jersey shore, 1974

Anti-Gravity

monday songs blog

never gonna fall in love

monday song #85

happy new year.

wrote the tune the 4:30 in the morning after a sleepless night. was shooting for a cole porter style tune, but ended up closer to billy strayhorn. wrote the words on new year’s eve and recorded with my a couple days after new year. i think it turned out quite nice, in large part due to the ideas and performance of my wife and kids.

this is the tenth anniversary of the first ever holiday song: a five-year-old cormac shouting out jingle bells with an assist from his (just turned) two-year-old sister maude. hilarious. when i get the new site up, i’ll be sure to include a corner for these little gems. they’ve been fun to do, and turned out to be a great record of the growing skills of the kids.

on to 2014…

rise and shine

monday song #59

“don’t move. i’ve almost got your left eye.”

kevin does as he’s told, watching rachel scribble and erase, scribble and erase.

“are you almost done?”

she focuses on the sheet of paper in front of her, “every time you move, you make it take longer.”

he’s been sitting there for over an hour. that’s a long time to do nothing. if he’d been thinking ahead, he would have taken out his cell phone at the start. now it’s too late.

so he’s been occupying his time sneaking peeks at her while she works.

as she sketches, he catalogs an array of expressions: focused, when she puts pencil to paper; inquisitive, when she looks at him, waiting for further inspiration; satisfied, as she starts at it again; frustrated, as she rubs away an errant line; confused, as she stares at the page, trying to figure out what part of his face is out of place.

to think that every expression contains the same building blocks, each with subtle shifts in stance: her eyes narrow and widen, her cheeks rise and fall, her chin tenses and relaxes, her hair wags from left to right or dangles quiet, her lips pursing, mouthing silent words, curling to smile, drooping to admonish. it’s like a dance troupe, impossibly synchronized: an intricate choreography that speaks directly to the audience, as surely as a spotlight illuminates the night sky.

a tiny part of him resents the surrender of control, suspects that what she needs in these moments is to find her balance, her safety, at his expense.

but the majority of him is desperate for a mental camera, a way to capture this scene, so he can relive it again and again. only the two of them share this world. whatever the confusing dynamics of their relationship, she is choosing to be with him, now, alone.

he never grows tired of looking at her.

he wouldn’t call her beautiful. that suggests conformity, like she would bow down to the powers that be and look for their acceptance. far from it. but in his private universe, her beauty is legendary. she’s magnetic, a face that a camera would never grow tired of.

he wants her. he knows it with certainty, but he knows he has to respect her boundaries. he would die to kiss her, and for her to kiss him. this is love. it has to be.

but it can’t be.

she hasn’t said it. but she doesn’t have to.

so he tells himself that this is good enough, as he watches her grow more and more satisfied with the portrait. he tells himself that what he really wants is just to hold her. like spoons. underneath the covers. that’s all he wants. that would be paradise.

he tells himself this, and part of him believes it.

“done!” she looks up, beaming. he returns her smile, lets his shoulders relax, circling his head to unlock his neck.

“can i see it?” he gets up and moves toward the sketch pad, curious.

“wait.”

“wait – what…?”

“the nose still isn’t right.”

he stops. stands still. considers his options.

she looks sheepish. “just a few more minutes.”

if she were anyone else on earth, he would say something biting. something clever that would make her laugh, and then slowly feel bad as she realized she’s been humiliated.

he knows exactly what he’d say.

but he swallows it and smiles, “a model’s work is never done.”

rachel rides the short bus

monday #53

william holden is face down in the swimming pool.

the police arrive followed by the press.

flashbulbs pop. questions go unanswered.

gloria swanson creeps down the stairs. an elderly spider, patient, arms held at unnatural angles, ready to dance or cast a spell. her head tilts off center; her once lovely face pulled tight by a humming tension. her moment, her final scene, the climax.

like a fog, norma desmond descends.

explosions of light. voices quiet, faces look in wonder, worshipping the fallen goddess. the room hardens, frozen under her dark spell. she creates her own silent film.

but this is a talkie, and when she speaks, hers is the only voice: “alright, mr. demille. i’m ready for my close up.”

there is no time for pity or recrimination. there is only horror as she moves into the camera, her face swallowing up the screen.

the obsession.

the madness.

those eyes.

her close-up smothers the lens and kills what was left of the light.

the screen goes dark.

“the end.”

for a moment you can hear the dvd spin. then back to the chapter page.

michelle turns to her eight-year-old daughter: “well, what did you think?”

“it was pretty good.”

“pretty creepy, huh?”

“she had a very scary face.”

“yes she did.”

