It's been a hot minute since I've written anything on here. I can attribute that to two things. First off, I've found myself writing and editing for a living the past few months. After a day of changing em-dashes to semi-colons, and restructuring sentences, I'm not much in the mood for writing. I'm mostly in the mood for cable television. The second reason I've neglected the old blog is that I've been, in short, busy as all hell. Wide open, you might say.
For about a year now (which is remarkable to think about), I've been playing guitar and shouting into a microphone for the Dexateens. This has been a true blessing for me, as -- prior to my joining -- they were my favorite band. (Your own band can't be your favorite band; that's wack, unless you're Keef, of course). We've been playing every weekend, pretty much, and I've had about as much fun doing it as you'd expect.
As far as Arkadelphia goes, things have slowed down a little bit on the playing shows front. It has proven to be surprisingly difficult to wrangle three guys' schedules into alignment. Lately, playing with the Dexateens has been much more of a downstream type of thing, so I'm rolling with it. The Arkadelphia record, though, is finally done. Finally. We're working on artwork/layout now.
Other than that, I had the pleasure of going to South By Southwest for the first time last month with my good buddies and former employers 13ghosts, who were kind enough to ask me to join them on guitar for those shows. I had a blast, and got to bro-down with one of my best hometown friends who relocated to Austin several months ago. While down there, we played a Birmingham showcase with a metric ton of other local bands. Every band there played exceptionally well. No lie. That being said, Vulture Whale put on one of the best shows I've seen in recent memory. When I see a rock'n'roll band, I want to watch them work. If there ain't sweat stains under every armpit, and a flush on every cheek, I don't want to fool with it. Watching Vulture Whale's hour-long set that afternoon was like watching a building crew frame a house in just that long.
In any event, the next couple months will continue to be busy ones. The Dexateens are going on tour to support the new record, 'Singlewide,' in May, Arkadelphia has scattered dates throughout April, and it looks like I'm going to be picking up a couple jobs in the meantime. I'm thankful for all of it, believe me.
For all this, the most important thing I can think to say about the last few months of my life is this: the Silver dadgum Fox.
- Lee III
Friday, April 3, 2009
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Between A Block And A Hard Place
There are times, few and far between I assure you, but times nonetheless, that I wish I weren't a songwriter. Those times are what's best described as periods of writer's block, and I'd been in the thick of one of those phases until just recently.
The thing about being a writer (or probably most any kind of artist for that matter) is this: A writer has, in addition to his basic human instincts, an additional impulse--the impulse to write. So, when a writer is somehow unable to mine those necessary veins of inspiration, it's kind of like going to the fridge to find it bare, or crawling in bed only to lie awake, or taking a deep breath in a vacuum. No good.
I have, as has most everybody, come across these rough patches before. A good buddy of mine, and a gifted writer at that, has always told me to "just do something else"--dismantle an amplifier and put it back together, or go running, or find somebody that could use some help with something or another. That often works. But lately it hasn't.
So, the other day, I caved in to another remedy, often prescribed by your more new-agey English teachers. I did a "free write."
Now, "free writing" has always struck me as the literary equivalent of acupuncture, or healing crystals, or a macrobiotic diet. I mean, I can't really picture William Blake, or Hank Williams for that matter, sitting in front of a blank tablet, only to write, "I don't want to be writing this. I can't come up with anything lately. My room is painted some weird off-white color, and I had cereal for breakfast..."
However, as I sat there, at the end of my compositional rope, I had to admit: I'm certainly no William Blake, or Hank Williams, so what the hell. I did it.
And I'll be damned if it didn't work.
I now have a few in the oven. This one here is full-baked.
___________________________
My Sweet Labor
---------------------------------------------
You can rest assured--
If
Rest comes at all
These days--
That all that I've built
Will
Fall to shaking,
Then fall away.
Redbird, save no kiss for me.
Keep your New Year's black-eyed peas.
I need none of your favors.
I am bound for glory, y'all.
I'm waiting on that evening call
For the end of my sweet labor.
My soil ain't sand;
It
Is deep red clay,
Centuries old.
But sure as I still stand,
By and by,
My foundation
Will no longer hold.
Redbird, save no kiss for me.
Keep your New Year's black-eyed peas.
I need none of your favors.
I am bound for glory, y'all.
I'm waiting on that evening call
For the end of my sweet labor.
- Lee III
The thing about being a writer (or probably most any kind of artist for that matter) is this: A writer has, in addition to his basic human instincts, an additional impulse--the impulse to write. So, when a writer is somehow unable to mine those necessary veins of inspiration, it's kind of like going to the fridge to find it bare, or crawling in bed only to lie awake, or taking a deep breath in a vacuum. No good.
