Last Call at Uncle Johnny's

It's Last Call at Uncle Johnny's

Life is a passport.  Sometimes we plan our trips.  Sometimes life has other plans for us.  Four months ago, I made an unexpected pit stop at Uncle Johnny's.  Now it's time for Last Call.

She took this picture of us - the woman who set me afloat again with her lies and her bullshit and her empty promises of maturity and change and commitment.  Johnny and I posed for her this past holiday season.  Look at us.  We have no idea that - five months later - our lives will intertwine.  No knowledge that, thanks to the latest misadventure in this very interesting chapter in my life, Uncle Johnny would be stamping my passport and welcoming me into his madness.

Uncle Johnny isn't really my uncle.  In fact, I'm not sure he's anyone's uncle at all - not in the biblical sense, at least.  He's a friend of my boss who makes occasional appearances on the syndicated radio morning show I work for.  We both have no hair, fake teeth, and we both sing.  Uncle Johnny sings Louis Armstrong's "What A Wonderful World" and I sing about 40 electro-pop songs you've probably never heard of.



I moved into Uncle Johnny's apartment in May, a displaced victim of infidelity still recovering from being displaced by a superstorm.  I can still remember that feeling after Sandy - that numbness.  No, it wasn't the drugs.  It was a feeling like you're on another planet.  Everyone around you is doing their everyday and you're a homeless person, a charity case, maybe even an afterthought.  Everyone's train keeps on a rollin' and yours has gone completely off the rails.

Sandy was like that - first everyone cared a lot, then everyone cared a little, then most everyone went back to their real lives, leaving only the people who were affected to continue to care a lot.  Hey Obama, you're still coming back to Staten Island, right?  Right???

That numb feeling had returned, even if this wasn't Sandy.  Even if this new challenge wasn't much of a surprise, even after all the 'told ya so's were elicited by friends and family alike - politely and otherwise.  It was a risk to cohabit with someone who had already shown her stripes, who had already proven herself to be a Love Landmine.  But love is love and faith is faith, and I am who I am, and I took the leap.  I'd say I have no regrets, but unlike the person who let me down, I am not a liar.

I had just unloaded my watery Staten Island mausoleum, short sold it to the highest bidder.  HERE.  TAKE IT.  An acceptable loss after all that had happened just two Octobers ago, after an 18 month battle with the bank that essentially became a second job.  Moving back in was never a serious consideration - a different dude bought that house 5 years earlier.  That dude drowned with all the Batman comics and the Led Zeppelin albums.  Staten Island wasn't exactly a mecca for dating.  The Express Bus and I were already mortal enemies.  It was a half a million dollar washout, it was most of my life savings and almost all of my life inside.  And I was glad to be rid of it.  I was not in debt to any institutions even if I still felt indebted to all the people who had helped me get through that strange Sandy trip.

And now I was in this kickass new construction building with all the fixins - doormen, amenities, a view of the NYC skyline.  I had come all the way back.  But something was up.  Something was off.  I had felt this feeling before, my burning gut.  I had gotten off the mat and was up fighting again, only I was fighting against a tidal wave of bullshit this time, all coming out of the mouth of one woman who I had chosen to put my remaining stock in.  It was just like the house - an investment that quickly turned to garbage.  Only this was easier to walk away from.  It's always easier to recover when something predictable happens.  The night I finally discovered the whole truth, a sleepless night where I was forced to take shelter at my friend's place nearby, he put it into perspective. "What did you really learn tonight that you didn't already know?"  Truth.

And so I found myself on my way up to midtown a few weeks later, walking down from Penn Station to Uncle Johnny's.  I stopped in front of the church across the street and saw the building's exterior and I immediately knew this was where I was going to live.

Because I'm big into signs and there it was staring me in my fat face.  GROW.  This is what it has been all about for me - this over-stamped passport denoting five different residences since Sandy - this adult limbo that I've been trying to shake.  Something amazing had to come from all this.  Moving to Park Slope after the storm, running the NYC Marathon, getting the girl.  I was workin it, girl - all with one thought on my mind.   

Don't survive.  Thrive.

And now all that was behind me, but there was still plenty of growing to do.

