Big Green emerges from its long slumber to deliver a pasted-together program of songs from their back catalog recorded live by Joe – a virtual basement mini-concert, if you will, served up on toast. Hey presto.
This is Big Green – September 2021. Features: 1) Put the phone down: Where the hell we’ve been; 2) Joe rehashes the sordid history of Big Green, again; 3) Song: Round Up, by Big Green – live solo version; 4) Song: Hey Caveman, by Big Green – live solo version; 5) A humble non-COVID cough; 6) Song: Do It Every Time, by Big Green – live solo version; 7) Song: Meet Me In The Middle, by Big Green – live solo version; 8) Song: Johnny’s Gun, by Big Green – live solo version; 9) What’s behind Johnny’s Gun, aside from Johnny; 10) Song: Rich Man, by Big Green – live solo version; 11) Coming repulsions … I mean, attractions; 12) Time for us to go.
There, that’s got it. Perfect execution. Couldn’t do another one like that if I tried. Okay, Marvin, you can hit the stop button. Wait, what? YOU DIDN’T HIT RECORD?
Hi, everybody. While this seems like the very next moment in my blog post, it’s actually several hours after wrote that intro. It takes me that long to disassemble Marvin (my personal robot assistant) piece by piece and then put him back together. And as I am not particularly mechanically inclined, I usually get something wrong on the assembly side. (Last week I somehow incorporated our toaster into his torso unit.)
Okay, so those of you who are musicians (and I know there are a few of you out there) can appreciate what we’re going through these days. Performance venues are flagging, people are afraid of going out, money is scarce – situation normal, right? Our response to this crisis is exactly what you would expect from Big Green – we pull the shades down and get back into bed. Then, first thing the next morning, we sleep until noon. Then, THEN, we go down and look for snacks. That’s how we roll.
We’ll do it live!
I was the first to suggest that we start recording live performances right here in the Cheney Hammer Mill. My bandmates met that suggestion with a resounding silence. Anti Lincoln thought it was a good idea, but he was drunk on the news that his positive-polarity counterpart had been named #1 President of all time once again by the C-SPAN Historian poll. (How that would be a positive reflection on him is another question.)
Well, when it came time to record some live takes, uh … I was the only one who showed up. Now, maybe I forgot to distribute the memo. And maybe I forgot to write the memo. And maybe it never occurred to me to send a memo around in the first place. But for whatever reason, it became clear to me that I would be the only one doing this shit. Just me and my tape opp Marvin.
Choosy mothers
Of course, the question always comes down to which songs I should try to do. It’s actually and easier question than you might think. Since I am equally unpracticed on all of our songs, it really doesn’t matter what the playlist turns out to be. So I pulled some from International House, one or two from Cowboy Scat: Songs in the Key of Rick, and a handful of numbers we haven’t included on any of our albums.
Next step, I put the songs in a blender and ran it on Frappe for 45 seconds. That gave them a smooth consistency they never had before, frankly …. maybe a bit too smooth. So I poured that bilge down the drain and limped back into the studio, guitar in hand, looking for trouble. Then trouble found me.
Know-how? No how!
Now, as some of you know, I attempt to play many instruments. When I say many, I really just mean three – piano, bass, guitar. I am probably most technically inept at the guitar, so naturally, I chose to record most of my live numbers on six string, without accompaniment.
Why? It’s the challenge, my friend. We cannot make things too easy on ourselves. How far would mankind have gotten if we had taken that attitude. Do you think for one moment that we would be anywhere near the brink of total destruction if we had chosen to be content with the way things are? Not a chance.
Anyway, my lame attempts at covering our own damn songs should be dropping sometime soon. Stay tuned.
No, man … I think it starts like this. Or maybe it’s a little slower than that. But it’s in E for sure. What? It’s in A? Are you sure? Damn ….
You know, I’ve never been very good at total recall. I don’t think my time at the Cheney Hammer Mill has improved my memory, either. So, what the hell am I talking about? Well … I’m gonna tell you. Marvin (my personal robot assistant) and I have been pulling out the old numbers. No, I don’t mean numerals in Old English script. No, I don’t mean stale joints. I mean songs, damn it!
Sorry. That came out a little stronger than I meant it to be. Suffice to say that we’ve decided to take a few hours to dust off some items from our back catalog. It’s a catalogue of mostly Matt’s songs, as he is the more prolific writer, by far, but regardless of authorship, there’s a lot of shit in there. (And by “in there” I mean in a recondite side room of the hammer mill where they used to keep the machine tools.)
Invisible chestnuts
Now, of course, we have a process. Marvin finds a song in the machine room. He dusts it off, as I suggested earlier, and hands it to me. Because we don’t write songs out in standard notation (or any other kind, for that matter), it’s a little hard to get a grip on a thirty-year-old song, particularly when it only exists in the vaguest metaphysical sense.
I’ve often (or perhaps never) said that Marvin’s sole super power is his ability to carry around insubstantial things. Once I saw him pushing an invisible hand cart stacked ten high with invisible cases of Nehi cola. That makes him the ideal automaton for the job of retrieving song ideas from the dustbin of history. Lord knows, there’s likely to be a chestnut or two in there. Perhaps more.
Entering fram-a-geddon
Okay, so once Marvin trundles in with a brass armload of decades-old songs, I get right to work. I pick up my superannuated Martin guitar and start twanging until the neighbors begin throwing things. That typically takes as long as five or six minutes. Then I close the window and start over, slapping the strings with my thumb and fingers like I just don’t effing care.
Why, you may ask, don’t I use a pick? Very simple, my friends. I don’t freaking know how, that’s why. Also, you can drop a pick, but try … just try to drop your thumb. Not so easy, is it? And before you ask, yes, my right thumb gets sore and calloused and all the rest of it. And yes, my chaotic framming sounds kind of extra twangy. But a dude has to do what a dude has to do. And dis dude does dat ding. (Yes, I said that. I’m ashamed of it, but I did, in fact, say that.)
Time for the round up
Like I said earlier, there are a few of my songs in that basket. One of them is called “Good Old Boys Round Up”, which was slated for our second album, International House, but never got off the ground. I think we started to record it, but it went all pear shaped. Not that there’s anything wrong with the shape of pears, but … anyway.
I’ve been jangling that sucker a bit and will likely do some “live” virtual recordings of that and other selections, then post them somewhere, somehow, maybe with some video, who the hell knows? Well … you’ll be the first to know.
