Songwriter's Navel: Week 06, Hurtling Toward Failure

A new low in this project: I Tweeted my contemplation of seppuku by guitar headstock during the recording. What's it called when your self loathing makes you loathe yourself?

This was a rough week for my creative inner child. Initially our assignment was to write a song called "Thriving on Rejection" around a provided (lyrics and chords) chorus. The Kernel, who is jaunting about the continent this week and next, was consumed by second thoughts and sent an e-mail telling us we could just write a song around the general theme of rejection.

I gave writing to the chorus a try, but I admit I wasn't getting much of anywhere, so I started on the rejection-themed assignment. Unfortunately, I had nothing but half a verse and part of a chorus before I started feeling quite sick on Sunday night, courtesy of ridiculous food-and-drink-based overindulgence on Saturday. I tried to keep working, but it eventually got to the point where I couldn't concentrate at all. I scrawled down what I was doing on guitar (it was capo 3, and was doing some funky stuff with moveable shapes) and recorded the very brief snippets I thought I might now.

Monday morning, I worked on lyrics on the train, and I could see myself heading to a corner, full steam ahead, but did I try to turn things around? I did not. Of course, Monday was also Valentine's Day, which the ZK and I always use as an excuse to go out to a favorite restaurant. In this case, we had the phenomenal Valentine's Day menu at Big Jones Chicago. Om nom nom. As it turned out, I didn't get a chance to work on anything Monday night.

On Tuesdays, my commute is complex, so there's really no hope of working on the train. I had a student who needed to make up an exam, so I couldn't even plunk away during my office hours. I got to OTSFM and hied away to my bat cave, where I eventually accepted that this song was not going anywhere at all at this juncture. Partly it's because it's TRYING to be a sardonic, tongue-in-cheek song, and it was just getting more and more labored at every turn.

In the back of my head, my inner slacker kept whispering that I already HAD a song to play! (We never performed our "hook" songs in class.) My sloth and my fear of my sloth had a Bergmanesque chess game for my soul. While that was going on, I started playing around with a line that had made it into my notebook: "Black-Eyed Susan by the wall, in the corner, overlooked."

My private lesson time was fast approaching, but all of a sudden I had a melody and chords for a at least the first line of a chorus in my head. I very quickly hammered that out and cobbled together the rest of a chorus with some placeholder chords and recorded it on my phone:

Chorus
[F] Black-eyed [C]Susan of the [G] walls, oh [Am] won't you please
Pray for [F] these lost [C] souls, Oh [G] grant them [F] peace
Show your [Am] mercy to the [F] children of the [G] corners
[F] Black-eyed [G] Susan of the [C] walls


Lyrically I roll my eyes. I am more tired than anyone of the fact that religious metaphors are the first to present themselves. That said, I love the way "Black-Eyed Susan" sings, and hack that I am, I feel like the concept of the patron Saint of Wallflowers is kind of an interesting idea.

On the musical front, in my rush to get things down on the iPad, the melody stayed relatively solid in my mind (other than the last line), but the chords kept being interchangeable, which is never a good sign.

I went to my lesson, then quickly grabbed something to eat, then camped out on the floor in one of the wings of the balcony (the later in the day it gets, the more impossible it is to find any place quiet enough to really do any writing). I had a little over 2 hours to work, and the first verse ate up most of that time, as everything in it was more or less new, not something that I was poaching from the notebook or passing thoughts. I think that shows. It's conceptually loose, doesn't have much in the way of appealing imagery, and the melody is very blah.

