Seven 9s and 10s

Easter will always remind me of this story…

First, some relevant family history: my brother is 13 years older than I am. He is solely responsible for getting me into good music, inspiring and teaching me to play guitar, and taking me to my first concert. I was 15 in 1995 and just a sophomore in high school. By this point in my life he had already ignited my love for music and guitar; I was in a band and I was writing songs, but I had never been to a live music event. On the other hand, my brother was 28, seven years removed from a Cornell education that saw him end up with a business degree. After college he worked as a desk jockey for a few years at Chase before deciding that he had missed his calling in life to be a writer. Eventually he quit Chase and moved to Boston to pursue a Masters in writing at Emerson College.

Periodically I’d receive packages from him in the mail that contained magazine clippings and guitar tabs, cassette tapes with demo songs he’d been writing, etc., all kinds of stuff that 15-year-old-me thought was fantastic. At some point in late March I received another one of these packages; one of the enclosed snips of paper was this:

date

As a 15 year old with few friends and no social life, it wasn’t difficult to clear my schedule.

April 14th, 1995 was Good Friday. He had driven home from Boston to celebrate the Easter holiday with the family. I was always especially happy when he would visit. He often came bearing musical inspiration and musical gifts (guitar strings, cassettes, picks, etc.). But what could possibly be so important that he made me reserve Holy Saturday? Friday night arrived and I went to bed, still completely in the dark about the plans for the next day. He woke me on Saturday around 10am and told me to get dressed and to meet him out front. I hastily threw on some clothes and grabbed a slice of toast as I ran out the front door to an idling car. “Get in!” he shouted through the drivers window, “We’ve got to get going!” I opened the door to that old teal Ford Escort and slid into the seat. Before I knew it we were on the road - destination: unknown, at least to me.

My memories of the trip itself are vague, but I remember that as a 15 year old, I didn’t know much about the roads besides “I’ve been in this car long enough to know I’m not in Rochester anymore.” I noticed signs indicating we were on the NYS Thruway, I-90, heading eastbound. “Where are we going? Where are you taking me?” I asked repeatedly. It may as well have been “Are we there yet? Are we there yet?!” Surely I was driving him insane, but he was a rock and gave me no indication of what was in store. We continued driving east for quite a while. Hours and mile markers passed by. I was no travel buff, but I knew my geography, and I understood that heading east on I-90 would be sending us towards Albany, New York City, Boston, and other assorted points east. Eventually I noticed a sign indicating a major split in the roadway: keep left to continue towards Boston, keep right to head towards NYC. “This is it,” I thought to myself, “this should answer my questions.” Sure enough, and not entirely surprisingly, he kept to the left, continuing on I-90 towards Boston.

Map

At this point it became pretty clear to me where we were headed. I had never been to Boston so that prospect alone was totally awesome. Soon though, my mind turned towards my mom, and home, and Easter, and “Holy shit! Tonight is the Easter Vigil at church. Mom’s gonna be so pissed if I’m not there!” I continued to beg him to tell me what was happening, but still, informational silence… that is, until we stopped for dinner at a rest stop on the Mass Pike between Worcester and Boston.

After scarfing down some McDonald’s, we returned to the car to continue our trip. We were close enough to Boston at this point that the car radio could pick up some FM stations. He had tuned into WFNX and just as I was buckling my seatbelt, I heard the DJ say it… “We’re gearing up for the big show tonight down at Axis; we’ll be on location. Slash’s Snakepit is in town! I hope you’ve got your tickets because this show is sold out!” Did I hear that correctly? My face must have lit up like a Christmas tree. I turned to him: confused, excited, sheepishly grinning.

Slash stood tall above all other influences on my music and guitar training (still does). My brother had weaned me on a steady diet of Guns N’ Roses as I was learning to play, and when that band imploded I discovered the first Slash’s Snakepit album after reading a review in Rolling Stone. As far as I was concerned, Jesus had already returned to Earth: he let his hair grow wild, smoked cigarettes, shaved his chest, drank heavily, wore assless chaps and a tophat, he could fucking shred, and now… now I was only miles from The Savior himself. As I begged my brother to tell me what was happening, he pulled two tickets out of his pocket. We were going to the show. I have no idea what happened between that moment and the moment we arrived on Lansdowne Street. I only remember pulling onto the street - a long row of bars on my left and the towering walls of Fenway Park on my right - and seeing tour vans parked in front of Axis. We parked somewhere nearby and made our way toward the club.

