For years, I’ve been telling anyone who cared to listen about the night in Miami when I met Bruce Springsteen, all the things I planned to say, and what I actually said. Recorded in and around Nashville and edited by Will Pedigo on a Flip Camera. You probably have one just like it. So please feel free to share your own in the comments. I love to hear them. They make me me feel better!
Ideas for blogs that I’ve had, that for one reason or another, have never actually turned into blogs.
WHAT CAN KILL YOU TODAY – A daily recap of news reports of new things that can kill you, be them milk, peanut butter, sitting down, waking up, rice, Frosted Mini Wheats, etc.
About a year ago this time, I was profiled twenty-questions style in Nashville Arts Magazine. To the question of ‘What does it feel like to be you these days,” I answered “I feel like I’m always busy. Always trying to make something happen.” That was the best answer I could come up with, and I was being honest. I hadn’t really thought about that answer until this weekend when I read an article by Tim Kreider in the New York Times called “The Busy Trap,” that proposes that the “crazy busy” life many of us lead is almost entirely self-imposed, and that work we’re doing that keeps us busy maybe has no value at all. Maybe it’s just us trying to impose value on ourselves and justify our existence.
While the New York Times article does a great job of making the case for personal reflection and slowing down, it fails to acknowledge the true reason many of us are crazy busy. It was in the second sentence of my Nashville Arts answer.
We’re hustlers.
It started for me in my early teens when I became an altar boy. Being an altar boy is great. You learn discipline and responsibility, and develop a profound respect for the sacrament of communion. But there were some other benefits. If it was a weekday mass, you got to go to class a little late. If it was a wedding or a funeral, you often got a tip from a groomsman or a pallbearer (depending, of course). I could make ten bucks at a funeral; twenty bucks at a wedding. So I started hustling, taking whatever weddings and funerals were offered. If you wanted to meet up before class, I couldn’t. I was busy.
I got my first job when I was 12-years-old, at the grocery store around the corner from my house. I started between ten and twenty hours a week, making deliveries, stocking shelves or bringing up cases of two-liter soda bottles from the waterbug-invested basement. I would remove all the bottles from the cardboard case, shake out the box to make sure no critters tagged along, and put the bottles back in the box before using the hand truck to bring them into the store. And I did this on the sidewalk outside the store. How no passerby ever figured out what I was doing is beyond me.
By the time I was in eighth grade, I was working thirty hours a week, which meant as close to financial independence from my parents as possible. I could buy my own records and books, and wear whatever I liked. Cash meant freedom.
By the time I got to high school, not only was I working thirty hours a week, I was selling and running football tickets for the bookie around the corner, further enhancing my cashflow and my connections. High school also meant getting serious about writing, so while I was excelling at my studies and working thirty hours a week at the grocery store, I was also reading and writing all the time, and editing my school newspaper. My sophomore year I got a guitar, which meant I started writing songs while working at the store, often on the separated insides of empty cigarette cartons. In my junior year, my writing ambitions scored me an internship at my local paper, and three years later, when I was named an official staff writer, I was the youngest ever in the paper’s 100-plus year history. This is not to brag as much as to point out that at this time I was 19-years old and not only in college, but still working part-time at the store, writing for my college newspaper and in a rock band that rehearsed five nights a week and gigged all the time.
Sometimes it’s all a bit of blur to me — which jobs I worked and what year and what else I was doing. It goes on and on with music and writing projects, and extracurricular activities. There was just always this sense that I had to be doing more than the basic thing I was doing, whether that was school or a job or a band or a relationship. Just getting by was never enough. I always had to have something else going on. Something had to be happening, in addition to the thing that just happened.
Even now. I work full-time in a job that for the last six years has included what seems like another full-time job stuffed into it. That’s plenty, yet I still feel a need to take on freelance writing jobs, or the occasional pro bono publicity gig or ask to be on a committee. It’s the older, more mature version of running football tickets, I guess. I book the occasional music gig. Play some bocce ball. It’s no wonder that my outdoor exercise activity of choice is bicycling. I’m going somewhere and doing something.
I’m obsessed with my own productivity.
