Freeness! Shorts!

Well, I know for a fact that folks in the surrounding vacinity have received their CD, so sit tight if you haven't. We can only put our faith in the post office and their thigh-length wool shorts.

We've been spending our days shipping CDs out, prepping for the Division Day, Nor'westerly (I love that word) fiasco, updating this here journal-dealy, and procrastinating on van repairs. Boring, right? So, screw that. This is way more fun:

The Birdmonster Haiku Challenge

For no other reasons than our own amusement and everyone's love of free shit, we're announcing a very informal haiku challenge. The rules are simple and the prizes, bountiful. Plus, it will give us all something to do at work.

Rules: In case you've forgotten, haikus are three line poems with a constrained amount of syllables. The first line has 5, the second 7, and the final one 5 again. Such as:

This is a haiku
But this is a bad haiku
Because it's boring

That works. Now, for the purposes of the contest, we're asking that you write something somehow related to birdmonster, but, please, go crazy. We take kindly to insults, praise, ridiculous stories, ideas for the name of our van, Basho rip-offs, what have you. And it will take you all of five minutes, unless you compose some mind bogglingly brilliant shit, which will be followed by me wondering where you got all that free time.

How to play: Leave a comment in the comment section of this post. A valid email address would also be helpful.

Why you'd do this in the first place: Because you live in San Francisco and want to come to our CD release show next week but you'd rather go for free. And you'd like to bring a friend. We'll pick 4 or 5 good ones and doll out freeness to them. If you don't live in the city, well, you can play too, but you just have to fly here. $200 plane flight for a $5 ticket? That's intelligent investing. Get E.F. Hutton on the line.

Your CD is in the mail. Also, is it wrong to love Derek Fisher?

Turns out the Warriors are kick-ass. With the notable exception of Mike Dunleavy, who is basically a corpse who gets paid the GNP of a small island nation to look frightened and lost for a half hour each night. The great part: there were several other people in our section heckling him. I call those people soulmates.

As you might remember, we four birdmonsters attended the Warriors game last night instead of eating Matzo ball soup or watching LOST and goddamn if it wasn't a good time. My only complaint: $7.50 for a plastic bottle of Budweiser. That's like paying $300 for a Egg McMuffin. I think it's actually prosecutable.

Alright. Enough about that. I should give everyone a rough timetable as far as shipping is concerned, so here goes: If you ordered within the United States, the post office is saying it should take three to five days. So probably by Saturday or Monday, you should be holding what you ordered---and, if I can digress momentarily, make sure you fondle the CD. Really. It actually feels nice. We decided to not go the jewel case route, which means three things: no misplaceable booklet, no annoying sticker-thingie on top, and fancy ink. So fondle away. Ok: now, if you ordered from somewhere across the Atlantic, they're telling us it will take between seven and ten days, but, for a buck fifty shipping, that's not too bad. All presales we got by Tuesday night were sent out Wednesday morning. And please, please, please: give us feedback when you get them, as you all will be the very first people to receive on, except a few folks I live with, work with, and otherwise pester, and, well, we're curious.

Today is one of those less exciting days. With the LP out & shipped, the product of the last four months of our lives in our hands, we've now got the to do all that boring stuff we've been ignoring with style and grace. Like van maintainance. Right now, the tires on our new friend are Patrick-Stewart-bald and the brakes are broken. Everything above the wheels though: top notch. Other than that, the crap we have to do is so bland I can't even make half-funny jokes about them, so I'll spare you the details.

Tomorrow: we're giving away some tickets to our CD release show. I promise some silly contest that we can all use to amuse ourselves on a slow, slow Friday morning. Stay tuned.

D-Day, part 2

You know that scene in Indecent Proposal where Demi Moore is in bed, rolling around in hundred dollar bills? That was us yesterday, except with CDs. Alas, no negligees were involved. And neither was Robert Redford.

Alright, I'll admit it. That didn't happen. You know that, and I know that. But I did give it serious thought. The problem with rolling around in a bed full of CDs is that they have pointy corners and, well, it's just a little weird and gross.

But we're getting ahead of ourselves. I should mention that the LPs were late arriving yesterday, and I spent roughly five hours making laps around my living room, staring at the phone that just....wasn't.....ringing. I tried reading a little, but mostly just did that "I've been staring at this paragraph for 20 minutes and I haven't read any of it yet" thing that I do when I can't concentrate. And then, Eric over at Pirate's Press called and, because we were all being very, very impatient, we all went to pick up the CDs together. And, can I digress and just mention that Pirate's has done every printing we've ever done (buttons, posters, stickers, CDs, the short-lived birdmonster yarmukle) and that each and every one has looked better than my most optimistic hallucinations? Yes, I think I can. And yesterday was no exception. In fact, yesterday was the most marked example of this so far. When you get your presale envelope in the mail, I really recommend you open it fully prepared.

Okay. All kidding aside, we really couldn't be prouder of this thing. It's like a really precocious baby we all had, but one that never throws strained peas at us or cries all night but can do quantum math and grow muttonchops. It's like the champion of all babies. We're just very, very grateful we were able to actually do this with our hamstringed budget and the only way we were was because of plenty of folks willing to do unbelievably generous favors (Brad, Leslie, Katrina, Eric, I'm looking at you) and help us make this happen. So, thanks for the hundreth, and certainly not last time.

Now, down to brass tacks. How do you get these things? Well, if you pre-ordered, we're shipping today. All the envelopes were ready to go yesterday, but mother nature slowed down traffic and our plane, so they're out today. If you live in San Francisco, we dropped plenty off at Amoeba yesterday and there'll be more around the City shortly. If you're one of those possession-hating Buddhist types, we're on iTunes now. There's also the CD release shindig at the Mezzanine on the 19th, and, that link over there to the right as well. Sure, it's not really a pre-sale anymore, but that doesn't mean I haven't developed a taste for licking envelopes. In fact, they're rather delicious, in a bitter, hideous sort of way.

In a very non-sequitor sort of move, we're celebrating tonight by watching our hometown Golden State Warriors. I can't wait to watch their probably feeble attempt at holding a candle to the Mavericks, then their predictable choke-fest in the fourth quarter. At least I can heckle Mike Dunleavy. That never gets old.

p.s. thanks for the tickets, Pete. You're a singer and a sugardaddy, wrapped in bacon, finished with a light tomato-cream sauce.

D-Day

Against my better judgement and deepest desires, I'm here at work while our CD is deplaning in Oakland. Why? Because I'm a sap. I could bore you with the reasons---mostly involving "escalated workload" and other euphamisms for "our department is royally screwed"---but I think the most blunt & eloquent of those reasons is "I'm a sap."

Thankfully, I'm a wily sap. I'll be leaving at noon thirty to go bask in the splendor that is our first LP in boxes and boxes all over our house, and then, after the basking is over, I'll be stuffing them into envelopes and schlepping them to the post office. Because, as cool as thousands of Birdmonster CDs on our floor will look, tons of them in the mail will look a whole lot better. The thing is, that's three hours away. Right now, I need to try to not obsess over this any more and just log in a few hours of indentured servitude. I'll be back, when the expectant nervousness has turned turned to girlish giddiness.

God bless Sunday...which, if you're religious, I guess he always does.

