Austin Stories, No. 1

More wayward musing in another wayward series

I arrived in Austin in July, 1990, settled down in "the hut" and began to gear up for graduate school by drinking lots of margaritas (almost an exotic drink, yet so plentiful in Austin!) and checking out the cool, local music scene. Not long after, August 27, to be exact, the helicopter flying Stevie Ray Vaughn from a Wisconsin gig crashed and he and the other passengers and crew were lost. News of his death led the morning radio shows and one (or maybe several) local stations set about planning a gathering to play the man's music and let people congregate to comfort each other and remember.

I hadn't really listened to any SRV, though in hindsight (hindhearing?) I must have listened tons of his stuff on the radio as I puttered about town that summer in my jeep. Anyway, I was hardly an aficionado, and it was my interest in hearing lots of his music and learning a bit more about it that got me thinking I should attend the evening's memorial. Plus it was clear that his death had a profound effect on the town, which further compelled me to drive down to Zilker Park and sit among the masses as they listened to the man's music and commiserated. It was like immersing yourself in Austin's life-force.

There's a certain sense to the loneliness you feel when you travel to a new place. It's almost dream-like, as if you're suspended from real life, your senses heightened to the minutiae of your new setting, which soon wears off as you get more familiar with your surroundings and the people in them; yet simultaneously it can all drift away in an instant and you seem to appear in places you've never seen, unaware of how you got there, what landmarks you passed, the people you might have seen or to whom you've spoken. I don't recall driving downtown that late afternoon, where I parked or whether there were others making the same journey towards the music playing far away across the huge open space. I felt utterly alone. Not sad, just alone.

What I do recall is that I walked about halfway down a long field and sat on the grass for a while, taking in the music and watching people move together and apart, forming and breaking small groups, always flowing towards the source of the music at the far end of the field. The sun was going down behind me and these little groups were like glowing bits of driftwood, easing past me. Mostly there was laughing; some engaged in quiet, insistent conversations, the edge of melancholy tempered by camaraderie and the meeting of friends in the heart of Austin.

I sat with my arms around my knees, staring out at the passing figures slipping by, when a hand touched my shoulder and this angelic girl looked down at me and asked, concerned, "Are you okay?" That took me by surprise: I was not sad, I hadn't just lost some vital part of me; new and disconnected to the city and its people, I had just drifted in my mind, taking in the sound and sights. I garbled a quiet, "Yes," and she smiled and floated on. I thought, how sweet everyone is, here in this new town. I liked it here before; I like it even more now.

After a while, no longer in my reverie, I got up and slowly moved against the tide of people, who, though tinged with sadness, exuded such positive energy and hopefulness. The music clearly lived (and lives on) in everyone who's heard it. That's a pretty sturdy life raft to cling to when things get dark.

The sun gone, I climbed back into the jeep and headed home.

How I Wrote the Song: Everybody's Going Away

The latest in an occasional series

There was a week back in June when I helped a long-time friend load out what was left of his furniture that was still sitting in his ex's place. They'd split, and my friend couldn't find a job in Austin, so he planned to move back to Kentucky where at least he had family. He'd rented a truck that morning and we moved out a sofa, artwork and other bits and pieces. I said goodbye to him and drove off as the day grew warmer. Later that night, Michelle called him to say her goodbye. She was sad, but then we figured we'd see him again in the future. Or we told ourselves this, though neither of us seriously believes we'll be going to Kentucky. Will he come back to visit Austin? I don't know. It seems unlikely.

That same week I helped an intrepid French family we know store their remaining possessions in a rental facility near our neighborhood before they took off in a used RV to tour the world for three years. Some things they gave to me to store at home while they were away: large dark boxes to tuck away in the closet not to see the light of day until their return years hence.

As I drove to work I thought, "Everybody's going away," and immediately the idea for a song started forming. Michelle and I talked later and we agreed that quite a number of our closest friends had upped and left town in recent years, with still more planning to go. Everybody was going away! I told her I already had the chorus to a new song:

Everybody's going away
Though some of them say they'll be back some day
But I've seen people leave here before
And when they go they don't come back no more

It didn't take long to write the rest of song. The first two verses tell the brief stories above. The third is a litany of people we've known (not even close to half!) who've moved away from Austin, in all likelihood never to return. The last mentioned is our dear friend, Don, who, having fought off cancer seven times, opted to take a journey of a different kind. He succumbed to the disease on his own terms, peacefully in his bed. We miss him.

We miss all our friends who have left.

It's funny that while I can recall the moment the song began to come together in my head -- another one that formed as I drove along on Austin's highways -- I cannot remember how I wrote the music. I can vaguely recall strumming my acoustic guitar and the chords appearing in an acceptable order; or, rather, my hands shifting to form a progression of chords that made sense and fit the words. The chorus came first, of course. Then I made a conscious decision to keep the verses simple, and I guess that was that. I wrote the song in a matter of days.

