Statement of Purpose

I started writing songs when I was in high school, but I never did anything with them. In fact, I hid my pages of lyrics under the socks in my drawer. A few years later, while attending college, I was encouraged by a small group of close friends to do something with the songs that I had written. I had heard about MIDI, a computer language that allowed computers to be used to operate synthesizers and drum machines, and one day I went into a music store to inquire about what I would need in order to start programming my own music. The answer was simple: a computer, sequencer software, MIDI-compatible instruments, and a computer interface that would allow the computer to talk to the instruments. Oh, and a few thousand dollars to pay for it all. I spent the better part of a year putting items on lay-away and looking forward to the day that I could pay an item off and take it home. On a larger scale, I had to wait until I had ALL of the key components before I could start to work on any musical arrangements. Eventually, of course, all of the component pieces came together.

At the time (and this would have been about 1987), my father had an Apple IIe with two five-inch floppy disk drives and no internal hard disk. One night after he had gone to bed, I pried the top off of the computer and installed the interface. I was ready to go. Or so I thought.

My first attempts were primitive, as I struggled to learn the not-particularly user-friendly software, the MIDI protocol, and synthesizer programming. The initial learning curve was steep, and all I was coming up with were sketches.

Upon returning to college, I met some new friends who were as deeply into music as I was. Two of them, Phillip Linford and Derek Johnson, were talented guitar players. With some encouragement, I started to think that I could produce an album if I programmed the backing tracks and asked Phil and Derek to play guitar. Once I'd recorded vocals, I'd have my first album completed. A great plan, except that I had no way to record actual audio tracks. I ended up borrowing a 4-track cassette recorder from a friend of a friend and putting nine songs to tape in a 48 hour period. Phil and Derek played their hearts out for me, but since it was my first experience with a multi-track recorder, and since I had no idea how to operate it and only 48 hours in which to figure it out, the results were primitive and imperfect. Compared to professional recordings, my first effort at recording an album was borderline unlistenable. The music itself wasn't bad for a first effort, but the audio quality was horrible. In spite of the album's obvious shortcomings, I was quite proud of it at the time. It felt like a significant accomplishment. I named the album "Kerique" after a character from a children's story, put together some hand-drawn cover art, made dozens of copies to give to friends and relatives, and even sent a few out to record labels in the starry-eyed hope that I might generate some interest. Needless to say, record labels aren't interested in low-quality garage recordings that sound like somebody is rubbing the microphone with sandpaper.

The following year I recorded two more albums: an album titled "Exile By Degrees" and a collection of ambient instrumentals. "Exile By Degrees" showed a noticeable improvement in audio quality, but was still miles away from being close to professional. It marked a breakthrough in my songwriting, however, and was a far more personal, emotional and introspective album than "Kerique." My friends arranged a premiere party, and upon hearing the completed album they responded favorably. I can't even tell you how much that meant to me.

My collection of instrumentals was more or less of an experiment with varying degrees of success. Inspired by the ambient albums of Brian Eno, I was exploring the creation of atmospheres with sound. This collection was never really intended for anything but private use, and was rarely shared.

Although "Exile By Degrees" received a warm welcome from my friends, I recognized that it still wasn't a very professional sounding recording, and I told myself that the next album would need to be professional-grade. I wanted to create an album that I wouldn't have to apologize for or make excuses for. It was time for all of the pieces to come together with pristine audio quality. So I started working...

...and twenty years went by.

I started on the new album in 1989. It had been less than a year since Ronald Reagan left the White House. The Berlin Wall was still standing. The U.S.S.R. hadn't yet collapsed. Some of the artists in the current Top 40 weren't even born yet.