“what do you think is going to happen to her?”

for all the times she had seen ‘sunset boulevard,’ she had never thought about what might happen next. as the universe of the movie ended, and billie wilder’s jaundiced eye turned its gaze elsewhere, she had only ever reveled in the perfection of the moment. of the morality tale, where everyone stabs each other in the back until they all die of blood loss.

“i guess they’ll have to take her to jail.”

michelle can tell her daughter’s disappointed. “oh.”

“what do you think should happen next?”

“i don’t know what should happen. but i would want her to get famous again. and get to make another movie. she seemed so sad. and she was such a great actress. seems like jail would be too much.”

“you’re right: jail is pretty harsh in general.”

“hmmm.”

silence. michelle gets that familiar rush, like she’s in the presence of genius. this is always followed by a quick reality check: she’s bright, and i am beyond smitten. but though she would never admit it, she always lets the possibility of genius kindle at the back of her mind. why not her?

“okay, let’s get ready for bed.”

as they climb the stairs out of the basement family room, her daughter finally says, “when i die, i want to be able to tell the story of my death.”

“that only happens in movies.”

“i know.”

close-up

monday cover #1

after his third beer, the old records came out. all the best are worn thin from late night listening sessions years ago, eleven college kids crammed in a small room, cigarette smoke, empty beer cans, loud conversations about politics, breakfast cereal, and music: pulling out "after the gold rush" to prove that neil young's voice is more expressive than nilsson's.

the once obsessive application of cleaning solution has left the track almost unlistenable, but neil fights through the static. and though it sounds like it might skip at any minute, the needle miraculously holds on till the end.

but there's no resolution.

like the key changes and just hangs there...

mary has the kids at her mother's. it's a rare night alone. the plan was to do some writing, or try. maybe call a friend. but the temptation was too great, and after a quick run to the liquor store, he is more than halfway through the twelve pack of sierra nevada, and just scratching the surface of the vinyl.

it's always been one of his favorite songs, and this is the canonical version: live on 'four way street.' it's a mind blower. neil solo. playing it for the first time and it's already perfect. "here's a new song, it's guaranteed to bring you right down, it's called 'don't let it bring you down.' it sorta starts off real slow and then fizzles out altogether." and then three minutes of heaven.

but the original captures the mood in a way only a studio album can. spare. intimate. and a whole lot of space.

once when he was losing his mind, he went to the movies to see "american beauty." a most uncomfortable bliss. like someone had snuck into his files, stolen disparate pieces of his writing, and filmed the results. lines lifted from a short story. a scene from a play. and then the climax arrives and annie lennox sings. 'don't let it bring you down.' 

perfection. the 90s production lending it a certain inorganic quality, the backing track for a depressed stripper, or a love letter to the ghost in the machine. cracked his nervous breakdown wide open.

when he was well again, he went out and bought 'medusa,' but the rest of the album felt like filler. should of just bought the soundtrack.

the song ends, he cues it up a second time.

it's like a movie without the screen. whispers in the dark. woven images.
is it the opening of a detective story? the final sequence of a 
melodrama? it doesn't matter. it's a mood. a chilling recommendation to stay out of the cold. and yet so much heart. and longing. melting ice. as 
the song spirals to an end.

his wife is miles away. his kids asleep under another roof.

and as he cracks open his ninth beer, he reaches for 'nilsson sings newman.'

'cowboy.'

the needle crackles in the groove, catching the fading bars of the song before. a hundred harry nilssons. and 'caroline.'

silence.

then a haunting voice.

he shakes his head. rapt. the cold beauty.

he was so certain years ago. but here, in his living room, more than two decades later, he hasn't a clue.

nilsson or neil?

he chuckles,  unable to recall what side he fought for way back then.

don't let it bring you down

Holiday Songs

Pennies From Heaven

This WIll Be Our Year

You're A Mean One, Mr Grinch

The broken road to open wide: A spiritual journey from fear to freedom, isolation to connection; A path to personal truth, experiencing reality from the inside out.

Falling Down (Continuous play - Final)

An Undefended Heart

Inside

The Power Of Not Knowing

Now U See It

The Lonely Boats

Into The Well

Existentialism 101

in a culture that values comfort and privilege above all, reality has never been farther away. 

i write songs in an effort to capture the world as i experience it. the truth, nothing but the truth, and all of it made up. 

i've been making music since the 80s, in the sf bay area with smokin' rhythm prawns, and then with walrus. then in seattle with my solo project, the billie burke estate, and now as myself. 

it's the best songwriting you've never heard. smart songs for grown-ups. unfortunately, there ain't but a few of us left...

andy liotta

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