Home at last.

Okay, I just did the finishing touches on our new studio today. We tried it out for the first time last Tuesday night, and it's really just amazing. Whereas everything was splashy and bouncing everywhere (sonically), this is nice, tight, and controlled. We are, in a word, bliseed out (okay, two words).

Padded Cell

The band was in dire need of a proper rehearsal space, and because none were available to us, we had to build our own. The story goes like this.

We actually were renting a space for about a year, and it was one of the typical varieties; an old office building or warehouse chopped up into tiny rooms. Because this particular place was in a rural area, the rent wasn’t too offensive. If we were to rent a place in the city, forget about it. They’d be the same type of place with tiny rooms, but the difference would be that the rent would be absolutely criminal--and the rooms are often in dank, dungeon-like conditions; the kind you don’t dare illuminate for fear of getting a good glimpse of the rat & roach cohabitants living there rent-free. In order to make the rent affordable, more often than not you’d have to share the room with one or more other bands. Sometimes these situations work out. Mostly they don’t. If it isn’t a matter of scheduling, then it’s a matter of complete disrespect for the other band’s gear.

“Dude, I let my friend from Norway jam with us on your drums last week, but he totally cracked your new crash cymbal. He like, headed back home but said he’d send some dough when he got there. Well, he actually lives in his car and is like totally broke right now, but like, you don’t mind do ya, bro? He says somebody owes him like $300 so he’s totally good for it."

Like that.

In reality, our room was pretty cool. It had really old, ruddy wooden floors and high ceilings. One wall was brick and the others sheetrocked. Now, this wouldn’t have been that big a deal if we were the only band on the floor (as is always the case with these places, bands come and go almost weekly). The sheetrock was all that was between us and the bands next door. A normal conversation was out of the question. In order to even hear ourselves rehearse, it became a war of volume with other bands. We always won. However, it was a serious problem when trying to work out dynamics or nuances. In short, it completely stifled any and all creativity. It was like being at the office with a stereo set on stun in the next cubicle. Plus, the place was just creepy. Security was nonexistent (video cameras were there, but what they were actually connected to was a mystery) I knew it’d only be a matter of time before the place was robbed blind, so we had to go. But where?

We found a place more central to where we all live; a dance studio with an empty room on top of it. We were free to use it, but it had to be soundproofed. There was a drugstore attached to the building, and if they could hear the band, we were out. So, we got down to soundproofing. So anxious to get the hell out of where we were before, we immediately moved out and got to work without giving any real thought to how long this process would take. Well, that‘s not entirely true; we thought it would only take a couple weeks. To date, we haven’t had a real rehearsal since Crue Fest. We knew the end would justify the means, but more than anything we just wanted to get to work and write, play, and get to recording our next album. e. As the pictures show, it was just a rectangular room with cinderblock walls. The timetable we had estimated for this project was WAY off. However, we were afforded the opportunity to start from scratch and make this all our own. We didn’t need to worry about a landlord prohibiting us from building it the way it needed to be, and we could set it up to our taste.

The floor is 6”thick concrete, and we were under the mistaken impression that it would actually help deaden sound. Nope. If anything, it amplified the bass and snare. So, a sub floor had to be put down. In essence, we have built a room inside a room. We also found that the sound was still too bouncy because of the sheetrock, so LF had the brilliant idea of attaching moving blankets to the walls. Why not, really? They’re fabric, filled with cotton batting, and huge. It works beautifully and gives it a padded cell look.

Now I know what you’re probably thinking; this is going to be some type of fraternity or a Man Cave. Fifteen years ago, it probably would have been. However, it’s purely a musical pursuit that will at long last enable us to get done what we need to get done, on our time, with no competition from anyone else. All I know is that we’re just excited to finally be able to get to work. These are obviously the before pictures. I’ll post the after when we’re finally done.

This Note's For You

Well, there goes another awesome small business down the drain. My favorite music store of all time, Cambridge Music, has closed its doors. They had two locations, one in Boston and one in Porter Square in Cambridge. The Boston location was even funkier than the one in Porter, and that one disappeared several years ago. Whenever possible, they were the ones who got my business. I was never one for the Mega-Lo-Mart music stores; they always seemed, I don’t know…soulless. I’m a relatively young, semi-hip rock guy, but that doesn’t mean I want a complete stranger addressing me as “dude”, hoping to kick off some kind of farcical bromance so he can get his $2.58 commission. Greasy kid stuff. I don’t need it.

I usually base my opinion of a store on three things: personnel, location, and most importantly, the used gear section. Whereas the inventory at Daddy’s or Guitar Center just down the street seemed to be compiled of entry level stuff, or the opposite end of the spectrum, top drawer, inaccessible-to-the-average-consumer stuff, Cambridge always had a really cool, eclectic mix of things I’d actually want to buy. They had guitars and basses in there that I simply would not see in other stores. Most of them looked like they had a story to tell. I’ve always preferred buying used instruments to new, and it was always a conscience crisis walking out of there empty-handed. Sure, every now and then I’d buy an amp or guitar from them, but nothing that would take care of their payroll for the week.

