Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

my music

so many songs, so little time

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Tonight we held a marathon acoustic Arcati Crisis rehearsal with the addition of our old friend and new bass man, Jake.

As we learned last year with Zina, it’s not the easiest thing to onboard a new band member – even when they’re the most instinctual player and consummate professional. As the bandleaders, we have to know our stuff cold. Every rhythm, every transition. Anywhere we’ve developed a bit of sloppy shorthand with each other will fall apart when the new instrument hits it – especially with the force of Zina’s drumming!

As opposed to Zina (who started from just two songs that had drum arrangements and learned our entire repertoire in eight months), Jake has the benefit of existing fully-notated arrangements that imply a certain amount of bass action. Sounds great, right? Yet, Jake has both Gina and I competing with him on low end rhythm, because at many points we act as each other’s bass player.

Two steps forward, two steps back.

(No, that does not mean we’re covering a Paula Abdul song. If only. I’ve proposed that cartoon cat action at least once a year.)

(Also, FWIW, bass isn’t as obvious as drumming or adding harmony. A new bass part can sound perfectly fine for weeks until it’s turned up just a touch, and you realize it actually clashes with everything.)

Last week we learned out of the blue that we’re responsible for a three hour long acoustic spot next Saturday in Collingswood, so Zina got the night off while we attempted play every song we can even vaguely claim to know – which turned out to be 30 – with Jake playing bass on as many of them as he was able.

To put that in perspective, on the current never-ending U2 tour that boasts different setlists every night to date they’ve played a total of 61 full-length unique songs, along with a vast number of medley’d snippets.

Three hours later and I am completely spent – mind, body, and voice.

I fundamentally don’t understand how bands keep more than 30 songs in repertoire. Even rehearsing two or more times a week, it’s just a monstrous amount of material to keep fresh.

Of the 30 songs we eeked out around 25 solid versions – most with Jake. The giddiest success was “Better.” After weeks of misses and curses-under-breath, we nailed 11 out of twelve three party harmonies. We finally clicked on “Brother John,” “Real End” has transformed (again) into our best pop song, Gina and I delivered a close to note-perfect “In My Life,” and Jake made “Under My Skin” giddy and new again.

(What were the seven bum tunes? Mostly covers, though we fell apart repeatedly on “Hyperbole.” Specifically, we bombed “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” and I was overwrought and flat on “Across the Universe.”)

We have one more three-hour rehearsal left, and then our show. I’m sure we’ll be fine – after all, we’ve done this three-hour thing before, and we had a lot fewer songs back then. But it will also be our first trial-run with Jake helming our low end. It sounds fine in our parlor, but who knows how it will turn out in the wild?

Also, it makes me wonder how we’re going to achieve on of our big goals for the 2011-12 season of AC – learning a new song every month. Are we really ready to be rehearsing 44 tunes by a year from now?

I guess we’re about to find out.

rock band sweaters

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Tonight we had a sweaty Filmstar rehearsal.

Sweat is one of those unglamorous parts of rock star life that I feel is not sufficiently advertised by bands to aspiring musicians and parlor-bound Rock Band addicts, along with writing lead sheets and receiving constant electric shocks to the face from your microphone if your instrument isn’t properly grounded.

(Seriously, do you want full, pouty, Jagger lips? Just play a shoddily grounded bass and sing right up on the mic.)

No matter what sort of sweater you are under typical life conditions, when you are flinging a sixteen pound bass around while also doing some form of the frug and singing backup vocals, you are going to develop more than a healthy sheen.

Add to that the heat generated by your equipment or a low-hanging stage light focused on your neck and rocking out for an hour is roughly equivalent to spending the same amount of time in a sauna. Which makes 2.5hr rehearsals a marathon of perspiration.

I think I was experiencing all four aspects of band sweat at this gig. What you can't see in this photo is the stage light positioned about eight inches from my face.

