Weeknotes: March 18-22, 2024

Monday, March 18

Waiting in the line at the bank. Snow flurries outside, another winter after many false springs. There are a handful of customers ahead of me and each of the three available tellers is occupied with a time-consuming transaction. To my left a young guy is either depositing or withdrawing his savings bonds. "This is a very grandparent thing to do, especially these days" comments the manager. The guy is wearing white New Balance sneakers, the kind with giant chunky orthopedic soles. He's already dressed like his grandpa. To my right a woman pulls her brother's death certificate out of her purse, hoping to close his account and withdraw the remaining balance. It's apparently too large a sum for the bank to handle this afternoon and she'll have to come back next Wednesday. Directly in front of me a woman in a corduroy fedora is silently involved in some unknown, but laborous business with her teller. A man wearing one of those black brimmed Stevie Ray Vaughn hats with silver bangles around it is sitting masked in one of the waiting room chairs. An electronic doorbell ding-dongs every time someone walks in or out.

No one seems upset or impatient. We're all just waiting to get our errands done, though I'll admit I feel slightly smug about how straightforward my own transaction will be as I step up to the plate. "Just depositing cash into my checking, please." 

She comments on my frames. "My mom is a glasses distributor, so I'm always looking at people's frames." We banter on for a while as she counts the cash from my weekend gig. I enjoy making friendly chit-chat like this. Smalltalk with clerks is something to be cherished. We're all just trying to do our jobs. It doesn't hurt to smile and be friendly. These little interactions with strangers give warmth and humanity to the day. 

Tuesday, March 19

I drive out to Scio Township, west of Wagner Rd. to visit Dave Collins and get my guitar neck adjusted. When I lived near here, I was fond of this wooded stretch and often extended mundane errands into casual country detours. Dave's repair shop used to be downtown in the old burgundy house that was for a long time Herb David Guitar Studio. When I was young and getting into folk music, Herb David was a magical place, the kind you don't find in the 21st century. I took it for granted that every local guitar shop sold psalteries, jaw harps, bodhrans, bagpipes, and tin whistles in every key. The mountain dulcimer my dad built for me from a kit was sold to him by Herb who helped advise its construction. I bought my first Martin ukulele there in the late-'90s, long before it became the de facto instrument of young YouTube hopefuls. When the shop closed its doors in 2013, Dave Collins took over part of the lease and ran Ann Arbor Guitars, his repair and luthier business, out of the upstairs space. A year or two ago Dave finally abandoned the downtown space and set up his shop in an outbuilding on his property here in Scio. 

I pull into a spacious wooded lot and park under bare trees in front of his unmarked shop. Inside a woosh of humidity and the familiar smells of wood-shavings and glue reminds me of my years working in the violin shop. I don't know Dave well, but I feel a distant kinship with him through a shared history of instrument repair and when he has to take a phone call, I wander happily around his tidy shop, noting stacks of aging hardwoods, rows of cases, neck-less guitars awaiting resets, well-maintained hand tools, and different stations for different tasks. We catch up a bit before he does a minor tweak to my guitar's truss rod, then sends me on my way. Maybe this summer I'll spend some time getting my own tools back in shape. My block planes, chisels, and knives haven't been sharpened for a while.

In the evening I meet up with friends to celebrate CC's birthday at a new cafe/bar on Ann Arbor's north side. It's warm and convivial with good cocktails and tables surrounded by the bright laughing faces of people I love. It's the last night of winter; the vernal equinox begins at 11:06PM. 

Wednesday, March 20

A head down, nose to the grindstone kind of day. I've been assigned to rewrite the biography for the U.K. band World Party following the death of its leader and only real member, Karl Wallinger, earlier this month. Although I later became a huge Waterboys fan (he was a member in the mid-'80s), my introduction to Wallinger came at the age of ten with World Party’s surprise hit "Ship of Fools." The song had a killer chorus and I liked his vaguely psychedelic look, something I later appreciated in bands like the Dream Academy. By the time World Party's second album, Goodbye Jumbo came out in 1990, I'd been playing guitar for a few years and was starting to learn a little bit about arranging and part-writing. I knew that like Prince, Wallinger was a multi-instrumentalist who had played nearly every instrument on his albums. My friend Ian had told me something similar about Emitt Rhodes' 1970 album and of course I later learned about Paul McCartney doing it on his first album that same year. Even at the age of 13, this appealed to me. I was playing in my first band and could already tell I wanted to be more than just a guitarist. My brother had a TASCAM Portastudio 4-track recorder and I had already begun experimenting with overdubs and understood the general principles. Goodbye Jumbo was a fantastic album of smart songwriting and great playing that I couldn't believe was just one guy. During my high school years playing solo gigs in coffeehouses, I covered World Party songs like "Put the Message in the Box" and "All I Gave." I fell off with Wallinger sometime after 1993's Bang! and never really checked out his last two albums until this week, but he was certainly an influence on my own music and the way I learned how to record it. 

