Tossed together.
Not much I can add to that, brother. How about another piano? No, no ... not a different individual piano instrument, I mean another piano PART! Holy Jebus!
Oh, hi. Sorry about my outburst there. No, I wasn't having an argument with my illustrious brother Matt, I was just rehearsing for our conversation later on today. I know it may seem strange, but I have to rehearse for just about everything that occurs in my life. Which is even stranger, in fact, because I almost never rehearse for gigs. In fact, you might describe me as downright hostile to the idea. (As a friend once famously said, "Rehearsal is just a crutch for cats who can't blow.")
Now I should say here, no one has ever accused Big Green of not blowing. That just never has been part of our DNA. Granted, we have some errant strands in there; some stray genes that make us more susceptible to, say, living in abandoned hammer mills (which, on a rainy day like today, is kind of like living in a water treatment plant) or keeping personal robot assistants ... like Marvin (my personal robot assistant). Yeah, we have a lot of personal and genetic history to live down, but we soldier on. Damn the torpedoes! (No, I mean, really, damn them. Those suckers smart.)
Speaking of abandoned hammer mills, we're hammering out some new songs for the next episode of the podcast. They started out to be "first-draft" essays of the kind we did in 2012 - those rough little numbers that ended up on Cowboy Scat: Songs in the Key of Rick in slightly less rough shape. But as we go, they keep getting more and more complicated. Recording is more like painting than sculpting, I have to say - you can keep slopping new paint over the old, sometimes until the canvas is inches thick with the stuff. When sculpting, you can only knock so many chunks off that rock before you're left with ... I don't know ... a smaller rock?
Hey, Matt ... where's my spatula? I'm going with the post impressionist look on this one. (Just practicing again. Love to hear the sound of my own echo in this old barn of a place.)
Oh, hi. Sorry about my outburst there. No, I wasn't having an argument with my illustrious brother Matt, I was just rehearsing for our conversation later on today. I know it may seem strange, but I have to rehearse for just about everything that occurs in my life. Which is even stranger, in fact, because I almost never rehearse for gigs. In fact, you might describe me as downright hostile to the idea. (As a friend once famously said, "Rehearsal is just a crutch for cats who can't blow.")
Now I should say here, no one has ever accused Big Green of not blowing. That just never has been part of our DNA. Granted, we have some errant strands in there; some stray genes that make us more susceptible to, say, living in abandoned hammer mills (which, on a rainy day like today, is kind of like living in a water treatment plant) or keeping personal robot assistants ... like Marvin (my personal robot assistant). Yeah, we have a lot of personal and genetic history to live down, but we soldier on. Damn the torpedoes! (No, I mean, really, damn them. Those suckers smart.)
Speaking of abandoned hammer mills, we're hammering out some new songs for the next episode of the podcast. They started out to be "first-draft" essays of the kind we did in 2012 - those rough little numbers that ended up on Cowboy Scat: Songs in the Key of Rick in slightly less rough shape. But as we go, they keep getting more and more complicated. Recording is more like painting than sculpting, I have to say - you can keep slopping new paint over the old, sometimes until the canvas is inches thick with the stuff. When sculpting, you can only knock so many chunks off that rock before you're left with ... I don't know ... a smaller rock?
Hey, Matt ... where's my spatula? I'm going with the post impressionist look on this one. (Just practicing again. Love to hear the sound of my own echo in this old barn of a place.)
Comments