http://arbinsongs.com/blog.cfm Wed, 10 Nov 2010 11:55:43 GMT http://bandzoogle.com http://arbinsongs.com/blog.cfm?feature=857769&postid=566063 I remember that day like it was yesterday. Well, I guess it was more of an era, really. But I still think of it as a day. The day the music died. They called it the Digital Age. It happened around the time of the New Millennium, the dawn of the 21st century. It was the time when everything we had ever created prior to this day, using only the limits of our imagination, our human ingenuity and our own human hands to make things, this was all we ever needed. They were the things you had to build with blood and sweat, trial and error; things you had to ponder with deep human thought and emotion to arrive at the right decision, things that required great skill or great knowledge or vast experience that in most instances took a very long time to acquire the mastery needed to build that architectural wonder, write that brilliant novel, that timeless song, make that classic movie, paint that priceless painting; find that monumental scientific breakthrough. Our humanity built the Pyramids, navigated the oceans using only the stars, found cures for illnesses that threatened civilizations, survived famine. Yes, these were the things that mattered to us; things that were won and lost through great struggle and sacrifice, the things that resonated through the generations; things you could touch, things you could feel, things that spoke to you through time with such power and clarity that you needed to pass them on to others to hold and to consider, stories we have carried through thousands of years of human experience that we were hard wired to share. And then, suddenly all of these things; our songs, our stories, our thoughts; our memories, our selves, they were all reduced to tiny little digestible bits of digital information called data; nothing more than an invisible string of ones and zeros. How those numbers got put together was the only thing that separated a picture from a song, a video from a novel, a phone call from a command to a digital pilot in an unmanned aircraft to drop a bomb. Everything there ever was to know, to see, to experience, became simply vaporware; clean, odorless intangible bits of information that could be diced and sliced up into manageable little slivers of life experience you could share with the world in such a terribly convenient way as was never before thought possible. You simply hit a button on a box and your little crumb of experience was instantly everywhere in this invisible, digital world or to an exact destination half way around the world, waiting in somebody's invisible mailbox, all in the blink of an eye. But of course it wasn't all invisible. We needed these little boxes, gadgets and widgets to send and receive this precious data. And these various boxes and gadgets, which became more and more like the stuff of our imagination we once saw in comic strips and science fiction movies, suddenly did so much for us that we simply couldn't live without them. And so an industry prospered and the people became happy consumer slaves. And it was good. For a while. So for obvious reasons, this time, this Digital Age, was first seen by many in the free world as a time of great human achievement and advancement. A time when we were all suddenly "connected" to one another; a time when geography, as a limitation of our ability to interact was completely eliminated. All that old fashioned energy and hard work, that suffering, that striving and sacrifice to achieve greatness, it all became so terribly convenient. Convenience. Yes, that's how it all began...(to be continued) I remember that day like it was yesterday. Well, I guess it was more of an era, really. But I still think of it as a day. The day the music died.

They called it the Digital Age. It happened around the time of the New Millennium, the dawn of the 21st century. It was the time when everything we had ever created prior to this day, using only the limits of our imagination, our human ingenuity and our own human hands to make things, this was all we ever needed. They were the things you had to build with blood and sweat, trial and error; things you had to ponder with deep human thought and emotion to arrive at the right decision, things that required great skill or great knowledge or vast experience that in most instances took a very long time to acquire the mastery needed to build that architectural wonder, write that brilliant novel, that timeless song, make that classic movie, paint that priceless painting; find that monumental scientific breakthrough. Our humanity built the Pyramids, navigated the oceans using only the stars, found cures for illnesses that threatened civilizations, survived famine.

Yes, these were the things that mattered to us; things that were won and lost through great struggle and sacrifice, the things that resonated through the generations; things you could touch, things you could feel, things that spoke to you through time with such power and clarity that you needed to pass them on to others to hold and to consider, stories we have carried through thousands of years of human experience that we were hard wired to share.

And then, suddenly all of these things; our songs, our stories, our thoughts; our memories, our selves, they were all reduced to tiny little digestible bits of digital information called data; nothing more than an invisible string of ones and zeros. How those numbers got put together was the only thing that separated a picture from a song, a video from a novel, a phone call from a command to a digital pilot in an unmanned aircraft to drop a bomb. Everything there ever was to know, to see, to experience, became simply vaporware; clean, odorless intangible bits of information that could be diced and sliced up into manageable little slivers of life experience you could share with the world in such a terribly convenient way as was never before thought possible.

You simply hit a button on a box and your little crumb of experience was instantly everywhere in this invisible, digital world or to an exact destination half way around the world, waiting in somebody's invisible mailbox, all in the blink of an eye. But of course it wasn't all invisible. We needed these little boxes, gadgets and widgets to send and receive this precious data. And these various boxes and gadgets, which became more and more like the stuff of our imagination we once saw in comic strips and science fiction movies, suddenly did so much for us that we simply couldn't live without them. And so an industry prospered and the people became happy consumer slaves. And it was good. For a while.