In the time that has passed since I started working on "my next album," I couldn't help but notice how many bands and artists who were considered notorious for taking long sabbaticals between albums had released far more material than I. Steely Dan reunited and released two new studio albums. The Eagles reunited and released a double CD of new material and a live album with several new songs. Led Zeppelin reunited for a concert, and Jimmy Page and Robert Plant collaborated on two albums. Even the Beatles reunited, sort of. Genesis broke up and reunited. Pink Floyd broke up, reunited (at the Live 8 concert), and broke up again. Fleetwood Mac had several lineup changes, but the "Rumours" lineup released a live album, a studio album, and six or so solo albums. I could write a whole paragraph about what happened to Van Halen, but at some point I stopped paying attention to that particular soap opera. Nirvana came and went. Before (what's left of) Guns n' Roses finally released "Chinese Democracy" in 2009 after 13 years of recording, the rock press had dismissed the album as a mere myth - the musical equivalent of "vaporware" - a promised unicorn that one hears an awful lot about but never actually experiences firsthand. For crying out loud - Boston has released two albums since 1989 and has a third one (their sixth - not including a Greatest Hits album that also had new tracks) on the way. Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to create music at a snail's pace three times slower than Boston? Tupac Shakur has released more material since he died than I have, in spite of the fact that I currently have the benefit of, you know, actually being alive enough to record. Prince changed his name to an unpronouncable symbol, only to change it back a short while later. He also released something like twenty new albums in the time it look me to set up my studio. James Brown, George Harrison, Frank Sinatra, Michael Hutchence, Jerry Garcia, and Michael Jackson died. Richard Wright of Pink Floyd died. John Entwistle of the Who died. Brad Delp, the lead singer of Boston, committed suicide. So did Vince Welnick, the keyboard player for the Tubes. Phil Spector committed murder. Rod Stewart turned into, I don't know, Celine Dion or something. To my knowledge, only one album has taken longer to record than my (perpetually) forthcoming album "The Ides of March" - Brian Wilson's album "Smile" which he started working on in 1966 and finally completed and released in 2004. It took the fictional Mr. Holland thirty years to complete his "opus." I'm two-thirds of the way there already, and I don't want to be that guy.

The music industry in general experienced a continuing financial free-fall as it attempted to remain profitable (and relevant) in the age of digital piracy, and has focused on chasing the "next big thing" down creative dead-ends while sustaining itself on the sexualization and exploitation of marginally talented pubescent teens. The music industry of today's world spends more time and effort marketing product of questionable value in a pointed effort to create the illusion of talent and integrity, while the individuals credited as "artists" have the least involvement and control over the music that bears their name than artists have had since the days of the Brill Building. Much of what passes for music in the present day and age is created by a soulless consortium of financial interests. The music industry has never been less interested in actual artists and musicians, and the type of artists that it now attracts tend to be more interested in fame, no matter how shallow or undeserved, than the creation of anything of lasting value. Music is often seen as a means to an end - a mere venue through which one can achieve fame. And once fame has been obtained, music is less of a priority than "branding." Music becomes little more than just another income stream, as focus shifts towards product licensing and fame reinforcement. The industry, once populated by individuals who were passionate in their love of music and able to recognize and appreciate what was unique about individual artists, has been replaced by number-crunchers who avoid unique artistry in favor of assembly-line performers who know their place and do exactly as they are told. One cannot help but wonder if potentially great artists are having their most creative and artistic instincts beaten out of them by an uncaring industry that values obedience and conformity over individuality and creativity. Artists are no longer "developed," they're completely manufactured. An endless assembly line of "Stepford Wives"-esque soulless robots who are taught when to arch their back to hit the big note, when to drop to their knees with fake passion, and the importance of standing still during the ballads. A compilation of copied antics that originated from artists who WERE original, now replicated for mass production.

Of course, in fairness it must be said that these problems have always existed in the world of popular music. It naturally stems from the association of "popular" with "music." It seems, however, that the extent to which the emphasis on product exists in the industry is more shamelessly, unapologetically brazen. Further, it is clear that the percentage of the industry that is caught up in this line of thinking is much higher than it has been in the past. There is still good music to be found, but the industry itself isn't really willing to help us look for it. The sad result of the "American Idol"-ization of the music industry is that by placing the emphasis on searching for the next impressive voice, the industry has abandoned the search for the next great mind. The next great poet. The voice of the next generation. The next virtouso musician. The next artist with a head full of original ideas. In today's atmosphere, it is hard to imagine a Jimi Hendrix, a John Lennon, or a Janis Joplin rising above the status of local hero. The mass audience has since been conditioned to expect it's male pop stars to look like Abercrombe & Fitch underwear models and it's female artists to look like airbrushed Barbie dolls. It is difficult to imagine the artists of past generations tolerating such nonsense. Instead of albums making statements and contributing to the culture on the level of Marvin Gaye's "What's Going On," we get Britney Spears having songs written by committee about the travails of her fame. Pop culture has simply lowered its standards, as songs that display a social conscience are valued far less than songs that are essentially the soundtrack to a pop star's personal reality show - a "reality" that displays nothing but artifice and is just another part of the fame-maintenance machine.

