A new Splattworks post...Revisiting "The Twilight Zone":
http://splatterverse.com/2014/03/08/revisiting-the-twilight-zone/

Vox in a Box

First, the bad news: the real thing will set you back at least $1,600 new. At the low end. A true, working, vintage model will cost considerably more. Much more. And there’s nothing like the real thing.

The good news: you can fake it for considerably less.

We’re talking about the Vox AC30 amplifier, particularly the Top Boost model. In a field that seems dominated by Fender, Marshall, and Mesa/Boogie (the sort of holy trinity of clean, crunch, and gonzo) and their “inspirations,” Vox amps kind of sit off to the side. Which is funny because if you run an AC30 light, you get the lovely, clear, chimey midrange and sparking treble associated with the amp. Turn it up, and you get a rich, soulful crunch. Crank it over, and you get this fantastic, singing overdrive. The trinity, all in one. And none of it sounds like anything else.

That’s where it gets tricky: what exactly is that Vox sound? You’d think you could nail it by listening to AC30 players, but the amp’s versatility and quirkiness complicates that. This is an amp serving the Beatles, the Shadows, the Stones (in the Decca years), Tom Petty, Peter Buck, Ray Davies, Radiohead (Jonny Greenwood, Ed O’Brien, and Thom Yorke), Matt Bellamy, Dave Grohl, Braid Paisley, Tom Verlaine, the Yardbirds, and Brian May.

If one player serves as a Rosetta stone, it’s The Edge. Famously he’s said to have played a battered, 1964-era AC30 (in a Seventies cabinet) on every U2 album and concert. Not every cut, of course. At this point, The Edge can pretty much own any amp made, and he’s known to use Fender Deluxes, Fender Blues Juniors, Roland JC120s (like that’s a surprise), and a 50-watt Marshall. But, if you say his name to a guitar freak, an AC30 comes to mind. And there’s probably no better example of the classic AC30 sound as “Where the Streets Have No Name.”

There’s the delay, of course—part of The Edge’s signature. I believe he’s playing a Fender Stratocaster: those single-coil pickups add to the chirp. But it wouldn’t have quite the same…shimmer without the Vox. Chime, jangle, ring—whatever you want to call it: it’s more than just a clear treble. There’s a fullness and a warmth to a sound that otherwise could prove piercing. Somewhere, there’s a piano hiding inside that box.

That broad, balanced clarity carries through to AC30 players who run their amps hot. Brian May runs a whole backline of them, and obviously he cranks the hell out of them for that overdriven, “violin-like” sound, but, despite the gain, you can still hear the notes. You have to work pretty hard, slathering on the effects, to blur the AC30’s crystalline qualities (that’s you I’m looking at, Kevin Shields…even though even Shields dirties it up with Marshalls).

And maybe it’s no surprise that “effects” and “AC30” go together: there’s something the amp loves about delays, tremolo, reverb, and other modulation effects. A touch goes a long ways, but the amp holds its sonic fingerprint even…if you’re The Edge.

The amp also weighs about 50 pounds and can get seriously loud—very likely more than you’ll need in smaller venues. So it’s not really the amp for open mic night.

The good news is that the modelers and pedal designers have long had their eyes/ears on the AC30, and digital approximations have been built into many multieffects units—high and low end. Ersatz, perhaps, but it’s a start, and the technology continues to improve.

A better option, especially if you already have a tube amp, is to set it up to run as clean as possible and add a stompbox dedicated to replicating an AC30. Tech 21 make a well-regarded Liverpool box, and similar boxes include: the Martin AC-tone , the Menatone Top Boost in a Can  (come on, that’s a great name), the Xotic AC Booster, the Catalinbread CB30  (note: one of many gifted Portland guitar effects companies), and the Joyo AC (which only runs about $40…Joyo’s a whole story in itself).

I’ve actually been pretty impressed with the Boss BC-2 Combo Drive. They seem to have bottled a bit of the AC30 mojo in a unit that rolls from sparkle to roar (with a sweet crunch in the middle), and I think I hear just a bit of compression to add a tube dynamic, because AC30s are known for their responsiveness. It works okay by itself or with a solid state amp, but pair it with a clean, neutral tube amp, and you might find yourself wandering down Abbey Road. For a couple of hours. This video from guitarist Pete Thorn lays it out quite nicely: http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=nJZUU_ZJHzc (Hint: crank it up.)

Plus, you know, it’s hard to toss an AC30 in your gig bag. Your ears may be a little bummed, but your back will thank you.

[You can also find Splattworks at my new site: www.splatterverse.com]

Mondo News

After a ton of work, I'm finally able to announce this: my new website, Splatterverse (www.splatterverse.com) is now up and running.  My old site is just a lonely old placemarker. The new site, of course, has stuff on my plays (including samples folks can read), but, much more exciting to me, the site really tries to provide quality resources for writers, playwrights, theatre people, journalists, photographers, musicians, and artists in general. Some sections are still under development, but I feel there's enough good stuff there to announce the site; so folks can start using  the resources. My blog has also moved there, although I'll continue this blog for awhile, until the full transition is ready.

The project has been cool as hell to work on, and, if it sounds like your thing, I encourage you to check it out and get back to me with your comments. (And, if you dig it, pass it on to others.)

Much work remains to be done, but here's hoping the site will serve as intended: a hub that creative people can use to further their art and careers.

Onward,

Steve Patterson

 

Why Write for the Stage?

For a change, money is not the answer.

Oh, one can make a buck or two writing plays, and there’s a refreshing point in one’s career where the contracts rise to the four- or five-digit level. And, if you write a hot play that does well at the Humana Festival and becomes a favorite among the regional theatres and you get a write-up in American Theatre magazine and make a dozen other perfect bank shots…you could see a pretty good year or two. Until the next flavor comes along. Winning a Pulitzer helps. Maybe.

But even the folks ostensibly making it usually have to supplant their incomes, often through teaching or, lately, writing for television…which is one reason why the writing quality for non-broadcast programs has increased so…well, dramatically.

What do you have left if you take money out of the picture? Control. And love.

