22 Days To Dudes: "Claws" (Outtake From The Luxury of Time)

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Like a lot of suburban kids, I was perpetually unsatisfied with my beginnings. My family moved around more than most but, whether in Atlanta, Saint Paul, Birmingham or Nashville, we always ended up in a calm neighborhood where the houses, cars and people were rarely indistinguishable from each other. A big reason I wanted to get into the show biz was to shed what I perceived to be the boredom of a middle-class upbringing, the eternal weight of sameness and White America’s general lack of notoriety.

I had became aware of Rufus Wainwright in 1998, falling hopelessly under the spell of his debut album about eight bars into the lead-off track. Rufus and I were the same age, but his songs were about a world that I had only dreamed of living in, a far-off universe populated by neo-Victorian dandy’s traipsing the streets of New York, Montreal and L.A. A lifetime devotee of opera, Rufus was fluent in a complex melodic language that I had grazed the surface of but never fully grasped. He was good-looking, he dressed like a champion, he was friends with celebrities and seemed to be everyone’s favorite new version of The Real Deal. On top of all this, he was openly and flagrantly homosexual, which seemed to me like a pretty brave and mysterious way to be.

“Claws” was my attempt, by imitation, to gain entry into Rufus’ private musical universe. Like a teenage girl who dresses like Justin Bieber, I thought some accomplished mimicry might lend me some of his street cred.

After moving to New York, I ended up running in some of the same circles as Rufus for awhile. I even socialized with his family on several occasions, one of which was a late gathering in a room above a bar called Nightingale following the release party for his second album, Poses. There weren’t many people there, just Rufus’ band, his sister Martha, his mother Kate, and a few hangers-on.

It was a long night. At some point, someone put Schubert on the stereo. Rufus abruptly stood up, took his mother’s hand and expertly waltzed her around the grimy room, weaving in between thrift store couches and fold-up chairs, both of them laughing, brown cigarettes dangling from their mouths.

There was something so effortlessly cool about this, so easy and genuine, that all my suburban envy simply drained out of me. Suddenly, I had nothing to covet anymore. Rufus and Kate, with a few lazy turns around a makeshift dance floor, showed me that nothing real will ever be accurately imitated.

Everyone has their own story to honor, their own truth to live out. Life is too short to waste energy attempting to be anything other than yourself.

Whoa Whoa

Video Session : David Mead : LaundroMatinee

I finally found this today. I love Bill DeMain and his pickin,' and I think the guys in Indianapolis did a fine job of capturing us in pretty good form.
Video Session : David Mead : LaundroMatinee

The Importance of Being Earnest

My friend Jay Odenbaugh blew back through town earlier this week. I was able to catch him for breakfast and a hike on Tuesday. As we crested the Mossy Ridge at Percy Warner Park, he informed me that he had recently attained tenure at Lewis and Clark University. I was damn near misty-eyed as I contemplated the ramifications and the long road to his achievement: At the age of 15, when I had known him for three or four years, Jay stated his desire to become a Doctor of Philosophy, a feat he achieved quite handily in the subsequent decade. After countless exhibitions of pride and determination, I can't say that I was surprised to find out that he had finally grabbed tenure out of the hands of defeat; I just wish I could remember more of the details about his rise to the top.

This morning I met my father for breakfast at the Pancake Pantry. I had not seen him for a month or so and there was plenty to catch up on. He and Vicki have sold their house, not before winning a Nashville Historical Society Preservation Award for their fine renovation/restoration efforts. They are soon moving into another house that Dad has renovated, a Cape Cod that was on the verge of collapse this time last year. We went to look at it this morning, and I was truly stunned. It is one of the finest home renovations I have ever seen anywhere; the floor plan flows beautifully and old and new aesthetic details have been married with nary a flaw. It is the seventh house my dad has renovated in my lifetime, and by far his crowning achievement. I am looking forward to visiting and, as always, very happy to have such a sweet place to hit rock bottom, should the need ever arise again.

