I'm over here (or there) now!

hey folks.

it's been a while. i know. but what i have lacked in blogging i have made up for in songwriting, playing out, etc. i have also grown a little tired of the clunky interface and lack of ability to intersperse blogging with multimedia here; so, along with my need to start promoting myself as a musician and performer, i am moving operations over to Tumblr. if you wanna continue to read my occasional ramblings, but also get a chance to see videos of my and my band perform, please click on over to and adjust your rss aggregators to my tumblr site.

again, that's: chrisqmurphy.tumblr.com.

hope to see you there.

Survivors and then some.

My dad always wanted to be a musician. My mom, while having sung in the "glee club" back in high school, couldn't have cared one way or the other. No no no, this will not be that long-ass post about how I became who I am, but I should mention that those of my friends who are close enough to know that music is the air that I breathe and have met my family are often confused as to how I came upon such a way of life. My wife is principal amongst them. Recently, however, she was able to make a little more sense of how I came to be the music junkie I am.

In an effort to spring a birthday surprise on me (which is beautifully becoming more of an outlier than an actual surprise), my dad traveled in excess of 1000 miles in order to just "turn up" at my birthday extravaganza last month. He is one of my most ardent supporters and one of my favourite faces to see in the crowd because despite any longtime hatchets or old wounds still healing, he, more than any other adult in my life during my formative years, made me a musician. He laid the foundation with Harry Chapin eight tracks in his seemingly endless parade of used cars and built the first few stories by surrounding himself (and as a result, yours truly) with musicians and creative free spirits of many an ilk. The two characters who helped most in lending a little more tangible weight to my father's quest to make me a musician were Lee (whom we called Spider) and Bob (whom we called Dr. Bob). These guys were guitar players, singers, entertainers, and improvisers of the first degree. I will never forget the night that I, probably around 10 years old, was allowed to stay up well past my bedtime on my father's second-hand couch nestled into his armpit as a roomful of bikers and/or recovering addicts improvised verses to an equally improvised folk sing-along whose simple refrain was "disfunctionality". I can still hear it in my head. It lives in my mind as a moment rife with the musical ideals I strive for in my classroom and in my home. The organizers/star performers of the evening were the aforementioned Bob and Lee. It was around that time that Lee gave me my first two (and only for 20 years) guitar lessons, only to sort of drift out of my consciousness and conversations when my old man moved down to Florida a year or so later. Bob, however, seemed sorta omnipresent. He had moved down south as well - abiding (and I use that in both the "living" sense and the "Dude-referencing" sense) in Jacksonville to my dad's Gulf Coast. He still seemed to come up in conversations from time to time. A few years back when sneaking down for a weekend to be the last mate to Captain Dad on a fishing tournament/client courting weekend, Bob was first mate and the most pleasant surprise of the excursion. At some point over the course of that short jaunt down memory lane he told me that he had a bunch of old songs he had written but had never been played in public and, based on what my dad had told him about what I was up to at the time, he would love for me to do something with them. I think I asked him to email me some mp3's, but, for whatever reason, that conversation was the last I heard of those songs - until last month.

It was strangely not surprising to see Dr. Bob standing there next to my dad in the divey bar I choose to celebrate my birthday in each year. And whatever surprise may have been present was of the most pleasant variety. All talk of their response to the show aside, we all agreed to have lunch the next day - but a stop up to our apartment would be in order first. I am not sure at which point he was talked into it, but my Dad asked Bob to play me "The Biker Song" (possibly to finish up the conversation we began on the back of that boat a few years back), I handed him my guitar, and he obliged. I was slick enough to record it on my iPhone as to preserve what I somehow knew was going to be a special event, but all the technology in the world couldn't have captured the raw emotion in the room. For the next four minutes or so, we all sat spellbound: My wife taking in the sheer beauty of the event, my dad reliving the memories about which Bob sang, and me flashing back to the late night on my dad's shabby couch over 20 years ago. When he finished the song, we all caught our collective breath, wiped the damp from the corners of our eyes, and my wife simply said, "I finally get it. I never understood how you wound up a musician, but I finally get it". We all just sorta chuckled a knowing laugh and went out to enjoy the weather before getting lunch at the diner.

