So for the next few weeks I'll be guest-writing on my buddy Jim's blog over at State of Affairs. It's topical, current and quite often funny (at least it is when I'm writing it). Come check it out -- it's like a Localized Irritant post every single day.
Oh, and if you haven't yet, get your tickets for Currents (21 Jun 2009 doors at 8:30). It's going to be great.
I know, I promised dick jokes.
Here's one: I'm a dick and the joke's on you.
Go read Jim's blog. I'm funny there.
(What, were you expecting more poetry? Fine:
purity
in all the lines I have read today
the purest line that I have seen
was the line of a spent cigarette
arcing into snow.
Happy now?)
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Oh lord, he's not going to try his hand at poetry, is he?
Yes, he is. I'm going to try my hand -- as usual -- at something the skill for which I don't necessarily possess. There will be something funny later. Dick jokes or something, I promise.
*****
11:47pm
You're going to have to give me a second (be)cause
William Burroughs and WWII are
too
much
on a Thursday night with a stomach full of beer and bad pizza.
While I dip my feet in Mister Clean Antibacterial Multi Surface I notice
it's always raining on Yonge Street;
the cleanest parts are the streetlights and even they're a muddy orange
that leave the pavement looking kind of oily.
Dust blows off my standing fan and I guess that's what I'm smelling:
sort of a burning scent like you left your pan-bread to roast just a little too long.
If you don't mind I'd like to collect my thoughts
because right now it's all heroin and opera.
And at some point it will be necessary to
go to market, I know,
but I'm much happier smelling pan-bread and rain
while I deal with complex phrasing and avoid
what you tell me is fundamentally necessary.
*****
and, a little something from the archives, just to prove I used to do this a lot:
*****
untitled (may '08)
there’s something restless in
the fine dust of butterfly creases and that
day-to-day dust we all breathe:
smoke and ashes without a filter, no
distance, no difference
and absolutely no holding back
not anymore.
filament-fine like optic wire
threads that read like spiderwebs
strung silent at sunset,
catching dust-mites and lightning bugs
that shimmer and burn and expire
while the sun slinks and winks and slips away.
monarchs’ powder; like day-to-day
breathing falls light like snow;
papery postulations written in dust on
blades of grass and stems of
dandelion heads.
restless; trembling in
swan-song reverie
shakes the shade and the long shadows:
dust-mites eat the words, kicking up
devils that spin and swirl and sway.
they settle, slowly, words digested, patterns
splayed like spilled ash, now here, now that way.
at dusk the butterfly will fold its wings and pass
into dust.
*****
11:47pm
You're going to have to give me a second (be)cause
William Burroughs and WWII are
too
much
on a Thursday night with a stomach full of beer and bad pizza.
While I dip my feet in Mister Clean Antibacterial Multi Surface I notice
it's always raining on Yonge Street;
the cleanest parts are the streetlights and even they're a muddy orange
that leave the pavement looking kind of oily.
Dust blows off my standing fan and I guess that's what I'm smelling:
sort of a burning scent like you left your pan-bread to roast just a little too long.
If you don't mind I'd like to collect my thoughts
because right now it's all heroin and opera.
And at some point it will be necessary to
go to market, I know,
but I'm much happier smelling pan-bread and rain
while I deal with complex phrasing and avoid
what you tell me is fundamentally necessary.
*****
and, a little something from the archives, just to prove I used to do this a lot:
*****
untitled (may '08)
there’s something restless in
the fine dust of butterfly creases and that
day-to-day dust we all breathe:
smoke and ashes without a filter, no
distance, no difference
and absolutely no holding back
not anymore.
filament-fine like optic wire
threads that read like spiderwebs
strung silent at sunset,
catching dust-mites and lightning bugs
that shimmer and burn and expire
while the sun slinks and winks and slips away.
monarchs’ powder; like day-to-day
breathing falls light like snow;
papery postulations written in dust on
blades of grass and stems of
dandelion heads.
restless; trembling in
swan-song reverie
shakes the shade and the long shadows:
dust-mites eat the words, kicking up
devils that spin and swirl and sway.
they settle, slowly, words digested, patterns
splayed like spilled ash, now here, now that way.
at dusk the butterfly will fold its wings and pass
into dust.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Burnout and Currents
Okay, I was going to wait to post this information, but since I've spent the last two days in a non-working stupor as a result of too much self-inflicted stress, some bad gumbo and a total inability to sleep without dreaming about fascinating short stories I'll never write, I figured what the hell, might as well go ahead.