So why am I like this? While it was about the money when I was 12-years old, it’s certainly not anymore. Am I overcompensating for something? Afraid to stand still? Am I, as the New York Times article suggests, just trying to justify my own existence? I’m not sure. I wonder if it’s some trickling-down of the immigrant experience. My father was an immigrant from Italy, and in addition to working long hours, sometimes 12-hour days selling men’s clothing, he would play cards all hours of the night at the Italian club. He would watch soccer games on TV, but I don’t get the sense he liked to sit still very often. My sister is the same as me, but on speed. I don’t know how she accomplishes all she does, working a full-time job, raising two teenagers, resurfacing furniture, walking seven miles a night, keeping up with her friends and calling my mother to check in. And that’s just the beginning of what she does. She’s the only person I know who can lose a job in this economy and get a new one in two weeks.
She’s a hustler.
If it’s not the immigrant experience, maybe it’s the neighborhood I grew up in. I imagine most of the people I grew up with, or any kids that grew up in middle class, mostly-immigrant families in the city, feel the same way I do. Most of us were never home much. Why would we be when there was a whole city to explore. We didn’t get used to the couch. Or the TV. We looked out the window and there were things happening. So we had to make things happen, too. And that became our natural state of being.
So maybe “crazy busy” does sound silly. And maybe some of us are indeed trying to justify our existence. But maybe some of us can’t help it, either. It’s just who we are. We still stop to smell the roses, and take time to contemplate and be reflective. We just do it in our own way and on our own time, even if that means having to schedule the time to do it. We’ll make it happen. Especially when we constantly worry that the roses won’t be there to smell tomorrow.
# # #
You Need This!
Welcome to the morning productivity and anti- aggravation tool (MPAAT). Real easy to use. Simply slip your iPhone in it at night, and when you wake up in the morning, you’re reminded not to open the damn thing. Drink some coffee, read or write a little. Meditate. Voila! Say farewell to something pissing you off in the morning and starting you down a rabbit hole, and hello to a new day. At 9:00 a.m., simply slip your iPhone out and you’re ready to go. Let me know if you want me to make you one. They’re cheap.
In no particular order, and for no particular reason, here are a few of my favorite things from the world of culture in 2010. (Caveat: not a “best of,” mind you, just some stuff I liked.)
(Film) Exit Through The Gift Shop – Elaborate art stunt or stranger-than-fiction documentary? In the end, it doesn’t really matter. Elusive street artist/prankster Banksy’s film is the most fun I’ve had at a documentary, or “documentary,” screening this year.
(Chapter of a Book) Bob Dylan in America – Sean Wilentz, Chapter 4, The Sound of 3:00 am: The Making of Blonde on Blonde, New York City and Nashville, October 5, 1965-March 10(?), 1966: For the most part, Wilentz’s book is a bit of a frustrating letdown, a scholarly assessment of Dylan’s work rife with conjecture. It should have been titled “Aaron Copland, Blind Willie Mctell and Bob Dylan in America” and published as a musicology thesis. He’s clearly a fan and scholar, and means well, and the book does have moments that sent me off to do research or on to iTunes to check out music I hadn’t heard. The highlight of the book, though, is the engrossing chapter 4, which places the reader inside those mysterious and historic Blonde on Blonde recording sessions.
(Film/Music/Liner Notes/Notebook Reproduction) The Promise: The Darkness on the Edge of Town Story – The Holy Grail for those Springsteen fans, myself included, who love Darkness on the Edge of Town above all else. The documentary on its own is a revelation, full of interviews with Springsteen, The E-Street Band and the record’s engineers that take you inside the artist’s mind, and what appears to have been grueling studio sessions to realize his vision. The box set, with the 2 CDs of tracks that didn’t make the record, a remastered Darkness and several DVDs of concert footage is a Springsteen geekfest.
(Music) The Gaslight Anthem – American Slang: There are moments when I think The Gaslight Anthem are the only band that matters right now, but I know that’s not fair, to them or the memory of The Clash. But still, it’s hard to listen to this record, which i did hundreds of times it seems this summer, and not get caught up in their energy and lust for life. They’re going for it, and taking us with them. And maybe we need that sometimes. Or at least I do.
