Dan Kye

I’m listening to “Change” by Dan Kye, Jordan Rakei’s House DJ alter ego. 

House music’s about as far outside my comfort zone as True Religion jeans, but let me tell you, if you want to deep dive into a new DAW (Digital Audio Workstation, for those of you with real jobs), may I suggest creating clumsy approximations of four-on-the-floor dance music and giggling like a jack ass.

My usual songwriting process involves an acoustic guitar, blank sheet of paper, and over-steeped tea - I’ve never dug through sample libraries or learned keyboard shortcuts or built entire tracks without touching an instrument, and it’s been a while since I’ve edifyingly stunk at something. It’s wonderful.

I’m limiting myself to two hours each night. After two hours, it starts sinking in how much better I am at other stuff, and jesus if I stink at this I must stink at everything, and I should probably quit music and go back to school or whatever. 

So, I don my producer beret for 120 mins, drink a class of cheap vino, then settle in to over-steeped tea mode, confidant there’s something elusive and brilliant hidden within the injustice that is my obscurity. 

Do What You Can

Check out Devin Townsend’s rough-and-ready setup for the livestream benefit concerts he’s been putting on. 

I say rough-and-ready, but it’s a thousand times more complicated and creative than I’m capable of, and perfectly in keeping with his self-deprecating genius.

For all us artists in quarantine, perfection can’t be the goal - I mean, it never should be, but especially not in a world where you can’t (and shouldn’t) get a haircut. 

“Do what you can” feels better. If you have the bandwidth to write a record, lift weights like vintage Arnold, or perfect a twelve-course French tasting menu, bully for you. I sure don’t.

All I have in me is softly encouraging a less overtly pessimistic inner monologue, followed by doing a little bit of a lot of things. Keeping busy while staying sane.

Hearts Made Whole

Those of us who make our living in the touring world are, of course, feeling the lost income, missing our friends, and hope to return to catering riders and coffin-like bunks as soon as it’s safe.

But there’s another, brighter side to the pirate ship being run aground. Scrolling through various social media today, I’m seeing touring comrades with their spouses, kids, families, and loyal pooches. So many smiling faces and grateful reunions. Hearts made whole again.

Stay at home if you can, my friends. We take so much for granted, perhaps most of all the time we have with the people we love.

Exhale

I’m listening to “Exhale,” the latest single from Sigur Rós frontman Jónsi.

Dedicated readers know my concerning level of adoration for Sigur Rós, so it’s no surprise I love this song. Post-rock meets pop without sounding gimmicky, which I suppose is easy when you helped redefine the former.

Jónsi’s solo records are always impeccably engineered, and within my humble quarantine setup, it’s inspiration to slow down, dig in to what I have, and be incrementally less terrible.

Cooped up in my cozy little home, it’s not surprising I’m gravitating towards atmospheric, epic music, stuff I can close my eyes to and let my imagination expand into a world I know is out there, reeling and erratic but poised for a renaissance.

What Do We Do

I’m listening to “What Do We Do” by Bill Frisell. It’s a perfect amalgam of jazz and Americana, and the outro starting at 4:17 gives me goosebumps every time.

There’s something about instrumental music during these surreal times - whatever visceral thing I’m feeling has the freedom to sharpen and ebb.

“What Do We Do” is a gentle, evolving conversation, the poignancy in it’s understatement highlighted by the fact that every musician could one hundred percent commandeer the spotlight but chooses not to. It’s an ethos I appreciate, especially now - there’s no door to kick down, no epiphanic moment, simply engaging in the world as it is, and carving out of the inevitability something beautiful. 

Air

I’m listening to “Universal Traveler” by Air. 

The chord progression is one of my all-time favorites, the production uncluttered and confident. It’s ethereal and sweeping and the perfect soundtrack to an afternoon spend among many-hued blossoms, beneath a cloudless, cerulean sky - a world very much still turning, as inevitable as my life looking so very, very different in the coming months.

I’m more grateful than ever for music, for the structure and identity it provides, and the path it illuminates through this uncertainty. 

Comfortably Numb

I’m listening to “Comfortably Numb” by Pink Floyd, during a point in history I wish I could coax into fadeout by way of extended guitar solo. 