We’ve all seen bands sweat, right? So what am I bitching about? Here are some aspects of band-sweat you might not have previously considered:

Sweaty vision. Sweat can sting in your eyes to begin with, but if you are a perfectly coifed rocker you are gradually sweating all of your chic hair product into your eyes, causing a stinging temporary blindness.

This usually takes three or four songs to get underway, which means you’ll be struck blind just as your set is heating up, typically during the most intense and difficult-to-play section of a song.

Which leads us to…

Sweaty hands. Either your hands sweat, or you get sweat (and dissolved hair product) on them trying to restore your vision. Shockingly, neither holding on to a plastic pick nor plucking bass strings in a regular rhythm is made easier.

Which means…

Sweat accessories. You need them, and I don’t mean Olivia Newton John style headbands. When planning your killer stage outfit, some part of it has to double as a hand-towel – and, let me tell you, leather pants do not fit the bill. Now I understand why so many singers wrap boas and scarves around their microphone stands.

Of course, then there’s the problem of…

Sweaty clothes. Once your set is over you want to reap the rewards of being a rock star – namely, adoring fans, and possibly a cold beer. Except, you are soaked through to the skin as if you had been standing under a fire hydrant, and with the rush of performance and the baking stage lights behind you your body is suddenly cold and clammy.

(My father has for years pointed this out to me about strippers; I did not realize he was telling me a parable that would assist in my rock star life. Sorry, dad.)

Allow me to enlighten you to the fact that fans are way less interested in fawning over you and hugging you when your entire ensemble is a massive sweat stain. And, despite what your Almost Famous dream fantasy looks like, until you are past local levels of fame most green rooms do not include fully appointed bathrooms with showers so you can make a quick change. I’ve played exactly one gig that has had one.

There you have it: my band sweat exposé. Maybe next I’ll address the practical issues of selecting attractive footwear that does not hinder your pedal-stomping.

For all my rocker friends: what other unexposed pitfalls of band life should the aspiring rocker be aware of before turning up to 11?

sing

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“Do you want to sing?”

Is my answer ever not “yes”?

I’ve heard people say that your willingness to sing has a reciprocal relationship to how good you are, and that the best singers will be the first to gracefully retire from the room when the topic is broached.

On that I call bullshit, and not just because it implies that I am a crap singer.

If you love to sing, you love to sing. Gina sings her way through life. E is singing beneath her breath at all times. Whether it was yowling teen in my high school hallways or increasingly lithe rocker of today, I sing on any occasion, so why would I decline to open my mouth and emit a joyous noise when someone specifically wants to hear it?

.

“Do you want to sing?”

I fielded that query at two o’clock on Saturday, and my relative skill as a vocalist aside it was a rare moment when I clearly did not want to sing.

I was in weekend bum mode, unshaven and in a t-shirt from my drawer of t-shirts that are explicitly set aside to never be seen outside of the house. The night before Gina and I had one of our longest rehearsals ever in that very living room with our new aider and abettor Jake, and we sang our voices right down to the quick until at the end my harmony on “Real End” was a mere squeak.

No, I did not want to sing.

This askance came from our little brother – not mine, actually, but E’s, except he is for all intents mine, for half his life and a third of mine. He was in our living room, moving out the next day, with his friend in tow, her first time in our grown up kids house, and if I was going to be in unimpressive weekend bum mode for her instead of lounging around the living room in rock star mode wearing nothing but sunglasses and vinyl pants drinking champagne from the bottle at least I could do some singing.

(Please note that the reality is more often than not me lounging around in low-rise jeans and drinking lemonade from a tumbler, but let’s not disabuse anyone of their glamorous illusions of your author.)

Of course I said yes. Is my answer ever not “yes”?

I said yes and hollered out Weezer and Lady Gaga and sang harmony on Maroon 5 until I was singing on fumes, and I know enough about myself to know when graceful retirement is the best option, so I finally excused myself from the room to wallow in the air conditioning upstairs.

.

“Do you want to sing?”

