In The Melody

I spent a good portion of Friday night working up an audio sketch for my latest composition, laying down vocals, adding guitar tracks, and even selecting some tasteful EQ and reverb to give it a hint of polish. I listened once, and again, and a third time, adding touches of nuance with each pass. With a stiff neck and tired eyes, I saved my work and climbed out of the basement.

My wife has the privilege (or duty as she might view it) of hearing my creative prelims before they are released in any form. Aware of my addiction to affirmation, she will often extend words of encouragement that stem from the blind love of a spouse but still mean the world to me.

As is her custom at the end of a listen, she removed the headphones as the scratch track concluded, cocking her head one degree to the side in the name of contemplation.

"Here comes the sugar," I mused silently as I smacked the lips of my soul.

"I don't know. It's fine, it just isn't outstanding. I mean, the song is nice, but I can't really remember anything specific about it."

Ouch. Not what I anticipated. However, as I listened from the vantage point of her comment, I quickly realized that she was dead on. My song lacked character and dynamics, but it was largely devoid of a memorable melody.

A melodic line is the essence of a song. The average person singing along to a piece of music on the radio will not connect with a bass line, guitar riff, or a unique texture element. People gravitate toward a good melody because it is something accessible, a point of entry into an art form that can be esoteric and intangible.

Today, I scrapped nearly all of the original audio sketch, commencing work instead on a new treatment to the same set of lyrics. Though yesterday's efforts initially felt like wasted time, the process presented a good reminder for today and the rest of the Redline Project. I am grateful for this opportunity to consider anew the importance of melody.

Thank you Margaret for the remarkable insight you shared. Your gentle honesty opened my ears.

International Village

Those reading along already know of my work with the Communicycle Co-op in Chamblee, a diverse locale of Atlanta that is at once wonderfully unique and riddled with a complex web of issues. Chamblee is Atlanta's version of a Chinatown or a Little Italy, though its dwellers represent nearly every major culture from around the globe.

The city labeled this eclectic pocket the 'International Village,' hoping to leverage its strengths as a marketing point for tourists. Some think this is positive as it drives an influx of dollars into the local economy, and others consider it exploitive and ignorant of the delicate problems plaguing its neighborhoods. Wherever people land on this issue, it is difficult to argue the merits of the name itself. Chamblee's population heralds every corner all six populated continents.

I mention this in the Redline Project blog because it has inspired a thought for a piece of music. Syncretized sound, two indigenous musics coming together to form its own sub-genre, is in no way a new concept. I wonder what sonic possibilities emerge if indigenous tones from all over the globe came together in a single composition. Music formed this way would greet the ear as the fragrance from the Buford Highway Farmers Market's spice aisle greets the nose. Decadent, tantalizing, spicy, a bit over the top.

Definitely worth an exploration.

This brings up a host of technical issues. I am sure my attempts at playing such instruments would be an insult to those who actually know how. A better course of action would be to acquire source music, sample and rework it, and bring my own elements into the mix.

"Aha," you rightfully squeal, "Isn't that a case of copyright infringement?" I have learned in the last day that the issue of sampling someone's music, even as little as two notes in one documented case, is a point of contention that polarizes musicians and the lawyers that defend them.

Perhaps the earliest example of this: Some jerk ripped off the "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" melody and created a rival children's hit known as the alphabet song. A third punkazoid wanted his piece of the glory and penned the ever-popular, "Bah Bah Black Sheep." Okay, there is no legal case involving these three songs, nor does this paragraph have anything to do with actual history. Forgive the feeble effort to interject some humor into what I fear is a mundane topic, to which I shall now return.

One case that every child of the 1980s and 90s knows about is the instance of Vanilla Ice using primary instrumental material from Queen's recording of "Under Pressure" to create the undulating theme of his hit single, "Ice, Ice, Baby." If Wikipedia is correct, this iconic recording went without reference to Freddie Mercury and his crew until years later when pressure from the media forced a resolution.

Though the debate rages ad nauseam in countless pockets of the web, it is clear enough to me that avoiding this boiling water is the way to go for the Redline Project. If I am to accomplish a work like this, I will need royalty-free samples or written permission for their use if I am going to give this a swing. The former sounds expensive and the latter seems like a time eater, but it remains that the idea has promise and intrigue.

Stay tuned.

From the Ashes

Six semi-baked pieces of music sit in my sketchbook, my hard disk, or my brain that might wiggle their way onto the final recording of the Redline Project. The latest song now has a complete, if unrevised, set of lyrics.

________________________

Fall Down
Race around black top
Kids swinging, skipping rope
Soft spoken lady teach us the things to know
Green is the color of wintertime sky
Blue the shade of leaves

Chorus:
Minutes confirm what months deny
as years coax a different truth from passers by
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
We all fall down

Ten lines a theorem, its proof to find
When is a question the bottom line?
Truth bends as tall grass beneath the breeze
Swaying peacefully

Tender betrayal, a simple kiss
Lies spill like honey from open lips
Cracks in a bottle leak truths untold
She already knows

________________________

An acquaintance recently revealed an extramarital affair with which they had been involved for over a year. It is not news that harsh realities like this plague many families, but it is a different reality altogether to watch a couple sift through the wreckage firsthand.

This song deals with the unfathomable pain that comes from lying to ourselves and deceiving those around us. As kids, we are taught easy lessons like the sum of two and two, and the order of letters in the alphabet. Parents, teachers, and other role models also impart a simple morality. Be good, eat dessert. Talk out of turn, go sit in the corner.

The more time fills the void between my childhood existence and our present life, the more convoluted each situation becomes. I often catch myself missing the simpler days when work was play and when questions had one answer.

Though the readers of this blog will not listen to this song until the Redline Project album is released, you can hear a taste of the rhythmic foundation for it by clicking here.

Direct Box

Slim report today. The Redline Project needed to be momentarily shelved as I attended to pressing situations facing a few friends. In my travels, I swung by Ye Olde Guitar Centre to acquire a passive direct box. You may remember from a few posts ago that a direct box has a good shot at eliminating unwanted hum and noise from a guitar signal, a fix that my piecemeal recording rig desperately needs.

I plugged the little black box, 1/4" in and XLR out, up to the system. Strapped to a borrowed Guild hollow body electric, I played a few notes into Logic Express, then a few more followed by several others, until a half hour slipped through my fingers. This unassuming invention melted away nearly every trace of annoying sound. This newly found clean tone is good motivational juice for what promises to be a productive weekend of songwriting and recording.

Knockabout

Tonight, in the bowels of Studio Redline, I had a basement knockabout with a handful of percussion instruments from the closet. Though the scratch recording below is largely unvarnished, I am just starting to know how to control my equipment to get better native sound. So far, I have smoothed out the rough edges with effects and plug-ins; tonight for the first time, I present more of the raw data. Though there are miles to go, the sound quality is starting to head in the right direction - a development that inspired an unfettered happy-dance.

Instead of filling a post with words, I will allow the music to do tonight's talking. If you have been following along, you will probably recognize the melody motive from an earlier post entitled, 'Pitch Correction.' What you will hear has been rekeyed, given a new meter and tempo shift, and supplied with rhythmic accompaniment. Ha - my first remix.

The Well

I returned home five minutes ago from the Communicycle Co-op. Tonight I learned what one youth is experiencing at home. Mom and Dad spew searing words at each other as the children pretend not to hear the shouts from their bedroom. The two separate and try to make it work, separate again and patch it up. They have decided to divorce, which will be the second time this youth has experienced this sort of brokenness in his short life.

Pithy paragraphs about my adventurous romp through a makeshift recording project would insult the weight of this kid's circumstances. I have nothing to offer except the sadness lurking in the deepest places. Below are a few lyrics that attempt to address this trying situation.


The Well

Tattered soul, a twelve year old
Pulled apart at the seams
Shattered windowpanes on the floor
Clasping on to vanished dreams

Wrap the hurt in cigarettes
Drown the tears in shouts of rage
Pound your fists into the wall
Lock the pain into a cage

Chorus:
Bite your lip; tough as stone
Severed heart; frozen cold
Plaster smile; no one knows
The well ran dry
The well ran dry

Concept to Lyrics

A song is stewing in the slow cooker. I have a concept, a melody, and a chorus worth of lyrics typed up in Microsoft Word. I even scratched a few rough tracks into Logic Express, mostly so I would remember the flow of the music in my head.

Stemming from an idea dumped into yesterday's post, this song will reflect on the complexity of truth: how it is sought and learned, and how the realities that come with passing time shift our vantage points.

During college, I reached pride's peak, certain of how the world works and just as convinced of my ability to solve its most vexing dilemmas. Each of the eight years that followed my graduation has brought deeper awareness of exactly how little I know and understand.

A jubilant simplicity marked my childhood, a time when my world enjoyed the boundary of the front gate. Occasions for venturing past the property's edge would lead to blissful licks of ice cream or romps around the community center play structure. An abused but fitting summary: it was blissful ignorance.

Each spin around the sun would bring awareness of heavy topics like stranger danger and the evils of kidnapping, domestic violence, substance abuse, teen pregnancy, political divides, terrorism, and domestic violence. These perils never entered my sheltered world, but I can still recall specifics of how and by whom each topic was introduced to me.

We collect perspectives on the world as we go, every small event shaping us more than we like to admit. I am about to enter my thirties, and I have never been more confused about the way the world works - what is up and what is down. I observe the right side pointing crooked fingers at the left, who return the accusations with furious waves of their canes. Everyone is so convinced of their rightness, and no one is willing to open their ears to the other side of a matter.

