the blog quebecois

I roughly divide our recording "career" into three parts.

The first, as I've mentioned before, was mainly jam sessions. We started adding vocals near the end of this period, but mostly on jokey material like our "rock opera" and the previously-featured "Warning Shots".

Singing that kind of stuff is a lot easier on the psyche. If you blow a note -- an entire verse, for that matter -- you can claim you intended it that way all along. But it was time to get serious.

Then we focused on my big backcatalog of songs, the quality of which was uneven, to say the least. Sometimes the music was lame, the melody non-existent or the lyrics laughable. Sometimes it would all come together in a perfect trifecta of awfulness. So we futzed around with those for some months, making improvements here and there, but I eventually realized that I was going to have to write some new stuff. Enter the final -- and, I would argue, the most creative -- part of our existence.

This was one of the first of the new songs. I found it easier to start with a blank slate than go back to try and fix songs that I was heartily sick of by then. We were also finding out that we could play with some snap and precision. It would have been nice to have a real drummer to punch some of this home; but hey, you gotta work with what you got.

To that end, we deployed what I coyly describe as "additional percussion." Which was:

A marraca. Usually one refers to "marracas," as they come in pairs. But we only had one, and it wasn't even the real thing. I had some sort of gourd with a removable top that I'd brought back from Africa. I put a handful of dried beans in it and that worked okay. Except that the shaking eventually reduced the bean skins to a fine dust; and the top wasn't airtight. You might think it would be difficult to maintain one's rock and roll cool with regular gouts of white powder settling on every thing in sight. You would be correct. At least not that type of white powder;

a tambourine, with a drumhead and with the jingles (they're technically called "zils") snipped out. This became our snare drum, though it was mainly composed of duct tape by the time we were through with it;

the metal faceplate from a stolen "Exit" sign, which became a "crash" cymbal;

a real cowbell, which was kind of neat; and

um, some cardboard boxes, which weren't.

So, taken individually, not too impressive; when you put them all together, though, it provided an agreeable clatter in the backgtound. Playing with the drum machine alone always seems a bit sterile, like a metronome.

We got off to an uneven start, but soon settled into a groove that we could have played with on and on and on until the last patron staggered out of the bar and the management cut the power and helped us move our gear out: Hey! Do you mind? That doesn't go in the recycling bin -- that's our drum kit, man!

-------------------------------------------------

Verse:

A lazy flare of gas
Sickly yellow and intense
Flicked within the waxworks
Licked the long lonely faces
then retreated in the shadows

Hissing and guttering
A sculptor twice neglected
A suitor thrice rejected
Yet someday to caress...
-------------------------------------------------

Chorus:

There's a fire in the waxworks
Someone torched the paraffin
Smoke boiling from the workshops
Melting history's waxen grin

... somebody should really notify the fire department . . .
-------------------------------------------------
Chorus 2:

There's a fire in the waxworks
Police have named it arson
The destruction of the building
Cremation of the contents
-------------------------------------------------

Like many of our songs, this was a work in progress. I fed the chorus through some effects pedals to make it sound metallic and ominous (but it mainly sounds stupid), and also to distinguish it from the verses, which were musically similar, if not identical. Later, as we played through it a few more times, a new hook started to emerge in the middle of the first verses, a sort of funk improvisation on the phrase "retreated in the shadows." Alas, we never did get a good version of it down on tape.

What's it about? you ask. Never having seen a real waxworks, let alone one on fire, I think I was probably influenced by the 1953 Vincent Price movie, House of Wax, which indeed starts off with a fire in a waxworks.

Of course, I meant it as a metaphor, but I'll be damned if I can remember for what. Possibly global warming. Yeah, that was it. Al Gore, call your office. I want some of that Nobel swag.

Fire In The Waxworks. Warning: Embedded QuickTime file.

Previous:

Warning Shots
The Chase
Just Like A Woman

Saskatoon StarPhoenix:

Despite a growing gender gap on Canadian campuses, universities are balking at a fledgling movement in the United States to make special efforts to attract more men, such as adopting affirmative action initiatives that favour male applicants over female ones.

Campus recruiters and admissions managers from Memorial University of Newfoundland to the University of British Columbia in Vancouver say they are taking no extra steps to target male students.