(Film) I Am Love: Dramatic, sensual, epic and tense, Tilda Swinton and director Luca Guadagnino have created a near masterpiece. A metaphor for a changing world and an homage to great Italian cinema. The film is full of passion, style and food.
(Concert) The Hold Steady at the Exit/In: Finally seeing one of my favorite contemporary rock bands in a small club was everything I had hoped and more. The new record, while slightly uneven comparatively, is great as well.
(Art) Marina Abramovic: The Artist is Present – a new work and Career Retrospective at MOMA, NYC: I knew very little of performance artist Marina Abramovic’s work before catching this exhibit at MOMA in the spring. My relationship with art and my understanding of it changed a little that day. It was deeply affecting, and to this day, I still think about it. It’s tempting to incorrectly take in contemporary or performance art and ask “What does it mean,” but this exhibit forces you to ask “What does it mean to me?” What do I feel while experiencing this?” I only wish I could have sat across from her in the atrium. She’s a new hero.
(Book) Just Kids – Patti Smith – Every year, if I’m lucky, there’s one thing, a book or a movie usually, that I just can’t stop talking about. Something I want everyone to read or see; something I might give everyone as a gift. This year, it’s Just Kids. Smith’s memoir of her young artistic life in NYC with fellow artist Robert Mapplethorpe is astonishing in its beauty and tenderness. It’s about art, and love and New York City, and dreams we’ve all had, and maybe can still.
(Television) Mad Men Season 4 – For someone who works in television, I don’t watch it that much. But in four years, I haven’t missed an episode of Mad Men. I know this can’t go on forever. There’s bound to be an off season soon, but it hasn’t happened yet. This season, our antihero became a hero, and then an antihero again, and then did something so impulsive and out of character, we didn’t know what to think anymore. And it was beguiling.
(Book) Super Sad True Love Story – Gary Shteyngart: Hilarious and frightening, uplifting and depressing all at the same time, Shteyngart’s near-dystopian future America doesn’t seem like much of a stretch. Everyone is either Media or Credit, streaming, checking their iPhone like apparats, using the spawn of Facebook- Globalteens – and shopping at JuicyPussy and Ass Luxury. If it sounds crazy, it’s because it is. Much of this book is crazy. But it’s also tender. And as its title suggests, is a love story, albeit a sad one. A unique novel I absorbed in a two-day binge because I couldn’t let it go.
(Music) James Maddock, Sunrise On Avenue C – Every song on this former member of Wood’s independently released album makes me happy. “When the Sun’s Out” is the best summer song ever to use a harmless shoplifting incident as a backdrop for loving life. This record came out mid-to-late 2009, but I only discovered it in 2010. Thank you WFUV for introducing me to Maddock, and Maddock, thank you for coming out of whatever exile you were in to deliver this record.
(Art) Salvador Dali: The Late Work at the High Museum, Atlanta: I had a pedestrian understanding of Dali before this exhibit — all melting clocks, surrealism and long mustaches. But this outstanding show, complete with some of Dali’s iconic works, went deep into the artist’s work post-surrealism. Most interesting to me was discovering his early work in video art and his later embrace of Catholicism, where paintings meditated on the Madonna and Child and the crucifixion. He considered himself a Catholic without faith in those years. For someone who seemed publicly so unique and outside of the rest of us, discovering that honesty in soulful exploration is moving.
(Film) Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work: All documentary filmmakers should be as blessed as Ricki Stern and Annie Sundberg to have had as entertaining and honest a subject as Rivers. The film is raw, because Rivers is raw, opening herself up in ways I would have never expected. What you come away with is a deep understanding of a woman and an entertainer who has stayed young not because of the work she has had done, but because of the work she continues to do, obsessively and passionately. A film that’s funny, heartbreaking and inspiring. May all of our calendars stay full.
(Book) Mr. Peanut – Adam Ross: Forget for a moment that Ross’s tour de force of a novel revolves around massive marital dysfunction and husbands who may or may not have killed their wives. The guy can write. There are times I reread entire passages just to be sure I read what I did. You’ll want to stop reading during the part in the airplane bathroom, or during the hike in Hawaii, but you won’t be able to. He’s got you. And then you won’t be able to sleep if you read it anywhere close to bedtime. It’s a scary book. But it’s frightening if you love literature the way Hitchcock films are frightening if you love film. A truly unique and exhilarating reading experience.