Example: nearly everyone believes that the earth either definitely is or definitely is not heating up at an alarming rate, and both sides have their own set of bona fide scientists who back up their passionate stances with supposedly sound data. Those of like mind huddle up and furrow their brows in disbelief at the stupidity of their opponents.

I am left without a clue of what to think, except to long for a simpler way of living. The arguments are boiling pots with the tops left on, and all I want to do is run away from the scalding overflow.

That is the song. The struggle this time, as in all my other attempts, is to pen phrases that are worthy of this heavy topic. Up to this moment, most of my verses are sonic cheese; I have deleted more than I have kept.

I have posted the chorus below. These are the only lyrics that survive my otherwise fruitless writing session. There is a song worth singing here, I just don't know how it goes.

Minutes confirm what months deny
As years coax a different truth from passers by
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
We all fall down

Idea Dump

The post you are reading is the 50th to appear on the Redline Project. By the time 315 more are composed, I will know if this initiative was a massive success or an abject failure. Fingers are crossed for the former.

With general artistic direction in place for the final recording, I have spent the awake portions of the past 24 hours thinking of song concepts, phrases, and hooks that may tell stories of justice and tales of peace. Instead of storing the ideas on cerebellum shelves, I am posting a handful for all to view.

A concept is not automatically on the album simply because it is here, and there is great likelihood that many new inspirations are yet to emerge. Brainstorming is both important and fun, and I invite you into the process. Concepts for songs are foundational ideas upon which lyrics can be built, phrases are loose language that may fit with an eventual song concept, and hooks are particularly catchy ideas that makes songs memorable. The phrases and hooks typed below resulted from a mere exercise in creativity and are not all destined to become cornerstones of songs.


Song Concepts

1) There is a man living in the woods behind the church I attend, and the frigid temperatures have added further complexity to his already trying situation. This story haunts me, and song seems like an appropriate venue for the emotions attached to it.

2) I know several preteen youth that continue to move closer towards criminal activity and acceptance into gangs despite their mentors' greatest efforts to teach the consequences of these harsh, unforgiving choices. I would like to write a song that deals with this palpable inevitability.

3) A raging pandemic of child slavery, trafficking, and prostitution haunts every corner of the globe. My home town of Atlanta, with one of the world's busiest airports, is a hub for these unthinkable atrocities. Perhaps there is a song that may sensitively deal with the agony and unfairness of the topic.

4) I have an endless list of questions for which there are not answers, or at least not tidy ones. A song of questions may be a venue for associated fears and uncertainties to be expressed.

5) A song about adoption, identity, and belonging would be a fitting outpouring of life as my wife and I prepare for our first child to come home from South Korea.

6) Time slipping away is a fascinating topic to me, and I am interested in writing a song about the process of aging and how years passing offers changed perspectives.

7) A story of kings and queens, or other royalty, would make an intriguing song, especially if the verses slowly reveal the listener to be the person of fame.

8) I am intrigued by the plants that manage to grow in the cracks of sidewalks. This displays great persistence, innovation, and the ability to thrive in adverse conditions. Perhaps worth a lyrical exploration.

9) What about lyrics that use images from nature? In less than poetic terms, a 'we all live under the same stars, the same sun setting on the chalets and shacks' sort of song.

10) I wonder about city pigeons sometimes. Where do they dwell? How do they find dependable food sources? Why is everything about their appearance gray and matted except for their red feet? Why do they only seem to live in cities? This concept could offer an urban slant to the 'consider the birds of the air...' reference.


Phrases or Hooks

1) Ashes to ashes, dust to dust [...] we all fall down

2) Nickel, nine to five, and dime

3) Jack shivers

4) Wisp of a leaf in the crack of the concrete

5) Minutes confirm what months may doubt as years coax a different truth out

6) Caged angel

7) Find a place in a place away

8) Asphalt nest in the telephone box

9) Clouds raining shadows on both sides of the tracks

10) Twenty dollar bill burns a hole in my pocket

If you are a songwriter and you take these ideas from me, you will always have to live with the nagging guilt that your work is unoriginal, which should be punishment enough. Please accept my open invitation to critique the ideas here or add your own to the mix. If your idea is utilized, you will appear in the credits.

Beyond Pretty Flowers

When the Redline Project blog launched two months ago, I had little idea that the goal of creating an album of music in the course of a year would lead me down an intense introspective path. I should have known, because music worthy of our ears is often an outpouring of its creator's soul as much as it is a technical or aesthetic feat.

Scouring the depths for pivotal information about who I am, what I believe, and my life values produced clear findings, and I am excited to share the conclusion tonight.

(This is the final time I will mention that a recap of this process is available in a post entitled 'Conceptualizing.'

Question number seven:
In a world full of endless noise and chatter, what do I have to say that may add something of worth to the dialogue?

This final question essentially begs a synthesis of all other explanations. I am pleased to offer one, but wish first to explain the why this is important.

Pretty flowers have been painted for centuries, and they will continue to fill canvases ad infinitum. This is a good thing; flowers are a marvel of nature that deserve our time and attention. Paul Cezanne, one of my favorite artists, possessed a love the subject, and produced an abundance of floral still-lifes during his fruitful career.

A fine professor of music at Georgia State University once declared, "It is no longer enough to produce pretty music. The artworks that become relevant and rise to peoples' notice are ones that enter into a dialogue, offering something to say of importance."

I think he is correct. The music of the Redline Project should be much more than the aural version of handsome blooms. The end product should have something to say.

There is plenty of meaningless drivel that wiggles its way into the affections of the masses (I will not offer specific examples as one person's trash is most likely another's treasure, and I do not intend to spark a heated debate), but if this project is going to be worth my time to produce, and deserve space on your iPods and other such devices, its contents must tell an important story, hold weight, speak messages of significance.

That is the crux of tonight's question, and indeed the essence of this two weak self-search. What do I have to communicate that is worth a listen?

Clear themes have emerged as I typed paragraph upon paragraph. For one, I believe in the importance of justice and feel that time aiding and uplifting the oppressed is time well spent. If everyone cared for their neighbor as they care for themselves, the world would be a blessed place. This is perhaps the most prevalent theme of these weeks' writings.

Secondly, I think that wealth, fame, status, security, and power all pale in comparison to love and the importance of relationships. I would rather have a life filled with friendship than any of the aforementioned acquisitions.

Thirdly, I believe that life presents everyone with extraordinarily complex questions. Some queries include 'Why does evil exist?', 'Why am I so rich when so many in the world starve, often to death?', 'How did we get here?', 'Does my life have any meaning or purpose?', and on the list goes... Though answers are not always easy (or even possible) to come by, these questions are worthy of exploration. I also believe that the arts offer a perfect venue for coping with the confounding aspects of life.

Finally, I am defined by my faith. True faith is much more than a system of belief; it is a call to action. Faith asks for much more than isolated events of charity, inspiring the whole of life be given in love and service to others. Not about personal gain, my should be filled with deep care for those around me - especially the poor and disenfranchised. Though my wife and I are on the front end of unearthing the implications of this, we are committed to finding answers that will hopefully lead to significant life change.

The same professor mentioned above also stated, "All writing is autobiographical." Wise man. I think that anything creative, be it visual art, drama, poetry, pottery, film, prose, dance, or music, is marked by the thumbprint of its creator. The Redline Project recording may technically fall out the exhaust pipe of my audio gear, but above all the music will portray my struggles and victories, emotions and experiences.

I have made an important decision. The music of the Redline Project will be a collection of songs that tell stories of injustice, offer snapshots of hope, paint pictures of pain, and portray a desire for peace. Some tracks will have vocals, while others will be instrumental. Nothing about the album will be a direct moral statement or call to action. It will instead tell thought-provoking tales that will most likely speak different messages to each listener. The music presented on the recording will be a volume of questions without clear answers that ask the listener to open eyes and arms wide to a world that aches deeply for love.

Another significant finding: While the Redline Project is still largely a solitary effort, I am inclined to include guest musicians, recordists, or other technicians as appropriate. If I value relationships as much as I say, it is appropriate for able and willing friends to help me accomplish the goals of my project. I am unsure the degree to which others will assist me, but contrary to my views at the start of the project, I am now open to this approach.

Sincere thanks to everyone who has stuck with this blog as I made my way through these lengthy discourse of self-awareness. I am the richer for it, and I hope the bearing of my soul has inspired you in to do the same in your own unique way. Tomorrow I excitedly return to the music armed with clear purpose and direction.

Marinating

It has been nearly two weeks since I set out to answer a list of important autobiographical questions that hopefully will yield essential artistic direction to the Redline Project. Six responses to as many questions are posted in the blog archive, and much light is shed as I look back at the explorative paragraphs.

The keyboard greeted me a few minutes ago as I readied myself to answer the seventh and final question: In a world full of endless noise and chatter, what do I have to say that may add something of worth to the dialogue? More than a new foray into my soul, this final introspection aims to synthesize the bits of information scattered about several posts. As such, it is a daunting task, and tempting procrastination began rapping at the door.

I clicked onto CNN first for a look at the news stories, then I headed over to eBay to check on prices of used preamp direct boxes, and finally meandered onto the SORBA forum (a black hole for mountain bikers filled with discussions of anything and everything even remotely related to the topic) before I gripped the reality that I am simply not prepared to type up a sound summary on the blog tonight.

Like a good hunk of cow flesh, I am going to let this soak in the juices for a day longer before I cook it up and serve it.