Nor do they consider it a problem -- at least not yet -- that female university students outnumber men by about 60-40 on average nationwide.

If the situation were reversed -- men had a 20% numerical advantage in seats -- you'd better believe it would be a "problem." The feministas would be howling from the rooftops that this constituted "systemic" discrimination.

It doesn't at all surprise me that institutions that display an almost pathological hostility (for examples too numerous to go into here, check out Christina Hoff Summers' The War Against Boys) towards boys and young men would wind up with such screwed-up demographics.

Since the only numbers that these bean-counters seem to understand are simple percentages and government dollars, the solution is evident: Until the universities can show good-faith efforts to recruit males until they achieve a more equitable balance, funding should be chopped to reflect the disparity. If they really need the money, I'm sure they can find it by shutting down some of the innumerable basket-weaving courses that infest critical faculties like Women's Studies.

Barbie was right: Math is hard! But arithmetic is easy.

I was playing with my Xbox a few days ago and eventually wandered upstairs for coffee and a sandwich when I turned on the news to learn that someone claiming to have a bomb had taken hostages at Hillary!'s New Hampshire campaign headquarters. Disappointed to find out that Hillary! wasn't among them, I continued on my mission.

The press was effusive in its praise of Hillary!'s handling of the matter:

AP:

When the hostages had been released and their alleged captor arrested, a regal-looking Hillary Rodham Clinton strolled out of her Washington home, the picture of calm in the face of crisis.

The image, broadcast just as the network news began, conveyed the message a thousand town hall meetings and campaign commercials strive for - namely, that the Democratic presidential contender can face disorder in a most orderly manner.

Politico:

The scene was one of a woman in charge.

"It looked and sounded presidential," said Larry Sabato, director of the University of Virginia Center for Politics. "This was an instance of the White House experience of this campaign. They knew how to handle this."

Pffft. Completely ignored was the reaction of this political observer, who expertly prepared his sandwich, and then continued on to play his Xbox game, without noticeable hand tremors or other signs of distress.

Icewater in his veins. It's called leadership, baby.

Canada.com:

OTTAWA - Conservative MP James Moore denied Wednesday that he looked at a picture of a "scantily clad" woman on his laptop computer while at his seat in the House of Commons.

"I don't know where this attack is coming from," the B.C. MP said in apparent surprise. "It is utterly baseless, utterly nonsensical. I love this place, I love serving my constituents and I'm offended that this has even been alleged, Mr. Speaker."

NDP MP Irene Mathyssen rose in the Commons after question period Wednesday to make the accusation and to ask for an apology.

"I feel very strongly that this is not only disrespectful of women, but it's disrespectful of this House. It reflects an attitude of objectifying women and we know that when women and other human beings are objectified and dehumanized, they become the objects of violence and abuse," she said.

I hear ya, Sarge. Why, just look at this appalling thread I found today while not searching for pictures of the estimable Jessica Alba. Were the grunting, sweating male pigs that swarm the Internet (and your hot and bothered imagination, I'll bet) interested in Ms. Alba's thoughts on the dramatic arts? On world affairs? On her deepest hopes and fears?

No, they were not. It was as if she wasn't really there.

(It turns out that Moore was showing a fellow MP pictures of his former girlfriend, who was wearing a bikini; and his dog, who, presumably, wasn't.)

sheboyganpress.com:

The case against a Sheboygan man accused of abducting a 17-year-old Oshkosh girl was dismissed this week after the teen admitted she lied about her two-week disappearance.

Angelina Lor initially claimed that

You'll have to read the rest of the piece here. Suffice it to say that Abbott and Costello could have used this guy in one of their more famous routines.

I've heard of these guys, but this is the first time I've seen one in action. I don't know who originated the idea, but that first attempt must have been heart-stoppingly intense, no matter how sound the theory.

Warning: Music, commentary

Via kottke.org

I thought that it had gone defunct, but there seem to be new clips from the Zuiiken English show popping up. If you haven't seen it, it's a very strange (is there any other kind?) Japanese exercise/language-training program. In this episode we go to the doctor's office. Or something.

I've written about the Zuiikin babes before. Here's another video. (Warning: Target page may have objectionable content.).

This link to a YouTube video is now broken, but there's some additional background material on the show.

