VinceT

Our third week at the Blue Crab, saw us move the open mic from the

[smaller]

bar into the

[larger]

restaurant – and, for most of the night, we filled the room. In total, we had over 20 musicians play during the course of the evening – as Dot Nielson of Gramma’s Attic Promotions would say: “WOW!!!”

A wide range of styles were on show, even including a wandering sax solo

[literally]

Here are just some of the performances from last night – shaky iPhone camerawork by yours truly while sitting at the sound-desk!

Tim Quinn started us off in fine style:

And Noah Feldman was back to share one of his originals:

A new face to the Blue Crab Mic Attack!, Anna Lennard – who, for some reason, I got fixed in my head was called Rebecca (sorry, Anna!):

Talking of new, we were also pleased to host the debut of two young musicians, Nico & Gerard, who did a great job:

Cathy Yuhas debuted a couple of works in progress – IMHO good enough to share here:

And, if you looked carefully at that video, you’ll have seen Bob “the Bass” Mayfield who jammed with most of the performers last night at some point – here he is with the Ian and Dustin Meadows:

Here’s Mark and Dave (and Bob, of course) on one of the rare occasions when Dave wasn’t walking the room, sax-ing it up

[yes, he is Saxy and he knows it]

The Suiter family were back, with the last gig for a while featuring Carl (Dad) and James (Son), as James is heading down to Alabama this Friday – best of luck, James!

And, proving that they have the patience of saints, last up on the bill were Two Reasons:

Also appearing, though not video’d

[apologies, I only have so many hands]

John & Mike, Molly Bowers, Emiro and Jesse McKellan

[who does not play Gandalf in the Lord of the Rings trilogy ]

and, of course, yours truly.

I’ll be taking the night off from the Blue Crab next week, but Noah Feldman has graciously agreed to host in my absence, so be there to see the Blue Crab Mic Attack! open mic – Wednesday, 7-11pm.

And, as always, if you’re an artist listed above who I’ve not linked, let me know where you’re at online – and, please, get yourself a Reverbnation account!

A friend of mine is raving at the moment – RAVING – about Jonah Tolchin – it seems like every conversation of the past few weeks has included some mention of Jonah.

And, rightfully so, he’s very talented.

But this post isn’t about him.

It’s about me. And my friend.

More to the point, it’s about you.

See, earlier this week, after weeks of her recommendations, my friend asked me “what do you think of Jonah Tolchin?”

And, in all honesty, I replied that I hadn’t got around to listening to him yet.

There was a moment. One of those moments. We looked at each other, her with some measure of shock and hurt in her eyes, and me feeling that prickle of discomfort that I’d somehow done something wrong. The moment held, and then we got back to doing what we do best, blending energies to make everything move forward for the better.

But, as ever, I’ve been mulling it over.

We live in a recommendation-saturated world.

To build your online profile, to become “known”, is to draw eyeballs to your website, or band page, or gigs, regardless of whether those people stick around, whether they listen, whether they read. We’re being inculcated to equate passing interest with abiding care.

[and, yes, I did just use the world inculcated]

They’re not the same thing.

Is it better to have 20 people at a gig who are giving their full attention, or 40 who are talking all the way through the songs?

After the gig, in the telling, it’s always the higher number that wins out – but in the moment, I’ll take the 20 who are listening than the fat geezer at the bar holding court with his band of wankers, lording it over everyone’s conversation…

But I digress…

Fact is, I hadn’t said I’d listen to Jonah, so hadn’t broken any commitment, nor do I ever commit to following a recommendation, unless I fully intend to follow through.

I wish people were that honest and clear-cut with me.

See, one of the hazards of the online world is that artists can get, if they’re that way inclined, near-immediate feedback on listens, sales, reads, eyeballs, visits and probably, with the right skills, the mental health of visitors.

Put it simply: I know how many people listen to my songs, how many people buy my books, how many people read this blog post. Immediately.

And I know that those numbers are FAR lower than the number of people who say they’ll listen to my songs, read my books or visit the blog.

I wrote about how that feels last summer, and I don’t intend to rehash that here.