Today promises to be the slowest day in the history of recorded time. We're all like little kids on Christmas eve---except that two of us are Jewish and one of us might as well be---but, I'm going to stick with the analogy nonetheless. And let me tell you: Santa is taking his sweet-ass time. We've reached that throughly exciting and totally painful day-before stage, where all you can do is think about tomorrow and hope that you don't daydream yourself in front of oncoming traffic.

The nice thing is that this weekend was chock full of birdmonster goodness. For starters, it was Zach's birthday and we got invited to accompany him & his folks out for Burmese food Sunday afternoon. Let me suggest this: Walnut shrimp for President, 2008. We even got to eat around a Lazy Susan, which ranks up there with the umbrella, the fork, and the printing press in the pantheon of perfect inventions. Zach got a kid's book full of mean-ass flying dinosaurs (each of which proving the age old adage: don't fuck with a birdmonster) and a 5 gallon jug of spicy New York pickles. So thanks to Toni & Terry for a feeding a bunch of poor schlubs. We're much obliged.

Yesterday also saw the unveiling of the new website. The address is the same, but we're updating the content and now you don't have to navigate the spinning menu of death and dismemberment. Granted, I loved that spinny thing, but some of you, well, I know your feelings. Browse around, enjoy, and let us know what you think. We value brutal honesty, so long as it's positive, and if you hate it, we'd prefer a shameless lie about how much you love it. Thanks.

And then, there was our Live 105 performance. We received some really nice feedback afterwards and even a few extra presales (which tomorrow, cease being "presales" and can actually be called "salesales"), so, obviously, we appreciate that. For those that didn't catch it, we did an acoustic version of Ice Age, complete with a cello, a banjo, and a tamborine I was stomping on that nobody heard. My roomie Josh taped it for us and, even laden with FM static, we were really pleased with how it sounded. The radio gods told us we'd be getting a static-free, digital copy of it, which, when we do, we'll be sharing it with one and all, gratis. They also invited us to play BFD---which stands for Big Fucking Deal as long as you don't tell the FCC---this June, to which we said, well: sure thing gents. Although none of the other bands have been announced, I'm crossing my fingers for Stryper. Cross yours with me.

A veritable whirlwind of emotions

Well, shit. We're at t-minus 4 days, less than 100 hours, until we've got No Midnight sitting on the floor of the birdlivingroom. I just did some quick math and realized we'll be bring 1075 pounds of birdmonster home with us from Oakland International Airport, which is technically not a ton of birdmonster, but, figuritively speaking, it certainly is. At the very least, we can both agree it's a shitload.

In honor of this momentous event, a few very important things are happening this weekend. One of these is that we'll be spending our Saturday watching Gymkata and making envelopes so all you fine presale folks can receive your LP as early as humanly possible. Of course, to pick up a ton---excuse me----a shitload of CDs, we're finishing up the payment on the brand spanking new (by which I mean used) birdvan this afternoon. The days of the two sedan caravan are over. So, hopefully, are the days of overheating on the grapevine, inhaling coolant, and cursing the Gods of poorly-made radiators. I'm sure I'll always have feelings for the old birdvan. I might even feeling like I'm cheating on her, come Tuesday, but the thing is, we'd still be together if she hadn't up and died on us. We didn't break up, we're widows. Sometimes, you just have to move on.

Also, there's this: Sunday night, sometime around 8ish (maybe 8:30), we'll be on San Francisco's own Live 105, peddling our wares, our songs, and probably saying something foolish on Aaron Axelson's Sound Check. We'll also be playing something acoustic. I'm going to keep the name of that song secret, because I'm mysterious like that. Last time we were there, we learned that the FCC will allow you to say "pissed off" but you can't say "pissed on." Apparently, vulgarity is all about the prepositions. This trip promises to not piss us off nor find us pissing on anything, so the urine-vocabulary envelope will likely not be pushed. You can listen either the internet or the radio and, to be quite frank, I hope you do.

We're older than you are

Here I was, sitting at my computer, reading articles about that fish with legs that brainiacs everywhere are saying is the missing link between sea and land animals when Zach sent me this. Landfish, eat your heart out. Some palientologists found our namesake.

Definately a fire starter, twisted fire starter

Six days. That's it. Six days and the CD will be in our grubby little paws. Each one is starting to move very, very slowly. In fact, everytime I look at the clock, it's 12:47. It's always 12:47 nowadays.

Which is not to say that nothing's happening. No sir. It's just that April 11th isn't happening fast enough. We're actually in the middle of a website redesign (and by "we," I mean Katrina & Brett) and, last night, I got a sneak preview of what the new one will look like. It's quite wonderful. If you love the little spinning, vertigo-inducing menu (as well you should), get your fill over the next couple days, then say your goodbyes. We're putting her to sleep next week. But don't worry: we're taking her out to a nice steak dinner before hand...and then drugging her wine. Sorry, darling. We've never been good at break-ups.

Below, I'd like to show off a poster for the upcoming Northwest jaunt with Division Day. Their singer and pianist* Rohner made this one, and, to be honest, it gives me poster envy. Mainly because I'm still making them with pencils & crayons and then I end up seeing something like this...

...and I realize I should've taken a photoshop class at some point. I've mastered the paintcan function so far. Tomorrow: the eraser.

Lastly, we started getting some love on WOXY FM last week, which I mention because Zach just informed me that that's the station Dustin Hoffman stutters about in Rainman. The Future of Rock and Roll, definately the Future of Rock and Roll. They're strictly internet these days, but the playlist is strictly fantastic. Hell, I've been listening all morning, and, with the exception of a Prodigy song, enjoyed all of it. Plus, you've gotta love the fact that they switch it up and play different songs from not just our album but anything they have in rotation---basically, it's not just a bunch of singles. Check them out, if you're so inclined. Just promise not to request Prodigy.

* and yes, for the record, I laugh everytime I hear the word "pianist." I am a direct descendant of Beavis.

Man, oh man

So, it turns out that Wikipedia deleted the article. Let's all just agree to believe that it was in there at one point and that my last post wasn't a gigantic, useless sham. Can we do that? Please? Thanks.

Who else? Encylopedia Brown. He was cool. At least compared to the Hardy Boys

There's this hideous noise in my office. It sounds like someone is making keys in our vents. Or maybe, as my coworker suggested, abating some asbestos. Let's hope it's the former. Either way, it's invading my brain. It's like some really cruel psychology experiment, one where they stick people in a place that's boring and painful, then slowly torture them while they're there. Basically, it's Chinese water torture while someone unseen plays every Enya album in succession, with the volume slightly louder each song.

Anyway, that's the noise that's been torturing me for the last few hours. And between that and work and the fact that yesterday in Birdmonster world was fairly uneventful, I was planning on not writing silly things in the blog. Until we found this. Granted, it's a pretty wimpy entry, but none of the birdmonsters wrote it, so it's kind of cool to see. If anyone feels like adding something genius, be my guest. You're next Encylopedia Britanica. I know where you live.

Angry Addendum

Remember when I told you I wiped San Jose from my memory? Well, it turns out we got a parking ticket while we were loading up our car. Or rather, my girlfriend's car, since we were sans van at that juncture. Did I receive this ticket in person? No. Was I told I was getting one? No. So, to the DPT guy who gave it to us: go make out with a cheese-grater, you little bitch.

