on Southern California

I took a drive up to Utah last week. My wife and I joined a 12-person relay team and participated in the Top of Zion Relay. This was the second time we have run in this event. While I am still not entirely sure that I am “a runner,” I was much more prepared this time than last.

I have driven between Southern California and various points in Utah more times than I can count. As a kid, it felt like we visited family and various tourist/historical sites up there every summer. Between my wife and I, more than half of our immediate family members live in either Utah or Idaho—my mother plus three of my four siblings, as well as my wife’s parents and two of her four siblings—despite the fact that we both grew up in California. So, we make a lot of trips to Utah.

To put it bluntly, I hate driving to Utah. (Okay, that might be putting it a bit too harshly … Let’s just say that I never look forward to it, and I always wish it to be shorter than it is.) For those that haven’t made this trek, I can sum it up pretty easily: you spend five hours driving through a desert—Las Vegas does break the monotony a bit—until you arrive at the Utah/Arizona border; then you drive through three or four more hours of barely-populated desert until you get to something that feels like “somewhere.” To be fair, there is some stunning scenery along the way, but it mostly feels like a long, dusty drive through a lot of “nowhere.” The return home is the same, only in reverse.

My maternal grandparents both grew up in a tiny town in southwestern Wyoming. It is one of those towns (or was) with only a few families, so my mom ended up with some cousins that are related on both sides. After my grandparents got married, they spent their first several years together wandering around various Wyoming locales until they decided to make a big change; California’s marketing as the land of milk and honey finally got to them and they moved to Los Angeles in the early-1950s.

My grandpa once told me about their move to L.A. He told me about what it was like to drive down the Cajon Pass, out of the desert, into San Bernardino. There was no smog then, so he could see for fifty miles, and one of the most prominent things he saw were orange groves just about as far as he could see. Once they made it all the way down the pass, they decided to stop at one of the fruit stands along the side of the road. And then, the heavens opened and angels sang as he tasted his first glass of orange juice. This, he said, was the most amazing thing he had ever tasted! There were now two parts of his life: B.O.J. and A.O.J. (before orange juice and after orange juice). The orange juice was so amazing that they stopped at every fruit stand between San Bernardino and Culver City. As far as he was concerned, this place was the Garden of Eden, and fresh orange juice was nectar straight from heaven.

When I was in college, one of the first questions we asked each other upon meeting was some variation of, “Where are you from?” I was a little embarrassed of part of my answer, but less so of the other part. I was often a little smug about the fact that I could say I was from California, which I regret; there are a lot of reasons to not be proud to be Californian, and a lot of reasons to be proud to be other kinds of -(i)an.

In graduate school, I took a class called, “Los Angeles: Texts and Contexts.” Claremont is all proud of itself for requiring everyone to take a “transdisciplinary” course; the L.A. one just happened to be what was being offered when I had room for the t-course. It was an interesting class. It was basically a look at L.A. through a variety of lenses, including some not-so-obvious ones. It was in this class that I wrote a paper about The Beach Boys, and when it came time to settle on a (new) dissertation topic three years later, I looked back on that paper and thought it might be worth expanding.

Though I am not a geographer, nor a cartographer, nor a topographer, I ended up leading a discussion about the city’s interesting geography. Basically, Los Angeles—and the rest of Southern California—is kind of like an island, surrounded on two sides by mountains, on one side by an ocean, and on another by the international border (with an uninhabited desert beyond that). The Tehachapi, Santa Monica, San Gabriel, and San Bernardino mountains make an almost unbroken northern wall, while the San Jacintos, Santa Rosas, Cuyamacas, and Lagunas do the same to the east. There are 5,500 miles of ocean to the west, and the land becomes uninhabitable about 200 miles south of Mount Wilson. Put more simply, it is a pain in the butt to get to Southern California: you either have to scale 10,000+ foot mountain ranges—after crossing hundreds of miles of desert—or sail in from some other place touching the Pacific; entering from the south is a little easier except for the fact that Baja is a really long peninsula, most of which is also empty.

Mountains, more mountains, deserts, and an ocean.  (The blue dot is where I happen to be sitting right now.)

The thing is, L.A. really has no business being where it is. There is not enough water to support anything close to that size. It takes quite a bit of effort to get into or out of the area. There is no natural seaport. (Even San Diego’s bay has to be dredged to allow large ships to pass. The bay is naturally only about 5 feet deep in several places.) But, none of this has stopped 15 million people from calling this corner of the country home. (I am well aware of the complicated political finagling that allows L.A. and S.D. to access water from far away places, and am sympathetic to the problems this causes.)

Given the popular language about California one day falling into the ocean, the image of Southern California as an island is really interesting to me. So, as my wife and I were driving across the Mojave Desert on our way back home, this image of us driving to an island kept popping into my head. This makes the idea of the entire state dislocating from Nevada, Arizona, and Oregon, and floating out to sea a bit more literal. And then there is the fact that California has a larger economy than most countries, and that a sizable chunk of the U.S. couldn’t care less if we were to just float away. What if we did float away?

But, then there is the orange juice.

*Interesting side note: one of the names Natives used for the L.A. Basin translates into something along the lines of “Valley of Smoke.” Basically, the place is a magnet for smog, and it seems that it was a problem long before Europeans paved over the place. 

on Hometowns and Returns

My wonderful wife bought us two tickets to see Ben Harper (and The Innocent Criminals) as a birthday gift last month. The concert was last at the Fox Theater in Riverside, which we both thought was an odd location; certainly Ben Harper could play a “bigger, better” venue. The concert was pretty good, though I wish the “sound guys” had done a better job; like usual, there was too much bass and kick drum and not enough vocals.

Back when we lived in Pomona (while I was in graduate school), Ben Harper was something of a local celebrity. He grew up in Claremont, where his family owned a music store. Supposedly, it was fairly common to see him going about his business in the general Claremont-Pomona-Upland-Ontario area. I never did, but I knew at least one person who ran into him at a grocery store.

I grew up in Hemet, CA. It’s a crappy little town stuck at the edge of a valley with the San Jacinto Mountains rising up to the east. To the west is the rest of Southern California, with Los Angeles lying about 100 miles out. San Diego is about 100 miles to the south-southwest. Essentially, Hemet is the absolute eastern boundary of anything related to the Los Angeles, Orange County, and San Diego metro area; beyond it lies a steep mountain range and an unforgiving desert.

