Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

guitar

Ikea & e-tailing, the twin inflators of my revolving debt

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Inexplicably, we now seem to be in possession of lawn furniture for our concrete back yard. This is possibly linked to our cultivating what has now become a mid-sized container garden. (I found out that it’s just not chic to call it a pot garden. go figure.)

Being the son of “Elaine of the Black Thumb,” my experiences with gardening are limited to vicarious horticultural exploits with my father and grandmother. My father and I have the same way of needing to know everything about specialized or slightly obscure topics, and one of his major topics is growing tomatoes and peppers. At some previous point I seem to recall him having a pot garden in his basement, but I was always assured it was specifically for making superior quality rope.

In any event, i’ve managed to decimate a trio of strawberries, grow a tray of marigolds and eggplants from seeds, and keep alive a cheerily expanding blackberry bush that’s so cute that i might buy another.

Equally as inexplicable as my participation in the greenery, i am days away from being the owner of a brand new acoustic/electric guitar. I’m still not really sure how it happened. Something about having a day off of work, homemade cocktails, and eBay. I’ll report later this week on the results.

Looking Up to Something

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Having never had siblings I always feel a little awkward with Elise’s brother. On one hand I completely identify with him, because he’s dragged around to adult-stuff all the time and all he really wants to be doing is reading or playing a video game. On the other, what could some twenty-something year-old have said or done for me to cheer me up on all of those occasions of my youth?

Elise and I brainstorm sometimes about finding him some cool teenagery hobby; she had batted around drumming and web design for a while, but neither really went anywhere. So, imagine our surprise last night when Elise’s mother remarked as we approached her truck, “You’ll have to squeeze into the front; the bass is in the back.” Apparently Elise’s little brother (who, incidentally, is now about as tall as we are) got an electric bass over the summer.

When we returned to our house the four us us sat around chatting and catching up and, much as I’ll play guitar through any conversation just for the sake of playing guitar, out came the bass. However, it was out of tune from bouncing around in the back seat. Tuning isn’t a problem in our house, considering Elise and I are both in-tune-freaks and own four tuners between the two of us.

While her brother proceeded to tune up and noodle I fetched a guitar with broken strings and fixed it up. Once I was restrung I began to quietly follow along with his noodling. I thought I recognized the song, but I wasn’t sure. Not wanting to embarrass him, I waited until Elise and her mother headed upstairs to examine something in the bathroom.

“Is that ‘Seven Nation Army’?”

“Yeah, but internet tabs are always wrong,” he grumped.

“Yeah, they suck. It’s better to trust a site that specializes in one artist, especially for bass, because random people never really know what positions or techniques a certain player tends to use. Do you know what Occam’s Razor is?

He gave a half-wince of understanding.

“It’s the idea that the simplest explanation is almost always the best one. So, the simplest way for that bass player to play the song is probably the right way to play it.”

(Elise, passing through (or was it later?) commented: “Yeah, like Dave Matthews will always play something in in the most obscure possible way, but Ani will will do it the easiest.” I smirked, and inexplicably failed to also include Joni Mitchell in our comparison.)

“Well, let me hear it.”

He did, and it became apparent that there was a slightly easier and more-correct way to play it. And, since Jack White isn’t necessary a king of bass-playing technique, I didn’t really have qualms about changing up the positions to make it a little simpler.

“Hey, hold on, I have that record.”

Over to the CD collection I bounced, and back I came with Elephant. We listened to the song and i immediately realized that his riff was transposed by a fourth (effectively, a string) – easily fixed. And, then, ten minutes after playing a bad internet transcription in the wrong key he was playing along to the song! I pointed out the quick walkup at the end of the verses and then improvised some chords to accompany him (since the whole song is almost all bassline and guitar solo).

Elise and her mother came down at about this point, both looking somewhat bemused at the White Stripes jam that has sprung up in our living room. Later he told me the other song he was learning was “Money.” I told him I had that too, and that I was impressed, because it’s notoriously in a weird time signature. I put it on, but just listened; my brain doesn’t have the higher level functions required to count upbeat guitar stabs in 7/8. He was pretty good at it.

(Aside: Elise, her brother, and their sister all have ridiculous natural musical aptitude, which always makes me wish I had grown up in more musical family. More musical, I mean, than lip-synching Madonna into hairbrushes and sporadically breaking out into “Let The Good Times Roll” in the kitchen, both of which traits came from my father’s side.)

I’m really happy to have found a connection with Elise’s brother, and even happier to have gotten to be the cool older kid instead of the unspeakably geeky one, if only for once. Before he left I tabbed out the version we worked out and slipped it into his bag along with a copy of Elephant and White Blood Cells.

I bet I would have been a cool older brother.

Thick Skinned

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The point isn’t really that I have to wear in some new callouses by Saturday so that I can make it through the four sets I’m playing on, but that my callouses grew. Thickened.

I’ve been playing guitar for eight years at the end of this month. I remember when I had been playing for two and a half years, and I would watch Anthony, who has two years of playing over me, and think “Wow, look what I’ll be able to do in two years.”

And, well, maybe I can do some of the things Anthony’s done now. Who knows? I realized that the path is not linear, and it’s not parallel to anyone else’s. Early on I learned how to churn out chunky, thumping chords, Ani-fying any song in an attempt to make it my own. Just now I am learning the strength of learning something note for note, rhythm for rhythm. Isn’t that backwards? Don’t most people play along to the disc first and then figure out their own way to do it? That’s what I’ve been told, anyhow.

