July, when everything stopped
"Gentlemen, we've got four questions to answer and not a lot of time. First: What happened? Second: What do we do about it? Third: What are the Russians going to think about all this? And fourth: What are they going to do about it?"
- Secretary Swenson, "Fail Safe" (written and directed by Sidney Lumet, 1967)
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SO. I've been AWOL now for what.. Two weeks? Three? Maybe more? Who knows. And not just from here: from yoga, from football, from friends, from concerted cooking... hell, from my own mode d'emploi. As Holloway to a stairwell, it's no secret that I'm a bit lost in life at the moment. Lets see if we can re-trace...
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I think I last wrote in here during my first week of return. As you have probably deduced from my plethora of previous posts earlier in the month, coming home was basically a monumental mindfuck. All old history now of course, so I won't go into the details - but in short I wasn't nearly prepared for it, and it hit me very, very hard. I still think that Dani's coin of phrase: "an emotional crash landing" is still probably the most accurate description here. So at the time of writing, I was just getting over - nay, was stuck in the middle - of all of that, when everything else happened.
The band rehearsals were splendid. Being together again - the four of us in the same room - was welcome enough in its own right; furthermore, practicing was positive and productive. Newport was a stone's throw away, but that didn't worry us one bit, for we had a set list mostly old songs amidst a few meaningful (yet conveniently easy) new ones. For this rehearsal, our host was Kylie - who still feels like an amazing new addition after a year now, probably because she's an endless well of gorgeousness and fun and hard-working light. Aside from the multitudes that she brings to us on a musical level, she's one of the most ardent and radiant people I know, so I have endless time for her.
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I am so glad that Chris has joined a band this year. A good one will change your life, every time.
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Similarly, playing at the Folk Festival was an excellent experience. Once again, the local Bowls Club was home: our trusty art-deco venue and its unassuming orange furniture again backdrop for us and for those who would come. It always reminds me slightly of a caravan in there, maybe because of the colour scheme: the white laminex against the teak and the always orange leather... or maybe it's because of the obvious smell of the remains of the perceived dreams of a hundred white middle-aged men, sunken quietly into the architecture amongst the dusty wood and the mildew.
Not that you could smell any of that today - maybe just a whiff if you were lucky. In spite of the rainy day (or, maybe because of it?), the rusty odour gave way to the stimuli of a sea of flannelette, of molasses, decrepit stubble hidden by cheap pots... and above all the stout smell of one-hundred-and-fifty bubbling roast beef rolls; thin shards of meat drowned in carbohydrates and choicest quality animal fat. This was folk festival pedigree. The middle-aged man's adventurous older brother - or maybe just his enamored alter-ego: critters, I like to call them. I counted over two hundred.
Although the sound was crisp and a little dangerously edgy in the mid-frequencies, it was by all means reasonable... for that matter, our we performed our set with relatively few mistakes. I was accordingly happy with this. One song got played on a piano patch instead of a wurly, another started an octave too high... but harmonically there wasn't a lot wrong, and to that lets call it one of the more successful gigs that I think we've played. Simon and Tiya sounded wonderful, and I spent most of the gig quietly admiring the combination of Kylie and Simon - the former with violin delicately close next to my right ear, the latter whose earthy bottom E strings echoed in my sternocleidomastoids like a supine massage with every turn to the left. It was a short set, and even then I was tacet for about half of the songs - which suited me down to the ground. I've come to realise that sitting on my amp and listening to these three is essentially an ethereal experience (and a deeply personal one) for me.
So there were a lot of really nice things about this gig: Playing to a large, attentive crowd... the sensuality of listening, the buckleys-rare satisfaction feeling that I'll allow myself occasionally from actually playing well for once. In the midst of all this was my brother-in-law. Mat had travelled down, in a surprise gesture, all the way from our home town in the west - well over an hour's drive, for a show that lasted 45 minutes. I was stoked to see him - not only because of such an epic and laborious gesture - but primarily because I always feel relaxed around him. It was great seeing him.
Simon and I debriefed after the gig. I think he seemed fairly happy with how we played, although one could clearly forgive him for having his mind elsewhere, between our recording schedule and the grave condition of his sick family members. We talked about some not-music things, like relationships, for a while... including a discussion alongside Mich (an artistically-minded fan who always tends to turn up to our gigs - apparently she's our manager! {Since when did we have a manager??! Are we that serious about this now? :) }) in response to an FB article which I posted recently on Why we marry the wrong people . It was a pretty personal thing to bring up, and Mich and Simon were both interested as to why I posted it. In a moment of monumental hindsight, I realised that Simon probably doesn't know about the whole 'being in a relationship for 5x years/being engaged/breaking up three months before the wedding' thing. How could I have not told him about this? I thought i'd told everyone but I guess it did all happen just a few months before the band started... perhaps I hadn't told him. I earnestly wanted to, and I still do, but the moment has now past and long been forgotten about.
Mich's actually a pretty lovely person. Turns out she's a yoga teacher and very passionate about peace in the middle east, being Israeli, herself. She struck me as kind, and I enjoyed chatting with her about Tel Aviv architecture and the Israeli Symphony Orchestra.
I was in pretty high spirits as I packed my car, and there was talk of doing a dinner with a few of the locals. I kind of really wanted to get Simon away from music and just hang out with him a little while longer. But by the time I returned, the focus of the mood had shifted. Instead, we discussed business aka. recording matters, including the possibility of arranging "one last run" into a piano solo: writing a few versions and maybe one day doing a fully-fledged take on some polished, low-lit Steinway.
"Cool, well, I'll pencil something", I said.
"Great!" said Simon. "I'll book it in. Let's do it Tuesday!".
"LET'S FUCKING WHAT?!" was my immediate thought.
My life kind of stopped here.
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Let's confirm a few things here. Firstly, I've never played that song before in my life. There's no piano part - there never has been. I'm tacet for this one (or at least I thought I was), and that's just as well - because it's not just another song. It's an intimate, technical, intricate, long, DIFFICULT composition to play, even on guitar where it falls on absolvitory frets. And the musical half is only half of it. It's physically tough for sure, but it's an emotional spiral as well. "One last run" is one of the saddest songs I know (it's about being in palliative care and going on one last adventure)... poignant and sad enough for the one-time listener, let alone being subject to it for hours, upon hours, u p o n h o u r s . And that's not even taking the CONTEXT of everything into the picture: Simon's gravely sick mum.
