Chords

I've always liked chords. Big chords, small chords, sad chords, scary
chords -- but especially big, juicy, jazzy chords. Like GMaj7/A, or
Bb13#11. The first time I heard a modern big band blast a polychord
through 13 different horns, the texture and emotional power kept me
skipping home. And the first time I made a beautiful chord sound on my
very own guitar, when I was just starting my musical adventure at age
13, I knew I was hooked. I've been writing them ever since. Ever hear
a big, thick, juicy chord sung by a vocal group? It's nasty. It's what
makes me love my occupation as an arranger, or even my job as a jingle
writer in cases where an ad calls for denser harmony.

Chords are your basic building block of songs. My mother once told me
"I need a melody I can hang my hat on." (Since my mother doesn't wear
a hat, I assume she was quoting someone else, but that's another
story.) Anyone who plays guitar or piano know that it just takes a
progression of four (or even fewer) triads and you've got your very
own original song. For many modern pop musicians the chords are the
most prominent part of the arrangement. Sometimes all it takes to
figure out what song you're listening to on the radio is to hear the
guitar strum the first two bars.

Whether we know it or not, though, we hear chords even if they're not
actually played when we listen to music. Melodies live inside a world
established by chords. That why even untrained musicians sometimes
hum unrecorded vocal harmonies while listening to music. So powerful
is the effect of harmony that it ingrains into our consciousness a
framework into which all music must necessarily fall. When we see a
new breakfast cereal advertised on T.V., we conceive of its taste --
indeed, even predict its worth -- based on how it will fare in a bowl
of milk. So it is with a lone melody, which gets it push and pull, its
caress and its climax, from a universe established by chords.

Appreciation

Yesterday, while I was working at my desk, my cell phone rang, displaying an unfamiliar number. I was about to push the "silent" button when I noticed the area code was that of the east coast college I attended. I picked up the phone and said hello.

"Is this Michael?"

"Yes, it is." The young female voice was unfamiliar to me. Probably trying to sell me something.

"This is ______. I'm a currently a senior at ______." My school. "You're a recent graduate, right?"

"That's right."

"I'm calling on behalf of the Alumni Fund. You made a donation last year." Great. Here it comes.

"Yes, I did..."

"I just wanted to thank you for your support." Pause. Is that all she has for me?

"Oh... don't mention it. It was my pleasure." Following Tim's example, I donated $20.06--a sum corresponding to my graduation year--to the fund several months ago. I don't like being coaxed into spending money, but I felt bad, and I could afford at least a symbolic gesture.

"Well... thanks again." She seemed discouraged by my silence. Here voice was young and unsure, but adult somehow, neither small nor beseeching. Suddenly I felt like I was about to lose something valuable, or already had.

"Don't mention it," I say again, for lack of anything better. "I hope you have a great senior year."

"Thank you, sir. Have a nice day."

For a while after the call ended, I held the thin black cell phone open in my hand, looking into the mirror by my desk. What was that all about? I suppose they want to let the alumni know their giving is appreciated, no matter how small. That's smart business. And they get these kids to do it--current undergraduates, probably work-study employees of the alumni office.

Something seemed a little bit off. She was a senior. So, Class of 2008. Just two years below me. I should've recognized her name. I went to a small enough school. Maybe she was a hockey player, or a science major, or one of the other types of people with whom I had limited contact my last two years in college. If my cellphone were a videophone, would I recognize her face from my hours spent in the dining hall or at the campus post office? Might I have run past her on one of my nighttime jogs on the soccer field or the indoor track?

We could've known each other. But she seemed to have no idea who I was. Maybe that's why I was vaguely upset. Some of my best friends in college were '08s. I knew all of the musicians in that class, most of the actors. I may even know most of her friends. I'm sure she knows some of mine. But she might as well have been cold calling someone who graduated 30 years ago. At least she was nice.

In retrospect I wish I had asked her about herself. Anything to make it less awkward for us both, to head off this dawning intimation of vast, unexpected distance. And to let her know that, truth is, I appreciate her too.

...and again.

Holy smoke. I just bought another one. Brad Paisley's "Online" is BRILLIANT.

Rising above the din of popular taste (at least within the circles of which I've always been a part), I begin to see now why country music is so popular. The singing is pure, healthy and joyful; the musicianship is nothing short of impressive; the hooks are soaring; the style is homegrown and unabashedly earnest; and the songs run the gamut from romantic female poetry to self-referential macho humor (whose self-referentiality country music's detractors refuse to acknowledge because they love to make fun of it) to deep ballads about striving for integrity, honesty, faith and courage. Craig Morgan's "Tough" is about a wife and mother dealing with cancer. And now, a song from someone named Brad Paisley (probably a big name) about his online alterego.

