we always come back to the beach (now & then)

During rehearsal last night (we never, well, almost never rehearse) Jim launched into a song without preamble.  Typically we talk about a next song, lobbing ideas back and forth (“why do you need to rehearse THAT?”) until we settle on one and then it takes us a while to start it: who counts it off?  How fast?  How does it go?  We’re like that.  But this one time Jim starts to play and I immediately recognize the notes as the start of a Mermen song but I have no idea what song it is, how it goes, what note comes next.  We played this song for years but it’s been a long time since we played it.  The notes are calling urgently and I must begin my part and without realizing it, I do.  My fingers go to notes without my conscious participation.  I have no idea what I’m doing.  The song is playing me.  I have thoughts, in the form of questions.  What note comes next?  How does this song go?  What’s the name of this song?  No answers.  I carry on, my mind following my body slightly behind.  We play the song, it goes well.  It’s a good song.  We spike the ending.  I look up and ask: “what’s the name of that song?”

I couldn’t remember the damn song, but my fingers never forgot.

“…you never taught me that!”

One of the great things about being the bassist (and believe me, there are many great things) is the application of stylistic integrity.  That’s a fancy way of saying I do it pretty much the same way most of the time.  Laziness?  Maybe.  But in pop and rock, which is where I’ve done most of my damage, the bass tends to be an adjunct to what’s most noticeable about a song.  The bass enhances the melody, the chords and the groove.  Most bassists find a sound, a feel, an instrument and stick to it.   Not, typically, guitarists, especially electric guitarists.  The Quest for Tone is legend.  The Holy Tonal Grail, a moving target if there ever was one, eludes.  Maybe that’s what makes it holy.  At my workplace I field questions about pickups, species of wood, strings, hardware – you name it.  If an obsessive (I can quit anytime) person wants to achieve a goal, and that goal has to do with the electric guitar, I say: “fair play.”  Anything I can do (anything legal or moral) to assist a guitar player in getting That Sound…well…of course I will give it my best shot.

But I offer here a real world example of how most of your tone is with the you alone, in your fingers.  In this video a famous electric guitarist is experiencing amplifier difficulties.  He grows restless, nervous, impatient and, finally, suggests something unorthodox to another famous electric guitarist sharing the stage.  The second guitarist allows it (they are old friends) and we have a perfect demonstration of how two people sound entirely different under the exact same conditions.  Listen to their back-to-back solos.   Or, is it: back to front?

The Fix (w/ added shoop for Rube G. irony enhancement)

You’re at your computer; streaming audio, sending and receiving files,
 email and, of course, sporadically surfing the nefarious interwebs.  The 
audio stops and you think: is the stream buffering?  You glance at the 
router.  O ho!  All the pretty little green lights are gone.  The damn 
thing’s turned itself off.  You knew this was coming, you’d already 
messed with it several times.  Previously, you turned the router on and 
off along with the computer and everything else when you left the room for 
any length of time, until recently, when the router stubbornly refused to
 turn back on.  You pressed the power button dozens of times, from
 different angles, and lights came on but turned off again as soon as you
 let go.  But, like kick-starting an old Triumph Bonneville, hope springs
 eternal and you kept trying until you either gave up, exhausted, or it 
coughed and roared into life.  Relief and gratitude flooded your being.  You could now don your helmet and ride out into
 traffic, risking your life.

All patterns are repeated.

But no…this time pressing the button again and again avails nothing.
  It’s time for a different approach.  A toothpick, yes, that should do the 
trick.  In a perverse mood, you look at a used matchstick by a candle, it’s 
blackened end already shrunken to a rough nub.  Taking a pocket knife you 
whittle the end of the matchstick to a fine point.  Pushing in the power
 button at the rear of the device you simultaneously jam the matchstick 
into the gap between the plastic cylinder and surrounding channel.  
Miraculously, hilariously, it holds.  The pretty green blinking lights 
return, one by one.

what it is & what it does (photo – Tim Frick)

I work the front counter for Gary Brawer and I hear some weird stuff.  Besides the guitar playing I hear comments, questions and exclamations.  One of my favorite topics occurs when techs talk tech to each other.  I love this stuff.  I have, over the years, marked repeatedly the phrase: “Forstner bit.”  As in, “Where are the Forstner bits?” or “That looks like a job for a Forstner bit.”

