Breathing and Support 2

As promised, here is my rap on breathing. If you think you know anything or If you have had lessons, step into the way-back machine and degauss your brain. Remember rule number two, It's always simpler than it seems. A good way to maintain a receptive state of mind is to assume that everything I have to say is the truth. The information can be filtered or rejected based on your own criteria at a later time.

Let's start with that misunderstood bugger, the diaphragm. If you could imagine your torso to be a bi-level apartment building, tenant A lives upstairs and tenant B lives downstairs. Your lungs are tenant A and your stomach is tenant B. The diaphragm is the structure that serves as A's floor and B's ceiling. I would define a diaphragm as a membrane that serves to separate or divide two areas. In the case of your torso, the chest cavity is separated from the abdominal cavity by the diaphragm.

Touch your diaphragm...move it, feel it, tell it to do something...breathe into it. You can't, can you. Your diaphragm responds to the needs of your body on an involuntary basis. That's why a statement like, "Breathe into/from your diaphragm" is an absurdity. If a teacher ever says those words to you, ask for an explanation. You'll very likely get something similar to an auto mechanic explaining how a faulty muffler has worn out your tires...double-talk!

However, you can and must have control over the actions of your diaphragm if you want to sing. So let's use another analogy to describe the mechanics of breathing. Think of a syringe. A syringe has an opening through which things can go in or out of the reservoir. The diaphragm of the syringe is inside, you can't touch it. in order to draw something into or push something out of the syringe, the diaphragm is controlled by pushing in or pulling out the plunger.

Let's define the parts of our syringe in terms of our body parts:

Syringe opening = mouth and nose

Syringe reservoir = lungs

Syringe diaphragm = your diaphragm

Syringe plunger = the Abdominal Muscles

AHA!! This is the key to the whole shootin' match. You cannot control the diaphragm directly, but you can control the actions of your diaphragm by training and controlling the muscles of the abdomen. In order to accomplish this, you must first pinpoint the proper muscle group and learn to exercise that group without introducing tension or strain to any other area of the instrument otherwise known as your body. The following exercise will seem very simple but try it. It won't take much time or thought, and it won't hurt.

1. Find an object that you can balance on your stomach. A phone book, dictionary or any large book will do.

2. Lie down on your back and put the object on your stomach at just about the belt line.

3. Exhale as fully as possible without collapsing your rib-cage. All of the movement should be south of the solar-plexus and will be visible by virtue of the book on your stomach.

4. Inhale slowly and deeply, again, without involving the rib-cage. Picture the book rising toward the ceiling.

5. Hold the breath and count to four out loud. This will prevent you from holding the air by closing the throat muscles.

Repeat the exercise ten times. Then think about the benefits. In a few short minutes, you have relaxed and cleared you head. You have oxygenated your body to a higher degree than usual. And by mentally getting out of the way, you have allowed your body to practice efficient breathing in a controlled manner. The more you do this very simple exercise, the more benefits you will discover, and the more you will want to repeat it. Be good to yourself. Give yourself five minutes in the morning and five at night.

I once sat in a backstage dressing room discussing singing with Gary Puckett and the late great Brook Benton. Brook passed in early 1988 so this was one of the last shows that he did. Gary had asked Brook what he does to warm up. You had to be there to appreciate the charm and simplicity of Brook's answer. He stood up, looked at Gary and said, "Well Gary, first I breathe in...(takes in a huge breath and holds it)...and then I breathe out ( exhales fully). I do a few of those and I'm pretty much good to go."

If it's good enough for Brook Benton, It's good enough for me. Breathe.

Breathing and Support

My years of teaching have lead me to arrive at a handful of what can be characterized as valid assumptions based on experience. At the top of my list of assumptions is that the most misunderstood area of singing technique involves breathing and support. I find this to be interesting because breathing is so basic to living. Everyone breathes. We start when we are born and keep it up until we die. We do it without thought or plan. And yet, for some unknown reason, the moment we begin to study singing, we get confused.

When I begin with a new student, I ask a few pertinent questions to find out what the student may or may not know. This gives me a better idea of how to best address the needs of the student. My first question is, "What do you know about breathing and support?" The answers vary to some degree but I have yet to start with a new student, no matter what their educational or performance level, who knows enough about anatomy to have a clear idea as to how we breath.

A new student recently answered my question by stating that he had been told that he was supposed to breathe into his diaphragm. I asked him if he knew where his diaphragm was or what it looked like. The answer consisted of a few "um"s, and some inaccurate pointing. This was someone who had studied for over six months with a "reputable" teacher. Both the teacher and the student had been breathing all their lives, and yet the subject of breathing had not been covered in depth during six months of lessons.

I don't think that this entry can possibly address the subject as effectively as can be done on a personal level. But I will try to lay a foundation that may be helpful. The first thing that must be addressed is the absolute need for a student of singing to have a basic knowledge of the anatomy and function of those body parts directly involved in the singing process. My job is to make this interesting and to help the student develop an appreciation for the subject. If a student isn't interested in how or why things work, I don't think that I can be of much help.

The next concept for the student to understand is what I call my second rule, "It's always simpler than it seems." Breathing for singing is just not that much different than breathing to stay alive. My students have ranged from the totally un-studied, to gold and platinum award winning recording artists. And in every case, taking a breath before singing an exercise usually involved some sort of process. The un-studied are easier to deal with because they have a relatively clean slate and a minimum of bad habits. The simple truth is that the whole thing is very uncomplicated.

In my next entry I will go into a bit of detail and discuss some of the exercises that may help to simplify the concept of breathing and support. Just don't hold your breath!

Having Fun With the Podxt

Well, I've been playing around with this Line6 Podxt for a bit and I have to say that the fun factor is looming large. I really love the sound of a good guitar and great amp so most of my tweaking has been in the way of pretending that the Pod is what the display says it is, and tweaking the knobs accordingly. Consequently, I have a few thoughts.

First off, there isn't a piece of gear that will make a crap guitar sound like Jimi Hendrix. And sadly, there are plenty of young players with crap guitars out there who are misleading themselves into thinking that the Pod, or something like it, will turn their crap guitar into something that it is not. Given the choice between spending my dollar on a Pod or a decent guitar, I would start with the guitar. I'm playing an Mark Knopfler signature Strat,, a masterbuilt '54 Strat and a Gibson ES 135 with killer pick-ups. For bass I usually play old Fenders. I know that what I'm putting into the Podxt is the right shit, so If the result is crap, I would know where the fault would be.

Attempting to compare the Podxt head to head with a vintage amp is Fruitless and doesn't serve any purpose that I can think of. The first thing that comes to mind is that if you have a vintage Vox AC30 to compare it with, throw the fucking Pod in the corner and rock the AC30 for chrissakes! No, the pod can't compare with the dynamic tactile sensation of standing face to face with a vintage half-stack or a pair of well-oiled SVT cabinets. But that isn't really the point, is it.

There is a huge difference between playing a gig that requires the pantleg-flapping, intense volume and sound pressure of a pair of Acoustic 360 bass rigs on the one hand, and a session where an accurate bass sound that sinks right down into the mix is what is needed. The first can be physically exciting although sonically inaccurate. The value is a matter of the moment. The second has to be right...forever. What the Podxt does for me is put a sound into my computer that gets pretty damned close to what an amp and a mic in a room would deliver to a recording console. It is, after all, a simulator.

But now, back to the fun factor. I have been very lucky. I have had my hands on a shit-load of great amps...and I mean GREAT amps. I know how they work and I know how to turn a knob ever so slightly to make a good Tweed Bassman sound amazing. I know that a Blackface Deluxe sounds different on the floor than it does on a chair. And I know that no two Vox AC 30s sound exactly alike although I have yet to hear one I didn't like. I love to tweak amp knobs to get that extra little magic.

And thats what I dig about the Podxt. If you know the amp that is being modeled, you can really have some fun. The Pod actually reacts to very subtle knob movements much like the amps we all worship. It also responds surprisingly well in two other areas that are difficult for many younger players to grasp. Many players step on some kind of pedal to play a solo without ever taking advantage of the controls on the guitar. I like to dial in a nice, aggressive sound and then roll back the guitar volume to clean up the sound. It just sounds more naturally dynamic and I think the guitar sounds better when you let it do some of the work.

The other thing that the Podxt does quite well for a simulator is respond to playing dynamics. A great amp will allow you to caress a gentle part and then jump on a chunky rhythm riff without any knob twisting. The Pod does a pretty good job of simulating these player controlled dynamics.

I'm having fun with this thing. It's different, that's for sure. But in a small room with a Mac and NHT powered monitors, getting a guitar sound could be a whole lot worse. Now if they could just make it smell like a '65 Twin...yeah, YOU know what I'm talking about.

