“Until”

With the release of our album Until in Italy this week, I thought I’d write about a few of the tracks. . .

“Until” – I’d been watching a DVD of The Umbrellas Of Cherbourg, and falling madly in love with its vibrant colors, with Catherine Deneuve, but mostly, with Michel Legrand’s haunting score. There was such longing and melancholy and beauty in his songs, that naturally, I wanted to write something in the same vein. Around the same time, I was introduced by a friend to a wonderful singer-songwriter named Julianna Raye. She was visiting Nashville. We met and quickly bonded over our love of bossa nova and French pop. She was only in town for a few days, so we wrote together as much as our schedules would allow. We’d finished three songs in two days, and were a little burnt out. We had one more evening session, and talked about canceling it. Didn’t we already have enough? But then we figured we might as well try to write. If something didn’t gel within an hour, we’d stop. Immediately, we got into this minor key groove, and Julianna sang the opening melody lines. And I thought, “How can I wait until / counting the days until.” I wasn’t sure what it meant, but I loved the idea of the word “until” ending each line. The word was so open-ended. It seemed to have a built-in elipsis after it. Hopeful but without a guarantee. An hour later, the song was finished.

Most of the song was recorded on my laptop, at Molly’s house in the middle of winter. It was drafty enough already in there, but we had to turn off the heat so the noise wouldn’t get onto the vocal track. I think she was wearing a hat and scarf while she sang it. The string arrangement was done afterwards by our friend Chris Carmichael. He is also a big Umbrellas Of Cherbourg fan, and the only thing I had to say to him was “Think Michel Legrand.”

It’s still one of my favorite songs from the album.

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Vegetable Music

My girlfriend’s mom tipped me off about this guy in Japan who makes instruments out of vegetables. His YouTube channel is worth visiting, just to experience the tonal varieties of cucumbers, carrots and mushrooms. Here he is doing a quartet version of “Happy Birthday” -

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Dancing Fool

“Would you like to dance?” Outside of old movies and reruns of Happy Days, that’s a question that you don’t hear much anymore. You didn’t hear it much when I was a kid either. I have a vague memory – probably too painful to revisit – of being at a church dance when I was about twelve and asking a girl if she’d like to dance. She said, “Um, not really.” That was enough to stop me from asking that question for another five or six years. But not enough to keep me off the dance floor.

I love to dance. When I say dance I mean free-style dance. I do know a little box-step and foxtrot, but I get nervous if there’s a lot of structure involved in dancing. If I have to silently count to myself and picture a pattern for my feet to follow, it’s not much fun. My style is a cross between the kids on Soul Train and early Jerry Lewis. Or more precisely, Martin Short doing early Jerry Lewis. Expressive, silly and a little spastic, but full of joy.

Years ago, when Swan Dive made a video for“Groovy Tuesday” there was a part where the director wanted us to dance. I went into this finger-snapping shuffle move that felt right with the beat of the song. A few months later, when we were in Japan, I was tickled to see that a few of our friends at the label had actually learned my dance move, and did it back to me. It’s also comforting to know that a younger version of myself will most likely be preserved on YouTube, forever dancing. If I ever have kids, they’ll be able to see that their old man wasn’t always a total square.

Funny aside. Remember those dancing shoes called Capezios? Back in the 80s, my friend Pam told me that she went out with this guy, and after spotting a pair of denim Capezios in his closet, decided that the relationship was doomed.

Anyway, these days, I don’t do much dancing (outside of private performances for my girlfriend). I mean, I’m not even sure where I would go in Nashville to dance. And chances are, the clubs, if there are any, would be playing music I didn’t like or wouldn’t want to dance to. But there may be some hope at the YMCA. Lately, when I’ve been working out, I’ve noticed a class – I think its called Zumba – that looks like it might incorporate some freestyle-ish dance moves. I’ll keep you posted on what I find out.

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Harper Simon – “Berkeley Girl”

If anyone has the right to sound like Simon & Garfunkel, it’s Paul’s son Harper. Not that he necessarily wants to or tries to. In fact, when Harper’s lovely, but mostly overlooked album came out in 2009, he spent a lot of time in interviews creatively dodging the dreaded “dad questions.”

It’s hard enough to make a good record, no matter what your background. But imagine being the son of an icon.

A few years ago, I interviewed Jakob Dylan. His publicist asked me ahead of time not to mention Bob. I took offense at that. First, I’m not the kind of journalist who’d lead with some dumb question like, “So, what does your dad think of the new album?” But then again, it’s an undeniable part of who he is, so if Bob came up in conversation – and he did – I wasn’t going to avoid it.

At least Paul and Bob didn’t give their sons their first names, like Frank did. Can you imagine being Frank Sinatra, Jr.? I know it’s an Italian thing for fathers to give firstborn sons their names, but didn’t the old man realize he was stacking the deck against his kid?

All that father – son stuff aside, you should really check out Harper’s album. This song is particularly beautiful (not to mention that the video stars Jena Malone):

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The G Word

With apologies to all those who think Eminem is a genius, I’m sorry, but I just don’t get it. A guy in a hoodie and oversized pants who is wealthy beyond belief pacing around the stage, gesturing with his hands and yelling angry words into the microphone, most of which are unintelligible and the rest of which are bleeped out by TV censors. What’s genius about that? I wonder, if your message is so (bleeping) important and urgent, then why not try to make it (bleeping) understandable to those of us who don’t really listen to a lot of rap or hip-hop.

I realize I sound like a fogey, but I don’t care. First, I bristle at the overuse of the word genius. Like so many words we encounter in the language of pop culture writing – masterpiece, maverick, renegade, dangerous, etc – genius has completely lost its currency by overuse. Nikola Tesla was a genius. George Gershwin was a genius. Miles Davis was a genius. Eminem is not one. To be fair, he’s obviously able to rhyme with a fluid and complex ability, and if it’s not a pose, he seems passionate about whatever it is he’s saying. And he’s savvy on how to market himself. But to me, a genius is someone whose ideas and art completely transform and elevate the world. Hip-hop and rap have transformed the world, no doubt. But to my ears, I don’t hear any elevation. The opposite, really. No melody. No spirituality. No humanity. It’s also clear to me that since rap’s beginnings in the ‘80s, the genre has calcified into what sounds and looks like an endless recycled parody of itself. If anything, rap has led popular music straight into a cul-de-sac of boring repetition.

Just wanted to get that off my chest, as a response to the many tweets I saw during last night’s Grammy Awards broadcast about Eminem being a (bleeping) genius. Ugh. It’s not really what I wanted to write about today anyway . . . But since I’m on the subject of anger and (here come two other overused words) edginess and darkness in music, let me say that as time goes on, I have less patience and use for those things. I think that’s for young people (and rock critics) who haven’t experienced life yet. Life is already scary and dark enough without having to seek out extra doses in music. Once you’ve been fired from a job, had your heart broken nineteen different ways, had your house burn down, lost friends and loved ones to cancer and suicide and old age, and generally come to see how tedious and miserable and disappointing our existence tends to be most of the time, then can you be blamed for seeking a little consolation? A little uplift, beauty and cheer now and then?

If I’m having a crappy day, I think I’d rather hear Marshall Crenshaw’s “Whenever You’re On My Mind” than The Cure’s “The Drowning Man,” thank you.

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