Uncle Johnny lives in a factory building.  He's lived in this apartment for over 30 years and he hasn't exactly renovated the place.  Describing the architecture of Uncle Johnny's apartment is simple.  Just imagine your grandparents' unfinished basement, only moved up to the penthouse.  Then add lots of green crystal, candelabras, zebra print, and Marilyn Monroe memorabilia.  Hey, maybe your grandfather was Liberace.

Oh.  And let's not forget the foliage.

Welcome To The Jungle

Uncle Johnny has 18 plants - I spent thirty minutes a day with Johnny's little green watering can, twice a week, trying to keep these monstrosities alive.  I was not entirely successful.  Uncle Johnny now has 14 plants.  Sorry, Johnny.




The building's single elevator is straight out of '70s-era horror films like Dressed To Kill - it's key operated and opens up right into the apartment.  Uncle Johnny's floor is the only one not separated by a door, so basically any stray homeless people or serial killers that get into the lobby can stumble right on into the living room at any moment.  It's really quite thrilling.  Needless to say, my baseball bat was never too far away.

Another "feature" of the elevator is that it stays open on your floor unless you send it back down to the lobby manually.  One night while I was making dinner, my dog Buttons was sniffing around and the doors closed on him, sending him down alone.  10 seconds later, I hear Buttons barking like a lunatic 7 floors below.  I would spend the next hour running up and down the only stairwell in this place in flip-flops, screaming my dog's name at the top of my lungs like a madman - "BUTTONS!!!!  BUUUUTTTOONNNSSSS!"  Buttons eventually turned up on the roof.  Boundless fun.

Uncle Johnny's bathroom was another adventure entirely.  For one thing, there was no cold water.  So if you're the type that likes skin scalding showers, this is the bathroom for you.  Ah yes, those hot August nights in Johnny's shower stall with a dozen mosquito bites covering my body (Uncle Johnny also has no screens on his windows).  Because, as we all know, scalding hot water is great for bug bites.

There were paintings where walls should have been, and I didn't dare to open the vanity under the sink for fear of what I might find inside there.  This was true army training - the sort of situation that makes you cherish the simple things in life.  Things like cold water and screen doors and a fucking bathtub.  Still, the bathroom wasn't without its charms.



Buttons and I were never short on company at Uncle Johnny's, sharing the space with all types of critters - roaches, skeeters, mice.  I soon became a vermin assassin.  The first mouse was a mercy killing - Buttons found it stuck on a glue trap and turned it upside down.  I put my face against my forearm, begged the gods for forgiveness and quickly stomped my foot atop the trap.  Sorry, Mickey.  The second mouse frizzle fried inside The Raticator.  Yes, this is a real thing - a Rodent Control System I bought online because Johnny refused to pay for an exterminator.  I returned from making music in Seattle to the smell of fried rodent and spent the morning scraping mice guts and burnt hair out of the trap with a wooden spoon.  Yep, this place was a real babe magnet.  Howyoudoin, ladies?

The third kill belonged to Buttons while I was at work.  Good boy.  By August, I was wearing war paint and throwing hand grenades - I was fucking Rambo and the mice were Afghan commandos.  They had no chance.

I retreated to the radio station one night in early July even tho I was on vacation.  It was cooler at work, and also vermin-free.  Heavy thunderstorms raged outside the window of my production studio.

I returned to Uncle Johnny's in the wee hours, waiting for the evil elevator to open, and I could already hear the water.  The doors opened and there was a waterfall in Uncle Johnny's living room.  The ceiling was leaking.  Badly.  It was the morning of the 4th of July, and Johnny was in Italy.  No one was coming to fix this problem, so I went up to the roof to discover about 6 inches of standing water on the level above me.

I laid towels and pots and pans around Johnny's living room, took a deep breath, and crawled up on Johnny's couch, where I always slept, thanks to my fear of things that creep and scurry in the night.  The rest of the weekend was hot and dry and the water on the roof dissipated.  Soon after, I was hanging on that roof nearly every night.  I had some drunken caucuses up there, I talked to God up there, I smoked a joint up there, I had some very public sex up there.  It was the discovery of the century.  Sometimes shitty things have to happen for new discoveries to be made.  That's pretty much been the story of my life for the past half decade.