When I tell people that this is where I grew up, I usually add something like, “as awful as that sounds,” or “but I am glad I got out.” It kind of makes me sad that I feel obligated to say this.

My wife and I moved back to Hemet for about ten months in 2007/2008 when I was teaching at San Bernardino Valley College (and taking my last few classes at CGU). At that point, it had been a good six years since I had lived there “full time.” I was kind of excited to go back, as it was a familiar place and I felt like I might have a lot of “connections” there. But, being there was also kind of depressing. The town had changed a lot, mostly for the worse. It’s hard to tell, though, if things were worse or if they were always that bad and I just never noticed because it seemed normal. Moving back to Hemet was probably a mixture of both.

I have always been a little embarrassed to call Hemet home. It just seems pretty lame. There is nothing there, save huge 55+ mobile home communities, miles of orange and pomegranate orchards, some rocky, sagebrush-covered hills, and an off-white hospital and its parking lot standing a few floors above everything else in the center of town. (Other notable things are an abundance of someone else’s smog, a neighboring Indian reservation stricken with poverty, the Church of Scientology’s infamous Gold Base on the outskirts of the valley, and a larger-than-normal number of meth-lab explosions.) When I was a teenager, it was a running joke that people had little else to do but get pregnant or hide out in the orange groves doing less-than-legal stuff. (At one point, Hemet had one of highest teen pregnancy rates in California.) In brief, Hemet was/is known as a less-than-great place to live, much less grow up.

But, had I grown up somewhere else, I would have had different experiences, and would likely be a different person as a result. There are parts of me that I certainly wish were different, but I am generally pleased with where I am right now; a tenured professor at thirty-five (complete with a PhD in hand), a (mostly) happily-married father of two, living in one of the country’s more desirable locations, making payments on a decent townhouse eight miles from work (to which I am able to ride my bike when I feel so inclined). There is no way of knowing how things might be different had I spent these “growing up years” somewhere else, but, all things considered, things have turned out pretty well for me.

The Ben Harper concert was kind of like a homecoming concert for him. I am pretty sure he has played many shows in the Inland Empire since his career’s successes, but there was something different about this show, I think. He brought this up more than a few times. In fact, he got choked up at one point when he talked about how odd it felt to sing these songs in the region of the world where he wrote them. I got the impression that a large percentage of the audience was people Ben knew from his pre-rock-star phase, so this show was more than just “another show” on his tour. The audience was filled with people who had supported and nurtured him and his gratitude and love for this was pretty clear from his on-stage banter. His mother even joined him on stage for one of the songs, which was touching.

This got me thinking about hometowns, homecomings, and returns to one’s past. Toward the very beginning of the concert, Ben said something like, “Inland Empire for life!” which seemed really odd. I don’t know very many people who would proudly proclaim an association with the “I.E.” Almost everyone that I know is proud to proclaim that they got out of there, myself included. I was thinking, once, about how some artists and musicians are able to channel a place’s angst into interesting things; styles like Delta and Chicago Blues or Seattle Grunge seem like examples of this to me. Yet, here am I, dying to distance myself from my hometown’s baggage. What would all of the Inland Empire’s pollution, racial tension, and frustration sound like if someone like me didn’t run away, but let it foment into something interesting? Is that what Ben Harper is?*

I was reading an article in Rollingstone a few years ago (something I rarely do), an interview with Jack White, who was explaining why he still lived in, and loved, Detroit. Essentially, he made the case that Detroit is what brought him to the music he knows and the music he makes, so why should he want to leave? (He has since moved to Nashville, though … ) This concert and the last month of thinking about stuff has made that interview make more sense to me.

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* I actually think Ben Harper doesn’t really accomplish this. Growing up in Claremont is pretty different from growing up in Rialto or Moreno Valley; Claremont is one of the most educated cities in California, and is a very affluent area, pretty insulated from the rest of the “I.E.” Still, I think his music does do a good job of approximating much of the area’s diversity and general attitude, at least in some of his more political songs on Welcome to the Cruel World and Fight for your Mind. I think Voodoo Glow Skills might come closer to the Inland Empire that I knew: https://itun.es/us/6GAnq

on A New Endpin

Last year, I wrote about how I am always tinkering with my bass playing. That blog was about tuning my bass in fifths (instead of fourths like a “normal” human being). Now I have gone and done another weird thing. To but it bluntly, I drilled a hole in my bass, and I am excited about it.

$95 (labor) and a trip to San Juan Capistrano later and I am now part of the weird endpin club.

Pretty weird looking, I know. 

I started playing with a bent metal endpin back in 2005. This was out of curiosity toward François Rabbath’s funky method and posture. I had seen a few of these weird endpins coming out of the bottom of basses at an angle (which traces back to Rabbath) which got me curious. So, I bought a custom-bent endpin to see what that world was all about. The bent pin is supposed to be something like “training wheels” before you go all the way with a Laborie endpin installation. My training wheels lasted eleven years.

The whole idea behind this monkey business is to make the bass a bit more ergonomically friendly. As you would probably guess, the bass is a pretty awkward instrument, so bassists—especially small ones like me—often have to make compromises when tackling the thing. A lot of the difficulties can be solved by playing seated on a stool, but now you have to carry a stool around with you everywhere (let alone an amp, stand, etc.). But, sitting has its drawbacks as well.

Anyway, this new endpin is a pretty good solution to some of the ergonomic challenges the bass presents. Among other things, it puts the bass in a more “horizontal” position, similar to what you get when you are sitting, or, better yet, to the position a cellist achieves. It also makes the bass feel lighter because its contact point with the floor is closer to its center of gravity. The biggest (and only, as far as I can see) downside is that you have to drill—have a professional drill, that is—a hole in your prized instrument. Granted, that is a pretty big deal, which is one of the reasons I put it off for ten years.

Will this make me a better player when all is said and done? Maybe. But, I think it will make me more likely to practice as I am liking the direction things are headed with this new setup; I have already made some adjustments in my playing (for the better), so I think some good things are coming.

Here is how the whole thing is supposed to work, as demonstrated by the master himself. 

on A Bike Project

We currently own two cars—well, the bank owns them for another year or two—but had only one for quite a while. We moved into our current house almost exactly seven years ago. We had only one car, then.

As we were looking for a house, the feasibility of commuting to work on a bike was one of the things we tried to keep in mind. This wouldn’t be a deal breaker, per se, but it was on our list of things to consider. Our house is about eight miles from my office, which is obviously very bikable (though there is a sizable hill between here and there, so it isn’t as easy as it sounds). It took me a while before I actually started riding to work after we moved, though I did eventually do it as my normal way of getting to/from work (and other places).

