Muchness and Light

You may think at first I'm mad as a hatter....

It started a year or two ago, the Nicknaming of the Inner Circle. 

I received a message from a friend, Amanda, who relayed the tale of a dream she'd had the night before, in which I was some kind of superheroine, fighting some crazy criminal villain while wearing a witchy purple dress and kickass black boots.  She was my sidekick. 

"We need names," I said.

As I thought about it all day, I kept going back to something she'd been calling me for days: sassy. 

"Sassafras," I decided. 

But Sass needed a last name.  Something Irish.  Something poignant. 

One of the songs I constantly go back to—even though one friend (Pickle) will ridicule me ad infinitum for this—is "Escape (The Pina Colada Song)" by Rupert Holmes.  It's tied to my childhood and my later youth and even my adulthood.  I have a Bucket List goal to get different, incredibly varied musicians to record an album that's nothing but covers of that song.  Adam Taylor and Wesley Cook have both agreed, in principle.  I'd love to get Les Claypool, Greg Dulli, and maybe In This Moment to record it, too.  I'd even happily donate all the proceeds to charity, though I have no idea what charity would want money from a song about two people trying to cheat on their spouses.  (Again, I argue, it's not about adultery; it's about serendipity!)

The bar where the two meet to plan their escape is O'Malley's.  Perfect.

So now Sassafras O'Malley needed a sidekick. 

I wracked my brain but could think of nothing.  She became Mandypants for lack of a better option.  And it stuck for a long while.  Recently after posting about a surgical procedure in which she was effectively microwaving her lady parts, I deemed her Hot Pocket.  And it suits her beautifully.

So Sassafras O'Malley and Mandypants (now Hot Pocket) were the first two of the nicknamed.  That list has grown and grown and grown since this began.  It seems silly, yes, but these nicknames are like our true names.  These are the second names, the names that are particular, peculiar, and more dignified, to help us keep our tails perpendicular.

Growler – who is sweet like a little kitten but will turn beastly in a moment if you cross her

Hammer – the Hammer of Honesty who can tell the truth like no one else

Moonshine – blue and bright and glowing, can always make you a little drunk with her beauty

Queen Frostine – the coolest chick you'll ever meet

Cookie – never a Tagalong and never a Thin Mint, but sweet and crunchy nonetheless

Lady Hammer – a strange female reflection of the truths of Hammer, totally unexpected

Glee – gregarious and ebullient, she knows the words to any and every song

Roadkill – who will step out in front of a moving car, admonishing you that they'll stop

Cupid37 – who dressed up as Cupid (and sometimes worse) in public and appears in chapter 37

Pickle – because he's always drunk, but also because he's both sweet and sour but not a baby gherkin

Irish Coffee/Not Boy – the Irish-descended guy I like to drink coffee with, who's not my boyfriend

Absolem – the questioning caterpillar to my Alice, who can unhinge me by asking me who I am

DH – Dear Husband, as assigned in the infertility forums 14 years ago, soon possibly DX or DXH or DB

Minizon - daughter of Hot Pocket, my Glamazon-in-training

There are a couple of others, but I don't know if they know the origins of their internal nicknames, so I'm opting to keep them in the vault.  For now.

Sometimes we have learned of our super powers.  Some are still a secret. 

Sassafras O'Malley, who can utterly mesmerize you with her potty mouth, has a special disco ball ring that dazzles stupid people into submission, specifically to keep them from copulating when her muchness leaks into the water supply.  It's a tool to lower the chances of stupid people breeding.  (She also has sparkly boots.) 

Growler has the ability to create snow angels anywhere, out of thin air.  She can mesmerize animals instantly and cause them to do her bidding. 

Hot Pocket has the Broccoli Bomb.  When she unleashes it, it makes everyone around her snort broccoli up the back of their noses.  Painfully funny. 

The list is likely to go on and on as time progresses.  I haven't named all of these people.  In fact, maybe only half of them.  Hammer has had a hand in the naming, as has Hot Pocket.  But these names are so appropriate for each and every one of these friends.  It's like they just whispered themselves to us in an inexplicable moment of truth.  Mostly when we were sober. 

They're my incomparable cast and crew. 

And these are the names that will never belong to another (fragile) cat.  They are ours and ours alone. 