Outside, it was pure madness.  Cabs, trucks, police sirens, drunk Rangers fans, crazy homeless people, tourists toting their luggage, tour buses, fire trucks, crack heads, prostitutes.  3 dollar a slice pizza.  Buttons hated it out there and who could blame him?  On the first night I stayed at Uncle Johnny's, there was a plastic container of piss on the sidewalk outside the door.  On the last day I stayed at Uncle Johnny's, there was a turd in the same spot.  Not doggie doo, mind you.  A man-sized dookie.  Welcome to Manhattan, American's toilet.

Up on the roof, however, Buttons loved life, always climbing to the highest point of elevation by the elevator shaft, surveying the rat race below.  My dog's well-being has become a big priority in my life ever since my divorce, ever since Sandy.  He has been through every step of this twisted journey with me.  Buttons could have had a complete meltdown at Uncle Johnny's, instead the situation became very manageable.  He is no longer crated, he gets on great with his boarder.  I take him on the subway now.  I take him to work sometimes.  He's running with me again, often 5 or 6 miles at a time.  And he fucking loves it.

Buttons healed up at Uncle Johnny's and so did I.  I ran in Hudson River Park, in Central Park, up the West Side Highway.  I discovered The High Line. I ate a Quarter Pounder with Cheese at 4 in the morning in front of Madison Square Garden and I didn't give a fuck.  I barbecued chicken on a small grill on Johnny's tiny terrace and watched sunset after beautiful sunset with a glass of whiskey in hand and my faithful dog nearby.




I was fucking free, and not just in the literal sense.  After Sandy, all those romantic feelings kept me tied down.  At the time, I saw it as motivation.  Live a better life, be a better man, and you will attain your goal.  And it drove me - more pushups, more miles on the pavement, more writing, more fighting, and more fearlessness.  At Uncle Johnny's I realized a few things.  I am a better man.  With or without anyone, I am a better man than I was before all this blogging bullshit, before all this bad luck and these bad choices.  I got fucked over - again! - but I didn't wallow in it this time.  I posted some true shit in this space that about 900 pairs of eyes saw, then I took it down and I moved the fuck on.

Some still tell me that living well is the best revenge, and I never disagreed with that.  Because I am living well again.  It's quiet in my back yard now.  I can hear the crickets at night, I have a tomato plant.  There is no evil elevator, no bugs, no mice - just plenty of space.  My piano is here, Buttons is asleep at my feet.  But revenge was necessary.  My boss told me that if slamming my ex in this space helped me move past the shitty feeling that comes with being cheated on, then it was a good thing that I did it.  Like most, he empathized.  And as usual, he was right.

Some still tell me that I should be writing full-time and I never disagreed with that either.  I'm just tired of writing about mishaps, about my shitty misadventures with unfathomable floods and insane ladies.  Sure, that's where the best material comes from. But it still feels more like my medicine than my destiny.  Some still tell me to leave New York and start a new life, and I made a real concerted effort to do that this summer.  But it just didn't happen and I'm at peace with it.  I put it out there to the universe that I'm game, I took that first big step.  it's just not time yet.

I went out to Seattle and made an album.  I surrounded myself with amazing musicians and once again benefited from the generosity of kindred spirits, only under much dryer circumstances.  I fell in love with a part of the country I had long yearned to visit.  I dated strange women and some not-so-strange women in five different cities, and I didn't fall for any of them.  Instead, I fell in love with making music again.  My new album will be out next month and it's nice to feel excited about the process, to be working towards another goal, another destiny.


And maybe - just maybe - I would never have done any of that if not for my time at Uncle Johnny's.  And so I'm grateful for the experience.  I dare say I'm enjoying the journey.  I lived in midtown Manhattan, a place I never thought I would spend more than an hour in without losing my shit.

It was pretty fucking awesome.  

It's Last Call at Uncle Johnny's.  We had a great time.  Just one more shot of whipped cream flavored vodka before I go.  Time for another stamp on the passport.  When I tell people about my time here, I won't think about the bugs or the mice or the cheater or the challenges.  I'll think about that GROW sign, I'll think about embracing more adversity, I'll think about this crazy shitty dirty city that I love, that I hate. And I'll think to myself, what a wonderful world.

