It’s been about a year since I put out Strange vol 1, and since then I’ve collected another batch of home recordings and little demos to share with you.
Some were made with a 4-track cassette recorder, others were played and sung directly into an iPhone.
I am intrigued by this raw and unfiltered approach. These tracks are more like field recordings, capturing an artist in the wild. There’s no studio polish, no producer to interfere, and no second guessing on behalf of the performer. It is what it is, they are what they are… and they are for you.
I’ll post the collection next week for download, but for now you can explore Strange vol 1 and enjoy another mad, brilliant illustration from my friend AstroMonkey.
Country music is so pure. Somebody called it the white man’s blues, I forget who though. It’s hard to write. You have to be simple and sincere.
This one took me about 3 years to write. “Go on and be with him”… that line came easy. BANG. The rest was a long and frustrating hunt. But she’s dead now, mounted on my wall with the rest. Goodnight old girl. I love you.
My parents own a house down in Bradley Beach. It was decided that this house is where my wife, daughter, and beagle would be spending our 1-week summer getaway as a family.
Behind the house is a small “bungalow” of sorts. It’s kind of a mini house of its own. There are two floors. The first is simply a living room with a bathroom, and then upstairs is a tiny kitchen and two small bedrooms. A screen door leads out to a quaint balcony, complete with railing planters and a glider for two. This bungalow is where we stayed.
We did not do too much all week except get up, drink coffee, walk down to the beach, come back, eat lunch, nap, wake up, hang with family, eat dinner, put the baby to bed, chill for an hour, then sleep. That was pretty much the extent of it. It was wonderful.
I got to dig into some Steinbeck—The Grapes of Wrath. I also played lots of piano (there’s one in my parent’s basement, an old spinet). My sister and her husband visited for a night or two, I played a gig in a nearby shore town of Toms River, we had a couple meals out with my folks, one night I ate some strange cookies and saw Planet of the Apes, another night my wife and I watched Stir Crazy with Richard Pryor and Gene Wilder, and yet another night we recorded our very first single as the blues duo DREAM HOUSE. My father-in-law came down with his girlfriend one day and we chatted for a while, then went over to Vic’s for some pizza. The order of these events is sort of a blur to me, and it doesn’t really matter anyway.
There is one day out on the beach that I remember more than all the others. The tide was high and the waves tumbled in at a good clip. The water was not too cold, we could go down and walk along the surf together. We all held hands, my wife on one side of my daughter and I on the other, taking a few steps and then swinging her up into the air, causing her to shriek with delight. I know people say things about the sweetness of a child’s laughter, but when it’s your own child all of those horribly cliche things that make you squirm as a younger man (or perhaps woman) suddenly become true—almost in an instant.
This is the strongest memory I’m taking away from the vacation. It’s frozen there in my mind like a Polaroid picture. Probably because I have seen it so many times before. It’s a scene that is so wholly unimaginative, and yet it is the one I keep returning to.
The week ended and we packed up our Toyota Rav4 like a good American family does: daughter in the carseat, doggie in the carrier, and ma and pa up front with a couple of Grandes for the road. I wish I could say the sky was pink as we drove off from the house, and maybe it was, but for now this is all I can remember.