The Alley

It's so easy to slip ,
It's so easy to fall ,
And let your memory drift ,
And do nothin' at all .
All the love that you missed ,
All the people that you can't recall ,
Do they really exist at all ?

I got a call the other day from my good friend Jim Beus. Some of you may recall that Jim was the lead singer of The Buzzards. I say 'was' because for all intents and purposes, The Buzzards are no longer a going concern. Or should that be 'The Buzzards is no longer...'? I always get that mixed up. Anyway, about a year ago I found out that Jim had re-formed The Buzzards with a new lineup which didn't include me. He was under the impression that I had left the band. I was under the impression that the band was taking a break. But, Jim wanted me to play a solo opening set at the new band's first gig. And that actually sounded like a pretty cool idea to me, so I agreed.

And that's how I left the band.

The "new" Buzzards didn't really have much momentum, though, and currently the whole project has been tabled. Or as I like to put it, The Buzzards have transcended into legendary status.

But that's not why Jim called me. See, Jim's new job is in commercial real estate, which means he spends most days driving around looking at empty lots, eating fast food, and talking on his iPhone. He was calling (on said iPhone) to tell me about a rumor he'd heard that The Buzzards old rehearsal studio, The Alley, is being sold. This came as somewhat disturbing news, because The Alley is more than just a rehearsal space, it's an important part of music history.

My introduction to The Alley came by way of another important part of music history, founding member of The Buzzards and celebrated guitar-wizard Will Ray. When we first started putting the band together, we were meeting at one of those run-of-the-mill warehouse-style rehearsal studios in North Hollywood where the hyperactive squawking of the mariachi band on one side and the sickening drone of the death metal band on the other would bleed through the cheap drywall to form a horrifying melange I liked to call "Satan's Pinata Party." Will decided we needed a more harmonious atmosphere in which to craft our sound. So he decided to book us a session at The Alley.

From the moment we first wheeled our equipment into the studio, we knew we had found a home. The place was like a time capsule from the 70's, with overstuffed couches, a driftwood coffee table, hanging plants, patchwork-quilt sound buffers and rough-hewn beams. We had booked the smaller of two studios which is known as 'The Basement' even though it is on the ground floor. Two of the walls of The Basement are covered with graffiti. But not just random graffiti, the names of nearly every band who has ever played there are written on the dull yellow brick walls. Bands you've heard of, bands no one has ever heard of, famous bands, legendary bands, long forgotten bands -- thousands of bands.

The list of artists who have played at the Alley is far too long for anyone to ever remember, but it includes people like Jackson Brown, Bonnie Raitt, Linda Ronstadt, Dwight Yoakum, Ozzy Ozbourne, The Smashing Pumpkins, Red Hot Chili Peppers and my personal least favorite, System of a Down. One of Dwight's gold records hangs on the wall by the mixing board in The Basement. I often used to gaze at it when we were playing. Kind of my own version of Jay Gatsby's green light.

Playing in that environment gave us the sense that we were part of a great musical tradition. Surrounded by it. Inspired by it. We did some fine jamming in that room. Probably some of our best performances ever. Hell, we even managed to impress the Red Hot Chili Peppers one night. And of course when I say "we", I mean "Will Ray."

The Chili Peppers used to play across the hall in the larger of the two studios, which known as 'The Loft' because it has a loft at one end where groupies and other special guests can hang out during rehearsal. Once, when we were poking around the studio, our drummer Tom and I climbed up into the loft to get a first-hand look. Nothing amazing, just a few couches, coffee tables and plenty of ash trays. Tom took a look around and quipped, "imagine the DNA in this place."

Tom and I were in the habit of arriving early to rehearsal and having a quick bite to eat at the picnic table just outside the entrance. The Alley is literally located in an alley off Lankershim Blvd. It shares a parking lot with a burrito place that blocks the view of the entrance from the street. To the uninitiated, it can be quite a challenge to find the place.