Runnin' Down A Dream

I broke up with her last weekend.  Sandy.  It was a shitty thing to do, right after our one year anniversary and all.  Tuesday, I quietly went to my lawyer's office and signed the papers.  Signed my Hurricane Divorce House away exactly one year after Sandy came ashore and turned it into a watery mausoleum.  It's up to the bank now, but it's as close to a done deal as anything has been in my life since Sandy.  Until this past weekend.  On November 3 at about 2pm, I conquered the NYC Marathon.

Last year, on November 3 at about 2pm, I was here.

I Am The Dumpster King

Standing atop 30 cubic yards full of the remains of my Staten Island house.  My home studio is in there somewhere, my mementos, my furniture and my appliances, my walls and my ceilings.  My record collection and my record label business.  My past.  Greg T. was there that day, along with a motley crew of friends, family, co-workers and complete strangers.  Helping me dig out of the mud and the muck, helping me salvage whatever was left, and let me tell you - there wasn't much.  I saw a different side of humanity in those days and weeks to follow.  The amount of stuff I had lost paled in comparison to the kinship I had gained.

Greg T. and I were supposed to run the next day - two undersized Angry Young Men approaching middle age who had trained separately for 8 months straight, quietly egging each other on and comparing our progress.  It was friendly competition, and it motivated us.  If Greg did 14 miles on Monday, I had to do 15 on Tuesday.  And vice versa.  Greg and I didn't run a single mile together but we always ran with the other guy on our minds.

The general public, the masses - they know Greg T. as The Clown.  On Elvis Duran and the Morning Show, he's The Stunt Guy, The Jackass.  It is a role he fills quite well, and often times it's not entirely an act.  There is an honesty and a bravery about Greg T. that I have always admired, even while watching him fill his underwear with chili, even if I've seen his junk one too many times.

Greg T's morning show peeps - we also know him as The Jerk.  He can be rude, apathetic, neurotic, outspoken, insensitive, moody.  Shamelessly.  We all have different sides.  Greg just likes to show more of his off than the rest of us do.  I've seen him get into it with others even if after nearly (holy shit) 20 years, he and I have never said a cross word to each other.

But the Greg T. I know - the guy I waited at the starting line with - he's a Real Good Dude.  A genuine person.  He is The Clown and he is The Jerk, but he can get away with it because he is also the guy I know, the caring introspective guy a lot of people really love.  On Sunday, I wanted nothing more than to start the race with Greg.  If anyone can loosen you up simply by being more emotional and insecure than you are, it's Greg T.  He cracked jokes and got sentimental and wore a wool scarf that made him look like Randy in A Christmas Story.

The night before the race, Greg sent me one of his trademark four paragraph texts.  Usually these go out to the whole show, and after some sort of controversy.  But this one was just for me - expressing his feelings over what we had gone thru to this point, what I had gone thru last year.  It was a really cool read.  The next morning, Greg smuggled me into the VIP tent at the Marathon Village.  Greg could have said "Good luck man, see you out there" and cozied up to Pam Anderson in the heated tent.  But he stepped up for me, just as he had a year earlier.  We fueled up and stayed warm inside.  We talked about Sandy and about Boston.   We pumped each other up with words of encouragement and got to enjoy the moment together.

At the starting line, I chatted up another celebrity runner, Patrick Wilson.  I was actually hoping to see Wilson, a dude whose acting chops and sideburns I have often admired in movies like Watchmen and Little Children.  Approaching "famous people" has always been awkward for me, yet at my job and in my industry, it's pretty commonplace.  Like most people, I have often been ill at-ease when meeting people that I really admire.  So I'm generally just quiet, put on my goofy grin and try not to drool.

Umm...gooo...Yankees...duh....Mo...

Fuhhhh...wowww...Queen...behhh...awesome

Derrr...why is everyone taller than me...I gotta pee again...

It was easy to talk to the amiable Wilson as we stretched and shivered atop the Verrazano Bridge, a span I had crossed so many times before, only never on foot.  We wished each other luck.  I felt calm.  Relaxed.  This was a long time coming and I was ready.

We went out with the first wave, with the pro runners.  Against the wind and against the odds.  Greg and I finally got to run together.  Over the bridge and out of the borough I'll always be connected to because of Sandy, because of my failed marriage, because of my destiny.

