So as I noted in my gig last night (which I shall presently include a post about) I've been somewhat rather marooned in Gainesville. There are many reasons for this and I thought I'd explain a few of them for those getting bored with the lack of travel and the long-windedness of my posts.
The principal reason why I'll continue to be stuck here is my mother's less than ideal health. I've stayed up till today so as to play last night's gig - I was very keen on playing with Erica Britt (she ended up not making it, more on that in the post to come). I also took advantage of having a computer for now a month to catch up on all the electronic duties I needed to perform - create a business card, make mini-merch (bookmarkers with images of various art pieces I've made), make a website, pursue rights for the covers I sing, etc.
I've been largely successful in accomplishing these goals save the last. Due to the slowness of things on the end of the licensing agencies it's been quite a trip even reaching the right people to get synchronization licenses from - these are the licenses one requires to stream a cover on MySpace, ReverbNation, FaceBook, or YouTube. Isn't it funny how all these sites go by two words jammed together yet and both capitalized? One is run about in circles trying to find the appopriate number/email/fax to contact so as to start obtaining the rights, only to discover the cost for the rights to one song amounts to $200. Which gave me pause. As such I've decided to pursue the rights to just one - Kids. I may try for another but I can't decide between the 17 other tracks I recorded - I could use your help on this (breaking the 4th wall!), if you'd like the files email or comment and I'll send you what I have to peruse.
I'm also considering production of a limited set of CDs to go with my busking and gigging, the mechanical licenses of which I'm in the process of being ready to procure. (That was a convoluted statement). If those readers who remain would be so kind to advise if they'd be interested in such an item, I would be most grateful. There's a funny story to go with this license obtaining process. The files I innocently shared through this blog sat quite undisturbed and unnoticed until I started asking for ways to appropriately pay the rights. Thereupon I received a notice from Blogger about DMCA rules and the removal of a post to draft status, followed by a notice from Box.net about the same song - Somewhere Over the Rainbow. I find it a funny way to penalize someone for trying to do things correctly. You'll notice the blog is now bereft of all song files save my originals.
Finally, the EP I recorded with Maria's great assistance in Denver shall hopefully be completed sometime in March. Check my website (feedback on everything, please!) for updates. Hope I don't sound like a sellout.
www.terrencehomusic.com
Monday, January 24, 2011
A Gain in Gainesville, Day ?
Gainesville is a liberal bubble in a county at the border between North and South Florida - North Florida being south of it and South Florida lying to the North. Growing up sired by academics in the heart of liberal Gainesville (see The Laboratory posts for example) Southernness was something I rarely encountered but in my short forays to neighboring schools or in the halls between classes at my magnet programs.
There's warmth, incredible hospitality, and friendliness. The patrons wore their hair long and
There's warmth, incredible hospitality, and friendliness. The patrons wore their hair long and
Saturday, January 22, 2011
A Gain in Gainesville, Day 7
Before I go into my normal long-winded description of the show I performed in this past Tuesday (1.18.11), I'd like to preface with a rather appropriate link I lifted off a friend's facebook. The article paints a rather realistic and bleak picture of the lifestyle of an artist - and a signed, touring, accomplished artist at that. The appropriateness of the article for this post arises, of course, from the number sitting quietly at the bottom next to "Earnings."
I arrived at the Lab at 9:15, a bit late in my head as the gig was set to start at 9:30. I needn't have worried. Trivia Night raged in full swing right to our written door time. Teams of five to ten crammed around tables leaving no aisle space beneath the still dim lighting while the organizers roamed around stage reading questions, playing music from the PA to give clues (clever, no?), etc. They even gave a shout out about our gig before the final question. Successfully, too, as some tens of people stuck about while James set up.
Their good will turned out to be a moot point. The very moment Trivia Night ended James assembled his things around the stage, not bothering to break down the table or wait for the organizers to quit it, either. He blared his backing tracks and sang loudly and uncharismatically (ignoring the audience that tried to smile) into his two microphones. I think I can best describe his style as an assault. He glared people down, offered not a single smile, ignored the haphazardness of the stage and acted rather artiste about it all. A women in her seventies who'd hoped to stick around made a visible effort in her shout to "Turn it down, please!" but when he turned his back to her to walk to the mixer he turned the volume up, ignoring her and the rest of the vibe. By the end of his first song there were five of us left: the two bartenders, the doorman, myself and James.
Apparently oblivious as to the cause of this mass exodus, James left the stage a few times with his backing tracks still playing to accost the various people on the patio - accosting rather than welcoming, guilting rather than smiling. Naturally he met no success but rather caused people to flee even that area.
I felt helpless. I couldn't think of anything to do but watch them leave in ones and two and finally whole groups. Some of them didn't even go far, just to the patio outside to sit and smoke. I had hope for these. I thought, OK, James finishes his set and I can bring them back. A group of four wandered in and payed the doorman at one point. Three of James' friends came in. But his set continued on and on and on until at 10.30 the four left and I, desperate, wanting to cry from the futility chased after them anyways and pleaded, looking a pathetic wreck. They pitied me gently.
Finally, my turn came, and only on my suggestion. I began an appropriately sad set for an audience of six, starting with Mad World and winding my way through my trio of songs from two summers ago, also known as the saga of a not relationship. I'd played enough times in that space filled that each empty seat made it feel alien and cavernous. The upshot of it all manifested in a distinct lack of nerves. Hard to be nervous in a nearly empty room.
My distinctly chiller act cast a very different feel upon the space. The very attractive bartender Caitlin cast encouraging smiles at me throughout and Amanda, who'd been so kind chatting to me during the lead up, stayed generously rapt. When I got to my story about Karluv Most it was almost - not quite - almost like singing in the common room of the 4th floor girls, tiny bits of small talk and conversation and all. One girl who'd wandered in at the end of James' set even chatted a moment with me about the conversion of the Danish Crown to clear up the cost of a beer there before a very well received Mario Kart Love Song. So, quite warm. Michael Dorsey, who'd played the night at the Warehouse after Michael Claytor stopped in just as I amended my set list to include From Dawn to Busk with a very kind friend. She smiled at me winningly with brilliant white teeth that glowed Cheshire like beneath the black lights throughout the three songs they stayed for, clapping enthusiastically and leaving me all awash with gratitude. I nodded at them a few times as they waved from beyond the windows. Hobo Joe even stopped in for a number of songs, interrupting me with a friendly goodbye before he left.
When I finished my set James joined me on stage for a moment to sing Where is My Mind while I played the guitar part. He sang excellently. He then captained the stage for yet another forty five minute set of the same fare. Let me describe his music a touch. I find it hard to call his songs "originals" as they borrow heavily, sample or outright steal from a number of well known tunes. Well know I say, since I haven't the broadest of musical encyclopedia-ness yet I recognized the main backing tracks three out of every four tunes. Where is My Mind actually served as one of these - our conversation about this sparking our joint cover. Another example: the chords from Brain Stew or Should I Stay or Should I Go. This set he spent even more time with his fearsome backside to us, even more time brushing his hair while he sang - this time we dug it as good fun.
With his set ending just past midnight I chatted with the tiny audience before out on the patio as they left, then asked James about cutting the box. We'd earned a total of $20, so I expected ten of that to come my way. Remember that article? If you didn't read it, one factor of the impossibility of being an artist is the many places your money is divided. Originally I was set to man the door for the James' act and he for mine, but he asked his friend Mike to man the door, so that gave Mike a share. An even share - I won't go more into my thoughts on that as there's more. James allotted himself two shares - one as performer and one as "promoter" - which he could only claim as having booked the gig, but certainly not for securing any sort of an audience. Then he reserved another share for his pal Joe, as a performer. Joe arrived five minutes prior. I felt quite upset at this, to me, ridiculous turn of events.
With much cajoling from Amanda I stuck out Joe's set and thereby the two of us comprised the audience, as James took the stage again with Joe banging on a bucket, breaking a mic stand, brushing his hair, playing his synth, the works. For his part Joe strummed an electric guitar comfortably - if barely audibly as James balanced - to accompany consistently semi-tone flat vocals. They finished with a reprise of James' first song of the night, Abraham, not even trying to disguise the "inspiration" this time, with Joe singing Take On Me over it.
