beatle lust

[Author's Note: Can't believe I missed a week. Been a busy man, and my Wi-Fi went out for six days. Anyway...I'm back.]

Eight of the nine customers who participated in last week's "Name Five Beatles Songs" pop quiz failed miserably. I'm concerned. Only one dude managed all five, but not before trying to pass off Abbey Road as a song, not an album. After me and my Paragon coworkers granted him a mulligan (in Golf Speak, mulligans are unpenalized 'do-overs' after poor shots), he pulled on through.

All this Beatle talk got me thinking. How many can I name?

For many, many years, the Beatles were my band. My father spun their LPs when I was 2 or 3 years old (fave songs at the time: "When I'm Sixty-Four," "Come Together," and "A Taste Of Honey"), so you can say I've grown up with them. In college I took a dream vacation to Liverpool (<--link here) and spent four days exploring sacred Beatle grounds. Along the way I read eight or ten biographies on the band, met Pete Best (drummer before Ringo) at Chicago's Beatlefest, attended a Paul McCartney concert at London's Earl's Court Theatre, and spent hours upon hours in small music shops poring over their records. I've at one time or another owned every U.S. Beatles release and have given each of them dozens, if not hundreds, of spins, so 100 songs didn't seem entirely out of the question.

Tally at one hour: 102. Not bad, I thought, but there's got to be a few dozen I'm leaving out. Later, while on the subway, I realized I'd neglected Magical Mystery Tour entirely, an unconscionable omission. Nine tracks brought the number to 111. Then I apprehended a few stragglers from Help and Please Please Me, and some singles ("Rain," "Day Tripper") that never appeared on a studio album. I kept at it, nose to grindstone.

Shortly after dinner, surrender.

137.

Of course I went back to check myself, anxious to see what'd been forgotten. Turns out a few BIGGIES were overlooked. Here's the short list:

"Can't Buy Me Love"
"Eight Days A Week"
"Happiness Is A Warm Gun"
"While My Guitar Gently Weeps"
"The Long And Winding Road"
"Hello Goodbye"

Strange.

I'd remembered "Wild Honey Pie," a one minute throwaway from The Beatles, but not "Happiness Is A Warm Gun," which is often cited as one of the strongest numbers on that record. When thinking of how best to size up my exclusion of "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," I realized it'd be equivalent to compiling a list of the 50 states and leaving out only, say, Colorado. Sorry, George.

I didn't limit myself to Beatle originals (on their first two albums, many of the songs were covers), but chose not to exploit the live BBC Sessions, which probably would have yielded twenty more. After some deliberation, I decided both Past Masters records were fair game.

Isn't it amazing how well our brains receive music? Even if you're not a musical person (or even a casual fan), I'll bet you can sing or hum along to tunes you haven't heard in fifteen years. Think about that! Most of us probably can't remember the plot of a movie we saw six months ago, but we'll respond to a Sesame Street ditty that captivated us at 6. (Remember that kick-ass song about numbers by the Pointer Sisters? 1 2 3 4 5...6 7 8 9 10...11 12? I rediscovered it a few weeks ago after twenty years and recognized every note, every vocal inflection. The vid--which is a must see--has been attached at the base of this post.) We've all owned LPs/cassettes/CDs at one time or another. Think back to what you were listening to during your formative, adolescent years; chances are, many of those melodies will remain with you until late adulthood.

'Bout a month ago a friend lent me Daniel J. Levitin's This Is Your Brain on Music: The Science of a Human Obsession, a book which I'd highly recommend to any and all music nuts. Sometimes it's a bit overbearing, since it's so technical, but Levitin does an admirable job trying to explain the goings-on in our craniums as we listen. Humans store sound in impressive ways.

Anyone feel like quizzing themselves? How many songs from your favorite band can you name? Let's see what you got.

Also, if anyone out there can beat my Beatle total, your next beer is on me.

give me aged gouda or give me death

I’ve got a serious cheese problem.

This afternoon, after an impulsive, wholly unnecessary food purchase (two heavily Parmesanned slices and a bottle of ginger ale) at Kingston Pizza, I headed down to the grocery and reached for a hand basket. Then I got lost in the aisles.