Allow me instead to offer some new morsels of knowledge that should propel me forward through some of the technical challenges of the Redline Project:

For weeks I have bellyached about unwanted fuzz and other aural annoyances whenever I plug a guitar (acoustic or electric) into my interface. I learned tonight that the problem may be a guitar signal that is too feeble on its own. As I crank the gain past reasonable settings to coax enough volume, what should be minimal noisiness amplifies along with the sound waves from the guitar. A fog of buzzes and hums results; not exactly yielding a respectable result. The fix: an active direct box that sits between the guitar and the mixer. A quick search of eBay (mentioned above) lists adequate products for around $30 plus shipping. If my friends with big hearts and big attics have any of these laying around, please drop me a line.

Though I remain undecided, I am leaning towards a 'yes' on the big purchase of Melodyne, an advanced vocal editor that lets recordists fix even severe issues with vocal tracks, yielding astonishingly natural results. A price tag of $300 is stuck to the box, which means I would have to sell another bike to bring home this wonder of programming. The jury is still sipping coffee in the break room, mulling over the evidence. To be continued...

A friend brainstorming with me about reducing noise in my setup's circuitry reported his luck with cheap adaptors that remove the ground wire from three-pronged plugs. Any ground loops present in the wiring are obliterated, which often chokes the life out of unwanted fuzz. Users of such a remedy may quickly learn the downside if they operate ungrounded gear during an electrical storm. If the house is struck by lightning, it could spell 'lights out' for the equipment (and for its user).

Target sold me two of these adaptors for $1.19 - marvelous to possibly clear major hurdles at Studio Redline with the same amount of cash that can buy a soda. I vow to cease use of these adaptors immediately at the first sign of thunderheads. (Why do I feel like I am seven years old again, paying a visit to the county pool?) I will report on my successes, or lack thereof, in a matter of days.

Depression and Elation

I am spending time this evening answering a sixth question of seven aiming to paint an accurate autobiographical picture of my beliefs, values, goals, and desires. The seventh question on the list is one that summarizes all others, so in a sense, tonight's answer is the end of what turned out to be a lengthy sidewalk. If landing here for the first time, a read of the post entitled Conceptualizing offers the specifics of this exploration.

Question number six:
What inspires me to experience the greatest sense of joy and the deepest feelings of sadness?

I will commence with a discussion of sadness and conclude with remarks about joy. Nice to finish on a bright note.

As I mention in previous posts, I co-lead the Communicycle Co-op in Chamblee, Georgia. This small, big-hearted program works with youth and adults in the community, offering viable transportation solutions and teaching the skills of bicycle maintenance and repair. Each week, I learn something new about our program participants, and the revelations often leave me stunned.

I hear stories of abusive home situations, and lack of heat in the wintertime, and bare cupboards. I know of women and men without homes, teens finding acceptance in gangs, youth of thirteen or fourteen bringing children of their own into the world. I see the splintering pain of shattered families, of latchkey kids sleeping restlessly waiting for mother to return home from the third shift, of violent break-ins in the darkest part of night.

The world is overflowing with greed. Those with power all too often use their sway for personal gain, while those without authority become passive recipients of the short end of the stick. I experience the deepest feelings of sadness when I hear these accounts of injustice and see the pain that results.

In contrast, I live a charmed existence, and innumerable privileges sweeten my daily routine. I take little for granted; the richness of daily life does indeed inspire thankfulness and even joy. Several days out of each week, with today being no exception, I roll out of bed into the basement office still wearing jammies. Joy. I have a closetful of mountain bikes that eat singletrack trail for breakfast. Double joy. Every year, my wife and I manage to sneak out for a few three-day holidays, driving around the southeast, camping, hiking, biking, rafting, and experiencing any other form of fun that passes in front of our noses. Joy, joy, joy, joy, joy.

So what is it that inspires the deepest, most complete sense of joy in my life? None other than love itself. To be cherished by a woman, thought heroic in her blinded eyes, listened to, championed, supported; that is a joy deeply profound and blissfully complete. To be cared for by friends old and new: pure gold. To have family members offer arms of love in the confounding moments: brilliant.

I am surrounded by people that offer their listening ears, their kind efforts, their unconditional friendship. Nothing in all of life inspires in me a deeper sense of peace or satisfaction.

Indelible

It is a big week for the Redline Project. Large-scale philosophical ideas are coming into view as the autobiographical explorations continue, while technical discoveries of advanced editing tools bring momentum and shape to specific challenges of the project.

Pressing ahead in the goal of answering seven important questions (see the post entitled Conceptualizing), I am tackling one tonight upon which all of life should hinge.

Question number five:
What do I think has lasting worth or value

Perhaps an easier entry point would be the opposite question: What has no lasting worth or value? Starting there, I can think of a few points worth discussing.

Money, and most possessions for that matter, have no lasting value. When we finally connect with the ground under our tombstones, our collected wealth and belongings will mean absolutely nothing. Even before the day of our ultimate demise, those shiny trinkets for which we pine so strongly have a way of losing their luster as moths pick at finer details and rust nibbles on fit and finish. Regardless of how much or little I concern myself with the contents of a savings account, I have not spent a moment of my life desperately hungry or thirsty. Regardless of my income tax bracket, I am in actuality extremely wealthy with scores of decadent comforts fleecing my privileged existence.

It is surprising how much attention most pay to the earning of wealth when so much of the concept is entirely intangible. My wife and I do not have investments beyond a few scattered dimes, so the economic downturn has not deeply invaded our sense of security. The falling stock market did however spin many people I know into somewhat of a depression. As relatives and friends watched their portfolio vanish, there was terrific groaning and lament - interesting to me because not one of these people have needed to alter their lifestyles in drastic ways. Those with fine tastes still shop at the gourmet grocer, and those with hobbies still acquire supplies and devote hours to their craft. No one has moved to a smaller house, gone without heat, or even reduced the amount of vacation they take. There was no actual loss, only a perception of something slipping away.

Money is often no more than a few numbers that appear in the back of a book of checks, or hidden behind a login screen at a bank's website. People who obtained a set of numbers maybe now find one less hiding under the bottom line of their account. While worked up over the loss of a numeral (and a comma in some cases), the development actually yields little or no change in everyday life.

Three years ago I purchased a gleaming silver machine laden with digital bells and techno-whistles, a Macintosh G5 with dual 2.0 processors and 4 gigabytes of memory. I recall bringing home the 40 pound box of computing bliss, howling shouts of glee as it effortlessly performed challenging actions with lightening speed. Graphic design nirvana.

Now three years later, the specifications are acceptable but raise no eyebrows. I have been holding a budget in one hand and a calendar in the other, calculating when the next marvel of technology will perch atop my desk sending shivers down my materialistic spine afresh.

New becomes old, varnish wears thin, clean gives way to dusty, and on it goes. Most of everything we plot to acquire slips away and leaves us wanting more... often much more.

What is worth our time then? Where should we fix our gaze?

Relationships - that is all we really have. When someone expires, the only people who care how much money they acquired in their lifetime are the benefactors of their estate. Everyone else cares about the effect this person had on the lives of others.

In a conflict between the pursuit of a career and the quality of a relationship with a spouse or family members, the relationships must win. No question. Living life well means caring deeply for those around us and learning to accept their care in return. If everyone took this idea seriously, we would not need government assistance programs, or economic bailouts, or even locks on our doors. Idealistic? Definitely, but still a concept worth exploring and implementing as much as possible.

Life's most precious moments are often marked by wonder or magnificence. Maybe it is the grandeur of a mountaintop sunset that invigorates the soul, or perhaps it is a caring word aptly spoken in a time of sorrow. These snapshots, and many others like them, are nothing short of the art of life. It is these instances of beauty that bring refreshment to our inner beings and keep us yearning for more.

Art in all of its forms searches vigorously for the stunning anomalies of life, aiming to capture them on its canvas of choice. The project blog you are reading is at its core a quest to pepper life's routines with specks of emotion and beauty. These snapshots of vitality have value beyond the brevity of their existences, and I believe deeply that creative expressions in many forms are worth our time and effort.

Beyond anything we can do, say, touch, taste, hear, or otherwise experience, there is love. From the romantic to the compassionate, loving friendships are life-giving beyond anything I know. I never wish to be a lone musician lurking in a dark corner, honing my craft in isolation. It is the support of friends like Margaret, Danny, Peter, Heather, Tim, Sunita, David, Eric, Jacob, Joshua, Ian, Ruthie, Grace, Charles, Rob, Kim, Joann, Kyung, Alex, Orlin, Sandy, Elliot, Karen, Jackie, and Libby that inspire me to keep plodding on, both here and in my other endeavors.

Shouting love out loud to all of you.

Molton Blobs of Glorious Bliss

No later than 48 hours after discovering the Logic's supposedly blessed Pitch Correction plug-in, I had to acknowledge a dissatisfaction with its shortcomings. Another 24 past before I tripped over another fine discovery, this time on YouTube.

Like a sip of merlot after a month of grape juice, Celemony's Melodyne plug-in is a dynamic analog workstation that makes patty-cake out of even the most daunting of vocal editing tasks. How do I know? They offer a free test drive of the product, available for download from their website.

Though users of this demo are unable to save their edits, it allows a taste of all functions, including the amazing pitch shifter. This technology analyzes any inputted track, slices it up, and places a visual representation of the audio onto a piano-based grid. The resulting red and yellow daubs of sound, nicknamed 'blobs' by Celemony, may be individually slid onto the right pitch, or any other pitch for that matter, yielding on-key audio with virtually unprocessed sound.

