Happy Halloween

A Year In Time

Last year on this day I arrived home from Europe. I’d been in Ireland and Scotland for 10 days, and had had enough of my ugly American travel partners. When our plane left Edinburgh, I already knew I’d be flying home two days early…alone.

Traveling together can ruin a friendship, and I’d been miserable since we left Indiana. I’d sneak to computers late at night and email Matt and my family. My favorite memory of the entire trip was sitting at an antique desk on the third story of an old mansion in Cork, Ireland. The wind blew the curtains next to me as the rain pounded the shutter roof. I sat and wrote to Matt; he replied in 30 seconds.

I am smitten with Europe, but at that moment I knew there could be something better than architecture, cobblestone streets and tea with milk.

On our plane to Amsterdam, the last leg of the trip, I sat in the middle seat; my travel partner listened to music blaring from his iPod. I whispered to the stranger sitting next to me on the other side: I need help getting away from this person.

I was trying to be discreet, but I freaked the guy out and he loudly asked, “WHAT?” I shushed him and said, “This person I’m with is crazy; we’re in a huge fight and I’m leaving for the States the minute I get to Amsterdam; can you just make sure he doesn’t, you know, kill me?”

I felt like I was escaping from an abductor. The stranger quickly became my ally and mentioned that he had four other friends on the flight and that they’d all keep an eye on me.

When we landed, I explained to my co-traveler that not everyone was meant for seeing the world together and that I was leaving...on a jet plane.

He screamed at me in the middle of the airport, but my eyes were on my new Dutch friends, who were lurking near us and gesturing in an “are you ok?” way. I nodded. I was fearless and I wanted out.

My now ex-friend and I parted ways, after he refused to give me any information regarding our flight home. Credit card in hand, I walked to a help desk and explained that I had no ticket, no idea of when my flight left, but that I needed to get the hell out of Amsterdam immediately.

The attendant told me this was the worst travel debacle he’d ever seen, and so took pity on me; thank God for e-tickets or it would have cost me $3,000. He booked me a first class flight for the following morning, so I stayed alone in Amsterdam for one night. I drank a couple of glasses of wine and emailed Matt: I’m free! I’m coming home!

The flight home was one of the best experiences of my life. I’d flown first class before…but alone?! Never. The crew did everything except give me a sponge bath, which I’m sure I could have requested.

When I took my seat I was offered champagne. I said, “Keep it coming – I really deserve it,” and they did. I ate one of each of everything and drank a few glasses of wine too (longer flight returning to the States, darn that air stream). I slept a lot too: the seats reclined completely! I may be the first person in history who departed a flight refreshed and satiated…and 5 pounds heavier.

Matt picked me up at the airport; I haven’t left him alone since.

Aunt Roadie

I had my first banjo lesson this weekend given by…my dad. I played “Go Tell Aunt Roadie” and learned to “pinch” and “roll.” I love it! I went looking to buy my own banjo…but ended up buying new dining room chairs instead. So, I’m a sucker for home furnishings. The banjo will be my Christmas present to myself.

Matt and I went to see a bluegrass band Saturday night; the banjo player let me sit in his seat and hold his “sweet bluegrass edition.” I begged him not to make me embarrass myself by playing Aunt Roadie in front of the audience. I tipped him $10 and he let me off the hook.

We went to see the Hotel Café tour at the Music Mill Sunday night. Matt went to the Colts game first (snooze) so I went to the venue early to hang with my L.A. friends Tim Jones, Jim Bianco & Brad Gordon (current owner of my childhood clarinet). The tour is going strong and features many L.A. bands, such as Cary Brothers (Garden State soundtrack, and it’s not “The Cary Brothers.” His name is Cary), the Weepies (I renamed them Simon & Girlfunkel), Josh Radin, Matt Costa, etc. Everyone was very cool and gave me the VIP treatment of FREE BEER. The show was superb, ending with Bianco’s “Goodness Gracious,” which made all the girls swoon.

Matt and I were both hung over all day Monday. I’m happy, although the sleeveless Indiana nights have well passed.

I'm Just Waitin' On A Date

Matt and I met at Ambrosia last night for dinner. I sat at the bar waiting for him as he’d gotten lost driving from his new office in Plainfield. The Plainfield drive is the best motivation for returning to California, and I’m all for it.

I once had a few dates with a guy from Plainfield, and when I told my sister, who was living in L.A. or New York or Florence, Italy at the time, she said, “Jill: Plain…field? Get out of that relationship immediately!”

I would never be so shallow as to break up with someone because of where they live, but when he had me over for dinner and served green bean casserole layered with creamy off-brand mushroom soup, I knew we needed to go our separate ways.