Some items taunted me more than others. A few multi-colored packages with recognizable names (they were very pretty, and positioned at eye-level) badmouthed their generic opponents and muttered something about standards of quality, but I dismissed their propagandistic ways. In all things sport (and food), I pull for the underdog.

The cereals were particularly aggressive. I told them to shut up. They hissed and hissed. Things became confused, like. What to buy?

After a few tense minutes I re-emerged at the front of the store and didn’t know what else to do, so I got in the checkout line. My hand basket wasn’t empty any more. Now there were some random items in it. (Shopping lists are for pussies.) I stood there in line and looked down at the basket to see what made the cut, since your guess is as good as mine.

Here’s what I discovered:

1) One half gallon of milk

2) One box of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese

3) One brick of sharp cheddar cheese

I’m not making this up. Those were the items. Jesus, I thought, what the hell is wrong with me? I go from a pizza lunch to--this? My poor body.

“Ma’am,” I yelled, motioning to the cashier, “what sorta scam are you running here? Where’s the veggies? All you sell are dairy products! You should be ashamed of yourselves! How’s a guy to scare up a square meal in this town? I have half a mind to…”

“Right over there, sir,” she replied. “Behind you. Next to the fruits.”

“Ahhh hell,” I said.

As I type this, I'm drinking from a glass of milk. God help me.
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introspection

This is my 64th entry. [An aside: Whenever I see that number, I immediately think of McCartney’s “When I’m Sixty-Four."] The first was posted on July 29, 2008.

I’ve been at this thing for almost a year.

Because I’m a very slow writer, this blog has been as laborious as it’s been rewarding. In many instances, I commence an entry on Monday, only to wrap it on a Wednesday. That’s why I post only once a week. The words never come out just right the first time through, so I revise, revise, revise to avoid offering up a sloppy, incomplete entry. Even now, I find myself correcting posts from four, five months ago. In all things blog, I’m a neurotic perfectionist.

When you factor in the time I spend scouring Flickr for appropriate images, or even the endless minutes tweaking the HTML code (bolding words, italicizing others, spacing out the paragraphs correctly, embedding links/videos, etc.), my blog becomes a part-time job in itself.

I don’t get paid for this. My blog offers zero return, monetarily speaking, and I’d guess that less than forty people read each entry. Why, then, do I dedicate so many of my hours to this thing?

Well, there’s a few reasons:

1) My ego's a paunchy glutton, so I thrive on feedback. When readers take the time to message me, their words make the whole process worthwhile. (Now I just have to get better about responding to their responses. Sorry, people. I’ll try to step up my game.)

2) Like most humans, I want to be thought of as an intelligent person. Since I rarely feel as if I say anything worthwhile in everyday conversation, I’ve turned to the page to express myself more eloquently. See, my brain works slowly. There’s a lotta information crammed up there, but oftentimes it takes me minutes, hours, days to retrieve it. Improvisation ain’t my bag.

3) I enjoy the struggle. Writing, as mentioned above, does not come easily to me. Though I pride myself on the finished product, I’m not blessed with the writing powers of, say, a Lester Bangs [Bangs, a prolific music critic who I previously cited in this entry, would take assloads of amphetamine and churn out six, eight pages of copy in mere minutes. Then, striking the final key, he’d rip the paper from the typer and place it--without a hint of hesitation--on his editor’s desk. Bangs’ coworkers observed this process many times over and marvelled at his speed, since the manuscripts were unfailingly brilliant and required little, if any, revision].

Writing humbles me on a daily basis, but I’m rather proud of the voice I’ve developed. Every step of the process--my choice of topic, the hours spent over a Word document, transferral to the blog page, image selection--is deeply satisfying, and I feel as an architect must when of his own designs becomes a physical, fully-realized structure.

4) Up until recently, I've been a bit of a transient. Since graduation in ’04, I’ve worked for 50+ companies, lived in four different towns/cities, and fallen in and out with countless groups of friends and acquaintances. In keeping a blog, I provide myself the illusion of stability, since I’m posting at semi-regular intervals. These entries neutralize the madness that is New York City and afford me welcome respite from all these urban volatilities. In other words, my blog is a constant in an otherwise inconsistent life.

The next bullet point is the biggee.