Tales of Noisepop

I learned a valuable lesson this morning: when it's rained for thirty days straight, don't wear shoes with giant holes in them. It's one of those lessons you think common sense would cover, but sometimes, common sense and I don't get along. Then I end up at my desk with soggy socks. Tomorrow: galloshes.

I went to a fistfull of Noisepop gigs last year, seeing the cult known as Polyphonic Spree and the genius-elf-woman known as Joanna Newsome, but Birdmonster had never had the pleasure to play at our hometown festival. I was a little shaky after the previous evening's birthday/National/Division Day debauchery but, by the time we were in Slim's, the hangover subsided. How so? Well, first off, I'd like to point to Jose, the Slim's Chef, who I would definately think had a good shot at beating that mustachoed, smug bastard on Iron Chef, so long as the ingredient was chicken or zucchini or curried potatoes. Jose: my hat's off to you. The other bands, our show, personally, and some hair of the dog took care of the rest.

We played with Send For Help for the second weekend in a row. I don't remember how they were in San Jose, since I had that memory surgically removed from my brain, Eternal Sunshine style, but I'd assume it was on par with Friday. Their singer, George, shaved his once lumberjack-esque beard into muttonchops that Martin Van Buren would've been jealous of and we shared a cushy backstage room with him and the other fine folks in SFH, and their set was really rather great. The last song in particular and that skippy one. The one that goes: dun-nun-nun-nun-nun-NA, duh-nun-nun-nun-NA. I love those.

By the time we started, Slim's was fairly packed (which happens, it turns out, when they sell all the tickets). It was our first normal, non-acoustic, non-invite-only-dealy in the City since we left for Texas and parts inbetween, so we got to see a lot of friendly faces we hadn't seen in almost a month. I got a little steamy. Oh! And we got a button*, specially made, that said "I heart Birdmonster," which I wore, despite the fact that I might have looked like a self-absorbed prick with it on. My thoughts: you can wear your own band's button but your own band's t-shirt. There's some sort of unspoken rule there. I'm unsure if I can wear the Birdmonster underwears we're getting made, however. The jury's still out on that.

Ok: confession time. We're receiving the CD the morning of the 11th. I had to get that off my chest, since we'd planned to send out the CDs early, if possible. I think they got caught up in the Prague nightlife, eating 10,000 calorie dumplings and drinking 20 cent beer. They're just a little late though, and I'm sure they had a nice time, so screw it. So, on the 11th we'll be driving to the airport in some sort of birdcaravan, loading them up, and getting home in time to ship the CDs to here, there, and everywhere, so if you pre-ordered, we thank you immensely, and we'll be sending our you disc on Tuesday or Wednesday next week, the moment we get our grubby little hands on it, as promised. That's only....8 days from now. Whoa. How very, very excellent.

*Thanks Zara...and yes I'm wearing it right now.

Apparently, not QUITE sold out

Noisepop left the following comment to my last post:

NOTE ABOUT SOLD OUT SHOWS:
If you don't have an All-Fest Badge and a show sells out, we will release a limited number of tickets one hour after doors!

So, not all is lost.

Recouperating...slowly

The mush-brained hangover I'm currently suffering is really the only thing I can fault yesterday for. Otherwise: it was a perfect day, oh such a perfect day, like that Lou Reed song. The many reasons:

First and foremost, we again have transportation. I brought our team of highly trained sherpas back to Nepal, thanked them for their hard work, and explained that they were just another victim of the mechanization of society. Sorry sherpas, we got a van. And it's a beaut.

Of course, we only have this vehicle in the cosmic sense. We put a downpayment on it but it's not literally sitting in our driveway. But, it's ours. I'm excited because it has captain's chairs in the back and the interior is the color of moldy cranberries. It also trumps the original birdvan, since it's over a decade younger and isn't planning on overheating and spewing coolant in my face everytime it gets past third gear. The only thing it's missing is a name. I think Tessie is nice. Maybe we'll go with that.

Secondly, I saw the National and Division Day last night. I'm jealous of myself. They both gave me hope for the continued brilliance of mankind. And, I gots me a new Division Day CD, which kicked my butt this morning while I was trying to find a clear shirt to wear. I was unsuccessful. In fact, I'm at work wearing cut-off jean shorts and no shirt. Quite a sight.

Lastly, it was my birthday, which, coincidentally, is also the anniversary of John Hinkley shooting Reagan because Holden Caulfied told him to. Hence the mush-brained hangover. See, what I forgot, between work, practice, and that fantastic show was dinner. Which is bad. Mainly because the alcohol really does it's duty when you forget about food. Thankfully, left-over pesto fussilli saved my life.

Tonight: Slim's. And it's sold out. So if you don't have tickets yet, I apologize. What you should do instead is just plan on coming to our CD release shindig on April 19th, which will be cheap and, well, we'll be releasing the CD. You can also pet the aforementioned Tessie. Just don't get all naughty about it.

More ramblings

Once in a while, it's useful to remember there are some things that everyone loves. A while back, I recall claiming that the banjo and the two-dollar bill were universally adored and no one claim otherwise. We need to add breakfast in bed to this list. In fact, there has to be some way to combine all three, perhaps breakfast in a bed on two-dollar bills while listening to a Lee Skruggs album; I'm pretty sure that was the Gnostic idea of heaven, but I'm a little rusty on my ancient theology.

I mention this only because I got breakfast in bed this morning* and played banjo last night. If I was a valet, perhaps I'd get the two-dollar bill tip at some point, but I'm a temporary office lackey, so the only tips I'll be getting are along the lines of: "you better work faster" or "your lunch was too long." Two out of three ain't bad. At any rate: last night's acoustic jamboree, with the aforementioned banjo accompanying two acoustics and a cello, was a damn fine time. Sure, I couldn't hear anything, but who says you need to hear music to play it? Well, actually, you do, but let's not get picky about it. Some highlights of the evening include:

-Hijack the Disco: didn't know what in tarnation they'd sound like acoustic. They were wonderful. Hell, if sleighbells are involved, can it not be wonderful?
-Heavenly States: always great to see Ted play a right-handed man's guitar left-handed, like some genius freak.
-Ms. PacMan: Peter & I have an eternal Ms. PacMan rivalry and Thee Parkside has one of those machines where each player sits down at opposite sides and the screen rotates when you die. I was filled up with cheap Miller High Lifes (which is decidely not the "champagne of beers," despite claims to the contrary) and lost, buzzer-beater style when Peter went Nick Van Exel on me and swooped up a banana right before dying, thus surpassing my feeble score. I salute you Peter. If you didn't play guitar in birdmonster, I'd break your fingers.

Beyond that, I survived my first workday in a month without serious catastrophe, Peter is looking at a few possible birdvans today, and I get to go see the National tonight, whom Division Day have the pleasure of opening for. We played with those New Yorkers about a year ago and I haven't seen a better show since; just effin phenomenal. Added bonus: I live five blocks away from the venue. Everything's coming up Milhouse.

Oh yeah: Division Day: if you need to sleep on our floor, by all means. We only charge $60 a night.

That's it for now. Computerized labor is calling my name.

*Thanks Rebecca!

Yes, I've been writing this all day and this is the best I came up with. What's it to you?

