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I'm not sure that the essence of three years can be gleaned from the experience of three consecutive days, but it sure seemed like it recently. Very recently.


Day One: Wednesday, August 25

Usually the day known in officespeak countrywide as Hump Day finds me bearing down at my SWR desk during business hours, but on this Wednesday it was the rare exception. A day off. Not for leisure, of course--I hardly know of such a thing lately--but for an all-day recording session. And a well-paid one at that.


Rick Musallam, my Lebanese bandmate now with both Janet Robin and Mike Keneally, was the one responsible for me being there. He contracted the session (supplied the musicians) for a fellow countryman of his named Saleem, an aspiring singer-songwriter in the adult contemporary market (shades of Joe Flow, to be sure, but far less offensive). It took place in perhaps the nicest recording studio I've ever had the pleasure to set foot in, an ornately decorated and state-of-the-art facility named Castle Oaks. Set in the blazing hot, picturesque hills of Calabassas, the place boasted both private mini-consoles for each musician (so he could set his own headphone mix!) and a breathtaking mountain view. I was able to procure an SWR Super Redhead for the session (the best recording combo on the market for my money, not like I had to spend any of it). The bass sound was spectacular, the tracks were laid down quickly and painlessly, and seven hours later I left musically fulfilled and with check in hand. Why is this significant in The Life Of Bryan? Because once I deposited that check, I went home and wrote two others, one to Bank Of America and one to Citibank. Once all three cleared, I officially accomplished what in retrospect has arguably been the most important goal in my life since 1996. I paid off a credit card debt of about $10,000.


This is monumental. It goes right to the heart of everything that leaving Z meant, that committing to Keneally meant, that the Vai audition meant, and what working for SWR meant and continues to mean. I knew that my decision to leave the Zappa organization with Keneally would impact me financially, but I was too young to know how drastic that impact would be. I had a clearer sense of the high stakes surrounding the Vai audition, but I was too emotionally whiplashed to fully grasp its aftermath. Even my decision to work at SWR was clouded by my desire to write a novel (yes, I will touch on this later). But looking back on it all, I can now see that almost everything I did--either consciously or subconsciously--was done with achieving this goal in mind. It was the ultimate expression of my desire to regain as much control of my life as possible in the wake of the helplessness I felt in late 1996. And it could never have been done without the loyalty, generosity and faith of the following people: Mike Keneally, Scott Chatfield, Steve Rabe, Daryl Jamison, Kelly Castro, Janet Robin, Bob Tedde, Wayne Kramer, Margaret Saadi, James LaBrie, (ironically) Steve Vai, and, of course, my parents. Thanks will never be enough.


The balancing act required to be a full-time employee of SWR, a freelance musician and a columnist for Bass Player Magazine is not always an easy one. It's one of the main reasons I can't be the Everything Boy I once was in the e-mail department, not to mention the Life Of Bryan department. And I'd be lying if I didn't admit that there were times I was but a hair shy of freaking out, packing up my stuff and heading for a life of isolation in a small cabin in rural Montana. But I didn't, goddammit. I got it done. I fucking did it. Now I will kindly request that you please pardon the unseemly spectacle of me patting myself on the back in print.


(One last note: August always manages to be an exciting time for yours truly. In '93, August 22 saw Dweezil informing me that I'd passed an audition. August 12, 1996 was V-Day, the day that will live in LOB infamy. And now we have August 25, 1999 to add to the list. I would say that these were three of the six most important days of my life.)