5) I write because someday I’m going to die. It’d be a shame to check out and leave nothing behind. Sure, I’d exist in the memories of any remaining friends and family (a thought which provides some small measure of solace), but--frankly--I’m more interested in marking my existence in a permanent, calcified way. (I understand that a blog ain’t tangible, but it will be accessible long after my physical body expires…which, in this digital age, is the next best thing.)

If you think these moribund thoughts don’t frighten me, you’re crazy. Consider: I’m admitting that I write not to convey information and/or provide a fresh take on a given topic, though these are two qualities I'd assume to be pre-reqs for any real writer! On the contrary, I’ve suggested that I’m writing solely for myself, so that I might gain the favor of others by showcasing my talents. Aren’t artists supposed to be above all this? Don’t writers write because they’d burst if they didn’t let it all out? Don’t writers write for noble, worldly reasons, so as to contribute to the betterment of society?

Well, I’d like to think I’m not alone in my solipsism. Surely I’m not the first would-be writer to struggle with this. Perhaps that’s why many writers become nihilistic, self-destructive alcoholics. It’d make sense, wouldn’t it? We’re taught from a young age to be selfless and altruistic. When our actions so flagrantly contradict these teachings (especially when these actions are intimately tied to our core work), what emotion assumes a domineering position in our psyche? One word: Guilt.

That’s not to say all writers are selfish bastards, nor is that to say I’m a selfish bastard. There’s a lot of grey in there. I realize that, in attempting this entry, I’ve painted myself into a corner. To say I don’t care about ideas and information is a gross oversimplification. I do care, just not as much as I feel I ought to. On Sunday, I said these words to a friend: “Sometimes, in order to complete a blog entry, I adopt enthusiasms that are not my own.” I quickly explained myself, saying, “It’s not that I’m lying. It’s not that at all. I believe what I write, but sometimes I seem more invested in a certain topic than I actually am.”

An example might be the Kid Rock entry. Yes, I hate that effing song. Yes, it makes me irrationally angry. But do I care that it’s out there, that it exists? Not really. In order to write a plump, full blog with just the right dosage of embittered snarkery, though, I had to adopt a voice. So I did. And I ran with it. That’s what I mean by “enthusiasms that are not my own.” I wrote that bit for purposes of entertainment and ego-stroking, not because "All Summer Long" was ruining my life. In the grand spectrum, that stupid song doesn't mean anything, and hardly warranted even ten minutes of my time.

I’d assume many of the great writers and thinkers (Nietzsche (pic at right), Joyce, Orwell, just to name a few) cared much about social justice and the order of things, which suggests that I may be more self-centered than most. I’ve created this entry with the full realization that I’m not speaking for writers as a whole.

Why do artists create?

Writers/bloggers/painters/musicians, what drives you? Please contribute…I’d love to hear your thoughts on the matter.

update

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Big ups to Lucas Cometto (of Muppets and Puppets, L.L.C.) for his fine lawyerly work! Rachelle removed the bio. Happy day.
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shortchanged

[Author's Note: I'm including pics that are in no way tied to the written content of this entry, since I can't think of an appropriate visual theme. Just for the heck of it, I've posted photographs of Bauhaus (the goth band, not the German art school).]

As some of you may know, I’ve been writing artist bios on the side for extra money. (Artist bios are typically posted under the “ABOUT ME” section on a musician’s MySpace page and sent out--with a hard copy of their latest album--to promoters/music mag editors/radio stations.)

If someone requests my services, I in turn ask them for relevant background information (hometown, musical training, influences, core aesthetic, etc.) and song samples, and then set to work creating a personalized bio.

My rates are negotiable. Ideally, I should be collecting $100 for a page-long bio, but that hasn’t happened yet. When I write for friends, for example, I hesitate to charge the full amount. In other instances, I’m writing for musicians who either don’t have much money (in which case we meet in the middle), or would rather not pay at all, thank you very much. Rachelle* falls into the latter category.

*So as to avoid a potential ass-beating, I've changed her name.

Rachelle, a young singer/songwriter who specializes in oversexualized dance music, is based out of the Bronx. She found me on Craigslist. (I'd attached multiple writing samples--including this blog’s URL--to a short bio of my own, marketing myself as a freelancer.) Rachelle was my first nibble.

