last call

tonight's the night.

tune the strings, power up the PA, worble through the first few notes, then procede directly to kick ass!

Oh . . . yeah . . . I've been a wreck all week.

The butterflies in my stomach are playing Wagner and looking for a good place to surf.

But there are a few truisms to consider before letting go of the turkey sandwich I had for lunch.

One . . . sucking won't kill me. In fact sucking may be the very message from god that I have been looking for. The message that tell's me "Sweety, you're so out of your league" So then I can rest, catch up on a few novels, take my kid to the park, buy my wife something pretty that doesn't make her feel fat, and retire with the full knowledge I did my darndest.

Two . . . kicking ass won't kill me. It'll make my future prioities a little skewed. It might even force me to make sacrifices that up until this point I've been putting off. It'll make me get in shape, stop smoking, make me take my job less seriously, you know . . . good stuff.

Three . . . mediocraty won't kill me. Wait, yeah, that one would probably kill me.

Also I have some words of wisdom:

Laurence Olivier (Say it like you're french) used to step out onto the empty stage an hour before every performance and say this,

"Tonight you are about to see the greatest show of your theater going lives . . . oh you lucky people."

It's not arrogance, which is just a shield for insecurity, it's just pure pride. It says be proud of yourself and what you're about to do.

That's nice.

"Hey now, you're a rock star, get your game on"

That's nice too.

Lastly, however, is my wife's words an hour ago.

"Get over yourself."

Sorry boys . . . she's all mine.

a long time ago

I've been thinking about the past.

In the typical melancholy way.

It's a perfectly reasonable trap to fall into.

My grandmother asked me the other day if I ever had any intention of returning to theatre.

I said no. Not because I haven't fantasized about what my life might look like if I hadn't quit, and not because its totally unreasonable to think I may one day return to the path of my former life, but because there is a little secret that I'm willing to share with anyone likely to ask.

As a father, a husband, a singer/songwriter, a coffee shop manager, I am a relatively decent man.

As an actor, I was a total shithead.

Now I'm not saying I am totally void of shithead behavior, lets face it. But that little demon is hard to feed when your green eyed angel says he's hungry and wants you to peel him a banana.

I also can't feel anything but grateful that I walked away when I did. Theatre is dead.

Not dying.

Tag on the toe dead.

Go ahead, argue with me.

and remember there are still bubbles from the titanic floating up to the surface.

So if I was such a schmuck, and it was a perfectly timed departure, why wax poetic? Why sadly ponder the past?

there are a number of reasons which I will boil down to just a few.

first, the look on my grandmother's face when I told her no. She seemed sad. Possibly disappointed. Maybe a little self righteous that I had made a mistake. That I might have been born on that stage and denying that is equivalent to denying life itself.

to which I can assuredly respond "Bubbles, grandma, bubbles"

Second is the feeling of regret. foolish things done. failures of courage. cruelties to our loved ones. and worse, time wasted.

That's a tough one to get past. Those are the things that stab us in our hearts in the dead of night. Those are the scars that never heal and aren't cool enough to show off while drinking with your friends in a boat that's way too small.

Regret messes with your head.

One of the things I love about this project is that Calvin exists in a world without baggage. He may be woken in the middle of the night by a furry blue monster coming out of his closet, but it'll be some time before his heart palpitates because of something he did a decade ago.

But lastly, (i think),

as i return to the stage in two days time, I wonder who I'll become.

There is every possibility in the world I may channel that pesky little narcissistic demon. But I'm not too worried about it.

I'm bigger, better and faster now.

Calvin steps into the room carrying the game "Life" that he found when digging through his brother's closet. It's obvious he has no idea what it is, but there are cars in the picture. So he dumps all the contents of the box on the living room floor.

Can you help me build this, daddy?

Maybe.

Maybe I can.

a tough act to follow

It occured to me today that it has been almost two weeks since my last post.

how the hell is anyone going to be able to follow along if there's nothing to follow?

so let me explain,

no wait, we haven't got much time

let me sum up

I posted "Only Hope" on myspace (www.myspace.com/joshmacrae)

For new readers this is the song about how my son is out growing his love of music and how devistated I am by that.

