It's amazing how much can be accomplished in 20 hours if you simply forgo eating and going outside. The end result of this weekend's efforts actually surprised me and exceeded my expectations. The record sounds way bigger than what we should have been able to afford on our budget... some of that might have to do with the massive amount of guitar tracks we laid down.
In order to get the fullest sound possible, Paul and I each AB'd two amps. I ran my Yamaha T100 with a Mesa Mark IV, and Paul used his Peavey Butcher and Sunn Model T reissue. Four amps getting tracked in stereo pairs results in eight channels of guitar every time the engineer hit "record". On top of that, we double and triple tracked all leads. I'm thankful that we've found an engineer that is enthusiastic enough to sift through all that and mix it properly. Chaos and excess at its finest. Andy Kugler fucking rules.
Our new 12" entitled All Human Failings will be released in February on Free Cake Records.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Thursday, December 4, 2008
We're Too Poor To Even Spend Time Together
I'd like to be together with the people I love more often.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Depressing Day
I woke up with a headache, and knew that today wasn't going to be the best.
After compulsively dilly-dallying, I managed leave my house just in time to miss the 44. The next bus didn't arrive for another 15 minutes, which isn't the most excruciating thing I've ever had to deal with, but it was cold and I didn't want to go anywhere anyway. Eventually the next bus pulls up, and I get on board and take a seat with the old people and the handicapped folks. As the bus arrived at 9th and Judah, I get off to make my transfer.
While I'm waiting, I leaned against the bus shelter. A guy about my age rides up on a very hip looking track bike and is almost immediately confronted by a drunken wreck of a person looking for spare change. I don't think the track bike kid spoke English, so the drunk switches targets and approaches me asking for change. After pretending to not be able to hear him through my headphones failed to discourage his persistence, I removed my headphones, looked him in the eye and told him that I couldn't help him.
The man starts inching closer to my face and begins exclaiming how ready he is to get a gun and start shooting everybody in his path. I asked him if he was serious.
"Of course I am. Can't you look into my eyes and see that I've had it?"
"Yeah, I can see that."
The man spins around and points at the track kid's bike, but continues addressing me, "I used to have a bike, until some motherfucker stole it!"
"When did your bike get stolen?" I asked him.
"Oh, years ago, when I was a kid. It was a Kuwahara. I had a Mongoose and a Haro too. You know, motherfuckers want to make fun of you when you got something nice. They want to take it from you."
It's always hard to remember that these drunken messes have lives. It's even harder to remember that these people had (and lost) lives that you and I would call normal. The drunken man clearly once had a passion for BMX bikes. He used to care about something other than the plastic bottle of shitty vodka clasped in his purplish, yellow stained hands.
As the man traipsed off, yelling at the people in the bus shelter, I tried to smile and count my blessings, but that just didn't work. As much as I try to sever myself from the grotesque spectacles that confront all of us in life, I just can't. My empathy runs deep. Empathy aside, I also know that my situation is just as tenuous as anyone else's. Fate and fortune have kept me safe for now.
The 43 Masonic pulled up to the stop, so I boarded and walked all the way to the back. I stood for a few stops, and took the first seat that opened up. In the corner of my eye, I could see a tweeky looking dude in a Dark Throne shirt attending to something suspicious in the rearmost seat of the bus. At first I thought he was just hollowing out a blunt or something similarly sketchy. All of a sudden, this dude sitting between me and The Tweeker jumped up, switched seats and started mumbling something under his breath, and eventually ramped up into a full on confrontation with The Tweeker.
For the second time in 20 minutes, my attempt at using my headphones as an excuse to avoid an awkward situation failed.
I couldn't ignore The Angry Man anymore as he started pointing at me and then the floor. I looked down to see multiple streams of liquid trickling down the floor of the bus and toward my shoe. I took my headphones out and asked what it was. The Angry Man said it was water that The Tweeker's dog had thrown up, and continued berating The Tweeker for being disrespectful to the rest of the passengers on the bus.
The Angry Man continued his harangue and The Tweeker eventually brandished a knife. The confrontation had now gotten the attention of the entire bus, and continued on the way those things go.
Realizing that his knife wasn't much of an effective threat to The Angry Man, The Tweeker pulled the wire, and prepared to get off at the next stop. As he grabbed his stuff, I caught my first glimpse of his poor, barely conscious puppy. The Tweeker began to disembark the bus, and muttered the obligatory parting threats which always extend confrontations a few moments longer. As he skipped down the stairs and through the hissing doors, I couldn't stop staring into the puppy's glazed and runny eyes.
I got off at the next stop, heartbroken, and walked to class.
After compulsively dilly-dallying, I managed leave my house just in time to miss the 44. The next bus didn't arrive for another 15 minutes, which isn't the most excruciating thing I've ever had to deal with, but it was cold and I didn't want to go anywhere anyway. Eventually the next bus pulls up, and I get on board and take a seat with the old people and the handicapped folks. As the bus arrived at 9th and Judah, I get off to make my transfer.
