24 Hour Music Video & Foburg Fest New Orleans

While in New Orleans for our Foburg Fest performance in March.  We were selected as one of 13 out of over 120 performing artists to be part of "The 24 Hour Music Video Festival".

My miscreants and I were nursing hangovers at the New Orleans St. Patrick's Day parade when I received a phone call explaining to me that we had in fact been selected as part of this music video competition.  The catch:  The yet to be assembled film crew would need access to us for 24 hours.
Obviously, we thought it was a terrific idea.  So we along with our hostess the lovely Ariane Trahan of Easy Apple Promo and No Correct Way Radio Promotions, headed back to her home to prepare for our Foburg performance, and what was now certain to be a very, very long night.

We arrived at AllWays Lounge for sound check at around 6pm and performed around 9pm. Which is precisely when Director of Photography Rob Davis arrived at the venue to begin our 24 hour video.  He spoke with me briefly before we took the stage and began filming.  After the performance (which was absolutely fantastic)  We spoke with Rob, and followed him the the crew's rendezvous point.  We were greeted by Director, Simon Marthinsen and he pitched concept for the video.   It would be of the song "Life Is Beautiful" and would revolve around the concept of my drowning and a ghostly second-line through a cemetery and into the streets of New Orleans.    These solemn scenes were to be cut together with a sunrise performance on the shore of Lake Pontchartrain (the same lake I was asked to drown in.   After speaking with further with Rob, Simon, and Producer Jared Serigne, we headed back to Ariane's apartment to await our call to begin filming.

At around 2:30am, we received a call to meet the crew at Beth Israel Cemetary No. 1.  We arrived to an eerie glow from behind a tombstone where the crew was ducking down to avoid being spotted my officials.  The moment they were aware of our presence, a high energy gal handed me white clothes to wear and I changed clothes among the dead.  That alone would have made my night.

We had less than 15 minutes to film the cemetery sequence, so by the 5th take we were on our way to the next location, Frenchmen St.   We arrived there around  4:00am  and began filming. A fully populated second-line was nearly impossible to gather at that hour so the crew opted for the progression to feature only myself, Mr. Gillespie, Dusty Bones, and Dante Edmont.   At one point I was asked to proselytize the song on a dark street-corner.  I happily obliged.

After a bit of downtime and a change of clothes for me, we headed to Lake Pontchartrain.  When we arrived, the scene was fully set with a generator, small jib and a camera dolly.  We set up our instruments and waited for the first glimmer of sunrise.   Our window was small and we filmed for only 20 minutes.

After completing the live performance sequence, I was asked to jump into the lake along with some debris the crew had gathered from a curb somewhere. They asked me to drown.  Again,  I happily obliged.

We finished filming at just about 8:30am.  The fellas and I had a house party to attend and perform at so we forwent sleep for a bit of coffee and breakfast supplied by Ms. Trahan.

12 hours later, we all gathered around to watch the unveiling.  An absolutely stunning music video that rivals videos made with days worth of filming and a formidable budget.    So, with out further jabbering,  I give you the 24 Hour Video of "Life Is Beautiful".  Planned, filmed, and edited in 24 hours.

There's a Mean Storm Comin'....

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 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