But somewhere, deep down, each of also has a third name, the one that no other human can ever discover.  Our deep inscrutable singular names that only we know and only we call ourselves, respectively.  I know mine, but I'm not sharing.  Only one other person knows it, and that's only because he knew it before I did.  That's Absolem.  And I know he's not telling. 

 

SXSW - Day 2

I haven't been sleeping much lately, which has carried over to Austin.  Maybe I'm finally getting old, or maybe I'm coming out of a growth spurt, but I just can't seem to sleep more than six hours or so as of late.  The first night in Texas was no exception.  I was up early and headed to the Convention Center by 9:30.

I met with a friend and was set to hit some panels when I decided to sit in on the keynote address for 2012 SXSW.  Bruce Springsteen was the keynote speaker.  I"m not historically a big Springsteen fan, but I figured I was there so I'd see what he had to say. 

It was amazing. 

He was funny and self-deprecating and talked about the music that had influenced him and why.  When he launched into an acoustic breakdown of "We Gotta Get Outta of This Place", I was overjoyed.  I have a deep, abiding love of Eric Burdon, and Bruce readily admitted to ripping off the Animals for his own work.  He talked about the unmitigated, abject sadness of Roy Orbison's songs, the genius of Dylan, and the importance of the Sex Pistols. 

He touched on something, briefly, that stuck with me all day, about the emotional depths of these artists.  He referred to the Animals as being ugly and emotionally frightening, and I ponder this everywhere I went. 

Great music is emotionally frightening.  There's something in the lyrics and music that can take your very soul to the precipice of despair and fear and love and joy in ways that you're not just hearing but experiencing as you delve into that song.  The gravity of the emotion is so overwhelming that it hurts to take yourself there for that three or four minutes, but it's so good that you want to go back there over and over--whether it's a repeat on your iPod or CD player, or rewinding your cassette tape while you drive to school, or even resetting the needle on your record. 

There are lots of songs with boundless emotion that simply look at something and comment on it.  They aren't great because they don't make you ache to be in that moment with the singer.  If the artist is afraid to look at that part of themselves, if they compartmentalize their own selves in such a way that even they can't face it, they'll never find the truths they need to take their audience to that unforgivingly beautiful place. 

I ended up winning one of the lottery tickets to see Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band last night at the Moody Theater.  I figured I had to go, having never seen him live.  There were less than 3,000 people in attendance, and it was strangely intimate, even with the huge band.  I only knew one of the songs he played during the first two hours of his set.  What impressed me was that it wasn't a show so much as it was Bruce and his friends having a party on stage and inviting the audience inside that inner circle.  I was within ten feet of Bruce and Stevie and Patti, and I watched the Boss crowd surf.  Tom Morello from Rage Against the Machine joined him for a couple of songs, which was amazing. 

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I was a little disappointed to skip the Low Anthem to see Springsteen but was overjoyed when they were the first opening act.  I'd seen them open for Mumford & Sons last June and was excited to see them again.  Apparently Bruce was, too.  Alejandro Escovedo was the second opener.  Bruce had played with him briefly the night before, so it was a no-brainer that he would be invited to perform.  I'd never seen him live, either, and loved it.  He was like Leonard Cohen and Joe Strummer's illegitimate Latino son. 

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And I met Casey Reed from Fight the Quiet.  I told him I'd be sure to mention them when I wrote about my day.

 

 

Finaly, Adam Taylor told me to go the Ginger Man and catch Loretta Bilieux.  Adam's bassist from the Rain Dogs, Michael Giblin, was backing Loretta.  "She's a good friend of mine and a Lancaster local... and will be your new idol.  She's a power woman with some fuckin PIPES."  OH MY GOD!  Adam was right--isn't he always?--I loved her.  I will most certainly be writing more about her in the very near future. 

I had my picture taken with the lifesize Fleshlight.  I drank a beer that didn't suck (Thanks, Gibby!).  I saw Bruce Springsteen twice in a day.  (I told him hi for you, Tiff.  He says he misses you.) 

And I still didn't sleep much, so I'm up and at it again.  Be sure to follow me on Twitter (twitter.com/stephqj) for my Instragam pics throughout the day.  I have no idea where I'm going today, but I'm sure it'll be an adventure.  And I'm positive I will smell the 21-year-old musicians coming before I see them. 

