The Longest Day

Last week was odd. I have a theory that the full moon and the high winds made things go kookie. I had one of the most frustrating weeks I can remember, as a cyclist. I missed legendary rides, bonked on the ones I attended, and was plagued by flats on my solo endeavors.

Easter Sunday, I rode with Big Worm, Darien, and Faust. We had a splendid time. Everyone was funny and in good spirits. Worm, fresh from his "Chairs" victory was in cruise mode: Not slow, not fast, but happy and chill. Someone beat Darien on an epic sprint for a yellow sign. It was a good day, and if there is a better way to spend three hours, I challenge you to find it.

Then it was off to Orlando to see the boys play for a record label. This is always happy, and relaxing. All the way there, I was settling local band disputes, acting as a relationship councilor, and trying to guarantee the appearance of said record business guy. In the winds of chaos, somehow the band pulled off a stellar set. Said record business guy was animated and throwing compliments around like dollars at a strip club.

It all ends well. How? I don't know it's a mystery!

I hopped back in my reasonably priced car, and drove through hallucinations, weird gas stations, and bad food, toward home. I took 27 which was delightfully empty and freshly paved. "Hearts of Space" (on NPR) serenaded me back to our fine locale. The story ends with me in my own bed, in a fitful night of tormented manager dreams.

I'm back at work, where everything is predictably boring and I thank (deity of choice) for it.

That's all I have for you Pumpkins. Don't fret, I am working on another homage' to Frank Zappa that will have you clicking over to the BRC before you can say: "Poor spelling, bad grammar, inept punctuation, and weak content!"

W.B.Z.N.

Three Chords and the Truth

Making records is a difficult thing. Making good records is nearly impossible. Making magical, world changing records is something no one can do. World changing records make themselves taking passengers and prisoners on the way. They all start innocently, with a couple of people in a room, one person at a piano, or with a guitar. Some soul aches, is angry or joyful and the only way to pay proper homage, is through song. Once the inspiration has been wrung out of the writer, like a cloth, the judgements begin. The artist may be the first, but when others to hear it, they all take a whack. The song will be subjected to inhumane comparisons and criticisms.

Studious are dark places filled with cigarette butts, bad bathrooms and people that never see the sun. These are carpet covered rooms where romance, and dreams get stamped out like roaches, caught it the light. When the "record" button is pushed there is no where to hide. The computer can tune the notes, and timing, but if the song is an impostor, it will be naked in front of a laughing, ninth grade class.

All great songs all start as a shells. They must be built, piece by piece. Lucid arguments occur over the shaker part on the second chorus. Hearts break when a high harmony is cut. Hours are spent recording parts, no one will ever hear. The ultimate horror is to finish a song, and realize it is absolute shit. It is a mystery any songs get recorded at all. The fact that some songs are good, is proof of the paranormal.

If no one dies during the tracking process, the song must be mixed. The melodies must fly in and out like ghosts. Every part of every song that makes it to this point has had a war fought on its behalf, and yet it still may die, with one push of a button. Parts are featured and then fade like fog.

The song is finally released into the world. It is handed to a friend, shipped by truck, or downloaded to a device. Once that happens you are powerless to stop its life. You have to stand and suffer a thousand deaths or worse, glowing accolades.

The miracle is, it can save a life. It can be the only thing that gets someone through a day. It can say the things the less poetic of our species cannot. It can be the theme of revolutions. It can resurrect the perfume of a lost lover. It can bring the dead back to life. It can allow you to drive your first car. It can make you wonder what happened.

It is a noble mission. It is usually done for all the wrong reasons. Still, in spite of all the efforts to ruin them, great songs happen.

Havin' a Party

I don't think I was ever more amped to ride than last night. Tuesday is a crew night, and I had done my recon on Monday so I could roll some of the new Fern stuff. I bagged everything but the Big Guy (just sayin). I left work early, and got all my stuff ready. It was not to be, a comedy of errors and brush fires kept me off the bike, and I missed the party.
I heard BDS, Jose' and John all rolled the Lincoln Log, and nearly everyone rolled the little log and other stuff. Well... bully for you you guys!
BASTARDS!

W.B.Z.N.

Loggie Log Logs!

Loggie Logs, collect them all, trade with your friends. I have to give a big shout out to Porn Stash. He rolled the short log both ways on his first try. Slade put some muscle on the qualifier, and the pyramid. I am prouda dem boys!

W.B.Z.N.

Oh Crap! Thanks um....I think

Imagine this, only WAY skinnier. Now, multiply it by two. That's what is on Fern. Todd, Ken, John, and many others built a lil' piece of the North Shore here to Tally.

Now for those of you keeping score, I have been doing a lot of bitching (on blog and off) about the lack of obstacles on our refurbished trails. This is the big "shut up". I rode a little pyramid but, the logs are still saying "want some?" to me as we speak.

I dare you to go roll it from end to end. Pucker factor of 8.9.

W.B.Z.N.