While I am sure groups of friends and gatherings of folks have heard Bob's songs before, he swears they have never been performed in "public" before. Without getting into which of those "publics" is more important (see my friend Matt's comments on my post from a few days ago), I told Bob that I would do my best to honor his years of hard work and bring his songs to the stage. Here's a video of my first effort:

Going it Alone (as a douchebag with a guitar).

As I will outline in a post later this weekend, I am much better at playing my songs on stage with a band backing me. There are musical concerns (a broader textural palate, an opportunity for me to due something other than provide basic harmony and rhythmic drive) to be sure, but the real difference maker for me comes down to confidence and comfort. I am still not 100% sure as to why I need people around me on stage when, truth be told, I don't interact with them all that much, but I know that I exude a little more swagger and come off as a little more relaxed when I have a backing band. I have been super lucky up to this point in my budding solo career to have had great friends willing to learn my songs and back me up for discount rates. The Fiendish Thingies (as I have taken to calling my backing band) are the greatest group of players I could ask for. Sensitive and flexible, they are able to render beautiful renditions of my tunes with the efficiency of a crack team of ice-cold musical assassins.

Last night, however, I opted to go it alone. No backing band. No safety net. I booked the gig early last month with just this in mind. I figured that any playing I do can only help me get better at interacting with the crowd, designing solid set lists, etc. Despite my good intentions, the gig kinda slipped my mind and I found myself rehearsing for it (specifically as opposed to just generally rehearsing my songs) with only a few days to spare. I kinda freaked out. I was tempted to, at the last minute, call up some of the Fiendish Thingies and see if they were available after all, but I thought better of it and decided to go ahead with the plan and brave the stage alone. Sound dramatic? Yup - but allow me to explain: I am terrified of being what a good friend of mine and I call "that douchebag with a guitar". You know the one: kinda schlubby, heart on his sleeve, strumming an acoustic guitar in that mid-90's acoustic rock sorta way. His songs aren't great. His voice is kinda "meh". His guitar playing is passable but he's no one would you would pay a cover charge to see again. Yeah. That guy. It's hard not to be that guy when it's just you and your guitar on stage. Like I said in yesterday's post: my songs are above average and I am pretty good singer and guitar player - I've even started to work in the harmonica in hopes that I could have another layer of sound on stage and maybe even evoke a little of that cool folk-singer vibe - but at the end of the day I might just be a douchebag with a guitar. It's situations like this in which I wish I was female. As maligned as the post-Ani, or, even worse, the post-Michelle Branch "girl with guitar" is (and I do some of said maligning from time to time), there is something quintessentially more attractive and interesting about a young woman playing a guitar and singing songs she's written. While I know that those ladies have the odds stacked against them in more ways than I can count, I also envy the seemingly endless amount of audience surprise and, dare I say it, immediate novelty of what they do. (girls in the room, I really hope you're not taking this the wrong way) But I am not a girl. I am not even what many consider cute. Why is that important? It's because over the years we have seen countless "cute guy with guitar" types achieve some modicum of success as a result of a combination of passable to great musical skill and, moreover, *ahem* marketability (read: attractiveness). See: Blunt, James. Mraz, Jason. Mayer, John. Johnson, Jack. Singer/songwriter types all (though Mayer has attempted - and succeeded to a certain degree - to remake himself as a serious guitar slinger), these gentlemen have become the poster-children for this generation's worth of what I do.

Why am I so friggin self-conscious about this? Well, the problem is three-fold. First, I have a severe contrarian/indie/anti-mainstream streak and the "douchebag with a guitar" reeks of what I see as that sort of mindless, artless mediocrity or is trying really hard to attain it. Second, in said land there are two types of guys: the famous ones and the annoying "douchebags with guitars". I am not famous. You do the math. Third, I hate watching the bad ones play. I can honestly count on one hand the number of singer-songwriters/solo performers I have actually been impressed by in my ten years of playing live music in NYC. I have seen what feels like thousands and almost all of them make me feel a little embarrassed for them. Is it snobby as hell of me to look down on what they conceive and perceive to be their art? Are my standards too high for lowly clubs in NYC? The answer to these questions very well might be yes, but in a world where mainstream media, and moreover, musical success is more often predicated on one's appearance as opposed to how they sing, write, or play, someone (that also doesn't work for a major media outlet) needs to be a standard bearer of sorts. I try hard not to be a critic, but I know what I like, and this whole fuckin entry seems to be about my fear of becoming something that I don't.