But I will say that, I think people have a knee jerk when speaking with an artist, of expressing interest and excitement, some of which is driven by wanting to be “nice”

[and the very American leaning towards passive-aggressive superficiality]

but most of which, I truly believe, is in very, very good faith – i.e. people say “oh, I’d love to hear you” and they really mean it. But then something happens, life intrudes, whatever, and they never quite get around to it. No biggie, right?

But it is, because now, the artist can see that you haven’t followed through. And when that one becomes ten, becomes twenty, none of whom follow through – well, you can see how that begins to feel like an insult, right? It’s not just me. I know it’s not.

I’ve lived with this long enough now to have recognized the pattern. It goes like this:

Me: “Yes, that’s right… I have published a number of books.”

Them: “Really?! How exciting! What are they about?”

Me: “Contemporary fiction, stories….”

[for your sake, we're hitting fast forward on the description, but just know it's to the point and makes me feel awfully like I'm over-self-promoting]

Them: “I’ll definitely check them out!”

Me: “Cool, let me know what you think, OK?”

Them: “Definitely.”

[weeks pass - I know they didn't act - every day when I check the numbers - our paths cross]

Them: “Oh, I didn’t get around to it. I really do need to read your stuff!”

Me: “Great. Let me know what you think, OK?”

Them: “Definitely.”

[weeks pass - no, scrub that, rinse and repeat the above for several cycles]

Eventually, I don’t even mention it. The deflation is mine. Completely and utterly mine.

Though sometimes, they do follow through. And they let me know what they think, like I asked. And guess what? Words like excellent, a story that tells itself, couldn’t put it down, difficult to tell if it’s fiction or reality the characters are so real. I feel elated and, as ever, blissfully thankful that I have art in my life and that people have cared enough to have shared in the journey.

And for a little while, that elation erases the bitter taste of so many broken promises. For a little while.

I said earlier, this isn’t a whine, but can I ask a favor – if you’re not a reader, please don’t tell a writer that you’ll read his books; if you don’t listen to anything but top-40 radio, please don’t tell a musician that you’ll spend some time at her website. It hurts more when you do that than just saying, “best of luck, I’m sure your stuff is really good, but sorry I won’t get chance to check it out”. Honest, it really does.

If you tell me you sing, or you write, or you have a website and I meet the news with a poker face, please know that it’s nothing personal.

And, please, if you are madly in love with an artist’s work, and can’t hold back from recommending them, don’t expect anyone to follow up on your recommendation. Recommend by all means, but if someone is honest enough to say that won’t follow up, or that they haven’t followed up, know that they’ve been honest from the outset and unwilling to lie to your face while reverting to their truth behind your back.

Thank you for reading. As ever, you have my love.

Vince

PS: by the way, you really should check out Jonah Tolchin – he’s very, very good. After all… he comes with the highest recommendation )

A great open mic this week at the Blue Crab Steakhouse, Old Saybrook. Some known musicians and others new to me, all friends now!

As last week, we had some stage-sharing, new musical blends. Here’s a great example where Cathy Yuhas and Bob Mayfield are joined onstage by the fantastic Emiro on lead guitar – so pleased to have him visit with us again this week!

We were also treated to some great songs from Sue Mead:

Carl Suiter, family and friends were also in the house, first up his son, James:

Then Carl took to the mic, what a treat!

A little later on, we were joined by PJ:

Also joining us at the second Blue Crab Mic Attack! were The Meadows Brothers, Mark Proccaccini and his friend, whose name I unfortunately didn’t catch, but for whom I was happy to provide the backing for Stormy Monday!

We’ll be back next week – Wednesdays, 7-11pm – so bring your acoustic self down and enjoy a Blue Crab Mic Attack!

… Elton John said that. Or, more likely, Bernie Taupin did.

But I digress.

A good friend of mine was browsing my online profile t’other day

[thanks, Dianne!]

and dropped me a Facebook comment:

I like “You Say”, but Vince, why all of the darkness in your songs? Your life is extremely full, awesome and positive. MOST of your songs are dark. “You Say” has more of an upbeat melody, which I like, even though the words are still a little bit dark. Is it that sadness, in general, writes better music? Just wondering what drives your music.

