I have been wrestling madly with distraction lately, and it has been getting the upper hand, which usually means there's some big thing I need to do or write. (I'm fairly sure that in this case there are several such things, but I'm also genuinely overbooked and still grieving, so...those things will come when they come.) Stuff that has kept me going:

• Watching my neighbors mobilize to protect and support each other. I was able to put in some volunteer hours last week, and we collected tips for CyclingxSolidarity at last weekend's show at Gallery Cabaret. I love this city so much.
  
• Rediscovering Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials series through the prequel books (which somehow I was unaware of until a couple of weeks ago?!). I'm enjoying them so far—particularly the way he explores the everyday structures and workings of his menacing authoritarian state, much as Andor did for the original Star Wars trilogy. I love a fantasy series that grapples with the very real banality of evil. And the flood in La Belle Sauvage so perfectly captures the surreal nature of a world-altering cataclysm.
  
• Speaking of floods: They Might Be Giants were live on KEXP, and of course it was delightful.
• I always enjoy Austin Kleon's thoughts on creativity, but this line, from his Tuesday newsletter, got me where I live: "Middle age is really the time, I think, that the tamped-down parts of yourself, anything you’ve ignored, any dreams you left behind, come first trickling then bursting back up out of the place you’ve put them in, and the foundation of the structure you’ve build to survive in the world and get to this point starts to get washed away."

There is plenty of other band news—a flood of it, you might say—but it merits a separate post, so we'll leave it at that. Take care of each other, friends.

Not that long after I moved here (Wikipedia informs me, rudely, that it must have been 2003) I saw the Chicago Opera Theater production of a pair of short operas, Brundibár and Comedy on the Bridge. Tony Kushner had recently given them new librettos. Maurice Sendak directed, as well as designing the sets. They were lovely. (It looks like the 2006 production had the same design, as far as I remember?)

Brundibár might best be known as the opera that was performed by children in a concentration camp. The composer, Hans Krása, was Jewish, and developed the opera with the Jewish orphanage in Prague; when the Nazis took over, Krása and nearly all of his artistic collaborators were sent to Theresienstadt. The Nazis used a performance as evidence that conditions in the camps were happy and humane. Somehow—for a while, anyway—they ignored what everyone in the audience knew: the titular villain was a stand-in for Hitler. Eventually, Krása, the children, the director, and most of the musicians and designers were sent to their deaths at Auschwitz.

I have gone on making art as our country has enabled and perpetrated genocides: we need art. We need it as a respite, we need it as a source of connection and joy, we need it as a howl of outrage, we need it as a stubborn reminder of shared humanity. 

Mephisto is another Nazi-related story that has stayed with me over the years. It follows the German actor Henrik Hoefgen (Klaus Maria Brandauer) as the Nazis rise to power. Hoefgen wants to make Brechtian shows on an underground black box stage; he doesn't like the Nazis. But he doesn't speak any language but German, and he doesn't think he can perform anywhere but Germany. In a decision familiar to every performer, he takes a high-profile role to pay the bills. Unfortunately, the Nazis see the performance and declare him exemplary: exactly what German theater and German actors ought to be. Suddenly his artistic career depends on his willingness to be a mascot for the Third Reich.

You have to know where you stand. You have to know what you'll do and what you won't. You have to know if you have a price.

I was in The Designated Mourner with the Right Brain Project in...oh, I guess 2006 or 2007. Wallace Shawn does not write easy work. To do it any justice, you must dig into the squirmier parts of yourself. (Roger Ebert's review of the film does a nice job of that.) Mourner is about a group of artists in an unnamed country where an unnamed totalitarian regime is coming to power. They're a familiar type of New Yorker bohemian, intellectual, arch, certain that their oblique sonnets count as political action. The regime tolerates them, until it doesn't.

You do have to go on making art. You also have to call, write, march if you can, donate if you can, triage when you must, blockade, inform yourself, inform others. And you have to know why. These three works are some of the ones that crystalized it for me.

There's a concentration camp in Florida. What are you doing about it?

This past weekend involved a productive band session based on an inefficient plan: start with the cake (another Yossy Arefi recipe), listen to recent recordings and demos, discuss ideas, and only then pick up instruments and start trying stuff. "Cake first" is the sort of idea that most management experts would probably dismiss out of hand, but it worked for us.

I've posted before about the usefulness of joking and messing around. The cake might have predisposed us to that, or that might just be what we do when we get together. Anyway, when it WAS time to play, we started by recording "Last Call" with a different feel than we'd tried in the previous session. (It's always felt like an Old 97s song, but the previous session settled into midtempo Merseybeat. Charlie said he always had Merseybeat in his brain. There were jokes about a Homer Simpson–style cutaway to reveal an old-timey animation, the Mersey Moose.) That evolved into a very fast punk version—which eventually collapsed under its own speed, but might serve as an entertaining outtake.