So the company claims anyway; I had to see the magic for myself. I loaded the 75 megabytes onto my hard drive and popped in the chorus from a recent recording - one that I know has blatant pitch issues. About thirty mouse clicks later, my jaw hit the desk. There were vocals coming through the headphones that sounded a lot like my voice, only each note it sang was strong and perfectly perched on the notes of the song's key. Marvelous.

The demo of Melodyne presents a strong case for its hefty purchase price of $299. I wish today's test run would save so the readers of this blog could experience the miracle of Melodyne for themselves. For now, you can either take my word for it, or you can visit YouTube and type in Melodyne for a sample.

I only spent $80 for a used copy of Logic Express (yes, it is original software with serial numbers and install discs), so nearly $300 for a vocal editor workstation sends a few shivers down my cheap spine. As meaningful lyrics begin to emerge from the thin end of my pencil, I shudder increasingly at the thought of ravaging these songs with the destructive weapon of my sad little voice. A big purchase like Melodyne sure is tempting; I will have to think it over.

What you will hear below developed out of my excitement over the Melodyne plug-in, though it is completely raw, unedited vocals, as I am sure will be obvious as you listen through. The music is a simple, catchy groove and an extensive amount of nonsense vocalizing. The scratch recording also shows my first attempt at laying down any sort of live percussion: a Remo version of a djembe drum makes a cameo on this frigid February evening.

And In This Corner...

Unexpected enemies have emerged as the plot of the Redline Project thickens. The warriors are brothers, but each passing day has brought bickering between the two that is starting to rage into all-out battle.

Contender Number One: The Blog
What started as a diary meant to serve as a timeline of sorts is turning into an inspiring venue for connecting with old friends and meeting new artists on similar quests. Each day I look forward to the clickety-clack of my thin Macintosh keyboard, communicating thoughts from my brain to a digital abyss techno-geeks blandly dub a 'server.' Even if a post goes without readership, there is something therapeutic, even cathartic, about putting raw thought out there.

My inbox has a presence of letters with a subject line that reads [Redline Project]... This signals me that someone has attached a comment to one of the posts. With a simple ding of the email alert, my day is made. Around 3:00 this afternoon, an exciting one came - perhaps the most promising to wind its way through the wires. A communications assistant from my undergraduate alma mater found my humble online corner and contacted me to see if Gordon College could publish the story on their blog. Precisely the type of connection I am hoping to make, this unexpected message had me running animated circles around the house.

Contender Number Two: The Music
As little as a month ago, I could not pen as much as a limerick. This week, three new ideas for songs fill pages of my sketch book, and I must say they have some promise. Right as I commit myself to a lengthy autobiographical search on the blog, my mind for music becomes verdant and mossy, and I find myself giddy with excitement for even a moment to scratch some sounds into a Logic Express project.

When 5:00 rolled around, Two tugs, one to write and the other to record, yanked with nearly equal force. Right now, I should be typing paragraphs that answer the question, What do I think has worth or lasting value? as continue to search for artistic direction. (Please see the post entitled Conceptualizing if you are feeling suddenly lost.) I betrayed this commitment to work on recording a new song about the physical and emotional abuse a good friend endured in her youth. Writing these lyrics has finally given an appropriate venue to haunting emotions that came with learning of this tragedy 12 years ago. Needless to say, diving headfirst into this music ultimately won the evening.

As referee of this developing bloodbath, I am bound and determined to make a way for both to exist peacefully. For tonight however, the music wears the crown of victory. Its prize? A newly-completed song sketch dwells in the read-only memory of my computer, while the defeated blog hangs its head in shame as it displays a scant showing of only six new paragraphs.

More tomorrow, I promise.

Sweetie Pie Day

I am not big on most holidays. My wife generally is, but neither one of us are pinned under the commercial spell of Valentine's Day. We skip the gifts/flowers/chocolates ordeal and instead opt to spend the day together doing something fun and maybe out of the ordinary.

Today we toured the Cyclorama, one of the world's largest paintings that depicts the events of the Civil War's Atlanta Campaign. A painting in the round that has the same square yardage as a football field, this piece took nine artists two years to produce. Its weight is around 10,000 pounds with a circumference of 358 feet.

This is all irrelevant to the point of this blog, except that this epic work dwarfs my tiny recording project and therefore gives me much hope. Surely if this group of ambitious creatives could render a milestone such as this cycloramic painting, so can I accomplish the goals of the Redline Project.

That's all for now. The Day of the Sweetie Pie is not yet over, and solo creative project blogs are not the most conducive to romance. So off I go.

I leave you with a minute's worth of groove I threw together yesterday. I intend it to become the foundation for some lyrics I wrote yesterday as well. Wishing everyone the warmest of sentiments on your candy message hearts.

Tenets

No convoluted introduction today. I am going to jump right in with the fourth question. If this is your first visit to this blog, you will find a good description of the scope of questions and the purposes of answering them in a post entitled Conceptualizing.

Question number three:
What do I believe
(Presented as concisely as possible)

I believe that everything was created and therefore believe in a creator.

I believe that everyone was created deliberately with a purpose in mind.

I believe that humans are created in the image of God. I sense this on the emotional level more than I am able to actually describe what this means. If we are made in the image of a creator, we are necessarily creative beings. I think this imparts a privilege and duty to participate in the creative.

I believe that we were designed for good but are thoroughly polluted by evil. An admitted tension here, I think we are wired for both the best and the worst. Created for good, we express the pure drive to assist our fellow human being instinctively in large events like earthquakes and hurricanes, and in small moments when we learn of a neighbor's need. We can be just as full of hatred, slander, backstabbing, lies, and filth. When we indulge in hurtful acts, we are allowing evil to control our lives, and when we make the good choices, I believe we are acting on our original wiring.

I believe that everyone has indulged in an evil impulse in one way or another (and probably many times over) by lying, cheating, stealing, slandering... This means we fall short of what is good; we don't live up to the standard of our creator.

I believe we are helpless to save ourselves from evil. Just as a prisoner needs an advocate on the outside, so we need someone to save us.

I believe Jesus came to earth to be that advocate. I believe he was crucified on a Roman cross, and took all of the evil in the world upon himself in that moment. I believe he overcame evil by rising from the dead three days after his execution.

I believe the message of Jesus is great news. I believe we can be fully alive in him.

I believe that the accounts of Jesus' life teach us to love God with every fiber of our being, and out of that we must love our neighbor.

I believe our neighbors are not limited to the people living adjacent to our homes. I believe a neighbor is anyone who is affected by our choices, either actively or passively. We have a great responsibility to care for our neighbor, whether they live next door or around the world, sharing with them whatever we have that they may need.

I believe that art (of all types) is an inspired, divine gift.

I believe evil is an active and present force in the world.

I believe that evil can be overcome with good.

I believe that the darkness hates the light; that the two can not coexist.

I believe there is much life beyond eating, sleeping, and working.

I believe there is healing power in music.

I believe that music is a venue for coping with life's greatest struggles.

I believe that questions are often more important than answers.

I believe that anyone with all the answers has never asked the right questions.

________________________


If you made it all the way through this list, please remember that I am stating my beliefs so I can look at them all in one place. I need this list to help me find artistic direction for the Redline Project's final recording. I am not offering these as an act of persuasion or exclusion. If you hold different beliefs and perspectives, you are welcome here. I also welcome the opportunity to converse about the differences and similarities, and would invite anyone inclined to do so.

Mile Markers

Before pressing into the third question on the autobiographical search for artistic direction, a touch of contemplation is in order. The queries, 'Where Did I Come From?' and 'Who are the most influential people in my life?' arched some strong themes over what used to be strings of loose thoughts. It is too early to offer a synopsis of such themes, but I am greatly motivated as they clarity emerges from the fog. I continue on the trail of discovery today as I answer the next question on the list.

Question number three:
What are the most transformative moments of my life?
(Here are ten presented in random order)

A tight squeeze and a slap on the behind - the moment of my birth was perhaps one of the most life-changing I have experienced. I have to admit that clear memories of this day are eluding me, and I am without clever description of its specifics.

I had experienced a large volume of recorded jazz, but the first time I saw a master play live, my understanding and love of the artform skyrocketed. The show included bassist Ray Brown and his trio at Scullers Jazz Club in Cambridge, MA. Unreal.

The day my spoiled friend next door received a drum set as a gift from his parents changed my life more than it reoriented his. The serendipitous moment in time sent me chasing after something I previously had little idea existed. The neighbor quit a few years later; I rounded up two degrees on the instrument.

I had never noticed a long-haired girl with glasses in the music theory classroom. After a short vacation, she came back to campus with contact lenses and a stylish chin-length haircut. I have always had a real thing for short hair on women. When she entered the classroom that day, I had to pick my eyeballs up off of the carpet. I married her three years later. There's more to the story than that, but it was nevertheless a pivotal moment in time.

More than two years ago, my wife and I made the hour drive to celebrate my nephew's one-year birthday party. He had a grand time, but it did not go as well for me. Though that day does not hold my favorite memories, it set in motion a chain of events that led us to pursue a South Korean adoption. Any day, we are expecting to learn who our daughter or son will be, and we hope to travel overseas this summer to become a family of three. Again, there is an involved story to tell here, but this is not the time or setting.