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12:51 is the time my voice found the words I sought.

DH and I have had a couple of conversations recently about the purpose of my blog.  It's definitely a personal blog (as opposed to a corporate or organizational blog), meaning that I'm reflecting on what I think and see and feel.  Originally Muchness and Light started with a definitive Alice in Wonderland slant that shifts my writing from time to time, but I quickly realized I had more to say than what Lewis Carroll or Tim Burton could directly influence. 

I don't run ads, with the exception of my links to Zazzle and my Amazon aStore.  If you purchase products through those links, I get a small percentage, which helps cover my blog and domain services.  I've debated setting up an agreement with an ad service, but I don't really see the necessity or the long-term benefit.  There's already enough going on on my page.  I don't want to clutter it further with unrelated content or pretty pictures.  I can handle being scattered without any help from the outside. 

I don't write a lot about the day-to-day facts of my life, though I'm likely to mention them on my Facebook fan page.  Most days for me are a mundane mix of errands and chores and momness.  Sometimes, something exciting or extraordinary happens.  If I'm inspired, I'll write about it.  If not, I'll keep it to myself.  But I always try to find something more to say than just what I'm thinking and feeling. 

There's always the issue of what the reader adds to my words.  You aren't me, you aren't in my head, and you may or may not know the impetus for a piece I've written.  You certainly don't know the thought process I went through, jumping from one point to the next.  But you bring your own experiences and moods and expectations to your reading and that will undoubtedly influence your own perception of my writing.  That's what's expected of the audience, and I think that's what makes feedback interesting. 

Sometimes I'll discover that someone has read something and totally missed my intent.  It can be frustrating, making me question whether my words were effectual.  I have to remind myself that I'm also not in your head.  I'm a reader in my own right, and I know there have been many times when I've reread something, perhaps for the dozenth time, and realized I was interpreting it in a completely new and unexpected way. 

Every so often, I'll go back and read something of my own—an old post or random writing—and be surprised to see context and meaning I hadn't noticed before.  I've written specific things that were intended to be about one thing and ended up being about another, only recognized in hindsight.  I've been in one mood when I wrote, then in a juxtaposed frame of mind when I reread it, and seen my writing in a completely different way. 

I guess that's part of the fluidity of the written word.  It can say so much or nothing at all.  I'm sure I have days (and posts) where I do both. 

But, like me, Muchness and Light is a process.  My voice is on a journey of its own, and I'm excited to see where it takes me.  For the first time perhaps in my entire life, I feel like there are other people who want to hear me and who value not only what I'm saying, but the fact that I'm saying it at all.  It's simultaneously humbling and gratifying, knowing that you've made the choice to read this—that you have sought me out and want to see what I have to say, even if it seems like I'm only talking to myself.

 

(Yes, I know it's a Strokes song.  So does Adam.  But he's the one I love the most, not them.)

It's Austin or Bust! for Wesley Cook.

A few months ago, Adam Taylor (with Kate Young) came to Atlanta for a series of shows.  One of those shows was at Smith's Olde Bar.  Wesley Cook also played that night (as did Will Mitchell), and it turned out I really liked him. 

I met him a few weeks later to do an interview (I'm sorry, Wesley.  I suck for not doing it justice yet.)  It turned out I liked him even more.  He's this really cute, really nice guy with a great sense of humor and gorgeous smile (and hair and eyes, honestly).  But as I listened to both of his CD's that morning, I was really impressed. 

On the surface, it's easy to group him into the indie folk rock genre, and certainly there's that aspect to his music.  But there's a definite influence from, kind of, everywhere.  That's because Cook is from, kind of, everywhere.  He was raised all over the world—most notably Germany and Korea—and landed in Georgia when he started college at UGA.  There are bits of Creole in "Home Grown Girl", a little Austin blues in "Tasty Devil Woman" (my favorite, duh!), and a little island breezy thing in "Leave It All Behind".  Toss in a bit of jazz and country and whatever else you can think of, and you find a fun sonic experience. 

So Cook is one of four finalists for the Rolling Stone Street to Stage competition and could really use your help.  The winner gets "a chance to perform professionally and on stage at the Rolling Stone Rock Room in Austin, TX 2012 during one of the biggest music festivals in the nation."  (Hmmm... wonder what it could be....)