One evening, as I was munching my free-range turkey sandwich, I noticed some particularly amazing sounds coming from inside The Loft. Really funky bass and drums. Tom soon joined me and also remarked on the quality of the music. Whoever they were, they were damn good. Just a few minutes later, the music stopped and three guys came out of the studio. The first guy was instantly recognizable due to his short-cropped haircut and bare chest covered in tattoos. It was Flea, the Chili Peppers inimitable bassist. He sat down across from me and started digging into a huge organic salad from Whole Foods. He was joined by drummer Chad Smith and guitarist John Fruscianti. We chatted for a while about band stuff like guitars and amps. Then Fruscianti asked us if we were the same band who was there the week before.

We nodded.

"You guys were really sounding good, especially that guy on pedal steel."

I grinned. "That's Will," I explained, "only he doesn't play pedal steel, it's slide guitar."

Fruscianti looked doubtful. "No, I'm pretty sure I heard a pedal steel."

"It's the way he plays -- he wears a slide on his right hand as well as his left to get that sound. It's his own invention. He calls it a 'stealth slide.'"

At this point Fruscianti was looking at me like I was full of shit. But then Flea looked up from his salad and chimed in, "it sounded good."

Anthony Kiedis, also shirtless, stepped out of the studio and looked around. He remained in the doorway for a few minutes, looking like he desperately needed attention, but trying hard not to show it.

Tom and I finished up our dinners and started hauling our equipment into The Basement. I told Fruscianti to come by and check out Will's setup, but he never did. We saw them a few more times at the picnic table. It felt pretty cool to be treated as peers by a band as cool as the Chili Peppers. Except for Kiedis, that is. He never said a word to us and avoided eye contact as much as possible. But Flea was always there, shirt off, wolfing down his organic salad. At The Alley we were all the same, just a bunch of musicians hanging around the picnic table.

After Will left L.A. for greener pastures, I took over the task of booking rehearsals and began learning more about the history and charm of The Alley. This was mainly due to the fact that I was dealing with Shiloh, who along with her husband Bill, owns and runs The Alley. Climbing the spiral staircase to Shiloh and Bill's apartment above the studio became a ritual for me at the end of each rehearsal. While the rest of the band loaded their equipment, I stood in the enclosed front porch that served as the business office and looked at the literally hundreds of photos, posters, framed articles, artifacts and memorabilia that cluttered the room. Here a poster from a Don Henley show, there a picture of Linda Ronstadt, underneath it, a teetering pile of old Rolling Stone magazines next to a dusty old guitar case. Shiloh would drag out the big appointment book and page through to the next week to book our next rehearsal. Then she'd hand me a handwritten receipt for the current week. I never saw a computer or even an adding machine.

I would sometimes question Shiloh about various bands that had been at The Alley at one time or another. After my trip to Joshua Tree, I was warming up in the studio with a Gram Parsons song and Shiloh started talking about when Gram was still around. She said they still had one of his old pianos in storage. When they filmed the movie Grand Theft Parsons, Bill let them use one of his many vintage bikes, a three-wheeler, for Johnny Knoxville to ride. Shiloh tended to get a little wistful when talking about Gram. I think he had that effect on people. Especially women.


The band I wanted to know the most about, though, was Little Feat. One evening, we were supposed to be booked into The Basement, but due to a mix-up we ended up in The Loft. It was the first time we'd played in there, and it felt like going from the minors to the majors. On the wall behind the low stage was a giant banner depicting a woman with a tomato for a head lounging in a hammock. I recognized it right off as the banner that had hung behind Little Feat during their Waiting For Columbus tour. I had seen them on that tour, playing at the Wesleyan hockey rink, and have never seen a hotter live band. Unfortunately, lead singer and songwriter Lowell George only lived a few more years after that. He was one of the true greats of all time.

Little Feat continues perform and record, but without Lowell it's just not the same band. I saw the reconstituted version of the band once in New York, and even though they were very good, there was still something missing. They had added three guys to take Lowell's place -- one to write, one to sing and one to play guitar -- but it still didn't come close.