The point, I guess, is that messing with genre is an extremely effective way to challenge your assumptions about a piece of work. I think it might even be useful regardless of medium (change a romcom to a thriller! change a comic to a Victorian illustration! change a sonnet to a sestina!).

And if Herb makes an appearance in one of our videos, that's why. Now you know.

My sister gave me Snacking Bakes for Christmas, because she gets me, and the band tried out the Chewy Cocoa Brownies at yesterday's rehearsal for Aloft Sanctuary.

Duuuuude. These are so good. The recipe deviates from standard brownie prep in that you don't just melt the butter on the stove—you brown it before pouring it into the sugar. This recipe also uses cocoa rather than unsweetened baking chocolate (that cruelest of childhood lessons); I was afraid it would turn out too sweet, but nope—great.

Modifications: I added about a teaspoon of instant espresso powder with the cocoa. The recipe calls for half a cup of any kind of chocolate chips; I used Ghirardelli bittersweet, because I always have those around. (I would probably reduce the sugar in the batter if using a lighter chip.) Next time I want to try adding some warm spices (probably cinnamon, ginger, and cardamom), which I think would sing with the brown butter. This may become my new standard brownie.

The band gathered last night for a run-through of Friday's set at the Burlington (https://www.theburlingtonbar.com/). It was brutally cold out, and comfort was important. I tried Shilpa Uskokovic's gingerbread cake (https://www.bonappetit.com/recipe/dark-chocolate-orange-gingerbread-cake, from the December 2024 Bon Appetit; no, I do not know why my browser is suddenly not allowing me to link words). Verdict: yes. Cook this and put it in your face.

I made the recipe more or less as written (with the addition of a little Chinese Five Spice, which is my default flavor enhancer on gingerbreads). Next time I will double the orange zest and add some finely chopped candied ginger, along with the grated ginger root. But I'm having a little leftover slice right now, and this cake rules.

A couple of weeks ago I started a new music notebook, which meant going through the old one to glean usable ideas for St. Jerome's. In the process I noticed a scrap in the Google doc, a chorus and most of a verse, at least a year old. The lyrical rhythm had always suggested an uptempo alt-country melody, which combined with the content to suggest a sort of cheerful nihilism I enjoyed. I thought of it as "Bottom of the Barrel" after the most recognizable line.

A few days later a couple of other lines arrived; they seemed to have their own melody, but once I thought about them in the context of "Bottom of the Barrel," everything slotted into place. A day or two after that, the bridge showed up in similar fashion. Hard to say if it counts as memory or new creation when it works like that.

Verses took a little longer (you can see at least one lousy first draft on the verso above). I asked the band for help. The exchange that followed yielded the final rhyme—Thomas's suggestion—as well as exposing an embarrassing gap in my education.

I retitled it "Last Call" and recorded a demo. Only after sending it to the band did I figure out how to strengthen a line in the second pre-chorus. So the final version is draft four, I think, depending on how we count the scraps? It's kind of fitting, for a song that's ultimately about finding meaning in a life that has unexpectedly fallen into bits and pieces. 

Here's some of the songwriting stuff that's been making me think lately. (The post is overdue, but I logged about fifteen hours of solo performance this week on top of the two day gigs, and I'm just happy to be putting anything here.)

• Ted Gioia on Sappho and the badassery of love songs. God, this is awesome. One thing Gioia mentions is the contempt that critics often have for expressions of emotion, despite the bravery and vulnerability such expressions require. (He doesn't get into the causes of that contempt, but I would bet there's a healthy amount of neo-Platonic sexism involved, the same bias that considers physical expression vulgar and dismisses the pop that teen girls enjoy.)
• Lyrics or music? Where does your ear go, what do you write first? I like hearing from other musicians on this. I rarely write a melody that doesn't come from a line of lyrics. The music is so tied to that meaning for me that I'm always a little awed when I encounter someone who can work on a melody without needing the words.
• An example of one of those people: The NYT Amplifier blog compiled a playlist of Eno tracks. (I have not yet seen the Eno movie, whose contents are digitally shuffled into different orders at different screenings. One of the most interesting classes I ever took was on narrative structure—how the order of the telling, a.k.a. fabula, influences our understanding of the subject—and I suspect I could spend a year analyzing this thing.)
• The Guardian discusses whether lyrics can ever be literature when they are divorced from their music. I tend to think of this sort of a question as a trolley problem—interesting in the abstract, pointless in practice. It's largely irrelevant to the working artist. Still, I'm gratified to know that critics do consider it, when a lot of listeners ignore lyrics entirely. 
• Art Levy breaks down writing an album, song by song. Levy's music incorporates visual art, and his experimental approach makes me feel as though my own long, roundabout process on Posthistoric might not be quite as dysfunctional as I tend to assume. (Coincidentally, he did much of this work on an Ibanez Artcore, the same guitar I usually play live. It's a lovely, versatile instrument.)