Obviously I think the guy is nice and talented.  More importantly, he works really hard.  He is always promoting the Wesley Cook brand, and it seems he rarely gets a day off.  I have the utmost respect for any artist who works it, rather than sitting back and waiting for their talent to get them discovered.  This is really something Cook deserves. 

I'm asking you to please go vote for Wesley Cook!  You can vote online, and you can text Street 1 to 99799 (standard rates may apply).  Voting ends September 20^th—just a few days before his birthday.  What better way to tell Wesley Cook "Happy Birthday!" than to help him win this contest?!?

Catatonic, Catastrophic, and Catalytic

Ultimately, I'm a geek.  A geek with good hair (and shoes), but a geek nonetheless.  I often make weird analogies between high school science lessons and life-in-the-moment.  Heat denatures protein—never forget that!

This week it's been all about catalysts.  Because I know not everyone else is a geek, I'll refresh your faded high school memories and remind you that a catalyst is a substance that initiates or accelerates a reaction, without being consumed by the reaction itself.  It makes some stuff happen and goes on about its own business.

I've been on both sides of metaphorical catalysis at different times in my life.  I've done things that indirectly caused both good and bad to others, but I'm still standing.  Sometimes it was intentional, often not.  Either way, I have to bear the brunt of my actions, chosen passively or actively. 

Other people have played their own catalytic roles in my life.  They've come and gone—sometimes just as quickly—and often left me with nothing to show for their time and energy except profound change.  Those few people who have been in my life for a really extended period of time are part of a symbiosis, a mutually beneficial, long-term relationship.  They are the people I love, the ones without whom my heart cannot exist.  (BFF's, you know who you are.)

But that's the thing about a catalyst; they have no real investment in the change.  They aren't reagents.  They have no reason or impetus to stay and watch the reaction, to see the equal and opposite outcome of their own actions.  If they were really concerned enough to be willing to gauge their impact, they would have to be committed enough to accept and to admit their own culpability in the metamorphosis.  That's a hard thing to do when your own actions don't even change you at all. 

According to Wikipedia (you know, the experts on all things things), "Kinetically, catalytic reactions are typical chemical reactions; i.e. the reaction rate depends upon the frequency of contact of the reactants in the rate-determining step.  Usually, the catalyst participates in this slowest step, and rates are limited by amount of catalyst and its 'activity'."

Although catalysts aren't consumed by the reactions themselves, they can be inhibited, deactivated, or destroyed by secondary processes.  The fall-out of their equal and opposite reactions can kick them in the ass, can ultimately alter their very make-up forever.  It's a little karmic in its own way, the thought that people who fuck with your life—through  their own activity or passivity—may ultimately pay a price for what they do.

But you, as the reagent, won't necessarily be around to see it.  You may well be so changed, so far removed from the original interaction, that you don't even know what's happened to them.  If they'd mattered enough, cared enough to see how they were impacting you, they'd still be there and wouldn't be a catalyst at all. 

Ultimately, as some Wiki editor points out, the change depends on when and how often the catalyst interacts with the reactant.  Their role is often minute and brief, early in the process of change; they're there, and then they're not. 

But every so often we cross paths with those people who strike us dramatically, in surprising and overpowering ways, who alter us so profoundly that their impact is almost incomprehensible in its complexity.  I find the most difficult to come to terms with, the ones who leave the lasting repercussions that I'll spend years re-examining, overthinking in my own benignly obsessive way.

There's a narcissistic tendency to want to have been consequential in another person's life, good or bad, to know you didn't just spew forth some smoke from their tempered-but-fragile test tubes, but rather blew up their whole fucking lab.  For me, being who I am, it's really difficult to embrace the possibility that I could ever have been so influential on someone else's life.  Ever.  My own self-esteem, so substantially lacking and timid in its burgeoning self-awareness, just can't accept how my presence could ever be so permanently tangential.

I know, however, the changes others have made on me.  And I know how their very presence—their smile or grimace, their kind or harsh words, their undivided attention—altered my course, forced me to change my path toward my ultimate destination, wherever that may be.  I will still get to wherever it is that I'm supposed to be, but I know fully (and sometimes painfully) that I'm not the same girl who stepped so tentatively into this journey, all because they ever were there.