PreSonus Inspire GT

Let me just start by saying that I couldn't win a medal in the Special Olympics of Digital Recording. I've been an analog dog for my entire musical life. My experience with trouble-shooting has always consisted of following cables, shaking non-responsive units, tapping, hitting or throwing, re-seating connections and as a last resort, drinking huge amounts of coffee while a qualified tech fixes the combination of original and "Pete-induced" issues. I find the virtual world of technology daunting to say the very least.

Having recently begun to set up a home studio recording environment, I have inundated myself in literature, reviews and manuals concerning all aspects of hardware and software. I've found that trying to keep up with the incredible rate of updates can easily rob me of valuable creative time, so my efforts have been to research and make hardware decisions based primarily on two factors. First, How does a piece of gear SOUND?, and second, Will an Idiot like me be able to figure it out?

I have been fighting tooth and nail with a usb audio interface that shall remain nameless. For some reason, input/output assignments were difficult and the bus assignments just wouldn't line up the same way twice. I'm more that willing to concede that the technical issues rested squarely on my inept shoulders. But as to the sound quality, I was not happy. Therefore my criteria had not been met. It sounded bad, and an Idiot like me was not able to figure it out. What to do? I started by putting it back in the box. The second step will involve a Craig's list posting.

I work on a 24" intel iMac which has 3 usb ports. With one port for the computer keyboard, one for the Cubase key and one for a Radium keyboard, using a usb interface required plugging and unplugging usb wires. Using hubs and bluetooth devices had proven less than satisfactory in my experience at Shangri La, so I decided to try a firewire interface. What I wanted was a box with holes in it that I could stick wires into so the signal would get to where it belonged. I was looking for a knobless, idiot-proof piece that would get plugged in, put on the desk and do it's job without tapping me on the shoulder every five minutes with stupid questions like, "Where do you want me to send this guitar part?"

I found my solution in the PreSonus Inspire GT. This little baby is a five-and-a-half inch square with holes in it that fit the right wires. There are no knobs. I'm used to turning knobs on real gear and have always thought that the knobs on most home-recording devices felt like repairs waiting to happen so this feature of the Inspire GT was welcome by virtue of its absence. The simplicity of the physical design is very similar to the Mac Mini in that there is nothing outside the box that can get you into trouble.

The installation happened so effortlessly and was completed so quickly that I really don't remember what I did, if anything. Re-reading the manual, you simply connect to the computer via firewire, insert the driver cd, drag the icon to the hard drive, click, and the bugger shows up on the screen and ready for business! A quick look through the audio preference pane on the iMac showed that the Inspire GT had already checked in to the computer. Cubase set-up was equally as idiot proof.

I plugged the audio output of the Podxt into the Inspire GT, and after a few level tweaks, I was recording. Just as simple as that. My second requirement for gear had been met with flying colors...Yes, an idiot like me could figure it out.

As to my first requirement, how does it sound, I can only say this. Once I started to record, I never gave it another thought. I'm in the process of learning my recording/sequencing software and have enough to think about. With the other box, I found myself constantly distracted with sound issues. After working for about two hours, I realized that I hadn't thought about anything but the task at hand. The guitar sounded like a guitar and that was simply it. The Inspire GT took care of getting the guitar to the recorder and the sound to my powered speakers. I was free to get confused about all the other things that tend to confuse me, chief among them, why couldn't I hear my fucking click track?!

But that safari is for another day. In the meantime, I love this box. It has really cut down on my shoe-throwing.

Tech Support? We Don't Need No Stinking Tech Support!

Ah, another day spent trying to install Cubase 4 into my iMac...FUCK!!

I should add that I'm a total friggin' ineptasaurus as far as computer recording goes. The good news is that I figured it out and all's well at Studio Pete...for now. But if this were twenty years ago, the only sound my computer would be making right now would be crunching noises as the cars going by my building run over the chunks I hurled through the window.

My journey toward techno-enlightenment started less than three years ago when Guy Fletcher convinced me that the Mac was superior to a PC. I had someone show me how to turn it on and proceeded to bluff my way through the learning process over the course of time. To make a long story short, I'm all over it now...to a point.

I recently decided that I would like to do some writing and recording at home so I invested in a 24" iMac and bought Cubase 4 which is a highly regarded sequencing and recording software program from Steinberg. I installed it without a hitch (I thought) and curled up with the tutorials. To get audio to the computer I used an M-audio Fast-track usb interface. I followed all of the instructions and set up my vst devices, made the appropriate buses, opened a new project in cubase, added an audio track, pushed record and...nothing, nada, nix.

The meter on the transport window was seeing the guitar signal but I couldn't hear it. Double checked my buses, inputs etc. Everything looked correct. Wait a minute! This is a new Intel Mac. Maybe the M-Audio driver wouldn't work with the mac. So I went to the M-audio website and learned that the unit should work with all OSX machines. There was a driver update but was only required to run Protools. Fuck it, I updated the driver anyway and voila! Now I could see and hear the signal. But I still wasn't getting the audio to the recording channel. Man, In the old days, you just started following cables til the problem presented itself. I had visions of the crew from "Fantastic Voyage" cruising through the routing system on my hard drive and searching out the problem on a molecular level. That not being an option, I had to think...and throw something relatively inexpensive across the room. Shoes are good as long as I don't hit anything...I wear 15s.

I decided that there had to be an issue with Cubase so I went to the Steinberg website. Nothing there but circles and I went around all of them. I did find an update to Cubase 4.0.some fucking shit so I downloaded it and installed it. When I chose my hard drive as the destination, I got the message that the was "no previous installation"...the shoe just missed the lamp. I closed everything, restarted and by a fluke, hit "apple i" as I clicked the application. Hmmm, I opened the ownership pane and for some reason, the "read and write" button wasn't active and there was no owner. I clicked on the owner button and a drop down menu displayed a list of weird names, none of which was mine. At the bottom, was the word "other." I clicked it and another menu displayed a longer list of coded names. Halfway down the list, there it was! The user name that I registered the product under. I clicked it and everything in the ownership pane became active. I plugged in, played and recorded actual music into Cubase!

Nowhere in the manual, the tutorials, the installation documents, the online forums...nowhere could I find the solution. It makes me feel really stupid to think that everyone using Cubase knew this but me. Well, fuck it, I know it now. Tech support? We don't need no stinking tech support!

I just need plenty of shoes.

Superbowl VII

The Superbowl...I remember when the Superbowl was a football game, a game played to decide the championship of the National Football League. But in recent years it has become a week-long media event complete with up-close and personal "news" features concerning personalities who may or may not have anything to do with football. The television audience for this year's edition of the event will probably be split evenly between real football fans and those of the gentler gender who will be breathing hard in anticipation of a Prince "wardrobe malfunction."

As for me, I've grown relatively weary of the circus that surrounds Superbowl week. Yes, there will be new commercials and yes, I'm sure that they will be witty and innovative. But I can't get too excited about new, witty and innovative ways to convince me to use the same crap in a new box. Think about it. The football game is the free toy in the box. The real deal is to get us all to think that we can't live without seeing all the new commercials. We will watch them and talk about them at work and school on Monday. And somewhere in the back of our pea-brains, we will remember which soda to buy on our next trip to the convenience store. Why? Because the ad-men not only got us to look at the shiny watch, they also made us look forward to the therapy as if it were something we couldn't live without. Can you say, "Baaa?"

The last time I got excited about a Superbowl game was a long time ago...Superbowl 7, or VII for my Roman readers. I was excited about that game for a few reasons. First off, Billy Kilmer, the washington quarterback, visited his old alma mater which was also the school I was attending at the time. He convinced us that the Redskins would beat the Dolphins with no difficulty, so I did the sensible thing and put down fifty bucks for the Redskins to win. It never dawned on me that Miami had just finished the first ever undefeated season in NFL history. DOLT!

My second reason to be excited about the game was that I was to sing back-up vocals during the halftime show behind Andy Williams. Originally, the scheduled entertainer was to be Sammy Davis Jr., but supposedly he bowed out in some form of protest. I don't know if he was protesting the war, civil rights policies or just the fee he was to receive, my guess is the latter. I was eagerly looking forward to being on the floor of the stadium for the halftime show because there were no seats available to the singers and we were simply to stay on the sidelines during the game. Personally, I didn't care if I was singing behind Mr. Ed. I was going to see, hear and smell this game at ground zero!

I actually had hopes of winning my bet up until the end of the third quarter. After that, I just hoped that Kilmer would be maimed everytime he touched the ball. Fifty bucks was a lot for me to lose then...bragging prick! I have to admit that halftime was a thrill. There were ninety thousand in the Coliseum and millions watching on television...watching the game, that is. Andy's voice at halftime wasn't nearly as loud as the flushing of toilets and the ordering of beer that rings through every self-respecting football stadium during intermission. And as for the people at home, If anyone can tell me what song Andy sang that day, well you can't, so I don't even have to think of a prize.