[C] She dips her fingertips [F]into the dawn
[C] Lights an offering to the [F] saint of the unseen [G]
[C] Steels herself against the [F] day yet to come
[C] Draws the [C/B] shutters over [Am] all she must not [G] be

The second verse went more quickly, because it derived from an idea I had kicked around as early as Sunday night. I was thinking about rejection that brings relief, rather than pain, when it marks the end of a relationship (or a period at the end of a previously functional relationship) where one person is constantly picking at and digging into the other to find faults. I had initially written "flaw" in my notebook, then crossed it out and replaced it with "fault," which suggested a geological fault and what happens when you mess with one of those—something tectonic, volcanic, earth shaking. Again, conceptually I rather like that, but in the rush I damaged a lot of what I do like about it:

She sinks her roots into the lightless ground
Prying fingers leave no stone of her unturned
Bedrock trembles, her foundations tumble down
Along every fault line she can see the fires burn

Relatively short verses. Relatively short chorus. Feeling of failure given the sub-2-minute song from last week. I made an ill-advised attempt to build a bridge. The recurring theme of "I like this concept. Why am I fucking it up so very badly in the lyrics" returned. Lots of wallflower fantasy revolves around getting the world to see you. Being a mega-introvert, this fantasy is utterly alien to me. For a good 10 years of my life, my fondest wish every single day was that people would just leave me alone. So, that's where this came from:

[Am Our lady of the overl- [Em]ooked
We do beseech thee for the [F] bliss
Of one more [B7] day un- [Em] seen [G]

I wrote that at probably 7:43 (class starts at 8), finished scrawling my hand-written version to photocopy, and raced up to class. The fearless Tommi Zender was subbing this week.

Unsurprisingly given my near-nil practice time and the newness of the song, I butchered it in class, particularly the bridge. (Genius had failed to record it when she got the chords down.) But lots of helpful feedback. The chorus sounds a lot better, as I followed the suggestions not to switch chords quite so often. Today when prepping to record, I also found chords for the final line that I'm happier with than the misleading resolved progression that I had originally. Chords go like so now:

[F] Black-eyed [C]Susan of the [G] walls, oh [Am] won't you please
Pray for [F] these lost [C] souls, Oh [Am] grant them peace
Show your [Am] mercy to the [F] children of the edges
[Em] Black-eyed [G] Susan of the [Am] walls

Also changed the word at the end of line three to "edges," as a classmate pointed out to me the unfortunate "Children of the Corn[ers]" problem. Not really crazy about edges there, but certainly better than evoking Malachi.

Although I had originally worked out timing at the end of verse 2 so that "along the fault lines" worked, I could not make that sing either Tuesday or today so I rewrote as "Through every fissure she can see the fires burn." Meh, it's ok.

Tommi had suggested considering a wordless or shortened bridge. (He knows not my fear of the wordless bridge.) I feel confident that he's right, but I was really reluctant to lose the sentiment in the bridge. I experimented a bit with just a syllables sung over the bridge and a few other things. Ultimately, though, I was able to make what I had been hearing over that bizarre B7 chord happen again, so I just went with that in the recording.

As usual, recording was extremely frustrating. Guitar is mediocre at best and the vocals were fighting, fighting, fighting me. Trying to tell myself it's that it's a fresh melody I don't know yet, but I think it's most likely that this is just a terminally ill song that will be shipped off to my Parts: The Clonus Horror Daisy Hill Song Farm.

Anyway, the recording

Follow the Person with the Outraaageous Franche Accent! A La Card #3: Bistro Campagne

In the month of January, I cleverly "planned" my schedule so that I was up in Lincoln Square at the OTSFM Monday (guitar lesson), Tuesday (Songwriting class), and Wednesday (volunteering at the Resource Center). I happen to love Lincoln Square (and, of course, the OTSFM), so this isn't a problem exactly, except that the place IS 150 blocks from the Acres, and I hate to drive. On a handful of nights, I was able to lure the ZK into driving me up there, offering the opportunity to use another A La Card as bait. FAIL! FAIL! SUCCESS!

The deck contains 3 options up in Hun Town. Ironically, none of the three is German. Tallulah is directly across the street from OTSFM, having replaced the short-lived Soirée about a year or so ago. Bistro Campagne is just down the street, and every time I see its excellent Zagat rating, I think it's stupid I've never been there. Chalkboard is about 2 blocks down Lincoln, and also a relative newcomer to the 'hood.

