My Ego. . .

. . . I take such great pride in what I do. I think you should take some too. I believe. Pride in me. Not in you. It's just my ego. It gets the best of me. It's just my ego. It's just my ego. It just won't let me be. It just won't let me be alone. It's not one of my more redeeming qualities. Still though, it serves me rather well sometimes. It won't be easy to just let it go though, it's just my ego.

Sometimes I can get my point across and I do it rather well. Don't you think? It's a gift. You can tell. It's just my ego. It's just my ego. It just won't let me be. It just won't let me be alone. It's not one of my more redeeming qualities. Still though, it serves me rather well sometimes. It won't be easy to just let it go though, it's just my ego.

There's a fine distinction between confidence and pride. There's a fine distinction that I'll never know. Cloaked with some discretion you emerge from the inside. I emerge in all my glory. What is there to hide?

Mother said that I would never make any friends if I don't see what I'm like; if I don't lost some pride. It's just my ego. It's just my ego. It just won't let me be. It just won't let me be alone. It's not one of my more redeeming qualities. Still though, it serves me rather well sometimes. It won't be easy to just let it go though, it's just my ego.

MY EGO (from "Chromatose")
©2003 Raymond M. Jozwiak



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It's in the eyes. . .

. . . While attending coed Catholic grade school, grades 1 through 8, one of my male classmates in particular, was always a favorite with the girls. No, I don't mean ONLY the 'popular' girls. Yes, those girls loved him also, but everyone loved this guy. Why, you may wonder? Well, he was tall (for his age, at least), handsome, athletically built (and inclined), charming, articulate and quite gregarious. My male classmates and I were truly impressed with his ability to engage so many of the coeds in apparently meaningful and entertaining conversation for extended periods of time. I, on the other hand at this age, found it very difficult to talk with GIRLS at a meaningful level for the most part, and for that reason found his skills to be particularly remarkable and admirable. At the same time, he had a comparable amount of male friends also as he was quite simply, very personable.

On one occasion, he volunteered (I did not even ask) his formula for being popular with the 'cool' girls. He told me that he, in effect, rehearsed with the uncool girls quite intentionally. The overweight, the homely, the shy and the unattractive were sought out by him quite intentionally yet unbeknownst to them, to be the recipients of this bon vivant's joie de vivre. And by adhering to the timeless principle that 'practice makes perfect', he developed the confidence to transfer his socializing techniques to the more attractive members of the student body. This, I and my less demonstrative friends thought at the time, was a marvelous thing, yet never actually made any serious attempt to implement his modus operandi ourselves. Incidentally, he did later marry a very jealous (justifiably?) woman and I've lost track of him.

Not sure why this whole thing occurred to me recently but it did and it also reminded me of bigotry, the connection being basic respect that each and every human being deserves from another. While I thought my friend's socializing pointers were pretty practical at the time, I now realize how self-serving and insensitive they were to the unsuspecting that he 'used' for his own gain. Personally, it seems like all I have to do is look another human being in the eye and I find it very difficult NOT to treat him/her with basic, human respect. There is something inexplicable in the eyes that conveys humanity. True bigotry is the inability to accord basic human respect to another. And EVERYONE deserves that respect no matter what they look like, whether they have as much material wealth as you or belong to the same social, religious or recreational 'clubs' as you, no matter what they weigh, how tall or short, color of their skin, sexual orientation, hair color, profession or lack thereof, taste in food, drink or music. Seems like a very simple thing. I don't believe that I am particularly commendable for doing it and I don't know why I do, but I just can't help it. It's in the eyes. That doesn't mean that I give money to every street/bag-person who asks me or that I have to strike up a meaningful conversation with anyone (or everyone). It simply means that I look them in the eye, and they generally look me in the eye as well with few exceptions, and I do feel something when confronting their gaze and I believe I owe them the courtesy of a civil, humane and hopefully a pleasant response.




