Shipe & Ebbage at work on the New Album

This morning, I’m in Seattle, with my bestest music buddy Ehren Ebbage, about to go into the studio for our 3rd of 4 stretches of work on the new Shipe album.

It remains untitled, but finally comes into creative focus as I understand where this material comes from, and who the character (or set of characters) is that makes this album. One of the songs is called “Love Belongs to Everyone,” which could to be a title cut. But I’m afraid it won’t do, because it’s one of those “means-the-opposite-of-what-it-says” lines, which nobody will get until they listen to the song a few times.

And besides, as Amy says, an album of that title, judged by its cover, will be easy to dismiss at first glance as a lazy collection of hippy, one-world, one-love musical platitudes. To that, I say, “What’s so funny about peace, love and understanding?”

“Ha,” she retorts. “If only that was what you had to say.” (The song itself is as dark as any I’ve written, featuring a highly disturbed character. But at least the chorus is uplifting… uh… in a kind of mournful way… You’ll have to hear it, I guess, and you’ll see what I mean.)

She goes on to ask, “Are you making another Sudden & Merciless Joy?”

No, I’m not. But, yes, this album comes from a restless, worried place. It’s not the domestic placidity of Yellow House. After all, I was ungrounded, moving from Eugene to San Diego to Yellowstone and back to Eugene, enjoying life, but struggling to get leverage in my endeavors. I should have indulged in sunny California mellow melodies, and wide open Yellowstone Big Sky . But this guy went further inward than outward.

That said, I insist that he’s not so existential as SMJ. He’s more like the Blue Rebekah storyteller who lodges at Yellow House.

If that has you wondering how this album is going to sound, all I can say is, “me too.” I’m in the capable hands of Ebbage, and I trust him all the way. Together, we’ll make sure the whole thing makes a good damn bit of sense.

Chatty Wine Bar – Idaho Falls

Good looking people hang out at Vino Rosso in Idaho Falls. And they’re more interested in each other than whatever musical act is hired for the night. But I’ve learned a thing or two about playing in these noisy bars. I’ve learned neither to fight for their attention, nor to crawl into an uninspired self-hole pretending we’re in two totally different rooms.

Sometimes they don’t look like they’re listening, but they hear just enough to appreciate that something fine is going on in the corner of this wine bar, in the vicinity of this fellow with the Breedlove guitar and the singing voice.

The question is: Do you play soft unobtrusive stuff, bland mid-tempo background music, or loud aggressive acoustic rock to be heard over the conversation? The answer: Play it all, just like would any other gig. The dynamics and trajectories are what people respond to, whether they’re listening passively or focused. Furthermore, do it with as much emotion and intensity as you always do. (That’s what you’re being paid for.) If you are afraid to appear really “into it,” just because you’re sort of in the background for the time being, you will appear bored & bland, and you’ll be written off as an amateur. They will likely feel sorry for you.

However, if you “go for it,” at all times, no matter what–earnest and emotional when you’re soft, aggressive when you’re rockin’ out–they’ll take you seriously. People are smart; they know what’s going on. Unconsciously, they respond to good music, and they do look at the stage (or corner) every once in awhile to acknowledge the competent artist.

But don’t isolate yourself. Be available to the mood, and change with it. Be ready to interact. If you’re playing 3 sets over 4 hours, you can’t expect walk-in clientele to treat the night like a 90-minute headlining act in a performance hall. But you can grab those 10-20 minute segments of artist-audience rapport. (Several of those per night is a pretty good record.)

And if you get a heckler, that’s a good thing!

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Waning Kafka-esque

“Do not despair,” said Kafka. “Not even over the fact that you do not despair.”

There’s a lot Kafka said that I don’t understand. And this, too, I’m probably not getting. But in the context of my own concerns as a songwriter, it stirs up dizzying contemplations.

Click for more if you really find this kind of brainiac psychobabble interesting.