The two nights that I conned my spousal unit into chauffeuring me were both Mondays. That took Tallulah off the table, as it's closed. BC claimed to close relatively early, whereas Chalkboard was supposed to be open until 10 on Mondays. Hmmmm . . . The first Chalkboard fail was our fault really. Actually, it was the ZK's fault, as he deemed it "too fancy" for his mood. On the second occasion, though, we found the door locked tight at about 8:45.

On Friday the 30th, we had tickets to the Faculty, Staff, & Friends Tribute to the British Invasion. It made sense for me to drive up to Lincoln Square and the ZK to El it up there to meet me. I even remembered to grab the deck of cards on my way out the door.

We met up at about 6, and the weather and parking gods did their share in making our choice for us: Chalkboard was deemed too far to walk in the cold, and I had just wedged myself into a parallel parking space that I was NOT inclined to give up. We wound up at Bistro Campagne won the coin toss.

Interested parties should have a gander at the gallery on their website. They should then bear in mind that in focusing exclusively on the outside garden, what that doesn't show you is a really lovely interior. The wood beams and bay windows give it a very homelike feel. The walls are covered with low-key murals that feature beautiful mosaic pieces as accents. The tables are close together, but I never felt like we were sitting on top of our neighbors, even after the place filled up.

I noted on our way in (we were in the dining room at the back) that the bar is gorgeous, and the drinks menu proves it's not just a pretty face. I stuck with two glasses of the very good Autard Côtes du Rhône, but after exploring their cocktail list more thoroughly, I wished I'd tried their rendition of the sidecar. The ZK had a French Manhattan, and the Grand Marnier was an intriguing addition.

You know you've probably hit the jackpot when you are considering conscripting labor from the street to increase the size of your party and thus the number of appetizers and main courses that you can sample. Ultimately, I decided that I was NOT A SHARER and went with the escargot, which there was no chance of the ZK wanting to sample. He more generously went with the shrimp in ginger-champagne sauce, even though he knew he'd be surrendering a portion of that.

I'd hesitated for a brief moment in ordering the escargot because I wondered if the pernod would interfere with the divinely ordained role of snails as a vehicle for butter and garlic. It Did Not, I am happy to report. There was barely a hint of actual anise flavor (I'm not a big fan), but it seemed to give the sauce a sharp, almost astringent quality at the finish. Very pleasant, and it kept at bay the oiliness that can sometimes bog down escargot. Also, props to our server—she of the outrageous accent—for realizing that yes, I WOULD be needing another baguette for sopping-up purposes. The shrimp were likewise lovely, both in their perfect preparation and in the sauce that enhanced, rather than swamped, the flavor of the shrimp themselves.

For the main course, I was torn between the duck special (I am –15 versus spätzle), the cassoulet, and the rabbit. As in all times of doubt and uncertainty, I turned to the Jesus!Phone and the Twitterverse:
Mr. Wire Monkey Mother: THUMPER!
Wire Monkey Mother: i am sorry i am so late to the CASSOULET, YOU FOOL party

Although this input is invaluable, I decided to get the input of our server—she of the outrageous accent—who noted that the cassoulet is very big and heavy, plus the rabbit is her favorite. Cute and delicious bunny it was! The ZK's brain stuttered as he ordered his main dish. I believe he said quite clearly that he wanted the pork loin. Roughly 5 seconds later, just when our server turned away, he finished scrolling through his Terminator options and said, "I"m sorry. I meant the duck."

Everything about my rabbit dish was perfect. The roasted loin and braised leg provided nice variation in texture and flavor. I can imagine some people not liking the "shredded" aspect of the leg, it's much more a presentation issue than anything to do with mouth feel, nothing at all stringy or dry about it. The mustard sauce was subtle, but with a nice bit of bite to it. The potatoes were done to a turn and took on more of the mustard flavoring. Perhaps the best evidence of their attention to detail was the fact the brussels sprouts had been pulled apart into individual leaves framing the dish. I happen to like sprouts pretty well, but they can be difficult to eat and, worse, difficult to cook thoroughly without reducing some parts to bile-colored mush, and this approach avoided all problems. Even the ZK enjoyed his taste of them.

