G U I T A R D E D !

Avatar is only the second movie I’ve ever walked out on (the first being Napoleon Dynamite).

After ninety minutes of eye candy I realized I had been waiting and waiting for something to happen. It wasn’t a bad movie, per se, but one would think one of the most expensive movies of all time would be enthralling and rapturous, not flat. Perhaps I’d have made it all the way if it weren’t 162 minutes long (I only made it through 143 of those). Though ADD can’t possibly be the answer – I have joyfully sat through many three-hour Pat Metheny Group performances. Heck, I watched three hours of student plays at the New School the other day without checking my watch once. And I’m left wondering how all this applies to music. I’m reminded of the YouTube void.

Sigourney Weaver in Avatar.

A good friend (and great guitar player) and I regularly lament YouTube’s titillating ability to suck us in with clip after clip of musical acrobatics from across the globe. Most musicians I know get sucked in regularly – no matter how many videos you watch, there’s always one more “related video” you haven’t seen (perhaps some fancy new whammy-bar technique that will change your life). While I truly appreciate the occasional video-find that has lasting meaning for me, most of it reminds me of Avatar’s world: flashy and interesting, but not much more. Techniques, techniques, techniques.

A friend recently asked, half-jokingly, about transcriptions of Jeff Beck’s playing. “How do they notate those bends?” he asked. I responded I had no clue, but it sure seemed like a waste of time. It’s definitely not the kind of thing you can learn from Guitar Techniques magazine. I’m sure there are plenty of ways to “Supercharge Your Playing” available from such a source, but squeezing every last bit of life out of note is something that can’t be taught. I once asked Vic Juris how he did some sort of technique I’d seen him do on a gig and he responded, “Play seven thousand gigs and you’ll get it.” That experience is something that can’t be learned.

Similarly, my father always said there’s an art, a science, and a business to everything. The science and the business are the easy parts. They’re like the guitar techniques: learnable, manageable, and quantifiable. They just take work. The other one’s the elusive one. The ‘art’ is the part of the game musicians usually talk around. Even in school, teachers rarely talk directly to the heart of that subject. But perhaps that’s why Colonel Henry Rutgers (my alma mater’s namesake) said, “Don’t let your studies get in the way of your education.” And perhaps why metaphors about art are so often employed. It’s easier to talk around the thing than to speak directly to it (like Judaism’s “G-d”). There’s also something so precious (if not holy) about the art aspect of music, that words might kill it. If we could really name it and really call it something, it might die. Perhaps we just have to face it.

But that aspect of music can drive you crazy. I know one person in particular who, for the most part, stopped playing altogether because of it. You can practice and practice and practice, but no amount of time will necessitate advancement in the ‘art’ side of things. Surely there’s a correlation between the amount of effort put in and the results you get. But the amount of time between effort and results can be a bit maddening. Ralph Bowen (a known super-practicer) once gave a mini-lecture to an ensemble I was in about not always receiving immediate rewards for the amount of work you put in; music involves lots of effort without necessary reward. But he did say that it all led somewhere, it just might not be clear while you’re on your way there.

At least with writing, it seems a bit easier to figure out where one is headed.  Over dinner recently, a friend passed on some simple advice about the craft of writing. “It’s the story, stupid.” I wish James Cameron had been at dinner with us. And I wish I could come up with such a simple answer for music – perhaps it’s just keeping the faith that the road we’re on is headed somewhere.

After a luxuriously long weekend in Boston discussing the future of media, where the ad world is headed, and why Tropicana’s package design change failed, I prepare to return to New York eager to put these ideas into action.

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And what’s the result of all this media-blabber?  I’ve quit Facebook.  Again.  I feel how I imagine smokers feel after quitting for the umpteenth time.  Except there’s no real quitting, just deactivating.  Which is Facebook’s way of knowing I don’t have the willpower to hold out when the withdrawals start.

It’s probably a bad career move for a musician to not participate in these new outlets.  But, like my favorite comedian, Louis CK (who recently publicly closed both his Facebook and MySpace accounts), I’ve been feeling like I have to use them.  Admittedly, I got on the boat pretty early - back when you still needed a “.edu” to join Facebook.  But I never got comfortable bombarding friends with gig announcements (when I had them).  Maybe it’s great for networking, for establishing and (dare I say) maintaining all those pseudo-relationships that make the music “biz” go around.  (Please punch me if you ever hear me talk about music as “the biz” or “the industry”.) But I’ve never gotten much (mammon or otherwise) from those sorts of relationships that aren’t founded on anything more substantive than “friendship” on the information superhighway.

