More Keytar!

Sunday I went to see the Thelonius Monk International Jazz Trumpet Competition and Tribute to Herbie Hancock. The Monk Competition is essentially American Idol for "the jazzers" except Al Jarreau played the part of Paula Abdul (well-dressed but possibly totally insane).

I didn't know this beforehand, but my friend Ambrose Akinmusire was one of the three finalists for the competition. Ambrose played in my "Roller Derby" band at the Key Club last year. At the competition he played an original composition, and survived a tune with the aforementioned beret-enthusiast-skoobedoobee-scat-singing Al Jarreau.

"Take this Ambrose!"



After the three trumpet finalists performed there was a star-studded tribute to the legendary Herbie Hancock. At one moment four of my favorite musicians were on stage at the same time. Wayne Shorter, Joni Mitchell, and Sting were holding hands on stage to present Herbie with a humanitarian award. I had a total comic book guy moment, "best musicians ever!" Happily I avoided weeping like an old-timey Beatlemania victim and avoided the temptation of leaping from my balcony seat to the stage to seize the moment (or Wayne's saxophone reeds). The good news is Sting didn't appear to be any less muscley or flexible after his recent award for, ahem "Worst Lyricist Ever". Although I might give him a second "worst" award for some gentle mutilation of the melody to "My Funny Valentine". Don't worry Sting, we'll always have Dream of the Blue Turtles.

To make a longer story shorter (Wayne Shorter, if you will), Ambrose won the competition and joined the other jazzy folk on stage for "Chameleon". Herbie played what was undoubtedly the finest keytar solo of all-time (which really is an all-time category along the lines of "tallest midget", but who am I to judge?).

Friends don't let friends use one of these unless your first name is Herbie:



Last night I continued my assault on the jazz world and ventured to the dicey territory of an open jam. In New York jazzy jam sessions can be the worst of the worst of the worst. Your evening at a session in Small's could be filled with what seems like weeks of meandering 8th notes from every janitor-turned-saxophone player in the tri-state area. Your reward for surviving till the bitter, 6:00 AM end of one of these is to see people out for an early morning jog before work as the sun comes up in Manhattan.

Yet I digress, the jam session at The Mint has been berry, berry good to me (it only goes till 12:15 AM, which helps with the "what-am-I-doing-with-my-life-and-why-am-I-here" factor). Case in point, the surprise guest at last night's session was one of the judges for the Monk Competition, trumpeter Roy Hargrove. Roy sounded great, wore fancy jeans, and claimed to not know the tune "Inner Urge" which he then played with aplomb.

Now I'm back to the work of harassing Austen Risolvato on the home-stretch of the artwork for the new album. We've got the cover picked out and all we have to do is photoshop my head onto Sting's body!

I'll be playing a CD release show on December 20th at the Hotel Cafe. More details are forthcoming.

Also, I'm playing a free show at the Ocean Avenue Brewery in Laguna Beach on November 7th. Here's a flyer:

Skaffa

Several lifetimes ago I was in a Ska band called Jimmy Skaffa. When I started playing alto saxophone in that sometimes-ten-piece-band I was 15, and because I only had a learner's permit I had to get carted to and from rehearsal by the elder statesmen of the band. All of them were somewhere in their 20's except for me and formerly-18-year-old Matt Nelson, the trombonist. We played Omaha, Chicago, Manhattan, KS, Minneapolis, Kansas City, and a few other places that I've blocked from my memory.