We were a bit early and had beaten the majority of the crowds; only a few people were standing outside the club waiting to get in. We stood at the end of the line and I don’t think I uttered a single syllable for a few minutes while I stood there and took everything in. This was all so new to me: my first time in a big city, my first time near a real baseball stadium, my first time standing outside a rock club, and ultimately, my first concert. Then I felt Sam tugging on my shirt. I looked over and he was pointing up the road… pointing at a group of people walking towards us. At such a great distance it’d be nearly impossible to identify any mere mortal, but what I saw standing in the middle of that group was no mere mortal. Rising above the head-line I saw a little black tower, a smokestack of sorts. Before I knew it, we had sacrificed our place in line and were walking towards the group; we met them half-way. There before me stood Slash’s Snakepit, including ex-Gunner Gilby Clarke, and the messiah himself, Slash.

Was I starstruck? You have no idea. I’m fairly certain I didn’t say a thing. I probably didn’t even look him in the eye. I mean, what are you supposed to do for royalty of this sort? Bow? Genuflect? All I know is that my brother had slyly pulled an index card and a sharpie from his pocket and handed it to Slash for an autograph. He signed the card, kept the sharpie, and continued walking towards the club. I stood there dumbfounded as my brother handed me the autograph. “What do I do with this?” I wondered. This belongs behind glass, perhaps behind an altar somewhere. He took it back from me and carefully put it in his back pocket. We ran back to the club and got back in line.

Eventually they opened the doors and let us in. I remember entering and being completely baffled by the whole scene. I’d never been inside a bar like this. If you’ve never seen Axis - it’s a truly tiny club. To think that just a few years prior Slash was performing for hundreds of thousands of people at festivals internationally, and now I was going to see him in a bar barely bigger than my parents’ garage - it was simply overwhelming. We pushed our way towards stage left, where Slash always stood, and took up a defensive position right at the front of the stage. I couldn’t believe this was really happening. If you had told me it was all a dream, I might have believed you. In actuality it was a dream come true.

The band came out, and they fucking rocked, and they rolled, and they grooved… but mostly they rocked. I distinctly remember them performing a cover of Magic Carpet Ride. Eric Dover (who I would also enjoy a few years later as the singer for Imperial Drag) had a true rock voice and enough charisma to stand on stage and not be completely dwarfed by Slash. The band was clicking on all cylinders, but most of all, it was Slash. It was Slash standing right in front of me. It was Slash flinging sweat on me while he furiously strummed his Les Paul. It was Slash redefining, in an instant, what I defined to be cool. It was Slash setting the tone for the goals of the rest of my life.

After the show, we went back to my brothers apartment and I called home. Repentantly… “Mom, I’m in Boston. Sam took me to Boston to see a concert. It was amazing… sorry we missed the Mass. We’re driving home tomorrow, but I don’t think we’ll be back in time for dinner… I’m sorry.” (To this day I struggle with overcoming my Catholic Guilt. My mom is so dedicated to the church that I joke to people about how she is next in line to be the Pope.) It wasn’t until many years later that my mom confessed that she knew about the trip the whole time. The next morning, Easter, we drove back to Rochester. Along the way we heard the news about the Oklahoma City bombing. We got back to Rochester late Sunday afternoon, in time for Easter dinner, and the next day my brother packed his things and drove all the way back to Boston - ultimately he made two round trips to between Boston and Rochester in 4 days.

In 2008 I read Slash’s autobiography. He talks about how that first tour with Snakepit was an almost therapeutic experience for him. After dealing with the stresses of touring arenas and stadiums while a member of GN'R, and putting up with Axl’s bullshit night after night, he described the Snakepit tour as a return to what he loved most about being a musician: the experience of standing on stage and performing for a roomful of people that genuinely care about the music itself, rather than all the pomp and excess associated with major tours. I couldn’t stop smiling while reading that chapter of the book; to know that Slash himself enjoyed my first concert just as much as I did is a truly great feeling.