It’s such a great question, and not the first time I’ve been asked – by others and, more importantly, by myself.

I’ve been writing songs for upwards of 30 years now and, while my capabilities have improved, my muse has proven pretty consistent. I didn’t always know how to say/sing what I wanted to, and when I listen back to earlier songs, they feel clumsy, indistinct, unrealized. But the core of them is true to what I wanted to share.

All of which is a way to say that I don’t know that I so much choose to write songs as much as these songs move through me and out into the world. Any musician, actually let’s expand that to artist, who has travelled into and through their muse, has given themselves up to it, will know what I mean here – the muse works through us.

As BB King said about Stevie Ray Vaughan – “Stevie doesn’t play the blues, the blues plays through Stevie.”

So, what do I know of my muse?

First of all, it reflects – I spend most of my time watching the world, watching people, sensing patterns within the chaos, gradually piecing together my ‘grand theory of everything’. It’s lonely over here – a thread about connection and belonging shows up all over the place in my songs.

All of that stuff, drops down into my subconscious which just chews over and over. Eventually something burps up to my front brain – I can usually sense it brewing; in dreams or idle moments. Sometimes it’ll be a song fragment, or a story idea, or a blog piece, or whatever form it takes.

Having done this for my whole life, I’ve got pretty good at letting my subconscious be, and trust it’ll tell me when it’s ready. I’ve also learned to give it a kick every now and then – my poetry prompts at Facebook, using Plinky, forcing myself to write on a given subject, all ways of keeping the wiring alive.

To Dianne’s question, though, why does my music tend toward the dark?

Well, firstly, I’ve come to believe that certain chords and progressions resonate with me – when I’ve spent time thinking on it, or discussing it, I wonder about physical resonance, the length of vocal chords, resonant cavities in the head

[you know, the ones that fill up with snot when you have a cold]

and know that certain tones just work for me – A minor, for example, shows up all over the place in my songs. Some of that, though, is the form-factor of the six-string guitar in standard tuning. A minor is part of a walking set of chords, C, F, Em, G, Dm that just work for most songs.

So, physically, I ‘get’ minor chords and they’re natural for me to play on the guitar. That leans my music towards the dark.

But it doesn’t cover lyrical content, does it?

Dianne is right, my life is full, awesome and positive – and has been for as long as I can remember – I am truly, truly lucky in life and love. But my muse knows that, even then, I experience doubt, sadness, and fear. And that dreadful loneliness. We all do. It is the human condition – all those survival instincts and neurons don’t disappear just because life is good. We’re wired to respond to threat.

We’re also painfully aware of our own mortality.

“Even if time is just a flicker of light, and we all have to die alone” (The Finn Brothers, “Won’t Give In”)

And I think, when it comes to my muse, that’s what shows up. Most of my art has a yearning for life – it’s touched by wonder of what is, and the crushing sadness that one day it won’t be there any more. Each moment looking in my kids eyes, knowing that moment can’t be lived again. There is so much life to be lived and so little life in which to live it. And, though I never want to lose a single moment, that next moment looks oh so enthralling.

So, Dianne, that’s the core of my muse, the yearning and melancholy of my own mortality. But I’ll throw the question back, maybe I’m lucky in this life because my muse let’s me discharge the things that could sabotage me? If I play out my neuroses, anxieties and stress in my songs and stories, aren’t I removing them from the enormous hopper that is my subconscious? If I connect with anyone who listens or reads, aren’t I looking that loneliness in the face.

But there’s more. When I say my muse reflects, I also mean that it means something to my audience. To take a personal experience, emotion, sensation and turn it to universal meaning is the ultimate artistic act. Think of U2, who took a personal reaction to intra-band tensions during the Achtung Baby sessions and turned it to the truly universal anthem, “One”.

For this reason, I don’t often describe what’s going on in songs, or more specifically the writing of them

[except For Granted, which is dedicated to Jo Short, a dear friend who we lost to cancer]

I’m always trying to expand my muse to encompass and engage others’ experience. I don’t always get it right, but when I do I know, because people tell me.