The night before E and I moved in together I wrote a song rather than pack – a song with the line, “I’m a little bit sick and tired of getting put on display,” though afterwards I quickly counter the sentiment by confessing, “I guess I shouldn’t have listed that skill on my resume.”

It’s funny how little that describes my relationship to E – we’re never putting on a show for each other’s benefit. If anything, we are the show. The line was never meant to describe us – it was more about being thrust onto the stage in every social and occupational situation because I’m the only person in a room who’s both a consummate professional and a professional ham (a skillset shared entirely by Gina – but I digress, that’s another post entirely).

Bro and I both have that skill on our resume, and it’s become a big part of our relationship to each other. I brag to people about how he got upgraded from sometimes extra to general ensemble understudy at the oldest theatre in the country. He brags to his friends about living in my recording studio. I show my friends how he can hit Freddy Mercury’s soprano A in “Under Pressure.” He shows his friends how I can sing “Love Game” with no hint of hipster irony.

Is this what siblings do – a constant gladiatorial battle that is half one-upmanship and half hero worship? I have no frame of reference, having promised at an early age to smother any suddenly appearing siblings in the cradle.

(I was an intense child.)

So I sang, because it’s on my resume, because it’s what I do. Bro sang too, and just like with E or Gina we weren’t putting a spectacle on for each other – we were simply being the spectacle that is us.

.

“Do you want to sing?”

Yesterday bro moved out, bound for yet another theatre production and then his first apartment.

We never hug, not out of some unspoken bro code but because neither of us ever seem to have the urge to hug the other one when instead we can whoop and sing in harmony, but he gave me a hug before he got in the car and drove away to be the spectacle in some other show while I go on starring in my own.

I will not deny the presence of a tear in my eye as I returned to our suddenly quiet house and opened my mouth.

In the list of things E, bro, and Gina and I all have in common, at the top of that list is that even on our worst day our answer is secretly: “yes.”

Filmstar’s Sugartown Dance Party

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On Saturday night Filmstar (the band fronted by E, with me on bass) played the Sugartown concert series at Tritone, and had a lot of sweaty fun doing it.

Elise rocking the mic at Sugartown (in one of her fav concert action shots) on June 25, 2011. Photo courtesy of Tritone.

I’ve now played a handful of festivals and sold-out shows, but I don’t have a lot of experience with converting a crowd – that moment where an unknown band turns the tide of chatter to become the focus of the room.

On Saturday I watched from my vantage point on the stage – and felt in my gut – as Filmstar did just that. We had the help of a handful of boosters in the crowd, but for a moment during our second song I could feel the attention of the room focus on us. Suddenly we weren’t playing to the sides and backs of heads – we were playing to ears and eyes.

Part of what’s awesome about Sugartown is how common that conversion can be. Sugartown is a monthly show featuring (really good) all female-fronted or majority-female bands.

If you know me well, you know I’m not usually into reverse discrimination programming, but Sugartown isn’t about excluding boys. It’s about creating a haven for fans of female rockers to find four new bands to love every month.

And, as we know, I’m a fan of female rockers. As are all of the other Sugartown attendees. Thus the frequent conversion, and typical friendly vibe.

E and I quickly made friends with the first band, Yumi Sekai. Lead singer Salena Kress said she had tried to start up a failed math rock act before settling on the Yumi Sekai sound, but I felt like I could still feel the lineage. YS was like mathless math rock – all the crazy instrumental breakdowns and killer riffs with none of the “we’re counting really hard now” compound changes and screwed-up faces.

Dance party in-progress at Sugartown on June 25, 2011. Photo courtesy of Tritone.

Salena and Jackie Wechsler trade lead guitar duties while Salena delivers intensely pretty vocals. Even when she rises up to her topmost rock belt she sounds less like a screaming rock banshee and more like a Disney princess out for revenge.

I mentioned that to her after the set, and she totally got it. “I like melodic music,” Salena told me, “it can rock, but the singing has to be good.”