No, the real fun that day was the dress rehearsal. As a bit of background, I had discovered a strobe tuner in the band room at school some weeks before. I used to take it into a practice room and sing long falsetto notes while staring at the tuner, trying to line up the wheels. As a result, I had become proficient at making sounds that mimicked mid-range feed-back. The sound system at the coliseum was primitive by today's standards and I'm certain that no-one had bothered to address the time delay issue regarding amplification of singers in a cement bowl. If I remember, we sang into RCA ribbon mics which were fed into speaker cabinets that were placed around the perimeter and at the top of the stadium. Sound travels at about seven hundred feet per second so as a result, whatever we sang would come back to bite us in the ass and feed back into the open mics. When my mic was on, I would emit my falsetto "ooooooh" with no vibrato and the entire coliseum rang as if there were massive feedback. The sound techs scrambled to make the "feedback" go away. As soon as the mics were on again I repeated the prank and once again they would scramble. God, what a prick I was, and how much time I wasted. But the set up was never going to work anyway and besides...it was fun.

So this year, I intend to enjoy the game and I'll try to keep the manipulation of my buying habits under my own control. I'm sure that Prince will sound great at halftime, given the advances made in concert sound equipment over the years. But sometimes you just have more fun when you're dealt a shitty hand. Remember, " It is a poor craftsman who blames his tools."

Chicago by 3

Have I Sold Out?

Have I sold out? I have been the quintessential analog snob when it comes to guitar and bass amplification. I've spent the greater part of my adult life pissing in the general direction of anything and everything new. During my years at Shangri La, we had just about any classic guitar and bass amp available. All of them were painstakingly maintained to original specifications. Pristine examples of '59 tweed bassmen, twins, deluxes and champs were strewn in every corner of the place. The Marshall collection belonged in a museum. Vox AC15s and AC30s? Had a roomful. And if so much as a handle or knob had been replaced, we would point and laugh. I had the luxury of access that allowed me to develop a finely tuned sense of outrage when forced to work with non-vintage equipment. I was an elitist of the first order.

I am no longer at Shangri La. Sadly, most of the amps, along with the room to record them in, are still there. I'm now living in a small house and have been jones-ing to make some great guitar sounds in a small room...with neighbors close at hand. No more, "Lets put two Marshall 100 watt rigs in the big room and see how loud they'll go" for me. Even my '65 Fender Champ would probably get me in trouble. What to do...what to do?

Well kids, I crossed the line and got my hands on a Line6 Podxt...that's right, a FAKE AMP. Fuck it man, you gotta do what you gotta do, right? I've had Gary Miller telling me to chuck my amps and try this thing for months now. What?! Chuck my '58 Ampeg B15? My '62 Fender Showman? My SVT? How can this little kidney-shaped piece of crap replace the handful of great amps I still had in storage? How? Just by plugging in...yup. I plugged my Strat into the little red plastic anti-christ and it was like experiencing the first of the twelve steps. I had to admit that I was powerless over tubes, transformers and greenbacks. My musical life had become un-manageable. Faced with the prospect of writing and recording guitar and bass parts in my living room without my trusty drugs of choice, vintage tube amps, I was paralyzed into non-productivity. All those little meddlers whispering in my ear, "try the pod, go on, it's ok" were really pissing me off. And now I had to make amends to the gods of tone and admit that I was wrong.

I've only spent a few days with this little gem so I don't feel qualified to write a proper review. I've only just scratched the surface of it's capabilities. But I suspect that it will prove to have more to offer than I will require. I've already discovered most of the trusty guitar amp sounds that I'm used to. Then I went to the Line6 web site and downloaded the bass amp/cabinet models. I own a vintage B15, a Polytone Mini-brute, an Ampeg SVT, heads by SWR andTrace Elliot, along with an Acoustic 370, and I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that I'll be spending more time in front of my Mac and much, much less at the chiropractor's office in the future.

Is the Podxt the ultimate answer? Probably not. Is it a suitable replacement for an amp on a live gig? Time will tell if old school tolex junkies like me will flock to kiss the hem of its garment. But I have to say that I am impressed. When deciding which amp to use for a specific part, there should only be one thing to consider...what soundsthe best...period. And the Line6 Podxt sounds pretty friggin good to me. Have I sold out? Don't ask til you've tried one.

Ken Fischer

It was with great sadness that I learned of the passing of Ken Fischer. My friend Bobby Salomone called this afternoon to wish me a Happy New Year and during the course of the conversation, he asked me if I had heard about Ken. The details of Ken's passing are not as important as the contributions that he made, and the legacy he left to the world of guitar amplification.

Ken designed and built guitar amplifiers that have "Holy Grail" status among the tone-freak upper echelon of players fortunate enough to have plugged into one of his creations. His Train Wreck and Komet amps have already achieved iconic status.

I learned to love one of Ken's creations during the time that Mark Knopfler was at Shangri La recording his album of the same name. The studio was almost obscenely outfitted with an array of vintage tube amplifiers. Mark could choose from multiple tweed Fenders, Vox AC30s or AC15s, Marshall 45s or 100s, and other rare units made by Watkins, Magnatone, you name it.

One day, A package arrived and Mark had me unwrap what turned out to be a Ken Fischer Komet 60. It was beautifully done up in red so we paired it with a vintage red Marshall basket weave 4x12 cabinet. When I first saw the Komet, I thought, "Gosh, that sure looks nice...now lets plug in one of these real amps and go to work." Then Mark Spent the morning putting the Komet through its paces while graciously showing me how full of shit I was.

The red Komet responded to every nuance of Mark's exceptional technique and played a big role in the recording of the "Shangri la" album. The greatest guitar amp, sitting in the middle of a room, doesn't sound like anything until someone plugs in. I was lucky enough to witness a great amp being played by a guitarist who was able to coax everything out of that box of metal and glass.

Ken Fischer built amplifiers that respond to the abilities of great players and his passing puts into focus the finite number of units that are to come from his hand. I am grateful to have experienced Ken's fine work first hand and I very respectfully wish him eternal peace.

James Brown and Gerald Ford

James Brown...Look at those two words...James Brown. I know a lot of words, but I don't know any that can be added to the words, James Brown. You can say that Bootsy is funky, or that Aretha is soulful. You can say that Prince can dance and that Tina works hard. But you can't say shit about James Brown that can make the image any clearer.

James Motherfucking Brown, man! I wonder if he ever scribbled his ambitions into a notebook when he was a kid. It must have said something like:

1. Sing my ass off

2. Write my ass off

3. Dance my ass completely off! Could you imagine James at the Jr. Prom? Glad I wasn't there, I might've run home for the last time and just hacked my feet off.

4. Reap the rewards of 1,2 and 3 and get laid...alot!

5. Get real high and shoot my truck, along with a lot of other shit.

6. Spend my entire career scaring the shit out of anyone with the balls to front a band.

James WAS the word "hard." James was any verb followed by "hard." Live hard, play hard, dance hard, party hard, laugh hard, cry hard, walk hard, talk hard, you name it, James was hard.

I'd love to describe what it was like to see James Brown live...but I can't. I really and truly can't. I don't write well enough. When I close my eyes and remember how it felt to be in the second row booth at the Vegas Hilton when "Livin' in America" was his comeback release, all that I come up with is "Fuck, man" and that's not good enough, so I won't even try. James Brown live was the ultimate "you had to be there" moment. I'll let someone else try to describe what it was like, I don't have the chops.

James left us Christmas morning. I think it should be a law that everyone...EVERYONE listen to 30 minutes of James Brown per day and watch 30 minutes of James Brown concert footage every Sunday. The world would be a better place...guaranteed!

Oh yeah, and did you hear about Gerald Ford?

Manners

After driving home on Christmas night, I have come to the conclusion that courtesy cannot be legislated. It seems that the diversity of the population in California has so many differing concepts of what are good manners, or if in fact, manners are even to be given a place in everyday behavior, that driving on the freeways has become an ordeal governed by Darwinian laws rather than vehicular codes.

I have always thought of the turn signal as an expression of courtesy. Signaling one's intention to change lanes at potentially lethal speeds seems to be a nice thing to do. If you are nearing your exit, it makes good sense to let drivers around you know that you intend to move over. It is also the law that you do so. But for some unknown(to me) reason, a turn signal has become a red rag waved in the face of a bull. Everytime I use my turn signal, the driver in the lane I wish to enter is stimulated by the blinking light to speed up and so impede my entry to "his" lane. As a result, I have found that the only way to make a safe lane change is to ignore the law and go while the gettin's good, so to speak.

Doesn't it seem silly that a driver, moving along the highway at sixty-plus miles per hour, would have such ownership anxiety over a chunk of asphalt that he would risk the safety of his passengers as well as those in the cars around him by speeding up to prevent another driver from safely going where he wants to go?Why is that? What gives drivers that level of nerve?

