"Have I become just another winter tree? ... Is that how you see me?" Brian's voice is a soothing, deep, full, and airy baritone. Singing barely above a whisper and a gentleness that belies the giant, powerful frame of the former NFLer. He is enamored with, and somewhat resembles, Sasquatch (as am I).
I have the distinct honor and privilege of previewing "Jealous Hands," which is to be released April 19th. I will add the iTunes link when I can. (Update: Jealous Hands on iTunes)
"Open Grave" begins with a guitar hook; aptly named, because it literally pulls you into the rhythm. Scott's discerning ear and distaste for cookie cutter guitar benefits us all.
"Counting all your blessings like the scars on a drunkard's hands," "Mt. Moriah" is both soothing and haunting. In fact, I often listen to Tallahassee to relax when I'm stressed at work or having trouble falling asleep, but unlike reading technical articles, if I'm energetic their music also peps me up. On this song the four part harmony stands out and you realize that each man brings a full bag of talent to this shindig.
Based out of Boston, Tallahassee is a hard working band about to release their third album (if you count the EP) to iTunes. I've described their sound as somewhere between Counting Crows and the Traveling Wilbury's. But the fact is I cannot classify this music. They do their own thing. They're doing it with beards.
"Wooden Heart" highlight's Scott's penchant for varied and interesting instruments as well as Matt's impeccable timekeeping behind the drum kit. A true percussionist, Matt feels no compulsion for a fill or solo every other bar. He drives the band, usually slow and steady, and fills in with musical percussion, such as a light cadence with brushes on snare. I wonder if that's him playing the orchestra bells?
I haven't heard the word "baby," yet. Thank you. Brian's lyrics are thought provoking, and done in such a way that they illustrate the story rather than tell it. I can almost smell dried maple leaves and burned wood right now.
Shawn's bass is omnipresent and nigh undetectable. He and Scott meld into a single instrument. Melody's have motion and depth. More like a calm lake than a churning river.
Brian's rhythm guitar is like jello. It just slides in around the edges. There's a synergy in this band which is palpable during a live performance.
"Songs of The Lonely Highway" feels much like I do on a lonely highway... plodding and sleepy. And that's my point. You don't just listen to Tallahassee you hear, feel, see, and experience their emotion and imagination. It's the goal of every artist, isn't it?
I don't think I need to comment on very song, which is great, because I haven't I sort of got sucked into listening. Please, consider doing the same.
PS- "The Ghost of John Denver:" I know you're dying to know what that's about.
PPS- You should know Scott's my brother, so I'm not entirely unbiased. However, this is one of my favorite groups. I won't apologize for that.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Friday, March 25, 2011
Jealousy
"[Beware of] jealousy. The shadow of greed, that is... You must train yourself to let go of that which you fear to lose." - Master Yoda, Revenge of the Sith
A little while ago I caught myself being jealous. This is my confessional.
Jealous of:
"What can I do today to make it better?"
A little while ago I caught myself being jealous. This is my confessional.
Jealous of:
- The people who the people I miss make time to see
- People who travel
- People who have someone to travel with
- Happy couples
- Unhappy couples
- Couples with children
- Singles with children
- Anyone who resents their children, even intermittently
- People who know what they want to do with their life
- People who do what they want to do with their life
- People who travel to warm places
- People who live in warm places
"What can I do today to make it better?"
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Human Behavior: Stan and Carl
"That Ibanez woman gave her notice. I need you to disable her accounts next week." Stan reproaches himself for denying his instinct to let the call go to voice mail. "Thanks for the heads up, Carl. Is there any chance you could call me next week, instead? She still needs her accounts, right, until then?"
"I'm calling you now." There was a click, and dead air. Stan presumes the conversation is over and sets a reminder on his calendar to disable Issy's computer accounts. "I probably should have asked if he wants her email deleted or archived," Stan thinks out loud.
