Archive for the ‘Musings’ Category

Yeah, you read right.  Free.  Crazy, huh?  “Seven Cities” was always intended to be a loss leader and a vehicle for building my fan base rather than a cash cow, and now that I’ve actually paid off the production costs, I’ve decided to take a page from Jonathan Coulton’s playbook and release all of the tracks from the album under a Creative Commons license.

What does this mean for you, my friends and fans?  For starters, you can now download my album for “any price you deem appropriate” — including $0 — from my BandCamp store.  Any money received goes toward helping me continue to make music without starving.

Next, it means that you are free to– and I encourage you to– spread this album far and wide.  Share the link above on Facebook or Twitter.  Send the tracks to friends or family who might enjoy them.  Put them on mix tapes.  Use them in YouTube videos.  Remix them.  Remaster them.  Mash them up.  The only restrictions are:

• Thou shalt give credit where credit is due (i.e. always include my name and a link to drcommander.com whenever you share or use my songs)
• Thou shalt let people know if you modified the songs in some way (i.e. add “remix” to the title or whatnot)
• Thou shalt not use the songs for commercial (i.e. money-making) purposes

Some further musings regarding why I did this can be read here. Basically, blame Woody Guthrie.

Really, though, I have nothing to lose at this point.  After 8 months of trying to sell and promote my album, including thousands upon thousands of spins on streaming radio, ad buys, you name it … I have made about $100 and spent a lot more than that.  I have had very little success in using the album as a promotional vehicle to book solo gigs.  It is simply not finding its audience.  Art is a form of communication, and thus art without an audience is like a tree falling in the woods.  Whether or not it makes a sound is kind of irrelevant if there is no one there to hear it.  Artists are natural self-doubters, which makes it particularly hard when we, as indie artists, also have to be shameless self-promoters.  When our art doesn’t “hit” the way we expect, our natural impulse is to press the reset button and try again.  In the case of “Seven Cities”, it was a gamble to come out of the gate with a concept album, particularly in a market that is not very receptive to bandless singer/songwriters.  So I understand why it’s not selling well, and from a business point of view, I would rather not throw good money after bad.  From an artistic point of view, however, even though I know that I have a better album in me, I can still be proud of what I’ve done and believe in the concept and believe that there is an audience for it somewhere.  Who knows?  Maybe it’ll be huge in Japan.  Thus, I’m switching from a pinpoint laser approach to a scatter bomb approach, in hopes that by letting the music run wild, it will eventually find its way into the ears of new fans.  Meanwhile, I’ll be finishing up writing songs for my next project and financing it via sideman gigs.  I hope to get started on my sophomore album in earnest this year.

In short, please pirate my album.  I would consider it a big favor.

(subject to change without notice)

• John Burr, “Spiderman Theme” (Alison Brown Quartet:  “Replay”, 2002)
• Michel Camilo, “A Night in Tunisia” (Michel Camilo:  “Through My Eyes”, 1997)
• Chick Corea, “Spain” (Chick Corea:  “Akoustic Band”, 1989)
• Russell Ferrante, “Rain Dance” (The Yellowjackets:  “Greenhouse”, 1991)
• Bruce Hornsby, “King of the Hill / Twelve Tone Tune / Mystery Train (Live)” (Bruce Hornsby:  “Intersections”, 2004)
• Ethan Iverson, “Big Eater” (The Bad Plus:  “These Are the Vistas”, 2003)
• Keith Jarrett, “Groovin’ High” (Jarrett, Peacock, DeJohnette:  “Whisper Not”, 2000)
• Herbie Hancock, “The Good Life” (DeJohnette, Hancock, Holland, Metheny:  “Live at the Mellon Jazz Festival”, 1990)
• Lyle Mays, “San Lorenzo (Live)” (Pat Metheny Group:  “Travels”, 1982)
• Bill Payne, “Whispering Waters” (Leftover Salmon:  “Leftover Salmon”, 2004)

I guess our first clue that this wasn’t exactly “our crowd” should’ve been the fact that we were the only ones in the room not sporting some form of exotic piercing, primary-colored hair, or black Godsmack T-shirt. Of course, the original plan had been to gig our way out to New Orleans and spend a whole weekend there, and had that plan not fallen through, it wouldn’t have been such a great disappointment to discover that the music showcase that was billed as the “New Orleans version of South by Southwest” was actually more along the lines of the “Shreveport version of ‘Star Search'”– but with a decidedly heavy metal focus. As it stood, we arrived late Saturday night due to a Saturday morning fiasco that I won’t even get into, so we barely had enough time to drink a requisite hurricane and watch our rhythm guitar player throw the dice a few times at Harrah’s before hitting the sack.

