The Message is Clear

“Mommy i wot you to tac me to the game stor”

This note was scribbled on a lined sheet of paper and placed on the tile facing the front door.

The reason for the note was clear.

All morning Calvin has been insisting that we were going to the game store to buy him a Cars game for the Wii.

He cried and moaned. Begged and whined. Was quiet for an hour when I told him to let me finish my coffee before I kill him.

I told him that we could go to the game store after mommy and grandma left and I had taken a shower.

He cried and moaned. Begged and whined.

And then I told him that if he cries one more time that we were not going to the game store at all.

He cried again.

No game store.

All hell broke loose in the visceral chaos that is the emotional state of a young child.

I told him that if he didn’t stop crying, not only would he get a spanking but I would also take the rest of his games back to the store.

He sobbed, but the tantrum quieted and I went to take a shower.

He was quietly racing his cars on the floor when I came out of my room. I poured myself another cup of coffee and puttered off to my studio.

After about twenty minutes I realized the house was too quiet, and since silence can be a greater harbinger of doom than the most symphonic temper tantrum, I went to investigate.

Laying on the tiled floor was the hand written note.

“Mommy i wot you to tac me to the game stor”

For those of you who have never ushered a child through reading and writing, here is the loose translation:

“Mommy, I want you to take me to the game store”

My heart stopped a bit.

I let out an uncomfortable cackle.

“Dad?” his little now-angelic voice muttered from his room.

“Calvin?” I whispered.

“What?”

“Did you write this?”

“mmm hmm.”

“huh.” I whispered to myself.

“I left it for mommy cause I want her to take me to the game store.”

“That much I got. But did you just write this while daddy was in the garage?”

“mmm hmm.”

“Huh.” I muttered again. I laid the note back down on the floor so that mommy would indeed see it by the time she got home.

I’m at a complete loss for words. Calvin has been going to kindergarten for three months. I know he knows his letters, I know he can recognize a few words like AND, and THE, but here’s where is gets weird . . .

How the fuck did he learn how to spell GAME?

How the fuck did he learn how to write words by sounding them out like TAC (take) and STOR (store)?

And aside from the absence of a comma, how the fuck did he learn how to construct a perfect full sentence?

Now here’s where it gets weirder . . .

How does a five year old have the presence of mind in order to figure out alternative methods of communication when the person in question will not be home for several hours?

This is the same snot monkey that minutes before was throwing himself on the floor screaming and crying because I had no intention of spoiling him any further that day.

The intelligence of the act didn’t startle me. He’s a smart kid. And when he wants something, or when he gets something in his head, he is virtually unstoppable. And I am sure that there are parents of five year olds that could attest that their little darlings where writing full sentences and composing mini operas at the age of three, so I’m sure he falls a little short on the baby genius scale.

What really got to me was the speed of evolution.

What scares me is the depth of his obsession.

How did he so quickly change tactics from violent temper tantrum to written word logic? He even switched targets when he realized that I was immovable in my decision. (Which, for whatever its worth, is probably the first thing every child learns. If I can’t get it from mommy, I’ll go to dad, and vice versa)

But he did it with such astonishing fluidity.

I did note that he failed to write PLEASE. So not only is his genius driven by obsessive compulsion, but he’s also a little rude about it.

So mommy and grandma got home and found the message. We all had a good laugh. Albeit slightly uncomfortable laugh cause we just didn’t know what to make of it.

And then the matter was forgotten.

Or was it?

This morning, in between mouth-fulls of microwavable pancakes, Calvin mentioned that maybe today we could get dressed and go to the video game store.

This was pre coffee mind you, so I stared at him for a moment and told him that maybe we can.

“But only if I’m a good boy, and there’s no crying or whining?” he said.

“Uh Huh.” I replied.

“How bout this, how bout this, you have your coffee, dad, how about this, you have your coffee, then take a shower . . . you have your coffee, then take a shower, then we put our clothes on, then we go to the game store, then we go to the store and buy that game.” he said in the most straight forward voice he could muster.

(Side note: I love listening to him formulate a plan. He seems to start the idea, but once he realizes he has my attention, he forgets exactly what he meant to say and then has to rethink it on the fly. Hence the repeating of key concepts.)

“Why don’t we just wait and if you’re a good boy, maybe Santa will get you that game for christmas?”

“But that’s too long.” he said in surprise.

“Don’t you start crying again.” I said.

“Okay, but how bout this, you take a shower, then we put on our clothes, then we go to the game store, we go to the game store and see if they have that game, and if they don’t have that game maybe we’ll ask santa to get it for me for christmas. How does that sound? Does that sound good?”

“How bout this,” I replied. “I’m gonna go in the garage and write for a little while, then I’m gonna take a shower, then we’ll get dressing and then daddy has to go to work for a little while, and then if you’re really really good, we might go to the game store and see if they have that game. How does that sound?”

“Okay.” he said with a chipper but slightly unsatisfied breath.

So daddy went into the garage and started writing. A few paragraphs into this very blog, the phone rings. It was my wife.

“Did you text me that funny text?” she asked.

“What? No. I’ve been in the garage. Did you get a text?” I wondered over to my iPhone, turned it on and opened up the messaging app.

“Holy shit!” I said.

“Anyway, my lunch is at noon. We’ll talk about this when I get there.” She said and then hung up.

Here is the exact thing I saw on my phone. You’ll notice “My One True. . .” title. That’s because the ID I have for my wife is “My One True Love.” so as not to confuse her with any other Joann, and accidentally send dirty stuff to someone else. You can also see the shopping items she asked me to get for cookies the night before.

He doesn’t know how to use the space bar. And a nice dyslexic error has him using “Y” in stead of “A” And he has replaced the sweet sounding “mommy” for the more formal “mom”, but the message is clear.

The message is clear . . .

Let the Rain

I have a rule when I'm writing.

I don't listen to music.

The reason I don't listen to music is because the part of my brain, the sub-conscience ether if you will, is both a thief and a liar. He's a bit of a drunk too. Not only that, but he's prone to a light depressive state that is very much like apathy with a little self doubt thrown in.

Yeah, I've been listening to a lot of music lately.