Sure, it's not my mum, you might say. "It's not my pain". I haven't even met Simon's mum. But music is a game of empathy. And I love Simon, so it follows that dwelling on the subject for lengths of time, let alone for every waking hour to follow, isn't exactly going to be rainbows.
So apparently, I needed to write, learn, fine-tune, perfect, and have this new and awful* song (note: it's actually quite lovely) oiled and mechanically ready, in three days. Making this all happen by Wednesday night - not to mention the other few songs which I need to record - yes, record, as in "in a studio", as in "a painfully expensive, by-the-minute studio" was a downright stupid idea. Even if I put everything on hold here (which I knew I would have to, as what generally happens when you go pretty much into basic survival mode); even then, getting it 'right on the night' would be unlikely. I canceled all my other commitments, save work, and got to work.
As you can probably guess, it didn't end well.
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Part of me might have known that I was facing the impossible, but that didn't stop me from attempting, and attempting way too seriously. By the end of the first late night, I had about half of it penned in my head, and by the end of the second, I had a fair idea as to how the thing should sound... nay, needed to sound... on the instrument. But even if I were a good player (which I maintain I *never* have been), playing it at ready-to-record standard was never really going to happen. I suppose the problem with an intricate, textural, delicate piece is inherent in its disposition. It's like having two hours to cook the world's most fragile soufflé - when you've never made one before.
If you think I took any kind of solace in any of the above, you clearly don't know me very well. (Or maybe you do... I won't forget Geoff Hughes's words during 1st year uni, who said that "ultimately, nobody can begin to comprehend the realms of your own failure like yourself"). I gave myself all kinds of shit about what would inevitably follow in a few days time; a psychological battering-ram of criticism complete with chorus-line and ensemble. The nightmares returned. Truth be told I wasn't sleeping much at all to begin with - but now, sleep but no rest whatsoever, if there was such a thing. Just closing my eyes and unrequited stress.
The first studio session was a 'pass' - although it's not like the tracks were difficult things to lay down. In fact, I'm almost imperceptible on the album - only really some texture stuff, as though I am hardly playing at all on it. I was taken aback and a bit annoyed by the producer's approach to one of the songs - where she stripped a solo of mine to basically nothing more than triads. I objected to this initially, but in the end I submitted - I had bigger things to worry about, she probably knew best and I was quivering far too much from stress and sleeplessness and nerves to care much at all about the specifics of what she concluded would work best.
Now, I should say something about the producer here. She's kind and lovely, wonderfully professional and generally very nice. Further, we've been colleagues and acquaintances for well over a decade now. Not only has she poured herself completely into finding a stunning 'sound' of this record (for it would be nothing if not rubbish without her), but she was warm and empathetic to my situation as well. I wouldn't blame her for a second for what I was going through... or for making the decisions she did. For a start, she's worlds more accomplished in the industry than I will ever be, and secondly, I was in no frame of mind to be making decisions. I was a heavily abridged version of myself.
The following night - the 'deadline' - pretty much culminated as you would expect. Fortunately, it was over with quickly. I think she could deduce - probably from my body language - that what I was going through felt like pretty much the most crushing thing I had ever experienced professionally. Call me a perfectionist if you will (why yes, with music I am emphatically one), but here I was, breaking a golden, textbook rule: context and the realms of reality aside, at the end of the day it was as simple as this - I was in a studio, and I couldn't play my part. Now, I have set off metronomes to concert halls, I have continued to play out of tune, I've done some godawful auditions. But they didn't nearly feel as real or as rotten as this.
Again, the producer ended it quickly. Further, she even passed on a surprisingly warm, affectionate hug when we departed - which lasted only for an instant but felt like she was doing her best to ensure that the cells of me wouldn't fall apart. I can't thank her enough for it.
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The mental abuse lasted for about a week or so afterwards.
Producer suggested we try again in a week's time, or - alternatively - apparently a MIDI recording might just be suffice. This was my saving grace, and I clung to it - for that's something that I could do from home, or at least in theory, should I happen to be able to create an authentic one in the space of a week. Much easier said than done, But there was a chance, and a week. It would have to be the mother of all home-recorded MIDI data, and that still meant playing in a superhuman way.
But now my troubles were two-fold. I wanted the stress to go away, I wanted it to stop, instead I was stuck in a void where I'd rip myself to shreds between periods of desperately trying to fake it until I make it. For not only had I now to come to terms with what happened (ie. everything in that past day... the past week... the past month.. and the past two months... including that life-changing, hard-hitting voyage. Remember, there had been zero downtime). But I also had to skip sleep for another week, more cardboard meals, and more trying to see through the haze enough to work out what the hell to do about it.
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Did I mention that I'm working in the country whilst all this is happening? My office is about 120km from my house.
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In the midst of all of this, Simon's mum had passed away. Even typing that sentence makes my heart sink. I kind of feel terrible for even writing this stupid journal post, contemplating my issues which are not really issues at all. My heart went straight to him. The producer was equally deflated. Perhaps that was why the hug happened. We were all a bit messed up from it.
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Comparative stress continued for the next week. Evenings and nights and mornings of hours upon hours of it. I wasn't even sure where I should start, or how. But my roommate (or, more specifically, his friendly girlfriend) happened to have a spare 88-key Clavinova lying around, which she graciously allowed me to use (this felt like a life-saving moment), and I happened to have an M-Audio Usb MIDI port somewhere. After dragging myself like a shoelace through recursive 2am's, and running without proper nutrition, it became the Sunday evening (where the thing was due on Tuesday).
I still couldn't play the chart nearly well, and I had resorted to playing it really slowly, and then using technology to bring it up to speed. I wasn't feeling good about the world. But then, something happened. I wrote this on facebook:
"Magic happens.
Well, not really magic. More like.. science. Or actually, music... but it's more like science. It's like, you pour yourself into something for, I dunno, 15 years or so... then, when push comes to shove, you put your life almost certainly on hold for a good fortnight or so for it. And just when you think that the impossible thing which you're trying to manifest isn't happening because the majority of your life somehow feels like a hack and wonder whether you're really just a fraud, something happens. You surprise yourself. Maybe it was an accident. Naturally, you're skeptical. You're still not sure, but you save, save, and save again, because that's what's embedded in you, and as you cast your most analytical, perfectionist gaze, for the first time in a long time, you think that maybe everything wasn't a grave mistake. Perhaps you're actually qualified for a moment like this in the universe. Maybe... it will work. I wouldn't dare to suggest yet, but it's looking like it will. Run the data again. Let's check and see.