While sitting at the bar last night, a guy approached me with a big smile and asked, “Julie?” I chuckled and answered, “Close, but no.” Embarrassed, he apologized and returned to his table. Julie arrived a few minutes later and I eavesdropped on their blind date. When I heard her talking about her Easy Bake Oven, I felt kind of sorry for him.

Matt called several times apologizing for being late. I told him to stay on the phone and read me the names of the streets as he passed them: Guion Road; Georgetown Road; Lafayette Road. Politely, I said, “Honey, you need to turn the car around; you’re heading west; I am to the east.” People who aren’t from Indy have a difficult time with the fact that Kessler runs in all directions.

Matt’s loud, impatient moan filled the line, followed by a couple of expletives. I told him I was fine enjoying my wine and listening to the train wreck date, and to take his time. It took him an hour to find me.

We went to the Vogue after dinner to see Broken Social Scene. They have a Feist substitute now since her solo career took off, but they were still good (and Canucks!). I keep introducing him to good music and he keeps asking for more.

The average age at the Vogue last night? I’d say about 22. Life is good.

Laffy Taffy

I pulled my lower back over two weeks ago and I’m abiding inertia with a great degree of obstinacy. I have two large, painful knots on my back, which I call my buttons. Each night I ask Matt if he’ll push them. I’ve become the poster child for Aleve.

I found a pond near the house and Matt and I ran there all summer, but I pushed myself past one too many whistling illegal fishermen and I’m now paying the price. I’ve cut out weekday drinking and snacking (except for that delicious cherry Laffy Taffy Matt bought over the weekend, damn him) because I refuse to watch the summer 4 turn into a winter 6. I’m fattening Matt up by cooking a lot (bless thee, Cooking Network) but we both need to get in shape for skiing.

He just emailed me this: I’m eating donuts…I give up.

Thank God for high metabolism.

Last weekend we ate at Santorini’s in Fountain Square. I kind of left out the part about how I once got violently ill after eating there, but that was two boyfriends ago, so I figured it was safe now. We had a great bottle of Greek wine called—wait, I still have the cork in my purse—Domaine Harlaftis. No food poisoning.

We went to Deano’s Vinos afterward and I ordered a French varietal while simultaneously saying, “Watch, they won’t have it,” which they didn’t. We settled for a bottle of Cline old vine zin and Deano, the owner, came rushing over to our table to exclaim his unwavering adoration for my selection.

We buy the same bottle for $15 at Trader Joe’s all the time; he, of course, charged us $30. If you’re going to own a place with “Vino” on the sign, I suggest you take some wine lessons. (They do have a very cool table top made from the tops of foil wine labels, featured here. The only great one is Chalk Hill.)

We were on the cusp of considering ever returning there again, when suddenly the band nailed our cut-throat decision into the coffin: a trio was playing Karma Chameleon in the next room…on mandolin. I suggested we run for our lives.

We high-tailed it to Radio Radio where I proceeded to get more intoxicated, and then I drove home. This is where the Laffy Taffy came into play and, I have to say, it saved me.

But no more snacks until I can run again. I can’t speak for Matt.

Eva got her ears pierced and she's practically running her first grade class. I miss when she fit on my lap.

It’s official: I’m adding the banjo to my musical instrument repertoire. I no longer own a piano; I gave my clarinet to a musician in Los Angeles (he’s recorded with it twice already); so it’s time for something new. Plus, I need a winter project. I asked my dad if I could borrow his banjo and he said, all in the same breath, that of course I could and to get my own damned banjo, instead. He’s excited that I’m taking it up and said I’ll really stand out now at parties.

Matt and I went to see Tim O’Reagan from the Jayhawks open for Mojave 3 Friday night, and it was there that I made my decision. He can’t wait to make fun of me practicing, like I do when he sings in the shower.

Ah, music and writing: I love combining the two. I’m going to post some archived concert reviews from my bygone days of partying like (often with) and writing about rock stars.

