galaxies galore

11:19 am

what a morning, a tremendous morning, a tremendous tremendous morning

I don't want to explain it all at all, I don't want to jinx it. But of course there is no jinxing, just like there is no spoon harhar. Having to come into Work is kind of jinxy but not really the key is to stay grounded and realize that everything is indeed arranged just so and you just go with that

But remember you're just writing this in Word it's not like it absolutely must go up on the fucking blog, so write whatever, and that of course is another key. The other key is

(I have it all mapped out in my mind)

You know, in the last analysis you end up defining for yourself what it will be to "make it" and for me all it's going to involve at this point is my little analog tape recorder from Radio Shack, the old fashioned kind, notebooks and pens, my beat up old laptop used exclusively for Word, my Yamaha 12-string and my good old grey '87 Strat.

The thing about Strats is they get better with age, they really do, they really really do.

(Guitar. What a word. My favorite word. Aw yeah, babe.)

If I can write 'em all as fast as I wrote the one I wrote this morning they are going to pile up fast buddy and the riff for this one is really something that just came from a chord progression I was playing purely to practice switching clean and crisp from barre chords to open chords letting every note ring pure how lame is that but there it was. Then I came up with a line that the cyborg would speak and took it from there. Aw yeah babe.

Not going to divulge lyrics here. That was the great mistake of Maught Braughmby, in a certain sense. Wasting those kinda bullets in blogland is a big no-no. Blogs are for stupid self-referential bullshit. Never forget that.

So, roughed out probably around 15 verses. And just go from there. It's the Beizart thing but I'm a re-tool it all as I go. Making it up as I go. If I think too much about this I'll begin to have a(nother) nervous fucking breakdown. So: a little each day.

(Yeah, buddy. These are the Lessons. Put one foot in front of the other. And soon you'll be walkin' out the door. Aw yeah babe)

So anyway I came up with the riff and recorded it and then sang it, and I can't lie, it is pretty good.

Actually, it is the fucking Deal, baby.

But. The key being, you gotta keep going. Like the man said, way back in the day at some student art exhibition, The real shame of it is that he didn't make 50 more of 'em, just like this.

**

But golly, I could get a lot more done if I didn't drink at night while doing it. Stick to beer and sip slow, I guess. I start drinking that fucking Pinot and next thing I know I've just drunk a whole big bottle. Except: I won't lie, last night I really meant to, I really just felt like getting fucking ripped.

Great, great.

And so on another note: I finally figured out that memorizing the lyrics to the ole cover songs while driving in the truck is the way to take it. Because not knowing the words is a Major Problem. Because the other thing is, you really do, you really really do at some level have to be The Human Jukebox. As long, of course, that you're playing songs that you like. Because otherwise, as the sage must know, it aint really workin'.

And there are a veritable houseload of good cheesy songs out there for to play in bars and such, a veritable houseload. Because, at long last, playing out as much as much as is possible (an admitted known unknown) for $ is the next step, purely because I would like to be makin' more money for to buy more instruments, a good digital recorder, a killer amp, etc. See, and talking like this is what makes me nervous; it veers toward the territory of Wanting The Wrong Things. The key of course being to do what you can do, to do it Now, and to eschew trying to rig your shit up with preconceptions, preconceived notions: a strange turn of phrase, that, but there it is.

And I think you know what I mean.

But, nonetheless, I'll be damned if I don't do this thing. One or two fucking gigs is all I'm talking about. I've got a few local places in mind. Have to hit their open mikes first, and will have to, you know, kill. Which is not necessarily easier said than done; thing is, you can't be terminally under-rehearsed, as I often was, back when I was Being Stupid. As I may have mentioned.

 Anyway, I aint gonna lie and say I'm not kinda skeered and uncertain as to how exactly it's all going to go. This shit sure aint getting done all by itself is all I know. 'Cause you know, you've first got to apprehend the songs and acquire a certain foundation of technique, and rightexactlynow I haven't quite done either, and I can't quite say how long it's going take before I'm really truly ready. After all, I've only been back in zee black for about a month here, got to remember that, got to keep remembering that. I'm still way deep in the Woodshed here, but it's getting more interesting by the day. A lot more interesting. As the strengths build and the skills coalesce, it gets more interesting. By exercising it every day you exude your own metaphysical paraffin, sweating it out like lamp oil, which you then burn; endeavor to coruscate, in some small measure, and then you go back and fucking burn it some more until it won't stop glowing

Aw yeah babe. That is exactly what you do

**

Er, yeah.

