Pile of Goodies

My buddy David loaded me up with an arsenal of cast-off equipment from his home studio. I rummaged through the red and white filing box to find microphones, cables, a simple USB recording interface, and (drumroll please...) a set of M-Audio Studiophile studio monitors. Every item on loan is useful, but I am especially delighted to have speakers through which I can playback and edit music. Until now I have been trapped inside a pair of Sennheiser earphones. Thanks David for the loan.

I spent the evening at David's house shooting the breeze and creating some midi loops. He asked about Redline Project's progress, specifically inquiring if I am paring the possibilities down and defining my sound.

Good question - pretty sure the answer is a resounding no. Short of the fact that I am enamored with delay effects, I seem to pull from an array of genres, instrumentation, textures, and rhythms as I compose the individual tracks for this project. The ability to chameleon through the sonic range has its merits, but my inability to settle into a defined sound reveals a whiff of musical immaturity.

As I slowly press towards the goal of the Redline Project album release, I must remind myself of its purposes. I am here to explore, to ideate, to loosen the chains and let the music out. As the recording is released and downloaded, I anxiously await listeners' opinions. Will the tracks have overarching coherence? Will the eclectic nature of each piece lend a pleasing mosaic effect? Or will the lack of homogeny jar the consumer's ear and land the audio files in the digital trash heap?

Intuitions and Ignorance

After an unbelievably drawn-out meeting that monopolized most of yesterday, I decided to unwind by throwing together a little groove. In less than ten minutes, I had some intriguing bits of electronica tracked into in Logic. I tossed some synth pads in the pot along with a dash of electric guitar long-tones.

To my ears, this ditty is a simple but addictive recipe that keeps me wanting another bite. The issue is that I have no actual awareness of what to call this music, or what elements it needs to take it to the next level.

In the realm of electronica, there are labels like Techno, Trance, House, Hip-Hop, and Club, each of which is defined any number of ways by a plethora of unofficial websites. Complicating the conundrum is the endless love-child spin-offs that result from the blurred lines between the vague genres. We have Trance-hop, Trip-hop, Techno House, and so on.

My training in classical and jazz music has not exactly encouraged a working knowledge of electronic music. Though I am lost in terminology and clueless of how to construct convincing tracks, I am excited that the Redline Project, and its resulting collection of hardware and software, has cracked open the door to a new universe of music.

Electronica is a realm to which I once turned up my nose. In downright snobbiness, I considered sonics produced with computers and synths to be a cheap knock-off of actual musicianship. As I commence exploration of this infinite array of possibilities, I quickly realize my opinions were formed in ignorance.

This week, I am going learn as much as I can about the evolution and nomenclature of electronic music, posting my findings on this blog. If any readers want to offer information (favorite electronic music artists, historical resources, genre classifications), please send it over.

Web Spinning

Emails about the Redline Project have been rolling in from the second degree of separation. As this experiment rolls along, I must tip my hat to the wily wordsmith(s) that furnished the internet with a pet name of 'world wide web.' Since the premise of this project appeared in article form on the Gordon College blog, I have receive word from several old friends that they reposted the article or tacked up a link to their Facebook pages, Google accounts, and Twitter feeds in support of this effort.

It is a painless 30 second proposition to post a link on such social networking sites, and doing so yields marvelous results. I am tickled silly that friends of friends have started to connect with the goals of the Redline Project and its greater purpose of encouraging like-minded artists of all genres.

Jon, my college roommate during freshman year with whom I have not communicated for a decade, dropped me a line. Here's an excerpt:

I have been reading through your blog. It is awesome. I am rooting for you and will pass your information along to eveyone I know. I wish we lived closer together. I just built a mini recording studio in my church (at my expense so the equipment is mine). I would have loved to work on this with you. I am learning as I go too, it is fun and so frustrating all at once.

Agreed, roomie. So much about the process of recording music surges pure excitement through my veins. Every success comes after a bouquet of dead ends, which have a way of poking my most sensitive nerves. As Dr. Greene would often encourage, let's keep our feet to the fire and press on.

Jon did as he said he would, linking his Facebook page to the Redline Project. One of his friends bit the hook and navigated his way over for a gander. He took the time to write as well. The note sent was a precious gift; I hope you enjoy this excerpt.