Could it be true? That I'm becoming a country fan?

Infected

Proof positive that my new line of work is having profound effects on my core person, even altering my genetic makeup: today while combing footage of a popular country station out of Temecula, CA, I heard a snippet of a country tune that caught my attention. I ended up listening to the whole thing, even rewound it to catch the lyrics of the first verse. I thought Craig Morgan's "Tough" was such a moving song that I downloaded it on iTunes.

My first-ever country music expenditure. Yet another occupational hazard. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got more footage to gallop through. Yee-haw!

Don't Call Me; I'll Call You

One thing that always cracks me up during cold calls is the range and creativity of responses I get from people who aren't interested. Today a woman told me she had no desire for "that kind of thing" right now, but "if I change my mind I'll call you back." How are you supposed to call me back if you don't ask for my name or number?

Round Two

Q: What's the difference between a rock 'n roll musician and a jazz musician?

A: A rock 'n roll musician plays three chords to an audience of thousands. A jazz musician plays thousands of chords to an audience of three.

The bitter reality behind this old quip shone through late last week when I received the disappointing news that my entry into the Nabisco Oreo and Milk Jingle Contest was not chosed as one of the five finalist renditions. At stake was a $10,000 grand prize, or at least the free trip to New York City to compete in person. I thought we had it all -- a unique and catchy acapella jazz arrangement, a quartet of skillful and attractive young singers, a dynamic performance (replete with cute choreography) caught on tape, a large list of supporters voting for us online... the list goes on. But what I am left with is, perhaps, a pill I've been meant to swallow for a while now: in spite of my best intentions, nobody really gives a rat's tail about jazz. Except, maybe, jazz people.

I taped my rejection letter on the wall of my bedroom as a reminder of how it feels and how eager I am to pick up the pieces and start again. I'll have to, anyhow, because my budding jingle career has hit a number of other snares. The weeks following the sale of the Holiday Skating Center jingle -- my first real success -- were devoid of any blog entries because, in short, nothing happened. I had two other customers in Victorville, both of whom had convinced me they were going to buy. Yet after waiting weeks and weeks and churning out multiple editions of jingles that were well worth a buy-out from the first draft, I'm left with the proverbial cold feet. My very first potential customer, who had ignited that strange and magical spark of hope the first morning I set foot in the alien terrain of meeting cold call clients face to face, has decided finally not to advertise on radio. And the other fellow, a gentleman in charge of advertising for a large and powerful car dealership, suddenly saw fit to stop returning my calls, but not until we were on the verge of closing the deal.

And so, my friend, I hope you'll forgive me for not being in touch these past several weeks. I was waiting for a train that never came. And now I'm broke, without the prospects that emboldened me when I dug cautiously into my savings account for this month's rent.

So I'm starting from scratch tomorrow. The location I've picked out for my next adventure is Oceanside, California, a sleepy suburb of San Diego largely populated, it seems, by U.S. military personnel. Like last time, I have little idea what to expect, although I drove through there two months ago to drop a friend off. Just like last time, I'll have my two boomboxes and an abundant store of batteries and cassette tapes. Victorville was far enough northeast that I could get a good homespun radio signal. At 5:00 tomorrow morning -- a little over five hours from now -- I'll try my luck to the south.

As a consolation prize, Oreo is sending me and my fellow performers a "complimentary gift basket." No need to hold my breath. I'm sick of that damned cookie anyway.

...and then a bite.

On Thursday, I sold my first jingle. My first "tug" (see previous entry) turned into my first sale. After living with it for a week they decided they like what I made for them and opted to buy. I arrived, showed B____'s wife the final product to make sure it was exactly what they wanted, then drew from my binder two copies of the buy-out contract. I left with a signed copy and a paycheck. I don't know if any future transaction will have this kind of sentimental value, so I laminated a print of the score as a gift to the owners.

This means that I am now officially in business.

Tomorrow -- Monday -- the jingle will debut on four radio stations. If you're passing through Victorville and hear Holiday Skating Center's spot, drop me a line to let me know how you like it.

A Tug on the Line

The first time I got a positive response to one of my cold calls I nearly jumped for joy.

I had been spending a Friday afternoon going down the list of potential customers whose radio advertisements I had transcribed from Victorville radio footage. I'd pluck out a name on the list, find the number of their business headquarters (searching the internet, if possible) and give them a call hoping to pitch my wares. Even though I had taken the time to write out a general script of my sales pitch, these were still cold calls to the presumably hardy denizens of the High Desert and I was, well, nervous. Nobody likes a salesman. It wasn't such a hot day, but I pulled off my shirt and flipped on the ceiling fan.

