"Certain astrological
patterns occur universally…everyone experiences a Saturn Return around
age 28-30. The issues center around time, structure, responsibility, power
and accomplishment…individuals who have chosen in their twenties a life
structure which is not very suited to their character, or who have simply
changed a great deal, will make breaks. The old ways will feel confining,
limiting, restrictive. Old patterns of behavior seem lifeless. In such cases,
the people involved may end relationships, quit or be fired from jobs, move,
or otherwise alter the basic structure of their lives. Sometimes they break
out before they know what they are going toward."
---Maritha Pottenger
for S.F.
PLEASE NOTE: An earlier version of this Act mentioned the names of certain entities and individuals who requested that they be removed from the page. Given the unique circumstances--and keeping in mind the rarity of such a request, let alone its granting--I have done so, and I deeply regret any misconstrued remarks, as well as the unintended effects of mentioning specific names. However, the story stands as written.
This Act is the sound of me exhaling.
It’s been a while since this column was the sound of anything at all. The last truly substantive piece (Act 33, "Gains and Losses") posted all the way back in August of 1999. Sure, the story of the Half Dome hike was a blast to write, and my pithy little newspaper-style column on Y2K (Act 35, "Onward and Upward) seemed like it could be the start of something new. If only I’d heeded my own words. . . .
. . . to do less and gain more from it. . . .
Basically, September of 1999 marked the end of a life goal, which was to get out of debt once and for all. I’d been so driven on one thing or another for so long–writing the novel, becoming debt-free, pursuing freelance music work–that the idea of not setting another immediate goal seemed appealing to me. I could coast for a while, try to engage in more leisure activity, see where life took me. I’d keep working at SWR, take some music gigs, save some money, get a new car stereo, do more writing, hike a mountain . . . whatever I wanted, just in more of a passive sense. I was tired of chasing insane goals, anyway.
It worked for a while. Money showed up and I didn’t have to fork it over to Visa. I started working out again. I got a promotion at work (I am now the Product Development Manager for SWR; it’s a heavy thing). Some good-paying gigs came around. November slid into December, and it all seemed so ideal. When I found myself with enough time to write Act 35, I saw a future in writing columns. I saw a future in anything that came at me. It was just fine until it all came at me at once.
In mid-January I picked up a regular gig with a female singer-songwriter named [name deleted], who’s currently signed to [name deleted] records. The money was decent, the songs could be hits, and best of all, the band was as follows: Mountain Man Griff Peters on guitar, Joe Travers on drums, my roommate Lance Konnerth on second guitar, and yours truly on bass. It was a Berklee College of Music Class of ’92 reunion. Utterly cool. At the time I was already working with five other artists–Keneally, Sh-muel Levy’s Lev-Yatan (an offshoot of Ras Daveed & Providence for you old-timers reading along), Janet Robin (still!), a Lebanese smooth jazzer named Saleem, and occasional work with Bob Tedde in The Steely Damned down in San Diego. The [name deleted] deal involved heavy rehearsals, all attended by management (ah, the pop world), twice a week. Everyone suddenly began booking gigs simultaneously . . . and the NAMM show was fast approaching.
Maybe you’ve read the stories of NAMM in years past. This time around was so much crazier for less interesting reasons that I didn’t even bother to detail it, but here’s the essence: I was still acting as Export Manager at the time of the show (which means I handled all of the appointments with distributors from around the world, a full-time gig), while at the same time I had already begun my duties as Product Development Manager, only the most stressful thing possible at NAMM because new products are why everyone’s there. Around January 20, it became clear that our most important new product–the Mo’ Bass, a high-powered SWR head with onboard analog effects, by far the most complicated thing we’ve ever done–was about a month behind, and we had ten days until the show.
