Waiting for FedEx...and the Repo Man

You know that saying, "Man cannot live on bread alone"? Yeah. Well, that guy didn't know what he was talking about. I've got $30 and no job, so, if I'm lucky, I'll be living on bread alone. If the going gets rougher, we'll find out if man can live on eggs and ramen alone, which, by the way, I'm sure he can, even though by the end of 2 weeks, he ends up looking like a scurvy ridden pirate whose hair is falling out.

So. We're back. 1800 miles later, we're home, and, as always, coming back to San Francisco is everything it's cracked up to be: all our friends, all our responsibilities, all that foggy goodness. I meant to write this puppy yesterday, but we got in at 6 in the morning, and with U-hauls to return and folks to be seen, the computer just didn't seem like a great idea. A day later, a few dollars thinner, it's the bee's knees.

Now, something about the album:

In the truest birdmonster fashion, we actually finished mixing it on the road. You see, our mastering date was yesterday at 10 a.m., and, because we had a tiny change or two that still needed to be made, we wrangled Brad for one last day of work. He made a couple tiny but necessary changes and emailed us the mixes so we could listen on iPods or in the car. The problem was, well, we were in the middle of the goddamn desert with no computer and, by the time we made it home, any comments we had would be useless, because the album was being mastered a couple hours later. So, what's a band to do? Well, what they do is drive into a coffee shop with wi-fi, pray that somewhere there has a Macintosh and a soft spot for a bunch of crusty looking birdmonsters, and lets them download the songs onto his/her computer. And you know what? It worked. We cruised into this pachooli-smelling cafe people by folks who were taking a break from...whatever it was they were doing...to play hackey-sack or twirl those weird pole things that hippies like and began looking for some kindred spirits. We found Staci, who I think was neck-deep in some sort of essay and was quite happy to let us give her a break and download the two files we needed for our ride. So, Staci, if you're reading this, you need to know you saved our collective ass and we thank you.

And like that, the CD was done. We got back into the car and the changes Brad made were perfect and we called him and told him he was our guru and savior and then he went in yesterday and had it mastered and it's being sent out to us today for delivery tomorrow. Of course, I'll hopefully be temping or something tomorrow so I don't have to test the above mentioned egg-and-ramen hypothesis, but if I'm not, I'll probably just sit on my front stoop waiting to descend upon the FedEx guy when he comes. I already feel like Calvin when he ate all those Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs so he could get the propeller beanie and he spends the next six weeks salivating outside his mailbox. The good thing is that I only have to wait a day and what we'll be getting is far better than a propeller beanie. Well, maybe not far better. I mean, those things are hot.

And, before I go, I must say this for not the first time and certainly not the last: Brad, you rule. Thanks for working harder than a Myanmar prostitute for the wages of...a Myanmar prostitute. Without you, God knows what this record would sound like. Probably like us recorded on my mom's old answering machine. We love you, your house, your work, and your cats. Mazel Tov.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go sit on the street corner and beg for dimes. Hope to see you there.

Adios, gainful employment

I'm having a problem not smiling. We aren't talking a put on, take-my-sixth-grade-school-photo smile here. No, no. We're talking a full fledged, borderline obnoxious, ear to ear smile. We're in "shit-eating" grin territory. And the weather's just fine.

See, it's my last day of work today. Thursday, I'll wake up without all the embarrassing ecoutraments of my employment: the headset, the Excel spreadsheets, the usually inedible nearby sandwich. It's the stuff of dreams here people. At least for those of us who never dreamed of working customer service at eight in the morning. Which, let's be honest, is probably all of us.

Let us never speak of this place again.

Of course, copious tasks await. So many that simply thinking about listing them just brought back the ol' eye-twitch. Now, I'm usually a very calm person. A few months ago, a unicorn could've bitch-slapped me and I'd've just said "how 'bout that?" These days, well, we're dealing with a monkey of a different color entirely.

Which is not necessarily a bad thing. I'd like to notice pimp-slapping mythical horses if they decide to come over. It's just that the list of things that still need doing before Monday (the tour) and then April 11th (the album release) is basically endless. This, parenthetically, is why bands have managers & bookers & the like. We've just got our little birdmonster family, which is a wonderfully disfunctional---like that grandma you had who said innapropriate sexual remarks at Thanksgiving, but it was hilarious, so you didn't feel awkward.