New stuff, old stuff, pop/indie/classical stuff.

I've been watching a lot of TV too.

TV has music.

And plot.

Sometimes.

I've also been playing a lot of solitaire on my iPhone.

I selected not to share my solitaire scores with friends online.

Cause that just seems sad to me.

I've been reading new books and rereading old books. My wife thinks its a little weird that I would reread a book, but she can't remember anything about a book that she read last week, so maybe she rereads books all the time and just doesn't know it.

I guess the point I've been dancing around is that I've broken my rule. And I've become a vegetable.

Not even a good healthy vegetable like broccoli or leafy greens. More like celery. Salty and void of calories.

I have become the artistic version of celery.

And from the chub of belly hanging over my jeans I can guess that I've been in the crisper way too long.

I'm not even good enough for soup at this point.

I have become so accustom to this post summer time malaise that I haven't even bothered to fight it much this year. May through October seems to be one hell of a commercial break, but so what?

I think the music writing phase is just about over. There's one more song to write, and a few scraps to finish or throw away or incorporate somewhere else. And this new chapter will essentially be the one I have dreaded. I have to record.

I'm just not sure how I want to do it this time. I've heard so much music that I want to steal and make my own.

But I also don't want to have anything to do with the next part. I want to give it all over to someone else. But I can't afford it. And it can't just be anyone. It has to be someone who can make the whole thing sound cool. Sure I could spend $10,000 bucks and have a highly polished piece, but I'm concerned that my songwriting needs edge in order not to sound like a Neil Diamond knockoff.

Producers with edge might find me trite. Producers with polish might find me uncommercial. I could do all of it. I could do some of it and farm out the rest. I could enlist the help of friends. I could even ask my wife.

I just don't know.

And I don't want to think about it while there are still three more episodes of 30rock Season 4 that I haven't watched.

But today it rains.

And it's time to emerge from my creative red tent and get cooking again.

Previously on Lost

Dad asked me when I was gonna write again.

I had no discernible answer.

Soon, I guess.

It's not that I hadn't tried. I've sat down to write fifty times since my last post. A page or two here and there. Never a blank page. Not writers block by any means. I'd sit, I'd write, I'd look at the clock, I'd get listless and decide to do something else. Sometimes I had to leave to make dinner or pick up the monkey from school and just never return to the computer.

Sometimes I'd be filled with an idea and it never looked right on the page.

Sometimes I just got too tired at the end of the day and didn't feel like concentrating.

Rarely did I have nothing to say.

Rarely did I spend a single day without reminding myself that I've got to get back to it.

And then there was distraction.

God bless distraction.

First it was a full set of fantasy novels. A series I started many years ago. A series where the author died about four books before finishing. Then of course I read online that someone was finishing the series. So of course I had to go back and reread most of it before the new ones come out so that my memory is fresh. Thirteen novels a thousand pages deep. Took a little time.

Then there was work. I don't talk about work. But lets just say for explanation's sake that things got complicated.

Then there was the heat. My computer moved from the studio/man cave/garage to the bedroom of the seventeen-year old. And lets just say that he's not exactly the outdoorsy type. In fact, armed with a super fast computer and a supply of processed foods he might never see daylight or have a functional conversation that hasn't been converted from analogue to digital and back to analogue again.

And the little one has just been a nightmare. I actually preferred the terrible twos.

I haven't been musically dead either. I set up the guitar in the living room with the express intention of playing music everyday and I have four new songs to add to the list.

I did one show, and canceled another.

My wife got me a charcoal grill. Which kept me quite busy.

And then there was Netflix.

I can now stream free movies and TV shows directly to my television or computer. Give me a bottle of wine and an open schedule the next day and I can watch an entire season of shows and not get up from the couch except to pee.

And sometimes not even that.

So of course I discovered "Lost"

Actually, "discovered" is the wrong term.

"Acquiesced" might be better.

All of my co-workers felt that I either had to watch the show or suffer the indignity of pop culture reference ignorance. Which is a cardinal sin with the crew. Sometimes if I miss a one liner, the crew won't speak to me all afternoon.

"Can you beleive Josh didn't get it when Brian called him 'Maverick' and told him that he was dangerous?"

"No way!"

"Totally! And he was even old enough to have seen 'Top Gun' in the on the big screen"

"Wow . . . I hope he's okay."

So as I reset my little studio, I decided to test out the sound system with episode one.

Forgive me, father, for it has been one week since I even bothered to use my free time for anything other than streaming "Lost" episodes into just about every room in my house.

I stumble to bed each night, shirt wrinkled, pants unbuttoned, reeking of old man sweat, and hope not to wake my wife. I forget to make dinner. My hands shake a bit. (They always have, but I wanted to throw that in for effect).

I'm not sure how many seasons there are right now. All I know is that I am fifteen episodes into season two. I haven't bathed.

No . . . thats not true.

I just haven't enjoyed bathing as much as I usually do.

But the moral of the story is this:

If you want to start blogging again, get addicted to "Lost", and then promise yourself you can finish another few episodes if you got back to the bully pulpit.

Having your dad nag you to do shit doesn't hurt either.

What time is it?

Two-A-Days

Two-a-days.

The bane of corner-backs and dance captains.

It was a term I first heard my brother use during his high-school football years. Two-a-Days referred to the last few weeks of practice before the football season began.

The team would practice for four or five hours in the morning and return in the late afternoon for another four or five hour practice. Remember that the start of football season is late August and the heat was at best, blistering.

The boys would suit up in their post-industrial armor and head out onto the field. Bash themselves into testosterone adrenaline ecstasy, hit the showers, and then after a hearty lunch, suit up again for the slaughter. These days are remembered fondly by the old timers like soldiers who have lived to become generals. Champions have been made, children have been killed.

I used to apply this term to any weekend when both a matinee and an evening show was scheduled. It brought a certain amount of manliness that I desperately needed as I stood in the wings, dance belt squeezing my genitalia, costume stiff with hours old sweat.

Two-a-days always . . .

. . . Always . . .