So for obvious reasons, this time, this Digital Age, was first seen by many in the free world as a time of great human achievement and advancement. A time when we were all suddenly "connected" to one another; a time when geography, as a limitation of our ability to interact was completely eliminated. All that old fashioned energy and hard work, that suffering, that striving and sacrifice to achieve greatness, it all became so terribly convenient.

Convenience. Yes, that's how it all began...(to be continued)
]]> Wed, 10 Nov 2010 11:55:43 GMT F2116B9F9E672E89E74EA80F54557314 http://arbinsongs.com/blog.cfm?feature=857769&postid=259660 I found myself walking in Central Park the other&nbsp;morning, setting in from around East 69th Street, having just dropped off my daughter at kindergarten and continuing further South down Fifth Avenue. The rain from last night made it more sparse of people than would usually be there on a nicer morning. It also gave the added benefit of making everything so deliciously,&nbsp;incredibly green! It's so amazing how you can walk not fifty yards into the park and suddenly leave New York City completely behind you, churning away in&nbsp;some distant, noisy&nbsp;mechanized world. In front of you&nbsp;lies this quiet, magical place that beckons you to wander deeper within. Passing the bandshell, with the rigging of Summer Stage visable just off in the distance, I eventually landed on the terrace looking down the grand stairs to <a target="_new" href="http://gonyc.about.com/od/maps/l/blcentralpark.htm">Bethesda Fountain (how many New Yorkers know that one? Hint: it's the one with the winged&nbsp;lady (&quot;Angel Of Waters&quot;) held up by cherubs&nbsp;in front of the lake by the Boathouse). This is that incredible&nbsp;plaza at 72nd street where, if you turn 180 degrees from the fountain you are staring at that very classic promenade of carved wooden benches giving way to the wide gravel walkway covered by a canopy of stately hardwood trees. It's not too hard to imagine&nbsp;a Norman Rockwell painting of those fine ladies and gents of the late 1800s strolling the very same paths arm in arm, in no particular hurry to get anywhere. It's about as classic a New York postcard of Central Park as you could find, second only to maybe Strawberry Fields and the Imagine mosaic. It is equally beautiful in any of the four seasons. And it's typically a place most New Yorkers avoid like the plague on the nice weekends when swarms of tourists decend upon our fair city's&nbsp;endless&nbsp;points of interest&nbsp;and piss off the rest of us, who just want it all for ourselves, though we rarely if ever actually spend any time visiting or enjoying this wealth of&nbsp;riches&nbsp;within a stone's throw of anywhere&nbsp;we might be standing, drinking our personal&nbsp;brand of&nbsp;latte, snearing at tourists. Those horrid little tourists with their fancy little cameras popping, walking in their&nbsp;snazzy little sneakers that you can't find at Harry's&nbsp;or Shoemania or anywhere else&nbsp;in this or any other American city,&nbsp;with their snappy little NYC maps packed with all those juicy factoids most of us natives couldn't be bothered to know. Who has the time? We've got places to go for Christ sake. Get a life! Go home! Go back to work wherever you came from!&nbsp; Sorry, about my little walk. So I'm standing there on the terrace admiring the view of the fountain (now under construction) when I couldn't help but notice the absolutely&nbsp;incredible&nbsp;masonry detail&nbsp;covering every&nbsp;railing, every column, every bannister lining this amazing plaza&nbsp;that I've&nbsp;walked by&nbsp;and through a thousand times, seen in countless movies but never really focused on until this moment. It's totally over the top every inch of it: birds, fruits, acorns, grape leaves, fig leaves, cornucopia, spilling and flowing, cascading down as though flowing freely in the breeze but it's all made of stone. And as I drew close to capture a picture (not one of those cheap, touristy&nbsp;snapshots mind you but, you know, to capture MY New York moment) of one of these amazing architectural details, I suddenly found myself staring back in time&nbsp;at the work of fine craftsmen, long since dead,&nbsp;who earned their pay chiseling and trowelling away&nbsp;at slabs of masonry, turning them into fine art whose only real function&nbsp;was to remind us of what is humanly possible and how drab life would be without art and interesting architecture. To think that someone long ago not only designed this incredible place in every ornate, curly cued detail, but gave a directive to make it so to a team of artisans who could actually pull it off; knowing or at least hoping that years, maybe even centuries after they're gone, that among the throngs that would surely come, someone (possibly even a real New Yorker) may one day find themselves&nbsp;wandering this great&nbsp;park and land at this very spot.&nbsp;And for perhaps one very brief moment out of&nbsp;a hectic New York&nbsp;life spent mostly running around, wheeling and dealing, moving and shaking, they suddenly wake up from the madness to simply stop, give pause and appreciate beauty and this moment. And then it was time to go. Peace, Mark Hermann I found myself walking in Central Park the other morning, setting in from around East 69th Street, having just dropped off my daughter at kindergarten and continuing further South down Fifth Avenue. The rain from last night made it more sparse of people than would usually be there on a nicer morning. It also gave the added benefit of making everything so deliciously, incredibly green! It's so amazing how you can walk not fifty yards into the park and suddenly leave New York City completely behind you, churning away in some distant, noisy mechanized world. In front of you lies this quiet, magical place that beckons you to wander deeper within.

