Category Archives: Usual Rubbish

Usual Rubbish

How to put on the worst concert ever

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2000 Years to Christmas

Yeah, I don’t have time for greeting cards. Take them away, Marvin. Give them to the kids down the street. Or some monkeys in the zoo. I don’t care, man – just GET THEM OUT OF HERE!

Sorry for my all-caps utterance, friends. You know how stressful the holidays can be, particularly when your robot doesn’t follow instructions. Now, I don’t want to leave you with the impression that I’m constantly reading Marvin (my personal robot assistant) the riot act. Far from it! We get along like nothing else I can name. (Take my word for the fact that that’s a good thing.)

Like you, we are engaged in a last-minute frenzy in preparation for Christmas, New Years, and other assorted observances. And this year it has been made a bit more complicated by my plan to put on yet another nano concert, like the one I did earlier this year. Turns out concert are more fun when you (a) play an instrument you can play, and (b) involve other people in your music-making. Who knew?

Hello out there!

As luck would have it, we live in a time of burgeoning COVID. It’s like being on a plague ship, minus the pleasure of a south sea cruise. The upshot for us musicians, of course, is that we can’t stand each other’s company … I mean, we can’t BE in each other’s company. If we share the same space, the smell …. I mean, the VIRUS might kill us. (As is my custom, when reading that line, I pronounce the word “kill” as KEEEL.)

Some may accuse me of harboring resentments for other musicians. That is not the case. I don’t harbor them, I nurture them. But in the end, we must all get along, at least better than we did at the beginning. So we need the means to play together in a way that won’t leave us all dead. (Again, following my personal custom, I pronounce the word “dead” as DAY-ID.)

Hello? Do you read me?

Sophisticated technology unleashed

Right, so how do you play together without being together? Technology! There’s this thing called the internets, and I’m guessing it just might catch on. You just set up your instrument at one end, play like the devil, and the music goes round and round, woah woah woah, and it comes out there. My advisors (Mitch Macaphee) tell me that there’s room enough in the internet tube for music to go both ways, so you can jam with someone on the other end of the tube. Holy cats!

Now, I know Mitch has suggested some crazy things in the past. Shit like that gonzo underground tour he dreamed up a few years back. But this time, THIS time, he may be on to something. Or just on something. In any case, yesterday he handed me the business end of something that looked like one of those Dr. Seuss instruments, like the Zimbaphone or whatever the hell. If you hold the thing up to your ear, you can vaguely hear something that sounds like Matt playing his guit-fiddle. Damndest thing.

Let’s get ready for something … anything

I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for something. And if I have anything to do with it, it will involve me playing musical instruments into the Dr. Seuss invention known as the internets. When and if that happens, you will be the first to know. Or maybe the second or third to know, but certainly in the top ten.

Usual Rubbish

The worst of all possible universes

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2000 Years to Christmas

Just give me a minute, man. I’m changing the strings on my superannuated cheap-ass guitar. And yes, I’m using new strings. Don’t ask me where I got them. Lets’ just say that someone’s Christmas stocking is going to be a little light this year.

Oh, hi, blog visitors. It’s you’re old pal Joe. Yeah, I’ve made the momentous decision to restring my guitar because I don’t want to even attempt to deliver a Christmas concert on those rusty old cables I’ve been twanging on. And when I say twanging, I mean just what I say. Just give a listen to my recent nano concert on YouTube and you’ll get the picture. And the picture has sound, by the way.

Holiday Tide … I mean, Cheer

Of course, I’ve always been terrible at marketing things. (That’s precisely why I went into advertising, but I digress.) Given that it’s the holiday season, you’d think I’d be hawking our first album, 2000 Years To Christmas, like a maniac. But the fact is, those songs are just the tip of the Christmas iceberg here in Big Green land. There’s plenty more where those came from. You’ll see!

Some of those songs are from Matt’s early period, when he recorded Christmas songs on his 4-track cassette deck and distributed them as low-rent, labor-intensive gifts. And then there are some songs from the Ned Trek period, which covers the second half of the 2010s and, technically, is still underway. Many songs in this latter group feature funny voices and bizarre ass lyrics. Oh, and many in the former group, as well.

All about the wormhole

I wish I could say that everyone is looking forward to the holiday season. Fact is, I squat with a bunch of sad sacks. Take Mitch Macaphee (please!). Our Mad Science advisor has spent the past three weeks laughing up his sleeve at Mark Zuckerberg. The reason for that is simple – Mitch has been conjuring wormholes into alternate universes since long before Zuck was a tike. The notion of someone creating a fake universe seems hilariously redundant to him.

