Monday, October 14, 2013
Ripping Off Neil Young
The first track I put down for this song a one-take live guitar + vocals. I subsequently layered the following tracks respectively: lead guitar; cardboard box; vocal harmonies (X 2). When I record these songs, I like to do each track in one take.
I don't believe I enabled the 'monetize' feature on my two latest uploads... there's no money in what I'm doing anyway! Still, it's interesting to see the nature of the advertisers Google associates with my music videos.
I shan't go into names, but I was a little surprised to see pro-industry corporate propaganda before my video, "If I Ever Get Off The Sauce". I have to wonder if they're of the misguided notion that I'm somehow opposed to the exploration and development of hydrocarbons for energy and manufacturing. I'm most definitely not! Nor am I of the anti-big-corporation mindset... I'd be a hypocrite given the binding agreement I've entered into voluntarily with Google.
Anyway... as any real fan of old Shaky could tell you, "my" new song is actually a shameless ripoff of an old song by anti-industry advocate, "Neil Young". Of course, given my lack of viewership, it's about as likely to be summarily challenged as it is to become the next cult classic?
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
Where did September go? I sure didn't spend it standing around at the bandstand! When I'm not at my job, I'm drinking, and when I'm drinking, you might find me writing, and when I'm smoking, I'm playing my 12-String guitar and maybe even recording new songs. That's about IT. You can download a few of my somewhat recent tracks right here on this website.
"So, What sorts of qualifications should a webmaster have?"
My definition of a webmaster is simply thus: one who has a mastery of authoring web content. I sometimes consider embarking on a quest to evolve this website into something others might find useful, but it's hard enough finding enough uninterrupted time enough.
For whatever reason, I've always felt a certain urgency to at least try to keep up with trends in computer technology. In elementary school, I was the go-to-guy. I believe it was in grade five, my school's principal saw fit to have me oversee and help instruct a computer course that was held in the school over the summer. In a classroom with a row of IBM terminals with indestructible trackballs, and UNIX-based operating systems, the participants were given a quick overview of the lesson and if you finished the assignment early, you could get-in some time with Oregon Trail, a compelling build-up-your-homestead simulation.
There was also a Commodore 64 connected via its serial port to a "sandbox" full of robotic servo motors and linkages. The summer of 1987. I was ten, and I divided my time between taking my bicycle to the rapids for an exhilarating swim, building forts in the woods, and plugging away at my Commodore 64. Twenty-seven years later, and I'm experimenting with Linux operating systems and setting-up mini-networks. I'd like to eventually shift the physical web hosting to my end of the phone line, but I'm in no hurry to do so. It's often impossible to get an uninterrupted block of time long enough to try and do a bit of recording in this madhouse I call home. Of course noisy renovations are going on. Of course my folks try to suck me into their chaotic vortex of busy work.
Many people might say I should be grateful at the age of 37 to have free room and board, but it comes at a price. I don't care much what's under my feet be it carpet or tile or lino... so long as my feet aren't sticking to it. I have a high threshold for clutter, but not filth. I don't spend my time looking at baseboards or pieces of furniture, so why would I obsess over them? I take great care to remain unseen when my folks are in busy-busy mode... locked in my bedroom computer zone / recording studio. DIY renovations are a tremendous pain in the ass. Why my folks put themselves through it at their age baffles me. They're always making noise. Every day I endure listening to the creaky back door open and close nine dozen times a day. Intermittent vacuuming, banging boards, my Mom's soap operas or Dr. Phil at a volume that defeats my closed door, table saws, arguments, shouting, stomping around, coughing fits, suddenly urgent requests to do something like fold-up some towels in the next five minutes.
The point I'm trying to make is that this psychotic zone of perpetual chores and irritating noises going-on, until my folks finally go to bed, is hardly conducive to activities requiring deep thought. I think my parents dream-up sporadic requests just to interrupt my "he's not doing anything" time. I'm getting better at tuning it all out (got a new set of stereo headphones) but their needling and dissatisfaction with my sedentary proclivities is slowly driving me bonkers. They don't know what they want from me, but they want to interfere with my sanctity When I make a recording, I do each track in one take. Imagine trying to lay down a complicated track that you've already botched twelve times over the last half hour and then... finally you're about to nail-it.... only four bars left now....
"BLAKE! BLAKE! Come here, Blake! I need you to bring all your empties to the garage!"
