At this final revision, I sit in my bed bundled beneath layers.
We turned the clocks back yesterday, and I am so thankful for
the cold, and the nights that come earlier. We were supposed to
record the drums tomorrow, thusly finishing the record, but I
was met today with the awful news that Jason Sinclair Long is
in the hospital, recovering from an appendectomy. Alas, how quickly
we are reminded of the truly important things in life; the utter
frailty of it all. He is healing well, reading a biography of
Garcia Lorca in a hospital bed in Roseville. He sounded much better
than I expected on the phone…Quietly and gently, my arms
reach out.
So…..Ron and I were driving home from a show at Luna’s
in Sacramento, listening to Christian’s half of The Inexplicable
Falling for the first time. The quiet power of the music, heightened
by the vast and expansive skies of the valley, was simply arresting.
We were stunned by the depth and strength of his songwriting.
Lyrics that cut flesh from bone. I can’t remember why Kristina
couldn’t make the show, but it was just Ron and me. I recall
arriving home late at night [to that fucked up house on Delaware
St.] and listening to the songs again on headphones before moving
off to sleep. I was mesmerized by the simplicity of the work,
and by the knowledge that he had recorded the majority of it over
the course of a weekend. Around the same time, I impulsively bought
a cd by a woman named Rosie Thomas. Her work somehow felt similar
to Christian’s songs; so quiet and delicate, but with such
restless urgency in its belly. Her singing reminding me of Jacob
Golden. I couldn’t stop listening to any of them. If I had
heard Christian’s half of The Inexplicable Falling before
recording mine, I Am Not In Spain would have been my response.
But such was not the case. Or maybe it is just arriving a bit
late.
Meanwhile, I had fallen into the heart of winter. Iced air, and
the lamented sounds of rain crashing in on my world. Twas a time
of deep personal reflection, and I found myself entirely reluctant
to leave my house unless completely necessary, so I read. This
time, it was For Whom The Bell Tolls. I recall so many nights
in front of the fireplace in that room, lost deep in the forested
chaos of the Spanish civil war. Robert Jordan and Maria carrying
me off into oblivion on the heels of their strange love. And what
followed in the world of Jeff Pitcher at that time, was a perfect
moment. The culmination of many things in the universe that brought
this record into being. Ron and Kristina were both going away
on vacations of some sort [he to Spain and she to San Diego] and
I was going nowhere. I was disgusted by the reality that the choices
I have made in my life over the last few years, have kept me from
traveling the world; my utter devotion to music at times being
a curse in its extremity and solitude from other things.
No money.
Anyway, rather than fight it, I concluded that I would embrace
it and live with it. Caress it, taunt it, seduce it, swallow it,
breathe it, tickle it, fuck it. The plan was, that while Ron and
Kristina were gone, I would write and record an album that would
be my musical interpretation of For Whom The Bell Tolls. I took
the keys to Kristina’s house, and set up my little studio
there, so as to be unburdened by roommates and the general distractions
of my world. Kristina and I had spent some time the previous week
arranging a few of the songs for piano, and recorded them the
night before she left. A friend of hers was house-sitting where
they had a grand piano. I would like one of those. The week leading
up to that night and the following days were chaotic. I did little
other than play guitar and record all of the ideas that grew,
on my cheap-ass Sony tape-deck. Some with lyrics, some without.
Admittedly, it was all rather scattered and quite improvised.
I wasn’t sure how many songs I would write, but my goal
was somewhere in the area of ten. Which occurred somehow miraculously.
I actually ended up cutting five tracks [which you may or may
not hear someday] before it was all said and done, and reinvented
two old ones, leaving us at a total of sixteen.
So the day after our piano endeavors, I went to Kristina’s
and set up. Candles and wine and food and guitars and journals
with words quickly scribbled. The minute I walked in the door
and began unfurling cables and figuring out just where everything
was to go, I heard the noise of children playing outside; yelling
and laughing the way that only children can. And thus you are
met with the first sounds of this record. Maria and the sea. In
a mad rush I set things up, and carried the mic out into the backyard
so that I might catch the sounds of their timeless innocence.
Which was basically how the entire record went. Sounds that came
out of nowhere with the immediacy of the world. Frenetic and quick.
Completely unplanned. I would grab them down from the ether and
capture them here for our ears. The weekend unraveled so gracefully
that I still find it rather strange. In a sense, I’m not
really sure what happened or how. Maybe someday, I’ll gather
some perspective on the process, though I confess that I don’t
really care. Needless to say, I did it. Sixteen songs written
in a week, and recorded over the course of a weekend. When the
weekend reached its conclusion, I was completely spent. Though
there were few problems [such as having to use motor oil to silence
a squeaky volume pedal] I gave so much during those seven days,
that I collapsed.
And then my dear band returned and added their parts. Kristina’s
cello is amazing on this one. Not that it isn’t always,
but her playing on ‘Maria And The Sea’ is so haunting…such
longing. And listen to Ron’s meandering bass line. I just
recently told Ron that he is without question the best bassist
I’ve ever heard. You should pay closer attention to what
he does. Anyway, the intention was to have the entire thing done
but weeks after it began. Which did not occur by any stretch of
the imagination. I started in February of 2002 and here we are
in October. October 24th to be exact. As I finish writing, I am
sitting in my car in front of Kristina’s house, waiting
for her to arrive home, so that we may drive to our gig tonight
at the Edinburgh Castle. Our first live show since July. Jesus.
Next week, Jason will come to play drums on the songs and we will
mix. And I am so excited. Somehow, this is my favorite collection
of songs I’ve ever written or recorded. It is dark and quiet
and completely enveloping. I think it might be the first time
that I’ve ever captured exactly what lies in my soul. I
even speak Spanish on this record. And my friend Benjamin Jahn
reads a piece he wrote on the song “Poor Boy.” I am
in love with this one.
Someday, maybe if you ask, I will explain how these songs directly
follow the text of the book. Song by song tied tightly to the
story. Chronologically. Or maybe you should just read the book
and listen. Christian called me a few weeks ago returned from
his honeymoon…envious I am. And how glorious to hear him
explain what it was like to be sitting on that plane, staring
down at the giant ocean, reading the last chapter of For Whom
The Bell Tolls, as he listened to I Am Not In Spain. Perfect,
perfect, perfect.
TRACK LISTING
1. Maria And The Sea
2. The Insomniac
3. Of The Perfect
4. Wednesday Imperfections
5. The German City
6. Trucks Gliding
7. Denmark
8. Music For Deserted Airports
9. Georgia At Least
10. Poor Boy
11. Standing In The Metro Alone
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