What you had to say [in the blog] was so encouraging to me. I am a musician as well and am pretty much in the same boat you were/are in with regards to having such an unquenchable passion to create great music for others to benefit from, but for the past several years, have pretty much just worked in different office jobs. But I'll end up creating music in my head while I'm at the office and then go home and try to recreate it all on my guitar. I'm constantly hitting upon subject matter in life that needs to be put into song in new and fresh ways.

I'm gonna go out on a limb and say that you and I are a lot alike. I'm 29 years old, married, and my wife and I are expecting our first child through the process of adoption. We live in inner city Philadelphia. I was seriously bummed when I read that you live in Atlanta because I have been searching for years for a musical partner, someone who shares the undying need to let the music bleed out, not for money or fame, but to fulfill what is so naturally ingrained in my being for the benefit of others. I've written several songs myself but always feel so much more creative when collaborating with others. I've played in a number of bands since my teens, with a bunch of talented people, but have not yet met that kindred spirit with whom to write, record, and perform the music that I still have yet to truly let out of myself.

This blog details my personal journey from the land of the daily grind back back to the world of music. Its deeper and perhaps more important purpose is to encourage artists camouflaged as insurance salespeople, accountants, construction workers, and the like to return to their creative bents with vigor and courage. I believe concerted effort will lead me back to music, and I am confident my readers could all make the choice to do the same. If you find yourself on the brink of creative expression but are waiting for a little motivation, consider this blog a digital fire under your seat.

If anyone is interested in making my day and giving the Redline Project a bump in the right direction, please take 30 seconds to pin a link on your digital walls. Do not underestimate how great a help this is, and know you have my sincere gratitude.

I sliced my left index finger on an open can of soup during today's lunchtime. This means no guitar for at least a couple of days, but I promise productivity in the composing and arranging departments.

Song Solution

Yesterday's post included a verse and a chorus of what I hoped would develop into song. The lines painted a descriptive backdrop for a story about two kids living in different worlds. I was puzzled about how, or even if, the plot should unfold, and I stalled out as I attempted to compose the following verses.

24 hours ago these few lines resembled little more than a haiku; today these ideas have taken shape and are singable from beginning to end. The story propped my eyelids open as I tried to sleep last night, and the melody greeted me when I awoke this morning.

This set of lyrics represents the first collaboration in the Redline Project. Late yesterday evening, I sat with my wife Margaret, and we hammered out the concept until the shape of a story emerged. Parallel construction is the main device used in the song; each verse relates to the others with common phrases and ideas as two different pictures with striking similarities are painted for the listener.

The song is about the commonalities people have across boundaries of economic status, race, and gender. Two living situations are presented that seem so different but are both filled with intense sorrow and moments of joy. These settings are portrayed as imperfect and broken, with the only place of true harmony being the public garden that lies between them. Its a story of finding hope in despair and discovering life in the midst of death.

________________________

Barefoot Commons

v1
Little black boy from Roxbury Station
Little white girl from the high rise on the hill
It's a steamy July in Downtown Crossing
But the willows cast their shade in the garden

Chorus
Black hand, white hand gripping each other
Dance in circles, sister and brother
Leaping, glittered splash underneath the fountain
Fifteen miles, a world apart
There's plenty of time for broken hearts
Drink the moment at the barefoot Commons

v2
There's something going down in Roxbury Station
Someone's two-timing in the high rise on the hill
He's skipping the rent to feed an addiction
She's hiding hot tears behind a hollow smile

v3
Find love in the pockets of Roxbury Station
Find peace in the quiet of the high rise on the hill
The ravens weave nests in the leaves of the willows
The lilies spread their wings in the garden

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.

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.

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.

The Shadows in the Room

It was one of those moments when something came together so strong, so powerful, so unexpected. I was thrown off balance.

Late last night I was attempting to add a second vocal track to a scratch recording of a song I jotted while up in the mountains this past weekend. If you read yesterday's post, and I encourage you to do so, you know that the lyrics I pieced together find their genesis in a harsh story that is all too true.

Midnight. Singing a harmony line into the mic, I forget where I am and lose myself in the truth behind the song. Glass shatters, screams, violence. The bandit snatches more from a little girl than a few valued possessions; he grabs her slumber, nabs her sense of peace and security. Through eyes that refuse to blink, she gapes at the shards on the floor, sharp fragments of life that was whole just moments ago. In time, the gripping panic will fade, leaving in its wake a dull nag that will not allow much needed sleep to come for months and months. Fear remains.