I used to wonder how our immunologist brothers used to do it: day-in and day-out, rack after rack of tired, monotone test tubes for years on end. But I totally get it now. And it's awesome."
By 1am on Monday, I had something I could work with. Something usable. There was still a lot of work to do, including a lot of editing and cutting and fixing Midi's stupid "Midi being Midi" imperfections, like random maximum note velocities. A couple more nights of 2am -> up at 7am -> up until 2am was to follow (again, that's worlds easier to type or even imagine than to actually feel it. Think shoelace...), but at least an end was in site.
At about 12pm on the Tuesday - after driving out of work to park by a nearby stream and edit from my driver's seat for another hour or two - it was done. It was decent. And it was done. Quantized. In time. Expressive. No more data. No more random midi fuckups. Done.
With that, I even started to feel good about myself for a while.
Colour started coming back into my life. The greens of my hardy oregano plant. The tri-colour of my gorgeous, patient dogs. The azure of the receptionist's eyes at work. The yellows of the delivery of organic bananas which I'd somehow ordered a few weeks ago, whilst on The Island, in a moment of miraculous foresight... a postcard from the past. I had a chat on Tuesday night with the pretty girl from my local IGA - turns out she studies psychology - and it totally made my night. I'd even dared to catch up with a friend or two, maybe in a week, and start to debrief myself in a way that my wellbeing was warranting.
I even started reading House of Leaves again. I'm not sure that I've ever read a book that I've liked this much. Ever since I picked up that book in Niue about a month ago, reading it has been pretty much the only thing that I've wanted to do with my life. "Sometimes, you wait your whole life for a piece of music to come along..."
So, I was starting to feel a bit like me again. I could get on with the business of free time, of being normal and doing normal person things, like exercise. I was emotionally coming home. And then there was a phone call, and life stopped again.
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It was a Friday after work. I'd driven across town and pulled into the local Apco (I detest buying fuel, and although I'm not sure whether it makes any difference, I refuse to buy it from BP or Shell or Caltex or Mobil). I was on my way to a dinner with my Sunbury soccer team (who have since dumped me - I guess that's what happens when you've 9x or 10x players in a 4-a-side team. I'm not in the slightest bit sad about it, for at least I've managed to make a few friends along the way - and there will still be fill-in matches. More time for music - and, assuming this music stops, yoga and trivia also). Where was I? Yes, filling the car. And there was the voice message.
"Thanks Scott, sounds really great! But we need to do it all again. On a concert grand now, in another studio".
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For a long while, I thought seriously about not doing it. Now there's the compounded pressure of playing in an even more expensive studio (closer to $350/hour as opposed to $250 - none of which is my money). The idea of psychologically getting myself into the studio again, and then - after even more effort and practice and late nights and energy - indeed after all of that for weeks - the idea of still not being able to play this impossible piece on the day, would be too much to handle. I don't think... I could deal with that... very well. But, it wasn't something to be thrown away. On the voicemessage, there was no mention of when - and I concluded this would be my deciding factor. On one hand, if it needed to happen within, say, four weeks (or three, at a minimum), then they're going to be far better off getting some hotshot studio musician in - someone who does this all-day every-day, someone who is actually a strong performer, and who isn't driving into wilderness and nearly having a breakdown every day, to do it. On the other, if we had more than about four weeks, surely it would come to fruition by then. Mathematically, It'd have to. I already know the thing backwards in my brain... I'd just have to learn it properly. I'd need to buy a new instrument - that much was mandatory - probably seek some lessons also. But, it could be done. Possibly, after all of that effort, I could even do it well. And I'd kind of hate myself if I were to pass it up at this point.
Turns out we have, or had, six weeks. Five now. But six. So I said yes.
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As I look around, it seems as though there's people in tribulation. When did July become such a difficult month for everyone? My friends are just managing. Pauly's jetlagged and frustrated. Joy's sleepless and stressed. Then, of course, there's everything with Simon. And Kylie, and Jane. This kind of overloaded is usually only reserved for November (the month of realizing it's nearly Christmas, of realizing that for another year your life has been little more than an airport hotel, detached far from the city proper, shared only by airlines and overworked professionals whose bosses are forcing 16 hour days when they could be doing a play somewhere). I'm increasingly becoming aware at how I am caught up in but my own issues, lord knows I am a postdoctoral fellow in them, but the centre of the universe isn't nearly around me.
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Adam had a housewarming party... and in a way, I think it was the party that everyone had to have. Stress had me arriving in a shell-shocked version of myself, but it was still beautiful to hang out with some nice people - old friends of the best kind. I won't go into too many details (too late!), but my favourite moments were getting to know Jess with some context for the first time (who is actually quite lovely - a spirited sort; I like her outlook on life), getting Adam to sit cross-legged on a floor for a while (he'd been running around like crazy), and instigating a marshmallow roasting, of which Dani was the mastermind. I had to leave kinda early, but I was very relaxed and happy when I did.
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There comes a time in every piano player's life when they need eight octaves to work on. It's just an imperative. This dawned on me with astounding resolution last week, as soon as I knew I wasn't going to bail out. So on the weekend, I jiggered some finances... and I bought a new instrument. Now, a few things about this...
Perhaps it's romantic fantasy to believe that buying an instrument in an over-saturated market is a very personal thing... but I still like to really believe that the process of properly buying a digital piano, under normal circumstances, would be something that'd take me months to do. I wish I could say I reviewed everything from M-Audio midi controllers to Nord Leads, lashed out several thousand and bought a nice shining Kawai S4. But that's not nearly true. I was bound - somewhat by cost, and hugely by time - I had to start practicing without delay. So after a large body of research in a small amount of time, I did something which I swore a decade ago that I'd never do: I bought a Casio. A CDP-130, to be exact. And I'm very, very happy with it.
