Tag Archives: Marvin

Old Man Fall.

September 18, 2020 Joe Leave a comment

Yeah, I know, I know – heat costs money. Unless we start burning shit, right? I mean, we’ve got a lot of fuel in this joint, don’t we? And when that runs out, we’ve got a mad science advisor on hand. He can either invent some way to keep us warm, or we can burn those many notebooks he has, all stuffed with theorems to destroy whole planets. We’d be doing humanity a favor!

Howdy, everyone. Sure, we want to do humanity a favor. But we also want to do ourselves the favor of keeping from freezing to death. If the coming winter turns out to be anywhere near as chaotic as this past summer, people will be porting us out of this dump with a pair of ice tongs. Oh, the humanity! And yes, I am being a bit paranoid over the question of how we are going to heat this place, particularly as the nights are get colder and damper. And spookier. But let’s face it – as squatters here in the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, we have no means of acquiring energy from mega-corporations and using it to keep ourselves toasty. Besides, the idea is loathsome to us. Give in to big corporations? Bah! We’d sooner, well …. burn something other than what they’re selling.

There are a lot of drawbacks to living in an abandoned hammer mill. Lack of heat is one of them, sure, but the real problem with our Big Green lifestyle is that we tend to sleep through the worst weather, no matter how bad it gets. That is not a good thing. It’s not that we’re particularly comfortable here. It’s just that we’ve been musicians so long that our diurnal clock has ceased to function properly. You’re supposed to be up all night, in bed half the day, then it’s supper for breakfast and you’re off. (Supper used to be my very favorite breakfast!) Of course, we used to drink like fish … or like fishes. Maybe just Phish. (I think they drink Saranac, actually.) If we still did that, well …. we’d jam more.

Which makes me think, hey …. in this weird ass COVID world we now inhabit, why don’t we join all of the other out-of-work musicians and start jamming on YouTube or Zoom or some other web platform? Well, I can think of one reason – our internet access is dotty, to say the least. I’d like to say we have a legitimate node or ingress to the Web here at the mill, but I don’t want to be accused of lying. Let’s just say that it’s sub-optimal, so if we ever do start cranking out virtual performances, live or pre-recorded, we’ll probably have to tap into somebody’s broadband wifi. I’m looking at you, Ken’s Barber Shoppe!

No doubt about it – Fall is the season that hangs us up the most. Always has been. But here at Big Green, we make the best of things, even if things are …. well … just things. Maybe we can convert Marvin (my personal robot assistant) into some kind of space heater. (He was partially constructed from an old hot water tank, as legend has it.)

Usual Rubbish

Foot stomping.

September 11, 2020 Joe Leave a comment

Start with a one, and a two, and a three, and a … ouch! Damn it, man … I can’t do this in slippers. I need my stomping shoes!

Oh, hi. Yeah, it’s us again, making music again, or dying in the attempt. One thing you can say about this crazy rock music kick, if it ever catches on, is that it’s all about the rhythm section. It’s pretty simple once you get started. And after you learn how to spell “rhythm”, you’ve taken the first step to glory. Then all you need is a sense of timing and some good stomping shoes … and a decent drummer. And of course a bass player. Yes, yes … and rhythm guitar. Oh, yeah … piano. How could I forget that one? Well … maybe it isn’t all that simple after all. But it is contagious, my friends. Mucho contagious.

Listen to me rambling like an idiot. Maybe it’s sleep deprivation, or just bad air. Maybe some of that west coast forest fire ash is making its way back east. Whatever. Our project this week is an attempt to find the rhythmic core of every song we do. First, we get someone to strum the chords on a guitar. That might be Marvin (my personal robot assistant), except that he can’t even hold a guitar unless it’s in a zero gravity environment, like the deck of the Jupiter Two. So maybe anti-Lincoln …. or my brother Matt, who can actually play a guitar. (No, that’s too easy.) Then we pull out the rhythm arranger. Now I know you’re probably picturing a computer workstation of some kind with a pad controller midi-ed into it. Well, dream on, my friends. Our rhythm arranger is a bunch of pots and pans arrayed in a circle, and the rest of us beating on them with wooden spoons. (It’s just about getting the flavor, right? Then we bring in the drummer.)

Is this a fools errand? More than likely. But what other kind of errand are we likely to run … I mean, aside from sending Mitch Macaphee, the world’s third greatest mad scientist, down to the corner store to buy some batteries? You musicians out there know how this works. You just try a bunch of different things, different combinations of instruments and patterns, until something starts to gel. You don’t know how it happens, but it always does. Of course, you have to stir the mix properly, and make certain the water is hot enough, then refrigerate three hours before serving. But enough about Mr. Wiggle. I’m sure you’re just dying to know more about our creative process. Well, I’ll tell you, my friend …. so are we. That’s why we’re sitting around our makeshift living room in an abandoned hammer mill, banging on pots and pans. It’s a conjuring trick.