And no, that didn't really make sense. In fact, I doubt anything I do for the next week or so will. Looking forward to that.

Three songs left...

The reason I should only post once daily

You know what's the weirdest part about going to a hearing center to get earplugs made? It's that everyone there is at least eighty years old and that half of them sort of smelled like Necco Wafers.

The good part is that now, I won't go deaf. So that's a plus.

Alright. So, today, besides responding to Underrated's kindly request for a cross-country jaunt (see below), and weighing the pros and cons of visiting the hearing center, I'm listening to our second reference mix of Alabama...and it sounds really good. Brad would call it "hype." I would agree.

By the way: that puts us about three fourths of the way there. Allow me to have a seizure of glee.

Thanks. That felt nice.

I'm ashamed to admit I probably wrote this whole post to make a Necco Wafer joke. You have my deepest apologies. Tomorrow?

Watch your back, Zagnut Bar!

Wait. We're leaving when? I see...Right...Excuse me. I need to have a seizure.

Looks like this is it: my last week of work. Which is not to say I won't be waiting tables by month's end. Hell, I could be on the corner, tap dancing with my banjo for your coffee change. But, the old, tried and true nine-to-five: that's done. Yet, I'm getting ahead of myself. I've got a couple more days, so I best sit tight. I think all the clocks here have stopped anyway.

In sharp contrast to the molasses-y boredom here at the workplace, the weekend in birdmonsterland was rather eventful. We got the final mix for a yet unnamed song and a really rough but really wonderful mix of a ass-shaking sort of ditty called Alabama. Not much can be said except that the first exceeded my expectations, while the second will be doing so shortly. It has that feel to it already. Katrina, our resident designer-of-all-things-except-show-posters-and-the-website, made a glorious shirt which is going to press today as well as some business cards, which are boring to you, but make me feel rather saucy. I feel like I should be smoking a pipe at all times if I have business cards, but I'm unsure exactly where this feeling comes from.

We also dealt with our transportation debacle...and by that I mean we had a spirited discussion & woke up this morning without a van but with a plan, which rhymes, so you know there's something to it.

In fact, there's an overwhelming feeling right now that everything's coming to a head. Because, well, it is. Funny how that works out.

But I have faith. I'm an optimist. You get lemons, you make lemonade. You got no van, you go get one. Or, you take the most ferocious cross-country bike ride of all time. That would make for some good pictures, at the very least. Plus, I'd wear one of those old Harley helmets, you know, the ones that sort of look like plastic yarmukles? Yeah. I'd look smooth with that on.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go get some putty squirted into my ears so I don't go deaf.

Translator needed

So I just read this book where one of the main characters had the same name as me. I think it was making me feel batty and schizophrenic. It's over and already I feel healthier. Don't I, Justin? Yes, yes you do. Precciioooussss.

So I went back to the morning paper this morning, which was filled with bombings, ladies falling like drunks while figure skating, and a fairly impossible crossword---no, I don't remember who the "captive of sea nymph Calypso" is. I'm sorry.

What does this teach us? Well, only that if it doesn't involve birdmonster, my brain turns into a mashed potato-esque clump of uselessness. At least these days. Intelligence, I pray, will return again.

We got song seven yesterday too. Instrument switches, slide guitars, and big gross rock outs abound within. Plus, Peter gets to play my big ugly bass, which he must enjoy. Actually, did I ever mention that I couldn't even record with that thing? We got it "set-up" in the City, which basically meant that someone lowered the action and changed to intonation so that it didn't sound like the same instrument which caused me to weep for forty days. Thankfully, we had an old trusty back up which is less abused but, in the end, identical.

But man: seven songs...Before we know it that number will be twelve & then they'll be mastered & then, well, then we can share. I'm looking forward to that part.

Oh: and thanks again to all you presale folks. I didn't know people in Wisconsin or the Netherlands knew who we were, but, apparently, I was mistaken. If I could only speak Dutch or...Wisconsin-ese...

Half way, huh?

Back on the computer. Good lord. I spent all last night arguing with photoshop while trying to color a poster and keeping the areas I wanted filled with blue ink from bleeding everywhere in an infuriating, fustigating catastrophe. In fact, the only time I wasn't on the computer last night was when I was eating fried chicken and when I was showering, which I actually considered doing simultaneously, but thought better of it.