Almost always, resulted in two bad performances. The first performance stank of cowardice. We would hit our marks, sing our songs, pause for for the laughter, and listen carefully as the laughter began to crest to resume our dialogue. All the time remembering to save a little bit extra for later because there was another show that night. Another show that would be populated with a larger more invested audience. An audience not filled with silver foxes, but with our friends, parents, and critical reviewers.

But no matter how much we saved for the second performance, no matter how professional we professed to be, our metabolisms weakened by the steady diet of coffee and cigarettes always got the best of us. Our voices would crack and our physical movement became nothing more than adrenaline fueled exaggeration.

Two-a-days were artistic suicide sponsored by the local rotary club that need all those candy-bar sales at the end of the first act.

Dropping a perfectly thrown pass might lead to the gentle ribbing in the bars at the end of a hard day at the mines . . .

But fucking up on stage could cost you a career.

My god, how I hated two-a-days.

One time I had six shows over the course of three days. Two-a-day friday. Two-a-day Saturday, and then on the fifth show during the second number I twisted wrong coming out of a somersault on a raked stage. For two performances the entire cast had to drag me on and off the stage as if I was limp corpse that still had to sing and dance. I did the final song on Sunday night with three courageous dancers holding my body steady in front of a microphone before carrying me off the stage as if I was a dead soldier who could not be left to defilement on the battlefield.

But in the middle of my theatre career I discovered how to perform a two-a-day.

Which is to say:

I didn’t think about it.

I practiced the same routine for the matinee as I would for the evening performance. Which is to say, I didn’t think about it at all until the hour before. I would warm up the same way, I would check my props at the same time, I would find the same technician and thank them for their hard work. I would drink copious amounts of water and pace back and forth in the hall behind the stage. I would repeat my first few lines over and over again, because once I found those first lines, the rest of the performance was rhythm and muscle memory.

No one ever really taught me. I just figured it out along the way. Had there been a mentor in those days, I might have made something of myself that is different than who I am now. Not good or bad, just different.

I saw a show the other night. A show, that I’m afraid to admit, I was not looking forward to. It had been a stressful few days, and frankly, I suffered the kind of exhaustion that only a man in his pre-mid-life crisis years can feel. I was hating everybody and everything. Nothing was working the way I had dreamed it would and I needed about ten hours of battery recharge time.

But it was my niece’s final performance. A show that she was proud of. A show that she wanted everyone to see. And there will be more than enough sleep in that sleep of death that I’ll be damned if I’d let the world beat me into that kind of submission while there is still food in the fridge and money in the bank.

And so I went.

And so I was glad.

The show was fantastic. A high-school performance none-the-less. The music was good, the dialogue breathed with life, the direction was tight, and for the first time ever I saw a group of teenagers look comfortable on the stage. Sure, there was the kind of community theatre glitches, kids miss-cast, high notes that only a professional singer should really try in front of an audience, but none of that made much of a difference when I could walk into the theatre and enjoy myself. I’ve paid ten times more for half as much entertainment.

It was the second performance of the day and final performance of the run. And yes, it was obvious that two-a-days can be brutal even to well fed energetic youth. Voices cracked, costumes showed their stains of sweat, and the orchestra really needed a conductor whose hands weren’t trapped at the piano keys.

But then there was my niece.

She radiated. She exuded. For the first time in the years I’ve seen her perform, she seemed at home upon the stage.

Sure there were the technical flaws of youth. The lines delivered too energetically. Songs and choreography with too much sexual innuendo for a sixteen year old girl to perform comfortably (at least in front of grey foxes and christian family members). But even when the orchestra fell wildly out of the pocket, she remained steadfast and strong. In fact it wasn’t until after the performance, when I could congratulate her with a big hug and having felt her adrenaline fueled heart beat, could I even see the effects that the two-a-day had on her.

Somehow, she had, by sheer osmosis, delivered a two-a-day, that had taken me years to learn how to manufacture (Techniques that I have subsequently forgot). Melina is going to be an artist. How she will navigate the rest of her life is a mystery.

The irony here is that artistic apprenticeship is dead.

There is no one, I repeat, no one, who could take her under their wing and guide her beyond who she is now. What she does with her artistic life is up to fate, luck, and tenacity. In that order. Because she only has control over her tenacity. Sometimes luck will find her and move her to the next universe, but it is ultimately fate that will decide.

And that’s not fucking fair.

Even I, who has been blessed with a lineage of artists, a palpable talent, and the drive to work, can only guess what at who I am and where I stand.

So I have only this to offer, as mentor, uncle, comrade;

Seek to work only with those that are better than you. The people on your level and at your heels are beautiful and wonderful, but they teach you nothing, except how to be a better teacher and friend. At worst, they feed your ego, and your ego needs far more bruising than feeding.

Never stop practicing. It takes six months to regain what you’ve lost with during one month of apathy.

Lend and borrow with equal aplomb, for you will need to learn how to do both, often.

Mentors make lousy lovers. But feel free to take advantage as the last act before you move on.

And lastly, to thine own self be true,

especially when you have been blessed with a partner who respects all that you try to do, but doesn’t allow you to wallow in your own bullshit.

I’m proud of you kiddo. I’m scared for you. If I can be there for you, I will.

Love
Uncle Josh

Chances Are

"Cockroaches. Everywhere, cockroaches!" the boy hissed as he sped passed us toward destination unknown.

We had been apartment hunting in LA for three days and it had not been a success. One apartment labeled "One Bedroom with New York style loft" had turned out to be a small studio with a cheap shelving unit separating the living space. Others had bars on windows, and signs that said "Clearly not for a young white couples." We had scoured the papers, hit every bulletin board and even paid $50 for an apartment search service.

After hours of driving quickly through the ghettos, not making eye contact, we came upon a beautiful little neighborhood only to be told that the listing was ten years old and the actual rent was nearly triple the price of the listing.

Awesome.

Then finally we settled on this okay looking complex, not too far from the freeway, and the minute we began talking to the Rental Agent this boy in his early twenties who could easily have been a model in a Gap ad, interrupted our genial greetings in order to make a few well worded complaints.

He seemed polite and calm while describing the broken appliances, the broken locks, and the pool of water that was mysteriously turning his living room into a swamp. It was early July after all.

"I'll be with you after I show these two around" the agent said, trying to contain both her anger and embarrassment.