A couple of minor notes: I hadn't expected to keep the "oh-oh-oh" part between choruses and verses, which appeared out of the blue as I sang an early demo of the song, but once I did it, it stuck. And, slyly, I put in a little play on words for the part about Don. I thought he'd get a kick out of it.

Everybody's going away
Though some of them say they'll be back some day
But I know we won't see them again
So raise a glass to all our absent friends

Listen to Everybody's Going Away on The Late Joys website.

The Late Joys with a Little Help from Our Friend

Young Sarah Jingles Our Bells!

The Late Joys played an acoustic set at casa Polgar in early December and, captured in this hubbub of a performance of "Haymarket Rain," is young Sarah -- a Jingle Belle -- ringing her thing and doing it exceptionally well!

Is This Spinal Tap?

It's common rock and roll knowledge that infamous British rockers Spinal Tap have had a challenge when it comes to maintaining some sort of consistency with the band's drum corps. Or perhaps I should say, drum corpse, as most of the unlucky throne-sitters have met untimely, nay mysterious, ends. Fairly or unfairly, drummers have a reputation for sudden disappearances, and, sadly, thus it is with The Late Joys, who are now looking for what will be drummer number five (we're averaging one a year, a record of Tappish proportions!). Aye, it's true: Though hardly dead, current skins banger Andy Macleod has left the act.

Sad as it is to report that Andy has picked up sticks and moved on to pastures new, what really has me thinking is how similar his departure is to the others who've been in, and out of, the band: Suddenly, without warning, with some misgivings and for personal reasons that may forever remain unknown, politely, and with all hope for the best for the band and the lads in it. No tabloid acrimony here!

This latest, particular departure went along these lines. Following a really great gig a few Saturdays ago at Jovita's, I discovered Andy'd left several messages on my cell phone. Now, when someone wants to get in touch that badly it either means really good news or really bad news. Being of the dark-and-moody sort it's fair to say that I guessed what it was he wanted to talk about. Sure enough, when I finally spoke to him, it was to learn that he was leaving the band.

The selfish part of me was frustrated and not a little cheesed off, but as I've been through this all before, well, I got over that quickly enough. Besides, this is an outfit bred for fun. If someone needs out, that's okay and no hard feelings. We've kept in touch with pretty much all the ex-drummers (they don't spontaneously combust or die in freak gardening accidents!) and I imagine we'll be seeing more of Andy in the future. It's almost funny this pattern of increasingly talented drummers who simply must leave the band. They say familiarity breeds contempt, but in this too, too familiar situation all I can do, ultimately, is shake my head and laugh. Drummers: It was ever thus.

So where does that leave The Late Joys?

Well, for one thing, we need a drummer. Andy's a hard act to follow, too. If you know someone with a bit of drumming talent, please have him or her get in touch via this blog or the official Late Joys website. I know of at least one five-year-old fan who's offered to learn the drums to help us out. So come on y'all: There's a competition brewing! We promise lots of fun, good tunes, gigs of all shapes and sizes and nothing remotely as horrifying as a miniature "Stonehenge" or an improvisational "blues jam" at some B-grade theme park. Or was that the Air Force base? Someone needs to rent that movie...

Meanwhile, the three remaining Late Joys continue to add to our repertoire, and we're revisiting some songs once lost to time that sound rather good with guitar, bass and trumpet (if I do say so myself). We'll be looking to play some gigs soon, too. One thing about not carting around the mighty drum kit: we're ready to perform in your living room and not make your ears bleed. At least, not intentionally.

Andy: safe travels (MoPac's rough when daylight savings time ends!). Late Joys: rehearsal next week! Let's go!

Young and Pretty

What is it with our fixation on all things young (and pretty)? Precociousness is highly prized in our world. We look for the next young thing to turn us on. To tell us something fresh. Or to tell us something we already know in a new and exciting way. For an aspiring musician leading (what I think is) a hot little band, this can be a bit frustrating when you realize that the hot little band is not at all a young little band. Three of us hit 40...let's say, in the recent past. I get to wondering if there's a fan base (beyond friends and family, that is) for a band that plays music as if we were in our 20s, but with (I think -- correct me if I'm wrong) a more mature grasp of things like "love" and "politics" and such. The Late Joys play high-octane Brit-pop-influenced tunes: We're sort of the thinking man's indie-rock; cool hooks and smart lyrics. Lots of fun in concert. No, really. We are! But in these label-happy times, is the fact that we're, uh, older, getting in our way? Who's gonna come calling when there's some younger act out there with cool hooks and smart lyrics, etc. Have we missed the boat? The hydrofoil to pop success? What do people think when they think of The Late Joys?