And now back to reality. After licking the envelopes containing the magic checks shut, I set off to The New Baked Potato in Hollywood, home of the Summer '99 MK/BFD residency. The artist for the evening was Michael Landau, in his first original-material performance in Los Angeles in well over a year. His bandmates were his brother Ted on bass and Toss Panos on drums. They did material from Landau's classic Tales From The Bulge, both Raging Honkies' CD's and some new, as-yet-unreleased material which--thanks to a bootleg tape I've worn out over the past year--is some of the best music I've ever heard. Sitting between my Italian friends John and Sofia from The Space Surfers and fellow Berklee alum Griff Peters, I slurped down several Absolut screwdrivers as Landau took me apart with his version of Hendrix's "Up Through The Skies". Afterwards I hung with a sweaty Toss (god I miss that guy) and a literally larger-than-life Abe Laboriel, Jr. We discussed what we all were up to, and it's no surprise that they're both busier musically than I am. Was your narrator a little bit jealous? Sure. Would your narrator trade the peace of being debt-free for either of their lives? Right now, no way. Five years from now, will I feel differently about the choices I made? Ask me in five years.


Day Two: Thursday, August 26


After loading in the $2,000. bass combo I borrowed for the previous day's session, I walk upstairs to my SWR office and survey the damage of a day's absence. Fairly extensive. I've got to manage a major personnel reorganization involving people I've hired. I need to prepare six figures' worth of bass gear--an entire month's orders--for shipping to places as disparate as Japan and Denmark by the 31st. I have to test some prototypes and give CEO Daryl Jamison the thumbs up or down and why. There's a crisis in purchasing; some materials may not arrive in time for my end-of-the-month orders. A miscommunication has led to the production manager building models for export orders that were not due to ship until September, wasting valuable time and resources. A busy morning, but not too out of the ordinary.


Upon cleaning off my desk I stumble across a photocopy of my first column in Bass Player Magazine, which explores the topic of what defines success for different types of musicians, a relevant topic if there ever was one. I suddenly remember that, long ago, I'd set a goal of being a published columnist by the age of 30. Well, well. There's that unseemly spectacle again.


Then I look on the wall and notice a publicity shot of li'l ol' me dressed in hipster alternative gear and standing in front of two stacks of SWR Workingman's Series amps and cabinets. This picture would have been part of the ad I mentioned in the last Act, but due to artistic and commercial considerations the Beller/SWR ad was scrapped. I wasn't happy about it, but how could I complain--after all, they put me in the catalog--without raising one hell of a conflict of interest? I extracted lemonade from the preceding lemon by asking for and receiving the digital file of the photo, and then taking it to Kinko's for printing on glossy paper. Twenty copies cost me 35 bucks. I walked out with my first official publicity photo since my move to Los Angeles, something that if I'd done myself probably would have cost me $1,000. for the shoot alone.


Nonetheless the day at work is a total fucking nightmare. Every project I touch turns to shit and creates more problems and hours more work. Just when I think my job is too intense for even the above fringe benefit to make me happy, I remember that my rig is set up in the main soundroom because I wanted to hear what my old Boss Envelope Filter sounded like. OK, time for a bass break.


I go downstairs and fire up the full beast, a custom-patched behemoth containing the following items: (2) SWR Goliath II 4x10's, an SWR Goliath Junior III 2x10, a SansAmp PSA-1, a 1990-vintage SWR SM-400 amp, a Peavey DPC1000 power amp, the SWR Interstellar Overdrive, and a pedalboard consisting of an Ernie Ball Volume Pedal, a Boss tuner, a barely-functioning DOD Octave pedal (soon to be replaced with a new EBS Octave job), a T.C. Electronics chorus, the SansAmp footswitch and an A/A+B box for switching the Overdrive on and off. I plug in my newly-Custom-Shop-necked Fender Jazz Deluxe V (outfitted with Fender Nickelplated Steel strings) and away I go. (For all you gearheads who asked me three years ago for the details of my rig, there it is. Sorry it took me so long.) And the verdict is--the Envelope Filter is the same piece of shit I remember it being, and I should probably plunk down some ducats for a Mu-Tron already. But hey--the rig sounds awesome, and I'm in a totally isolated room where I can crank it up to my heart's content. I take five minutes and self-administer some low-end therapy before returning to work.