Shiloh told me the band wants her to give them back the banner, but she won't do it. These days it covers the ceiling above the stage in The Loft. When I heard that The Alley was for sale, I decided I really needed to get back there at least one more time to see that banner, and to read the names of some of the bands on the brick wall, and to ask Shiloh more questions about Gram Parsons and Lowell George.

I called her up to find out if the rumor was true -- was The Alley really being sold? She said that it wasn't "being sold" but it is "for sale." She and Bill are in no hurry to let go of it. What they really want to do is find someone who will take it over and keep running it just like it always has been. I hope they do. It would be a shame to see such an amazing chunk of history disappear.

On the other hand, I once had a friend who said that music wasn't meant to be preserved, it was meant to be played and enjoyed and released into the wild. Music is a live event that exists in the moment. Instead of bottling it up and listening to it over and over again, we should be playing some new music. Even an old song played again can be new. Why keep living in the past?

I guess I agree with some of that notion. But I sure think we'd be missing out on something great without those original 29 Robert Johnson recordings. Or Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald. Or Vladimir Horowitz. Or Coltrane. Woody Guthrie. Ray Charles!

So I think it's good to try and hang onto a little bit of history. And it's cool to think that in my own insignificant way, I am part of that history. And if I had a couple million dollars, I just might buy The Alley for myself.

Class Clown

"Shitpissfuckcuntcocksuckermotherfuckertits!"

When I was a kid I loved to listen to comedy albums. These days I get most of my comedy from cable TV. But back in olden times I spent hours memorizing comedy routines on vinyl LPs. My favorite comedy albums were by Bill Cosby (cringe) and Flip Wilson. Does anybody remember Flip Wilson? "The Devil made me do it!" Sometime around junior high I heard some albums by Cheech and Chong and Firesign Theater. Those were pretty cool. But the coolest comedy album I ever heard was definitely "Class Clown" by George Carlin.

Probably the first time I saw George Carlin was when he did his 'Hippy-Dippy Weatherman' routine on the Tonight Show. That was back when Johnny Carson was the host, by the way. George was probably the first counterculture comic to really break through to the big time. And TV friendly bits like 'Hippy-Dippy Weatherman' made him a Carson regular. "The forecast for this evening: dark!" But those late night TV appearances did not prepare me for the education I would receive when I first heard one of George's albums.

Of course the main reason that Class Clown was so cool was because it featured the infamous "Seven Words You Can Never Say On Television." Hearing George recite that list of taboo words was one of the most mindblowingly hilarious events of my adolescence. I had never even heard some of those words before. They were dirty. And George just blurted them out right in front of God and everybody. I'll never forget them...

"Shitpissfuckcuntcocksuckermotherfuckertits!"

Of course George wasn't saying them just to shock us or to blow our minds. He had a point. "They're just words, man." He was trying to reveal the hypocrisy of a society that seemed to be more concerned about what a person says than what they do. Go ahead and bomb Cambodia, lie to America, cheat, steal, kill and plunder to your hearts content. But Goddammit, watch what you say!

George had a way of making you laugh and think at the same time, which is kind of like walking and chewing gum for some people. He made comedy hip and smart, but also childish and goofy. He looked like a hippie, talked like a college professor and acted like a fool.

George's coolness factor skyrocketed, however, one seemingly normal day when I went over to my friend's house to listen to Class Clown for the hundredth time. When my friend pulled the album from its protective sleeve we noticed that the last cut on the second side had been totally scratched out with what must have been a ten penny nail. I mean these were some deep gouges. The scratches had been made by his mom in a fit of righteous indignation and long-suppressed hostility. Apparently she disapproved of the Seven Words.

My friend's mom was way too late, however, the damage had already been done. You can't unhear something. And we had more than heard that routine. We had committed it to memory. In fact, rather than erasing the evil words from our minds, she had made them indelible. And she elevated George to the status of a martyr. He was our hero. He was Saint George The Fool.

"Shitpissfuckcuntcocksuckermotherfuckertits!"