The first few calls were a squeamish mess. I dropped words (and even letters) left and right, repeated myself copiously and generally muddled my introductory sales pitch. My background in improvisation served me well in picking up the shards of syntax I scattered every few lines, but the tense pep in voice belied the cool the tone I tried to put on at the beginning of each call.

It didn't hurt that the negative responses were not as forbidding as I'd braced myself for. Perhaps people were just happy the weekend was near, but I got far more "I'll pass your name along to the higher-ups" than "go jump in an active volcano." Plenty of advertising execs were already on vacation, it seemed, for the looming Independence Day weekend. This is not to say, of course, that everyone was pleased as peaches at having some upstart kid from the city call up to take their money. (One establishment, a promising local restaraunt called The Brass Pickle, told me to "call back next month," meaning next week, as it was the last week of June. When I called again the next Tuesday politely asking to speak to the person in charge of advertising for The Brass Pickle, the response was "there's no one here right now" followed by an emphatic hang-up.) But I grew more confident with every cold call, eventually throwing off the uncomfortable mantle of Am I Really Doing This? to take up the laurels of the intrepid young entrepreneur. After all -- I told myself before starting -- I can always just laugh it off if I fail.

Ironically, my first real laughter came followed not failure but a hint of success. When I told the gentleman at the skating rink I called sixth on my list that I had a way to significantly increase the strength of his advertising, he seemed intrigued.

"Do we need a jingle? This guy writes jingles," he called out to his wife, before checking with me about the proper vocabulary; "Do you write them? Sing them? 'Make' them?"

I calmly explained that I do it all -- write them, record them, produce them and sell them, all custom-made to suit needs and budget of your business. After more banter with his wife/business-partner, the man gave his name as B____ and told me to call back next week. Like everyone else, it seems, they were going on vacation.

When I hung up the phone, I leapt out of my desk chair, pumped my fist and shouted "yes!" Even though the business week was fading fast, my heart was pumping too much joy and shock into my bloodstream for me to make any more calls for the next half hour. And as I turned to the look in my bedroom mirror between regular intervals of excited pacing, I marveled at how such a lean, poorly groomed 23-year-old creature had found the untold balls to embark on this crazy little adventure. "Yes, Michael," the enterprise seemed to be telling me, "you can make this work."

Not a bad feeling for a couple hours' work. And the first sign that I was on the right track.

Anticipation

Last post: June 27th.

Okay, so maybe I've slacked off a little over the past two weeks. Plenty has happened to me during that time, but I neglected to write about it.

At least I've decided to come clean. I'll catch you up on the other stuff later.

It's 3:06 AM. For those of you who (like me) were did not -- or have yet to -- major in mathematics, that's after three in the morning.

I stayed up late getting together my business materials, plotting an itinerary and finishing up a set of recordings: two different all-purpose demo CDs, and one client spec demo with extra copies.

I have three meetings tomorrow. One of them wants to hear my idea for their jingle. So I went all-out and made them one. It sure would be nice if they bought it.

I know. There's lots to catch up on. But I need to be up at 7:40am to drive back to Victorville. Wish me luck.

The New Progressive

I put in the tapes today and got through half my radio footage. I fast forwarded through much of the The AM Conservative Talk station to the juicy bits -- the commercials. Yes, we (the royal We, I supposed) in the freelance jingle writing profession revel in the irony of cutting through the wheat to seek the chaff. As I listened to each ad for signs of a potential customer, I began to notice a pattern. My inadvertent research suggests that the entities likeliest to buy advertising space on local conservative radio are car dealerships, building supply companies and exterminators; in other words, participants in society's most manly stratum. If I write jingles for these people I'll probably need to crank up the guitar amp to 11 and hire a singer with a raspy voice. It won't be difficult music to write.

(Hey, I'm trying to pay my rent. I'll do anything.)

(Except the exterminator one.)

The little snippets of talk radio I caught were captivating, convincing, and completely one-sided. I did, however, hear one shining jewel of a comment by one host who lauded French Premier Sarkozy's foreign policy stances in spite of his being "a cheese-eating surrender monkey." For all that I tend to disagree with the thinking of many in the so-called Right Wing, I am continually impressed by the creativity of what they have to say and the boldness of how they deliver it. A part of me finds the candor of the other side genuinely refreshing.

On a different note, I posted ads on craigslist several days looking for college-age musicians with jazz chops. I had a terrific jazz sextet in college that doubled as a hard-hitting party band, and would love to start that up again. Actually, "need" is a better word. The resurrection of my chops is well overdue.

