Monday, March 21, 2011

tree trunk progression

Last night I hosted a band meeting; one that I've wanted to do for some time now.
We're coming into our last leg of recording. Our producer, Mike Tompkins, is currently enjoying some much-needed rest in Mexico with his wife. Upon his arrival in less than a week, we'll be hitting the recording studio again for the final recording sessions on this album.

This fact scares the shit out of me.

Being a musician, and having been one for many years now, you begin to take very special care of how your music takes shape. Just as a parent would make sure their child was guided through all the proper steps, given the proper attention, and sent off into the world proudly, musicians are equally enamored with making music that properly represents their passion and vision for their music.

This fact excites the hell out of me.

Firstly, I'm no song writer. Never have been and never will be. I am far too critical of anything I write that even touches poetry, I have no gift for melody, and if I were to finish a song I would hate releasing it because I'd hate to hear people analyze it. So with this aside, I'll touch upon my true passion: the rest of it. The day I picked up a guitar I knew that the instrument alone would never be enough. When I sat on my bed strumming my first chords, I heard possibility. It was like a canal had just been built in my brain that had the ability to channel all of my creativity, vision, and passion. It was only when I picked up drums years later that things were coming full circle - I learned what rhythm was. Fundamentally, knowing these two aspects of music (melody and timing) opened up a valley of creative potential.

This fact brought on curiosity.

Yet, like anything, practice is necessary.
When I listen back to the first album Danny and I ever recorded, Fly Away, it sounds exactly like what it was: two teenage boys sitting in a room discovering a range of instruments, one at a time. If we were to re-work those songs now they would be infinitely different from their original sound. Yet this is the very thing that makes this progression special. I'm sure that if you were to look at the progressive career of a musician in terms of growth, it would look very similar to a tree trunk cross-section; some years were more progressive than others, yet it continues to grow and expand exponentially.

This fact influenced progress.

Now, staring down yet another album, we have more experience, more fantastically talented members, more songs, and more opportunity. Yes, we have all these things, but what do we do with them? Get to fucking work is what we do.

The entire purpose of the meeting I previously mentioned was to take a somewhat different approach to the recording process this time around. As was the case with the previous record, I would say that most of the songs were executed with a "face value" approach. By this I mean that we knew how to play these songs, and we played them just as they were (with maybe the exception of 2 songs). There's nothing wrong with that in actuality; the record turned out nicely. However, due to time restraints we weren't fully able to explore the songs sonically.

This fact makes my skin crawl.

I mentioned yesterday to the band that I was interested in over-recording this album. (p.s. drummers should never hold band meetings). By over-recording I mean that we should really strive for the "no-idea-is-a-bad-idea" approach. Instrumental tracks can be discarded as easily as they are recorded. What I am interested more in is what sounds can transpire from experimentation, because if you think about it, most great pop songs have one strange sonic aspect to them; something that differentiates it from the guitar/bass/drums formula.
I also mentioned that we should bring every instrument we own to the recording sessions. I believe that having extensive opportunities in front of you is far more advantageous to your practice than none at all (I've been trying to put an analogy here for an hour, but couldn't think of anything worthy of comparing).

Another thing I'm interested in, personally, is what to do with silence, if anything. Last night we were all sitting together around the old modern campfire (Danny's mac) listening to rough mix-downs of the record. During certain moments there would be dead silence in the middle of a song that would suit the track just perfectly. Other times we'd sit and think that silence wasn't even an option.
And that's just what do to with the silent parts. Think about how we are going to execute everything else. Thankfully (not luckily), our producer is exceedingly talented at what he does. The quality of the demos (not actual recordings) that he has given us so far almost surpass the quality of the last record already, and they haven't even been manipulated/balance/compressed electronically yet. His talent has obviously been recognized and he deserves every bit of it, so there are obviously things that are completely dependent on mixing that we just have to leave in his hands, which are made of gold, by the way.

This part will be continued...

Friday, March 11, 2011

The Find

Sometimes I just don't believe in things. More specific, I believe things will never happen. One of the great personal attributes I've held high over the years is my ability to practice reason, and very well. I'm not an idealist - I'm a realist. I know when things are so fantastical that even romanticizing certain ideas is a waste of my time. Don't get me wrong: I dream as much as the next person, but I know when to draw the line between "sure, that's possible" and "sure, that's a nice fantasy". Although this is the line in which my mind usually draws in the sand, sometimes I just cling to realities long enough for them to actually come true.

