“You can’t understand the blues until you’ve had your heart broken, and you can’t understand disco until you’ve had group sex on Ecstasy.” – DJ Harvey

When I moved to New York City over a year ago, my guitar made the cut: It joined a pile of things I brought with me that I wasn’t sure what to do with, like the blender (someone kept stuffing it deep in my luggage regardless of my attempts to ditch it) and the iron (the wrinkles flatten once a shirt is on anyway, right?).

“I’ll play this again.” I eyed the instrument. The guitar became a fixture in my New York City closet, a prop, a piece of black wood strung with nylon, undoubtedly out of tune. It rested between shirts on hangers and a basket of laundry. I stored it somewhere I would have to see everyday, that is, if I wanted a change of clothes.

It was the same guilt-ridden strategy someone might use to be healthier: Place the fruits and vegetables in the front of the refrigerator so you feel shitty reaching around them. Install the pull-up bar under the bedroom door, engulfed in shame each time you walk under without doing one, just one. The best motivation for getting better at something is reminding yourself each day that you still aren’t.

The guitar sat there. And sat there. The skills acquired from lessons I took in high school years before — rotting away. “I’ll start playing again. When I have time.” I never made the time. I didn’t have a reason to.

II.

“The Blues are a mystery, and mysteries are never as simple as they look.” – BB King

I recently visited Brazil, a country with a rhythm. The language, the way people eat, walk and dance, they all pulse to a beat. I tapped my hand against my side walking down the street, or gently drummed my fork against my plate after I finished a meal. The rhythm was hard to ignore; It was a rhythm ingrained in the culture.

In Brazil, I listened to music with a common rhythm. Not a Brazilian rhythm, but connected similarly. The bands and artists included the the Yardbirds, the Jeff Beck Group, Led Zeppelin, Cream, The Jimi Hendrix Experience, Mike Bloomfield, the Rolling Stones, the Black Keys, and probably a few more.

I listened to these artists hundreds, maybe thousands of times before, but I never noticed their shared foundation: the blues. The connected rhythm of Brazil helped me rediscover the blues and its genetic foundation in rock and roll.

III.

“Blues is easy to play, but hard to feel.” – Jimi Hendrix

When someone gives me an unsolicited music recommendation, I ignore it. I need to discover music on my own for it to mean something. There is a sense of accomplishment in the conquest. You invested time into  seeking a sound; The search happened naturally.

“You need to listen to this guy. He’s bluesy, ” or so I’ve been told in my past 20 or so years as a music listener by friends, family, and record shop owners (the latter of whom I’d also consider friends and family by my sheer gratitude for their ability to locate that one album I wanted at the bottom of a crate), but always ignored. The blues in my mind was something…dated. A type of music no one played anymore. It was irrelevant.

The artists I listen to the most are blues artists. I wasn’t paying attention. I had to figure this one out on my own to defeat my ignorance.

IV.

“If you don’t know the blues…there’s no point in picking up the guitar.” – Keith Richards

I picked up my guitar for the first time since high school a few months ago. The Brazilian rhythm helped me notice how even a complex web can share a simple foundation, like rock and roll and the blues. Discovering the blues seemed like a good way to get started again, a reason to pull the guitar out of my New York City closet, tune it, and play it. The blues was the foundation I was missing.

The story is set in the transitory period between college and a career. The protagonist struggles to manage his personal issues through music, the one thing that gives his experiences meaning.

You can read Tuesday here. It’s also accessible in the top right corner of this page

If you enjoy the story, please share it.

Thanks to Luke Nathan, who helped edit the story.

Thanks to Chris McKenna, who wrote the song that inspired the story.

And thanks to those who read early drafts of Tuesday. Your feedback was valuable in shaping the final cut.

Recently, I’ve forayed into music production. Specifically, DJing. I’ve always been the “music guy” in my circle of friends, casually claiming the title of “DJ” at parties. Developing an ear for how people react to different forms of music and studying the psychology behind it, it was appropriate to learn DJing beyond clicking tracks on iTunes.

The “DJ” is different things to different people: The radio DJ, or Disc Jockey, plays records, chats about songs, and engages in an open dialogue with his listeners. The wedding/bar-mitzvah DJ is an MC and party host, rather than the guy who plays the music. The DJ/producer (the type I am studying) expresses himself solely through sound. The DJ/producer mixes, scratches and blends records, using the turntables as an embodiment for instrumentation.

The DJ/producer is the most technical of the DJs, and requires a basic understanding of music theory. The tool-set of the DJ/producer includes, at minimum, two turntables and a mixer. The turntables play the records and the mixer controls which record(s) protrudes from the speakers at which volume, and with what quantities of treble and bass.

Learning to DJ is like learning an instrument. The process has dragged painful nostalgia of when I first picked up a guitar, and the frustration of training my hands and ears congruently. The ear training feels foreign, even to a regular music listener:

1.) Count the number of beats.
2.) Mentally organize the beats into packets of bars.
3.) Choose the perfect cue, mix and drop points.

The steps need to be processed simultaneously, which the hands then react to.