A couple of years later, George became even more hip when he appeared as the host of the premier of a new TV show called "NBC's Saturday Night." Although the show as being broadcast live, George did not take the opportunity to unleash the "Seven Words" upon the unsuspecting American airways. In fact, he didn't really do anything outrageous or mindblowing that night. It was just a treat to see him there on my TV set, live from New York, hosting the coolest show ever.

I did get to see George live and in person when he came to Louisville one year. The show was great. It was the first time I'd ever seen a comic onstage. Watching him work was amazing. He seemed so relaxed and comfortable, ambling around the stage using the microphone like a musical instrument. He performed for over an hour and did all the classic bits I knew from his records. Including the "Seven Words."

"Shitpissfuckcuntcocksuckermotherfuckertits!"

I didn't hear much from George in the Eighties. Steve Martin took over as the perennial host of SNL and became the new king of comedy. George moved over to HBO where he didn't have to worry so much about censorship. I never had cable TV in those days so I missed most of George's specials.

Late one night, sometime around the end of the Eighties, my friend Beck and I were passing a bar on the upper west side of Manhattan. They had a sign out front advertising the "Funniest Unemployed Comic" contest. As I happened to be unemployed at the time, Beck dared me to enter. It seemed harmless enough. Three minutes onstage telling jokes. I'd been onstage tons of times back with my old band the Charismatics and even more during my solo-folkie period. And how hard could it be to write a few jokes? I'm a funny guy. Piece of cake.

Not so fast, Monkey Boy! First of all, being onstage with a band is one thing. Going solo is a whole other deal. I had conveniently forgotten how difficult it was when I made the transition from rhythm guitarist in a rock band to singer-songwriter in a coffee house. No drummer to keep time. No bass. No lead singer. Just little old me. Those first few gigs were terrifying. But I got used to the drill and eventually I was an old hand. Why should comedy be any different?

Here's why: Because when you play a song, the most you expect is some polite applause at the end. And the fact is, getting an audience to applaud is pretty easy. They want to applaud anyway, so all you have to do is make sure they know when to do it. If you end your song in a very clear and obvious way, I guarantee half the audience will clap -- if only out of pure Pavlovian reflex.

When you tell a joke, on the other hand, there is a whole different expectation. You want them to laugh. And that means you need to be funny. And as any comic will tell you, "Dying is easy, comedy is hard."

The good thing about comedy is that the audience wants to laugh. They came there to laugh. All you have to do is provide the opportunity. And that's why my number one rule of comedy is: "Always put the punchline at the end of the joke." That way the audience will know exactly when they should laugh. Sounds simple, right? Yet you'd be surprised how many people tell jokes where the punchline gets buried somewhere in the middle and then they keep going. Meanwhile the audience is confused and suddenly the joke is over and nobody knows what to do.

The other thing about comedy is that it's really just talking. And talking is something I've been doing most of my life. I definitely know how to talk. I may not know how to sing or play the guitar, but I've got this talking thing down pat. So all I gotta do is write some funny jokes, get up there on stage and talk. Oh, except for one other thing. I have to remember the jokes. That shouldn't be so hard, since I am used to remembering the lyrics to hundreds of songs. But here's the thing: songs rhyme. That's a little trick invented several thousand years ago when nobody knew how to write. Make stuff rhyme and it's easier to remember. But my jokes didn't rhyme.

Also, I was terrified.

See, we happened to be in an election year and unemployment was a big issue. (Not like now.) So when the media found out there was going to be a contest for the Funniest Unemployed Comic, they pounced on it like a Congressman on an intern. The New York Times was there. The three major networks were there. CNN was there. The Goddamn BBC was there! There was a bank of TV cameras lined up against the wall and two or three tables full of journalists right down front. How's that for a little pressure your first time doing stand-up?

The house was packed. And some of the other comics were actually pretty damn good. A few of them were obviously pros. I may have been the only stand-up virgin in the bunch. I felt dizzy and sick and I was sweating like Nixon on acid. I couldn't remember my own name, much less my three-minute set. When we did a run-through I took the mike off the stand and prowled the stage Carlin-style. Not because I was trying to emulate my hero, but because my legs were shaking so much from unbridled fear that I literally could not stand still. But when it came time for the actual show, we were told we needed to stand directly in front of the mike so the TV cameras could keep us in frame. I was vibrating like a jackhammer. I could barely recall the words to my first joke. I somehow managed to croak it out.