What she showed us was frankly, acceptable. Acceptable if it was just me and the blushing bride and we really didn't have many needs beyond clean water and a suitable roof. But there was the ten year old to think about. God only knows how long it was going to be before I sold some songs and the place was dark, dingy, and damp. It was only one room, which meant that the ten year old was going to have to sleep on a couch, and it was just slightly beyond our price range which meant the ten year old was going to have to adjust from fresh italian gourmet cooking to ramen noodles and the occasional macaroni and cheese around pay day.

My brand new wife and I looked at each other with the fresh gaze of understanding.

"We'll make it work" that gaze said.

"We'll follow our dreams and we'll make it work, god dammit!"

Remember, six months before, I had told this woman that I had quit my job and was going to be running to LA for three weeks with another woman to record some songs.

She didn't even blink an eye.

In fact her only stipulation was that I break down an get a cell phone because she wanted to make sure I was okay during the long drive.

Love, dude, love.

The agent finished describing to us how nice the neighborhood is and how we should leave a $30 check along with our application. She told us that she had some errands to run and that we should just drop the application in her mailbox before she scurried away.

And she did scurry. No doubt about it. Like a mouse in the middle of the night when the kitchen light turns on.

We paused in the center of the square long enough to take a breath and decide what we were going to say to each other when we reached the safety of the car when the nice looking boy in his early twenties sped past us in a brisk walk.

"Cockroaches. Everywhere, cockroaches." he said.

"Don't do it." he said.

"Run. Cockroaches."

And then he too was gone.

And our will faltered. Our courage failed. We hurried back to our little car speechless and broken.

"Well?" she said.

"Nope." I answered.

"What do we do now?" she asked.

"We come back next week, I guess." I said as we began to make the 8 hour journey home.

But there was no next week.

On the long drive home, my blushing bride noticed a lump on her neck that months later turned out to be an innocent little cyst on her thyroid, but solidified the fact that we don't can't comfortably live without some type of health insurance. And the project that we dreamed would lead to a recording contract and full scale album teetered in development and eventually faded from sight. We decided it was better to be poor in Roseville than poor in LA and that I can write music anywhere. I went back to work broken but grateful that they would take me back, and internally joyous that I was at least doing something I loved.

And I never stopped making music. A year or two later I had recorded most of my first album. The baby came. The ten year old went crazy. We bought a house. We struggled to keep food on the table and smiles on our faces. I finished the first album with the baby on my lap and the neighbors gently rapping on the walls when the hour got too late. I started performing again. I started being again.

My little son began to talk. My big step-son began to take control of his life. My writing matured. My voice matured. I am the best I have ever been. There's no need for me to wish any longer because I am living the perfect life.

Perfect life.

Perfect Life.

Career Professional. Beautiful wife. Healthy brilliant children. Comfortable house in the safe quiet suburbs. Studio in the garage, and an upcoming album that has greatly surpassed any of my previous projects.

Perfect life.

Perfect Life.

Last night. It's late. I've probably had a few too many glasses of wine. I get a text.

My friend, manager, greatest fan, tells me that Bravo is hosting auditions for a songwriting competition. I apply on line immediately. American Idol for songwriters. It was in fact an idea I had the first season of American Idol when an expensive recording session was paused so that all the musicians could gather around and see that night's episode. There I was, starving like a fat kid during lent and wishing that part of the contest included songwriters. I'd dreamed of this. I was desperate to be a part of it.

But there wasn't enough wine in the house for me to forget reality. My application would be one among thousands. And even if I was chosen for a second round, is there enough magic in the world to see me through. And even if I made the final cut, what would happen if I had to make the choice between the life I've built and a few swings at glory. And even if my skill as a tunesmith pushed me to the next level. And I won the competition and was given a publishing deal and got to spent the following months penning songs for Brittany Spears and Kelly Clarkson, I might have to drag my wife apartment hunting in LA. But this time with a sensitive four year old and a freakishly lazy seventeen year old. Even resounding success would be a cautionary tale.

But it was late. It was time for bed.

And then I go to sleep. And dream the kind of dreams I dreamt before life made me a man. The future is an empty void of possibility and in that empty void I dream of introducing myself as "Joshua Macrae . . . Songwriter"

Luck made me smart. My parents made me capable. Luck made me talented. Hard work made me prolific. Luck gave me some good songs. Tenacity allowed me to make them real.

Chances are that by this time next week I'll have received a very nice letter of rejection and I can go about dreaming my other dreams.

Chances are that by this time next week I'll get over that rejection and write my songs.

Chances are that someone will hear my songs and be moved by them.

Chances are.

I met a man

Haven't written in a long time.

Sorry.

But it's not because of any sort of block or even laziness.

I haven't written because I met a man.

I met a man who is afraid of butterflies.

And not just any ho hum skiddishness when the little insects take flight, but the kind of fear that stops his breath, grips tightly to the base of his spine, and sends him running in the other direction. The sort of fear we all feel at the sound of an engine's backfire or the late night sound of footsteps by our bedroom door.

And he's not ashamed either. In fact his story is quite good. Its very real.

"Have you ever seen a butterfly up close?" he'll finish. "They're fucking scary."

His story is important to me because Calvin is also afraid of butterflies.

In fact I've been dreading the coming of the spring, where the butterflies flutter by en masse at our favorite park. The field between the sand box and the big kid slides turns a jolly skip into a terrifying run. There is crying and screaming and pleading to go home. And I acquiesce out of fatherly shame, and can hear the disappointed "tsk tsk" of our child psychologist.

"He needs to face his fears. One at a time. And you have to push him to do it." he said.

"But how do I know when to stop? Isn't there a point when he's freaking out so badly that it creates more trauma than it's actually worth?" I ask.

"Nope."

I like this doctor. He taught me a lot. He answered my questions. He didn't bullshit me about the inadequacies of modern psychology. I once asked him if Calvin's fears were going to haunt him the rest of his life or if their would come a time when it would just be over. He just shrugged and told me that he had no idea.

In fact, after three sessions, he said "We're done. You know enough to deal with these situations on your own. Each one will be more challenging than the next, because he will have learned how to try to work around you, but you'll have a common dialogue, and as long as you're consistent and persistent, you'll win."