But, as the kids grew, their various activities and commitments made the one-car thing pretty challenging. Thus, we bought a second car (another Prius!) a year and a half ago.

I swore up and down that the new car would not mean that I would stop riding my bike. Alas, while I didn’t stop riding to work entirely, my rides became much fewer and farther between. I used to ride to work three or four days a week, I have since been riding once or twice a month, at best. I came up with all sorts of excuses, most of which seemed perfectly legit. They probably were legit, but they were excuses that I would have dealt with when we had only one car.

I like riding a bike. One time, when I was 17 or 18, I got on my bike and rode toward the mountains. My plan was to turn around after about an hour or whenever I just felt tired enough that I needed to turn around. I ended up riding all the way to Idyllwild, a distance of 22 miles each way, with an ascent of 4,000+ feet—not too shabby for not even really planning on doing this when I left my house. I rode around on a mountain bike in the hills south of Hemet a lot when I was a teenager. I tried to keep up with mountain biking when we lived right near some nice trails in Rancho San Diego, and I always had a good time when I went for rides.

Anyway, our congregation at church is organizing in a service project wherein we are providing recent Sudanese and Iraqi refugees (those that Donald Trump and his cronies couldn’t stop) with bicycles. These folks need help with transportation to their jobs (’cause, you know, they are secret-terrorist leeches that only pretend to have jobs), and bikes can be really helpful. You, and I, and so many others have old, halfway-functioning bikes just lying around, and these people (un-extreme-vetted “Radical Islamic Extremists”) could benefit so much from them. I am excited about this project.

Just for kicks, here are some photos of my bikes. Some lucky probably-really-a-terrorist will be getting, after I give it a little TLC. (My commuter bike is still in really great shape, and I do ride it often enough that I am keeping it around. The mountain bike has only been ridden once in the three years just hanging in my garage; this is a perfect candidate for donation.)

I am planning on riding a lot more from this point forward. Please keep me accountable.

Old Blue

Main Wheels

on Musicology

I am a musicologist. I have a PhD in the subject and an MA and BMA in music. So, you would think that I would be interested, even intrigued, by the stuff I see being published and presented in the various musicological journals and conferences. You would be wrong (mostly). When I see the schedules of the major—or minor, for that matter—conferences, or see the articles being published, I am often baffled. Just looking at the titles makes me scratch my head; I don’t even understand some of the words (often words that end in “-ality,” “-ism,” or “-ography”), let alone what in world these folks are talking about.

I haven’t really tried to publish anything, but I have submitted abstracts to variety of conferences. The business of getting stuff published, or being invited to present at conferences, can be pretty brutal. There are literally hundreds of people submitting proposals and abstracts despite the fact that there is often only room for a handful. I have been invited to present at two small conferences, which is a decent track record for someone of my stature. But when I hear the “big shots” give their presentations, or I try to read through the recent publications, I feel like I am trying to understand a completely different world, like I am actually at a zoology conference or something.

Here are a few examples of articles/presentations out in the world right now:

• “Anthologizing Rock and Roll: Rhino Records and the Repackaging of Rock History” (I think I get what this one is about, but it still seems like the presenter is over complicating the title, just ’cause)
• “Recomposing National Identity: Four Transcultural Readings of Liszt’s Marche hongroise d'après Schubert”
• “Hearing King David in Early Modern France: Politics, Prayer, and Louis XIII’s Musique de la Chambre”
• Romantic Anatomies of Performance

In the spirit of fairness, I understand the words in these titles, and I kind of understand what these talks/articles/books might be about, but I still don’t “get” it. “Transcultural readings?” “Romantic anatomies?” I suppose it is possible that the stuff I have written and presented comes across as strange to others, so maybe I am just out of the loop with mainstream musicology.

Generally speaking, I am not incredibly interested in publishing stuff. I am fine with teaching being my primary gig. Once I (finally!) finished my degree a year and a half ago, I felt like taking a break from virtually all hardcore academic stuff. But, every once in a while, I get the itch to dive in deeper, to re-enter the highbrow world. That is when I start looking more closely at what is going on in the American Musicological Society or the Society for American Music, which is when I start to feel a little lost.

I am not sure what any of this means. Maybe better musicologists could help me figure that out.

on the 2016 Presidential Election, take 1

I am sitting at the library while my kids scour the children’s section for drawing, craft, and origami books—despite the fact that said books seem to cause a lot of frustration (and yelling) around our house. A few minutes ago, an announcement came over the speakers about “Let’s Speak Arabic Story Time;” it started five minutes ago. My kids don’t speak Arabic, nor do I (though I kind of want to learn), but I am glad that we live in a community with “Let’s Speak Arabic Story Time.” From where I am sitting, I can see shelves marked, “Arabic,” “Persian,” “Español,” and “Other Non-English” (it’s kind of funny that the “Español” sign is the only one not in English). I am comforted by the fact that my local library considers it important to include selections in these diverse languages, and in the children’s section no less.

But, while I sit here, I can’t stop thinking about yesterday’s Presidential election. There is a family sitting at the table near me speaking in a mixture of Arabic and English. Knowing a bit about those in my community, it is likely that this family came to the US within the last fifteen years as political refugees, fleeing sectarian oppression and violence. And then, there is me: an upper-middle-class heterosexual Christian white male, born in the United States to parents whose parents’ parents’ parents were also born here; I am sitting here wondering what they are thinking, how they are reacting to yesterday’s surprise. A large chunk of my fellow Americans decided to elect a man who opened his campaign by stating that only a small “some” Mexican immigrants are “good people,” while the others are drug dealers, rapists, and the like (whether or not he said this about people immigrating legally or not makes no difference as far as I am concerned); they decided to give a man who called for banning an entire religion from entering the country the power to actually do so; a sizable swath of my fellow Americans asked to have a President whose campaign promises are, among other things, to restrict the freedom of the press and to increase the use of torture against POWs. I wonder what my neighbors think of me. Do they assume I voted for this? Do they assume that I want these things? It would be easy, even logical, for them to do so. Evidently, a lot of white folks like me did vote this way and do want some of this stuff.