I have, as has most everybody, come across these rough patches before. A good buddy of mine, and a gifted writer at that, has always told me to "just do something else"--dismantle an amplifier and put it back together, or go running, or find somebody that could use some help with something or another. That often works. But lately it hasn't.
So, the other day, I caved in to another remedy, often prescribed by your more new-agey English teachers. I did a "free write."
Now, "free writing" has always struck me as the literary equivalent of acupuncture, or healing crystals, or a macrobiotic diet. I mean, I can't really picture William Blake, or Hank Williams for that matter, sitting in front of a blank tablet, only to write, "I don't want to be writing this. I can't come up with anything lately. My room is painted some weird off-white color, and I had cereal for breakfast..."
However, as I sat there, at the end of my compositional rope, I had to admit: I'm certainly no William Blake, or Hank Williams, so what the hell. I did it.
And I'll be damned if it didn't work.
I now have a few in the oven. This one here is full-baked.
___________________________
My Sweet Labor
---------------------------------------------
You can rest assured--
If
Rest comes at all
These days--
That all that I've built
Will
Fall to shaking,
Then fall away.
Redbird, save no kiss for me.
Keep your New Year's black-eyed peas.
I need none of your favors.
I am bound for glory, y'all.
I'm waiting on that evening call
For the end of my sweet labor.
My soil ain't sand;
It
Is deep red clay,
Centuries old.
But sure as I still stand,
By and by,
My foundation
Will no longer hold.
Redbird, save no kiss for me.
Keep your New Year's black-eyed peas.
I need none of your favors.
I am bound for glory, y'all.
I'm waiting on that evening call
For the end of my sweet labor.
- Lee III
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Arkadelphia Tour Journal, Part 1
Through the dripping heat of Friday morning, I made my way--guitar, amplifier, clothes and deodorant all accounted for--to the former warehouse that we call a rehearsal space. When I rolled into the gravel parking lot, Little Milton blaring and windows down, Ra-Jaan was already pounding on the ancient loading dock door (our primary entrance) to no avail. After a couple phone calls, our burgeoning rap mogul of a neighbor, Doc, showed up to let us in, Bagby arrived with bass in tow, and we made our way up to our rehearsal space. Seeing as we don't have any air conditioning, and the room's two windows were hardly designed to foster a breeze of any kind, we all had sweat rolling down our faces by the end of the second song. I, for one, think it builds character.
In any event, our good buddy C.R. showed up just as we were winding down rehearsal and was kind enough to help us load our gear into my '96 Subaru Outback. Despite the Suby's constant--albeit slow--oil leak, and its temperamental front axle, we figured its decent gas mileage qualified it to be the best candidate for our trip. Right around 1:00, we struck out for Mobile.
With the exception of traffic caused by a minor wreck just outside Birmingham, the drive went without a hitch. Miraculously, we got to Mobile on just one eleven-gallon tank of gas.
Scraping into yet another gravel parking lot, Dr. John creeping out of the stereo, we stretched our legs and ambled into the Blind Mule. Buffy, the self-proclaimed "band liaison," was exceptionally nice, directed us as to where we should load in, and just asked that we be back by 9:00, when the other bands would be loading in.
Bidding Buffy goodbye, we found ourselves on North Claiborne Street with fine spirits and a few hours to kill. When I, for one, am in such a position, my natural inclination is to eat. I was recently talking to a friend from a similar background about how one learns to socialize in a non-drinking family. Having attended any number of family gatherings with various folks in various places over the years, I've noticed that a lot of families drink while they visit with each other before and after a meal. My family, and my friend's, though, don't drink, so what we discovered is that, while our families visit before the meal, we eat. And afterwards, we eat some more. To this day, the most sociable I ever am is at the dinner table.
Anyway, that is all just to say that my vote for the pre-game was to go to the famous Wintzell's Oyster House on Dauphin Street. Fortunately for me, I had three hungry companions, none of whom are afraid of a plate of fried food. I ordered up an oyster po' boy, which was delicious, and a cup of gumbo, which was pretty damn good, too. I will say, though, that--landlocked or not--the Bright Star in Bessemer really does give Wintzell's a run for their gumbo money, even though Wintzell's is consistently named as being among the best in the South (and, therefore, the world).
After eating our supper, we walked around Mobile for a while, marveling at the live oaks, dawdling in front of century-old homes and reflecting on those grand old street names, the verbal ghosts of the city's French Creole founders that--somewhere along the line--had their francophone sounds burned off and were stewed into the language of Alabama. Dauphin. Rapier. Bayou.
By the time we made it back to the club, the gentlemen of Mobile's El Cantador were loading in their gear and, graciously, setting up the P.A. We talked to them for a while, were duly charmed, and greeted our good Tuscaloosan buddies Squirrelhouse as they rolled in with gear in tow.