I suppose one lesson from the night lay in a reprimand against the seeking of money - something I often chastise others for. My greatest earnings came in a coupon book Mike the doorman bequeathed me as a welcome to Gainesville and a riotous poster for the gig given me by the owner, Bill, which had hung in the unisex bathroom for about a week. I'll let it speak for itself but be warned: it's not at all censored.
Poster.
Earnings: $4.00, poster, coupons, 45 minutes
Audience: ~12 people (peak)
Song of the Day: Purple Dress - Terrence Ho
I arrived at the Lab at 9:15, a bit late in my head as the gig was set to start at 9:30. I needn't have worried. Trivia Night raged in full swing right to our written door time. Teams of five to ten crammed around tables leaving no aisle space beneath the still dim lighting while the organizers roamed around stage reading questions, playing music from the PA to give clues (clever, no?), etc. They even gave a shout out about our gig before the final question. Successfully, too, as some tens of people stuck about while James set up.
Their good will turned out to be a moot point. The very moment Trivia Night ended James assembled his things around the stage, not bothering to break down the table or wait for the organizers to quit it, either. He blared his backing tracks and sang loudly and uncharismatically (ignoring the audience that tried to smile) into his two microphones. I think I can best describe his style as an assault. He glared people down, offered not a single smile, ignored the haphazardness of the stage and acted rather artiste about it all. A women in her seventies who'd hoped to stick around made a visible effort in her shout to "Turn it down, please!" but when he turned his back to her to walk to the mixer he turned the volume up, ignoring her and the rest of the vibe. By the end of his first song there were five of us left: the two bartenders, the doorman, myself and James.
Apparently oblivious as to the cause of this mass exodus, James left the stage a few times with his backing tracks still playing to accost the various people on the patio - accosting rather than welcoming, guilting rather than smiling. Naturally he met no success but rather caused people to flee even that area.
I felt helpless. I couldn't think of anything to do but watch them leave in ones and two and finally whole groups. Some of them didn't even go far, just to the patio outside to sit and smoke. I had hope for these. I thought, OK, James finishes his set and I can bring them back. A group of four wandered in and payed the doorman at one point. Three of James' friends came in. But his set continued on and on and on until at 10.30 the four left and I, desperate, wanting to cry from the futility chased after them anyways and pleaded, looking a pathetic wreck. They pitied me gently.
Finally, my turn came, and only on my suggestion. I began an appropriately sad set for an audience of six, starting with Mad World and winding my way through my trio of songs from two summers ago, also known as the saga of a not relationship. I'd played enough times in that space filled that each empty seat made it feel alien and cavernous. The upshot of it all manifested in a distinct lack of nerves. Hard to be nervous in a nearly empty room.
My distinctly chiller act cast a very different feel upon the space. The very attractive bartender Caitlin cast encouraging smiles at me throughout and Amanda, who'd been so kind chatting to me during the lead up, stayed generously rapt. When I got to my story about Karluv Most it was almost - not quite - almost like singing in the common room of the 4th floor girls, tiny bits of small talk and conversation and all. One girl who'd wandered in at the end of James' set even chatted a moment with me about the conversion of the Danish Crown to clear up the cost of a beer there before a very well received Mario Kart Love Song. So, quite warm. Michael Dorsey, who'd played the night at the Warehouse after Michael Claytor stopped in just as I amended my set list to include From Dawn to Busk with a very kind friend. She smiled at me winningly with brilliant white teeth that glowed Cheshire like beneath the black lights throughout the three songs they stayed for, clapping enthusiastically and leaving me all awash with gratitude. I nodded at them a few times as they waved from beyond the windows. Hobo Joe even stopped in for a number of songs, interrupting me with a friendly goodbye before he left.
When I finished my set James joined me on stage for a moment to sing Where is My Mind while I played the guitar part. He sang excellently. He then captained the stage for yet another forty five minute set of the same fare. Let me describe his music a touch. I find it hard to call his songs "originals" as they borrow heavily, sample or outright steal from a number of well known tunes. Well know I say, since I haven't the broadest of musical encyclopedia-ness yet I recognized the main backing tracks three out of every four tunes. Where is My Mind actually served as one of these - our conversation about this sparking our joint cover. Another example: the chords from Brain Stew or Should I Stay or Should I Go. This set he spent even more time with his fearsome backside to us, even more time brushing his hair while he sang - this time we dug it as good fun.
With his set ending just past midnight I chatted with the tiny audience before out on the patio as they left, then asked James about cutting the box. We'd earned a total of $20, so I expected ten of that to come my way. Remember that article? If you didn't read it, one factor of the impossibility of being an artist is the many places your money is divided. Originally I was set to man the door for the James' act and he for mine, but he asked his friend Mike to man the door, so that gave Mike a share. An even share - I won't go more into my thoughts on that as there's more. James allotted himself two shares - one as performer and one as "promoter" - which he could only claim as having booked the gig, but certainly not for securing any sort of an audience. Then he reserved another share for his pal Joe, as a performer. Joe arrived five minutes prior. I felt quite upset at this, to me, ridiculous turn of events.
With much cajoling from Amanda I stuck out Joe's set and thereby the two of us comprised the audience, as James took the stage again with Joe banging on a bucket, breaking a mic stand, brushing his hair, playing his synth, the works. For his part Joe strummed an electric guitar comfortably - if barely audibly as James balanced - to accompany consistently semi-tone flat vocals. They finished with a reprise of James' first song of the night, Abraham, not even trying to disguise the "inspiration" this time, with Joe singing Take On Me over it.
I suppose one lesson from the night lay in a reprimand against the seeking of money - something I often chastise others for. My greatest earnings came in a coupon book Mike the doorman bequeathed me as a welcome to Gainesville and a riotous poster for the gig given me by the owner, Bill, which had hung in the unisex bathroom for about a week. I'll let it speak for itself but be warned: it's not at all censored.
Poster.
Earnings: $4.00, poster, coupons, 45 minutes
Audience: ~12 people (peak)
Song of the Day: Purple Dress - Terrence Ho
Thursday, January 20, 2011
A Gain in Gainesville, Day 6
Monday marked my last appearance at the Laboratory Open Mic, again called "I Love Dog" as we again watched a full episode of Dog the Bounty Hunter to kick it off. That long blacklit room glowed with warmth despite a smaller audience - I shall miss it greatly as I head off Westwards. I went alone this time, but now that I know all the regulars we made our comments to each other. Really, I was becoming something of a regular.
As per usual the Reverend Angel Dust opened our Tabernacle of Hedonism with a "benediction." Creative and humourous as always, this iteration rang disappointingly similar to last weeks, with a substitution of a bible verse and a digression into Martin Luther King Jr.'s desires for his notes on Phoenix. He read rather far into Jesus' making his listeners sit on the green grass and thereby extolled the holy virtues of weed once again. "There is always something bbetter on the next semi from California." Our small crowd responded more vocally than ever before, with loud echoes of "Hallelujah!" and clapping. We paid respects to Dr. King, or Dear old Martin as the Reverend proclaimed him with a rousing chorus of the value of tolerance - something very much in effect especially at this Open Mic and why I love it so. He closed with "If you die under the influence you will not be unhappy on your dying day."
Frog took the stage in another absurd costume - a white haired gremlin mask over flowing white robes. A middle aged lady accompanied him this time, svelte and strangely elegant in her sparkling gold dress, face hidden by a green bird mask. They played music this time. A mix of the woman's vocoded vocals (as pitch corrected live by Frog) and Frog's synth. Quite pretty - a sort of ambient electronic music Geoffrey may have gone wild over.
Around this time I was recognized by my older brother's best friend from middle school - a feat which impressed me significantly as the last time he'd seen me I was somewhere around three foot tall and still good looking (as Kevin likes to say - "You were adorable once, what happened?". He'd later regale me with tales of their escapades, that alone making the night unforgettable. Chase once again hosted a viewing of some YouTube videos - an entertaining set of ridiculous advertisements this time for the GoPhone, All State, Zazoo Condoms, Mastercard, and Suburban Auto Group's Trunk Monkey. Bongo Boy drummed along while Chase commented, a little lighter on the mic than the previous week.
Helen opened a musical portion of the show. This night saw more musical acts than any other I'd yet seen. Her first song was a brilliant cover of Broken Bell's October in her trademark operatic voice. She followed this with a very sacrilegious Mad Lib. She took a hymn version of Psalm 23 and substituted the audience's raunchy adjectives, verbs and nouns (we'd no prior knowledge to what she was affixing these words), and sang it a capella with ample giggling breaks. The audience roared after "Thou has anointed my penis with oil and my condom is full... And I will dwell in the house of Tom Miller forever."