Donald Trump has made statements that have put my neighbors into a state of fear. Whether it is real or not, members of my community, just like this family across the room, are now living in a country they feel has rejected them. Instead of mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers that simply want to go to the library, many people in the US have decided that they might be America-hating terrorists charading as nice people; they might be hiding someone among them who has evil plans. And, the United States electorate has decided to elect a man who also thinks this. Understandably so, this terrifies them. It terrifies me.

While I always knew that, technically speaking, Donald Trump could be the next President of the United States, I didn’t think it would actually happen. Such a thing seemed simply unfathomable to me. I recognize that I live on the west coast and that I work in an environment that skews pretty heavily to the left, which means that my personal political/social views are colored by that environment. The fact that Donald Trump’s views are as popular as they are comes as a (very big) surprise to me. So, when I woke up to see that Donald Trump had won enough electoral votes to become the next President, I was stunned. Shocked. Confused.

I think I know two people who were really excited about Donald Trump from Day One. I am pretty sure that I have a fair number of acquaintances (and family members) that voted for Donald Trump, grudgingly, and I think they did so out of a combination of party loyalty, a great distaste for Hillary Clinton, and/or a fierce allegiance to certain causes (e.g. abortion rights, gay marriage, etc.). These folks plugged their noses and voted for what they felt was the “lesser of two evils,” feeling that whatever warts Trump had were of lesser importance than these bigger issues. Neither of these situations are ones I can really understand. In fact, almost any rationale for electing a man whose platform is built on his brand of pseudo-nativism, or who has slung gendered insults as readily as he has, is lost on me; for me, that type of rhetoric is dangerous, irresponsible, and un-ignorable.

I have gone through a lot of emotions in the past 48 hours. Now, I think I am just sad. I am sad that the kids who live across the street (literally) told my kids that they don’t know what is going to happen to them (they, their mother, and grandparents are all from Iraq, living here after being pushed out of their homeland). While these kids might be misinformed about what Mr. Trump has said, or about what is actually going to happen, it is horrible that there is even a question about this. I am sitting here feeling embarrassed for being an American, for being a part of the collective electorate that elected Donald Trump to be its leader. Sure, it is possible that things look worse now than they may turn out to be, but the fact that I have to sit here wondering if Americans really are as _____ as his election implies we are is distressing. The fact that I have to worry if this family at the library think I voted to make them feel less safe is a horrible feeling. I can’t even begin to fathom what this must be like for them. There weren’t any candidates who made a point of using upper-middle-class white heterosexual men as bogeymen scapegoats, so I have nothing to fear for my own safety or livelihood.

My daughter wrote this letter almost immediately after she found out that Donald Trump had been elected:

Dear Mr. Trump, Please do not build a wall around America. Some of my closest friends are refugees, and I’ll be very sad if you build a wall. Please don’t. My friends would be devistated (sic), and I will be too. I care very much about them, and want them to be happy. Again, please, please, please don’t build a wall. Sincerely, ___ Smith. 

Before you go, there, the idea that Donald Trump might “build a wall around America” was not put in her head by me or my wife … this came from her hearing his words, mixing them around with her own 11-year-old ideas, and interpreting what this might mean through the lens of her own world experience. Sure, she has some of the facts wrong, but I don’t think she is misinterpreting the sentiment.

Maybe it is not for you, but this is terrifying and depressing for me. ’Merica!

on Dreams: Strange Things

I woke up the other day after what might be the coolest dream I have ever had. As usual, nothing really made sense; the “plot” began in the middle, so to speak, with no real explanation as to how and why I was in the situation. I wonder if context doesn’t really exist in our dreams.

The first thing I remember was sitting in the recording studio along with Miles Davis and his band c. 1969. I have no idea idea how I got there, or why I was there–I simply “woke up,” so to speak, in the room while the band was playing. They were recording tracks for Bitches Brew, though I don’t know if it was called that, yet. The band was a little smaller than on the album, as I only remember there being one pianist (though I think it was Henrie Hancock, who wasn’t in the band anymore ... ). Strangely, I was aware of this problem during the dream, as I remember thinking, “Where is Chick Corea?” (Though I didn’t seem to have a problem with Herbie Hancock playing piano.) There was only one drummer as well.

At a few points during the session the band members talked about what they were doing, how “odd” it was. They were wondering where it was going, how each track would unfold. I got the sense that they really were “experimenting” with ideas and were a little lost, even doubting the direction they were going. Miles seemed pretty sure of what he is doing, but the others were kind of scared as to what this might do to their careers. I thought (in the dream), “Guys! This is amazing! What you are doing is going to change just about everything! This album is often called one of the best and most important in all of jazz! Seriously, just listen to this stuff!” I couldn’t say this, of course, because that would be weird, telling these guys that I was from the future ... apparently my dream-state logic has no hang ups about traveling to and from the past, but alerting others to this strange phenomenon was too weird. Still, the others in the room were clearly aware of my presence, as they looked my way several times and reacted to some of my reactions.

Perhaps the best part of all of this was when Dave Holland decided, who knows why, decided to let me sit in on bass. Yes, I was playing bass alongside Tony Williams and Herbie Hancock (even though he shouldn’t have been there), Miles Davis and Wayne Shorter. I showed him the ostinato that ended up in the final versions of the title track, “Bitches Brew.”

Then, I woke up. That’s the worst part of cool dreams. The good news, though, is that the first thing I did that morning was listen to Bitches Brew, and the dream version of me was right, it is amazing. (Don’t worry, I listened through headphones so my wife didn’t have to listen. I am pretty sure she would hate  it.)

10 Deserted-Island Recordings

I posted this list on different website last week, but thought I should also put it here ... (I have actually changed a few of my choices, and I think this is a better list.)

Here are my 10 deserted-island albums, in no particular order: 

1. Kid A by Radiohead
2. Music for Airports by Brian Eno
3. Pet Sounds by The Beach Boys
4. Jordi Savall/Ton Koopman's recording of Bach's sonatas for viola da gamba and harpsichord
5. Yo-Yo Ma's 1997 recording of Bach's cello suites
6. John Eliot Gardiner/English Baroque Soloists' recording of Mozart's Symphony No. 41
7. Post by Björk
8.  Hunky Dory by David Bowie
9.  ( ) by Sigur Rós
10. Odelay  by Beck

I am well aware that this lets most of my biases show. Be that as it may, this is what I would take with me if I was forced to leave today. 

On the 50th Anniversary of Pet Sounds

Pet Sounds, what I would consider one of the greatest and most important albums ever released, turned fifty years old on Monday. For me, this is a pretty monumental moment. Never mind the fact that I love the album, but Pet Sounds is what convinced me that Brian Wilson was worth studying, which then led me on a six-year-long writing/research project. Also, perhaps not coincidentally, Monday was also the one-year anniversary of my doctoral commencement ceremony.

