Tag: music

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I Don’t Cook

Postaday for June 12th: Ingredients. What’s the one item in your kitchen you can’t possibly cook without? A spice, your grandma’s measuring cup, instant ramen — what’s your magic ingredient, and why?

My wife does all the cooking. She’s good at it, and she likes it. Sometimes she asks me to grill things. Sometimes she asks me to chop things. And/or put them in a pot. And sometimes stir. And sometimes add other ingredients. On occasion she’ll give me a recipe and ask me to prep it for her, or do the middle part, or finish it, or all three. Which I do, but, I don’t cook. She does all the cooking.

Usually I’m the one who goes to grocery store. My wife does all the meal planning, unless I do it— but it’s better when she does it, since she does all the cooking. She’ll send me to the store with a list, and on those occasions when I go without a list, or go without her asking me to go, I end up getting the kinds of things she needs to cook our meals.

That’s also how I handle it when she doesn’t have a meal planned, and I end up going to the store anyway, and bringing things home for her to cook. Or if I’m going to get a recipe started that she didn’t know about, since she winds up cooking it anyway. Or a recipe I follow all the way through. Still, she’s the cook.

The one item that gets me through all of this is Pandora. I put Pandora on the iPad or my mobile with a pair of headphones, or on the TV. I like to listen to mellow, minimalist music when I’m helping my wife when she does all the cooking. Today, for example, she’s going to be stuck in traffic, so I’m going to get everything ready for her.

At about five o’clock (we tend to eat early, go to bed early, get up early) I’ll put Pandora on the TV. A station based off a band called The Sound Defects (bands like Bonobo, Time Machine, Gramatik, Wax Tailor instrumentals, and so on). I’ll get some green peppers out so she can make stuffed peppers. I’ll cut the tops off and scoop out the insides.

I’ll brown some meat and chop some onions for her to add to the meat. If traffic is really bad (like it often is on a Friday) I’ll add the spices for her, shred some cheese. If she needs me to, I can put the meat combo into the pepper, and start the oven for her to bake them. Sometimes when she gets home she’s exhausted from the commute, so if need’s be, I can put the stuffed peppers into the oven. She might ask me to help her prepare them by checking to see if they’re nearly done. Then I can switch on the broiler, let them brown a bit, top them with the shredded cheese. I can do those things for her because she’s an amazing cook.

And since I don’t cook, it’s only fair that I do the dishes. She tells me this pretty much every time. But that’s okay because I’ve got that Pandora playing in the background.

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We’re Going to Need a Bigger Orchestra

Postaday for May 24th: Mix Tape. Put together a a musical playlist of songs that describe your life, including what you hope your future entails.

Well obviously all I need to do is pull up the Daredevil OSC and play that. Boom. Life described and planned, in strings and timpani.

Now I know what you’re thinking, your thinking, “But Bukkhead, Daredevil the motion picture starring Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner, or the recent Netflix original with Debra Ann Woll and Vincent DeNofrio?” Friends, I’m here to tell you: both. Both describe my life to a T. Both project how my life is going to go in the future. Allow me to elucidate.

What the two soundtracks have in common is that I’ve only heard bits and pieces of each, and only once, as I’ve seen the movie only once and seen the TV show only once. And let’s be clear: I’m not talking about rock n roll songs from the movie. I’m talking the deep moody stuff that plays in the background when it rains or there’s a fight that goes on too long. What’s that song by that band that was a big hit after the movie came out? Bring Me to Life by Evanescence? I like that song, like it alot, but it doesn’t capture my life at all. For example, when that song came out, I was getting over a terrible crush. The words go: “How can you see into my eyes like open doors?” and later “Now that I know what I’m without.” Sounds plaintive. What it needs to describe is the tons of pizza I ate that summer.

Which the strings and timpani stuff does! Just think about it: a city on the edge of dusk, horizon’s fire dying as the camera sweeps up a tenement, over the rooftops, and there perched on a ledge, as the horns swell and the strings skitter towards an angsty foreboding, a chubby guy on a computer shoving pizza in his face and playing video games. I get chills just thinking about it!

And let’s face it, what with the way my life is going now: fighting that bulge still, the one created by eating all that pizza years ago, a habit forged and hard to break. Just like the sounds backing a frenetic martial-arts fight, violins swooping, trumpets blasting, drums rat-a-tatting as I land punch after punch on the bad guys, the which are my urges to eat more pizza. Good god I’m hungry all of a sudden.

