Saturday, September 12, 2009

Verse, Chorus, Next

I had friends in Fayetteville, AR, who would express frustration with my lack of concern or drive towards making something of myself with my musical talent. I would tell them that music was like breathing, in that it was such an integral part of my existence, that it wasn't a matter of making music a priority. I would always be musical in some way. And because I knew that no matter what I did, I would be listening, writing, recording, and playing music, it was hard to think of music as something I needed to work at, or become successful doing. It was as important as breathing to me, but like breathing, it wasn't something I put a lot of thought or concern into.

I grew up having my musical interests subsidized by my grandparents, who bought a keyboard for me on a whim, bought a saxophone when I expressed an interest in marching band, and later bought me my first amp and electric guitar. But even before I had the gumption to start using my musical ability to create my own music, I was making guitar noises with my mouth and writing stupid songs with my friend, Kenny. we called ourselves We & Us, which is such a boring, stupid name, that it had to have some kind of hilarious inside joke behind it, that I have no memory of now. We made tape after tape of stupid songs, stupid skits, and those phenomenally unfunny "interviews" you create by asking a question, then supplying the answer by way of a clip of music. If you've never experienced this brand of comedy gold, it goes something like this:

teenager: so, where do you, uh, (giggle) like to drive your car? (giggle, then huge KACHUNK as the stop button is jabbed)
AC/DC: I'M ON THE HIIIIIGHWAY TO HELL!!! (KACHUNK)
teenager: (giggle) that's very interesting (giggle)

Soon after, I would write sheets of lyrics for songs I had in my head, but couldn't be bothered to figure out how to translate those lyrics into song (this was before my grandparents bought me my first guitar), even though I had instruments and a means to record them. Later, I was just as impatient when it came to creating music. I figured out a way to record multiple tracks by playing a recording of myself on one tape player, while playing along with it and recording both on another tape player, but never learned how to bounce tracks properly once I had access to a four track. I didn't have the time to figure it out the right way, I recorded something and was done. For my first few attempts at bands, I didn't even bother to have anything more than myself on guitar and vocals and a drummer. This progressed until I've reached the point where I sometimes don't even remember how to play what I've recorded, because once I've written and recorded a piece of music, I'm off to the next song. I mostly care about the creating and recording aspect of music, and though I still play music with other people, I have no worry about what to do with the music once it's done.



So you can understand my attraction to musicians that are known as much for their volume of work as their talent. One of my biggest influences is Robert Pollard, of Guided By Voices fame. The sheer volume of recorded works is impressive enough, but when you consider the fact that he's actually written many, many dozens of actual, decent songs, it's a wonder that bands with a mere ten or so albums get so much attention. Ever since a coworker put a used copy of GBV's Bee Thousand in my hands and ordered me to buy or steal it, I've been in thrall to this prolific bastard. I went from a songwriter who was not satisfied without at least five distinct parts in every song, to accepting the brilliance of knocking out a verse, knocking out a chorus if I felt particularly long-winded, and then shutting the fuck up. Listening to a ton of GBV also completely changed my perspective on recording. I was never much on getting things perfect (which is probably what attracted me to GBV in the first place), but I became so unconcerned with precision in my race towards concision that I'd sometimes not worry about even writing anything past the first verse until the tape was rolling. GBV also ruined what was once my ultimate goal, getting into a professional studio with professional recording equipment to professionally record a real, live, professional album. I've made many a recording since discovering GBV, some on boomboxes, some in professional studios, and I value both equally. There's quite a few of my songs (Leper Hand, for example) where I greatly prefer the four-track version over the studio version.



I have a daughter that is just about to turn three years old. My wife and I have made a point of exposing her to as much music as we can, and we've made sure to play different instruments around her and take her to see people playing instruments. We've also given her a number of instruments to bang around on herself, and I make a point to not immediately reprimand her when she starts trying to play my electric guitar with one of her toys, keeping in mind that the most she'll do is break a string or knock it over, and god knows I've done worse than that. She's started singing made up songs and we're just about to the point where I'm going to start recording her.

My daughter doesn't have to be a musician. She doesn't even have to be that into music. I know her path in life is her own, and she can be a Republican-voting accountant who listens to Toby Keith if she wants, I'm still going to love her to death. One thing I am going to instill in her, however, is that it never needs to be perfect. Just knock it out. Create it, record it, paint it, sing it, and move on to the next masterpiece. Never be embarrassed. Most importantly, never throw away what you created because you're embarrassed. I recorded over the We & Us tapes when I was a teenager, because I was trying to convince everybody how serious and tortured I was as an artist. You have no idea how much I'd love to listen to those stupid things now.