Nuvo Newsweekly
Cake/Beulah Preview
Murat
November 6, 2001

The sardonic consciousness and irreverent spin on modern day banality is a theme best conveyed by the band Cake: presumably why they chose not to name the band Meat and Potatoes. Their practically patented raw and reputable irony, and the keen ability to shoot it straight (while straight-faced), led this unique act to their fourth album, Comfort Eagle. As the late 1990s airwaves were clogged with “alternative” bands, the term lost its niche, and the scene deeply needed an alternative to the alternative. Many bands tried. Cake’s 1995 debut, Motorcade of Generosity (originally released on cassette) began the course for what would later become deep-seated, funky, hill-jack rock, offering audiences a reprieve from many commiserating, bonny-lad whiners. Since the humorously smarmy single “The Distance,” off of the 1996 second release and first platinum album, Fashion Nugget, Cake has been contributing wry, intelligent songs with a prolific fervor of “post-alternative” expression. A deadpan, sleepy version of the Gloria Gaynor disco wonder, “I Will Survive,” and pert “Frank Sinatra,” also on Fashion Nugget, sealed their fate as hep, goofy funk lords, with a flair for the bentrovato. The success of this album launched their third album, Prolonging the Magic, into its platinum best with the songs “Satan Is My Motor,” “Never There,” and “Sheep Go To Heaven.” Frontman and principle wordsmith, John McCrea, sings with a voice that may not have been chosen for choir or school plays, but since his incipient, he’s managed to outsmart the lot, delving richly into clever, offhanded witticisms and boon-like yuks. He’s backed by his band, slinky trumpet player Vince di Fiore, bassist Gabe Nelson, guitarist Xan McCurdy, and new drummer, Pete McNeal, son of Claude McNeal—Indy’s American Cabaret Theater director.

Amid Pete’s airport security checkpoints from LAX to Chicago, I was able to speak with him about his new position with Cake, who he says has been “very gracious and supportive of me professionally and personally. They weren’t certain of the fan base in Indy, but knowing that I have family there is one of the reasons we’ll be playing an Indy show.” McNeal, who played with the band Sumack, was a long-time fan of Cake himself. When former drummer Todd Roper left the band, Pete’s name came with a high recommendation from Michael Urband of Smash Mouth. This led to phone interviews, and auditions, which Pete says, “were taxing, and no walk in the park. I had to learn eighteen new songs by the time it was all over, but Cake knew who they were looking for, and thankfully, it was me.” I asked him about being the son of the cabaret master, to which he replied, “Yeah, it all began with a Keystone Cop routine my dad put me in when I was six, and living in Connecticut. I was accidentally thrown off the stage.” Pete professed, “Cake is a hard working band. This is definitely the most exciting and rewarding time of my life.”

Cake will play the Murat November 6, doling out plenty of eighth-note songs from Comfort Eagle, where they recently jumped from Capricorn Records, to the musical magnate -- we’re here to sell alotta records -- Columbia Records. Lyrics crafted from the title track, “Comfort Eagle” lend prophecy to the band’s potential with Columbia: “We are building a religion. We are building it bigger. We are widening the corridors and adding more lanes.” With heralding reviews running amok, the likelihood of their continued success seems a path well cut. The band will perform their latest single, “Love you Madly” on Letterman November 12, and they just completed a new music video for said single--a follow up to their last video for “Short Skirt/Long Jacket.” In the video, passersby were stopped and asked to listen to the song on headphones; the video is an honest account of their reactions. Pete says this next video “will be a cooking contest.” Could it be? Would they dare make…cake?

The San Francisco band Beulah will open for Cake; a good choice for such a transition. Creative and beautifully pop, this layered-alt-rock band brings to mind background music in a That Girl sitcom; a refreshing sound of carefree happiness and serenity, though listen closely to the lyrics—they’re strangely dark: always a fun combination.

Hip Hip

I’m having one hell of a great week. Gord Sinclair, my good friend and bassist for the Tragically Hip, asked if I’d write a fan’s view biography for their upcoming (11th!) album, which of course I did. He sent it off to their management company and to Gord Downie, lead singer and chief decision maker and, dreams coming true, Gord D. emailed me a thank you. EMAILED ME. I just got word that they want to use it in an upcoming press release! I don’t care so much about that; I just keep rereading his email. I love this business.

Tragically Hip Bio – World Container

With the release of their eleventh album, the Tragically Hip continues to suffuse music with a mastery of creative ingenuity and a limitless foray of passion. The Kingston quintet has delivered their unbridled formula of silvery alchemy for over twenty-years. Fusing with acclaimed producer Bob Rock (Metallica) in his studio in Maui, the band entrusted Rock’s ingenious wizardry to command the presence of the album; the result is a surrendering to equal-parts intrinsic, artistic depths.

Rock’s vision and skill, coupled with his own rich belief in the Hip’s sound, commitment and loyalty to one another, helped arrange and amass an unremitting expanse of new, creative styles. Rock, hard-driving and focused, inspired the band to unleash new methods and styles, leaving no sonic or lyrical performance unturned.