I think that it is because driving is an anonymous activity. We don't know who is in the car next to us and we will probably never meet face to face, so it seems safe to tell a BMW to "fuck off!" or an SUV to "eat shit, motherfucker!" Maybe there is a sense of power associated with hemming in a more expensive car. We feel safe in our cars. When we are behind the wheel, we can say anything to anybody without being held accountable. We can hurl the pent up hatred felt for our boss or our mother-in-law indiscriminately at strangers...strangers who are trying to change lanes.

I wonder what would happen if we behaved with the same vehemence when we weren't in the safety of our armored cars. How many times have you accidentally bumped someone's shopping cart and profusely apologized? You wouldn't think of screaming "Get out of the fucking way, asshole!" at the top of your lungs. If someone is weighing carrots, we don't give them the death glare and lay on the horn. If someone were to drop their ATM card, we pick it up and say, "excuse me, did you drop this?" Or when an elevator stops and opens its doors, do we intentionally stand in the doorway until they close again, preventing fellow passengers from getting off on their floor? Of course we don't.

So what is the difference? Why do we find it so easy to be nice when we can see the other person's eyes? I don't think that the threat of retribution is a factor. I wouldn't expect a grandmother to bounce a can of creamed corn off of my head if I rammed her shopping cart. And I don't think that anyone would kick me in the balls for cutting in line at the bank. It's just nice to be nice, isn't it? But just let us get behind the wheel and we become the commander of a Panzer division, hell-bent on the destruction of all that crosses our path. The frightening thing is that we achieve our most destructive state of mind when we are most heavily armed. A car is, after all, a most effective weapon at highway speed.

Laws attempt to make us behave. But we do as we like according to how much we think we can get away with. We speed until we get caught. We roll through stop sign unless we see a police car. And we always look for a black-and-white before we throw a soda can out the car window.I look forward to a time when driving under the influence of being an asshole becomes an infraction on the same scale as littering, which carries a hefty fine.

So let's be nice, just to be nice. When someone signals a lane change, don't get possessive about cement that doesn't belong to you. Say "after you" and realize that the split second added to your drive home made life a little easier for a fellow human. Let's start the new year by having some manners.

Nasal Singing...or Is It?

What does it mean to sing with a "nasal" placement? I've taught a few students who have come to me with the question, "How can I sing less nasal?" In each case, careful analysis of the mechanics involved in phonation and resonance proved to the students that what they characterized as "nasal" singing was, in fact, exactly opposite to what they had thought.

To illustrate, I'll introduce a hypothetical student...let's call him "Hypo" for short. Hypo sings with a pronounced twang and he has been told by his school choir teacher that he sings nasal. I am of the opinion that a musician, whether a singer or instrumentalist, will be more successful if he knows "what" he is doing, "how" he is doing it, and if he is doing it with "intent". So I begin by asking a few questions.

Me: Why do you want singing lessons?

Hypo: My teacher says I sing nasal.

Me: Do you know what your teacher means when he says that you sing nasal?

Hypo: I guess it means that I sing in my nose.

Me: How do you sing in your nose?

Hypo: I don't know.

Me: Did your teacher ever use the words "septum" or "palatine uvula" when he told you that you sing nasal?

Hypo: ...Um...huh?

Me: Hypo, sing this note for me...AAAh...

Hypo: Honk...

Me: OK Hypo, now hold your nose like you're going to dive into a pool and sing the note again.

Hypo: Honk !

Me: Sounds the same, doesn't it? So, can you tell me how you can be singing in your nose if you can plug it up and make exactly the same awful sound?

Hypo: Nope, But that's what my choir teacher said.

Me: OK Hypo, Today, you are going to learn two things...no , THREE things. One, Your choir teacher is either full of shit, lazy or both. Two, If you want to get a good grade, you'll keep that to yourself and pretend to listen to what he has to say. Three, before you walk out that door, your going to learn how to sing "Aaah" instead of "Honk!"

What is mistakenly described as singing nasal is actually singing without the benefit of the resonance available in the sinus and nasal cavities. The first thing to be determined is if there is a physical abnormality that would cause this condition. Does the singer have a deviated septum? Has the nose been broken? If not, then it becomes a matter of mechanics, placement and resonance. Using the proper mechanics will place, or focus the voice in a way that optimum resonance can be achieved.

There are two ways to illustrate the resonance of the facial cavities. First, I have the student hum a musical exercise or melody. This proves to the student that there is a substantial amount of sound produced which does not come out of the mouth. Then I use the sound "ng" as in the word "sing". I have "Hypo" sing the word sing and sustain the final ng, or perhaps sing the word "singaah". From a mechanical standpoint, the sound "ng" is produced by closing the back of the mouth. The base of the tongue raises to meet the descending uvula which is the tip of the soft palate. This valve-like closure causes all of the sound to be focused up the back of the throat and into the cavities of the face, including the nasal sinus cavities. I call it "humming with an open mouth". Opening the ng sound to the aah sound will train the mechanism to maintain the same resonance for the open vowel as that accomplished by closing the back of the mouth.

Pete's rule number two states that "It's always simpler than it seems." The remedy for what is mistakenly called nasality proves that rule. It really is just that simple, but like everything worth doing, it takes repetition and lots of practice. Come see me and I'll prove it.

Music Theory

The study of Music Theory as it concerns the young musician in what I call the “pop-rock” area of music has been reduced in large part to articles in magazines dedicated to the selling of cosmetically redesigned instruments and equipment by massive chain and mail-order stores to the next generation of hopeful rock stars. Armed with the latest in phrase-sampling, pitch-shifting, tempo-slowing technology, this army of tablature junkies is learning less and less about more and more with every double-picking, speed -drilling issue of their favorite rock rag.

Personally, I read as many music magazines as I can get my hands on. And periodicals serve a great purpose in introducing young musicians to a world of ideas which most probably would remain undiscovered given the dismal state of artistic education in our school systems. The responsibility shifts then, to the student. The young musician who has found an area of interest by mastering a lesson found in a magazine must not stop as if a new continent has been discovered. For every door opened represents a long hallway of unopened doors behind which waits the information so intrinsic to a well-rounded musical experience.

Even a cursory musical education should include studies in traditional harmony, simple counterpoint, ear-training and dictation in melody, rhythm and harmony, and basic music history. Literacy results in freedom of expression and opens the doors of meaningful dialog between like-minded people. This can be said of any area of endeavor dependent upon cooperation and interaction. The more inclusive education becomes, the broader the horizons will open to the young musician.

There are two methods whereby musical education can be acquired with efficiency. The traditional method is to seek out a respected mentor or expert in a chosen field who will provide a structured course of study. Additionally, we now have available a huge body of information via the internet where the ocean of knowledge is limited only by the curiosity of the seeker. In combination, these two methods offer the opportunity of combining a well grounded, traditional education in music with the most up-to-the-minute research materials available.

Curiosity is a key element in the study of the arts. The young student must be determined in seeking out a good mentor who will teach in such a way that the student’s hunger leads him on a quest for further knowledge. Young musicians have a tendency to champion certain styles, artists or factions before they have learned enough to formulate educated opinions. Students should be encouraged to experience as many genre as possible. This will ensure a broad palette of musical ideas as well as a much higher level of pure enjoyment.

The following is a list of what I would consider to be important elements in the basic education of a young musician. A complete list being impossible, these are suggestions which, if investigated with a curious mind, will result in an fruitful search of further knowledge.

1. Rhythmic Notation. Learn how to read and write rhythms properly. This is a language you should know inside and out, no matter what instrument you choose.
2. The Musical Alphabet. Learn the names of the notes on the Grand Staff. Don’t be afraid or intimidated. There are 26 letters in the English alphabet of which only 7 are used in musical notation.
3. Intervals. Learn how notes relate to each other. This is the basis of Melody and the foundation of Harmony. Memorize how each interval looks as well as sounds.
4. Harmony. Take a beginning Harmony class at a community college. It won’t cost much and after two semesters of structured education, you will amaze yourself at how simple it is and how much more you understand.
5. Music History. Read about the lives of great composers and the times in which they lived and worked. You may find that what you thought were stodgy old stiff-necked squares were actually living, breathing, fun-loving pranksters much like yourself.
6. Analysis. When you have the fundamentals of rhythm, melody and harmony under some control, work on analysis. Listen to a favorite song and use your ears and the knowledge between them to write down the notes, rhythms, harmonies and how they interact to form a piece of music.
7. Listen. Listen to everything you can get your ears around. Don’t get caught up in listening only to what you think you like. Growing as a musician requires that you abandon some of the musical prejudices which may have drawn you to study music in the beginning. Embrace flexibility. Listen without judgement.