My apologies if this comes across as lazy. I know some people have worked hard and thought long about each song on their own lifetime playlist, combining their personal experiences with the songs themselves as well as the deep metaphors from the lyrics that evoke their best hopes and dreams. Mostly I listen to instrumentals, so I don’t have lyrics to work with. And when a soundtrack fits, it just fits!

Maybe, hmm… maybe I should change my blog from “Bukkhead” to “Daredevil in Cargo Shorts.”

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Zone In, Zone Up, Zone Out.

Postaday for May 23rd: The Zone. Tell us about your favorite way to get lost in a simple activity — running, chopping vegetables, folding laundry, whatever. What’s it like when you’re in “the zone”?

Music is the key to get me into something, kind of a way to drown out the background thoughts that keep me from getting busy. You know, all those urges and frustrations and over-analyzations. For example, I’m listening to Pandora right now, which makes it easier ti ignore that “over-analyzations” isn’t probably a real word.

Cleaning the house, writing, doing paperwork, doing the filing, running, all of it requires music, most of the time. And Pandora is my drug of choice. I’ve got a couple hundred different stations, most of which I don’t listen to, since it’s all about whimsy which is ephemeral. My latest have been stations based on The New Mastersounds (laid back studio-funk jazz) The Sound Defects (minimalist adult industrial hip hop) and Bitter:Sweet (electric lounge).

I made up those “genres” by the way.

Of course is doesn’t always work. Today’s been kind of rough, getting into things. A couple of tiring days, my allergies kicking in something fierce, and a general lack of motivation. But when it does work: oh man, the zone. Its hard to describe being in the zone, especially to someone who’s never been in it. And for those who have, they know what I mean.

Better to describe what it feels like afterward. You come out of the zone and you feel so accomplished. Like you got something done, something meaningful, impactful. You’ve been heads-down at a task for maybe hours, but you don’t feel tired at all, you almost feel rejuvenated.

Its all psychological, of course, and after a bit your body catches up and reminds you that you are, in fact, tired, pretty exhausted, actually. But if you’ve timed it such that what follows is sleep: what a satisfying sleep.

And music is the doorway tog et there. For me anyway.

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I Hate You. But Not Really.

Postaday for May 15th: Green-Eyed Monster. Write an anonymous letter to someone you’re jealous of.

Dear So and So (I forgot your name, sorry).

I’m a pretty good writer. But you’re a better guitar player. If I was rated a 5 on a scale of one to ten for writing, your guitar playing would be a 10. If I was rated a 7, your ability to play would be a 12. If I was somehow granted a 9 on that scale, your facility for just picking up anything with strings and making it holler would be a 19. And I hate you.

Okay I don’t really hate you. I met you at my cousin’s bachelor party. You were some guy he knew back in the day when he was a rock and roll star. Back then, you guys would play music and drink and do drugs and get laid and do pretty much everything I wasn’t doing while I got on with my life. Not cause I chose to, but because I couldn’t do anything else. I can’t hold my liquor and drugs terrify me and mine’s not the type of essence that makes the ladies eager. But hey I’m not complaining. Not about that.

I’m not jealous of all the fun you guys had. Not at all. I swear to God I’m not. I’ve got a good life over here. Listen to me, you little shit. I am not jealous of the things those magic fingers bought you. I’m jealous of the fingers and the fingers alone. This is the truth. In fact, if I had fingers like that, I’d have no time for sex and drugs. Just rock n roll.

Is that why I don’t remember your name? Why you were at the bachelor party, but not the wedding? And people don’t know where you are, if you have a job right now, a roof over your head, a warrant out for your arrest? Because all you do is play all the time? You pick up your guitar and just work the strings for a few hours and hum to yourself while the world spins and crashes and burns around you? Sign me up. That’s what I want.

I have music in my head all the time. And I have no way to express it. I think maybe it’s the opposite for you. I think maybe there’s nothing in your head. Or at least not much. Look, I know I’m no Mozart, but then neither are you. You’re a guy with fabulous muscle memory. You’re a guy for whom the logic and science of music has been hardwired into the very fibers that run from your brain to your fingertips. I guess I should take solace in that. If you’re no Mozart, I don’t have to be a Salieri.

We hung out for a few days and I listened to you play and you were amazing. I asked you about bands and songs and albums and you sort of shrugged it all off like it was no big deal. No big deal! You should be locked in a room, with nothing but bread and water and a pot to piss in and about a thousand digital tapes to record on. People who can do what you do don’t get to shrug it off.