Control because, unlike film or television, where you’re pretty much writing for hire, a playwright can say no. No to a wrongheaded rewrite. No to changing a line because it might conceivably upset the second cousin of someone who knows a backer. No because an actor can’t wrap their head around the words (even though they can play the rest of the part well). Never underestimate the peace of mind that comes from carrying the trump card (though it also means you have to accept the consequences). That is, until real money gets involved. Then you may have a contract, but you’re still playing three-dimensional chess.

Honestly? It always feels better to say yes: someone’s helping make your play better and handing you a gift. And you get to walk away with it, red-handed.

Which leads, oddly enough, to love. Even though you need a team to make theatre—a directors to realize your words and actors to voice them, along with a host of designers and other wizards, theatre presents a remarkably direct connection between the writer and the audience. One would think books create the strongest bonds, given the immediacy between words and thought, but books lack the feedback loop theatre provides.

See, it’s one thing for a reader to talk with you or correspond with you after the artistic transaction has occurred (i.e., they’ve read your stuff), and it’s another to hear an audience laugh, react, or, if you’ve done your job well, applaud. Your art has to happen in real time. When it works, you get this incredible rush. There’s some kind of direct line between an audience reaction and one’s euphoria receptors. (I can only imagine what it’s like for a rock musician to hit a chord and feel the air move through those speakers and the audience flow.) It’s also a serious bummer when you throw it out there and get nothing. (Which is why stand-up comedians are incredibly courageous. And maybe a little crazy.)

That’s your drama: whether or not the play will live or die, right in front of you, with everybody watching. The real kick arises from the tension, from that sense that you’re doing something genuinely dangerous, which might forever change you, for good or ill. The play might win itself a gold star in the memory achieves, or you might bury it at the bottom of the box. (A pointless gesture: the real embarrassments stick with you as much as the triumphs.)

And, once in awhile, the connection transcends getting a laugh or a gasp. Something really mysterious happens. It’s almost like the bit in a movie where the director uses slow motion to convey intensity or rapidly occurring action. The air drains from the room. There’s a kind of silence, despite the words—your words—being spoken and put in motion. You know and your cast and crew knows and your audience knows that you’re all in the zone: you’re experiencing something special, that will never, ever happen again the same way. Something akin to satori. Something…profound.

Those don’t come around all that often, but, when they do…. Man. That gets addictive. Any playwright who tells you they don’t feel a little buzzed witnessing that transaction is either being slightly less than honest (with you or with themselves) or has been doing it for so long, in so many places, that they’ve built up a certain tolerance. It happens.

Make no mistake, we’re talking dopamine, serotonin, and all those other juicy brain chemicals that make or break your day. Maybe the equation should be: control, love, and addiction. You need just one more good show. One more. Then you can call it. Say you’ve done it. Just that one special gig that’ll really fly high and wild and fully realize all of your….

Congratulations. You’re a theatre junkie.

Instant Play Mix: Add an Event, Bake Until Firm

Nicholas Kristof writes in the New York Times this morning that one of America's first priorities this year should be seriously addressing mental illness because it affects everybody to some extent, and we won't talk about it openly. A noble premise, certainly.

But, when he's talking about how it touches all of us, he offers this paragraph: "A parent with depression. A lover who is bipolar. A child with an eating disorder. A brother who returned from war with P.T.S.D. A sister who is suicidal."

And, honestly, no disrespect intended, I thought: there it is--the modern American play. Just add a catalyst. They buy a dog--a comedy. They lose their house--a drama. Or, on the Pattersonian stage, they develop shape-shifting abilities. Which is why my plays get called weird.

How many again?

Note: Splattworks now has broken the 500-post mark. Time flies when one babbles incessantly.

Tales from the Ice(pack)...continued

Where we last left Luke Murphy, he’d been seriously injured playing hockey, did not know if he’d ever return to the sport, and began to ponder his alternatives. One of those involved taking up the pen...

From Professional Hockey Player to Published Novelist, Part Two

I really enjoyed the process: coming up with a plot, developing characters and organizing a setting, problem and conclusion. It only lasted a couple of weeks, and once we were done, I kind of missed inventing, creating my own little world and characters.

 I remember walking to my bedroom one morning and seeing my roommate’s laptop sitting on the desk, and I thought…why not?

I sat down at the desk, took the characters my girlfriend and I had created, and wrote an extension to the story we had written together.

I didn’t write with the intention of being published. I wrote for the love of writing, as a hobby, a way to pass the time. Even after my eye healed up, and I returned to hockey, I continued to hobby write through the years, honing my craft, making time between work and family obligations.

Then I made a decision to take my interest one step further. I’ve never been one to take things lightly or jump in half way. I took a full year off from writing to study the craft.

I constantly read, from novels in my favorite genres to books written by experts in the writing field. My first two purchases were “Stein on Writing”, a book written by successful editor Sol Stein, and “Self-Editing for Fiction Writers” by Renni Browne and Dave King.

I read through these novels and highlighted important answers to my questions. My major breakthrough from Stein’s book was to “Show don’t Tell”. I had to trust my readers. I even wrote that phrase on a sticky note and put it on my computer monitor.

The Self-Editing book helped me learn how to cut the FAT off my manuscript, eliminating unnecessary details, making it more lean and crisp, with a better flow. I learned to cut repetition and remain consistent throughout the novel.

I continually researched the internet, reading up on the industry and process “What is selling?” and “Who is buying?” were my two major questions.

I attended the “Bloody Words” writing conference in Ottawa, Canada, rubbing elbows with other writers, editors, agents and publishers. I made friends (published and unpublished authors), bombarding them with questions, learning what it took to become successful.

Feeling that I was finally prepared, in the winter of 2007, with an idea in mind and an outline on paper, I started to write DEAD MAN`S HAND. It took me two years (working around full time jobs) to complete the first draft of my novel.

The first person to read my completed manuscript was my former high school English teacher. With her experience and wisdom, she gave me some very helpful advice. I then hired McCarthy Creative Services to help edit DEAD MAN’S HAND, to make it the best possible novel.

