All right, people. I need your help. Our new band needs a name. Having once been in a band called Emerald Tiers, which we soon tired of explaining was prog and not Celtic, I freely admit my incompetence in the matter. Some candidates:
Shallow Gravy (Mmmm. This one is from The Dude)
Cat Vacuuming (Sounds naughty but just a wonky term for procrastination)
The Current (Nice Fitzgerald reference here, I think)
The New Colossus (Rejected for sounding too much like colostomy. Shame.)
Loretta As An Ornament (What I promised my teen self I’d name a band if I ever had one. Might have worked in 1982.)
Terrible Beauty (What I promised my college self, upon reading Yeats)
The Choir Invisibule (Gets the wonk vote, surely.)
Friday, June 29, 2007
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Iterative Like Jello
One of the things I am really enjoying about this foray into punk or psychobilly or whatever it is The Dude and Ed Stephens and I are doing here, is how completely foreign it all is. I mean, I at least know who The Meat Puppets are. Well – I mean, I know that they’re a band. But these guys played with them.
So I was talking to this techie guy at work today. So, basically “your company’s computer guy.” I’m trying to articulate this insight I’m starting to have about the process. And this thing, this quality, this “it” that I’m trying to describe without hurting his techie brain – he just shoots it, tags it, and releases it.
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” he says. “It’s an iterative process, like when Jello Biafra would hum this … and the Dead Kennedy’s would strum this…”
“Yes, iterative. That’s what it is (keying in dictionary.com). Nnh-hnh.”
So I was talking to this techie guy at work today. So, basically “your company’s computer guy.” I’m trying to articulate this insight I’m starting to have about the process. And this thing, this quality, this “it” that I’m trying to describe without hurting his techie brain – he just shoots it, tags it, and releases it.
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” he says. “It’s an iterative process, like when Jello Biafra would hum this … and the Dead Kennedy’s would strum this…”
“Yes, iterative. That’s what it is (keying in dictionary.com). Nnh-hnh.”
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
My Second Ever Lyrics -- Lulu
You know me
You think you know me
But what do you really know?
You know me
You think you know me
But what do you really know?
Sorry to interrupt
Sorry to intrude
I let you paint me
Primitive and crude
What are you watching?
What are you seeing?
What will you say?
What will I do?
Walk Away
Now that you know how
The other half lives
What will you do?
The other half
Of you
You know me
You think you know me
But what do you really know?
You know me
You think you know me
But what do you really know?
Don’t you know to
Put the mask on
And save yourself
Before attempting
To save somebody else?
You know me
You think you know me
But what do you really know?
You know me
You think you know me
But what do you really know?
I won’t be Lulu
I won’t be Lulu
I won’t be Lulu for you
I won’t be Lulu
I won’t be Lulu
I won’t be Lulu for you
You know me
You think you know me
You think you know me
But what do you really know?
You know me
You think you know me
But what do you really know?
Sorry to interrupt
Sorry to intrude
I let you paint me
Primitive and crude
What are you watching?
What are you seeing?
What will you say?
What will I do?
Walk Away
Now that you know how
The other half lives
What will you do?
The other half
Of you
You know me
You think you know me
But what do you really know?
You know me
You think you know me
But what do you really know?
Don’t you know to
Put the mask on
And save yourself
Before attempting
To save somebody else?
You know me
You think you know me
But what do you really know?
You know me
You think you know me
But what do you really know?
I won’t be Lulu
I won’t be Lulu
I won’t be Lulu for you
I won’t be Lulu
I won’t be Lulu
I won’t be Lulu for you
You know me
You think you know me
Gay militants in my basement, part II
The first thing they tell parents at those college orientation things is try not to make any dramatic life changes when they first leave home. But of course that is when everybody makes their dramatic life changes, and my parents were no exception. No sooner had I stickygummed my posters, than they divorced and sold the house. They split custody of the buses, with one going to my father’s condo and one to my mother’s townhouse, which was a new build. Thus did I find myself in the awkward position of telling our busdriver I really did live here but I was not quite sure which house.
I go to check on my father and stepmother (then his girlfriend) concerned – I admit it – that they might be uncomfortable about the proposition. My first trip home – can you imagine that phone call? Yeah, college is great,… yeah, classes are hard, sure, yeah, here’s the thing…
Well, of course they were gracious, so shame on me for not giving them credit (In my defense, in the years that followed, we had quite a few discussions about matters of sexual orientation that were, to say the least, not productive. Yet, for all that, difficult to say where stepmother really stands. Cagey, that one.)