Via The Presurfer

One of the benefits of writing new songs, I found, was that they tended to be more complete. Previously I would concentrate on the lyrics of the first verses and chorus -- anything beyond that was usually just filler to pad out the length.

Part of it is that I had what I would term a "romantic" idea of songwriting, where the song would appear, fully formed, from the ether. It's nice when that happens -- maybe once or twice a year -- but you shouldn't count on it on your journey to the Top Of The Pops. Like any other writing, it takes persistence and the willingness to rip up what isn't working and rewrite it until you get it right. Or at least until you can sing it without apologizing in advance.

===========================

Verse:

So you've risen to the top of the ladder
And you are the master of all you survey
But there's an itching
Like a fire in the kitchen
It's your dirty little secret
Your dirty little secret

Sure you've struggled to nail up your name
Now at the summit you collect paper scraps
But there's a swelling
Little whispets telling
Your dirty little secret
-------------------------------------------------
Chorus:

In the dark of night
You rub your dirty little secret
When no one's looking
You bite down
And the pain is sweet
In the light of day
You disguise your dirty little secret
When no one's looking
You bite down
And the pain is sweet
-------------------------------------------------
Verse:

You've got money enough to burn
You can buy all your friends wholesale
But all that cash
Won't cover the rash
Of your dirty little secret

[Rpt. second verse, chorus]
=============================

Believe it or not (my cousin certainly didn't), this wasn't about sex, at least not more than peripherally. I stole the title from an essay (I think) by D.H. Lawrence, who was talking about sex; more specifically, masturbation, the wanker. I can't find a link for it, but here Martin Amis makes mention of it (near the bottom of the page).

I was thinking more of a scene in George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-four. The protagonist, Winston Smith, is haunted by a childhood memory of being in a bomb shelter with his mother and younger sister in one of Oceania's endless wars. He steals some chocolate from the crying child and he carried this pathetic image around for the rest of his life.

So, if anything, the song is a metaphor for the shabby ways we treat others.

Speaking of shabby, our playing was a bit less than optimum, with blown notes here and there, and occasionally the whole project drifted off course. Most of it works, though.

Note how my cousin attempts to sabotage my performance with four (I counted them) handclaps that I can only characterize as "insolent and sarcastic." Well, I guess you had to be there. But I soldiered on manfully. Manfully, I tell you.

Dirty Little Secret Warning: Embedded QuickTime audio.

Previous:

Fire In The Waxworks
Warning Shots
The Chase
Just Like A Woman

to have had his fat stolen. Police are investigating.

Photograph by Matt Stuart.

There's a bit of sound when this finishes loading, so turn down your speakers if that's going to be a problem. Yet another Tower Defence game, this time with the enemy attacking your girlfriend, ensconced in her castle (sorority?).

Warning: Music and sound effects. You can turn it off with a an icon at the bottom right, beside the start/restart button. You might want to skip the cutscene animations, which are rather sophomoric. As you might expect from a game called "Fratboy Girlfriend Defence."

Three men died on Christmas Eve and were met by Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates. "In honor of this holy season," Saint Peter said, "you must each possess something that symbolizes Christmas in order to get into heaven."

The first man fumbled through his pockets and pulled out a lighter. He flicked it on. "It represents a candle," he said. "You may pass through the Pearly Gates," Saint Peter said.

The second man reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He shook them and said, "They're bells." Saint Peter said, "You may pass through the Pearly Gates."

The third man started searching desperately through his pockets and finally pulled out a pair of women's panties.

St. Peter looked at the man with a raised eyebrow and asked, "And just what do those symbolize?"

Times OnLine:

Humanity faces oblivion if it fails to reach agreement on global warming, Ban Ki Moon, the UN Secretary General, said yesterday as the US and the European Union continued to scuffle over a successor to the ten-year-old Kyoto treaty on climate change.

"The world’s scientists have spoken with one voice: the situation is grim and urgent action is needed," Mr Ban said at a gathering of 190 countries on the Indonesian island of Bali. "The situation is so desperately serious that any delay could push us past the tipping point, beyond which the ecological, financial and human costs would increase dramatically. We are at a crossroads: one path leads to a comprehensive climate change agreement, the other one to oblivion."