Next week: how to make Jello. Again.

Usual Rubbish

Hangups.

September 4, 2020 Joe Leave a comment

Never mind, Lincoln, I’ll get it. Hello? Yes, this is the Cheney Hammer Mill. Who is this? Hello? HELLO? IT’S COMING FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE!

Actually, that’s probably not true. I just like to get the pot boiling a little bit before I start typing in earnest. Yes, like so many of you, we at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill get an unending stream of fundraising and advertising scam calls, each and every day. I’ll tell you, it’s hard to get about the work of an unemployed pop band if you’re getting interrupted every twenty-five minutes by a furiously ringing telephone. There are things that Big Green must not do to remain Big Green – these telemarketers are trying to take that away from us, and I won’t have it, do you understand?

I know what some of you are thinking right now. “Joe,” you’re thinking (and by the way, thank you for calling me by my given name) “Why don’t you just get an answering machine?” Good question, nameless interloper. The fact is, we already have an answering machine …. it’s called Marvin (my personal robot assistant). We just place the handset on his left shoulder and punch a few buttons, and our callers will be greeted by a tinny, stilted voice that sounds like an audio ransom note – words cut from different magazine articles and pasted together. Marvin then records their comments and plays them back to us while standing on one wheel. Sure, he squeaks and rusts more than your typical telephone answering machine, but hell … he’s here and willing to do the work, right?

Wrong number again? What a bunch of freaks.

Okay, so … now you’re thinking, “But, wait a minute, Joe. How come you guys have so much time on your hands that you can spend a pile of it worrying about stupid shit like this?” That’s an even better question, which is a short hand way of saying that I have no idea. The simple fact is, we can’t play in public spaces, we don’t have broadband so we can’t play remotely, and we’re in the midst of our Summer music production doldrums, which is to say that none of us feels like doing anything other than sleeping through September. But then every time I try to get a few extra winks, that phone starts ringing again. So, it turns out that your implied statement above is absolutely correct – we have done fuck-all this summer, and we’re getting antsy.

Somewhere, a phone was ringing. Sounds like a bad novel from the 70s.

Usual Rubbish

Safe and sorry.

August 28, 2020 Joe Leave a comment

You look like a freaking bank robber. Don’t you have anything else you can use? Try turning it inside out. Yeah, that’s it. Huh. Looks worse. Never mind, man …. it’s pointless.

Oh, hi. Just running though our safety protocols here at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill in upstate New York, our long-time squat house. You never know when disaster may strike. Well …. that is, you never know in advance. I mean, you know when it strikes because it hits you right in the face. Anyway, the point is, we’re finally living up to the Boy Scouts of America creed: Be prepared! Your scout leader may be an abusive POS, so by all means … be prepared! (True fact: When I was a kid, I used to mix up the Boy Scouts with the Boys Clubs of America. But that was mostly because of television advertising – I never came within ten feet of either organization.)

Right, so we are taking precautions in the Hammer Mill. The executive committee of the Big Green collective (i.e. myself, Matt, and anti-Lincoln) decided on a mandatory mask policy. This didn’t go over well with the posse, particularly (and this seems a little surprising to outsiders) anti-Lincoln himself, who vowed to fight the decree to his last breath. After we supplied him with some Kentucky bourbon, he tied a bandana around his head and tried to get it over his ample nose, but no luck. He looked like a cartoon bandito from a corn chip commercial, and of course, we laughed, even though it’s a very serious situation …. very serious indeed, young man!

So, yeah, we’re protecting ourselves from COVID-19, like everybody else. We’ve got group members with pre-existing conditions … like Marvin (my personal robot assistant), who tarnishes easily. But there are other dangers as well. No, I’m not talking about the landlords, though I do have my eye on them. There’s also fire. That’s right, fire. Here we were, considering a move up the Mohawk River to the abandoned Charlestown Mall, and just this past week, it burned to a cinder, sending toxic smoke into neighboring communities from Utica to Westmoreland to five other places you’ve probably never heard of. “Don the masks,” Mitch said, forgetting that there’s no one here named Don. “Marvin, the masks!” I corrected him, and Marvin started handing them out to all and sundry.

We’ll let you know when it’s safe to breathe easy. That’s right, Central New York …. you’ve got a friend.

Usual Rubbish

Summer doldrums.