I joined a critique group, teaming up with published authors Nadine Doolittle and Kathy Leveille, and exchanging manuscripts and information. Working with an editor and other authors was very rewarding and not only made my novel better, but made me a better writer.

When I was ready, I researched agents who fit my criteria (successful, worked with my genres, etc.) and sent out query letters. After six months of rejections, I pulled my manuscript back and worked on it again. Then in my next round of proposals, I was offered representation by the Jennifer Lyons Literary Agency.

After months of editing with Jennifer, and more rejections from publishers, my dream was finally realized in April, 2012, when I signed a publishing contract with Imajin Books (Edmonton, Alberta).

Even today, a year after publishing my first book, I’m stall amazed at the direction my life has taken. Never in my wildest dreams would I have believed I would someday get paid to write books. Sometimes life can be impossible to predict.

_________________________
For more information on Luke and his work, go to: www.authorlukemurphy.com, or check him out on Facebook www.facebook.com/#!/AuthorLukeMurphy or Twitter www.twitter.com/#!/AuthorLMurphy

Tales from the Ice(pack)

This post brings a little something different to splattworks: a guest post by novelist Luke Murphy (right). He tells a good story: that of a writer discovering the craft a little later than many of us (who began producing chapbooks in crayon); and he set his goal, stuck to it, followed the recommended steps…and it paid off. Imajin Books published his novel Dead Man's Hand in 2012.

I felt Luke’s story fit well with one of splattwork’s missions—to serve authors and to discuss the trade—as it to serves as kind of a tonic for the many writers, slogging along, who wonder if the work will ever pay off. And it’s also kind of hair-raiser, dealing with one of those low points in life where the clouds look pretty dark. But Luke tells it better than I do; so I need to hand him the wheel.. I’m publishing Luke’s piece in two parts, to give him room to lay it out. Thanks, Luke, for the kind offer to step in and for putting up with me as an editor. 

The good Mr. Murphy lives in Shawville, Quebec, with his wife, three daughters, and a pug. He played six years of professional hockey before retiring in 2006. Since then, he’s worked a range of communications jobs, from sports columnist to radio journalist, before earning his Bachelor of Education degree (Magna Cum Laude).

For more information on Luke and his work, go to: www.authorlukemurphy.com, or check him out on Facebook www.facebook.com/#!/AuthorLukeMurphy or Twitter www.twitter.com/#!/AuthorLMurphy

From Professional Hockey Player to Published Novelist, Part I

It can almost be said with certainty that I didn’t follow the path of the average writer. As a child, I never dreamed of writing a best-seller, never aspired to write the next classic novel, I wanted to be an NHL superstar…period. In fact, the only time I ever thought about writing was when my teachers at school made me.

In 2000, my second year of pro hockey, after a decent training camp with the Louisville Panthers of the American Hockey League, I was sent to play in Oklahoma City. I know, hockey in Oklahoma, who would have thought, right?

I was having a very good preseason when in the third exhibition game, disaster struck.

I was forechecking on a Tulsa Oiler defensemen, a seemingly innocent play. As he shot the puck out of his end, the blade of his stick came up from the follow-through and struck me in the left eye. I went down immediately from the contact. I don’t know how long I was out for, but when I came to, I was on all fours, staring down at a massive puddle of blood. There was no pain, but the shock of seeing the blood with my right eye, and unable to see out of my left, drew me close to panic. I was terrified.

I later found out that the results of the injuries were: a broken nose, slit eyelid, scratched cornea and deeply bruise cheekbone. I went through surgery and was sent home with a patch on my eye.

I was unable to practice or workout with my team, uncertain of my future, but all I could think about was, “will I ever be able to see out of my left eye again?” The doctors had no way of knowing until the swelling went down and the outside of my eye healed up. I was devastated, my dreams shattered, and I was at one of the lowest point in my life.

The team sent me to live with a longtime season-ticket holder and friend. So as I was sitting at home, feeling sorry for myself, I decided that I would need an alternate plan. What if my eye never healed properly? I would certainly never play pro hockey again, that’s for sure. I needed to think of what to do next with my life, in case the worst scenario transpired.

It sucked!! I hated the uncertainty. I hated not knowing if I’d ever see again, or ever play hockey again.

So what to do? Because I was working with only one eye, it gave me headaches to watch TV or read books for extended periods of time.

I had just started seeing a girl from back home that summer. She was attending French College in Montreal while I was in Oklahoma, so we communicated by phone and email. My girlfriend knew that I was an avid reader and loved books, so she asked me if I was interested in helping her write a short story for her English class. Since I had nothing else to do and a lot of time on my hands, I agreed.

I really enjoyed the process: coming up with a plot, developing characters and organizing a setting, problem and conclusion. It only lasted a couple of weeks, and once we were done, I kind of missed inventing, creating my own little world and characters.

I remember walking to my bedroom one morning and seeing my roommate’s laptop sitting on the desk, and I thought…why not?

To be continued….

Dallas

The 22nd, and it becomes inescapable: the Kennedy assassination, 50 years ago. A before and after, where-were-you event.

I was a very young boy. In fact, the assassination may be my earliest conscious memory. There’s a fine way to start off a life: televised murder and national grieving before you know what death is. And people wonder why my work has a dark sensibility.

Here’s how the political becomes personal. At the time, my dad worked for the Spokane Chronicle. The news came over the TV or radio in the cafe where he ate his lunch, and, when the shock subsided, my father turned to the waitress and, in his droll way, asked: “Can I get that to go?”

I didn’t see him for the next three days. The newspaper staff basically lived at the office, publishing nonstop updates. I still recall the anxiety and confusion I felt. Adults—men and women—spontaneously, inexplicably weeping for reasons I couldn’t understand. This great man, dead. And, to my mind, my father missing.

I do have one weird, vivid memory from that time. Waking up early, while the rest of the household slept, and wandering out to the living room. Turning on the TV. Black and white, hearses moving slowly past blurred faces lining the street. And, for some reason, I put my hands flat against the screen, as though I might receive some kind of physical transmission. I don’t remember ever having done that, before or since. The screen seemed to sizzle.