When I DJ, it feels like I’m training exotic areas of my brain. It’s taken months of practice to regularize tasks that I remember appearing simple when I was an outsider. Consider record mixing, one of the most basic maneuvers of a DJ:

1.) Choose two tracks within an overlapping 10-12 BPM range.
2.) Play one track while cueing the other.
3.) Adjust the pitch so the tracks have matching BPM.
4.) Prepare the cued track for the mix.
5.) Drop the cued track on the first beat of the bar.
6.) Repeat.

The goal should be to have two separate tracks that sound like a single track: A unique-to-the-DJ, live, remixed song.

The DJ can take a rock-and-roll track, transition to a hip-hop track, and then again to an electronic track, all while making it sound like the song never changed. The DJ allows his audience to enjoy the ambiance of social environment with his sounds serving as a backdrop to the social interaction. In a room of music, the DJ is in control.

############

The Ronettes’ Be My Baby is the most sonically pleasing song I’ve ever listened to. It’s an instant mood-enhancer.

The premise of musical narratives was the theme behind the four situational pieces I wrote a few weeks ago. Each storyline dramatized an ordinary moment of life — one we’d otherwise ignore — with music, causing the protagonist to feel imposing, elevated and perfectly out of touch with reality. To ignore my own questions wouldn’t be fair, so below I’ve coined the jukebox as if it were me.

As the plane picks up speed and you feel the tip lift off, you push up the rubber window cover and hit play on your iPod. What song is playing?

“Bring It On Home” by Led Zeppelin, 1:36 into the song. I’ve written extensively about Led Zeppelin Moments previously.

A pungent breeze tickles the sweat on your forehead as the train exits the tunnel and flies down the track slowly coming to a halt. As you watch, there is music playing in your headphones. What song is playing?

“You Are My Face” by Wilco, 1:29 into the song. There was a period of a few weeks when every time I waited for the subway, I attempted to time its arrival with this point in the song.

You increase the volume on the radio as you catch a final glimpse of skyline, partially blinded by the bleeding purple of the sunset. What song is playing?

“Running Down A Dream” by Tom Petty, played from the beginning. I don’t think there is any better driving song.

You walk down the aisle, eyes darting from seat to seat looking for an empty space. There is music blaring in your headphones. What song is playing?

“Going Up The Country” by Canned Heat, played from the beginning. The Allman Brothers are the quintessential road trip band, likely because much of their music is about travelling. However, I crown Canned Heat the winner in this case because they make flute sound country.

###########

1. Hypebot picked up my piece providing another array of song suggestions and more proof that musical delusions may be less delusional and more reality than I imagined.

2. It’s possible for a film to be so gripping that it creates a second-derivative musical narrative. Meaning, the combination of music and and on-screen drama duplicates the delusion as if it were happening to us. There are two prime examples of this:

a. The first example is from Forrest Gump, occurring when white-nosed, psychedelic-era Jenny balances on the apartment balcony contemplating suicide to Lynyrd Skynyrd’s masterful “Free Bird” guitar solo. Watch it here, and watch it twice.

b. The second example is from Apocalypse Now, which opens ironically with “The End” by the Doors. Notice how the sound of the helicopter’s propeller, which you don’t initially see, lifts clouds of desert sand and blows the trees in perfect symphony with the opening notes. Watch it here and shiver.

You are last in line for what appears to be a full capacity of travellers. As people begin to pile their bags into the lower storage area and load, you watch beads of sweat roll off your forehead onto the tips of your once-white sneakers.

The line dwindles down, and you swing your single piece of luggage — a black backpack — over your shoulder in preparation to enter the bus last. You walk up three steps, make brief eye contact with the driver and turn the soft corner as you enter the beginning of the aisle. Everyone stares at you, wondering how long it will take for you to spot the single remaining empty seat on the bus.

You walk down the aisle, eyes darting from seat to seat looking for an empty space. There is music blaring in your headphones.

What song is playing?

With the vehicle on the road, you take it out of reverse and shift into drive. You put light pressure on the accelerator as you adjust the left mirror, picking up speed once it is positioned adequately.

The red and blue dial of the air conditioning toggle catches your eye, but you decide to crack the windows instead to take advantage of the summer breeze. As you simultaneously lower the left and right windows, you pull around an escalated curve in the road providing a postcard-like view of the city. Your city.

You increase the volume on the radio as you catch a final glimpse of skyline, partially blinded by the bleeding purple of the sunset.

What song is playing?

Your backpack bangs against your lower back as you jump every other step, touching the railing once to avoid falling forward. Pulling your wallet out of your pocket, you grab your subway card and slide it smoothly through the machine. You may enter.

You run down one more flight of steps as you approach the final platform seconds before the subway arrives. As your foot touches the platform, you see the lights of the approaching train flash from the tunnel.

A pungent breeze tickles the sweat on your forehead as the train exits the tunnel and flies down the track slowly coming to a halt. As you watch, there is music playing in your headphones.

What song is playing?

You glance at your ticket, reminding yourself for the last time what seat number you will occupy. Spotting your seat, you climb over the knees of two others, and position yourself next to the window. You push up the arm rest and tilt your seat back.