While I'm waiting, I leaned against the bus shelter. A guy about my age rides up on a very hip looking track bike and is almost immediately confronted by a drunken wreck of a person looking for spare change. I don't think the track bike kid spoke English, so the drunk switches targets and approaches me asking for change. After pretending to not be able to hear him through my headphones failed to discourage his persistence, I removed my headphones, looked him in the eye and told him that I couldn't help him.
The man starts inching closer to my face and begins exclaiming how ready he is to get a gun and start shooting everybody in his path. I asked him if he was serious.
"Of course I am. Can't you look into my eyes and see that I've had it?"
"Yeah, I can see that."
The man spins around and points at the track kid's bike, but continues addressing me, "I used to have a bike, until some motherfucker stole it!"
"When did your bike get stolen?" I asked him.
"Oh, years ago, when I was a kid. It was a Kuwahara. I had a Mongoose and a Haro too. You know, motherfuckers want to make fun of you when you got something nice. They want to take it from you."
It's always hard to remember that these drunken messes have lives. It's even harder to remember that these people had (and lost) lives that you and I would call normal. The drunken man clearly once had a passion for BMX bikes. He used to care about something other than the plastic bottle of shitty vodka clasped in his purplish, yellow stained hands.
As the man traipsed off, yelling at the people in the bus shelter, I tried to smile and count my blessings, but that just didn't work. As much as I try to sever myself from the grotesque spectacles that confront all of us in life, I just can't. My empathy runs deep. Empathy aside, I also know that my situation is just as tenuous as anyone else's. Fate and fortune have kept me safe for now.
The 43 Masonic pulled up to the stop, so I boarded and walked all the way to the back. I stood for a few stops, and took the first seat that opened up. In the corner of my eye, I could see a tweeky looking dude in a Dark Throne shirt attending to something suspicious in the rearmost seat of the bus. At first I thought he was just hollowing out a blunt or something similarly sketchy. All of a sudden, this dude sitting between me and The Tweeker jumped up, switched seats and started mumbling something under his breath, and eventually ramped up into a full on confrontation with The Tweeker.
For the second time in 20 minutes, my attempt at using my headphones as an excuse to avoid an awkward situation failed.
I couldn't ignore The Angry Man anymore as he started pointing at me and then the floor. I looked down to see multiple streams of liquid trickling down the floor of the bus and toward my shoe. I took my headphones out and asked what it was. The Angry Man said it was water that The Tweeker's dog had thrown up, and continued berating The Tweeker for being disrespectful to the rest of the passengers on the bus.
The Angry Man continued his harangue and The Tweeker eventually brandished a knife. The confrontation had now gotten the attention of the entire bus, and continued on the way those things go.
Realizing that his knife wasn't much of an effective threat to The Angry Man, The Tweeker pulled the wire, and prepared to get off at the next stop. As he grabbed his stuff, I caught my first glimpse of his poor, barely conscious puppy. The Tweeker began to disembark the bus, and muttered the obligatory parting threats which always extend confrontations a few moments longer. As he skipped down the stairs and through the hissing doors, I couldn't stop staring into the puppy's glazed and runny eyes.
I got off at the next stop, heartbroken, and walked to class.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Fading Frontiers
After bouncing around on a couple of links on some message boards, I came across Charlie Kelly's website. He's posted a lot of really cool pictures of the early Thanksgiving morning bike rides he began organizing in the mid-70's. Seeing CK and his friends on cruiser style bikes (preceding the dawn of the purpose-built mountain bike) really reminds you of what an original concept it was in the beginning. I also can't help but think of all the disgusting homes that have been built in Marin, encroaching on its precious open space.
Combing through CK's account of the early days of mountain biking in Marin was pretty inspiring and stirred up a lot of memories of youth. I may not be the most serious, or able cyclist, but biking has been an inseparable part of my life since the beginning. I had my first bike probably around the age of 2 or 3, and did a lot of riding as a kid.
My bike took me on a lot of adventures. I remember getting in trouble for riding my Sears brand BMX bike from 28th Avenue alllll the way down to 23rd. My mom didn't think it was a good idea for a 7 year old to strike out on his own like that. In retrospect, it was obviously no big deal, but the sense of freedom and rebellion that ride instilled in me was incredible at the time... not to mention totally worth the scolding.
A few years later, I crashed and broke my nose while riding the same bike. For all the danger my mother had hoped to escape in San Francisco, I managed to find some of it in the suburbs. After moving to Novato, I grew out of the BMX bike, and got a mountain bike as a replacement. Sears brand once again, naturally. As I got older still, I started to become way more aware of the level of wealth in my community, and also aware that my family was not keeping up with that standard. Friends of mine began getting more serious about mountain biking, and their parents outfitted them with the name brands that eluded my possession.