The rest of the day flies by in frantic fashion, for I have to be in Long Beach (50 miles) by 8:00 PM for a soundcheck with Wayne Kramer. The gig is at a venue called the Lava Lounge, attached to a bowling alley called Java Lanes (which means the fava beans can't be far behind). I miss playing with Wayne; it's been three months since the end of the Euro Tour. The venue is supercool. Two words: free bowling. I'm about to order a drink (guess which one?) from the bar when I notice an orange-colored label on a bottle of Absolut. "What's that?" I ask the bartendress excitedly. "Oh, honey," she says, "that's Absolut Mandarin. If you like Vodka and orange juice, this stuff will change your life. You ever had a screwdriver?" I practically jump over the bar with enthusiasm. She makes it and I drink it. It tastes like a Creamsicle. I drink four more. The gig, though sparsely attended, is a success for the discovery of this new liquor alone. The musical release is merely a bonus. The downside is that we don't go on until 12:30 AM, which means I don't get home until nearly 4:00 AM. Maybe I should have stopped at three drinks.


Day Three: Friday, August 27


Being late for work is not an option, because I have to leave at 6:00 sharp in order to arrive on time for the evening's plans: dinner with SWR Marketing Director John Ferrante, CEO Daryl Jamison and Mike Keneally! How did this happen, you ask?


Andy West, a loyal SWR guy, had called me at work a couple of weeks back needing a "backup rig" (Interstellar Overdrive Preamp and Stereo 800 power amp) for his upcoming tour with the Dixie Dregs, which I was more than happy to provide. He also said he'd be in L.A. on the 27th, and asked if Mike and I wanted to go to the show. Sure, I said. Somehow word got to Daryl that I'd been talking to Andy West, and he totally flipped out. "The Dregs? I have to see them! You know, I took a bass lesson from Andy about thirteen years ago, and it pretty much made me quit the bass altogether." Yes, he meant it as a compliment. When I told Daryl that Mike and I were already going, he proposed dinner at the House Of Blues for the four of us. After all, SWR supplies the House Of Blues nationwide with bass gear, which gives us the right to their V.I.P.-infested Foundation Room whenever we so please. So the worlds of BFD and SWR would cross paths once again. Of course, if you've already read the latest Mike Types To You, you know that this was only the beginning. But I'm getting ahead of myself.


The House Of Blues Foundation Room is obscenely nice, and we get a private table in the corner where Daryl and I can--gasp--smoke during dinner! (This is supposed to be illegal in California.) I ask the waitress if they have Absolut Mandarin. They do. Glug glug glug.


We have a fantastic time. Daryl sticks with his habit of telling the most disgusting joke he knows to break the ice, and of course it works with Keneally. They go on to discuss some fairly obscure music trivia (which pleases both of them to no end). The food is ridiculously good, as well as ridiculously expensive, which makes it all the sweeter when Daryl picks up the check (is he cool or what?). I joke to Daryl that Keneally may need to steal me away from him for some possible tour dates opening for Vai later this year. He goes to MK, "Oh yeah? How much is it worth to you?" My good-natured group-hug side is thrilled with the camaraderie of Keneally and Jamison. My Machiavellian side (oh, did you know I had one?) suddenly realized that by being loyal to both over the past three years I'd made myself wholly beholden to neither. After further consultation, my two sides agree to live together in harmony for at least another day, maybe more.


Off to the show. It turns out that the bass duties are being split; fellow Jerseyan Dave LaRue would do the first half of the show, while Andy would do the second. So I'm not surprised when the band kicks off with "Cruise Control" and I run into Andy in the lobby. After exchanging hellos and other pleasantries, he goes, "You know, I didn't know this until today, but they're gonna do that Frank tune `Peaches En Regalia'. And Dweezil's gonna play it with them. I hope that's not weird for you." Weird? That sort of thing? In the Life Of Bryan? Oh, come on.


John Ferrante takes off shortly after the first set starts, so it's now Daryl, Keneally and I watching the Dregs do their thing. Steve Morse is simply awe-inspiring, and believe it or not, it's the first time I've ever seen the Dregs live, so I'm totally floored. Hey, I play difficult music for a living, and this is difficult music. It's funny--usually when I go to see shows nowadays, no matter who it is, I'm looking at my watch about seven songs in. Not this night.