And he was right. It's become second nature to me now to recognize Calvin's avoidance. How to get him to tell me what he was afraid of. How to get him to face it.

We also created a "Scary Scale"

His face would pale at something and I would say;

"Big scary, medium scary or little scary?"

For something like the sound of an approaching motorcycle his hand would shoot way up into the air indicating "Big Scary" Dogs might be "Medium Scary" unless they moved toward him and became "BIg Scary"

The vacuum cleaner was "Little Scary" but eventually become "Zero Scary."

We also spent hours making lists of things that are "Good to be afraid of" (Sharks, fire, aligators) and things that are "Bad to be afraid of" (Slides, lawnmowers, butterflies).

And we made progress.

But dude, it's hard work. Sometimes satisfying, but freaking hard.

Not all of his fear manifests itself as screaming and running. Sometimes it intuition. For example, he was chasing around the jungle gym with some kids and every time they ran up the steps to a particular slide he would veer off and wait for them at the bottom. I saw it three times and then after a bit of cajoling I got him to tell me that he was afraid of that slide.

So, then we went up to the top, him kicking and screaming. I forced him to sit on my lap as we both went down the slide. Then we walked right back up and I helped him into the tube and gave him a little push and he went down all by himself. Finally spirited by his own success, he forced me to stay down at the bottom while he ran up and went down the slide alone.

But it doesn't end there. The next time we went to the park we had to start all over again. The second time was easier (less kicking and screaming) and it took three more outings before I could successfully say that he is no longer afraid of the slides at Castle Park.

And it's like this with everything. Two steps forward, one step back. Eagle, Bogie, Eagle, Bogie. Which, at the end of the day is a damn fine score, but it's exhausting as hell for this procrastinator.

Then I met a man who is afraid of butterflies.

A complex, rational, intelligent man who is capable in every other way.

Just afraid of butterflies.

And then suddenly it occurred to me that maybe fear isn't all good vs bad, black vs white. Fear is our genetic response to danger. And if danger exists, if there is such a thing as danger, then maybe there's danger in butterflies.

Pause . . .

think about that for a moment . . .

If there is danger,
Then there's danger in butterflies

There lays the meat of this cautionary tale.

That is a damn fine lyric. it's the kind of "turn of phrase" that just melts my creative soul. Oh goodness, and the rhyming possibilities are endless. Eyes, skys, lies, lays, tries, dies, cries, size. And that's just off the top of my head.

Boom

Boom

Pow

But here's the rub.

I could never complete it. Endless notes. Scribbles on the back of grocery lists. A long line of instrument and melody changes. It was a requiem one day, then a gospel choir the next. Mornings with a cup of coffee, late nights with a bottomless glass of wine. Nothing clicked. I never ran out of ideas, again I'm not a believer in writer's block, but nothing I thought of had the sticking power of class room paste.

For months I have refused to give it up. Hell, I even wrote a lovely little duet for the wife and I in the hopes that stepping away might be the only solution to what was becoming my daily mind suck.

And still . . . nothing of value.

So yesterday, tired of banging on my piano, I mowed the lawn.

For the last year, Calvin has been both fascinated and terrified by the lawn mower. At first he would run and hide in his room. Eventually his fascination got the better of him and he would watch from a window or in the case of the front lawn, he would insist that I put him in the car with the windows rolled up so he could still see but not hear.

And yesterday he watched me storm out of the garage and into the backyard. I open the shed and pulled out the mower. I adjusted the blade height and began the slow back and forth meditation of a man and his lawn.

About halfway through my pendulum of serenity, I looked across yard back at the house expecting to see his pale little face pushed up against the sliding glass door. But instead of standing at the window with his hands greasing up the glass, he was sitting quietly at the edge of the grass.

Somehow, in the same hour that I had stopped trying to capture his fear, he had stopped being afraid.

I had met a man who is afraid of butterflies.

So I spent two months believing that its okay. Wait . . . not just okay . . . but that their was enough beauty in the danger of butterflies that I bloodied my knuckles to prove it.

But their really isn't. It really isn't okay to be afraid of butterflies.

Calvin knows it and is doing his best to move on.

I should do the same.

Six Eight Debate

I hate people who mosey,

truth be told.

And truth be told,

you are no friend of mine if you stroll, ramble, or meander.

God help you if you saunter,

cause if you're a saunterer,

you are dead to me.

I've always been infuriated by slow moving people. I don't mean the disabled or the infirm, just the sunday drivers on the two-lane highway of life. And that's not to say I haven't stopped and smelled my fair share of roses, but there are rest stops for that sort of thing.

My wife's a born dawdler. Sometimes I'll be half way across the parking lot before she has even gathered her purse from the checkout counter. The seventeen year old is a world class, gold medal winning, with an honorary doctorate dawdler. He can turn a simple combination of movements (like putting on his shoes and walking out the door) into a fifteen minute frustration session where he insists that he's been ready to go for "like hours."

"Come on, we're going!" My wife will yell.

"I'm ready!" he'll yell back.

"You don't even have you shoes on!" she'll scream

"It just takes a second to put them on." he'll scream back from the easy chair he's been texting in.

"We're out the door right now!" She'll scream loudly.

"I just have to finish this!" He'll exasperate.

"Let's go!" She screams louder

"I'm coming!" He'll exasperate again.

etc.

I've seen this take fifteen minutes,

I shit you not.

Calvin's a meanderer. But, fair being fair, what four year-old doesn't suffer from shiny object syndrome? He is a bit of a clothes horse, which worries me, and once he gets an idea in his head there's no forward movement until he either wins or I pull the spanking card, but he's lightening fast otherwise.

So I guess to sum up, I like to move quickly.

Too fast, really.

I've found that I don't work well around people who mosey. I get frustrated, they get frustrated. I pull the spank card. They tell me the spank card is only legal in Texas. I can't go to Texas. Those people virtually invented moseying.

And it affects me in my artistic abilities as well. I have to constantly remind myself to slow a song down, to stop playing ahead of the beat. I could get through a Leonard Cohen ballad like I was Joey Ramone.