Sometimes people get what they deserve in life. Sometimes they don't even realize they deserve it (I reference the absolutely epic birthday celebration planned by my sister for my 25th birthday this past weekend), but they do. I've been friends with Randy (or Randolph, if you prefer -- he does) for just about twelve years this year. We met in high school, bonded over Smashing Pumpkins, bad poetry, Quentin Tarantino and an unhealthy love of Dr. Pepper, and we've been friends -- for the most part -- ever since. He's the guy I credit with getting me my current job. He's a great guy who's always willing to go out on a limb for a friend and help out where he can. Trouble is he's had no luck with women most of his life. Some of the girls he's dated have been great: just a bad fit. Others have had few -- if any -- redeeming qualities.
But he finally found the right girl. Her name's Michelle and she's one of the most talented women I've ever met. Plays a baker's dozen of different instruments, classically trained opera singer, gourmet chef, fluent in several languages, and she can fly. No, really, she's a flight attendant.
And now she's trying her hand at production.
The show is called Currents, and it's going to feature an amazing variety of talented musicians each hailing from very different musical backgrounds, all performing on the same stage, the same night. I'm lucky enough to open this show.
In Michelle's words, "Currents is Folk, Tango, Opera, Theatre. A love story. Currents of water flow together to create powerful forces like the music flows to move you in this extraordinary event."
That sounds just about right. I've met most of the other performers: Stephen Targett, pianist extraordinaire, Andrea Rebello (who I'm meeting tomorrow) and the composer Erika Crino. Oh, and Michelle as well, who's fantastic in any language. These people are pretty damned amazing, and at a level of musical aptitude I'm hoping will rub off when we share a stage.
The show (for those of you who didn't click the link) is happening Sunday, June 21st at the Gladstone Hotel (Ballroom). Doors open at 8, I go on at 9 to open what will be a 3 hour show. Cover is fifteen bucks, which I'm telling you right now will be well worth it. You can get tickets online here, or you can talk to me and I'll organize something for you.
These people deserve to be seen by the music-going public. Apparently I deserve to play with them. And you definitely deserve to see this show.
Hope you'll come. I'll post something in a few days that has nothing to do with me selling myself, promise.
Sometimes people get what they deserve in life. Sometimes they don't even realize they deserve it (I reference the absolutely epic birthday celebration planned by my sister for my 25th birthday this past weekend), but they do. I've been friends with Randy (or Randolph, if you prefer -- he does) for just about twelve years this year. We met in high school, bonded over Smashing Pumpkins, bad poetry, Quentin Tarantino and an unhealthy love of Dr. Pepper, and we've been friends -- for the most part -- ever since. He's the guy I credit with getting me my current job. He's a great guy who's always willing to go out on a limb for a friend and help out where he can. Trouble is he's had no luck with women most of his life. Some of the girls he's dated have been great: just a bad fit. Others have had few -- if any -- redeeming qualities.
But he finally found the right girl. Her name's Michelle and she's one of the most talented women I've ever met. Plays a baker's dozen of different instruments, classically trained opera singer, gourmet chef, fluent in several languages, and she can fly. No, really, she's a flight attendant.
And now she's trying her hand at production.
The show is called Currents, and it's going to feature an amazing variety of talented musicians each hailing from very different musical backgrounds, all performing on the same stage, the same night. I'm lucky enough to open this show.
In Michelle's words, "Currents is Folk, Tango, Opera, Theatre. A love story. Currents of water flow together to create powerful forces like the music flows to move you in this extraordinary event."
That sounds just about right. I've met most of the other performers: Stephen Targett, pianist extraordinaire, Andrea Rebello (who I'm meeting tomorrow) and the composer Erika Crino. Oh, and Michelle as well, who's fantastic in any language. These people are pretty damned amazing, and at a level of musical aptitude I'm hoping will rub off when we share a stage.