Though I grew up in a church, hearing stories of the Christian faith all along, it wasn't until I was in late high school that it started to make any sense. This transformative 'moment' is more of a three-year period of time, but I would be mistaken not to mention it. As I grew up, all of my youth leaders and mentors were the dorkiest squarepants bunch of not cool people to roam the nation. During my sophomore year of high school, a fellow moved up to Rhode Island from Virginia Beach. He was into frisbee, Dave Matthews Band, foosball, and pretty much anything else, so long as it was awesome. He came up because he was hired to be the Young Life area leader, a sort of youth group that is unattached to an individual church. As this guy became a mentor and friend, I started to listen to what he had to say. My parents' faith, which had made little sense to me thus far, was painted from a different perspective, and my ears were truly open for the first time. This faith has informed every major decision of my life since and continues to do so.

John Riley, an internationally known drum player and teacher, made remarks that shattered my playing ability to pieces. As I made the four-hour return drive, I sobbed the sort of tears that steal breath away and leave a dry, uneasy feeling in the throat. This was the first time of many that I would be deeply humbled as a musician. It was good for the soul, but I still wince at the pain of that moment.

I lost a portfolio of big band music on a Friday during my first year of grad school, which is a major no-no. My usually irritable professor was a certified nuclear bomb when I called to tell him the news. I spent the entire weekend running around, researching music sources, buying expensive replacement parts, and even acquiring a recording and transcribing a part aurally for an out-of-print score. The original folder turned up the following Monday, but before it did, I reported to my professor that I had drummed up all the necessary replacement parts. From that day on, he treated me with a level of dignity that I had never felt from him before. There is no easy way to earn someone's respect; it is an accomplishment when it happens.

On a clear day, biking across a wide dirt road by the Chattahoochee River in Atlanta, I saw a sign with a bike icon pointing to a trail that led up a steep hill. I was up for the adventure, so I began the climb. The trail I stumbled upon happened to be an expert course with razor-edged rocks, drop-offs, stair steps, creek crossings, and sharp berms. I was convinced the little sign I saw was misplaced, until I witnessed someone of my age and build come flying down the technical mess with finesse and prowess. In that moment, I was hooked. Three years later, I spend hours each week working out my skills on the nearby trails.

A buddy lent me an audio recording of 'The Irresistible Revolution,' Shane Claiborne's autobiographical work about life decisions that form from genuine faith. This one volume led me to many others, and into countless discussions about the topic. I find myself constantly searching for expressions of my faith that will speak love and justice to my neighbors, and I continue to ask the deceptively simple question of, "Who is my neighbor?," which is proving to be a lifelong pursuit. This author has challenged me to rethink life more than any other.

Pitch Correction

A second post is in order, however brief, to illustrate today's real post below about the pitch correction feature.

What you will hear in the scratch recording below is a 45 minute pass at the concept, recorded in a noisy room on a handheld microphone without any pop filter. Remember, scratch recordings are not meant to be anything professional. This one is particularly rough, but it illustrates the power of Logic's features.

The particularly keen will notice that this recording appears in the right column list as 'Redline 015,' with 'Redline 013' immediately preceding it. That is because 'Redline_014' is a song in progress that may just make it onto the final project. It's under tight wraps, of course.

Everything you will hear by clicking below is my voice plus pitch correction with a touch of reverb. That's it.

Quick Break

The autobiographical process through which I have been worming this week has been enlightening, surprising, and cathartic. It has also proven to be a massive amount of work. I am taking a one-day hiatus from the lengthy writing commitments to work on some music.

It is not simply a matter of getting back to writing songs and recording sounds; I have two solid reasons why diving into Logic Express is the fitting thing to do this evening.

As I wiggled through the rabbit hole of YouTube last night, I happened on a fantastic tutorial entitled, "A Lesson In Vocal Effects." A great overview of the different possibilities, this introductory video inspired a search for deeper information , and in a matter of a half hour, I gleaned a gold nugget about Logic Express that is about to spark a revolution in the life of the Redline Project.

There is a plug-in called Pitch Correction. It is buried in the extensive list of effects that ship with the program. I have always wondered how pop stars sound perfectly on pitch, almost as if their voice is a hybrid of human and instrument. The effect takes roughly five clicks of a mouse to program, and in an instant transforms my wobbly dribble of a voice into a strong, solid instrument that resonates squarely on pitch.

The discovery had a two-pronged effect: I lost a whole lot of respect for recording artists that I thought were perfect only to realize they are nothing of the sort, and I gained enormous confidence in my ability to sing on the new album without shattering my listeners' watch crystals. There are recording artist whose entire body of recorded works have been produced using this technology. All this makes me wonder if I don't suck quite as much as I originally calculated, or if I simply underestimated the suck factor of everybody else. Either way, I am encouraged.

I also want to return to songwriting tonight because I have come across some overwhelming raw material over the course of the past week. There is a fellow that has been coming out to the Communicycle shop to earn a bike by helping with several projects, and we are slowly becoming friends. I learned that he lives in the woods behind a nearby building. A kind person and a hard worker, I don't know how is going to survive the rare snowstorm that threatens to dump a few inches on us tomorrow.

I am stuffed with Chinese food, cozy at the helm of Studio Redline, clickety-clacking away on the keyboard waxing artistic and twiddling with expensive recording softward. A few miles from here, my friend Jack is wrapping himself in whatever blankets he can find, fending off the freeze as best he can. I have no filter through which to process the disparity between our lives, except to write a song that attempts to deal with the haunting information. Among countless other blessings, I am deeply grateful for music tonight.

More tomorrow on the autobiographical front. Thanks for reading.

Puzzle Pieces

To those who made it through the past two posts, I have great appreciation for you. My journey in music has been decades in the making, and I suppose yards worth of autobiographical paragraphs are a fitting treatment. I am also wondering how anyone found the time to make their way through, but then again you have been wondering all along where I am finding the time to record music and blog about.

So we're even. And you have my sincere thanks.

It is difficult to sit down to a second daunting question knowing how long it took to do justice to the first one. This is a music recording project after all, not really a blogging project. But the intended purpose of these introspective queries is to bring the truth into the light and allow the findings to lend artistic direction to my final product. So without further preface, here we go again.

Question number two:
Who has influenced my personhood?

Rounding up the usual suspects, there's the wife, mom and dad, the members of club nuclear family, relatives, teachers, friends, colleagues, the librarian, the postman, the person I met in the grocery checkout. I could be here a while if I approached this question wholesale.

At the risk of excluding someone, please know that the ten on this list did had an impact, though maybe not the deepest or most profound in every case. The selections are not meant to be exhaustive, only a glance at what would otherwise be a much bigger picture.

So without further preface... (Is there an echo in here?)

Mama Ann
My first tangible understanding of death came as an abrupt interruption to my gloriously naive existence. I found out from my father one morning when I was five years of age that my grandmother was going come and stay with us – in our dining room!

“This will be great,” I pondered, “Because now I won’t have to wait for Saturdays for Mama Ann to play with me.”

Dad explained to me that Mama Ann was not coming to have fun and play, but that she was going to be spending a lot of time in bed and that she would need her rest. This was his way of telling me the news that had rattled his world: his otherwise healthy and able mother was quickly declining from an incurable cancer.

How could I ever forget the day that I was brought to Roger Williams Medical Center to offer a good-bye to my grandmother? In that moment, a part of me grew up way too soon. Against my parents’ strongest urgings, I climbed up into Mama Ann’s hospital bed to lay my head in her lap one last time.

Mama Ann never said a negative word about anybody. And she could bake up a chicken that would make the Colonel cower. And she knew, perhaps as well as anyone ever has, how to love. I cannot fathom what her voice would sound like in a raised tone, and I cannot picture what her brows would look like if furrowed. The light of life burned brightly in her, and I will forever count her death to be one of the world’s greatest losses.

Shane Claiborne
While many Christians twiddle their holy thumbs and go hard after the false prophets of the 'prosperity gospel,' there are a few women and men of faith who actually allow their understanding of the bible to shape their life choices and situations.

One such man is Shane Claiborne. Co-founder of The Simple Way, a non-profit group bringing justice and shalom to a forgotten Philadelphia neighborhood, Claiborne is the author of a few volumes that have reoriented my way of thinking. I sincerely hope my life will become curiously different as I continue to absorb the principles found in these books.

Instead of looking to milk his religion for all it may do for him, Claiborne asks the same questions posed clearly in the gospel accounts of Jesus like, "Who is my neighbor?" Deceptively simple, the answer has had profound implications for the author. As I read the ideas he presents in, "The Irresistible Revolution," I let that same question begin to penetrate my soul. This released a chain reaction of events that led to the establishment of the Communicycle Co-op, a bicycle repair shop that offers transportation solutions to the people of Chamblee (a complex and diverse neighborhood in north Atlanta).

Gary Motley
A monster of a piano player with a heart of gold, Gary Motley is one of Atlanta's finest jazz musicians. During my two year stint as a masters student at Georgia State University, Gary was there concurrently, picking up credentials that would allow him to obtain a teaching position at another nearby university. Technically we were classmates, but in every other way I was barking up a tree he had climbed decades ago. I will never forget the honor and shock of being asked to play five different shows with him. I realize it was a situation of the mother bird teaching this chick to fly more than anything, but those five gifts were some of the finest musical moments I have ever experienced. I am forever grateful that Gary noticed a speck of a seed growing in me and chose to nurture it.

Erik Wilmer
During my first night on the campus of Gordon College in Wenham, Massachusetts, I met an athletic man with somewhat of a unibrow on his way to play guitar at a coffeehouse in the student center. There was something about the way this guy carried himself, the way he sang his original songs, the way he listened with unparalleled intensity and focus. I watched him carefully from afar.