On the scale of great I’m sure I hardly rank – plenty of practice left on that front, no disputing that. But, not only can I get better, but even with as much playing as I’ve done, there are new callouses to be made.

Thoughts Right Now

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Do you remember when i would just sit in my horrid little apartment sophomore year, just banging out as many posts as i had thoughts? Today i feel like that, only less horrid. I cleaned. I bought groceries. I took that pile of books to the used bookstore. I have every right in the world to sit and transcribe thoughts until sundown, at which point i’m going to a BYOB Mexican restaurant to drink margaritas on a work-night against my better judgment.

Anywho, allow me to digress to the though i came here to transcribe: I sometimes wonder what my co-workers do when they go home.

I mean, we see what i’m doing right now, and it’s not all that impressive, but it’s something. Some of them have children, so that pretty much explains what they’re up to. The rest? Some like sports, some go to gyms, some engage in serial home-repair. One creates terrific bead work that i’m going to make a website for sooner or later. Aside from her, though, rarely do i hear about anyone’s personal projects (aside from buying tickets, or getting in shape, or putting up gold-plated gutters).

Surely they must have projects – we are all comm people, after all – defined by our interest in devouring a enormous subset of all things, and governed by secret wishes to be star reporters or gossip rousers. Surely they must have a novel in draft form, or an article, or an experiment in social engineering. Something.

I try to ferret something out of them, but they are either entirely inscrutable or they really do just hang out and watch television every night. It’s hard for me to imagine it – being defined just by what i do during the day. It seems like a horrid fate.

We all know about my songwriting habit, and my blogging hobby, but in the last few weeks i’ve been working just as much on two others, one of which is arranging music. When you arrange a song, you have to listen to it many, many, many times. You have to listen for pitches and rhythms, tonality and feel. Sometimes you have to listen at half speed, or with a section looped indefinitely. You have to listen until your brain and fingers have absorbed the sound, and can recreate it in standard notation, however inefficient it seems at the time.

Before i ever knew about a cappella music or polyphony or even, hell, arranging, i used to arrange Tori Amos songs for guitar. I didn’t really understand what i was teaching myself at the time – i would just sit with the sheet music in my lap and slowly transcribe it into a single staff of guitar tab. Sometimes it was physically unplayable, but my software would still play it, allowing me to hear what six separate guitarists playing one string each could make of a Tori song.

At the time i barely could read music, let alone transcribe pitches and rhythms by ear. Over half a decade later I just listen to “Since U Been Gone” more than 200 times and somehow, after more than a dozen hours of magical effort, i have an arrangement.

When they return my question, volleying: well, what’s your hobby, that always sounds so insubstantial. And, right now, it is. But, by god, the TrebleMakers will perform it live at a cappella fest 2005 or lose their voices trying, and then it will be real and alive and in the air, and i’ll know just why i spent a whole week of my live living, breathing, and singing every element of that damn song.

As for my other hobby, you can have a hint: inebriated cinema. I dare not say any more, because i… erm… have to go and fix the broken thing that Gina just found.

Stalling

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Sometimes I get so enamored with seeing a particular post come up while I load the page that I abstain from writing anything else just to keep it there (rather than writing another post I’m enamored with, perish the thought). I have a great post composed for you at home. It’s great. It has links in it, and stuff. I just couldn’t bring myself to post it.

Ahh, but isn’t it amazing what boredom can drive me to do.

Why is it so much easier to fall asleep when you’re trying to do something else, like take notes in a meeting or play guitar? Is it just because your attention is already engaged, making it easier for you to drift into slumber, rather than lying with your mind busy working overtime?

I often I fall asleep sitting on our bed, playing electric guitar … sometimes literally while playing – plugged in and everything. The sleep comes so suddenly that I have no recollection of what transpires between playing guitar and waking up (which, I have to say, was a little disconcerting).

On a related topic: carrying a gig bag is a better conversation starter than commenting on the weather or grumbling about the elevators, especially when you are carrying it inside a corporate fortress such as this one. I’ve already lost track of how many people have asked me if I would be “rocking out” on my lunch hour. I’m surprised they don’t just yell “Freebird” at me from across the lobby.

I at once relish and shun these moments, where it is made so clear that I am young and vital and still alive. On one hand, I love the affirmation that no, I will not give into the doldrum routine of adultness. On the other, I fear the doldrum groupthink, where the young one with the shaggy hair and the guitar case must be transgressing because he is not dour enough.

The groupthink intimidates me. Even though I don’t buy into it I still find myself noting when men’s pants aren’t ironed, or when anyone wears an inappropriately casual shirt on a weekday. Why should I care? Rationally, I don’t, but irrationally I just want to make sure everyone is being held to the same standards that I am. I can foresee how looking at someone’s shoes in the hallway transforms into, “Her lunchbreak already came and went – why is she wearing sneakers?”

Now that I have a lighter, smaller acoustic guitar, I’ve been thinking about bringing it with me to play on my lunch breaks. I could learn a new song every day, easily blowing through my standing 50+ to-do list of Beatles tunes. I don’t necessarily want to wander the streets while trying to learn a new song, but I remember the puzzled stares I drew last summer the few times I played in the courtyard. Will the groupthink suffocate my artistic urges?

I think the answer so far is YES, but not in the way that I meant it there. Oh, to be a well-fed starving artist.

Ah, but who am I kidding, I’d still play City of Heroes all day. Hi, do we remember my Senior Project.