Anyway, a few years ago I was watching the Golf Channel (Yes this was before I was a full time father.) and the show had session on putting.

Coach Putterer pulled out a metronome.

He said "In order for you to have an even, smooth stroke, you must first be in tune with your internal tempo."

He said "Buy yourself a metronome and go for a walk. They are for sale at the website below. (I added that part) Try to match the metronome's tempo with the tempo of your natural walk. Once you've found your natural rhythm, use the beats to measure your stroke. It is in this way you will achieve an even swing."

Seeing as how I had both a metronome handy, and an uneven swing, I decided to give it a try.

One two three four, one two three four.

But that was too slow, too uncomfortable, so I doubled it.

Oneandtwoandthreeandfourand.

Better, but not right. So I tripled it.

One and a two and a three and a four and a.

Much better, but insanely fast. I looked like a speed walker who desperately needs to pee.

So rather than fighting my way down the street in a boring 4/4, I decided to try a little 6/8.

And there it was. My internal rhythm. And I'm not talking about "Waltzing Matilda" either. My internal rhythm was more like the tympani of a Wagnerian thunderstorm.

Boom bah bah BOOM bah bah.

You can almost see the rumble under Brunhilde's leather corset.

And Coacher Putterer was right. Lift the club on one, breathe on two, reach my back swing on three, smash the ball on four, and follow through on five and six. Best I ever played.

And it didn't stop there. I discovered that for every song I've written in 4/4, there are like five in 6 /8. Half of my first album is in 6/8 (or some variation).

It's as if my internal rhythm is as impatient to get to the end of the bar as I am to get to the end of the grocery aisle. Which is to say, two steps faster.

But as my dad is always telling me.

"Slow it down son"

So the next song I'd like to demo for you has two versions. The first is the juiced up version in 6/8. Juiced up meaning there is more on the track than guitar and vocals. The second version is just me and an electric guitar in 4/4.

I like both. Not as recordings (I can't stand anything I've recorded), but as synonyms. Different words with the same meaning.

The 6/8 version feels immediate, impassioned. But there's a slow droning groove to the 4/4 that's just melancholy enough to warrant a second listen.

They both feel too slow to me.

Listen and enjoy . . .

or don't and mosey out of the way.



www.myspace.com/joshmacrae

Follow Me

I was thinking back and I realized that this is not the first time I have posted material of "Castle Park" for audience preview, in fact this will be the third. But this time I'm going to really push to get everyone within email distance to check it out and invite them to comment.

If you've been reading from the beginning, then you probably get the gist of this experiment and can skip the next three paragraphs. If not . . . follow me . . . and try to keep up.

Castle Park is the special park I take my little guy to whenever I get the chance. It's great cause it's old and big and I can point him in the direction of the slides and sit back with my little notebook and scribble. So, a little more than a year ago I noticed that I had a handful of songs. A handful of songs that were not written from my perspective, but from his, which happened because while watching him play I found his thoughts far more interesting than my own. So, not only did I have some material that I was really proud of, I also had a thematic concept. Writing from another perspective is a fantastic way of avoiding the rut of my own emotional crap and experiencing someone else's. The challenge in this concept, however, is to shy away from schmaltz whenever I can, the world does not need another "Cats in the Cradle" let alone an entire album.

Because my previous album had been a five year epic fizzle, it occurred to me that the journey might be just as interesting (if not more) as the destination, so I started this blog to document the entire process from first scribble to major label release. (no, I am currently not signed to any major label, but a girl's gotta dream). It also occurred to me that building an audience through the blogosphere might sell a few more albums down the road. I am a capitalist after all.

And lastly, I wanted to do something to embrace the social networking zeitgeist, and wondered what would happen if I broke a much written about taboo. Which is to say, never show a piece of art before it is finished. If my friends and loved ones could follow the story, what if I took the solitude of song writing and made it interactive? What if I allowed everyone to listen to the songs in their infancy and comment and maybe influence the final production? Totally awful idea, right? Nevertheless, here we are. And here we begin . . .

**Spoiler Alert**
This next section is going to be a deconstruction of the song "Follow Me"
If you don't care about the nuts and bolts of song construction, skip to the end and just listen and post your thoughts.
If, like me, you can't get enough of the details, I'll try to make this worthy of your time.

"Follow Me" The Idea:

It's monday morning. (its probably an amalgam of many mondays, but true none the less.)

My wife has literally just locked the door behind her on her way to work and Calvin runs full force into my leg spilling my coffee on the much hated carpet.

"Look what you did." I say. But he beams as if to say "You know as well as I do that I couldn't care less."

"Can we go?"

I raise my eyebrow.

"Let's go, lets go! Follow me."

I refuse to move, eyebrow still raised.

"Say yes! Say yes! Let's go!"

"In a minute." I say.

"No, not in a minute. Let's go!"

"What do you say?"

"May I please take me to the park?"

"It's 'Will you please take me to the park'"

"Let's go!"

So after we change from our jammies, brush our teeth, and bundle up, I grab my notebook and off we go.

Calvin had a routine at the park. The minute I pulled him out of the car seat he would jump from my arms and race over to the kiddie swings. If they were occupied, he would stand as close as he could stand without getting smacked in the face by flying feet and ask me every few seconds if they were done yet. He could tell when his turn was about to come when the other parents would get closer to the dangerous pendulum and begin to yank their kid out of the chair. Within seconds of the occupied little butts leaving the plastic seat, Calvin would lunge for the swing and hold onto it, claiming his rightful throne.

My favorite part is that he would close his eyes and wait for me to throw him into the air only to land safely in the loving embrace of the kiddie swing. He wasn't much of a conversationalist in the early days. "Higher!" "Faster!" "No!, too high!" were his only directions and since it would be another forty-five minutes before he relinquished his spot, I would pop my earbuds into one ear and space out to a little "Fresh Air"

Eventually I could convince him to get out and run around. I would lift him from the swing invariably losing a shoe, and when I got him back on the ground he would point to his crotch and give me a sad face.

"Time for a change?" I would ask. He would nod his head once and then we would go back to the car, put a fresh diaper on his little body and then off to the slides. Sometimes, however, I would ask him if he needed a diaper change, which I could clearly see that he did, and he would look at me quizzically and blast off for the jungle gym.

