"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