Stan's workstation is cluttered with notes scribbled on random pieces of paper, unframed pictures of his family tacked to the cube wall, and several action figures. He seems fond of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. He's wearing khakis and a moss colored sweater. His hair is tussled where the band of his headphones was sitting. On his desk are two computer monitors. One displays his email inbox full of messages he's already read. The other a dozen overlapping windows of gobbledy-gook which presumably pertains to his work managing the computer systems. But he's primarily focused on his smart phone; on which he tweets, "Coworker is rude when asked to do his own work. Poor guy must have no friends."
After staring into space for a moment, Stan's mumble is barely audible and incomprehensible. What he said was, "I'd better go ask him." He stands and walks from his cubicle, takes the long way past the receptionist and smiles at him, crosses through an empty conference room, walks past the break room, hangs a right into what looks like a supply area, and enters the "back office," where Carl glares at his computer monitor and clicks angrily.
Carl's office has three desks, one chair, and no windows. It's flanked front to back by five-drawer file cabinets. The cabinets and two desks are covered with binders and file boxes full of what Stan assumes to be unnecessarily printed accounting papers. On Carl's desk are several pencils side by side with fresh points, a cup full of one each of: red, blue, and black ink ball point pens; yellow, pink, blue, and green highlighters; black, red, blue, and green dry erase pens; and a black sharp point marker. The papers in Carl's inbox appear to be alphabetized based on the presence of lettered sticky-tabs on their right-hand margin.
Carl is wearing a pressed white shirt with blue stripes. His collar and his cuffs are buttoned and he's wearing a tie and a tie clip. His navy pinstriped jacket is on a hanger hung from a hook on the back of the door. The toes of his polished black shoes are poking out from under the desk.
There are no decorations that Stan can see, nor any item which does not pertain to the business of accounting, except for a single 4x6" photo of him and his family in a plain wooden frame. It seems to Stan it's there because it's "supposed to be."
Carl still hasn't acknowledged Stan, so Stan summons the courage to interrupt, "Hey, Carl, what's wrong?"
"What? Nothing, why?"
"You seem, I don't know, kinda angry."
"Why?"
"Never mind. Hey, I have a question about Ms. Ibanez' email account."
"I asked you to disable that next week." Carl turns his ill-temper on Stan. Stan does not react, keeping his wounded feelings in check.
"Actually, you asked me to disable her network account, which I've scheduled."
"Why didn't you just call?" Carl interrupts.
"Are you sure nothing is wrong?" Stan seems more concerned than chaffed by Carl's apparent disregard for his feelings.
"What's wrong is this computer isn't doing what it's supposed to do and I keep getting interrupted by everyone in the office." Carl straightens in his chair, reveling in his self-perceived boldness, and glares at Stan apparently awaiting acknowledgement.
"I'm sorry. Who else has disturbed you?" Stan asks out of curiosity.
"No one," Carl says with a smirk.
Stan moves on, "Right, so Issy..."
"Who's that?"
"Isabella? Ms. Ibanez?"
"Oh. Why did you call her that?"
"She likes it."
Carl scoffs.
"Anyway, we don't disable email. I need to know if you want it deleted or archived," Stan is trying to hurry this along so he can go outside and release his new-found tension.
"I don't," Carl sighed, or deflated, Stan isn't sure.
"Sorry?"
"I don't want either. I don't care at all. Just do what you usually do." Carl's "patience" has apparently run out.
"I usually do what the requester, um, requests. Hey, who does Issy report to?"
"Townsend."
"Great, thanks! I'll just go ask him what he wants to do and update the information you gave me."
"Super," Carl says sarcastically.
"So, what are you working on, anyway? If your computer isn't working maybe I can help?" Stan offers.
"You can't help. My whole life is like this. I'll just have to suffer like always."
"Great. You enjoy that. I'll talk to you later." Stan lets out a deep breath as he passes the break room.
"I'm calling you now." There was a click, and dead air. Stan presumes the conversation is over and sets a reminder on his calendar to disable Issy's computer accounts. "I probably should have asked if he wants her email deleted or archived," Stan thinks out loud.