David Gilmore described the song as “the last embers of mine and Roger’s ability to work collaboratively together,” and I’m appreciating how rare it is finding that right combination of creative spirit and caution-to-the-wind-throwing scallywag, and how thankful I am Waters and Gilmore were as prolific as they were during the brief window in which they didn’t want to garrote each other with the E strings of their guitars. 

I’m reminded that sometimes creating art is easy, but most often it’s not. It can be illusive and confusing and taxing beyond measure, bringing one to The Brink, unmasking a disarmingly confident inner son of a bitch.

But then I listen to songs like “Comfortably Numb,” a song that by all accounts shouldn’t exist, and I’m grateful for the lunacy.

Inspiration

I’m listening to “Raspberry Beret” by Prince.

I’d just gotten off stage in Hamburg, Germany when I heard that Prince died. We sat together as a band for several hours, sharing stories about the Purple One and what his music meant to us. 

I mostly listened. I came to soul and R&B later in my musical life, and of course I was a Prince fan, but his music didn’t shape my formative years the way it did the rest of the band. Passionate recountings of unrequited love, first bands, and wrapping one’s head around mercurial genius poured forth, informed by the exasperated disbelief that yet another cultural icon was gone too soon.

The next day, we performed at the Paradiso in Amsterdam, where Prince played so many historic gigs over the years. The exterior was bathed in gentle purple light, the mood reverential, and it sunk in not only how brilliant Prince was, but just how much I had to learn, from his stubbornness, audacity, and utter fearlessness, along with the numerous demons that keep company with genius. 

Prince is an inspiration to keep pushing, work insanely hard, and unblushingly share art however the fuck I feel like.

Clouds

Another Charlie Mackesy today.

Over all, I’m holding up pretty well during this pandemic, but there’re more than a few days, like today, where words, or at least the sentiments to which they give shape, are best left to quietly kick rocks in the part of my brain that prevents me from swearing in front of my mother.

Today, I’m worried, tired, bereft. I have disliked the past 24 hours with a depth and intensity that, frankly, I feel privileged to have experienced.

But tomorrow, I’m assured, is another day, and it’s not lost on me how fortunate I am to get another try.

Honesty

Charlie Mackesy is always spot-on.

Jordan Rakei

My main quarantine activity is deep-diving into Logic Pro X - as usual, I’m late to the party, but at least I got here. I can’t remember the last time I was this elated spending long, uninterrupted hours in my underpants.

I’ve been a fan of Jordan Rakei’s music for a long time, and his new YouTube series A Song From Nothing is a fascinating exploration of his production style and creative flow.

Other artists, like Jacob Collier, have launched similar concepts, but while Jacob’s from Mars, Jordan’s from New Zealand, and his approach feels like something I can wrap my head around.

Brilliant, accessible, and I’m learning a ton.

Check it out

Choose Joy

Taken on a walk recently. Today was a tough one, but I’m trying my best.

Non-Statements

Live Nation has stated they’re “prepared” to go without concerts for the rest of the year, and people are freaking out.

I promise I’ll go back to rambling about thrash metal and hippy stuff here soon, but it’s important addressing some of this click bait nonsense.

To the best of my knowledge, Live Nation CEO Michael Rapino is not an Epidemiologist, though I’m sure he could play one on TV. No one, least of all Mr. Rapino, has any clue when this virus will run its course.

Live Nation’s being “prepared” to go without concerts for the rest of the year means they have cash reserves. So what? I’m “prepared” to go without concerts for the rest of the year. No one’s turning down work once we’re given the green light, and, trust me, Live Nation loves making money.

In conclusion, then, I recommend the newest season of Ozarks, and perhaps a walk around the block.

Don't Panic

Quite a few dubious COVID articles are making the rounds. A couple thoughts:

Major media outlets are big companies competing for headlines and advertising revenue. It’s in their bottom line best interest to sensationalize and create click bait.

It is an elected official’s unenviable job to have to say something, even with essentially zero information. It makes sense they’re as reactionary as we are.

What I’m trying to keep in mind:

Consume news responsibly, appreciating their isn’t enough information yet for anyone to draw meaningful conclusions.

Make every day like Groundhog Day. Practice, write, exercise, connect with people who love me, and lean on gentle disciplines for structure and perspective. 

Even though I tried cutting my own hair last night, for the love of god STAY AT HOME. How quickly this storm passes depends on our doing our part.