It doesn't take an Einstein to know that Casio had a bad name for a long time - walk into any wal-mart or Big W, and you'll see why. These are the makers of toys - and the beautiful hipster niche of the VL-Tone pencil case-piano aside, no musician takes Casio seriously. Right? Well, that's what I thought until last year, when I sat down at Liesl's CDP-220R. Sure, the trademark Gimmicky, awkward controls are still there, but nowadays Casio have really found a foothold in the entry-level piano market, for one very good reason, and one reason only - they feel and sound like decent pianos.
I thought long and hard about going super cheap, and buying something like an Alesis M-88... in fact, I very nearly did. But the idea of needing to be hooked up to a midi port, life-support-like, in order to be able to play, wasn't exactly appealing. Even then, I'd have loved to have stumbled across a Roland A88 or similar - but it seems that even the good Midi controllers set you back more than a grand - which is more than I had.
Of the things I did try, I strongly disliked the Roland Fantom 20 - it sounds beautiful but felt light and 'clacky' to me - almost a godawful Clavinova style keyboard. I also didn't care a lot for the entry level Korg units - which also felt plasticy although had a lovely patch which almost meant you could pull them off. I didn't bother with the Yamahas (no disrespect to the RD-700s, just that the cheap stuff is rubbish and I didn't have the money for a good one). Of all of the reviews and the research, everyone seemed happy with the Casios. I'd narrowed it down to the CDP-130 (because of the metronome), or the more expensive Pixima - and I *very* nearly bought the PX150: it's gorgeous, beautiful, lovely ivory-textured keyboard is just a pleasure to touch and play. It left the CDP for dead in terms of feel. But fortunately I had my trusty headphones with me, and I just couldn't enjoy the Pixima's extra brightness in its top-end. The CDP doesn't feel nearly as great as the Pixima, but for the price and the quality of sound - of which I only needed one - it was a winner.
The other thing that annoyed me was that I'd bought something new. I hate consumerism and try and buy everything 2nd-hand if I can, further, there was a pre-loved CDP-220R in New Gisborne for only slightly more. But again, given the urgency, and the inability to try-before-I'd-buy, it wasn't really an option - I had no time for mistakes.
So yeah. From the connoisseur point of view, it's nothing to rave home about: the keys aren't hammer action, it does feel a tiny bit plasticy, and it's a heavy touch keyboard that won't suit everybody. The CDP-130 is a one-trick pony, and always will be - but that still doesn't change the fact that it's a real joy to play. I like my old EM-2000 piano patch and all (all 5x octaves of it), but the Casio leaves it utterly for dead... I didn't think the difference would be nearly as huge as it is. Now, it's like I really want to play... and then I don't want to stop. I want to bash it; I want to whisper with it. I'm very, very happy to. And that's how it should be.
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Work. Work itself has been fun; actually, it has really helped a lot. I've essentially returned to my 'old job', of sorts, for six months - doing things that are both rewarding and interesting, yet also tasks which I do not need to think too much about. Compared to my previous role, life isn't as simple, nor as frivolous, so I do miss that... but there are pros and cons of both. One astounding, breathtaking 'pro' is the obvious - I'm surrounded by beauty. for three days each week, I work in a forest - and then, I'm in a botanical gardens for two. Today, I got quacked at by ducks - this happens almost every day. So you can't complain about that.
Wednesday night was unbelievably cold, and a heavy fog engulfed not only the countryside, but most of the inner city also. Even Brunswick was shrouded in mist. I'm not sure I'd seen that before. An opportunity presented itself herein, and a real mid-week highlight was calling into an unassuming pizza restaurant to buy hot chocolates for an unsuspecting Sam at soccer, and myself. She really appreciated it - and sure I felt kind of ill when playing sport on a stomach full of cocoa, but it was worth every second. Sharing a drink with her was great fun :) And for what it's worth, the pizza place seemed like great value too.
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I don't want to say too much about it, but I have started working on a blog post with a difference. Its subject is about how music effects emotions, and in content it's already gearing up to possibly the most personal thing I'll ever have posted online. More or less. I have been thinking about the post for weeks - almost every day. On one hand, writing it makes me very uncomfortable... but on the other, I think that the benefits from authoring such a thing (in a well-crafted way) proposes too good of a literary / blogging exercise for me to 'not do'. Even getting myself to the point where I can channel energy towards writing it is hard; it requires basically undivided attention and considerably more effort than I can spare right now. Not that it's especially long (or nearly as long as, say, this post), but I just... I want it to be one of the better things that I've written. And I think that it could be.
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Saturday gets to be a day of food and contemplation with Josh, at the astoundingly-named "Borsch, Vodka and Tears" restaurant in South Yarra. Josh and a restaurant called "Borsch, Vodka and Tears". I can't think of anything more appropriate. :)
Most recently, tonight I've just come home from my first yoga class since I left; my first class in nearly two months. And apparently I wasn't the only one returning. Such a happy vibe amongst everyone! :D What a wonderfully-timed class to turn up to. Jacob's come home after a five-week holiday, looking more relaxed than I think I have ever seen him. He was really talkative where he is usually very reserved, so that was wonderful. :) It was my lovely Georgie's first Thursday class in a very long time, and they might become a regular thing for the both of us now. Elizabeth leaves for the Burning Man in a few weeks' time, and best of all - Jess is back from having her a baby!! A tiny little one! So she's a new mum, and now a returning yoga student also, after a break of only three-and-a-half weeks off. Hats off to her.
I'm still grinning on the back of catching up with Georgie briefly after class... even if I felt like I talked about myself more than I had to anyone for weeks on end. When we departed, she left me with a huge compliment alongside a very excited/warm hug:
"Yoga's so much better when you are around", she beamed.
Gotta be happy about that.
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So yeah :) I didn't think this post would end with quite the smile that it has. Maybe everything didn't, in fact, stop in July... nearly, but not quite. Maybe the ball is still in play. Sure, there's some tough things - for example, I'd be surprised if there's more to August, after the wedding, than a sentence of a month's purgatory, in the form of "solitary confinement"-style instrument practice. Isn't it strange how being in a practice room is so incredibly not what music is about, yet it's how every musician worth their salt condemns themselves to for aeons, in order to prove their own worth? Assylum-like, no? But, I'm digressing.
The world still is in colour. And maybe whilst my own life doesn't always feel like it's in HD, even in the midst of all of whatever this is, I still have a lot to be thankful for. Even in the completing of this post, I get the feeling that life does go on... maybe I'll be ready for August. Who knows.