The show (for those of you who didn't click the link) is happening Sunday, June 21st at the Gladstone Hotel (Ballroom). Doors open at 8, I go on at 9 to open what will be a 3 hour show. Cover is fifteen bucks, which I'm telling you right now will be well worth it. You can get tickets online here, or you can talk to me and I'll organize something for you.
These people deserve to be seen by the music-going public. Apparently I deserve to play with them. And you definitely deserve to see this show.
Hope you'll come. I'll post something in a few days that has nothing to do with me selling myself, promise.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Dream Journal? Really?
Yep, really. I don't usually go in for this hippie-dippie kind of stuff, but I've decided I should start cataloging my dreams for your reading pleasure, because honestly, you can't make this shit up.
Last night I dreamed I was hanging out in my ancestral home on Gilley Road in North York (I grew up in that apartment and then moved back for the first two years of my university career. The house has since been sold) with my best friend/current roommate. I was on the phone to my sound engineer, discussing drinking plans, when who should appear but Greg's horrible former girlfriend (the one who was the catalyst for me moving back to Bradford and Greg spiraling into debt and depression for the better part of a year).
I had no idea why she was in my home, but instead of confronting her on this issue I decided instead to discuss her various shortcomings with DeGroot on the phone directly in front of her. She casually mentioned that I might hang up the phone or at least go into another room rather than trash-talking her more-or-less to her face and making myself "look like an asshole". I refused and instead started relaying her side of the conversation to DeGroot, at which point she chased me into the adjoining bedroom (that used to be my parents' bedroom) and tackled me to the floor. She began repeatedly punching me in the face and she was wearing a very sharp ring, so I told DeGroot I'd have to call him back.
I tried reasoning with her, but she wouldn't stop hitting me long enough to get a word in edgewise, so I started screaming for Greg to do something, because I was getting to the point where I was going to hit her back (she really was beating the everloving shit out of me) but I was concerned that she'd call the police and have me charged with assault if I did. Greg stood behind her and waved his arms ineffectually, not knowing what to do either.
Then I became aware of the fact that I was thirsty -- not just thirsty, but lost-in-the-desert parched. I woke up and drank a pitcher full of water.
Sigmund Freud would have a field day with me.
Last night I dreamed I was hanging out in my ancestral home on Gilley Road in North York (I grew up in that apartment and then moved back for the first two years of my university career. The house has since been sold) with my best friend/current roommate. I was on the phone to my sound engineer, discussing drinking plans, when who should appear but Greg's horrible former girlfriend (the one who was the catalyst for me moving back to Bradford and Greg spiraling into debt and depression for the better part of a year).
I had no idea why she was in my home, but instead of confronting her on this issue I decided instead to discuss her various shortcomings with DeGroot on the phone directly in front of her. She casually mentioned that I might hang up the phone or at least go into another room rather than trash-talking her more-or-less to her face and making myself "look like an asshole". I refused and instead started relaying her side of the conversation to DeGroot, at which point she chased me into the adjoining bedroom (that used to be my parents' bedroom) and tackled me to the floor. She began repeatedly punching me in the face and she was wearing a very sharp ring, so I told DeGroot I'd have to call him back.
I tried reasoning with her, but she wouldn't stop hitting me long enough to get a word in edgewise, so I started screaming for Greg to do something, because I was getting to the point where I was going to hit her back (she really was beating the everloving shit out of me) but I was concerned that she'd call the police and have me charged with assault if I did. Greg stood behind her and waved his arms ineffectually, not knowing what to do either.
Then I became aware of the fact that I was thirsty -- not just thirsty, but lost-in-the-desert parched. I woke up and drank a pitcher full of water.
Sigmund Freud would have a field day with me.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
I don't think I'm wrong...
Ever have one of those days where you get one of those great moments of self-reflection, step back and realize your life is awesome? I know, not too many people get those anymore. We're all mired in our own self-doubt, too busy grasping at higher awareness to recognize that our time is now, that this is the moment we're alive and we'd better stop and damn well pay attention before it gets away.
