Taking Inventory (An Open Letter To Sandy)

What's really important?

I remember when I used to fret when a little water leaked onto my bathroom tile after a shower.  I remember it just like it was yesterday because it was yesterday.  "Gotta caulk that up," Dad would say.

Today I am homeless.  My basement and back yard are still under water.  I'm all out of caulk, Dad.

Anyone wanna go for a swim?  Water's a lil' brown....

What's really important?

In October, 2009, I bought a house on Staten Island.  I was married and looking to expand, a Brooklyn native and Manhattan commuter looking to start a quieter life with my new wife and crazy Westie dog.  

In March, 2011, I asked my wife to leave that house.  It was the same day I had to drive my father to his surprise 60th birthday party in Coney Island.  I asked for a divorce and celebrated Dad's six decades on the planet all on the same day.  Surprise!

A divorce is not an easy thing.  It was a rocky time.  After the 'we're getting married' high wears off, no high can truly mask the problems that exist - and will always exist.  I loved her, I tried.  It was un-fixable.  So I asked her to leave.  I kept the house and the dog, she took my savings.  One friend put it best: "You're buying your life back."

I bought my life back, but at more than I bargained for.  In June, my central air unit fried out for 11 days during the middle of a heat wave.  "Gotta get that fixed," Dad would say.  In August, Hurricane Irene did battle with my sump pump and I bailed dirty sewer water from one side of my house to the other for an entire evening to prevent my basement from flooding.  The water never properly invaded. Foolishly, I saw this as a sign of my resurgence.  

I had invested in the house and I would keep it -- bad memories, warts and all.  Fees were paid, changes were made.  I got back on my feet slowly.

What's really important?

I kept Bald Freak Music, my humble indie record label, open for business. I had bought a house for that reason too - to make music in my own space, to run a business and sell my art from my basement.  Y'know, the one that's under water now.

I was still convinced I could make a living from music making.  I rewired my entire studio.  I started archiving audio, learning the software.  I was making more time for it, finally -- long hours and late nights in front of the mixing board.  I was going to make one last album, on my own, in my house.  Y'know, the one that's under water now.

R.I.P.

What's really important?

I dated.  Poorly.  I divorced a few friends and band mates.  When in Rome...

I met someone late last year who seemed special.  We took it slow.  A nice change of pace.  There was something there that made me believe again.  I had certainly lost faith, not only in women, but in the choices I've made in women.  But you have to believe -- you have to want it -- and this one felt different.  It wasn't just the great sex or her gorgeous eyes or how she filled out a dress.  It was hope.  If you don't have hope, you have nothing.  But hope and I have often had our differences. 

Late yesterday afternoon -- after the phone prodding from my parents had finally worn me down -- my Westie and I evacuated to my uncle's house. I packed up the car and drove two miles north to spend the night with Uncle Butch, who had open heart surgery a week prior. 

My uncle's kitchen counter was a pharmacy. Pill bottles everywhere. His bird Rocky and my dog Buttons scoped each other out. I brought my DVD copy of The Wolf Man. This was my crew for the storm that was coming -- a parrot, a Westie, an invalid and Lon Chaney Jr.

Meanwhile, my radio co-workers were bonding in a New York City hotel, my friends were with their wives and kids, my parents together in Pennsylvania, my sister and brother-in-law on Long Island.

A few hours later, the horror stories about what was happening in and around my Staten Island neighborhood started trickling in. Buttons slept on my chest on one leather couch, my uncle dozed off on the other. The power went out, the surge hit.  

Laying there in the dark, all I could think of was her.  But she was with someone else too.  

What's really important?

Dozens of people wished me well today via social media, many sent a text.  Of course, few of these people would have known about the destruction of my home if not for social media in the first place.  My parents called often.... my sister, a friend or two.  That was it.  All most of us cared about before a superstorm were our devices... quality WiFi, a charged iPhone.  Myself included.  What would we be without them?  It felt insane to me to feel compelled to report to the world that my house was destroyed while others were posting about politics, their kids, football scores, rock concerts.  What a fucked up world of communication we have welcomed into our lives.

"Nothing else matters as long as you're safe."

Heard that a lot today.  Is it truth tho?  It feels like everything else matters. The start of what will be a long and ridiculously hard recovery, including where the hell am I gonna live now?  That matters.  My traumatized dog by my side through all this.  His well-being.  That matters.

I fought to keep my house. I invested a huge chunk of my savings into buying and upgrading it, then gave up what was left of that savings to keep it for myself.  I could have tapped out then, I could have sold it.  Instead, I dug in. Now I will always second-guess that choice - my choice.  Today I lost computers, synthesizers, televisions, turntables, microphones, toys, comic books, video games, baseball cards, important documents, furniture, food, photos, artwork, recording equipment, a massive vinyl record collection. My childhood. My history. I still haven't buried any of it.  I can't even get to it yet.  Bald Freak Music's entire physical existence has been obliterated.  Is that really important?  What really matters?