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There was. . .

. . . an interesting post on Facebook by a wonderfully gifted musician to the effect that some people say jazz should update itself and that the classic jazz is old and tired. The only problem is that such people are in effect, telling a substantial percentage of the jazz audience to go to hell. . .

Which sparked quite a rash of comments; rightly and understandably. Most of the responders seemed to agree that new and innovative are good, but old, classic is good also. I've often reflected on such sentiments after hearing an either particularly articulate opponent (or proponent) or just a particularly boisterous opponent (or proponent) of one form or genre of music or another.

Some of the comments, exceprted or paraphrased:

They say if it sounds good, it is good. Music knows no genre, culture, or era.

I dont play jazz, I play music.

Some people only want to hear memories, not music.

Just do what you do and be happy.

Jazz is a timeless art form.

If no one kept an open mind to new things, we wouldn't even have Dixieland, Swing, Bebop or Post-Bop, would we?

Just play what you love . . .

Everyone has an opinion

If you try to please everyone you get stagnation.

Ornette says, ". . . I would like for you guys to follow the idea."



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I'd like to say. . .

. . . that for me, the process of writing songs is an easy, breezy, joy of an experience where wonderfully clever lyrics flow effortless out from my brain accompanied by lilting, melodic symphonies both pleasing to the ear and timeless in their universal appeal.

I'd LIKE to say that. The truth is that, for me, songwriting is usually (or should I say- unusually) hard work. Very rarely does a song simply occur to me, fully formed and (in my opinion) wonderful. As a matter of fact, a simple 'hook' fully formed itself occurs periodically at best. I usually have to have either a melody, a concept, a rhythm, or even a 'groove' from another song in my mind before I can even start beginning to start to commence constructing a song at all. The best place for me to begin is with a concept (a lost love, a social injustice, or a stupid human foible, for examples) AND a rhythm or style (three/four jazz, slow rocker, New Orleans funk, for examples) to really get the ball rolling.

But when it's all over, and I like what I've produced, and it tells a story or makes a point, that's one of the most exhilarating sensations in existence. And sometimes, even when the song is okay, not 'Billboard top five with a bullet' wonderful yet not really quite bad, I still feel a certain satisfaction resulting from my efforts, I've flexed my creative 'muscle' and I have practiced my craft to the extent that I am ready to move along and create more. That's how I know that this is what I should be doing. Billy Joel once said, when asked which of his original songs he thought was best, that all of the songs that he created are his children. He doesn't really love one more than another because they're ALL his very own.



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Here I am. . .

. . . at the beach. . . for a week. Man, do I need it.

Talking with a nice lady about the Independent Music Network's August Radio Special while at the beach. Not sure about the details but I sure hope I can be on it, or at least my music can.

The drive was good and though I am not an 'endurance' driver, I made the complete drive with our regular (at least last and this year) stops at some New Jersey wineries enroute ("en" the LONG "route", mind you) to our beach destination. We rent a condo in a 'moderate-rise' (8 stories isn't really high, is it?) and have been able to arrive directly at the complex for the keys, and forego the stop at the realtor's office to pick-up the rules, promotional material a bottle of water and a pat on the back, obtaining the keys from the condo office upon arrival after that. But THIS year, since we forgot to bring along the paperwork received in the mail from the realtor, we MISSED a big change. You're now supposed to pick-up your KEYS at you required stop at the realtor's office. We found this out from a competitor realtor who had their pickup setup righth there at the condo and who were no very 'Sweet' or sympathetic about our situation. Easy/simple though, a short ride back up the road to the realtor produced the keys (the rules, promotional material a bottle of water and a pat on the back) and some extra sympathy for the lack of it offered by their competitor. Problem solved!

Or so we thought. Four armloads of luggage/stuff and five flights up in a slow elevator, we find that not one, but both of the keys to the condo DO NOT WORK. Telephone calls, building supers, locksmith talk, news of news tumblers LATER, (about a 45 minute ordeal) we're in!