I think I'm living in a vortex. Not only am I back at my old job---wearing a headset, for God's sake---but we are again scouring the internet and the Bay Area for a new birdvan. It's the exact same thing I was doing last time I was parked in this chair, late last month. Peter and Zach are spearheading this noble mission and we've got a few promising leads, not including the unregistered Dodge that makes mysterious noises and has an unfathomable 320,000 miles on the odometer. Oh yeah, and it doesn't start. That actually sounds exactly like our old ride, except he's asking for three times as much as we sold ours for, and ours had the plaid seats and smelled like poison. The chutzpah of that guy. I hope he finds his sucker. It just isn't going to be Birdmonster.

So, it's my first day back at work. I feel like an ex-con who got out after a petty theft charge, said his goodbyes and swore he'd never commit another crime, only to hold up the gas station twenty miles away, live in a friend's trailer for a month, then head back to slammer after a positive ID from the drunken redneck in the Airstream on lot 212. I came back and people just shook their head. I think I'll have a beer at lunch, to wash down my pride and dignity.

Of course, it's a short sentence. I'm out again April 20th, before the tour with Division Day. It'll only be a week long little jaunt up there in the Pacific Northwest, but I'm looking forward to it. Maybe we'll team up as DivisionMonster and cover Graceland from start to finish...or maybe we'll just both play our own songs. I'm voting for a little of both. I just want to sing that line "ever since the watermelon." Is that too much to ask?

Last night we did an acoustic jamboree in Peter's living room in hasty preperation for tonight's NoisePop Happyhour shindig and got some delicious dinner from Maureen, who really should have been playing the xylophone the entire time, but instead made pasta. It was the sort of set Oldmonster will play when we're Rolling Stones-aged and no one can spaz out anymore. I'm looking forward to that. I'm going to have really high pants and a floppy fedora. Just you wait.

Why Johnny Ringo. You look like someone just...walked over your grave.

My short-lived freedom has an expiration date and that expiration date is...tomorrow. Back to work for me. I was thinking about becoming a quasi-professional grifter but I just don't have the requisite skills or total lack of morality. That's okay though. I might've felt a bit squeamish about living on some old lady's permenantly borrowed pension.

So tomorrow, I return to the old job, which shall remain nameless so that my mere association doesn't cripple their stock options. It's nice that there's a slot waiting for me, and, although the job itself is about as fun as lemonade and papercuts, the folks there make it livable, even enjoyable from time to time. It's just that crawling back with your tail between your legs feeling I'm not looking forward to. If I had any pride, I'd be swallowing it.

With this single day of glorious destitute freedom, I went over to the East Bay to get the ol' banjo fixed. She's sitting here on my lap, positively purring. Which is just in time, because we have a little acoustic set to play tomorrow night at Thee Parkside, and the hideous-black-bass-of-death just isn't conducive to a strummy, rocking chair set. If you're in the city tomorrow, you should come. Cheap beer? Check. New Birdmonster songs? Check. Other kickass bands turned down, acoustic style? Check. Free? Double check. Game, set, match, tomorrow night.

Otherwise, all I'm doing is being a self-publicizing, internet slattern and thinking about how good Tombstone was last night. I mean, is there any greater shit-talking line than "I'm you huckleberry."? I don't even know what it means and I love it. Val Vilmer went from that-guy-I-hated-as-the-Saint-and-Batman to why-isn't-he-in-every-movie-ever status in two short hours. Sorry I doubted you, buddy.

Tomorrow, I'll be posting from work (unless my boss is reading this, in which case, I MOST CERTAINLY WILL NOT BE), with maybe something interesting to say.

Lastly, we owe everyone a big thanks who gave us feedback yesterday on the new songs that got posted in blogland and to anyone who bought a CD, thus keeping us from the gutter. Much obliged. We really, really, really (ad infinitum) appreciate it.

One more song...

In addition to Myspace and Music for Robots (which I noted below), Gorilla Vs. Bear posted a song too. The love spreads. Thanks to both and all.

Read me and be rewarded with new music and tales of our forgetfulness

It's Monday and, before I fry up last night's left over potatoes au gratin, before I continue my quest for three week's of employment, in other words, before I take care of my physical & financial security, I'm going to update this here blog. They call that "prioritizing," regardless of how bassackwards my current brand of it may be.

This weekend found us in San Jose for the first time ever, followed by a midday Sunday show with Clap Your Hands at a venue I didn't even know existed. San Jose was...let's just say "snafu-ridden." See, it was Dave's birthday and the gift he gave himself was leaving his guitar in the parking lot of our studio. Of course, we didn't realize this until about two minutes before our set, which then led to flashlighting through the Blank Club for a black guitar case which never turned up, and he ended up playing with a guitar which hasn't been restrung since Reagan died. In solidarity, Peter decided to break strings on three seperate guitars, one of which was Send for Help's (who I really enjoyed, by the by, and we play with again this Friday) while I insisted on unplugging myself at least once every other song. Like I said, snafu-ridden. But, there's a silver lining. When we got back to the studio, a fine, fine gentleman named Antonio told us he'd found the instrument, noticed it alone and unattended in a grimey parking lot, and secured it for us. Ok. Let me be honest---I don't know the whole story. It involves some really thoughful people I'd rather not discredit by mucking up the tale, most of which occured while I was asleep. I'll give them their proper god-bless-you's (not the sneezy kind either) when I badger Dave for the whole story. The moral: I love everything and Dave didn't have to buy a new Gibson.

So, with the once missing guitar and a slight chip on our shoulder, we ended up at the Metreon's Action Theatre Sunday afternoon for an invite-only, radio-station-sponsored shindig with CYHSY. Upon arrival, we noticed they had acoustic guitars and basses, which made sense, since the venue was basically a small stage (with great sound) in front of seating for about 200. I don't think we've ever played a show to a seated audience before. I felt very mature, like maybe we should have been doing Windham Hill songs, but, since we were unaware of the arrangement, we blazed ahead with four rock songs, spazzed out in front of our hometown, and called it a day. And honestly, I thought it went really well. Our youngest fan (at least that I know of) was there, in her tiny birdmonster shirt, and we signed a poster for her, and that was maybe the highlight of the day. I felt like some kind of rock n' roll uncle. I'm smiling just thinking about it.

Clap Your Hands played a dreamy, acoustic set that was perfect for a Sunday afternoon. That song that ends with tons of "child stars"s is still in my head. Zach posted a rather blurry picture below, which proves a) that we were there, and b) that it was very red. I always enjoy seeing a band stripped down on acoustics and this was no exception. Their new songs sound pretty kick-ass as well, I must say. Bravos all 'round.

Which brings us to today and this week. But there's some good stuff happening, so, before I leave, let me tell you what the skinny is: In addition to the myspace page, which has three songs from the new album available for your discerning ears, Music For Robots posted a really nice little blurb about the forthcoming CD and tossed up a song which we haven't shared with the internet at large quite yet. It's called "Balcony" and it remains one of my favorites on the CD. So, hey, check it out. Free music, right? Who could ask for anything more?

We've also got two shows this week for our local folks. One is an acoustic thing at Thee Parkside where we'll play three songs, probably laden with banjo and whatever else we can toss together, along with locals Hijack the Disco and the Heavenly States. All the bands will play between six and seven while Ted from BAGeL radio will spin some songs on the hours that bookend that slot. The whole thing will go from five to eight, so you can be home in time for LOST, where FIVE EVENTS WILL HAPPEN, at least according to the previews. I hope one involves Jack getting bitch-slapped. I'm sick of that guy.