What else is there to say about Pet Sounds that hasn’t already been beaten into the ground? A lot has been written about how different it is not only from the rest of the Beach Boys’ œuvere, but how different it is from virtually everything its contemporary.

For sure, Pet Sounds certainly is different from most other “rock-n-roll” from the mid-sixties. Brian Wilson has spoken at length about his admiration for Phil Spector, and the fact that “Be My Baby” is his favorite song. Orchestrationaly, Pet Sounds has more in common with the Ronettes and the Crystals than with Bob Dylan or the Beatles, as he was trying to emulate Spector whenever possible. (And most people agree, he “out-Spectored,” Spector)

As he tells it, Brian Wilson heard the Beatles’ Rubber Soul sometime in early-1966 and was blown away by what he heard. Instead of a collection of pop songs thrown together to make a 40-minute LP, Rubber Soul felt to him like a suite, a series of songs that simply “belonged together.” The word he often used to describe the album was that it was “spiritual,” which (I think) was his way of trying to describe the underlying connectedness of Rubber Soul’s songs. After hearing the album, the story goes, Brian was determined to do something the same ... but better.

So far, I think all of that commentary is fine. But, here is where a lot of people get Pet Sounds wrong, in my opinion. While I don’t think it is necessarily wrong to call Pet Sounds a “concept album” (though I don’t like all of the baggage that term carries), too many people think the album is a “concept album” because of some supposed narrative that is stretched across the album—and this, of course, is evidence of Brian Wilson’s “genius.” This is wrong for three reasons:

1. The narrative folks say is there just isn’t. As I see it, I find some elements of a narrative arc, but it falls apart in too many places in the middle for it to be coherent in any way. If we are insistent on finding lyrical cohesion across Pet Sounds we should consider it as a song cycle revolving—quite loosely in some places (e.g. Sloop John B)—around the topic of love; anything more forces the album into a mold where it simply doesn’t fit.
2. The lyrics aren’t Brian Wilson’s, which means that, were there an overarching narrative plan—a narrative concept, if you will—Brian Wilson doesn’t deserve credit for it; Tony Asher does.
3. Brian has refuted the idea that Pet Sounds was a narrative concept album. Instead, he has called it a production concept album. Given the way the album sounds, and Brian’s fascination with Phil Spector, this makes a lot more sense. This is also what Brian found so inspiring in Rubber Soul: the “spiritual” qualities of the album.

When listening to Pet Sounds, you really need to let the sound of the album get inside of you. The orchestrations—odd combinations of instruments playing in unison and octaves juxtaposed with different, equally odd, groups playing beautiful countermelodies—are what make Pet Sounds great. That is what Brian Wilson was trying to do. Yes, some of the songs are great—God only knows what a beautiful song “God Only Knows” is—but it is the sound of the album that is the point.

Highlights

First, the tympani hits as an intro. Not many (if any) other pop-music arrangers would go there. Second, listen to the English horn doubling the melody. Third, the prepared piano that connects the first two phrases is just about perfect. The flute countermelodies are also a perfect complement.

Notice the way the castanets echo in tempo and the way the slide guitar enters and exits so smoothly. And then there is that English horn again ...

It is hard to ignore how gorgeously Brian Wilson doubles the guitar with a glockenspiel. I love how active the bass line is (which is being doubled by both electric and upright basses). I also love how the bari sax enters at the end of the phrase and then continues to pulse on each beat, leaving the basses to continue dancing above it.

This one was actually released as a Brian Wilson solo track, but then included on the album. As such, there are no vocal harmonies—which, of course, is kind of weird for a Beach Boys song. The echo on the bongo (struck with a mallet) is so central to the piece, it practically defines it. I also find the intro interesting because he sets up what feels like a 4/4 groove, with the bongo hit on the “and” of beat three, but then the harpsichord enters in what would then be a slightly-late “and” of two in the next bar. Bizarre.

Of course, it would silly to ignore Brian Wilson’s great gift at melodic writing, his pseudo-contrapuntal textures most specifically. I think that the endings of both “You Still Believe In Me” and “God Only Knows” are some of the best examples of this. (And then there is that bicycle horn at the end of “You Still Believe In Me” ... )

Conclusion

Please, do me a favor, and really listen to Pet Sounds, all the way through, with headphones (and no distractions). I think you will agree, at the end, that this was time well spent.

If you are crazy, you could read my 291-page, in-depth analysis of Brian’s music from just after this period.

Cuyamaca College Rock, Pop, and Soul Ensemble performing Abbey Road

As most folks know, I direct the Rock, Pop, and Soul Ensemble at Cuyamaca College (in addition to wearing a bunch of other hats). Our most recent concert was on April 29; we played Abbey Road from start to finish (plus a few extra songs from 1969). I am not much of a bragger, but the band sounded really good. You can have a listen/look below.

The Cuyamaca College Rock, Pop, and Soul Ensemble performs The Beatles album "Abbey Road." Directed by Taylor Smith and Joey Meza. Recorded live at Cuyamaca College, April 29, 2016.

Enjoy.

On Using an iPad for Everything

I did something kind of drastic two weeks ago. With all of the “newness” that goes along with Christmas and the beginning of the year, I got caught up in rethinking a few things. One of the things that I thought about was my computer/technology situation. I have had a 13" MacBook Air since August 2012, and it has been a great computer, probably the best computer I have ever owned. But, in thinking through how I work, and the type of work I do the majority of time, I realized that I didn’t really need that computer anymore. Most of what I do on a daily basis is writing, research, and reading; in each of these cases, my MacBook was overkill.

With this realization, and a bit of old-fashioned American consumerism, I decided to get rid of my MacBook Air and my iPad Air, and replace them with an iPad Pro. In selling both of these devices, I was able to raise the funds to buy an iPad Pro without actually spending any new money (which was my hope, of course). Since I am always interested in “downsizing,” I liked the idea of swapping out two devices for one. If I ever ended up in a situation that I needed something more powerful than an iPad Pro, I figured that I have an iMac both at home and in my office, and if I needed something really powerful, I could always use the recording studio at the college—heavy multi-track recording is the only that comes to mind that might require lots of horsepower, and I would rather go into the college’s studio to do that anyway.