The Tragically Hip is a band that endures. Gord Downie’s prose, mixed with the band’s rhythmic movement, wraps around you like a tight vine. Their latest release, World Container, mixes the deeply haunting, quintessential style for which the Hip is revered with a few energetic power-pop explosions, such as “In View” and “Yer Not The Ocean,” throughout. Downie’s embellished “whews” and “ohs” in the buoyant “The Kids Don’t Get It” are his trademark punctuation. The poet laureate of the rock “arena,” Downie maintains an unwavering alliance to world issues. Actively involved in environmental endeavors, including a seat on the board of RFK Jr’s Waterkeeper organization, Downie’s connection to his beliefs permeates throughout the dissertation of his lyrics. This is best reflected in Downie's blusey pleas in “World Container,” a world view of concern and hope.

The friendship and bond—brothers, really—between band members Gord Downie, Rob Baker (lead guitar), Paul Langois (rhythm guitar), Gord Sinclair (bass) and Johnny Fay (drums) is a universal truth of introspection, allegiance and global awareness. Musically, they have good song writing down to an artform. These are guys who “get it,” and no one understands this better than their fans. Hip fans form a race, not a culture. There is a tangible bond connecting the Hip to their fans, the legions of discerning followers who formed the grassroots movement that jumps and throttles passionately around the world hunting and collecting others. As the crowds mosey inside a venue to see the band, the collective chant “Hip Hip Hooray” wields its heralding allegiant theme.

I’d wager that the Hip were voted “Most Likely to Perform the Best Live Show” in high school, a prediction they have long since accomplished. Standing, swaying or jumping before the band, you’re completely immersed in the music as it penetrates your every thought and breath. No band builds a better song, and the songs on World Container come with the same promise of an intensely live performance: a Hip standard with any album. Listening, fans swear to know exactly what Downie is trying to convey with his words; the beauty is that sometimes you don’t fully (certainly never completely) understand what the hell he’s talking about. But like any allusive poem, Gord’s lyrics resonate differently to each listener, but the magnetism is always the same.

Collectively, Hip fans await the purchase of each new album and there's no end in sight. The band keeps collaborating, keeps writing compelling songs, and for seasoned players in a wayward industry, they keep getting better. The Hip continue creating great music and leaving it behind for the listeners; and we, the devout fanatics, are the benefactors who are enjoying our inheritance.

Beautiful, young Eva proving once again that Brooks girls love living in their bikinis.

I’ve taken my place at my post: the kitchen table. It’s become my favorite place to write. I occupy alone time in this space and, with the blinds raised, sit and feast upon the woods outside for inspiration. A million thoughts come to mind and my fingers try to catch them in their butterfly net.

I’m keeping a sleeping bag on the porch in which to wrap myself during Matt’s necessary smoke breaks. I bought a pumpkin and a month’s worth of firewood today, preparing to watch every last leaf fall. The Reese’s peanut butter cups aren’t far away, either. There is still life beauty standing before me, the words of Wordsworth pushing me toward the frame. I’m happy for these gifts.

The First Fall Days

The leaves changed overnight: fall has arrived and winter is fast approaching. That familiar chill is in the air. Matt got up earlier than me today, a rarity, and my cold toes felt the shock of his absence. I tiptoed downstairs to set the heat at 70 and start the coffee, then ran back to bed in a scurry.

Yesterday I took him to Eagle Creek for his first time and we hiked through the woods for a couple of hours. I grew up hiking at Eagle Creek, but it’s not the park of my childhood; everything changes, no? Trying to find private solace, it was difficult for us to escape the preponderance of Mexican trumpets blaring from someone’s car…in the woods. I love ethnicity, just keep your music down.

The weather was perfect for crushing leaves beneath our shoes, holding hands and exchanging glances and smiles. My heart hummed all the octaves.

Matt was in rare form both Friday and Saturday night. Saturday, around midnight, he took me up into the attic in his garage where we sat Indian-style (do I have to say Native American Indian-style?) and drank wine. Upon climbing back down he decided to golf…in the garage…with the doors shut and his car inside. Have another glass of wine, smartypants.

His golf stance could use a little improvement: he looked like an old man trying to heed his backside to a child’s lawn chair. He hit the ball a few times and it disappeared. He finally opened the garage door and said, “Honey, get the eggs.” We took turns blasting eggs in the yard, and Matt (after carving many divots) shot a tomato and a can of diet Coke toward the neighbors we don’t like much.

Later, right before he fell asleep, he announced that he had Coke all over his feet. But those sticky toes were sure nice in cold weather.

It's Friday I'm in love; however, I cannot get my birthday iPod speakers to work! Another glass of wine oughtta help...