And so, we come to the final part of this extended answer. Why do I write these songs, with their melancholic dark edge?

Simply because, no matter how the surface may seem, how much people exist in their story, everybody experiences some of what I’ve been describing and if I can offer even a moment of understanding, solace, reflection, or sympathy – to let people know they’re not alone with it – I will. That’s my muse, that’s why I sing, that’s what I offer to the world.

There, D, now you see why I couldn’t fit it in a Facebook comment!

And, as ever, thanks for being here, you have my love.

On the 7th March, I was pleased to host the inaugural Blue Crab Mic Attack! Open Mic at the Blue Crab Steakhouse, Old Saybrook, CT. A really enjoyable night of music, so enjoyable that we plan to do it every Wednesday night, 7-11pm. So bring your acoustic instruments down and sing with us!

Some great young talent at this week’s show – balancing up yours truly, the baldy Brit in the corner. Here’s Noah Feldman, singing one of his originals:

And here are the Meadows Brothers:

Here’s Trevor Giles on one of his originals:

The night also saw many impromptu jams featuring the awesome Emiro on lead guitar – that was one with Trevor just now, and here he is, with Noah Feldman, working his magic on Neil Young’s Ohio:

At various points of the nights, 3 or even 4 musicians who had never met before jammed out whole series’ of original and cover tunes – amazing blend of energies and connectedness!

See you soon when the Blue Crab Mic Attacks!

For too long
these shapling
structures
consumed our air
and swallowed
our
best
hearts

Drowning
out yearning
disavowing all
desire
for freedom
to choose
our
best
paths

Finally abandoned
obtuse orders
constrictions
fighting free
yielding promise
our
best
ideas

Our muse swelling
creative
“Here we are!”
Yelling at bonds
Those pitiful
objectionable
meaningless
fear-driven
tethered restraints

“These!”
we cry
“These are
our
best
hearts!”

Flooding
dungeons
Emitting
Radiant
Exultant
Breaking
senseless bounds

We screamed
emergent…

Emerging
from
the shroud

First of all, I have a confession – as an alternative, independent, egotistical musician who, by all rights, should sneer at any large-scale industry shindig, I’ve always had a soft spot for large awards shows.

In the UK, it that means the Brits, and over here in the US, I’ve grown very partial to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction night – mostly for the speeches, although many of the performances are pretty good as well A couple of years back, I started watching the Grammy’s which, in my head, were similar to the Ivor Novello awards in the UK. As the years passed though, I came to see them very much more as being like the Brits.

Now, all that confessed, I have to add that I’m not an awards geek. I don’t study the form, or join betting pools for potential winners. I just turn up on the night and watch – enjoying the performances and those few moments when sincerity shines through and an artist seems honestly humbled by the occasion.

So, last night, I settled in to watch the 2012 Grammys

[which should be Grammies, right? Right?]

joining the show about halfway through.

Within five minutes, I’m thinking that I’m watching the death of an industry. Live.

This is a show that could have been aired in the late 70′s

[just swap Leif Ericson in for Chris Brown]

with many of the same names making a showing and a format that is easily 50 years old.

I don’t often use text-speak, but W… T… F?!!!

At now here’s Ryan Seacrest paying testament to the enduring legacy of The Beach Boys. Great, a montage and some testimony, thought I.

No such luck.

[and please forgive any inaccurate quotes...]

“And here to bring that legacy to life,” said Seacrest, beaming his beamiest grin, “Maroon 5!”

And it was. Maroon 5 singing Surfer Girl…

… with about fifteen backing guitarists. Twelve percussionists. Nineteen backing singers.

At the end of the song, Adam looks to his right and announces, “Ladies and gentlemen, Foster The People!”

Cut to the adjacent stage and, sure enough, it’s Foster The People singing Wouldn’t It Be Nice…

… with a different fifteen backing guitarists. An alternate Twelve percussionists. And nineteen other backing singers.

Huh?!!

