I've
decided, finally, to record the solo album the world was born to hear. It was
not a decision easily arrived at; I had spent several hours debating all the
pros and cons when the idea first flowered over a decade ago. But convicts and
prostitutes aren't the most reliable sounding boards for such concerns, which
became clear when I awoke the next morning robbed and beaten in a dirty alley,
plopped in a lonely puddle of my own bruised genius. The idea had gone comatose
by the time I found my way home, and I spent most of the ensuing years singing
with a pretty bitching band, writing stuff like this column, taking some
pictures, and just generally getting to know myself better. (This last
activity, which began so cordially and compellingly, eventually started to get
a bit ugly, so I swore it off.)
I've
received hundreds of letters in recent months, all containing pretty much the
same message: Hose, when are you going to burp up that solo album that has been
inside you for so long? It became so aggravating that my attorneys, two private
investigators, and a big-time restraining order were necessary in order to
restore the tranquility that I, like most artists worthy of their own seed,
require for proper function. The chick who wrote all those letters is probably
pretty upset with me now and I take no
joy in losing such a committed fan (and I mean that, Britney), but I hope in
some small way she understands that while I'll treasure the photos and
underthings she sent along so thoughtfully, the decision to do the album came
down to a simple coin toss one evening when I was bored. I even ended up making
it four out of seven tosses to make sure there could be no possibility of
error. That's the kind of certainty one demands as one matures.
The final
brake that humped the camel's straw occurred after I finished a wonderful book
a few days ago. Titled In His Own Write, it's an odd little book published in 1964 and written by a guy who
unfortunately shared a name with one of the Beatles: John Lennon. The
phenomenon that the Beatles were to become obviously wreaked havoc with the
author's future literary aspirations, but I must say that it's a dandy read.
Immersing my nose in its dusty pages, I kept sighing to myself, "Wow! This
isn't 'John Lennon with Tony Teabag" or 'John Lennon as told to R. Evers
Cowgirl' or some similar pedigree the modern reader has gotten used to. No,
this Mr. Lennon did it all himself, unlike that Beatle who needed three others
to help him excrete his art. I felt embraced by a jealous exhilaration not
unlike one feels upon noticing two pups joined at the hips and unable to pursue
their opposite paths. Why, I wondered, could I not make an album all by myself?
Because it
requires talent, you dip. The question of whether I do have the goods was
affirmatively answered in six out of ten coin tosses I proceeded to execute,
effectively executing the question itself.
Now the
path is clear and empty musical vistas await the footprints of my size 101/2
boots, the melodious notes of my keyboards, the swelling cries and plaintive gurglings of my freshly
oil-changed throat. Truly unleashed, I shall proudly mark this territory and
obtain glorious relief. Let no bitch betray me.
Of course,
there's a duh factor in the timing of my enterprise as well: Gregory Page
recently announced that his forthcoming work, Bird in a Cage, will be his last
recording. So much for the competition. Thank you, Lord.
Some kind
of quirky marketing tool is always a plus in today's overcrowded music market,
so I'm toying with the idea of releasing it first only on 8-track cassette,
perhaps in reaction to all the Internet snobbery I've come to despise. Besides,
I've always appreciated the warmth of eight tracks, especially when they're
left on a car seat awhile. There's nothing like those loud clicks every ten
minutes or so when the tracks change to confirm that, by dingy, the player is
working hard for you, that it's doing everything it can to keep you happy, that
you, the listener, are truly worth something after all (albeit a lot less than
the artist you're listening to. Don't kid yourself.).
I've begun
to work on my album's title, which most people put off until the music is done.
But that's where they go wrong - I took my clue from Ludwig Van Beethoven who
(and this is just one example of his genius) would number his symphonies before
composing them. Among my many worthy but discarded titles have been Tapestry (too ambivalent), Leslie
Gore's Greatest Hits (already taken), The Hose (too obvious), and Gettin' Jiggy
Wid Da Thang (phat, but might promote illiteracy). So, right now it's between
Tongue on the Raincoat and Presentation of the Hindquarters; winner may have to
be decided by a coin toss.
I can
honestly say at this moment that I haven't been so excited about a project
since my bubble bath last night. And remember, I'm not doing this for myself.
No, it's for you and my wallet exclusively - my own little way of giving back.