[Special thanks this post to www.thesaurus.com.  And blame Adam Taylor for the title.  Fucking genius or not, it's all his fault.]

Your record collection don't exist. You don't even know who Liz Phair is.

I was out walking a few nights ago, trying to get in some semblance of cardio while the kids were at swim practice.  As always, I plugged into my iPod and started looking for just the right music for my evening constitutional.  I have a couple of playlists for working out, but that just wasn't cutting it.  There are a few artists that I know will get my blood pumping, but I was in the mood for something different.  And I didn't want something new; I wanted something knew.

I ended up going back to Maroon 5's 2002 debut album, Songs About Jane.  This was a record I adored when it came out.  I had listened to it for weeks and was really blown away by the lyrics and the complicated melodic cadences of the record.  Adam Levine's first tenor is higher than I normally like, but his songwriting was clever and frank and sexy. 

 

As I listened again, I still really loved what I heard.  I started wondering why I never bought another record from them.  Then I remembered that, oh yeah!, it was because the rest of it sucked.  I had tried to listen to their 2005 album but found it to be too poppy and predictable.  I just didn't like it. 

So I started thinking about all the artists I'd liked for a record or two, then just not.  Coldplay was a prime example.  Parachutes came out when I was pregnant with my elder son, and "Yellow" was the theme song for that pregnancy.  I knew that album forwards and backwards before it was ever a hit in the United States, thanks to the uber-fantastic indie music store I frequented.  Everything after that sounded the same or just didn't sound good to me.  Maybe I could hear that it was technically good, but it didn't grab me like the first album did, so I didn't go back for more. 

Turns out, it's kind of a lengthy list.  Here are a few of the highlights:

• Train
• Fiona Apple
• James Blunt
• Dave Matthews Band (I'm good through Crash.)
• Liz Phair (Half of whitechocolatespaceegg is okay.  Everything after blows.)
• Everclear (It all sounds the damn same!)
• Alanis Morissette
• Stone Temple Pilots (I'm mostly done after Purple.)
• Goo Goo Dolls (Their stuff before A Boy Named Goo is fantastic!)
  
• [Adam Taylor has added Arctic Monkeys to this list.]

I don't expect to love every record from a band I like.  An album is a very personal snapshot of where an artist is during a given period of time.  Songs are often written weeks or months before they go into the studio to record, and that process of recording and mixing and pressing and releasing can take a long time.  There are also a lot of reasons songs are chosen for inclusion, and it doesn't always have anything to do with what the artist wants. 

Margot and the Nuclear So and So's are a great example.  They released two records concurrently in 2008, Animal! and Not Animal.  Animal! was the band's vision of how their sophomore album was supposed to sound, but there were disagreements with Epic Records about what the final version of their second record should be.  Epic released an alternate version, Not Animal.  They're similar but not the same, though I think I like them both.

Musicians are people, too, and they live their own, personal lives between records.  Even when those lives include touring and shows and fans and travel, they also include families and fractures and eating and boredom.  All of that is filtered through the process and impacts what a songwriter churns out, good or bad.  Sometimes there are contractual obligations that force artists to release a shitty record.  Sometimes they're just shitty songwriters who got lucky with a good first album. 

And I'm sure no one wants to be the proverbial one-hit wonder.  There are other bands that I liked that came and went: Big Wreck and Orbit are two, though I was surprised while writing this to find that both had second albums, though Orbit's was just released this year after a twelve-year delay.  (Guess what I'm buying this week?!?)

 

In the same way that musicians change and evolve as people between albums, so do music fans.  I may give a band a chance because I've previously liked them, but any history of fandom is no guarantee that I will blindly adore a new offering.  My life has gone on in that two- or three-year span, and I'm not sitting around waiting to be spoon-fed new music from that artist.  I'll give it a shot, certainly, but on my own terms.  If it doesn't suit my musical needs, so be it.  There are a dozen other new records out that same week, and I will eventually find one that clicks with me. 

And sometimes a band I really do love will come out with a terrible record.  If I love them enough, I'll try the next one and give them another shot.  If they still suck, there's a strong likelihood I'll move on to something else.  (You broke my heart, Liz Phair.)