It quickly got to the point where I would leave work, go to a rehearsal or gig, and return to work afterwards. As the NAMM deadline drew near, concern became panic as the newly-designed power amp incinerated itself AND the main preamp board. There was no time to recover with a new circuitboard–our great new prototype product would have to be built with about 300 loose wires. The three nights before NAMM, I stayed at work until 1:00 AM, 2:30 AM, and 6:00 AM, respectively. The night before was truly insane; the chief engineer Mo West and I worked together for eighteen hours straight before grabbing one hour’s sleep . . . and then I almost missed the most important meeting of the whole show, a debut of the Mo’ Bass to our nationwide sales rep force at 9:30 AM. The meeting was a half-hour long and I ran into the L.A. Convention Center at 9:50, reaching the booth five minutes later. Sweating and dizzy, I plugged into the only working Mo’ Bass in existence and prayed it still worked. Lucky for me, it did, and became the talk of the entire show. Alas, there was no time for exultation–I went straight into eight hours of meetings with foreign distributors. To my credit I remained coherent until the final meeting, when during my explanation of a spreadsheet detailing our new sales incentive program, the numbers grew little legs and simply walked off the page. I politely excused myself from the table and had someone else take over, much to the amusement of our French distributor.
NAMM turned out to be a smashing success for SWR (a detailed account exists somewhere at www.swreng.com), with me playing ringleader and head-Mo’-Bass-demo-boy for the biggest names in the bass business (try Marcus Miller, Michael Manring, Victor Wooten and Verdine White for starters). But this crazy run leading up to the show was just the beginning. In addition to a regular 45-to-50 hour workweek, I was booked on the following dates in February with music commitments: 2, 3, 10, 11, 12, 15, 16, 17, 18, 20, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26 (a double), 28, 29. Amidst this mess were two out-of-town trips, one to San Francisco and one to San Antonio. My mood darkened severely halfway through, but financially I was double-dipping all over the place and that kept me mentally afloat. I don’t know if you’ve ever fallen asleep during a song in a rehearsal, but now I can say that I have. Physically it wrecked me, and I gained ten pounds in less than six weeks.
March let up a bit, with only ten nights booked outside of work, but something weird was happening: I wasn’t recovering. I wasn’t sleeping well, and the usual two days of full rest after an insane two-month run wasn’t enough anymore. The days flew by without me getting much of anything done, especially in the writing department. I even missed a Bass Player Magazine deadline, causing my column to get bumped back an issue in their monthly schedule. I was showing up late to everything. You’d think that I would have seen the red flags, but no–I was already booking April and May. The phone wouldn’t stop ringing. [name deleted] got a residency at a club in town for every Thursday night from the beginning of April through mid-May, and she wanted two rehearsals for each gig. SWR was sending me to Frankfurt, Germany for the MusikMesse (a Euro-version of NAMM) from April 10-17. My parents were coming into town for a weekend in late April. Keneally’s session dates came in for early May. By the time March was over, I had EVERY DAY in April booked with something outside of work except for the 1st and the 19th. May was also already booked on days 3, 4, 5 (double), 6, 9, 10, 12, 22, 24, 26 and 28. I saw it coming, but it didn’t matter.
Most maddening of all was an out-of-the-blue e-mail from [name deleted]’s management notifying me that the pay rates for our pre-committed in-town rehearsal and gigs (of which there were many in this mad dash) were being arbitrarily lowered in a "non-negotiable" fashion. There aren’t many rules in the freelance music biz, but committing to a bunch of dates at a certain pay scale and then having that rate changed after the fact skirts the edge of acceptability. Of course, most musicians in this town are happy to have any paying gig at all, so they just grin and bear it when they get fucked like that. Then it dawned on me–I didn’t need this gig. Not financially, anyway. I had money in the bank and more coming. My expenses were low, mainly because I didn’t have a second to spend money on anything besides 7-Eleven coffee several times a day. And this gig was hogging my schedule worse than any other. Musically it was just fine, but it didn’t keep me satisfied like BFD (what would?). For once, I had the leverage in this deal. And thanks to my time in the business trenches at SWR, I knew how to use it.
I’d already done some work for them in late March for which I hadn’t been paid. It was around April 5th when I got that e-mail. I was about to head off to Germany for SWR, and [name deleted] had rehearsals and gigs scheduled starting literally the day I got back, going all the way through May. Picking up on an offer mentioned in the original e-mail to me, my response was polite but firm. I wanted the entire amount for everything on the calendar through May IN ADVANCE, in the form of a check waiting for me in my mailbox upon my return from Germany on April 17. If the check wasn’t there, I wasn’t showing up for anything. Mind you, this was a pro-level gig and they didn’t take to changing band members lightly, especially three days before a gig (they had one down for April 20th).