As I open my mouth to sing, I sense the shadows in my basement moving around me, whispering the evils of the world in silent groans. I tremble. A lone tear departs the corner of my eye, encouraging a flood of others to drip to the floor. I am sobbing, weeping. And the recording is lost.

Or is it? You decide.

What you will hear below is a solid distance from perfect, but it captures the essence of the song's purpose. I hope it will remind you that even in life's most fragile moments, we can find a shred of courage as we sing 'la la la' to the shadows in the room.

My friends Ruthie and Ian work with 30 kids in an adjacent community. They keep a blog telling marvelous stories of justice and mercy. If you like what you are reading here, you will enjoy visiting Refugee Arts.

Worlds Apart

Less than 24 hours ago, I was sipping coffee with friends as light snowflakes obscured a mountaintop vista of at least two states, maybe three. Calling this Appalachian palace a cabin is a bit of a misnomer. Whether cracking billiard balls in the basement, enjoying 200 channels of garbage on any of several plasma televisions, or gazing through 24 foot atrium windows at an expansive valley floor, the weekend's accommodations were luxe.

I am back at the helm of Studio Redline today, chiseling away at a smallish list of graphic design tasks and keeping a little live equation going: [5:00 pm] - [time it is currently] = [how much longer until I can get on to other things]. If you are astute, and I assume all of my readers are, you have already figured out that the post you are now absorbing was crafted during hours that should lend themselves to the day job.

Between the lines of this admission of procrastination is an emotion that is all too familiar yet somehow surprising in its intensity. No matter how relaxing, refresing, and restful a time away may be, there is never anything easy about the return to reality.

As the miles between Atlanta and me accumulated, I noticed a touch of stress melting away. With each off-ramp that faded off the edge of the rearview mirror, I smiled a little wider, my shoulders relaxed a touch more. Just like clockwork though, the tension came flooding back the moment I rounded the bend and took the sharp driveway up to our front door.

I have indulged in a fair amount of moping since returning, and I have to admit that I am draped in sweats from neck to ankle today in silent rebellion of another vacation ending. Peace and rest are commodities that can be sought this side of heaven, but like a thief in the dark, time snatches these experiences away as quickly as they are found.

So yes, I am back to the old mill, and I am not happy about it. A bright spot in this humdrum Monday is making a return to a bit of daily writing and the accompanying hope of a successful music project in the making.

I spent hours picking away on the guitar this weekend, gazing at the bare trees as I pulled thin melodies from the brass strings. The Appalachian landscape lent a generous spark of creativity (as I hoped), and I managed to scratch a few songs into my spiral maroon notebook.

One song, my favorite product of these few days, gleans from a true situation happening less than five miles from my home. I know some youth from my work at the Communicycle co-op who live in constant fear of physical violence. Several have only one parent at home, usually a mother, who often work two or three jobs to put groceries in the cabinet. One girl tells the story of a night months ago when a man broke into her apartment and performed acts of violence against her mother.

Before this harsh tragedy occurred, this young girl would put herself to sleep and her mother would return from work a few hours later. Now stricken with sharp panic and dull, persistent fear, she keeps herself up until her mother returns from the third shift. Always sleepy, she struggles to focus in school and is falling behind in her studies.

There is medicine to swallow here. This youth (and many who live in her neighborhood) never get to experience the peace that is mine on an average Monday, let alone the elated sort of joy that comes from cozying up in the sheer wonder of mountaintop luxury for a long weekend.

The outskirts of Atlanta may not offer the euphoric bliss that comes from a decadent holiday, but compared to the pain and sadness that robs peace from the daily lives of many neighbors and friends, my charmed life is a taste of heaven itself.

There is much for which we should have deep gratitude.

Here are the lyrics that came from this pondering. I intend to track this in Logic tonight and hope to have another scratch recording posted here in the next day or two.

________________________

SING SILENTLY

v1:
Sing silently
Sing silently
'Till the bluebird mama can make it home
'Till the bluebird mama can make it home

v2:
Tread tenderly
Tread tenderly
'Till the blackbird papa can make it home
'Till the blackbird papa can make it home

Chorus:
Sing la la la
To the shadows in the room
Keep singing la la la
To the shadows in the room
________________________

Looking to the Mountains

I am heading up 575 after work to the mountain town of Ellijay. This humble north Georgia locale has sharp peaks, a few apple orchards, and not much else. Among other things, I am seeking the sort of quiet that will get the creative smoothies blended and lend a sense of direction to the recorded product of the Redline Project.