While chained to my computer, I did happily receive the sixth song's final mix, making the album, officially, half-way mixed. I'm sure Brad's a lot more relieved than I, considering the entirety of my contribution are phone calls, emails, and nitpicking after a few hours of careful listening, while his is more like an unfathomable amount of minute & large changes arrived at after something like three hundred thousand listens. The song in question yesterday was All the Holes in the Walls, the second track on our EP, which we re-recorded a little more like we play it live: raucous & boot-stompy-er. It's different enough from the EP to keep me smiling. Pete had his late night/ early morning gruffness going, which lends the song a much different vibe.

Beyond that, I mean, I have to be honest: I'm boring. Nothing happened to me yesterday. Literally. I sat in a hard wood chair for 6 hours after sitting in a soft faux-leather one for 8 hours. I'm lucky I escaped that seething ass-pain that truckers get when they drive from Seattle to Burbank in one day. At any rate, we're mere days away from finishing the van logistics, which means Vegas, which means...trouble. And, actually a lot of little details are slowly falling into place, but, hey, they're not worth hearing about till they've actually fallen into their various places.

And I want to thank all the folks who purchased an LP yesterday. Truly, truly appreciated.

(there's a link over there on your right, in case you're curious)

Back to Lalaland. For some of us, at least

Ah, President's Day. There's really nothing like having a nine to five and getting paid to sleep on a Monday. It's like having your cake, eating it too, and having that cake give you some sort of superpowers; not unlike that radioactive bon-bon which gave the Incredible Hulk his crime fighting powers. But I digress.

Today finds both Dave & Pete down in Los Angeles*, back at the Castle, keeping Brad company whilst he mixes, mixes, and mixes some more. Of course, I don't think they've shown up yet, considered that we're still safe ensconced in the AM. Anyway, they're there for moral support, to try out a few small ideas that turned out impossible to explain over the phone or email, and to pick up Zach's itinerant cymbals, which, although rusty, ugly, and jangly, are the only cymbals we've got. They have that well-worn sort of sound. They're the percussion equivalent of that really comfy chair your roommates want you to throw out because it's hideous & sort of smells like hobo sweat, but it's just too soft to get rid of. They'll be flying home on Thursday.

Also, if you wouldn't mind, look over there to your right. Under the stupid joke about us being from Bangladesh. See that? Yep. We're on pre-sale, people. I promise to not harp on that, but, hey, I figure if you're reading this, maybe you'd like to buy a CD. I can promise nothing less than a dozen songs we're very, very proud of with absolutely no filler. We're not Aerosmith here people. We're not giving you a single, a joke-song, and 10 meandering rip offs of 40s blues ditties. No. We would never do such a thing. It's going to be like the EP, times roughly a million. Maybe two.

Oh. And for a moment, let me share my joy. I just did a bit of arithmetic and discovered I have eight, count 'em, eight work days left. And that's counting today. I just twitched with glee.

Which reminds me: we don't have a van. We don't have a van but we've got to leave shortly. We've got our peepers and hearts set on one that may involve Zach & I flying to Vegas (danger! danger!) to pick it up. But, hey, you never know. For now, we're still waiting for one of you readers to send us the genetically engineered sperm of that cheetah-man hybrid you told us all about. If we go down to Vegas, you can expect hilarity. No amount of poorness will dissuade me from the craps table. I'm a degenerate like that.

I have a feeling this will be an interesting week. Stay tuned. For now, enjoy your MonTuesday. I'm finishing a poster tonight too that I want to share with everyone. It has a brontosaurus (which don't and never did exist), a mustachioed man with a top hat, a walrus, and an eskimo. If that doesn't spell kick-ass, I'm not sure what does.



*How much does that link remind you of Ghostbusters 2? Oh. It's just me. Somebody put on the Jackie Wilson and get this sludge back to it's sewer home.

Pass the Zach & potatoes

Last night, we had a phone interview after a fairly exhausting practice. I always feel silly doing interviews. I just don't like talking about myself, which seems weird, I'm sure, since this blog is such shameless and unveiled self promotion, but typing little blurbs at home or at work is well within my comfort zone. It's the phone yammering that clams me up.

Anyway, I bring this up only because we were asked my favorite question we've yet been asked in a situation like that: "If you four were on a desert island, who gets eaten first?"