A Stratocaster With A Whammy Bar

Today I forgot someone was dead. For a split second, I thought it would be nice to see him. I remembered he was gone and I felt that light go out all over again.

The first time I saw him was against my will. I was dragged by a friend. The lights went down and the band tip toed into a slow 9/4 figure. It was haunting from the first bar. There was an endless pause before he came slowly out, lit a cigarette, and took the guitar from his roadie. They shared a sentence or two, nodded and walked away from each other. An applause swelled, but it was a different applause than shows I had been to. It had a knowing air about it. The noise that rises for a pop star is much different than the sound smart people make for an artist.

He looked out knowingly, like he was greeting an old friend. He took a long drag on the smoke and wedged it into the strings of the guitar, between the nut and the tuning pegs. The crowd stood up waiting for him to play, he laughed and spoke into the mic.

"Siddown, yer makin me nervous."

He played the opening melody of "Watermelon in Easter Hay". The tobacco Strat once owned by Jimi Hendrix sang for him the way it always had, with big round blues tones. I remembered seeing Jimi set that guitar on fire in an album jacket. Now that same connection between Jimi and I was forty feet away. Did he write "Lil Wing" on that? "Castles Made Of Sand"? Was this the instrument that yielded the mysterious "Watchtower" solo?

Through out the night the smell of Colombian virgin bud and cloves drifted together with the musical reorganization of my mind.

"City of Tiny Lights", "Lucile Has Messed My Mind Up", "Muffin Man", and finally they closed the show with a brutal version of "Whipping Post" by The Allman Brothers.

I saw him three other times. The last was on a pier in New York City in the summer of 1984. As the sun went down, he and his amazing band weaved complicated rhythms and impossible melodies into the night so perfectly, I forgot my band was stranded there with no hope of rescue. He reminded me that music could save souls, make them laugh, point out absurdities, and shine the light on hypocrisy.

I was in Montana Studious with the band I was managing in 2002. Dylan, Miles Davis and many other legends had rehearsed there. I was in the bathroom trying to compose myself, before a label showcase. I looked at the wall and saw a hand written quote of his, comparing the music business to swimming in shit. I laughed and put some water on my face. It was going to be alright. It was just a stupid game.

I wonder if there is a kid out there that doesn't want the trappings. A kid that is writing impossibly scary and provocative lyrics. A kid that is dedicated to the art and discipline of becoming a musician. A kid jamming in Joe's Garage.


W.B.Z.N

Down In A Hole

Being mean to grommets (kids) when they are becoming surfers is a right of passage. In Ft. Pierce, it was a contact sport. You keep them from getting any waves, and when they do, you harass them for sucking. You drown them, take their boards and eat their food while they are in the water. There is only one problem: Grom's grow up.

Jay Dimartino was a great surfer from the time he was a kid. He is also one the funniest guys I have ever met. He could joke his way out of an electric chair. When he was coming up, we hassled him pretty hard. He moved to the North Shore of Hawaii and was known for charging in big surf. The first year I went to Hawaii, I insisted on looking him up. My friend Kevin, warned me not to go surfing with him. I really wished I'd listened.

The North Shore was too big to surf and we went to a spot on the east side called "Seventh Hole". You had to walk across a golf course to get to it. Way out in the middle of the ocean there was a wave breaking. Jay kept telling me I would be fine, but I became worried when Kevin refused to paddle out. Jay walked out on a limestone shelf and I followed. When we got half way across, he turned to me and said, "Don't step on the black things, they are urchins." I looked down and the entire shelf was black.

We paddled forever, and I never saw a wave break. We were in the middle of the ocean, when Jay sat up.

"Where's the wave?" I said to Jay, as he looked out to the horizon.

He pointed casually out to sea. Waves rose up out of nowhere. He caught one and I was out there by myself. The current was pulling me into the break. Set two came, and I was too far in. The wave unloaded on the shelf and eight feet of white water came towards me. I let go of my board and swam for the bottom. The water was crystal clear and, you could just watch it go over head and then surface. I came up, got a breath, and thought I dodged a bullet. Bubbles started coming up around me. The air pushed down into the reef, was now resurfacing. Suddenly, I was ten feet under water and figuring out, you can't swim in bubbles. I was in a hole in the reef, looking up confused at the rock walls. My cord was taught, and my board pointed skyward. I climbed my cord hand over hand, and pulled myself to the surface, just in time for the next wave to unload on my head. I was out of air, and in a full body adrenalin shake.

"This is it." I heard a voice say.

Luckily, there were only two or three waves to a set that day. I paddled back over to Jay. He was howling with laughter.

"Whadaya doin over there?" More laughter.

I caught one wave, and paddled for twenty minutes against the rip. Jay caught a wave, cruised past me, and laughed at how slow I was moving. I climbed onto the shelf like a drunk sailor and shuffled my feet through the urchin's. Kevin was there, shaking his head.

Jay writes about surfing for About.com. He is every bit as good a writer as he is a surfer. I haven't seen him since that winter in 1991. Karma sucks.

W.B.Z.N.