Autograph

    April 15, 1995

    20 years! Wow. I remember it like it was yesterday.

    First, some relevant family history: my brother is 13 years older than I am. He is solely responsible for getting me into good music, inspiring and teaching me to play guitar, and taking me to my first concert. I was 15 in 1995 and just a sophomore in high school. By this point in my life he had already ignited my love for music and guitar; I was in a band and I was writing songs, but I had never been to a live music event. On the other hand, my brother was 28, seven years removed from a Cornell education that saw him end up with a business degree. After college he worked as a desk jockey for a few years at Chase before deciding that he had missed his calling in life to be a writer. Eventually he quit Chase and moved to Boston to pursue a Masters in writing at Emerson College.

    Periodically I’d receive packages from him in the mail that contained magazine clippings and guitar tabs, cassette tapes with demo songs he’d been writing, etc., all kinds of stuff that 15-year-old-me thought was fantastic. At some point in late March I received another one of these packages; one of the enclosed snips of paper was this:

    image

    As a 15 year old with few friends and no social life, it wasn’t difficult to clear my schedule.

    April 14th, 1995 was Good Friday. He had driven home from Boston to celebrate the Easter holiday with the family. I was always especially happy when he would visit. He often came bearing musical inspiration and musical gifts (guitar strings, cassettes, picks, etc.). But what could possibly be so important that he made me reserve Holy Saturday? Friday night arrived and I went to bed, still completely in the dark about the plans for the next day. He woke me on Saturday around 10am and told me to get dressed and to meet him out front. I hastily threw on some clothes and grabbed a slice of toast as I ran out the front door to an idling car. “Get in!” he shouted through the drivers window, “We’ve got to get going!” I opened the door to that old teal Ford Escort and slid into the seat. Before I knew it we were on the road - destination: unknown, at least to me.

    My memories of the trip itself are vague, but I remember that as a 15 year old, I didn’t know much about the roads besides “I’ve been in this car long enough to know I’m not in Rochester anymore.” I noticed signs indicating we were on the NYS Thruway, I-90, heading eastbound. “Where are we going? Where are you taking me?” I asked repeatedly. It may as well have been “Are we there yet? Are we there yet?!” Surely I was driving him insane, but he was a rock and gave me no indication of what was in store. We continued driving east for quite a while. Hours and mile markers passed by. I was no travel buff, but I knew my geography, and I understood that heading east on I-90 would be sending us towards Albany, New York City, Boston, and other assorted points east. Eventually I noticed a sign indicating a major split in the roadway: keep left to continue towards Boston, keep right to head towards NYC. “This is it,” I thought to myself, “this should answer my questions.” Sure enough, and not entirely surprisingly, he kept to the left, continuing on I-90 towards Boston.

    image

    At this point it became pretty clear to me where we were headed. I had never been to Boston so that prospect alone was totally awesome. Soon though, my mind turned towards my mom, and home, and Easter, and “Holy shit! Tonight is the Easter Vigil at church. Mom’s gonna be so pissed if I’m not there!” I continued to beg him to tell me what was happening, but still, informational silence… that is, until we stopped for dinner at a rest stop on the Mass Pike between Worcester and Boston.

    After scarfing down some McDonald’s, we returned to the car to continue our trip. We were close enough to Boston at this point that the car radio could pick up some FM stations. He had tuned into WFNX and just as I was buckling my seatbelt, I heard the DJ say it… “We’re gearing up for the big show tonight down at Axis; we’ll be on location. Slash’s Snakepit is in town! I hope you’ve got your tickets because this show is sold out!” Did I hear that correctly? My face must have lit up like a Christmas tree. I turned to him: confused, excited, sheepishly grinning.