In the last two weeks I've written a treatment for a music video, a full script for what will become a web-televised short, and lyrics for several songs to be used in the same campaign. I had an interesting conversation the other night in which I was told I'd never make it as an artist as long as I kept being a -- I believe the quote was "corporate shill" -- and that I'd never find true happiness as a writer or a musician if this is the work I'm producing. But the fact of the matter is, this is what I do. Some people might call it bullshit, or near-art, or selling out. I don't take those people to heart, because I already know it's bullshit, near-art AND selling out. And I don't care. Because I love what I do.
Let me put it another way -- if what you love to do is make things out of wood, as several of my family and friends do, then what does it matter if you're making a table, or a cabinet, or a sculpture? The movement is the same. It's a movement of faith that drives us to create -- faith in what? Better men than me have tried to answer that question and continue to come up short, but it's faith nonetheless. Making a table with the same artistry and craftsmanship as you'd make a sculpture makes the table a sculpture, in my opinion. In fact, there's a school of thought that says the table is actually worth more because it's useful, and not just to be stared at. It's the same thing with words. I could do what's often been suggested to me -- go back to school, get my Master's degree, continue to study other people's words in the hope of one day passing them on to somebody else. I could go the route I've considered myself -- go back to school, get my Master's degree in creative writing, and be a writer as my full-time job.
But that's what I'm already doing.
I know too many people who got specialized degrees in fields of interest and, either by their own volition (or lack thereof) or by fate, wound up doing bullshit jobs for no money, never using their skills in their day-to-day. The best of them continue to pursue those passions on the side, but they're endlessly frustrated by the fact that they're doing meaningless work in the interim. Others are what the politically-correct among us term "lifelong students" which to me translates as "too shit-scared to give it a real shot so we'll stay in academia where it's safe and graded tangibly". I get tired of hearing artists piss and moan about never making a living at their art when they don't try. The ones that do make that effort (whether or not it's successful) get my full respect. But the ones that truly give me indigestion are the ones who suppose that I won't -- or can't -- "make it" (whatever that means) as an artist if I'm willing to do a job like what I do.
As far as I'm concerned, words and music are a priori tools AND products of artistry. I can look at the writing I do one of two ways, based on that premise. The lyrics I've been writing are supposed to be set to a "rap-rock" musical vibe -- not something I dig very often, and certainly a genre that's faded from popularity. I can either choose to look at what I've written for this project as shitty lyrics (which from my aesthetic standpoint they are), or I can look at them contextually and as a priori tools and products of artistry, and realize that, for what they are, they're perfectly suited. That I can alter my style to suit a genre I've no interest in, basically at will, doesn't make me a corporate shill or a sellout in my estimation -- I'd say it makes me a good craftsman. If you want me to build a table for you, I have to build the table you want, to your exact specifications. It doesn't matter if your specifications denote a shitty table -- if I can make that exact shitty table, I've done my job and I've done it well, and I can walk away with the understanding in my own mind that I've used my craft to make something that's pleased someone else.
Tell me, artists of the world, am I completely off my rocker here? Because I think I'm rather on to something. It's too late at night and I'm too burned out to expound on aesthetic philosophy, but the saying goes, "beauty is in the eye of the beholder", not "beauty is in the eye of the jaded, full-of-shit-and-ego creator of the object".
I'm an actor because I act, but I'm a happy actor because I act and get paid. I'm a musician because I make music, but I'm a happy musician because I get money to make music. And I'm a writer because I write, because I have to write, because it's what I do, but I'm a happy writer because I get to eat the fruits of my writing. I do these things for a living, and I do these things for a life, and I think that makes me a blessed individual.
Self-reflection kicks ass.
In the last two weeks I've written a treatment for a music video, a full script for what will become a web-televised short, and lyrics for several songs to be used in the same campaign. I had an interesting conversation the other night in which I was told I'd never make it as an artist as long as I kept being a -- I believe the quote was "corporate shill" -- and that I'd never find true happiness as a writer or a musician if this is the work I'm producing. But the fact of the matter is, this is what I do. Some people might call it bullshit, or near-art, or selling out. I don't take those people to heart, because I already know it's bullshit, near-art AND selling out. And I don't care. Because I love what I do.