Okay, so here’s my question: what if Mitch finds out you can make money at that Zuck scam? Will he borrow Trevor James Constable’s Orgone Generating Machine and rip open the fabric of space/time? Will he then charge punters fifty bucks a head to step through and shake hands with purple protozoa-men from the fourth dimension? And last, but perhaps most importantly, will he share the proceeds with us? THAT’s what keeps ME up at night.

So, is this your answer to the Metaverse?

The reason for the seizin’

In any case, our Christmas season is starting out like all the rest of them have: fighting off the bailiffs. As you know, we’ve been squatting in the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill for the better part of two decades (or, perhaps, the worst part). The local authorities, bless their hearts, have been trying to evict us for most of that time. It just wouldn’t be Christmas without an eviction notice!

Thus far, we have let our nasty upstairs neighbors answer the door when the cops come calling. Frankly, I think they’ve forgotten we still live down here. And truth be told, I am in no mood to remind them.

Usual Rubbish

There’s a thank you in this somewhere

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2000 Years to Christmas

Over the river and through the woods to Macaphee’s house we go. Isn’t that the lyric? Got it wrong again? Damn. Okay, here goes. Over the river and through the woods to Trevor James Constable’s house we go.

Oh, hi. Didn’t think anyone would be reading the blog on Thanksgiving weekend, but here we are. My guess is that you’re trying to get away from your annoying relatives, especially uncle Sully, quaffing his gin, telling you all about it. That’s the kind of holiday we know and love – food and family conversation, both thoroughly indigestible.

What’s cooking, bad looking?

Let’s talk about the fare. People have this mental picture of what the traditional Thanksgiving feast should be like. Naturally, it is a concoction of many different stories and fables. The harvest feast shared by English settlers and Wampanoag people in 1621 was likely a diplomatic gathering of sorts. Who the hell knows what they ate? Corn, maybe. Freaking pine cones.

Yeah, well … we don’t go in for these fables. None of that in the old Cheney Hammer Mill. Of course, we’re all vegetarians, except for one or two vegans. Actually, Anti-Lincoln is a pescatarian, though in a very narrow sense, as he only eats one kind of fish. That’s the ancient Coelacanth, and frankly, they’re a little thin on the ground in Central New York. Most of the ones you find up here are fossilized. Sometimes they’ve got a little friend in the rock with ’em.

A thankless job

I don’t want to even suggest that Big Green is exemplary of bands in general. Contrary to popular 1960s belief, the groups don’t all live together, as Frank Zappa suggested so many years ago. And no, we don’t all gather around a big walnut table on Thanksgiving day and break bread together in fellowship. Ridiculous suggestion. The table is oak, and it used to hold woodcutter’s tools.

One of us has to cook. I usually leave that task to Marvin (my personal robot assistant). That’s because you can write up a menu, insert it into his scanner, and he will attempt to make it real. That’s the good part. The bad part is that he makes it real bad. The tofurkey is like tire rubber from the 1930s. The stuffing came out of an abandoned easy chair. And don’t even get me started on the sweet potatoes.

I know you’re supposed to thank the chef, as well as the author of the meal, but it seldom happens around this dump. Next time Mitch invents something, let’s hope it’s edible.

Incoming: annoying holiday mail

Ass Clown!

You know how people you hated in high school sometimes send a letter around the holidays telling you what they did all stupid year? Well, I’ve been thinking about doing something similar. Just a festive photo of the high times we’re having this Thanksgiving, so as to lord it over all you losers who are spending the day alone with a can of spam.

Of course, like anyone on facebook, I had to embellish the image a bit. Hard to gloat when you live in an abandoned hammer mill. All of our photos turned out hideous, so here’s a shot of me at the Macy’s multi-promotional parade, brought to you by EveryCorp(R) – slogan: “If it were in our inventory, we’d sell you ass.”

Usual Rubbish

Can Christmas be that far behind?

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2000 Years to Christmas

I don’t think that’s the right box, man. I keep the glass bulbs in the box marked “winter gloves” and the tinsel in the box marked “soup can collection”. That box is marked “Christmas decorations”, and that’s where I keep my soup can collection. And my winter gloves.

Oh, hey. I hear you knocking, but you can’t come in. No, I’m not being anti social. I just don’t want to spoil the surprise. We’re working on our Christmas pageant, and we’re hoping that no one will guess this year’s theme before we finish our parade floats. I’ve had Marvin (my personal robot assistant) run out for some more plaster of Paris. What’s that, Anti-Lincoln? Are you sure? Damn. Marvin went to Paris.