Only got the first one, regrettably.
Don Undine took the stage next as Tom's "guest" of the night. After fake checking the mics to see if they got a response he suddenly burst out loudly on his baritone sax, overblowing the shit out of it with a mix of fog horn sounds, goose honks and high flourishes all at once, rocking energetically about on stage on feet placed far apart in a fighter's stance. He played and played, playing on as he wandered off stage and out the door to the bathroom where he continued to play still audible to us for another minute. Great fun.
Dave and Jesse, middle aged mostly ex-boyfriends who quarreled on stage in an endearing fashion, captained the stage for a trio of covers where Dave continually messed up the chords on his guitar and Jesse broke of his vocals to berate him. They tried a few songs a number of times, only almost completing Jack Johnson's Flake. Dave then led the room in Margaritaville, alone. Interestingly enough, as Jesse pointed out loudly, he didn't flub a chord or get tired for his solo song.
Tom Miller announced that "the show is just starting to get good" just as Chase sat on the table behind him and broke it, such that his next words got lost in general hilarity. Tom would later break the mic stand. For whatever reason he apologized throughout the night a number of times to me, directly - for the foulness of the language and with a sad sarcastic, "I know you wanted to play for as few people as possible, well I'm doing my best to accomplish that aren't I." Do I look that innocent?
He gave the stage to David, next, Chase's brother who began his Broadway night with a beautifully strong karaoke rendition of Children of Israel. He followed this up with "hand dancing" to All I Ask of You, an uncommonly beautiful interpretive miming style before selling me completely with his encore performance, a much requested by the audience Lady Gaga:
A hard act to follow, but I followed nonetheless with an ambitious set. The support in that room felt so wonderful I decided to debut a song, Will. And to great success. I held the audience rapt, the owner and Dave especially smiling and following me in their eyes - in an unconscious body language sort of way I could feel they were all with me. It was such a beautiful thing.
Mystic Mike played Native American flute improvisations. He had us drum out rhythms for him which Chase echoed on the Bongo, mostly to hide his nervousness and to give us something to do. I rather enjoyed myself making up strange beats. By the last song he'd mustered sufficient confidence to play entirely solo, channeling the loss of a girl in a simple, raw melody, where his amateurism really shone as a strange, heartlfelt asset. James closed the night with his usual fumbling for things and feedback punctuated by loud shrill noises before singing a set of Wilco-esque originals with surprisingly strong vocals. More on him tomorrow.
Hobo Joe introduced himself to me while I received many rounds of applause. Having announced I would not return the next week, many sought my info after the show, for collaboration or encouragement or just general friendliness. Gainesville's underbelly may feel quite strange, but above all it embraces everyone and leaves me wishing I didn't have to quit it quite so soon.
Song of the Day: Will - Terrence Ho
As per usual the Reverend Angel Dust opened our Tabernacle of Hedonism with a "benediction." Creative and humourous as always, this iteration rang disappointingly similar to last weeks, with a substitution of a bible verse and a digression into Martin Luther King Jr.'s desires for his notes on Phoenix. He read rather far into Jesus' making his listeners sit on the green grass and thereby extolled the holy virtues of weed once again. "There is always something bbetter on the next semi from California." Our small crowd responded more vocally than ever before, with loud echoes of "Hallelujah!" and clapping. We paid respects to Dr. King, or Dear old Martin as the Reverend proclaimed him with a rousing chorus of the value of tolerance - something very much in effect especially at this Open Mic and why I love it so. He closed with "If you die under the influence you will not be unhappy on your dying day."
Frog took the stage in another absurd costume - a white haired gremlin mask over flowing white robes. A middle aged lady accompanied him this time, svelte and strangely elegant in her sparkling gold dress, face hidden by a green bird mask. They played music this time. A mix of the woman's vocoded vocals (as pitch corrected live by Frog) and Frog's synth. Quite pretty - a sort of ambient electronic music Geoffrey may have gone wild over.
Around this time I was recognized by my older brother's best friend from middle school - a feat which impressed me significantly as the last time he'd seen me I was somewhere around three foot tall and still good looking (as Kevin likes to say - "You were adorable once, what happened?". He'd later regale me with tales of their escapades, that alone making the night unforgettable. Chase once again hosted a viewing of some YouTube videos - an entertaining set of ridiculous advertisements this time for the GoPhone, All State, Zazoo Condoms, Mastercard, and Suburban Auto Group's Trunk Monkey. Bongo Boy drummed along while Chase commented, a little lighter on the mic than the previous week.
Helen opened a musical portion of the show. This night saw more musical acts than any other I'd yet seen. Her first song was a brilliant cover of Broken Bell's October in her trademark operatic voice. She followed this with a very sacrilegious Mad Lib. She took a hymn version of Psalm 23 and substituted the audience's raunchy adjectives, verbs and nouns (we'd no prior knowledge to what she was affixing these words), and sang it a capella with ample giggling breaks. The audience roared after "Thou has anointed my penis with oil and my condom is full... And I will dwell in the house of Tom Miller forever."
Only got the first one, regrettably.
Don Undine took the stage next as Tom's "guest" of the night. After fake checking the mics to see if they got a response he suddenly burst out loudly on his baritone sax, overblowing the shit out of it with a mix of fog horn sounds, goose honks and high flourishes all at once, rocking energetically about on stage on feet placed far apart in a fighter's stance. He played and played, playing on as he wandered off stage and out the door to the bathroom where he continued to play still audible to us for another minute. Great fun.
Dave and Jesse, middle aged mostly ex-boyfriends who quarreled on stage in an endearing fashion, captained the stage for a trio of covers where Dave continually messed up the chords on his guitar and Jesse broke of his vocals to berate him. They tried a few songs a number of times, only almost completing Jack Johnson's Flake. Dave then led the room in Margaritaville, alone. Interestingly enough, as Jesse pointed out loudly, he didn't flub a chord or get tired for his solo song.
Tom Miller announced that "the show is just starting to get good" just as Chase sat on the table behind him and broke it, such that his next words got lost in general hilarity. Tom would later break the mic stand. For whatever reason he apologized throughout the night a number of times to me, directly - for the foulness of the language and with a sad sarcastic, "I know you wanted to play for as few people as possible, well I'm doing my best to accomplish that aren't I." Do I look that innocent?
He gave the stage to David, next, Chase's brother who began his Broadway night with a beautifully strong karaoke rendition of Children of Israel. He followed this up with "hand dancing" to All I Ask of You, an uncommonly beautiful interpretive miming style before selling me completely with his encore performance, a much requested by the audience Lady Gaga:
A hard act to follow, but I followed nonetheless with an ambitious set. The support in that room felt so wonderful I decided to debut a song, Will. And to great success. I held the audience rapt, the owner and Dave especially smiling and following me in their eyes - in an unconscious body language sort of way I could feel they were all with me. It was such a beautiful thing.
Mystic Mike played Native American flute improvisations. He had us drum out rhythms for him which Chase echoed on the Bongo, mostly to hide his nervousness and to give us something to do. I rather enjoyed myself making up strange beats. By the last song he'd mustered sufficient confidence to play entirely solo, channeling the loss of a girl in a simple, raw melody, where his amateurism really shone as a strange, heartlfelt asset. James closed the night with his usual fumbling for things and feedback punctuated by loud shrill noises before singing a set of Wilco-esque originals with surprisingly strong vocals. More on him tomorrow.
Hobo Joe introduced himself to me while I received many rounds of applause. Having announced I would not return the next week, many sought my info after the show, for collaboration or encouragement or just general friendliness. Gainesville's underbelly may feel quite strange, but above all it embraces everyone and leaves me wishing I didn't have to quit it quite so soon.
Song of the Day: Will - Terrence Ho
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
A Gain in Gainesville, Day 5 by Virginia
My mother accompanied me to an Open Mic about as across town as a place could be and still be called Gainesville. She did not want to mention what I found most interesting about the experience there: the overwhelming Southernness, so I'll describe that in my post next week. For now, I leave it to her, with just a smidgen of input from me.
Song of the Day: Stamsund - Terrence Ho (again, yup).