Windows

When you have negative emotions, imagine there is a window at the back of your heart, and your breath is wind that blows them right out the window.

This apt and lovely quote was shared with me yesterday. Pre-quarantine, I think it would’ve landed similarly to New Yorkers staring at kittens through pet shop windows - a close, yet so far away something I’d love in my life, sacrificed in the name of hustle and winning and nefarious adulthood. 

Now, I have the time to meditate on sentiments like the one above, to sit with my anxieties, inconvenient in a musician’s peripatetic life and therefore muted, and come out the other side at least knowing I had the fortitude to underarm tickle some gremlins. 

The best paths are surreptitiously revelatory, and I’m grateful to be led down this one. 

One Sentence

I’m listening to Sæglópur by Sigur Ros, and the opening nineteen seconds are perhaps the most satisfying soundtrack for existential fatigue - the whole song is magical, but loop the first nineteen seconds, don your favorite crunchy sweater, and let your eyes fall out of focus, as if peering into the blissful, infinite void, and you’ll feel unbothered by the Impossibility of Knowing, the only certainty, when all this is over, being your booking a ticket to Iceland and never coming back, until realizing they offered asylum to conspiracy theorist and raving anti-semite Bobby Fisher, who I’ve been told was also passably decent at a board game, and I hope you’re all doing ok and boy quarantine is weird.

Happy and Safe

It was put to me really well recently that “this is a pandemic, not a productivity competition.”

I’m welcoming the opportunity to indulge other and new interests, but right now every ounce of my being’s revolting against anything beyond gentle disciplines, so here I am, spooning peanut butter out of the jar, kept company by the hum of my peaceful home.

I hope you’re happy and safe, and may I suggest listening to Sigur Ros, settling into a comfy couch with your warm beverage of choice, and staring out the window at perennial things.

Rust In Peace

I’m listening to Holy Wars by Megadeth, off their Rust In Peace record.

It’s the first dreary day in Nashville since I’ve been quarantined, and I’m thinking about growing up in Walla Walla, horny and angry, hunched over a guitar, practicing motherfucking MEGADETH YES YES YES YES and slowly making sense of my acned world.

Rust In Piece is the first Megadeth album with Marty Friedman on lead guitar, and his first solo as said lead guitarist happens at 3:27. It’s kooky, angular, shreddy but not overtly so, and decidedly un-metal compared to the diminished arpeggio frenzy of the time. Friedman’s one of my favorite guitarists - acerbic, opinionated, holds his pick bizarrely, and he’s never taken a boring solo in his life. He brought Megadeth out of the let’s play faster than Metallica doldrums and made them unique and daring. 

And check out the solo in Tornado of Souls, starting at 3:10 - so good, supposedly, that it drove a jealousy-consumed Dave Mustaine back to drinking.

Pneuma

I’m listening to Pneuma by Tool, my favorite song off their latest record.

As a nerdy caucasian who finds the touch of a woman miraculous, it’s no surprise that Tool’s one of my favorite bands. When I write music, it’s three chord singalongs rather than shamanic, polyrhythmic explorations of our inextricable creative essences, and I suppose there’s no time like the quarantined present to turn that ship around. But I think I’ll stick with “perfecting” a french omelette.

Tool excels at playing off of each other. Danny Carey grooves in 7, say, Adam Jones plays a riff in 5, Justin Chancellor’s bass line’s in god knows what, and, to my ears, the resultant rhythm’s deeply soulful. Skip to 4:27 and you’ll hear what I’m talking about.

I aspire to be as good at whatever the hell it is that I do as Tool is at their band. I’ve got a long way to go.

Sweet Babies

I’m listening to Sweet Baby James by James Taylor, which really everyone should if their goal’s feeling exponentially better about themselves and the world.

During the outro of Country Road, the drums fall waaaaaay out of time for a couple beats. It’s the kind of thing we’d fix today, but I’m picturing James and band imbibing god knows what and staying up til god knows when regaling each other with tales of sexual conquest, and yes, of course the wonky bit stays in, because it’s the moment and the people and how dare you wipe the tape and start over you utter bastard.

We can do everything ourselves these days, but maybe we shouldn’t. Maybe we should make some dubious choices and wind up in a room with myriad rascals and press record.