(this really wasn't supposed to be a rant, btw)

My friend Spiff, who is also working the singer/songwriter circuit has figured out a way to beat the system: he's a one-man band. Capitalizing not only on his good songwriting, he also takes advantage of his ability to play a ton of different instruments by cleverly arranging them in such a way that he can sing and play as many as five instruments (up to four at a time) in a single song. Sounds cool, yeah? It's great. Were his songs shitty (and they're quite the opposite), I would still wanna go see that live. Ernie Vega, who I know from the NYC CBGBOT (country, bluegrass, blues, old-time) scene gets away with escaping the aforementioned "douchebag..." moniker by mixing in his originals with some traditional blues numbers. It helps that he's a great guitar player and his own songs seem to fit into that feel - but either way, I like to go see Ernie play his songs because his abilities as a player and his interpretations of older tunes make his shows interesting as all get out. To call either of these endeavours a "gimmick" would be an insult to either/both of these great musicians, but both of these guys have found a way to separate themselves from the pack. I have yet to find a way to do the same. Shit, I am not even sure what genre of music I play. Without a solid marketing scheme (yup, even at this level) based on either a specific genre thumbprint or gimmick, it's damn-near impossible to be seen as anything other than just another "douchebag with a guitar". As original or as clever as I think my music and show might be, until I can make someone interested in hearing my music before actually hearing my music, I am essentially dead in the water.

So I need a backing band or a gimmick to make myself happy. Hmm...

Long in short (more long, really), the gig went as well as could be expected last night. It was a low profile gig at a low-pressure venue on a weeknight, so remembering the words and only making a few mistakes would have been considered doing ok; but I think I did a little better than that; yet I still hope that was my last truly solo gig ever.

Sincerely (and, possibly, inescapably),
A douchebag with a guitar

The entry I have been planning to write for a looong time:

Sitting on my couch last night I got an email from a good friend of mine. He is one of my most regular musical conspirators and one of the best musicians I know. The fact that we get on well is an added bonus. We don't socialize much outside of making music, but I am sure that one of the reasons we keep playing together is because we enjoy one another's company. I had sent him (and some others) an email early in the day about potentially getting together in more of a social setting this upcoming Sunday, and, while he was certainly interested, he mentioned that he might be sitting in with another musician that evening, so his plans would need to be based on the time that gig allows him. A sharp pang of jealousy and disappointment ran up my spine. Why wasn't I sitting in with someone on Sunday? I realize just how ridiculous this was. There's a good chance I don't even know that cat that he's playing with - and yet - there I was - a little frustrated. This came on the heels of a conversation with another very good friend of mine who I have had the opportunity to sit in with a few times. He has only recently begun playing music again after a long hiatus and has often looked to me for counsel as he slowly dipped his toe back into the murky waters that are the live music scene in NYC. He asked me to come along and play a show with him at some point in July. I was disappointed that I couldn't take the gig he offered as I was playing a gig with my band that night. That's right, folks: I had a crisis of conscience about having to turn down an opportunity to play someone else's songs because I was already booked to do a concert of my own. Fucked up? Surely. I offered to get him a gig on the same bill as me, and, strangely, he wasn't particularly interested. It might have been because he's doing more of a "rock" thing at the moment (my show is at a quieter venue), but I think the real deterrent was that it was in Park Slope at cafe whereas his potential gig is at a bar (albeit a kinda shitty one) in the far more musically illustrious neighborhood of Williamsburg (I am actually not spewing sarcasm there). It kinda hurt. While I know he wasn't levying judgment on a venue I am choosing to play, it was an unintentional yet subtle dig at the path I have chose as of late: quasi-acoustic, small venues, etc. Between these two exchanges with some of my close friends/musical friends I was emotionally spent and just needed to go to bed and pretend I am not a musician. This feeling gets me from time to time. I often consider throwing in the towel. The "quitting" rationale usually makes sense as I often have this way after coming home from a particularly mediocre gig or rehearsal. This time, however, I am forced to really think hard about this as it comes on the heels of not having played music with anyone in public for more than a week. I hate to sound dramatic, but my entire musical ego seems to rest on constant positive interaction with other musicians. Either way, it just calls this entire endeavour into question. Were I 22 years old with no attachments (read: career, wife, etc) and lots and lots of time on my hands, I could continue to slug it out in the minor leagues hoping that at some point someone would like my music enough to pay me money to do just that. But I'm not - which is a big part of this quandary. It's interesting: I know I'm never gonna make it. I have rationalized it. I have processed it. I have come to terms with it (sort of). And yet: I keep on plugging away. There are moments (like this one) that I ask myself why. Let's examine this introspection, shall we?