Stepmother has cooked up a storm. Dad has cornered my friend. Let’s call her Grace Jones, as she had that haircut and that righteous demeanor. He’s bought a CD player and one CD – the Star Wars soundtrack – in order best to demonstrate the surround-sound feature. When all is said and done, the only observation he will make about the whole event will be how impressive he found her. This will blow my mind. Not that she doesn’t kick *ss. She totally does. But I had to see my dad in a whole new light knowing that he got how kick *ss Grace was.
Come the day of the march, we all bus and metro into DC, in our home-made pink triangle shirts, building excitement with each new group that boards, placards and flyers in hand. Whereupon my high school bud, Turtleduck, absconds with my erstwhile boyfriend, and they spend the day museum-hopping OR WHATEVER instead of experiencing the transformative moment. There, see? It ended happy for poor Fosco. How’s that, Turtleduck?
I go to check on my father and stepmother (then his girlfriend) concerned – I admit it – that they might be uncomfortable about the proposition. My first trip home – can you imagine that phone call? Yeah, college is great,… yeah, classes are hard, sure, yeah, here’s the thing…
Well, of course they were gracious, so shame on me for not giving them credit (In my defense, in the years that followed, we had quite a few discussions about matters of sexual orientation that were, to say the least, not productive. Yet, for all that, difficult to say where stepmother really stands. Cagey, that one.)
Stepmother has cooked up a storm. Dad has cornered my friend. Let’s call her Grace Jones, as she had that haircut and that righteous demeanor. He’s bought a CD player and one CD – the Star Wars soundtrack – in order best to demonstrate the surround-sound feature. When all is said and done, the only observation he will make about the whole event will be how impressive he found her. This will blow my mind. Not that she doesn’t kick *ss. She totally does. But I had to see my dad in a whole new light knowing that he got how kick *ss Grace was.
Come the day of the march, we all bus and metro into DC, in our home-made pink triangle shirts, building excitement with each new group that boards, placards and flyers in hand. Whereupon my high school bud, Turtleduck, absconds with my erstwhile boyfriend, and they spend the day museum-hopping OR WHATEVER instead of experiencing the transformative moment. There, see? It ended happy for poor Fosco. How’s that, Turtleduck?
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
How two busloads of gay militants got in my basement
In honor of Pride Month (which actually is celebrated in April around these parts, because June is too $%^$%&* hot), I will recount this tale of gay pride in the Reagan era. Picture, if you will, 1987. Culture Club is on MTV, "As Is" is on cable, Matthew Broderick (Ferris Bueller himself) co-stars in Harvey Fierstein's "Torch Song Trilogy." This is a long and rambling story, with something of a point, I think, if you bear with me. It's my Alice's Restaurant.
When I was in my first semester at college and I wanted very badly for everybody to love me all at once, I kept to a pattern that I had established in high school, which was this: The way into any group is to identify the most accessible boy and kiss him. While even then I would have freely admitted this was not the most progressive of social strategies, it was nonetheless indisputably effective. It’s really the same skill as picking off the weakest antelope.
It was Fosco’s misfortune that the herd I happened to be stalking was this misfit band of Illuminatus-spouting elves and wizards who dwelled in the coveted on-campus cottage we referred to simply as brown house.
I call him Fosco because “Fosco Tolkien” is the name I got just now when I put his real name in the hobbit name generator at http://www.chriswetherell.com/hobbit/. Clever thing that. Apparently, my hobbit name is Myrtle Smallburrows of Sandydowns. Stealthily, did this Sandydowns temptress come to exercise dominion over poor Fosco of brown house.
Then, to compound my fault, I not only used him for whatever I thought I would gain from the companionship of these woodland creatures, but I also made him do all of my typing. We had vax back then, and I didn’t even know how to log on and make the vax do my bidding in the first place, let alone type. Oh yes, by moonlight I did creep into brown house and shove the handwritten pages of my latest oeuvre into the face of poor Fosco, who – dutiful hobbit -- would churn them out by deadline.
But that was only the beginning of the woes that acquaintance with me would bring him.
Now my true heart’s yearning was an upperclassman who looked like Jim Morrison and dressed like James Dean, with a “Live fast; Die pretty” demeanor not at all befitting his status as my resident adviser. Chivalric was my unrequited love. That he was gay and quite militant only just made him all the more deliciously tragique, as he would allude to narrow escapes from AIDS and bashers alike.
Don’t get me wrong. It was not for him, or not for him alone, that I joined the gay student group on campus. No, I actually did share a very heartfelt kinship with its members as a fellow “invisible minority.” Plus, they were awesome – fierce and self-assured and worldly. They were Stonewall. They were ACTUP, which had only just formed. And inviting – did I mention I wanted the world to love me?
Our big project was we were going to the LGBT March on Washington – the first national march since 1979 and the first display of the AIDS quilt. I wouldn’t have missed it. Also, for me it had the added appeal of a cheap trip home. Eventually there were two busloads of us – and all of them were going to camp out in my basement. Even Fosco had been coaxed to leave the shire, thinking to charm the girlfriend’s parents.