I went straight from Dad's house to Bill DeMain's apartment, where we wrote a new song called "Philosopher Dog," recorded the two remaining demos for 1908 Division and then mixed all of the demos. Listening back, I am pleasantly surprised. The songs are alternately more complex and deconstructed than most previous efforts. The implied apartment building narrative allowed for the use of various styles and dynamics that I would normally not include on one album, but all in all it holds together pretty well. Then again, what wouldn't sound good to ears tweaked on high-grade organic peyote? Before the carpet began slithering up my ankles I was able to detect a few arrangement issues here and there, but nothing major, nothing that won't be easily dealt with the minute these goddamn fruit bats stop flying out of my nostrils.

Word on the street is that I have my third home-cooked supper of the week to look forward to this evening. Liz is on a real culinary tear and I am supremely grateful. Tonight is Quinoa and vegetables, I believe. I would like to go for bike ride in the meantime, but feel obligated to hang with Stan for a bit; he endured a terrible thunderstorm today alone. He seems shaken but did managed to avoid relieving himself on the floor, which is certainly what I would have done in his position.

Schedule Of Events

SCHEDULED:

7:00 Tennis with Paul Deakin @ Maryland Farms YMCA
9:30 Breakfast with Jay Odenbaugh and unknown lady friend
10:30 Songwriting session with Jason White
3:00 Lunch with Jay Odenbaugh and unknown lady friend
6:30 Dinner at Peter Collins' house

ACTUAL:
7:00 Arrived MFYMCA seven minutes early, stretched, chewed fat with Deakin, proceeded to lose 7-5, 4-6, 6-4. Serve impressive, ground strokes horrible-to-professional, with exception of lob, which is nonexistent, allowing Deakin, the shithead, to execute weird drummer monkey-run to net with no fear of serious retribution. Draw small amount of pleasure from estimate that Deakin has dropped somewhere between $500-600.00 on new gear, apparel and lessons since becoming interested in game six months ago. My expenses thusfar: $19.72, for one can of balls and court fees. Suck it, Deakin.

9:30 Breakfast canceled. Back to house to check on the ill and complain about various things over which I have no control.

10:30 Rode bike to J. White's. Started something vaguely Henley-esque that eventually transmogrified into Randy Newman/Leon Redbone-esque song about canine's: "A Dog's The Nicest Person You're Ever Going To Meet." My favorite song I have written in awhile, truly lovable and catchy as a cheerleader. Drank fresh apple juice, ate beef jerky from California and Gouda from Kroger. Smoked. Observed vegetable garden, very impressive and inspiring.

3:00 Rode bike to Fido to meet Jay and Karen, his friend from San Francisco. They are driving across the country in a U-Haul moving things. Karen is a dancer, very enjoyable. Odenbaugh better get his game right on this one. Ate chopped salad called 'Chop Salad,' very good.

6:30 Dinner at Peter's, heartily anticipated. We're bringing a bottle of port and some flowers that Liz bought. Looking forward to telling more people to go see Anvil: The Story of Anvil, the feel-good movie of the decade.

Strawberries and Cheese

Today started with a pretty painless meeting with one of my attorneys, Chad. I had to get some papers signed and notarized. A woman he shares an office with said that my hat looked like something K-Fed might wear to the beach.

After thanking her for boosting my self-esteem, I hit the road to West Nashville for a session with Bill DeMain. We wrote a song called "Raggedy Man" and recorded four demos for a new album called 1908 Division. I was supposed to do an interview with a blog but the call never came. Bill and I soldiered on, through crackers and cheese and some nice organic strawberries he had picked up at the Farmer's Market.

I am hoping that the songs for this new album are as good as I think they are. It's about my old apartment building; the songs don't have titles, just apartment numbers. The lyrics are Little stories about the people that lived there during my tenure, a surprising number of whom seemed to have since been evicted or just fled of their own volition. I believe that the building is now condemned, but I could be wrong.