Spring will come around.
- Secretary Swenson, "Fail Safe" (written and directed by Sidney Lumet, 1967)
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SO. I've been AWOL now for what.. Two weeks? Three? Maybe more? Who knows. And not just from here: from yoga, from football, from friends, from concerted cooking... hell, from my own mode d'emploi. As Holloway to a stairwell, it's no secret that I'm a bit lost in life at the moment. Lets see if we can re-trace...
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I think I last wrote in here during my first week of return. As you have probably deduced from my plethora of previous posts earlier in the month, coming home was basically a monumental mindfuck. All old history now of course, so I won't go into the details - but in short I wasn't nearly prepared for it, and it hit me very, very hard. I still think that Dani's coin of phrase: "an emotional crash landing" is still probably the most accurate description here. So at the time of writing, I was just getting over - nay, was stuck in the middle - of all of that, when everything else happened.
The band rehearsals were splendid. Being together again - the four of us in the same room - was welcome enough in its own right; furthermore, practicing was positive and productive. Newport was a stone's throw away, but that didn't worry us one bit, for we had a set list mostly old songs amidst a few meaningful (yet conveniently easy) new ones. For this rehearsal, our host was Kylie - who still feels like an amazing new addition after a year now, probably because she's an endless well of gorgeousness and fun and hard-working light. Aside from the multitudes that she brings to us on a musical level, she's one of the most ardent and radiant people I know, so I have endless time for her.
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I am so glad that Chris has joined a band this year. A good one will change your life, every time.
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Similarly, playing at the Folk Festival was an excellent experience. Once again, the local Bowls Club was home: our trusty art-deco venue and its unassuming orange furniture again backdrop for us and for those who would come. It always reminds me slightly of a caravan in there, maybe because of the colour scheme: the white laminex against the teak and the always orange leather... or maybe it's because of the obvious smell of the remains of the perceived dreams of a hundred white middle-aged men, sunken quietly into the architecture amongst the dusty wood and the mildew.
Not that you could smell any of that today - maybe just a whiff if you were lucky. In spite of the rainy day (or, maybe because of it?), the rusty odour gave way to the stimuli of a sea of flannelette, of molasses, decrepit stubble hidden by cheap pots... and above all the stout smell of one-hundred-and-fifty bubbling roast beef rolls; thin shards of meat drowned in carbohydrates and choicest quality animal fat. This was folk festival pedigree. The middle-aged man's adventurous older brother - or maybe just his enamored alter-ego: critters, I like to call them. I counted over two hundred.
Although the sound was crisp and a little dangerously edgy in the mid-frequencies, it was by all means reasonable... for that matter, our we performed our set with relatively few mistakes. I was accordingly happy with this. One song got played on a piano patch instead of a wurly, another started an octave too high... but harmonically there wasn't a lot wrong, and to that lets call it one of the more successful gigs that I think we've played. Simon and Tiya sounded wonderful, and I spent most of the gig quietly admiring the combination of Kylie and Simon - the former with violin delicately close next to my right ear, the latter whose earthy bottom E strings echoed in my sternocleidomastoids like a supine massage with every turn to the left. It was a short set, and even then I was tacet for about half of the songs - which suited me down to the ground. I've come to realise that sitting on my amp and listening to these three is essentially an ethereal experience (and a deeply personal one) for me.
So there were a lot of really nice things about this gig: Playing to a large, attentive crowd... the sensuality of listening, the buckleys-rare satisfaction feeling that I'll allow myself occasionally from actually playing well for once. In the midst of all this was my brother-in-law. Mat had travelled down, in a surprise gesture, all the way from our home town in the west - well over an hour's drive, for a show that lasted 45 minutes. I was stoked to see him - not only because of such an epic and laborious gesture - but primarily because I always feel relaxed around him. It was great seeing him.
Simon and I debriefed after the gig. I think he seemed fairly happy with how we played, although one could clearly forgive him for having his mind elsewhere, between our recording schedule and the grave condition of his sick family members. We talked about some not-music things, like relationships, for a while... including a discussion alongside Mich (an artistically-minded fan who always tends to turn up to our gigs - apparently she's our manager! {Since when did we have a manager??! Are we that serious about this now? :) }) in response to an FB article which I posted recently on Why we marry the wrong people . It was a pretty personal thing to bring up, and Mich and Simon were both interested as to why I posted it. In a moment of monumental hindsight, I realised that Simon probably doesn't know about the whole 'being in a relationship for 5x years/being engaged/breaking up three months before the wedding' thing. How could I have not told him about this? I thought i'd told everyone but I guess it did all happen just a few months before the band started... perhaps I hadn't told him. I earnestly wanted to, and I still do, but the moment has now past and long been forgotten about.
Mich's actually a pretty lovely person. Turns out she's a yoga teacher and very passionate about peace in the middle east, being Israeli, herself. She struck me as kind, and I enjoyed chatting with her about Tel Aviv architecture and the Israeli Symphony Orchestra.
I was in pretty high spirits as I packed my car, and there was talk of doing a dinner with a few of the locals. I kind of really wanted to get Simon away from music and just hang out with him a little while longer. But by the time I returned, the focus of the mood had shifted. Instead, we discussed business aka. recording matters, including the possibility of arranging "one last run" into a piano solo: writing a few versions and maybe one day doing a fully-fledged take on some polished, low-lit Steinway.
"Cool, well, I'll pencil something", I said.
"Great!" said Simon. "I'll book it in. Let's do it Tuesday!".
"LET'S FUCKING WHAT?!" was my immediate thought.
My life kind of stopped here.
---
Let's confirm a few things here. Firstly, I've never played that song before in my life. There's no piano part - there never has been. I'm tacet for this one (or at least I thought I was), and that's just as well - because it's not just another song. It's an intimate, technical, intricate, long, DIFFICULT composition to play, even on guitar where it falls on absolvitory frets. And the musical half is only half of it. It's physically tough for sure, but it's an emotional spiral as well. "One last run" is one of the saddest songs I know (it's about being in palliative care and going on one last adventure)... poignant and sad enough for the one-time listener, let alone being subject to it for hours, upon hours, u p o n h o u r s . And that's not even taking the CONTEXT of everything into the picture: Simon's gravely sick mum.