Stan's workstation is cluttered with notes scribbled on random pieces of paper, unframed pictures of his family tacked to the cube wall, and several action figures. He seems fond of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. He's wearing khakis and a moss colored sweater. His hair is tussled where the band of his headphones was sitting. On his desk are two computer monitors. One displays his email inbox full of messages he's already read. The other a dozen overlapping windows of gobbledy-gook which presumably pertains to his work managing the computer systems. But he's primarily focused on his smart phone; on which he tweets, "Coworker is rude when asked to do his own work. Poor guy must have no friends."
After staring into space for a moment, Stan's mumble is barely audible and incomprehensible. What he said was, "I'd better go ask him." He stands and walks from his cubicle, takes the long way past the receptionist and smiles at him, crosses through an empty conference room, walks past the break room, hangs a right into what looks like a supply area, and enters the "back office," where Carl glares at his computer monitor and clicks angrily.
Carl's office has three desks, one chair, and no windows. It's flanked front to back by five-drawer file cabinets. The cabinets and two desks are covered with binders and file boxes full of what Stan assumes to be unnecessarily printed accounting papers. On Carl's desk are several pencils side by side with fresh points, a cup full of one each of: red, blue, and black ink ball point pens; yellow, pink, blue, and green highlighters; black, red, blue, and green dry erase pens; and a black sharp point marker. The papers in Carl's inbox appear to be alphabetized based on the presence of lettered sticky-tabs on their right-hand margin.
Carl is wearing a pressed white shirt with blue stripes. His collar and his cuffs are buttoned and he's wearing a tie and a tie clip. His navy pinstriped jacket is on a hanger hung from a hook on the back of the door. The toes of his polished black shoes are poking out from under the desk.
There are no decorations that Stan can see, nor any item which does not pertain to the business of accounting, except for a single 4x6" photo of him and his family in a plain wooden frame. It seems to Stan it's there because it's "supposed to be."
Carl still hasn't acknowledged Stan, so Stan summons the courage to interrupt, "Hey, Carl, what's wrong?"
"What? Nothing, why?"
"You seem, I don't know, kinda angry."
"Why?"
"Never mind. Hey, I have a question about Ms. Ibanez' email account."
"I asked you to disable that next week." Carl turns his ill-temper on Stan. Stan does not react, keeping his wounded feelings in check.
"Actually, you asked me to disable her network account, which I've scheduled."
"Why didn't you just call?" Carl interrupts.
"Are you sure nothing is wrong?" Stan seems more concerned than chaffed by Carl's apparent disregard for his feelings.
"What's wrong is this computer isn't doing what it's supposed to do and I keep getting interrupted by everyone in the office." Carl straightens in his chair, reveling in his self-perceived boldness, and glares at Stan apparently awaiting acknowledgement.
"I'm sorry. Who else has disturbed you?" Stan asks out of curiosity.
"No one," Carl says with a smirk.
Stan moves on, "Right, so Issy..."
"Who's that?"
"Isabella? Ms. Ibanez?"
"Oh. Why did you call her that?"
"She likes it."
Carl scoffs.
"Anyway, we don't disable email. I need to know if you want it deleted or archived," Stan is trying to hurry this along so he can go outside and release his new-found tension.
"I don't," Carl sighed, or deflated, Stan isn't sure.
"Sorry?"
"I don't want either. I don't care at all. Just do what you usually do." Carl's "patience" has apparently run out.
"I usually do what the requester, um, requests. Hey, who does Issy report to?"
"Townsend."
"Great, thanks! I'll just go ask him what he wants to do and update the information you gave me."
"Super," Carl says sarcastically.
"So, what are you working on, anyway? If your computer isn't working maybe I can help?" Stan offers.
"You can't help. My whole life is like this. I'll just have to suffer like always."
"Great. You enjoy that. I'll talk to you later." Stan lets out a deep breath as he passes the break room.
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