He was a fast little fucker even then, so sometimes I caught him, sometimes not. Those times I would wait till he was at the bottom of the slide and whisk him back to the car before his little Keds hit the ground.

Once he is running around socializing with the rest of the kids, I could sit on the bench and begin writing/observing. Note: when they're that little, if you take your eyes off them for more than a few seconds, the next time you see them, they'll be making a B-Line for the street. So at best, I could only jot down a few words at a time which is why my earliest pages look like the scribblings of a crazy person.

It's this event, and events like it, that makes "Follow Me" the perfect first cut for the album. It sets the scene and is a little wink/nod to the pied piper.

"Follow Me" The Lyrics:

The story basically illustrates the impetus for each line but there are a few little lyrical tricks I used to make it flow.

You say 'in a minute', but I want half that time
You say 'now you did it' but you know what's yours is mine

Yes, I did rhyme 'mine' with 'time' (it's not an error if you meant to do it) and 'you know what's yours is mine' is just a nice way of saying 'I'm gonna trash your stuff, deal with it'

If you say yes, then I'll say go
It's lift me up before I know it

"it's lift me up before I know it" was a reference to the game where Calvin would close his eyes and wait for me to throw him on the swing. I pulled a little Porteresque move by rhyming "I'll say go . . . its" with "lift me up before I know it." Cole Porter is famous for the double word rhyme (wild again, beguiled again) and I use it whenever I can get away with it. In an era where lyricism is either a collection of cliches or stream of consciousness set to music, I love attempting to honor the masters of form, techniques and style.

Push me higher, faster, I can't breathe. Follow Me.

A direct reference to the swings, but I wanted to juxtapose two competing ideas. Push Me (i.e. I need you to set me in motion) Follow Me (i.e. but don't forget that I'm the leader).

You say its time for changing
but I just run and hide
no point in rearranging
till we're down this slide

One of the tragedies of modern lyrics is that either they're downright stupid, or so bogged down with vagaries and metaphor that they're unintelligible. And since the modern ear is tuned to the form, it's nearly impossible to write classically without it sounding hokey. My own rebel stance is to make literal lines sound like metaphoric ones. So 'time for changing' may appear to be about growth and development, but it's really referring to peeling off dirty diapers.

I know that demon time
is right above your shoulder
there's not a moment with which
we're not getting older
so may I please
no
will you please
follow me

Every parent who's ever raised their children wishes they could go back in time and relive all those great moments. I don't want to feel that way. I want to capture those moments so that I can spend my life both in the now, and anxious for what's next. This bridge is how I motivate myself to live in Calvin's now, and be a good dad, even when I'm too tired to be anything to anyone. It's what I imagine Calvin would say to get my ass off the couch. The ending reflects Calvin's learning to ask for things politely, getting the words wrong, and then correcting himself. A reference to when he won't need me for the little stuff any longer.

"Follow Me" The Music:

For Christmas, dad gave me a Martin Ukulele that belonged to my step-mom's father and had been collecting dust. He knows I have love collecting instruments and this little thing was no exception. However, before I got a chance to even tune it, it became Calvin's favorite thing in the world. Anytime I would take out my guitar, he would grab the instrument out of its case and play along with me.

At first it was just the most cutest thing ever. Yes it was . . . yes it was. We did however discover that a prized family heirloom is probably not the best toy for a two year old, and so we got him his own.

Once back in my hands, I learned to play some basic chords and came up with a jaunty little riff that sounded perfect for my new set of lyrics. I drove my wife crazy for a week polishing my skill on the mini-instrument and singing.

Knowing that I couldn't very well use the instrument for my live show, I tried to make the transfer on the six string, but it just didn't sound right. Then I scaled it to the 12 string and the song found its voice. The twelve string also allowed me to rewrite the bridge so that it skips down into a minor key and the melody line can reach my upper register. The song would go from jaunty to dark back to jaunty. Since the most successful songwriters have been songwriting teams, writing different sections of songs at different times with different instruments allows me to treat myself as my own writing partner.

The music was born, shelved, reborn, shelved and then finally I agreed with myself that it was right.

"Follow Me" The First Recording:

So the recording you're about to hear was done in Dad's basement. First I threw in a basic drum track and then recorded a scratch track of the twelve string and my voice. I then agonized over a bass track, but discovered the simplicity of cutting and pasting on my new computer (an iMac by the way, screw you PC!). And then went to record the ukelele.

Of course, disaster struck. The ukelele track was in D maj. The 12string and bass was in E maj, a whole friggin step down.

For those of you who might suggest down tuning the ukelele, forget about it. Tried it, doesn't work.

But I wanted the damn Ukelele, so by the magic of Garageband (again, screw you PC!) I deleted the scratch 12 string track, and pushed a few buttons to make the bass track go up a couple notches. Didn't sound fresh and live, but it's the bass we're talking about. And I didn't have all day.

After a few takes with the Ukelele, and Dad's insistence that I tune the darn thing, I had a good enough pass.

Then since the 12 string was out of the question, I reenlisted the help of my trusty six string. Pan each instrument to opposite sides and make way for the vocal track.

Now here's where it got a little hairy.

I have been singing this song live for over a year now.

In E Major.

Unfortunately, the bridge that pushes my upper register in E major, is almost, but not quite, out of reach in D major. However, as my old man told me, if you can touch it, you can catch it.

So I went balls out. And learned a valuable lesson in vocal warm-ups. Which is . . to do them.

I didn't quite make it, as you will hear, and I cheated down a bit, as you will also hear. But I was trying to record eight songs in two days, and nit picking was not on my agenda.

After listening to the first pass, I realized that when the bridge comes, the butchered high notes sounded more like a blunt instrument that came out of nowhere, so to give them a little heft I pulled out my electric and twanged a thrashy D minor chord for punctuation. Not exactly a perfect solution, but as I said, time was of the essence.

A little EQ magic to polish it up, the end.

So there you have it. Start to finish.

