Building St. Petersburg

“Building St. Petersburg” (1999) from Building St. Petersburg.

My master sent me here
From Novgorod for half the year
I took with me some pelts and beer
When the harvest was done
All I see is wood and snow
The icebound boats shift to and fro
I work and watch the sky’s deep glow
While the monks say a prayer
The Devil’s come to walk these banks
His eyes are blind to birth and rank
My face becomes a flawless blank
When I see him pass by
How many men from Germany
Have traveled on the Baltic Sea
To vent their anger upon me
In a strange kind of language?

I awoke last Sunday night
Across the sky were flashing lights
My hut came into sight
And I walked for an hour
I saw the face of old Ivan
Who drank his kvass from dusk ’til dawn
The Devil took his soul beyond
And I heard his voice calling
I recalled the lovely time
We stole a keg of Master’s wine
We went to fight after we’d dined
With the neighboring village
I further saw my Master’s face
When he first told me of this place
I can recall the awful taste
That then came from my bile

A mental picture of my wife
Brought me more of my former life
I felt my fingers touch my knife
As I thought of the Swedes
I saw the fires in the trees
I felt the earth beneath my knees
The Swedes were riding on the breeze
And they took her away
I see the pictures on these plans
How on this swamp that statue stands
The engineer barks his commands
And I hear them translated
I count the days of this long year
They say the thaw is coming near
I run my fingers through my beard
And I look toward the forest

At some point, I’ll start blogging about tunes that aren’t actually things I’m most proud of.  At some level, my second tier stuff probably could make for better commentary, as I can dwell on the flaws as well as the virtues.  I’ve only ever put one tune on a record that I’ve released that I truly think in hindsight is a bust, but I’ve always been willing to put out something that, if not perfect, has a spirit of its own and is, therefore, special in its own way.  As long as something has it’s own spirit, it’s worthwhile.

“Building St. Petersburg,” however, is not one of those pieces that’s merely interesting, or that is flawed but worthwhile nonetheless.  I wrote it during my first year teaching, and it was the second piece I properly recorded digitally to ProTools with a good mic.  Flush with cash, I thought, for the first time, I bought a $250 AKG condenser mic, still the one I use for hi-fi recording at home, and I cut this track.

It’s interesting to me, in hindsight, the tunes I’d written for both The Duck Hunter and Building St. Petersburg.  I was fresh out of grad school, studying Russian History, Soviet period, and a lot of the choices I made for settings in my tunes’ situations reflects that.  I think they end up seeming, unless you knew me at the time and knew what I was reading, like something of an exercise in exoticism, which certainly carries an appeal of some sort to a lot of folks but which strikes me as problematic.  I’m at some level guilty, because I actually have never yet made it to either Russia or anywhere else in Eastern Europe (“The Czech Philologist,” on The Duck Hunter, is more fantasy, even beyond the absurd details, than I would probably like).

My stuff at this point was very bookish, probably because I basically had in my life at the time my job and my books, which overlapped quite a bit, to boot.  This isn’t a bad thing, because what actually counts in writing tunes or, really, doing anything, is that what you write needs to be an honest reflection of where you are or where you have been, defined broadly.  Bird said, famously, that if you haven’t lived it, it won’t come out of your horn, give or take a couple words but keeping the sentiment.

I took my MA in 1995, but grad school didn’t really end for me until 2005, when I got married and left Riverside, with my wife of course, and went to Senegal for a year.  I had the good fortune to get together most fridays with some of the gang from the History Dept. at UCR for beer, and though the group dwindled over time as people moved on–my cohort in Russian History moving to LA with our advisor, who took a gig at UCLA, good for him and everyone.  I think my education on those fridays was as critical to me as any classes I’ve taken, because what you had were a lot of great people, all leaning irreverent, loosening up and talking about things of interest.  So Russia was very much on my mind even though, like I wrote above, I’d never been.

