SPOTTY'S BLOG

A COLLECTION OF PROFOUND OBSERVATIONS AND UNIQUE INSIGHTS FROM THE DEEPAK CHOPRA OF ROCK'N'ROLL...

Have been keeping my blog on my website.  Please visit http://www.spottiswoode.com/spottysblog.htm

But if you can't be bothered, am pasting in recent entries below...

November 21st, 2006

ROBERT ALTMAN

I've never been a big Robert Altman fan. But I admire him.

He didn't really care about stories. A refreshing approach in a town obsessed with by-the-numbers plot points. It's amazing he survived at all.

I read an interview with him several months ago. He was asked to define what his style was. I wrote down his response.

"I don't know about my style. I don't know what style is. It's one's personality. And I don't think it's my responsibility to define what that is."

That's the most reassuring artist statement I've ever read.

November 10th, 2006

DYLAN SHOWDOWN

(After the Tirbute to Bob Dylan at Avery Fisher Hall on behalf of the Music For Youth Foundation. Starring:
Patti Smith, Rosanne Cash, Phil Lesh, Cat Power, The Roots, Jay Farrar, Jill Sobule, Joan Osborne, Natalie Merchant & Philip Glass, Ramblin' Jack Eliot & Jennifer O'Connor, Allen Toussaint, Warren Haynes, Lee Ranaldo, Sandra Bernhard, Al Kooper & The Funky Facutly, Medeski Martin & Wood, Bob Mould, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Lauren Shera, Jamie Saft Trio, Spottiswoode & His Enemies)

Ah, the strange interplay of collective and individual impressions. How each person in a room or concert hall or a country can have his or her own distinct perspective on an event and yet how some kind of collective consciousness is also shared and eventually evolves into a form of retrospective Truth.

Apparently the country has spoken. Although in fact only a relatively small but significant percentage of folks really changed their minds. But experts and historians must talk in terms of the will of the people

Why did I start with that? Well, I had to begin somewhere.

Last night, my Enemies and I were part of an unusual evening: a tribute to Bob Dylan at Avery Fisher Hall. It was strange for us in so many ways. Basically, it was culture shock. Pretty much everyone else on the bill was famous. We were playing to a large crowd of rich people. We were at Lincoln Center. We were only going to perform one song (though we did have the pleasure of backing a few other notable artists). And that song wasn't even one I wrote.

My own singular perspective on the day and the night:

I am in a cab crawling across Central Park at a snail's pace. It's 11 o'clock in the morning. Candace calls me on the cell. They want us to start soundcheck now. I can't respond because I've lost my voice.

I wander into Avery Fisher Hall with a brown chiffon scarf wrapped around my throat talking in sign language. This may have earned some respect a few hundred yards away at the Metropolitan Opera, but instead my band laughs at me. The shame!

I am lying in the East Green Room trying to get some much needed rest. A pretty woman enters carrying a pile of laundered military fatigues. She is soon followed in by The Roots plus attractive entourage. I scribble "hello" onto a piece of paper and hold it up with a smile. They smile back and crack a few jokes at my expense. The ice is broken. They're cool friendly people.

I wander around the Upper West Side in my own cocoon of speechlessness. It's a beautiful sunny day. I have some lunch, read about the elections.

Back at Avery Fisher. The famous and legendary are arriving so thick and fast that if Mahatma Gandhi stumbled in I'd just walk right past him and pour myself another cup of hot water for my Throat Comfort Tea.

Miracle! John Young is actually speechless. He just saw Allen Toussaint.

I always expected to be nervous. But I didn't think I'd be terrified. I have no idea if my voice is going to work at all. It's absurd. On this night of all nights! I can barely speak. I've never had much sympathy with divas and their "lost" voices before. Always assumed it was psychosomatic. But this isn't! Hell, I'm not just terrified. I'm angry. The gods aren't fair! We deserve to kick butt at this show. We belong here. I can't live with some jaded Lincoln Center subscriber looking down her nose while I croak out some words I didn't even write. Yeah, it's Dylan's fault too! I never wanted to cover one of his songs. Ever! Sure, I think he's the greatest American lyric artist alive. And he's probably the most underrated singer around too. In fact, the best person to sing Dylan is Dylan! What the hell am I doing here? And why did I blow my voice out? Because we rehearsed his damn song a dozen times on Tuesday and in order to sound righteous I had to scream out the last three verses. (Okay, we followed that with a long loud set at Banjo Jim's...) And now look what's happened. I can't sing. I can't speak. This is a lesson never to cover another artist ever again. Who am I expressing anyway? Them or me?