“What is a Forstner bit?” I asked myself, figuring I should find out.  My job here is to answer the phones, sell and order parts and schedule repairs for Gary and the others.  I am not a tech.  Those people work in the back.

A Forstner bit turns out to be a drill bit for holes that need a flat bottom.  “So…someone would use a Forstner bit to drill a hole in the top of a solid guitar body for the insert holes that accept bridge studs?”, I said to the techs.  “No,” they returned patiently, “for that you would use a brad point bit.”  “Oh,” I thought, obviously unclear on the concept.  I would need to do some deeper research.

This unique drill bit was invented in the 19^th century by a Benjamin Forstner, an American gunsmith looking to make a smoother hole.  He got rich off his invention, too, licensing the technology to Colt Firearms and other gun makers.

So how for a guitar would we use a Forstner bit?  Well, it’s a perfect way to make deeper a cavity to accept, say, longer pickup flanges – the metal tabs that accept pickup height adjustment screws.  When making a deeper hole it’s a concern to avoid going through the wood of the back of the body.  So: a hole with a flat bottom.  But there’s a center point in the bit, to guide its direction, so diligence is still required.

The Forstner bit has other beneficial features.  Its shape is very stable at spin (compared to other bit shapes) and also resists something called “tear-out” a phrase indicating how clean a hole can be drilled.  The bit is not commonly used in hand drills – it’s hard to push – a drill press is typical.  Rickenbacker has been known to use Forstner bits to drill wiring channels, an observation that shocks some of the more fastidious technicians.

I learn something new at this job every day.

the water is very cold

Our first stop is Rio.  Lovely Rio de Janeiro of song and story.  The self-described capitol of the senses.  “You love me, I’m Brazilian!!!”  I’m not comfortable with these cannibals of emotion, the noise and the bugs.  To get over jetlag I drag my ass down to the beach and leap into the Atlantic.  It’s cold, very cold, like Pemaquid Point in Maine on a summer day but refreshing.  Later I’m told this beach is well-known to be a sump of offal leaching from overpopulated hill sides.  I wash my mouth out with coffee.

simultaneously menacing and astonishing

At rehearsal/soundcheck prior to the first show the next day we are catching up on consciousness, remembering our parts and putting the pieces together.

shuttle to concert – Ipanema beach in the background

Traffic is congested between the Copacabana and Ipanema beaches – a skinny two lane blacktop connects two of the most famous playas on Earth.

At rehearsal (L to R) Joe, Steve and John making with the three part guitar harmonies.

All goes smoothly, including our first show of the tour.  Next stop: Sao Paulo, also a smooth production while outside the venue a warm Equatorial thunderstorm bathes the rain forest.

I am the Lucky Number

We’ve spoken of the Holy Laminate before…all of us get handed one.  I’ve drawn an especially auspicious good-luck laminate!  Looking over the setlist prior to the South American tour I realize I only require two basses: the five-string for Flying in a Blue Dream and the P-bass for everything else.  Since the Thunderbird was already in the shipping coffin from the recent European tour I’ve thought to use it as a warm-up instrument.  Its scale being longer than the P, it’s like a batter warming up with a heavier bat.

Thunderbird

Brazil behind us, we arrive safely in Argentina.  Some of us have had passionate discussions about the high quality of beef in this country.  I take heed and avoid red meat until Buenos Aires.  Mike Mangini (drums for John P.), Mike Keneally and I wander quiet old streets to a chop house for what becomes one of the best steaks I have ever had.  I go to sleep happy.