Though just a few years older than me, he was one of the few students I knew who had fully matured into actual manhood. From long before I actually knew this to be true, I could see it clearly as a crisp autumn day. During the following year, I volunteered on a music team with him that led a large weekly worship service in the school's chapel. One of the main reasons I wanted to join this group was to build a friendship with this heroic figure I had observed from a distance. He and the girl he would later marry became mentors to me and the girl I would later marry. It is rare and beautiful to meet someone with wisdom beyond their age, and Erik was one such gem.

Lisa Carey
If someone was a student leader of just about anything on campus, then they met with the Lisa Carey. With my leadership of the Sunday night service called Catacombs during junior year came the duty of answering to Lisa in bi-weekly meetings. I have always been a brazen leader, absolutely convinced of what I want and how I wish to proceed. I secretly resented Lisa's authority over me, but she was a smart lady who knew my distaste for her all along. I mostly blew off the meetings we were supposed to have and I seldom returned the voicemails she left me.

As the year ended, I was looking forward to another year of leadership in my current position. Lisa left a message on my phone that sounded more urgent and frustrated than all the others, asking me to please come to her office.

"I called you three times, and your silence has spoken volumes." I'll never forget her calm, assertive demeanor. "I can't have you leading the Catacombs team next year." This woman who barely knew me and knew nothing of the program I was leading gave me the boot. I was enraged.

It wasn't until years after the fact that I finally got over the bitterness of this and learned my lesson. I was pig-headed in my leadership, without caution or concern for others. Lisa taught me my most valuable college lesson: lead not as a locomotive but as a servant. She was completely right about me and I was entirely wrong. Had she not called me out, I fear I may have made devastating mistakes in future leadership roles with far greater cost to myself and those around me. I may not have liked Lisa, but she cared enough to teach me a lesson I needed to learn.

Joe MacSweeney
During my senior year, I had outgrown my Sonor phonic drum set and decided to purchase something more musical, tailor made to my needs as a player. I received a few recommendations, all referencing the same artisan of the drum making craft. With a humble workshop in Saugus, Massachusetts, Joe McSweeney has been making custom drums for a score of years.

What sets this man apart from the oodles of drum workshops in every nook and cranny of America's cities? Most custom drum makers buy prefabricated, unfinished shells from the Keller or Jasper company, providing finishing, drilling, and custom bearing edges. Joe MacSweeney is the only maker I know who starts with flat plies of Scandinavian birch, steam bending them to perfect round and hand-gluing the seams. An Eames shell, named for the original founder of the company with whom he apprenticed, is a truly unique instrument that qualifies as a work of art in my opinion.

Joe rents the second and third stories of a seemingly dilapidated brick warehouse not quite in downtown Saugus. Entering the workspace reveals the truth: there is not a speck of sawdust on the floor, not a tool out of place on the workbench, not a receipt left loose atop the desk. The Eames drum company is impeccable, almost seeming like a drum smith museum more thn a working shop.

The impact Joe has on me is found in his ability to pursue that which he loves. I will always look to this humble craftsman as inspiration to keep pressing towards my passions no matter how impractical or out of reach they may seem. If interested, you can see his work here.

Jim Zingarelli
As a lover of jazz music in an undergraduate program celebrating the western classical tradition, I was a bit out of place (mildly put). I managed to make a few enemies with the music faculty during my first few years as I wielded the same prideful arrogance rearing its monstrous head as mentioned above. With tensions mounting, I decided to explore the possibility of expressing myself through other artforms.

Keep in mind, I had zero experience with paints or charcoals, but I began experiencing a tremendous impulse to express myself through the visual arts. This did not come completely out of the blue as my mother is a fine artist and graphic designer by trade who always did a fine job of imparting her enthusiasm about the subject.

I wanted to paint. So I marched myself down to the Beverly Arts Supply Wholesale and threw a set of acrylics along with a brush set and a few pre-stretched canvases into the buggy. Down I went to the public gardens in Boston to craft what I was sure would become the finest painting to bless the earth's population, in recent history at least.

It sucked eggs, no exaggeration. My canvas was a blotchy pile of crap streaks reminiscent more of a post-game football jersey than a fine art selection. The framed still-lifes at the Holiday Inn are miles nicer.

One lady walked up to my perch, the empty of the canvas obscuring the nasty truth, "May I have a peek?"

"Oh sure, go ahead."

All she could bring herself to say was, "Oh..."

Jim Zingarelli is a marvelous sculptor and as wonderful of a human being. As the chair of the art department at Gordon College, he is held by students as the archetypal big-hearted professor. Anyone is welcome to call him 'Z,' and everyone does. In a world full of dream poppers, he actively seeks shreds of promise and makes great effort to foster growth in even the most fragile of talents.

I meekly showed him the three canvases soiled by the loaded ends of my paintbrushes. "I know they are not very good, but I really want to give this a go." He let me in the program; said I could submit an entry portfolio retroactively after I had completed a few courses.

I never did make a switch to the art major, as my manual technique ended up being as horrible as it initially seemed. But Z's faith in my ability to succeed landed me in a Principles of Design course that rocked my world and set me plodding down a path toward owning a small graphic design business. The man is my hero. I hope someday I will offer others the blessing he gave to me: the gift of belief.

Danny Prestley
No one has inspired a greater sense of adventure in me than Danny Prestley, and he doesn't stop there. Danny loves dreamers, and he empowers them with anything and everything he has in his possession. When I went to Asia on a service trip, he hooked me up with his feature-laden backpack and sub-zero sleeping bag. When I dipped my toe in the world of mountain biking, he brought me down to his basement workshop dozens of times to fix broken parts. And when the Redline Project revved up at the beginning of the year, he insisted that I bring home a carload of borrowed musical goodies, including the stunning Guild hollowbody electric that I am learning to love.

More than anyone else, Danny teaches me what it means to be generous, to hold possessions with open hands, and to celebrate the accomplishments of others.

David Park
David cares deeply about social justice, especially as it applies to racial reconciliation. He is one of the few people in my life who commit themselves to garnering information and disseminating dialogue pertinent to a single, specific topic. Not only is he invested in the lifelong pursuit of this dialogue, he does so with endless creativity and energy. David lovingly challenges me with his perspectives and humbly listens to my responses.

Not only is David an able musician, he is also courageous. For no other reason than his love of music, he has purchased a pile of gear with which we create sonic experiments. His creativity drove the genesis of the Redline Project, and I have not felt this vital in years. He keeps a great blog called NextGenerAsian if you want to join the discussion.

Jesus of Nazareth
Before you discount this section as pious mumbo-jumbo, please allow an explanation. Many in the world believe the Jesus Christ is a savior; as many hold that he is a false prophet, or even a complete lie. I am not writing this homage to persuade anybody about anything. I am genuinely fascinated by the person of Jesus, and the accounts of his personhood and teaching have tremendous effect in my life.

Born to unwed immigrant parents, Jesus was a fantastic radical, completely unexpected by almost everyone. He overturned tables in the temple and left the religious leaders silently seething as he outwitted them with carefully crafted speech. He didn't rub elbows with the dignified or societal types. He kept company with hookers and thieves and the rough fellows from the docks. Only a dozen people spent significant time with the man, but we are still talking about him millennia after the fact.

He was a storyteller, often sharing simple tales laden with wisdom. He spoke this message to the host of an important supper party:

"When you give a luncheon or dinner, do not invite your friends, your brothers or relatives, or your rich neighbors; if you do, they may invite you back and so you will be repaid. When you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind, and you will be blessed. Although they cannot repay you, you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous." (From Luke 14)

Time and again Jesus shows that his heart is with the poor, the disenfranchised, the underserved. Regardless of what you may think about the man, his teaching that it is good to care for our brother or sister in need should not be difficult to behold. I am transfixed by passages such as this; the ideas continue to shape my motivations and cause me to reconsider the wealth and possessions I too often try to accumulate.

Autobiography - Part Two

This is a continuation of yesterday's post (February 8, 2010), answering the autobiographical question, Where did I come from?

Not much will make sense if you begin here, which I suppose could be fun if you are in the right sort of mood. Either way, I hope it sheds a little light - for you, about the motivations behind this project, and for me, about the direction for its final recorded product.

________________________

Life was candied peaches as I quickly became the best drummer in school. After failing at everything else that could gain me some popularity, it was nice to find a niche. I even began making friendships with other students in the band. It was a year of bliss.

Enter Jameson McCalister. My percussive empire crumbled in an instant as this wahoo waltzed through the double doors of Barrington Middle School. Hailing from Texas, Jameson enjoyed instant celebrity status. Gaggles of girls swooned at his locker between classes, his perfect chestnut hair flapped around his chiseled face as he scored goal goal on the soccer field, and he could throw down beats on a drum set better than fellows twice his age.

My first drum set teacher also taught Jameson, often in the time slot right before me. Dail Bienkiewicz, a lady drummer, was one of the greatest teachers from whom I studied. A Berklee School of Music graduate, Dail knew how to lay down some rhythms. She even looked the part, sporting a 1980s rock mullet that rivaled Garth Algar. Taking lessons from Dail was like enrolling in Berklee Lite. She taught from many of the same books, play-alongs, and worksheets that she picked up while there, and she had a fantastic way of simplifying the information so my junior-high mind could wrap around the concepts.