Sure, it's not my mum, you might say. "It's not my pain". I haven't even met Simon's mum. But music is a game of empathy. And I love Simon, so it follows that dwelling on the subject for lengths of time, let alone for every waking hour to follow, isn't exactly going to be rainbows.
So apparently, I needed to write, learn, fine-tune, perfect, and have this new and awful* song (note: it's actually quite lovely) oiled and mechanically ready, in three days. Making this all happen by Wednesday night - not to mention the other few songs which I need to record - yes, record, as in "in a studio", as in "a painfully expensive, by-the-minute studio" was a downright stupid idea. Even if I put everything on hold here (which I knew I would have to, as what generally happens when you go pretty much into basic survival mode); even then, getting it 'right on the night' would be unlikely. I canceled all my other commitments, save work, and got to work.
As you can probably guess, it didn't end well.
-----
Part of me might have known that I was facing the impossible, but that didn't stop me from attempting, and attempting way too seriously. By the end of the first late night, I had about half of it penned in my head, and by the end of the second, I had a fair idea as to how the thing should sound... nay, needed to sound... on the instrument. But even if I were a good player (which I maintain I *never* have been), playing it at ready-to-record standard was never really going to happen. I suppose the problem with an intricate, textural, delicate piece is inherent in its disposition. It's like having two hours to cook the world's most fragile soufflé - when you've never made one before.
If you think I took any kind of solace in any of the above, you clearly don't know me very well. (Or maybe you do... I won't forget Geoff Hughes's words during 1st year uni, who said that "ultimately, nobody can begin to comprehend the realms of your own failure like yourself"). I gave myself all kinds of shit about what would inevitably follow in a few days time; a psychological battering-ram of criticism complete with chorus-line and ensemble. The nightmares returned. Truth be told I wasn't sleeping much at all to begin with - but now, sleep but no rest whatsoever, if there was such a thing. Just closing my eyes and unrequited stress.
The first studio session was a 'pass' - although it's not like the tracks were difficult things to lay down. In fact, I'm almost imperceptible on the album - only really some texture stuff, as though I am hardly playing at all on it. I was taken aback and a bit annoyed by the producer's approach to one of the songs - where she stripped a solo of mine to basically nothing more than triads. I objected to this initially, but in the end I submitted - I had bigger things to worry about, she probably knew best and I was quivering far too much from stress and sleeplessness and nerves to care much at all about the specifics of what she concluded would work best.
Now, I should say something about the producer here. She's kind and lovely, wonderfully professional and generally very nice. Further, we've been colleagues and acquaintances for well over a decade now. Not only has she poured herself completely into finding a stunning 'sound' of this record (for it would be nothing if not rubbish without her), but she was warm and empathetic to my situation as well. I wouldn't blame her for a second for what I was going through... or for making the decisions she did. For a start, she's worlds more accomplished in the industry than I will ever be, and secondly, I was in no frame of mind to be making decisions. I was a heavily abridged version of myself.
The following night - the 'deadline' - pretty much culminated as you would expect. Fortunately, it was over with quickly. I think she could deduce - probably from my body language - that what I was going through felt like pretty much the most crushing thing I had ever experienced professionally. Call me a perfectionist if you will (why yes, with music I am emphatically one), but here I was, breaking a golden, textbook rule: context and the realms of reality aside, at the end of the day it was as simple as this - I was in a studio, and I couldn't play my part. Now, I have set off metronomes to concert halls, I have continued to play out of tune, I've done some godawful auditions. But they didn't nearly feel as real or as rotten as this.
Again, the producer ended it quickly. Further, she even passed on a surprisingly warm, affectionate hug when we departed - which lasted only for an instant but felt like she was doing her best to ensure that the cells of me wouldn't fall apart. I can't thank her enough for it.
---
The mental abuse lasted for about a week or so afterwards.
Producer suggested we try again in a week's time, or - alternatively - apparently a MIDI recording might just be suffice. This was my saving grace, and I clung to it - for that's something that I could do from home, or at least in theory, should I happen to be able to create an authentic one in the space of a week. Much easier said than done, But there was a chance, and a week. It would have to be the mother of all home-recorded MIDI data, and that still meant playing in a superhuman way.
But now my troubles were two-fold. I wanted the stress to go away, I wanted it to stop, instead I was stuck in a void where I'd rip myself to shreds between periods of desperately trying to fake it until I make it. For not only had I now to come to terms with what happened (ie. everything in that past day... the past week... the past month.. and the past two months... including that life-changing, hard-hitting voyage. Remember, there had been zero downtime). But I also had to skip sleep for another week, more cardboard meals, and more trying to see through the haze enough to work out what the hell to do about it.
---
Did I mention that I'm working in the country whilst all this is happening? My office is about 120km from my house.
---
In the midst of all of this, Simon's mum had passed away. Even typing that sentence makes my heart sink. I kind of feel terrible for even writing this stupid journal post, contemplating my issues which are not really issues at all. My heart went straight to him. The producer was equally deflated. Perhaps that was why the hug happened. We were all a bit messed up from it.
---
Comparative stress continued for the next week. Evenings and nights and mornings of hours upon hours of it. I wasn't even sure where I should start, or how. But my roommate (or, more specifically, his friendly girlfriend) happened to have a spare 88-key Clavinova lying around, which she graciously allowed me to use (this felt like a life-saving moment), and I happened to have an M-Audio Usb MIDI port somewhere. After dragging myself like a shoelace through recursive 2am's, and running without proper nutrition, it became the Sunday evening (where the thing was due on Tuesday).
I still couldn't play the chart nearly well, and I had resorted to playing it really slowly, and then using technology to bring it up to speed. I wasn't feeling good about the world. But then, something happened. I wrote this on facebook:
"Magic happens.
Well, not really magic. More like.. science. Or actually, music... but it's more like science. It's like, you pour yourself into something for, I dunno, 15 years or so... then, when push comes to shove, you put your life almost certainly on hold for a good fortnight or so for it. And just when you think that the impossible thing which you're trying to manifest isn't happening because the majority of your life somehow feels like a hack and wonder whether you're really just a fraud, something happens. You surprise yourself. Maybe it was an accident. Naturally, you're skeptical. You're still not sure, but you save, save, and save again, because that's what's embedded in you, and as you cast your most analytical, perfectionist gaze, for the first time in a long time, you think that maybe everything wasn't a grave mistake. Perhaps you're actually qualified for a moment like this in the universe. Maybe... it will work. I wouldn't dare to suggest yet, but it's looking like it will. Run the data again. Let's check and see.