Two miles in, I turned to wish Greg luck as we crossed into Bay Ridge, and he was gone.  Lost amongst the masses.  I was on my own but kept him in my thoughts the rest of the way.  I passed my post-Sandy Park Slope refugee apartment at Mile 7, throngs of people cheering us on.  At Mile 17, on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, I saw my Dad giving out water to the runners and hugged him tight.  I stopped for a minute to share the moment with him and I was off again.  When I told my father I had signed up to run the Marathon in early 2012, he told me I was crazy.  Who's crazy now, Pops?  By Mile 18, I started cramping badly.  Maybe he was right after all.  The human body - or at least mine - is not built to endure 26 miles of pavement.  The next four miles, up thru the Bronx and Harlem, were pure hell.

At Mile 23, I was hoping to see a couple of my co-workers from the morning show.  This was the stretch run and I really needed a boost.  On the corner of 95th Street, I got it in the form of a long row of supporters.  My boss was there with his boyfriend, with his people.  My friends.  My people.  They screamed my name from across 5th Avenue and I ran over to greet them.  I wanted to give them all a big hug, to take photos, to share my experience, but I was in the middle of a race.  They sent me off with cheers, a banana, and a big shit-eating grin on my face.

At my job, I'm often the wallflower.  Some of that is probably on me, some of it isn't.  I've spent my entire professional career in radio working at this one place - for different bosses and departments and parent companies.  It has been a volatile relationship, one that, up until recently, has produced more than a little disappointment and bitterness on my part.  But that has all changed these last few years, thanks to where I've landed and who I have landed with.  Thanks to the unmatched generosity of my boss, thanks to the love and help I got from my co-workers this past year.  Thanks to my family and my friends and the volunteers who came to my rescue.  Thanks to all this running.  Thanks to Sandy.

I'm lucky.

Everyone loves a comeback. That was the theme - a deserved one - of this year's race.  50,000 people ran and they all have their story, they all have their reasons.  But the Marathon wasn't my comeback.  It was my test, a rite of passage.  I needed to find out what I was made of.  Maybe I needed to show everyone else what I was made of too.

My comeback hasn't happened yet.  Not yet, not now.  I'm still growing, still learning.  I still have work to do.  Just like you do.  Just like we all do.  This was a great first step but there's still so much to do, higher rocks to climb.  I need to start giving back, to start paying it forward.  You can't be good to anyone else unless you're good to yourself.  This whole running experience has allowed me that opportunity.

And I couldn't have done it alone.  I couldn't have done it without my people.  Sandy proved it.  26 miles' worth of cheering supportive New Yorkers proved it.  Greg T. proved it.  We need each other.

We did it, Greg.  We really did it.  Rest your legs and bask in the glow.  Time for some ice cream.

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 

ME THREE MONTHS AGO

Me Three Months Ago: "Hey Mom I'm off for two weeks in the summer, wanna go hang in the city one day?  Maybe see a show or somethin?  Would be real nice to see you, ayuh."
Mom: "What a wonderful idea!  What shall we see, son?"
Me Three Months Ago: "Let's go see The Book Of Mormon.  Supposed to be awesome."
Mom:  "Oh no no, is that the one from the guys who do that show you like...South Park?"
Me Three Months Ago: "Yeah, South Park is awesome. They teamed up with the guy who did Avenue Q.  Avenue Q was awesome too.  Saw it twice."
Mom:  "No no no. That show is stupid and vulgar.  And wasn't Avenue Q the one with the puppets?  Harumph!  Harumph!"
Me Three Months Ago: "The Book Of Mormon got great write-ups, it's nominated for a bunch of Tony Awards, including Best Musical.  Believe the hype on this one.  South Park is insane, but it's great, it's clever.  Trey & Matt are geniuses, they speak truths about society in an over-the-top comic way.  It's a cartoon, but it's intelligent, thought-provoking stuff.  They also did a marionette movie that depicted puppet fucking and who can forget Cannibal: The Musical?  They have a strong resume!  Come on, it's gonna be awesome, let's go!"
Mom: "No, there's got to be something else we haven't seen."
Me Three Months Ago: "Mom we saw Jersey Boys, that was excellent.  Million Dollar Quartet was cool, too.  You know I'm down for anything musical, I even kinda liked Wicked.  Book Of Mormom is gonna be the best show we can see, I'm telling you.  It's gonna win Best Musical and then it's gonna be impossible to get tickets.  You know how these things work!  This is how I didn't get to see Young Frankenstein or The Producers!  And we're gonna get stuck seeing Footloose!  Trust me on this one!"
Mom: "Bah, humbug.  Yadda yadda farting yadda yadda oh my god they killed Kenny yadda yadda offensive."
Me Today: "Hey Mom, wanna go see Footloose?"