Foiled again. THEY JUST DON'T UNDERSTAND HOW TEDIOUS RECORDING CAN BE. I'm always on edge... waiting for the inevitable summons to the work-planning table. I wonder sometimes if their middle-class seniors' brains haven't been addled by so many years of exposure to the fumes and dust that go along with renovations. They seem to be addicted to noise and angry emotions. I live in on a different plane altogether. They're obsessed with keeping material changes in flux and are engaged by passive forms of entertainment, while I prefer the ephemeral and creative pursuits. They tend to belittle my passion for writing and music as a fleeting hobby, even though their own down-time is nearly always spent glued to a television or radio. Doesn't this pair of consumers on auto-pilot, my dear old Mom and Dad, understand the scale of ACTUAL work that goes into a television program? The writers, the set design, the talent... and all the support roles at the epicenter or on the periphery of the production. The sound engineers, the musicians... the dozens of contributors that don't appear on the screen... these people don't work for free, and people like my parents PAY FOR IT every month via their satellite provider. They don't seem to make the connect.
I almost think Mom & Dad would rather see me with a heavy load in my hands than a guitar... in a pair of coveralls, banging away at something all day rather than building a website or practicing my writing and music. If it's not physically exhausting, it's not work! The TV shows us how to live!
It's not my intent here to diminish the accomplishments and works of those who make their lives around menial labour or gritty jobs here. I've held enough low-skilled positions throughout my working history to know that the expectations and the pace often demand a great deal of organizational planning on the fly if you expect to remain employed at them. It can be gratifying to look over the end result of one's artisnal efforts - the tidiness of one's handiwork and the aesthetic pleasures of attention to form and detail. I appreciate it... just not enough to allow my blood pressure to become elevated over something like replacing a set of perfectly good stairwell fixtures or making sure my floors are always spic and span. Nobody's going to remember you for how much you struggled to install five different god damned floor coverings in your average house, or if you'd enter a state of mental paralysis over too much clutter and dust before company arrives. Any God Damned asshole can putter around with a tape measure and a bucket of bits, yelling at shit and gluing stuff down, but it takes a real man to write about the futility of it without spelling mistakes!
I'm beginning to strongly suspect that my parents despise me for my radically different mindset and elevated thinking. I haven't bogged-down my life with serious obligations like owning a home or having kids. My priority is art. I'm more interested in winning arguments than toiling away in the material world. I've always been a dreamer and a thinker, and I'm sick of apologizing for my inability to embrace the burdens of busy people. Just because I happen to be pretty good at estimating things like angles and foreseeing inevitable problems, or doing precise work that requires a steady hand, doesn't mean I'm going to put my editorial on hold to assist you with your ambitious projects. I'd rather play a piano for six hours straight than listen to someone bitching and cursing because they forgot to pick-up a crucial cog on their last errand. Don't be upset with me because I enjoy doing things far beyond your own capabilities, Mom & Dad. The world isn't going to end because I'd rather drink beer in my room and write down some words than feign enthusiasm for your own vanity projects. I don't really care if you have granite counter tops or nickel bath fixtures. I don't drool over home depot flyers. It's just exceedingly boring for a guy like me.
"So, What sorts of qualifications should a webmaster have?"
My definition of a webmaster is simply thus: one who has a mastery of authoring web content. I sometimes consider embarking on a quest to evolve this website into something others might find useful, but it's hard enough finding enough uninterrupted time enough.
For whatever reason, I've always felt a certain urgency to at least try to keep up with trends in computer technology. In elementary school, I was the go-to-guy. I believe it was in grade five, my school's principal saw fit to have me oversee and help instruct a computer course that was held in the school over the summer. In a classroom with a row of IBM terminals with indestructible trackballs, and UNIX-based operating systems, the participants were given a quick overview of the lesson and if you finished the assignment early, you could get-in some time with Oregon Trail, a compelling build-up-your-homestead simulation.
There was also a Commodore 64 connected via its serial port to a "sandbox" full of robotic servo motors and linkages. The summer of 1987. I was ten, and I divided my time between taking my bicycle to the rapids for an exhilarating swim, building forts in the woods, and plugging away at my Commodore 64. Twenty-seven years later, and I'm experimenting with Linux operating systems and setting-up mini-networks. I'd like to eventually shift the physical web hosting to my end of the phone line, but I'm in no hurry to do so. It's often impossible to get an uninterrupted block of time long enough to try and do a bit of recording in this madhouse I call home. Of course noisy renovations are going on. Of course my folks try to suck me into their chaotic vortex of busy work.