When I was in my first semester at college and I wanted very badly for everybody to love me all at once, I kept to a pattern that I had established in high school, which was this: The way into any group is to identify the most accessible boy and kiss him. While even then I would have freely admitted this was not the most progressive of social strategies, it was nonetheless indisputably effective. It’s really the same skill as picking off the weakest antelope.
It was Fosco’s misfortune that the herd I happened to be stalking was this misfit band of Illuminatus-spouting elves and wizards who dwelled in the coveted on-campus cottage we referred to simply as brown house.
I call him Fosco because “Fosco Tolkien” is the name I got just now when I put his real name in the hobbit name generator at http://www.chriswetherell.com/hobbit/. Clever thing that. Apparently, my hobbit name is Myrtle Smallburrows of Sandydowns. Stealthily, did this Sandydowns temptress come to exercise dominion over poor Fosco of brown house.
Then, to compound my fault, I not only used him for whatever I thought I would gain from the companionship of these woodland creatures, but I also made him do all of my typing. We had vax back then, and I didn’t even know how to log on and make the vax do my bidding in the first place, let alone type. Oh yes, by moonlight I did creep into brown house and shove the handwritten pages of my latest oeuvre into the face of poor Fosco, who – dutiful hobbit -- would churn them out by deadline.
But that was only the beginning of the woes that acquaintance with me would bring him.
Now my true heart’s yearning was an upperclassman who looked like Jim Morrison and dressed like James Dean, with a “Live fast; Die pretty” demeanor not at all befitting his status as my resident adviser. Chivalric was my unrequited love. That he was gay and quite militant only just made him all the more deliciously tragique, as he would allude to narrow escapes from AIDS and bashers alike.
Don’t get me wrong. It was not for him, or not for him alone, that I joined the gay student group on campus. No, I actually did share a very heartfelt kinship with its members as a fellow “invisible minority.” Plus, they were awesome – fierce and self-assured and worldly. They were Stonewall. They were ACTUP, which had only just formed. And inviting – did I mention I wanted the world to love me?
Our big project was we were going to the LGBT March on Washington – the first national march since 1979 and the first display of the AIDS quilt. I wouldn’t have missed it. Also, for me it had the added appeal of a cheap trip home. Eventually there were two busloads of us – and all of them were going to camp out in my basement. Even Fosco had been coaxed to leave the shire, thinking to charm the girlfriend’s parents.
Monday, June 25, 2007
My very first lyrics -- Lost Generation
“What shall we do with our
Selves this afternoon?” You cried
“And the next day,
And the next thirty years?”
We paraded, masqueraded
Cultivated jaded looks
Screamed and scratched and scrawled
In composition books
We were pathfinders
Original settlers
You wanted to be F. Scott
I wanted to be Zelda
Lost Generation
“What shall we do with ourselves
This afternoon?” You cried
“And the next day,
And the next thirty years?”
Unafraid, we stood
Naked at the ball
We screamed and scratched and scrawled
Our manifesto on the wall
We were pathfinders
Original settlers
You wanted to be F. Scott
I wanted to be Zelda
Lost Generation
Generation lost
I did you dirt and you
Did me damage
We were never offstage
King and queen of the Jazz Age
“What shall we do with ourselves
This afternoon?” You cried
“And the next day,
And the next thirty years?”
We custom-made our own crusade
And played nursemaid to our best selves
We screamed and scratched and scrawled
And yawped and yawned and yelled
We were pathfinders
Original settlers
You thought you were F. Scott
I was so Zelda
Lost Generation
Generation lost
Selves this afternoon?” You cried
“And the next day,
And the next thirty years?”
We paraded, masqueraded
Cultivated jaded looks
Screamed and scratched and scrawled
In composition books
We were pathfinders
Original settlers
You wanted to be F. Scott
I wanted to be Zelda
Lost Generation
“What shall we do with ourselves
This afternoon?” You cried
“And the next day,
And the next thirty years?”
Unafraid, we stood
Naked at the ball
We screamed and scratched and scrawled
Our manifesto on the wall
We were pathfinders
Original settlers
You wanted to be F. Scott
I wanted to be Zelda
Lost Generation
Generation lost
I did you dirt and you
Did me damage
We were never offstage
King and queen of the Jazz Age
“What shall we do with ourselves
This afternoon?” You cried
“And the next day,
And the next thirty years?”
We custom-made our own crusade
And played nursemaid to our best selves
We screamed and scratched and scrawled
And yawped and yawned and yelled
We were pathfinders
Original settlers
You thought you were F. Scott
I was so Zelda
Lost Generation
Generation lost
Wuthering Wuthering Wuthering Heights
I have always suspected this about writing lyrics; the trick is to get other people’s lyrics out of your head. If I said to you, “Ti-ti-ta, ti-ti-ta, ti-ti-ta-tah,” what would you think? But the minute I said, “Wuthering Wuthering Wuthering Heights,” wouldn’t that completely cover the field?