Then come the Beach Boys themselves, replete – for the first time in decades – with Brian Wilson’s thousand-yard stare. They’re old. Very old.

[shit, they were old in 1985 when they reformed to play Live Aid]

But at least they have a legacy. And they sound good enough, which might have something to do with…

… another fifteen backing guitarists, twelve percussionists and nineteen backing singers.

I know musicians have fallen on hard times, but my sense is that the Grammy’s did it’s bit in hiring as many musicians as it could fit in an arena, and then didn’t plug any of them in. Maybe it’s a union thing…

Fast forward.

Taylor Swift. Another 53 musicians

[how many mandolins does one song need, for fuck's sake?!!!]

all in choreographed perfection.

Still, at least Taylor’s smile on finishing the song and experiencing the crowd’s reaction provided one of those rare moments of humility and honesty.

But enough with that youthful talent, this is the Grammys! Wheel out the geriatric Beatle!

And for heaven’s sake, make sure he looks like he got his suit off the bargain rack at Mens Wearhouse.

Introduced by Stevie Wonder as singing a new classic, Paul proceeded to sing a… well…

For all his legacy, Paul McCartney is no Frank Sinatra.

I miss John Lennon.

[PRODUCER: "Note to self - now he's done his bit, make sure for the rest of the show, we have as many cutaways as possible to a badly dancing geriatric Beatle"]

Onward.

To the dance tent, where David Guetta and Chris Brown did some perfunctory auto-tuned pop dance

[yay! pass me my large glo-stick so that I too can be cool, hip and trendy!]

which, thankfully, cut to Foo Fighters mashed up with Deadmaus – finally some honesty.

And beats.

With only the original musicians involved.

[phew]

Katy Perry. Blue hair. Guitars. Many dancers. Not so many musicians.

[phew]

Adele. The quite astounding Rolling in the Deep. Alone but for the specific members of her touring band who joined her onstage.

[phew]

Enough said.

And now they start hyping Nicki Minaj – “A performance you will not want to miss!”

Erm.

Look, courting religious controversy is all well and good, but its got to be on the back of memorable songs: Like A Prayer, not some low-budget, poor-quality Excorcist rip-off.

[but today's blogs confirm the Catholic church is upset - job done - record sales up!]

Moving right along.

By this time, I’m getting a headache and sinking feeling deep, deep into the pit of my stomach.

I will never get these wasted moments back again.

And some dude with a beard and grey hair is on spouting something about something and how there’s a charity that helps young musicians and a picture of Johnny Rotten flashes up and my cognitive dissonance hits unparalleled heights.

And this dude is spouting something about protecting the creators in the digital age. And I’m almost screaming at the television because this is, by definition, an awards show geared about and for the MIDDLEMEN!

[and those reading this who don't believe that those same middlemen have been doing whatever they can do to fleece artists since Elvis signed his first contract with Colonel Tom might as well leave now]

Bon Iver says it all when he thanks those musicians who will never have a hope of appearing at the Grammy’s.

[thank you, Bon Iver]

no surprise that the ‘out-of-time’ music plays him off stage.

Adele gives us one of those down to earth, honest moments when she accepts her umpteenth grammy – I don’t think I’ve ever seen an award recipient acknowledge snotty tears before.

[thank you, Adele]

Jennifer Hudson pulls the toughest job in showbiz, singing a tribute to Whitney Houston. Does a great job.

[thank you, Jennifer]

And LL Cool J – who always makes me smile – introduces the grand finale.

Oh shit, it’s Sir Paul back again. Sgt Pepper’s rear-end…

[only with an awesome drummer]

… an all star celebrity guitar jam.

Yawn

[and I'm a guitarist for fuck's sake!]

and I can’t help feeling that Sir Paul now sees Beatles songs as an opportunity to hone his pantomime karaoke skills.

[did I mention that the Grammy's reminded me how much I miss John Lennon?]

And it’s over.

Phew.

My initial reaction – that this throwback mess of a show was the death of an industry, live! – remained with me. So much so, that I slept on it before writing this piece, wanting to check my head and listen for any voice of jealousy.