With the advent of digital audio workstations (DAWs) and easier access to hi-fi equipment, it has become increasingly common for artists to record albums entirely on their own. After years of moving in that direction, I finally did it myself on my last solo album which I recorded alone during the pandemic. But it's also a lot easier to correct flaws and edit every aspect of your playing. I’m a guitarist first and foremost. I certainly edited the hell out of my shaky drum parts and used many of the now-common studio hacks and software to tighten things up to my liking. When Karl Wallinger was recording Private Revolution and Goodbye Jumbo in the late-’80s, he had significantly fewer tools and had to rely on repetition and his hard-won chops. You can hear it in his albums. He was a monster musician with a great feel on guitar, keyboards, bass, and drums who could also write great songs. I will always admire him and the multi-instrumentalist forebears like Prince, McCartney, Todd Rundgren, Jeff Lynne, and so many others who sculpted complete unified visions almost entirely on their own. 

Thursday, March 21

Another focused, intensive day of work after which I suddenly feel behind the ball on all other endeavors. I throw together a quick dinner and learn two cover songs for an upcoming benefit show in Flint. Greg comes over, guitar case in hand, with a backpack full of microphones and a case of beer. Over the past couple years one-on-one rehearsals with close friends inevitably take the same shape: energetic dog greeting -- easygoing chit-chat and set-up -- first song -- 15 minutes of sidebars and reminiscing -- second song -- drink refills and dog management -- third song -- longer digressions and deepening of personal connections -- fourth song -- in-jokes and laughter, etc. Suddenly it's 9:30 and we have to put ourselves to task to get through the rest of the set which we do before putting instruments down and allowing it to be a proper hang. 

In my prime years of band-dom ('20s and early-'30s) I don't remember liking rehearsals that much. Depending on where we were in our career or what we were practicing for, I enjoyed the hang, though it often devolved into boozy asides, laughter, fights, simmering tensions, and general folly. Somehow we learned complex songs and worked out intricate parts and harmonies, but we also gigged frequently enough that a lot of the work was done on stage. Now I look forward to rehearsals. Most of my most active social connections right now are with other musicians and after working alone at home all day, the appeal of connecting with friends I love both musically and socially holds great appeal. I now relish the hang and the playing and have enough perspective to recognize how important both are to my wellbeing.

Greg plays his Gretsch through my old Ampeg and we go off on a tangent about our respective amps' histories. I play my Martin through my little Peavey Backstage Plus because I just got it repaired and I want a little spring reverb. The AC on my pedalboard is suddenly malfunctioning and I smell melting plastic and electrical damage, though I can't find its source. At some point a fuse blows in the house, but I don't recognize it until later when I try to turn the desk light on in my studio. Meanwhile, Islay pads back and forth between us whining and begging for treats. We laugh a lot. It's a nice evening and I'm already looking forward to our next rehearsal.

Friday, March 22

A morning of flurries accelerates into a proper snowstorm. A couple inches by afternoon. Welcome spring. I try out my pedal board again, removing the batteries from each pedal and trying out different configurations with my existing cables. Kaput. The daisy chain power adapter has crapped out. It was cheap anyway. I might finally be ready for a more expensive grown-up power supply with isolated outlets. I used to be so reluctant to spend good money on equipment that didn't directly make sounds. Direct boxes, cables, power adapters, headphone amps, cases… none of them are very sexy. Nowadays, I'm more excited to buy this stuff. I like modifying my set-up and appreciate reliable gear.

I drive into town to get my hair cut. A lot of it ends up on the floor, though we keep some length, just in a more layered style. It's still rock and roll. I remember reading my hero Matt Wilson's Instagram post the day he cut his pandemic locks: "Our long national nightmare of my hair is almost over.” I laugh every time.

I carry my post-haircut mojo across the road to the mall and treat myself to some new clothes. Briarwood is in pretty rough shape these days. The old Sears building, one of the mall’s original anchors, has been leveled. Lots of empty storefronts and others that just seem like listless pop-ups or even cheaper variations of Claire's. It’s a tween’s world. I walk past a room containing about six large arcade games, all completely silent, colored lights a-blinking, no customers or even an attendant on duty. It's called Extreme Fun. It feels haunted. I locate a surprisingly robust sale rack of the “70% off the lowest price variety.” My sweet spot. I walk out with astonishingly bright red pants, a corduroy flower pattered shirt, and a pair of gray suede chelsea boots. A good haul. I wear them to the bar later to see Brawny Lad and Same Eyes. Everyone is there and it feels like an old-school Friday. A TGIF.