(Book) Eat, Pray, Love – Elizabeth Gilbert: Of course the book came out a few years ago, but the release of the movie – widely panned critically and universally dismissed by fans of the book – sparked a renewed interest. Culturally curious as I am, I set out on a quiet marathon reading. When in public killing time, or at a coffeeshop for lunch, I folded the front cover back and wished, just this once, that I had a Kindle. The verdict? Well, it overstays its welcome in spots, but ultimately, Gilbert’s a fantastic writer, and it’s hard not to get pulled into her prose and positive search for answers to her own, and the world’s, mystery. It resonated with me in many spots. I’m glad I read it. I understand the love that many have for it.
(Music) Arcade Fire – The Suburbs: Not since The Wrens’ The Meadowlands has a record sonically enveloped me so quickly. Even before you begin absorbing what the songs are about, you’re caught up in what they SOUND like they’re about. And that sound is isolation. With each listen, I’m wrapped up more. Beautiful stuff. Art on record.
(Book/Celebration) 50th Anniversary of To Kill a Mockingbird – Harper Lee. In honor of the 50th Anniversary of it being published, I reread Lee’s novel. And reloved it. I wish we could have a nationwide book club, and that this book would show up in everyone’s mailbox, and we could all read it together. Again.
(An abridged version of this essay appeared in Bohemian Rhapsodies: True and Authorized Tales by Queen Fans & Celebrities, compiled and edited by Robyn Dunford and Kelly Franke (Rock N Roll Books, 2011)
I discovered the rock band Queen when I was nine years-old. I came to them younger than most, but at the same time, later than those who knew better. Freddie Mercury, Brian May, Roger Taylor and John Deacon came to me through the airways of WNEW on a summer afternoon in 1980, while hanging out with my sister Mary in my brother Nick’s room. I say I came to them late because in 1980, Queen had just released their album, The Game. “Another One Bites the Dust” was the single that I heard on the radio, and it was my first introduction to the band. While the song remains one of their biggest and most recognizable hits, anyone who knew anything about rock music at the time knew that the band’s work on 1975′s A Night at the Opera, or ’74′s Sheer Heart Attack or even 1978′s Jazz was far superior. By the time I discovered them, they had already released a live record, 1979′s Live Killers, a sure sign that a band had been around awhile.
When I heard “Another One Bites the Dust,” I jumped up on my brother’s bed and started dancing.
“Who is that?” I shouted over the funky bass line to my sister.
“It’s Queen,” she coolly replied.
“I LOVE IT,” I shouted back.
“Nicky has their album,” she said and pulled the eight-track from my brother’s shelf.
And that was it. The combination of Mercury’s soaring vocals and May’s guitar solos were unlike anything I had ever heard before. I was a Queen fan. I lived and breathed the band from that point on, and had plenty of work to do. Once I absorbed The Game, down to knowing exactly when the eight-track would cut off mid-song, I had to track down everything else they had ever recorded.
There was a record store in the same mall in Jersey City where my Dad managed a men’s clothing store and did tailoring work. So on the days I’d go to the store to help him out, I’d take my breaks at WOW Records in search of Queen music. Right off the bat, I discovered 1974′s Queen II, a drastically different sounding record than The Game. While on The Game, the band looked tough and cool in black leather framed by a blue-silver border, Queen II had their four faces on the cover. Their hair was longer and it looked like they were wearing make-up. The inside picture had them sitting together, very close to one another, dressed all in white. Was this the same band? The music offered further complications, as the songs were full of massive choral harmonies and epic song-structures, with lyrics that referenced ogres and white queens and the seven seas of Rhye. What the hell were the seven seas of Rhye? Had the liner notes not stated the names of the band members, there was no way you could have convinced me this was the same band.
Despite the confusion, I loved the songs on Queen II just as much as The Game. More discovery came soon after. I bought A Night at the Opera on cassette, Sheer Heart Attack and News of the World on vinyl. For Christmas I asked for Queen’s Jazz record, and freaked my family out by blasting the hymn “Mustapha” throughout the house. If that wasn’t enough to disturb my parents, Jazz came with a poster featuring hundreds of naked women riding bicycles. At the same time that I was trying to make sense of the progression of this band that I had just become the biggest fan of, my mom and dad were surely trying to make sense of what was happening to their son. It was quite clear, though. Their son had discovered rock n roll.
