Lonesome Pie

Being a dancer in high school, I was necessarily part of a creative community, a collection of like-minded individuals working together to realize an artistic vision. I found the kind of esprit de corps that was fostered in that environment intoxicating and satisfying. In pulling a production together, there was a real connection to the other people that was forged through stress and long hours together and the natural push and pull rhythm of working creatively within a group. Being a dancer and, briefly, a choreographer, I was dependent on others to realize my vision and they were dependent on me for the same thing. It’s cliché to speak of it like this, but it did create a sort of a family effect – with all the good and bad things associated with a family. Our group of neurotic, starved, hormone-ridden adolescent dance geeks living away from home made a fairly dysfunctional family, but like many dysfunctional families, we pulled it together when we needed to. That was a very satisfying environment for me to work in. But I’m also a control freak when it comes to my own projects and have trouble delegating responsibility. And it isn’t so much because I don’t trust anybody else, it’s because I’d just rather do it myself. I’d rather dance the dance or take the pictures or edit the video myself than give those pleasures away to somebody else. And when I got to the University of Chicago and found the people there so cold and uncomfortable and uninviting and so uninterested in what interested me, I threw the whole idea of a creative community out the window and started focusing on myself for creative satisfaction. I wrote piano music and made my first tape montages and choreographed a ten-minute solo, which I performed once in a vacuum. I wrote poetry and made an impressionistic silent film and constructed collages to illustrate my psyche. And I did it all alone.

After Chicago, I moved to NYC with Eric and revitalized our friendship. Although most of the year was spend working and partying, we did start collaborating on a series of audio montages. Serious about starting to produce music, I bought a synthesizer (a Roland Juno 60, if you must know) and an early home 4-track tape recorder (Tascam Portastudio). As a game to learn how to use the mixer better, I made 4-track tape collages from material in my record collection, juxtaposing two stereo tracks, or layering several things together. Eric got interested in mixing, and we started playing the audio equivalent of Exquisite Corpse. In the famous literary parlor game, each person in the room writes a bit of a story on a piece of paper and then folds it over so only the last line is revealed. Then they pass the folded page to another person, who must pick up the from the one visible sentence and keep going until their turn is over, when they fold the paper over again and pass it on. At the end, the literary Frankensteins are read aloud. Eric and I did the same thing with the mixer. First I’d sit down at the mixer and put the headphones on. I’d start making a tape, layering tracks together and fading in and out of pieces of music, until my turn was up. Then Eric would sit down and put on the headphones and, listening only to the last piece of music I was working on, knit something to it and continue until his turn was over and so on. Turns were determined in different ways. Sometimes it was a certain amount of tape time – we each got three minutes of tape to cover, for instance. Sometimes our turn was determined by the number of songs you were allowed to mix in. Sometimes we did it by external timer – you could do whatever you wanted for half-an-hour, and then you had to relinquish control. It was great fun and led to some surprising results and was significant because we were both working together on the same thing, bringing something unique to the table and creating something together that neither of us could have created alone.

But after I left NYC and Eric behind to go to Hampshire, I settled back into working by myself for myself. I’d help people on their projects, but when it came time for me to do something, I would do as much of it as possible by myself. Even my “Div 3” project that marked the end of my Hampshire career with a BA – a 45-minute documentary videotape about the Interlochen Arts Academy – was shot and edited (and written and produced) entirely by me over a two year period. I made tapes, I wrote, I made videos, and I always worked alone.

I had all but forgotten the joys of collaboration when Matt asked me to join what would become Lonesome Pie. But over that first year, those joys blossomed again. I loved working with Matt and I trusted him and respected his opinion. He would change my songs and I’d make suggestions about his songs and our material, though widely divergent, complimented each other and made Lonesome Pie what it was. Too much of either of our world and song views would get old, but throwing Matt’s songs together with mine made a nice creative tension and provided plenty of variety. Encouraged by Matt, I dove into songwriting with enthusiasm. Inspiration would inevitably strike in the shower or while I was driving to work – when I was far from a pen or piano. Sometimes I’d have to call home and sing into the answering machine so I wouldn’t forget a musical phrase. But mostly, I utilized the Abba school of songwriting. Word is that Benny and Bjorn, the two Bs and songwriters for the group, never wrote anything down. They figured if the song wasn’t catchy enough to remember, it wasn’t worth remembering.

T.S. Eliot once famously said something to the effect that good poets borrow and great poets steal – by which I always thought he meant that a great artist hid his tracks so well that his purloined letters could never be traced. Being a good late 20th century postmodern citizen, I was well aware that there was nothing new under the sun and that creative plunder was the best (if not only) road to creative satisfaction. Consequently, virtually all the songs I wrote while in Lonesome Pie were rip-offs of other songs. But, since I’m a songwriter on the level of old T.S. himself, most of my tracks have been so well hidden that they could never be followed. But I'm willing to indemnify myself. Here's a list of some of my songs and the songs that were their inspiration:

Gun : Mad Dad Mangles a Strad by Severed Heads

High : (Sequence) 14 by Synergy

Undercrust : New York City Rhythm by Barry Manilow

Gasoline : The Power of Goodbye by Madonna

I Can Dream : I Love the Land (Michigan state song nominee)

Waiting : Danzig Needs a Hug by Sugar Ray

Idiot Savant : No Thugs in Our House by XTC