In January of 2009, a friend of mine, songwriter Rick Barry, invited me to sing backup on an EP he was working on. Rick's previous recordings were raw, lo-fi, and as far as I could tell, self-recorded. More like demos than fully realized productions. But the style, if you could call it that, worked. It was a fuck-off sound for a fuck-off artist. But that's not what I heard in the new songs he sent me. His voice was clear and up front and his guitar was in tune. It caught me off guard. That feeling--that surprised, eyebrows up, now-wait-just-a-minute feeling--comes all too infrequently. I sat up and took notice.
We exchanged more emails and one day I drove down to Long Branch, NJ to the studio he was working at. I was surprised when my directions led me to a residential area. I parked my car and was greeted at the door by Rick. He invited me in and walked me through a living room littered with kid's toys.
In the kitchen, Rick offered me a coffee. I accepted. He took a mug from a drain rack, pressed a button and water started bubbling. The fancy coffee machine didn't match the rest of the room. Dishes were piled high in the sink. Books were scattered on the dinner table. I was a little unnerved, not knowing what I was getting myself into. I had my backpack on, laptop and notebooks, ready to work. Where were we going to 'work' exactly? Where was the 'studio' he mentioned?
I followed Rick onto the back deck. He lit a cigarette while I sipped my coffee. I turned around to face the house. It was a modest structure concealed by overreaching trees. I realized now that it was just one-story. It reminded me of houses I had been to in California. By the way, the coffee was really good. That's no small thing. It calmed me down. Meanwhile, Rick puffed away at his drug of choice. After shooting the shit for a while, he finally asked: "You ready?" Yes, I said, I'm ready. But for what?
We went back inside and I followed Rick down the stairs to the basement. I knew right away that I was entering a different world. Downstairs was immaculate. Bright red carpet, organized shelves, framed posters, and rows and rows of instruments. It seemed to stretch on forever, even bigger than the space upstairs. I started working it out in my head, what the difference was. Music was made downstairs. Upstairs was for breaks. Upstairs was where people lived. Downstairs they worked, or played; if it was play it was serious play. Whatever it was, upstairs and downstairs were contradictions. Up and down, night and day, work and play. I had entered a cocoon. It felt right, that's all. When you enter a new place, you constantly ask yourself: "Can I create here?" I had a feeling I could.
Rick's producers, Ron and Bart, sprung up from their chairs and each gave me a hug. They thanked me for coming, big smiles on their faces. It was slightly awkward. For me at least.
We got to work. I sang on three songs. Through my headphones I heard encouraging words. "Sounds amazing." "Incredible." "Your voice is perfect for this song." I wasn't used to such unbridled displays of emotion. Such kindness. I was suspicious at first but it kept coming and coming and by the end of the afternoon I was sort of swept away by it. Or swept up in it. Invigorated.
Some time later I attended Rick's album release party. He invited me on stage to sing backup. Ron and Bart were playing in his band. They smiled and nodded. And again those big hugs. I felt like I had joined a new club. Been adopted by a new family. As the night ended and we were parting ways, I said to Ron or Bart, one of them, we should do something together. We arranged a day for me to come by the studio.
I had been writing a lot of songs but I had no idea what I wanted to do with them. I had recorded Little Daggers without the help of a producer. It was a liberating experience but also taxing. I felt ready to be part of a team again.
So I met Ron and Bart at the house again and I played them two songs. Ideas started flowing immediately. "Try this." "How about this?" Normally I'm a dictator with my songs: "This is the way it is, that's final." But I was ready for a new experience. I was ready to be caught off guard. I told myself to let go. I convinced myself that these people, these strangers, weren't out to manipulate me. They weren't out to co-opt me. I trusted them, though I knew nothing about them. They had invited me into their home. They were listening to me, intently. They were excited. They hugged me. My friends never hugged me. Why didn't my friends hug me? Why can't men hug each other?
I started coming back once or twice a week. There was no plan. We were just recording songs. It felt good. Why over think it? Weeks turned into months. I became a different artist. I was unleashed, uncorked. I had no idea I had been bottled up.
I had never been allowed to create this way--without restrictions. I had found just the right co-conspirators. They were unselfish facilitators. If I had a sound in my head, something sizzly and wonky, they had just the right keyboard, purchased from Ebay after they heard it on a certain album that we both happened to love. If I thought a baritone guitar was just the right texture, they'd have it tuned up and an amp miked before I finished my thought. If it was 11pm and we were working hard on a song and I had a new idea for a completely different song, everyone would stop what they were doing and we'd start recording the new idea. All of a sudden it would be 4 in the morning and I'd be driving back up to Jersey City dead tired but so awake and buzzing. I'd crank the volume to its limit. The sound was crisp and big and tight. It was layered and dramatic but not overdone. How had we done it? I had no idea.
Every time I stepped down into that basement, time ceased. If I felt tired, coffee was poured, strong and bold. If I was hungry, dinner was upstairs on the table, no cheese in my portion because they knew I hated it. Where the hell was I? In some bible story? Were these people going to cut me up and eat me? Were they going to ask me to kill someone? Maybe I'd do it. I was brainwashed. It wasn't just their musical skills or their manners or their disposition. We shared thoughts too. Film, food, humor. It was all there. Every time I tried to doubt it, I told myself to shut up and go with it.
Don't worry. There's nothing to worry about. Sometimes this happens, right? Sometimes life works out like this. Sometimes things happen for a reason. I had never believed any of that shit before.
We kept going. The magic never wore off. Ron would play a riff on the guitar and I would start writing lyrics down. I started singing a melody, Bart would harmonize. We didn't need to speak, but sometimes we spoke anyway. Sometimes we theorized about what made a song work. Sometimes there were long debates about a chorus or an overdub. These guys, these former strangers, were now fully invested in my songs, part owners now, and they cared about how they turned out and instead of me trying to figure it out alone they were there to help me. They wanted to help me.
When we got far enough, we invited our friends in to add stuff. Eventually, twenty-something songs were recorded. We started to wonder what it was we were doing. We could go on and on. We should tie it up, right? Let's make it an album.
That's how it happened. That's how this innocent bundle of joy and experimentation found its way to you. And to me. I found something I had no idea I was missing. I was provided something I didn't know I lacked. This is how music should be created. With love and generosity. Without judgment. Without limits. With open arms.
What you'll hear on September 21 is the result of more than a year-and-a-half of work. Or play. Stylistically it's all over the place. Lyrically I think it has much to do with searching, looking and ultimately finding. We worked really hard on it. And yet we didn't work at all. We really hope you love it as much as we do.
The economy is shit. Money is tight. None of us are household names. And so, unfortunately, we can't bring you this album the way we want to, as a physical package with art and words. For now, it will just live in the ether as a digital release. But hopefully that's just the beginning of this album's life. Hopefully we are witnessing it in its infancy. We hope one day it grows big and tall and becomes successful and makes lots of money. That's what all parents want for their children. But if not, we don't care. We love the little bugger. No matter what becomes of him.
A thousand thank yous to: Ron Haney, Bart Schoudel, Gordon Brown, Rick Barry, Joey Arbagey, Chris Maltese, Eric Micali, Rob Fitzgerald, Jeremy Gelade, Dave Bassiri, Allie Moss and especially Karen Haney and the Haney household.