Let me put it another way -- if what you love to do is make things out of wood, as several of my family and friends do, then what does it matter if you're making a table, or a cabinet, or a sculpture? The movement is the same. It's a movement of faith that drives us to create -- faith in what? Better men than me have tried to answer that question and continue to come up short, but it's faith nonetheless. Making a table with the same artistry and craftsmanship as you'd make a sculpture makes the table a sculpture, in my opinion. In fact, there's a school of thought that says the table is actually worth more because it's useful, and not just to be stared at. It's the same thing with words. I could do what's often been suggested to me -- go back to school, get my Master's degree, continue to study other people's words in the hope of one day passing them on to somebody else. I could go the route I've considered myself -- go back to school, get my Master's degree in creative writing, and be a writer as my full-time job.
But that's what I'm already doing.
I know too many people who got specialized degrees in fields of interest and, either by their own volition (or lack thereof) or by fate, wound up doing bullshit jobs for no money, never using their skills in their day-to-day. The best of them continue to pursue those passions on the side, but they're endlessly frustrated by the fact that they're doing meaningless work in the interim. Others are what the politically-correct among us term "lifelong students" which to me translates as "too shit-scared to give it a real shot so we'll stay in academia where it's safe and graded tangibly". I get tired of hearing artists piss and moan about never making a living at their art when they don't try. The ones that do make that effort (whether or not it's successful) get my full respect. But the ones that truly give me indigestion are the ones who suppose that I won't -- or can't -- "make it" (whatever that means) as an artist if I'm willing to do a job like what I do.
As far as I'm concerned, words and music are a priori tools AND products of artistry. I can look at the writing I do one of two ways, based on that premise. The lyrics I've been writing are supposed to be set to a "rap-rock" musical vibe -- not something I dig very often, and certainly a genre that's faded from popularity. I can either choose to look at what I've written for this project as shitty lyrics (which from my aesthetic standpoint they are), or I can look at them contextually and as a priori tools and products of artistry, and realize that, for what they are, they're perfectly suited. That I can alter my style to suit a genre I've no interest in, basically at will, doesn't make me a corporate shill or a sellout in my estimation -- I'd say it makes me a good craftsman. If you want me to build a table for you, I have to build the table you want, to your exact specifications. It doesn't matter if your specifications denote a shitty table -- if I can make that exact shitty table, I've done my job and I've done it well, and I can walk away with the understanding in my own mind that I've used my craft to make something that's pleased someone else.
Tell me, artists of the world, am I completely off my rocker here? Because I think I'm rather on to something. It's too late at night and I'm too burned out to expound on aesthetic philosophy, but the saying goes, "beauty is in the eye of the beholder", not "beauty is in the eye of the jaded, full-of-shit-and-ego creator of the object".
I'm an actor because I act, but I'm a happy actor because I act and get paid. I'm a musician because I make music, but I'm a happy musician because I get money to make music. And I'm a writer because I write, because I have to write, because it's what I do, but I'm a happy writer because I get to eat the fruits of my writing. I do these things for a living, and I do these things for a life, and I think that makes me a blessed individual.
Self-reflection kicks ass.
Older Chests - Damien Rice cover
Here's a sampling of my YouTube channel, since I haven't had the time to write anything of substance lately. Check it out; I've got a bunch of stuff up with more coming. Real blog coming soon.
Friday, April 3, 2009
T Minus 3 Hours
Realistically, this is the first show I've ever played live, solo and for money. I don't know why I've spent the day being this nervous – it's something I've done a thousand times before. I know these songs like the back of my hand, because they're a part of me, and maybe that's the problem. There's more invested this time around.
This isn't some hole-in-the-wall coffeehouse in a backwater Ontario town, or a house party full of my friends who don't care if I'm almost too drunk to play but I can still weasel my way through Year Long Day well enough for the point to get across. This is as close as I'm likely to get to the “big time” – it's a venue that has been played by numerous big acts, in a city that's about as metropolitan as you're going to get in Canada. There's a cover at the door, and to get paid I've had to ask the people coming to mention specifically they're here to see Alexander James. I updated my Facebook music page today and saw that I have crested 90 “fans” – I'm actually uncomfortable using the term demarcated by the little blue box on my screen, because at the end of the day, who am I to be thinking of people gracious enough to dig what I do as “fans”?