The particular idea for the tune came from a memory of a course I’d taken in my last quarter at UCR when I’d actually started the doctorate I did two quarters of before deciding to take a break and see what the world had to offer me.  It was an Imperial Russia “materials” course, meaning a book a week in a seminar discussion.  I enjoyed it, and enjoyed the prof.  He had, in the class, some themes.  Periodically, he would say things like, “and where does this extraordinary violence come from…” and get quiet for a moment, shake his head slightly and then move on.  Not the most academic point to make, but honest and therefore interesting and human to me.  He would also periodically refer to runaway peasants.  Neither of these themes–or periodic interludes I suppose you might say–showed up in his official research interests, or did so semi-tangentially.  Every so often, though, he would get this far away look and say things like, “yes, and sometimes peasants would just disappear into the forest…”

This of course showed up in the last line of the tune.  The rest of it was really something of a nostalgic catalogue, for me, of interesting memories from my grad seminars, readings, and beer drinking conversations.  There’s the obligatory Pushkin reference, noting “The Bronze Horseman.”  I don’t make as many literary references in my tunes now as I used to.  Really, it’s more important to make sure that the song offers its story and its own truth–whatever that actually means–on its own terms.  I was reading a fair amount of theory at the time, though not too much “post-modern”–curse the lips that first spoke the term itself–stuff, mostly good, honest, Marxist stuff, on up through the Frankfurt School to Habermas.  That said, as someone who went through a Joyce phase in his early 20′s and has never regretted it (I just don’t tend to reread books when there are so many as yet unread), all the hip talk about intertextuality must have sunk in at some level, because in my mid-20′s I did a lot of referencing of other texts in my tunes.  Maybe I just wanted to seem smart, but in my defense I only ever referenced things I’d actually read.  I had then always taken Bird’s admonition very seriously, and still do.

This is one of my older tunes that I still play.  On that note, those of you in the Bay Area can hear it when I do a house concert on Oct. 10, at my pad.  My wife will cook her famous tostadas, to boot, so you have no excuse but to get in touch for directions and come on over.  I will indeed play this tune.

On a related note: I’m feeling quite good about decisions I’ve made regarding my musical output in the past months, and I think after years of hemming and hawing I’ve settled on a method that suits my life.  Light on promo–really, you’re reading the promo–and taking that extra time and spending it on music.  I’d gone this way before, during our year in Senegal, when I couldn’t really do promotion if I wanted to, and in hindsight I’d hit the right note then, for me, as I seem to be doing for myself now.  Dig the tunes, and, locals, do pop in on Oct. 10.

San Francisco, CA – 10/10/09

Who	Bill Foreman house concert
When	Saturday, October 10, 2009 8:00pm - RSVP--so attendees maximum. - All Ages
Where	Bill's Living Room (map) San Francisco, CA, USA 94112 Email billforemanmusic@gmail.com for event information and directions.
Other Info	At the very least, it will be me, Bill, my guitar and lyric book, and hopefully on a few tunes some other players as well, depending on who can make it to the performance. Should be fun, and good. No amplification, either--just real music. RSVP required, as space is limited: http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=132392972961&ref=nf

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Cheap Liquor

“Cheap Liquor,” from Adieu, False Heart (2009)

“Cheap Liquor (demo),” from Adieu, False Heart Demos.

You got a lot of nerve to keep serving cheap liquor to me
I got a bad song coming and I’ll sing it from the witness tree
And they’re saying this time I took it too far
I got a set of bloody knuckes and a dented car
You got a lotta nerve to keep serving cheap liquor to me

You got a mean mind to keep running my good name down
When you were robbing me blind and you took off out of town
And when I hear any telephone calling
I’m bawling and shouting your name at the walls
You got a mean mind to keep running my good name down

You got a lot of gall to be bringing up charges on me
When you call up the constable, threatening lock and key
But you can serve up your subpoena papers
I’ll still be be escaping to the street below
You got a lot of gall to be bringing up charges on me

You give a lot of grief when you’re leaving your letters behind
I can hear the clock ticking and I’m gone out of a healthy mind
I could torch this one-room apartment then watch
The whole block steal away in smoke
You give a lot of grief when you’re leaving your locket behind

You got a lot of nerve to keep serving cheap liquor to me
Tell me who does it serve when we’re dishing up misery
Yes if you’re thinking of drinking two-fisted
You’re sinking down in the same hole I’m in
You got a lot of nerve to keep serving cheap liquor to me

Yes, this tune was available on the last post.  That was, however, a note that “Adieu, False Heart” was available.  This is the commentary.

The demo above, which is available for listening but not to download, was recorded about two hours after I’d started writing the tune, the quickest thing I’ve written, conception to execution, probably since I was in college, and this of a much better quality (the other one was a tune called “Potato Truck Headlights,” which I wrote to prove to Colin Epstein I could write a tune in one hour, and the carelessness showed in the piece).