I have Dail to thank for an introduction to jazz drumming, syncopated beats, and the music of Dave Weckl, a master of the trade. She picked up on my growing love for jazz music, and recommended that I study with Artie Cabral, a first-call big band drummer with beady eyes, double-bridged glasses, and a shiny head. He smelled like corn. As great of a teacher as he was a drummer, I enjoyed lessons with him through the end of high school.

It was clear to my parents that I was not fitting in socially nor excelling academically in Barrington public schools. They made arrangements for me to visit a number of private institutions, which were all too hoity-toity, too far away, or simply too expensive. After a half-dozen such visits, we found La Salle Academy in North Providence. This parochial school was a stalwart of Rhode Island education since 1871, and some of the Catholic brothers have taught there since the school opened its doors, or so it appeared.

The good news: not all of the classes were instructed by the brothers. In fact many laypeople were on staff, some of whom were excellent role models of faith and insight. La Salle had its issues, but overall it provided a positive educational experience. One such layperson was Jim LaFitte. Hired to teach general music in the small, basement-run arts program, Mr. LaFitte had a rabid love for jazz, blues, and pop music, and ran a dynamite after-school program teaching small ensembles in each genre.

I auditioned for his ensembles my first week in school, and it is safe to say that he enjoyed having me around as much as I enjoyed attending rehearsal. I was placed in two ensembles the first year, one that focused on r&b and blues, and another that worked out jazz and fusion tunes.

Mr. LaFitte was the archetypal teacher under which any student of music would hope to study. He was first a trombone player, and had gigged on the local circuit for decades. His teaching post paid the bills, but he poured tremendous energy into that as well, working far longer hours than anyone else on the faculty to run ensembles that were not given space during coveted school hours.

In the jazz/fusion band, Mr. LaFitte would often sit in with his trombone during rehearsals and performances. What a delight it was to spend my high school years keeping rhythm with a professional musician.

On many occasions, I would slip down to the music room after school after the final bell at 2:10. Mr. LaFitte would spin some discs - often John Coltrane or Miles Davis, sometimes Chick Corea or the Mahavishnu Orchestra. I was enamored with the sounds of post-bop and fusion; musics so complex and dynamic with new details revealing themselves with each listen. We would sit together in those ancient olive hard plastic chairs, the ones with the three slits in the back, listening to tunes, enthusiastically discussing their merits. Mr. LaFitte taught me to get lost in the music and shed illuminating beams onto a path I would eventually attempt to walk.

I occasionally showed up on Thursday nights at a little dive called CAV, where a masterful Hammond B3 player named Lonnie Gasperini hosted a stellar jam session. I was by far the youngest and greenest player to darken the door, but the musicians chose the route of encouragement and welcomed me to their small, carpeted stage. The driving feeling of that bass thumping in my left ear as the curly bari sax wailed away in my right is indelible as a first kiss.

A small, final musical victory of my high school days: I auditioned for the Rhode Island Music Educators Asoociation (also known as All State) Jazz Band. Though I placed second and did not make it into the band, I beat out Jameson McCalister, that drumming wonder from Texas, who made fifth. And I felt pretty good about myself after that.

Gordon College accepted me into its music program, mostly because they desperately needed a percussionist. Gordon is a small liberal arts school on the north shore of Boston, Massachusetts - about two hours from home. I lived on campus and studied the rich history and inner workings of the western classical tradition. My percussion instructor was a little off. He had a smooshed face with a creepy tidy mustache hanging from his bump of a nose. He was a no-hair-on-top, long-hair-on-the-bottom kind of fellow, wearing striped shirts with at least three buttons open on top and the initials GJS embroidered on the left pocket.

The short of it: this teacher couldn't teach, and he couldn't play. Totally uninspiring. I became so fed up with my lessons at the college that I enrolled in private studies at Berklee School of Music with drummer extraordinaire Jon Hazilla.

Lessons at Berklee were an all-day affair. First a drive from the north shore down to the Wonderland ballroom in Revere, then Blue Line into Government Center and green line (B, C, or D Train) to Hynes Convention Center. From there it was a four block walk to the basement studio where the rhythmic magic happened. Lessons were two hours in length, followed by a reverse travel route.

(There is a large clue in the last paragraph about the subject matter of a song I wrote last month and posted as a scratch recording called 'Slips Away.')

The ordeal should have been exhausting and prohibitive with all of my concurrent academic pursuits, but I found that nothing motivated me more. Lessons with Jon were a time warp. I would marvel at his musical aptitude, his honed abilities, his brush technique, his ear for cymbal selection. He taught me to love Jimmy Cobb and Philly Joe Jones, Tony Williams and Elvin Jones, McCoy Tyner and Herbie Hancock, Bill Evans and Red Garland. He instructed me about stick click and the uses of rivets, the merits of mounting the bottom hi-hat on the top, the motions of swishing convincing brush patterns, the way to hold a maple stick so it breathes. Known as the drum doctor, this guy could pinpoint the least bit of tension in a stance or a grip and conjure up fifteen exercises that would melt the problem away. I have never learned so much from a single individual about anything as I have about drumming from Jon Hazilla.

He was friends with a modern legend of Manhattan jazz drumming, John Riley. Author of three renown publications and professor of drum set at Manhattan School of Music, I thought these three degress of separation may be my ticket into one of the finest jazz masters programs on the market. During my senior year, I made the four hour drive to Riley's studio in a lush suburb up the Hudson, where I took an emotional beating for two hours. Any hope I ever had of making it in the music industry popped like bubble gum as the master offered his honest opinions about my sad excuse for jazz drumming. He was right, but it was a wound that still makes me shudder when I think about it. I spend a good part of the drive home in tears.

I graduated from Gordon in 2002 and married a week later to a kindhearted, affirming woman of gentleness and warmth. Best decision I ever made. We towed a U-Haul behind our Ford Taurus Wagon, burning out our brakes as we descended Lookout Mountain down into Georgia. We landed in Atlanta, where I was accepted into a masters program of jazz studies at Georgia State University.

The two year program had its ups and downs... mostly downs. GSU is a mismanaged behemoth of a government school with astonishing masses floating through its ivory gates on taxpayer dollars and lottery revenue. I chose this program for one reason, and one reason only: Kinah Boto.

My parents moved to the Atlanta area when I was halfway through my bachelors degree, and during one school break, I paid a visit to Churchill Grounds, the city's premier spot for local live jazz. Boto was on the docket that night, and he blew me out of my chair. His groove was as wide as the ocean, his intensity as strong as a six foot wave. With dreadlocks flailing and heavy coke-bottle glasses dancing on the tip of his alert nose, he combined rhythms in ways I never imagined, percolating and simmering up an infections concoction of sound. Jon Hazilla ably explained perfect execution and technique; Kinah Boto taught me how to feel the music.

While I do not have fond memories of the university that hosted my masters degree, I had some good experiences in the school of music. I met many top-shelf Atlanta players like Gary Motley, Neal Starkey, Gordon Vernick, and E.J. Hughes, some of whom took me under their wing and had me out to a few gigs. When playing with the local masters, I would often become so worked up beforehand that I would break into a cold sweat and sometimes vomit. I spent most of these gigging years feeling judged and inadequate, and my sense of identity was greatly skewed by the uneasy emotions.

I paid my way through school working as a teacher's assistant for professor of ethnomusicology Oliver Greene. A fine professor and as good of a man, Dr. Greene spent many hours discussing music and life with me in his seventh floor office. He opened my eyes to many important subjects, including a breathtaking array of musics from around the globe. I learned as much from assisting in World Music classes as I did from all my credited studies.

Upon graduation, which I did not attend, I decided to lay the drumsticks down. Taking a job as a graphic artist (a skill I also studied during my undergraduate years), I tried to forget about my failed attempt at becoming a world-class musician. Each time I would feel a longing creeping up from my soul, I would shove it back down my throat, telling myself that it wasn't sensible to pursue music as a career move. This was and remains true; music is the worst thing I could possibly do for my career. But that fact did not (and does not) make it any easier to give it up.

My initial post as a graphic artist blossomed as many people learned about my work and freelance opportunities arose. Eventually I launched a small business, designing graphics from home, often in my jammies. My wife has since joined me in the effort, working as an accountant and a web programmer. We have been going strong for three and a half years, and we seem to be weathering the economic downturn fairly well.

What used to be my whole life made an occasional appearance whenever I played the drums at church or pulled out a guitar in the living room. Mostly I tried to let those rich experiences become faint remembrances of a former existence. My efforts to convince myself that I was happy without music continually failed, but I stuffed the ears of my soul with the proverbial bananas of growing a business so I couldn't feel the sadness, or at least to dull it a bit.

Roughly six months ago, a good friend with a similar musical wrestle invited me to join him for weekly music making on the computer. I was wary of getting back to music in any form, but this guy is a hero of mine, and I find myself willing to do anything that will earn his friendship. So off I went each Wednesday to his quaint home in Avondale Estates to foray into the unknown world of electronica.

It was a world of beeps, blips, and shebangs, with all kinds of matte silver gear strung up with USB cables, strewn around the table like stainless steel spaghetti. My combined background of music and computer-aided graphic design lent an intuitive sense of how to create compositions with digital audio workstations. We mostly used GarageBand for those early experiments, feeding playful sounds to it through microphones and midi devices.

The music we continue to create together may never change the world, but it has awoken in me a delicious part of life that was forgotten for too long. I have this friend to thank for reviving the spirit of music in me. It is because of his initiative that I eventually concocted the premise of the Redline Project. Thanks David - love you my brother.

