I realize dear Sinners, that it's been a while. For good reason(s). The recently extinguished year did not spare me it's chaos. However, I am certain I will look back upon it as one of the most important periods of my brief stay in this skin. Just weeks after writing an entry about The Elephant Box and my deceased father, the man I called Grandfather and Mentor departed this spinning stone. For those of you who are unfamiliar, I refer to him as L.V.S whenever I write of him. In fact, and yes I mean factually, there will be a song named just that on the new album. He was grace, strength, and mischief defined. I miss him in a way that is very different from how I imagined I might. The story was written in his memory and honor. Crafted in the way that he always asked I write. It is his.
Recently, I put the final touches on that and 9 other stories that will become the next full length album. Now begins pre-production with my miscreants: Dusty Bones, Mr. Gillespie, and Dante Edmont. There will be a host of other players featured as well but these brothers of mine will be the core. And this collection my fiends, is war.
Some of the songs on the new album have already been performed live, while others are a mystery even to my cohorts.
A major difference in the composition of these songs is the process.
While most of The Owl & The Elephant existed for at least a year before I approached the studio, two of these stories were written within the last week. My writing binges have been feverish this time around. Like sharp stab wounds rather than a slow twisting rope. I think I might even have another in me before we enter the recording phase.
You won't see us live much for a bit, but know that it is simply because we are in the depths of the recording process which begins on February 5th. We will track and mix the album, much like we did the last, in under 20 days.
It curls my lip a bit to think of how I met Mr. Gillespie and Dante during the process of recording my last collection. It's a privilege to now call these men my friends. Men of true soul, depth, and talent. And of course Dusty, whom I've known for nearly half my life...I'd not be surprised if, at the very moment I felt an unexplained pain in my foot, Mr. Bones had stubbed his toe 60 miles away. We'll be fighting over who takes the bullet I imagine.
Mike Ferretti will once again co-produce, and Mr. Ian Scratch and Peter horn will return on percussion and fiddle respectively. But it won't stop there. Oh, no Sinners, it won't stop there.
The second movement. The second of many. It has become clear to me that until life leaves me or is taken from me I must. I simply. Must. Do this.
Sooner,
SJ
Summer's Demise
This evening I strolled through the wet, grey streets of the quaint riverside town I inhabit.
The large digital display atop the old bank building read 68 degrees and I felt the edges of my lips curl upward. Autumn approaches. I can hear it's melody in the distance. You see, dear Sinners, Autumn provides creative transfusion.
I can smell the leaves dying already, and I am readying my veins for new stock.
The large digital display atop the old bank building read 68 degrees and I felt the edges of my lips curl upward. Autumn approaches. I can hear it's melody in the distance. You see, dear Sinners, Autumn provides creative transfusion.
I can smell the leaves dying already, and I am readying my veins for new stock.
The Elephant Box Part I
This will be the first part of a longer story. The emotional truth and detailed nature of this life changing event will no doubt make it a challenge for me to write in one sitting. I will write as much as feels natural now and continue the story again soon.
Enjoy...
Upon my father's death years ago, not much was passed along to his seven children. Rather, a letter was given to each in advance of his demise. In said letter, he expressed his desire that all choices to pass along his belongings be made (and rightfully so) by his soon to be grieving bride.
Upon his death, I was given a few antique rifles and the family crest. I expected that would be the end of it. Five years passed.
At a recent funeral, my step-mother approached me and recommended I remove a box from her car. A box of things belonging to my father. Things I did not know existed. My breath left me, and I took the keys from her hand. Her new husband (a lovely man named Andy) ironically escorted me to the automobile and helped to retrieve a massive cardboard vessel from the front seat. He left with a sweaty brow and much haste, seeming to understand that the gravity of this moment had nothing to do with the weight of the box.
I opened the torn top flaps, and beneath that smoldering midday sun I gazed upon the most profound gift I have ever or will ever receive(d).