At that point–this is sort of how I felt about myself, and I’m curious if anyone else felt this about where I was at that time–I was a bit stuck in my musical production.  Not as bad as I’d been in 2004 or 2005, when I’d just finished Chevy w/Balding Tires, a record of which I was enormously proud and which seemed to me impossible to follow–and of course anything like that is impossible to follow if one attempts to replicate it.  Chevy was a dense piece of work, and up until that point, possibly in an attempt to compensate for a lack of record sales, my work had become increasingly literary, for lack of a better word, and probably for that reason increasingly exclusive, in a literal sense, as in keeping out.  My music I felt then and feel now was completely successful, but successful on terms which, very simply, kept people out.

All kinds of people harbor grandiose ambitions, and this kind of thing is normal and healthy.  Mine at the time was to write the best songs of anyone working remotely in my medium in my generation.  Very particularly I wanted to outclass everyone else my age lyrically while at the same time having better melodies, bearing in mind a more-or-less folk-derived base of source material, than all comers.

These kinds of ambitions are juvenile, but useful.  For starters, I made a lot of good music.  A person needs a measure of ambition, even small ambition, to do anything, and looking back between 1988, when I wrote “Full Tank of Gas,” my first decent song (commentary coming relatively soon) and 2003, when I’d completed Chevy, I wrote 60 or 70 keeper tunes, with probably that many that I put aside but which were nonetheless finished products.  More importantly to me, I put out a number of albums, all homemade affairs but very real nonetheless, and these gave and give me a sense of some accomplishment.

I don’t think I started writing tunes trying to write “literate,” let alone “literary” lyrics: I wanted at all times to write excellent lyrics to tunes, largely because I was and continue to be very easily embarrassed by bad lyrics.  I always wanted my words to actually make some sort of a point, which meant that it was never acceptable to me to be obtuse or incomprehensible.  At the same time, the ideas I tried to express became over time more complex and specific.  Details became more numerous, and the relationships between them more complex.

I have no idea how I compare to other writers my age, but I am sure that if one takes my best tunes and puts them next to others striving for a similar type and level of quality, mine at the very least hold their own with anyone else’s best.  I really felt I nailed this level of quality on Chevy‘s best tunes, above all, to me, “When My Wife Takes Me By My Hand,” which was my favorite among them–commentary on that one forthcoming as well.  You could argue with me about which tune was or is the best on that record, but that one really stuck with me.

I had two problems once I’d finished Chevy.   One, of course, was that once I’d finished the work and was proud of it, it had really tapped, at least temporarily, my imagination of what I was capable of doing.  I wrote some good tunes in 2003, but very literally only a couple, and I did not write a single song in 2004.  You can imagine how demoralizing that was for me.  I have never been particularly prolific, but I’ve usually knocked out at least two tunes a year, and often more.  It’s almost a cliche to suggest that artists often spook themselves after they finish a great work, but I suppose I really did.

A second problem was that I had absolutely no sense of what to do with my music once I’d finished it.  A lot of people heard Chevy, but it never grew legs, commercially.  I have always been from somewhat naive to exceptionally so when it comes to music appreciation.  I’ve never been able to fathom that most people do not have the same relationship to music that I do, though I have come to understand that there’s no reason that people, in this big world, ought to.  I wanted Chevy to be the best hometaper/lo-fi album of all time, and to some extent I feel like I succeeded.  However, I finished it about 5 of 6 years after lo-fi had ceased to be cool, and it had never, with a couple of exceptions, been lucrative.

I suppose I started to ask myself, in 2004, when I didn’t write a single tune, what the point was, and given the assumptions I made about how my trajectory ought to work, I couldn’t give myself an answer.  I sort of assumed that if I kept making good music, things would snowball, and increasing numbers of people would come to appreciate it. It doesn’t actually work that way for anybody, even Paul McCartney.

A few things saved, me, however.  In 2004, I changed an intellectual interest in Buddhist thought into an active meditation practice when my girlfriend (now wife) and I found a fantastic meditation group in Riverside, CA, with a top-notch Dharma teacher, Gilbert Gutierrez.  The Buddhist emphasis on practice had implications for my music, and if initial results were slow to come–I wrote only two tunes in 2005, “Open Door” and “El Chorrillo,” both collected on Begging Bowl–what I did do was decide that music was something that one does.  My wife was a huge help, too.  Above all, she likes my music, to her relief.  I had told her when we started dating I made music and when I burned a CD for her of the works-in-progress from Chevy she was apprehensive lest it not be any good.  Thank God she liked it.  Having someone believe in me, but believe in me not-uncritically is hugely important.