Before long, the night got off to a rollicking start with a set from Mobile's the Wormwood Inn. A four-piece consisting of guitar, fiddle, bass and drums, they sang with just enough bite and played with enough vigor to make one think of the Pogues, if they'd grown up with Hot Water Music instead of the Clash and in a city of the Deep South instead of an Irish neighborhood of London. A particular highlight was the female fiddler, who--bedecked in boots and a quasi-Victorian skirt--buckdanced and pogoed across the stage while sawing like the devil and singing like an angel. I think, by the end of their set, she'd left a few fellows' hearts on the floor.
Next up was El Cantador, who, curiously, set up their gear, walked off-stage, and let that Gary Glitter "ba-dum ba-dum-dum ba-ba-da-bum, HEY!" song play in their absence. After the song had worn on for a few minutes, the trio took the stage in full basketball team regalia, with the guitarist and drummer in short-shorts, knee socks and wife beaters and the bass player in referee garb. Now, I must admit that this sort of an entrance usually irritates me, most of all because it usually signifies the beginning of an uninspired set by a band who could stand to spend more time learning their instruments. However, by the time El Cantador was halfway through their second, hook-heavy, straight-forward tune, I'd totally forgotten what they were wearing and had glued my ears to the speakers. They ably maneuvered between jangly rockers and downright pretty ballads, Heath's unassumingly evocative voice tying it all together. While the rockers reminded me somewhat of the Whigs (of whom I'm definitely a fan), the ballads were what really got me and, I thought, most demonstrated the strength of Heath's songwriting. The band was impeccably tight, the songs well-crafted and the grooves nicely varied. I dug it.
As both the Wormwood Inn and El Cantador had drawn a good number of folks (and rightfully so), we hustled and set up before too many folks had a chance to take a stroll out onto the patio. We played a relatively short set (in consideration of the bill's four bands) but, by the end of it, I was as worn out as if we'd played everything we knew. Ra-Jaan, even more than usual, was on it like a dog on a butcher's bone and Bagby--ever the musician's musician--might as well have had his picking fingers strung to Ra-Jaan's kick pedal. "In the pocket" would be an understatement. By the end of the first song, I couldn't see due to the sweat in my eyes--good evidence that I'm working hard--and folks had started dancing and hollering. We had a hell of a time and really appreciated the enthusiasm of the folks in attendance.
After we whisked our stuff off the stage, Squirrelhouse mounted up. As has been true of the last several times I've seen them, they were even better than the show before. Paul's vocals have become increasingly dynamic, Beth's horn clearer and punchier, Russell's bass more fluid, Patrick's guitar more settled and Clay's drums more driving. At certain times, and during certain songs, I would have defied any human being to abstain from shuffling their feet. As has been true since the first time I saw them, I furiously enjoyed "The Hunter," with its Sonic Youth-meets-Stones, shout-along chorus and railroad-spike-driving rhythm. One new song, however--whose title I've regrettably forgotten--may have beat out "The Hunter" as my highlight of the set, the tune winding down with a triumphant (capital S, capital R) Southern Rock ending. I will never again put anything past Paul.
After the show, we visited with established and new friends for a while, an exceptional instance of the latter being a very gifted Mobile photographer named Jolyn Picard. We met a lot of great folks down there and, all in all, had a blast at the Blind Mule.
Beat down, worn out and grinning ear to ear, Ra-Jaan, Bagby, C.R. and myself waved goodbye to Mobile and headed west on I-10 towards Ocean Springs, Mississippi, where we were meeting our gracious host Jason Tolbert (of the Oneonta Tolberts). After a stop at Denny's (where the grits were abysmal), and an early morning swim in Tolbert's apartment complex pool, we crashed for the night, more than ready for Round Two.
In any event, our good buddy C.R. showed up just as we were winding down rehearsal and was kind enough to help us load our gear into my '96 Subaru Outback. Despite the Suby's constant--albeit slow--oil leak, and its temperamental front axle, we figured its decent gas mileage qualified it to be the best candidate for our trip. Right around 1:00, we struck out for Mobile.
With the exception of traffic caused by a minor wreck just outside Birmingham, the drive went without a hitch. Miraculously, we got to Mobile on just one eleven-gallon tank of gas.
Scraping into yet another gravel parking lot, Dr. John creeping out of the stereo, we stretched our legs and ambled into the Blind Mule. Buffy, the self-proclaimed "band liaison," was exceptionally nice, directed us as to where we should load in, and just asked that we be back by 9:00, when the other bands would be loading in.
Bidding Buffy goodbye, we found ourselves on North Claiborne Street with fine spirits and a few hours to kill. When I, for one, am in such a position, my natural inclination is to eat. I was recently talking to a friend from a similar background about how one learns to socialize in a non-drinking family. Having attended any number of family gatherings with various folks in various places over the years, I've noticed that a lot of families drink while they visit with each other before and after a meal. My family, and my friend's, though, don't drink, so what we discovered is that, while our families visit before the meal, we eat. And afterwards, we eat some more. To this day, the most sociable I ever am is at the dinner table.
