(Originally published on Medium)
RECORD RECORD 2
04.17.24: Breaking Rocks in the Hot Sun
Heavy equipment is roaring up and down the street where I live. The neighborhood is being treated by the county to an extensive water pipe replacement. In a discussion with a neighbor, I jokily mentioned that amidst the chaos, I’m trying to record music. My neighbor is a good and jovial person who is casually aware of my musical past, so they say “You should walk up to the crew and say ‘Do you know who I am?’ Hahaha!”
My neighbor thinks this is clever, this implication that my previous career has bloated my ego forever to the point that I am baffled at the lack of veneration.
“Tee hee” I replied.
RECLUSIVE MUSICIAN MURRAY, PLEASED TO MEET YOU
While I’m proud of the music I’ve been involved in, that pride doesn’t shine from me like the Bat-signal. I don’t identify myself by my accomplishments, and I’m not sure if people normally do. For example, if I were a mail carrier named Bob, I wouldn’t say to my reflection while shaving “Mailman Bob, yessir, that’s me.”
Anyone who looks at my effort to do a new record may see it as a wee bit delusional, but I do not. It’s true that I have to often inhabit my own make-believe world to do things like record an album, but I imagine many folks do this, rarely questioning the logic involved.
It IS worth asking, though: why would I do this?
- It’s been a long time since I made a record.
- I’m not a familiar name to most people.
- The distribution of music has changed so profoundly, how will I expose this music to people?
- What demographic would be interested in my work?
- Culturally, I am past my sell-by date. (Note that this is not a question.)
And, and, and. So many questions, whirling around my head like a swarm of unusually entitled gnats, all while I’m just trying to bang on a guitar.
GROOVIN’… ON A WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON
My wife and I live in a pleasant mid-century neighborhood. Everyone I’ve gotten to know here are good people, varying ages and ethnicities, plenty of children. Many of them seem engaged in some sort of creative output, and there’s at least one other “familiar recording artist” besides me. Some people are aware of my past, some aren’t, and most wouldn’t really give it much thought. I don’t mention it unless asked. It’s a good balance.
A huge bucket loader fitted with what looks like a steel pole is trying to crack a hole in granite a half block away. To do this, the operator lifts the bucket with the pole attached underneath and slams it hard into the granite outcropping. This goes on all day for a week. It looks like something Tex Avery would’ve dreamed up, minus pop-eyed wolves in tuxes.
Lest I sound precious here, this is mostly just inconvenient. I can do all the recording I need to by going direct with guitar, bass, and keyboards. Any miking for vocals, acoustic guitar, or percussion can wait until the foreman calls “beer-thirty”.
Since I moved back to Atlanta after a 30 year stint in rural Bogart outside Athens, I’ve only plugged into an amp once at home. I did this one afternoon with an Gibson SG and a Fender Twin with the volume turned all the way down to 1. I played some single note stuff, a couple of chords, and then stopped.
Ten minutes later our neighborhood Facebook page lit up with posts like “Can everyone hear that music that was just blasting? I can’t tell what direction it came from, but it was really loud! Poor Mr. Flapdoodle peed all over his thunder shirt and now I can’t get him out from under the bed. If anyone knows who the fu-”…
HOT LICKS, NO NEED TO THANK ME
I look out the window to see the loader operator taking a break. He’s smoking a cigarette in his cab while peering down at his phone. I think of plugging into my amp to see if I can get his attention with a couple of AC/DC licks, the volume at 7 or 8.
It dawns on me that, while this guy looks just like people I have seen all my life who would have immediately thrust their fists to heaven at those first chords, he’s probably in his mid-twenties. He may very well not recognize “Back in Black” or even “Highway to Hell”. Maybe his tastes run to Luke Bryant. I don’t know Luke Bryant’s music, so naturally I have no opinion about it. I only know that he’s a popular contemporary country artist that lots of people on Reddit have opinions about.
Maybe, I think, I should just play some licks from the songs I’m working on for this fellow. It won’t matter that he couldn’t possibly know them but maybe- just maybe- he’ll hear one of my songs later on in a movie or on streaming and suddenly be transported back to his much-needed break from trying to pound Stone Mountain into dust. And he’ll snicker.