Jeffrey Dean

Jeffrey Dean

September 2013

Walking Across America

The last time I saw Jeff Dean, he was saying goodbye as my daughter moved out of the Brooklyn apartment they shared. She was moving back to the country and he was staying in the city.

They were schoolfriends, two sweet kids who were part of a crowd at the arts charter school they attended in Hartford. They drifted apart, as high school friends often do. But Jeff suddenly reappeared. He'd left New York, he'd been staying with his parents, but he was now preparing to walk across the country. At first, he was going to be accompanied by another one of their mutual friends. But she's always been a volatile person, and she tried to blow up their plan just two days before their departure.

Jeff decided to go on alone.

The night I spoke with him, he'd been in Lambertville, NJ for four nights. He hadn't meant to go there, but someone told him he should.

“It's right on the Delaware River...and New Hope, Pennsylvania is right across the bridge. They're very interconnected. Everybody here has been so amazing. I was actually taken in by a group of girls who work at a place called Zanya Spa. They saw me on the street and one of them asked me what I was doing with the stick – I have this giant walking stick – and when I told her, she brought me over to meet the rest of her friends. So this will be my fourth night here.”

“Only a couple of miles is where George Washington crossed the Delaware River in that famous painting on Christmas Eve just before the Battle of Trenton. There are so many art galleries – and the people have made me feel so welcome. Two days ago the creative director at the salon invited me in and even gave me a hair cut.”

I asked him what had happened in his working life since I'd last seen him.

“The thing about waiting tables and tending bar in New York City, it's a cycle that sucks you in and it's hard to get out. You're making good money, making cash every night. You work til two or three ayem, go to get a couple of drinks after crazy twelve to fourteen hour shifts, and you get up and just do it again. And one day you wake up and realize you're not doing what you set out to do at all. And you're not getting any younger. So I made the decision to cut it off – just cut it off. I knew if I didn't do it very dramatically, it would be harder for me. So I left, went home to Connecticut for about seven months, regrouped, and I made the decision to go to California.”

But why walk there? What does he hope to find along the way?

“That's something I tried to figure out before I left, and I realized if I waited for the answer I would be waiting forever. So I decided to leave and let my thoughts sort themselves out while I'm walking. Let me tell you about this – I met a guy in Trenton who is an immigrants rights activist. He asked me why I didn't walk for a cause, that it would help people better identify with this walk. But here's what I came to after I thought about that for a couple of days – this walk is not for other people, this walk is for myself. I don't want this walk to have some kind of agenda. That would mean I couldn't focus on what I want to focus on. And I want to be very inclusive. And that's what's happening so far. A couple from Raleigh offered their couch when I come through North Carolina. A couple from Phoenix that I met offered the same thing. I'm getting so much positive feedback. And as I go farther into the South and the Midwest, I'll be meeting people with different beliefs, different viewpoints from the ones I grew up with. I want people to see that just because we may differ on political views or religious views or philosophical views, that doesn't mean that we don't have so much in common, because we do. I want to meet people and focus on the common ground that we share and what we do agree on.”

“I lost my optimism working in New York. The biggest reason was my own complacency. If you don't nurture your self, your soul, that promise that life gives you – if you don't nurture it every day, it dissipates, it fades away. You're working to survive. That's not a healthy way to live out your life. I left there feeling like I needed to not be stagnant anymore. I needed to find that optimism that high schoolers have – there's so much before you, it's stretching out before you. But as you get older you can forget that it's there. But I know that as long as you're alive, no matter how old you are, there's always promise. You just have to seek it.”

“I've heard about farms you can work on in exchange for shelter and food. I have my guitar with me. If I'm in a place where I can't walk because of weather and I have to stay for a few weeks, I'd do it. Everything is so open ended, I have no expectations. I mean, New Hope and Lambertville wasn't even on my itinerary. I backtracked north because someone said I should see it. It was a big decision, but I told myself to take the time to let it happen. The cool thing about walking is things aren't planned and anything can happen.”

I wondered about his safety.