There is a VIP reception but I'm feeling misanthropic. I'm just gonna go down to the main green room and make myself some more throat comfort tea. Surprise! All the hot water's gone. And the guy behind the food table doesn't seem to be very bothered with my dilemma. Perhaps it's because I'm not actually saying anything.

I am suddenly lost in the bowels of Avery Fisher Hall and I forgot my security pass. I'm going to cry soon.

I'm now hurrying through a marble lobby trying to catch up with Cindi Lauper and Jennifer O'Connor. They are being led to the VIP reception. This may be my only chance to find hot water.

We are climbing some stairs. Cindi Lauper asks if her bowler hat looks okay. Or is it too freaky? I point to the scarf around my throat: an international sign for "I've lost my voice" only understood by very famous singers and their entourages. Yup, I'm in with Cindi. I give her a smile and a big thumbs up. Cindi's looking pretty damn great.

I have a plastic bottle of water in one hand, a vial of "Singer's Saving Grace" in the other and a packet of Yogi Tea between my teeth. I am surrounded by paparazzi, the rich, the beautiful and the famous. I look imploringly towards a waiter.

I'm sitting on a padded bench holding a large glass of hot water and trying to open my package of tea with great concentration. Platters of champagne and caviar hover around me like irrelevant UFOs.

The show is about to start. I am standing in the wings amidst a crush of people I seem to recognize. Feels like a high school talent show starring: Philip Glass, Natalie Merchant, Patti Smith…oh there's Al Kooper.

I'm on stage.

Joan Osborne walks out into the lights. A huge ovation. Tim, John, Tony, Riley and I accompany her on "To Make You Feel My Love." Riley plays a lovely lap steel solo. Joan has a beautiful voice and nails the song. More rapturous applause. We hurry off the stage so that Natalie and Phil can get on. Okay, I can now say I've performed at Lincoln Center. Can someone call a cab?

I try to sing a few words softly in the wings. I sound like a frog with throat cancer. The Roots' roadie laughs and asks if I'm still not speaking. He's a very big guy, kind of heavyweight size. I put my hand on his shoulder and whisper into his ear: "I've just not been speaking to you." He laughs even harder.

FLASHBACK: I am nineteen. I am hitchhiking to Istanbul. I wake up in the passenger seat of a lorry driving through a country once known as Yugoslavia. It's morning. An eerie mist hovers over the countryside. The Slovenian driver smiles at me. We try to speak to each other. But we can't understand a thing the other one says. We both give up and start to laugh. Sometimes you feel closer to people when you can't really communicate with them. Yeah, talking is overrated.

Al Kooper And The Funky Faculty finish their song. Ed, the production manager, gives me and my Enemies the signal. We all hurry onto the stage. There's even some applause. Did my mother come without telling me?

I am singing "The Times They Are A Changin'" to a packed house at Lincoln Center. How is this possible? I've never even liked the song that much. I bought the vinyl album in London during my college years. I'd always skip the title track. I'd go to "The Ballad of Hollis Brown," "With God on Our Side," "When The Ship Comes In," "Spanish Boots of Spanish Leather." Those were the songs I really liked. What the hell is going on?

I'm finishing the first verse in a low baritone. "Then you better start swimming or you'll sink like a stone!" I take a pause. "For the times they are a changin'". Some folks in the crowd have already started cheering. A trained parrot could have probably got the same response. These are Dylan fans and it's two nights after election day. Well done, Spott, for gambling on a change in the political landscape to help your desperate artistic cause.

Now we're playing the instrumental verse. Candace and Kevin hit their marks. I take a look around at Riley and Tony. They're both smiling. Well, Riley is anyway. This is fun.

Oh God, I have to sing the next three verses an octave higher. Otherwise the rest of the song will be an anticlimax. I must sound righteous. I have no idea what my voice will let me do.

"Come Senators, Congressmen, please heed the call." A huge cheer from the audience. My voice feels comfortable. But it's the end of the verse that's really the screaming bit. "It'll soon shake your windows and rattle your walls…" Fine! We're gonna nail this mutha.

