Just so you know: even though we did nothing together this weekend, Holly and I have plans for later this week. It's her last week here, but I don't know how she wants to celebrate, if she's up for celebrating at all. I might be mistaken but I think the general outlook on all of this is that Holly Golightly is leaving L.A. with her tail between her legs. I hope that observation is proved wrong-- I hope she gets grounded in Florida and returns with a stronger game plan.
I think some more massages are in order. I was very impressed with my kneading skills last week-- I still know how to make the spaghetti strap drop properly...
Whatever. Lately I've been so single-minded, in pursuit of the finish line in regards to this cartoon, that I've been neglecting other areas completely. Granted, I want to focus on visual arts more, but all my recording equipment is just sitting there, giving me the bad-eye as I get sleep during the day and change my clothes when I wake up, not even stopping to record at least one drum machine track.
This is a stark contrast to my activity four years ago. I was on fire, possessed, driven by a compulsive need to record every masturbatory musical wank, every blip on the creative radar, foul-ups bleeps blunders and all... a song a day, sometimes done alone like Prince, sometimes with collaborators. Some of it was good, a lot of it was bad, but I had this stoned technique down pat.
It started with a spliff or a pipe-hit to the head, followed by a few minutes of delirious contemplation. Awash in a stew of chronic density, I would suddenly become inspired and stand up, walk to the studio, and compose something, anything, as long as I was creating. People would stop by, usually stoner friends who played instruments or sang or rapped or whatever the fuck. Either way, the construction of a groove became the priority, and my friends knew they could count on me, hunched over the samplers and the tape decks, adding layer upon layer to the mix.
Sometimes people brought drinks. Most times they brought pot. On occasion, someone would bring some girls, but it never really got that wild. The girls just wanted to sit in the room and watch the process in action. They were shy, and refused to contribute whenever I shoved a microphone in their face or a technological gadget in their hands.
That all changed when I moved out of Sherman Locs. I never regained that freedom, that realm of possibility and magic. I have a chance now, because I plan to be here in Burbank for a long time.
I haven't felt comfortable enough in my new abode to pick up where I left off. Plus, I haven't had the time. But Sunday afternoon, I had the time. I strapped on my bass guitar and cued up a jam I'd put together six months ago. It was a weird concoction: acoustic guitar run through a microphone and a reverb unit; MIDI-linked drum machine patterns and samples; and a few odd vocal takes courtesy of myself and Bro Man.
I decided to try new new style out. I've been poppin' and slappin' on the bass, ever since the Blonde Rick got ganked and I borrowed Purple Paulie's P-Bass. I'm not up to the level of a Les Claypool or a Flea, but I'm definitely making up for lost time. I don't know why I waited so long before getting into this style of bass-playing-- maybe it's because that fake Rickenbacher was lousy when it came to slapping. And I didn't have any other basses around.
I puffed some herb. My head swam, my eyes burned, my fingers loosened. I plugged in, I adjusted the volume level. I played the song and selected a new track.
I jammed for twenty minutes.
It wasn't all good, but there were some moments where I was cookin' like Emeril on a munchies binge. There were some formidable grooves here and there. I pranced about the room, stomping in my slippers, nodding my head as the JBL speakers tittered and hummed. It felt good, it felt sacred, it felt sexy. I twirled, I closed my eyes. I focused on rhythm over melody, percussively snapping at the syncopated peaks, finding new pockets and avenues, exploring, learning from scartch, using intuition. It was splendid. It was temporary escape, momentary meditation, the flurry of activity lost to passing time and the thrill of creating. No interruptions, to places to be... at least until later.
The rest of my weekend was standard fare, but I think I've made peace with this new apartment. It has been very good to me, very friendly. I feel good vibes when I'm at home, and my neighbors leave me alone and I treat them accordingly. No more wild parties and massive smoke-outs. No more loud jams at 3AM. No more senseless cajoling to slow down my progress.
I'm glad I had fun back then, but nowadays I'd rather work seriously. Part of work, however, is knowing when to take a break. If I want to put something down but feel like I've hit some sort of wall, I step back. I light a joint. I smoke a cigarette. I watch some TV. I turn on the radio or put in a CD. I rethink my strategy. I regroup and find my bearings.
Then, when I'm feeling inspired again, I go back to the drawing board until I get it right, or at least in a state that I can work with later. A lot of my songs and projects evolve over time, depending on what I bring to it, when I bring it, and how I'm feeling when I bring it.
Here's to another streak of daily compositions. Even if they are mere thumbnail-sketch demos, they count. Even if I never intend to develop the song into anything more than words, music, and voice, that's okay-- it's all about keeping it consistent, not about crafting ultimate perfection.
I like perfection, but it takes too long, and cost a lot of money that I don't have. I just want to get it down, in a recognizable mode, so that I have something later on down the line that I can refer to when it comes time to separate out the truly A material from the less-than-stellar stuff.
I am very happy to be home recording again. Music was my diary for quite a while, yielding lengthier entries than even this here blog, whose Archives I've inadvertantly destroyed. That's fine-- with my songs, I still have my tape masters, and there's plenty of them to choose from.
Talk to y'all later.
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