He was of the opinion that his duck was the winner. I'm calling it a draw. The duck was beautiful, and the red wine reduction was amazing. And spätzle and braised cabbage soaking in it? Pretty indescribable.

For dessert, my beloved spouse asked—rather snidely—which of the chocolate things I was getting. IT JUST SO HAPPENED that I wanted to the chocolate "soufflé" (sarcastic quote marks theirs), so BITE ME. He's a mad man and got the Financier de Poire (a white cake). The sarcastic quote marks around the soufflé, I think, are intended to denote that the cake is only about half an inch high, but it is plenty soufflé-y nonetheless. It also has a huge dollop of the smoothest, most beautifully melty and luscious ganache EVAR on top. And the strawberry port compote? Oh, the magnificent tartness of it! Mmmmmmm!

And despite my snarking about white things for dessert, the Financier was really good as well. Perfectly poached pears, cake delicate in both flavor and texture, and the crème fraiche ice cream did bring something more than just vanilla ice cream in French clothing to the party.

Bistro Campagne was thus a very nearly unqualified success for our third outing. The service was a little slow, and we were about 15 minutes late for the show (and, unusually for an "in house" show, the place was packed to the rafters). This seemed mostly attributable to a dearth of wait staff. Our server had at least the whole back room, comprising at least 15 tables, all of which were full by the time we left. I suspect that if we'd let our server know up front that we had a show to get to, there wouldn't have been a problem, so we'll chalk it up to not knowing any better on our first go. A La Card deck is definitely 3 for 3, though.

We're Gonna Need a Bigger Pestle: A La Card #2 @ Kitsch'n + Chandni Chowk to China

Today was mash-up day for the denizens of the Painful Acres. We used our second "A La Card" card for brunch at Kitsch'n (in its somewhat paradoxical River North location). We then repaired to Piper's Alley for a matinee of Chandni Chowk to China, which completely tickled my silly comedy–dumb action movie sensors.

It appears we've only been to Kitsch'n once before, and quite a while ago. I guess that's yet another point in the plus column for the A La Card Deck, as we had a great meal.

When we went in '05, I rather scoffed at the kitschyness of the Roscoe location, both on the grounds of my own desensitization to kitsch, and (I should have added at the time) on the grounds that it's in a very wonderfully kitschy area of the city to begin with. River North is antikitschy. Observer, for example, that this location of Kitsch'n is actually in the same building as Japonais. The interior of this Kitsch'n location reflects an awareness of a need to fit in. It's more that the booths are orange vinyl, the tables are chrome and formica, and there are groovy faux-vintage light fixtures.

Granted, immediately behind our table was a genuine, avocado green refrigerator, and there were shelves of self-consciously hipster toys, but it's a far cry from the concentrated, loving homage to the 70s at Roscoe. I also thought it was a little outside the mission statement to have large, shiny flat panels on CNN (and later on the playoff game, leading me to briefly wonder why in the hell they were letting Howie Long cover the inauguration).

Positively no complaints about the meal, though, unless we're allowed to complain that the portions are too satisfying, thus preventing us from trying the large number of things we'd love to try. I was lured in, once again, by the Green Eggs & Ham, and they were even better than I'd remembered. The potatoes that come with them are positively scrumptious, and I hadn't remembered the springs of rosemary, which were wonderful. I supplemented it with a simply marvelous $2 pomegranate mimosa. The ZK had the fried chicken and waffle, as well as a side of biscuits and gravy.

Another positive of the A La Card deck is that the $10 cards are for a variety of restaurants at a variety of price points. Whereas the card for Primehouse made a pretty small contribution to the total bill (although they seemed to have given us 10% off, rather than just $10), at Kitsch'n, it's a nice chunk of a really reasonable bill (even more reasonable, as our waitress, bless her, comped our coffee simply because there was a slight delay before we got our first cup). Yum!