It was in that band that I learned how early gas stations in the Midwest close on a weekday. We had just played a random bar in Manhattan, KS (or was it Kansas City?), and decided to get gas once we got out of town instead of turning around when we realized that we were in desperate need of a fill-up. Now it's been a good solid decade since this went down, but I remember this: we were at least 20 miles away from anything in rural Kansas, it was around one AM, the needle was well below E, and I had school the next day. We found a bunch of gas stations that were shut tight for the night, and there was a how-to discussion on syphoning gas (make sure you spit out the gas once it gets to the end of the tube). There were no cell phones in the band, because it was 1993 and would've cost fifty dollars a minute to use a cell phone in the middle of a Children-of-the-Corn field. Right after despair had settled in, we found the only 24-hour gas station in between Omaha and Kansas and I avoided peeing my pants, swallowing gasoline, being killed in a cornfield/vegetable patch, or missing school (it's safe to say I had some Lisa Simpson tendencies happening back in the day).

Another memory of the band: the 15 passenger van we drove was originally owned by a lawn service company, I think. There were still remnants of the paint job and logo, but fortunately no smell of manure. I remember trying to sleep in the van on one of those brutal nights heading back to Omaha from a far-off gig and Ross Manheart, the singer, was listening to the loudest, fastest punk rock I have heard before or (thankfully) since to keep awake will driving. It brambled my scrain. Now you know why I am the way I am.

Why am I telling you all this? I got a friend request from the band today. Apparently they ska-ed together for another seven years after I left the band in '95 or so. I don't think we'll be winning any lifetime achievement grammy awards, but it's fun to turn back the clock to my first band experience.

In other news, I sat in with my friend Robby Marshall last night at SevenGrand in beautiful downtown Los Angeles last night. The band was great, and it felt mighty fine to play my horn. I'm playing a jazzy jam session today with a horn player friend I hadn't seen in a while till last night. I guess you could say I'm really getting back into the swing of playing jazz.

I'd like to find some other way to end this blog than with a horrible jazz joke, but I think I've done enough damage for one day.

I'll be seeing you Saturday in Ventura, CA at Zoey's if you're able.

Mommy, where do vocals come from?

Searching for cover songs on YouTube is a sure-fire way to find unintentional comedy. You know those awkward moments at the Karaoke bar where the martini-diva sings "I Will Survive" in every key, at the same time? There are enough of these moments immortalized on the internet to keep you entertained until the cows come to the homepage. I searched "cover" and "shins" and found a sacrifice of "Kissing the Lipless". I thought to myself, "the original version has a crazy vocal range, this is going to be awful or amazing." This video taught me something new about music: if the song is too hard, just play it wrong and make it easy for yourself (if not your audience). I'm working on a kazoo medley of "Bohemian Rhapsody" and "Flight of the Bumblebee" to test this theorem.

There's an upside to this universal open mic night. Music lovers have rightfully become skeptical of what's "real" in popular music. If you're performing in your pajamas, chances are a million dollar producer didn't pay a ringer to sing the lead. We can blame Milli Vanilli, C+C Music Factory", and Paula Abdul for making us ask the question since the early 90's, "Mommy, where do vocals come from?" Those incidences of "who's actually singing this line anyway?" were all before auto-tune turned Nickelback and Britney Spears (yes, I know, leave her alone) into pitch-perfect studio performers.

These YouTube covers do allow us to see and hear music in it's most pure and occasionally horrific form. So without further ado, I've uploaded a living room recording of Bob Marley's "She's Gone". I'm not in my pajamas, but I may have bedhead.

Practice makes better

Oh the Hotel Cafe how I love thee.

Good times were had last Saturday. I wore a new shirt. Many friends were in attendance. Here is the setlist:

how many times
beyond means
what if I
two times two
darken your sun
only a rehearsal
long distance
little city driver
princess of darkness
all I one spin*

*this was the, let's say "suspenseful", mash-up we performed of my two songs "All I Want" and "One Spin". Disclaimer: no musicians were irrevocably damaged in the performing of this piece of music.

Yesterday I sat in with Jessie Baylin for the first time in a good, long minute. I played keys on two of our co-writes, "Higher Altitudes" and "Not a Day More" as well as "Rocky Raccoon". Thank you, Beatles, for reminding me that great songs sometimes only have four chords. Jessie was at her melodious best, and her band was subtle and rocked hard at the appropriate moments.

