You do insane things like attempt to run 100 mile marathons for fun. My friend Chase is one of these insane folks. He moved to Colorado to train for these masochistic events. He and his wife flew to Hawaii for him to run in the HURT 100. As luck would have it, he ended up projectile vomiting. Could be an interesting addition to my latest project: The Shitter Sessions: Classic Country's Ode to the Commode. In this case, the outhouse or rather side of a path somewhere in Hawaii. Watch where you step. You never know what you'll find.
The video is priceless:
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Monday, January 19, 2009
Mom's Always Right For Better or Worse
Last April, I was crestfallen during a visit with my mom out West while playing some of my music for her. For years, I've wanted to prove to her that years of piano and voice lessons at the local conservatory weren't a complete and utter waste of time and money.
So, I played her a recording I did for an arts radio station across the pond a few years ago. It was my tribute to dead songwriters (because they're the least likely to kill you for ruining their songs) by six degrees of separation. It was all country and bluegrass covers by dead songwriters with some by live songwriters who had some connection to the dead songwriters with banter mixed. Banter was a requirement for airplay. Apparently, for my musical talent to be palatable, there must be banter and vice versa.
Of course, this meant that I had to have beer whenever I recorded. And just about anything -- the irritating birds, someone's evil little dog just begging to be thrown in a wood chipper -- qualified as a topic of banter.
I was particularly proud of this recording. As my m omlistened to it, I noticed her look a little bored. "Honey, it sounds contrived like you're trying to sound like someone else," she said. To which I wanted to reply, "Listen, tone-deaf old woman, if you keep it up, I'm sending you to a home. You might want to get an ear drum replacement before you listen to my music again. Stick to art, your specialty. Not music. That's mine."
Of course, I bit my tongue as my heart sank. My own mother thought I was a fraud. Alas. Then, I pulled out my weird stuff. "Oh, that's cool. Your voice has an interesting warmth to it," she said. What? My strange wah-wahed stuff has more warmth than any effort of mine to sound "normal."
Well, after I got over my bruised ego, I realized she was completely right. The weirder the better. Still doesn't prevent me from singing country or roots crap for fun.
The other day, I discovered a new recording location -- the pot, the shithouse, shitter, commode, toilet, loo -- whatever you want to call it, thanks to my friends over at Bobtown, who've been getting some seriously cool evil sounds out of their recording setup.
Then I realized part of their secret. I don't know why it's taken me so long to take the leap. So, I recorded a Don Gibson song I really love called Legend in My Time. I still sound contrived but I still love the song. It'll be the first song on a recording product known as "The Shitter Sessions."
But then I thought "why stop there?" A bunch of country tunes recorded in the shitter? How boring. That's not too terribly original. And then I had an epiphany. Why not recast famous country songs to honor the commode? Hence, The Shitter Sessions: Famous Country Music Odes to the Commode.
What a great marketing idea. Who could resist an album with the Willie Nelson doing "On The Throne Again"? Or Charley Rich's "Baited Bowels." Or the Carter Family's "Kneeling Drunkard's Pee" or the Louvin Brothers doing "My Chunks Have Blown" or the ole bluegrass classic "Shitting on the Top of the Swirl." Who in their right mind could resist such a musical product? I'm certain K-Tel records would love to release such a masterpiece.
I had to draw the line at Tammy Wynette's "B-U-L-I-M-I-A" for fear it would tempt young impressionable women to stick their fingers down their throats. I mean it, girls. Don't try that at home. Teeth are a terrible thing to waste. Besides, I couldn't seem to fit in E-X-L-A-X or G-A-G anywhere. It's not easy writing songs where words are spelled out.
So, I've begun this writing project already. Tell me what you think of my progress. I just have a feeling my mom's finally going to be proud of me once and for all. She'll learn not to find my music boring. She'll learn. :)
Shitting on the Top of the Swirl
It was the Spring. One dark day
Intestine blockage, it left me lame
Now it’s dissolved so I don’t worry
I shitting on the top of the swirl
My Chunks Have Blown
Hold back the rushing vomit
Let the room stand still
Don’t let the sunlight fall, usurp my failing will
Soak up the vodka
Unleash a groan
The night is over
My chunks have blown
On the Throne Again
On the throne again
Just can’t wait to get on the throne again
The life I love is getting shit-faced with my friends
Now I just need to get on the throne again
Kneeling Drunkard’s Pee
Oh lord, I’ve got to take a pee
Was the kneeling drunkard’s plea
And as he stumbled through the door
Alas, he whizzed all over the floor
Behind Commode Doors
And when I get behind commode doors then I whip my magazine out
And that’s when I know for sure I’m a man
Cause everyone knows what goes on behind commode doors
Baited Bowels
I miss you darling more and more each day
As a heart would miss its blood supply
With every movement, I rejoice to the heavens
And remember my baited bowels
So, I played her a recording I did for an arts radio station across the pond a few years ago. It was my tribute to dead songwriters (because they're the least likely to kill you for ruining their songs) by six degrees of separation. It was all country and bluegrass covers by dead songwriters with some by live songwriters who had some connection to the dead songwriters with banter mixed. Banter was a requirement for airplay. Apparently, for my musical talent to be palatable, there must be banter and vice versa.