Passing the bandshell, with the rigging of Summer Stage visable just off in the distance, I eventually landed on the terrace looking down the grand stairs to Bethesda Fountain (how many New Yorkers know that one? Hint: it's the one with the winged lady ("Angel Of Waters") held up by cherubs in front of the lake by the Boathouse). This is that incredible plaza at 72nd street where, if you turn 180 degrees from the fountain you are staring at that very classic promenade of carved wooden benches giving way to the wide gravel walkway covered by a canopy of stately hardwood trees. It's not too hard to imagine a Norman Rockwell painting of those fine ladies and gents of the late 1800s strolling the very same paths arm in arm, in no particular hurry to get anywhere. It's about as classic a New York postcard of Central Park as you could find, second only to maybe Strawberry Fields and the Imagine mosaic. It is equally beautiful in any of the four seasons. And it's typically a place most New Yorkers avoid like the plague on the nice weekends when swarms of tourists decend upon our fair city's endless points of interest and piss off the rest of us, who just want it all for ourselves, though we rarely if ever actually spend any time visiting or enjoying this wealth of riches within a stone's throw of anywhere we might be standing, drinking our personal brand of latte, snearing at tourists.

Those horrid little tourists with their fancy little cameras popping, walking in their snazzy little sneakers that you can't find at Harry's or Shoemania or anywhere else in this or any other American city, with their snappy little NYC maps packed with all those juicy factoids most of us natives couldn't be bothered to know. Who has the time? We've got places to go for Christ sake. Get a life! Go home! Go back to work wherever you came from!  Sorry, about my little walk.

So I'm standing there on the terrace admiring the view of the fountain (now under construction) when I couldn't help but notice the absolutely incredible masonry detail covering every railing, every column, every bannister lining this amazing plaza that I've walked by and through a thousand times, seen in countless movies but never really focused on until this moment. It's totally over the top every inch of it: birds, fruits, acorns, grape leaves, fig leaves, cornucopia, spilling and flowing, cascading down as though flowing freely in the breeze but it's all made of stone.

And as I drew close to capture a picture (not one of those cheap, touristy snapshots mind you but, you know, to capture MY New York moment) of one of these amazing architectural details, I suddenly found myself staring back in time at the work of fine craftsmen, long since dead, who earned their pay chiseling and trowelling away at slabs of masonry, turning them into fine art whose only real function was to remind us of what is humanly possible and how drab life would be without art and interesting architecture.

To think that someone long ago not only designed this incredible place in every ornate, curly cued detail, but gave a directive to make it so to a team of artisans who could actually pull it off; knowing or at least hoping that years, maybe even centuries after they're gone, that among the throngs that would surely come, someone (possibly even a real New Yorker) may one day find themselves wandering this great park and land at this very spot. And for perhaps one very brief moment out of a hectic New York life spent mostly running around, wheeling and dealing, moving and shaking, they suddenly wake up from the madness to simply stop, give pause and appreciate beauty and this moment.

And then it was time to go.

Peace,

Mark Hermann]]> Wed, 28 Apr 2010 07:45:00 GMT 78C5025E0C7AE245AE8B92D69EDC5F16 http://arbinsongs.com/blog.cfm?feature=857769&postid=182543 Today my daughter was getting ready to set off for kindergarten, armed with a pile of Valentines for her classmates and teacher. WBGO jazz radio was playing in the background, as it has every morning since moving to Harlem almost eight years ago. They are a public radio station and as far as I'm concerned the best in the world by far. Check out their Saturday morning Rhythm Review. It's the greatest soul and blues programming I've heard anywhere. They were in the middle of their Winter fundraising drive asking every few minutes to give what you can to keep the station alive. At times it gets annoying. Meanwhile, my daughter is getting&nbsp;upset at the thought of giving out these Valentines without being assured she'll get something back. I launch into the speech about the spirit of giving and how you must do it from the heart without expecting anything in return. I tell her that even if she doesn't get anything back, the smiles she'll see on her classmates' faces will give her so much satisfaction. I tell her that life is funny and she may receive&nbsp;something back&nbsp;in a different way, better than what she was ever expecting from her classmates. (Jazz&nbsp;was still&nbsp;wafting through the kitchen. Grover Washington...nice!) I tell her that maybe she'll be walking down the street today, a woman will have some balloons, see this happy little girl and offer her one just because and what a huge smile it will put on her face. At that moment she will understand the power of giving. My daughter was of course having none of it. I guess that muscle hasn't developed just yet in her five little year old brain. But there's WBGO cranking away, asking for money, asking for money. And suddenly it dawns on me. I've been listening to this station for years and digging what they do and they're saying that if you dig what they do, give some money and keep them on the air. Well, I could continue on and keep listening for free and no one would ever know I didn't give them money. But I looked at my daughter as I picked up the phone and she asks, 'What are you doing, Daddy?' I told her how much we have enjoyed this station and that without our help, they will go away. So I told her it was time to give something back because someone gave us something nice and you need to return the favor. A few minutes later the DJ came on and said, 'And thanks to Mark from Harlem for helping to keep this station alive.' At that moment, my daughter had a big smile and she said, 'That was so&nbsp;cool, daddy!' And off we went to school. Lesson learned. Today my daughter was getting ready to set off for kindergarten, armed with a pile of Valentines for her classmates and teacher. WBGO jazz radio was playing in the background, as it has every morning since moving to Harlem almost eight years ago. They are a public radio station and as far as I'm concerned the best in the world by far. Check out their Saturday morning Rhythm Review. It's the greatest soul and blues programming I've heard anywhere. They were in the middle of their Winter fundraising drive asking every few minutes to give what you can to keep the station alive. At times it gets annoying.