Onward to the film, though! Despite a great trailer Chandni Chowk to China is getting savaged, rather, in reviews. What perplexes is me about the reviews is the frequent complaint that the movie is "stupid." Well . . . yes. It's a mash-up of a slapstick comedy, a typical Bollywood musical extravaganza, and a chopsocky movie. That's, like, stupid cubed!

It's exactly as formulaic as you'd expect: A complete loser (Sidhu) in a down-and-out part of India is constantly looking for a get-rich-quick scheme, much to the chagrin of his hard-working adoptive father (Dada). Said hard-working adoptive father is always there to (literally) kick Sidhu's ass all over town.

Meanwhile in China, downtrodden villagers under the evil thumb of Hojo (yes, really, Hojo), are looking for emancipation. Through various syncretic rituals, they believe they have located the reincarnation of Liu Sheung. They send an envoy to Chandni Chowk to retrieve their liberator.

Once the villagers arrive in Chandni Chowk, they enlist the help of Chopstick, a local con man who has been happy enough in the past to take Sidhu's money in exchange for amulets and other sure things, to explain to Sidhu what they want of him. Chopstick sees his own opportunity to ride Sidhu's coattails to prosperity in China. He tells Sidhu that "Dado Hojo (Kill Hojo)" means "Very cool." Although Dada's instinct is to continue kicking Sidhu and his Ganesh Potato (seriously, he has a Ganesh Potato, which you can go ahead and add to the list of things I wish I'd made up) all over town, father and son eventually conclude that Sidhu should head off for China.

While trying to get a visa for China, Sidhu encounters (and is conned by) "Miss TSM"—the spokesmodel for the Indian equivalent of QVC. She grabs his number in line and makes a break for China ahead of our boys. Initially obsessed with her hotness, Sidhu becomes obsessed with chasing down the cheater.

At the airport in China, Sidhu runs after a woman he thinks is her, but who turns out to be a pregnant Chinese woman. OR IS SHE?!? Sidhu is convinced that the "baby" is another con, and he runs after her, yelling, "Who cooked your bun?!?" The baby is indeed revealed to be a false belly filled with diamonds, and she is revealed to be Meow Meow, Hojo's answer to GoGo. Diamonds scatter everywhere, and soon Meow Meow's mug is on WANTED posters all over China.

As the villagers celebrate the reincarnation of Liu Sheng with a visit to his monument at the Great Wall, we stop back in with Miss TSM who is picking up a variety of samples (a universal translator that looks suspiciously like a bedazzled iPod nano, and a bullet proof umbrella cum parachute) from the nerve center of QVC. Someone asks a question roughly equivalent to "how's it going?" in conversational sincerity, and she answers with a 20-minute flashback montage to the day Hojo threw her twin sister and father over the side of the Great Wall, prompting her mother's suicide. So glad you asked!

Everyone who's anyone (or putatively been anyone in a past life) then converges on top of the Great Wall so that wackiness can ensue. Miss TSM (whose name turns out to be Sahki) is there to lay her father and sister to rest. Sidhu is there to get his Liu Sheng vibe on. Meow Meow (whose real name is Suzy) is there to kill Sidhu, presumably because the silliness of Liu Sheng reincarnate is just annoying in some unspecified way, and/or because Sidhu ruined her superfly diamond mule pregnancy belly. Oh, and by the way, Sahki/Suzy's father is there, too, because he's a bridge troll crazy amnesiac who lives under the wall.

Meow Meow fails to kill Sidhu. Sahki is mistaken for Meow Meow by the police. Meow Meow is mistaken for Miss TSM by Sidhu. Sidhu accidentally puts the police correctly on Meow Meow's track, thinking that she is Miss TSM.

Everyone except Meow Meow eventually repairs to the village. Meow Meow repairs to Hojo's lair, and Hojo sends her back out again to kill Sidhu, this time with poison lipstick.