1) If it's gonna happen, it would have happened by now.

By music industry standards I am old, overweight, and just plain 'ol not interesting enough to make me worth marketing. Furthermore, I have been plugging away at this for a long time. I have played a few different instruments in lots of different bands and, as fun as it's been, it hasn't "lead" to anything. This doesn't really bother me. I am somewhat content to tread water at the "level" I am at right now: playing at low to mid-level venues on a semi-regular basis with people I love. There are, however, lots of little things I need to balance to be able to keep doing that.

2) Looking for a job is a full-time job.

The people who "make it" in this world work their asses off. They do nothing but write, play, rehearse, etc. They may have a "day job" that requires little cosmic energy, but they are certainly not defined by it. The folks that both work a day job and are full-time musicians are often romantically unattached. I am not afforded these *ahem* luxuries. Now let me be clear: I love my wife and would not go back and do anything differently in that regard. She's unbelievably patient with the amount of playing I currently do and I couldn't do any of it without her support, but the times I have played out more regularly have put a strain on our relationship, so those two ideals will always clash at least a little. Also: I really love my day job. I get paid a decent amount of money to turn a whole new generation of people onto making music. It's a blast, it's fairly fulfulling, but it's exhausting. Years ago I wrote off a friend of a friend (who has gone on to be fairly famous) for repeating the dreaded adage "those who can't teach" to my face - but I have come to understand an appreciate this ex-thorn in my side in a very different way: those who teach can't because they don't have the psychic energy it takes to commit themselves fully to anything else. Sure, teacher hours afford me time to have a second 1/2-a-life as a musician - and I think that that "other" life is what ultimately makes me a great music teacher - but, so long as I have another full time job at which I cannot "phone it in", I'll never have the type of chutzpa it would take to "make it" as a musician.

3) Humility gets you nowhere.

Confidence and ego aside (and we may get to these in a later entry), I am generally rather humble about my skills as a songwriter, singer, and player. While I am still a fair piece from the top of the heap, I am an above-average guitar player, a passable upright bass player, a competent player of a number of other instruments, a pretty damn good singer, and a pretty good songwriter. Yet you'd never know any of that after meeting me or even talking to me for a half an hour or more. I may make some passing reference to my life as a musician, but I tend to play it down. I am not quite sure why I do this. Maybe it's the mid-90's self-effacing slacker ethic I picked up way back when. Maybe it's 'cos I am terrified that someone will say "well play me a song right now". I also think that, aside from my being generally shy when meeting new people, I am just not sure that anyone cares to hear about my misadventures on the NYC music scene. So many of my closest friends are also musicians and have had similar experiences, so I think have convinced myself that those experiences don't make me particularly special or interesting. So rather than be over-assertive, I tend to not talk about it at all. I also convinced myself, at some point, that reminding friends about my shows via emails or text messages only annoys them. Do I have any actual evidence to back that up? No - but I do know that I am easily annoyed by people in constant "promotion mode". I know a dude who can't go four sentences without talking about his next show. He only responds to my gig emails by telling me he can't go 'cos he has a gig that night, but recommends I show up at his show before/after mine (he just did this yesterday). It's fucking annoying. I mean: I also think the dude is a douchebag so I am sure that colours the situation, but I also find that the people that try to turn friends into fans upon meeting them for the first time, either by handing them a business card or talking up their next gig, are a little disingenuous - and that's just about the least flattering social trait I can think of. I dunno - maybe they are just that excited about what they're doing and they wanna tell everyone they know (or just met). Either way, it's a skill that appears to be necessary just to keep things rolling on the music scene in NYC. Unfortunately, it's also a skill I have yet to muster. I don't want people to think my friendships with them are laced with ulterior motives that will lead to their suffering through shitty opening acts and overpriced drinks. I tend to choose socializing over networking and it tends to bite me in the ass. Balance? This one is absolutely exasperating.