I have a guitar and a notebook, and I intend to use both extensively. My fingers are crossed that the same mountains offering inspiration to writers, musicians, painters, sculptors, and poets over many centuries will cast a similar spell on me. I can almost smell my pen burning the paper as I tear up the sheets with a blaze of lyric writing.

Though there will not be new posts to this blog until the first of February, I promise several stabs at new songs when I return.

I will be away from the internet through the weekend, so these humble paragraphs serve as the conclusion to a wild first month of the Redline Project music madness. It blows the mind to think that a twelfth of 2010 has already breezed by. I am hopeful that momentum will continue to grow and the music will continue to get heard.

Why Redline?

Many have asked how The Redline Project came to be the title of this blog. Here is the answer:

Redline is a generic recording term. In an audio project, the levels of the tracks can be seen on a dynamic graph, often a series of LED lights. It is good if the recording illuminates the green lights and fine if the signal goes into the yellow ones, but if the red ones are lit, the sound is overloading the system and distorting. To redline also means to encounter an emotional experience greater than one knows how to handle.

There are many bands, recording studios, music projects, and sound-related ventures that use the term in their nomenclature. And yes, a search of the term will also land you in the domain of public transit systems as the name is a common indicator for subway lines.

Redline introudced itself as a possibility in a simple way: I am an avid mountain biker with passion for the sport that far exceeds my abilities as a rider. I pedal Redline bikes, and my favorite is the Monocog Flight 29er. It may have nothing to do with music, but I liked the sound of it well enough that it stuck in my head when I was looking for a name suited to a music project.

When I took my first office job five years ago, I was making a choice to quiet the music of my life. But there was a flame, somwhere down there, that kept it simmering. In recent months, more and more of those green LED lights flickered on, the levels creeping occasionally into the yellow. As I contemplated this project in the weeks leading up to the New Year, the red lamps lit, the pot boiled over. The music needed to come out.

So Redline Project it is. It is commonly held by many musicians, and artists of all types, that we were made to create. The Redline Project is an outpouring of that sentiment, an acknowledgement that my double-helixes have a loud voice in my pursuits.

I am shouting out to all of you poets, painters, potters, wordsmiths, sculptors, musicians, and the like. What are our struggles? How do the realities of life hinder us from creating? What do we do with the fear of failing? What do we dream may happen? I covet your input and will feature it, along with a link to you, on this blog.

Sources of Inspiration

The Redline Project forays deeper each day into a somewhat schizophrenic existence. On the one hand, I have received great connections from friends, distant relatives, and even a few complete strangers who all seem to have a better handle on social networking than I ever will. The arsenal of gear strewn around Studio Redline is starting to resemble a hobby rig that just may be good enough to lay down a decent record. Most exciting of all, the blog is receiving about 50 hits a day, which is starting to lay a good foundation from which the goals of the Redline Project can be accomplished.

There is another hand that takes the form of a few major question marks. What is this whole thing other than a narcissistic romp in the sandbox of my imagination? Is there any point to all the writing, recording, or spending? Without music as an active presence in my life, I feel deflated and and a little lost, while the pursuit of music has me wondering if I am motivated by selfish ambition and vanity.

I do not have any answers, but I have been experiencing deep satisfaction, even a sense of joy, since these explorations commenced. Music is my native tongue, and rubbing my feet on its doormat once again reminds me that I am once again home.

After church today, a few friends went out for bahn mi (delicious Vietnamese sandwiches of roasted pork, chicken, or other meats, and a spicy array of fresh vegetables). My buddy Ian, who tutors youth living in one of the apartment complexes in our city, brought Leslie along, a spunky preteen from his neighborhood.  The restaurant was mobbed and each opening of the door brought a blustery chill into the tiny space. Leslie is skin, bone, and hoodie sweatshirt, and she was clearly freezing. "I can't wait to go home and put my hands and feet into a pot of boiled water," she announced.

I already knew a few eye-opening facts about Leslie's home life, but I learned today that her family has no gas contract, and therefore has no hot water. A shower is not an option for Leslie right now, and I am concerned that enough warmth in this period of record-breaking freeze may also be unavailable to her.

Leslie, with all of the challenges she faces, has a sparkly smile and a far better attitude than most of us in the spoiled brat club. She is the inspiration for the scratch recording I have posted below. The glasses in the picture above are the only instrument you will hear, and my pale voice is the second sound source. The music starts thin and builds; if you have the time and patience, give it a listen to the end.