Now, this requires serious thought. I based my answer on who'd be the tastiest, which would be Zach, because, hey, he's got the most meat on his bones and I think, in a nice coconut milk marinade, he's taste kind of like Tom Kha Gai. Later, the point was made that Zach would be far more valuable on a desert island than most of us, since he worked construction & seems to be adept at jerry-rigging. So Dave was suggested. But I think he'd be all sinew and, if the island didn't have dental floss, it'd be pretty aggravating to walk around with leg of Dave wedged under my bicuspid. In retrospect, my answer is this: have Zach rig up a barbeque, try and fix the boat, and then kill & eat him. Hey. It's rough out here. Don't judge me.

And that just reminds me of that band Fine Young Cannibals, who I will now get in your head: "She drives me crazy, and I cain't he-eelp myse-ee-eelf (oo! oo!)"

I guess since this is a journal about an album and not late '80s pop acts or the Donner party I should mention some news. Thing is, we didn't get a new mix last night. Which means its probably coming this morning, but I'm impatient and wanted to get some typing done before that happened. Plus, listening to music at work with my hated RadioShack earphones (which live here because, well, it seems appropriate) is never a real test of quality. I could listen to Vivaldi on those things and get sad. So, I'll keep today light and wish everyone a happy President's Day weekend. Take some time Monday to remember that, once, the executive branch wasn't filled with guys who shotgunned their friend's face.

Paging Dr. Morreau...man that was a terrible movie

San Francisco is a funny place. About a year ago, we banned cigarettes in public parks, but not golf courses, while yesterday we shut down a golf course because of some endangered frogs hang out there. The obvious answer? Make sure to give the frogs some nice cuban cigars. Then everyone's pissed off.

Hundreds of miles south, Brad continues carving songs like they were a roast beast in Whotown. He is most likely not surrounded by cigar-smoking frogs. Last night, we got the final mix of our fourth song, which put the album at thirteen minutes and fifty two seconds so far, on it's way to the mid forties, with twelve tracks over all---a dozen, without the extra cruller thrown in for good measure. Although, strangely enough, we've been waffling about adding this weird little ditty we did in Brad's living room to the album for a week, so we actually get the baker's dozen after all. I remarked a few weeks ago that 13 songs was certainly bad luck, until Zach reminded me that Fugazi's first album is actually called "13 songs" which shut my fat mouth good and proper. In fact, I should listen to Waiting Room right now.

Well. That was a good idea. Of course, I listened to it on these earphones I got at Radioshack, which in the last week have proved the law of Radioshack, that being: "All things bought at Radioshack will either break, explode, or electrocute you within ten weeks of purchase." If you see Terry Bradshaw, punch him in the face for me.

In fact, why do I even own these things? The left earphone works maybe thirty of the time I use it. I'm going to go Gallagher on these things. Nurse, pass the sledgehammer.

Today, we're all waiting for song five. It's a mystery as to what it will be and I like surprises, so it's all gravy. The one we got yesterday is (amazingly enough) still unnamed, even though it's the oldest song on the album. In fact, it's the third song we ever wrote. You'll never hear the first one if you ain't heard it already, while the second song, well, it's the last one on the EP. I love that one.

Now, we try & get a van. Either that or a team of highly trained, extremely fast sherpas. Maybe some sort of man-cheetah hybrid. That'd be nice. You know any place we can find those?

A fairly scatterbrained midweek blurb

Here's a little known fact: I'm still working. At least until the end of the month, when my official resignation goes into effect and Birdmonster takes to the road in a yet unpurchased vehicle. So, what is that? Two weeks? Two and a half? Could you hurry it on up, February? This is really getting ridiculous.

Naturally, there are good things about work. The paycheck, for starters, and of course there's the computer, which is the ultimate weapon in our fight against Taylorism. But today just has the earmarks of an eye-gougingly bad Wednesday: the stinky bus ride filled with elbows to the ribcage, the coffee that tastes suspiciously like dirt, the pissy co-worker or three...pass the pharmaceuticals.

But like I said, the days are numbered and that number is about twelve. After that, a short tour to Texas and back, followed by the release of our LP, which, by the way, is now one third of the way mixed.

We're self-releasing this puppy and that's both exciting and scary because, hey, who knows what life will be like come June or July: we could be filled with love, galavanting across the midwest in a 30-person van or playing our songs in the BART station in front of an upturned fedora filled with dimes.