Music fans can be fickle, for sure.  More often than not, a fan likes only what they've heard on the radio or maybe at a show, which is still often the easiest music a musician has to offer.  But there are those of us who really listen before we decide if we make the full investment of fandom.  Unfortunately, sometimes we just don't get what an artist has to say or how they choose to say it. 

But there's something about those records that I loved.  I keep them and go back to them and listen again and remember exactly where and how I fell in love.  After a spin or two, they go back on the shelf until I get a little nostalgic again.  Just because my relationship with the artist's music changed, it doesn't nullify the merits of the music that initially attracted me. 

So, please, chime in and let me know what artist you loved for a first record or two but then not so much.  Who are the artists you loved that never did anything else?  Everyone has them, and I'm interested to know yours.

All my pretty friends ain't got no confidence.

My friend, Adam Taylor, posted recently on Facebook, "I know too many girls whose hobbies include 'taking pictures of themselves.'" 

He and I have talked about this before.  He has a strong dislike for this thing a lot of women (and some men) do, when they take pictures of themselves--usually trying to be sexy or pretty or whatever--and share them online.  He went on to say that he probably understood the reasons that compel women to do this, but "when I see someone who has 1500+ pictures of themselves...I start to wonder if they're a celebrity or just a narcissist."

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Yours truly has done it a few times, certainly.  I didn't do it before I lost this weight, but it's happened more often in the last few months.  I also upgraded to an iPhone 4, which means I can use the front camera and see myself on the screen before I take the picture.  I couldn't even begin to add up the number of snapshots that have been deleted before anyone else ever saw them.  (I find the iPhone makes my nose look big.)

Sometimes it's a moment of, "Oh, hey!  I look good!  So-and-so would like to see this!" and it's easier to take the picture and post in online, rather than have to email it to them.  Sometimes it's a matter of, "Man!  I wish What's-their-face could see me like this!"  Sometimes it's just, "Oh!  I'm almost drunk!  I should totally get a picture of this!"

Rarely is it a case of vanity.  More often than not, there's a self-esteem issue that's being addressed when women do this.  We're looking for some kind of external assurance that we're attractive or confident or sexy or whatever.  So we take a picture and hope the right people will see it, the ones who we feel are best equipped to make us feel better about ourselves in that moment.

It's similar to how I can't see my reflection--in a mirror, window, whatever--and not watch it.  If I'm ever facing my reflection while I'm talking, I will usually keep eye contact with the other me, even while I'm carrying on a full conversation with someone else.  There's something magnetic about the reflection of the face, of the eyes, of the minute movements, and it fascinates me endlessly.  I read once that people who look at their own reflections are trying to prove that they exist, psychologically.  That seems a bit simplistic, but it's kind of true. 

20th-century psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan developed the ideal of the "mirror stage" as part of his reinterpretation of Freud's theories.  Infants develop the Sense of Self between the ages of six and eighteen months.  They see an external image of the body, whether in a mirror or through a primary caregiver, that gives rise to the notion of an "ideal ego".  The perfect imagining is a stable, coherent version of the self that isn't changed or influenced by the chaotic drives of the physical world. 

The child constantly strives throughout its life to achieve that Ideal I, which has been established through an attachment with an external image.  It's narcissistic, really, which Lacan says is actually part of the process that the human psyche goes through to reach its full maturity.  The individual progresses toward language and culture, an understanding of the symbolic order, by establishing his own subjectivity through this fantasy image.  All of this is complicated and intertwined with the idea of the imaginary order, where the individual creates fantasy images of both himself and his ideal object of desire.  Lacan argues that the imaginary order is a natural, manifesting update to the mirror stage, after the individual has come to understand symbolic thought and language, and that this striving for the ideal continues throughout the human life span. 

Lacan goes on to make it a little more complicated, with the idea of the Gaze.  The Gaze is the sense that what we're looking at, the object of our glance, is actually looking back at us of its own free will.  He asserts that the seeming will of the object with the Gaze is really an empty reflection of our own narcissism, that our desire for the object is the manifestation of our own lack of being in the Real--the base state of new humans, wherein they are closest to nature, which we move away from as we move into language, i.e. the symbolic order.    