It's different playing cover shows, you know? I can get up and play The Gambler or Sweet Home Alabama or whatever, all night, every night, until I drop dead of boredom, and it never feels like this. I've invested something into these songs; the set list I've come up with for tonight consists of some of the songs closest to me. All the same old bullshit runs through my head – what if I'm no good? What if I fuck up or break a string at the wrong time or forget words to my own damn songs? And even if I play to the absolute best of my ability, even if it goes off without a hitch, what if the people who come out who aren't already my friends (and thus biased in my favour) hate what I do? I've invested so much into this music thing: personally, emotionally, financially. To say it would be a shame if it didn't work out is something of a gross understatement.
I love what I do. I love to perform. Being onstage is the only place I want to be. I want to touch people, make people feel things when they listen to my music. And in a landscape coloured by thousands of musicians both better and worse off than I am, I desperately fear mediocrity. I either want to be great, or I want to hang it up. And I think I could be great, but I fight with my ego all the time. One part of me wants to believe, the other part is afraid of staining the art with arrogance by thinking I'm better than I am. Maybe that makes me a better artist. Maybe that makes me an amateur. Probably it makes me a little of both.
I spent the day talking to friends about my concerns, because I'm lucky enough to have friends with whom I can have that kind of dialogue, and they all did their best to reassure me. I didn't feel better, not much, but it did help to talk about it. But there's really only one person whose opinion truly colours my perceptions deeply enough to change my mood, at least on this topic. So I emailed my father.
From: Alex Krueger
To: James Krueger
Re: show tonight
So tonight is the big night; I'm going to go over to the Reverb with Sean around 8 to see what needs to be done as far as setting up goes. I have the song list in order and I think I'm ready to go. The humidifier has helped the fretboard issue somewhat (it's not perfect, but it's much better than it was) so I'll see how it is today (humidifying for the day).
On some level I'm a bit nervous as it's the first solo paid show I'm doing -- I really don't want to fuck anything up because this may be my chance to attract decent attention to start getting other shows, but on the same token I'm very excited -- I have really internalized your advice about being "real" and I think I can do that better when I'm onstage performing for a real audience. My biggest concern is the weather -- it's pissing rain down here and is expected to for the rest of the night, so I have a feeling that will affect the turnout, but really at the end of the day if I get to play a live venue I could be playing for the few friends who show up and it would be all right.
Any last-minute words of advice from a veteran bluesman?
Shortly after I received his response.
From: James Krueger
To: Alex Krueger
Re: show tonight
Approach every venue like it is your first time, and play every show like it is your last....keep the facial expressions to a minimum, and engage your audience no matter how small....you will do just fine if not better. Break a leg.
I ruminated on that for most of the day. I think what my father was trying to express in his typical quotable way was that I need to be honest and not get a swelled head , but also that I need to believe in my ability to connect with an audience through this medium, and to do it with as much passion as I can muster. It's probably the best musical advice I've ever received, and I'm going to do my best to take it to heart.
In my heart I know I was born to do this – or something like this. The only thing I've ever really been any good at is writing, and songwriting allows me to take that to the stage in ways that theater or comedy never could. I know I am a decent songwriter, a solid guitar player and a passable singer. I know these things, and I believe these things, but it's sometimes hard to translate that into the moment.
But when I think about being onstage tonight; when I step up to that microphone and introduce myself to a room full of strangers who are probably there to see someone else, and when I play the first strains of a song I wrote about leaving a nowhere town to do just this very thing, I know what I'll feel.
I'll feel the heat of the lights, and see the silhouettes of the audience, and I'll run my fingers over the frets of my new guitar, and even though we haven't gotten to know one another very well, I'll know it will do its job. I'll breathe deep, slide up, hit the right note, and it will all fall into place, at least for me. And if I can't do this for me, I don't have any business doing it for any other reason.
I'm going to take a long walk on a very short limb, and damn the consequences. This is what I do; this is who I am.
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