Me? I'm an optimist. Plus, I'm loving the songs we've got already. It's interesting to see the order in which Brad is mixing them. He's gone through the slower, mellower ones, and is kind of working his way up to the all-out rockers that make up a majority of the disc. In other words, my ears will be bleeding by next Thursday.

Last thing: if you want to read more nonsense we wrote, go right ahead. Thanks to David at LHB. That was rather fun.

Welcome to the Working Week

While buying my ceremonial croissant this morning, the radio in my coffee shop treated me to the soothing sounds of Richard Marx. It was at this point where I remembered how my weekend had been full of GOOD music and that Richard Marx was a fitting auditory punishment on a Monday morning. And if you're a Richard Marx fan, I apologize. I hope we can move on.

See, this weekend was chock full of wonderful Bay Area bands and Birdmonster mixes, none of which remotely reminded me of "Right Here Waiting." We got a song called No Midnight mixed and in the bag this weekend, which is one we used to play live until the logistics of instrument switching and miked banjos dissuaded us for the last few months. I mentioned it early and said it had a "civil war-y" sort of vibe and, well, I know that might not make sense, but it will when you hear it. It has the bonus of being a one-take sort of song, with Pete's vocals & guitars being done at once, during our third day. We were thinking of recording the whole ditty at Brad's house, but, lo and behold, the version we got at Grand Master remains one of everyone's favorites from the whole session. I even got to sing at the end. But have no fear. It's more of a sing-a-long, yelp sort of thing than a showcasing of my non-existant harmonizing abilities. These would frighten and scar you and the CD is supposed to do the exact opposite.

Which brings me back to good music and Saturday night. We were invited to Oakland to play the Metro with Street to Nowhere, Poor Bailey, IO (I mean, Dear Static), and Brilliant Red Lights. I'm telling you kids, it was three or four hours of five goddamn rocking bands for about $2 each. We had a blast. There were fiddles backstage, for crying out loud.

At the end of the show though, something odd happened. A guy who looked strangely familiar approached me and asked me if we'd visited a guy named Trevor in LA while we were recording. Turns out we had, as Trevor was our guitar fairy godmother, getting us fancy electrics for an overdub or two and pointing Dave & I in the direction of a tech who would work on our instruments & not leave them in state of sad disrepair. So, after saying, "yeah, we know Trevor," this guy says "I'm Matt. I came in the Trevor's office when he was giving you guys directions." Not a thrilling story, I admit, but one with a point. The music world is a tiny place. I would have never expected to see a Los Angeles native we'd met a month before up at an all ages gig in Oakland, let alone expected that he'd be working with the aforementioned Street to Nowhere. So, if you'll excuse me, I have to walk to Walgreens & apologize to Richard Marx. I think he's working the register on aisle 3.

Back in email watching mode. In fact, these next 2 weeks may well scar my retinas permanently. Where’s the next song? I ask myself as I filter through myspace friend requests, spam, random well-wishes & returned emails from folks whose sloppy mailing list entries left us guessing. Oh well. We’ll all be cyborgs soon, so I’m just getting a head start.

The nice thing is Balcony is done. Really done. There it is. My iTunes says “Balcony FINAL” and that’s something I’ve been waiting to see since I bought that melodica at the garage sale down the street. It was either that or buy that old dude’s vibraphone, but I didn’t have $400 cash to drop on someone’s driveway, so I went with the mouth piano. At any rate, we’re nearer every day to a finished product and nearer to letting one of these tracks out of the bag for one and all. So I’m not complaining. I get to sit here, listening to BAGeL radio, babbling into this here blog, and scheming like a supervillian. Not complaining in the slightest.

Of course, recent and upcoming events don’t and won’t necessarily lend themselves to exciting reading, but I’ll do my best. There’s only so long I can keep your interest while typing about staring at a computer. Hell, that’s what you’re doing. This is about songs, goddamnit. I’ll continue scheming so that the next post can be rife with the wonders of Birdmonster. Rife, I say. Or rather, I said. Either way.

Hey. I should mention this too:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY PETER! I owe you a cupcake. If not two.

Next time...the album title? New pictures? A summary of the recent events in Tehran? You never know. Until then.

Triumphs both boring and fantastic

In the few minutes I have before my dentist lacerates my gums, I thought I’d do something that’s actually enjoyable, namely, writing a little bit on the ol’ blog.