Many people might say I should be grateful at the age of 37 to have free room and board, but it comes at a price. I don't care much what's under my feet be it carpet or tile or lino... so long as my feet aren't sticking to it. I have a high threshold for clutter, but not filth. I don't spend my time looking at baseboards or pieces of furniture, so why would I obsess over them? I take great care to remain unseen when my folks are in busy-busy mode... locked in my bedroom computer zone / recording studio. DIY renovations are a tremendous pain in the ass. Why my folks put themselves through it at their age baffles me. They're always making noise. Every day I endure listening to the creaky back door open and close nine dozen times a day. Intermittent vacuuming, banging boards, my Mom's soap operas or Dr. Phil at a volume that defeats my closed door, table saws, arguments, shouting, stomping around, coughing fits, suddenly urgent requests to do something like fold-up some towels in the next five minutes.
The point I'm trying to make is that this psychotic zone of perpetual chores and irritating noises going-on, until my folks finally go to bed, is hardly conducive to activities requiring deep thought. I think my parents dream-up sporadic requests just to interrupt my "he's not doing anything" time. I'm getting better at tuning it all out (got a new set of stereo headphones) but their needling and dissatisfaction with my sedentary proclivities is slowly driving me bonkers. They don't know what they want from me, but they want to interfere with my sanctity When I make a recording, I do each track in one take. Imagine trying to lay down a complicated track that you've already botched twelve times over the last half hour and then... finally you're about to nail-it.... only four bars left now....
"BLAKE! BLAKE! Come here, Blake! I need you to bring all your empties to the garage!"
Foiled again. THEY JUST DON'T UNDERSTAND HOW TEDIOUS RECORDING CAN BE. I'm always on edge... waiting for the inevitable summons to the work-planning table. I wonder sometimes if their middle-class seniors' brains haven't been addled by so many years of exposure to the fumes and dust that go along with renovations. They seem to be addicted to noise and angry emotions. I live in on a different plane altogether. They're obsessed with keeping material changes in flux and are engaged by passive forms of entertainment, while I prefer the ephemeral and creative pursuits. They tend to belittle my passion for writing and music as a fleeting hobby, even though their own down-time is nearly always spent glued to a television or radio. Doesn't this pair of consumers on auto-pilot, my dear old Mom and Dad, understand the scale of ACTUAL work that goes into a television program? The writers, the set design, the talent... and all the support roles at the epicenter or on the periphery of the production. The sound engineers, the musicians... the dozens of contributors that don't appear on the screen... these people don't work for free, and people like my parents PAY FOR IT every month via their satellite provider. They don't seem to make the connect.
I almost think Mom & Dad would rather see me with a heavy load in my hands than a guitar... in a pair of coveralls, banging away at something all day rather than building a website or practicing my writing and music. If it's not physically exhausting, it's not work! The TV shows us how to live!
It's not my intent here to diminish the accomplishments and works of those who make their lives around menial labour or gritty jobs here. I've held enough low-skilled positions throughout my working history to know that the expectations and the pace often demand a great deal of organizational planning on the fly if you expect to remain employed at them. It can be gratifying to look over the end result of one's artisnal efforts - the tidiness of one's handiwork and the aesthetic pleasures of attention to form and detail. I appreciate it... just not enough to allow my blood pressure to become elevated over something like replacing a set of perfectly good stairwell fixtures or making sure my floors are always spic and span. Nobody's going to remember you for how much you struggled to install five different god damned floor coverings in your average house, or if you'd enter a state of mental paralysis over too much clutter and dust before company arrives. Any God Damned asshole can putter around with a tape measure and a bucket of bits, yelling at shit and gluing stuff down, but it takes a real man to write about the futility of it without spelling mistakes!
I'm beginning to strongly suspect that my parents despise me for my radically different mindset and elevated thinking. I haven't bogged-down my life with serious obligations like owning a home or having kids. My priority is art. I'm more interested in winning arguments than toiling away in the material world. I've always been a dreamer and a thinker, and I'm sick of apologizing for my inability to embrace the burdens of busy people. Just because I happen to be pretty good at estimating things like angles and foreseeing inevitable problems, or doing precise work that requires a steady hand, doesn't mean I'm going to put my editorial on hold to assist you with your ambitious projects. I'd rather play a piano for six hours straight than listen to someone bitching and cursing because they forgot to pick-up a crucial cog on their last errand. Don't be upset with me because I enjoy doing things far beyond your own capabilities, Mom & Dad. The world isn't going to end because I'd rather drink beer in my room and write down some words than feign enthusiasm for your own vanity projects. I don't really care if you have granite counter tops or nickel bath fixtures. I don't drool over home depot flyers. It's just exceedingly boring for a guy like me.
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