On the evening of December 21st, 2008, I was given a Christmas bonus at the establishment I worked at for the amount of one hundred dollars. At this point in my life I was really into amassing a musical instrument arsenal, which continues steadily to this day. I wanted everything that challenged everything capable of sonic altercations (mainly directed towards electric guitar playing). At the time I was obsessed with something called an Ebow, which is an abbreviation of "electronic bow", "electric bow" or "energy bow". This device, about half the size of a can of tuna (wow, what a shit example), is a hand-held wireless device that creates electromagnetic fields of energy that, once placed over a guitar string, cause it to vibrate, simulating the sound of a stringed instrument. Trust me when I say I was obsessed. The bonus went to this, plus a bit extra. I ran home to test it out (on an acoustic guitar, strangely enough) and it was everything I'd dreamed of.

Here is where this story begins to take shape. My parents' marriage was in it's final state of disrepair around this time. This being the case, the summer I moved home from Toronto would be my last in that house, as we were about to sell the house that following fall season. I'm not sure how it happened, but I must have put the Ebow in a drawer and forgot about it towards the end of the summer, because it would be the last time I ever saw it.

I can't explain the breakneck speed needed to move out of that house. Towards the end of the move, we'd given ourselves such little time to pack that everything, and I mean everything, was rammed at full speed into boxes, wrapping paper, bins, jars, bags etc. (productive procrastination: a genetic guarentee to most Schmidt family members). The worst part is that everything was shoved somewhere, meaning that it could be in one of four houses, in one of three cities, in one of 200 boxes. Needle-in-a-hay-stack-type-shit.

There were only a few items I've missed over the years: a vintage Kentucky Derby t-shirt, some MiniDV tapes, some photographs, drawings, and that Ebow. My friend Danny knows this way too well. Wherever I'd go; whether back home, my cottage, any family members house - I'd always say, half-jokingly "Oh, and while I'm there I'll check for that Ebow". I'm not kidding when I say I'd say this almost every time, for several years. It would usually be followed by a very mutual sigh between us, and the realization that this thing would never be found.

I've already mention that I'm a realist, which doesn't rule out everything. One of my favorite lines that I've used over the years, which frustratingly makes sense to many, is "I didn't lose it. I just haven't found it yet". Losing something is accepting that you've lost it. When you know something is within your grasp, there is no reason to accept defeat. That's like saying just because you got sunburned you're going to look like a fucking lobster for the rest of your life. It's not like it doesn't exist anymore (philosophy majors, fuck off on that one). So with this in mind, I never stopped looking for it. Everywhere I thought it could possibly be, I looked through in a process of elimination. Imagine Indiana Jones trying to find the Arc of the Covenant in that warehouse. Kind of like that.

I came home yesterday to my moms house, mainly to work on school-related projects in the privacy of my own thoughts and not have to worry about anything related to being in Toronto. As usual, I grabbed about six beers and a few cassettes and descended into the basement to untangle the mess of cardboard, clothes, lego, books and Christmas decorations. Things were going as planned: I pulled a few photos from my past, a few books, some paint brushes, a couple slides, reels of Super 8 film and select skateboarding magazines. Then, there it was.

Laundry Room Drawers was the name of the box. I can understand why I've never touched this box. For starters, it was under some box called Moms Books, which is a fucking landfill of 40-year-old woman literature. Kind of like if Oprah's book club needed an archivist. After sorting through this and downing an entire can of Guiness, I undertook the triple-decker sandwich of needles, thread and newsprint that was the next box.

Scraping towards the bottom, I found it. The object I'd been looking for all these years was staring me right in the face. It had to be the equivalent to seeing an old lover for the first time in years, and you're both single, and outrageously horny. The unflattering grey sheen covering this relatively insignificant piece of my history was staring me in the face, and everything I believe in was rekindled. The look on my face was priceless. I know this because I took a picture of myself holding the Ebow and sent it to Danny. He thought it was a stapler.

I didn't write this for you, the reader. I wrote it so I'd remember this moment. However, you can take this story with you as a reminder that hope and belief, no matter how unattainable or distant, is very possible. I should know - I just did it.

If this overly-positive article could visually personify itself, it would look like Bambi eating an ice cream cone while Thumper sings Hallelujah.