It all gets muddled, of course. Did I see Cronkite announce the president’s death? It seems like I did, but I’ve seen the clip so many times since then, Cronkite removing his glasses and choking up, that I can’t separate the real-time event from subsequent footage.

It was frightening, of course, even though I surely couldn’t understand what was going on. I remember fear. And I remember trying not to show it because everyone was already upset. The event t became a touchstone for years of “oh no” moments. Bobby. MLK. Chicago. “This is a CBS/NBC/ABC news bulletin….”

Years later, I’d have my own chance, as a radio reporter, to become The Voice. I’m sure I announced a few deaths, but the only even I really remember was announcing we’d invaded Grenada. Grenada? Where? Isn’t that a soft drink? I suppose it had its weight, so close to Cuba. I ripped the story off the teletype, just like in the movies. I can’t tell you how somber…and marvelous…that felt. That sort of thing makes you a news junkie.

The killing marked another cultural change, one that took a while to settle in. Those various shoot-em-up films from the Fifties? Where a character gets shot, clutches, and slides to the floor, perhaps a thin, discreet trickle of blood showing? No more. Not after the president’s head explodes. “The pink mist” as the soldiers say. Coupled with the nightly televised carnage of the Vietnam War, a visceral reaction against the true horror of violence led to its hyperrealistic portrayal on film. “Bonnie and Clyde” probably set the tipping point, but a whole generation of filmmakers expressed their fury with fountains of blood, as if to scream: look at it, look at it, look at it!

Understandable, but now moviegoers watch gory torture flicks for entertainment, and mutilated bodies show up on network television, and every other week, it seems, someone with a gun flips into overload and goes full medieval on total strangers. So I’m not certain the aesthetic choice achieved the desired effect.

When the light faded from JFK’s eyes, it’s said a certain innocence went with it—an optimism and, as he would say, vigor. But it could also be said that a veil ripped away, and we saw a truer portrait America: violent, dark, paranoid, and vengeful.

The two, paradoxically, co-exist. And perhaps it’s ironic that a man who’d known his own share of loss and violence, war and illness, would unwittingly pass on a profound lesson. JFK turned out to be one World War II veteran who told his whole story.

First Dog

I read a moving piece in yesterday's New York Times, in which a woman recounts visiting her grandmother, who, unbeknownst to her, lived not far away. It's a fine stretch of writing (which you can read here), but the descriptions of the visit, the home, the atmosphere, brought back not some long-lost relative (though, if you're out there, Frederick Lane Patterson III, I do wonder whatever it was you disappeared into), but, rather, the acquisition of my first dog.

Which became somewhat legendary in my household, told and retold for some reason, and, now that my folks have passed on, I'm free to relate it however it returns from the past. Maybe the article's description of the grandmother's home or the reserve between, more or less strangers, prompted the memory. Probably the latter, since I seem to recall not a visit to a small house, but a visit to an apartment building.

In fact, if you've ever seen "Blue Velvet," I recall a visit to that apartment building. At least from the outside...one of those 40s or 50s brick, four-story blocks of mystery, with long hallways and numbered doors reminiscent of an old hotel. Again, this is all memory, coming from someone without particularly potent recall, who can barely remember things that happened last week, much less decades ago.

But it was, to a kid--a creepy joint, all right? Visiting at night, the street and public areas dark, and the apartment itself in deep, brown colors, with many small, framed pictures, and a black-and-white TV running: the stuff of Super 8 home movies. I was kind of a sickly kid, in a sickly family, and though we had parakeets and aquarium fish, my folks held off on a dog due to my possible allergies to fur. I don't recall what prompted the change. I remember being a little scared of dogs at the time--a few years earlier, two barking, snarling dogs had chased me and my best friend up a tree--and not being all that thrilled with the idea. Maybe my folks wanted me to get over that fear before it set too deeply. Somehow, one of parents latched on to Shetland Sheepdogs (my mother, I suspect), and we followed a newspaper ad to a family that had puppies to sell.

Which is where we veer into family legend because, per my parent's memory--I have only vague recall of this part--we set forth to find a puppy, but, when I sat down (in a padded brown rocker--I do remember that for some reason), the puppies' mother, Tessie, leapt into my lap. And wouldn't get down. Details become scrambled here, but the story ends with our taking Tessie, not the puppies, home with us. And a wonderful, gentle, perfect first dog she was, who trailed me around the house, and lay beside me on the floor as I drew or read comics or, perhaps, even as I began to add text to my notebooks full of drawings...which led to this writing thing I do.

Along the way, my family took on other shelties, achieving a four-dog peak during the 80s. Tessie, memorably, died on the day Richard Nixon resigned. My parents were relieved that Nixon exited, but a sense of personal sadness still colors references to that day. I remembered it rained, but that's not much of a reference point in the Pacific Northwest. It rained hard.

Still, looking back on the sellers (who seemed a little creepy to this kid), it makes me wonder what kind of people would sell the the mother of their pups. I mean, who sells a good dog? Was it some graceful acknowledgement that the dog found me and shifted loyalties? Did they need the money? Was that all it was about? Someone who set off to become breeder and found it didn't suit them? Were they terrible people, whom Tessie escaped from? Or were they moving and couldn't take the dogs? And what happened to the pups, who suddenly no longer had a mother? Of course, I don't remember names, and, as I recall them as being older, the sellers probably are long gone. Perhaps they'd just become too old to care for a dog. I don't remember much emotion on their part, but people often cloak these things.

Haunting. It all seems haunting. All I can really be sure of is, in one evening, I became a dog person. A very fortunate one. Maybe the dog sensed I needed her more than her puppies did.

Three Sheets to the Wind

I make my daily bread as a technical editor, hammering the words of economists and engineers into business English. It’s a good gig for a creative writer: you get to work with words all day, but you don’t have to invent them, which taxes the writing gland (and which is why I gave up journalism, for all its pleasures).

I’ve found, however, that I can’t edit while listening to music with lyrics (unlike creative writing, where I often use music to key off the words, putting me in a particular mood, or bringing me back at the beginning of a writing session).

