Favorite Friday - 'Hell Freezes Over' by Eagles

New things happening here on the Electric Medicine Blog, my friends, and it seemed right to kick off Favorite Friday with a little tip of the cap to the recently passed Glenn Frey.

Frey was one of the greatest singer-songwriters in American history and together with his band cemented one of the most memorable musical legacies in all of rock 'n' roll.

In November of 1994, the Eagles released one of the greatest live performance albums of all time. Hell Freezes Over (so named because it was the precise time when an Eagles reunion was predicted after a backstage brawl between members split the band apart in 1980) marked the return to prominence of a '70s classic rock band in the midst of the grunge revolution. A group of old guys got together on MTV and showed all the wipper snappers how it was actually done.

This album has meant a lot to me for a lot of years. It introduced me to the music of the Eagles and, consequently, created a lifelong fan. It's probably as close to a perfect live record as you're ever going to get (and it features a handful of new studio recordings, as well), and masterfully demonstrates the power of magnificent songwriting mixed with mature and deliberate instrumentation. If you're at all in the dark about the media hoopla surrounding the death of Glenn Frey last week, give one listen to this record and it will all make sense.

Movie Music Monday - 'Saving Mr. Banks'

Had this song playing in my head all day yesterday... there are worse things, I assure you. It's from a great movie and Thomas Newman is one my favorite movie score composers. This soundtrack is just one of many examples why.

Rock 'n' roll, vinyl stores, and the hyporisy of COOL.

A few months ago, I was on tour in Toronto with Alex G. A handful of us had decided to take in the town before the afternoon's setup and soundcheck duties, and we happened upon a vinyl record store in a particularly pretentious sector of the city's downtown. One of the members of our little crew decided that he wanted to see if he could find a certain record, so we moseyed on into the shop.

Upon asking about the album, however, the employee who had found his way over to help us wasted no time in revealing himself to be a troll of the ugliest distinction. The conversation went something like this:

"May I help you all?"

"Yeah, I was wondering, do you have any copies of the Escape album by Journey?"

"I think you need to leave the store."

"Uh, what?"

"Yeah, I think it's best if you just leave."

Now, this wasn't the complete verbatim total of our conversation with this individual, your honor. Someone else in our group asked if he had Elton John's Goodbye Yellow Brick Road in store, which, I believe, he did. And there may have been one or two other albums asked about, too, but the main gist of our conversation centered around asking about the Journey recording and promptly being asked to exit the store without the slightest sense of humor or irony.

This guy? Not nearly as hilarious in real life.

Once my brain caught up with my ears and I actually realized what was going on, I looked my friends in the eyes and told them something along the lines of, "I'm leaving, because if I don't, something very bad is going to happen and you're all going to be really embarrassed of me."

Ok, stop, reload real quick.

I've spent my entire life despising condescension. As long as I can remember, I've hated conformity, trendiness, and the cult of COOL. And being confronted with it in such a naked, unabashed way is something I am not at all equipped to abide. That day in Toronto, the record store employee with the hipster clothes and nerd glasses awakened something primal and dangerous in me, and it was probably best for everyone involved that we just walked away. (You can ask the people I was with: I think I remember saying something about how it would be well within the boundaries of common sense and moral justice for the Canadian authorities to allow me to firebomb annoying, ostentatious businesses. Or something.)

My first night at the Gothic, a retrospective. OR, "Some Things Never Change".

"Alright, you ready?" I ask, looking at Garrett. He nods.

"You?" Looking over at Bart now, and then Tyler, and then Joel.

And with a nod of affirmation from all four bandmates, I press play on the backing tracks. Here goes nothing.

And there it is: the click track and electronic drumbeat that signals the beginning of 'Told You So', our first song of the night. Too distant for my taste, but our rushed get-the-other-band-off-and-get-our-own-stuff-on setup was just a step or two away from being a total nightmare and the tech wasn't thrilled about having to run our in-ear monitors, anyway. The tracks and click are quiet, but it's nothing I can't handle.

The band kicks after the requisite first four bars, and everything seems to be alright. Not great, but alright. And then, Garrett starts singing.

The prevailing theory post-show is that the monitor guy got his channels switched around and Garrett's mix was now coming in through my monitor line. Meaning, of course, that his voice was now screaming over everything else in my lame excuse for a hastily thrown together monitor mix.

I adjust my wireless pack's onboard volume. Garrett's voice drops, mercifully, but, so does the click track. Uh-oh. Time to dial-up the focus.

Nevermind that I can't really hear my kick drum (staying strong on my all-time top 5 pet peeves list) or even my toms from time to time. It feels like I'm playing with no real feel at all; no real sense of enjoyment of what I'm playing. I'm just kinda going through the motions, playing what I know needs to be played and trying to find a few spots to shine. It feels like I'm a noob up there, playing to a packed house at the Gothic Theatre for my very first time.

It's become obvious fairly soon into the set that this is definitely not going to be some of the most fun I've ever had playing drums.

But, half an hour later, almost everybody seems to have been really into it. Good crowd reaction (they have to tell me, because I wasn't really able to tell from behind the chaotic cacophony that was my in-ear mix). The guys from the other bands have nothing but nice things to say. And the Suspects themselves are psyched that our first show at the Gothic seems to have gone over really, really well.

Ain't that just the way of things.

I can't remember how many times I've come off the stage frustrated about this thing or that thing only to be told that the show as amazing. Just like I can't remember how many times (many, many fewer times, I assure you) I've been psyched about a performance, feeling like I was in the pocket and in command the entire time, only to hear crickets afterwards (aside from the perfunctory "Good show, man" that seems to be more of an acknowledgement that I made it out alive rather than anything related to my competency on the instrument).

Ah, well. Some things never change, I guess. I suppose it will probably forever and always be a quest of mine to finally play that show where both the crowd and the band feel like a show was all that it could be. Maybe one day. We'll see. Until then, I'll just rest contented with the facts that Modern Suspects' trajectory seems to be more-or-less consistently upward since I was asked to join and that I can now check the Gothic Theatre off of my list of Denver venues at which to perform. Not many more left until Red Rocks.

Here's hoping, anyway.

2015, the year that was.

I'm not really one for New Year's resolutions. In all honesty, I'm not really one for goal setting. That's not to say I don't have a sizable list of things I want to accomplish, but putting timelines on things I know are beyond my control is not really my style. (Cue the tut, tut's from the motivational speaker crowd.)

All of that to say that I've never really been one to write big, important, beginning-of-the-year blogs, lists, or year-in-review posts. And yet, here we are. Not because this kind of thing is something I always do or even see the need for, but because it feels appropriate given what I've been going through as of late.

On the one hand, I find myself still struggling with frustration because I'm still not where I want to be. As much as I see and recognize the lies of the culture in regards to what makes a successful and meaningful life, I still find myself combating the angst of not possessing what the world would classify as a "career". The money's not great, regular, or dependable at this point.

But then, I'm an artist. What was I expecting?

I was expecting to be THERE by now, that's what. THERE, that place along the journey of life where you get to pitch your tent for a nice long season and enjoy steady work and steady income from the job of your dreams. Because, after all, you've earned it. You've worked hard, you've been passionate, you've maintained focus and vision and direction while others around you checked out and faded away.

Or something.

This all coming from the guy who walks around repeating the mantra, "There are no equations". Inconsistency, thy name is Burns.

And so, today I take a step back to remind myself of what just one year has done for the formation of my career, for the realization of my dreams, and for my life.