It wasn’t easy being a Queen fan in the early 80′s, especially in the Jersey City Heights neighborhood where I grew up. I quickly learned that among my friends who were also devouring rock n roll, Queen didn’t demand much respect.
“Whadda’ya a fag?” my friend Jamie asked me once.
“No,” I replied. “Why?”
“Freddie’s a fuckin’ flamer”
“No, he’s not.”
“Whadda’ya kiddin’ me? Look at him. He’s a fuckin’ fag.”
“So what?! He’s da best singer in da world. Who’s betta’?”
“David Lee Roth’s a dousan’ times betta’ den Queen. AC/DC, Black Sabbath, the Stones, why don’t ya’ listen ta some real music ya’ fuckin’ fag?”
It’s true, of course, that Freddie Mercury was gay. I knew it and everyone else knew it. But I didn’t care. If my friends couldn’t get past it, that was their problem. They were MY band. And while they weren’t as cool of a band as AC/DC or Van Halen or The Who in those peoples’ eyes, I was certain they were better than all those bands combined.
But the hardest thing about being a Queen fan in the early 80′s wasn’t even the criticism from my friends, it was the lack of memorabilia with which to outwardly express my allegiance. There were no Queen T-shirts, or posters or hats to wear and tell the world I was z Queen fan. At the local bazaar at St. Nicholas Church, there was a booth where you could win T-shirts, and there were plenty of Iron Maiden, or Van Halen or Rolling Stone shirts, but nothing with Queen on it. I had to resort to getting a T-shirt made at an airbrush painting booth on the Jersey Shore. Call it homemade fan appreciation. I was sad.
We put so much pressure on the narrators of the books we’re reading. From the get go, they can make or break the story they’re telling. In the four narrators I’ve met in the last three books I’ve read, one taught me empathy, one made me laugh and want to cook (though not what he was cooking), one charmed me with her passion to make it on her own, and one, well, let’s say hope I never meet him again.
Perhaps it was just having seen the extraordinary documentary “The Horse Boy,” about a parents’ search for a cure for their son’s autism, that made me particularly empathetic to the plight of the narrator Christopher Boone in Mark Haddon‘s 2003 novel The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time. There’s a subject interviewed in the film who says that there is nothing wrong with people with autism. They’re just different kinds of human beings. That comment stuck with me as I read the book. Christopher has Asperger’s Syndome. His parents are separated. A dog has been murdered in his neighborhood and he must find out who did it. He counts cars on the way to school, their colors dictating what kind of day he’s going to have. He does math in his head to relax himself. By taking us inside Christopher’s mind, Haddon has created the most memorable character, in a book that I’ve read, since Owen Meany in John Irving’s A Prayer for Owen Meany. Like everyone around Christopher, we need to have patience with him. He’s our narrator after all, and the only way we’re going to get the story. But he never asks for it. He knows his limitations and what he must do, and that’s why we empathize with him. Even when we start to sense where his detective work will lead him, we still understand his needs and support him. What’s most wonderful about the book is how, in empathizing with Christopher, we empathize with those around him as well: the father who is trying his best, the mother who had to be honest with herself, and the neighbors saying and doing the things they think are best for Christopher. The novel is an absolute joy to read. I loved it.
If you’ve fantasized about living in Italy (and who hasn’t?), you’ve certainly read Frances Mayes’ Under the Tuscan Sun, or Ferenc Máté’s The Hills of Tuscany, or one of my favorites, Robert Hutchinson’s When in Rome. If you’ve read James Hamilton-Paterson‘s hilarious 2005 novel Cooking with Fernet Branca, though, it’s not all villas and helpful villagers and handsome guys named Marcello. Sometimes it’s shady realtors, annoying neighbors, eccentric Italian film directors, late night helicopter visits and too much of the medicinal digestivo of the title. That’s fine by me.