But it never came. The only thing that emerge was this: Support local live music. As the months and years pass, it’s likely the only place where you’ll find honesty, talent and humility.

Ugh.

[all that, and I didn't even mention Glenn Campbell]

Birthday in about a week’s time – that’ll make it 44 years since I popped out and said ‘Hi!’ to the world.

Though I had my eyes tested last week – and need prescription specs – I don’t worry about growing old.

Never have.

I want to grow old like Neil Young – doing what I love doing, on my own terms.

I want to grow old like Christopher Hitchens – irascible, non-accepting of moral weakness.

I want to grow old like Mother Theresa of Calcutta – caring until the end.

I want to grow old like my Nan and Gramps – loved, loved, loved.

I want to grow old like me.

Just like me.

I was interviewed at The Examiner over the weekend as my last formal stop on the Family Rules Virtual Book Tour:

“… I can, and do, write pretty much anywhere. At home, my office is chaotic, but I fall through the computer screen pretty quickly and all the junk and paraphernalia on my desk disappear.

I always have music on when I write, and I count that as the most important part of my writing environment. I usually write to what I call ‘transport music’, floating away from my own moment and into the landscape of the story. For Family Rules, and especially the redraft, I was listening a lot to the Scottish band Mogwai, who make epic heavy instrumental rock, very powerful stuff.

So, I tend to think of my writing environment as my MacBook Pro, a screen and transport music, all taking me into the heart of my stories…”

I spend a lot of time in stories.

From the deep dive of novels to the crystalline focus of screenplay, from the ether of poetry to the immediacy of song, all of it story.

I talk about story. I write about story.

Consciously and sub-consciously, story has been my life’s work.

I worked in a major corporation for 20 years, on both sides of the Atlantic ocean. I had job titles. I had a career path. I had a talent profile. I had performance documents. I had direct reports. I had resources to manage. I had internal politics to wade through. I had crappy days. I had great days.

Even with all that, story was my life.

Or, more accurately, maybe it should be my life was a story.

It was about a guy who… did that.

[and three years ago, I started telling a different story - I'm now a guy who does… this!]

In my corporate career, I interviewed thousands of people for jobs – not just passing conversations, either; at least an hour of a candidate’s background, motivations, values, aims and aspirations.

I heard their stories.

[these are the voices in my head when I write]

And I remain convinced that everyone – you included – is living out a story in each moment.

A story about a guy or gal who…

[forgive me, I'm not writing a legal document, so I'll use guy/he from here on, though there's nothing gender specific to this]

When I coach people, or counsel them on career change, or on life in general, I listen for their story, where it finds friction, where it finds alignment. Who is this guy, who does he believe he is, and who does he expect to be next?

Is he a victim, railing against misfortune?

Is he a plucky upstart out to prove ‘the man’ wrong?

Is he a dangerous firecracker in a box of dry tinder?

Is he a searcher for some ultimate, hidden truth?

These and many other archetypes play out in movies, television and books all the time and, like it or not, thanks to mirror neurons, we mimic what we see others doing. We absorb these archetypes into ourselves, and organize our lives to become one of these stories.

So, who is this guy?

Is he the spouse who believes he can get away with an illicit affair?

Is he the under-performer, distrustful of management and determined to screw the company over? The over-achiever picking up the slack from that under-performer?

Is he the guilty child, still suffering from toxic parents decades after that influence should have waned?

We are all stories. Stories about a guy who…

So, what’s your story?

Who’s the guy who’s you?

Because, once you can see your story

[and research estimates that only 15-25% of the population have the self-awareness to be able to do so without help]

you can tell a different story. How different? Well, that depends on you and, yes, on your story. But have no doubt, story-telling is the rocket fuel of personal growth and professional development.

It’s why so many companies get it wrong by prescribing paths and defining jobs – when we cede our story to the company, we lose our identity. Is it any wonder so many people feel lost in their day-to-day, disempowered and floating aimless?

What’s your story?

Who’s the guy who’s you?

Who’s the guy who you’d like to be?

Drop me a line if you’d like me to help you answer those questions and start telling a different story.