My wife also got me out of the United States for the first time in almost 20 years.  Staying in Dakar for eight months in our first year of marriage was great for us as a couple and for me as a human being, but as a musician it really put me in a position where I felt that, contrary to my negative feelings the year before (this was 2005 when we moved there, in October), I had new and fantastic experiences awaiting me, which inevitably would lead to new musical experiences.  I finished more songs that year in Dakar than I had for some time.  A feeling of forward momentum is essential to me as a musician.

All this put me in a position where I was ready to have breakfast with Matt Nathanson in the Spring of 2007, who as I write this has finally after so many years “broken through” to a huge extent.  Matt and I played in a band together years ago, and he’s always been one of my very best supporters, on a personal as well as a musical level.  In any event, over breakfast, he said to me that he could not accept that someone as literate as me would have trouble writing.  He suggested that I just get the hell out of the way and write.  Very concretely, knowing how I wrote, he suggested that I refrain from editing a tune until I’d completed a draft.  I had evolved an effective but horribly labor intensive writing process by that time with which I would consider a complete line a good day’s work.  Deal with the editing, he said, at the end.  I said, “OK,” that I’d give it a shot because I didn’t really have anything else working for me that well.  Indeed, I said I’d have something by that evening, to which he replied that I didn’t need to feel that much of a rush, but he wished me luck nonetheless.

I drove home from Noe Valley to Crocker-Amazon, and on the way, I started whistling a bit and got the line, “You got a lot of nerve to keep serving cheap liquor to me.”  I understand that this might sound made up, but it really did happen like this.  I got home, got my guitar, and figured out the chords to the melody I’d been humming.  I got pen and paper, and started tossing out a number of lines.  I aimed for completion rather than perfection, and allowed myself to repeat lines, in this case to begin and end each verse with the same line.  This was incredibly liberating to me, as small as it sounds, and I felt–I remember this very clearly–a palpable sense of writing quickly when I got to the end of the fourth line of the first verse and then finished it off with the first line of the verse, already written.  Writing felt easy for the first time in years.

I ended up finishing the tune in a couple hours, as I noted above.  I focused less on an overarching coherence than on a series of lines that each were vivid and, I’d hoped, humorous in a sharp, absurd way.  This is to me a very natural way of working.  I like to say absurd things in normal conversation as people who know me will tell you.  Writing a tune this way suited my temperament.  I won’t say I didn’t edit as I wrote, but the editing was limited to cutting out or adding words to make it possible to sing, given the meter.  Some lines jam in more syllables than others, and I let this be.

I was immediately a bit dumbfounded with the results, because I hadn’t written anything so quickly in years and almost couldn’t believe that after a good three or four years of horribly labored writing I’d tossed off something in a couple hours that was objectively a better piece of work than things I’d put upwards of six months–or more–into in only the recent past.  Within a day I knew that, indeed, the tune was basically finished and good.  The only word I changed between demo and the final version on Adieu, False Heart was “locket” to “letters.”

“Cheap Liquor” had practical implications.  I was, I had thought, about half-way through my follow-up to Chevy, with a good four or five tunes plus a couple instrumentals finished, aiming for ten to call it an album.  I thought, however, that regardless of whether or not “Cheap Liquor” was better than the tunes I had, that it was different, and that I didn’t want to cram it into a group of which it wasn’t really a part, and that I didn’t want to try to force myself to write things to match the other tunes I had–that, of course, being the definition of filler, which I’ve never liked.  So rather than half-way through my next record, I had one song.  I ended up, after having written a few more tunes, taking the first three weeks of the 2007 Summer vacation to record those tunes I’d written between 2005 and late 2006 and release them as Begging Bowl, calling the group of seven tunes a “mini-album” for lack of a better word.  It felt bigger than an EP: I didn’t know what else to call it.

Comparing the demo to the final product is probably not without some interest to some people.  Both have the same instrumentation: solo acoustic guitar and vocal.  The process of production–and this was sort of my point on Adieu, False Heart–was not about making instrumentation more complex or developed, but about deepening the performance.  Both were played live, without overdubbing.  I think we tend to underestimate, given modern production capabilities, how critical it is for a singer to form a relationship with a song, and I can say for myself that in the nearly two years between writing this and cutting the final recording, I’d become very close to the tune.  The listening bears this out.