Hamilton-Paterson gives us the story through alternating narrators. First is the culinary adventurous, borderline-sinister Gerard Samper, a celebrity sports figure ghost writer about to embark on an autobiography of a boy-band-star wanting legitimacy. Marta is his neighbor, an emigre from Central Europe working on a film score for a famous Italian filmmaker. While Gerry is busy being appalled and irritated by just about everyone, whipping up the most ridiculous recipes — one of his early ones a Garlic and Fernet Branca ice cream meant to scare his neighbor away — Marta is stealthily taking advantage of Gerry’s unique vocal stylings to inform her new score. We get both sides of the story. It’s Gerry that truly makes the book click and gives it its snap, while Marta provides the saner counterpoint, especially when observing Gerry.
I read the book on the beach, where I think it’s meant to be read. It’s light, laugh-out-loud funny and hits the spot. You’ll still want to live in Italy after it, perhaps even moreso. In a moment of synchronicity after, I was in a local liquor store looking to replenish my stash of the Italian digestivo Amaro — it’s hard to come by in Nashville — when the salesman and I started talking about other herbal Italian after-dinner drinks. He said, “there’s another one, like Amaro, that Italians drink. What is it? I can’t think of it.” He was racking his brain when I responded, “Fernet?” “Yes! That’s it. Fernet Branca!” I had never heard of Fernet Branca until the book
It’s been almost twenty years since Douglas Coupland published Generation X: Tales for an Accelerated Culture and popularized a name for those post-boomers among us born between 1961 and 1981. We were cynical and sarcastic. Disaffected. We watched too much television when we were kids. Consumed too much music, gave the world MTV, Madonna and Nirvana and would be the first generation to make less than our parents. We liked The Replacements and wondered why they weren’t bigger. We were artists, by default. So what has become of us, other than our hoping to come across a Hot Tub Time Machine? According to Jeff Gordinier in the enjoyable X Saves the World: How Generation X Got the Shaft but Can Still Keep Everything from Suckin,’ we did OK, sorta. He reminds us that much of the golden age of the internet was created by Xers. Many great world-changing non-profits are helmed by Xers, as is our nation. President Obama was born at beginning of the generation, in 1961.
If we look to Sam Lipsyte‘s novel, The Ask, we’re still cynical and sarcastic, and making less than our parents. In fact, we’re assholes. And Miles, the narrator of the book, is our living embodiment. An artist who never really succeeded — he doesn’t paint anymore, anyway — he now helps young artists reach their dreams by working in the development department of a small liberal arts college. The title of the novel refers to the all-important pitch that development folks, at universities, non-profits, cultural institutions, hospitals, etc., make to potential donors. It’s “the ask,” and the donor is “the ask.” Miles isn’t so good at it. After saying something inappropriate to the student daughter of a major donor, Miles is fired, only to be asked back when Purdy, a potential major donor and former classmate of Miles from college, personally requests him. After that, it’s all a bit convoluted. Purdy’s got a son whose legs have been blown off in the Iraq war and is blackmailing him. Miles marriage is falling apart. There’s a guy who builds decks and has an idea for a reality show. Purdy’s son crashes a cocktail party and yells, “Daddy.” It’s all too much really, and should sound the death knell for any attempt at art about the generation. We may not be that interesting. Miles knows this too, and in chapter twenty-five, Lipsyte delivers a zinger of dialogue. In a conversation with his supervisor Vargina (pronounced just like you think it is), Miles asks:
“No. I mean, if I were the protagonist of a book or a movie, it would be hard to like me , to identify with me, right?”
“I would never read a book like that, Milo. I can’t think of anyone who would. There’s no reason for it.”
Bonus “Thought on What I’ve Been Reading.”
I don’t read many business books, but every now and then, one piques my interest. Seth Godin has legions of fans, and I check in on his blog fairly often, but Linchpin is the first of his books that I’ve read. Like most other business books, there’s much that applies and much that doesn’t. While early chapters didn’t speak to me, the remainder of the book is an inspiring gem that will get you working on new projects (“projects are the new resumes,” Godin tells us) and approaching your current job with renewed vigor. We’re all artists in Godin’s view, and once we accept that, we’ll be better prepared to work in the new economy.
A guitar-vocal demo of a new song, inspired by Giuseppe Tornatore’s film, Cinema Paradiso.