Last night I got out the tripod and butchered my way through a videotaping of an electric piano version of "Only a Rehearsal". I woke up this morning and ironed out the messy parts, reaffirming my belief that practice makes better, if not actually perfect.

Today I look to the future. I wrote a setlist for the show at Zoey's next Saturday. I'm looking at 16 songs next Saturday instead of the usual ten I play at the Hotel.

Once this here web-log is ready to roll I'm going to do my best "leave Britney alone" and record another song or two to put up on youtube and my myspace profile.

Parting gifts: if you're looking for a quick read, don't go with "Grapes of Wrath". I'm enjoying it, but it's gently torturous getting to the end of those 450 pages. It feels like edu-tainment, with a little more "edu" then I bargained for.

Wood Shavings

Last night, as promised, I partook of a Morrissey concert. His band is great, his fans are hardcore, and his voice has a great presence. There were lots of black t-shirts in the audience, but the skinny black pants weren't as ubiquitous as I had anticipated.

Afterwards we hightailed it to catch The Sheers at The Silverlake Lounge. They are a dang fine band. I have talented friends.

The Lakers owner, and dater of woman one quarter of his own age, has announced he's fielding offers to trade Kobe Bryant. He won't get equal value, because it doesn't exist. I have followed the Lakers for a long time. Kobe is roughly my same age, although we're in different tax brackets, and don't spend a lot of time together. Sometimes I wonder why I follow professional sports and why I don't fill my head with more useful things. You know, like Shakespeare, or the periodic table, or wood shavings. I have no answer for this. Anybody have a table saw and a two by four?

Here's a riddle:
What has eight hands, sixteen strings, and a couple of sticks?

My gig at the Hotel Cafe tomorrow (Saturday, October 13th) at 11 PM!

Ok bye.

Ima Believer

Last night I went to see Joel Martin's band The Big Believers play. The band is: Joel (who's played in my band for nearly FIVE YEARS!) on many guitars, and Dave Johnstone (who was in Dead Language with Joel) playing the heck out of the drums. It's a great feeling to be surprised, nay, blown away by your friends. Their version of "Fixing a Hole" by The Beatles made my brain mushy and happy. They're going into the studio this weekend to make a record at New Monkey Studio where Elliott Smith recorded. It's gonna be freakin' sweet.

I talked to Jessie Baylin on the internets a minute ago and I'm going to be sitting in with her on Sunday at a shindig for KCRW. Details are on her myspace page.

Tonight I shall attend a Morrissey concert for the first time. I'm expecting lots of skinny black pants and some damn fine music.

My lips are no longer chapped.

Sometimes I make pancakes from scratch with whole wheat flour, wheat germ, flax meal, buttermilk, and blueberries. Sometimes there are too many to eat in one meal. Sometimes I put the leftovers in the freezer to make homemade Eggos out of them. Today I ate the frozen pancakes, and behold, they were good. I learned all of these actions from my sister.

Time for the mantra of the week: I'm playing the Hotel Cafe this Saturday at 11 PM.

In Slowbows

I just found out there's a football player who's name is Craphonso. I'm sure every crappy joke has already been made, so I'll just leave it alone.

I'm trying to download the new radiohead album. They're making the digital download be "name your own price". You have to pay in pounds and pence. The place where you enter the price on the website has a colon in it instead of a decimal point. This makes me think of time, not money. Maybe that's an implication that time truly is money in Radioheadland. I think I just told them I'd buy the album at midnight.

Somehow I think I'm not the only person to do this, because the website is slower than friendster on a dial-up modem.

Maybe you're supposed to enter the hours and minutes it takes for the actual sale to go through as your price.

I saw the movie Michael Clayton last night. It is very good. Go see it. Go see Into the Wild as well if you haven't already.

My lips are chapped.