The year I turned 13 was pretty special. I must have begged my parents for a "real" mountain bike for Christmas. I probably exercised the "birthday AND Christmas" clause, which all December babies keep as an ace up their sleeve when they want something REALLY special. Whatever I did, it paid off. When I woke up Christmas morning to see a shiny blue Diamondback Sorrento next to the tree, I probably came close to having a heart attack.
Lightweight aluminum frame, quick release wheels, cantilever brakes, 21 speeds, shifters mounted under the handlebars... it was a sight to behold. Sure, it was just a cheapo bike from a chain bike store, but no Sears bike had ever come close to this.
I rode that Diamondback until I was about 15 or 16. I rode it all over town, and through the numerous trails that cut through the Marin County landscape. I'd spend hours jumping my bike off of dirt mounds, or slugging up a hill for what seemed like an hour, all so I could race back down it as fast as I could. I have less fond memories of pedaling my bikes around Michelle Circle once a week on my paper route, but for the most part all my bike memories were very positive.
Until I began to write this, I hadn't realized that my bicycling habit had lapsed for nearly 10 years. About three years ago, I revived the habit, and bought a Raleigh road bike. Since then I've built a couple of fixed gear track bikes and try to get out on the roads at least once or twice a week. Like I said, I'm not a rabid cyclist by any means, but I certainly feel a strong connection to it, and I know that it will always be a part of my life.
Combing through CK's account of the early days of mountain biking in Marin was pretty inspiring and stirred up a lot of memories of youth. I may not be the most serious, or able cyclist, but biking has been an inseparable part of my life since the beginning. I had my first bike probably around the age of 2 or 3, and did a lot of riding as a kid.
My bike took me on a lot of adventures. I remember getting in trouble for riding my Sears brand BMX bike from 28th Avenue alllll the way down to 23rd. My mom didn't think it was a good idea for a 7 year old to strike out on his own like that. In retrospect, it was obviously no big deal, but the sense of freedom and rebellion that ride instilled in me was incredible at the time... not to mention totally worth the scolding.
A few years later, I crashed and broke my nose while riding the same bike. For all the danger my mother had hoped to escape in San Francisco, I managed to find some of it in the suburbs. After moving to Novato, I grew out of the BMX bike, and got a mountain bike as a replacement. Sears brand once again, naturally. As I got older still, I started to become way more aware of the level of wealth in my community, and also aware that my family was not keeping up with that standard. Friends of mine began getting more serious about mountain biking, and their parents outfitted them with the name brands that eluded my possession.
The year I turned 13 was pretty special. I must have begged my parents for a "real" mountain bike for Christmas. I probably exercised the "birthday AND Christmas" clause, which all December babies keep as an ace up their sleeve when they want something REALLY special. Whatever I did, it paid off. When I woke up Christmas morning to see a shiny blue Diamondback Sorrento next to the tree, I probably came close to having a heart attack.
Lightweight aluminum frame, quick release wheels, cantilever brakes, 21 speeds, shifters mounted under the handlebars... it was a sight to behold. Sure, it was just a cheapo bike from a chain bike store, but no Sears bike had ever come close to this.
I rode that Diamondback until I was about 15 or 16. I rode it all over town, and through the numerous trails that cut through the Marin County landscape. I'd spend hours jumping my bike off of dirt mounds, or slugging up a hill for what seemed like an hour, all so I could race back down it as fast as I could. I have less fond memories of pedaling my bikes around Michelle Circle once a week on my paper route, but for the most part all my bike memories were very positive.
Until I began to write this, I hadn't realized that my bicycling habit had lapsed for nearly 10 years. About three years ago, I revived the habit, and bought a Raleigh road bike. Since then I've built a couple of fixed gear track bikes and try to get out on the roads at least once or twice a week. Like I said, I'm not a rabid cyclist by any means, but I certainly feel a strong connection to it, and I know that it will always be a part of my life.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Examination (Transit III)
As the enormous weight is finally unchained
It crashes and falls at an infinite rate
The peace that was once lost in the fray will be reclaimed
We endured a nightmare to see a new day
The winds bring change
The rains erase the memories and tragedies of history
Cast off the past
Weathered the storm and its deafening noise
The havoc it wrought, the treasures destroyed
Recover then revel in the disheveled waste
Winds bring change, the rains erase
The tumbling rubble that all else succumbed to
Becomes calm in the bleak, blackened dawn
Rebuilt and reformed, mended and mourned
The rules that defined us... rewritten
Reborn
It crashes and falls at an infinite rate
The peace that was once lost in the fray will be reclaimed
We endured a nightmare to see a new day
The winds bring change
The rains erase the memories and tragedies of history
Cast off the past
Weathered the storm and its deafening noise
The havoc it wrought, the treasures destroyed
Recover then revel in the disheveled waste
Winds bring change, the rains erase
The tumbling rubble that all else succumbed to
Becomes calm in the bleak, blackened dawn
Rebuilt and reformed, mended and mourned
The rules that defined us... rewritten
Reborn
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