What’s in a theme?

I can tell you what the theme won’t be this year. Anti Lincoln wanted to do a reconstruction-themed Christmas. I told him that we simply couldn’t do it justice. Also, our crazy neighbors upstairs would come at us with torches for advancing what they’ve been calling Critical Race Theory. Much as I like the idea of pissing them off, I think we’ll let that one rest.

Then there was the mansized tuber’s idea. Do you really want to hear it? It’s kind of predictable. He had some goofy notion that you could find a fir tree, chop it down, haul it through the snow and back to the Mill, then poke the trunk into a base so that it stands upright. What then? According to tubey, you hang little baubles and lights from the carcass, and when you wake up Christmas morning, they’ll be a surprise under the dead tree. Crazy shit.

Living in Christmas past

Hey, in all honesty, we’re getting older. And when you get on in years, there’s a tendency to look back a bit. We’ve got a kind of storied Christmas past, which is to say that we’ve got a lot of stories about it. Of course, there’s 2000 Years To Christmas, our first album. Then there’s all those Xmas episodes we did on THIS IS BIG GREEN. And don’t forget the fractured carols we sing when we’re drunk, in any season.

Yeah. That costume's a bit much.

Suffice to say, we’ve got a lot of material. If we actually opt for a pageant this year, there will be singing. No dancing, though – unless you count what Marvin does when he updates his operating system. Will there be a full band performance? Well …. not likely. But you may see me sitting in front of a cheap camera, strumming hesitantly on a guitar.

Our pledge to you, dear listener

One promise: I won’t play any Cowboy Scat songs. That’s final. That wouldn’t be Christmas-y. (If you want more promises, I’m taking requests – just use the comment form, below.)

Usual Rubbish

Dispatch from the string recycling center

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2000 Years to Christmas

Hey … this one doesn’t have so much twang in it. No, not Tang! Twang! You know – the sound that doesn’t occur when you pluck this dead-ass string you gave me. That’s the stuff.

Yeah, hiya, folks. It’s your old pal Joe from Big Green. No, don’t get up – just relax and have another glass of lemonade. We believe in hospitality here at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, our longtime squat house. You’re more than welcome to stop by, take a seat, and watch us attempt to record pop music using stone knives and bear skins.

Friends of the band will know that I’ve been framming on the guitar just lately, as seen in my recent nano-concert on YouTube. I’m not a virtuoso, to put it mildly. In fact, I beat that mother like Betty Crocker, even when I’m practicing. That’s why I found myself in need of replacement strings.

The principle of scarcity

Now, with MOST bands, when someone breaks a string, someone else runs up with a fully stringed and pre-tuned spare guitar. The musician need not trouble him/herself with menial maintenance duties and can concentrate on the performance. The music deserves their FULL attention, and that is exactly what it gets.

Well, that’s not the way things work around the hammer mill. When i snap a string, I start looking for some old set I left lying around five years ago, then pirate it for a spare. We simply don’t have a running inventory of replacement strings – that would demand too much in the way of resources. And for all you macroeconomics students out there, that means strings are scarce, real scarce.

Doc takes a detour

Sure, I know what you’re thinking: we have a mad scientist at our disposal. Why not utilize his talents towards keeping our instruments in good working order? Well, aside from the fact that Mitch Macaphee never thinks of himself as part of our entourage, the fact is that he’s skipped town.

Where did he go? Way on down to Texas. He thought he’d slip into the Q-Anon subgroup rally in Dallas to see if JFK junior might be interested in underwriting some of his projects. (Yeah, I know …. I told him.) In the end, though, those Q-folks can spot a fed when they see one. Though I think what probably gave Mitch away was his decision to bring Marvin (my personal robot assistant) with him. Even in a crowd of crazy, that makes you kind of stand out.

Hey, is JFK Jr. behind that robot?

The Macaphee bail fund

From what I understand about Texas law, it may be illegal to have an unregistered automaton. If that’s the case, Mitch might wind up in the crowbar hotel. We may have to resort to GoFundMe or the like. Might not be a bad idea. Maybe we can use part of the proceeds to buy some freaking guitar strings.

Usual Rubbish

This is not the sort of thing I meant

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2000 Years to Christmas

Okay, back it up a little further. That’s it. Little more. Little more. That’s great, stop there. I said stop. STOP, DAMN IT! Bloody hell!