First off, see that fairly blurry picture down there? The one with eight Rudolph-noses and Brad’s hand at the bottom? That’s the Scully. The Scully is our friend. It’s an old ‘60s 8-track that we recorded a good deal of vocals & rough acoustic stuff through & it will be all over the album. Zach, our resident photographer, wept when I asked him to put up a picture that blurry, but the Scully needed some love and attention, so there it is.

Now, onto triumphs both boring and fantastic.

Let’s go with boring first. We got a bank account. We scoped out a van to replace our once trusty white and orange behemoth. We feel like professionals. Sadly, the bank account will be cavernous and echo-y for quite some time, but it will enable us to close the door on CD Baby & sell our EP proper-like from home. The LP will be elsewhere, but more on that later.

Ho-hum. Like you care about the bank account. I wouldn’t either. But it’s a nice step some level of grown-up professionalism, which, if you know me, is not exactly a quality I exude. I’ve got more of that “wait, you’ve been employed before?” look about me.

Here’s the good stuff: We got a mix. A wonderful one, at that. It’s for the song Balcony, which is one of our longer, more layered ditties. When I heard it for the first time last night, I think I shivered with glee. The instruments sound so much more separate (yet together…confused?) than they did on the roughs we took with us from LA and on earphones, the song is really rather subtle and pretty. Earphone enjoyment’s always been a big deal for me, since I avoid human contact on the bus every morning with the aid of giant, DJ-sized ear muffs, so hearing it like that…well…I’m still smiling. We sent back a small couple suggestions, but Brad knew exactly what we wanted. It must have been the secret telepathic nudgings from up coast…either that, or he’s great at his job. Take your pick.

It’s novacaine time. Pray for me.

We're once again daily; prepare yourselves

Down here in the birdbasement, it’s rather cold. This is owed to a hundred year old house with ill-fitting windows, hardwood floors, and cracks under the doors so large that a small horse could trot underneath. Why am I here, you ask. Well, for one, I’m back to blogging---now that something’s happening---and two, I’m watching my email. It’s kind of like watching paint dry, except less colorful. But soon, something glorious will appear.

See, we’re waiting for our first song to be emailed back to us from Brad’s house, affectionately mocked as the Pink Castle. The triumph of the internet is that we can be hundreds of miles away and still have a mixing process with some give & take, without us sitting on Brad’s comfy chairs making obvious suggestions. He stays saner, we sleep in our own beds. The natural order gets preserved.

But it isn’t here yet. Wait! We got an email! Ah. If you’ll excuse me, there’s a Liberian man-orphan who needs me to do some banking for him.

Last night, us four birdmonsters sat around in our lair and schemed for hours. We got to see specs for the album art (which is being made by the same lovely lady who provided us our EP art, Katrina), discussed our lack of viable transport (unicorns were suggested), and ate MSG soaked chow fun. All went gloriously, especially seeing the cover, which was far more fun than contemplating our imminent trip to debtor’s prison.

With mixes coming daily, art being updated, and birdmonster getting its overall shit in gear, I’m going to be once again blogging daily. Sure, there won’t be stories about hunting sharks with small rodents, but there might be an amusing anecdote here and there. Not to mention a song which we’ll sneak up somewhere for those of you who are paying attention. Plus, if you’re reading this, you’re probably at work, and you know these last five paragraphs were way better than the operations meeting you’ve got scheduled in the small conference room at 1 p.m.

Until tomorrow.

Homeward Bound. Sort of.

I'm on a computer with a barely functioning "n" key. Gerunds and other "n" heavy words will be strategically ignored or accidentally misspelled. Be wary.

Tomorrow, Zach & I hop into (which was just "ito", by the way) the birdvan and depart for home sweet home. LA, we'll miss you and your smoggy, near nuclear sunsets. Au revoir. Both of us are pretending that the birdvan trip will be free of radiator catastophe, but of course, you never know. Anyway, Pete & Dave will remain behind so that Peter can sing and Dave can sit in a big comfy chair (alright, and also play guitar), then they follow us up in a nearly equally fucked automobile, also known as Peter's car. Then, it's Wednesday, for free, at the Mezzanine. Back to San Francisco. I can almost smell the foggy homelessness. It smells like victory.

Aw.

So...I guess this is goodbye. Sort of. I'm thinking about keeping up the blog, in fits and spurts until the album is actually done, which we're hoping is around February 22nd, followed by printing which, god willing, will happen with suave alacrity and come out sometime in March. So, yeah, I'll keep writing. But that might just be drunken, post-show at 3:30 a.m. Justin talking. Pay him no heed.