August 21, 2020 Joe Leave a comment

Hey …. turn the light off. It’s the middle of the freaking night, man. What? The sun? You mean the sun that the Earth orbits? What’s the sun doing out in the middle of the …. oh. Right. I need one of those twenty-four hour clocks.

Yeah, that’s right folks – I overslept again. I blame the season. Now, that comment would make even Marvin (my personal robot assistant) laugh up his brass sleeve, because I basically blame the season for everything. No work? Goddamn northern winters! No groceries? Stupid spring cleaning! I knew those cereal boxes would come in handy one day. No gravity? Dumbass autumn! That’s when Mitch Macaphee starts sharpening his antigravity skills in anticipation of the big mad science annual meeting in Berlin on October 17.

Here in upstate New York, it’s getting so that we only have two seasons anyway: coldish and hot. That means fewer scapegoats for our manifold failings. In any case, I blame my sleepiness on the doldrums of late summer, when that sun is beating down on the leaky roof of the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, turning the third story of this heap into something like a brick oven. I always get snoozy in this weather. And the fact is, there isn’t a lot going on musically these days. COVID-19 has shut down all the clubs. Musicians are performing on Zoom and Google Hangouts, hoping for a mercy tip. It’s just a weird damn time to be alive.

I was saying to Matt the other day (he couldn’t hear me, of course, because he was out passing sweet potatoes to beavers) that these days are a lot like back in the day when we first started out. There were about five places to play around where we lived, and they were all dives. He was too young to get into a bar, but we got in anyway and jammed in front of rows of punters drinking their faces off and hollering for that Dave Mason song … you know, the one that goes blah blah blah and we just disagree! Nine times out of ten we’d get stiffed at the end of the night and have to burn the effing place down …. and then there would be even fewer places to play. I’m telling you, people, violence doesn’t pay! (Unless you’re paid to do it, of course.)

What’s my point? Good question. I think it’s that, well … don’t expect us to do much until it gets colder. Then expect to hear some complaining about how freaking cold it is in here.

Usual Rubbish

Tin pan valley.

August 14, 2020 Joe Leave a comment

This piano needs tuning. What? Yes, yes … I know it’s missing fourteen keys and there are rodents living in it, but nevertheless, the fact remains that IT STILL NEEDS TUNING. What kind of a place is this, anyway?

Oh, right … THAT kind of a place. I sometimes forget where I’m squatting. Abandoned hammer mills are notorious for having poorly maintained upright pianos. Even the ones that are fortunate enough to get converted to consignment stores or mini-malls are plagued with out-of-tune spinets and uprights. I think it’s the moisture, the rising damp, as it were. In any case, the instrument sitting in what used to be the machine shop here at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill has seen better days … and not recently. I do have an old tuning hammer and have tried to wrack it up to somewhere close to concert C, but my reward has been paltry – mostly indents in my forehead from snapping piano strings. Ouch.

Why, you may ask, in this age of electronics do I need to be banging away at an old upright? Good question, nameless interlocutor! There are in fact several reasons:

Reason One: We neglected to pay our power bill. Turns out National Grid doesn’t have a great sense of humor about these things. They pulled the plug on us almost immediately. For a while we had Marvin (my personal robot assistant) chugging along on a treadmill tied to a generator, but, of course, he runs on electricity and, as such, could only generate enough electricity to walk on the treadmill. Sure, Mitch Macaphee, our mad science advisor, could come up with some kind of perpetual energy source, but he’s away at one of his innumerable conferences. (They’re planning something, those mad scientists. I just know it.)

Reason Two: We’re freaking broke, so it’s time to make some money at this asinine undertaking. I’ve dusted off my thirty year old edition of the Songwriter’s Market and I’m going to sit here at this piano and write pop songs for the biggies. Lots of ways you can go with this songwriting game, Mack. First … change your name to Mack. Then choose a genre. You might go with love songs, or maybe religious numbers. Hell, you can start with one and then use the same tunes for the other – just change “baby, baby, baby” to “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus” or vice versa, and you’re all set. Before you know it, you’ll be looking at the birth of a regular tin pan alley in the Mohawk Valley.

Reason Three: Bored out of my gourd! This is the most boring summer ever. In these COVID-plagued days, what else is there to do but pound on distressed pianos and croon about better times? (Seriously, if you can think of shit to do around here, let us know.)

Usual Rubbish

Dream off.

August 7, 2020 Joe Leave a comment

Turn it to the “golden oldies” station. Yeah, that’s the one. Okay … maybe a little Bob Seeger will wash it away. Hmmm. Turn it up a little. Little more. Oh, god – that’s enough! TURN IT OFF, THE RADIO!