Yeah, hey, everybody. Just attempting to wave a shipment of widgets into the loading dock here at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill. I have to say, it’s not working out very well. Marvin (my personal robot assistant) volunteered to drive the truck. Need I say more? (We’ll be needing to put a tarp over the loading dock, now that he’s punched a truck-shaped hole in the garage door.)

What kind of widgets are we receiving? Not sure. This wasn’t my gig. Actually, Anti-Lincoln had the bright idea of getting an assembly line going here in the old mill. He is from the mid 19th century, and so a hammer mill from the 1890s looks quite modern to his eyes, particularly when he’s had some of his beloved absinthe.

Unintended consequences

So, I’m pretty sure I’m partly to blame for Anti-Lincoln’s new project. I told him to do something constructive with his time. It was just an effort at mild criticism. Frankly, the guy sits around the mill sulking most of the time, wishing he were made of positrons instead of pure anti-neutrons (absolutely pure!). I got sick of his whining. And his wining. (He likes wine as much as Kavanaugh likes beer. Do YOU like beer?)

Anyway, next thing I knew, Anti-Lincoln was rebuilding the works in the assembly room. I thought little of that until the shipments started coming. Ball bearings arrived first, then aluminum brackets. Next came long spools of rattan string. God only knows how he’s paying for this stuff! But aside from that, what the hell is he building in there? WHAT HAVE I DONE?

Newton without the figs

Okay, so I have a theory. I don’t know if you remember this, but there was a popular gadget back in the 1970s called the Newtonian Demonstrator. My notion is that Anti-Lincoln is planning to corner the market on these things. It’s just a hunch, but in a way it makes sense. Brackets, ball bearings, string … what the hell else is he going to do with it?

Then, of course, there’s the question of who the customers might be. Are Newtonian Demonstrators a hot item these days? I didn’t think so, but again …. I have to consider Anti-Lincoln’s 19th Century perspective on this. Newtonian physics was really coming into its own when he was reaching adulthood in anti-matter Kentucky. It’s possible he doesn’t know that these gadgets went out with the Whole Earth Catalog.

THIS is the get rich quick scheme?

Stopping the line

Now, as you know, Anti-Lincoln has done a lot of crazy shit in his time. And it’s likely that he’ll do a lot of crazy shit in the future. But when he set up an actual assembly line and press ganged Marvin and the man-sized tuber into pulling double shifts, he clearly went too far.

Now, I’m a pretty reasonable guy. I put up with a lot of nonsense. But when you start exploiting the living crap out of my entourage, you’re crossing a line. I pulled the plug on the assembly line and encouraged Marvin and tubey to start a job action. We shut that sucker down and started picketing our own hammer mill. That’s how serious we are, friends. STRIKE! STRIKE! STRIKE! Send pizzas! Anti-Lincoln is a corporate snake!

Usual Rubbish

Getting by with a little help from some fiends

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2000 Years to Christmas

Okay, here’s the thing. I’m too big in the frame. It goes against the theme of the series, dude. If there’s one thing Big Green doesn’t like, it’s inconsistency. Those are our principles. And if you don’t like them … we have other principles.

Oops! Didn’t know anyone was reading this. You just caught me having a little disagreement with Marvin (my personal robot assistant), who is serving as my video producer this month. Nothing serious – just an obscure conceptual question that has vexed us since the beginning of this blog post: how nano is nano? What means this? Allow me to explain.

A question of scale

We’re doing a little side project called the Nano Concert. Perhaps you’ve heard us nattering about it in previous posts and on our podcast, THIS IS BIG GREEN. You haven’t? DAMN IT! Marvin, did you forget to publish the blog posts again? Why have I been wasting my breath? What’s that? You DID publish them? Uh, okay. Never mind. What was I saying?

Ah, yes. The Nano Concert is really just a virtual mini solo concert by yours truly (Joe of Big Green), playing some old favorites from the beloved Big Green song book. We recorded six songs, played them on the podcast, and are in the process of posting them to our YouTube Channel. Can we truly describe this as a nano concert? Is it more than merely small? Well …. six songs doesn’t even make a set. And I’m too lazy ass to do more than that in one go. So in my book, it’s nano.

I can't play this freaking thing ...

Strings v. keys – the reckoning

The funny thing is, on five of the six songs, I’m playing six-string guitar. Now, those who know me well (and those few fiends who enjoy our music) know that I don’t play any instrument particularly well, but that if you were to rank my ability to play them in order of best to worst, it would go: (1) piano, (2) bass, (7) guitar.