Beautiful Then (Paradiso)
If all of the kisses I’ve had in my life
Were dropped out, left on the cutting room floor
It’d be yours I remember much more
If somebody found them and spliced them together
On to a reel so I could remember I’d be
Alone in the theatre to see
You and me
Oh, wasn’t it beautiful then?
There’d be no premiere on the red carpet
Just me all alone with my ticket in pocket in line
Waiting to go back in time
To that kiss in the rain under umbrellas
Completely unscripted like nothing else mattered but when
We’d be together again
Beautiful then
Oh, wasn’t it beautiful then?
I should have pulled you close
And held you in my arms
Directed another kiss
To turn the camera on
Now I can only dream of a scene
Of when it was beautiful then
It was beautiful then
As we arrive at final embraces
The camera close up on both of our faces we stay
The camera cuts away
Cutaway
Oh, wasn’t it beautiful then?
By Joe Pagetta
Copyright © 2010
This year at the Nashville Film Festival, the Gibson Corporation was gracious enough to station its tour bus outside the theatre, where it was available for interviews and tours. As the publicist for the Festival, I scheduled many of the interviews, and introduced many of our celebs and out-of-town visitors to its many guitars and charms. But as a singer-songwriter and guitarist myself, it put me in a precarious position. Just a few feet away was an escape from the busy days of the Festival, filled with some of Gibson’s finest acoustic and electric guitars. To satisfy the urge, videographer Chris Massey and I hatched a plan. We would pop into the bus during some downtime, grab the Epiphone J200 off the wall, turn on the video camera, and I would quickly play one of my latest compositions. This wasn’t an entirely well thought-out plan, though. It turned out that I didn’t know this new composition as well as I thought. At least not at first. I got it eventually. For posterity’s sake, here are the results of the plan, and the new song, “Looking For You.”
Watch it here:
or watch it directly on YouTube.
One of the great things about being an independent artist and selling your music digitally through iTunes and other online services, is that you can get a complete list of the songs that are selling, from which site they are selling, and their popularity. It’s a handy indication of not necessarily your best songs (or what you think are your best), but at least what listeners like the best. The disconnect between the two can often be fascinating.
When I’m asked about my music, I sometimes give people one or more of my CDs, hope they’ll listen to them all, and then come up with a complete sense of what I do. But I know that’s not practical. Sometimes as an introduction, too much music can backfire. Lately, via Facebook, I’ve reconnected with many people I grew up with or went to school with who didn’t know I was a musician. They’ve asked about my music, and again, I find myself either mailing out some discs, or recommending one or another on iTunes. So I’ve come up with a solution. Why not send them a “Best Of?” Or a least a collection of what the majority of listeners think are the best? Again, as I mentioned, the songs I think are my best, and what listeners think are the best are not necessarily the same thing. Some of what’s been most popular (“Beautiful Woman”) and what hasn’t (“Haven’t Seen Myself,” Joywood version) I even find perplexing. But perhaps this is proof that while we’re our own worst enemy — “My Biggest Enemy,” by the way, is popular — and harshest critic, we’re often not the most objective assessor of our talents (whatever that means).
So here it is, JOE PAGETTA: THE BEST OF … SORT OF, a collection of my most popular digital songs from my last three releases, neatly compiled here and available as an iMix at iTunes. If you’ve got iTunes on your computer, you can access it directly here. Perhaps I’ll make a companion iMix soon, titled PROUDEST OF, where I can compile the songs that I’m proud of that didn’t make this list. There’d be some crossover, for sure, but it would definitely include “Haven’t Seen Myself.”
Thanks for listening. Hope you enjoy.
JOE PAGETTA: THE BEST OF … SORT OF (iTunes iMix)
Tears of Lake Michigan/Small Worlds (2001)
Ebenezer Scrooge/Joywood (2004)
Cherry Baby/Joywood (2004)
Practice Makes Perfect/Other People’s News (2007)
Beautiful Woman/Small Worlds (2001)
Break Down/Joywood (2004)
Both Be Wrong/Other People’s News (2007)
My Biggest Enemy/Joywood (2004)
Church or Train Station/Other People’s News (2007)
Lift You Up/Joywood  (2004)