We were supposed to play at around 12:30 PM on Sunday, but the showcase was running way behind. It was virtually guaranteed that we wouldn’t play until 2:00, after which we had to turn right around and drive 9 hours back to Austin. In a nutshell, our chances of getting anything productive out of this event were about the same as the odds of the Saints winning the Super Bowl (editor’s note: remember when this was written.) I can say one positive thing, though, which is that the college-aged headbangers in the audience responded well to our two songs– surprisingly well.

But then we got to meet the alleged reps from the alleged label, all of whom looked to be younger than the pair of socks I was wearing at the time. The first was at least trying to be helpful, but his comment was something to the effect of: “Hey, have you guys ever heard of a band called Phish? You should maybe model yourselves after them.” He had no way of knowing that we had been there, done that, printed the T-shirt, and were now trying desperately to break out of the mold and be taken seriously as a jazz fusion ensemble. From our point of view, it was one of those moments in which you’re imagining the worst thing that someone could possibly say, then someone actually says it. He then proceeded to criticize us for having “two rhythm guitars and no lead.” Apparently in the metal world, if a guitar plays separate and distinguishable notes, it’s not considered a lead guitar. The second rep (who looked to be the oldest of the three, a woman of maybe 25) had one useful piece of advice, which was that we all needed to quit our jobs and tour a lot if we ever wanted to make it big. True, and perhaps if we were playing any other genre, we would have some hope of doing that while avoiding starvation. The third rep got straight to the point:

Him: “I guess I’m just wondering why you’re here.”
Us: “Because … you invited us?”
Him: “All you have to do is turn on MTV to see the type of acts we’re looking for.”
Us: “You mean ‘The Real World?'”
Him: “Do you have some idea of who your target audience is?”
Us: “Your … parents?”

The year was 2002. I had been living in Austin almost 2 years and playing with a country dance band for about 18 months, mostly in the greater Bastrop/La Grange/Elgin metroplex. We played a lot of Bob’s Country Bunker sorts of places (including a few with actual chicken wire) but had also stumbled into a couple of decent gigs opening for Kevin Fowler and the like. I was already starting to become disenchanted with the band by early August of that year. Maybe it was having to drive 90 minutes round-trip every week to rehearse in the smoke-filled back room of the lead singer’s double-wide. Maybe it was the fact that I had, in a youthful daze, invested my own money into recording an EP and buying equipment for the band, and it was looking unlikely that I would get any of that back anytime soon.

I had already made initial contact with another band, a jazz fusion ensemble, when an offer came in for us to play the 2nd Annual “Rosanky Musical Festival & Biker Fun Run” in Rosanky, Texas. The lead singer apparently knew the organizers, who apparently somehow managed to book David Allan Coe (a feat that, in hindsight, wasn’t as spectacular as it seemed at the time.) Pauline Reese opened for us, and we opened for David. Even though we had a huge stage, David insisted on setting up his back line literally 10 feet from the front of it, so we were practically dangling our toes off of the edge while we played. I had invited my friend Liz, a lawyer at the time, who had invited her friend Crawford, also a lawyer. Liz’s first impression was: “I felt overdressed by virtue of the fact that I was wearing a bra.” At one point, one of the bikers approached her and said, “Hey, nice shirt. Wanna trade?” That pretty much sums up the general gestalt of the place.

Having finished a set that was among the better ones we had played as a band but still possibly among the worst country music ever to have been purveyed within 50 miles of Austin, I packed up my gear and joined Liz and Crawford on the grassy knoll to watch David. He was totally phoning it in, perhaps because he wasn’t that interested in playing for a crowd of dozens in Rosanky, Texas but really needed the money … or perhaps because, at the end of the day, he’d rather be performing “P**** Whipped Again” instead of “You Never Even Called Me By My Name.”

At some point during David’s set, our fourth drummer in a year stumbled by us so piss drunk that he didn’t even recognize me. On his arm was a local woman sporting Daisy Dukes and a tube top (and having no business sporting either), Tammy Faye Bakker makeup, and a hairdo that would have necessitated driving a car with a sunroof. She looked intently at Crawford, who was holding his newly-purchased genuine Rosanky Fest T-shirt. “Heyyyyyyyy….”, she said, leaning in close enough that he could tell exactly what brand she smoked. “Uh, hey?” he replied quizzically. “Yew wohnt may ta sahn yer shiiirt?” Crawford was a deer in headlights, but she unfortunately elaborated. “‘Cause Ah’m f***in’ the druhmmer …” And of course Crawford couldn’t pass up that opportunity.

Liz had only one thing to say. “Dude, you owe me. Big.”