Friday, we play a full set with instruments that must be plugged in at Slim's. It's a Noisepop show, so get your tickets early. Film School, Cloud Room, and Send for Help will also rock out for your esteemed enjoyment.

Okay, I've put it off long enough. I've gotta fry up some old potatoes and get paid. Be good.

clap your hands say yeah

...sent via sidecrack...

What's happening now, what's happening soon, and also, Number Munchers.

As Peter so aptly put it yesterday, we've entered the "slutty phase." For the next, oh, three or four weeks, we'll be whoring our music out to anyone who will give us the time of day. We'll be like the sonic version of those Scientology assholes on Market Street who never, ever, ever, leave you alone, even if your hands are full of umbrellas and newspapers and you're using your earphones...no...we won't be that bad. I've had the near unquenchable desire to headbutt those people, but I'm not a violent man. I consider it punishment enough that their spiritual leader wrote Battlefield Earth. I'm more into cosmic justice than bruising my forehead.

The slutty phase has so far been, well, more promiscuous than slutty. We haven't descended to a Jerry Springer-esque level yet, so, my dignity is still mostly intact. But let it be said: that time could come.

So, why are we doing this? Well, because we're in business for ourselves and our debtors have goons. Big, stupid goons with blunt objects in the backseats of their goonmobiles. But, let me tell you something: it's a nice feeling. I'm used to being in business for someone else, which has involved haggling with ticket brokers, summarizing asbestos depositions, selling kid's clothes, and driving around Shamu's sperm---and you think I'm kidding. Peddling something we made, we funded, and we own: that's fun. Driving around orca spunk? Less fun.

And that's what I'm up to. Phone calls, poster hanging, blog scribbling---wheee. I'm splurged on a bagel this morning, which just about blew my budget for the whole weekend, but I was ravenous and lazy, which is a lethal combination. All us birdmonsters did make it to a show last night though, with our erstwhile cohorts tapes n' tapes, who sounded phenomenal, looked exhausted, got goaded into an encore, and are currently on the road to Portland. Best of luck with that, gents. I think you guys should try & find a middle school somewhere & play Oregon Trail, just for the sheer awesomeness of that. Man, good memories with that game. The grandpa never made it past Colorado in my experience. Which reminds me of Number Munchers, also a highlight of my salad days. I hope children are still getting valuable education with Ms. PacMan rip-offs. If not, I demand all my taxes & lost lottery tickets back. Now.

Anyway, here's what's up for the next couple weeks: We play a few songs before Clap Your Hands at the Metreon this weekend, as well as traveling to San Jose for the first time. Next week: a few song acoustic set at a BAGeL radio shindig at the Thee Parkside followed by a Noisepop show with Film School, who, I've heard, found their van, so not all is lost. That story depressed me a few weeks back, so I bought their album, which un-depressed me. Then, another weird acoustic thing on Live 105 on April 9th, right before our album comes out, which sounds like fun, unless my banjo gets more broken. Between all that: more whoring. I just had a blood test though, and I'm clean. So don't worry if you come in contact with me. I may be destitute, but I'm free of disease.

Oh: and to David, my old, old friend and noodling guitar player: happy birthday tomorrow. Yakmallah.

The situation

It feels like we've been working on this LP for a decade until I get off my lazy ass and check my Harry Potter calendar. Nope. Just over two months now. And, for all intents and purposes, it's out of our hands.

See, right now, the LP is being assembled somewhere under the expert guidance of the folks at Pirate's Press. They do a lot of stuff in Prague, so it's nice to know that even if I don't, our CD gets a vacation. I hope it brings back a nice chandellier, or at least some ass-tight vinyl pants. But I don't think it will.

(Weird tangent: The aforementioned Pirate's Press, who've printed everything for us since the dawn of the monster, is actually headed by an old high school friend of Dave & mine. Our EP was actually the first thing they ever slapped together. The weirdness is that after Eric at Pirate's printed the EP, I went home to hang out with my folks and revel in my surrounded-by-the-elderly upbringing and found, of all things, a disposible camera, once owned by Eric at Pirate's...from our high school grad night. Pictures of me with a bowl cut? I'm sure they're in there. Yet, as I write this, I have yet to get the little bastard developed. That's my project for tomorrow. So Eric, if you're reading this, prepare for the madness)

The moral of the story is that now, we wait. We approved the mastered tracks, the sequencing, the spaces between songs, the artwork, the whole goddamn kit and kabootle, and now...well...let's just say I won't be sleeping.

Speaking of mastered tracks, we switched out the unmastered myspace songs to now mastered myspace songs. The difference is glaring and gigantic to me, but I've also heard each song roughly three trillion times, so you may not be able to tell. Either way, they're right here, for your ears, your friend's ears, and the ears of your neighbor if you play it loud enough. Also, I have it on good authority that Ted at BAGeL Radio will be playing a song or two tomorrow during his live show, which got me through many Fridays of office chair indentured servitude.

And, no. Right now, I have no job. I've managed to spend a grand total of $6 in the last three days, which is a triumph for a man like me, who happens to be both a pack-rat and an impulse buyer. I'm the reason they put Butterfingers on the check-out stand, mister. Blame me. Of course, food & booze are running low and the inside of my room is just not that exciting anymore. I think I'm going to go into our bomb shelter, crack open some Spam, and pass out in a salty-faux-meat-induced coma. Now that, my friends, is a plan.

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.

That's that

We're nine hours deep in a twenty five hour drive,
coasting through the yawnfest that is West
Texas in the middle of the night. Once in a while,
you smell an oil rig or see a flattened armadillo,
but otherwise...pretty boring. Unless you like
counting mile markers. If you do: boy, do I have
the place for you.

The bad news is that we've got sixteen hours left
and that's if we make it through LA without
traffic, which would be a miracle on par with the
Second Coming or me enjoying a Kevin Costner
movie. We'll see how it goes. We're all a little
homesick though, and if you combine that with
coffee, in-car naps, and Graceland, we may not
stop at all. I say this at 1 in the morning, so
there's plenty of time to reconsider. For now:
onwards.

We finished our tour, appropriately, in Texas at a
Hell Ya! show, who were actually among our first
and most enthusiastic fans in the aforementioned
city of angels. We even got one of them up on
stage to help break my long suffering tamborine.
That poor thing was held together with two kinds
of glue and three kinds of tape and it got a proper,
destructive funeral. So to Ashley: thanks.
Although, when I go home and put on my Dr.
Frankenstein lab coat, who knows what might
happen. I owe it, I think, one more surgery.

While whiling away our last night in Austin, we got,
yes, the last mix of the last song from Brad, who
was fresh off a plane from Japan. Now, we
master this puppy on the 20th, and send it off for
printing. Then, all you fine folks who've purchased
them already will get new birdmonster in your hot
little hands, which has really been the idea all
along.

When we get back to the City, I'll get some of the
more amusing pictures together and share them.
For now, I'm going to chose some loud, sing-along
-y CD for Peter so he doesn't start going glossy on
me.

There'll be a good deal of new in the next few
weeks, so, hope to see you soon.