Last, this isn't a songwriting link, but writer Sarah Gailey has compiled a thorough list of resources for political actions Americans can take against the continuing genocide in Palestine, as well as ways to donate to victims, refugees, and communities. Here's your reminder that music is one of our strongest weapons against despair.

Thanks to the great karaoke experiment, I have been thinking a lot about the hidden workings of cover songs. You don't have to read that post before this one, but it might clarify a point or two.

In 2016, I was part of a loose ensemble that played tribute shows every so often. As November approached, we were rehearsing a set of TV theme songs. It was silly but fun; many of the songs represented fond memories from childhood and adolescence, even if we knew as adults that some of the shows weren't actually all that good. 

The show was the Friday after the election. I went into it thinking I didn't want to do it at all. It was time for punk, the harder-edged art of outrage and resistance. But as we played, people began singing along, and it could not have been clearer that they were clinging to these familiar songs as to a lifeline.

Since then I've learned that people do in fact turn to familiar media in times of depression or fear. (I can't remember where I read about this study. Someone measured it, though.) This seems both wonderful and dangerous. On the one hand: what a testament to the power of art. On the other: well, it's not as though things have gotten any less depressing and scary, and we cannot spend the rest of our lives retreating into the comforts of childhood TV when the times call for new ideas and actions.

In her lovely and terrifying piece "The Great Unconformity" (s/o to Hope Rehak for reminding me to read it), Sarah Kendzior mentions that the current media landscape makes shared experiences more difficult. Various digital archives have been deleted; many people have chucked their physical media; the number of channels and stations has expanded, fragmenting audiences into smaller and smaller subgroups. 

Kendzior's beat is fascism, but what she's describing matches my experience in the world of cover songs. Beyond a few obvious hits, finding music that a good chunk of the audience will recognize usually means reaching back twenty years or more. It makes me uneasy for the same reason that the TV gig did. 

Media fragmentation is only part of the problem here. The new songs themselves are fragmented too, popular because they are shared in 90-second clips via TikTok or Reels or whatever. There are riffs and hooks I know solely because they're featured in ads. (I suspect some songs are even engineered to be optimal for these shorter clips—the full songs do not reward familiarity.) So the crowds continue to shout along to "Sweet Caroline," because there is so little to replace it.

Ted Gioia notes that sales of old music have been outstripping sales of new music for a while—not because the new music isn't there, but because the mechanisms of profit currently encourage the rights holders to exploit their existing properties. Anyway—and maybe obviously—the people profiting from the sales are often not the artists; they're the shareholders and private equity D-bags behind the consolidation of media companies. As the money flows to them, fewer artists can afford to make music at all. Eventually, more listeners may have to turn to the old stuff for meaning. If that's the only hard media you own, and the streaming landscape is so cluttered with AI and payola algorithms that you can't find new releases, where else can you go?

In effect, multiple engines of media are pushing us to nostalgia. Kurt Andersen, in Evil Geniuses, discusses nostalgia as a cultural touchstone of conservatism and fascist movements. It helps reinforce the myth of a bygone Golden Age: the era, in fact, of the bumbling white sitcom dad and his eternally patient, eternally hot stay-at-home spouse. 

This is not to say that all nostalgia is bad. Familiarity is part of the pleasure of music, after all. But it can't be everything. If an American nostalgia evokes the music of the 1950s and early 1960s, then it presents a cultural landscape with very few women's voices, one in which the Race Records are safely segregated away from the impressionable ears of white kids. As listeners, as musicians, we owe it to ourselves to ask what familiarity omits.

Andersen credits the architects and executors of contemporary fascism with more intellect than I'm certain they all deserve. I don't believe the executives of Spotify give a shit about any cultural consequences when they engineer streaming royalties away from artists; they just want more money. But indifference and venality can enable fascism quite as easily as genius can. All they ask you to do is sing along.

Several weeks ago, my friend Allison asked about my availability for an "elaborate karaoke scheme." Allison is a formidable observer of media, and she had, it emerged, hatched a plan to evaluate karaoke songs by their own merits, divorced from the merits of the performance. 

As it happens, this idea dovetails with some hypotheses I've begun to develop after several years of cover-song gigs. A number of songs—even giant hits, even by songwriters I otherwise adore—are secretly boring, relying on production magic* or performer charisma.** Throw in a different performer and an unvarnished vocal, and the song reveals itself as a dud. We've all seen people figure this out on stage in karaoke bars, blanching at the realization that there are five more verses exactly like this. 