All in all, thanks for reading when you did. Hopefully, the pointless ramblings (
"rambligs"?) and pictures kept you interested enough to check out the CD. I mean, it's pretty good. But that's our little secret.

I best get some sleep. I've got a long day of van-pushing, gatorade drinking, and listening to music that isn't Birdmonster tomorrow. If there are missing "n"s, poorly constructed senteces, or mongoloid style mispeak, forgive me. I blame the fine people at Sapporo.

You know what? There's a few random thoughts that will surface when my brain and motor skills regai their former glory tomorrow, but after a long van odyssey, I'll doubtfully be in a mental place to write it. So, I'll throw one up later this week. Blogging, god bless it, is quite fun. It's like the cigarette of the internet world, if only the cigarette of the internet world wasn't watching people embarrass themselves.

Good night.

Wait. It's the Thirtieth?

Alright. There's today, then there's tomorrow. Then there's San Francisco. That's it. I feel like its the end of a particularly great vacation, except instead of a bullshit shotglass, we'll get an LP. Beat that, Reno.

It's early Monday (2 a.m. early) and we're pretty much wrapped up. Except a vocal or two, and some random how-'bout-a-slide-guitar-here? sort of experiments, everything's done. The van, which nearly murdered me with coolant fumes, miraculously repaired itself after a cataclysmic Thursday errand. And we've almost come up with a set list for tonight's show (which is free, by the way, at Spaceland--hint). Then, we wrap up every little loose end and vamoose. A bit surreal, honestly.

Right now, I'm decompressing after a long day with some unwatchable TV. You know, I think if TV's bad enough, it's actually like giving your brain a massage. If you don't believe me, work all day, make yourself a gimlet, and watch Over the Top.

At least our ears still work though. Somehow, we've all managed to keep a discerning ear throughout the process. I was a bit worried that, by now, everything would end up sounding like the equivalent of that ugly purple color you get when you mash all your oil paints together. Today, Pete sang some vocal's through Brad's Scully, which is a montrous eight-track tape machine that lives in the corner of the studio. I think there's a picture in here somewhere...yes. There is. But I can't download it. Well, use your imagination.

Something on the TV just told me I should care about the Winter X Games. That makes me sad.

I sort of lost my train of thought there. I think that's obvious. And there's a cozy bed waiting somewhere back there. I could use that.

Calamity Strikes

I tried to post yesterday, Really, I did. Circumstances outside my control, however, prevented your Thursday reading. Say a prayer for the birdvan.

So I left the house yesterday around 2, hoping to go to the bank and my girlfriend's mom's house to say hello, then scoot on home for a long half day of recording. It was the perfect plan, really. At first, getting out of the house was nice, and the smoggy sunshine was doing me good. Then, somewhere on the 134, the van started clicking. Then, the heat gauge went from "moderately warm" to "goddamn volcano" in the span of about a quarter mile. After finally making it to my destination, AutoZone was visited, and cheap-ass radiator fixes were bought: aluminum powder called "Stop-Leak" and some crazy-ass putty if I was able to find to putty. Helped by Michael & Emily (thanks you two), the radiator got a quick dosage of aluminum and the leak seemed to stop. All for two bucks. Of course, at this point, it was 10 at night. Drat. And, naturally, when I was two miles from home, the radiator shat out again and the van devolved from sensible bird transport into rolling biohazard. Several showers later, I still smell coolant.

But, well, it had to happen sometime. As the old saying goes: "The only problem with buying an 800 dollar is that you have an 800 dollar van." For now, let us concentrate on good things.

Like yesterday. Almost every single guitar was finished in my absence. They were either re-amped, honed, re-played, or just kept as was. In fact, everything I hear this morning is just barely different than when I left and much better. Actually, every instrument is slowly sounding exactly as it should and we're honing on the sound this album will have. Mixing and some singing and Rhodes still remain, but the finish line is now apparent. When all's said and done, this is going to be a really damn fine CD. It sounds full and live and fun, which is what we were trying to do when we came down here. Not to toot our own horns or anything but...

Toot-toot.