Well, I don’t have to tell you what happened when I got back, but I will anyway: the check wasn’t there. Management sent me another e-mail claiming that the record company had screwed up and forgot to send the money to them, so there was "no way" they could give it to us. I cared little, for management had previously accepted my check-in-advance terms, and in my eyes they were responsible for getting the money they’d promised me on time, no matter where it came from. I left a phone message simply stating that I wouldn’t be there unless I had the money in my hand, period.
They called back at 2:00 PM that afternoon, and the resulting conversation was a screaming match. According to them, I was "only hurting [name deleted]" by holding out (it is worth mentioning that [name deleted] is a real sweetheart and a truly talented performer who had nothing to do with any of this shit), and that the money would be there in only two more days, and that I was risking my standing in the band and that they wouldn’t use me for any of the other dates if I didn’t show up. I said, "Fine. If that’s what you think is best for [name deleted], and you think that solves your problems, then I’d advise you to do that. If not, tell me when I can pick up a check between now and tonight. If not, then I’d cancel rehearsal." It tasted so good, you simply have no idea. I ended up getting most of the money within the hour (you always have to give a little with these things so the adversary can save some degree of face in a position of weakness).
But then the strangest feeling came over me as I went to deposit the check. I was actually disappointed that management had given in. I really did want to quit the gig. I dreaded the thought of returning to those rehearsals. And it wasn’t just [name deleted]–I looked on the calendar and saw a bunch of shit I had little to no interest in doing. Why was I doing it all, anyway?
For money? That base was covered.
For prestige? These weren’t musically prestigious gigs, they were typical singer-songwriter L.A. gigs, ranging from $50. to $150. a night, with less for rehearsals.
Because I needed to play music? In my heart, I knew that wasn’t true either, and I’d known it for a long time.
Because it was a valuable investment of my time? I sat down and did a time-study on all of the hours I spent playing, practicing, traveling and rehearsing in April and measured it against the money I made. Guess what it came out to? Less than ten dollars an hour!
I was pulling 65-80 hour workweeks, and for what? I was staggering around, miserable, overweight, exhausted, spiritually dead. And I wasn’t writing at all, save for an every-other-month column for Bass Player (which, in the middle of all this, got picked up for another year). What was the point in doing it? What goal was it pointing towards? Maintaining my viability as a freelance musician in Los Angeles? Wasn’t the point of having a day-job–and not just any job, but a very cool one–to relieve myself of the burden of having to chase every musical dollar that came my way?
Few things have ever come to me as clearly. It was so obvious. I wanted to quit every gig I had, except for Keneally. I’d had it. I wanted out. The realization was a relief the likes of which I’ve rarely experienced.
Starting in late April, I began notifying the people I was working with in that regard. Some cases were difficult; I’d been playing with Janet Robin for almost five years, and it was the only gig that still tied me to Joe Travers (he left [name deleted]’s project when Duran Duran got busy again). But within two weeks, everyone knew. It would be until June 4th before my pre-booked commitments ran their course, and all the way up to June 11 until I had any real spare time at all. That’s where I am right now.
This is not to say that I still won’t take on worthwhile projects. They just have to be right for me, both in the artistic and financial sense. Working with The Steely Damned in San Diego still appeals to me. Session work is a good deal for the right people. I just completed some work with a guitarist named Yogi up in Seattle who’s writing some very interesting stuff. I’m just past killing myself over music, an art in which I can only act as a service provider, not a creator.
Somewhere in this mess I recorded a record with Mike Keneally and Beer For Dolphins. Maybe you heard.
I’ll admit to some discouragement over the second prolonged Vai-related absence in four years. I’d thought all along that a new MK record would be done before a second Vai tour, and I was right–I just wasn’t on it. Don’t get me wrong, I really like Nonkertompf, and playing "Self ‘n’ Other" live is a fucking joy. But time marches on, and frankly I was feeling very disconnected from the Keneally world all throughout the first half of 2000. Maybe it was just as well; I had nary a second to spare anyway.
The dates of the sessions–May 3-6–were near the end of the six week run, and only days after my Big Decision. I ended up not receiving the tapes of the new tunes until days before the now-infamous late-April Kamp Keneally rehearsals at Chatfield Manor, and I knew by looking at the calendar that I wouldn’t have a single second to practice any of the material beforehand. I fucking hate that. I despise walking into a rehearsal unprepared, both in others and myself. I was able to get through it, but my mood was clearly one of crankiness due to my own sleep-deprived, manic-depressive state as compared to the rest of the BFD comrades. Everyone else seemed so relaxed and happy to be there. I missed that feeling desperately.