**

Got to get back on task here but at least I got this mental and emotional party train back rolling and, like the ballplayers say, untracked, now

**

Also this morning, after roughing out the cyborg's (first) song, I realized that the problem with one of the other ones (Stump Sprouts, if you must know) was that I've been playing it way way way too slow. Crash along with it fast and with a muted sense of smoldering mingled with the regret and voila there it is. Or at least, there the shape of it is.

The neighbors must think I'm a fuckin' flake, and good God, what if I am. A man lives in a house for nearly 5 years and then one day Boom all he's ever doing is playing acoustic and electric guitars, playing harmonica, singing. Carrying on like a fuckin' Teen Ager. But you see, that's the key: to attack it every day like you did when you was aged, say, thirteen fourteen fifteen and sixteen, except, and here's the catch: Knowing What You Know Now.

(And there you have it, friends and neighbors, The Secret To Being A Real Artist. Tell 'em you heard it here over it File 313; but then, if you're one of the three out there who might be reading this, you prob'ly don't need me to tell you. Bat, for sure, I know you don't.

And so much for all that; that's the gyp and the paradox and the irony of it all…why, it's a gyparadoxirony…harhar, I got a million of em folks a million of 'em I tell ya a million)

Whatever, at least I'm singing kinda low, not caterwauling like some emotional wreck like back in the old days, oh no.

(Also not screaming and howling no more at walls and worse in a rage of brutal self-abnegation and lost lonesome despair. Which I have done my fair share of over the past, oh, 5 – 6 years, because I'd Quit Playing, all because I'd been Wanting The Wrong Things. And Hadn't Figured That Out. But then we've already covered that particular angle. No sense going backward too too much here. Oh no no no)

(Yet, my only hope for any of these boring ridiculouso rants is that they're somehow therapeutic in a way that's Necessary For Me…good grief…)

Or maybe the neighbors can't really hear and don't care. I will and do shut the windows when I think it's getting too ridiculous.

But hear this: a man should sing low and cool; that's just the way it has to be; the faster you learn that, the faster you'll obtain, sonnyboy, the faster you'll obtain, the faster you'll obtain.

 

**

Er, yeaaaaaaaaah. Say, it's feelin kinda jinxy in here, Maughx; you're really giving all all all away here, aintchee, a bit too much in the telling. But then, fuck it, you know I don't stop, I don't want to stop, I just wanna keep on going

And you are not helping the cause nor the plan one bit by going on and on and on here while other more mundane yet nevertheless vital and workmanlike tasks awaitchee.

Do your chores first, then you can play.

It is ever the story.

**

3:34 pm

Woah I really hesitate to post all this crap because I feel it is LAME at a very fundamental level. But will post in the interest of moving right along and why the F not. It's blogland, baby, so show the folks yer ass with aplomb; it'll all be gone by Sunday anyway.

Let it be a lesson to me not to be such a tool.

**

I know some people like to disparage that myspace music but I think at a certain level it's pretty decent as a way at least to hear what everyone doing. Big news flash, I know.

It's been opening up my horizons at least.

Galaxies and galaxies, baby, galaxies and galaxies and galaxies galore.

discipline

10:00 am

Unstinting in each now. Is how you’ve got to be.

Sitting here in cube, ugh. But. I am going to get my mundane shit done now.

Fuck that Internet. I tire of it. The sage is strategic in his use of it. And I have a plan.

And if I can implement that plan, I will have a stack of lyrics by the time that I’m really ready to bring ‘em out.

(shed that cladding, the useless past. or is it the opposite)

(whispering sense of embedded meta-doom)

But here’s this, though: it’s a hell of a lot easier to write, period, kid, a hell of a lot easier, now that I’m not charging myself with being That Kind Of Writer.

I mean, sweet Jesus, the idea of writing novels, and not just novels, but in the end, novels in verse, about mythical failed guitar players. Yeah, that sounds like a lot of fun.

Writing about making music is a lot like writing about having sex. Boring!

So then: I’m gonna try to avoid getting into the particulars of daily practice, because I think it detracts from what I’m about. But what I can tell you is that I’m focused on technique, real technique, now, in a way that I wasn’t before and haven’t been heretofore. And part of that sure is coming from being confined to practicing acoustic on a 12-string, because that instrument is in a lot of ways twice as demanding. And that cheap Yamaha sounds better than you might think.