Some Final Bits of Advice

1. Don’t hesitate to make mistakes. That’s how you will learn to do it right.
2. Your progress is directly related to the hours spent on learning your subject. Ever wonder why some of your pals are such experts at video games?
3. No matter how much you practice or how hard you study, someone is practicing more and studying harder. Music has nothing to do with peer pressure so don’t try to compare yourself with others. If you put it all in, if you put forth maximum effort and work to your potential, you can be satisfied that you will be the musician you deserve to be.


Each and every musician brings his heart and soul to the musical table. How deeply a musician’s intentions are perceived by his audience is directly related to the level of musical skills mastered by the musician. If an author wants to report a conflagration, the flames of which destroyed half the village as the townspeople, tears streaming in rivulets down soot-stained faces stood transfixed by terror…and all he knows how to spell are the words “hot” and “bad”, his report may be somewhat disappointing in terms of impact and emotion. Great musicians possess large musical vocabularies as the result of curiosity, study and hard work. Not everyone is cut out to be a great musician. But by doing the work, you are guaranteed the opportunity to try.

Santa Claus, Jesus Christ and Lee Harvey Oswald

Today is November 22, another day closer to the holidays and a date which seemingly diminishes in importance in the eyes of Americans with each passing year. This date, however, marks the birth of the great American myth, the magnitude and belief of which rivals those of the nativity of Jesus Christ and the midnight appearance in living rooms the world over by a jolly, fat philanthropist, ostensibly by way of the chimney flue. The difference between these three fairy tales is that, of the three, only one can be, and has been, proven to be entirely based on fiction.

The great American myth is, that on November 22, 1963, Lee Harvey Oswald, hidden in a sixth floor window above Dealey Plaza single-handedly changed the face of American politics and policy.

Belief in the American myth relies on the same human traits which foster belief in all things supernatural. When we are afraid of the unknown, we make things up that allow us to feel good, or we gladly adopt theories that have been made up for us. We humans are an exceptionally lazy species. Facing the truth requires not only courage, that rarest of all human traits, but also thought. It is infinitely less taxing to accept propaganda as truth, than to think with discernment and to arrive at a logical conclusion based on facts. Facts can be unpleasant and contrary to a world view that allows us to sleep soundly. The truth is that the world is round and, as we sleep, somewhere on this ever-shrinking planet, there are forces hard at work trying to kill us. There are also forces hard at work trying to bring about the ultimate success and survival of mankind. But either scenario is too much to bear for most humans and so we sleep through the night, having said our prayers and clinging to whatever faith gives us comfort.

The American myth of Lee Harvey Oswald differs from the myths of Santa Claus and Jesus Christ in a most compelling way. The existence of Lee Harvey Oswald as a real person can be proven by facts. Those facts give us a detailed history of the man and his actions which is an impossibility where it concerns the other two personages. If we examine a number of items in the lives of the three myths we would find the following:

Legal proof of birth...

Lee Harvey Oswald, yes

Santa Claus, questionable at best

Jesus Christ, entirely a matter of blind faith in virgin birth.

Proof of attendance at an accredited school...

Lee Harvey Oswald, has the records to prove it.

Santa Claus, no records on file.

Jesus Christ, no schools in the area and busing had not yet become fashionable.

Records of military service...

Lee Harvey Oswald, Records exist reflecting service in the United States Marine Corps.

Santa Claus, no records but was rumored to have been a conscientious objector.

Jesus Christ, military experience was limited to turning over a few money tables with twelve unemployed homeless men in tow. Very small scale gang activities, really.

Known place of residence...

Lee Harvey Oswald, a list of his addresses exists in the files of the FBI, the CIA, the IRS and a host of alphabetized government organizations.

Santa Claus, reportedly resides at the north pole although satellite photography does not bear this out.

Jesus Christ, According to legend, lived with his parents at an unknown locale and spent the last three years of his life "sponging".

Occupation...

Lee Harvey Oswald, records of employment exist.

Santa Claus, professional gift giver. Also thought to keep herds of reindeer and elves.

Jesus Christ, unsuccessful carpenter who turned to the pulpit for his daily bread. Proof still outstanding.

Proof of death...

Lee Harvey Oswald, documented on national television and witnessed by millions as it happened.

Santa Claus, spuriously reported to still be hard at work although this would be in violation of mandatory age-related retirement laws.

Jesus Christ, No body has ever been found. There are eye-witness statements that he took it to heaven with him but none of these eye-witnesses have come forward for questioning, nor could their current whereabouts be established.

There we have a brief summary of the available statistical evidence. Isn't it curious that every detail in the life of the central character of the American myth is substantiated by facts notably absent in the biographical statistics furnished on behalf of Santa and Jesus. Now let us examine the acts of the subjects of these three myths and see if there is a pattern of deception.

Once a year, on Christmas Eve, Santa Claus loads his bag of toys onto a sleigh which is drawn, through the sky mind you, by flying reindeer. Through some sort of time-suspension mechanism, he manages to visit every single household on the planet and leaves gifts for the good little children. For the bad children he leaves a stick and a lump of coal. None of this has been proven. There have been ashy footprints evidenced leading from fireplace to Christmas tree but in every case these were found to match shoes hidden in the master bedroom closet. Forensic studies should also reveal red fibers clinging to fireplace walls or reindeer dung on rooftops. None have been found. We can only conclude that the vast majority believe in Santa Claus because they simply choose to do so. It just feels good.

Jesus Christ was supposed to have fed thousands of hungry devotees with three fish and five loaves of bread...or was it five fish and three loaves of bread. Either way, the ratio of hungry devotees to food would indicate that the fish were actually sperm whales or that the devotees were well-fed circus midgets devoid of appetite. He also was reported to have turned water to wine. Any self-respecting frat-boy has transformed his share of beer into water so it doesn't seem to be a miracle of world-changing proportions to accomplish the reverse. Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead...of course he did!Where is he? Why won't he show himself? Any pictures? Jesus got into some trouble with the wrong people and they crucified him. Here is the punch line to the entire myth of Jesus. After being dead for three days, he paraded around showing his wounds to the members of his gang and then casually floated up to heaven saying, "I'll be Back." Savior?...or terminator...you decide.

Lee Harvey Oswald shot John Kennedy. This is what is believed by many rational people. People who have cars, use cel phones and don't bark at vacuum cleaners. People who in all other respects act like sane, thinking human beings. Analyzing all or even a portion of the evidence to the contrary would be far beyond the scope of my argument. There is so much evidence and there are so many volumes written on the subject that a seeker of the truth will find all the truth he is willing to seek. In asking the question of whether Oswald did indeed shoot kennedy, I will focus on only two items which, when taken together, prove beyond doubt that the myth of the kennedy assassination is just as factual as the existence of Santa Claus and the immortality of Jesus Christ.

Item one, on the evening of his arrest and interrogation by the Dallas Police, Oswald's face and hands were examined and tested for the presence of gun powder residue. None was found. Oswald had not fired a gun that day and yet he stood accused of killing Dallas Police officer Tippet at close range as well as shooting the President in a still to be duplicated feat of marksmanship.

Item two, the rifle identified as the murder weapon was virtually "un-aimable" as it was found. The sights were out of adjustment to the point that it would have been impossible to shoot with any degree of accuracy much less for it to have been the actual murder weapon.

These are only two items, and yet these two items stand alone as proof that the fairy tale of Lee Harvey Oswald is a sham. No-one can prove that Santa Claus exists, but the relatively harmless story lives on because no-one can prove that he doesn't. There is not a shred of proof in the existence of the man called Jesus. But because of the dearth of proof to the contrary, the story of his life has inspired peace, love, death and destruction in relatively equal measure for two thousand years.

But the myth that was born forty-three years ago today is not fogged by the mist of time or the inaccuracies of ancient translations. The truth is the truth regardless of our belief. Some of us sleep easier knowing that Rudolph will soon land on the roof. Some of us sleep in the arms of a belief in an afterlife walking hand-in-hand with Jesus. Some of us wish that Lee Harvey Oswald really was what they say he was, if only to cling to a theory that provides a neat and tidy resolution to the ugliest of nationally televised episodes. But anyone who thinks...anyone who thinks long and hard... anyone with the courage to face the logical conclusions of that thought may not sleep so well tonight.

Technique, Part 1

A teenager went to his parents seeking permission to get a tattoo. After pleading his case, the parents promised to discuss the matter before rendering a final decision.

"Why do you suppose Johnny wants a tattoo?" the mother asks.

"Gosh, I don't know" dad says, "Maybe he just feels the need to express himself."

"Yes" answers mom,"He is probably at that stage of development where he feels the urge to show his budding individuality."

"Why don't we put the question to him?" says dad, "Let's ask him why he wants to show his individuality in this irreversible manner."

