a musical note (or letter)

I also am requesting your permission to post this on a weblog to which I contribute. If you don’t want me to, that’s OK too. I will await your response. In the meantime, Leigh is using “Mobile” in her pilates classes.

The thing is (and I know you know this) is that I am still a big believer in traditional structure. To me, the percussion is equivalent to the steel beams within a big building. They carry all the weight but they are hidden on the inside because no one (it is said) really wants to see them. I have often equated music with architecture (as per the famous Brian Eno quote). Lately I find the better comparison is to cooking but that is another topic. Anyway, drum solos, drum albums, present a problem for me given their lack of blazing guitar solos and sha-la-la choruses. What can I say? I am a traditionalist. “Essentially a very conservative person” as Ken Kurson – onetime member of the Chi group Green and confidante of Rudy Giuliani – once said to me and he was right.

Anyway, I don’t usually dig anything too experimental but “mobile” impresses me as an all-percussion recording that still manages to have melody and harmony. Obviously you know better than anyone that drums can be “tuned” to different pitches and so melody can be achieved but in practice most drumming cannot afford such a luxury given the arrangements of the songs being played. Pop musicians don’t seem to trust drummers and by all rights the feeling ought to be mutual. At any rate I think your achievement with this record is substantial.

I suppose I’m writing to ask a few questions, namely, How do you maintain your idealism? And How do you maintain your enthusiasm? Since the closest thing I’ve ever had to a friend who was a rock star, I’ve got to ask you a few things which I could not ask someone like, say, Greg Dulli.

I’ve always thought the purpose of any art was to induce an emotional response. In the case of popular music the operative (or at least the most marketable) emotional response is joy, perhaps followed by jealousy and regret which are of course more prevalent in country music. You seem to make music with a true sense of joy and that astounds me. The emotions I pivot on these days are mainly anger and sorrow. Anger in particular is useful for good rock music but too many sad ballads… to say nothing of the eventual psychological repercussions. Or the karmic ones.

I watch a lot of boxing these days and this no doubt feeds the anger. I would like to think that it is not all borne of bitterness with the music industry. Then I spend an entire weekend watching Bernard Hopkins. His 2000 fight with Antoine Echolls was a picture of pure ferocity and pure commitment. Last night he went out with a bang, fighting a heavily favored kid 10 years or so his junior and Bernard killed him. In spite of the criminals and the sleaze and the dope and the hangers-on and not least of all the money (sound like any business you know?), boxing seems somehow pure to me. Unlike you-know-what, where the best is often merely the currently most trendy or the most well-connected. These fighting metaphors have been made before and by better men than me (like Johnny Thunders) but as the body ages and aches their truths ring more loudly. Meanwhile the youngsters who yearn to prove their emotional depth on your average rock’n’roll stage prance and twist and ache with God knows what license. The sweat in the boxing ring is all too real. Popstars consider their artistic endeavors to be life-or-death struggles; guys actually die during boxing matches.h

I guess what I am asking is, how does one avoid the disillusion? Music doesn’t do it for me anymore, certainly not in the way boxing does. I still enjoy playing, but listening is another thing entirely. I’d much rather read a good book and that saddens me since I made a substantial emotional investment in music.

I’ll give you a great example. Several weeks ago the south end of our building was struck by lightning (maybe I’ve told you this) and the building caught on fire. I was wide awake at 6am and off to get cigarettes when I saw the fire and the tenants gathering in the parking lot and the fire trucks and the blaze that seemed to be traveling north with the blowing wind. Since I couldn’t leave the parking lot for ciggies, I decided to wake Leigh and… that’s a joke. I woke Leigh and the neighbors and got the cats out. Then it was time to decide which possessions should be safeguarded. I left the guitars and the amp and the electronics and the master tapes and discs of all the old records (not that I have many of the masters – or copies for that matter) and the books and movies and albums. I took some notebooks of writings and my collection of Soviet-era postage stamps and two photo albums of collectible boxing cards. The latter were gifts from Bernie in Detroit. The music stuff, I wasn’t prizing, I guess. In a way, it was a liberating feeling, but still sad, y’know what I mean? This new recording we’re finishing? I’m enthusiastic about it but certainly not enough to go out on that horrible highway and play in front of actual people. Way too scary. I suppose my nerves are shot because the dtage fright has gotten much worse over the years, not better. It’s like challenging a fighter you know is tougher than you. And solo gigs are even more scary.

Ah yes,but it is its own reward, no? Hope to have something new in your hands soon, and,if need be, perhaps you can instruct me as to how to reclaim the all important Mojo without necessarily engaging fierce gods like Ghede. Either that or I can turn to politics where the really angry monsters work. The Muse is the source of all great art, my friend, and the Muse fucks you silly one day. She brings you so much pleasure that you turn around and write “The Firebird Suite” or “Stairway to Heaven” or “Rigoletto.” Then the next time you see her you are getting your coat at some party and there she is blowing some hated enemy. The Muse can be a real cunt.

Anyway, enjoy Italy and keep up the great work. Don’t get captured and don’t blow your cover.

With gratitude and respect,

Centane,

pk