Meanwhile, my daughter is getting upset at the thought of giving out these Valentines without being assured she'll get something back. I launch into the speech about the spirit of giving and how you must do it from the heart without expecting anything in return. I tell her that even if she doesn't get anything back, the smiles she'll see on her classmates' faces will give her so much satisfaction. I tell her that life is funny and she may receive something back in a different way, better than what she was ever expecting from her classmates. (Jazz was still wafting through the kitchen. Grover Washington...nice!) I tell her that maybe she'll be walking down the street today, a woman will have some balloons, see this happy little girl and offer her one just because and what a huge smile it will put on her face. At that moment she will understand the power of giving. My daughter was of course having none of it. I guess that muscle hasn't developed just yet in her five little year old brain.

But there's WBGO cranking away, asking for money, asking for money. And suddenly it dawns on me. I've been listening to this station for years and digging what they do and they're saying that if you dig what they do, give some money and keep them on the air. Well, I could continue on and keep listening for free and no one would ever know I didn't give them money. But I looked at my daughter as I picked up the phone and she asks, 'What are you doing, Daddy?' I told her how much we have enjoyed this station and that without our help, they will go away. So I told her it was time to give something back because someone gave us something nice and you need to return the favor. A few minutes later the DJ came on and said, 'And thanks to Mark from Harlem for helping to keep this station alive.' At that moment, my daughter had a big smile and she said, 'That was so cool, daddy!'

And off we went to school. Lesson learned.]]> Fri, 12 Feb 2010 21:43:38 GMT 01ECE1EA361ED3A35F33A45A24F4161A http://arbinsongs.com/blog.cfm?feature=857769&postid=156213 Last&nbsp;night my&nbsp;band mate, Mike Leslie, shared with me just an awesome, inspirational quote from celebrated filmmaker, James Jarmusch, who directed the film, Coffee and Cigarettes.&nbsp;It now hangs on my studio wall where I can see it and be inspired every day but it needs to be shared. So this goes out to any and all creative spirits: &quot;Nothing is original. Steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuels your imagination. Devour old films, new films, music, books, paintings, photographs, poems, dreams, random conversations, architecture, bridges, street signs, trees, clouds, bodies of water, light and shadows. Select only things to steal from that speak directly to your soul. If you do this, your work (and theft) will be authentic. Authenticity is invaluable; originality is nonexistent. And don&rsquo;t bother concealing your thievery &mdash; celebrate it if you feel like it. In any case, always remember what Jean-Luc Godard said: &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not where you take things from &mdash; it&rsquo;s where you take them to.&rdquo; &mdash;Jim Jarmusch, The Golden Rules of Filming Last night my band mate, Mike Leslie, shared with me just an awesome, inspirational quote from celebrated filmmaker, James Jarmusch, who directed the film, Coffee and Cigarettes. It now hangs on my studio wall where I can see it and be inspired every day but it needs to be shared. So this goes out to any and all creative spirits:


"Nothing is original. Steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuels your imagination. Devour old films, new films, music, books, paintings, photographs, poems, dreams, random conversations, architecture, bridges, street signs, trees, clouds, bodies of water, light and shadows. Select only things to steal from that speak directly to your soul. If you do this, your work (and theft) will be authentic. Authenticity is invaluable; originality is nonexistent. And don’t bother concealing your thievery — celebrate it if you feel like it. In any case, always remember what Jean-Luc Godard said:

“It’s not where you take things from — it’s where you take them to.”