That kind of leaves you with jazz, which I love—but it can be a bit too complex for sustained listening, and classical, which I also love—but it can become a little too relaxing after a long day of fixing punctuation. Sometimes, you need a little…juice.

Thus, I rediscovered instrumental rock, particularly featuring guitar. That is to say: Jeff Beck, who’s probably my favorite living electric guitarist (Hendrix still reigns supreme). Besides having unbelievable chops, Beck’s playing’s so smart, expressive, sometimes funny, and inventive that’s it’s a pleasure to revisit again and again. And, if you’re losing altitude in the afternoon, there’s nothing like a little “Big Block” to step on the accelerator.

But, let’s face it, a steady diet of the same dishes, even by the world greatest chefs, can get a little stale. Thus, of late, I’ve been exploring a bit, getting into some of the “fusion” players, the straight-up, wondrous weirdness of Eric Johnson and Steve Vai (don’t get help, guys…just keep playing), and, just recently, one Mr. Joe Satriani.

I had my reservations. I kind of associate Satriani with metal and shredding, neither of which particularly speak to me, as much as one might admire the players’ technique. There’s a sameness, a formula, to much of what I’ve heard from the metal guys that just doesn’t click with me: what difference does it make if you can spit out a jillion notes per bar if they’re the same ones used by a hundred other players? And the "I've got Big Balls" lyrics get old. Apparently, I lack the metal receptors.

I’d heard good stuff about Satriani, though, and I found him immensely personable in interviews; so I went all the way back to his album “Surfing with the Alien”—the source, so to speak—and, somewhere in there, I began to hear something different. Some great playing, of course, but also a sense of adventure that started to resonate with me. And, as I listened to more of his work, I heard an artist pushing himself—and writing some damn catchy melodies, in with all the whammy bar acrobatics, wah pedal workouts, and flying harmonics. That and something he seems to share with Beck—a sense of humor, which goes a long ways in adding to the likeability factor.

So there I was, feeling some genuine excitement when picking up his brand new album, “Unstoppable Momentum” at Music Millennium: I’d caught up with his contemporary music, and here I was, picking it up hot from the lathe.

It didn’t disappoint. The cuts had the energy and fun, mixed in with serious intent, that I heard from his best stuff, and I thought: cool…I have a new editing soundtrack.

Until I got to “Three Sheets to the Wind,” the album’s fourth cut, and everything…stopped. I went from rocking to listening. Not only did it sound different from the other songs, it was different. A mix of old and modern music, searching for something new—looking both back and forward. And, by the time, the big Marshall amp guitar sound roars in at the climax, I felt the bottom drop out, like wheels leaving the tarmac, and that bird took flight.

Art—good art—is tremendously difficult to pull off, no matter what medium you’re working in. But, when it does, there’s simply nothing to beat it. We may be weird monkeys, with too much gray matter for our own good, but we do make strange and sometimes wonderful things. And, just once in awhile, we get it so right that we transcend ourselves. Which I suppose is why we keep doing it—because it’s such a damn rush when we take that extra step.

So…props to Joe Satriani, and congratulations for succeeding (the rest of the album’s also quite good). Now, of course, he has to start over and do it again. Without repeating himself. Which is why being an artist, in addition to its thrills and straight-up terror, can be such a bitch.

[Editor’s note: So, if you’re a professional editor, pal, how come your blog has so many grammatical glitches and left out words? Because it’s almost impossible to proofread your own writing. Your brain knows how it’s supposed to go; so, naturally, it just fills in the blanks, and you end up recklessly dangling participles, mixing metaphors, repeating words repetitively, or even sometimes leaving out whole.]

Setting Off Sparks

This really is a post for Portlanders, but, as it's about a cool, artistically oriented event, other folks with like minds might find it interesting (and you might try it in your burg).

Monday night (May 20th), Playwrights West, a group of professional playwrights (of which I'm a member) based in Portland, is throwing a party. Yes, it's a fundraiser for a full production of one of our playwright's works (Licking Batteries by the wonderful Ellen Margolis), but it's kind of turned into a celebration--a celebration of the joy of creating new work.

Dubbed Sparks, the evening features short pieces--either standalone short works or excerpts from longer works--from eight remarkable writers (and one bozo...me). It's what we have to offer...our words, and some terrific actors have signed on to breathe those words to into being. And since we're all getting together, there'll be food and drink and a silent auction and good vibes: what could best be described as a party.

Here's the fascinating thing to me, though. All of us in Playwrights West share a common purpose: to stage the new works of our members and to raise awaeness of the power and delight inherent in presenting premieres (and we're just lucky to have access to some killer scripts). All of us are professionals who have had our works staged in many forms and venues, and, frankly, we all can write. (Present company excepted...or at least tolerated.)

But, man, what a lot of different voices. All really original, and all coming at the work from different angles, bringing unique voices and sensibilities into play.

So what the folks who attend Sparks will be able to experience is a terrific mosaic of ideas, images, power, and, well, light from these eight writers (and the bozo). In one place, at one time (and only at this one time under the same tent). The works range from new projects, still in progress, to new works about to be born as fully realized productions, such as an excerpt from Andrea Stolowitz's Ithaka, which is about to open at Artists Repretory Theatre (where it won a commission), and, of course, Ellen's Licking Batteries--the play we're fully staging in August. And, if you drop by, you get to embrace these works--to celebrate their originality and diversity--with like-minded people...those who love new theatre. (You know who you are.)

Really, Sparks is a way to say: yes, new work counts. It keeps theatre alive, vibrant, surprising, ever changing. It's vital. It matters. And we can do it really, really well, right here in Portland. Oh yes, we can.

So drive, walk, take the streetcar, and come on down to CoHo Theatre on Monday night. Have some food and drink and laughs. Maybe try out a cool new outfit. And take what promises to be an unforgettable ride with eight splendid, absolutely kick-ass writers (and one bozo).

Details follow. See you there....

Steve

---------------

Sparks: A Benefit Performance

By the writers of Playwrights West

Directed by Playwrights West Company Member Andrew Wardenaar

Date: Monday, May 20th

Time: Cocktail Hour & Silent Auction at 6 pm. Performance at 7 pm. Postshow reception at 8:30 pm.