Everything since Monday

Alright. Hello again. I'm a bit bloodied but all is
well. I'm going to do my best to bring us all to
speed. Here we go:

San Antonio.

I remember a guy stage diving backwards, except
it was more of a stage fall and, sadly enough, nobody caught him. We
played at a spur of the moment type place, being that the original venue
mysteriously shut down, and you'd think that would be mean something
along the lines of a fetid shithole. But, in fact, the place---the
Limelight---was just a new club, something like a month old, and they
happened to be open on a Monday evening. Honestly, it was really, really
fun. I got to actually see Tapes n' Tapes and Seventeen
Evergreen, whereas, in Dallas, there was an
inpenitrable mass of humanity (tall ones too) in
front of them and me. That was pleasant.

That night, we stayed at a motel which claimed
bargains and delivered none, and debated the
merits of drinking out of the bathtub faucet. The next morning, it was
off to Austin, where we've been for a few days
now, watching the city devolve into a massively
loud festival. It's fairly bizarre. Everyone has those convention center
badges I usually associate with bad temp jobs I used to get...and will
probably be returning to. Thankfully, this is much
more fun than handing out fleeces at a B of A
convention. There's certainly more booze.

Originally, we'd planned to play two shows here,
Thursday & Friday, but the next day, we got an
invite to play instead of this band Diamond Dogs, who'd apparently
dropped out for reasons unbeknwownst to me. We played at a daytime,
Little Radio party (who were actually the first people to ever play any
of our songs on anything but our friend's CD players), and we
loved it. The show ended a bit unceremoniously,
with a cymbal getting kicked to the ground and sawing a cable in half,
but fuck it. You can't plan for things you didn't know were actually
possible.

I have to say that I enjoyed the night a bit more
than the show. We ended up scouring the city for food, choosing dog food
tacos, and settling in to a
dueling piano bar. Pete's Dueling Piano Bar, to be
precise. There's nothing like a Texan ridiculing some
Canadians while flubbing Oasis songs. There really isn't. One of the
guys playing that night was like the Texas version of the Jungleboat
ride at Disney land: really terrible jokes, but somehow, really
entertaining. He did a mean "Blister in the Sun." Seriously. Anyway, at
some point, when he had a few requests, he casually asked if there was a
drummer in the house. And you know what
we did? We ratted Zach out. Let it be said: never
commit a crime with me, because, apparently, you're going to jail.

So, Zach, Rusty, and the other guy with the hat
played Steppenwolf. It was that or Waren Zevon, and since Werewolfs of
London can't really hold a candle to Magic Carpet Ride, I think Zach
chose wisely.

Then, more shows. Watching them, instead of
playing them. Which is of course exactly what I need: loud music. But
I'm not really complaining. I just can't hear anything you're saying
right now. But, let it be said:
Group Sounds: you rule.

Which brings us up to today, where We played at this Fader Magazine tent
downtown at 5, which involved other people's gear, playing after Jose
Gonzales, and free pants. The stage there was outside and so, was
preheated to a pleasant hundred and eighty degees for
our set. I think we all felt a little delirious
afterwards, but it was a good kind of delirium,
the one you can remedy with free booze, water, and a big comfy chair. It
was really nice to see so many friends there, so, to everyone who was in
town and took time out of the musical clusterfuck to come see us,
thanks. I had fun.

Now, all I have to do tonight is eat this by now cold pizza and try to
rally for an evening of not messing with Texas. See you soon
...sent via sidekick, with apologies for the predictably screwy
formatting...

Sunday in Texas

I'm in the car right now, outside what is perhaps
the most infuriating chain store ever. That's right!
Guitar Center! All purchases are guaranteed to
take at least forty-five minutes. All employees
are guaranteed to call you "bro." And regardless of
what you want to buy, they guarantee that none
will be in stock, even if you can plainly see
forty-five of whatever it is behind the counter.
Of course, when you're in Fort Worth and you
don't know any better, sometimes, you gotta
make a deal with the devil. Sadly, no Charlie
Daniels songs were involved.

Yesterday was showless and travel free, so we
spent the greater part of the afternoon and
evening tromping around Fort Worth. We went to
this place that had a hamburger bun signed by Wiliie
Nelson in a hermetically sealed glass case on the
wall and ate some meat. You can only eat meat
here. Potatoes are acceptible, but I think citrus is
actually illegal. Also, I was thinking about buying
this pink, confederate flag purse on the way to
the car, but I reconsidered, being that it was
perhaps the most innapropriate thing I could've
ever bought. I got a purple one instead.

That place with the Willie Nelson bun was
thoroughly badass though. In addition to John
Hancocked bread products (there were other buns
signed by Styx and Dolly Parto), there was live
country music ("You can take the girl from Texas,
but you can't take Texas from the girl"), pool
(which Pete & I lost), and a video game called
"Extreme Hunting", wherein I accidentally
slaughtered countless bear cubs with a crossbow.
There was even a mechanical bull somewhere,
which, in retrospect, I kinda wish we would've
ridden, but I couldn't stop thinking of that shitty
Travolta movie and it sort of soured me on the
whole ordeal. In fact, I think it's good policy to
avoid doing anything Travolta's ever done, except
breathing and drinking water. Next time, though:
the bull.

Today, we drive down the 35 to San Antonio, to
play on almost the same bill as the 10th in Dallas.
We'll be joined by Tapes n' Tapes & 17 Evergreen
again, which is really rather nice, since that night
still makes me smile. The venue we were going to
play originally closed (yes, for good and forever),
but the fine folks who put it together (Music For
Listeners) swooped on another space before we
even knew what happened. So a big, hearty round
of applause for those guys. If it wasn't for them:
street corner banjo.

Now: more driving.

This weekend, so far

Apparently, it snowed in San Francisco. Not a blizzard or anything, just some whispy little things that turned to puddles when they reached the ground. I mention this only because here, in Texas, it's a humid eighty degrees and I'm walking around in flip-flops. There are some things I don't miss about home.

I do miss breakfast though. We've been in the habit of waking up around noon-ish, and at that point, your typical Texas restuarant serves obscene amounts of meat and obscene amounts of meat only. There's nothing like a pound of beef brisket to the face in the morning.

But so far, I'm liking this state. We're going to be here for about a week or so and have played two out of our planed five shows thus far. Dallas found us playing at the Cavern, a cozy, loud little dive, with Tapes n' Tapes & Seventeen Evergreen. Neither dissapointed. We've been dweebed out internet penpals with Tapes n' Tapes for a good third of a year now, and, I have to say, they're great guys. We met them late for dinner, they dining on pizza, while we chose to order BLTs slathered in rancid mayo and filled with lettuce I'm sure was from a salt water aquarium. They just seemed to be really enjoying themselves all night, which is not always the case with bands we play with. God knows why. We certainly do. Anyway, we play with those boys again tomorrow night in San Antonio. Seventeen Evergreen, weirdly enough, was the second SF band we hadn't played with at home but met out on the road this trip. I dug 'em. Where they've been in our Bay Area lives is a mystery, but we're remedying that next month at the Mezzanine.