    Slash stood tall above all other influences on my music and guitar training (still does). My brother had weaned me on a steady diet of Guns N’ Roses as I was learning to play, and when that band imploded I discovered the first Slash’s Snakepit album after reading a review in Rolling Stone. As far as I was concerned, Jesus had already returned to Earth: he let his hair grow wild, smoked cigarettes, shaved his chest, drank heavily, wore assless chaps and a tophat, he could fucking shred, and now… now I was only miles from The Savior himself. As I begged my brother to tell me what was happening, he pulled two tickets out of his pocket. We were going to the show. I have no idea what happened between that moment and the moment we arrived on Lansdowne Street. I only remember pulling onto the street - a long row of bars on my left and the towering walls of Fenway Park on my right - and seeing tour vans parked in front of Axis. We parked somewhere nearby and made our way toward the club.

    We were a bit early and had beaten the majority of the crowds; only a few people were standing outside the club waiting to get in. We stood at the end of the line and I don’t think I uttered a single syllable for a few minutes while I stood there and took everything in. This was all so new to me: my first time in a big city, my first time near a real baseball stadium, my first time standing outside a rock club, and ultimately, my first concert. Then I felt Sam tugging on my shirt. I looked over and he was pointing up the road… pointing at a group of people walking towards us. At such a great distance it’d be nearly impossible to identify any mere mortal, but what I saw standing in the middle of that group was no mere mortal. Rising above the head-line I saw a little black tower, a smokestack of sorts. Before I knew it, we had sacrificed our place in line and were walking towards the group; we met them half-way. There before me stood Slash’s Snakepit, including ex-Gunner Gilby Clarke, and the messiah himself, Slash.

    Was I starstruck? You have no idea. I’m fairly certain I didn’t say a thing. I probably didn’t even look him in the eye. I mean, what are you supposed to do for royalty of this sort? Bow? Genuflect? All I know is that my brother had slyly pulled an index card and a sharpie from his pocket and handed it to Slash for an autograph. He signed the card, kept the sharpie, and continued walking towards the club. I stood there dumbfounded as my brother handed me the autograph. “What do I do with this?” I wondered. This belongs behind glass, perhaps behind an altar somewhere. He took it back from me and carefully put it in his back pocket. We ran back to the club and got back in line.

    Eventually they opened the doors and let us in. I remember entering and being completely baffled by the whole scene. I’d never been inside a bar like this. If you’ve never seen Axis - it’s a truly tiny club. To think that just a few years prior Slash was performing for hundreds of thousands of people at festivals internationally, and now I was going to see him in a bar barely bigger than my parents’ garage - it was simply overwhelming. We pushed our way towards stage left, where Slash always stood, and took up a defensive position right at the front of the stage. I couldn’t believe this was really happening. If you had told me it was all a dream, I might have believed you. In actuality it was a dream come true.

    The band came out, and they fucking rocked, and they rolled, and they grooved… but mostly they rocked. I distinctly remember them performing a cover of Magic Carpet Ride. Eric Dover (who I would also enjoy a few years later as the singer for Imperial Drag) had a true rock voice and enough charisma to stand on stage and not be completely dwarfed by Slash. The band was clicking on all cylinders, but most of all, it was Slash. It was Slash standing right in front of me. It was Slash flinging sweat on me while he furiously strummed his Les Paul. It was Slash redefining, in an instant, what I defined to be cool. It was Slash setting the tone for the goals of the rest of my life.

    After the show, we went back to my brothers apartment and I called home. Repentantly… “Mom, I’m in Boston. Sam took me to Boston to see a concert. It was amazing… sorry we missed the Mass. We’re driving home tomorrow, but I don’t think we’ll be back in time for dinner… I’m sorry.” (To this day I struggle with overcoming my Catholic Guilt. My mom is so dedicated to the church that I joke to people about how she is next in line to be the Pope.) It wasn’t until many years later that my mom confessed that she knew about the trip the whole time. The next morning, Easter, we drove back to Rochester. Along the way we heard the news about the Oklahoma City bombing. We got back to Rochester late Sunday afternoon, in time for Easter dinner, and the next day my brother packed his things and drove all the way back to Boston - ultimately he made two round trips to between Boston and Rochester in 4 days.