I’ve told a few people, extended family members included, that most people don’t need anything more than an iPad. The overwhelming majority of the things we all use computers to do, can be done just as well, sometimes better, on a device like an iPad. So, I decided that it was time for me to “practice what I preach,” so to speak, and do the majority of my computer-ing on an iPad. Now, since I was replacing my laptop, I felt that I should probably go with the highest-end of the iPad family. Thus, the 128GB iPad Pro.

Just about everything I write into the foreseeable future will be done right here, on my iPad. Ditto for all of my research, reading, and other day-to-day stuff. I am already finding things that I like better about working this way.

Intercultural Music Conference - 2016

UCSD is hosting the 2016 Intercultural Music Conference on February 26–28. I just got word that I will be presenting a paper. So, if you are really bored, you can come hear it ... though you would have to be REALLY bored to want to, as my presentation is likely to be pretty boring (for most) as well. Here is the abstract:  

 “Sweet Trinidad:” Imitation and Representation in Van Dyke Parks’ Discover America

Some six years after completing his first album, Van Dyke Parks released Discover America, a collection of cover songs. More specifically, Discover America consists almost entirely of songs originating from Trinidad and Tobago. And, the majority of the songs’ lyrics revolve around descriptions of the United States and American culture, through the eyes of Trinidadian songwriters from the 1920s, thirties, and forties. Thus, Discover America is an American musician’s interpretation of  various Trinidadian musicians’ representations of the United States. As such, Discover America is an exploration of cross-cultural pollination in both topical and stylistic terms. Parks’ arrangements show a sensitivity to Calypso’s intricacies, though they are rarely simple re-orchestrations of Calypso tunes.

This paper examines Parks’ imitations of Trinidadian music alongside the lyrics’ representations of American culture. Van Dyke Parks’ arrangements seem to be an attempt at representing the original artists’ ideas about America juxtaposed against his own interpretations of Trinidadian culture. Though Parks is clearly a fan of Calypso, his orchestrational choices reveal underlying assumptions about the style and region. This paper investigates the ways Parks portrays Trinidadian music (and, thereby, Trinidadian culture). Additionally, special attention is paid to the ways Parks reacts to the original songs’ descriptions of American history and culture. In short, this discussion is an exploration of intercultural (mis)understanding and representation as presented in Discover America.

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You can get more info the conference itself by visiting their website. 

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Even if you won’t come to the conference, you really should listen to Discover America. Like most things Van Dyke Paks, it is great.

(My) Cute Kids

Here is a song I recorded with my kids a few weeks ago. It's really cute!

Enjoy.

Checking In ... Oh, and David Bowie

It has been quite a while since I have had much to say around here. I wish it was otherwise. It is kind of strange, but this is my first semester since finishing my dissertation, but it feels like it has been the most stressful in a few years. Maybe all of the “other” stress I was kind of setting aside during my research/writing is now fully present. Maybe I am more present now, and am seeing/feeling things I wasn’t before. Whatever it is, I have been having a hard time keeping much afloat, beside my teaching, since late-August.

So, do I have anything big to say right now? Not really. I do find writing to be kind or therapeutic, and I have some ideas of stuff I’d like to put “out there,” but I am not quite ready. Mostly, I just have a few loose ends to tie, after which I hope I will be able to post some interesting things.

But, something far more exciting is coming up in January ... David Bowie is releasing a new album! This, this, is something truly worth getting worked up about. Blackstar is scheduled for release on January 8. (Which just happens to be his 69th birthday. 69! At 33, I am not half as cool as David Bowie, and he is pushing 70!) So, here is a “teaser” for the new album. You can pre-order now in the iTunes Store. Enjoy!

“Trout” Quintet Concert

If you don’t have anything better to do (and, c’mon, be honest ... you don’t) you should come to Cuyamaca College’s Faculty Recital next Thursday, October 22 at 7:30. Tickets are $8 general, $5 students/seniors/reservations. Plus, it comes with the comedic value of watching me fumble my way through Schubert’s “Trout” Quintet for piano and strings. This is one the few pieces of chamber music from a major composer written for the bass; somehow I have made it this far without ever playing it.

Seriously, come. 

Und, das ist Herr Schubert.

Album Review: No Pier Pressure by Brian Wilson

So, Brian Wilson. The person with whom I was obsessed, on and off, for about six years. He just turned 73. He also released an album, his eleventh as a solo artist, back in April.

Given my personal investment in Brian Wilson, I want to love No Pier Pressure (2015, Capitol). I thought That Lucky Old Sun was near perfect, and The Beach Boys’ That’s Why God Made the Radio was surprisingly good. But, try as I might, I just don’t have a lot of praise for Brian’s newest release. The two biggest things that bothered me were the album’s overuse of guest performers and its unimaginative orchestrations.

Cameo Appearances

I know that I might be in the minority on this one, but, I really don’t like it when singers/bands fill their albums with various guest appearances. I don’t mind it when so-and-so shows up on one song, but I certainly do mind when nearly every song features someone else (e.g. nearly every hip-hop album that gets released anymore). Mostly, I think it is annoying that these cameos are there for no reason at all, save the cross-promotional value. If the cameo is for a specific reason—say, Eric Clapton in “While My Guitar Gently Weeps”—I find it less annoying. But, when John Mayer had Taylor Swift sing backing vocals on “Half of My Heart,” it was so ridiculously obvious what he (or his label) was after. (Ditto for Vanessa Carlton’s after-the-fact appearance on Counting Crows’ cover of “Big Yellow Taxi.”) So, I was disappointed when I saw that Brian Wilson’s new album had a bunch of cameos. Ten of No Pier Pressure’s tracks include guest performers. To be fair, people like David Marks, Blondie Chaplin, and (especially) Al Jardine, should maybe be given a pass as “guests;” former bandmates are maybe not really “guests” in the purest sense of the word. But, No Pier Pressure includes vocals by Sebu, Zooey Deschanel (and guitar from M. Ward, I assume), Pete Hollens, Kacey Musgraves, and Nate Reuss (of fun.), and trumpet by Mark Isham. In fact, the album’s producer (Joe Thomas) even said that he and Wilson “wanted (their) kids to think (they) were cool.” Call me crazy, but I don’t think that someone like Brian Wilson should feel (or be made to feel) like he has anything to prove in terms of "coolness."