And so the Parents summoned Johnny. In answer to their question, Johnny rolled his eyes and groaned, "Aw jeez, everybody's getting a tattoo, It's no big deal."

And therein lies the dichotomy of today's entry. How can a person in the arts, a person whose wherewithal depends on popular success, express his individuality while conforming to the fiscal requirements of the "flavor of the day" distribution machine that makes that "individuality" a marketable commodity?

Entertainment company executives are ever vigilant for the next new thing. But the next new thing had better be instantly popular. The search is peppered with comments such as "we need something fresh" and "something totally new" and "something nobody has ever heard before" and then the creativity crusher, "Yeah, something just exactly like..." well, you can fill in the blank with any star of the moment.

I wrestle with this question on a much smaller scale. My concern as a teacher of music is, how does one acquire the proper technical skills to maintain a long career, while still allowing freedom of individual expression? I firmly believe that only an intimate knowledge of the rules gives one the right to break them. I also believe that it is infinitely more valuable to learn to feed one's self than merely to be fed. A friend of mine who is a drummer had the opportunity to spend some time with the great Shelly Manne. He asked him if it would be possible to take a few lessons, to which Shelly answered, "Well kid, I can show you how to hold your knife and fork, but you'll have to learn how to eat on your own."

If a bass or guitar student comes to me and asks that I teach them a solo or a particularly difficult passage, my answer is a simple one...No. What I will teach are the knowledge and skills which will allow that person to fend for himself and never have the need to ask to be spoon fed. If a musician spends time, and a great deal of it, with his ears and mind open and his hands on his instrument, copying a solo passage will be no large accomplishment.

The study of singing is a different matter altogether. A guitarist could conceivably play his guitar with a baseball bat or a claw hammer for dramatic effect, and then simply sweep up the pieces and get a new guitar. But a singer's instrument is his body and damage done through poor technique can be irreversible. But, and this is a big but,(heh heh, I said big but) what if this singer is someone with a measure of success, and what if that success is predicated on a style of singing that compromises technique to the point that some measure of damage to the instrument occurs? What if the popularity of this singer's work would be diminished if he were to adopt a style of singing in line with strict proper technique?

My services were once endorsed to a singer of some renown. This person had a great deal of success in terms of record sales and awards. While he was preparing to go on tour he was suffering from vocal fatigue during rehearsals and had fears of losing his voice. He was swallowing all sorts of curatives, using atomizers, and had been frantically seeking advice from Doctors, colleagues and Tarot readers. I was virtually a last resort. I told him to forget anything that he had been taught or told, and to allow me an absolutely clean pallet. I asked him not to think, not to try to figure out what we were doing and not to read anything into the exercises I prescribed, but just to do them religiously twice daily. And then we did the simplest of exercises, never straining and never approaching the range limit of his voice. I just had him phonate using vowels, voiced consonants and proper singing technique without explanations. We recorded a twenty minute workout and he promised to sing to the tape twice daily for a week. I must add that he thought I was a bit nuts in taking such an elementary approach so I didn't charge him for my time but promised, with all confidence in my approach, that if he followed my instructions he would get positive results. I also instructed him never to think about the exercises or my approach or even that we had met, while he was rehearsing. It was of extreme importance that my influence on his technique not affect his style in any way. The exercises had to do their work subliminally and behind the scenes.

I never expected to hear from him again because I didn't think that he bought into my approach. I thought that he was looking for something much more complicated and mysterious. Four days later he shouted through the telephone that I was a genius and had saved the day. It seems that he was ready for simplicity. He followed my instructions to the letter and found that he was still singing in his well known style, but with more power and less strain. The exercises were "massaging" his vocal mechanism much as a trainer would do for a football player's strained muscles

And so, we achieved somewhat of a balance. We applied elements of proper technique to a successful style that absolutely could not be tampered with, and had positive results. Self-expression and popularity can coexist with a bit of creative thought. Don't be afraid to look under the same old rocks, and don't be afraid to let simplicity be your guide.

Inspiration...or Ignorance

As my dear old grandmother liked to say, "Life can be hard, but it's a lot harder when you're stupid." Well, maybe it wasn't my grandmother that said it, but someone did and it makes plenty of sense to me. My grandmother used to say a lot of things, some wiser than others, but she usually said those things in German unless she was particularly angry. Then she would speak in a polyglot of serbo-croation-hungarian-german and the best thing to do would be to seek cover until some of the words were again familiar enough to be recognizable as language. But, I digress.

Things can be much more difficult when stupidity is brought to the table. In my experience, this holds true in almost every endeavor. I describe stupidity as ignorance left unattended. Ignorance is innocent in and of itself. Ignorance is, in actual fact, required if learning is to be accomplished. Ignorance is the checkered tablecloth in the pizzeria of knowledge, for without ignorance, we would be ignorant of what toppings are missing from the pizza of our dreams.

In music as in all the arts, endeavors can be divided into two groups, those works which arise out of inspiration, and those which are achieved only after long and conscientious bouts of hand to hand combat with the tools of the trade.

When I was a child making sand castles on the beach, there were two methods of which I was aware to build a beautiful sandcastle. The "inspirational" method was to pick up a handful of very wet sand and let it drip through the fingers. The result would be controlled primarily by gravity as the wet sand would build up in blobs that loosely resembled turrets and towers. These castles were beautiful, graceful and fairy-like in appearance, and required no architectural premeditation. The world is full of natural wonders created by the elements over the millennia in just such a fashion. They are beautiful to look at and some believe that they are proof of the existence of a god who apparently sits in the heavens dropping handfuls of wet sand for the amazement of man. Those who believe this are not ignorant, they are stupid. There is ample information available to explain the formation of such "wonders", but they choose to think that some supernatural power is hard at work whose only rewards are the oohing and aahing of the herd.

The second method of sandcastle construction involved a combination of thinking and physical manipulation of materials. There was planning to be done, foundations to be laid, stress loads to be adhered to, tools to be invented, and esthetics to be considered. Buckets and paper cups were filled with wet sand and used as molds for the structure. This would allow for smooth surfaces on which windows or the outline of masonry could be carved with a used popsicle stick or plastic spoon. Once the structure was stable, tunnels could be excavated and there could be banners waving over the ramparts. The finished castle represented thought, intent and premeditation. or, perhaps better said, Arts and Crafts.

I worked for a time with a songwriter who was once simply and innocently ignorant. He just didn't know certain things. By things, I refer to facts like what to call certain notes and chords and how to reference rhythmic concepts. This songwriter was very creative however and there was no shortage of ideas flowing from his handful of wet sand. But the blobs would fall without structure or any sort of consistent motive. He would ask me what sort of blob would likely follow the last blob and I would try to make some sense of it all. During the process, I would try to influence his blob-dropping by calling attention to such things as the importance of remembering the esthetic quality or the emotional response to certain choices made in the structure, size or texture of the sand blobs, or chords. I would make attempts at generating in him a sense of intent. But try as I would, every chord was a newly discovered continent. He would ooh and aah and say, "Wow, that's cool, what chord is that?" and I would bite my tongue to prevent myself from blurting that it was the same one we used at a point in the song eight seconds previous to the current sand blob.

I envied his ignorance to a point because his process, or lack of one, furnished a myriad of opportunities for amazement. He was experiencing newness at every turn. It was as if he were a passenger on an electric train set and everytime he rounded the Christmas tree he would see the fireplace as something new and awe-inspiring. But as time wore on, I realized that he was just lazy and would not avail himself of the information at his disposal which would allow him to predict and furnish his own ooh and aah moments.

Ignorance can be thought of as the starting blocks from which we launch our race toward knowledge, while inspiration is the kernel from which beautiful art can grow. But it must be watered and fed with the love of education and hard work. Dream your dreams, but work hard. Because when Mr. Ignorance falls in love with Miss Lazy, they are sure to birth a child known as Stupid. And little baby Stupid will have a hard life indeed.

The Fool and the Boat

Seven year old little Nell came into the kitchen in tears. "Daddy" she cried, "Sally is mean to me."

"Come and tell your father what happened" I said, as she crawled up on my lap nearly up-ending my mid-morning coffee.

"Sally said that if I would, sob, ride with her on her bike that we could go, sob, to the playground by the school and watch them put up the rides for the, sob, carnival and they had animals and we could look at them and, sob, and everything and she got tired so I pedaled the bike and I pedaled as, sob, hard as I could 'cause I wanted to see the animals, you know how much I love, sob, animals, don't you Daddy? sob, and when we got there she, sob, jumped off the bike and told me to watch it so nobody takes it and, sob, she's older so I remembered that I'm supposed to obey older people and I was,sob, so good and watched the bike and she was gone a long time and came, sob, back and said we had to go home 'cause she had to go to a, sob, party and she saw everything and I pedaled so hard and I never, sob, get to see anything and she saw the animals Daddy, sob, sob, sob."