Great applause. I unplug and hurry off the stage. Sandra Bernhard is waiting in the wings. "That was amazing" she says. Thanks, Sandra! I will always appreciate that. Even if you were lying. Always be nice to someone right after they get off stage. Save the truth for later. But, hey, maybe she meant it.

Warren Haynes turns to me in the wings. "You were sandbaggin' us!" he says in a soft kind-hearted drawl.

And now my favorite part of the evening: Watching from the wings as the rest of the band accompanies Sandra Bernhard on "Like A Rolling Stone." The adrenaline is still pumping. Sandra's doing her introductory monologue. Kevin's smiling broadly. The band creeps in with the accompaniment. They nail it, of course.

Brief reflection: Now I know for sure that Kevin and Sandra are not the same person. I don't see Kevin that often and it's always been quite possible that Sandra was one if his alter egos. I mean, he's a celebrity gardener too. And numerous other characters. I even saw him call bingo once. So, I'd had this hunch. But not so. Kevin Cordt and Sandra Bernhard were on the stage at the same time. What a relief! I'm carrying around enough conspiracy theories in my head as it is.

The band comes offstage, all smiles. Like elementary school kids after winning a swim meet.

I am a broken yo-yo. The adrenaline is too much. One minute I'm watching Cat Power from the wings, then I'm up in the east green room as Lee Ranaldo of Sonic Youth listens in awe while the Roots rehearse acoustically, then I'm swigging tequila with Kevin, now I'm eating a cookie in the downstairs refreshment room where Michael Stipe is looking so intensely at his cell phone that he can only be text messaging God. And what's he doing here anyway? Now I'm back up in the wings admiring Allen Toussaint at the piano, a picture of elegance.

Warren Haynes is onstage. Riley, Tim, John and Tony accompany. "I Shall Be Released." It's beautiful. Joan Osborne is one of the backing vocalists. I'm not that into old-school jam bands. But Warren Haynes is as soulful as they come, amazing singer and guitarist. I think the rhythm section has fallen in love with him. As for Tony, he lost credibility when he confessed his studdly beard is an homage to the Allman Brothers.

I'm back downstairs. A tall skinny guy with glasses hurries past followed by a tanned blonde lady. I follow them. Phil Lesh is late for his own performance. The band hasn't even had a chance to rehearse with him. Phil walks onto the stage to rapturous applause. A lot of deadheads on the Upper West Side I guess. The bass is turned up loud. Warren Haynes and the band hang on for the ride. John and I watch from opposite sides of the stage. The five Enemies on stage kick butt.

I'm still standing in the wings. Tim and John are next to me. There's a crush of people now. Many of the performers have gathered offstage to watch the next act, as if obeying some kind of unspoken collective wisdom that this is the band to watch tonight. "A Mighty Wind" comes into my mind for about the twentieth time.

Note: None of the performers have actually seen the show! Some of us have watched some of the artists from the wings, but without really hearing the lyrics or the even the sound that well. Most of the people around me right now probably have no idea that I sang at all tonight. Many of the artists on the front half of the bill have already gone home. But suddenly, there's a crush.

The Roots play "Masters Of War." They are in military fatigues. They stand on a high platform: a drum kit, an electric guitar and a suzaphone. The first verse is sung to the tune of "The Star Spangled Banner." There are various other theatrical tangents into Jimmy Hendrix and funk. But the gravity of the song remains. It's a ballsy theatrical insane rendition. A breath of fresh air. They get a standing ovation.

Patti Smith sings and lends the proceedings some dignity.

Ramblin' Jack closes with "Knockin' on Heaven's Door." Jennifer O'Connor sings along. Last time I saw her she was singing in a Paris basement. Now she's on Maverick with a critical hit. She's a fine songwriter. Her talents are wasted here. When she comes offstage Cindi Lauper says to her: "You had the hardest job of the night, darling."

Even Patti Smith can't sing along with Ramblin' Jack. It's the last song of the night and the show kind of peters out. Patti Smith starts applauding before the song has even finished. That's one way of making the wacky old dude shut up. "A Mighty Wind" comes to mind one last time.

