If you’re having creative problems, I feel bad for you, son.
I’ve got 99 problems, but “a bitter ex-fan community” ain’t one.
- Jay-Z, lamely paraphrased

I’m not a huge fan of the fantasy genre, but these two things have come to my attention over the past day or so, both very applicable not only to fantasy writing, but any kind of creative endeavor.

1. After reading this New Yorker piece on fantasy author George R. R. Martin (not to be confused with Beatles producer George “No Middle Initials, Please” Martin), I’m confused.

Is it better to be a relative unknown in your chosen creative field, or to have a fan base that loves your work so much you become paralyzed in indecision trying to give them more?

I’ve always assumed that “more fans=better,” but if the weight of outside expectation keeps you waffling so long that some very vocal fans start to take the waiting personally, maybe there’s something to be said for obscurity. Writer’s block is hard enough without people who used to respect you obsessively mocking you for your unfinished work.

2. On the other end of the spectrum, there’s another fantasy author, Glen Cook, whose first few novels were written while he worked on an assembly line for GM. Not in his spare time after work, but during the 5 minute breaks he’d have throughout his shift.

The next time I complain about not having enough time to create while working all day in front of a keyboard and monitor, I want to remember that.

Seriously. Watch this:

and tell me it doesn’t sound like the product of a pitch session like this:

Randomness: it’s what’s for dinosaur.

FUN FUN FUN FUN

Oh, sorry. Didn’t see you there. I just was singing the chorus to everyone’s new favorite song for the next 5 minutes, Rebecca Black’s deconstruction of the “party song” genre, “Friday.” I normally wouldn’t link to something that’s going to be over so soon here (if indeed it isn’t already “over”), but when one is so overcome by the power and beauty of art, one must speak. And besides, it is Frah-ee-day.

Black has encapsulated the major existential dilemma of humanity here. Who hasn’t crumbled in indecision, Hamlet-like, over the choice between what seat of the automobile in which they should “kick it”? Not one to rest on her laurels philosophizing, though, she kindly plays teacher, giving us a remedial lesson in the days of the week, and their relationship to each other. This is one for the ages.

It may sound a little chipper to some of you. If that’s the case, I present to you the somewhat slowed-down version, which takes the perkiness of the original and pitches it down to a positively morose E-flat dirge. I really think it works better this way. Musically, it almost sounds like what would happen if The Cure fell out of love on the titular day.

Also, demons rapping and shouting “YEAH!”

In the immortal words of John Cleese, I apologize unreservedly.

I’ve been playing around with VST instruments in Reaper lately, and put this track together as a bit of a test. It’s different from my usual – kind of meandering, and it starts on a dark, heavy note before brightening up a bit and getting all atmosphere-y. Check it out, and as always, please let me know what you think!
coldbluestars by anthom

Image by mattedesign via Flickr

(Reposted from my music site)

There’s a Far Side cartoon I love – a group of cowboys are sitting around a campfire, one of whom has an entire baby grand piano sticking out of his back pocket. The caption reads something like “Hey, Gus, why don’t you pull that thing out and play us a couple of tunes?” I always flash back to that image when playing at open mics and other venues where acoustic guitarists are plentiful. I’m often jealous of buskers who are able to simply set up on a streetcorner, open a case, and start filling the air with sound. They make me wonder what it would be like to not need an amp, a stand, or electricity to make music anywhere.

Colin Huggins does not need to wonder about such things.

He’s a classicaly-trained pianist who calls himself “the crazy piano guy.” He lugs one of four different pianos into the streets and subways of New York City to play for passers-by on a regular basis. I just found out about him from a brief mention on a podcast I was listening to on my commute. I have never met the man (or even heard his music yet), but he’s already my new idol.

I am a fan of audacity. No, not the open-source audio recording software (although that’s pretty cool, too – even if I am having trouble using it with my newest home studio equipment, but I digress…), but the seemingly crazy stunt that shows the world how you’re living life to its fullest. What the Vlogbrothers might refer to as “decreasing worldsuck,” or just being awesome. What Colin Huggins does definitely fits there, in my opinion.

I have referred to some things I’ve done as being “crazy,” but it occurs to me that I’ve experienced only the tip of the iceberg of audacity.

How have you embraced your crazy lately?

Somehow, while life has been happening and I’ve been not writing here, this blog turned 8.

They grow up so fast, especially when you’ve been neglecting them for the past year.

Photo courtesy Dana&Ron @ Flickr

Big Star was the first band whose albums I ever sought out based on good reviews. In the years before mp3s and blogging, they were this mythical band that rock critics wrote about in reverential tones. I’d be intrigued by what I read about them, disappointed that I couldn’t hear what I was reading about.