Anyway, that is all just to say that my vote for the pre-game was to go to the famous Wintzell's Oyster House on Dauphin Street. Fortunately for me, I had three hungry companions, none of whom are afraid of a plate of fried food. I ordered up an oyster po' boy, which was delicious, and a cup of gumbo, which was pretty damn good, too. I will say, though, that--landlocked or not--the Bright Star in Bessemer really does give Wintzell's a run for their gumbo money, even though Wintzell's is consistently named as being among the best in the South (and, therefore, the world).
After eating our supper, we walked around Mobile for a while, marveling at the live oaks, dawdling in front of century-old homes and reflecting on those grand old street names, the verbal ghosts of the city's French Creole founders that--somewhere along the line--had their francophone sounds burned off and were stewed into the language of Alabama. Dauphin. Rapier. Bayou.
By the time we made it back to the club, the gentlemen of Mobile's El Cantador were loading in their gear and, graciously, setting up the P.A. We talked to them for a while, were duly charmed, and greeted our good Tuscaloosan buddies Squirrelhouse as they rolled in with gear in tow.
Before long, the night got off to a rollicking start with a set from Mobile's the Wormwood Inn. A four-piece consisting of guitar, fiddle, bass and drums, they sang with just enough bite and played with enough vigor to make one think of the Pogues, if they'd grown up with Hot Water Music instead of the Clash and in a city of the Deep South instead of an Irish neighborhood of London. A particular highlight was the female fiddler, who--bedecked in boots and a quasi-Victorian skirt--buckdanced and pogoed across the stage while sawing like the devil and singing like an angel. I think, by the end of their set, she'd left a few fellows' hearts on the floor.
Next up was El Cantador, who, curiously, set up their gear, walked off-stage, and let that Gary Glitter "ba-dum ba-dum-dum ba-ba-da-bum, HEY!" song play in their absence. After the song had worn on for a few minutes, the trio took the stage in full basketball team regalia, with the guitarist and drummer in short-shorts, knee socks and wife beaters and the bass player in referee garb. Now, I must admit that this sort of an entrance usually irritates me, most of all because it usually signifies the beginning of an uninspired set by a band who could stand to spend more time learning their instruments. However, by the time El Cantador was halfway through their second, hook-heavy, straight-forward tune, I'd totally forgotten what they were wearing and had glued my ears to the speakers. They ably maneuvered between jangly rockers and downright pretty ballads, Heath's unassumingly evocative voice tying it all together. While the rockers reminded me somewhat of the Whigs (of whom I'm definitely a fan), the ballads were what really got me and, I thought, most demonstrated the strength of Heath's songwriting. The band was impeccably tight, the songs well-crafted and the grooves nicely varied. I dug it.
As both the Wormwood Inn and El Cantador had drawn a good number of folks (and rightfully so), we hustled and set up before too many folks had a chance to take a stroll out onto the patio. We played a relatively short set (in consideration of the bill's four bands) but, by the end of it, I was as worn out as if we'd played everything we knew. Ra-Jaan, even more than usual, was on it like a dog on a butcher's bone and Bagby--ever the musician's musician--might as well have had his picking fingers strung to Ra-Jaan's kick pedal. "In the pocket" would be an understatement. By the end of the first song, I couldn't see due to the sweat in my eyes--good evidence that I'm working hard--and folks had started dancing and hollering. We had a hell of a time and really appreciated the enthusiasm of the folks in attendance.
After we whisked our stuff off the stage, Squirrelhouse mounted up. As has been true of the last several times I've seen them, they were even better than the show before. Paul's vocals have become increasingly dynamic, Beth's horn clearer and punchier, Russell's bass more fluid, Patrick's guitar more settled and Clay's drums more driving. At certain times, and during certain songs, I would have defied any human being to abstain from shuffling their feet. As has been true since the first time I saw them, I furiously enjoyed "The Hunter," with its Sonic Youth-meets-Stones, shout-along chorus and railroad-spike-driving rhythm. One new song, however--whose title I've regrettably forgotten--may have beat out "The Hunter" as my highlight of the set, the tune winding down with a triumphant (capital S, capital R) Southern Rock ending. I will never again put anything past Paul.
After the show, we visited with established and new friends for a while, an exceptional instance of the latter being a very gifted Mobile photographer named Jolyn Picard. We met a lot of great folks down there and, all in all, had a blast at the Blind Mule.