Orchestration

Of all of the laud Brian Wilson has received throughout his career, perhaps none is more deserved than the many testimonies of his orchestrational gifts. Despite all of the talk about Pet Sounds’ supposed narrative concept and all that, it is Brian’s orchestrations that make Pet Sounds the masterpiece that it is. So, why, why, why does No Pier Pressure rely so much on synths? “Runaway Dancer” is probably the tackiest example, though “Half Moon Bay” and “Don’t Worry” aren’t much better. Brian’s timbral vocabulary is where his genius truly lies, but No Pier Pressure doesn’t deliver. Among other things, the orchestrations are what made That Lucky Old Sun so great. And, while they came across as a bit too “modern,” the orchestrations on That’s Why God Made the Radio helped tie that album to Brian (and the Beach Boys’) previous (and best) material. Too put it a little too harshly, the orchestrations on No Pier Pressure do a better job of connecting Brian Wilson to “Kokomo” than they do to “Sloop John B.” (and Brian had nothing to do with “Kokomo”).

Conclusion

As I said earlier, I really want to love this album. I want No Pier Pressure to be something like a victory lap for one of America’s great musical legends, but it isn’t. If anything, no Pier Pressure comes across as a has-been trying desperately (or at least his label trying desperately) to be an “is-now” instead. But, the fact of the matter is that in trying to not sound like a has-been is usually the final stage of entering that status.

My wife and I saw Brian Wilson play at Humphrey’s back in June. The tickets were steep but, hey, it’s not everyday that the topic of your doctoral dissertation plays a concert in the city where you live. Anyway, this concert was part of Brian’s No Pier Pressure tour, but he only played two songs from the album. I think that is indicative of what the album actually is; it is not really a Brian Wilson album, but something compiled and watered down by well-meaning record execs and producers.

If I had to pick one song from the album that I thought came closest to what I wish this album sounded like, it would be “The Right Time.” This song features Al Jardine and David Marks (two former Beach Boys), and has just the right amount of nostalgia without getting sappy. But, the fact that this one song is the album’s strong point means that the rest of the album is simply not very good.

4/10

Album Review: The Phosphorescent Blues by Punch Brothers

Magically, I don’t even remember how, Punch Brothers’ album The Phosphorescent Blues (January 2015, Nonesuch) fell into my consciousness. I kind of remember seeing the album cover, and thinking that it was pretty interesting looking, though I am not sure if that was the first time I came into contact with the album. Whatever the circumstances, once I sat down to listen to The Phosphorescent Blues, I was truly awestruck.

I was only vaguely familiar with Punch Brothers before finding The Phosphorescent Blues, though I was a bit more cognizant of Chris Thile. Still, I wasn’t all that familiar with Thile’s old band, Nickel Creek; I knew of them, but that was about it. I haven’t really taken the time to listen to Punch Brothers’ back catalog, so I can’t really speak much to The Phosphorescent Blues’ placement within their œuvre, but if this album is any indication of what I would find, I really should find some time to listen.

(Some of ) The Pieces

The Phosphorescent Blues starts with a sweeping, ten-minute piece, called “Familiarity.” This one song sounds like five, changing tempos, grooves, keys, and overall affect at least half-a-dozen times. Except for the fact that “Familiarity’s” orchestra consists of mandolin, violin, banjo, acoustic guitar, and double bass, it sounds like something straight off of a Peter Gabriel-era Genesis album smashed together with Pet Sounds. I don’t care much for prog-rock, generally, but anything that even pretends to imitate Pet Sounds is bound to catch my attention. (Remember how I wrote my PhD dissertation on Brian Wilson?)

It seems like most bands with as many chops as Punch Brothers can’t resist the temptation to turn their music into nothing but a “shred fest” (hence, one of the reasons I am not so into prog-rock), but Punch Brothers largely avoids this. “Familiarity” comes with an abundance of virtuosic flair, but it is never simply virtuosity-for-virtuosity’s-sake.

One of my favorite moments in this song is when the band imitates a tape or digital-delay effect. The players hit a chord and repeat it precisely, dropping the volume each time. On the third repeat of this figure the banjo breaks form and plays a repetitive melody; on the fifth repeat the mandolin enters with an intricate muted rhythmic groove. Not much later, Thile et al. break into a gorgeous a cappella section, one that sounds somewhere between The Beach Boys and Palestrina. Really, it is stunning.

At 6:00, “Familiarity” turns into an entirely different song: a subdued ballad featuring Thile’s (mostly) solo vocals. After the first verse-chorus, there is a lovely, sensitive violin solo. The transition between this much slower, softer portion of the song and the wilder stuff before it happens via a nice, long, drowning reverb tail. But, I am not sure why this isn’t a separate piece altogether.

Another standout track is “I Blew It Off.” This one is probably the most “radio friendly” of the lot. What’s great, though, is that it starts out like a Steve Reich piece (or at least something Sufjan Stevens’ Illinois). At the chorus, it breaks into a straightforward folk-rock feel. In the bridge back to the verse, the violinist (Gabe Witcher) sneaks in a great solo—his judicious use of vibrato here is perfect … I wish more fiddlers would follow suit.

Though, it’s not as windy a path as was “Familiarity,” “I Blew It Off” still packs a few surprises. Each chorus adds more vocals, simply harmonies at first, followed by some more polyphonic layering.. The changes in texture serve as nice palette cleansers throughout the song.

“My Oh My” is another great song. This one is one of the first really bluegrass-sounding moments on the album. It doesn’t start that way, though. It is only when Thile et al.’s blues-inflected vocals move into the song’s bridge that that Appalachian flavor really shows up. As before, “My Oh My” is a bit restless, the chorus calms down considerably, first supported only by Thile’s mandolin, with the others players entering at various points. The final verse is fully-orchestrated, and the vocals are full, complete with soaring falsettos. A great moment comes around 3:45. The two vocal parts dip below their ultimate note and swoop up to it, both staying perfectly in tune throughout this portamento. Impressive. The band’s use of dynamic contrast is also impressive in this piece.

True to the group’s crossover leanings, The Phosphorescent Blues includes two arrangements of pieces from the late-19th-century: a version of the Passepied from Debussy’s Suite Bergamasque and an arrangement of Scriabin’s Prélude in C minor, Op. 22, no. 2. Though I want to love the Debussy (because, really, what is not to love about Debussy?), this arrangement isn’t great. The Scriabin is a little better, but it’s nothing earth-shattering.