—Jim Jarmusch, The Golden Rules of Filming
]]> Fri, 08 Jan 2010 22:07:05 GMT B5690F1232BB0E05C280DC4FF9B33FC7 http://arbinsongs.com/blog.cfm?feature=857769&postid=129346 There is an unspoken proverb among &quot;serious&quot; artists and musicians that says once you get married and&nbsp;have a kid, you can kiss your freedom and your dreams goodbye forever. Your young, free wheeling, devil-may-care life as you knew it is over, Charlie. Time to get a real job. Responsibility. Time to grow up. I too was a firm believer in this universal law.&nbsp;Lord knows I held out for as long as I could.&nbsp;I made it to 39&nbsp;before I got&nbsp;hitched and didn't have my first kid until I was 42. And&nbsp;in that life moment,&nbsp;all those fears of commitment and responsibility came&nbsp;squarely to roost for me, challenging my own convictions about the art of making music for art's sake. At some point, you realize you have to make some of that thing called $money$ if you're going to keep pursuing your art as a &quot;responsible adult&quot;. Or so you convince yourself. Yes, there are&nbsp;suddenly mouths to feed, bills to pay, college to save for; the loss of ever sleeping late again; the whole damn domestic dream unfolds in the blink of an eye. I just had my second child, a boy. Quincy. He's four months old now. And I'm 47. It seems over the last several years I've been so focused on the business of making money off of music that somewhere in there it feels like I lost sight of why I fell in love with it in the first place and why it always held such a sacred place for me. Suddenly, I'm trying to make a responsible living from the very thing that used to shield me from that conformist,&nbsp;everyday people pursuit&nbsp;that can only lead to&nbsp;false happiness at best. In my home, there are guitars hanging on the wall, vinyl records and a turntable and a recording studio in my cellar. Music is everywhere to remind&nbsp;my guests (and children) that this is what I do. Yet my wife reminded me that my son had yet to hear me sit down and play guitar for him. I started to defend myself until I realized quickly she was right. I've been getting up with him at, gulp...5AM&nbsp;and he is just READY to start his day (this is no easy task for me). I finally got used to 7AM with my daughter after a few years, which was hard enough&nbsp;but this is just beyond and in the winter months when it's dark until 7AM, it's just brutal. The other day, in my &quot;time to make the donuts&quot; morning fog, I stumbled downstairs with him and sat him down in the dimmest light I could create, wondering if there was the remotest possibility he might go back to sleep. His beaming smile&nbsp;gave me my answer. So I picked up a nylon string&nbsp;guitar and started to play &quot;Imagine&quot; for him in the silence of early morning.&nbsp;All of a sudden,&nbsp;he got this mesmerized look on his face as his eyes followed my fingers along the fretboard. He didn't even blink. And when I started to sing he was just so completely chilling.&nbsp;Pure Zen.&nbsp;But something happened for me too. I started to actually hear the words I was singing; words I've heard how many thousands of times but now I was singing them to my son and playing the song on guitar. Just as suddenly, I was transported back to my own childhood when hearing a song for the first time was so magical and transformative. I found myself smiling a wide grin to no one in particular. Truth be told, I never got through the last verse before Quincy had decided that his need for milk was more pressing than world peace. But we had our moment. It was just one of those rare, unexpected&nbsp;little slices&nbsp;of life where you get to look back through the kaleidescope of time from the other end and remember that magic still can and does happen every day.&nbsp; So about that unspoken proverb. Yes, there's certainly truth to that part about commitment and responsibility. But sometimes staring down into a set of tiny little eyes that will depend on you for everything for the next...(well, until I'm a senior citizen) can actually remind you of your freedom. Peace, Mark Hermann There is an unspoken proverb among "serious" artists and musicians that says once you get married and have a kid, you can kiss your freedom and your dreams goodbye forever. Your young, free wheeling, devil-may-care life as you knew it is over, Charlie. Time to get a real job. Responsibility. Time to grow up.

I too was a firm believer in this universal law. Lord knows I held out for as long as I could. I made it to 39 before I got hitched and didn't have my first kid until I was 42. And in that life moment, all those fears of commitment and responsibility came squarely to roost for me, challenging my own convictions about the art of making music for art's sake. At some point, you realize you have to make some of that thing called $money$ if you're going to keep pursuing your art as a "responsible adult". Or so you convince yourself. Yes, there are suddenly mouths to feed, bills to pay, college to save for; the loss of ever sleeping late again; the whole damn domestic dream unfolds in the blink of an eye.

I just had my second child, a boy. Quincy. He's four months old now. And I'm 47. It seems over the last several years I've been so focused on the business of making money off of music that somewhere in there it feels like I lost sight of why I fell in love with it in the first place and why it always held such a sacred place for me. Suddenly, I'm trying to make a responsible living from the very thing that used to shield me from that conformist, everyday people pursuit that can only lead to false happiness at best.

In my home, there are guitars hanging on the wall, vinyl records and a turntable and a recording studio in my cellar. Music is everywhere to remind my guests (and children) that this is what I do. Yet my wife reminded me that my son had yet to hear me sit down and play guitar for him. I started to defend myself until I realized quickly she was right. I've been getting up with him at, gulp...5AM and he is just READY to start his day (this is no easy task for me). I finally got used to 7AM with my daughter after a few years, which was hard enough but this is just beyond and in the winter months when it's dark until 7AM, it's just brutal. The other day, in my "time to make the donuts" morning fog, I stumbled downstairs with him and sat him down in the dimmest light I could create, wondering if there was the remotest possibility he might go back to sleep. His beaming smile gave me my answer.