That’s not a typo. I only play three instruments, and guitar is still my seventh best axe. So, why, you may ask, am I playing an instrument I can barely identify from three steps away? It’s the challenge, my friends. What fun is there in playing it safe, right? Any true musician craves a challenge. And though I’m not a TRUE musician, I do crave challenges …. as well as various foodstuffs. (You can’t eat a challenge, friend – just remember that.)

Give it a listen, damn it!

Okay, so … do you want to hear me pounding out some old Big Green tunes on a 23-year-old six-string acoustic guitar? Dive on in, my friends! I just posted the last number on Thursday. This is the first in a series of nano concerts, I like to think, though I may have to actually hire a producer rather than having Marvin twirl the knobs.

Whoops. Sorry, Marvin – didn’t know you were listening. You realize that lever you’re pulling will erase everything we did this morning , right? Step away from the console! Arrgh … never mind.

Anywho, here’s the playlist. Let me know what you think, fiends!

Usual Rubbish

Putting bread (or perhaps toast) upon the water.

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2000 Years to Christmas

Well, blown me down. I appear to be talking like a pirate today. Why? Damned if I know. Maybe it’s the weather. Or maybe it’s that scurvy crew who’s planning to make off with my booty. (That’s treasure, by the way, not some part of my anatomy).

Well, as you know, Big Green has never been the best pirate ship on the high seas. We have scuttled very few corsairs over our time, whatever the hell THAT means. I guess what I’m saying is that, well, we are somewhat remuneratively challenged. In other words …. we are a freaking financial flop, full stop. (Take that, full stop twitter bot!)

A balance lower than whale shit

There was a time in our early years when we sought some advice on how to manage our finances. We were putting the cart before the horse, in a sense, as we didn’t HAVE any finances at the time. But like most bands, we expected riches to fall from the sky. Our fear was that, if such riches came in the form of gold or silver pieces, we might be crushed by these great falling projectiles. That would never do!

So we went to the local financial advisor and asked him (and yes, it was a him) what we should do if we ever came into some cash. He asked to see our bank account, and when we showed him the passbook that we had kept from grammar school, his face went white (I should say whiter, actually). That was when we were ushered out. No, really – an usher showed us out, and he was kind of large.

Giving it all away

So what do you do with an asset that has no value? Well, friends, it’s simple – you give it away. That’s what we started to do with our music, and damn it, it caught on. Now bands all around the world give their music away for nothing. True, almost none of them are famous bands. And also true, we’ve had zero influence over them on this. But we’re all on the same page – that’s what counts.

A few weeks ago I talked about the interstellar lengths we’ve gone chasing a few stray quatloos. And I realize that this creates a false impression that we’re merely affecting to be non-commercial. Well, nothing could be farther from the truth. Just because we’re chasing money, doesn’t mean we’ve sold out. After all … to sell out, you need something to sell. I rest my case.

Seems a little large, doesn't it, Abe?

Raise the big blue flag

Of course you’ve all heard of Perry’s flag, right? Don’t give up the ship! Well, like any good pirate, we would never give her up, not to some low-down scum of a tugboat operator. And while that flag which bears our name also seems to stand opposed to our principle of giving things away, that doesn’t bother us too much. Anything written on a flag couldn’t be all wrong.

So we will continue pushing out content for no compensation. That’s just how we roll around here. Marvin (my personal robot assistant) does everything HE does for free. Mansized tuber never asks for compensation of any kind. It wouldn’t be right for us to ignore their good example, wouldn’t you agree?

So, look out, opposite shore – here comes some soggy bread!

Usual Rubbish

Putting a gloss on that broken shoe

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2000 Years to Christmas

Yep, they just keep rolling in. That’s what Mitch tells me, anyhow. We’re rich, baby, rich. Unless, of course, our mad science advisor is lying to us. For what reason? Madness has no reason, captain. But it can have a goal.

Well, THAT got weird quick. No matter. Just living the dream here in the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, Big Green’s adopted home. Now that we’ve started performing again, at least in the digital space, we’re finding some small reason to celebrate. Not that we don’t have cheerful moments from time to time. We’re Big Green, after all, not Big Blue. That’s a whole different thing.

Chasing the residuals

Anyway, so we launched this nano solo concert featuring yours truly, Joe of Big Green. And, of course, we assumed that the residuals would start rolling in like oranges on a down ramp. Au contraire, mon frer! Not a farthing found its way to us, not a sausage. We shook the YouTube machine upside-down a few times, but it was no use.