Two days later and I'm still trying to process. E-mails of praise from random strangers. Congratulations from friends. Some very complimentary mentions in a couple of blogs and reviews. No mention in the Billboard Review. And even a diss on a Fox News blog. Yes, I pick my Enemies well. Different artists in different reviews get praised, ignored or criticized. But the Roots win in the Red and the Blue states… Each person in the audience probably had his or her own little scorecard. Such a pity that art has to be a sport like that. But it's inevitable with something like this. Of course, Dylan put it best:

"Come writers and critics
Who prophesize with your pen
And keep your eyes wide
The chance won't come again
And don't speak too soon
For the wheel's still in spin
And there's no tellin' who
That it's namin'.
For the loser now
Will be later to win
For the times they are a-changin'."

Lessons from the night?
1. My band rocks! With or without me!
2. Let it all hang out!

Thank you so much to Michael Dorf for inviting us to be part of such an unforgettable night. And thanks to Dave Bias for championing us!

July 24th, 2006

SUMMER OF LOVE

Just a few words of thanks, that's all. Thanks to all our fans for coming out to a really enjoyable and packed show at Joe's Pub. Thanks to the brilliant Kenny White for sitting in. Thanks to my Enemies for indulging Riley and me, and for learning another ten songs!

And thanks to our friends and fans who came out to see us in California. Another wacky Enemies trip! Particular thanks to Peter, Sophia and Sean for putting us up in lovely Laurel Canyon; to Peter's mom, Lynne, for sharing her pad in Pacific Heights; to the very generous Dave McSpadden for putting up with five of my Enemies for a whole weekend and pretending to enjoy it; to Devon and Michelle for inviting us out West in the first place; and to Dave and Jude at KFOG for trying their best to support us in the Bay Area and for encouraging random strangers to see us at the Make-Out Room.

And thanks, Zinedine Zidane, for the memories...

May 16th, 2006

RUSSIAN NOVELISTS AND ECUADORAN BANKERS

So I'm in a bar in Soho with glitter on my face, wearing a cowboy hat. It's a superhero party. Two days before the Kentucky Derby. Thanks to an e-mail from Lambo, a Louisville fan, I have decided that my name tonight is Deputy Glitters. Alas, Deputy Glitters comes in seventh on the Saturday but hey, what's a couple of bucks?

A very handsome Ecuadoran man starts talking to me. Despite a strong gay contingent in my band I am not used to being hit on these days by members of my own sex. Guess I'm not so pretty any more. Kevin and Tony are much cuter.

Of course, I've forgotten about the cowboy hat and the glitter.

Anyway, the point isn't that I get hit on by a very handsome Ecuadoran man. Frankly, it's an honor, I'm not worthy of his attentions, and I only say he was hitting on me because various envious women in the bar assure me later that he was.

Is my life sounding dull and desperate yet?

Here's the point:

My Ecuadoran friend explains to me, at my bidding, that he is a commodities trader for a very prestigious bank. In other words, not only is he beautiful, he is rich and he has a much better idea of how the world really works than I do. I might be intimidated. But tonight I'm Deputy Glitters.

He then says something very wise to me. When his investment choices start going badly, he stops trading. His instinct tells him that he's lost his luck and he needs to focus on something else. Maybe he'll do some research. Or eat peanuts. He understands that luck comes and goes and, no matter what you do, you can't fight it.

A few days later I'm on page 27,000 of Tolstoy's "War & Peace" and I come across a very similar piece of wisdom. The Russian Commander Kutuzov is being plagued by all his subordinates to DO SOMETHING. Napoleon and his army have just occupied Moscow. But Kutuzov believes the wisest course at this point is to wait and see. Of course, the French soon get bored and hungry and decide to go back to France only to freeze and starve to death on the way.

Why am I sharing all this?

Well, although I may be wearing glitter and a cowboy hat, and despite the fact that I am clearly emanating superhero waves, I have not been at my best recently. A bit of the performing monkey syndrome. Singing the same old songs and feeling tired and washed up. Resentful of all the annoying political and business decisions that humble little rock stars have to make in order to become even more broke. Luck hasn't been with me.

Hence my recent blog silence.

So, here's a few people I want to thank for recent services: Tolstoy, Mr. Ecuador, Zach from Northampton for his support and enthusiasm, Mim & Lexi Kahn in Boston, Lambo in Louisville, Shell in Minnesota, all the folks who came to the recent "Wild Goose Chase Show" at the Living Room (yes, it was weird, but at least I enjoyed it!), Derek Sivers at CDBABY for his fine ears, Amanda Case for her unfailing cheer even when her computer crashes, and - last but not least – my very patient Enemies.