So I picked up a nylon string guitar and started to play "Imagine" for him in the silence of early morning. All of a sudden, he got this mesmerized look on his face as his eyes followed my fingers along the fretboard. He didn't even blink. And when I started to sing he was just so completely chilling. Pure Zen. But something happened for me too. I started to actually hear the words I was singing; words I've heard how many thousands of times but now I was singing them to my son and playing the song on guitar. Just as suddenly, I was transported back to my own childhood when hearing a song for the first time was so magical and transformative. I found myself smiling a wide grin to no one in particular.

Truth be told, I never got through the last verse before Quincy had decided that his need for milk was more pressing than world peace. But we had our moment. It was just one of those rare, unexpected little slices of life where you get to look back through the kaleidescope of time from the other end and remember that magic still can and does happen every day. 

So about that unspoken proverb. Yes, there's certainly truth to that part about commitment and responsibility. But sometimes staring down into a set of tiny little eyes that will depend on you for everything for the next...(well, until I'm a senior citizen) can actually remind you of your freedom.

Peace,

Mark Hermann]]> Sun, 29 Nov 2009 07:41:12 GMT 55F78E55B7A3D24514A92529E66F25DA http://arbinsongs.com/blog.cfm?feature=857769&postid=123347 It's only fitting on the eve of Aerosmith's guitarist, Joe Perry announcing to the world that Steven Tyler&nbsp;had finally quit&nbsp;as lead singer for&nbsp;the legendary rock band&nbsp;(with Tyler subsequently denying this two days later) that I should make a personally monumental archeological find in my own closet:&nbsp;the tour program from the very first rock concert I ever attended. As it turns out, that was Aerosmith in 1976. It was at the New Haven Coliseum (now a parking lot) and I was fourteen. To see those pictures again of&nbsp;one of the consummate American rock and roll bands&nbsp;at the beginning of their career (and my experiences with live music) enroute to world domination is something to behold. If not up already, they will be posted on my Facebook page soon enough. Thumbing through the pages of that program brought back such a flood of memories for me. One of the first would be of being&nbsp;totally overwhelmed by&nbsp;the fog&nbsp;and aroma of cheap&nbsp;weed mixed with burning seeds as you walked into the concert hall, searching for your seats with the house lights&nbsp;up and the PA playing the music of the day.&nbsp;It was such an electric sensation your first time. The next memory was of the very large Hell's Angel dude sitting directly in front of us, his back taking up two seats. I remember someone passing us a joint and my friend's look of utter terror as the head fell off and sat smoldering on the Angel's back (we ended up finding other seats for the show immediately). I remember having just bought Aerosmith Rocks, which had just come out,&nbsp;and&nbsp;cranking up &quot;Back In The Saddle&quot; and &quot;Rats In The Cellar&quot;&nbsp;over and over&nbsp;on my parents' stereo to get ready for the concert. And when those house lights finally went down for the start of the show after what seemed like an eternity,&nbsp;I was&nbsp;hooked for the rest of my life, really. The power of rock&nbsp;'n roll was infused into my bloodstream forever! Admittedly, the sound was horrendous (PA systems back then were not the state of the art&nbsp;precision&nbsp;machinery they are today and it didn't help that the Coliseum was an acoustic toilet bowl to boot) but none of that mattered. I was in rock 'n roll heaven even if it took three songs to figure out what they were playing. In fact, most of the significant chapters or moments in my life can be linked to the song or album or band that I was listening to at that moment. I bought my first record when I was six; Steppenwolf Monster&nbsp;that had the song, &quot;The Pusher&quot; on it. John Kay was my childhood hero (still is). I remember listening to Black Sabbath, Paranoid when I was (seven?) on my best friend's Decca stereo (the portable one with the pull down turntable and removable speakers with the lights that pulsed to the music. Amazing.). I remember my&nbsp; baby sitter coming over the day that Led Zeppelin II came out and putting on &quot;Whole Lotta Love&quot; for the first time. That album became essentially the blueprint for everything I would aspire to. One of my very first dates when I was like thirteen, we went and saw Jaws when it first hit the theaters. I remember being so terrified by that movie I had to check between the shower curtains for weeks before I would step in the shower. But what I remember even more was the Pilot song, It's Magic (&quot;Whoa, whoa, whoa it's magic...