And then a miracle happened. Everybody LAUGHED! It was a big, room-sized laugh too, not some polite ha-ha shit. I was transformed. I felt powerful and brilliant. I was still shaking uncontrollably, sweating buckets, reeling with nausea and straining to remember every single word. But I was loving it. What a rush. I scored with joke after joke. I killed. The TV cameras rolled. The journalists scribbled. Jaded cocktail waitresses smiled involuntarily. It was heaven.

I even got one of my jokes broadcast on CNN. It was about how hard it was to look for work and how I had finally given up trying to find a real job and decided to become a candidate for President. Trust me, at the time, with something like 19 Democrats in the race, the joke was replete with biting political satire. And it got me national exposure as a stand up comic. I even heard Jay Leno do a ripoff of the same joke a few nights later. I figured I was at the beginning of a new career. And it was so easy, you know, except for the queasiness, convulsions, dehydration and partial stroke.

I never did become a famous stand-up comic. Back in the nineties, apparently, every other misfit wannabe Seinfeld with approval issues decided to become stand-up too. The field became glutted. Jerry Seinfeld eventually became the new King of Comedy and soon every comic wanted his own sitcom. They even gave George Carlin a sitcom. But he wasn't suited to the format. Too confining.

At some point a bunch of morons started circulating emails featuring racist and right-wing type comments and attributing them to George. It pissed me off to think that most people who read them wouldn't know the difference. They didn't understand that George's humor had more to it than just making fun of annoying things or stupid people. George was out to enlighten us. Humor can be one of the most powerful mind-expanding tools around, when used by a master. And it doesn't have to be highbrow or "thinky" to do it.

"Shitpissfuckcuntcocksuckermotherfuckertits!"

There aren't many folks around who know how to use humor the way George did. He was like the John Lennon of comedy. I will always carry with me the lessons I learned while laughing at the things George said. I think comedy is one of the best things in life. And George made comedy even better.So, from one class clown to another: Thanks George. See you in detention.

Wesleyland

A couple of weeks ago one of the most important political figures in American history gave a speech in my backyard. Of course when I say my backyard, I don't mean that literally, since my current backyard is an alley in West Hollywood frequented by gay hustlers, vagrants and aluminum can collectors. What I am referring to is a place where I will always feel at home no matter how long I stay away, a place I feel connected to in many different ways, a place where I have a special history and which holds strong memories. It is a magical place, a mythical place, a place like no other. It is a place I call Wesleyland.

Officially, of course the name of this mythical land is Wesleyan University. It was founded in 1831 as a Methodist school for young men, but has since become known as one of the most prestigious and progressive universities in the world. It is physically located in Middletown, Connecticut which is the main reason I have such a strong connection to the place. My great-grandfather, Emmanuel "Manny" Eastman is buried in Pine Grove Cemetery in Middletown. My grandparents, Oscar and Agnes, met in Middletown. Oscar worked at the Wilcox-Crittenden factory in Middletown making marine hardware. My father, Warren and uncle Bob attended Middletown High School and both graduated from Wesleyan. I went to Wesleyan and so did my sister Susan. My nephew Chris was born in Middletown at the same hospital where my Dad was born. Susan has lived in Middletown for almost twenty years. My nephew John grew up there.

Even when I was a kid, back in Louisville, Wesleyan held a special place in my imagination. On Thanksgiving, we ate our turkey on a set of Wesleyan china, each plate featuring a different landmark from the Wesleyan campus, like Olin Library, Memorial Chapel or South College. In the summer we visited my Dad's relatives in Middletown. I still remember walking around campus in the early 70's when revolution was in the air. I knew the names of the buildings from our Thanksgiving plates. We toured the old science buildings where my Dad studied chemistry. We saw the pool where he swam on the swim team. The Wesleyan campus was an exciting mixture of old and new, familiar and strange, fantasy and reality.