Cheese and crackers, what a night! Now I know you’re used to that being a positive expression when it is issued from the lips of a rock musician, but that’s not the kind of night I’m talking about here, folks. This is one I slept through, for the most part. I was dreaming like a madman, and I heard music in one of my dreams that stayed with me after I woke up. It’s like someone planted an earworm in me while I was sleeping, and I can’t freaking shake it. (Well, I did shake it, literally, but that didn’t help.)

And yes, I know many great songwriters and classical composers harvested some of their best themes from dream music. Again, I am going to back over another popular preconception about musicians. Yeah, I hear music in my dreams, and sometimes it sticks with me when I wake up. But with me, it’s almost always lousy as hell. Whoever does the incidental music score for my dreams is a freaking hack. For crying out loud – everything in my life is the low-rent version of something decent. Some people have sophisticated androids. I have Marvin (my personal robot assistant), who’s little more than a hopped up samovar crossed with a hot water heater. Some people have tony mansions. I live in an abandoned hammer mill with a bunch of lunatics. Poor little motherfucking me.

Okay, I feel better now. Got to get these things out of your system, you know. Now if I could only get this dumb-ass dream music out of my head. It’s a plunky little number in 10/4 time that goes absolutely nowhere, so it loops easily, and it goes round and round. And round. I’ve tried going to the supermarket and wheeling around an empty cart while listening to piped in music, but that was unsuccessful. Next, I think I’ll cue up all of the Nixon Android songs from Ned Trek, our other podcast. I think there’s about a dozen of them. Listening to an audio animatronic Nixon sing about his misfortunes in 12 different ways should be an ideal method for burning this plague out of my brain. NOTHING can survive Nixon.

Which reminds me … what the hell happened to our fourth album? We were going to build it out of selections from our Ned Trek catalogue, but thus far, no potato. Maybe that little earworm is trying to tell me to get my lazy ass moving. Jesus. Why not send a telegram, for chrissake?

Usual Rubbish

Broken windows.

July 31, 2020 Joe Leave a comment

That putty’s too dry. You can’t do anything with it now. What’d you do, leave it out in the sun? Well, that’s your problem right there. Sun, hot. Sun HOT.

Oh, hi. Just another summer’s day here at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill in upstate New York, Big Green’s longtime adopted home (squat house). Truth be known, we don’t always squat here – sometimes we stand bolt upright. I know that breaks with protocol for squat houses, but hell … we’ve got a lot of head room in this mill. Those old nineteenth century hammer-meisters must have been pretty tall; either that or they all worked on horseback. (I seem to remember one promoter we had once who wanted us to play our music on horseback. He also wanted me to change my name to Tex Piadro. Don’t remember why we let him go, but …. we let him go.)

Well, as anyone who has ever lived in an old apartment building knows, when it comes to structural flaws or things that leak, you’re basically on your own. If you’re a legit renter, you can call your landlord, and s/he will send a) a friend who owes some money, b) a brother in law who purports to be a handyman, or c) his or her own ass with a monkey wrench and a prayer. Our situation is different, of course – being squatters, we have no one to complain to when the place is falling apart around us. But the upside of that is, no useless hacks hammering away at some home maintenance problem they haven’t got a clue about addressing. As squatters, we become the useless hacks. That’s called self-reliance, kids. Look it up.

They obviously need some work. (The windows, that is.)

There’s a lot wrong with this hammer mill. Not for nothing did they abandon it. You would have thought they’d convert it into some kind of multi-vendor consignment mall or indoor craft fair, like they typically do with old mills up here, but frankly the place is just in too rough a shape. (I think it’s more of a rough hexagon than anything else.) We’re trying to do something about the leaky windows, as that’s the most annoying problem right now. Marvin (my personal robot assistant) has been called into service as a wind-break and rain shield. Basically, we told him to hold up a stretched out garbage bag in front of the window and … well, just keep holding it.

Then Mitch Macaphee, our mad science advisor, started getting busy with the window putty. Don’t know where he found the stuff, but I for one have never seen putty that glows in the dark before. When I asked Mitch about that, he just gave a dry little cackle and kept working. Fair enough.

Usual Rubbish

Revival.

July 17, 2020 Joe Leave a comment

Looks pretty moribund to me. Did you kick the tires? Here – take the ignition key and give it a few cranks. Nothing? Right. This will be harder than I thought.

Hey, hello. Welcome to the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill in central New York state, an out-of-the-way corner of an out-of-the-way place if ever there was one. (And there was one.) Still in the midst of an archive summer – not that much of a novelty around this place. Seems like every summer I find myself diving through boxes and bins of old tapes, moth-eaten notebooks, forgotten scraps of paper, and old biscuit tins filled with souvenirs of a bygone age. You know what they say about idle hands. Don’t you? Hell, I don’t know what they say. I was hoping you’d tell me. Something like, idle hands build false … idols. Who knows?