Sahki tries to hide in a troupe of Chinese dancers, but she's eventually discovered in Sidhu's bed. Chopstick and Sidhu, now thinking that she's Meow Meow, subdue her and lock her in a wardrobe, vowing to turn her in for the bounty in the morning. Meow Meow shows up for the smooch of death, and Sidhu is frustrated with her slippery ways. Chopstick, presumably getting his first look at her, becomes a fan of her slippery ways. Nonetheless, Sidhu subdues her before she can kiss Chopstick, and they lock her in the other side of the wardrobe that already contains Sahki.

Sahki awakes and recognizes her twin through a hole in the partition between them. Before she can free herself, one of Hojo's minions arrives to rescue "Meow Meow." Meow Meow frees herself and is about to off Chopstick when he yells that Sidhu is nothing and Chopstick is everything. A lightbulb goes off over Meow Meow's head, and she drags Chopstick back to Hojo.

I honestly have no memory how the Mystery of the Duelling Meow Meows is solved. At some point, Sahki just . . . isn't there anymore . . . Oh, wait! She escapes and runs ahead of Hojo's EvilMobile to announce that he's coming. And indeed, he is coming, because about 3 minutes before this, Joey has somehow already returned from India and Hojo has a surprise guest: None other than Dada!

The villagers urge Sidhu to kill Hojo. Sidhu (very slowly) clues in that "Dado Hojo" might just mean something other than "Very cool," and Dada gets his throat slit. (But it's slit by a boomeranging bowler hat, and if you have to lose your great vessels, wouldn't you want to lose them with that kind of panache?)

Not content to also kill Sidhu on site, Hojo's help goes for narrative closure by chucking him over the side of the Great Wall, where he is miraculously caught and saved by Chiang, father to Sahki and Suzy (are you still a family if 66.67% of you don't know you are for one reason or another?).

Sahki vows to retrieve her sister. Chopstick goes to work as a spy for her in Hojo's organization. Sidhu and Chiang spend some time wondering why it is that Chiang seems to speak Hindi, and then they go for tea. (Seriously, I do not know why Chinese people even BUILD tea houses any more.)

From there on out, it's pretty much uncovered identities and training montages, you know? Oh, there's an opera, a codpiece, and a funny bit with a hot pink Razr that has an old timey bell ring. But you get the idea.

As I said: Formulaic. Twins separated in infancy? Check. Giant Albino Henchman? Check. Deadly haberdashery? Check. Training montage? Check. Dead mentors and multiple calls for revenge? Check. And so on and so on and so on.

But it's big fun! The whole cast is very good, and there are many stand outs in the supporting cast. Mithun Chakraborty as Dada is the film's emotional center, and it does have one. He's quite a wonderful hero very much in the style of Ben Parker. Roger Yuan is equally watchable as the drunk under the wall and as the kick-ass Police Inspector.

In the leads, Akshay Kumar and Deepika Padukone could easily have been either hate worthy or negligible, but they're both as charming as they need to be without fearing to be nerdy and inept as the situation demands. (It's also worth noting that Kumar is one of those people who is utterly transformed by clothing and facial hair. I was genuinely shocked that he's fairly attractive without the stache.)

I think it also has some more depth than it's getting credit for. Without hammering any kind of Message! home, it casts unbridled self-interest in a very negative light. In the end, it comes around to Dada's moral about hard work and belief in the self, rather than hoping for divine intervention.

I will concede that it's a bit overlong, although most critics seem to imply that the fights could be trimmed or more frenetically timed to cut some temporal fat. (Totally misses the glory of the chopsocky movie, where only ass-kicking, foley work, and long-armed yogis pad the film.) Some are more generous to the musical numbers, claiming these are the only charm the film holds. Were I to tighten it up, I'd probably have tried for a slightly less complicated plot, and although I love Dada, I'd have taken my merciless blue pen to the broad physical comedy at the beginning.

But for all its length and convoluted plot, it's a fun and charming movie. It's also a damned sight better than Paul Blart Mall Fucking Cop, and shame on you America for not knowing it.