MySpace, on the other hand, I avoided like the plague.  From the beginning it smelled like a used car salesman’s lot.   I know it’s useful for checking out new music and knowing about shows and blah blah blah blah.  It just drives me nuts to use it and it’s not a lasting innovation that actually makes the world a better place.  In retrospect, it looks to have been more of a place-holder until something better came along.  Now that Google and Lala have hooked up, finding music is a breeze and any artist who doesn’t post their gigs on their website doesn’t deserve to have people attend them.  Call me hermetic, but I don’t want to socially interact with every band I’m interested in.  Mostly, I just want to hear and see good live music.

The experts and futurists themselves are unsure where this social media beast is headed.  Thus far, the beast appears overfed.  I think a calorie-restricted diet would do it well.  So here’s to feeding the beast only when there’s some bucheron, kalamatas, and a fresh baguette around.  Enough white noise for now.  Until the withdrawals kick in and I reactivate my Facebook account.

There’s something powerful about stupid authenticity. Zachary Guitars is one of my favorite examples. The website for the guitar maker looks like it was made by my 12-year old cousin. Not to disparage my cousin, but this is no compliment. Actually, my cousin would probably craft a more (traditionally) logical website.

Zachary Guitars' IKEA Butcher Block Tele

That being said, lurking beneath the surface of Mary-Kate and Ashley pics, wild rants about why PRS is the devil, and why Zachary Guitars are better than sex, are some of the finest solid-body electric guitars I’ve ever seen. Be sure to take a look at the guitars currently for sale, aptly captioned, “SHOCK and AWE - XXX Hardcore Guitar Porn”. Let’s just say that if Fretboard Journal is Playboy, Zachary Guitars is Hustler. Personal favorites include the IKEA Butcher Block Tele, the Danny Gatton, and the Bug Infested.

With the exception of Steve Klein’s electrics, these are my favorite. Rocking the zero-fret action for a balanced sound that only the most GUITARDED! geeks would look for, these babies are made for players. According to the website, prospective Zachary Guitar owners must qualify to buy one of these guitars. I’ve yet to investigate the validity of this claim. Even if it’s false, it’s brilliant. The idea of keeping these masterpieces out of the hands of doctors and lawyers amuses me to no end. There is nothing less holy than a great guitar perched atop a mantle, never to be played. Talk about false idols.

I first encountered Zachary Guitars at Yale’s annual guitar extravaganza (a truly GUITARDED! event if there ever was one). Seth Josel, electric guru and avid presenter of New Art Music, gave a lecture/demonstration about the history of the electric guitar’s role in New Art Music as well as an evening concert. Even from the cheap seats, I could tell his guitar was the real deal. My geeky guitar glands kicked into action triggering a series of uncontrollable biological urges that led me to the stage to examine his guitar. I was immediately converted.

When I discovered Zachary Guitars’ insane website and anti-corporate attitude I was all the more pleased. Don’t get me wrong; I love American capitalism. But NAMM, Guitar Center, and the big instrument manufacturers are in the business of selling (and price-fixing) commodities. I’m perfectly happy with my car being made by robots in China, but not my guitar. Hence they’re called manufacturers. Anyone headed into Guitar Center better expect production line material. After all, it is owned by Bain Capital Partners (and they know a lot about music). But I can’t help feel like an East German in 1988 every time I shop there. Except instead of one kind of soap with one kind of label, we have one kind of soap with 8,451 kinds of labels. A hilarious corporate description online claims, “What AutoZone is to the garage, Guitar Center is to the garage band.” A clearer analogy would read, “What McDonald’s is to Chez Panisse, Guitar Center is to Zachary Guitars.” But Guitar Center won’t necessarily make you fat and kill you. Or will it?