&quot;) as the hit song of that period. I have deep seated (and painfully lonely) memories of learning every note&nbsp;to Elton John's Goodbye Yellow Brick Road all because the rich kids in my town would have these parties where their parents&nbsp;all seemed to have these full blown, decked out basement party rooms with pool tables and air hockey tables. I was on the outer fringe of the inner circle so I got invited&nbsp;but had nothing to do but polish up on my pool skills while the popular couples made out on the very plush wrap around couches. So it was me and Elton into the wee hours. From there I started playing guitar and going to concerts. First jam session ever: Foghat's &quot;I Just Want To Make Love To You&quot; with an extremely out of tune guitar solo by yours truly. First official guitar lesson: learning the riff to Foreigner's &quot;Feels Like The First Time&quot;.&nbsp;&nbsp;(I would subsequently jam with the real band on this song&nbsp;years later on tour when Mick Jones failed to show up for sound check). I remember dragging my friend's father's vintage Fender Bassman amp through the snow and plugging guitar AND bass into it at the same time, cranking it up and jamming on Ted Nugent's, &quot;Cat Scratch Fever.&quot; Some of my greatest concert memories: Queen-News Of The World tour at Madison Square Garden (maybe the greatest show I ever saw). Pink Floyd-Animals tour '77 (my brother sold a U.S. gold piece to get the money and we scalped THREE tickets on the floor at Madison Square Garden for $75 TOTAL!!!) AND then The Wall tour that I was lucky enough to get tickets for (both up there in the top three concerts of all time). There was Weather Report at The Palladium with Jaco Pastorius. Stellar! David Bowie, Serious Moonlight tour at the Garden. Yes, in the round at the Garden. Stevie Ray Vaughn on The Pier in Manhattan. Perhaps&nbsp;my one musical travesty was that I never got to see Led Zeppelin live, considering they were my&nbsp;favorite, if I had&nbsp;to choose one (OK. two travesties really. I never got to see Jimi Hendrix either).&nbsp;I did have tickets in 1980 to see&nbsp;Zeppelin in Buffalo, when I was going to Syracuse. Unfortunately, John Bonham decided to drink about 70 too many shots of vodka the week before and the rest is history (I didn't leave my dorm room for three days after hearing the news of his death). And then of course we also lost the other John in 1980. Such a drag. And speaking of Zeppelin, in '79 when In Through The Outdoor had come out, my high school girlfriend was overseas that summer as an exchange student. I had decided that &quot;I'm Gonna Crawl&quot; was going to be our song when she got back. Just before&nbsp;she returned,&nbsp;I got the &quot;Dear John&quot; letter, telling me we needed to expand our horizons. And so it was that In Through The Outdoor would become&nbsp;my own swan song for young love, as it were. When I moved to L.A. in '86, I&nbsp;remember Don Henley's &quot;Boys Of Summer&quot;&nbsp;being my&nbsp;Southern California&nbsp;theme song&nbsp;as I was just getting to know the lay of the land. I remember driving on the 405 freeway and hearing Eddie Vedder sing &quot;Jeremy&quot; for the first time and I knew&nbsp;instantly that Pearl Jam&nbsp;was going to be huge. Then there was the whole hair metal years while I was out in La La Land until the next moment of significance, which was when &quot;Smells Like Teen Spirit&quot; hit the airwaves and in one great fell swoop all the leather, chains and spandex miraculously evaporated overnight, morphing into sleeveless flannel shirts and torn jeans. There aren't too many moments&nbsp;of any true significance I can really speak of in my life where I can't triangulate&nbsp;that event&nbsp;with some piece of music that underscores it forever in my memory. Like our olfactory senses, where a particular smell jars an instantaneous memory, so it is with music in my life. Last year when my band, Citizens Of Contrary Knowledge, &nbsp;performed at the Izod Arena at The Meadowlands, I remember standing there before 16,000 people as the lights went out and they announced the band. As the swell of the cheering crowd came up, that same electrifying&nbsp;sensation came rushing back&nbsp;into memory. Only this time I was holding the guitar. I have to wonder what memories the kids of today will look back on in thirty three years, as I&nbsp;have&nbsp;had,&nbsp;staring at the pages of that now vintage Aerosmith program. I truly hope they have something so powerful to hold onto. But I can't help but wonder if it would go more like&nbsp;...'Oh, yeah that was the year that OK. GO video came out on YouTube.' or 'Yeah, remember the iPhone?! Ah, those were the days.' Peace, Mark Hermann It's only fitting on the eve of Aerosmith's guitarist, Joe Perry announcing to the world that Steven Tyler had finally quit as lead singer for the legendary rock band (with Tyler subsequently denying this two days later) that I should make a personally monumental archeological find in my own closet: the tour program from the very first rock concert I ever attended. As it turns out, that was Aerosmith in 1976. It was at the New Haven Coliseum (now a parking lot) and I was fourteen. To see those pictures again of one of the consummate American rock and roll bands at the beginning of their career (and my experiences with live music) enroute to world domination is something to behold. If not up already, they will be posted on my Facebook page soon enough.