My mom is actually really cool.  She loves Jimi Hendrix, Prince, and took me to see Ferris Bueller's Day Off and all the Muppet movies.  She cries at the end of It's A Wonderful Life just like I do.  But you dropped the ball on this one, Mama.

In spite of our differences over the fundamental values of adult-oriented animated series (Mom dislikes The Simpsons too - shame on her), I owe a big part of my musical passion and (whatever sort of) career (you want to call this) to my parents.  They sat me at the piano, they bought me my first drum set, and at least 3 keyboards, including the dinosaur Korg-01/WFD sequencing keyboard that I wrote about 200 songs on, including a lot of songs that would show up on the first Q*Ball album (remember that?).  They surely cringed in horror as I sang along to Vulgar Display Of Power, the first Mr. Bungle album, and Paul's Boutique on repeat at extremely high volumes.  They put up with the noise (sometimes) and the musical congregations in their basement and in my broom closet of a room, where giant samplers and analog synths first ran amok, overtaking furniture, surrounded by a fort of books, toys, heavy metal magazines, and compact discs.

I don't hate my parents for unwittingly cursing me into wanting to make it in a business run by cutthroats and pirates.  They were only being hippies.  I do wish that they owned my Return To Earth albums, though.  I could really use the money.  And so could Metal Blade.

Happy Anniversary to my awesome parents.  37 years of awesomeness in between all of life's bullshit!  Now go make some whoopee.

 

Ron Asks Ron: 5 Questions

To commemorate the release of the new Bumblefoot single "Father," Bald Freak's lead douchebag Ron Scalzo (Q*Ball/Return To Earth) sat down with bearded rabbi vunderkind Ron Thal to discuss the latest tune in the Bumblefoot pantheon.

RS:  Tell me about "Father" - seems like a very personal song that was inspired by your relationship with your Dad - what prompted you to write and record it?

BBF:  Without getting into details of family, it's based on real life.

RS:  Real Life, the new wave band who sang "Send Me An Angel"?  Love those guys.  I'm sure they're honored, but I don't think "Father" sounds anything like them.

RS:  So...coming from the guy who's written such irreverent classics as "Don Pardo Pimpwagon," "Brooklyn Steakhouse," and "Dirty Pant'loons," your more recent tunes have taken a more serious turn. Do you attribute this to anything in particular? Getting older? Being in GnR? Jewish guilt?

BBF:  It's just a phase.  I'll snap out of it.

RS:  Will you?  Maybe I should put my Cher wig on and slap you in the face and scream "Snap out of it!"  I bet that would help. 

RS:  What's the better tune - your new single "Father," Danzig's "Mother," or DJ Jazzy Jeff & the Fresh Prince's "Parents Just Don't Understand"?

BBF:  They go from worst to best in that order.

RS:  Actually, it was a trick question - the answer is actually "Oh Father" by Madonna.

RS:  The artwork for your new singles is top-notch. In the past, you've handled artwork and photography for your full-length albums. Now Australian graphic artist Dan Verkys is the man behind your single art. How did you hook up with Dan?

BBF:  Dan comes highly recommended by Australian guitarist friend Chris Skzup.  In the past I'd torture myself over the art, now every month I get to torture Dan.  And I get to highly recommend Dan to the world - the guy is fuckin great.

RS:  I agree, he's dead fucking sexy.  And so is Chris Szkup.  They're pretty much the reason why Australia was voted World's Sexiest Continent 2007.

RS:  You've now done two originals and three cover songs since going the single-a-month route. Are you planning to even things out next month with a new original or should we expect your interpretation of another classic song?

BBF:  I don't know if I'll have enough time to get a new original out for June, about to put on my 'producer hat' and hibernate in the studio with a bunch of bands for a few months.  I've missed that.  June may be the last month of my own music for a while, we'll see if I can do both and make it happen!