Then, the inevitable. Steve Morse introduces Dweezil. I haven't seen him in a very long time, probably a couple of years. He looks fantastic, as if he hasn't aged a bit (I can hardly say the same for myself from three years prior). We used to do "Peaches" back on the Z U.S. tour of '94, and I was hoping it didn't go badly for the Dweezil Dregs. I needn't have worried; they kicked the shit out of it, and MAN did I get off on watching Steve Morse and Dweezil harmonize the sixteenth-note passages in the middle of the tune. It was fantastic.


I look to my right. There's a heavyset woman in a long black dress and large round glasses who looks extremely familiar. Kind of like Gail Zappa, but not really. I look closer. She stares back at me. We do this for nearly ten seconds and say nothing before I lose the staring game and turn to Keneally. "Mike, is that Gail?!" "Yes!" I haven't seen this woman in nearly four years, but of course I have to approach her.


"Hello, Gail? Is that you? I thought so, but"
"Yes, it's me."
Phew. "Do you recognize me?"
"Yes, Bryan, I do."
Phew.


We spoke for about a minute, mainly small talk about Joe being on the road with Duran Duran, not much else. Gail can be awfully hard to read, and I wasn't sure if I was overstaying my conversational welcome, so I politely excused myself just in time to find Dweezil talking with Keneally on my left. Well, how-dee-doo to you, too.


"Hey Dweezil." I shook his hand. "How are you?"
He tilted his head back and nodded slowly, in traditional Dweezil fashion. "Just fine."


The conversation turned to DZ's continuing struggles with his instrumental opus "What The Hell Was I Thinking?". It appears that the tape has been munched over the years, and several tracks simply disappeared during an analog-to-digital transfer. Notably the rhythm tracks; DZ said that all of the guest guitarist's tracks were still intact, "thank God." It was a nice conversation, devoid of whatever vibe you might want to read into Dweezil's re-introduction of MK to Gail (read MK's latest MTTY for the skinny on this). Our conversation ended with me telling him, "If those tracks really are unsalvageable, I'd be happy to do them again if you want. I still remember a lot of that shit." He smiled and said OK. I don't know if he would ever consider such a thing, but the fact that I felt comfortable enough to offer speaks volumes. I just wish I'd remembered to tell him that the two artists he'd recommended to me back in 1995--Self and Jeff Buckley--are probably my two favorite things to listen to nowadays. He did have me pegged in that way from the start. Of course, I owe Dweezil more than just credit for turning me on to some good music, and I hope you all realize that.


It's worth restating that my situation at the time of The Stairmaster Epiphany (Act 7 for you newbies) was markedly different than those of Keneally and Joe Travers, because I wasn't nearly as emotionally invested in the World Of Zappa as they were. Three years and eight months later, despite all of my histrionics and emotional reactions at the time, I see it more clearly than ever now for what it really was--a business decision. And in retrospect, the struggle to overcome my debt notwithstanding, the absolutely correct one. This is not to downplay the impact Keneally's music has had on me over the years--it literally changed and continues to enhance my musical life, not to mention how it's kicked me up 38,000 notches as a player--but the more I live, the more I realize myself for what I truly am: a wild-eyed, relentlessly focused pragmatist. Only by being that person can I make the idealistic Life Of Bryan come to fruition. I realize that this is dangerously close to an ends-justify-the-means philosophy, and I have skated down that slippery slope more than once. But you are who you are, and the serenity prayer comes in handy when you discover things like that.


I stepped out of my body for a brief second at that moment and realized that, as I stood in the middle of a circle that included Daryl Jamison, Mike Keneally and Dweezil Zappa, that my entire Los Angeles employment history was within ten feet of itself. It was awfully strange, and yet a fitting way for these three days to come to an end. The circle truly was complete.