Please follow this link to my myspace and listen to the song. If you have head phones available I suggest using them because computer speakers are usually awful. Also on this sight should be a YouTube video of the same song performed live at Streets of London in West Sacramento, in E Major.

www.myspace.com/joshmacrae

And please comment in some fashion. Again this is an interactive sport, and although I am a fragile artist, I heal quickly.

Minor Retraction

Got some great responses to my last blog.

But it made me realize that I may have been a little overdramatic.

A little too Tennessee Williams and not enough Neil Simon.

What I meant to say was that the scratch demo I recorded sounded far different from my original intent.

I didn't say it was bad, or that I should check myself into the Ford Clinic, but I wasn't prepared for how different.

It was like pouring myself a bowl of stew, and ending up with a mouthful of Pop Rocks.

I like Pop Rocks, but they just don't quite hit the spot on a lazy hazy sunday afternoon.

And that's what I meant by paradigm shift. To fall in love with what I've got rather than what I've dreamed and go forward. Like a husband falling in love with his wife rather than his secretary.

Sure the secretary might seem like a lot more fun, but she is probably a cat lover, and nobody spends that much time at the nail salon unless they have deep emotional needs.

With that said, it also reminded me that I haven't been fully open during this whole process.

My original intent was to pull a total Castanza. (ie "Hi, my name is George, I'm fat, I'm bald, I have no job and I live with my parents.")

Do everything a song writer is not supposed to do.

First I was going to use my son as my only inspiration: Too hokey. Too sentimental. Too Kermit the Frog for a Leonard Cohen career.

Second, I was gonna write about the whole process in blog form from first chord to iTunes release. Too unreliable. Too close to thousands of writer's block blogs. Too much like a vomit pail or a bed pan.

And lastly, I was going to invite the universe to listen to the songs in their infancy, weigh in, make suggestions, tell me how much they hate the ones I love, and love the ones I hate.

I chickened out on this last part.

Sure there were technical glitches, time issues, etc etc, but really, it's a very stupid idea.

Criticism can be such a baby killer.

But that was the most dangerous part of all.

That was the scariest part. (or dumbest, whichever you prefer)

And why do it at all?

Doesn't the taboo exist for a reason?

Yes, and for very good reasons, but it's an interactive social medium I'm experimenting with and it's something I could never do if I was already a commercial artist. I'm breaking with taboo, just to break something, and it feels good.

Hell, if I'm gonna stand up naked in front of everyone I know, I might as well have the balls to keep the lights on.

Get it?

Balls?

Anyhoo,

Starting this week I'm going to invite all of you to take your first listen to each of the new songs.

Every friday, I will upload a tune onto myspace. I will send out an invite via facebook to come take a listen, and comment if you feel the need. The song will only last until the next one comes along and will not be available for free download.

Note: each song will of course already have been registered with the copy write office (me stupid, but not that stupid.) Because each song will have already been registered, I will not be taking into account any lyrical or melodic suggestions.

Too fast?

Too Slow?

Kill it!

Keep it!

More Cowbell!

Whatever the response, I'm determined enough to take it, and fragile enough let it hurt.

Watch for the invitation.

Love,

Josh

Paradigm Shift

"For some of you, this new program will enhance the work you've already been doing, for others it will be a total paradigm shift"

he said.

Now, way back in the old days, to me, corporate buzz words were like finger nails down the chalkboard of my soul.

Using terms like synergy, paradigm shift and thinking outside the box was a one way ticket to endearing yourself to me as a court jester. Good for a laugh and a roll of the eyes, but it might take years to fight your way back into my respectable column.

At first I was smarmy just for the sake of being smarmy (its a youthful trait I've been dedicated to hammering out of my system). Then such terms angered me when I realized that anyone who uses the phrase "thinking outside the box" is usually the person who can't, won't and is desperately afraid when others do.

But I gotta say, when the speaker said "paradigm shift" I didn't wiggle or cringe or display any other obnoxious physicality. I just nodded my head and thought "That sounds about right."

Part of it is cause I'm older. I have responsibilities that keep my feet firmly planted on the reservation. Another reason is that I'm blessed with working with people that are as smart or smarter than me. And frankly, I've had enough paradigm shifts throughout my life that I just get it.

I says this because "Castle Park"

as it is now

as I see it

sucks.

One year ago (ish) I set off on creating a conceptual art piece that was part indie/pop album and part travelogue. I chose the father son relationship as my foundation with the firm belief that the raw purity of emotion would make me a better writer and applying the empathetic observation of a writer would make me a better father.

In both cases I was right.

So kudos to me.

But the actual material, the end result, the bottom line, the stuff that is left to posterity, totally blows.

I wanted this blog to be a daily thing, but daily turned into weekly turned into monthly turned into I guess whenever.

And the music . . .

the music was supposed to be dark and sexy and dangerous so that the casual listener would never find the literal hidden within the metaphoric. And those blessed fans who have followed along would be doubly ensnared as if they've been carrying around their own little secret.

So at the one year mark, I took two days off to record the whole thing. I wanted to hear where I was.

Two ten hour days. Every instrument from a twelve string to a ukelele. Fighting past throbbing fingertips and un-cooperating vocal chords.

And then I sat back and listened.

And where I was wasn't where I wanted to be.

Instead of sexy and dangerous, I've got cheerful and downright jaunty.

The metaphors weren't hidden, they're right out in the open. Lyrics that I thought where so cleverly disguised sit fat on the melody line and come across as cliches no one else has gotten around to using yet.

My mythic journey has ended up a toe-tapping romp.

It's a total disaster.

And now I have two choices.

I can scrap the whole damn thing. Maybe keep a few of the songs for other days. Delete this blog, so that I one day I won't have to explain myself to a corporate head hunter. Drag most of the offensive tracks to my digital waste basket. Me and my friends would ignore the subject at dinner parties and "Castle Park" would fade out of the scene like a bad stock purchase or an ex-girlfriend. It would be something I said when I was drunk just before I passed out at the karaoke bar.

Or

and this is a big "OR"

Or I can man up.

I can embrace it.

I can look deeply in to those big brown eyes,

look past the crows feet and unpaid credit card bills

and see this vision of love for the first time.

She might not be the girl of my dreams, but that's only because I need better dreams.

Paradigm Shift.