Pick up 'Father' - the new single from Bumblefoot - here! 

Ron Asks Ron: 5 Questions

To commemorate the release of the new Bumblefoot single "Invisible," Bald Freak's head honcho Ron Scalzo (Q*Ball/Return To Earth) sat down with Ron Thal and his beard to discuss the latest, greatest tune in the Bumblefoot catalog.

RS:  'Invisible' is your first piece of original material since 2008's Abnormal album - you never intended to record and release the song as 'Bumblefoot' - why the change of heart?

BBF:  It seemed like it was meant to happen the way it happened - it wasn't the original plan, but I'm glad it worked out the way it did...   gotta embrace the unexpected.

RS:  Let's get deep. Your fans are very hardcore, and as one myself, I can attest that one of the biggest reasons is because of the way you seem to make what you play, sing, and write seem effortless in spite of its complicated technical nature. You're not one to just strap on a guitar and wank off - you sing like a champ, you write with soul, you know how to craft a solid rock tune - and oh yeah....you engineer, mix, and master it all yourself. Do you feel like you're your own worst critic? And are you aware that you are a maniac?

BBF:  Thanks man.  Not really a critic, more like I put on the 'producer hat' and give it all my best.  When producing an artist or band, I'm overseeing the songwriting, arrangement, performance and recording, mixing, mastering, making sure the best efforts were made and everything is at its best in the end.  I guess doing that for myself, to myself, I might have to be a bit of a nut too, haha.

RS:  If I granted you the power of invisibility, would you use your powers for good or evil, and what would be your first self-appointed mission?

BBF:  To sneak up on my beard and shave it off.

RS:  This new 'disposable era' of releasing music - free downloads, file sharing - the whole "Here, take it" philosophy that many artists & labels are starting to make a regular practice, including you and I - has its benefits for fans. As an artist, how does it affect your expectations when releasing something new?

BBF:  As long as people like the song - I'm just happy as fuck to be writing, recording and releasing music again, it's what I love to do.

RS:  Ron's Beard is notably monstrous in the forthcoming music video for 'Invisible'. Removing a beard of that girth at this point would be monumental. Do you plan to keep it around or induct it into The Ron Thal Hall of Fame alongside the Swiss Cheese guitar, the thimble, the red wool hat, your hot sauce fetish, and 'Lesbian Onion'?

BBF:  I think I have more hair on the bottom of my head than the top now.  The music video - it was filmed where we played in the light, and then filmed as we played in darkness with night vision cameras.  When editing is done for both videos, I'll release them both - two vids for the song, played in the light and in the dark...   back to video editing, aaahhh!!!!

 

Pick up 'Invisible' - the new single from Bumblefoot - here!

Why I Signed The Head Set

Nearly 3 years ago, I discovered The Head Set in CMJ's New Music Report.  Their album, Way Past Used, was being reviewed, and favorably - a small blurb comparing the band to big-market acts like U2 and The Killers.  I streamed songs on their MySpace page and was immediately impressed by the musicianship, the singer, the quality of the songwriting.  The opening track in particular, "Enemies", reeked of commercial appeal.  I was surprised to discover that they were based out of NY and were playing at Mercury Lounge a few weeks down the road.  I reached out to the band and was quickly invited down by guitarist Eliot Wadsworth.

It was a cold March night on the Lower East Side, I stumbled in to Mercury Lounge solo wearing my night stalker trench coat and a thick wool hat and - uncharacteristically - made my way to the very front of the crowd right before the band started.  If any of these guys were conscious of the audience at that point, they surely must have thought, "Who's that serial killer up front?"

The set was electric, and a friendly chat with Eliot at the bar after the show gave me some answers - The Head Set were signed to a publishing deal with Sony ATV, they had representation, they were nice guys, they seemed like they were on their way.  However, they had no label and we agreed to stay in touch.  I saw them again at Mercury a few months later, brought some friends.  Then at The Annex, same deal.  Met their representatives, exchanged business cards.  Over this period of time, I expected to hear some good news - that the band signed to a major or at least a big indie, putting out a new album, that they were touring.  Nothing.