Now, ordinarily this would upset any band. But Big Green is not any band, my friend. Don’t forget – we are a collectivist institution. It’s share and share alike around here. We have built a post-capitalist artist collective in the abandoned mill we call home, and we have no desire for the typical consumer comforts. When we make a sandwich, it’s big enough for five. In other words, Marvin (my personal robot assistant) doesn’t get any. But I digress.

An attempt at radical redistribution

Dennis Moore proved decades ago that redistribution of wealth is trickier than he thought. Among the members of Big Green and our extended network of cast offs, we have tried various methods of radical redistribution over the years. It comes more naturally to some than to others. Anti-Lincoln, for instance, has an innately redistributive ethos: what’s yours is mine, what’s mine is mine. At least you know where he stands!

I don’t want to suggest that we completely eschew standard currency. That’s simply not true. We accept all types of money, from dollars to lire to Aldebaran Quatloos. In fact, we see playing music for money as a form of radical wealth redistribution – exchanging something abstract and intangible for something concrete. Now I don’t know about you, but I’m not particularly crazy about accepting payment in concrete. Sometimes you have to take what you can get.

Sandwiches aren't for robots.

Barrelling toward the future

Last week, the garbage collectors tried a kind of informal redistribution of capital. The took our recycling container and dropped it on our neighbor’s lawn. What’s more, they took the recycling container that belongs to our neighbor on the other side and dropped it on our step. I’m pretty sure this is a signal from the solid waste workers that the revolution is nigh.

Hey, when the revolution comes, we’ll all be rich. That’s right – our new leaders will insist on calling everyone Rich. (I believe it’s an homage to a fallen comrade.)

(P.S. – Don’t forget to check out our nano-concert. New posts coming this week – stay tuned.)

Usual Rubbish

Inside September: The Concert That Wasn’t

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2000 Years to Christmas

What are we calling it? A mini concert? No, that’s too diminutive. A midi concert? Nah … that sounds like I’m running everything with a sequencer. How about a nano-concert? After all, Anti-Lincoln loves peanut butter and nano sandwiches. That’s as good a reason as any.

Well, as usual, your friends in Big Green are putting the cart before the horse. in fact, we’ve gone so far as to actually put the horse in the cart and start pulling the cart around with our teeth. We’re giving him a fun fun horsey ride, only now we’re all going to need orthodontic care and neck braces. But I digress.

What I’m really trying to say (and failing miserably) is that our September THIS IS BIG GREEN podcast includes a solo performance of some six Big Green songs, and instead of coming up with a snappy name for that performance, we just dropped it into the grand pachinko machine known as the internet and left it for you, our listeners, to decide what the hell is going on.

So, well after the fact, we are offering this modest guide to the September Podcast and the six songs I played on acoustic guitar and piano:

Round Up

This is a song I wrote in the mid nineties after hearing a story about a rowdy, racist ATF get-together known as the Good Ol’ Boys Roundup. It’s a bit about that actual party, but really more about the racist culture of law enforcement writ large.

Hey, Caveman

My illustrious brother Matt wrote this song in the 1990s. The title is a callback to an incident in the eighties, I believe, when a friend of our hollered “Hey Caveman” out a second story window to a passerby on the street (a man in robes with a large staff, no less).

Hey, Abe .... what's your favorite nano sandwich?

Do It Every Time

A solo version of a song from our second album, International House. Features some fancy guitar work (NOT) by yours truly.

Meet Me in the Middle

A song I wrote just prior to the COVID pandemic, phase one, when a lot of people were hoping for a bridge of kindness between the two imaginary peaks of Kilimanjaro. This one I actually play on piano, which is an instrument I’ve actually played before. No prior release on this one, though I did do a semi-proper recording of it.

Johnny’s Gun

Another song from International House, this time with gravy. This is a song I wrote after a mass shooting in Brookline, Massachusetts back in 1994. A guy named John Salvi shot up an abortion clinic. The song isn’t really about Salvi – more just about our culture of violence, how we celebrate it in some contexts (i.e. war) and revile it in others (mass shootings at home).

Rich Man

This is an old song, from probably around 1986 or so – maybe the first Big Green song I ever wrote. Another not-previously-released number, along with Meet Me In The Middle, Roundup, and Caveman.

That’s the story, Morey. I have videos of these performances and will post them on our YouTube channel by and by, so that you can see how ridiculous I look when I’m trying to play a guitar and sing at the same time.