4) Guitarists are a dime a dozen

It was a little more than a year ago that I wrote a long entry on this here blog about wanting to become a great guitar player. One year later I have lots more skills, yet fewer guitar gigs to show for it. I recently quit the one band wherein I was the primary guitar player and kinda blew the one chance I had to be an aforementioned friend's regular guitar player by overplaying. Ugh. I really want a chance to be a hotshot guitar-slingin' sideman - a pretty tall order as no one knows I play. When I do my singer/songwriter-type thing, it's tough to show off any fancy guitar stuff because my instrument is really part of the larger texture, and besides, I want to draw attention to my singing and the songs themselves. Furthermore, in the band in which I am most publicly visible, I am playing bass about 90% of the time. So why don't people ask me to play bass gig more often, you ask? Well... to be frank (and I am not just being humble here): I am not a great upright bass player. I do ok, but it's doubtful anyone will call me up and ask me to play fo them based on the merits I display playing with the Whistlin' Wolves. I am also not known as a freelancer-about-town. See: there are certain bass players around that are sorta "on call" - and since there are so few of them - and since most of them work full-time as bass players (see earlier paragraphs for reasons I don't) - work just doesn't get tossed my way. To be fair: I am practicing to remedy this and I did just get my first freelance bass gig ever - so things are looking up - but I am still a long way from being first call. I am not sure why I strive to be a hired gun. I guess it's the ultimate compliment that someone thinks you can just show up and be good to go - and god knows I my musical ego is so fucking fragile that I want all the compliments I can get. I think I am ready for that kinda work. So who wants to hire me to play guitar? bass? *crickets*

5) To gig or not to gig?

One of the reasons I am guessing that my friend (beginning of post, not interested in the gig I offered) finds the idea of playing in Williamsburg - even at a fairly shitty venue - more appealing than doing a coffee house show with me is because there's a scene there. People just go out to hear music. Going to hear your friend's band is something you do regularly. I am sad to report that while I have done my time going to see other people's shows over the years, I have found that this simply is not the case with the crowd I run with or places I live. I refuse to believe that my music is so piss-poor that people refuse to come see me, but rallying the troops beyond those who are doing the "friendly thing" by coming to watch me play has been a challenge for as long as I have been doing this. I have made excuses. I have raised questions. I have promoted my shows (though, as I mentioned before, probably not nearly enough). Still, I have always brought out small to medium numbers of people, and I have always been waiting for the other shoe to drop. This has led to a weird consideration/concession I have had to make while beginning to step out as a solo artist: how often should I play? Sadly: in NYC, your ability to get gigs is often predicated on your ability to draw a crowd, rather than, and, sadly, sometimes in place of, how good your tunes/show are. I recognize that the places I play are businesses, so the "bottom line" will always be a part of the equation, but I have seen some pretty shitty bands (and I know this is all very subjective) play at some pretty great places in some fairly prime spots due to their having lots of friends who are young and like to drink and hear live music (I guess I have the wrong type of friends for a musician). So here's the quandary: If I play too seldom, my name does not get "out there" leading to the type of recognition that would lead to bigger audiences and bigger gigs - but if I play too often I will be rolling the dice on having a crowd at all, thus risking my ability to get any gigs in the future. Straight up: my friends are not gonna come out and see me play every week - and I don't fault them for that. But on the off-chance that I do make some new fans who really like going out to see live music, there's a good chance that they will have forgotten who I am by the time they receive an email notification about my next gig some three weeks later. I have had constant discussions about this with musician friends and no one seems to have figured this game out. I think the ideal is that you live, work, and play in a community where live music is an essential part of people's lives. I don't, so if you can figure this one out for me, please let me know.