Actually, it was Marvin (my personal robot assistant) who reminded me that we haven’t posted an episode of THIS IS BIG GREEN, our podcast, in over seven months. Something of an oversight, I’d say. Like most musicians in these pandemic times, I chalk it up to COVID-19, but that’s not really the reason. You know the story, right? Just too much other shit to do. Anyway, Marvin has talked me into reviving the podcast, and not a moment too soon. The RSS feed was getting too rusty to send anything over. If we’d waited another month, it would have seized up entirely. We have blown the whole impulse stack trying to start it up again. Sure, we could have mixed the matter and antimatter cold, but it’s never been done. How’s that for a reason?

You search the biscuit tins. I'll revive the podcast.

As some of you know, I have, in fact, started yet another podcast – it’s called Strange Sound, and it’s a long-running political rant … something like the audio version of my, well … political rants. Anyway, that soaked up some of my time and energy. Of course, there’s ongoing maintenance of the hammer mill. Not that I actually do any of it, but it is something that’s happening, and it does take time. (Just not mine.) Then there are local relationships to keep up. You can’t overstate the importance of this – If we don’t work our butts off to mollify our neighbors, they’re likely to come after us with pruning hooks. Have you ever been pruned by an angry neighbor? One time is enough, believe me. Finally, the hammer mill’s roof is in terrible shape, and I have to spend practically every rainy day changing the buckets under the leaks. It feels like bailing out the titanic sometimes, only with less cheesy music.

Well, we’ll see if anything comes charging down that RSS feed. (Keep your ears open.)

Usual Rubbish

Names and faces.

July 10, 2020 Joe Leave a comment

What the hell. Was it THAT long ago? No way! Effing 1986 was … uh … oh, right. I’m leaving out a few decades. Fuck, we’re old. Where’s my porridge?

Nothing like a little trip down memory lane to lift your spirits, right? Just be sure not to take a right at the light – that road goes straight to crazy town. Spent the morning listening to recordings from our first year as a band, 1986. Actually, not the WHOLE morning, as there are only a handful of recordings. We did everything on a shoestring back then, and you don’t have to be a recording technology specialist to know that shoestrings are a very low-fidelity substitute for magnetic tape. Fact is, Big Green co-founder Ned Danison had the use of his brother’s recording studio, and we piled in there one weekend and plowed through a four-song demo that got us, well …. exactly nowhere, but it’s a nice conversation piece. (See? I’m talking about it even now, thirty three years later.)

That was a hot summer, too. Or maybe it was all of those wine coolers. Either way, we were going through what another guitar player friend of ours termed “the Brr-roke Period”, fighting the mice for scraps, sharing smokes, sleeping on people’s floors. (At one point it got so bad we were forced to sleep on somebody’s walls.) Of course, being white people, we were never REALLY REALLY poor, just poor as seen on T.V., like Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck carving that bean into paper thin slices, so thin you could see through it, and squeezing the slices between similarly translucent slices of bread. I suppose in that metaphor, I played Donald, quacking madly in frustration at our made-for-television penury. Poor suburban waif! No bean for his sandwich!

Yeah, well … we didn’t have an entourage of helpers back then. No Mitch Macaphee to help with mad science solutions. No Marvin (my personal robot assistant) to tie our shoes and balance our checkbooks. No checkbooks (because, wait for it …. we were broke). We didn’t even have a drummer, for crying out loud, or at least none that would stick with us long enough to play a gig. So that summer of 1986 (or was it the fall? No matter.) when we got the use of John Danison’s 8-track garage studio, we recorded three tracks with a session drummer we knew from around Albany, NY at that time, a guy by the name of Pete Young. Two of the tracks were cover songs from our stage set at that time – “She Caught The Katy”, by Taj Mahal, which we played on THIS IS BIG GREEN back in 2012, and Little Richard’s “Slipping and Sliding”. We also did one of Ned’s songs, entitled “A Name And A Face”, which kind of amusingly chronicles a one-night stand of the drunken eighties variety – an alt-rock walk of shame, if you will.

That was our demo. It went nowhere. Pete left the group before he even joined. Ned left the group the next year. And here you have us – the remainders of a random idea for a group, 34 years ago, chronicled in that hastily produced demo …. which I will post one of these days. Stay tuned!

Postscript

One of these days came sooner than I thought. Here is that four-song cassette demo we recorded back in 1986, over in Ballston Spa, NY.

1986 Big Green Demo

Postscript

Official site of the band Big Green