I am now back at the house, entering here to warm up for another batch of prose writing. I think I finally have a good idea for a novel. I wrote what I think is a good first chapter last night and I would like to finish a second today. I am trying to heed the sage advice of the one and only Robert Bradley: write first, edit later. This is difficult for me as I am naturally more attuned to style and rhythm than actual content. Many a well-paced manifesto has fallen prey to the basic incongruity of pizazz over substance. But this time I have a good plot that seems to hold up until the very end... which is, of course, fuzzy. I am, however, confident that if I start plugging away at the first 27 chapters the end will reveal itself. I am probably wrong but the exercise seems worth the risk, if you know what I mean.

I am not expecting anything too nuts from the evening. My girlfriend Liz and I are going to make dinner and maybe go for a bike ride. Tomorrow night we are meeting some friends at The Belcourt to see Anvil: The Story of Anvil, which I have heard is really good. I am bacheloring this weekend as Liz is going to New York. I am supposed to go to Franklin with Lindsay for some kind of film festival on Saturday and I think I am working with Liz's father at their farm in White's Creek on Sunday.

Stan was hiding in the bathroom when I came home this afternoon. I am not sure if a thunder storm came through or if he just needed some 'alone' time, but he seems fine now and rather sociable, to boot. He seems to have gained weight this week. But I could be wrong.

A Different Sherrie

Last night, in an exceptionally odd instance of life imitating art imitating life, I was introduced to a girl who appeared to be of Persian decent.

"David, this is Sherrie."

"Hi Sherrie, it's nice..."

"Oh, I know you, " she said. "You went to David Lipscomb, right?" She said, referring to my sinister alma mater.

"Oh yeah! Sherrie -----..." I remembered a warm Summer evening, a year or two after high school. I had run into her at a friend's house. After several-to-many beers, we ended up in a bedroom together. It was one of those moments in which you assume you are inspiring the tender loss of innocence but, years later, realize that you were merely developing into another set of bad habits.

Smiling, I leaned in to embrace her.

"Oh! No, I'm Sherrie ------."

Which led to an altogether awkward scene that can more eaily be imagined than described. The even stranger thing about all of it was that my good friend Daniel Tashian had once had the exact same experience with the same two women (incriminating circumstance need only be supposed, not assumed). He actually wrote a song about it, a fine version of which was eventually recorded by his band, The Silver Seas. I was fully prepared to provide you with a link for streaming but cannot locate it anywhere.

Don't Be Afraid

When I was three, my mother took me to various coffee houses around Atlanta to watch her and her friend Patricia perform. They both played acoustic guitars and sang in excellent harmony. I admired them from the audience, usually posted up at the table of one kind stranger or another. It was odd and thrilling to be in a dark performance space with music.

Soon I knew most of their songs by heart; I had not yet learned to read and my memory was unbelievably uncluttered and accurate. All of the songs were of the gospel and inspirational variety and my mother and Patricia were very convincing in their performance. I remember one in particular entitled, "Rattle Me, Shake Me," a song about a girl who is suspected by various authority figures of being under the influence of one narcotic or another but, in fact, is merely high because 'she got the spirit inside.' Another favorite of mine was "Be Still And Know," a directive from God himself to 'stop runnin' through the streets and alleys of your mind, for all your hurried, worried runnin' only makes you more blind.'

It seems important to note that all of these songs were delivered in a very relaxed manner more Judy Collins than Jerry Falwell. Mom and Patricia were not of the hellfire variety of Christian entertainer that so often seems to get the headlines. They were the evangelical mirror of Joni Mitchell, Linda Rondstadt and Juice Newton. They probably got hit on after the shows. It was the mid-70's. There was a real electricity to the performances, the hormonal angst of twenty and thirty something people of the opposite sex stuffed into a room with no options available besides coffee sipping and bible verse quotation. People yearning to burst out, to get their game on, stuck having to squeeze their ambitions into tiny little messianic packages to be thrown at the wall and hoped for. It was very rock and roll.

After the shows I ran around the adjacent bookstore, or church sanctuary, or whatever institution's activities supported the coffee house. Sometimes I walked on the stage and strummed my mom's guitar while she talked to other adults. She taught me how to pack it up. It was too heavy for me to carry.