    In 2008 I read Slash’s autobiography. He talks about how that first tour with Snakepit was an almost therapeutic experience for him. After dealing with the stresses of touring arenas and stadiums while a member of GN'R, and putting up with Axl’s bullshit night after night, he described the Snakepit tour as a return to what he loved most about being a musician: the experience of standing on stage and performing for a roomful of people that genuinely care about the music itself, rather than all the pomp and excess associated with major tours. I couldn’t stop smiling while reading that chapter of the book; to know that Slash himself enjoyed my first concert just as much as I did is undoubtedly among the most satisfying emotions I’ve ever experienced.

    image

      Track:
      Only In Dreams

      Artist:
      steelopus

      Album:
      steelopus

      weezer - Only in dreams (steelopus version) - arranged for Mallet Percussion Ensemble

      I couldn’t let today pass without acknowledging the blue album. Happy 20th birthday to the album that had the most dramatic affect on my young life. If you care about anything else I’ve said about weezer in the past, there are currently 132 tagged posts for you to dig through.

      I arranged this 8 years ago, just as I was finishing up my undergrad Music Education degree.  It is essentially a note-for-note transcription of this classic song.

      My experience as a percussion minor introduced me to many a varied new technique, including my favorite which was bowed vibraphone.  When you bow the bars of a vibe, they emit a pure pitch that fades in and out (youtube example).  The first time I heard the technique, I immediately thought it sounded a lot like electric guitar feedback, and decided I would find a way to use it in that sense.  That spawned this project.

      Unfortunately this recording is just a somewhat flawed MIDI version (there was no way to actually fake bowed vibes when I made this back in 2001), but it gets the point across. I’d still like to find a real ensemble to perform it.

        GWAR covers Billy Ocean at The Onion A/V Club

        It’s impossible to quantify just how much better this cover is than the original song.

        I regret not taking an opportunity to see GWAR at any of their many stops in Rochester. Sadly, now I’ll never get a chance. Farewell Dave Brockie, aka Oderus Urungus. Hopefully the return trip to your home planet won’t take too long.

          Questions

          Suzy tagged me in this thing.

          Here we go.

          1. Would you rather take a test of 100 math problems or write a dozen essays?

          Math. All the math.

          2. Would you rather have a crab hand + a normal hand, or very large webbed feet?

          Any non-human hand would make it difficult to play pretty much any musical instrument, so I’ll… take the feet. That’s probably the first and last time I’ll ever ask for feet.

          3. Would you rather have one hoe in all the different area codes, or lots of hoes in one area code?

          What’s the terrain like in these area codes? I mean, 25 hoes in 1 rocky-terrained area code ain’t doing me much good. But 1 hoe in each of 25 different agriculturally-rich area codes… well that would be more useful. Wait. You’re not talking about farming. Nevermind.

          4. Is it better to buy used furniture for cheap and spend time + money making it exactly how you want it, or to spend a little more on furniture that doesn’t require any work but maybe isn’t 100% what you were looking for?

          This is the type of shopping-dilemma that really frustrates me. Furniture is something that you’re going to have and use for a long time, so I really don’t think it’s a good idea to buy something you’re not 100% satisfied with. It also depends on what type of furniture you’re looking for; I’m not about to buy a cheap couch and think I’ll be able to make it suit my needs, because I’m not a goddamn couch designer, but I guess with enough time I could figure out how to improve a cheap coffee table or something.

          5. What would you wear if you had to put on the funniest outfit you could make with clothing you already own?

          Long johns. Underwear on top of those. Nothing else.

          6. Would you rather be able to shoot laser beams with your eyes, or shoot fireballs out of your hands?

          Is this a Cyclops scenario where I’d always have to wear goofy goggles just to make sure I wasn’t inadvertently igniting everything I looked at? Because that would suck. I’ll take the fireballs and I’d get angry anytime anyone tried to say it was magic and I’d tell them it’s an illusion… then I’d shoot fireballs at them with my hands.

          7. If you could be a historical Vice President, who would you be? Uncle Joe Biden doesn’t count as he is the current and best VP.

          Andrew Johnson. Fast track to the presidency!

          8. Would you rather fart glitter or be unable to tell the difference between the color brown and the concept of increasing?

