West Coast Tour Blog, Day 2

After waking up with a case of heartburn that would make Tommy Lasorda proud, I stumbled down to meet Drew and Boris at the hotel cafe for breakfast. I was hoping it was a complimentary breakfast, but alas, it was not. In fact, I'd go so far as to say it was an insulting breakfast. The waiter was about as friendly as Stalin, the coffee should have been ashamed of itself (especially in Seattle), and the prices seemed like they were set in the distant future after a serious rise in inflation. But you know me, I don't like to complain....

As we packed up our crap, Mike's keen eye (with the aid of Steve's 2-nocs) managed to spy a bunch of junkies hanging out on the street corner below. We managed to catch one lucky fellow actually jamming a needle into his arm, while one of his buddies stumbled around trying to pull up his pants for about 10 minutes. Unfortunately, none of the postcards in the hotel gift shop depicted such a beautiful scene, so I bought one of the Space Needle instead. Close enough.

We waved bye bye to Seattle...



...and hello to Portland, where I ruined Steve's beautiful nature shot of two pigeons crapping on a water fountain by walking into frame.



Later in the day, Mike Biskup was reunited with his birth family.



After those heartwarming moments, we decided to celebrate by heading over to the venue we were playing at that night, The Red Room, to check it out. As we pulled into the parking lot, we learned that beer had called to say it missed us, which was great news!



"Coincidentally," Mike said, "I miss beer."



We all laughed. Especially Steve, who giggled like a sissy.



It always gets me hot when Steve giggles like a sissy, so I ran over and gave him a licking.



Boris got a little jealous of Team A-Hole's sexual chemistry, and invited Team D-Bag's John Dorocki over to give him a licking of his own.



John seemed to like the idea.



After all the licking, we reunited with our old friend beer, and played a show too. It was fun. Unfortunately, my plans to reunite with my old high school buddy and secret society FlexGrip member Pat Hayden fell through, when he didn't show up. After a number of $1 mystery shots (which may or may not have been rat poison), we headed back to Flirt's Lounge at the Holiday Inn, where a wedding reception was taking place. The spirit of Elvis (with a little help from those $1 mystery shots) took control of my body.



In all the excitement, I'm quite certain I wet myself. I ran upstairs, ordered another late night pizza, blew a couple lines of parmesan cheese, and called it a night.

West Coast Tour Blog, Day 1

Friday, September 21st

We arrived safely at The Crowne Royale Hotel in Seattle, shortly after our security team beat off thousands of fans clamoring for our flesh and autographs. Hmmm...there's gotta be a better way to say that.



We all went out to eat at some Irish place. Boris and Drew had some coddle. I had some kind of meat pasty (and a g-string). It was tasty. Mike and I went home to get our beauty rest for the gig while Steve, John and Boris investigated a crime scene.



After some keen detective work, Boris happened upon a clue.



John managed to snap a photo of the culprit before he got away.



He looked a little bit like this.



"Holy shit. I know that fucker," Steve said.



Steve phoned the local authorities immediately, as any good drummer would.



As the perp was led away by the authorities, Steve wagged his tongue at him and gave him the old "nana nana poo poo" but in a really manly, sexy way.



It was a great day for justice!

Later that night, we played a show at Jules Maes Saloon in the Georgetown section of Washington. It was a pretty cool bar and their tater tots were like fried chunks of God's nipples. Mysterious Chocolate opened up for us, got down on all fours and blew our minds. Mikiech, their singer, would put Paula Abdul to shame, and not because of his drinking and drug abuse. Nay, it was his dancing. That boy can cut up a rug like O.J., if O.J. were to mistake a rug for his ex-wife and her lover. (Apologies to Steve, who is among the 4 people left who still think O.J. is innocent.)

Then we took the stage and played a fun set with our new instruments, which we had bought that day from Fuckface Center and planned to return a week later. The crowd was pretty enthusiastic, to the point where I decided to invite everyone to our hotel room at The Crowne Royale for a big after-party. A little later on in our set, a couple of guys left over from 1993 kept shouting "PLAY SOMETHING HEAVY!" so naturally we busted out Slayer's "Angel of Death" and they loved it. Angst is alive and well in Seattle, my friends! We were actually prompted to play an encore, so we busted out a slow, sloppy version of "Spare Tire" which cleared the room out faster than that time I whipped my dick out at my office holiday party.