Look, you were a really nice guy, actually, personable, good sense of humor, listened to my stupid jokes and responded with genuine laughter. All things considered, I think you deserved to do all that partying and womanizing back in the day. Somebody’s go to, and it might as well be a decent fellow like yourself.

But god damn it, I wish I’d never met you. That’s a lie too. I’m lucky I got to see you in action. I hate you. You’re amazing.

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NaPloBoMo Day 3: Your Feelings

#Run until your wool hat leaves marks on your head.

A photo posted by Jason Edwards (@bukkhead) on

I don’t know what my feelings are. I feel like maybe doing only Instagram photos for NaPloBoMo could is a good thing. I feel like I should discuss running more often. I feel like sometimes what we feel is a manifestation of the clothes we force ourselves to wear, the friction that inevitably ensues. The difference between want and need. Emotions, we’re learning, are associated with a mental body map. And everyone (EVERYONE) suffers from some degree of body dysmorphia.

I go for a run. I sweat. It gets in my eyes. Next time, I wear a hat to keep the sweat out of my eyes. I take it off and it’s left marks on my forehead. I look crazy. I look angry. Therefore, I must be. I’m crazy to think that running is going to anything to improve my body. I’m angry because I know this and run anyway.

Thankfully, I love to run. I love to blast loud music in my tinnitus-stained ears. I love it when my body is so immersed in synchronizing rhythm and carbohydrate oxidization that my brain checks out completely. The body map disappears and with it, feeling.

I want to run, I need to run. That’s synchronicity, the best feeling.

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The Trouble With Those Mothra Girls

It’s dark inside Chop Suey. The floor is sticky from spilled beer. I mean a hope it’s beer. A sour smell in the air, of marijuana sweat, the ozone coming off of poorly-wired amps, a few cheap candles back by the novelty photo booth. I’m waiting to see Daikaiju, a surf-guitar band out of Huntsville, Alabama. It’s a Monday night in Seattle.

There’s barely anyone here. One band played, something fuzzy and forgetful, to a crowd of about 30 people. They broke down their set while I grabbed another beer. I least I hope it’s beer. The next band managed to hang on to half the people in attendance. And now, guys in dirty white t—shirts and ten thousand miles of road weariness on their shoulders are setting up a drum kit. There are so few people left inside, they’re not even bothering with the stage. They’re setting up right on the floor.

A drum kit, surrounded by speakers, surrounded by guitar stands, and a black web of licorice wires, spaghettied on the floor, draped over soundboards. It’s a mess. A complete mess. But no microphones.

What if, right now, there’s an asteroid hurtling towards Earth. And it’s the perfect size to do nothing more than punch through the roof of Chop Suey and kill those four guys who are at this moment putting on kabuki masks. Would I be grateful? That I’d seen them perform before, that I’d always have those memories?

Or would I envy you, reading this now, who have probably never seen them perform, and don’t know what would be missed. Because as much as I can describe for you this place, this set-up, these four guys, I can never convey to you the amazing. I’m reduced to resorting to vague words like “amazing.”

If an asteroid were to punch through the roof right now, that itself would be sort of incredible. A story to tell people. An extremely unique experience. I bet they’d interview me, the papers or the TV or some magazine. And that’s too bad—because I can describe that for you just fine. The sound like a freight train, the heat, the vibration, getting knocked on my ass. Confusion and chaos and running to the back… and then?

And then trying to tell you that Daikaiju will never perform again? You’d think me shallow, to focus on THAT and not the fact that an asteroid nearly killed me.

daikaiju2013But if you’d ever seen them perform, you’d understand. Because here they come, running up to their instruments, throwing their guitars onto their bodies. Daikaju IS the asteroid. They’re going to destroy everything else for the next hour as they run around the floor, wrapping us up in their spaghetti licorice, knocking us over with so much reverb, we’re never ever going to be able to describe it.

People are flooding into Chop Suey now. We’ve gone from 30 people to 15 to 5 to about a hundred. And yes, that’s beer spilling everywhere.  For this writing assignment I was supposed to tell you how I’d feel if something I loved was suddenly gone. But I just can’t do it. Tell water what it feels like not to be wet.

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The Week in Music

Postaday for January 31st: Playlist of the Week. Tell us how your week went by putting together a playlist of  five songs that represent it.