"Consolidate yourself Nell" I told her, trying rather unsuccessfully to hide my amusement at her righteous indignation. "let me tell you a little story and you'll forget all about it." Little Nell said that would be allright but that she hoped it wouldn't be one of my "lesson" stories because she didn't want to learn anything right now. I told her that I know a story about a boat and that it would be exciting and full of adventures. And then I told her my "lesson" story about the Fool and the Boat.

Once upon about half-past three in the afternoon,(Nell insisted that I be specific as to time. She said that "once upon a time" is for babies and besides, it always means that it's a "lesson" story) there was a boy who lived near the sea. Everyday he looked out at the big boats in the water and dreamed that one day, if he played his cards right...

"What's played his cards right mean Daddy?"

"Uh, you know, was a good boy and didn't screw things up."

"Oh"

Now where was I...oh, well he thought that he would be a great sea captain and have his own ship. Well, after his parents died, he was taken in to live with a very rich uncle who gave him his very own boat when he turned eighteen years old.

" How did they die daddy?"

"Who?"

"The boy's parents!"

"Oh God! I don't... um, the three bears ate them I guess!"

"Daddy!!"

"What"

"But the three bears are good and wouldn't eat anybody's parents!"

"Oh, well, uh, this was way before they got into show business, I mean, books. They had a pretty checkered background you know."

"What's checkered, Daddy?"

"Things aren't always as they seem, Nell, now no more interruptions and let me tell the story."

And so the boy became old enough to be a man and he became a sea captain with his own ship and everything. He had only one problem. He had never bothered to learn anything about sailing a ship. He had a shiny telescope, a captain's hat and a uniform covered in bright medals, but he didn't know a porthole from a keel. And so he sat in the tavern on the wharf and bought everyone food and rum with the money that the rich uncle had given him until he found a poor sailor who had been at sea all of his life and knew the ocean and everything in it.

"Come sail my ship for me." he said to the poor sailor.

"And what will you give me in return?" asked the poor sailor.

"Ah, you will share my dream of sailing all over the world and we will have adventures and riches." replied the captain.

And so they set off on a journey of adventure on the seven seas. The poor sailor was happy because the captain gave him new clothes, a warm bunk and plenty to eat and drink. They became friends and had many adventures together. The captain wanted to learn how to sail his boat and asked the sailor to teach him. But when he realized how much there was to learn and how hard he would have to work, he decided to let the sailor do the sailing and he would do the captaining. "Think of this ship as your own" said the captain, "because as long as I have this ship, we are in this together." And so the years passed.

One day, They saw a sail on the horizon. As the ship drew closer, her captain called over, " Ahoy! My, that is a beautiful ship you have, captain."

"Thank you, will you join us for lunch?" the captain answered. And so the two captains had lunch...which was served by the crew, which of course, consisted of the once poor sailor, who stood dutifully by as the two captains became friends.

"Who is this sailor you have here sailing your ship for you?" the second captain asked. "He doesn't seem to know what he is doing."

"But he is my friend," the first captain replied. "And we have had many adventures together."

"That will never do." said the second captain. "You can't be friends with your crew. You should throw him overboard. I think that I saw him sneak some of your best wine. Yes, you would be wise to get rid of him before he causes you any further trouble. I'm a captain like you and only captains know about these things."

And so the first captain allowed the crew of the second ship to throw the sailor overboard. But now that he was all alone, the captain did not know the first thing of how to sail his own ship. "What shall I do now?" he asked the second captain.

"Don't worry, you are with friends" the second captain said. "Let me have one of my men sail your ship for you and everything will be alright."

That night, the captain was himself thrown overboard and the two ships sailed away over the horizon. The captain had just enough strength to swim to a small island and was glad to see that his old friend, the poor sailor had washed ashore there in the night. And there they lived out the rest of their days, never saying another word to each other.

But the question is...which one was the fool?

"Oh Daddy! It was a lesson story wasn't it?"

"Well, yes. I guess it is Nell."

"But what does it mean daddy?"

"It means that when Sally tells you she will give you a ride to see the animals and you do all the work and then she expects you to watch her bike for her, and then dumps you for a party, you should have walked straight home."

"But daddy, what if someone had stolen her bike?"

"Oh Christ Nell! Fuck the bike! It wasn't yours anyway!"

"Mommy, Daddy said 'fuck' again."

Memory, Part 2

Recently, a small circle of friends and I were solving the problems of the world over champagne when the topic of discussion drifted to memory. After going around the table, we found that there existed a wide disparity in the area of memories related to childhood experiences. One of the group claimed that her memories of early childhood were vague at best and did not reach back much further than her early teens. My personal memories are of tastes, smells, sensations and impressions which occurred as early as the age of one and a half years. Although I constantly need to play games with myself to remember day to day things, my long term memory is prodigious.

I have vivid memories of sitting in the sandbox in the hof or the enclosed yard of my family's apartment house in Salzburg and gagging as my playmate, Wolfgang, shovelled sand into his mouth with an old dinner spoon. And I remember the smell of peppermint tea. My mother would take my brother and I to a lake in the summer. She would pack a picnic lunch and she would lay a wine bottle full of peppermint tea in the shallow water to cool. When I smell a peppermint tea bag even now I am right back at the shore of that lake. I was not yet two years old.

It seems that everyone has a large capacity for the storage of memory. I believe that the gift of a good memory or the curse of forgetfulness are not at all related to intelligence but are more symptomatic of our processing power. If something is tasted, smelled, seen, heard or felt, then it follows that the information was entered into our hard drive. The retrieval of that information is a processing issue unless, of course, a softball to the temple or a quick trip through the windshield has somehow caused a major data dump.

Some years ago, I embarked on a search to find out just exactly who the fuck I was. I called this search " Just exactly who the fuck am I?" In the early stages of this fact finding mission I developed an exercise that served as a sort of de-fragging mechanism. The early stages of Disk Warrior for want of a better description. I decided that to find out who I thought I am, it may be important to ascertain who I had been, or perhaps better stated, who I thought I had been.

My living room had a large window facing the street and I was in the habit of staring out at nothing in particular when I noticed that there were twelve panes in that window. It was three panes high and four across. For some unknown reason, the number twelve suddenly represented the twelve years I had spent in the hands of the educational system prepatory to higher education. Each pane represented a grade in school and I began to play a game in which the rules were very simple. Every morning, as I prayed at the altar of the caffeine gods, I would require myself to look through the twelve panes, one at a time, and remember a single impression, occurance or sensation related to that particular grade in school. In other words, I forced myself to remember. Watch, I'll do it right now.

First grade: Walking to school in the snow, I picked up a round mass the size of a football and took it to school. Somehow, the heat of the classroom turned it into a hornet's nest overnight.

Second grade: Because I was tall, I got to stand on the desks and put up the holiday decorations that went above the blackboard.

Third grade: Ate school food for the first time...Jesus!

fourth grade:Thought I saw a picture of a girl's thing. Actually, the kid sitting next to me drew a line and said that that's really all there was to it.

Fifth grade: My teacher, Miss Sherzer, had long, strawberry blond hair and after she married the seventh grade science teacher I almost failed to pass fifth grade.

Sixth Grade: Saw my first dirty movie at Karl Reitenbach's house on New year's Eve when our parents were out to a party.

Seventh grade:First became aware of basketball.

Eighth grade: Had Italian pizza for the first time.

Ninth grade: Pulled down twenty-five rebounds in a tournament game.

Tenth grade: Was invited to the senior prom by my friend Barbara whose boyfriend was in Viet Nam.

Eleventh grade: Broke into school with stolen keys and turned a window in the music department into an aquarium...really!

Twelfth grade: Realized that my father was dying.

You see? Its really simple and fun. If you do it often, amazing shit will percolate to the surface. Sometimes it's funny, sometimes it's tragic. But those memories are in there, they belong to you, and where they may take you is so much better than cable...because it's your life that you are living and you have an inalienable right to reap the rewards of syndication.

Enjoy the reruns.

Memory

Picture yourself at a holiday party, a wedding reception or a funeral. You're talking with a relative or an old friend when another friend approaches. You are aware that friend number one does not know friend number two so you invite friend number two into the conversation with an introduction in mind. "Hey Bob" you say to friend number two, " I'd like you to meet...uh...my favorite cousin...ah...mmm..." Ever happen to you? I call it short term memory meltdown. When it happens to you alone, without an audience, it just makes you feel stupid in a private sort of way. But when there are other people involved, people with whom you grew up, or see on a regular basis, it is the nut-buster of all nut-busters.