Love.
Companionship.
Communication.
Hope.

If you've found love, keep it close.  Nurture it, value it.  Be true to your family and your friends.  Don't just offer to help them.  HELP them.  Talk to people. With your mouth.  Discover gratitude - you might find some light in the darkest of places.

Since my divorce, I've felt disconnected from the world.  But I've used that time to take inventory.  Do you truly feel compassion for me?  Invite me into your lives.  Write a song with me.  Play a show with me.  Come visit my new place, wherever that may be.  Laugh with me, cry with me, have a beer with me, smoke a joint with me.  This is my personal request to any of you who know me in real life.  Be there for me.  I need you now more than ever.

Take inventory of your life.  It is still your most precious asset.

Before today, I was a lost soul only in spirit.  Now I am truly without an address.  Maybe - just maybe - that's the way it was meant to be.

I WILL FUCKING SURVIVE THIS 

The Last Q*Ball Album: FOCUS

I'm working on my last album.

This week - in between horror movie watching and marathon training - I will begin mixing and tweaking the songs I've recorded over the past 2+ years.

Q*Ball was born right after the turn of the century, an intended solo project I started with my friend Ron "Bumblefoot" Thal, who was gracious enough to contribute not only as a guitarist but also as an engineering and producing mentor.  We did three albums together, and Ron's expertise and patience behind the mixing board are something I have never been able to match as an independent electronic musician.  And while Q*Ball has never achieved mainstream success, I was always encouraged by Ron's (mostly) positive response to the songs we were working on.

As a non-touring, barely-show-playing artist over the last decade, I certainly didn't have a ton of fans, but enough to validate the project's existence.  I made some surprisingly decent money thru various licensing deals and used that money to start a record label so I could put myself in charge of the destiny of my own musical adventures.

A decade later, my life has changed tremendously.  The music industry has imploded.  Most attempts to put a live show together have fallen flat, and the ones that did come together were almost always underwhelming.  Bumblefoot joined Guns N' Roses, effectively downsizing his commitment to the project.

It's been tough.  I don't lament any of that.  Shit happens, you learn and grow.  My big regret is not getting infinitely better at recording the music myself - I can point fingers at other people or circumstances that prevented that from happening.  Pointing fingers is pointless.  Instead, I'm learning how to be self-sufficient as an artist and as a producer.  I still have a lot of work to do.

The time is now, the past is the past, and it's time to FOCUS.

So I need a focus group.  What's a focus group?  A select group of people who tell you what's good and what's shite.

 
It's difficult to trust my own instincts after a decade of frustrating mediocrity and with no band mates, so I welcome the guidance - I'm not sure how good these new tunes are, or if they're any good at all.  Maybe they're all in the key of D minor and I haven't even noticed.  Maybe they sound like they're all about the same girl (they're not).  Maybe some need more cowbell.

These are the songs currently in contention for inclusion on the new album, and there are about a dozen more in demo form, another half dozen still being worked on.  It will be refreshing to, for once, be selective about what songs to include and save the rest for the B-side bin (or perhaps the trash bin).
I feel a strong urge to put these new songs out there, but in today's musical Wild West show, I'm not even sure what format to release them in.  CDs are relics, vinyl is awesome but super expensive and restrictive as far as content, and digital is an invitation for a speedy burnout.  These songs tell the story of my life over the past few years - my struggles to maintain and then escape a shitty marriage, my struggles to find myself again as a single thirtysomething guy, my struggles to trust my own deceptive heart and deal with the deceptions of the alluring females who have entered and exited my new existence.  Some Q*Ball songs may be intentionally goofy, but most of the rest are about women.  Fact is, before I started Q*Ball, I was romantically as happy as I've ever been; afterwards, not so much.

Q*Ball may have once been my destiny, but now it's my therapy.  I need a few musical shrinks to work out the kinks - so far I have secured two spots, including my friend JJ Kincaid, talented afternoon drive jock at Z100 whose musical tastes I greatly respect (along with his often inappropriate sense of humor).  It would be great to add 3-4 more people into the mix, preferably a female fan, an industry female, and two fellow musicians.  Focus groups have rules, apparently, but I'll take what I can get.  If you're interested, please contact me via Facebook or Twitter, or thru this blog.

Basically, I'll send works-in-progress, demos, final mixes thru SoundCloud on a weekly (or so) basis and ask for honest critiques and answers to specific questions.  It's as simple as that.  In exchange, a big THANK YOU in my liner notes, a free copy of the finished product, and my eternal gratitude.  If that's not enough, we can always talk sexual favors or free drugs.

Regular album updates and videos will appear here and at www.baldfreak.com over the next few months.  Thank you for listening.