So basically, in a Stephanie-interpreted nutshell, I look at myself in the mirror because I'm always trying to see the Ideal I that I saw as a very young child.  And I feel like she's looking back at me, with her own reflected soul, because I'm too far evolved from my preternatural self to ever be truly content and achieve the fantasy.

As convoluted as that all sounds, I totally get it.  The reflection, or the girl in the shared photograph, is potentially a perfected expression of a moment.  She's pretty or sexy or alluring, and she isn't bothered by the size of her nose or her ass or by what other people think or say or do.  She's not malicious or snarky or scared, and she's happy to be that way. 

So, Adam Taylor, there's definitely a sense of narcissism to this whole taking-pictures-of-ourselves thing that happens.  But sometimes it's more a matter of psychic-preservation than of pure vanity.  And the girls who post the most pictures of themselves are the ones who need the external reinforcement the most.  At some point, they looked into the mirror and felt they were nowhere close to their Ideal I, not on the inside or the outside, and they're trying desperately for someone, anyone, to tell them they're okay the way they are.

Adam Taylor:From Boy to Man in 19.7 Minutes

Adam Taylor has grown up a lot in three years.  He graduated high school, dropped out of art school, and decided to move to Lancaster, PA, to pursue his musical dreams full time.  His new mini-LP, No Poet, is a testament to his growth, both as a man and as a musician.

"Since the last EP [Play the Piano Drunk, 2008], I've matured as a person, songwriter, and performer," says 20-year-old Taylor.  "Making a quality record takes a lot of dedication, and I really felt more up to the challenge this time around."

Play the Piano Drunk focused almost exclusively on the external struggles of culture and youth that Taylor saw as he wrote and recorded the album, while finishing his senior year of high school.  No Poet still has Taylor's gritty observations of life, but he's begun turning the gilded mirror toward himself. 

"For me, this record has so much to do with stepping out of boyhood into manhood, and what it means to be a man and not just an artist," reflects Taylor.  "This record isn't so much about songs as it is about life."

Taylor's hallmark sound of deceptively simple, up-tempo melodies is present throughout the tracks.  His critical dissection of societal expectations and perceptions is laid bare alongside his examination of the personal strifes of burgeoning adulthood.  The dark excitement of sexual frustration and exploitation (I want it, your stomach/your hips, your legs, your money/El Cheapo, the steeple, the people want you honey) is masked behind the high-energy strumming of "Oliver".  He sings of the yearning to escape home in "New York" (pack your bags get on the train/I'm leaving for New York/and I swear/I am never coming home), and he challenges what he's been taught about God in the intricately poetic "Spaghetti Western" (And I saw Jesus/in a card game/he was betting with all your hopes/and I had three kings/that he was seeking/the bet was clearly lost). 

But the carefree adolescent still makes himself known, both lyrically and musically.  No Poet debuts a new, snazzier version of the fan-favorite "Lucy", a tribute to Taylor's "funny-looking" dog.  Touring and recording partner Kate Young, who has performed with Taylor since they met in 2005, says, "This newer version of Lucy gives me the fuzzy wuzzy feeling." 

Taylor and Young positioned themselves around one microphone, requiring them to depend on each other's own internal timing to determine breath patterns and weave their signature, organic harmonies.  While it's still reminiscent of Taylor's folk and ragtime roots, there's an added electric sound that brings the long-loved track up to date: it's a grown-up "Lucy". 

Taylor says the new version is different than what fans are used to hearing, but that it accurately reflects the current sound of the band.  He wrote all seven tracks on No Poet but quickly credits his band--Kate Young, Mike Giblin, Jason Hoffheins, and John Fritchey-- with bringing them to life.  "I like to let the band be the band, you know?"

Young says the recording process evolved over the past three years, as well.  When they worked on Play the Piano Drunk, she travelled to Lancaster from their hometown of Hagerstown, MD, to record for a couple of days as a session vocalist.  For No Poet, she was able to be in the studio every day.  That unfettered access to the sessions and the progress allowed her to voice her opinion on the work they were doing.  "Plus I got to do shaker and tambourine on this one," she jokes. 

The other constant in the studio was Taylor's older brother, Chad, who produced both No Poet and Play the Piano Drunk.  Chad Taylor is a veteran musician (Live, The Gracious Few) and producer (Falcon Jones, Stealing Venus, Shaker) and is impressed with the growth Adam has made between records.  He notes improvement in his brother's sense of timing, as well as his ability to communicate as a lyricist and a musician.