I used to wonder how our immunologist brothers used to do it: day-in and day-out, rack after rack of tired, monotone test tubes for years on end. But I totally get it now. And it's awesome."
By 1am on Monday, I had something I could work with. Something usable. There was still a lot of work to do, including a lot of editing and cutting and fixing Midi's stupid "Midi being Midi" imperfections, like random maximum note velocities. A couple more nights of 2am -> up at 7am -> up until 2am was to follow (again, that's worlds easier to type or even imagine than to actually feel it. Think shoelace...), but at least an end was in site.
At about 12pm on the Tuesday - after driving out of work to park by a nearby stream and edit from my driver's seat for another hour or two - it was done. It was decent. And it was done. Quantized. In time. Expressive. No more data. No more random midi fuckups. Done.
With that, I even started to feel good about myself for a while.
Colour started coming back into my life. The greens of my hardy oregano plant. The tri-colour of my gorgeous, patient dogs. The azure of the receptionist's eyes at work. The yellows of the delivery of organic bananas which I'd somehow ordered a few weeks ago, whilst on The Island, in a moment of miraculous foresight... a postcard from the past. I had a chat on Tuesday night with the pretty girl from my local IGA - turns out she studies psychology - and it totally made my night. I'd even dared to catch up with a friend or two, maybe in a week, and start to debrief myself in a way that my wellbeing was warranting.
I even started reading House of Leaves again. I'm not sure that I've ever read a book that I've liked this much. Ever since I picked up that book in Niue about a month ago, reading it has been pretty much the only thing that I've wanted to do with my life. "Sometimes, you wait your whole life for a piece of music to come along..."
So, I was starting to feel a bit like me again. I could get on with the business of free time, of being normal and doing normal person things, like exercise. I was emotionally coming home. And then there was a phone call, and life stopped again.
---
It was a Friday after work. I'd driven across town and pulled into the local Apco (I detest buying fuel, and although I'm not sure whether it makes any difference, I refuse to buy it from BP or Shell or Caltex or Mobil). I was on my way to a dinner with my Sunbury soccer team (who have since dumped me - I guess that's what happens when you've 9x or 10x players in a 4-a-side team. I'm not in the slightest bit sad about it, for at least I've managed to make a few friends along the way - and there will still be fill-in matches. More time for music - and, assuming this music stops, yoga and trivia also). Where was I? Yes, filling the car. And there was the voice message.
"Thanks Scott, sounds really great! But we need to do it all again. On a concert grand now, in another studio".
---
For a long while, I thought seriously about not doing it. Now there's the compounded pressure of playing in an even more expensive studio (closer to $350/hour as opposed to $250 - none of which is my money). The idea of psychologically getting myself into the studio again, and then - after even more effort and practice and late nights and energy - indeed after all of that for weeks - the idea of still not being able to play this impossible piece on the day, would be too much to handle. I don't think... I could deal with that... very well. But, it wasn't something to be thrown away. On the voicemessage, there was no mention of when - and I concluded this would be my deciding factor. On one hand, if it needed to happen within, say, four weeks (or three, at a minimum), then they're going to be far better off getting some hotshot studio musician in - someone who does this all-day every-day, someone who is actually a strong performer, and who isn't driving into wilderness and nearly having a breakdown every day, to do it. On the other, if we had more than about four weeks, surely it would come to fruition by then. Mathematically, It'd have to. I already know the thing backwards in my brain... I'd just have to learn it properly. I'd need to buy a new instrument - that much was mandatory - probably seek some lessons also. But, it could be done. Possibly, after all of that effort, I could even do it well. And I'd kind of hate myself if I were to pass it up at this point.
Turns out we have, or had, six weeks. Five now. But six. So I said yes.
---
As I look around, it seems as though there's people in tribulation. When did July become such a difficult month for everyone? My friends are just managing. Pauly's jetlagged and frustrated. Joy's sleepless and stressed. Then, of course, there's everything with Simon. And Kylie, and Jane. This kind of overloaded is usually only reserved for November (the month of realizing it's nearly Christmas, of realizing that for another year your life has been little more than an airport hotel, detached far from the city proper, shared only by airlines and overworked professionals whose bosses are forcing 16 hour days when they could be doing a play somewhere). I'm increasingly becoming aware at how I am caught up in but my own issues, lord knows I am a postdoctoral fellow in them, but the centre of the universe isn't nearly around me.
---
Adam had a housewarming party... and in a way, I think it was the party that everyone had to have. Stress had me arriving in a shell-shocked version of myself, but it was still beautiful to hang out with some nice people - old friends of the best kind. I won't go into too many details (too late!), but my favourite moments were getting to know Jess with some context for the first time (who is actually quite lovely - a spirited sort; I like her outlook on life), getting Adam to sit cross-legged on a floor for a while (he'd been running around like crazy), and instigating a marshmallow roasting, of which Dani was the mastermind. I had to leave kinda early, but I was very relaxed and happy when I did.
---
There comes a time in every piano player's life when they need eight octaves to work on. It's just an imperative. This dawned on me with astounding resolution last week, as soon as I knew I wasn't going to bail out. So on the weekend, I jiggered some finances... and I bought a new instrument. Now, a few things about this...
Perhaps it's romantic fantasy to believe that buying an instrument in an over-saturated market is a very personal thing... but I still like to really believe that the process of properly buying a digital piano, under normal circumstances, would be something that'd take me months to do. I wish I could say I reviewed everything from M-Audio midi controllers to Nord Leads, lashed out several thousand and bought a nice shining Kawai S4. But that's not nearly true. I was bound - somewhat by cost, and hugely by time - I had to start practicing without delay. So after a large body of research in a small amount of time, I did something which I swore a decade ago that I'd never do: I bought a Casio. A CDP-130, to be exact. And I'm very, very happy with it.