Let's see. On the downside we have the extinction of humanity; the Earth as a lifeless, overheated world, spinning though space until the Sun goes supernova some billions of years in the future; the death of all hope, love and poetry.

On the upside: We are finally rid of the UN.

Sounds like a deal to me!

Ordinary, sane people will see in the above nothing but a jumble of colored rocks. If, perchance, you see the outlines of a face -- Norman Mailer, say, or Fred Thompson * -- then I would suggest immediate professional assistance.

* Not that I see the outlines of Norman Mailer or Fred Thompson, of course. Those are names that I'm just putting out there.

Because, like, they've been in the news lately. Yeah, that's it.

Chicago Tribune:

"It's kind of like Grandma's recipe," he observed. "A pinch of this, two shakes of that. You kind of know when it's right."

Update: Crap. The paper has moved the story into a firewalled archive, so I registered (the things I do for you!), stole the whole story, and you can read it below:

This, unlike any of the other songs, has been heard by Famous Ears. Whose Famous Ears, you ask? Well, how about David Freaking Foster's Famous Ears, that's who. He was the main judge in a song contest sponsored by the local Recording Association. At least I think he heard it, though I'm betting not much more than thirty seconds worth until his oh-so-refined immune system kicked in and he collapsed into a writhing heap on the floor.

Mind you, I don't exactly regard David Freaking Foster (I have no idea if his middle name is really "Freaking." But it should be.) as the ultimate authority on rock music. He had most recently been famous for (co?) writing and producing the Canadian entry in the African-famine trilogy ("Do They Know It's Christmas"/"We Are The World"), a song so stirring and unforgettable that I've, ah, forgotten what it was called.

Apart from that, he produced and wrote for notable rockers like Barbra Streisand, Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton (an extensive discography here). I remember reading a magazine story about him in which he was reminiscing about, among other things, his days as a working musician, including playing keyboards in Chuck Berry's backup band. He went on and on about how sloppy and unprofessional his bandmates were, including Berry, whose guitar was constantly slipping out of tune. This was especially painful for Foster, who, as the writer pointed out (several times), was blessed with "perfect pitch." It also, as far as I was concerned, was part of the reason why he didn't really "get" rock music.

The only person I've ever known with perfect pitch -- or close enough to it -- is my cousin. Oddly enough, it didn't really help us out very much (except when tuning the guitars, heh).

Sloppy. Unprofessional. Out of tune. Could be a perfect description of half of the Rolling Stones any given night. More to the point, rock has a sort of laissez-faire attitude to imperfection: Whatever works, works. It's not exactly like improvisation in jazz, though there are some of those elements in it.

The Beatles were fond of telling the story of when they were working on a particular song (I've never found out which one) when Ringo wandered into the studio stoned out of his mind on one thing or another and tripped over a cymbal. Lesser musicians would have shrieked and started recording anew, but they were of sturdier stuff. As one of them observed, "Hey, he was on the beat, so we decided to leave it in."

Another view on the human element in recording. This is a site that obsessively lists every bad tape edit and drum-pedal squeak in Beatles' songs. You'll be amazed at how many there are.

What's it about? Nothing, actually. The title is the only real thing about it -- I was living next to one of those big artificial lakes that are built in new communities to:

a) increase property values;

b) divert water from overloaded storm drains; and

c) collect every abandoned shopping cart in the vicinity

The rest is overwrought poetic dreck.

We changed hats on this recording, with me playing most of the guitars and my cousin switching to bass. I have mixed feelings about it. I liked the Townshendesque chords I was throwing around; but I never could find a way to integrate the chorus and verses. I needed a song for the contest, though, and this was the best I had.

=========================

Verse:

This solemn vow I do undertake
Forged in sorrow and it cannot break
A purpose, a will
Too much to shake

Chorus:

I found my love
By the lake
By the lake

There was a stinging wind coaxing dirty foam afloat
And on the beach the bleached shell of a boat
A gull overhead
This song in his throat

By the lake

A desert of water crushed by clouds
An ocean of tears cried aloud
Fossils in amber sunk beneath
No swimming allowed

By the lake
==============================

(Note that the lyrics in question might have small differences from the song. Most of them went through seversl small rewrites along the way.)

However dimly David Freaking Foster viewed my entry, at least I probably beat my cousin, who wrote his first song and submitted it. We still chuckle about that one.