If that sounds familiar, it’s because that’s my policy too. Needless to say, Salena and I hit it off. We did some booty-shaking together during the closing set from Girls Dresses as Girls.

It’s so different for me being a bassist instead of a band-leader. My job of holding down the low end and supporting the rhythm leaves me more open to experience what’s happening in the room. When a dance party sprung up during our set, I did what came naturally – I danced, kicked, smiled, and laughed.

We converted the room, and the room converted me.

It was a good night.

I know I look like the band nerd here, but in my defense, based on Glenn's capo position I think this might have been the exact moment the dance party began to break out. So I was probably using my measure of an open E-string as an opportunity to execute a killer dance move, which is hard to depict accurately in a photograph. Or, I am the band nerd. Photo courtesy of Tritone.

it’s a glam rock life

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At about midnight on Saturday Gina and I were having some issues.

At that time we were on the third song of our full-length, fully-electric Arcati Crisis set at Fergie’s pub.

Actually, we were about four minutes into trying to start our third song, my one-minute and six-second tune, “Glam.”

In case you are bad at rock math, 4:1 is not a very good prep-time to play-time ratio.

On the left side of the stage, one of Gina’s two lowest strings was a hair out of tune. On the right side of the stage, I was playing the opening riff to my own song in the wrong key (which sorta made Gina’s ever-so-minor tuning issue a moot point).

Even in the moment I was struck by the Alanis-Irony that after six months of preparing for our big electric debut we were having the kind of rock-stoppage that regularly felled us a decade ago when we were acoustic teenagers, all while our brand new drummer looked on, bemused.

That’s rock for you. You can practice all your high flying solos and set up an awesome effects chain, but rock has some basic requirements to fulfill and one of them is playing in the same key as each other (unless you want to play more experimentally and/or with a lot more distortion than we do).

You don’t think about this stuff when you watch a pop band play their new single on Saturday Night Live. They have guitar techs. The drummer has a click track in ear so they can cue samples. One of the guitarists is actually playing into a midi sequencer so it doesn’t matter too much if he’s a hair out of tune. And on every chorus the singer is doubled by a ten-track, four-part harmony pulled right off of her record.

That shit is way above our heads.

Of course, if one of them forgets what key the song is in they’re still in trouble, so I suppose what I’m saying is Gina would do fine on Saturday Night Live, but I would be immortalized in my own Ashlee Simpson moment.

But not really. Because I am a freakish perfectionist, and we had played all of these songs hundreds of times already, and we already played an awesome sneak preview date and teaser set and two awesome songs, and I was not about to let me forgetting for three measures the song was not actually in F ruin my night.

The upshot of this story is that the gig was awesome. The whole “Glam” snafu was barely a blip. On our third try we just started the damn thing, and after the eight seconds of dischordant intro all of our issues were over. We proceeded directly from that into a raucous debut of our cover of “Moonage Daydream.” Then we played Gina’s brand-new “Song for Mrs. Schroeder” for the first time, and turned in pitch-perfect versions of “Apocalyptic Love Song” and “Love Me Love Me Not” to end our first set.

I even hit the little hammer in the last verse of “Love Me Not” I had missed in our last few rehearsals.

Over an hour later we closed the night by launching into one of the most awesome, hard-rocking versions of Gina’s seven-minute epic “Brother John” that we’ve ever unleashed.

When it was over we said thank you, doled out sweaty hugs to our friends that had hung around until last call to catch every song, and got paid.

And then I drove a car inside of the Philadelphia city limits for the first time ever – at 2:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning – and I didn’t even kill any drunk douche bags on Walnut.

In sum, the “Glam” incident barely even ranks. I’m only devoting precious digital column-inches to it as a reminder that the stupid crap that happens to me in the middle of a show only has to matter if I let it.

Otherwise, it’s eight painfully out-of-tune seconds out of a three-and-a-half hour gig, and that is a really effing good out-of-tune to awesome ratio.