- The Kickin' Devil shone like a curio in the vast surrounding darkness of the quiet northeast neighborhood. It was tucked a few blocks in from Waldo Road on 27th avenue. After we parked, I was hesitant because of the surroundings but still eager to go inside to get out of the cold. Once inside, it felt friendly because of the brightly painted walls, dark bluish green, brick red, mustard yellow and pale green, colors of the glass lamp shades cradling four lamp bulbs on a stand at a corner of the restaurant.
Four people sat around a table in the center and a few others were leaning against the bar. An older lady led us to the table next to the stage telling us that's the space where the performers gathered. We were handed the menu, a few sheets of home printing inside transparent plastic sleeves. After we ordered our food, we decided to move to the other side of the restaurant to face the stage so that I could video record Terrence when he performed. The stage was wrapped in a grey carpet with a large reproduction of a painting behind it. Together with the other art pieces, the restaurant felt lively and cozy.
Our food arrived but there were as yet few other dinner guests. We confided quietly that may be it was going to be a quiet affair. But gradually groups of twos and threes started coming in, some with instruments in black cases. Ed, the event host, walked back and forth on the stage setting up the loud speakers, amplifier and microphones. He took a while doing it and I ate my crawfish with pleasure for it was quite tasty. Though the portion was small, it was reasonably seasoned without the excess oil and salt in most restaurant food. Crawfish pieces were quite plentiful and the cream sauce quite filling so that I was quite full after I ate three quarters of the food.
The event started with Ed playing snippets into the microphone to test it. He was followed by Linda playing three country pieces on the banjo. The man, the only black person there that evening, who had arrived together with Ed sat unobstrusively at one side of the stage and played various percussion instruments as accompaniment as he saw fit during Linda's as well as the others' performances. The microphone amplified intermittently during her performance and she joked about it. Ed came to our table, introduced himself to us and welcomed us to the event. He asked Terrence to be next but Terrence said the two men next to him should be and he would go after them. Terrence had just talked to these two burly men, who told him that they had come early, hoping to perform among the first ones for they had to pour concrete early the next morning. Ed introduced them as "Melrose Mark and his sidekick Eddie" and they went on stage after Linda. One played complicated tunes with the harmonica while the other sang as he strummed on his guitar.
Linda while Ed fixed the soundboard.
Melrose Mark and his sidekick Eddie.Terrence was next and he sang first his own composition, From Dawn to Busk, then a cover song Falling Slowly finishing with Stamsund, also composed by him. I liked his last song best for he created an atmosphere of thoughtfulness to the ambience as he was singing it. As he got back to our table, the cement guys told him they liked his Stamsund too. Different people drifted by as the evening wore on and complimented Terrence too on his singing. It made feel these people were very appreciative and supportive.
After Terrence, it was a man singing with a ukulele. Though his words were sometimes muffled because he had to bend his head to check on his fingering, he sang with a personable attitude. One of his songs was the old Brazilian song "The Girl from Ipanema" in which I appreciated that he sang the parts in Portuguese without much of an American accent. Terrence thought so too though he was chatting with Linda's son at the other end of the restaurant for we discovered that they knew each other from attending the same high school. Up next was Alex, a young man, probably a beginner, who sang "Wagon Wheel" low and often out of tune while Ed sang along with him a little.
Kim and her first friend, a mannish-looking girl, sang with Kim playing the guitar. Then Erin walked on and sang with Kim to replace the other girl. Erin sang well, rapidly and rhythmically. Kim was very comfortable with the guitar and she had a good voice. Erin stepped off and Kim's father, Brother Gabe, stepped on. He was wearing suspenders over his paunch and was quite jolly, acting out the moves described in the song his daughter wrote about him for her song-writing class assignment. Michael was last. He played the guitar extremely well, strumming it in a fascinating manner. He sang just one song but with a big voice. It was close to the time to wrap up the evening's entertainment. Ed came on stage and thanked the newcomers as well as the old-timers and he reminded the audience to thank Walter.
Kim with her first friend.
Kim and her father, Brother Gabe.I felt I had a very happy and relaxing time and thought this was a wonderful way to spend an evening out and about.
Song of the Day: Stamsund - Terrence Ho (again, yup).
Sunday, January 16, 2011
A Gain in Gainesville, Day 4
I walked by a crowd of friendly homeless folks beneath blankets and ratty clothes by the door of the Civic Media Center (1.12.10). I'd just emerged into the twenty degree night from a heated car but shivered uncontrollably all over, carrying my guitar past them and unsure of how to meet their eyes. The first woman I passed made it easier for me, the kindest smile to go with her "Awww, you poor thing." A man called out "You play guitar, too!?" I couldn't remember seeing him before. I felt ashamed. Now I truly couldn't meet their eyes. They had to brave the entire night, and here I was uncomfortable and eyes downcast because of suspicion and my assumption of warmth.
Freddie, washtub player for Days n' Daze, greeted me at the door - t-shirt over exposed long johns, patched pants, kerchief round the neck all in light shades of gray. I found the rest of the band sitting in the middle of the space surrounded on three sides by bookshelves burning CD-Rs, wrapping them neatly in paper bags and duck tape with neatly emblazoned sharpie marker labels. I introduced myself. Jesse, lead singer/guitarist, looked surprised.
"You look totally different than the image I had in my mind." He admits.
"Yea?" I grin foolishly, "What were you expecting?"
"Well when Jimmy told us you'd be playin with us he said how you were a busker and traveler and all that so I expected... I dunno I sort of pictured really gnar and stuff. Rough street, kinda nasty." His descriptions were better but I don't remember.
"Like with dreads and stuff?"
"Yea." Scratching his head before a winning smile, "You sort of threw me for a loop. It's refreshing."
I guess I don't cut quite as imposing figure as I want. Maybe my name also causes some confusion. Before meeting me, Laura's boyfriend Evan thought I was black.
Days n' Daze have a brilliant strategy for booking gigs. Most places in Gainesville won't book a show for a single band, but Days n' Daze circumvent this problem by being three bands. Washboard player/singer for the band Marissa started the night off a touch early while people still drifted in. She scrounged for AA batteries to power a keyboard for her solo act - the rest of the band would request a song from her and she'd sing it. I rather liked her act. One song in particular seemed apt for the dreary day without and she got the loudest applause from that, especially from coordinator Jimmy who sat to left. She kept her keyboard at a very low volume and sang just over it, both unmiked and cozy. Her pronunciation took a round sideways bite out of the syllables - jazz inspired and indie current. Regina Spektor warbles and vaudeville diction. She arpeggiated chords in a player piano sort of way - that oom pah pah thing or a straight up down roll with a high note to accent.
The two men took the stage next as U.NOT.I, a "riot-folk" style I'd never experienced before. I can best describe them as quick strumming on acoustic instruments while screaming political lyrics. Freddie accentuated his emotion by limiting his breaths so he'd go red in the face and strain out lyrics. The style of screaming seemed like he clenched all his muscles, shoved a sound deep into his abdomen where it clawed itself into the wall before he drew it out, scraping and screaming breathless and airy as it emerged. I enjoyed his passion but not the lyrics so much. Each song's text was littered with prepared anarchist catch-phrases and manufactured anger - one song's chorus went: "Fuck the man, fuck the man, fuck the man and uncle sam, fuck the man, fuck the man, god damn."
The coziness of th Civic Media Center truly marked the night as special for me. No one used amplification (aside from the keyboard, which used it's own small speakers), the small audience sat in chairs of disparate design or upon the worn wood floor, books cushioned every wall in a friendly manner and the lights were simply lights - audience illuminated as much as performer, the third wall lowered a perfect amount. I felt strangely nervous taking the stage, partly as the six friends who'd promised to show had each canceled for some reason or another and I'd no friendly face to gaze upon. My mother hadn't arrived yet, either, so I gave my Zi8 recorder to the friendliest man I'd met before the show, a half Chinese half French businessman from Boston with the most encouraging smile. He'd seen Days n' Daze playing downtown at the Farmer's Market in the afternoon and had come out to support them.