When pigeon-holing my age group, music-industry-wise, there's an array of possible scenarios that are much more common than the path we've followed. For instance:

1. We made it 20 years ago, then flamed out.
2. We made it 20 years ago, flamed out, then resuscitated the act because we need the money/fans implored us/the Maserati-BMW-Prius just isn't the same as 10,000/1,000/100 (depending on our one-time height of fame/infamy) fans screaming your name.
3. We never made it, scrapped that "change-the-world" attitude and started playing the blues/bluegrass/country music to an adoring, loyal, yet oddly inbred fan-base.
4. We may or may not have made it to various degrees but now are earning an almost-decent second income playing cover songs at weddings in the area; yes it's humiliating, but please call for a demo, we're free Saturday night.
5. We never changed our attitude and play to audiences that wonder what the f**k those old guys are doing up there.

Naturally I fear the worst. Or the fifth, actually. But I don't feel old. I don't act old. I wonder if I'm acting my age? And yet, I know deep down that this world turns its head when the next pretty young thing saunters by, throwing itself at the feet of youth and beauty. Why not? If Y&B responds, doesn't that make us young and beautiful, too?

I've thought about this for quite some time. Years and years, really. Can you tell? Does it show? Especially now I'm old enough to have fathered most of those precocious Y&B things you see a-singing and a-dancing on the Top of the Pops* (R.I.P.). I'm not saying I did father all of them -- or any of them, actually -- but I think you get the point. *TOTP is, sadly, another reference that dates me. Yesterday a friend at work took exception to my use of the phrase "these days." "It sounds old," she said. Or did she use the word "fuddy-duddy?" No, that would make her sound old. I should point out here that she, too, is of an age that falls within that "I could have sired her" range. Neigh, but I digress.

I don't mind getting old. I rather like it. Especially as it has come with the realization that I don't have to act that way. I even put it in a song: "Like Big Girls Do," where the storyteller admonishes a fellow person-of-upward-yet-not-catastrophically-infirm age that "Yeah, you're only young once they say. That doesn't mean act that way." And further: "Yeah you grow up so fast, so what? That doesn't mean you get to give up." The level of frivolity in my life has definitely increased as I've aged. Christ, I sound like a zesty cheese. "Taste this zesty, frivolous, yet mature cheese..."

But it's true: There's something invigorating about getting on stage with the other Late Joys in front of our friends and families and jangling that guitar and singing and laughing and, well, playing. I was saying to Andy the other day that we "play" music; the verb implies fun, an outpouring of energy, sharing with others -- it's a game. And it keeps you young.

The Late Joys Return to the Studio

Session Under Way at Alta Vista Recording

I think we might have mentioned this before but we're so excited to be back at Alta Vista Recording we're gonna mention it AVR and AVR again. Tom Johnson and Colin MacDonald are at the controls and we're working up some new songs that we hope we'll have ready to hand out to you, dear listener, at that upcoming Jovita's gig.

Those of you who've come out to listen to us may recall our dire enviro-warning with the sweet melody, "Twisty System." That one's definitely in the mix for the finished product. Two new songs, "Everybody's Going Away" and "Honestly" are also sounding ready for sharing. The former is brand-spanking new, written this summer by Mr. P; the latter was an unfinished number from years back -- as far back as Mr. P's Boston days, perhaps (that is, days lived in the Boston area, not, heaven help us, when he (never) played for the iconic 1980s hair-band). Other songs we started include boisterous old faves, "Haymarket Rain" and "Ghost Town," but we think it fair to say that those two numbers may wind up wallflowers this round. We'll see.

For those of you who've never been, AVR is a converted house on the east side of town. To give you a sense of the layout of the place, to record these songs as a band we put Andy and his drum kit in the front room with Patrick on bass. Patrick's amp, meanwhile, was in the wee alcove formerly the home of the washer/drier. Shane played in a mock isolation booth in the kitchen. Robi strummed guitar and warbled in the control room (a converted room at the back) while his amp revved away in a converted bedroom on the other side of the house. How all the sounds managed to find their way to the same place is a marvel of modern wiring, not to mention the handy work of Tom and Colin. (Thanks, guys!)

The Late Joys Tout Their Horn

Shane Lewis Adds His Brass to the LJ Sound

Robi's known Shane for nigh-on a decade, having played with or against him on soccer fields grassy, dusty or made of diabolically sturdy hardwood. And though we knew Shane performed trumpet for a local outfit (or two), it still came as something of a surprise when, back in the summer, Shane proffered that he had an "idea or two" for adding a little brass to a couple of Late Joys songs. Or that Billy Bragg cover; who can say, really? Taking him up on the offer, Robi taught Shane a few riffs, the man polished his brass, and the rust -- rest -- is history!