But my favorite part of campus was the large open grassy field bounded by the administration buildings on the east, Fayerweather Gymnasium on the north, Olin library on the south and Foss Hill to the west. Known as Andrus Field, to me it will always be my "backyard" and the center of Wesleyland.

Back in the day, Andrus Field held an old cinder running track, a baseball diamond, and a football field with removable wooden bleachers. Students could sit on the terraced lawn behind Olin Library and watch an intramural softball game, play Frisbee on the football field, jog a few laps on the cinder track, or maybe just sit under the shade of one of the hundred year old maple trees on Foss Hill and enjoy the scenery. Nowadays the track and baseball diamond are gone, but the field still gets plenty of use. Like hosting the commencement ceremonies

When Barack Obama stood on the marble podium that rises from center of the terraced lawn, there were over 20,000 people gathered on Andrus field and Foss Hill to hear him speak. Including my parents and my sister. The biggest crowd ever recorded prior to that was 8,000 people for Wesleyan's 175th anniversary two years ago. Although I've heard that when the Grateful Dead played a free concert on Andrus Field in 1970, the place was pretty packed.

My first two years at Wesleyan, I lived in a dorm called West College which was nestled among a grove of trees on the north slope of Foss Hill. I crossed Andrus Field hundreds of times going to and from classes or over to Fayerweather Gymnasium. I ran numerous laps on the cinder track and did many a hill sprint up Foss Hill. Our cross country races began and ended at the foot of Foss Hill. Andrus Field was the scene of many official gatherings, such as Spring Fling and of course Commencement. But it was also the site of a lot of unofficial activities, like the legendary Communal Moan. In the winter we "borrowed" trays from the dining hall and used them as makeshift snowboards to slide down Foss Hill. This was years before any of us ever saw an actual snowboard.

It was during those carefree days of curiosity and experimentation that I first came up with the concept of "Wesleyland". The atmosphere at Wesleyan was so conducive to learning, growth, experimentation, and discovery that I began to see the campus less as an institution of higher learning and more like a kind of intellectual theme park. There were so many amazing things to learn, do, and experience. And as students, we were free to pick and choose whatever struck our interest. And the thing I noticed about so many of my fellow students was that they all had so many different interests and abilities. You might meet someone who was a pre-med and think of them as a "squid", a term applied to boring nerds who spent all their time studying. But the next time you saw the squid he might be playing mridungam in an avant-garde jazz ensemble. And then later the same squid might be covered with mud and tearing up the rugby field. You soon learned not to take anyone, or anything at face value.

It was not long before I realized that, although my classes were excellent and the professors of the highest caliber, I was learning as much from my fellow students as I was from my courses. There were specific examples, like my sophomore roommate Terry who introduced me to jazz, showed me how to play guitar and taught me calculus. But there were also the non-specific lessons, like my friend Andy who showed me how to take a negative situation and convert it into a positive one. Or Kevin, who taught me how to think like a writer. My friend Sindi taught me how to always be myself. Mitch taught me how to live in the moment. Nancy taught me about love.

Even after I left Wesleyan, I continued to learn from the people I met there. After graduation, during my year in Pacific Beach with Bob, I learned a lot about self-confidence. Dan has always been an example of professionalism and hard work. Dave has given me hope. Mark showed me about resilience and character. Joel was my healer and guru. Jon taught me how to feel.

When we all met each other at Wesleyan, we were students. But we were also something else. We were teachers, too. I think we will always be students, just as we will always be teachers. It's the primary function in life, to learn and to teach. I think that's what I found out at Wesleyland. And that's one of the reasons I found it so fitting to see Barack Obama speaking in my backyard two weeks ago. Obama is a great student of the human condition and he inspires people to learn more about themselves and each other. And he teaches by example that we can all continue to improve ourselves and the world around us through knowledge and understanding and passion for learning. A great leader is one who serves. And to serve is to learn.

I still have so much to learn. And the whole world is my Wesleyland.