to avoid having to lug them up the steps for the next move. The CD's that replaced them were small, precise, less able to contain the emotions that the music inside shook loose. I love the online world with the instant availability of anything, or at least anything that will fit into a computer, but I do still love holding an album cover on my lap with both hands while hearing fifteen or twenty undisturbed minutes of music spool off of the turntable.

I won't even discuss the sound of vinyl here because I don't want to start a fight.

So, though it will be digital, it shall be an album. It will be fine. I don't have a functioning band at the moment, so it will be me and just the stuff I really need. A uke, some percussion maybe. I can't do without a guitar now and then. Must have bass. But that's it. Let's not overproduce it. Not even one trumpet. Solo album, intimate. Maybe too intimate. Gonna be an album, obsolete before it's even finished. Behind the curve and out of the running. But deep from the heart.

The Reading

I had the first reading of South last night at Dixon Place and I awoke this morning to a sense of proximate calamity. I mentioned this to Alison before she could get from under the covers or even turn off the alarm clock and she said, "right on time."