Buenos Aires, all pomp and circumstance.

Buenos Aires is a beautiful, sad city.  “Paris of South America” it’s called, and it’s architecturally true.  But neglect is evident.  People are selling all manner of tourist goods on the street.  They’re also selling family heirlooms.  In tight little marketplaces European silver, crystal and china brought across the sea in the last century clutters shelves alongside clothing, toys and dolls.  If you like rummage sales it’s heaven.

everybody’s got work to do.

Several of us head over to the Recoleta Cemetery, the most dire and ponderous necropolis I’ve ever seen.

guardians of the spirits

Some crypts are lovingly preserved, some are decrepit.

obligatory cobweb and cross

I am only slightly alarmed to see rotting coffins within reach.  Time, the Revelator.

…and behind door #3…

Enough accessible decay to last a lifetime.

open from dusk til dawn.

I spend an hour wandering past massive granite Belle Epoque crypts.  I’m not creeped out.  Of course, it’s daytime and other tourists are present.  The old dare about spending the night in such a place…could I do it?  What do I have to prove?

The morning after our Argentina show it’s a short hop over the spectacular Andes to Santiago, Chile.  Upon arrival we are invited by a local restauranteur to a glorious (and hosted) meal.  I’m very taken with this mountain city, it’s liveliness, open-sky feel and civility.  People smile for each other, automobiles stop for pedestrians (mostly) and there’s a crispness in the air.

Chilean B-boys (and girls) strut on polished marble below high mountains

The walk from the hotel to the restaurant at dusk is warm and full of life.

Doug Nightwine, our Tour Manager, leads the way

At dinner we are treated to a king’s feast.  King crab, meats, fish, hors d’oeurvres aplenty and flowing wine (Chilean, of course, and fantastic) all contribute to well-being, ease and relaxation.

as delicious as it’s beautiful

We are welcomed, feted and fussed over by patrons and staff alike.  Joe whispers to me: “They think you’re Ted Nugent.”  I suggest to him that I should loudly voice my support for gun control and cultural compassion (one must counter foolish behavior any way one can).  Thankfully I do not loudly voice anything.  Luckily Mike and Jeff find time for a friendly disagreement at top volume.  As the DJ is also contributing to the overall sonic level in the room much of what they have to say to each other is drowned in hipster bass and drum grooves.

Mike (L) and Jeff, agreeing to disagree

No animals are harmed in the making of this conversation and everyone finds their way back to the hotel and sleeps.  Tomorrow: a show under snow-capped mountain peaks.

Outside the venue, after soundcheck, Joe finds a quiet moment in the sun.

The Santiago show goes well.  The city and it’s people have welcomed us, and we moved easily within its borders.  It’s the last peace we’ll find for the next three days.  Early in the morning we make a very early 7am departure from the hotel.

Now begins a descent into several of Dante’s Hells.

We fly from Santiago, Chile (I awake at 6am) for three hours and land in Lima, Peru for a ninety minute layover.  Then we fly towards Caracas, Venezuela (a supposedly four-hour flight) but are diverted to Maracaibo (700km away) by extreme weather.  I mean, our aircraft is struck by lightning several times.  It’s very rough, and thunder is clearly audible inside the cabin.  During this flight I finish Neil Young’s new autobiography “Waging Heavy Peace” generously on loan from the Mike Keneally.  Sometimes you’ve got to drag your mind as far away from the present moment as you can, if only for a short time.  After white-knuckling it to Maracaibo our tribe and another eighty hapless castaways are abandoned by the airline (LAN).  Left to our own devices we are thankfully rescued, in part, by a young man who manages the Dream Theater web site within Venezuela.  We spend the night in Maracaibo (my room has no hot water, no lights in the bathroom and industrial air conditioning units directly above my top floor room send subsonic waves through my exhausted body).  We depart in the morning for Caracas on a one hour flight.  The web master kindly proffered his credit card (apparently only Venezuelan credit works in Venezuela) to purchase these new plane tickets (on another airline thanks) to Caracas.  The original airline (LAN!) turned their back on everyone.  Time from Caracas airport to our hotel in the center of the city is three hours through traffic so horrendous it makes Moscow seem rural.

creeping along the freeway from Caracas airport

But Caracas, as nasty as it appears, is the site of our last show with Steve Morse.  We make the best of it.  The show is energetic, loose, powerful and very well-received.  The farther you travel and the more arduous the journey, the greater the release.