The salespeople were always very gracious and had no qualms about me picking a mid-70s Music Man off the wall and noodling for an hour, only to say “thanks” and walk out the door. I did this hundreds of times. They just let me have at it with nothing more than a “if you need any help, just holler.“ **

I saw the end coming sometime last year when their inventory started to dwindle, but I figured they were doing what so many small stores are having to do: resort to eBay. Then I noticed that the store was just atrophying month after month. I went there one day a couple weeks ago to sign up for lessons to build up my vocabulary, and there was the sign on the door that made my heart sink.

Was it recession? Competition? The fact that people would come in and try stuff out, only to leave and buy it online somewhere cheaper? I have gladly paid more for things there that I knew I could get for less elsewhere, simply because I loved the store and was hopefully contributing to its survival on at least a molecular level. It can’t be easy owning a store that sells, well, anything since the advent of the internet. Cambridge Music was one of the last great brick-and-mortar stores of its type in the Boston area, and believe me, I’m always on the hunt for the next one. So, Cambridge Music, here’s to you. I hope you all find other avenues and opportunities that allow you to prosper.

**One recurring experience I had at Guitar Center played out like this: I’d walk in, get greeted with a “hey dude”, and then I’d quickly make my way down back to the basses. I’d see one that interested me and I’d go ask a sales guy for a cord. He’d see the bass in my hand and say “yeah bro, that’s a great bass”. This happened to me on four different occasions with the same guy. Amazingly, every bass I grabbed was great, it would seem. Interestingly, two of the four basses that were so great didn’t even make a sound when plugged in. Great.

Gentleman's Express

By now you’re most likely familiar with the Goldwing Saga. Said saga came to a bittersweet end in July as I finally sold it. Matter of fact, I sold it almost exactly four years to the day that I bought it.

The reason for its sale? A great opportunity. The Goldwing was actually at a point where I could just get on it and go, finally. Four years of hard work and toiling finally paid off, and it was at last a solid, mostly reliable bike. The problem was, it still wasn’t working out very well for two-up riding. I have long had visions of epic journeys to far off places for days at a time, and there’s no way I would entrust the Goldwing’s participation for these adventures. So, it still remained my around town, occasional jaunt to the city bike. The journeys would have to wait until I could afford a bike that would take me there, comfortably and reliably.

But wait, what’s this?

My father has since the early nineties owned a Honda ST1100, a sport-touring bike. In Europe, it’s known as the Pan European, and it isn’t a very common bike in the US. No, the US only has the Goldwing, and the other end of the spectrum, sport bikes (cruisers are omitted from this scenario because they’re irrelevant to it). There was nothing in the middle that would enable someone to go far, with at least some weather and wind protection, and do some spirited riding if they wanted to. Sure, the argument can be made that a new Goldwing can do all that, and people have been known to strafe back roads, grinding their foot pegs down to taffy-like nubs. Problem is, Goldwings are ridiculously large. They’re not exactly conducive to tight city driving or simple around-town stuff. And yes, there’s the Honda VFR, which is a good sport-tourer, but has even sportier leanings and has to be outfitted in order to tour. To fill that void, we have the Honda ST1100, a magnificent blend of go anywhere and get there fast.

As I said, my father’s had two, and he can ride the pants off of them. Plus, he’s gone on the adventures that I have also wanted to embark on. The rub was that I never had a bike that would allow me to do that. I buy charity cases, nurse them back to health, and waste untold hours working on them rather ride them. Well, my father upgraded this summer to a new model, the ST1300. One of the reasons I even have a bike is so that he and I can ride together. My impractical bikes have always prevented that from happening.

Then I bought his old ST1100 this summer. As I tell most everyone, if I’m not riding it, I’m thinking about riding it. It’s just a fantastic bike. It covers a lot of ground very quickly (I seem to catch myself unwittingly traveling at 95 MPH quite often), and its built-in panniers make short or long trips possible.

The day before the buyer of the Goldwing arrived, I took it for its final ride under my ownership. I’d owned the ST for about a month at this point, and WOW, what a vast difference. You really sit on the bike rather than in it like the ST. I got it up to 100MPH before I had to quickly scrub off speed to take the exit, and the old girl really did run like a champ. But you’re right out in the open air, fighting the wind. It gets tiring very quickly. It’s a 33-year-old bike, but it’s still surprisingly nimble. I never tallied the hours I spent working on it--which FAR exceeded the time riding it--and I stopped keeping track of the money spent on it once it started to surpass what I originally paid for the bike. They’re figures that are irrelevant at this point. I made a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, and I’m proud of the work I’ve done. If I had a garage, I would have kept it. But you know how that goes.

The ST has long been referred to as the “Gentleman’s Express”, and that moniker is right on. It’s the kind of bike that you wouldn’t look ridiculous on if you were wearing a tux. Well, maybe a little.