This, of course, was not the band's fault.  They put their faith and their music in the hands of their people, like most bands do, and probably expected more to happen beyond playing local clubs every month or so.  They had a deal with a big publishing company and were likely expecting placement in ads, on a soundtrack.  They got a nice advance and dedicated time and money towards making more quality music, what a band is supposed to do.

A decade earlier, I was in a similar band - a pop/rock act called The Substance.  We foolishly jumped at the chance to sign with an unknown indie who proceeded to do all the wrong things to promote our debut album.  We hired management who were stuck in the previous decade and were trying to carry that success into a new age of music making and promotion.  We played big shows opening for big acts (at the time) like Sugar Ray, yet something always went wrong and stunted our momentum.  We showcased for every major label A&R numbnuts on the planet - Jason Flom called us "too Britpop," Andy Karp from Atlantic was too busy signing Kid Rock to be impressed with us.  We laughed at Andy Karp's Kid Rock hat when he came to see us - Kid Rock was a no-name white trash Beastie Boys wannabe at the time rather than the Sheryl Crow-banging, Tommy Lee-fisticuffing, Lynyrd Skynyrd-sampling white trash Beastie Boys wannabe we all know and love (?) today.  Andy Karp laughed all the way to the Bawidtda-bank and we were still without a deal.  We played for Kevin Richardson of The Backstreet Boys (!), had a handshake deal with their management company that fell thru at the 11th hour.  Eventually, the many failures outweighed the successes and I left the band.  The Substance changed their name, went thru the whole process once more without me and failed again.

So I understood what The Head Set were going through.  They had what it took to be successful, but they were surrounded by people who didn't, and it eventually got to them.  They all had day jobs, Harvard grads, smart guys with contingency plans.  Eliot departed to go to UCLA Business School, bassist Brett Sherman moved to Cleveland.  The band, effectively, was kaput.

The Head Set's story is representative of everything that's wrong with the musical "farm system" in the 21st century.  Band has potential, band has great songs, band gets signed, person who signs and waves flag for band gets laid off, band gets lost in the shuffle, band gets re-prioritized, band gets forgotten, band gets frustrated, band dissolves.  It started in the late '90s and by the time the ol' dot-com bubble burst a few years later, The Head Set were just another great act that didn't "make it" because there wasn't enough gladhanding going on, not enough favors done under the table to make them the next Strokes or Kings of Leon.  Does anyone remember a time when bands were signed and promoted simply on merit?  Neither do I.

Time passed.  Eliot and I stayed in touch from opposite coasts, and eventually I got together with lead singer Jordan Blaugrund and got the latest - no more Sony, no more management.  Both guys sent over new material that had been lying around without a home, and that reignited a spark.  These songs needed to see the light of day - so what if the band wasn't technically together?  Good music is good music.  Eliot came back from California, we made it happen, professionally and painlessly.

The Head Set and Bald Freak are in business - Lord knows what I can do to make a difference, but I'll pull out every card in my deck to get it done.  Maybe some of these great new songs will hit the radio, maybe we'll get them in ads or on a soundtrack.  Maybe nothing will happen despite everyone's best efforts.  This is the music business, after all.

What *is* already happening is that the band is rehearsing again whenever they can.  They're excited to be doing it, maybe they have another album in them, maybe more.  Time will tell.  They haven't peaked yet, that's for sure, and an opportunity or two can make all the difference in the world.  When the signing finally seemed imminent, I had a super-nerd fist pump moment - this was really happening after a 3-year courtship.  Persistence paid off for once.  Bald Freak isn't exactly a breeding ground for commercial success and yet these dudes still wanted to pull the trigger.  Unlikely scenarios can still play out.  The stars aligned.  Now we just have to keep them in place.

If you like U2, The Police, The Strokes, The Killers, David Bowie, Neon Trees, Bruce Springsteen, Elefant, Elvis Costello, Television, The Jam, British modern rock, indie rock from NYC with soul and a groove, you will love The Head Set.  'Like' them on Facebook.  Tweet about them, chirp your little asses off.  Spread the word.  This is big for them and it's big for us.  If you're on the East Coast, come see them perform on March 10th at Tammany Hall.  Big big night for us.  Buy their albums (their debut EP, Ask Her Twice, is no slouch either) and get ready for a new one in May.

This is about justice.  This is what running a label is all about.