The album’s closing piece, “Little Lights,” is a gorgeous ballad featuring more of the now-familiar vocal harmonies. (Curiously, Thile grew up in Carlsbad, CA … maybe that is where he picked up his penchant for Beach Boy harmonies.) The song slowly builds to a rousing, sing-along, Coldplay-esque (in the best way) repeating chorus. Given the chops these guys have, it would have been easy to let this one get away from them. There is so much crescendo, both in volume and texture, that it would be a lesser-calibered band’s cue to dig in and show off; Punch Brothers stops short. The song ends even more softly than it began, which is perfect.

Conclusion

Seriously, this is an amazing album, and you really need to hear it. Force yourself, if necessary. I promise it will be worth it.

9/10

On Tuning My Bass in Fifths

The short version

I’ve been playing with my bass tuned in fifths, an octave lower than the cello (CC-GG-D-A, from bottom to top), for about six months. This creates some challenges, but not as many as you’d think. There are also some advantages. The biggest advantage is that, at least with my instrument, it sounds much more open and direct—like a big, honkin’ cello. Like everyone else’s, my bass always sounded kind of tubby and un-violin-like. Now, it sounds really good, better than I have ever heard it. I also feel like I can play in tune with myself better … something about the overtones, I s’pose. The hardest part is that I have to think extra hard sometimes, as stuff isn’t where it has been for the last seventeen years.

Bottom line: I am really liking this change. I think it might be permanent.

The long version

For some reason, I can’t seem to just play the bass according to the way your “supposed to.” I didn’t have a proper teacher until I was eighteen (two years after I started), and we never really got into nitty-gritty technique. He was (is) a phenomenal jazz player (the guy played with Miles Davis … how much more legit can you get?), and the few lessons we had revolved more around constructing good bass lines than technique.

Then, when I got to BYU-Idaho, there wasn’t a bass teacher. I was a music major, attending on a jazz bass scholarship, but I was left high and dry without a teacher. (Despite the fact that I was required to take private lessons as a music major.) So, they stuck me with one of the best student bassist there at the time. He was a good player, but not a good teacher. It didn’t help that I had virtually no “classical” bass experience when I got there.

Finally, halfway through my sophomore year, a new cello teacher showed up, and he was fine with taking on the two or three bassists that were scraping by without a teacher. We didn’t really work out of the Simandl method, but that was, essentially, how my lessons went: no third finger below thumb-position; always keep you thumb behind your second finger; come back to first-position whenever possible … stuff like that.

The university hired an actual, for-real bass teacher the following year. He was into the Rabbath stuff (a little bit). We worked out of the George Vance repertoire. I was allowed to use my third finger once I got up to (Rabbath’s) third position (thumb at the heel of the neck). I was also “allowed” to do these pivot-shift things, which made the fingerboard feel a little more manageable.

Still, I was experimenting with all sorts of weird stuff. I stuck frets on my bass for a concert with the University Baroque Ensemble. I played in a DD-GG-D-G tuning for Cello Suite No. 1. After my recital (which was in solo tuning, as I played the Hindemith Sonata), I started playing in a “drop D” tuning most of the time.

After I graduated, moved to back to California, and was playing in the Pomona College orchestra, I decided to take the Rabbath thing a step further and bought a bent endpin. I wasn’t quite ready to go all the way and drill a new hole and all of that, though. My last bass teacher at BYU-Idaho was a German-bow guy, so that is where I ended up upon graduation. The trouble is that the whole bent-endpin thing is pretty tricky to pull off with a German bow hold. I didn’t have a French bow, so played with a French grip on my German bow for a few years (until I could afford to buy a decent French bow … and sold my German bow).

Finally, I stuck with this setup for about ten years. No more monkey business. Then, last fall, I got the crazy idea to try to play a piano/cello duet by Webern for a faculty recital at the college. And, that was really only possible if I could tune the instrument like a cello. So, I bought a set of fifths-tuning strings. Along the way, I came across Tomoya Aomori’s website, and absolutely loved the way he sounded. Obviously, a big chunk of why he sounded so amazing is because he is he, and the reason I don’t sound that good is because I am me. Still, he had some comparison videos and information that convinced me to really give this wacky thing a try.

So, since last November or so, I’ve been playing with my bass tuned in fifths. I like it. A lot. I feel like my instrument sounds better; I feel like I sound better. I don’t detest playing my bass quite as much as I used to. When given the choice, I would almost always choose to practice viol over bass. Now, I kind of like playing bass again. I always felt like (and was told, repeatedly) that I had a really good-sounding bass, but now I think it sounds better than it ever has.

Most people think that this tuning means you have to shift a lot more. My experience has been that it is only a little more, if at all. Firstly, I am now using all four fingers, instead of three, which means I have a pretty good range of notes under my fingers. Secondly, since so many bass parts are really just cello parts, they tend to “sit” better with the instrument tuned in fifths … like a cello. I also feel like I can hear myself (and my intonation) better with this setup.

Don’t get me wrong, I am still a pretty lousy bass player. Still, I am a lousy bass player that now sounds a little better than he did at this time last year, if for no other reason than the fact that his instrument sounds better.

On The Beatles' Influence

See the following article: Billboard: Rap’s Impact Outweighs Influence of The Beatles, Says Scientific Study.

Obviously this article is really just “click bait” aimed at baby-boomers, but I must admit that I actually agree with it in part. The “scientific” methodology sounds pretty spotty to me, especially when they are attempting to “measure” something so not-very-measurable. I am, however, always interested in contrarian views on topics like this, especially ones that I think have some merit.

So, here is where I agree: I think that the Beatles get more credit than they deserve. Maybe not a lot more, but I am not sure they deserve all of the deification and praise that has been thrown at them since 1964. I also think that George Martin gets less credit than he deserves. Certainly portions of Sgt. Pepper’s, probably significant ones, are his doing. The same goes for the musique concrète and aleatoric stuff on the White Album.

Malcolm Gladwell has this whole chapter in Outliers about The Beatles’ supposed 10,000 hours of experience that accounts for their greatness. Though I don’t disagree that this preparation (I do question the math involved, however) made them better at what they did, I think this discounts the simple dumb luck of doing the right thing at the right time, of being in the right place at the right time. Especially since The Beatles’ influence has very little to do with their playing ability (what those 10,000 hours of practice would have developed), and everything to do with songwriting and record production—which, again, have a lot to do with George Martin.

There you go. Time to burn me at the stake.

Not that kind of doctor

Oh yeah ... I passed my dissertation defense last week. No recommendations. No revisions. Done. So, I can demand that people call me “Dr. Smith” now. But, I won’t.