being back in the same room, the same studio, to listen back to all the running dats from rainer’s last session was a super natural experience. like we were all there again together with rainer just beyond the glass. (the angle of the glass that separated the studio from the mixing desk had always room lights reflecting in it that often made it difficult to see what was happening on the other side.)

it took 3 years to even be able to feel ready for the task. and then surprisingly another year to completely finish it. not because we worked on it everyday, we had only worked on it a total of 2 weeks perhaps, but because of the subconscious shock effect of it all;

as uplifting as it was difficult to put up with such missingness in the shadow of rejoice hearing him be there again.

looking at it now, it was as if we made a science out of séance.

example:

rainer would get done with a take there and talk to us on tape from 4 years ago. here we were hearing him now ask what time it was on his mic and one of us back then must have answered him off mic cause he repeated now to us “7:30 ? …ok.” from beyond the control room glass.

at that same exact moment here in the future we looked at the clock on the computer screen and it was precisely 7:30 now again.

rainer is in the house.

from now on i will trim down some. take  the hint from a young contemporary or two. therefore i will be only “howe”. i like it enough, although it sounds like an expression of some small pain; “ow”. a small pain combined with a sigh; “hhh ow”. but it’s ok, this sigh of a small pain. it’s enough. as for “gelb”, it’s just so unnecessary. austrian in origin from the father’s side. and a welsh great grandmother from the mother’s side, whom at some point married a spaniard. i don’t what else you call a fellow from spain, but spaniard still sounds armored somehow.  ok.  that’s all about the author at the moment.

let’s talk about hilary swank now. we were on tour in january and making our way down south on the east coast in our little rented mini van. driving from boston to austin. we were happy to finally get south and hit north carolina, getting further away from the frigid northeast. instead, a freak blizzard hit the area. folks in the south can’t drive in snow. they just slam on the breaks and call it a day. then climb outa the ditch. this meant no one would show for our show.

while walking along there in chapel hill, came upon an old movie theater with “boys don’t cry” showing that afternoon. it’s a rare and wonderful opportunity to see a film you’ve heard nothing about cause it nicely surprises the senses and logic system with no prior  indication of what you’re walking into. (this gamble can go horribly wrong of course like when i brought my previous pregnant wife to see the slaughter flick “step father” in 1987). i also i very much enjoy that certain unmanipulated  beauty walking into a film already in progress.

the film’s bleak realism reoccurred in random stabs of memory for the following few weeks. and i did recognize the film lapse signature segment of john pirazi in it too. but it was hilary’s presence that held me glued and what i found most fascinating was no matter how great her skill on screen with tactical male behavioral, she still stunned me from being so beautiful. so winningly female. it began to beg the question: at what point does the female form and mind set not spark desire?

how can this woman on screen looking and acting like a dude still radiate voluptuousness? her depiction can’t completely fool the senses. maybe it’s the androgynous nature of the lowly musician that connects with such stimuli. bowie. jagger. young. plant and page. hank williams.  even young dylan.

ok. months later she actually wins an oscar for her part played. a grand victory considering the film’s subject matter and budget. but seeing her then in full gown and long hair, muttering so eloquently, was almost too much to bear. the quick shot of her husband with tear streaming down his cheek said it all.

the camera usually lies when it falls in love with its subject, then transmits. we absorb.

a few weeks later i’m in paris for a day. its cold and raining and has a definitive certain cast to its dark light. this should be stark and annoying right, but instead, insanely beautiful when the day is peppered with the striking warmth and glow of any given female. they not only seem to cut through the despair of such weather, but the contrast is unbearable again. the swank effect. like some form of gravity. the pull, enormous. but why ? how does that work ?

i have tried to break it down to the most basic common denominator and all i could come up with, searching for the source of this particular nile, is it’s their egg.

from that initial point all things are shaped and all opinions formed.

the temptation of egg.

i believe juiliana summed it up nicely once. “goo me”, was the utterance.

yes.

you do goo.

and we as men, are doomed.

when i try to discuss this all with my wife, she gets somewhat riled.

is she trying to throw me off the trail ?

dear diary

today is rainer’s birthday, so i’m keeping the lines open.

at the moment i am commencing a solo tour on flight to the 2^nd show in seattle. last night being san francisco at the great american. i cannot emphasize enough the thick clot of dread and concern prior to heading out on this tour. i was certain i had nothing to add to the sonic kingdom. convinced myself moments before packing, which was moments before my flight, that i would allow myself as just an ambassador of the past volume of work. and if what i do is indeed some form of country, alt or otherwise, then all the more reason to acknowledge ambassadorship of that country.

anyway … i’ve been getting up at 5:30 every moning dealing with patsy and her summer school agenda and them endless family associated errandings for the rest of the day. . . and allowing no time to come up with the “goods” for  the notion of set delivery. i am a tuckered dad, and oddly satisfied with it, but the torment of remembering what it is i do out there on the road doth spoink.

so, duly inspired by the conjure of opening setter m. ward, i propagate a plan of attack. upon taking the stage, i just talk w/the crowd for an exceedingly long spell beyond the boundary of safe allotment and into andy kaufman like territory. then a delicate attempt at a dylan song i never heard before this afternoon with Jackie nalpant called “shooting star”. then i warn the crowd that i will attempt to thread a variety of cover songs imbedded into an instantaneous rock opera concoction. so we all hunker down for the next 30 minute spans and see what happens. as if all the usual talking in between songs was instead used in accumulative fashion at the beginning before the songs ensued. then after the songs streamed out, the uproar of applause was part relief from having the audience and artist both surviving the ordeal. therein lies the entertainment value in such witness of instigated gamble.

brought up matt ward again to finally have some fun jamming. we alternated nicely. all in all i only ended up playing 2 original songs the entire evening. the jewel of the night was when i casually chanced playing a miles davis lick (out of my cd walkman) from his louie malle soundtrack “elevator to the gallows” in the middle of “blue marble girl” and it fit sensationally well. so beautiful, in fact, no one could have known it was not planned.

and then for the end, bringing up al perry to jam on rainer’s “inner flame” … sweet jesus and lord almighty, a fine prayer was had then and there.