In the dressing tent Jeff (L) gives Joe pointers on how it’s done.

It’s an outdoor show and the weather has cleared; a glorious tropical night under a yellow half moon.

(from L) Jeff, Steve, Joe and John display a custom Venezuelan flag with G3 logo

We make our goodbyes to Steve Morse and his drummer, Dru Betts, after the show.  Doug Nightwine snaps a quick group shot with Jeff’s camera.

The G3 Tribe (from L.) Allen, Joe, John, Mike M., Steve, Jeff, Dave, Mike K., Dru.

Travel from Caracas to Mexico City is cursed only by long lines at airports.  At a celebratory dinner (we escaped Venezuela!!!) Steve Lukather and his band arrive, straight from the airport.  It’s a happy meeting.  We all spent a lot of time together in New Zealand and Australia last Spring.

(from L) John, Joe and Steve

We’ve got two back to back shows here in Mexico City.  Some of the crew complain of shortness of breath.  The smokers, naturally.  At 7200 feet above sea level I can understand it.  But I don’t suffer altitude sickness.  The higher I get, the more I like it.

The Church of Mother of God before Týn & Clock Tower in the Staroměstské náměstí

At brunch this morning Mick B. sat down and was quickly served perfectly cooked eggs he had unsuccessfully requested the previous day.  Yesterday’s request had been parried with a Dada-esque response: “It’s Monday,” and the waitress had gone about her business.  But Tuesday, today, feels different.  A waiter brings the plate of freshly cooked eggs directly to him, the moment he sits down, as if the kitchen had been waiting all morning for this precise event.  Today weightless possibility mixes in with the ordinary urban atmosphere of grilling sausage, cigarette smoke and horse dung in the central square of Old Prague.  It’s not raining, we’re surrounded by tourists and, across the Atlantic Ocean my poor young niece is dead, another victim of inoperable cancer.  Dead at 26, without children, without a partner but by all accounts she went peacefully, surrounded by friends and immediate family.  It’s far away from where I am now but it’s directly in front of me, too.  I felt her going that morning in the spectacular one hundred and eighty degree rainbow viewed from the top step just before I turned to enter an Airbus 319 in Tegel Airport, bound for Geneva.  I felt her slipping away the evening of that same day during the victorious G3 concert for Guitars en Scene, in Genevoise, France, as the audience fiercely and joyously sang along to Joe’s songs, often overpowering the band.  And I felt her gone that night after the show as we stood in the field under the night sky, halfway between hospitality and the bus, as a monstrous and silent lightning storm filled the entire Western sky, illuminating magnificent cloudscapes over the Swiss Alps in still and humid air.

your rainbow

Hours later we are three buses stopped in late morning at a fueling station along the road to Prague.  Crew members smoke cigarettes near the diesel pumps, downing cold bottled Heinekens.  The storms of the previous evening have moved South leaving behind damp roads and fragrant air.