Venue: CoHo Theatre (2257 NW Raleigh St)

Cost: $40; tickets online or at door (cash/check only) subject to availability. Seating is limited.

Purchase Tickets from: sparks.brownpapertickets.com

Playwrights West, a professional theatre company composed of nine acclaimed local playwrights, announces Sparks, its first-ever gala benefit performance. This performance will feature short excerpts of works by all nine member playwrights, culminating in a world premiere excerpt of Playwrights West’s upcoming 2013 season performance, Licking Batteries by Ellen Margolis. In addition to the performance, the evening will feature delicious food and wine and a silent auction.

Featuring excerpts from: Eating in the Dark by Debbie Lamedman; Consider the Ant by Karin Magaldi; Licking Batteries by Ellen Margolis; Bus Stop by Steve Patterson; Ithaka by Andrea Stolowitz (opening May 28th at Artists Repertory Theatre); Jeepers by Andrew Wardenaar; Where There Is Darkness, Light by Claire Willett; The Chain and the Gear by Patrick Wohlmut; and Forky by Matthew B. Zrebski.

Really...

...how can any self-respecting guitarist get by without one of these:

And then Huck said, "The walls keep melting, Aunt Polly."

I'm happy to report that Portland Theatre Works will present a public reading of my two-act play "Rimbaud's Daughter in Louisiana (Or the Drunken Pirogue)"...which has the honor of having the longest title I've ever come up with. It'll be Monday, April 15...details to come. And, lest you ask, it's free.

My longtime director pal Lisa Abbott calls the play "On the Verge" on drugs, but I prefer to think of it more as "Huck Finn" on acid...if Jim was a cynical Cajun woman and Huck was an insane French expatriate who's convinced she's Arthur Rimbaud's abandoned daughter.

Whichever, it's the first comedy I've ever written about symbolist poetry and the closing of American West. I know everyone else already has; so I'm catching up.

Many thanks to Portland Theatre Works for putting up with me again. The info's not on their Website yet, but I'm sure I'll be flogging it shamelessly.

Cheers,

Steve

You've Been Doing What?

It's been so long since I've posted, I feel like I'm at confessional.

But, really, it's not like I haven't been doing stuff. In fact, I have so many writing projects going that I'm drowning in them and can't keep track of them all...a couple play rewrites, the guitar book, research on a couple new plays ideas that are just terribly weird. Which all may be bad or good, I'm not sure. Either way, the ink's been flowing.

Of late, I've been writing long, narrative, free verse poems that may be.... Well, I'm not sure what they'll be. Poems or prose poems for literary magazines? Performance monologues? Some kind of concert/chorus reading with actors, music, multimedia, helicopter fly-bys? It's still in flux. But so far, there's 35 of them, so I'm going to have to do something with them.

And, just to prove it, here's one (still a rough), formatted to be read as a monologue. Or a prose poem. Or something. Whatever the hell it'll be, I'm having a great time. And that's good. Innnit it?


Mall
The weekend old cars, restored and polished, fill the mall. People passing see their reflections lengthen, distorted in lacquered, shining features. So far from the road. Like lobsters in dark tanks, white banded claws. A small PA plays Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly, Eddie Cochrane. The latter clearly a bit of attention to period detail, or a vaguely subversive sense of humor. Hang out, maybe they’ll sneak in Iggy Pop’s “Lust for Life” as shoppers drift from temptation to temptation, purses and wallets pulsing cold blue, signs come and go, come and go. Half the shoppers seem to have just come from a board meeting, the others from a session of weight training or swimming, chlorine-scented hair.

Woman in a turquoise sheath dress, as though lost on the way home from church, sells ice cream bars from a yellow cart, a line of children waiting while their parents check email on smart phones. She wears flats with discreet orthopedic wedges, the days on her weary feet, patiently waiting for their nightly soak as their owner rocks the remote

Little girl, dressed in some combination of cultures, little black zip-up coat, running shorts and saddle shoes, concentrates deeply when presented with choices. Very serious, this one. Asking questions regarding the nature of chocolate, hard or creamy, plain or French vanilla, her mother finally making a decision, which the girl accepts so readily that one wonders if that wasn’t what she wanted after all. Not knowing there’s a good chance that someday the roles would reverse

She sees them all, the impossibly nice or difficult—sometimes the same couple. But largely, a swath of the utterly ordinary, who, in her younger days, when her hair was long and straight, and she wore vests that jingled, she would have labeled plastic people. She saw them now as the shipwrecked, thrashing for their life preservers, waiting for anything to rescue them.

Above her, banks of tube lights behind translucent colored screens shone in alternating bands of color, pointing to an artificially vanishing horizon: a mural of land and sea, right out of the renaissance. The rest dark wood and painted fiberboard, disguising the mall’s warehouse like bones. And she wonders how they came to choose the painting, how they decided the sea would lead to higher consumption levels, for nothing here had been left to chance, every shine or surface carefully imagined.

At the end of days, after giving her feet their well-earned treat, she sits in her deliberately wild garden, watching sparrows and finches fight at the feeder until the night comes, city lights painting cloud bellies a dull magenta. And then the sirens sing.

Through the Scope

My dad passed away back in the 90s, and, then, about six years ago, my mom became too infirm to live by herself, and I bundled her up and moved her to Portland. She died five years ago, this evening.

Naturally, I miss her. Every day. In her prime, she was a force of nature. But last Friday night, for the first time ever, I felt relieved she was gone, because, above nearly all things, she loved children, and what happened back in Newtown, Connecticut, would have truly crushed her.

When I went through the frankly wrenching experience of packing up her stuff and selling the homestead, one of my chief concerns was securing my dad's guns. He'd been an armorer during World War II, and, though he hated war, he retained a fondness for firearms. Cleaning rods and polishing oil lived in his dresser drawer. Out in the country, it was no big deal to take a summer afternoon, line some tin cans up against a hill, and test your skill. Flat out, it was fun, and it was something dad and I did together, knocking off a lot of tin and brass, and having a wonderful time. First off, though, he drilled safety into my head, and made sure I knew the difference between a real gun and the stuff we see on television. Around our house, carrying a gun in a careless manner was a serious offense.