Subsequent chapters to this musical journey are yet to be written, which is a big deal to me as I thought the book was already closed, collecting dust on the shelf. This month and a half of the Redline Project is a renaissance, an unquenchable fire that has me in its hot grip. I am not delusional that I may become famous or wealthy through this odd and vital adventure. I only hope to take what is on the inside and get it to the outside. I hope to make music. I hope to get heard.

Autobiography - Part One

The first question from the list in yesterday's post reads simply enough, but providing a due answer is a daunting task. After all, I am chiseling away at my 30th year of life, which means I have spun around the sun 29 times and made 10,600 revolutions around earth's axis. A whopping 254,400 hours (or 15,264,000 minutes, or 915,840,000 seconds) worth of history have shaped my life in one way or another.

To reiterate briefly, I posted seven questions on the blog that I have committed to answer over the span of this week. They are the types of queries that require some pondering, some digging to supply an adequate answer. My hope is that in exploring the facts of my autobiography, an artistic approach may come into focus for the final recording of the Redline Project.

Question number one:
Where did I come from?

Let's commence with the DNA. Born in 1981 at a hospital known as Women and Infants (clever and creative, don't you think?), I am the second living child of two native Rhode Islanders. I have an older sister, a younger sister, and a deceased older brother who passed away before I was born.

Dad is a pediatrician, and he has witnessed the entire array of child ailments. I believe that is why he was protective of me. I was a macro-good-kid and a micro-rebel. I was never a stellar student, but I knew how to squeak by. My life was a charmed one: always enough food, warmth in the winter, loving parents (who remain married to this day), and all the Super Nintendo my thumbs could handle.

I had little concept, if any, of poverty or struggle. Dad has always prided himself in his ability to provide for his family, and he lavishly accomplished the mission. I have to hand it to him, he is an excellent dad. Many doctors and other high-powered professionals force their paths of success onto their children. In the score of years I spent under his roof, I never felt such pressure, not even for a moment.

In fact, both Mom and Dad looked for the natural interests in my sisters and me, funding them to a generous degree.

When I was four years of age, my older sister began taking lessons on the Fisher baby grand in the living room. It was easy for my parents to recognize my interest in the curious weekly happening, and they took the small risk of signing me up.

That black satin Fisher was a rickety box with stringy, tinny sound and difficult, loose action. But it was at the very instrument, perched atop the rotating honey walnut stool, that I spent endless hours experimenting with sound, exploring notes, stacking harmonies, stringing up melodies two fingers at a time.

I was only a few years old, but I could remember songs and pick out faint remembrances of them on that old Fisher. I was a child of the eighties, a time in Christian music when churches started to abandon time-honored musical traditions for lighter, folksy melodies. They may not have beenthe most profound of music ever released, but these choruses shaped my earliest musical experiences.

My parents dragged me to Barrington Baptist Church, kicking and screaming on the inside, dressed and pressed on the out, each week. They were devout, which is interesting to note because they were both born into Jewish households and married in the Temple. There is a story behind that sentence, and it is a doozy. But it is theirs to tell and not mine, so I will venture on.

It was one of those classic New England churches: tall, stately steeple on the outside, a stale mix of apple juice, mothballs, and old lady perfume on the inside. The church community was not quite dead, but not quite alive. Piles of animated discussions over the trivial dwarfed any real talk of spiritual growth, unity, or service.

We were a worship-wars church. Have you ever heard of this? Its an illness of far too many bodies of faith where two camps form between the 'staunch' traditionalists and the 'radical' whippersnappers. The opposing forces usually find their troops along the lines of age, with the 'elderly fuddyduddys clinging to their blessed organ accompaniment' and the 'immature charismatics raising hell with their drums and their guitars and their satanic rock lookalike music.'

Wish I were kidding. Churches split over this stuff. Tragic.

I was generally unaffected by all of this. I liked it all. As mentioned in a list of musical heroes a few weeks ago, I loved our veteran organist, Anna Lisa Madeira. She may not have been the hippest cat on the market, but she understood the forwards and the backwards of music. She knew how to take down the house on those fourth verses, reharmonizing the snoozy circle of fifths into angular canticles with all the stops pulled.

And I loved those little, yellow paperbacks published by Maranatha! (That's not my exclamation mark; I usually try to stay away. The company's name actually is 'Maranatha!' - nice and tacky, just like the decade of their heydey.) On the Sundays when the whippersnappers ruled the school, we would sing newfangled tunes like 'More Precious Than Silver,' and 'I Will Celebrate.'

I was even a rotating member of the little worship group called 'Potter's Clay.' (Why does Christian culture lend itself to such blatent cheese?) I delighted in this. The lady leading the revolution had big emotions, and decades of chain smoking yielded soulful tenor pipes that encouraged her cause. Strapped to her Martin dreadnaught, she would really get into the heat of the moment right around the second selection (always of three). Nodding her head 'no' ever so gently, she would lean back, eyes shut, lips barely moving. Wincing slightly, she always managed to hit the high 'E' of 'Mary, Did You Know.'

I made it my task to take this weekly buffet of music and tuck it away somewhere in memory. After I had been excused from Chicken Casserole or some other tempting long-cooked dish, I would hammer out that week's collection on the baby grand. It was the natural thing for me to do, as if speaking a native language. Apparently, those around me thought it left of average.

So my dad bought me a trumpet. Why? Because he wanted to play the trumpet, and yes, he picked up one for himself too. He even bought us a little book of duets so we could entertain house guests with charming numbers like 'Ode to Joy' and 'Danny Boy.'

Lessons with the wrinkled man from Pawtucket lasted a grand total of two weeks. Spittle flew from his lips when he talked, and the music room he converted from a garage smelled like decades of poker games.

Next we gave Miss Blumstein a try. A puffy float of a woman with nine himalayan cats, Miss Blumstein had some trouble fitting through doorways and in social situations. I suppose she was a fine enough teacher, but I was too busy thinking shallow, judgmental thoughts about her to notice. I especially liked when she wore her mirror-finish Ray-Bans. Smokin.

By this time, I had matriculated to middle school and moved with my family from the city of Providence to the bayide suburb of Barrington. This exclusive town was filled to the brim with Volvo-driving, Polo-wearing Joneses who all tried to one-up each other with their clunky car phones and swanky country club memberships.

I attended primary school in a supposedly rough neighborhood of Providence. Living up to its fitting name of Martin Luther King, Jr. Elementary, this urban institution was well-integrated, in both the population of the pupils and the diversity of the faculty.

Miss Bailey, an African-American woman of about sixty, taught general music to everyone in the school, and she also ran an elective chorus program. I enjoyed both tremendously. A wispy, stern woman, Miss Bailey knew how to sing. I had no appreciation then, but now realize how rich of a musical experience we elementary students were given. She was trained in the European classical tradition, and she had a mile-wide soul that was in love with field songs, spirituals, and the blues. She taught all of the above with a passion so strong that I still remember her voice, her manner, her enthusiasm.

Barrington was a different animal, with its floppy-haired, creamy-skinned pretty youth all enamored with Vuarnet France t-shirts and Levi Strauss jeans. I was a curly-headed shrimp with Jewish double-helixes wearing the black Lees and flourescent Bugle Boys my mother acquired at the Vanity Fair outlet. Middle school was rough.

There was, however, a fantastic upside to the move. I managed to make friends with the two boys living next door to our new house. They were a classic, wealthy family. The dad worked far too many hours at an office as much about status as it was earning a buck (or several). The mom, a sweet lady completely bored with life, didn't know how to tell her children, 'no' and would lavish them with boats, and airguns, and video games, and puppies, and a drum set.

This was pivotal, a huge moment of my life. When that maroon 1975 kit of Ludwig drums appeared in the basement next door, I knew I had found something of great importance, something for which I did not know to look. All glistening and sparkly, adorned with a complete set of Paiste cymbals; it was nothing short of love at first sight.

My friendship with the neighbors increased dramatically from that day forward as I sought every opportunity to run over and bang out a few rhythms. I started to scour the classified ads for deals on used drum sets, and I began requesting trips to the local music stores.

Had my mother been one to express what she was actually feeling, she would have said, "Hell no." But she is a beautiful human being of decency and candor who shudders at words like butt, fart, and crud.

"No dear, I do not want a drum set in my house. I'm sorry." More or less verbatim.

A character trait that has always been mine: It is impossible to motivate me artificially, but when I do become inspired to work toward something, I will not stop until it is accomplished.

Unbeknownst to anyone in my family, I began to play percussion in the school band. Off I would go to the bus stop, trumpet in hand, only to stuff the brown, faux-leather case in my locker until it was time to return home. You can imagine the surprise my parents must have experienced when my band teacher called to explain the ruse. I would later learn that my teacher encouraged them to let me pursue my love of percussion, commenting on the rhythmic talent I must have been displaying.

Though I didn't understand what made the winds shift, I was elated the tides had turned. I scrounged together $150 worth of allowance and odd jobs over the course of the next several months to purchase the most horrendous set of drums ever manufactured. The heads were wrinkled, the rims were dented, and the cymbals were little more than anodized paper plates. It was my most cherished possession, and I gleefully banged away for hours at a time. Life as I knew it would never be the same.

________________________

A stiff neck and two antsy legs are all screaming at me to call it quits for the night. Look for the continuation of the story in tomorrow's post.

In other Redline Project news, there is a half-baked recording of a new song that is showing some promise. I have a good feeling that it may end up on the final product, should it fit with the album concept. This one, like the other finished tracks to come, will stay under wraps until the official release date of this project. You'll just have to wait.