Of course, this meant that I had to have beer whenever I recorded. And just about anything -- the irritating birds, someone's evil little dog just begging to be thrown in a wood chipper -- qualified as a topic of banter.
I was particularly proud of this recording. As my m omlistened to it, I noticed her look a little bored. "Honey, it sounds contrived like you're trying to sound like someone else," she said. To which I wanted to reply, "Listen, tone-deaf old woman, if you keep it up, I'm sending you to a home. You might want to get an ear drum replacement before you listen to my music again. Stick to art, your specialty. Not music. That's mine."
Of course, I bit my tongue as my heart sank. My own mother thought I was a fraud. Alas. Then, I pulled out my weird stuff. "Oh, that's cool. Your voice has an interesting warmth to it," she said. What? My strange wah-wahed stuff has more warmth than any effort of mine to sound "normal."
Well, after I got over my bruised ego, I realized she was completely right. The weirder the better. Still doesn't prevent me from singing country or roots crap for fun.
The other day, I discovered a new recording location -- the pot, the shithouse, shitter, commode, toilet, loo -- whatever you want to call it, thanks to my friends over at Bobtown, who've been getting some seriously cool evil sounds out of their recording setup.
Then I realized part of their secret. I don't know why it's taken me so long to take the leap. So, I recorded a Don Gibson song I really love called Legend in My Time. I still sound contrived but I still love the song. It'll be the first song on a recording product known as "The Shitter Sessions."
But then I thought "why stop there?" A bunch of country tunes recorded in the shitter? How boring. That's not too terribly original. And then I had an epiphany. Why not recast famous country songs to honor the commode? Hence, The Shitter Sessions: Famous Country Music Odes to the Commode.
What a great marketing idea. Who could resist an album with the Willie Nelson doing "On The Throne Again"? Or Charley Rich's "Baited Bowels." Or the Carter Family's "Kneeling Drunkard's Pee" or the Louvin Brothers doing "My Chunks Have Blown" or the ole bluegrass classic "Shitting on the Top of the Swirl." Who in their right mind could resist such a musical product? I'm certain K-Tel records would love to release such a masterpiece.
I had to draw the line at Tammy Wynette's "B-U-L-I-M-I-A" for fear it would tempt young impressionable women to stick their fingers down their throats. I mean it, girls. Don't try that at home. Teeth are a terrible thing to waste. Besides, I couldn't seem to fit in E-X-L-A-X or G-A-G anywhere. It's not easy writing songs where words are spelled out.
So, I've begun this writing project already. Tell me what you think of my progress. I just have a feeling my mom's finally going to be proud of me once and for all. She'll learn not to find my music boring. She'll learn. :)
Shitting on the Top of the Swirl
It was the Spring. One dark day
Intestine blockage, it left me lame
Now it’s dissolved so I don’t worry
I shitting on the top of the swirl
My Chunks Have Blown
Hold back the rushing vomit
Let the room stand still
Don’t let the sunlight fall, usurp my failing will
Soak up the vodka
Unleash a groan
The night is over
My chunks have blown
On the Throne Again
On the throne again
Just can’t wait to get on the throne again
The life I love is getting shit-faced with my friends
Now I just need to get on the throne again
Kneeling Drunkard’s Pee
Oh lord, I’ve got to take a pee
Was the kneeling drunkard’s plea
And as he stumbled through the door
Alas, he whizzed all over the floor
Behind Commode Doors
And when I get behind commode doors then I whip my magazine out
And that’s when I know for sure I’m a man
Cause everyone knows what goes on behind commode doors
Baited Bowels
I miss you darling more and more each day
As a heart would miss its blood supply
With every movement, I rejoice to the heavens
And remember my baited bowels
Dear My Space: You're a Macist
i cannot live without paragraph breaks so I've left you for blogger. it has been lovely but you're driving me crazy. d
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