You know another thing about Texas? Compliments sound waaaay better in a thick, southern drawl. Last night, this guy told us our show "changed his life," and, you know, if he wasn't southern, it might've sounded scary. We spent last evening at the Wreckroom---and don't you have to love a club whose name is a pun?---with a band called Black Tie Dynasty, who we realized as the night wore on, we played with exactly one year ago: March 11th. It was almost enough to make me go new-age on everyone, but I refrained, drowned my chakra with a two dollar beer, and enjoyed the show. It was BTD's hometown crowd & they worked it. Thanks again boys.

Below this post, you can see another thing that happened in Texas, namely the arrival of some long overdue merch. See, we were planning on having the album already, but as you folks who have pre-purchased know (and thanks again for that), we didn't quite get that together. Instead, we got some shirts and posters, one of which I'm holding proudly below. Make sure to notice, the drunken, 4 a.m., shit-eating grin.

Today, we're thinking of doing something non-band-y...which isn't even close to being a real word. Sorry bout that. We'll post some pictures soon too, now that we have a base of operations that isn't a borrowed Toyota. And I should of course remind you that our myspace page has three unmastered songs that'll be on the LP, out in about 4 weeks.

So, if you're in Texas, hope to see you this week. If you're in San Francisco, see you in a few weeks. And if you're anywhere in between, seeing you would mean that our car broke down or that we'd become honest to God vagrants. So, sorry---hope I don't see you.

An explanation

Last night we ate at a rather spicy and rejuvinating Tex Mex place in...Arizona? New Mexico? I don't know. It's fairly safe to assume I'll never eat there again, although enchilidas with a egg on them: the bee's knees.

Any way, on the way out of that place, there were those supermarket-y things with the plastic bubbles filled with shit you don't need for quarters you'll just lose anyway, and I decided to buy something. I was hoping for the necklace with the weed leaf made out of plastic diamonds or one of those sticky hands that ends up covered in cheezit crumbs. Instead I got some plastic teeth that tasted like putting a garbage bag
in your mouth. Below, and perhaps against my better judgement, is a photograph of my extremely intelligent purchase.
...sent via sidecrack...

Finally, finally, finally

See that link to our myspace page, over there on the right? It's underneath that picture of us looking excited and sort of confused, staring at a mixing board. Yup. Right there. Ok, you should click on that. Please. I know I'm getting a bit bossy, but it's for good reason, I promise.

That reason? New songs. Hence the title of this post. Listening to those will be far superior to reading whatever my flu-ridden, pseudo-aware brain can remember about last night.

...but, you must understand, I need something to do too. We're stuck in this car today for as long as we can handle it, which means somewhere in Texas. Big Spring is an option. I have no Texas knowhow, mind you, but it's a pretty big dot on this road atlas. There's also a Noodle, TX, but I'm pretty sure I'd be dissapointed if their mayor wasn't made of ravioli, which he probably isn't. I can't deal with that kind of
anguish. Point is, it's a long way from Tucson to Dallas, so we're just gonna drive until we start hallucinating.

So, Tucson: I can't say I saw too much of it, honestly, as we played at the Club Congess, which was like this self-sustaining bomb shelter you never have to leave. They had a restaurant, a bar, a venue, and a hotel all under the same roof---and, like good birdmonsters, we used all four. The rooms were free, too, and there were actually enough beds that no one had to sleep in the bathtub...this time. We got to play with the Heavenly States, which somehow we'd never done back home. They were
wonderful.

Speaking of Bay Area bands, we heard this morning that Film School's van got stolen in Pennsylvania. If you run across the culprits, please, kick them in the throat or groin. You can also give the band a few bucks to help them out, which I'm sure they'd appreciate.

And now, get out of here. Listen to those songs and let us know what you think.

...sent via sidekick, and therefore filled with infuriating line
breaks...

Damn you, Dakota Fanning

Hello from Godknowswhere Arizona. Much has happened since the last ill-formatted, backseat yammerathon, so, in the interest of expediency: onwards.

Right now, believe it or not, I'm listening to birdmonster. If it were possible, I'd just have the LP hooked up into my vein. Or I'd huff a rag made from the LP. Actually, I'd prefer the rag. I'm phobic of needles. But the addiction has a purpose today: we finally decided which songs go where, which songs have roast beef, which songs have none, and which little songs go wee, wee, wee, all the way home.

But that isn't to say that everything's mixed. Mr. Cook is working on the last song (both in his process and on the disc, coincidentally), our one reallllly long one. We aren't talking Wagnerian length here. Or even Dream Theatre...narian. Just 7 minutes. Any way, once that's waxed, there's mastering and...well...then it's yours.

By the way : I apologize in advance for any mispellings or thoroughly unfunny jokes. I blame it on a head full of mucus and the incredibly shitty Dakota Fanning, De Niro movie I suffered through last night. Don't watch that movie. I beg of you. Put in Gymkata instead. Or something with Heston, preferably being Biblical or violent, even more preferably both. Moses Chainsaw Massacre is a great place to start.

Except for the aforementioned album hoopla, the tour moseys on. The show in Los Angeles was pleasantly well-attended, despite soggy weather, and Division Day sounded as good as I've seen them. We're actually heading out with them in April, up through the Pacific Northwest, but more on that later. One extra cool thing about Monday: I got to meet an original member of At the Drive-In, who bought me a Red Stripe, overpayed us for an EP, and had glowing things to say about the show. That was nice.
Unlike my pre-show pancakes, which tasted like the gruel from some Dickens book or another. For shame, Brite Spot. Is Bisquick too much to ask?

So, tonight: Tucson. With hometown friends Heavenly States. Bring your desert-dwelling cohorts.

Oh yeah. Tomorrow: we post songs. Stay tuned.

Plan D

I'm writing this from the birdmonster mobile command center, which, no matter what you're imagining, is really just zach's sidekick in the
crampy backseat of a borrowed 4-runner. My god. The keys on this thing are tiny. I predict popeye-esque thumb muscles in two weeks. Call the circus.

So: the car. I haven't yet divulged the entire story, and, since I'll be in this backseat for quite some time, trying not to piss all over my lap---mental note: less coffee before endless drives---I figured I could yammer at you for a moment.

Plan A was to buy an incredibly fancy super-mobile. Turns out incredibly fancy super-mobiles are incredibly expensive. So we moved to plan B: purchase a replacement birdvan. But when the best option you find has no back window and needs a spray of ether on it's engine to start, you move to plan C. I don't want my van addicted to 19th century painkillers. Plan C, though: it was an atrocious plan. Plan C: take two cars. Sheer misery. Plus we'd be missing out on the innevitable insanity that will
set in in about twelve days time.

And then there was plan D: the car trade. An old friend with a 4-runner offered to take Dave's grandpa sedan in exchange for a car with actual chutzpah. So Kelby, we salute you. I'd write you a sonnet if I could remember the rhyme scheme and if my thumbs weren't already burning.

Tonight: Los Angeles. We missed you. We've got one song left to mix and I get to shake Brad's hand for the phenomenal job thus far. And we're playing with division day tonight, who are some of our favorite people in the world. In fact: Einstein, Ghandi, then Division Day. I think we can all agree on that.

Now, a scratch-off awaits me. I hope it's one of those bingo scratch-offs. I like the implied drama of long, drawn out lotto tickets. They almost convince you that you didn't just flush three bucks down the toilet.