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Shipe is no April Fool

After the promo barrage of my last album, Yellow House, my web presence increased, and I found myself getting contacted out of the blue. This should be a good thing, right?

Not always.

If you’re a devoted songwriter/recording artist, doing your sacred work somewhere between the 2nd and 3rd tiers of the Music Industry, here are a couple of guidelines:

1) If you gotta pay for an opportunity, it ain’t an opportunity.

2) The Biz is densely populated with working talent; no one “gets discovered” any more.

This second one is vague, so I’ll elaborate: Scouting agents are not scouring the vast regions of MySpace, Sonic Bids, and ReverbNation just to find you. Anything good that might happen for you, such as a recording contract, radio airplay, song placement, or a publishing deal, is happening for artists who are already within geographical or virtual proximity of the Biz entities that make those things happen. They do it better than you, and literally closer to the industry than you.

So when I get contacted by someone I’ve never heard of, telling me how excited they are about me, I recall what Groucho Marx said: “Never belong to a club that would accept you as a member.”

Oh, that sounds discouraging. But it only means what it means for everybody else in every other line of work. You have to show up and apply for the job. And you have to show up over and over and over again. It takes time, persistence, and patience.

If somebody e-mails you from Hollywood with a movie project that needs background music exactly like your latest masterpiece, and for a one time registration fee, they will add you to their select roster of song-placement clients, remind yourself of the two axioms above.

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Shipe Year in Review

The start of 2009 found me in North San Diego County. In the middle of my Yellow House run, it seemed a mistake to up-and-leave headquarters just to get out of Northwest rain. Sure, we lived on the beach, and the sunny weather was awesome, but they don’t have much of an original singer/songwriter scene in that surfer strip between L. A. & S. D.

What they do have, however, is a great Irish scene. Irish bands and Irish pubs. (Gentlemen from Flogging Molly reside there.) I was lucky to fall in with these folks. Ned Giblin, of Brehon Law, invited me to play Wednesdays at his pubs, J.J. Landers and R. O’Sullivan’s. So, I had regular gigs and a close look at a timeless style of music. (The influence of Ned and his cohort David Lally is bound to show on my next album.)

In Oceanside, I befriended Doug Whorly and several of his showcases at McCabe’s, where I met the lovely and talented road warrioress Jacqui Foreman. She honored me by covering my “Faith in the Man.”

It was at a Whorly showcase where my wife, Amy Wray, filmed the video of me covering The Pretender’s “Brass in Pocket.”

I didn’t bother working the L.A. scene. Too big, and like different country. But at the urging of my publicist Leona, I played a couple times at The Gypsy Den in Orange County. (Once with Trevor Davis.)

We lived down the beach from football star Junior Seau, who has a beautiful blue Pit Bull named Rocky. I mention the dog, because it was about this time that my connection to the international Pit Bull community really deepened. I was getting daily e-mails from dog lovers about my song “Pit Bull Blues,” which I gave out freely to anyone engaged in canine care and rescue. Soon, videographer Jeff Fleiss contacted me with the idea of making a video. By spring, he had hauled me up to L.A., filming me in front of the Coliseum amidst 25 Pit Bulls and their trainer, Dogman. He put it together with some excellent footage taken by Amy, and boom… there was a sweet video… still getting legs on the web.

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John Shipe’s Musical Family Tree

I was born in the sixties, in Springfield, Missouri. The younger part of my childhood was spent there and in Kansas. I describe it thusly: Like many children of heartland Suburbia during the 70’s, I had no inkling that my country was smack dab in the middle of its longest war. I knew about kites, swimming holes, tadpoles, picnics, Big-wheels, Ultra Man, Mr. Rogers, baseball cards, the Moon-landing, and my grandparents’ farm in the country. I didn’t know about Viet Nam, political protests, Kent State, or Watergate. I did however learn about race, poverty & segregation when my school had an exchange program with another school from Kansas City. Also, my dad used to take me down to the YMCA to play basketball. Though my parents never talked politics (Mom=democrat/Dad=republican) there was one thing they agreed on: teach the kids by example, to treat people well, and that racism is a fraud.