Her agent, Deb (name also changed), was the one who actually contacted me. We discussed length (three or four paragraphs) and payment ($80). Later that day, she forwarded along Rachelle's outdated MySpace page and a few phrases she wanted included in the final product.

I completed Draft #1 a few days later. Deb received it, raved about it, asked me to correct two or three minor points. Later that day, I revised and re-sent.

Then I didn’t hear from her for awhile. Hmm. I’m calling, I’m e-mailing, I’m leaving polite messages. Nothing.

Late March, after a number of days, I finally get her on the phone. Deb, says I, what the eff? (Ok, I didn’t say that.) She: "Mike, it's a fantastic bio! Very professional. I want to make sure you get your money...how does April 6th sound?" "Uhhhh," says I, "why so late? That’s ten days away!" "Well," says she, "I don’t get paid ‘til the 5th." (This, readers, is when I realized I’d been thoroughly suckered.) She: "Anyway, what was the price we agreed on? $60?" Me: "No, $80. Eighty dollars." She: "Can I give you $60?"

Now the ol’ blood pressure is spiking, but I intend to get SOMETHING outta the deal, so I warily agree. Fine, Deb, $60, sure, whatever. The sixth, you say? I’ll come and pick it up that afternoon. She: "Ok."

You know the story from here. Sixth rolls around. I call. Nothing. Send off an e-mail. Nothing. Every other day, I leave a voicemail. (This goes on for two full weeks.) Finally, I reach my breaking point and drop this in her inbox:

DEB. I'm going to get the $ from you, one way or another. If I have to, I'll come to Rachelle's next NY show to collect. Please show me some respect and return my messages.

Looking back, I could've been a bit wiser in my choice of words. It actually shames me that I stooped to that. Live and learn, I guess.

Two days later, I somehow get her on the phone. Now it’s war. She cites the above e-mail and accuses me of threatening her. Me: “Listen, Deb, you’ve failed to respond to any of my messages, which would lead any sane person to believe that you’re not intending to pay me. I understand the wording could've been a bit softer in that e-mail. For that, I apologize. The sentiment, though, was pretty spot-on. I intend to receive payment. Because you dropped off the face of the Earth, you left me no choice but to show up at a gig or something and approach you face-to-face. If I want to collect, what other choice do I have?”

She freaks: “We don’t want your damn bio! We ain't using it! I ain’t paying you no $60 for no bio! Hold on, my husband wants to talk to you.” So she puts him on. We speak for five minutes. Nice guy. At the end of the convo, he even calls me ‘buddy,’ which kind of surprises me.

After giving me a stern talking-to about how to treat a woman (I again apologize for the e-mail), he assures me the bio won't be used. Fine, I say. Not a problem. Situation diffused. I hang up the phone.

Well, two days ago (and 2+ weeks after my convo with the hubby) I go to Rachelle’s fresh, revamped web page, and my bio--shore nuff--is displayed front and center. If you want to see the link, please e-mail/message me. I'd rather not post it in my blog.

Another phone call. I ask her what the eff. Deb begins to shout. Me: "Listen, Deb, either take it down or cough up the dough. I'm not a sucker." She hangs up on me, mid-sentence.

So I sent this e-mail:

Hi Deb--

The last thing I want is a fight. Please hear me out:

If you want to use the bio for Rachelle's homepage, you're welcome to it. All I ask, then, is $60, which is the rate that we agreed on. If you remove the bio from her page, there's no issue, and you don't owe me a dime. Pretty simple.

Why haven't you responded to my messages? I know you're reading these e-mails. If the bio is not removed from her page by this Friday (6/5), I'll be contacting my lawyer. Please show some courtesy to someone who provided you a service.

I'm not a bad guy, Deb...I just don't like being taken advantage of. How would you like to be stiffed out of payment? I'm not writing these things for my health.

Thanks for your time. I'll be checking her page throughout the week to see if she's taken it down.

Mike

I don't have a lawyer.

The money's now of secondary concern; this is about something else entirely. When you get right down to it, I'm seeking recognition for my work. Call it justice. (Ayn Rand would be proud of me for fighting the good fight, though she'd probably scold me for not foreseeing this whole debacle.)

The war rages on...
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