Beat down, worn out and grinning ear to ear, Ra-Jaan, Bagby, C.R. and myself waved goodbye to Mobile and headed west on I-10 towards Ocean Springs, Mississippi, where we were meeting our gracious host Jason Tolbert (of the Oneonta Tolberts). After a stop at Denny's (where the grits were abysmal), and an early morning swim in Tolbert's apartment complex pool, we crashed for the night, more than ready for Round Two.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Work Poims, Installment 2
Work Poim #5
Brother Finster,
You understand,
At one time in Georgia,
Got a little
Dab
Of white paint
On his thumb.
And in that
Holy dollop,
Lo!,
The face of the
Lord,
And He saith to him,
"Go forth and paint in my name,"
Or some such thing.
Today,
On bent knees,
At this window,
My hands are coated,
So that,
According to the
Stories,
You'd think
I'd be visited
By
Him
And
All
His heavenly host.
But, alas,
No!,
There speaketh to me
Nothing.
There, in the
Crook,
Where brickmold
And sill converge,
A dragonfly,
Entangled.
You,
Dragonfly,
Yoked to your
Dead brother's
Frame,
That silken rope,
Them dusty bones,
They keep you,
Twitching,
Under
His weight.
Wings--still perfect--
Outstretched,
Rigid,
His long body
Intersects
In cruel,
Right
Angles.
And,
Although,
My mammoth
Clumsy fingers have
Unhitched y'all from the
Margins--those dripping jaws--
To free you,
Without loss of wing,
Or tiny tender leg, begs
The intervening hands of
A
Far
Greater
Workman.
Brother Finster,
You understand,
At one time in Georgia,
Got a little
Dab
Of white paint
On his thumb.
And in that
Holy dollop,
Lo!,
The face of the
Lord,
And He saith to him,
"Go forth and paint in my name,"
Or some such thing.
Today,
On bent knees,
At this window,
My hands are coated,
So that,
According to the
Stories,
You'd think
I'd be visited
By
Him
And
All
His heavenly host.
But, alas,
No!,
There speaketh to me
Nothing.
There, in the
Crook,
Where brickmold
And sill converge,
A dragonfly,
Entangled.
You,
Dragonfly,
Yoked to your
Dead brother's
Frame,
That silken rope,
Them dusty bones,
They keep you,
Twitching,
Under
His weight.
Wings--still perfect--
Outstretched,
Rigid,
His long body
Intersects
In cruel,
Right
Angles.
And,
Although,
My mammoth
Clumsy fingers have
Unhitched y'all from the
Margins--those dripping jaws--
To free you,
Without loss of wing,
Or tiny tender leg, begs
The intervening hands of
A
Far
Greater
Workman.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Arkadelphia (Not) Recording Journal, Pt. 4
Due to several reasons, we haven't been able to work on the record over the last couple of three weeks. Really, it doesn't bother me all that much, as we have made good progress on the thing; at the moment, keys and pedal steel are all we have left to track.
Making a record--at least in my limited experience--seems to me to be a lot like looking in the big, circular make-up mirror that my grandmama used to have in her bathroom in Eastlake. I would approach it, timidly, when I was little, as if it were some weird type of oracle. Leaning closer, I would be confronted with grotesque images: a monolithic nose, a mountainous cheek, an angry mole. Then, the horror: "That's me."
I would retreat to the big brown sofa in the living room, silently slumping back down beside my granddaddy.
As far as recording goes, that musical make-up mirror tends to have a similar effect on me. Constantly listening, scrutinizing, I wind up nearly paralyzed. My guitar sits in a corner and the TV remote finds its way into my picking hand.
But, with this happenstance reprieve from recording, I've started to write again. I'm, thankfully, not thinking so damn much.
So, here's me, wading back into the lake after being warm and dry for a while.
_________________________________________
I'm A Man
--------------------------------------------------------------------
The Lord, He brought me into this world
Hollering, naked as a jaybird.
And the way you do me, baby, I've got no doubt
That's the way the Lord's going to take me out--
That's the way the Lord's going to take me out.
I'm a man.
I'm a man.
I'm a man.
I'm a man.
I'm a man.
Good God, yeah, you know I'm a man.
Slinking in here like you've got something to confess,
Drinking on that cold beer, looking like a hot mess,
You'd sooner call me than have nobody to call.
And I'd sooner be done wrong than not be done at all--
I'd sooner be done wrong than not be done at all.
I'm a man.
I'm a man.
I'm a man.
I'm a man.
I'm a man.
Oh, Good God, yeah, you know I'm a man.
The flesh is weak, but the spirit is weak.
My mind is weak and my knees have gone weak.
Baby, what are you hiding up that apple tree?
Shame on you, trying to keep it from me--
Shame on you, trying to keep it from me.
I'm a man.
I'm a man.
I'm a man.
I'm a man.
I'm a man.
Oh, Good God, yeah, you know I'm a man.