“I stupidly put myself in a situation early in this walk. But it's a learning experience. I was walking through Newark from midnight to three ayem with my whistle in my mouth, bear mace in my hand and this enormous, Gandalf-stick. I was ready to fight for my life. It was a huge mistake and I will, in future, plan out things like that better.”

“Right now I'm having new experiences day after day and it's very early in this walk. I'm still organizing my thoughts. Even my itinerary is still changing. I know at some points I'll be in the desert – it'll just be me and my books and my journal and my guitar. It's hard to say how it's going to affect me. I've been touched by people's kindness. I mean not everybody has been kind – I've been accused of looking for handouts. I've made it clear I'm not looking for contributions. But some people have given me food, or water, or a place to sleep. I've been very touched by everything. Hopefully in the end I can get in touch with that optimistic spirit I once had.”

Once he reaches the West Coast, Jeff is meeting a friend and making a serious effort to be a full time musician.

“I want to dive into my music in a way I never did in New York. I never gave my music the respect that it deserves, that I could have. Toward my latter years in New York I had stopped playing and lost touch with music – and it's my heart and soul. Since then, I've been writing and writing and writing. And when I first started, in New Haven, this little girl was dancing to my music. I noted in my journal that children are the best critics. They are unabashed. They'll tell you if it's good or if they don't like it. When I get to LA, I want to put my music out there. I want people to hear my music.

If you want to follow Jeff Dean's walk, visit http://jeffdeanwalks.wordpress.com/

My Secret Rock and Roll Fantasy

Sometimes remarkable things happen.

I've always loved music in a big way. All kinds of music. And I had a secret dream. I wanted to be a backup singer.

I never seriously coveted the lead vocalist spot - that didn't seem like as much fun. My favorite experiences were singing with other people - doing four part harmony with my girlfriends in high school, harmonizing with my mother, my best friend, my daughter, my son - whoever would sing with me. There's something about that blending of voices that just thrills me to death.

But I'm no musician and probably never will be - my real talents lie elsewhere.

I got to do it anyway.

I live with a real musician - a man whose talent blows me away on a regular basis. And on his latest album, he put me to work. I felt pretty frozen at first, but as time has passed I have gotten more comfortable hearing myself through headphones (and worse, in playback) and I will admit I'm loving it. In a big way.

Go ahead and listen. The amazing wailing background vocal isn't me - I'm no Machan Taylor (she is just incredible!). But the breezy bridge backup vocals? That's my daughter and me. It just doesn't get much more fun than that!

Singing My Life With His Words

I haven't had many deep thoughts lately. I've been busy. I'm preparing to start a new job, figuring out how to continue to do part of the old one on a part time basis. Shopping for career clothes, high heeled pumps, getting my aging car in shape for a new commute.

But weekends are for music around here. My guy works a vampire schedule all week; rising as late as he can, working til the wee hours. And I get up early, so I say goodnight just as he's getting revved up and fall asleep as he fine tunes the songs that apparently will begin to hit the radio this spring.

On weekends, I can push my bedtime back and sometimes I get a call from the studio down the path..."I need ears." That means he's done something new and needs a pair of ears to check it with.

I love being his "ears". I bounce down the bluestone path whose creation destroyed his knees and both our backs and sit down. I listen. Sometimes I have nothing to say beyond, "I love it." Sometimes I have a question. Sometimes, more often lately as I get more confident of my ears, I have a suggestion.

Last night I suggested a backwards calliope was the sound missing behind a verse.

"What are you, George Martin?" he laughed.

"Backwards flutes, then?"

He discovered that there was already a great part that filled the gap perfectly - it just needed to be a bit louder. That's the kind of fine tuning he does endlessly, relentlessly, before he's confident that a song is "done".

We sat and listened to some other music, music he said he thought might have a similar feel to this piece. And I asked about the lyrics.

To me, this song is, as so many of the songs on this album are, a conversation with the human race.

"But that's not what I meant," he said. "I can see how you'd take it that way, but that wasn't what I was thinking at all."

That interests me. I listen to a song and immediately personalize it; I think we all do. How strange it must be for the person to write it to speak with someone who feels like they "get" it.

"I understand exactly what you meant," the fan might say.

But it would soon become clear that they didn't understand at all.