Aftermath


The mad dash to self-reliance did not come without a cost. Below lay the casualties of war:


The Book. Yes, I "finished" it. I even submitted it to a couple of agencies. But after some professional critiquing--some helpful, some merely spiteful--I saw the undeniable truth: either it needs another extensive rewrite, or it needs to be shelved and chalked up to experience towards my eventual second effort. Don't get me wrong, I'm intensely proud of what I did. I worked on it for 18 months, and with conflicting life goals and very little time to dedicate towards it I still managed to produce a well-written, cohesive, occasionally entertaining 626-page manuscript. That doesn't change the fact that it has some basic flaws in the plot, nor does it mean that one of the main characters is any more whole. Due to these problems, and for some other personal reasons, I cannot and will not web-publish eleven is a magic number at any time in the near future.


Do I really have the time or energy to revisit that project right now? Sadly, the answer is no. Does that make it a huge waste? Of course not. I learned things about myself I never would have dreamed possible, and I sorted through some issues I'd never before tackled (though I hardly got to them all; if I had the thing might have exceeded the 2,000-page mark). I got the sense of accomplishment that thousands of other writers who set out to write their first novels never felt. And I became a much better writer for it. All praise remains due to Martha C. Lawrence, without whom I never would have gotten the thing off the ground. For you avid Keneally/LOB page readers out there, I can only say that her new book Aquarius Descending contains a few inside-baseball references you might enjoy.


But for now, my writing jones will have to be satisfied by this here page and the Bass Player Magazine column. And hey, I like getting paid for my work.


Fitness. Back when I didn't have a job I was able to work out A LOT, which unfortunately is what's necessary to keep my naturally slow metabolism from turning me into an earth ball. Then came SWR, and the book, and a few tours in betweenit basically cost me twenty pounds. My 10-year high-school reunion is coming up, and I'll be damned if I can't do something about this, but perhaps I should be thankful. If I'd been writing this right after I got back from the Wayne Kramer EuroTour, I would have been forced to say "forty pounds" instead of the aforementioned twenty.


Act 32. You were probably wondering what happened to that. Its omission was not an accident, and the reason is twofold. First, you all remember the weekly updates from the Kramer tour. They were fun and happy and would have made a great Act if compiled. Unfortunately I was writing them from this tiny device on which I couldn't save an inordinate amount of text, and since they were posted to the front page of the MK site and then subsequently removed, it left the door open for something to accidentally disappear. Of the five installments, the first one is now gone forever. I didn't want to make it an Act without that, so... oh well. It now lives on only in incomplete memory.


Oh, was there another reason? It's personal. Let's just say I had to write something for me before I could write anything more for you. Perhaps there's a reason why I've avoided my personal life on these here pages like the plague. Maybe that reason is because, for the past three years and longer, it's resembled an 18-wheeler made purely from flaming magnetic material barreling down the wrong side of an Interstate highway. Maybe I'll get smarter over the next three years and do something about this unfortunate side effect of my overdriven lifestyle, but then again maybe it's not a side effect of anything. I'll guess I'll have to ask myself again in five years.


Spare Time. The more successful I am, the less I have. A nice problem, right? Yes and no. You have to have balance, which is why I'll be heading off to hike Yosemite's Half Dome in early October. If you really want to scare the shit out of yourself, do some web research on this little jaunt up the side of a large rock in Northern California. For my part, I'll take pictures. As a matter of fact, the next Act (if I ever find time to do it) may be another one of those picture jobs. Especially if I can lose some weight.


Seriously, there are times when I feel unhealthy from overwork, usually from four or five consecutive days of SWR and gigs/rehearsals with a trip to San Diego thrown in for good measure. I even found myself sleeping on the side of the I-5 one night for four hours when my body finally said "Enough!" and shut down on me in mid-cruise. But for the most part, it's the only way I know how to conduct myself. It certainly served me well in pursuit of my last goal. Now I have to figure what the next one is.


Maybe it's to do less and gain more from it.



Tearing up the credit cards,
The Bassboy Number Sixty-Nine