In my nervousness I messed up some lyrics in two of my own songs, Car No. 5 and Stamsund. Immediately afterwards I felt I performed somewhat poorly but upon reviewing the footage I'm a bit more forgiving. My audience warmed to me instantly and saved me from my own unfathomable nervousness every now and again. I'll let the footage speak now:
Days n' Daze took over for the last set. While they maintained their bohemian kerchief and patches and rags look, they'd changed to all wear clean black t shirts. Whitney held down the high end of the aural spectrum playing Trumpet and ukulele and the highest voice of the quartet. Marissa played her washboard spectacularly, hunched over in an impossible curve to support it on her thighs as her fingers danced up and down its ridges. Freddie manned the lower register, one foot securing the washtub upon the ground, left hand securing the string to the broomstick to change pitch and right hand dextrously pulling away. He lent his raspy voice to choruses and the ends of phrases as did Marissa. Jesse strummed his guitar at a hyper speed. If Freddie's screams sound dragged his were flogged and mangled, thrown in a high pass blender before being launched at such velocity they rattled around his temple and emerged somewhere between falsetto and top-of-the-range full voice.
The energy of the band was astounding. Occasionally they invited us to dance to their tunes. I suppose we were all too shy, for only a already standing men swayed slightly on their lateral axes and bobbed their heads in time. When they sang together they did not sing in harmony but in a raw skinned unison. Each syllable ejected so forcefully their eyes often shut themselves like their bodies thought they were sneezing. My one dig against the band lay in their between song conduct - they talked amongst themselves after each song without passing their eyes across the audience. This was also true for their separate acts. This manner gave off either a nervous/uncomfortable or uncaring vibe, I did not feel invited in, but strangely voyeuristic.
After the gig I stuck around a while speaking to the various audience members and volunteers. The Bostonian invited me up for a gig there, a Vegan chatted with me about Europe and class struggle. The collector of the donations box cut the money without consulting me, however. He split the earnings with the band having assumed that "I thought that since you're local you didn't want any of it?" I felt I'd be too much of an asshole to ask my share and the amount was so trifling it didn't particularly matter. The band gave me something invaluable, anyways, the knowledge of two great cross streets in New Orleans and Houston and the promise of a joint gig in early February.
Audience: ~15
Earnings: $0, 30 minutes
Song of the Day: Stamsund - Terrence Ho
Freddie, washtub player for Days n' Daze, greeted me at the door - t-shirt over exposed long johns, patched pants, kerchief round the neck all in light shades of gray. I found the rest of the band sitting in the middle of the space surrounded on three sides by bookshelves burning CD-Rs, wrapping them neatly in paper bags and duck tape with neatly emblazoned sharpie marker labels. I introduced myself. Jesse, lead singer/guitarist, looked surprised.
"You look totally different than the image I had in my mind." He admits.
"Yea?" I grin foolishly, "What were you expecting?"
"Well when Jimmy told us you'd be playin with us he said how you were a busker and traveler and all that so I expected... I dunno I sort of pictured really gnar and stuff. Rough street, kinda nasty." His descriptions were better but I don't remember.
"Like with dreads and stuff?"
"Yea." Scratching his head before a winning smile, "You sort of threw me for a loop. It's refreshing."
I guess I don't cut quite as imposing figure as I want. Maybe my name also causes some confusion. Before meeting me, Laura's boyfriend Evan thought I was black.
Days n' Daze have a brilliant strategy for booking gigs. Most places in Gainesville won't book a show for a single band, but Days n' Daze circumvent this problem by being three bands. Washboard player/singer for the band Marissa started the night off a touch early while people still drifted in. She scrounged for AA batteries to power a keyboard for her solo act - the rest of the band would request a song from her and she'd sing it. I rather liked her act. One song in particular seemed apt for the dreary day without and she got the loudest applause from that, especially from coordinator Jimmy who sat to left. She kept her keyboard at a very low volume and sang just over it, both unmiked and cozy. Her pronunciation took a round sideways bite out of the syllables - jazz inspired and indie current. Regina Spektor warbles and vaudeville diction. She arpeggiated chords in a player piano sort of way - that oom pah pah thing or a straight up down roll with a high note to accent.
The two men took the stage next as U.NOT.I, a "riot-folk" style I'd never experienced before. I can best describe them as quick strumming on acoustic instruments while screaming political lyrics. Freddie accentuated his emotion by limiting his breaths so he'd go red in the face and strain out lyrics. The style of screaming seemed like he clenched all his muscles, shoved a sound deep into his abdomen where it clawed itself into the wall before he drew it out, scraping and screaming breathless and airy as it emerged. I enjoyed his passion but not the lyrics so much. Each song's text was littered with prepared anarchist catch-phrases and manufactured anger - one song's chorus went: "Fuck the man, fuck the man, fuck the man and uncle sam, fuck the man, fuck the man, god damn."
The coziness of th Civic Media Center truly marked the night as special for me. No one used amplification (aside from the keyboard, which used it's own small speakers), the small audience sat in chairs of disparate design or upon the worn wood floor, books cushioned every wall in a friendly manner and the lights were simply lights - audience illuminated as much as performer, the third wall lowered a perfect amount. I felt strangely nervous taking the stage, partly as the six friends who'd promised to show had each canceled for some reason or another and I'd no friendly face to gaze upon. My mother hadn't arrived yet, either, so I gave my Zi8 recorder to the friendliest man I'd met before the show, a half Chinese half French businessman from Boston with the most encouraging smile. He'd seen Days n' Daze playing downtown at the Farmer's Market in the afternoon and had come out to support them.
In my nervousness I messed up some lyrics in two of my own songs, Car No. 5 and Stamsund. Immediately afterwards I felt I performed somewhat poorly but upon reviewing the footage I'm a bit more forgiving. My audience warmed to me instantly and saved me from my own unfathomable nervousness every now and again. I'll let the footage speak now:
Days n' Daze took over for the last set. While they maintained their bohemian kerchief and patches and rags look, they'd changed to all wear clean black t shirts. Whitney held down the high end of the aural spectrum playing Trumpet and ukulele and the highest voice of the quartet. Marissa played her washboard spectacularly, hunched over in an impossible curve to support it on her thighs as her fingers danced up and down its ridges. Freddie manned the lower register, one foot securing the washtub upon the ground, left hand securing the string to the broomstick to change pitch and right hand dextrously pulling away. He lent his raspy voice to choruses and the ends of phrases as did Marissa. Jesse strummed his guitar at a hyper speed. If Freddie's screams sound dragged his were flogged and mangled, thrown in a high pass blender before being launched at such velocity they rattled around his temple and emerged somewhere between falsetto and top-of-the-range full voice.
The energy of the band was astounding. Occasionally they invited us to dance to their tunes. I suppose we were all too shy, for only a already standing men swayed slightly on their lateral axes and bobbed their heads in time. When they sang together they did not sing in harmony but in a raw skinned unison. Each syllable ejected so forcefully their eyes often shut themselves like their bodies thought they were sneezing. My one dig against the band lay in their between song conduct - they talked amongst themselves after each song without passing their eyes across the audience. This was also true for their separate acts. This manner gave off either a nervous/uncomfortable or uncaring vibe, I did not feel invited in, but strangely voyeuristic.
After the gig I stuck around a while speaking to the various audience members and volunteers. The Bostonian invited me up for a gig there, a Vegan chatted with me about Europe and class struggle. The collector of the donations box cut the money without consulting me, however. He split the earnings with the band having assumed that "I thought that since you're local you didn't want any of it?" I felt I'd be too much of an asshole to ask my share and the amount was so trifling it didn't particularly matter. The band gave me something invaluable, anyways, the knowledge of two great cross streets in New Orleans and Houston and the promise of a joint gig in early February.
Audience: ~15
Earnings: $0, 30 minutes
Song of the Day: Stamsund - Terrence Ho
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
A Gain in Gainesville, Day 3
Last week, Anuradha aptly named the Open Mic at the Laboratory an anthropologist's dream. We were not disappointed upon our return on this past Monday. I arrived a touch late, right as they began at ten, not wanting to sit through another half hour of bad comedy... but this saw me miss the sign up sheet, on a sheet of paper rather than the board ("The board is dead!" cried Tom Miller). I sat down just in time for Tom's newest opening craziness - an airing of the show Dog the Bounty Hunter, possibly one of the worst "reality" shows I've yet seen. Tom seemed particularly keen on the woman's "swimable bosom." We actually sat for an entire episode. Luckily, Anuradha showed up soon after he hit play, and we chatted the time away.