And yet that connection, even if it's a misunderstanding, is exactly what makes a song important to us.

That, plus an unforgettable hook and a beat we can dance to.

Delightful Discoveries - Part One

Part of relaxing and enjoying myself more this year is finding things that make me grin. There are a lot of them out there, and thanks to the Internet it's easy to find them. This is today's. I want to be in this band. Really. I do.



I spent today cleaning up, clearing out, organizing. Also highly satisfying.
But as I find things that make me laugh out loud, either with delight or just because they're funny, I'll share them.

Enjoy!

You Know You're Old When....

You know you're old when...

*People talking on their cellphones in a book store make you feel homicidal.

*People outside the store who crank up the volume on their cellphone so their friends (and everyone within a fifty foot radius) can hear what's being said make your brain smoke.

*You find yourself wondering why nobody has any manners.

*You hear a girl say to her boyfriend, "...and I was, like, AWESOME! And she was, like, TOTALLY!" and you think that perhaps our species has outlasted its usefulness.

*You almost weep with gratitude when a little girl says, "Excuse me", when she bumps into you.

*You watch people eating burgers and fries at the president's favorite burger chain and you are reminded of nothing so much as cows chewing cud in a field, which makes you depressed on many levels.

*Between the grease on the bag of fries, the sheer weight of the calorie count of the meal and the knowledge that the beef came from factory farms which are not only inhumane but incredibly filthy and disease ridden, you suddenly see the scene as everyone, including yourself, chewing poison and dropping dead. And seeing the joyless expressions on the faces around you, it doesn't seem like such a tragedy.

You know you're old when...

*You can remember when going shopping was a big event that happened twice a year: right before school began and right before Christmas. And it was fun.

*You can remember driving an hour to go shopping at the first indoor mall in your area.

*You remember when your pharmacist owned his own business.

*You remember doctors making house calls.

*You are surprised when a box of cookies costs five dollars.

*You are disappointed that the cars of the future you dreamed of actually all ended up looking like rounded-off boxes.

You know you're old when...

*You're saddened by the concept of 'hookups'.

*You realize you don't know most current musical artists and you used to know every single one and all the words to their songs. Worse yet, when you hear most popular music, you don't want to know it.

*The parallels between the Roman Empire and modern society strike you as just a little ominous.

*You find yourself mistrusting the motives of anyone with power.

*You think maybe you're in the wrong country, then realize you're probably just in the wrong century.

Man. My guy is right. I shouldn't be allowed beyond the mailbox anymore.

Look at What I Did!

There are many reasons why I love my guy. One of them is that he doesn't take himself too seriously. This morning he'd barely stumbled out of bed but he couldn't wait for me to hear something he'd written in the wee hours of the morning.

Then he started laughing.

"It's a lot like when you're potty training a kid, isn't it? 'Look at what I made!' It's the basis of all of this, isn't it?"

And he's got a point. I think about all the creative people I know who are just dying to have you read their latest poem, hear their latest song, read their new novel. They're the kids who are just so damned proud of what they created all by themselves.

Then there are the ones like me - the ones who make stuff but aren't sure they really want anyone to know about it. We do things like this - blog in obscurity. God forbid we should stand on a stage and read what we've done. We could do it, but I don't think we'd be looking for that invitation.

Oh my, Sigmund, what would you make of this?

The Glamorous Life

Bet you think those rock and rollers have it made, don't you? Traveling from city to city, roadies unloading your gear, setting it up, nothing to do but soundchecks, hang out, then go onstage and rock out, right? Oh, then lap up the applause and accept the adulation of fans who want your autograph, want to tell you how much your music means to them, just want you to actually SEE them.

I am an outsider to this world, but thanks to KB the veil's been lifted a bit. Last night was a real eye opener.

Do you remember the Australian band the church? If not, do you remember "Under the Milky Way" from the film Donnie Darko? That's them. They've been around since the eighties but now and again they surprise themselves with a hit as they pursue their unique vision of art rock.

