9/20/05
After a few days of rehearsal at an industrial space on the east side
of town, we all met up at an old studio in Hollywood to record to tape.
Like a bungalow between two sky scrapers, our studio was between the
studios where a pop country girl band and well known rock band were
working. We didn't have much time to notice what our neighbors were or
were not up to as we put down most of the songs on the first day. A
song came undone as we played it more slowly. We let it take us down
that one dark take we all agreed was one of those rare moments when
everyone finds their own way, yet we all end up at the same destination
at the same time. I bring out a song I am not sure is worth recording.
I tell Jay, the drummer, the story of Amy Semple Mc Pherson who the
song was written about. She was one of the first women to drive across
the United States in an automobile, one of the first and most famous
lady preachers. She borrowed sets from the movie studios in the 20s
and 30s to put on her "illustrated sermons" at the round white Angles
Temple auditorium that was one of the major tourist attractions at that
time. She preached like a sailor, had the first 24hour prayer hotline,
was on the radio and in the newsreels. She fed and supported many
during the depression as well as entertaining them with her odd sort of
theatrics. Her run ended when she was accused of running off with a
man other than her husband. She tried to prove she was kidnapped. To
this day, no one knows for sure. I have been in the residence where
she lived next to the temple and the temple itself. She was an
interesting character. Jay said he used to hear the Salvation Army
band playing in the town where he grew up and he made a drum part that
sounded like that. Eric, the violinist played the solo, in and out of
tune on a few different instruments. I changed the pronoun on the last
verse and put myself in the song as " a young fool onstage playing the
circus....." Smiling at my very young self who aimed to change the
world. As I remembered that part of my life, I thought of a song I
once learned that was one of the Psalms. On the way to the studio the
second day, it occurred to me to write a new melody and sing it dark.
We jotted that down like a note to ourselves and it may be my favorite
recording yet. I remember the pressure of the record company wanting
you to make recordings that would enter the blood stream of the culture
fast and take over. I never knew how to concoct that sales drug, but I
know how to dream with my eyes open playing and listening while the
tape rolls......
9/12/05
Today I am starting another record. The working title is "Will you
trade me this for a tank of gas?" The question glaring at me like the
desert sun first thing in the morning is why make a record? Most
things I hear are uninspired, or career motivated at best. I don't know
why. I have always been interested in what shakes, breaks, takes you
off the road, catches you off guard, makes you dream with your eyes
open. There are songs and paintings and books that have eclipsed
everything while throwing light on a world that is real only when, as I
think William Blake said, we see through and not with the eyes. There
are clues to the sublime. Signs. Signals. I don't understand them,
but I can't live without them. I don't think any of us are meant to.
When I started writing songs I tried to push all of that away so that I
could change the world, but it wouldn't be pushed. What Bob Dylan
started in pop music years ago was misunderstood and turned to stone by
so many writers who admired him. You just can't go very far with
stone, it is too heavy. That's okay. I found out within a few painful
years of trying to change the world with my songs, that I needed to
change. The deep, true changes weren't going to happen unless I
stepped back, fell down, got back up, shook off the humiliation of
failed control and took in the signs, clues and wonders that are
underneath and above all of this feeble culture.
I have been collecting things for this record for a while. Last year I
found the group of musicians I wanted to play onstage with. I fell in
love with them when we played and when I saw them first thing in way
too early morning as we dragged ourselves to the next city, or when we
all boarded the bus after a show to gloat or lick our wounds. I saw
them being frisked in the airport, all dressed up at Carnegie Hall,
out on the town after hours, in beautiful hotels with marble baths , in
seedy motels with plastic sinks, crossing the boarder in the middle of
the night, staring at the local staring contest while waiting to do a
sound check at the Sons of Herman Hall in Texas, prying the secret
recipe of a grilled lettuce salad out of a chef in a mountain town,
weary after long bus rides, crying with laughter. We were taken out to
crazy good dinners, tried to find eatable food at truck stops and
airports, ate road side BBQ with exquisite champagne someone had given
to us and sampled coffee joints all over the country. This week I have
convinced them all to record with me.
More later.
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