Young says it was different working with Chad the second time around, having gotten to know him a bit better since they first worked together in 2008.  "Chad challenged me a lot more on this record," she explains.  "This time around I was a little less intimidated."

"Chad challenges me as a singer all the time," adds Adam.   "I actually played the electric guitar a good bit this time around.  He definitely pushed me in that area."  He says it can be both daunting and artistically compelling to work with an experienced producer who has intimate knowledge of his strengths and weaknesses, and who isn't afraid to get in his face.

Chad admits there were creative tensions between the brothers, and he wishes Adam were more willing speak up, and speak out, about his own music and the process.  The Taylors had to work together to get through their differences--including a fistfight over writing a bridge early in the recording process.  Both brothers point to the incident as proof of their shared passion for making great music.

"I'm always trying to get Adam to really speak his mind," Chad explains.  "I trust his thoughts on where the music, the sound and the performance should be.  In some cases he does openly disagree with me, and I've tried to hard as a producer to put him in first position even if I don't agree.  Make no mistake: Adam's music and the credit for it is all his!"

In January 2011, Taylor and Young launched the Kickstarter campaign to fund production and release of No Poet, as well as to help fund an upcoming tour.  In their well-produced, energetic introduction video, Taylor unpretentiously asked for help: "By donating, you're really becoming part of the process and assisting me in my dreams."  His honesty and offers of pre-ordered downloads, tickets for the album release show, personalized artwork, and custom-written songs were persuasive.  They surpassed their funding goal in three days.   

"I guess our fans are hungry, which is a good sign," Taylor says.  "I think it was them saying, 'Well, it's about fucking time, Adam!'"

Young is quick to point out that the money wasn't just from fans who were pre-ordering the record.  "Most of [the pledges] are from friends willing to support us no matter what.  It's freakin' great."

Chad Taylor says the "massive success" of Adam's Kickstarter as an extension of the philosophy of true alternative music, of the grassroots upsurge against the greed and oversight of the corporate music business.  He says he believes in a patron system of supporting artists, as opposed to major labels, but he recognizes the difficulties of financial sustainability as a full-time musician.

"With any luck, Adam's music will find a marketplace," Chad says.  "He is surely going to surprise people with the quality of the material on this new recording.  I know I'm doing all I can to help.  He is the real thing."

Adam Taylor has his eyes wide open to the potential hardships and pitfalls of being a musician, and he's ready to stare them down.  He says it's a daily struggle to overcome his fears of failing his present and his future, of having difficult conversations about his career, and of facing himself, personally and professionally.

"I'm learning to be brave, I'm learning to be a man.  This album is more about my journey into manhood than the actual songs themselves.  This record is another flagpole on the mountain that said, 'I'm Adam, and I have made it this far'."

No Poet is available now.  For more information on Adam Taylor and his music, visit his website at www.adamtaylormusic.com.

New Adam Taylor "No Poet" Available Today!

I've talked of my love for Adam Taylor and his music many, many, many times.  The new record is available for download today, and it is amazing.  Yes, he's my friend.  Yes, I love that boy.  But I would tell you if it sucked, because I would've already told him it sucked.  And it doesn't  It's really quite smart and fantastic.  You won't regret buying it, I promise. 

 

I promise I'm not sick.

I've been pretty quiet for a few days.  I spent a few days with the incomparable Adam Taylor and Kate Young in Atlanta before going to Lancaster, PA.  Adam's CD release show for No Poet was on Saturday in Ephrata and was wonderful, as expected.  The CD is out for digital download on April 11th and physical purchase on April 18th.  It's so good, and you should totally buy it.  (Order it through my Amazon aStore so I get 24 cents and Adam will owe me a cookie.)  You can also go to my YouTube channel and see some of the video from Atlanta and Ephrata.

I'm working on a couple of pieces and should be back in full swing in the next couple of days.  I have a new Alice piece coming, and something on fantasy in reality.  

Soon I'll work up a long-planned piece on Alice songs, so feel free to share your favorite and obscure ones.  My very favorite is, of course, "Elvis" by Adam Taylor.  Here's the video from Ephrata.  It's small but sounds fantastic.