So I went walking today. Not too far, mind you, just a few blocks down to a corner store and coffee shop while Peter did a little early morning, gruff-voiced singing. The mission was a success, bearing that I got my morning paper and too-large cup of coffee. I was proud of embracing my San Francisco-ness by walking the half-mile in this city of cars. Of course, on my stroll back, I was approached by the only pedestrian without a dog or stroller, who proceeded to ask me for cigarettes, drugs, and the Sports Section. Three resounding "no"s later and with a block to go before I could peel off politely, I decided to ask him where he was off to.

"The pet shop, man," he said. "I'm gonna get a hamster."

"Nice," I replied. "What are you gonna name it?"

He giggled. Really. "Nothing, man! I'm gonna use it as bait to catch a fucking shark."

I will never walk anywhere again.

Safely cloistered back at the casa de Brad, I can say that yesterday's lunacy has left me. Not completely, of course, because, well, what fun would that be? But I'm again capable of rational thought. How comforting. This fairly enviable return to pseudo-sanity is owed mostly to the glory that was yesterday, although I could scarely tell you which day of the week it was. We played pianos, tamborines, and guitars of various flavors. We sang---well, Peter sang---we saw, we conquered. And then, late night, while scheming some overdubs, we dragged out a song we had yet to work on, settled into some plush rocking chairs, and listened. Then listened again. Then we laughed. Mainly because nothing needed to be done. No re-dos, no overdubs, no tinkering of any kind. It might not sound like a whole lot, but in my noggin, it's taken on the mythic import of the Arc of the Covenant. So rejoice with Birdmonster. I implore you.

Today, who knows? Plenty of sitting here, listening to Pete sing, re-mixing, and hubris. I'm going to angle for a porch-side hoe-down at sunset and see if I can get a taker. All in all, we're still ahead of schedule, which is comforting thought with roughly a week left.

Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a hotdog waiting for me. Thank God I gave up on all vitamins three weeks ago.










see! i did take a pic of the bidet at grandmaster. wasnt it worth the wait? -zach

Hooray for pictures. They're everywhere. And by everywhere, I mean this post and the next two. I'd like to point special attention to the post below, first picture. That's Brad. There's also one of Zach chanelling high-school Zach for long supressed cello skills. We laid some down on Ice Age, and it sounds glorious.

Moving on.

I really think this morning was it, the point where I finally lost my mind. I woke up with Constant Craving in my head and I couldn't stop laughing at my bagel. It's all downhill from here. However, bearing that in mind, I'd like to sum up some recent events without you judging me harshly. Here goes:

We're mostly done with about seven songs. The vagueness you're reading into that sentence is there for a reason: we've actually worked on far more but completely finished far less, I decided seven was a happy medium. I'm sure you'll agree. A typical day consists of sleeping till eleven, doing various musical things for about thirteen hours, and then attempts at being social, cultural, and exotic (read: we went bowling. I lost). Somewhere, there was tuna fish and Dave almost stealing someone's car. Silly Dave. Silly tuna fish.

The thing is, we've really done plenty since I posted last. I just can't quite put my finger on what it was. I recall lots of loud guitars, some banjos, a jangly acoustic, and some singing. The pictures are nice, because they remind me what we actually did. Look! There's Peter playing the slide. And us in the control room. And me looking like Geordi LaForge. Browse around, please. I promise that tomorrow, I'll write something that contains at least one cogent thought.

Our first proper day off turned into a pseudo-half day off. I'm reaching the point where I'm nearly incapable of entering into normal conversation and I have zero idea of anything that's happened in the real world. Cure for cancer? Indonesian civil war? The release of the infamous Barbara Boxer Jazzercise tape? Sure. I'm wandering around in the dark here, people.

Yesterday was a veritable smorgasboard of overdubbing, singing, and fat-assed-couch-sitting. We worked primarily on Bar in the Back of the Basement, which is a spastic, minor-key, cow-punk song. Overdubs consisted of some acoustics, clapping, guitars, and this reverby Rhodes thing that sounded kind of like a broken Russian music box. All that minor-keying made think evil thoughts. None were spared. We also managed to squeeze in some vocals for the above-mentioned tune, a few backrounds for Balcony, and some banjo for an acoustic one we used to play live all the time. It sounds kind of, I don't know, civil war-y? Sure. Let's stick with that.

Moving along. Today, an old friend is stopping by and we may again venture into the outside world. This frightens us all. I'm well into a winter beard (out of sheer laziness, I assure you, because I look like a hobo) and I think Zach has been wearing those pants for three months. In other words, we look crazy. Keep your children away.

As always, more later.