Despite that, the fact that we didn't get paid, and that nobody took us up on the hotel room party offer (apparently our hotel wasn't actually called The Crowne Royale, though I'm not sure that was the reason nobody showed up), it was a fun night and we met some neato folks. I do wish I hadn't ordered that pizza at 2 in the morning, but on the bright side, it was probably cheaper than ordering a hooker.

"The Church of Song" and other great news!

Swimmers,

Greetings, long time no blog! As I'm sure you haven't noticed, I put the making of "Calm Down, Chief!" on the backburner, as I assembled a band and began gigging frequently these past few months as Lifeguard Nights. It's been a blast, and there are many great things to report from Lifeguard HQ.

First of all, on July 15th we went into Retromedia Studios in Red Bank, NJ and recorded basic tracks for 13 songs with our good buddy/engineer Adam Vaccarelli. Our intention was to try to capture our raw, live energy, with minimal editing and over-dubbing. With all of the over-produced crap out there today (bands spending months, or even years, in the studio wasting thousands of dollars doing take after take of each little vocal line, guitar line, etc, etc) I wanted to show that we could go in there, record live, and kick ass...and I think we did. All of the original tracks made the final cut, there were only a couple of minor edits, and vocal harmonies were overdubbed out of necessity. We mixed and mastered the album, shot the artwork and designed the packaging over the course of a week, and had the final product in our hands exactly one month after we had gone into the studio.

Ta-da!



"The Church of Song" is also available on Headshop Records, or from Cd Baby, or Digstation, and soon, iTunes!

"Headshop Records" you ask?

Yes indeed! While at the studio, our tracks caught the ear of Headshop Records (www.headshoprecords.com), who are putting "The Church of Song" out for us on their label! We are incredibly excited to be a part of their roster and feel that this is the beginning of a wonderful partnership!

We celebrated these accomplishments with a packed, sold-out show at the Mercury Lounge this past Friday, August 17th, with our new friends Jupiter One, and old friends The Bosch, who were both also celebrating their cd release parties. It was an amazing night all around, the highlight of which was a rousing rendition of "Over It", which included a number of our friends and fans jumping up on stage with us and singing along. It was also the debut performance of trumpeteer Brad Clymer with the band, a great new addition! (Plus it was my mom's first time seeing me perform, and she didn't disown me, so that was good too)

Finally, I somehow managed to convince most of the band to join me on a tour of the West Coast. Yes, we're leaving September 21st, playing Seattle that night, then heading down the coast and winding up in Vegas on the 29th, then flying home. For specific gig dates/locations, check out www.myspace.com/lifeguardnights

If you live in any of those cities, and/or have friends out there, support the team!

I'll also be doing my best to update this site with fun stuff from the road, so check back often!

It's lucky '07 for lifeguard nights!

safe swimming,

Vincent

"Shame"

After “IWTWITW” hit the airwaves, and the accompanying video hit the internet, I quickly fell out of favor with the Hollywood elite, who were suddenly too afraid to risk being associated with a charlatan such as myself. Although that was my intention, I began to miss the lavish lifestyle I had grown accustomed to. No longer were my chicken wings flown in on a private jet from Buffalo and delivered to my door “on the house”. No longer was I sipping Courvoisier out of a golden chalice whilst my phone rang off the hook with offers to produce the next big indie band for some major label. No longer was I making love to twelve women a night and being called the re-incarnation of Errol Flynn. No longer had I a pony.

Instead I was waiting on long lines at Cluck U. on Thompson Street at 4 A.M, drinking malt liquor out of a rusty flask, getting offers to "duet" with Andy Dick, and masturbating to hentai porn at the Tasti-D-Lite, pony-less.

The mighty had indeed fallen.