Ah, vacation. A puzzle, a laptop, a martini and a Jim Beam Black later, it seems like nothing ever happened. Kind of like. . . summer camp.



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I did not intend. . .

. . . for this to become a chronological revisitation of my indoctrination into the school of Zappa, but I must go on a bit.

From the irreverent, unconventional, iconoclastic ’Freak Out!’ I moved onto ‘Just Another Band from LA’, which was also (ironically?) IRREVERENT, UNCONVENTIONAL and ICONOCLASTIC. I remember listening to it, where I listened to all my music, (played in all it’s glorious, vinyl, hi-fidelity on a Westinghouse, console record-player – NO, it wasn’t even stereo – that we inherited from my Grandmother) in the basement, my forerunner to what is now called a man-cave, though mine was more of a musical, adolescent-cave, keeping a watchful ear on the door at the top of the stairway just in case one of my parents should happen to wander down and catch some of the colorful language on the record. [‘Freak Out!’, by the way, contained no objectionable language whatsoever!] And since some of the language was indeed so colorful, I will not post an audio or video clip of any pieces from J.A.B.F.L.A. here, in this family-friendly, [and I am serious, I was all about decorum when raising my children (there is time enough for them to learn those things elsewhere)] blog.

So just to take my education a step further, after J.A.B.F.L.A., and to be able to post a family-friendly excerpt here, I must tell you that I purchased THE GRAND WAZOO which was like something COMPLETELY different from what I had been listening to by Frank. It was ethereal. It was spooky. It was jazzy. It was intoxicating and it was addictive. It was. . .



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The more I listened. . .

. . . the more I heard. From Chicago and Blood, Sweat and Tears' sophisticated, jazz-inflected arrangements, I branched out, under the influence of newly-gained high school buddies. Now I was listening to Yes, Genesis, Gentle Giant, Jethro Tull and then in 10th grade, with the help of Steph, (Stephen being his full name) I came upon that musical marvel they call Zappa. Frank Zappa. Steph highly recommended the Freak Out! album. Of that release, Wikipedia says:

"Freak Out! is the debut album by American band The Mothers of Invention, released June 27, 1966 on Verve Records. Often cited as one of rock music's first concept albums, the album is a satirical expression of frontman Frank Zappa's perception of American pop culture. It was also one of the earliest double albums in rock music (although Bob Dylan's Blonde on Blonde preceded it by a week), and the first 2-record debut. In the UK the album was originally released as a single disc.

The album was produced by Tom Wilson, who signed The Mothers, formerly a bar band called the Soul Giants. Zappa said many years later that Wilson signed the group to a record deal in the belief that they were a white blues band.[1][2] The album features vocalist Ray Collins, along with bass player Roy Estrada, drummer Jimmy Carl Black and guitar player Elliot Ingber, who would later join Captain Beefheart's Magic Band under the name Winged Eel Fingerling.[3][4]

The band's original repertoire consisted of rhythm and blues covers; though after Zappa joined the band he encouraged them to play his own original material, and the name was changed to The Mothers.[5] The musical content of Freak Out! ranges from rhythm and blues, doo-wop and standard blues-influenced rock to orchestral arrangements and avant-garde sound collages. Although the album was initially poorly received in the United States, it was a success in Europe. It gained a cult following in America, where it continued to sell in substantial quantities until it was prematurely discontinued in the early 1970s."

So by the time Steph, and me by association, discovered that magical music of Freak Out!, it was only about seven years old, and Zappa, a mere musical infant. I call it magical, but I believe Frank only improved with age and no matter what he created, or would have created if not for his untimely death in 1993, it would have been interesting, challenging and musical. Freak Out! was, in retrospect, more an attraction to my peers for its unconventionality than any true musical innovation. But clearly, this man Frank Zappa was one musician to watch, or should I say. . . Listen!




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