It doesn't take an Einstein to know that Casio had a bad name for a long time - walk into any wal-mart or Big W, and you'll see why. These are the makers of toys - and the beautiful hipster niche of the VL-Tone pencil case-piano aside, no musician takes Casio seriously. Right? Well, that's what I thought until last year, when I sat down at Liesl's CDP-220R. Sure, the trademark Gimmicky, awkward controls are still there, but nowadays Casio have really found a foothold in the entry-level piano market, for one very good reason, and one reason only - they feel and sound like decent pianos.
I thought long and hard about going super cheap, and buying something like an Alesis M-88... in fact, I very nearly did. But the idea of needing to be hooked up to a midi port, life-support-like, in order to be able to play, wasn't exactly appealing. Even then, I'd have loved to have stumbled across a Roland A88 or similar - but it seems that even the good Midi controllers set you back more than a grand - which is more than I had.
Of the things I did try, I strongly disliked the Roland Fantom 20 - it sounds beautiful but felt light and 'clacky' to me - almost a godawful Clavinova style keyboard. I also didn't care a lot for the entry level Korg units - which also felt plasticy although had a lovely patch which almost meant you could pull them off. I didn't bother with the Yamahas (no disrespect to the RD-700s, just that the cheap stuff is rubbish and I didn't have the money for a good one). Of all of the reviews and the research, everyone seemed happy with the Casios. I'd narrowed it down to the CDP-130 (because of the metronome), or the more expensive Pixima - and I *very* nearly bought the PX150: it's gorgeous, beautiful, lovely ivory-textured keyboard is just a pleasure to touch and play. It left the CDP for dead in terms of feel. But fortunately I had my trusty headphones with me, and I just couldn't enjoy the Pixima's extra brightness in its top-end. The CDP doesn't feel nearly as great as the Pixima, but for the price and the quality of sound - of which I only needed one - it was a winner.
The other thing that annoyed me was that I'd bought something new. I hate consumerism and try and buy everything 2nd-hand if I can, further, there was a pre-loved CDP-220R in New Gisborne for only slightly more. But again, given the urgency, and the inability to try-before-I'd-buy, it wasn't really an option - I had no time for mistakes.
So yeah. From the connoisseur point of view, it's nothing to rave home about: the keys aren't hammer action, it does feel a tiny bit plasticy, and it's a heavy touch keyboard that won't suit everybody. The CDP-130 is a one-trick pony, and always will be - but that still doesn't change the fact that it's a real joy to play. I like my old EM-2000 piano patch and all (all 5x octaves of it), but the Casio leaves it utterly for dead... I didn't think the difference would be nearly as huge as it is. Now, it's like I really want to play... and then I don't want to stop. I want to bash it; I want to whisper with it. I'm very, very happy to. And that's how it should be.
---
Work. Work itself has been fun; actually, it has really helped a lot. I've essentially returned to my 'old job', of sorts, for six months - doing things that are both rewarding and interesting, yet also tasks which I do not need to think too much about. Compared to my previous role, life isn't as simple, nor as frivolous, so I do miss that... but there are pros and cons of both. One astounding, breathtaking 'pro' is the obvious - I'm surrounded by beauty. for three days each week, I work in a forest - and then, I'm in a botanical gardens for two. Today, I got quacked at by ducks - this happens almost every day. So you can't complain about that.
Wednesday night was unbelievably cold, and a heavy fog engulfed not only the countryside, but most of the inner city also. Even Brunswick was shrouded in mist. I'm not sure I'd seen that before. An opportunity presented itself herein, and a real mid-week highlight was calling into an unassuming pizza restaurant to buy hot chocolates for an unsuspecting Sam at soccer, and myself. She really appreciated it - and sure I felt kind of ill when playing sport on a stomach full of cocoa, but it was worth every second. Sharing a drink with her was great fun :) And for what it's worth, the pizza place seemed like great value too.
---
I don't want to say too much about it, but I have started working on a blog post with a difference. Its subject is about how music effects emotions, and in content it's already gearing up to possibly the most personal thing I'll ever have posted online. More or less. I have been thinking about the post for weeks - almost every day. On one hand, writing it makes me very uncomfortable... but on the other, I think that the benefits from authoring such a thing (in a well-crafted way) proposes too good of a literary / blogging exercise for me to 'not do'. Even getting myself to the point where I can channel energy towards writing it is hard; it requires basically undivided attention and considerably more effort than I can spare right now. Not that it's especially long (or nearly as long as, say, this post), but I just... I want it to be one of the better things that I've written. And I think that it could be.
---
Saturday gets to be a day of food and contemplation with Josh, at the astoundingly-named "Borsch, Vodka and Tears" restaurant in South Yarra. Josh and a restaurant called "Borsch, Vodka and Tears". I can't think of anything more appropriate. :)
Most recently, tonight I've just come home from my first yoga class since I left; my first class in nearly two months. And apparently I wasn't the only one returning. Such a happy vibe amongst everyone! :D What a wonderfully-timed class to turn up to. Jacob's come home after a five-week holiday, looking more relaxed than I think I have ever seen him. He was really talkative where he is usually very reserved, so that was wonderful. :) It was my lovely Georgie's first Thursday class in a very long time, and they might become a regular thing for the both of us now. Elizabeth leaves for the Burning Man in a few weeks' time, and best of all - Jess is back from having her a baby!! A tiny little one! So she's a new mum, and now a returning yoga student also, after a break of only three-and-a-half weeks off. Hats off to her.
I'm still grinning on the back of catching up with Georgie briefly after class... even if I felt like I talked about myself more than I had to anyone for weeks on end. When we departed, she left me with a huge compliment alongside a very excited/warm hug:
"Yoga's so much better when you are around", she beamed.
Gotta be happy about that.
---
So yeah :) I didn't think this post would end with quite the smile that it has. Maybe everything didn't, in fact, stop in July... nearly, but not quite. Maybe the ball is still in play. Sure, there's some tough things - for example, I'd be surprised if there's more to August, after the wedding, than a sentence of a month's purgatory, in the form of "solitary confinement"-style instrument practice. Isn't it strange how being in a practice room is so incredibly not what music is about, yet it's how every musician worth their salt condemns themselves to for aeons, in order to prove their own worth? Assylum-like, no? But, I'm digressing.
The world still is in colour. And maybe whilst my own life doesn't always feel like it's in HD, even in the midst of all of whatever this is, I still have a lot to be thankful for. Even in the completing of this post, I get the feeling that life does go on... maybe I'll be ready for August. Who knows.
Spring will come around.