I'll deal with longterm memory in a moment, but the annoying lapse of memory that looms its ugly head, forcing me into behavior changing rituals, is usually of the short term variety. I have gone into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and rummaged around the leftovers for minutes before realizing that what I really wanted was a pencil. I have left rhe room in a rush to get something very specific from the closet and then stood staring at my clothes with no idea why I was even there. Consequently, I have come up with ways to remind myself of things. I wish that I could remember what they were now...

Oh yeah, that's right, memory. Lost my train of thought for a moment. None of my reminder methods work but one. I used to write notes and leave them around the house. Invariably, as I walked by the table or dresser, I would grab these memos to myself, look at them and say, "oh yeah, can't forget about this" and put the note in my pocket where it would live until laundry day when I would try to decode the crumpled little bastards after pulling them out of the lint screen.

When I absolutely had to bring a certain item with me to work or on a trip, I thought it would be good to place the item directly in front of the door and in my path. Most of the time, I would kick whatever it was out of the way cursing as I bolted out the door in a rush not aware that I had just left a tuna sandwich and yogurt to marinate my rug. I finally swore off this method after driving halfway to the airport having thrown my carry-on across the room because I had tripped over it.

The only thing that really works for me is a combination of the two failed methods. I write myself a note and hang it at eye level in the middle of the doorway with blue masking tape. There is still the initial "what the fuck is this" moment, but the combination of a written note and a physical impediment to leaving my house just seems to do the trick.

Oddly enough, my long term memory is quite good. I'll have some interesting thoughts and experiences on that subject in my next entry. So tie a string on your finger and remember to read me in the next day or so.

Guitar Stringing

A good guitar will be your friend for life, and it pays to be nice to your friends. I am a bit obsessive on the subject of properly stringing a guitar. When I play, or when I hand someone a guitar that I have re-strung, I expect that guitar to feel good, play in tune and, most importantly, to stay in tune. "well, it's got new strings" is the lamest, albeit the most uttered, excuse for tuning instability. When I hand a guitar to a player, I want to hear the words, "goddamn, this thing sounds great!" And then "well, it's got new strings" takes on a completely different meaning. This is how I do it.

First of all, regardless of the funk factor, I clean the guitar, the whole guitar. I despise dirty instruments, and I won't put strings on a dirty guitar. It's like putting clean underwear on a dirty ass. Doesn't make sense. So, first things first. In this example, let's assume we are changing strings on a Gibson with three tuners per side and a tunamatic bridge and stop-bar tail piece. I like to work with the guitar on it's back and I put a small pillow under the neck. Unwind the tuners until all the strings are loose. Put a cloth under the strings at the area of the bridge and cut the strings one by one with a string cutter. As you cut the last string, the tail piece will pop off so keep a finger on it to prevent it from scratching the finish. Remove the tail piece and bridge and put them aside, well clear of the work space.Remove each string from it's tuning machine and throw them away.

Every string change is an opportunity to be nice to the fingerboard. Using a terry cloth towel, clean the wood between each fret. I don't use chemical cleaners for this, a little elbow grease works best. Then, run a pencil eraser up and down each fret four or five times. If you've never done this, you will be shocked to see the difference before and after. And you will definately feel the difference in playability. After a thorough cleaning, apply a bit of regular lemon oil to the wood with a Q-tip. Don't worry about getting the lemon oil on the frets. Let the oil get happy for a few minutes, then wipe the finger board down from end to end with a relatively clean cloth. When the strings are off, it is also nice to give the entire guitar a good wipe down. Just a clean cloth will do. I don't use chemicals unless there is a specific reason to do so.

After cleaning the headstock, turn the tuning keys so that each post is positioned with the hole pointing 90 degrees to the string direction. With a stop bar tail piece, I like to load all six strings into the holes before stringing. then I caefully replace the bridge, making sure that it was put back the same way it was taken off. Sometimes it is helpful to wedge a small sponge under the tail piece to keep it in place until the string tension holds it properly.

I always install the 'D' and 'G' strings first for two reasons. First, it wil prevent undue lateral torque on the neck and second, it will hold the tail piece immediately in place. So, pass the 'D' string up and over the tuning post, and put the index finger of your right hand between the string and the post. with your left hand, put the end of the string through the hole on the outside of the headstock. Now, pull the string through with your index finger still in place, and bend the string sharply toward the body of the guitar. pass the end of the string back under the post and under the hole where you first inserted the string. Then pull it up and over the inserted string, between the string and the post bending it sharply. Now, and this takes practice, hold the string in your left hand and at about the fourth fret and put tension on the string as you remove the first finger of your right hand. Try to maintain tension as you do this. Now, hold the string in the nut slot with your right first finger and keep the tension with the remaining fingers and thumb of the right hand while winding the string with your left. If all of this is done correctly, the string will be locked into place and when you wind it to tension, you should have three wraps of string on the string post. This not only looks nice, it wil help the string stay in tune. Wind it up to pitch.

Now do the 'G' string in the same way but realize that you have to think in a mirror image as to direction. Wind each string to pitch as you install. Cut the excess string length as close to the post as possible. Now for a little stretching. If you have a capo handy, install it directly over the nut. pull each string at least three times at the fourth fret, the seventh fret, the twelfth fret and over the pick-ups. Re-tune the guitar to pitch and repeat. Now tune the guitar and play a bit. Doesn't it feel nice? Don't the frets feel a bit smoother when you bend notes?

At this point, it may be necessary to make some intonation adjustments at the bridge but that is another subject. This method takes a bit of time and practice but if it is done properly, your guitar will feel better, stay in tune with a greater degree of reliability and you will have had some fun being good to your guitar.

Remember, a good guitar will be your friend for life. And it pays to be nice to your friends.

Weird Gigs: Part 2...Tough-Man Karaoke

Here's another installment from the "weird gigs" file. When I came home from this one I realized how spoiled we are in Southern California. There are so many ways to be entertained here, most of them more sophisticated than what happens in the hinterlands of the Midwest. But as necessity is the mother of invention, so is extreme boredom the mother of creating stupid shit to do. This is one example that proves the rule.

Saginaw, Michigan is situated in the center of the state. Michigan is shaped roughly like a boxing glove and if you live in Saginaw, you live just about at the second knuckle of the fist. We were in town to play some sort of outdoor street fest. Lots of sweat, huge bugs, beer, brats(wurst, that is), and a typical midwestern crowd. Always appreciative and ready to rock and have a good time. I always loved to play these gigs because the locals loved to show us a good time after the gig. Most of the band would be into twisting one and ordering pizza at the hotel, but I always made it a point to find out just what the people of Saginaw or Moline or Terre Haute could invent for late night entertainment.

On this particular night, the gig proved to be of secondary importance. The rep from the hosting radio station had been with us since we had arrived at the airport. She was blond, hip, and best of all, had a white corvette. White corvettes are the perfect car to drive drunk in...at least that's what the blond radio rep tried to sell me. She said that she was going to take me to a club out in the sticks that I was going to love. I talked her out of the drivers seat and we roared off into the woods.

In a clearing on the country highway, there stood a garishly lit roadhouse. It was big enough for a crowd of five or six hundred so the thousand or so that were in the place made for a snug fit. We passed through the bar grabbing handfuls of pitchers en route to what I thought was a small back room. I was surprised to find that as we passed through the swinging doors, the "small back room" was actually a huge dancehall and it was ramming like a beer commercial in there.

And here was where the fun started. In the middle of the hall was a dance floor and in the center of the floor was a boxing ring...a real fucking boxing ring, complete with a couple of exhausted shit-kickers sitting on stools in opposing corners, pouring sweat, gasping for air, and waiting for the bell. A girl with a microphone slipped through the ropes, the bell rang and out they came. They wore street clothes without shirts and went after each other throwing wild haymakers. Since the gloves were huge, they were totally done in thirty seconds and spent the rest of the two minute round swinging their bodies from side to side in hopes that the centrifical force might lift their fist high enough to look like a punch.

The bell rang and the heaving shit-kickers fell backwards onto their stools. From the side of the ring, there was a rush of activity. A TV screen had been put into the ring and someone announced that Todd was up. "Let's make some noise for Todd!!" Out of the speakers came the intro of Elvis' "Suspicious Minds" and into the ring leaped Todd...with wireless mic and an Elvis suit! This was...this was absolute genius in entertaiment. Beer, controlled fighting and Kara-fucking-oke! All under one roof, and under that one roof, along with the beer, the fighting and the Karaoke, were tons of drunken chicks!

This madness went on all night long. I don't know which sign-up line was longer, the one to get beat up, or the "I'm so fucked up I sing like Johnnie Mathis" line. This was something I had never seen before. Two minutes of watching guys trying not to get hit alternating with three minutes of homegrown, drunken versions of everything from Tom Jones to Pat Benatar. Most fun I had in months.

I don't remember how or when, but at some point, I found myself back at the hotel just in time to brush my teeth and get down to the car taking us to the airport. Ah Saginaw...another night could have been dangerous.