So I began to sink deeper into an already dark depression, consoled only by booze, drugs and food. Then one day I told my trusty personal assistant, Diego (who stuck with me through my decline (despite frequent psychological and physical torture) in exchange for my Upper Deck Ken Griffey Jr. rookie card) to videotape me on a binge so I could get a look at what kind of monster I had become.

Thankfully, after taking a long hard look at myself in that shape, I decided it was time to clean up my act. I sobered up for a good long while (a day), and I was headed back to work when something grabbed me. It was Diego. He wanted a milkbone. Reluctantly, I fed him and headed on my way again when something else grabbed me. On the inside.

I put down my attaché case, picked up my guitar and a new song exposed itself to me. I called this song “Shame,” not only because that’s one of the words in the chorus, but because that’s what I was feeling inside at the time.

Misery is a sweet muse, my friends, and at the moment, I have a mouth full of cavities. Enjoy.

"IWTWITW"

One day I came home from work and I took my pants off, as I usually do, and began washing some dishes. On this particular day, I was scraping the bottom of the barrel, undergarment-wise. Yes indeed. The tighty whiteys. As I scrubbed the overcooked Ramen noodles off of my soup bowl, I noticed someone in the building across the way, looking over at me with a quizzical eye.

Judging me.

And I said to them defiantly (but mostly to myself), "Yes, I wear tighty whiteys in the window."

Except I didn't quite say it like that.

Nay, I said it a little bit more like a tweeker pinching his testicles while sucking on a helium tank. Suddenly enamored with this new hook, I attempted to keep the rhythm and rhyme flowing. Unfortunately, the best I could muster was the line, "something something, smoking indo," as it is rather difficult to find a suitable match for "window."

(Coincidentally, Snoop Dogg was in attendance at the very same swag party where I picked up these tighty whiteys. Calvin, what is up, my brother?)

I attempted to make a point in this video, but it wound up on the cutting room floor. (I felt my screen time was better spent making an ass of myself.) The point was that an artist should be able to vary the tone and content and style of their work without their audience reacting like they just found a pubic hair in their soup. Some people hear a funny song and think, "Oh, they're a joke band," or they hear a sad song and think, "Geez, these guys are depressing." They feel the need to categorize your work instantly in order to understand it. Once they've made up their mind and put you in a category, you can't stray from that, or they will get confused.

I don't really know who is to blame for this. It could be the shady business folk, who insist on dumbing things down for the public. Or it could be that the public really is that dumb. It could be the artists who refuse to take chances for fear of alienating their fans, or the ones who took those chances and did, because they sucked at it.

(By taking chances, I'm not talking about a punk band playing a few songs unplugged or a metal band adding a string section at a live show. That is not taking a chance. In fact I find it to be an obnoxious act of self-importance. "Look at us, art form of music, we care enough about you to dabble a little bit in some of your more adult ways. Sure, we're mainly just hoping to re-invent ourselves to milk a few more years out of the limelight with a new audience, but give us credit for the vast musical strides we are taking!")

Perhaps I'm over-analyzing and overreacting a bit. I realize that some artists keep their work within certain confines, and I don't fault them for that. Some of my favorite bands, Rocket From the Crypt and Archers of Loaf for example, never strayed too far from the styles they created for themselves. I don't believe that you have to, just as long as the work stays honest and original.

I'm also not trying to imply that I'm better than anyone else just because I'm willing to throw a song about underwear next to a love song or an indictment of suburban New Jersey. I'm just saying that I write songs that reflect different aspects of my personality, whether they be happy or sad, silly or frightening, weird or inappropriate...and so when you listen to my music with your soup there, take a closer look...it's most likely your own goddamn pubic hair.

"Matador"

Sometimes a song comes to me, taps me on the shoulder and says, "Hello there, young Vincent. You're looking quite strapping today, aren't you? Take me, Vincent! Take me now and ravage me! Carry me into your bedroom and capture me with your throbbing condenser mic! Let us conceive a beautiful mp3 love child!"

And I do this, because you do not argue with a lust song.