6) Wanting your cake and eating it too - and pie - and ice cream - and...

When I go see a rock band, I want to start a rock band. When I go to see an old time group, I want to start and old time group. When I hear my friend is sitting in on guitar with and avant-garde Himalayan jazz nonet reinterpreting the songs of Paul Simon, I want... you know. That's right, folks: I want to be a singer/songwriter (requiring time to write more songs), an ace hired-gun-type lead guitarist, a bass player in a successful old time/blues/country/Americana/folk group (luckily I have this one already), a guitar playing vocalist/contributing member to some sort of indie pop/rock band, all the while maintaining my job as middle school music teacher and life as a loving husband and someday father. I am guessing that if I picked one of those goals and poured all of my energy into it, I might be able to get somewhere with it - but then you'd be reading about how bored I am doing just one thing. It's a vicious cy- nevermid. This one sorta speaks for itself.

So if you see me looking angry or despondent or just plain 'ol pensive after a show or during a show or between shows or walking away from you after meeting you for the first time, just think back on this post and remember that it's not just 'cos I am a sad-sack, it's 'cos I have a lot on my mind. Every step (and misstep) I take in this dense and murky forest that is the NYC music scene is cause for reflection in my world. Do I realize that all the time I spent writing this could have been used to try and tackle any of the aforementioned time-sensitive challenges I have set up for myself? Sure I do, but I wouldn't have gotten shit done without getting this off of my chest. I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I have. ;)

p.s. - come see my show tonight!
p.p.s. - (see. I'm trying!)

The end of an Era.

As you may or may not know, I played my very last show with the Randy Bandits on May 1 at a private party thrown by/for Bandits' bassist (and one of my oldest friends and musical soul brothers) Jay Buchanan's family. It was the end if a 7+ year run with one of the greatest group of musicians and friends a guy could ask for. If you wanna read about my getting my start in the Bandits, you can read an old post about it here. Rather than try to pour over things I have already poured over and write stuff all over again, I will just go ahead and cut and past the simple explanation I send out to my mailing list back in March. Here 'tis:

After nearly 7 years of playing with the Randy Bandits, I have decided to call it a day. I have had the time of my life playing with the various shady and nefarious characters who have slipped in and out of this band of musical marauders over the years and have learned more about music from these guys and gals than from any other group of players I have ever worked with or studied under. It's been a journey worthy of 14,000 valedictory speeches and I wouldn't trade it for anything, but it seems to have run its course for me; but like so many Bandits before me, I walk away knowing that I have left my mark on this ever-changing organism of a band. To be clear: there's no ill will here. The guys in the band right now are my brothers and I thank them sincerely and immensely for being so understanding and supportive of my decision. It's just time to step aside and watch the Randy Bandits from the same perspective you all have had the privilege to share over the years. I look forward to standing next to you all in the audience at a Bandits show in the future and toasting the band for the magic they make.

If only for completeness's (or vanity's) sake, here is what Jim Knable, the fearless and stalwart leader of the Randy Bandits had to say about it:

Fandits, Tonight's gig at Hank's Saloon in Brooklyn (3rd and Atlantic Ave, 10pm) is a historic one as it will be Chris Murphy's last official New York gig with the band (he's still playing with us in New Jersey for a party in May). Chris Q. Murphy has been with the Bandits since another historic gig we did back in 2003, a gig at the Triad where two of the Bandits met their future wives and Spiff magically found a trumpet mouthpiece backstage when he was missing one. Since 2003, Mr. Murphy has contributed greatly to the Randy Bandits sound, style and substance. He put his personal vocal stamp on "Sally Ann" and "Romeo, You Gotta Go"-- both of which are preserved for eternity on our albums REDBEARD and GOLDEN ARROW. He co-wrote, along with myself and Russ Kaplan, the music for "What You Believe" (also on REDBEARD) and contributed greatly to many song arrangements (including the horn arrangement on "Loraine"). Starting in the band as the bass player, he moved to electric guitar in 2007 when his childhood friend Jay Buchanan took over bass duties. As a guitarist, Chris created many memorable parts, especially on GOLDEN ARROW. His work in the production studio is heard on tracks from REDBEARD ("New Zealand" and "Catalyst") and on the entirety of GOLDEN ARROW, where he served as mixing and mastering advisor to Bryce Goggin and Fred Kevorkian. Many of you who have known Chris as a teacher, friend and collaborator know that he works tirelessly and is always ready to offer strong opinions-- something he has done for this band now for 7 years. Chris let us know that he was moving in a new direction recently and we've all been very supportive. As with legendary Bandits from days of yore, Stephen Aleman and Regina Bain, Chris will always be with us in spirit, continue to stay with us in the arrangements he's helped create and will more than likely show up from time to time as a guest star. We'll miss him in the band, his energy, his great talent and his motivational work ethic. Join us tonight as we celebrate both Chris' birthday and his lasting Randy Bandits legacy.

I was literally welling up with tears a little bit as I read that. Those Bandits are on classy crew. SO! I thank all of you who have come out to see me and the Randy Bandits over the last many years. It has been fabulous to have had your support all this time and hope to see you out at Chris Q. Murphy & The Fiendish Thingies and The Whistlin' Wolves shows in the future.

One day I'll get what's mine...

through the Persistence of Time.

At some point last evening, while reading through some of the Dio obits, I stumbled onto some pics of the recently passed metal god hanging out with some of the guys from Anthrax, a band I hadn't thought about in years. I quickly did the re-acquaintance rounds (official site, Wiki entry, recent news), pirated (I really need to lay off the Mediafire, btw) some albums I deemed "essential", and was reminded as to why I liked these guys more than the other 3 of the big 4 (Metallica, Megadeth, Slayer, and Anthrax) thrash acts of my 'tween and early teen years: their clear links to NYC hardcore and their sense of humor. While history has shaken out differently and I have come to adore some of the earliest efforts by Slayer and Metallica (I still don't really get the whole Megadeth thing), as a lad, I could never get past the staunch seriousness displayed by these bands while playing music that, as I knew even then, was more theatre than most people were willing to let on. Anthrax didn't bother with the posturing. They were working class skater punks from Queens and made no bones about it. While they could write an angry tune as well as any of the others, their public personae were always a little on the goofy side. In this they were able to appeal to both my suburban white preteen angst and the side of me that considered the Naked Gun movies to be high cinema. (for the record: I still do)

Now don't get me wrong - I was never a serious metalhead. I don't think I would have been allowed to be one in my house. I don't even think I purchased any music by these bands (instead relying on cassette copies from friends) until I was already in high school. So I was shocked by the immediacy of the memories and the nostalgia I felt for Anthrax's 1990 album, Peristence of Time. I guess listening to it was somehow akin to my opening a time capsule - as all of the other music I loved way back when has either stuck with me through the years (Guns n' Roses, Whitesnake) or has been canonized by the indieretrofuckbag movement as the ultimate kitsch (Vanilla Ice) and become ubiquitous whereas this album's very existence had completely escaped my brain - because I couldn't get the silly grin off my face as I walked to school this morning rocking out to this album that I have unfairly forgotten. No, I am not here to claim its being on par with metal classics like Slayer's Reign in Blood or Metallica's Master of Puppets - nor am I even claiming it to be Anthrax's finest hour - but this record seems to represent a very special time and place for me, and, after all, isn't that why we like the records we do?
So think hard folks. What were you listening to when you were 13 or 14 years old? When was the last time you listened to it or even thought of it? Would it still resonate with you? Would it at least be worth the cheap nostalic thrill? There's only one way to find out.