But then, that’s the way it is with guitars and guitar playing. Requiring a subtle kind of precision and an almost effortless kind of strength, you want to be deft fluid firm precise

Er, right.

Yeah. So that’s why I’m going to have to go back to GC one of these days and check that $200 six-string Yamaha. Because I think there might’ve been something to that cheap mother.

And it’s good thing I haven’t bought another expensive guitar yet anyway because I’m not sure at this point what exactly it is that I’m going to be wanting. There’s a vintage music store out in the western part of the state that, for instance, has a 12-string Guild that is The Deal, and you know, something like that might really end up being the thing for me. Because, shit, 12-strings are the deal but they are a lot harder to play well; but then, that’s what I’m presently about through a kind of chance and happenstance.

Uh, right.

But see, getting your wire and wood skills together after a long long layoff - not to say a nearly terminal layoff - well, getting it all back and then some via the exclusive acoustic use of the 12-string is one the best things a motherfucker can do. Because you’ve got to be stronger, better, faster, more precise. And then, when you take that back to playing, say, your Stratocaster (which I do), then you see just how much farther along you’re getting in terms of being A Monster On The Electric. Because, let’s face it, Rock Music, baby. You know, that element. Hardcore troubadour and all like that. That is The Deal.

(a certain mad scientist ethic, believin in things only I can see)

Because at this point, for me, not being All The Guitarist I Can Be is definitely not gonna cut it. And that idea quickly leads one into this head of, committing to a lifeling pursuit of the mastery of the guitartial arts, sort of thing. Which you clearly need anyway, no matter what happens, because there’s a hell of a lot of good guitar players out there, a hell of a lot of them, who will always be better than you. A lot better.

(This is all foolish bullshit, Maught Procrastination.

Stream of consciousness is all the media feed I need. Seriously, fuck surfing the Internet. A Caucasoid gotta be strategic in his use of it.)

OK, fuck it, get to work.

*

3:02 pm

Discipline.

With any, I could eventually score that whole stupid fucking Jacob Beizart thing, all of it. The fucking robot, the fucking humanoid, all of it. Complete with ambient noise and guitar solos. All of it.

And I just may.

ahem

9:55 am

Oh, did I ever have a post last week, I was out in a biggish city by a big big lake, but then my laptop shit the bed, all corrupted, but oh, did I have a post. I'd even posted it, then I panicked that I'd written something to incriminate myself and, well, I hadda go back in there and delete that shit, because I can't have that. Not that I'd written anything all that incriminating, but still. But I tell you, it was a grand post, written with a head aflame, in airports and hotel rooms, oh the things I wrote. Alright, it wasn't that great. Kinda great. Might try to recapture a few vignettes. Later. When I'm not At Work. Got to get my Adult Crap done so's I can Play Later. Yeah. You should see the calluses on my lefthand fingers. Really ugly. But remember: right hand technique is what gets you there. Really, you gotta have both. I might yet buy that $199 Yamaha if it seems that there's songs inside it. Oh, it's been a crash course right back into the fray of it all. Getting my shit back together again. Hear my train a 'comin. A certain "mad scientist" ethic. Believin in things only I can see. Got to do it though and really sorta didn't today. Fuck, I hate it when work derails the plan and this week work is derailing the plan.

*

1:49 pm

Stream of consciousness is

all the media feed I need

The Internet, I hate it,

it's makin me stupider

checking in

Because I don't want this blog to check out.

I'm not feeling as apt to explain everything as I was last week.

But things are going alright.

Here deep in the woodshed.

You'll have to take my word for it.

There is no mystical horseshit about writing and playing songs, it's all about development and repetition. And practice.

Exile: descending into it, living it, returning from it. These are the themes.

I'll take my lemons and fold them into a chrysalis.

I'm just going by feel.

scope

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woodshed within yourself

What I can tell you is that I'm deep in the woodshed again for the first time in a long time.

One other time was the winter and spring of '95 in the Midwest in a 7th floor dorm room and an acoustically inviting stairwell, where I sat on the stairs and picked and strummed and sang and everyone else be damned. No one seemed to mind.

During the subsequent summer months, the woodshed shifted to a second floor shotgun apartment above a convenience store and a bar in northern New England, right across the street from a coastal river.

That period of woodshedding mainly ended when I decided to move back to the Midwest at the end of the summer, after which my life got way too desperate and morose and complicated. By the end of that year I'd run off the rails down South only to end up back in New England for all of '97, my musical pursuits all in a shambles. A fucking shambles like my life at that point. So it seemed; in many ways it surely was. I can remember feeling like a huge fucking failure at everything I'd tried, and so I was.