After a trip back up to L.A. for two days of SWR, it was another early-morning drive to San Diego for the start of the sessions. I was running 45 minutes late and ended up getting there and setting up in a sweating frenzy so as not to hold anything up (time was at a premium, you see). More of the same shit–just barely getting there, no time to soak in a vibe at all, just do the job thrown in front of you and get the fuck out as soon as possible so you’re not late for the next one.
It’s a testament to the continuing power of Mike’s music, as well as to the assorted talents of the BFD bandmates, Mike Harris, and anyone else who was at those sessions, that within hours I was transformed back into my old self. Everything went splendidly. Jason was pounding out first take after first take. The bass sound I got was better than anything I’ve ever heard originate from my fingers. The new material was fresh and exciting (even more so due to the fact that I barely knew it while the red light was on). Marc Ziegenhagen shone in ways I’ve never seen before, and I’ve watched him play for ten years. Rick Musallam adds something this band has needed for a long time. Evan Francis is a fucking prodigy. Tricia Williams is the second coming of Ruth Underwood. Chris Opperman, when excited, talks so fast that it sounds as if he’s invented a new language, but you can imagine how this skill might help a trumpet player. Mike himself has grown so much as a musical force since the Sluggo! sessions that it’s just hard to comprehend. The whole crew even conspired to produce a birthday cake and related festivities on May 6th, my special day and the last day of the sessions (very sweet of them, considering this was my fourth working birthday in a row; last year I was in a village in Germany). I’m going to stop here on this topic because I plan on a full, Act-length dissertation when the album gets released, but I can assure you that this is by far the best work MK/BFD has ever produced. You will not be disappointed.
For me, it reminded of why I set my life up this way in the first place. The Keneally project is the worthy and appropriate exception to the rules of my life, which currently are thus: I am a creature of habit. I crave stability. I can’t be subject to the whims of ten different people when it comes to my employment. At the same time I have to play music for my benefit, not my music career’s benefit. This may sound strange, but as long as I have a life outside it, I like going to work every day. I never really enjoyed the essence of being a freelance musician. I liked the fringe aspects of it–social activity, meeting people, traveling, feeling special among a group–but not its core. Maybe if I hadn’t lost the Vai audition everything would be different, but it probably happened for a reason.
And I continue to believe that the reason is writing. I’ve never created a song in my life (although I’m getting partial credit on "Kedgeree"–I still can’t believe it), but I can create at will in this world. This piece you’ve just about finished reading may not be a work of art, but it feels so good just to get this all out that I don’t really care this time around. You may or may not know this, but I’ve just started writing a political column for a content-oriented site called None For You Dear (www.noneforyoudear.com). This changes everything; it’s difficult for me getting used to writing a format in which the point is to provoke thought and occasional disagreement. Everything’s a lot safer in the Keneally bubble because I’m preaching to the congregation. Out there I may say something that will make you look at me and be like, "That self-righteous, ill-informed asshole!" Either way I’m going to do it, because I see it as a chance to practice and build a portfolio for future perusal by a print publication. (Remember, Bass Player hired me after reading previous Acts of this very column.) If political discourse either annoys or doesn’t interest you, don’t bother going there. If you’re curious, give it a shot. I’m not particularly proud of the first installment, but then again, I can hardly even stand to read Act 1 of the LOB without retching at its rank amateurism. In other words, it’ll get better.
It’s June 17, 2000. I worked out yesterday and went rollerblading today. I spent most of tonight working on this piece. Tomorrow I’ll probably revise this and then get to work on the second political column. Maybe I’ll write a record review for that site as well. Or maybe I’ll just drive into the mountains for the first time since last October. Tomorrow the NBA finals are on, so maybe not. Work’s going to be hectic this week. I hear things are going well down in San Diego at the mix sessions. The record will be out soon. We’ll probably tour behind it sometime later this year. If I feel anywhere as good as I do now, I’m sure I’ll enjoy it immensely.
Maybe it’s just a coincidence that this is all happening just after my 29th birthday. Or maybe, as some say, there aren’t any.
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