Obviously, the world of today is very different from what it was when I started this project. Perhaps most importantly, the type of music that appeals to me (and that I hope to produce) is no longer a priority to the multinational conglomerates that control the major labels. And I may be setting the bar unrealistically high. It isn't really fair to criticize today's music for not rivalling "What's Going On." There isn't much in the entire history of pop music that can. And I am not claiming that my work is any more superior to the music that I criticize. I certainly won't make any pretentious claims of having my work rival the pop and rock masterpieces that I admire - but, you know, you have to reach for something. You have to aspire to a certain level, even if it means failure. Even if it guarantees it. There has to be a standard that you're aiming for. Springsteen wanted to sound like Orbison. Van Halen wanted to sound like Led Zeppelin. "Sgt. Pepper" came about because the Beatles wanted to top the Beach Boys' "Pet Sounds." Elvis Presley was blonde but dyed his hair black in order to look more like Tony Curtis. From this perspective, all of the above examples could be considered failures in the strictest sense of the word - but what spectacular failures! Simply by aiming high, you're more likely to come up with something worthwhile even if you fail to meet your initial specific, arbitrary objective. Springsteen's failure to sound like Roy Orbison resulted in "Born To Run." If you're going to fail, that's the way to do it.

Of course, I am no longer the person that I was when I started this project, either. On a personal level, I got married, and have two wonderful kids. My identity has facets that are crucially more important to me than that of "musician," and I'm comfortable with that. Sure, I dropped a small fortune recording demos in a well-equipped recording studio before building my own recording studio at home, but I also returned to the theatrical stage after a ten-year absence and gave some of the strongest and best-received performances of my life, wrote and directed a feature-length film, bought a house, enjoyed a decade in a comfortable career that fell apart shortly after 9/11, and have had to figure out what my second act was going to be in a culture that doesn't emphasize second acts. Additionally, I've faced crippling moments of self-doubt that caused me to question both my musical ability and my motivations for recording an album of original music. And I've peered into the deep, dark truthful mirror and worked out some character flaws. I never claimed to be perfect, and I'm at least as critical of myself as I am of anything else, but as a father, I feel like I'm doing a pretty damn good job.

Suffice it to say that I've had my reasons for not finishing my album...

At the same time, as the years passed by, this album became the great unfinished project of my life, my personal cross to bear, a nagging, unfinished goal, a creative and psychological burden weighing on my conscience. I harbor no starry-eyed thoughts of financial success, or of fame or recognition. That's not what this is about. I realize that the album that I've held in my imagination will never be heard by a particularly large audience, but I'm not making the album to build an audience. I'm making this album for its own sake, just because this is part of what I can do. It really isn't any different than any other hobby that people engage in. Some people quilt, some people make Christmas tree ornaments out of crushed soda-pop cans. I imagine music in my head and attempt to capture it in a recording.

I just need to complete this project in order to move on with the rest of my life, as well as other creative projects. It has been draining. I'm tired of thinking about every other element of my life in terms of how they impact upon the completion of my album. It's time to put up or shut up.

So I'm giving myself a deadline. Either the album (titled "The Ides Of March") is completed by March 15, 2011, or it isn't. Yes, the scheduling will be complicated as I attempt to balance the recording process with the other demands of my life. But, come March of 2011, I'll either be holding the completed CD in my hand, or I'll be putting all of my equipment for sale on eBay. Either way, at the stroke of midnight as March 15 gives way to March 16, 2011, the curtain falls and I'm done with it.

I'll be documenting the process on this blog.

Days remaining as of this post: 471