Making a record--at least in my limited experience--seems to me to be a lot like looking in the big, circular make-up mirror that my grandmama used to have in her bathroom in Eastlake. I would approach it, timidly, when I was little, as if it were some weird type of oracle. Leaning closer, I would be confronted with grotesque images: a monolithic nose, a mountainous cheek, an angry mole. Then, the horror: "That's me."
I would retreat to the big brown sofa in the living room, silently slumping back down beside my granddaddy.
As far as recording goes, that musical make-up mirror tends to have a similar effect on me. Constantly listening, scrutinizing, I wind up nearly paralyzed. My guitar sits in a corner and the TV remote finds its way into my picking hand.
But, with this happenstance reprieve from recording, I've started to write again. I'm, thankfully, not thinking so damn much.
So, here's me, wading back into the lake after being warm and dry for a while.
_________________________________________
I'm A Man
--------------------------------------------------------------------
The Lord, He brought me into this world
Hollering, naked as a jaybird.
And the way you do me, baby, I've got no doubt
That's the way the Lord's going to take me out--
That's the way the Lord's going to take me out.
I'm a man.
I'm a man.
I'm a man.
I'm a man.
I'm a man.
Good God, yeah, you know I'm a man.
Slinking in here like you've got something to confess,
Drinking on that cold beer, looking like a hot mess,
You'd sooner call me than have nobody to call.
And I'd sooner be done wrong than not be done at all--
I'd sooner be done wrong than not be done at all.
I'm a man.
I'm a man.
I'm a man.
I'm a man.
I'm a man.
Oh, Good God, yeah, you know I'm a man.
The flesh is weak, but the spirit is weak.
My mind is weak and my knees have gone weak.
Baby, what are you hiding up that apple tree?
Shame on you, trying to keep it from me--
Shame on you, trying to keep it from me.
I'm a man.
I'm a man.
I'm a man.
I'm a man.
I'm a man.
Oh, Good God, yeah, you know I'm a man.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Arkadelphia Recording Journal, Pt. 3
Last night, I was fortunate enough to hear something I've always wanted to, but never have: my songs, played by an honest-to-God horn section.
I showed up at Alamalibu Studios yesterday evening with little more than a writing tablet, a few cigarettes and a CD with the mixes of a few tunes. After visiting with Jody a while, we went about preparing for the horn guys' arrival.
Once they got there, all of them, miraculously, at the exact same time, Chad doled out the horn charts he'd done up and, within minutes, he, Gary and Omari were getting down to it. For the next couple hours, I don't think you could have gotten the smile off my face with a pair of fish hooks.
The highlight of the night for me was hearing the guys track "Laying Track." Just so you can have some context, I'll put down the lyrics right quick, and then explain myself:
Laying Track
-------------------------------------
My great-granddaddy laid these tracks,
Said he was working
His way into the promised land.
Who knew
The new Canaan would turn out
To be a town called Birmingham?
So my granddaddy grew up
Singing Cokesbury hymns
Up on the east side of town.
He picked up the trumpet
And learned how to play it
With the freight whistle's mournful sound.
Somewhere between
My granddaddy and the Lord,
I wound up with a song put in my mouth.
It tastes kind of strong, just like red clay,
Rumbles in my chest
Like a freight headed south.
Somewhere along the line,
I ran into a wall,
Right around the edge of town.
Great-Granddaddy, sing this hymn with me
Seven long times
Until that wall comes tumbling down.
Someday I'll ride out,
Find some love and bring it back,
But for now I keep two ears on the bossman
And two hands laying track.
I'm laying track.
Lord please,
Take me down to Sloss--
Light that furnace up hot and mean.
Lord please,
Take this rusted-out heart
And burn it up until it's clean.
Lord please, keep me
From hopping off in Walker County,
From hopping off on Green Springs Avenue.
Lord please, tell my
Granddaddy and his daddy
I'm going to be by there to sing with them soon.
Some day I'll ride out,
Find some love and bring it back.
But for now, I keep two ears on the bossman
And two hands laying track.
I'm laying track.
-------------------------------------
So that's the song. The first verse introduces my granddaddy--William Robert Killingsworth, Sr.--who, born in Spring Creek, Alabama in 1917, moved to Birmingham with his family as an adolescent. It was at the height of the Depression and his daddy had been offered a better job with the railroad. In any event, my granddaddy took to Birmingham like a fish to water and, with the exception of his service in WWII, never left. My mama was born here in town, and I was, too.
In any event, my granddaddy grew up singing--first in the Spring Creek Church (to my knowledge there was just the one) and then at East Lake Methodist. He also, in the Thirties, started playing trumpet in one of the many dance bands that fueled Birmingham's social scene at that time. Back then, neighborhoods would have social clubs, those social clubs would save up as much as they could (remember, this was during the Depression), rent out halls like the Florentine Gardens or Cascade Plunge, hire a band, have a party, and then donate the profits to charity. My granddaddy's band--the Nomads--played a lot of those clubs' parties (aside from his own club's, of course), and traveled as far as Florence to play dances.