I was born “John Shipe,” but my mom re-married early, and my name was changed to “Schwartzman.” By the time I was 9, my family was in the S.F. Bay Area. At 12, I tried to learn guitar. It didn’t take. Baseball and soccer came more easily than transcribed versions of “On Top of Old Smokey.” (However, I did learn the intro to Boston’s “More than a Feeling,” and the wicked riff from “Play that Funky Music.”)


We soon moved to the Portland area (Oregon). More baseball, more soccer & basketball. Finally, at age 17, I got a classical guitar for Christmas. (I was a Yes fan, so I thought a classical guitar would send me on the path to mastering pretentious British Art-rock.) At first, all I learned was a bunch of Church tunes. Then, for a high school English project (Lord of the Flies), I accompanied my friend Matt Emlen on his “Evil Nature of Mankind Blues.” It was my first blues solo. I shredded…cheddar. In May of that year, I played “Wild Thing” for Stephanie Tromley at the Prom Queen ceremony–with Matt, my friend Tod Kelly, and Mike Walker who would later join me in college forming bands like Mission District and The Renegade Saints.

In College, at the University of Oregon in Eugene–home of Ken Kesey–I read a lot of books by dead white males, took a lot of creative writing courses, and formed a band called The Couch Potatoes with Warren Dexter (whom I had known since I was 13). We played The Doors, Eric Clapton, Z.Z. Top, Beatles, et cetera et cetera. I sucked miserable ass, and so did Warren, but with great passion! Our first drummer, Matt Reynolds, was awfully skillful. (He would later do stints with both Mission District and The Renegade Saints.) Our second drummer, Doug Nary was good too. (I heard a rumor that he played on tour with Kenny G–probably backed him up on the classic smooth jazz hit, “The Note.”)

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Kidney Stones and Broken Cars
Ashland, Oregon. Alex’s Restaurant.

According to Amy, it was the best that Ehren & I had ever sounded together in our lives. It sure felt that way. And we’ve been playing together since the 90′s.

But we paid the price, didn’t we?

Amy and I went early. We love Ashland, you see. As we were touring around the Plaza, Ebbage called us from Roseburg. His clutch had given out, good two hours North on I-5. He had to find a mechanic, leave his car and take a bus to meet us. But there’s no station in Ashland, so he could only make it as far as Medford. While I set up for the show, Amy had to drive a half-hour to pick him up.

He made it in time. From 8:30 to midnight-thirty, with hardly a break, we played damn near every song in our repertoire, with as much emotion and execution as we ever play. Very satisfying. (Our good San Diego friend–and “Yellow House” vid director–John Grimshaw was there, too.)

But I couldn’t help noticing the hot flames of pain shooting up and my back through the whole thing.

Back at the hotel. I ate my leftover Shrimp & Chicken Pasta and laughed at the Girls Gone Wild infomercial with Amy & Ehren.

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Taste Your Own Medicine

Some friends of mine from Portland just got a downright venomous review in the Willamette Week.  (For they’re protection, I won’t reveal who they are.  But their name rhymes with “times” and is synonymous with the phrase “10 cents.”)  These guys are special; honest and true, and immensely creative.   So I’m gonna take a deep breath and count to 10 before I say anything.  And while I’m counting, you can go read the review in question if you like.

1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10

Okay, Mr. Willamette Week reviewer.  (We’ll just call you “Jeff Rosenberg” for the sake of this blog.)  I haven’t yet heard the new album of which you speak, so, maybe… just maybe, it is as horrible as you say.  Maybe the guilty should slink into your office with tails between their legs, and apologize for putting you through such an excruciating 40-minutes.

But I doubt it.  Something tipped me off that your listening experience, and subsequent communication thereof—as authoritative as it rings—was not entirely honest.  What was it?  What could it be?
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