Thumbing through the pages of that program brought back such a flood of memories for me. One of the first would be of being totally overwhelmed by the fog and aroma of cheap weed mixed with burning seeds as you walked into the concert hall, searching for your seats with the house lights up and the PA playing the music of the day. It was such an electric sensation your first time. The next memory was of the very large Hell's Angel dude sitting directly in front of us, his back taking up two seats. I remember someone passing us a joint and my friend's look of utter terror as the head fell off and sat smoldering on the Angel's back (we ended up finding other seats for the show immediately). I remember having just bought Aerosmith Rocks, which had just come out, and cranking up "Back In The Saddle" and "Rats In The Cellar" over and over on my parents' stereo to get ready for the concert. And when those house lights finally went down for the start of the show after what seemed like an eternity, I was hooked for the rest of my life, really. The power of rock 'n roll was infused into my bloodstream forever! Admittedly, the sound was horrendous (PA systems back then were not the state of the art precision machinery they are today and it didn't help that the Coliseum was an acoustic toilet bowl to boot) but none of that mattered. I was in rock 'n roll heaven even if it took three songs to figure out what they were playing.

In fact, most of the significant chapters or moments in my life can be linked to the song or album or band that I was listening to at that moment. I bought my first record when I was six; Steppenwolf Monster that had the song, "The Pusher" on it. John Kay was my childhood hero (still is). I remember listening to Black Sabbath, Paranoid when I was (seven?) on my best friend's Decca stereo (the portable one with the pull down turntable and removable speakers with the lights that pulsed to the music. Amazing.). I remember my  baby sitter coming over the day that Led Zeppelin II came out and putting on "Whole Lotta Love" for the first time. That album became essentially the blueprint for everything I would aspire to.

One of my very first dates when I was like thirteen, we went and saw Jaws when it first hit the theaters. I remember being so terrified by that movie I had to check between the shower curtains for weeks before I would step in the shower. But what I remember even more was the Pilot song, It's Magic ("Whoa, whoa, whoa it's magic...") as the hit song of that period. I have deep seated (and painfully lonely) memories of learning every note to Elton John's Goodbye Yellow Brick Road all because the rich kids in my town would have these parties where their parents all seemed to have these full blown, decked out basement party rooms with pool tables and air hockey tables. I was on the outer fringe of the inner circle so I got invited but had nothing to do but polish up on my pool skills while the popular couples made out on the very plush wrap around couches. So it was me and Elton into the wee hours.

From there I started playing guitar and going to concerts. First jam session ever: Foghat's "I Just Want To Make Love To You" with an extremely out of tune guitar solo by yours truly. First official guitar lesson: learning the riff to Foreigner's "Feels Like The First Time".  (I would subsequently jam with the real band on this song years later on tour when Mick Jones failed to show up for sound check). I remember dragging my friend's father's vintage Fender Bassman amp through the snow and plugging guitar AND bass into it at the same time, cranking it up and jamming on Ted Nugent's, "Cat Scratch Fever."

Some of my greatest concert memories: Queen-News Of The World tour at Madison Square Garden (maybe the greatest show I ever saw). Pink Floyd-Animals tour '77 (my brother sold a U.S. gold piece to get the money and we scalped THREE tickets on the floor at Madison Square Garden for $75 TOTAL!!!) AND then The Wall tour that I was lucky enough to get tickets for (both up there in the top three concerts of all time). There was Weather Report at The Palladium with Jaco Pastorius. Stellar! David Bowie, Serious Moonlight tour at the Garden. Yes, in the round at the Garden. Stevie Ray Vaughn on The Pier in Manhattan.

Perhaps my one musical travesty was that I never got to see Led Zeppelin live, considering they were my favorite, if I had to choose one (OK. two travesties really. I never got to see Jimi Hendrix either). I did have tickets in 1980 to see Zeppelin in Buffalo, when I was going to Syracuse. Unfortunately, John Bonham decided to drink about 70 too many shots of vodka the week before and the rest is history (I didn't leave my dorm room for three days after hearing the news of his death). And then of course we also lost the other John in 1980. Such a drag. And speaking of Zeppelin, in '79 when In Through The Outdoor had come out, my high school girlfriend was overseas that summer as an exchange student. I had decided that "I'm Gonna Crawl" was going to be our song when she got back. Just before she returned, I got the "Dear John" letter, telling me we needed to expand our horizons. And so it was that In Through The Outdoor would become my own swan song for young love, as it were.

When I moved to L.A. in '86, I remember Don Henley's "Boys Of Summer" being my Southern California theme song as I was just getting to know the lay of the land. I remember driving on the 405 freeway and hearing Eddie Vedder sing "Jeremy" for the first time and I knew instantly that Pearl Jam was going to be huge. Then there was the whole hair metal years while I was out in La La Land until the next moment of significance, which was when "Smells Like Teen Spirit" hit the airwaves and in one great fell swoop all the leather, chains and spandex miraculously evaporated overnight, morphing into sleeveless flannel shirts and torn jeans. There aren't too many moments of any true significance I can really speak of in my life where I can't triangulate that event with some piece of music that underscores it forever in my memory. Like our olfactory senses, where a particular smell jars an instantaneous memory, so it is with music in my life.

Last year when my band, Citizens Of Contrary Knowledge,  performed at the Izod Arena at The Meadowlands, I remember standing there before 16,000 people as the lights went out and they announced the band. As the swell of the cheering crowd came up, that same electrifying sensation came rushing back into memory. Only this time I was holding the guitar. I have to wonder what memories the kids of today will look back on in thirty three years, as I have had, staring at the pages of that now vintage Aerosmith program. I truly hope they have something so powerful to hold onto. But I can't help but wonder if it would go more like ...'Oh, yeah that was the year that OK. GO video came out on YouTube.' or 'Yeah, remember the iPhone?! Ah, those were the days.'

Peace,

Mark Hermann]]> Sun, 15 Nov 2009 11:35:00 GMT 4C5A060AE9F3AD05A02A88828DE4C7AA