So, when I was cleaning up the house, I made sure I found all five firearms, secured them, and, at home, tucked them into the back of a closet, where I pretty much forgot about them, until my wife told me, honestly, about how uneasy having them made her feel. It took me a little time to wrap my head around it, but, when local gun shops expressed no interest in them--they were neither rare or valuable, I gave them up when the police had one of their regular gun turn-in events.

It was easy. A form to sign. The policeman and I chatted a bit about the pieces, their history and so on, they way guys talk about cars or sports or guitars, and we both took time to admire the old double-barrel shotgun with twin triggers. Then it was done, and we drove away. And it felt like I'd been kicked in the stomach.

Not that I give a damn about having guns: I'll be perfectly fine if I never shoot another one in my life. But the tie to my dad was so strong, that it felt like saying goodbye to him all over again. That's part of the mythos that surrounds firearms, particularly for men, and one reason why people become so attached to them. No matter how sane, pacifistic, and level-headed one is, that's a dark little hunk of history in your hand. And it's seductive.

But I when came to the end of last Friday, if there was anything positive I could salvage from, basically, one of the worst days in America, it was that those guns were gone, and they could never end up in the hands of someone with the circuitry slowly frying in his head. In short, they'd never hurt anybody. And, you know, they never did.

Sometimes, when the myths grow too dangerous and powerful, it's time to retire those myths. Time to choose a civil society over fear. Time to grow up.

So...where's my virtual theatre?

It's weird...I've been thinking about this for years, but I've still yet to see it. Maybe the tech isn't there yet. But....

We have all these wonderful small theatres, scattered from Portland to Cairo, Mumbai to Osaka, doing scrappy, crazy new work, and fighting to pull in, say, 100 people a night. Virtual reality kind of raised its weird, pseudo-immersive head for awhile, got everyone excited, then...faded away. So...what?

So, wouldn't it be great if you could set up a multiple camera rig, shoot small plays completely live, and sell tickets for viewers through the Internet? Not for a tape of something (or a clip on youtube), but a piece that viewers can only see live, streaming, as it happens, and, in doing so, essentially widen edgy theatre's breadth?

I mean, they have deals where, you know, Royal Shakespeare or symphony performances are shown in movie houses. But I'm thinking the equivalent of Netflix streaming, except it has to happen live. It wouldn't be the same experience as sitting in a theatre, of course, with an actor practically sweating on you. But what an intriguing idea for taking, say, something completely experimental, and extending it's range far beyond some tiny theatre tucked into some industrial wasteland, where you have to beg all your friends to venture into the night. And then you get killed by an ice storm.

I suppose it's the equivalent of "where's my flying car"...but the idea still fascinates me. Out of all the people the Internet can reach, it seems like there must be a way to pull in more than...100 folks a night. And scale the ticket price down to a level where someone (or a couple thousand someones) might pony up a couple bucks simply out of curiosity. As it is, little theatres often gamble with sliding scale just to get bodies in the seats. You figure out the price point for renting the gear, achieving the bandwidth, and see if there's a point where, hell, a viewer pays $2 or $3 bucks to participate in something that will never happen again the same way...which is part of theatre's magic. I mean, just between Facebook and Twitter, how many potenital viewers could you reach?

Eh...whatever. I'm out of the producing biz these days anyway, focusing on writing plays, but that "virtual theatre" idea has haunted me for a decade or more. So...here I am, throwing it out for...whatever reason. I guess because it's been bugging me. It's probably stupid and impossible and all that...but working insanely hard for nothing to create an evening of...experience...of something that can only happen once...is that any less stupid or impossible?

It sure is fun, or else we wouldn't keep doing it.

Instant Karma

Brooding Works Wonders

So I write a piece about the ups and downs of the writing life--receiving rejections, specifically--so naturally, I received a clutch of mondo cool theatres (which shall remain nameless unless some great happens) asking to see my work. Never fails (except when it does).

Also in the Department of Great Things, I just got word that "The Centering," a one-man show I wrote with Portland actor extraordinaire Chris Harder, gets a two-week extension at CoHo Theatre after a three-week stand at Portland's Shoebox Theatre...and to top it off, The Oregonian gives it the kind of review that goes down like a hot buttered rum on a freezing day:

'The Centering' gets additional two-week run at CoHo Theater

Maybe I should whine more often.

Season of the Bitch

You got to crank up every pitch
You got to crank up every pitch
This is the Season of the Bitch

Ah, writing. At last count, I've been doing it seriously for...(pause for math)...36 years. (Not counting the short story I spontaneously wrote, unbiddened, at age six, and then demanded my mother type up. Which she did. That's a mom.) In general, the first four or five years of writing turned out crap. Then, for the next ten years, it turned out more ambitious, somewhat better-crafted crap.

After about 15 years, I started writing for the stage, found my form, and put my apprenticeship behind me. I'd achieved what I'd more or less decided to do when I was, uh...six. I became a writer. Which essentially meant I'd found my way out of one maze and entered another.

In the process, I've experienced some incredible highs, weathered some dark stretches (when I seriously wondered if it was worth it) and some bleak streaks (when I had no ideas or just didn't feel like picking up a pen), and received more rejections--I prefer the word "bounces"--than I can count. Seriously.

I used to decorate the walls of my office--whatever space I'd set aside for writing--with rejection slips. It seemed like a defiant gestures--something a Writer would do. After awhile, the decor lost its charm, took on the stench of self-pity, and felt slightly masochistic. Now, production posters and cast photos cover the office walls. And, you know, there are a bunch of them. They're a lot easier on the eyes and psyche because they say: you've done it before, you'll do it again. That comes in handy when one enters the Season of the Bitch.