          I’d rather fart glitter than so many other things. I’d rather fart glitter than be able to tell time.

          9. Name the first country that pops into your mind. Now tell me its capital. Thanks. Will you write a report on that country for me? It has to be 3 pages long, double spaced.

          Djibouti. Djibouti City. Nope.

          10. What time is it?

          *farts glitter*

          11. Do you have a best friend? Describe them using only 5 words.

          She’s an alien like me.

          12. Do you want fries with that?

          Of course. Make ‘em crispy.

            An Open Letter to my Tim Hortons Server

            fuiru:

            Madam, it has been fifteen minutes since you wronged me and the hurt remains so intact that I see no option but to commit to posterity my displeasure with you.

            You rang in my order of coffee and a chocolate chip muffin. You took my money. Then, in blatant shirkage of your baseball cap-appointed duties, you instructed me to stand to one side and wait for my order.

            Madam, for generations the responsibility of retrieving the baked goods section of a Tim Hortons order has belonged to the person at the cash register. This is the way it is and this is the way it shall be. But you, you in your hubris, you in your immodest pride, you chose to break this covenant between server and servee.

            The chain of events that begins with my stepping forward at your behind-the-counter beckoning and ends with my exiting the premises, beverage and treat in hand, was broken. Broken, snapped, destroyed. By you.

            My coffee arrived, the beverage preparer on your station still adhering to her duties despite any bad influence from your part. She paused as I asked about my chocolate chip muffin. If I ordered a chocolate chip muffin, she no doubt thought to herself, then I should already have a chocolate chip muffin. That is how things work here.

            But I had no muffin. And my order indeed included a muffin.

            Do you see her hands, oh Tim Hortons Cash Register Lady? Those are not muffin-retrieving hands. Those are coffee making hands. Those are the hands that pour, that stir, that write ‘DD’ on the lid when you buy a double-double. Those are not hands suited for the delicate removal of bready dessert from a rack and careful placement into paper bag. Do you see how her hands shake? Do you not feel responsible?

            Do you see how she pauses in front of the baked goods racks, oh Tim Hortons Cash Register Lady? See her uncertainty? She does not know by heart the locations of all muffins, from Fruit Explosion to limited-time Red Velvet. Nor should she. This is not her domain. This is your domain.

            Do you see her now that she has realised there are no chocolate chip muffins? Her confusion? What would you do in this situation? Would you come back and ask if I wanted a different type of muffin? I’m sure you would. She would not, though. She would go into the kitchen, find a chocolate chip muffin just baked, put it in a paper bag and give it to an unsuspecting customer, one who, in his immense desire to eat this muffin, would burn his fucking mouth on it.

            But no, this is not her fault. This was not her error. This, oh Tim Hortons Cash Register Lady, was your mistake. And I can assure you, you have made a worthy nemesis this day, mark my words.

            This speaks to my soul.

            High-resBless me father, for I have sinned.
I bought this box of Wegmans Fruit & Frosted O’s cereal several months ago and kept it sealed in my cabinet until I finally opened it tonight to indulge myself in a quick and painless dinner.
Unfortunately, upon...

            Bless me father, for I have sinned.

            I bought this box of Wegmans Fruit & Frosted O’s cereal several months ago and kept it sealed in my cabinet until I finally opened it tonight to indulge myself in a quick and painless dinner.

            Unfortunately, upon opening the bag and popping a few pieces in my mouth, it became immediately clear that I had been too optimistic in regards to the ability of the sealed box and bag to keep the cereal free from moisture for such a long period of time.

            I understand that there can be no penance for such a sin and I accept that I shall be forced to eat nothing but stale cereal while I burn for eternity in the fiery pits of Hell.

              High-resDelivering junk mail in a literal blizzard. Living up to their creed. (He then proceeded to get stuck and spend a minute spinning his wheels and reversing before finding enough traction to get going. Truly an American hero for doing what he does in...

              Delivering junk mail in a literal blizzard. Living up to their creed. (He then proceeded to get stuck and spend a minute spinning his wheels and reversing before finding enough traction to get going. Truly an American hero for doing what he does in such a shitbox of a RWD vehicle.)