we have a convoy

Time has no meaning.  One never knows what’s going to happen.  I toss these comfortable platitudes around because my brain fervently needs to understand and make order of what passes for reality.  Eventually I’ll give up trying for meaning.  It won’t be in the glorious art of Eastern Europe.  I won’t find it in the endless horizon viewed from the window seat of a jet beginning it’s sunset descent into Kiev.  It won’t be in finding and purchasing the perfect gift for my now-teenaged daughter (whose thirteenth birthday I missed because we were performing in Amsterdam).  And then, all of a sudden, that meaning will be everywhere, in all things, in the most mundane of things: a clean towel for the shower after the show, slipping on an audio cable as I backpedal from the lip of the stage during the solo section of Ice Nine, or simply feeling comfortable in my skin – that uber groove that makes the solos swing.  An almost sacred conceit: “meaning” everywhere, in all things…as if driving to work, doing laundry, washing dishes and watering plants can be suffused with that same light.

on the Charles Bridge, over the Vltava River

Time is elastic.  The blackberries are delicious.

the canal out front of the hotel a perfect day

glorious

I take a quick walk to get some toothpaste and note how close the candy selection is to the dental care section.

two sides to every story

I sit for moment with Mick, Jeff and Fonz as they celebrate the beautiful weather and the start of the tour.  Toasts are made.

The time honored pastime

Jeff relaxes in the sun waiting for our shuttle

At the venue everyone runs around preparing.  Last minute decisions are made, and on the fly choices are choosed.

when you’re on the crew you catch rest when you can.

Tommy our stage left tech, makes sure he knows which basses Philip needs when.

Then, the inevitable happens: we have a show.  First up is Steve Morse and they come on like fire.

Steve Morse and Dave LaRue bring it.

I wander out into the venue to check out the view from the light and soundboards.

behind Alastair our lighting director

from the vantage point of Ace, our front of house sound man

Next up is My Vai, or “Stevie” as Joe has dubbed him for this tour.  He and his band kick it hard.

Philip, Dave and Stevie hold it….hold it…wait for it…

After Steve Vai’s set we come up and play and fuck up a few parts, working out our sections…experimenting a little.  The G3 jam section is sloppy but so very enjoyable.  Afterwards everyone is relieved.  The first show is done and we got through it.

Joe, Steve and Stevie try to remember what happened.

And of course the dressing room has the requisite local oddities.

here we go again…

See you in Germany!

if only we could wear uniforms

backstage are often unexplained phenomena

I am sponsored by the fine companies who make these products. I like them!

Jem and I expressing displeasure at our lot.

Bass rigs, now, that’s what I like to see.

(from Left) Steve, Stevie and Joe work out some musical details.

We plow through “You Really Got Me” (The Kinks) with Stevie singing lead and Jem and I backing him up on the “O YEAH!”s.  Next we drop metaphorical acid and launch into “White Room” (Cream) with Jem singing the lead.  It’s got a trick ending so watch for it.  And the closer is (and remains) “Keep On Rockin’ In The Free World” (Neil Young) with Joe singing (or “sort of” singing as he likes to put it).  The last song of the show features Steve, Stevie and Joe dropping some head spinning note clusters followed by sustained three note chords that bend and sway in a most uplifting and parallel manner.  After rehearsal it’s back to the hotel and resting up for the first show, tomorrow night.

I can tell that, sadly, this isn’t a language I’ll be learning.

Joe herding his families’ luggage

“I declare I am glad to be alive!”

outside of customs we acquire guides

following our guide through Schiphol Airport, brain sort of functioning

signs and portents are good

our technique for luggage loading does not pass muster with our driver

so many museums…so little attention span

Later in the day I take a short walkabout near the hotel in the old section of Amsterdam. Rain and wind snatch at my umbrella but the air is welcome and bracing on my exhausted face.  Dodging bicycles, trams and strollers I wander slowly.  If I can just stay up a few more hours I’ll be able to sleep through the night and, tomorrow morning, be on local time.  At least that’s how my Dad explained the workings of international jet travel and how to avoid jetlag.

how I feel

a sentiment I can relate to

public art meets Dutch whimsicality

I finally allow myself to sleep after 6pm, local time, having been awake a mere 28 hours.  Not a personal record but all I can manage this time around.  When I awake it’s still raining.  Today is our rehearsal.