The first day of my fight against sloth

Well, well, well. I'm now officially a professional musician, which, if you want to be a pessimist about it, means that I'm really just unemployed. But let's not go there. It'd just ruin my buzz.

Now: what does one do when one is unemplo...a professional musician? The same thing we do every night Pinky: Try to take over the world! I can tell you that so far, I'm writing this blog and not getting paid for it. I'm also on my third cup of coffee and consequently, half way to my first ulcer. But there are big plans. Dave & Pete are heading south to check out a possible replacement birdvan, which, if functional, would have to be purchased, registered, and tuned up in the span of twenty hours. We've done it before. Last second panic is a wonderful thing. Of course, there's the temptation of the twelve noon brandy milk punch, but, like that Rilo Kiley song says, daytime drunks don't get anything done. So, we'll skip that.

The good thing is: I don't have cable. I can't relive the last time I was unemployed during which a strict regiment of Rice Krispies and hours of Judge Joe Brown were the daily plan. Oh...shit...Judge Joe Brown is on network TV. Must...stay...away.

Ah good: Brad just sent us a mix of what, as far as we've planned, will be the first track on the album. Daytime courtroom shows, begone! I actually haven't heard it yet, except on the in-computer speakers on this very machine, and those sound like a bad alarm clock radio, so comments based on that sound quality would be uncouth comments. But let it be said: if it sounds good here, it'll sound good anywhere. So, now I have things to do. To the family room, Pinky!

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!

A response

Dearest Underrated,

It's so nice to hear from you. We haven't seen you guys since Jeremy's bris---and what a disaster that was.

So, thanks so much for writing to us. We'd love to come New York is like San Francisco's fatter, more distinguished brother, you know. It's the brother that doesn't smell like bum pee (or, as much like bum pee), stays out later, and gets all the good banking jobs. And good clubs too, you say. Well, we've heard tell of many, but the only time I've ever been to New York, all I did was admire views from tall buildings and struggle with a row boat in Central Park. And you dance, you say? Well, they dance out here too, but they don't dance everywhere, and we like going places where, at the very least, the crowd does some God's honest toe-tapping. Ass-shaking is thoroughly superior, of course.

And that video you have? Aw. That ain't shit. I mean, we don't like tooting our horn, but that was a show in a basement long ago. Imagine what might happen if there was, oh, I don't know, a PA, or room to breathe? The possibilities are endless.

So, it's a date. We're going to have to keep it open-ended, but y'all are famous for your hospitality. Once we get this CD out and get our transportation issues squared away, we'd love to come, have one of those meaty, cubic sandwiches, and play as many shows as you'll let us. And of course, we'll be sleeping on your couch.

Very Truly Yours,
Birdmonster

p.s. Don't think we didn't notice the Stevie Wonder-y title to your letter. You are the sunshine of our lives.

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...

I need to be quiet now

I was thinking about our stint in LA while out on my not-so-hard-earned lunch break today, probably because I've basically got a one-track mind right now (must release CD....must release CD) and I realized I don't think we've even mentioned the name. How 'bout that? So, time to remedy that oversight. The album will be called "No Midnight."

...

Whoa. That was sort of anti-climactic. Well, now you know. And like GI Joe said, knowing is half the battle. The other half of the battle, is, of course, buying the CD. "Whoa" yet again. That was shameless.

Before this post spirals any further out of control, I'm going to retire. I'm still wearing all black & am in serious mourning mode (see below). However, since I spent roughly four thousand hours on it, I thought I'd share the poster for our upcoming show. My favorite part? The eskimo.



And with that, I think I'll retire. I'm a bit sleepy after a dinner with my folks and a late night of agonizing photoshoppery. Good luck with Thursday. Me and him, we ain't getting along so well.

A eulogy. Or is that "an eulogy"? Either way.

Dearly beloved; we are gathered here today to get through this thing called---wait. Wait. That's a Prince song. Let's start over.

Dearly beloved; we are gathered here today to bid a fond farewell to your friend and mine: the birdvan. It was a brave van, a van that defied the odds, that cost 800 dollars and made it up and down the West Coast more times than it should have. It died, like so many vans, by the cruel, overworking it's masters gave it. That and a bum radiator. And transmission. And a broken radio. And that weird sound that the seat made everytime you went over a speed bump too fast. At any rate, birdvan, we'll miss you. I hope the man we gave you to will treat you nice, or, at least gut you proper and put your five working parts into finer automobiles, such as a Gremlin or a Rabbit. Rest in peace, buddy.

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.

I think we should all write poems. Give it a try

So, yeah. It's Valentine's day. You can write it off as a Hallmark holiday or be bitter that all you've got this year is your extensive porno collection, but, I choose to look at it like Christmas. Sure it's commercialized and borderline ludricrous, but it's still a good reason to spread some love around, right? And, like a true romantic, Birdmonster uses poetry to spread it's unending adoration. Finding it impossible to remember the rhyme scheme of a Petrucian sonnet, we have chosen instead to go for a timeless haiku.

To Brad, our platonic valentine, who's doubtless in front of his computer as I type:

Tell Buddy hello;
We miss that little fuzzer;
At least my check cleared*

Well. Master Basho is surely rolling in his grave.

At any rate, with more seriousness, we do want to send our thanks to Brad. The man is a godsend, a perfectionist who loves clamorous rock and roll, and who works harder in one day than I do in an entire work week. We salute you.

By virtue of the gentleman I just serenaded with impeccable poetic panache, we received our third finished mix yesterday. The song he finished is Ice Age, which is my favorites to play live, both because it's a pretty & kind of odd song, and also because I don't have to play anything for the first sixty seconds & I usually could really use a beer by the time we're playing it. It's the only song I've ever heard with buttery cello and what almost sounds like a cattle round-up at the end. And you think I'm kidding.



* for the sake of this poem, let's agree that "cleared" is one syllable, okay? Great.

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.

Well, we made it.

It turns out there are other people in the world. I remembered this last night at our free Mezzanine show, which left me with a big fat grin, a few dead nerves in my pinkie, and quiet inklings of tinnitus. After all, us four birdmonsters have been quarantined in LA for three works, spending time only with each other and Brad. If we were women, we’d’ve been menstruating simultaneously. At any rate, it was good to get back into the real world and back to San Francisco, which, regardless of where you’re coming from, is a great place to come home to. My umbrella, it missed me.

As for the birdvan, she’s sorry she couldn’t make it home. She tried. She really did. But an exploding radiator and an apparent allergy to transmission fluid kept her down in Los Angeles, where she will no doubt be donated to charity with a floor full of crushed Cheez-its, crumbled t-shirts, and food of questionable age. We’ll miss you darling. Au revoir.

So, thus begins the later half of our album-making experience. Mixes will be transported through the wilderness of cyberspace and sent back down to Brad with our cogent, genius commentary, then sent back to us, then back to Brad, and so on: apply, rinse, lather, repeat, ad nauseum, until the album is done. It sounds like a good reason to stare at the computer and to get my iPod fixed. I’m sure you’ll agree.

As the mixing lopes along, I plan on updating the blog, perhaps with a few old pictures, and hopefully linking a song for streaming when it’s properly mixed. It’ll be fun, I promise. As for now, I’m just happy to be in my own bed, not mooching off the generous couches of LoCal-ers. Now, if only I could figure out what happened to all that money I left with…