Among various significant items within the box was another box. Ancient, wooden, and hand-crafted. I removed the cracked lid and immediately felt a salty drop emerge from my eye. This box, this, tiny museum, was far too significant to be sifted through on the sorrow-trodden asphalt of a funeral home parking lot. This gift deserved the comfort of low light and whiskey. The sort of thing to be inspected closely, with each of it's elements spread out on the floor before me. This was history. My history.
The missing pieces of a man I knew only through a single short-sighted lens. Atop the stack of faded and torn contents within the box, a photograph stared back at me. The face I recognized, but not much else. The picture was of a man in the most graceful of ballet stances. Slim. Shoulders back. Eyes narrow. Poised. Strong. The Elephant in 1952. Just several years younger than I am now. He was a dancer.
Sj
Enjoy...
Upon my father's death years ago, not much was passed along to his seven children. Rather, a letter was given to each in advance of his demise. In said letter, he expressed his desire that all choices to pass along his belongings be made (and rightfully so) by his soon to be grieving bride.
Upon his death, I was given a few antique rifles and the family crest. I expected that would be the end of it. Five years passed.
At a recent funeral, my step-mother approached me and recommended I remove a box from her car. A box of things belonging to my father. Things I did not know existed. My breath left me, and I took the keys from her hand. Her new husband (a lovely man named Andy) ironically escorted me to the automobile and helped to retrieve a massive cardboard vessel from the front seat. He left with a sweaty brow and much haste, seeming to understand that the gravity of this moment had nothing to do with the weight of the box.
I opened the torn top flaps, and beneath that smoldering midday sun I gazed upon the most profound gift I have ever or will ever receive(d).
Among various significant items within the box was another box. Ancient, wooden, and hand-crafted. I removed the cracked lid and immediately felt a salty drop emerge from my eye. This box, this, tiny museum, was far too significant to be sifted through on the sorrow-trodden asphalt of a funeral home parking lot. This gift deserved the comfort of low light and whiskey. The sort of thing to be inspected closely, with each of it's elements spread out on the floor before me. This was history. My history.
The missing pieces of a man I knew only through a single short-sighted lens. Atop the stack of faded and torn contents within the box, a photograph stared back at me. The face I recognized, but not much else. The picture was of a man in the most graceful of ballet stances. Slim. Shoulders back. Eyes narrow. Poised. Strong. The Elephant in 1952. Just several years younger than I am now. He was a dancer.
Sj
The Owl & The Elephant
It is my absolute pleasure to announce the official release of my first full-length album entitled, "The Owl & The Elephant".
The album was recorded and mixed on off hours at The Barber Shop Studios in Hopatcong, NJ. The entire process took about 2 weeks, but due to limited (but very much appreciated) studio access, that 2 weeks took nearly a year. I must say though, in the course of that year, these songs never once became old or stale for me. I am as motivated and passionate about this collection of stories as I was the day we began tracking Mr. Bones' eloquent drum tracks.
I worked side by side with Mr. Mike Ferretti for the duration of the album's production. Mike is an incredibly gifted Producer/Engineer/Mixer whose talent is limitless. Not for a moment did we disagree on what was right. For the most part, my original arrangements are intact on the recordings. Mike though, knew exactly where to place every element and sound in a way that, to me, gives every instrument on each song a distinctly playful and important character. There are many ways this album could have sounded, and in the end, I believe Mike and I agree, it sounds exactly as it should.
The album itself is intended to be listened to in it's entirety the first time. After that, I imagine and hope that everyone will have their favorite songs, but It is assembled in a way that should make sense to most who listen. One might think of it as a book with two major sections and an epilogue.
Section I: Tracks 1-6
Section II: 7 - 9
Epilogue: 10
I could ramble on about what these stories mean to me and how grateful I am to all of the people who graciously lent they're time, talent, and resources, but I'd rather have you hear that passion and appreciation through the songs themselves.
Now, the task of delivering my work to the masses. Oh, the fun we'll have.
You may now purchase the album as digital downloads or physical CD at the links below.
Thank you always for reading my ramblings
Sooner Sinners,
Sj
AmazonMP3
iTunes
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