The vibe of the Laboratory leans rather towards the reactionary left. Scathing mockery of Christianity, odes to marijuana... Tom Miller renamed the show "I Love Dog" in honor of his sarcastic conversion to Christianity, passing out flyers he picked up from an evangelist church, our forced viewing of Dog the Bounty Hunter being out of "respect for Jesus" as Dog was God spelled backwards. This tone continued for Reverend Angel Dust's "benediction" - similar to the previous weeks with it's "Praise Jamba"s and exultations to the Goddess. Anuradha enjoyed the sermon tremendously. This time we'd brought pens and paper to jot down the gold pouring from the stage. The Reverend's bit strangely married tragedy and comedy. He spent the first bit asking for a moment of silence for the Phoenix victims, but with a smile to his voice that undercut the true sadness of it. I felt extremely uncomfortable. He continued, using the gunman as a vehicle for his beliefs about weed and guns:
"...Anyone who carries a gun is mentally ill.
Now, if we were all naked, no one could hide guns beneath their clothing at political rallies.
And furthermore! If we were all under the influence of Her Goddess's hempyness, then none of us could shoot straight anyways...
The Hairy Krishnas are having group therapy.
I say that we, of the congregation of the holy church of hedonism, should also partake of group therapy. In the nude.
Amen. (The audience echoes)
Awomen. (The audience echoes)
A group therapy session in the nude. (The audience echoes)."
Last visit's "Frog", who performed the truly horrid disco motions to Stayin' Alive came on as "No Good," blowing out the speakers again with a loud electric guitar/drum track while screeching un-miked in his scarlet bowler hat with false ZZ top hair to match his real scraggly beard and matching suit. Even he broke off his screams to break into laughter every now and again. Tom Miller congratulated him afterwards as being truly No Good. Then followed a random test question - a single question something of a satire to standardized tests - administered by Frog/No Good, who read the instructions SAT style from the mic in a slow, snail-;ike voice. "Thank you guys for participating in this scientific experiment." The results would be revealed the following week.
The spoken word poet David Moss captained the stage next, asking for requests. It seems he only had a few poems, which were alternately delightful, Cheese, and masturbatory, Dirty Love. He rather offended my eardrums during the latter with a screamed-directly-into-the-mic, "I'm gonna pump, Pump, PUMP you." The poem dealt with oil drilling.
All throughout, like some sort of refrain from these regulars, someone would call out "Is this the show?" When someone in the back chattered a bit too disrespectfully, Tom took a minute, or five, to avow, "Anyone trying to rush me through a Monday Night, well Fuck you!" His friend Chase, the other half of the bad comedy act from the other night, then proceeded to play loudly commentate two YouTube videos - a Durex commercial and a Ren & Stimpy's Space Madness. Most of his comments fixated on analogies to the horrors of marriage and his ex wife. Poor guy. This boring act cleared out half the room, something Tom was keen to note, proudly.
Then began the musical portion of the night. Local Gainesville "legend" Jack Mason sang a couple of Pixies covers: This Monkey's Gone to Heaven with Tom singing harmony and an inspired Where is My Mind. Sadly, the young crowd behind me took this first talented set as a conversation break. John Wasser, "Wahoo" followed him up with the same repertoire of badly sung old covers, then Jose took the stage with Helen to sing a sweet song, the Decemberists Eli, the Barrow Boy, hardly miked such that we all sat closer in. Jose's eyes never opened and Helen's harmony never lifted into an audible range.
The highlight of the night came from Helen herself. Brilliantly trained operatic voice and astonishing control marred by horrid nerves and amateur ukulele/guitar strumming. She'd play and sing a beautiful twenty seconds before abruptly stopping, laughing nervously and either restarting or apologizing and continuing from precisely the spot she left off. Her tone and vibrato befit an older woman of the showtunes era. The twenty second bits remained lovely enough to excuse her breaks as cute.
I followed, after an extremely flattering introduction by Tom. The Mario Kart Love Song was well received, but for whatever reason I felt rushed the entire pitch - maybe that I only began after 12:30, or that I was second to last, I felt strangely nervous and uncomfortable. I even abbreviated Liberta after a flubbed note. The Laboratory crowd remains my favorite, though, with their forgiving ways, enthusiasm and support. They cheered, sang along to my chorus in my Squirrel Song, laughed at my jokes... beautiful if eccentric people, all.
Now, Gainesville venues don't acquiesce to solo acts and so I've had to team up with others for my gigs. One I've joined with is James Wesson, whose myspace.com/lordofoats assured me he played pretty well. A regular at the lab he closed the show after me after generously filming my set. He played with Joe Willis as Whale Hunt, and the result truly offended my ears. Shrill feedback, loudly overplayed synth and guitar, screamed lyric-less vocals - it rang of wankery wall-of-sound/"beauty"-of-noise crock. Rang, literally. They spent twenty minutes warming up, playing loud nonsense out of their amp and speakers. James, who looms giant-like above and to the sides of me, nearly destroyed the stage (as is his general style, apparently) and continually walked around befuddled for some reason or other - the guitar getting unplugged, the gain being too high, the chords getting wrapped around the mic stand...
I have two gigs with him next week. I am... a bit worried, but luckily these aren't with Whale Hunt, but rather just him. Tamer, I hope.
Song of the Day: Squirrel Song - Terrence Ho
The vibe of the Laboratory leans rather towards the reactionary left. Scathing mockery of Christianity, odes to marijuana... Tom Miller renamed the show "I Love Dog" in honor of his sarcastic conversion to Christianity, passing out flyers he picked up from an evangelist church, our forced viewing of Dog the Bounty Hunter being out of "respect for Jesus" as Dog was God spelled backwards. This tone continued for Reverend Angel Dust's "benediction" - similar to the previous weeks with it's "Praise Jamba"s and exultations to the Goddess. Anuradha enjoyed the sermon tremendously. This time we'd brought pens and paper to jot down the gold pouring from the stage. The Reverend's bit strangely married tragedy and comedy. He spent the first bit asking for a moment of silence for the Phoenix victims, but with a smile to his voice that undercut the true sadness of it. I felt extremely uncomfortable. He continued, using the gunman as a vehicle for his beliefs about weed and guns:
"...Anyone who carries a gun is mentally ill.
Now, if we were all naked, no one could hide guns beneath their clothing at political rallies.
And furthermore! If we were all under the influence of Her Goddess's hempyness, then none of us could shoot straight anyways...
The Hairy Krishnas are having group therapy.
I say that we, of the congregation of the holy church of hedonism, should also partake of group therapy. In the nude.
Amen. (The audience echoes)
Awomen. (The audience echoes)
A group therapy session in the nude. (The audience echoes)."
Last visit's "Frog", who performed the truly horrid disco motions to Stayin' Alive came on as "No Good," blowing out the speakers again with a loud electric guitar/drum track while screeching un-miked in his scarlet bowler hat with false ZZ top hair to match his real scraggly beard and matching suit. Even he broke off his screams to break into laughter every now and again. Tom Miller congratulated him afterwards as being truly No Good. Then followed a random test question - a single question something of a satire to standardized tests - administered by Frog/No Good, who read the instructions SAT style from the mic in a slow, snail-;ike voice. "Thank you guys for participating in this scientific experiment." The results would be revealed the following week.
The spoken word poet David Moss captained the stage next, asking for requests. It seems he only had a few poems, which were alternately delightful, Cheese, and masturbatory, Dirty Love. He rather offended my eardrums during the latter with a screamed-directly-into-the-mic, "I'm gonna pump, Pump, PUMP you." The poem dealt with oil drilling.
All throughout, like some sort of refrain from these regulars, someone would call out "Is this the show?" When someone in the back chattered a bit too disrespectfully, Tom took a minute, or five, to avow, "Anyone trying to rush me through a Monday Night, well Fuck you!" His friend Chase, the other half of the bad comedy act from the other night, then proceeded to play loudly commentate two YouTube videos - a Durex commercial and a Ren & Stimpy's Space Madness. Most of his comments fixated on analogies to the horrors of marriage and his ex wife. Poor guy. This boring act cleared out half the room, something Tom was keen to note, proudly.
