6-24-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #134 (Starting Out Again. . .in the Big Apple with a new survival job at One U: The Birth of the Washington Squares)

We didn’t have a name yet, but we definitely had direction -- and a few songs.  Bruce Jay Paskow had written a harmony-filled anthem called “New Generation”:  “. . . It’s time for direction, caring and trust (so) Be on the lookout/for a new generation/Comin’ down strong, filled with inspiration/Be on the lookout for a new-ew-ew-ew Generation.”

Tom Goodkind had written a tex-mex style ballad called “Gestures of Passion” (“Gestures of Passion/They’re all fake/when you kiss her/It’s a mistake”) with pretty harmonies & a descending chord structure.

I had written a folky ballad-anthem with a Joni Mitchell/Steve Stills D-chord shaped lick capoed up on the 3^rd fret called “Charcoal” with a William Blake poem, “Riches,” in the middle. It, too, was harmony-laden (“Some do search for gold/what is the purpose?/Yellow smiles or warm souls/I’ll take the charcoal/melt down that gold”).

When we started rehearsing, we sang old Peter, Paul & Mary songs we remembered from summer camps and our childhoods, like “Cruel War” and “If I Had a Hammer.” We had a natural harmony blend that we just fell into -- although of course sometimes we actually had to work them out, our three-part harmonies worked naturally and well.

We went into an electric rehearsal studio the first time or two, but after that realized we sounded better acoustically, with our acoustic guitars. Our rehearsal space/hangout became Tom & Jill’s small one bedroom apartment in the Village, on 13^th Street between University Place and 5^th Avenue South. Just a few doors down, the Lone Star Café was poised on the corner, a huge Iguana lizard sculpture hanging on the sign and the side of the building.

And the Peppermint Lounge, where Tom worked, was right across the street from that, on 5th Avenue at 13th.  He held that job as long as the club was open (it had moved downtown from 45th - ? - street), but it had to close because of good ol' Rudy Giuliani who cracked down on clubs and money laundering operations (boo hiss -- we hated Rudy).

At any rate, we had a great sound, some cool original songs, and were amassing a repertoire (in our first year) of over a hundred covers, traddies, and originals.  We rehearsed a few times a week, and hung out around the village, kind of like musical terrorists. It was fun.

We had an image (neo beatnik), a mission (the violent overthrow of the U.S. government -- only kidding!  We just basically hated Ronald Reagan and everything he stood for). We had our Ray-Bans, berets, and boatneck shirts. . .

We just needed a great name. . . 

3-13-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #70 (Clubbing in the ‘80’s -- a pretty silly scene)

As I mentioned in previous blog, I spent time in London, being suspected of working as a prostitute (by a crazy imaginative geezer, Alfie) but in actuality just hitting some clubs, going to gigs, whatever I could do to meet new people and schmooze.  This was before the word “network” was popularly used, but that was the angle.  I’m going to hope that you believe me when I tell you that nightclubbing was a job, of sorts. I say that especially because I don’t like loud music, crowds of people, people acting stupid en masse (individually, it’s fine!), and standing around, drinking. But, it WAS part of the job of a pop musician, going out on the town when not playing gigs. Really!

But to my way of thinking, I mean, if you didn’t really have to go somewhere and you’re going to make a night of it, drinking and acting stupid, have a party at home!! 

(I’m very well suited to my current lifestyle as a homebody -- sitting here writing at night is really the most fun, to me -- and part time party giver, thank the Lord!  Circumstances dictate “potluck” nowadays, but it’s still cool.)

OK.  I realize that my NYC clubbing days before going to London were certainly interesting and not without incident, especially around closing time.  Because most people’s guards were down and their booze etc. consumption up, this was the most amusing time of the night. 

Here are a few highlights, leading up to London:

·      At Max’s Kansas City, sitting at a booth with Peter Gabriel & some other writers including my boyfriend at the time and us being too cool to acknowledge Gabriel;

·      At the Peppermint Lounge downtown, darting across the almost empty basement dance floor to the bathroom, being accosted by Richard Butler of the Psychedelic Furs, having him insult my “long face,” and then me whacking him with my hand out of anger;

·      At Hurrah’s, saying my goodbyes, shuffling towards the bathroom, almost being knocked over by Iggy Pop and two girls on either side of him, propping him up;

·      At the uptown Peppermint Lounge, meeting Doug Fieger of The Knack, finding him basically insufferable -- THEN meeting this twerpy girl, Sharona, who was Fieger’s “inspiration” for “My Sharona.”  She was convinced that she’d made it big by being the subject of a pop song, and talked loudly about the various offers she was fielding -- from made-for-TV movies to tell-all biography books.  I didn’t mean to be cruel, but inside I was snickering away, cynical of the attention she was getting, knowing that song would soon be off the charts, leaving her and The Knack thoroughly knackered. .  .

And I’d say, “Look, there’s more!” but really, that’s just gilding the lily, isn’t it?  I was only really happy going out if I had a job to do (like playing a show); other than that, I felt I was wasting time.  OK, if I really loved the music or the people playing, I’d have a good time, too.  I dance to the music unabashedly, jump around and just have a great time -- when the music moves me.

And, of course, as a rock writer, it was fun to know my thoughts and opinions counted -- as I was being paid to write a review of whatever show I’d been sent to cover.  THAT wasn’t a waste of time, certainly -- it was using to good advantage that old Dr. Johnson adage:  “No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money.”

Somehow, I never tried to break into writing in London.  Strange, isn’t it?  Now I ponder how life would have been different had I pursued writing things other than long letters and dozens of pop/country/rock songs. . .

And while in London I was really trying to figure out how to get me sold as a singer-songwriter, and how to sell my songs. That’s when I met this strange but sweet young guy, Calvin Hayes, in a crowded West End pub one night.  He was a drummer, and his dad had produced numerous hits in his day (he knew Chapman & Chinn, of course).  Calvin seemed innocent, young, kind of lonely, and very eager to be liked.

Within minutes of meeting him, he says, “My dad’s Mickie Most. . . I’ll get him to listen to your songs, awl roight?”