Maybe we need a Slow Food movement equivalent for guitar (Slow Guitar movement?). Imagine trekking to the woods to chop down the tree from which your axe would be carved (pun intended)! Or winding the coils for your own pickups! Or personally euthanizing the sheep to get the catgut required for your strings! Perhaps I’ve gone too far…

Or maybe I haven’t. Upon reflection, my initial reaction of the “stupid authenticity” of Zachary Guitars is misguided. It’s the radical philosophy behind it I’m drawn to. Perhaps in our current cultural climate radicalism merely takes the face of naïveté. At a recent colloquium I attended on Carla Bley’s music, scholar Amy Beal noted Carla is fond of saying, “Once you lose your ignorance, it’s hard to get it back.” I’d definitely like to get some of mine back. I think one of Zachary Guitars’ monstrosities would help.

In case you may have forgotten, Christmas is just around the corner and my P.O. box is listed on my site. Feel free to have one shipped directly to me. Now that I’ve trashed the major manufacturers and distributors I’m going to need one - my chances of endorsement are shot.

Originally GUITARDED! was going to be purely guitar-related topics (hence the title). But last night I caved to the realization that GUITARDED things are happening all around, right under my geeky guitar nose.

Girl Talk

Through a set of unusual circumstances involving queen size bed sheets, a blonde bombshell, and an unemployed consultant with a multi-level midtown apartment, I ended up at a free show by Girl Talk. Produced by the car company [sponser me] at a warehouse pier on the West Side Highway, the show involved laser lights (sweet), cardboard robots (tall), confetti (excess), and free sodas by [sponsor me]. Apparently everyone there test drove a [sponsor me] to get a ticket to the show. Not I; that was the work of the blonde.

Being the guitar geek that I am, I had never heard of Girl Talk. Before the show, at the consultant’s apartment, I was told Girl Talk was essentially a guy (Gregg Gillis) onstage with a laptop. Excited by the prospect of experimental music, I hyped myself for the equivalent of PLOrk (Princeton Laptop Orchestra) until I realized the background music we’d been listening to was Girl Talk. Bizarro pop mash-ups did not sound like my idea of a good time. I was reassured that it was “really cool”, one of those you-have-to-see-it-to-believe-it deals. The way I saw it, free is free, and I could always leave early to catch Fringe on Hulu before bed.

Assuming you’ve never been to a Girl Talk show, it’s a spectacle. Imagine Jason Schwartzman at a laptop surrounded by 17-year old (mostly white) kids onstage dancing around like buffoons. Imagine Schwartzman flailing his body with the beat while hyping the crowd and taking off his clothes between songs. Giant balloons filled with confetti bounce overhead while a scantily clad Asian girl shoots toilet paper through the crowd with a leaf-blower. Don’t forget the 12′ x 12′ video screen flashing images of cheeseburgers, pot leaves, text messages, after-party invites, and other nonsense. Now imagine it’s way cooler than it sounds. And try to imagine it’s 3 AM (it’s not, it’s 7 PM), because 3 AM’s cooler for this type of foolery, in case you weren’t sure.

The hardest part to admit is that aside from the spectacle and myriad hipsters who crossed rivers to get there, the music was stellar. I’ve yet to listen to it with “critical ears”, so to speak, but it works live, and works well. Mostly mash-ups of hip-hop/rap beats and pop songs any Brooklyn vegan or young Goldman stud would recognize, the music flowed for 30-40 minutes at a time. I won’t bother with the legal ramifications of mash-ups and musical collages, but I hope Gillis has a good lawyer. The more interesting facet of the music was its irresistibility. Had I not had two sets of queen-size bed sheets to keep an eye on I’d have been dancing. Though Girl Talk proclaimed repeatedly on the video screen, “I’M NOT A DJ” (Sure, and Kanye West is an artist.), this music begs you to move. Let’s just say I look forward to seeing Girl Talk in a club less conducive to standing around gawking at exhibitionism. It only takes a few times until the video flash “LETS SEE CELL PHONES” gets old.

On a more cultural note I was reminded of Neil Postman’s 1985 book “Amusing Ourselves to Death”. Not that I’ve read it, but Girl Talk made me want to. More to the point it reminded me of famed food researcher Howard Moskowitz, whom Malcolm Gladwell has written about. “The mind knows not what the tongue wants,” said Moskowitz. And how! I doubt I’d ever listen to Girl Talk’s music outside of a live show or have take the initiative to discover it of my own accord. Inversely, some of my favorite obscure jazz is most tolerable on record and puts me to sleep live.

Neal Hefti’s probably turning in his grave (see here), but any way you spin it, Girl Talk is GUITARDED!