Then began the musical portion of the night. Local Gainesville "legend" Jack Mason sang a couple of Pixies covers: This Monkey's Gone to Heaven with Tom singing harmony and an inspired Where is My Mind. Sadly, the young crowd behind me took this first talented set as a conversation break. John Wasser, "Wahoo" followed him up with the same repertoire of badly sung old covers, then Jose took the stage with Helen to sing a sweet song, the Decemberists Eli, the Barrow Boy, hardly miked such that we all sat closer in. Jose's eyes never opened and Helen's harmony never lifted into an audible range.
The highlight of the night came from Helen herself. Brilliantly trained operatic voice and astonishing control marred by horrid nerves and amateur ukulele/guitar strumming. She'd play and sing a beautiful twenty seconds before abruptly stopping, laughing nervously and either restarting or apologizing and continuing from precisely the spot she left off. Her tone and vibrato befit an older woman of the showtunes era. The twenty second bits remained lovely enough to excuse her breaks as cute.
I followed, after an extremely flattering introduction by Tom. The Mario Kart Love Song was well received, but for whatever reason I felt rushed the entire pitch - maybe that I only began after 12:30, or that I was second to last, I felt strangely nervous and uncomfortable. I even abbreviated Liberta after a flubbed note. The Laboratory crowd remains my favorite, though, with their forgiving ways, enthusiasm and support. They cheered, sang along to my chorus in my Squirrel Song, laughed at my jokes... beautiful if eccentric people, all.
Now, Gainesville venues don't acquiesce to solo acts and so I've had to team up with others for my gigs. One I've joined with is James Wesson, whose myspace.com/lordofoats assured me he played pretty well. A regular at the lab he closed the show after me after generously filming my set. He played with Joe Willis as Whale Hunt, and the result truly offended my ears. Shrill feedback, loudly overplayed synth and guitar, screamed lyric-less vocals - it rang of wankery wall-of-sound/"beauty"-of-noise crock. Rang, literally. They spent twenty minutes warming up, playing loud nonsense out of their amp and speakers. James, who looms giant-like above and to the sides of me, nearly destroyed the stage (as is his general style, apparently) and continually walked around befuddled for some reason or other - the guitar getting unplugged, the gain being too high, the chords getting wrapped around the mic stand...
I have two gigs with him next week. I am... a bit worried, but luckily these aren't with Whale Hunt, but rather just him. Tamer, I hope.
Song of the Day: Squirrel Song - Terrence Ho
Monday, January 10, 2011
A Gain in Gainesville, Day 2
Immediately after Christmas, I wandered about Gainesville to see if trying to book gigs in person would yield better results than the failed calling and emailing. I booked two gigs in the thirty minutes. Granted, the first I booked, for the Civic Media Center, was canceled when the other artist, Mark Miale, had to back out, but happily the other went on. I would play at The Warehouse, a "Restaurant & Lounge" in downtown Gainesville owned by a long time family friend, a man of many talents who'd been a University of Florida Mathematics Professor, run an auto shop and now opened this restaurant which has been performing splendidly. We arranged for a standard restaurant gig, playing in a small recess across from the bar and facing the patrons. I'd play two hours on New Years Eve before the party planned there at 9:30, headlined by Heavy Petty with four fabulous singer/songwriter's in the lineup as well.
So the plan was written. The actual night did not go so smoothly. When I arrived they were quite behind schedule setting up the stage and bar areas in the back. We set to trying to make the PA function with inputs for a time. After agonizing minutes with no results, they took me to play on the stage out back. The mic stands they promised were missing, too.
Uncle Yoh'd converted his garage directly into the restaurant, the garage area maintained the same general layout - uninsulated, large garage doors leading to the outside parking lot, ample raised stage at the end facing a mishmash of lower tables, long raised tables, a massive bar area captaining half the remaining space and even a set of movie theatre seats cordoning the area off from the outside to funnel a single entrance. All this rather emphasized the zero-ness of my audience. Every table within the restaurant overflowed with an abundance of guests... but as I couldn't make out the dull roar of their conversations I'm sure I wasn't heard, either.
I jury rigged the two mics they provided me in a fashion I became quite proud of. I retrieved a low chair from a table and a high, round table with stuck to the side. If I hunched a bit in my seat my voice would be directed right at a mic head I edged over the rim, pinched between two tumblers. One of these tumblers also served as a weight for the other mic, sitting on top of the wire while the mic dangled below, a few inches from the guitar. This mic created some very minor feedback issues (no sharp high pitched sounds, just a growing drone), but in the silence between songs, so I made a point to take very short breaks. I started singing as soon as I found the mics satisfactory to now two bartender audience.
The back area filled in quite quickly after that, a couple parties arrived early or used the space as a waiting area. I'd prepared a set list of mostly oldies for the restaurant clientele, but at least in the beginning I abandoned it for more pop covers - my audience ranged from twenty to mid thirty and I expected Jim Croce may have bored them. After a while the small audience my mother brought finished their supper and joined me, too - they began making requests off the lists I'd printed to set on the tables (but never ended up using), predictably ticking off all the Simon & Garfunkel and Beatles numbers before moving on to the Eagles and such. I remained ever conscious of the youth of the primary audience, however, so I snuck in a Hey Ya and a She's So High in there every now and again. The latter earned me a profound ovation from the now full center long table, led by a lonely looking late twenties man with a shirt, a tie and a sad encouraging smile.
With my small seed audience of seven applauding after songs, others began to join in, too. Something like bystander effect, I suppose, combined with the inevitable running out of small talk forcing the patrons to watch me as a less awkward object of attention than their silently struggling for witticism companions. I began to say "Thank you"s. By my final song, the song of the day, my allergy wracked voice had nearly quit, I'd inhaled four or five tumblers full of water provided me by my brother, and the absurd mic stand contraption hadn't yet toppled. I felt comfortable up there, then, though the patrons gave me flashbacks of my high school, populated by same wealthy nothing-to-do-let's-party-unaware-of-our-privilege ilk. I even recognized a few.
After I finished up, however, Brent and I remained for just a few songs by the main acts. The crowd returned to chattering and ignoring their entertainers, who visibly paled to such treatment but played beautifully regardless. They'd warm up in time, I thought, but till then, I had some video games waiting for me at home. When I returned a few days later to collect my compensation I expected a moderate three digit sum, musicians often love New Years Eve for it's famed tripling power - $100 turns to $300, magically - but such was not to be. As it turned out, 1/6 of my earnings came courtesy of a generous tip from the mother of my childhood friend. As I write this I manage to brush off my disappointment, though, since it looks so much larger occupying the same format as my standard busking wages.
Earnings: $60, 2 hours
Audience: ~25
Song of the Day: Somewhere Over the Rainbow - Israel Kamakawiwo'ole
So the plan was written. The actual night did not go so smoothly. When I arrived they were quite behind schedule setting up the stage and bar areas in the back. We set to trying to make the PA function with inputs for a time. After agonizing minutes with no results, they took me to play on the stage out back. The mic stands they promised were missing, too.
Uncle Yoh'd converted his garage directly into the restaurant, the garage area maintained the same general layout - uninsulated, large garage doors leading to the outside parking lot, ample raised stage at the end facing a mishmash of lower tables, long raised tables, a massive bar area captaining half the remaining space and even a set of movie theatre seats cordoning the area off from the outside to funnel a single entrance. All this rather emphasized the zero-ness of my audience. Every table within the restaurant overflowed with an abundance of guests... but as I couldn't make out the dull roar of their conversations I'm sure I wasn't heard, either.
I jury rigged the two mics they provided me in a fashion I became quite proud of. I retrieved a low chair from a table and a high, round table with stuck to the side. If I hunched a bit in my seat my voice would be directed right at a mic head I edged over the rim, pinched between two tumblers. One of these tumblers also served as a weight for the other mic, sitting on top of the wire while the mic dangled below, a few inches from the guitar. This mic created some very minor feedback issues (no sharp high pitched sounds, just a growing drone), but in the silence between songs, so I made a point to take very short breaks. I started singing as soon as I found the mics satisfactory to now two bartender audience.
The back area filled in quite quickly after that, a couple parties arrived early or used the space as a waiting area. I'd prepared a set list of mostly oldies for the restaurant clientele, but at least in the beginning I abandoned it for more pop covers - my audience ranged from twenty to mid thirty and I expected Jim Croce may have bored them. After a while the small audience my mother brought finished their supper and joined me, too - they began making requests off the lists I'd printed to set on the tables (but never ended up using), predictably ticking off all the Simon & Garfunkel and Beatles numbers before moving on to the Eagles and such. I remained ever conscious of the youth of the primary audience, however, so I snuck in a Hey Ya and a She's So High in there every now and again. The latter earned me a profound ovation from the now full center long table, led by a lonely looking late twenties man with a shirt, a tie and a sad encouraging smile.