A haiku flyer:

I will play hotel
cafe on this saturday

eleven o'clock

Sesame Street Jedi Mash Up

This past weekend I went to partake of a concert put on by The Shins. I've been a fan of theirs since the Hexum Bros. Tour of 2004. All three albums they've released have been thoroughly digested by me (and even paid for!). I've written on this very web-space how the song Australia helped me regain focus on the emotional response that I want as a listener and a performer. The show did not disappoint. The vocals were soaring and the guitarist on stage right rocked out. Other good news: a friend pointed out that James Mercer has a promising career as Kevin Spacey's stunt double.

Now I turn my attentions back towards my own ego and music. I have two shows right around the corner. I'm making a return to the Hotel Cafe this Saturday, October 13th at 11 pm, and a week after that I play a solo show at Zoey's Cafe and Loft in Ventura.

Last night we rehearsed and stewed up a few surprises for the Hotel show. We're going to do a mash-up of sorts and change around an intro or two. I won't spoil the punchline, but I haven't counted this hard since I tried to prove the intro to "Take it Easy" by The Eagles actually contains a bar of 9/8.

(This is where you smile and nod...)

I read The Tipping Point by Malcolm Gladwell in an attempt to study Sesame Street and figure out how I can apply their strategic use of puppets to the youtube talk show I mentioned in a previous weblog.

Speaking of youtube-schemes, the title of the program will officially be Zack Hexum's Talking Music Show (unless I change my mind). I've already lined up a handful of musician friends who will be my guinea pigs. I'm dreaming up a bastardization of Bernard Pivot's bastardized questionnaire from Inside the Actor's Studio. Dryden from Alien Ant Farm suggested I ask my guests "what's your favorite sexual position?" Seeing as I'm probably going to interview my brother, I think I'll leave that one off.

I'll see you at the Hotel this Saturday (that was my attempt at a Jedi Mind Trick Promotion).

Till next time...

"never betray the way you've always known it is"

sewer suckers invade

In this day and age you don't need a recording studio to record music. I have an M-Audio Firewire 410 that I have used to score a movie and finish up the bits and pieces from my upcoming new album (which will be called Open to Close, by the way). I'm a big fan of the show Weeds on Showtime. Each episode features a different artist doing their rendition of the theme, "Little Boxes." A week or two ago I decided I would try my hand at recording a version of theme. I used saxophone, bass clarinet, Fender Rhodes, and some other toys I have at my disposal.

Today my big plan was/is to record a second version of it. This time it'll be a cappella (or for those of you who don't speak Swedish, it'll be an all vocal version). This requires a relative amount of quiet from my Hollywood neighbors. Lo and behold, I sit down to fire up ProTools right as a gigantic blue truck pulls up in front of my apartment. This blue truck has a big label that says "Vactor Series 2100" on the side. It's currently set up camp and blocking one lane of traffic. It's also blocking my car from going anywhere. This truck is apparently a gigantic sewer-sucking vacuum cleaner. It has a long tentacle which it extended down a manhole and into the depths of hell. I guess it follows to reason that since in-home vacuum cleaners are loud, vacuum cleaners that are the size of a small house (or big truck in this case) would be proportionately several times louder than the regular ones.

This is my new neighbor:



Happily the Vactor Series has done all the sewer-sucking it needed to do in my neighborhood. It has moved on its merry way to mess up someone else's home studio, so I will return to the musical task at hand before a herd of buffalo, or the Hell's Angels decide to parade down my street.

Yet first I will leave you with these tidbits:

I saw Colin Hay play at the Canyon Club. He's a fantastic singer (I had to practice screaming along with "I can't get to sleep" during Overkill to see if I could hit the high notes), a great writer, and his in-between song banter is captivating.

I kid you not when I tell you that my upstairs neighbor is vacuuming his floor right now. Is this like yawning? Vacuuming is contagious, apparently.

I have a show at the Hotel Cafe on October 13th. It's a full band show.

Booyah!