Tell Me A Story

Chris Pappas from the Everyday Visuals wrote an interesting blog about people wanting to know the "story" behind bands. "What could our story be?" he asks. "We, in the Visuals, try so hard not to fall into that trap - but if it costs us new potential fans, then what is the point of being stubborn...why not give them a story?" This, obviously, got me thinking about the issue of art & artists. For as long as there has been art, people have been interested in the artists. The first caveman to rhythmically smack rocks together, the painter(s) responsible for the cave of Lascaux, that blind bearded guy who babbled/wrote The Odyssey; I'm sure they were all discussed in a non-artistic context. "You know that guy who was bangin' those rocks last night?" a fellow caveman probably said. "Lived with him at Cave College. Majored in Mammoth Clubbing. Nice guy. Real talented."

We want to know about the artists who serve as channels for this abstract notion of music. As Mr. Pappas points out in another posting, "they [listeners] want the experience of experiencing things THROUGH you, the artist. They don't want you to talk about their lives - they want you to talk about your life, and when it happens to shadow what they are going through, that's when the connection with the artist is made." Sometimes this connection occurs without any prior knowledge of the artist; you hear a song and it resonates with you in a deeply profound manner. This is perhaps the ideal situation, one in which the art stands on its own and functions as a unique force. Yet more often than not, people who hear a great tune or album will want to know more about the band or musician. The music is what draws us in initially but being the inquisitive monkey descendants that we are, we want to know more.

The question that arises is what happens when this process is inverted (ie. when the story of the band outweighs the music itself). I actually think that in this day and age, we almost uniformly hear about a band before we ever actually hear them. It's the product of living in a technologically advanced and media savvy era. Rarely do I go to a concert without knowing something about the bands playing (where they're from, who they're friends with, even the layout of their MySpace... all indicators in some way). I suppose there's nothing wrong with this although it does minimize the chance of ever discovering new music in the purest sense of the experience.

Having a story (no matter how mundane) is a given. What's worth considering, then, is the difference between being a band with a story and a band with a gimmick. The former is organic and unavoidable while the latter is generally contrived and a conscious decision on the part of a group or artist. Clearly there are some gray areas in this paradigm (bonus points to me for using the pseudo-intellectual powerhouse word "paradigm") but it's nevertheless a worthwhile distinction to make. I think there may be some cases where a band's story dictates their music/style which may lead to one artistic element of their persona becoming a calling card of sorts. But when a band (from the outset) trades exclusively on a gimmick, it seems disingenuous, especially because this gimmickry is usually a supplement for quality, creativity, or originality. If your band plays mediocre garage rock and you dress up like wounded Civil War soldiers, it doesn't change the fact that you're playing mediocre garage rock. The same would be true if you were wearing smoke-emitting neon sombreros, playing four-neck guitars, or sporting a fire-swallowing lead singer.

"But wait," you say. "Isn't rock and roll supposed to be a spectacle? Isn't it supposed to be an outrageous show, a veritable psychedelic trip of fantastic visuals and sonic madness?" The short answer is yes. Rock and roll, as a culture and a music, has always been a visceral art form. Elvis' initial success was as much product of his swingin' hips as it was the result of his toned-down blues covers (also, he was an easily marketed honky). Every band chooses an image and brings it to life on stage. Even not choosing an image is a calculated choice of image: hello Pavement. A band's image, like a story, is a given. People will see you, whether it's live or in press pics or online.

Ultimately the defining measure in this discussion is the autonomy of the music. Many years ago, I heard a raw, bluesy, rock song on the radio; the guitars sounded rough and real, the drums simple and heavy, the vocals yowled and sincere. Unlike the rest of the overproduced modern rock I generally heard on this station, this song sounded real. The band was the White Stripes and I liked them, before I knew they were a two-piece ex-couple who wore exclusively white and red. The music hooked me and their story and image were secondary discoveries. Peppermint outfits and cutesy tales don't make great bands. Great music makes great bands. There's a story.

TBL

Writing: Part 1

Aaron and Tyler are happy

For many, the concept of creating a new piece of music is a bit of mystery. This holds true for us (the band) as well. Sometimes I'm baffled by the creative process that results in songs and, eventually, whole albums. I suppose there's an infinite number of permutations but here are the most common ways in which our songs are born:

The Seedling: Sometimes one of us will have an idea from which a whole song expands. It can be as simple as a few chords or a rough drum beat but ultimately this tiny starting point is what kicks off a whole song. We're at the stage as a band where we're all comfortable in bringing in the most half-baked, poorly-formed, shreds of music for consideration. Nine times out of ten, the rest of the band can make something out of these nascent sounds. Bright Keys was a drunken drum beat Mike had stumbled on (perhaps literally) one late night in our practice space.

The Strawberry Jam: It should come as no surprise that we're not an improvisational jam band. While we all appreciate groups who can creatively expand their songs in live settings (local luminaries Apollo Sunshine) without falling into mindless and boring circles (West Coast hippies and drug aficionados, The Grateful Dead), it's just not our thing. That being said, some of our best songs have come from free-form messing around. Mars Vigila was basically an instrument swapping end-of-practice jam that later coalesced into a pretty tight rock song.

The In-Flight Entree: We all write on our lonesome. I think all of us have a collection of pretty polished song ideas floating around and every now and then, we decide to deliver a piping hot serving of near-complete music to the rest of the band. Here's To Waking Up was an old tune Tyler had kicking around that found new life in Thick As Thieves. I Heard A Pin Snap Loose was a more or less finished instrumental piece Aaron had written on acoustic. The nice thing is that even the most complete songs are subject to changes when the whole band takes them on. What you start with is never exactly what comes out at the end.

The Frankenstein Stitch-Up: You write enough songs and you end up with a collection of parts that don't make it or don't get used. Sometimes the recombination of these odds & sods can yield far more interesting results than whatever their initial direction was meant to be. This requires a certain level of self-editing; just because two parts are good on their own doesn't mean slapping them together will create a double-good song.