With my small seed audience of seven applauding after songs, others began to join in, too. Something like bystander effect, I suppose, combined with the inevitable running out of small talk forcing the patrons to watch me as a less awkward object of attention than their silently struggling for witticism companions. I began to say "Thank you"s. By my final song, the song of the day, my allergy wracked voice had nearly quit, I'd inhaled four or five tumblers full of water provided me by my brother, and the absurd mic stand contraption hadn't yet toppled. I felt comfortable up there, then, though the patrons gave me flashbacks of my high school, populated by same wealthy nothing-to-do-let's-party-unaware-of-our-privilege ilk. I even recognized a few.
After I finished up, however, Brent and I remained for just a few songs by the main acts. The crowd returned to chattering and ignoring their entertainers, who visibly paled to such treatment but played beautifully regardless. They'd warm up in time, I thought, but till then, I had some video games waiting for me at home. When I returned a few days later to collect my compensation I expected a moderate three digit sum, musicians often love New Years Eve for it's famed tripling power - $100 turns to $300, magically - but such was not to be. As it turned out, 1/6 of my earnings came courtesy of a generous tip from the mother of my childhood friend. As I write this I manage to brush off my disappointment, though, since it looks so much larger occupying the same format as my standard busking wages.
Earnings: $60, 2 hours
Audience: ~25
Song of the Day: Somewhere Over the Rainbow - Israel Kamakawiwo'ole
Friday, January 7, 2011
A Gain in Gainesville, Day 1.5
I tend to forget to take photographs while home (or when I was at Yale, for that matter). Two of my cousins visited Gainesville for the days leading up to Christmas, and we took them wandering about to see it. Now, as my friends Laura and Christine have averred, Gainesville is such a pathetic little town that when a new Publix (grocery store) opens, everyone's talking about it and visiting it and such. One thing we do have going for us, however, is a very distinct and relatively unspoilt ecosystem which I've largely taken for granted or despised for its effects on my sinuses. Through grade school "exploring" these creeks and parks with Laura and later Shannon was one of favorite pastimes. Carrie and Karen were likely natured out by the end of their four day stay. I'll let an abbreviated photo essay explain from here.
Elementary schooler: "Is that the Gator Parking Lot, Daddy?" Paynes Prairie.
Devil's Millhoper.
Karen at Biven's Arm.
Biven's Arm.
Poe Springs.
Paddington
Baughman Center, Lake Alice.
Pengwin.
Elementary schooler: "Is that the Gator Parking Lot, Daddy?" Paynes Prairie.
Devil's Millhoper.
Karen at Biven's Arm. 
Biven's Arm.
Poe Springs.
Paddington
Baughman Center, Lake Alice.Pengwin.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
A Gain in Gainesville, Day 1 by Anuradha Pandey
Anuradha kindly acquiesced to write a guest post for me about an Open Mic I played last week, 12.27.10, at the Laboratory in Gainesville. She arrived at around 10:45, so I'll quickly recap the ridiculousness of the first hour. "Tom Miller's Summer Unspectacular" is an extremely eclectic Open Mic he's been running in various incarnations for twenty five years in Gainesville. He ran the show completely in front of the scenes, with long between act interludes and bucking the schedule entirely (the first two acts weren't even on the list). He'd keep repeating, extremely drunk, "You get what you payed for," an especially commonly recurring phrase during the first half hour when he wandered about stage with a rotund pal doing horrible standup comedy, the only bit I remember being something about Hitler.
Tom welcomed a "Reverend Angel Dust" to the stage, an older stayed-too-long-in-Gainesville man who preceded to read very irreverant and uber-liberal-Christianity-is-to-be-mocked-make-fun-of-the-government poetry with frequent "Amen"s and "Praise Jamba"s. He threw Tom into loud drunken raptures repeating the line "Nuidity is not lewidity." The rest of the very long poem redundantly spoke of his solution to the war: "If we were all high on Afghani keef no one would be killing each other."
The rest, I leave to Anu writing and Milana's photodocumentation:
P.S. A gem I can't leave out: The old man who sang first who went by "Wahoo" was asked his age by the audience after he blamed the lackluster reception to the generation gap. He responded: "I'm half a blowjob shy of sway sant noof." (soixant neuf)
Song of the Day: Hey Ya - OutKast
Tom welcomed a "Reverend Angel Dust" to the stage, an older stayed-too-long-in-Gainesville man who preceded to read very irreverant and uber-liberal-Christianity-is-to-be-mocked-make-fun-of-the-government poetry with frequent "Amen"s and "Praise Jamba"s. He threw Tom into loud drunken raptures repeating the line "Nuidity is not lewidity." The rest of the very long poem redundantly spoke of his solution to the war: "If we were all high on Afghani keef no one would be killing each other."
The rest, I leave to Anu writing and Milana's photodocumentation:
- Gainesville is a small town, the town in which Terrence and I were thrown together during high school and where we still meet from time to time. We don't talk very often when he's away, which is for most of the year. I spend the entire year in Gainesville because I still go to school here, but I make no secret of envying the friends of mine who have gone out into the world and left Gainesville behind as a repository for childhood memories. I still live there, but maybe one day I'll get out. Maybe. Terrence, though, has gotten out without a care for what's going to happen tomorrow and without the security that I have made a requirement before I venture out. I've admired him for having the bravery to do what he does, which is stir the emotions of strangers while expecting basically nothing in return.
Back to Gainesville. On a random Tuesday over winter break, I found myself at the Laboratory to watch Terrence sing at their open mic night. It's funny how there are still places I haven't gone to in Gainesville after living here for twenty years. The Laboratory is one such place that captures Gainesville's weird underbelly. Sure, all small towns are probably weird, but we often think that ours is the weirdest. Or close.
When I got there, an older man was singing rather badly, and had apparently preceded the oldies song I walked in on with three also badly sung French numbers. This was weird, and perhaps a strange place for Terrence to sing. Then CineMike came on to amaze us with his boundless movie knowledge. Legend had it that he could connect any two actors ever. A short younger man, perhaps part of Gainesville's hipster crowd, dressed in a long coat and a bowtie (whom I recognized the following week at the locally-owned supermarket), challenged CineMike with a seemingly impossible connection. Clark Gable and Lassie.
Then a nervous looking girl named Natalie and a dude named Evan did a duet, which was lovely. The only non-weird act of the evening aside from Terrence. It was a nice break from the monotony of CineMike, who was not amusing. After that we thought Terrence was going to go on, but alas. Our expectations were thwarted by a long introduction for a man in a full crushed purple velvet suit with velvet tiger stripe lapels and tiger stripe pant pocket detailing, topped off with a paper bag mask and a Santa hat. He had a small disco ball set up on a chair behind him and kind of shuffled around to a remix of "Stayin' Alive." It was kind of like a single line painted on a canvas that the artist might insist was "deep."
"Frog"
TuningThen, finally, we got to Terrence. He was nervous, but he didn't sound it. One of the original numbers, "From Dawn to Busk," reminded me to stop caring so much about security in life. Do we need to always know? His voice was soothing. I regretted not keeping in touch with him better at that moment, inexplicably. Of his covers, "Hey Ya" is still my favorite number. I think Terrence might have been the most legit act there. The audience was responsive, though we later decided that it wasn't the best place for him to get exposure. It consisted mostly of older people, and Terrence was followed by a "bellydancer" who was mostly alright and could have been mistaken for pregnant. Sometimes you need to sing in your hometown in an open mic night and share the stage with CineMike and a bearded man in a crushed purple velvet suit with tiger stripe lapels, as the audience drinks beer out of beakers. Terrence defies society. And what it is to be stereotypically Asian. I'm trying to learn how to do that, too.
What a wonderful audience.
P.S. A gem I can't leave out: The old man who sang first who went by "Wahoo" was asked his age by the audience after he blamed the lackluster reception to the generation gap. He responded: "I'm half a blowjob shy of sway sant noof." (soixant neuf)
Song of the Day: Hey Ya - OutKast
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)