The engine starts, followed by a jolting rumble and then a soothing hum. The plane eventually begins its acceleration down the runway in anticipation for takeoff. As the plane picks up speed and you feel the tip of the plane lift off, you push up the rubber window cover and hit play on your iPod.

What song is playing?

DJ / producer Mark Ronson told a story recently on a music panel that made me consider those questions. Mark was asked about his creative process in developing and producing a pop single: does he deliberately attempt to devise a piece of music that will appeal to large audiences or does he wait for an idea to strike before hitting the studio?

Mark’s story and response brushed on both:

Amy Winehouse, Mark’s collaborator in 2007, had proclaimed to him that “they want to send me back to rehab!” Mark, taken aback, responded, “No, no, no!” Mark had an idea, immediately followed by a studio session and a first stab at the track’s 1960s-style production.

The result was Amy Winehouse’s majorly successful track “Rehab,” produced by Mark Ronson. A casual conversation about Amy’s drinking problem turned into a catchy, soulful piece of music awarded five Grammys including Record of the Year, Song of the Year, and Best Female Pop Vocal Performance.

At the end of the story, Mark explained that his creative process was not sitting down and forcing himself to create a sound that would be popular with the masses. He simply creates music that is appealing to him when the moment strikes. At times this occurs as a result of a conversation or experience; other times it happens while he is in the studio producing other music.

I don’t believe creativity has an off / on switch. Creative, right-brained people are naturally wired to always be “on.” I do believe, however, that certain environments and states of mind are necessary in enabling the creative process.

Mark Ronson may not sit down and tell himself to “create a popular song,” but he was able to use a random slice of conversation with a talented alcoholic as inspiration for a multiple Grammy winning track. The hours of work, brain power and actual creative process took place in the studio, which you can guarantee was controlled, deliberate and practiced, unlike the spark of inspiration.

Take another example involving Steve Jobs: during a trip to India in 1974 he experimented with LSD, later calling the experience “one of the two or three most important things I have done in my life.” A writer has even said that “thinking differently — or learning to Think Different, as a Jobs slogan has it — is a hallmark of the acid experience.” Similar in theme to the story of Ronson’s conversation with Winehouse, Jobs’ experience with LSD was an inspiration for his later work while unrelated to the actual process of creating.

Inspiration for creativity is cheap and can be found anywhere, whether through conversations with an alcoholic, experimentation with LSD in India, or more conventional means. Creative production, on the other hand, is only as valuable as the person’s willingness to sit down and act on it.

The reason is because music thrives from a bold case of the “first syndrome,” where we remember our first album experience(s) vividly, no matter how awkward, forced or setup the occasion may have felt. The first of anything is memorable not because it’s our first, but because it affects how we experience all future derivatives of the same experience.

The “first syndrome” creates a lasting comparison that ceases to let go, acting like an inescapable cognitive dissonance between us and reality. I still find myself comparing fresh, musical listens to my first nervous conflict with the Gods of Rock.

(Signal dream sequence)

I stumbled into the closet, discovering a vintage pile of records that smelled of perfumed incense and stale, foreign plants. I was young, and noticing the fluorescent colors, I leaned down to pull out the large discs with the welcoming, enticing cover art. I chose the banana, jean zipper, glass triangle, juggling mime, stoned school boys, pissing friends and the man dressed in pink.

I came for the art, but stayed for the loud, gripping sounds. I carefully placed the large black discs on the record player and waited for the scratch and crackle as the needle adjusted to the groove. The music finally kicked in, and I jumped. For such an old piece of machinery, the symphony it produced was robust.

Ah, but when the music finally blared, it was worth the chore of getting the record synced with that ancient looking device. The banana told me it was Sunday Morning, the jean zipper screamed about Brown Sugar, the glass triangle caused Brain Damage, the juggling mime asked When’s The Music Over, the stoned school boys taught me about America, the pissing friends revealed what was Behind Blue Eyes and the guy dressed in pink showed me how to make Spanish Castle Magic.

(End dream sequence)

And just like that, I was sold. Chained, handcuffed and slaved to music for life. The Gods of Rock were my first. Every artistic medium from that day forward would be compared to the imperfections of my first experience with The Music. My favorite hang out growing up became the record store,³ and I preferred the used ones. The selection was more eclectic, and to my taste, so were the people.

When we discover new music, it invokes an emotional response sharper than a switch blade. It’s a sonic sensation of words and harmony that I’d argue is more powerful than other forms of art for the sheer reason that it disposes the chore of visualization on the listener. Music is the rawest form of media, and the counter-culture movement only accentuated that feeling of lust.

I don’t believe in much, but I do live by the Gods of Rock. Choose your icons wisely, because they might just change your life.⁴

And to that, we salute you.

1. I once got in a heated debate because I proclaimed that Limbaugh was a brilliant strategist. My opponent didn’t realize I made the claim in a negative light, and that their response proved my question rhetorical. This article is a good example.
2. See: alcoholic
3. What’s the modern day used record store? Do the collaborative filters on the internet accomplish this already, or is recreating that experience an opportunity in disguise?
4. I referenced this scene in the title of the post.