By The Lake. Warning: Embedded QuickTime audio.

Previous:

Dirty Little Secret
Fire In The Waxworks
Warning Shots
The Chase
Just Like A Woman

I've put the game behind the jump because it plays music when loading. You can turn sound off within the game (button at lower right).

Stickman How We Met - video powered by Metacafe

A cute animation on unusual canvases, sort of a viral campaign for Samsung mobile phones, I think. There was some discussion on a message board where I found it whether the animation was later added by computer, but apparently not: I went to the artists' website to learn that it took more than 3600 drawings with gel pens, markers and eyeliner (among other things) and four days' worth of photography.

Warning: Music.

Yes, that's a gun that fires teddy bears. Although crime is rare in Japan, when it happens, it is absolutely hilarious.

If you're running short on Christmas present ideas, Cracked looks at the 25 Most Baffling Toys From Around The World; most of which, for some baffling reason, hail from Japan.

Warning: Language and a surfeit of poop-related products.

Artist David Mach discovers a use for those wire things that multiply spontaneously in the closet. There's only so many cars that need unlocking, y'know.

Not sure if that's Fay Wray on the left.

On a recent visit to Cuba, Vladimir Putin found that most Cubans' shoes have holes in them, and so he asked Fidel, "Oye chico, how is this possible after 40 years of 'progress'?"

Annoyed, Fidel answers, "And what about Russia? Have you done any better?"

Putin says, "Ombe, when you want I'll invite you to Russia and if you find a single person with ripped-up shoes you have permission to kill him. No problems."

They got on Putin's plane and went to Russia. As soon as Fidel got off the plane, the first thing he saw was someone whose shoes were all ripped up, and so he grabbed his pistol and BOOM! killed him.

One day my cousin showed up with these lyrics about DamnYoko™ and wanted some help putting them to music. So I said sure, went off somewhere and returned a few days later with the body of the song. (I believe we both worked on the bridge.)

Although my cousin was much more proficient than me in almost any aspect of music, he was just starting to write his own songs. I'd been doing it from the start. I suppose it is somewhat a matter of focus; a songwriter sees the song as the target and the music as part of the puzzle getting there; a good musician is more interested in the journey, and the nuts and bolts of the jalopy we're riding in. If I may mangle a metaphor or two.

My cousin wasn't exactly Noel Coward when it came to writing lyrics, but no nevermind. Obviously a good song with good lyrics is preferable to a good song with bad lyrics (or -- and I know, having written many examples of the genre -- a bad song with bad lyrics), but I've never considered lyrics as a pivotal element of the song; rather as a framework to hang the vocals (which I do consider essential) on.

This was the first time my cousin added backing vocals. Also a few ad-libs aimed at cracking me up.

Note: I usually keep the volume of my computer speakers low, and listen to these (or anything else) with headphones. If you can, I'd recommend doing the same for this song, at least. There's a truism that you should listen to music at around the same level that it was recorded at. As this would be inconvenient for most rock music (not to mention for your neighbors), producers use compression and equalization to make the record sound smoother at lower volumes. In part because we still hadn't figured out how to record acoustic guitars, they sound jumbled and undifferentiated unless you crank up the sound somewhat. If the boss starts bitchin', you can point out this highly scientific explanation.

Since I'll be busy for the next few days, I'll just take this occasion to wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. I'll try to be back by next week, but I'm not promisin' nuttin'.

========================

[Verse]

Together you and me
Can reach the sky and see
The things we believe
But torment and frustration
Can break the concentration
Then we grieve
-------------------------------------------------

[Chorus ]

But it's you and me
Me and you
Just us two
Together
J.B.

[rpt.]
-------------------------------------------------

[Verse]

The colors on the wall
Seem to give us the call
The forces are there
The final judgement can wait
'Til we secure our fate
The loving we share

------------------------------------------------------

[Bridge]

Forgetting the bad times we had
To make room for more of the good
Will keep us together
Forever

Will keep us together
Forever

-------------------------------------------------

[rpt. 1st verse, chorus]

========================

Me & J.B. Warning: Embedded QuickTime audio.

Previous:

By The Lake
Dirty Little Secret
Fire In The Waxworks
Warning Shots
The Chase
Just Like A Woman