I've already received some interesting responses from my ads. I will look forward to documenting those in a future entry. By then, of course, I hope to have myself a band.

Victorville, Episode 1

Today, then, was my first day of work. I woke up at 6:00am and, after languishing in bed for one extra 'snooze,' left to embark on the great experiment that is entrepreneurship (or something like that). My travel companions were two old boomboxes with internal tape recording decks. My plan: to record local radio in hopes of hearing clues about advertisers who might be interested in a custom jingle. I took a class about jingle writing once, so this isn't simply a harebrained scheme. But almost.

I navigated the tangled web of numbered freeways--directions courtesy of google maps--to Victorville, California (I was shooting for a neighboring city called Apple Valley, but took a wrong turn somewhere around step 13 or so). Situated nearly 100 miles away from home base, Victorville is far enough to have escaped the mammoth radio aegis of Los Angeles County. After all, I figure, how many jingle writers are there in L.A.? If I want to find customers, I'd better seek them out where I have a prayer of offering a unique commodity.

The drive was a beautiful sleigh ride into the lost region of California known as the High Desert. The sun wasn't at full tilt yet and the chapparel landscape looked like a massive dustbin. About 15 miles outside of Pasadena the car radio began to fizzle; jazz and balanced news reporting gave way to country and Christian rock on the FM dial. I knew then that I was entering something like what Americans affectionately call "The Heartland." Actually, up until this morning I hadn't realized we even had any Heartland here in the Governator's Occidental Sunshine State.

(It just goes to show that this crazy undertaking will prove, above everything else, a learning experience for me.)

After combing several stores for a couple of cassette tapes, I parked my bruised 4Runner in the parking lot of a park on Amethyst Street. I set each stereo to record one of two popular local stations: Talk 960, an AM conservative political channel and Y120, a top 40 FM music station. Then, grabbing a water bottle and J. D. Salinger's "Nine Stories," I set off to relax in the park, catching a tan and observing the local fauna. I had some fruit with me but opted to leave it in the car; the awful pastry I had picked out from the local Stanton Bros. grocery store was holding my insides in check for the moment.

I returned to the car every 45 minutes or so to flip or change the tapes, checking each time to make sure they had recorded and troubleshooting my own mistakes with the equipment. Other than that I was able to while away the time in thought and observation. I wondered, for instance, whether how the denizens of the High Desert compared to L.A. people, if there even is such a thing as "L.A. people." While I sat there I heat of a full summer's day crept up on me; it took me an hour or two before I had the sense to put sunblock on and catch a bit of a tan, laying out on a beach towel I keep in the car for such emergencies.

My first day of work. Just sitting around, reading Salinger's short stories and watching the bees buzz by. Not too bad, although it remains to be seen if I can make any money this way. I returned at 1:00 in the afternoon bearing my very own nectar -- six radio hours total recorded onto four cassette tape. These I will comb for any faint sign of professional opportunity.

My First Blog

My name is Michael. I'm 23 years old. I graduated one year ago from a small college on the East Coast, and returned a few months later to Los Angeles, the city where I grew up. Three weeks ago I finally moved out of my father's home. I now share an apartment just north of Culver City with my best friend from school.

I want to be a professional musician. My dream is to make a living playing original music in a band. Which makes me, well, your average Los Angelino, I guess. Just another starry-eyed child with a guitar.

My problem is that I want to do it on my own. I don't want to pursue my dream on someone else's dime. I need to earn it fully, to be its sole investor and reap accordingly. And that means I need to make money and get on my own feet first. Only then, I feel, will I be spiritually ready to chase down destiny wholeheartedly. As though destiny were some quarry for the chasing.

A few days ago I ended my commitment to my previous job. I've decided, instead, to try to make money working full time as a freelance jingle writer. I'd rather be doing something at least tangentially related to music, something that will engage my chops in writing, performing and producing. This, at least, will get me closer. Plus it's relatively self-scheduled, allowing me time for my other (mostly musical) pursuits. The trick, of course, will be holding myself to a daily work schedule. Without discipline, I'm toast.

I decided to create this blog in order to keep me honest. By putting my fears and hopes into writing I commit to them. And by sharing my life's adventure with other people, I hope to escape from the kind of imagining-but-not-doing insularity that has made me waste time in the past (like this last year). I also think there's a chance somebody might enjoy keeping tabs on me from time to time as I document my voyage into the heretofore unknown realms of, first and foremost, financial independence; and, somewhere down the line, total and all-consuming rock stardom.

Alright. One step at a time.