I get up in the morning and get on the internet, check the weather forecast and yesterday’s news. Use the bathroom, wake my wife up, have some coffee, send my wife out the door, and get on conference calls. Write a bunch of back-dated blog posts, gobble something for lunch, more con calls, greet the wife when she comes home. TV, dinner, TV, bed-time. Every day, all week long. Unless John Cage has been composing concertos for creaky office chair and Keurig machine, there is no playlist to describe such a week.

So let’s make a playlist for the way I’d like to the week to go:

  • Meximelt (live version) by Southern Culture on the Skids
  • Make Total Destroy by Periphery, covered by Zombie Frogs
  • Triad by Tool
  • Smash by Avishai Cohen
  • Lionheart by Emancipator.

Monday starts off with a surf-guitar offering. A rolling riff and tight drumwork get the week going with a lot of energy, setting up high productivity and not a little creativity to keep that mile-long to-do list under control.

Tuesday rolls right into a drum-and-piano instrumental cover of a heavy metal screamer. Virtuosity not only substitutes for rage and anger, but overcomes it, rendering even the most mind-numbing conference call worth the time and endurable .

Wednesday picks up where Tuesday left off, taking that virtuosity and rage and weaving it into a complex, multi-layered and nuanced negotiation of the otherwise disparate forces that threaten to thwart getting the job done. Guitar and drum cooperate, fight, cooperate.

Thursday seeks to simplify the complexities that had built up over the previous days, eschewing noise for a return to a rhythm-driven reminder that the job’s just a job. A bouncing piano floats on a tide of driving bass played on multiple bass-instruments, with a sharp drum set to stitch it all together.

Friday eases way back, takes the remaining energy and closes out the week with a quiet piano above drums that roll without rocking, drive without hurtling. Quiet interludes in vox and synthesized acoustic guitar foreshadow a peaceful weekend, while lingering strings  suggest the promise of the restful sleep to come, reward for a week’s work well done and necessary rejuvenations for the week ahead.

Saturday and Sunday are just a lot of Weird Al Yankovic.

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If I Had Mastery Over A Musical Instrument, I Probably Wouldn’t Write.

Postaday for January 8th: I Got Skills. If you could choose to be a master (or mistress) of any skill in the world, which skill would you pick?

Something musical. Guitar, drums, or piano. You should see me when I’m out on the road, going for a run, and something really good comes on the iPod. My fingers twitch, and I’ve been known to air-drum my way past amused on-lookers. Honestly, I secretly hope that one or more of them will, based solely on how my hands are moving, figure out what song I’m listening to.

Which is a silly dream but what are you going to do.

I would love to be able to shred like John Petrucci or Rodrigo of Rodrigo y Gabriella (or Gabriella, she’s awesome too) or Anouk or the lead guitarist for Daikaiju. Or any of a hundred other guitar maniacs that get me through my 5ks and 10ks. The way their fingers fly. Such mastery, such precision. I’d sit at home all day and just noodle. I have songs in my head, can make them up on the spot, no problem at all. I just can’t turn thoughts into notes

Not the way I can turn thoughts into words. And as I’ve mentioned before and will surely mention again, I love how, with writing, sometimes I don’t even know what’s going to be written until I’m in the middle of it. Imagine being able to do that with a wicked guitar solo!

Or piano. I’m a sucker for the Bach Partitas for solo harpsichord. There’s one in particular that I’ve heard a few different folks play, and this is going to sound super-arrogant, but none of them are playing it right. I don’t have a music degree, I’m no Bach-scholar, but what I wouldn’t give to be able to sit down and play that piece that I way I feel it should be be played.

Went to a Vanessa Carlton performance, once. In between songs she’d talk to the audience, and as she talked, her hands would just dance around the keyboard, making little things up without her putting too much thought or effort into. Effortless, that’s the key. I have a neighbor who can do that, just sit at the piano and make things happen without any planning or memorization.

But then there’s the drums. Oh man, the amount of energy that goes into pounding those skins. I’d love to sit down and just go nuts, sweat flying everywhere until my arms are on fire. I love it in a song when the drummer’s not just keeping the beat but workings his ass off.

I’ve often told people that I don’t think Danny Carey, the drummer for Tool, is a human being. He can’t be. Not the way he plays. If you kidnapped me 30 years ago and forced me to take lessons and practice drumming and threatened me Whiplash style, I still wouldn’t be able to play half as well as he does.

Oh, but if I could. Maybe it’s for the best though. If I had mastery over a musical instrument, I probably wouldn’t write.

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