Another time in the woodshed (it occurs to me now) was for a few months at the end of '97, when I'd been going to the gym and lost a bunch of weight prior to moving to New York City, a move made about 2 days before New Year's. Making a living in that fucking city was nearly impossible for me and my playing at this time was largely a by-product of my drinking and carrying on like a fuckup.

Back then I was always putting the cart before the horse, never really taking the time to hone my skills. Never making that vital commitment to daily practice which is what drives it all. Always stepping too far, too far ahead of myself, premature. Wanting the wrong things. Though I played with a certain energy, I was indeed at that time a very sloppy fucking guitar player and singer. Uneven at best, a total suckjob at worst.

It's hard to write about it and it's hard not to write about it, but that I am at all right now tells me something.

When I stop playing, I go dormant. It's not like I'm looking back with regrets because it's my past and I can't change it but right now I want more. And I'm prepared to have more.

What it comes down to, if it involves the arts, is that you can only expect to excel at the medium that's easiest for you to stay up all night doing -- whatever it is puts you outside of time, entranced and in focus. For me it involves the guitar and, in symbiosis, typing at the keyboard; but the guitar is the main thing, the momentum, the bloom, the chemistry, the blood.

***

[Then there's a part here where I lecture about how a "day job" need not be a soul sucker. Not a bit. Quite the opposite, in fact. Just has to be the right job and you have to know how to work it. But fuck all that.]

***

Good God, the temperature is in the 80s today under lucid skies and a high golden sun. All the trees finally coming out, flowering.

Good God, I just went down to Guitar Center to play the acoustics since with their yearlong interest free financing I realize I can afford to get a decent one i.e. one priced more than a grand and holy shit it was a Taylor that grabbed me. Only thing is, my old acoustic was also a Taylor and I sold it a year ago on the basis of (as I told the people closest to me) my "just not liking it."

(There was, I should mention, quite a bit of truth in that assessment. I never did like that particular guitar. Chemistry with guitars is a funny thing. Just like with people.)

My plan at that time was to buy an expensive laptop computer for My Writing harhar. I sold the fucking Taylor to some kid for $700, then frittered away 3/4 of the money while ostensibly "saving" for the laptop, and finally ended up buying my present 12-string acoustic for $279 (it must be said: a killer ax for the money; a vital ax for me as it turns out and one I won't part with willingly), because not having an any acoustic whatsoever was way too depressing.

But a year ago I wasn't in the woodshed. It was all pre-epiphany. I was still conflicted about the whys and the wherefores of playing. Still wanting the wrong things. Still lost.

Anyway, I can only imagine what they'll say if/when they find out that here we are a year later and I'm into another $1500 fucking Taylor guitar. They'll think it's pretty fucking flaky is what they'll think.

But to hell with all that. I'm pretty much keeping this whole thing on the deep downlow anyway because it's just in people's nature to consider it all a pretty fucking fruity business, this business of playing and singing.

Let 'em figure it out if and when I ever get this fucking thing rolling the way I want to, this time around.

My head's right this time, is all that matters. Other than the work, you know.

(Good God, I hope it is indeed only you, Bat, who really knows who the masked man is here. Talk is cheap and ambition ugly. The difference for me this time that I'm working within a certain scope.

Like the ballplayers say: stay within yourself.)

wherein I say this

What I can tell you is that I pretty much quit for 7 years. Despite this period of self-imposed exile, I think I've improved, tangibly. At least in my mental and physical approach. Or at least my potential for improvement has expanded. If that makes sense.

Chief among my problems in the tailspin period -- back when I was playing, the first time -- was that I was terminally under-rehearsed, not to mention broke and addled. Somewhere along the way I forgot that practice is the soul of it all, the big wheel at the center that makes it all go.

Or maybe I just failed to learn that particular lesson all the way. Nothing could be more true.

In my head, now, it all starts to get a bit involved. But that really doesn't matter. Remember the little stories I was writing over at the other blog about the Magic Guitar Player and all that bullshit? That's all very telling.

almost a post

It's not necessarily a sign of getting older per se: I've always been one of the few to show up at "Guitar Center" dressed like a reasonable adult.

At least, mainly. Excluding that phase in the Nineties where, I'm ashamed to say, I wore a leather jacket, vest, and harness boots.

Kids and musicians and writers, always tempted to put on a costume.

Well, fuck it. Whatever you've got to do, I guess.