Wrote a blog about how much of a pain in the ass copywriting can be.

Then I learned how unbeleivably easy it has become and felt really stupid.

Gotta call from Liz (my brother's better half). She wants me to play on thursday nights at the pub she is working at.

Crap.

This is where the last few weeks get complicated. First, I am overwhelmed by stage fright. Even saying the word "Thursday" makes me feel woozy and punch drunk.

Second, I am so out of shape physically that I immediatley go for a run and hurt my knee.

Third, working on a set with my 12 string, I totally hurt something in my elbow and both wrists.

My voice is weak, I can't remember how to support my breathing. (Oh and I probably smoke and drink too much).

Then I really start to panic.

What keeps me awake at night isn't fear of total failure. I've worked for many years. I'm not a live performance master, but I do know how to do it. I have the muscle memory, and anything I lack is probably gonna be covered by the adrenaline. I know that there isn't anyone out there right now who is doing what I do, so I'm not worried that I 'll be a total knockoff. The songs on my list are good, not cool, but good.

No what I'm really worried about is that I'll like it.

Not just like it,

love it.

Love it so much that it will become necessary to address the fact that one can't have it all.

It's not my fears that fill me with fear, it's my dreams.

But when it all comes down to it, I haven't been blogging.

and no one can follow along

and that makes it tough to care.

it ain't easy being brothers

this morning as I finished a cup a coffee, I was treated to another episode of brotherly territorialsim.

The three year old wanted to play the M&M video game (not to be confused with MNM the rapper) We're talking M&M candies in suped up race cars.

The sixteen year old wanted to play Mario Kart.

This fight went on for ten whole minutes before the little one got loud. So I yelled at the older one.

I don't necessarily always pick on the older one. (though it seems like it to him) In actuality, the little one was clearly there first. He totally had dibs.

Even though thirteen years separates the two boys, it just doesn't seem to matter much. One of them is always pushing the other around. Even though the sixteen year old clearly dominates in the weight class, he's got nothing in the arena of doe eyed cutness. They both however excel in shear volume and total inability to gage the mood of the parents.

The only saving grace in conflict resolution is that it's usually very clear who's in the wrong. To see who was there first. To see who's toy it really is.

I mourn for my parents who had no such clear distinctions between us two boys. They had to go with their gut every time.

But then, they also didn't have to teach basic sharing tehniques to a toddler when it's obvious that the older one is severely handicapped in that arena. Neither is a good influence on the other.

I'll never get to say "Why can't you be more like your brother?"

Another cliche of parenting slips through my fingers.

But it's my own brother who's on my mind today.

Last week he gave me a call out of the blue.

Now, my brother doesn't call very often. He's not the chit chatty sort. But he also doesn't call when he needs things,

like money problems
or
help moving
or
car troubles
or
guess what I got arrested for

He will call for random things at random times,

like 10pm trivia question answers
or
10am golf invitations when I'm at work
or
2am "I love you man"
or
6pm damn mom is off her rocker

Sometimes I won't hear from him for months. And then we talk almost every day. And then he'll not show up for a party and I won't hear from him again for another few months.

This type of relationship drives my wife crazy.

But he did give me a call the other day to tell me that he caught my song "Catch it to Me" on my myspace and that he really liked it. He said it moved a little fast but that he really liked it.

I'm sure I don't have to say it, but that made me feel really good.

really good.

Kind of makes me wish I had let him play with my toys more often.

of rain and copyright law

Today is a fine day for chili.

As the rain blows past my window, chili simmering on the stove, my eyes still filled with onion induced sobbing. I should be strumming on an old guitar, bouncing melodies off the silent uncritical walls and be happy.

A stormy day is the best time for self reflection. The best time to pen a sappy ballad.

Plus, rain makes a good ryhming word.

But alas, tis not to be.

This afternoon, instead of basking in the melocholy glory, I'll be filling out an endless supply of forms dedicated to proving that I wrote what I wrote, and protecting my legacy from the cowardly acts of plaguerism. Yay.