From the way he would tell it, the economics of the thing worked in a kind of cycle. He would play a dance, get paid, and then use that money to take a girl out to another dance the next weekend. Sound familiar to any musicians?
In any event, my Granddaddy Bob was really dear to me. I grew up really blessed to have him and my Granddaddy Bains as such fine examples of manhood. For one thing, Granddaddy Bob taught me how to sing. When I was little, maybe starting out at eight or so, we would sing duets together at Woodlawn Methodist and various retirement homes. My granddaddy always told me to look the congregation in the eye, to sing with all of my heart and to remember Who we were singing for. I could write a book on the man.
So, getting back to the point at hand, my granddaddy played the trumpet. By the time I came around, he'd quit, but would regale me with stories of playing as a young man.
So, here I am, at Jody's studio, with a horn section sitting there, nailing this song that I wrote--at least in part--about my Granddaddy. When it gets to the end of the song, just after "Lord, please, tell my granddaddy and his daddy I'm going to be by there to sing with them soon," Chad, Gary and Omari begin to stab the soft Spring air with brassy blasts. I'm entranced.
Right when they finish, Chad says, "Okay, Omari, let's go back and you blow a high C on all those hits." My mouth falls open. My heart stutters. I hadn't even thought about it. I hadn't thought about the fact that I'd written the tune in C. And I certainly didn't think to ask Omari to go to a high C on his trumpet.
"Oh, yeah, we used to play all the dances. Near every weekend. We had a good little band going and, back then, I could play pretty well. I used to could hit a high C, you know."
I showed up at Alamalibu Studios yesterday evening with little more than a writing tablet, a few cigarettes and a CD with the mixes of a few tunes. After visiting with Jody a while, we went about preparing for the horn guys' arrival.
Once they got there, all of them, miraculously, at the exact same time, Chad doled out the horn charts he'd done up and, within minutes, he, Gary and Omari were getting down to it. For the next couple hours, I don't think you could have gotten the smile off my face with a pair of fish hooks.
The highlight of the night for me was hearing the guys track "Laying Track." Just so you can have some context, I'll put down the lyrics right quick, and then explain myself:
Laying Track
-------------------------------------
My great-granddaddy laid these tracks,
Said he was working
His way into the promised land.
Who knew
The new Canaan would turn out
To be a town called Birmingham?
So my granddaddy grew up
Singing Cokesbury hymns
Up on the east side of town.
He picked up the trumpet
And learned how to play it
With the freight whistle's mournful sound.
Somewhere between
My granddaddy and the Lord,
I wound up with a song put in my mouth.
It tastes kind of strong, just like red clay,
Rumbles in my chest
Like a freight headed south.
Somewhere along the line,
I ran into a wall,
Right around the edge of town.
Great-Granddaddy, sing this hymn with me
Seven long times
Until that wall comes tumbling down.
Someday I'll ride out,
Find some love and bring it back,
But for now I keep two ears on the bossman
And two hands laying track.
I'm laying track.
Lord please,
Take me down to Sloss--
Light that furnace up hot and mean.
Lord please,
Take this rusted-out heart
And burn it up until it's clean.
Lord please, keep me
From hopping off in Walker County,
From hopping off on Green Springs Avenue.
Lord please, tell my
Granddaddy and his daddy
I'm going to be by there to sing with them soon.
Some day I'll ride out,
Find some love and bring it back.
But for now, I keep two ears on the bossman
And two hands laying track.
I'm laying track.
-------------------------------------
So that's the song. The first verse introduces my granddaddy--William Robert Killingsworth, Sr.--who, born in Spring Creek, Alabama in 1917, moved to Birmingham with his family as an adolescent. It was at the height of the Depression and his daddy had been offered a better job with the railroad. In any event, my granddaddy took to Birmingham like a fish to water and, with the exception of his service in WWII, never left. My mama was born here in town, and I was, too.
In any event, my granddaddy grew up singing--first in the Spring Creek Church (to my knowledge there was just the one) and then at East Lake Methodist. He also, in the Thirties, started playing trumpet in one of the many dance bands that fueled Birmingham's social scene at that time. Back then, neighborhoods would have social clubs, those social clubs would save up as much as they could (remember, this was during the Depression), rent out halls like the Florentine Gardens or Cascade Plunge, hire a band, have a party, and then donate the profits to charity. My granddaddy's band--the Nomads--played a lot of those clubs' parties (aside from his own club's, of course), and traveled as far as Florence to play dances.
From the way he would tell it, the economics of the thing worked in a kind of cycle. He would play a dance, get paid, and then use that money to take a girl out to another dance the next weekend. Sound familiar to any musicians?