They're wrapping up their 2009 tour and we went to see them in New York. It wasn't a big venue, but it was a nice one. They didn't fill the place but there was a respectable crowd and they were true fans. There was much dancing in front of the stage, roaring ovations after the wild, ear splitting, orgasmic guitar bridge and a few faithfuls singing along with every song. They're not the Rolling Stones, but they've got a solid fan base.

Backstage after the show, they were a bunch of tired Australian guys who badly needed some sleep and were dealing with the million and one headaches that result when you can't supervise every single person on the tour. A piece of equipment is missing - the venue staff doesn't have access to the rooms you need to search.

They were grateful for the fan response, grateful for an abundance of food backstage that they pronounced "the best they'd had yet". They were both sad and happy to be wrapping up the tour and going home. Back to their lives. Back to putting the kids to bed at night. Back to the classroom to teach other people how to play guitar.

The battered guitar that's covered with duct tape only comes out in your family room or when you rehearse in some intimate space with the band. Back at home, you're a space walker suddenly thrust back into the gravitational field. And much of your time will be spent figuring out how to get back out to space again.

A musician on tour is a gypsy - but unless that musician is an icon, he's an incredibly hard working gypsy. With luck, someone else sets up the gear, someone else checks the guitars, someone else makes sure the venues are confirmed, the tickets are selling, the backstage passes and press contacts are organized. But even with luck, there are the all night bus rides, the bleary late mornings wondering what town you're in today, the strange disconnection from the world because you're just dropping by. There's a moment of hyper-reality that is the show, when you connect with the music and it connects with the audience and an energy loop is established that leaves you frizzing with energy for hours afterwards. But then it's back to the bus, back to the road, off to the next location, the next show, the next audience.

It's a strange life. And apparently as addictive as any drug.

the church finishes its tour in Canada this week.

I'd link to their original music video, but the record company pulled the audio. Ah well, live will have to do.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J7cJVStGT2Y&feature=related

Life With an Indie Musician

www.cdbaby.com/kevinbartlett2

www.myspace.com/kevinbartlettmusic


America is a very odd place. We love creative people - we admire them, we idolize them when they're famous, we envy them even when they're not. But we sure don't make it easy for them to be creative.

That starving artist in a garret is so romantic. It's one of the reasons we took "Rent" to our hearts...the bohemian rebels who would rather die than conform are the people we wish we could be. Until we get hungry, of course.

I've learned a lot from living with a man who has too much talent, too many ideas and will never have enough time to share all the music he hears in his head. It's a constant inner battle - does he choose security or does he choose to be true to the gift he's been given? Every CD is an open-handed offering of something intensely personal, something true, something beautiful, to the world. And every sale is not only a few dollars to help pay the bills, but a confirmation that those sounds in his head are as unique and worthwhile as he hopes they are.

Why does our country put our artists on a pedestal, but not support them as they do the work we admire? Where is the program that offers creativity the security that allows it to continue?

It's not just musicians. Painters, writers, poets, sculptors, artists of all kinds are forced every day to choose between doing what they know they are here to do and doing what they have to do to eat and pay the rent.

Go ahead - tell me it builds character. I don't buy it. If a child is gifted in math or science, we are thrilled, knowing those studies will lead to jobs that will give them comfortable lives. If a child is a gifted artist we worry.

"How will you make a living?" we ask.

And many, many of them give up the one thing that they truly love to do because it just can't be done in our nine to five world. The world is poorer because of it.

I recently interviewed the author of Furious Improvisation
It's a book about Hallie Flanagan and the WPA's theatre project during the Depression.
It got me thinking. A make-work project for artists launched the careers of Orson Welles, John Houseman and many others. The plays they put on were cutting edge; sometimes so cutting edge that they were considered subversive. They pushed at society's rules, integrating the casts, giving minorities lead roles, dramatizing the social and economic problems of the times. Eventually, the project was abandoned as the country's fear of communism built toward the blacklisting that would eventually rip through the performing arts and leave many careers ruined along the way.

The Depression (and will it still be capitalized once the new depression is upon us?) showed us the best and worst we could do for artists. The government put actors and playwrites to work at a desperate time. And the country's fear and narrow mindedness tried to restrict what those artists could do...finally shutting them down.

I want to live in a country that values creativity as highly as it values money. Does such a place exist?