Allison, though, went farther than I ever have, developing an NCAA-style seeding system and researching the most popular karaoke songbooks. She assembled a group of performers, most of us with backgrounds in theater and hardcore karaoke experience, and she had us all submit lists of our own top songs, the songs we didn't necessarily want to sing ourselves but that we thought were good karaoke choices in general, and the songs we would automatically downvote. ("Love Shack" received the most downvotes, and so was excluded. Most of us quite like the B-52s, but we do not ever need to hear another group of drunk strangers shout that song in the general direction of a mic.) Then she booked a private karaoke room, and we got to work.

There was a play-in bracket, with spirited discussions of the songs in terms of degree of difficulty, perceived degree of difficulty, length, lyrical surprises, opportunities to showboat, opportunities for audience participation, the elusive quality of "keep-pumping-ness," and other merits. Votes determined which songs would advance; a song that did advance would be performed by a different singer in the next round, so that we could consider the song apart from its original performance. The bartender—intrigued, after her initial surprise at our quantity of office supplies***—gave the tie-breaking vote in at least one contest. 

This was a lot of singing and discussing, for all of us. There were props and costume changes. There was dancing, obviously, and there were impressions of Elvis, Britney, and Miley. We winnowed the list down to the Sweet 16; those competitions will happen in another couple of months. 

Even though we do not yet have a winner, we've reached some interesting results:

• Length can doom a song. Allison posits that five minutes is the cutoff point. (Again, standards for karaoke are way different from standards for radio or streaming or albums.) 
• Most of the songs that advanced are on the old side. I suspect that karaoke operates by a different rule of familiarity than pop radio (where hits often adhere to the MAYA principle Derek Thompson describes in Hit Makers, essentially a balance between familiarity and newness). But mainstream pop has also seen a widespread shift from major key to minor, as well as a general slowing of tempos—which means that older songs are just going to do better in terms of keep-pumping-ness. (This is something I've noticed in cover gigs, too; the directive is often "uptempo and fun," and it can be a struggle to find newer songs that meet those criteria.)
• Most of the successful songs were in the alto-tenor vocal range, relatively singable regardless of the performer's gender. Several with higher tessituras ("Dancing Queen," "Party in the USA," "Good Luck Babe") were eliminated in the first round. 
• Often, the better karaoke song is not the better song. 
• There has to be a whole separate bracket competition for best duets and group songs.

So! Further study is needed! But this is a gloriously goofy endeavor. It needs a much bigger dataset. You should probably do it with your friends.

*AutoTune is obviously a big culprit here, as is the recent-ish production technique known as The Surge (creating an exciting chorus through a synthy crescendo rather than a change in melody or chord progression). Mainstream pop in the past couple of decades has also seen a decline in melodic variation as producers try to formulate songs that will game algorithms and feel just familiar enough to listeners. 
**"One Way or Another" and "Brass in Pocket" are both on this list for me, though I know many people who love them, and I am not here to convince anyone not to love them. Different things bore different people.
***Shout out to Thomas, who lent me a lab coat.

Last week I was working on lyrics for a patter song when I hit a sticking point: What was the best way to fill the four syllables in this line?

I texted the band for suggestions of acts that scan like "cauliflower" (i.e., trochee trochee). The thing is, though, that scansion is highly personal—try sight-singing from another songwriter's lyric sheet if you don't believe me. It can be specific to the song and the vocal delivery as well. And I hadn't recorded or shared a demo yet.

Thomas came back with a list:
owl city (great example of how a word that looks like a monosyllable turns into two when you sing it)
yo la tengo
michael doughty
billy idol

None felt quite right. I recorded the demo with "Mats reunion," which also didn't feel quite right but at least let me finish without using cauliflower. (I once sent out a demo with the line "I don't want a cauliflower"; Charlie suggested I was missing the opportunity to rhyme it with "I don't want a golden shower.")

When I sent out the demo, Charlie—with the added benefit of context—replied with his own list, as well as the criteria he had gleaned from the rest of the song:
Jesus Lizard show
Lizard Wizard show
Sleater-Kinney show
7 Seconds show
Mr Bungle show
Stabbing Westward show
Smashing Pumpkins show
Jon Bon Jovi show
Jason Isbell show
Billie Eilish show

(Criteria: 4 syllables, currently touring, loud enough to necessitate earplugs, theoretically popular with undateable dudes)

I can confirm that the last Jesus Lizard show I saw was loud enough for earplugs and full of guys I might think twice before dating. What I cannot do, however, is get that combination of s and z sounds out of my mouth in rhythm. It's kind of a fast song; it needs a hard sound or two.

Thomas, ever loyal to the band that brought us all together, suggested "tmbg"—either the abbreviation or the full name of the band, mushed together—but I don't think I can make that work either. So I'm still looking. I think this may become something we change up in live shows. Might as well open the comments here to additional ideas, yeah?