Yeasterday, after a much needed flash of inspiration, I recorded the song that had been giving me so much trouble.

Flush with victory, I told my wife about what I had done and that the song was ready to post online.

Of course, being the level headed half of this union, the first thing that came out of her mouth was "You did copyright it first, . . . right?"

The only thing that would have made the pause more dramactically correct is if she raised her eyebrows and tapped her foot.

"No honey . . . not yet."

Her dissapointment in me is legendary.

So here I am today filling out forms. Typing lyrics. Writing checks.

Now the law is pretty clear. Once a piece has been written, it is therefore copyrighted. It's intellectual property the minute it is finished. However, in order to take someone to court for stealing your tune, said tune has to be registered with the copyright office.

The amount of paperwork is actually minimal. Two pages of legal stuff declaring that you are the true writer of said tune and that you didn't steal it from anyone. Then you have to enclose a digital copy of the tune, a lyric sheet, a check for thirty or so dollars and send it snail mail. Once that has happened you can wait three to six months before a notice arrives stating that you are in fact the writer, and that you are elligible for jury duty in Des Moine, Iowa.

Its very easy. Relatively cheap. And something I have absolutely no interest in doing on such a fine day.

Like come on, who's gonna find my work, let alone steal it?

Bad people, my son, bad people.

So, when all is said and done I will add another piece of my life's puzzle to the Library of Congress, and if anyone is foolish enough, (or cool enough) to steal these songs before the piggies have gone to market, then they'll be in big trouble I tell you. Big.

So for all of my friends and family, the tune is posted on my myspace. Listen. Enjoy. Tell me what you think.

www.myspace.com/joshmacrae

and for all you bad people.

The check is in the mail.

Trial and Error

I can't record this new song right.

Just one good pass. That's all I need. A microphone, a guitar, a chair. Not much too it.

But I've been banging away in my little studio for a week now and the outcome is just dismal.

It's beyond dismal. Its outright depressing.

So how could this be? Yo? (I added the "Yo" so as to stay true to my inner city roots).

It's simple but its complicated.

First problem is my recording computer has become the family computer. My wife needs it for homework, my stepson needs it because his goes too slow. I tell him that it goes too slow because he's trying to run three different programs at the same time. Then he tells me that he's not. Then I ask him how he can be on his myspace, school website, and still have iTunes blasting the new Kelly Clarkson, but not have three programs running. He tells me that its Rhianna and not Kelly Clarkson. I process that for a moment, take a deep breath, and tell him to log out of myspace and iTunes and concentrate on his homework. Then he tells me he has to listen to music while working on his homework. I tell him to listen to his iPod, then he tells me that his ears hurt. I tell him to turn it down, he tells me its not too loud, then I tell him I can hear it from my room with the door closed and the TV blasting in the living room. He asks me if I can really hear it. Yes, I tell him. Yes I can.

So to negotiate around this little problem I've dragged an old recording machine out of the closet and started trying to use it again.

It's over a decade old and I can't remember how all the stuff works. I can't remember what presets I used to use that worked for my guitar and my voice and my microphones. The mixing board doesn't want to play nice either.

Also, it's an eight track machine. I'm so spoiled now with infinite track capability that I can eat up eight tracks just adding a little vocal harmony. Talk to my dad and he'll replay the good old days when you only had two, and two was good enough for anything. He may even go so far back as to remember when you have to record music with sticks etched into the dirt. Caveman Vinyl they called it.

When they had caves.

Problem number two is that something's wrong with Calvin in these last few days. He is jockeying for some serious attention all the time as if he senses my desire to sneak away. Ten minutes can't go by without his little voice saying "Daddy? Daddy?" which of course crescendos to a full on drag out temper tantrum. It worries me a bit because he gets like this just before he gets sick.

Problem three is that my guitar needs new strings. It sounds and feels dead.

So the moral of this blog today is really basic.

I'm just gonna keep trying.

I'm gonna give up getting crazy over the little failures. No matter how stupid.

I'm gonna concentrate on being patient and stop running in circles.

I'm gonna get new strings.

Tomorrow.