Which is to say, over the last month or so, I've submitted a shitload (to use the writer's technical term) of work after a long stretch of basically non-stop writing (you have to grab the work when it's hot and coming in, else it'll spurn you, and you'll lose it), and the little letters and e-mails have started trickling in. One picks up an envelope armed with a letter opener (I prefer a antique Mexican switchblade, compadres) and a bag full of rationalizations: these are tough times; everybody's having a hard time getting produced; there are a ton of good playwrights out there and a limited number of slots; getting bounced means you're in the game; and, as the posters attest, getting produced is not impossible.

These help to push away the darker thoughts, which still have a way of sneaking in when you're tired, bummed, or overwhelmed. The game's rigged. Your work's too weird (non-commercial, non-linear, dark, unconventionally structured, and about 100 other choices you've deliberately made). You don't live in New York City. You're not paying off a more or less useless MFA in theatre. And the killer: You suck and you're kidding yourself.

If that last one kicks in, it can paralyze you as quick as a curare dart to the neck. Then you have to: distract yourself (in my case, do something creative just for pleasure, but there are plenty of other options available...some of which won't kill you); get back to work with a big, neon FUCK YOU sign flashing over your head; or crank up some fast, furious rock'n'roll and crawl back into the submission machine. If you can do all three without getting lost, the process can actually feel somewhat manageable.

Lightning eventually strikes, but, the longer between flashes, the more tempted one is to wise up and get the hell out of the rain. You can, or course. Sometimes you must to dry out. But, if you want to see the process through, inevitably you're going to have to bundle up and head back into the storm.

As for the don'ts....

Don't take it out on whoever responds to you. They're doing a job, may have limited clout, and are prey to circumstances you can only guess at. If they're taking time to read scripts, they love theatre and new work just as much as you do, and they may well be another writer dreading the mail/e-mail when they get home. And, brass tacks, they may not like the kind of plays you write...which means you don't want to be produced there anyway.

Don't take it out on other playwrights, sucessful or otherwise. They have worn the very same impossible shoes hurting your feet, and, though they might be having a hot year, they might be lacing up the torture shoes 12 months later.

Don't take it out on family or friends. They really can't understand how you feel, and, whatever they say, they probably think they're being helpful. That's called love, and should be accepted as such. Also don't avoid them because you think you'll bum them out. Honestly, they're just as eager to tell you all the stuff that's pissing them off; it's a symbiotic relationship.

Don't take it out on the job you have to work to pay the bills. They haven't a clue, could care less, and you're lucky to have a gig these days.

Society. Yeah, you can take it out on them. But it won't do a damned bit of good, they don't care what you say or do, and it can lead you back into "lost cause" wilderness.

And...don't blame yourself. At the moment, you have enough problems. Just try to write as well as you can, and keep going.

So. For writers beginning and otherwise (and, I suppose, any artist--and anyone looking for a job). Do you ever get used to those oh-so-polite kicks to the nuts? Nope. Are they avoidable? Not if you want to play. Should you take it personally? No. Will you? A little, even if you won't own up to it.

This is the Season of the Bitch.

Levon

There are artists, and, let's face it, there are Artists.

What divides the two? Talent, mostly. But great artists seem to have an innate integrity. I wouldn't say dignity, because, some artists are, by nature, a little less than digified, and we wouldn't want it any other way. But there's a sense that they comfortably inhabit their own skin, and they're cool with who they are and what they can do. And they love their work. When they're not doing it, they might get a little...ornery. Comes with the territory. When they're doing what they live for, the passion shows through, and, just by watching them, you can taste a bit of what they're feeling.

Which brings us to Mr. Levon Helm, who passed today. Normally, I'd say "who died today," but I've noticed that in blues circles, the gents say "he passed." And Levon was all about the blues.

He was, of course, the drummer and one of the lead vocalists (along with Richard Manuel and Rick Danko) of The Band, and he was set for history had he never done another thing. But he did. After The Band hung it up in 1976, he formed the Levon Helm RKO All-Stars, and later reunited much of The Band, though Richard Manuel's heartbreaking suicide really put an end to all that. He also proved to be a fine actor, notably stealing the hell out of a pivotal scene in "The Right Stuff" when Sam Shepard, playing Chuck Yeager, asks him for a stick of Beeman's gum.

In 1998, Levon developed a lump in his throat, and it turned out to be the worst kind. Not entirely surprising, given he could rip through a pack a cigs in a flash and kept a good stock of sipping whiskey on hand. He could have had his larynx removed, but he opted on having just the tumor excised, followed by radiation treatments. Why? So he could keep his vocal cords. His voice was a little weak for a spell, but it eventually came back, and he kept on drumming and singing his ass off for another 14 years. And he never seemed happier than when he was on stage.

Brass tacks, this was the guy who sang "The Weight." He sang a lot of other songs too, most of them plain wonderful, and full of life and humor, freighted with a hard-won realism and livened with a Puckish wit. But if there was ever an indelible mark, it was his three-kick intro to "The Weight" followed by that wry, knowing, wily Southern voice, rich, worn, and weary, singing:

I pulled into Nazareth
Feelin' 'bout half-past dead

(The Nazareth in the song, by the way, was supposedly not the Nazareth where Jesus and his pals hung out, but, rather, Nazareth, Pennsylvania, home of Martin guitars. Which, if Christ returns like they say, wouldn't be a bad place to look for him.)

That and the song below, which, basically, is so full and powerful and goddamn tragic that it has become part of the canon. This the is last time all of the original Band played it, on Thanksgiving at San Francisco's Winterland, at the legendary Last Waltz, and if you want to hear the magic that comes with a great artist connecting with his audience, listen for the crowd response to the wind-up for the final chorus.

So, you know, it hurts when the artists we love pass on. But Levon Helm and The Band seemed to keep one foot in this world, and one the other side, digging down into what Greil Marcus calls the "old, weird America," and, though I'm sure he wasn't happy about taking a final curtain call, Levon probably found his way through it with a heart and soul as big and brassy and strong as the songs he lived.

So...thank you, Mr. Helm: for many blurry nights, a few rough mornings, and all the spaces in between. Nobody's ever going to forget you or your work. And I think that's about all an artist can ask for, whether they start their title uppercase or not.