In any event, my Granddaddy Bob was really dear to me. I grew up really blessed to have him and my Granddaddy Bains as such fine examples of manhood. For one thing, Granddaddy Bob taught me how to sing. When I was little, maybe starting out at eight or so, we would sing duets together at Woodlawn Methodist and various retirement homes. My granddaddy always told me to look the congregation in the eye, to sing with all of my heart and to remember Who we were singing for. I could write a book on the man.
So, getting back to the point at hand, my granddaddy played the trumpet. By the time I came around, he'd quit, but would regale me with stories of playing as a young man.
So, here I am, at Jody's studio, with a horn section sitting there, nailing this song that I wrote--at least in part--about my Granddaddy. When it gets to the end of the song, just after "Lord, please, tell my granddaddy and his daddy I'm going to be by there to sing with them soon," Chad, Gary and Omari begin to stab the soft Spring air with brassy blasts. I'm entranced.
Right when they finish, Chad says, "Okay, Omari, let's go back and you blow a high C on all those hits." My mouth falls open. My heart stutters. I hadn't even thought about it. I hadn't thought about the fact that I'd written the tune in C. And I certainly didn't think to ask Omari to go to a high C on his trumpet.
"Oh, yeah, we used to play all the dances. Near every weekend. We had a good little band going and, back then, I could play pretty well. I used to could hit a high C, you know."
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Arkadelphia Recording Journal, Pt. 2
We're getting closer and closer to finishing this dad-gum thing, thank the Lord.
At the moment, we have fourteen songs and--as far as what Ra-Jaan, Matt and I can contribute--we're pretty much done. Our producer and guidance counselor Elliott McPherson has also contributed a couple of really pretty guitar tracks and background vocals. We're pretty sure we're going to call the record Can't Get Right. Here are the names of the tunes, in random sequence:
- Affliction
- Avondale
- The Great Wall of Birmingham
- Can't Get Right
- Linen and Lust
- Sing Me No Lies
- Walker County Loathing
- Dead By Twenty-One
- Still Believe
- Good-by Birmingham
- Ride
- Laying Track
- Train Cars
- Wrap Me Up
Now, keep in mind, these are just the tunes that we have laid down. There's a good chance one or a couple will get cut from the record, but this is what we have to work with.
As I mentioned earlier, the three of us have done everything we can do (e.g. vox, guitars, bass, drums, percussion, rudimentary keys and mandolin), so now we're turning to Birmingham's finest to put this sucker over the top.
We're getting together here in a little bit with the inimitable trombonist/arranger Chad Fisher and his boys Gary Wheat (saxophone) and Omari Thomas (trumpet) to inject some Muscle Shoals/Memphis vibe into this thing. In addition, we'll have Through The Sparks' Jody Nelson putting down all the keys that my childhood piano lessons could never produce. If you happen to know a killer pedal steel player, speak now, please.
Seeing as we're just sort of twiddling our thumbs right now, Ra-Jaan and I are turning our attention to artwork for the record. As I'm about as gifted an artist as I am a baseball player (perpetual left-fielder), we're going to need some help in that regard, too.
Hope everybody's doing well,
Lee III
At the moment, we have fourteen songs and--as far as what Ra-Jaan, Matt and I can contribute--we're pretty much done. Our producer and guidance counselor Elliott McPherson has also contributed a couple of really pretty guitar tracks and background vocals. We're pretty sure we're going to call the record Can't Get Right. Here are the names of the tunes, in random sequence:
- Affliction
- Avondale
- The Great Wall of Birmingham
- Can't Get Right
- Linen and Lust
- Sing Me No Lies
- Walker County Loathing
- Dead By Twenty-One
- Still Believe
- Good-by Birmingham
- Ride
- Laying Track
- Train Cars
- Wrap Me Up
Now, keep in mind, these are just the tunes that we have laid down. There's a good chance one or a couple will get cut from the record, but this is what we have to work with.
As I mentioned earlier, the three of us have done everything we can do (e.g. vox, guitars, bass, drums, percussion, rudimentary keys and mandolin), so now we're turning to Birmingham's finest to put this sucker over the top.
We're getting together here in a little bit with the inimitable trombonist/arranger Chad Fisher and his boys Gary Wheat (saxophone) and Omari Thomas (trumpet) to inject some Muscle Shoals/Memphis vibe into this thing. In addition, we'll have Through The Sparks' Jody Nelson putting down all the keys that my childhood piano lessons could never produce. If you happen to know a killer pedal steel player, speak now, please.
Seeing as we're just sort of twiddling our thumbs right now, Ra-Jaan and I are turning our attention to artwork for the record. As I'm about as gifted an artist as I am a baseball player (perpetual left-fielder), we're going to need some help in that regard, too.
Hope everybody's doing well,
Lee III
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