But occasionally a song will come to me and say, "Hello there, young Vincent. You're looking quite fetching today, aren't you? Well, I have to go now. See you later."

And so the dance begins.

Days go by. Months. Years.

Flirting.
Yearning.
Itching.
Steamy windows.
Hot flashes.
Cold showers.

Then, a knock at the door.

"Who is it?" I ask.

"It is I, young Vincent! The song you've been waiting for," the song answers.

I hesitate for a moment, then swing the door open with reckless abandon.

We embrace, and culminate our passion.

And that, my friends, is a love song.

"Old Jersey"

I wrote the music to this song late one night after a gig in New Jersey. I was pretty disheartened by the whole experience. Having lived my first 18 years in the garden state, I had always felt that New Jersey was my home, that those were my people out there. But the night was strange. As we were setting up, an old man walked up to me and asked me what kind of music we played. (If I had a dime for every time somebody has asked me that question, I'd be lounging on my own island smoking opium and eating cheesecake with a harem of supermodels right now.)

"Rock," I told him.

Apparently, this was an unsatisfactory answer. He rolled his eyes.

"You might want to think about taking a class in public relations," he advised, and walked off.

Old coots. What the hell do they know?

So we took the stage and though I felt we kicked a wee bit of ass, we might as well have been knitting Christmas sweaters up there. Audience disinterest is nothing new to me, certainly, but there was something else to it. Something slightly sinister and frightening. Afterwards, people were looking at us like we had testicles growing out of our foreheads, and as I watched the mtv-fashion-punk kids come up front and stare blankly at the "we-sound-like-whatever-type-of-music-is-popular-right-now" band that followed us, my brain started spinning like a cauldron of soup being stirred by a fat mustachioed man with a large wooden spoon. Thoughts about American culture, the loss of individuality, identity, and my feelings towards New Jersey. I felt like an outcast in my own home state. But does anyone have a home anymore? Every town has the same stores, the same restaurants, the same bars, the same shitty bands, and the same kids standing there staring at the same shitty bands.

I realize that many others have whined about this already.
I also realize that I have no answers to these problems, and that since I occasionally treat myself to a mocha frappuccino, I'm part of the problem.

The point is....is there a point?

Ah yes.

The point is, for many years I have defended New Jersey from slander (as well as mutant tigers and nuclear attacks, but let's not get into that). I have tried to explain to the naysayers that New Jersey is a wonderful, special place with some beautifully scenic locations and people of real character. I guess in some ways, that's still true.

But mostly, it's just like anywhere else.

"Sunshine"

I came up with the majority of this song about a month ago but put it on the back-burner in order to finish up "M." The only word that I knew was going to be in the song was "sunshine" in the chorus, and though it's relatively happy, the way I was singing it seemed somewhat ominous to me. The episode of Seinfeld with the Sunshine Carpet Cleaners popped into my head and inspired a million ideas.

Calm Down, Chief!

Greetings, swimmers!

I have started this blog in order to document the creation of the 5th Lifeguard Nights album. Since the inception of Lifeguard Nights in July of 2006, I've written close to 100 songs, and released 4 albums, "So Low," "Doing Harm on Easy Street," "After the Disasters," and most recently, "M." The first three albums were therapeutic cleanses, and incredible experiences. I learned how to organically record an album, to allow the songs to find me and grow on me and then tell me "I'm done," and never look back. Once I had expelled the demons, I couldn't wait to put my newfound creative freedom to good use; to step outside of myself and combine my love for fiction and music in one really weird album, "M," a murder mystery-esque fable.

Now that "M" is complete, I am incredibly excited to start working on a new album because I have no idea what it's going to sound like or how it's going to take shape. I have a good 13-14 songs already sketched out, and a few more kicking around in my head. But one of the things I've learned to love the most about recording is that what you hear in your head is never quite what ends up on the final mix; improving upon it is the fun part. So we'll see what happens.

A couple months ago my 5 year old nephew told me to "Calm Down, Chief!" for no apparent reason, and so that's the tentative title of this album. I think it accurately captures the essence of what I'm striving for.

I hope you like it.

Love,

Vincent