Busy, busy, busy like a bee this week. It has been a heavy week at work for both Spouse and I, and we are starting to go into maximum-overdrive-on-the-border-of-but-not-quite-panicking (because that’s not productive) mode about the charity event we’re organizing. We are members of the committee charged with putting together the silent auction/kick-off party for this year’s fundraising campaign.
I play in a band with a group of fellows that I know through work; every year we take the stage and play some music at this event. I have played enough live shows to be generally comfortable with the idea of standing in front of my microphone and opening my mouth to see what comes out, but as this particular event occurs in front of an audience of my peers, many of whom I am certain are there only to see for themselves that I remain capable of making a fool of myself while pursuing both vocation and avocation, it is a little bit more intimidating than the garden variety gig. Despite the best of intentions – hearty agreement among band members when meeting one another on the street throughout May and June that rehearsals ought to begin imminently – the reality is somewhat abstracted from that diligent ideal. Thus, in contrast to our aggressively discussed and much endorsed plan of action, the actual truth about our active preparations is that, as always, they are rather last-minute in nature. Our first rehearsal was last week. I would prefer not to comment on the quality of the musical performances involved in that evening, particularly where the lead vocals and rhythm guitar is concerned. Suffice to say that neighbourhood cats and dogs can be cruel critics.
The success in general of our noisificating and melodization during tonight’s rehearsal was best described by our lead guitarist, who observed following one particular song: “That wasn’t anywhere near as appalling as I thought it was going to be.”
Our drummer is a gear-head, and he’s got a Disneyland-type setup in his basement; it’s a home studio with some really nice equipment, including one of these. Junior likes.
With all that technology so close at hand, though, it was impossible for us to resist the temptation to mike the instruments up and run the whole she-bang through various wires, plugs and gizmos in to Cubase, where our rehearsal was then digitally recorded for posterity. One thing I have to say about that is that the microphone is a harsh mistress; she is unforgiving, callous and stubborn. Make a mistake with her and you will never hear the end of it. For me, it’s been so long since I played with any regularity that my old nemesis – playing and singing at the same time – is coming back to haunt me. Having to concentrate on what I’m doing with my fingers means I can’t devote sufficient attention in the thinking-centre portion of my coconut to recall the proper lyrics* with sufficient alacrity and then propel them through my lips with some sense of a melody that is related to the musical context. My initial plan for performance night is to claim, loudly and often, that I am conducting experiments in contrapuntal atonality and dissonance, and to warn listeners therefore not to be alarmed by what they hear. If this does not work, I will fake a leg injury and flee the building.
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* at one point during tonight’s performance of “Folsom Prison Blues”, my version of the lyrics had the rich folk on the “fancy dinin’ car” behaving rather oddly; according to me, they were “smoking coffee and drinkin’ fat cigars”. Let’s you and me fire up a mocha while sipping Cojibas some day…
I was always suitably impressed by folks who could sing and do something else at the same time (generally playing an instrument, but also including, say, drinking water or jogging). My ‘axe’ of choice was a piano (long story short: brother with childhood allergies, much time spent indoors), and the favorite brace of composers — Bartok and Satie — were always kind enough to throw in enough discords and accidentals to prompt my parents to ask that, if I wasn’t interested in playing the piano properly, why they didn’t just discontinue monetary support.
Ergo, they’re not wrong notes, they’re a MODERN ARRANGEMENT. It’s not an inconsistent tempo, it’s a SYNCOPATED RHYTHM. And it’s not misquoting the lyrics, it’s POETIC LICENSE.
^^ I agree with Mike. Call it what you will. Poetic License or 2008 Junior’s own remix. No one can really ever hear the lyrics in a live performance can they? I prefer to just shout loudly and incoherently from the beginning of a performance so as to set a standard of lyrical ineptitude. Then, when I actually remember the lyrics, the audience is pleasantly surprised that they caught a snippet of it and assume that it is they that have wax in their ears and not the singer that has marbles in his mouth.
As for the mixer. You can’t go wrong with lots of sliders and knobs… even better with lots of blinky lights too!
Finally, an audience who understands me!
I would also point out that the eight seconds of screeching feedback during “Handle With Care” was not a mistake; it’s just that my music is heavily influenced by Stockhausen’s concept of controlled accidents.
Aside: Funniest musical criticism I’ve come across in a long time: from wikipedia’s page on Stockhausen:
“Perhaps the most caustic remark about Stockhausen was attributed to Sir Thomas Beecham. Asked “Have you heard any Stockhausen?”, he is alleged to have replied, “No, but I believe I have trodden in some”