How about this one? Ta-ta-ta Ta-ti-ti-ti Ta-ti-ti-ti Ta-ti-ti-ti Tah.
Can it be anything other than, “We care a lot about the gamblers and the pushers and the freaks.”
So, Dude and Ed are playing and I’m just trying to find a melody line in there and I’m singing “Outside in the hall, there’s a catfight. Outside in the hall, there’s a catfight.” Over and over again with different emotions. Like, pissed off or drowsy or torchy. It sounds cool, but, …
Am I a total hack or is this how you do?
How about this one? Ta-ta-ta Ta-ti-ti-ti Ta-ti-ti-ti Ta-ti-ti-ti Tah.
Can it be anything other than, “We care a lot about the gamblers and the pushers and the freaks.”
So, Dude and Ed are playing and I’m just trying to find a melody line in there and I’m singing “Outside in the hall, there’s a catfight. Outside in the hall, there’s a catfight.” Over and over again with different emotions. Like, pissed off or drowsy or torchy. It sounds cool, but, …
Am I a total hack or is this how you do?
The Dude Abides
The Dude: Yeah, well. The Dude abides.
The Stranger: The Dude abides. I don't know about you but I take comfort in that. It's good knowin' he's out there. The Dude. Takin' 'er easy for all us sinners. Shoosh. I sure hope he makes the finals.
I have met The Dude and he is putting together a psychobilly band in Scottsdale, Arizona. What’s more, he has recruited me for it. So, it’s The Dude, me, and Ed Stevens from the tv show “Ed”. You remember -- the lawyer who ran the bowling alley?
Mike Burton: Hey, ten bucks...
Ed Stevens: I'm not really in the mood.
Mike Burton: No, you're gonna like this one, it's conceptual.
Ed Stevens: ...Okay.
Mike Burton: Ten bucks... if you give me ten bucks.
It all started when I was idle at my stupid day job and I decided to dedicate my entire day to filling out sweepstakes and contest forms. I came across a free classified ad site for Phoenix-area musicians. I wrote, “ 38-y-o female vocalist seeks band. I was in a progressive band years ago and was written up in the City Paper for my ‘angelic vocals’.”
Which I thought was pretty up-front. I was hoping it would come off like I have chops, but I’m not a young thang and I’m not in the biz. Even so, I got a few slacker boys jammin’ in their mom’s basement. Now, I love me some slacker boyz, I do, but really now.
Dude e-mailed me, name-dropped The Meat Puppets (past) and The Gin Blossoms (future) and we set up a time. We all met at Ed’s house last Saturday. I played them mine. They played me theirs. I don’t know the protocol of these things, but at some point, I guess they agreed that I was in. So they sent me home with a CD of some stuff Ed’s old band had recorded and told me to write some lyrics. So, apparently I’m a lyricist now.
The Stranger: The Dude abides. I don't know about you but I take comfort in that. It's good knowin' he's out there. The Dude. Takin' 'er easy for all us sinners. Shoosh. I sure hope he makes the finals.
I have met The Dude and he is putting together a psychobilly band in Scottsdale, Arizona. What’s more, he has recruited me for it. So, it’s The Dude, me, and Ed Stevens from the tv show “Ed”. You remember -- the lawyer who ran the bowling alley?
Mike Burton: Hey, ten bucks...
Ed Stevens: I'm not really in the mood.
Mike Burton: No, you're gonna like this one, it's conceptual.
Ed Stevens: ...Okay.
Mike Burton: Ten bucks... if you give me ten bucks.
It all started when I was idle at my stupid day job and I decided to dedicate my entire day to filling out sweepstakes and contest forms. I came across a free classified ad site for Phoenix-area musicians. I wrote, “ 38-y-o female vocalist seeks band. I was in a progressive band years ago and was written up in the City Paper for my ‘angelic vocals’.”
Which I thought was pretty up-front. I was hoping it would come off like I have chops, but I’m not a young thang and I’m not in the biz. Even so, I got a few slacker boys jammin’ in their mom’s basement. Now, I love me some slacker boyz, I do, but really now.
Dude e-mailed me, name-dropped The Meat Puppets (past) and The Gin Blossoms (future) and we set up a time. We all met at Ed’s house last Saturday. I played them mine. They played me theirs. I don’t know the protocol of these things, but at some point, I guess they agreed that I was in. So they sent me home with a CD of some stuff Ed’s old band had recorded and told me to write some lyrics. So, apparently I’m a lyricist now.
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