I finally got my chance to hear in the early 90′s. Like most music that’s had an impact on my life, I discovered Big Star’s in a roundabout way, starting with a chance purchase of the archetypal “difficult third album,” *Third/Sister Lovers* at a Cheapo Records in St. Paul, MN. I remember taking the disc back to my dorm room, putting it in my discman, pressing play, and being awed by the off-kilter combination of rock swagger, pop prettiness, and sonic chaos within.

That following summer, I worked my way backwards to their first two albums, which are also pretty much back-to-back great stuff. I also discovered the work of foundng member Chris Bell, who left the band after their first album, but went on to record his own unjustly ignored pop-rock masterpiece “I Am The Cosmos” before dying in a car crash in the late 70′s. But, as good as it all is, it could never compare to my first taste of Big Star.

*Third/Sister Lovers* is often described as a dark and despairing album, and it earns that reputation with devastating tracks like “Holocaust.” There’s a milder, more melancholy streak in it as well, and I think that’s what hooked me. Chilton sang as an outsider observing others in “Night Time” and “Kanga Roo” while hiding from the world in “Big Black Car.” Even when he was being violently defensive on songs like “You Can’t Have Me,” you could feel the wounded romantic behind the facade. In one of the few straight-ahead love songs on the album, “Blue Moon,” he sounds resigned. He’ll carry a torch forever, so it doesn’t matter if his love even knows he exists. For an 18-year-old introvert hoping (and failing) to meet the girl who would make his life complete, this was healing balm. Even as a 35-year-old (whose “soul mate quest” has thankfully found its resolution), the album still speaks to me.

Driving home the other night, it was surreal to hear snippets of “Night Time” and “Thirteen” on NPR during a Fresh Air segment in his memory. Alex Chilton may be gone, but at least his music is still here.

Any and all suggestions will be entertained.

And yes, this does mean new posts are coming. Be on the lookout in the next few days for far too many words on Alex Chilton and Big Star. Beyond that, who knows?

Carla and I are leaning against a rock on Church Street in Burlington, VT, enjoying the unseasonably warm November day. The scene surrounding us is a perfect cross section of hippie and hipster, college kids and dropouts. People rush in and out of cafes, bookstores and the occasional chain retail monstrosity.

We’re eating warm, fresh kettle corn that we just bought from a street vendor. A busker is playing vaguely familiar covers nearby, then starts strumming a B flat to E flat chord progression that reminds me of a Big Star song. He vamps on the chords for a minute or so, until he starts to sing:

“Won’t you let me walk you home from school?”

We stay for the whole song, after which I drop a few dollar bills in his case.

“That was for playing ‘Thirteen,’” I tell him.

If not, click the links. I’ll be here when you get back.

Caught up? Good.

One of the benefits of moving in with my mother-in-law our landlady is that we get to share her DirecTV setup. We had no cable, satellite or any kind of subscription TV service prior to the move. The transition to digital over-the-air TV had given us even fewer live viewing choices – we were left with the option of watching either Fox or PBS. The 600 channels or so of satellite TV were like an amazing new world.

The evening after our move, my buddy John stayed with us for a while, taking in the wondrous sights coming from the picture tube. We didn’t have a remote for the DirecTV receiver yet, but it was enough to stand in front of the box, pushing buttons repeatedly, surveying the vast wasteland of wonders.

It was then we saw the words glowing like a beacon of hope from the program guide. “All is not lost,” this two-word phrase whispered in our ears.

Those words? “Knife Show.”

Knowing that O’Dell’s show is called Cutlery Corner, we weren’t expecting to see our hero, and indeed, we did not. Instead, we experienced something far more unsettling. A rotund, genial-looking middle-aged man spoke while gently placing Swiss Army-style knives and “tactical folders” on a glass turntable, usually framed on both sides by tacky touristy crap – plastic Native American stereotypes, figurines depicting livestock, etc. Every few minutes, an awful country song would play as the host stepped away to let the slowly rotating knives speak for themselves. In retrospect, an entire show of this would have been preferable to what came next.

When he came back, he began peppering his sales pitches with references to God. His spiel also betrayed a growing distrust of the government. More than once he mentioned “our freedom being taken away.” What had started as a harmless bit of crap TV was transforming, before our eyes, into some kind of Branch Davidian-style militia recruitment show. Had he more time, I have no doubt our host would have been trotting out “Rockefeller was a Satanist!”-style conspiracy theories.

Next, our host held up what looked like a cylindrical hairbrush. He then proceeded to illustrate the proper way to subdue an assailant with this not-a-hairbrush. Whether the assailant was a terrorist, ACLU lawyer, or ATF agent, he did not specify.

A few weeks later, we finally caught O’Dell in his natural habitat, 1:00 AM, somewhere in the nether regions of the DirecTV schedule. All was right with the world once more. Say what you will about his hyped-up salesmanship, O’Dell has never (to my knowledge) attempted to incite violent overthrow of the government.