The world was filled with promise on a hot, sunny day in September of 1981. I had just graduated from High School, and had enrolled in the University of Colorado under a full academic scholarship. Other schools had been interested in me, most notably Harvard, but I would have none of that. Harvard didn't even have a music school! CU, on the other hand, had one of the two or three most prestigious recording schools in the country. Since I had grown up in Evergreen, less than an hour from the CU Denver campus, it seemed an obvious choice.
CU didn't have on-campus housing, so during the Summer I had looked around for a house to rent. I found a beautiful little place, tucked away in the trees just off of Wadsworth Boulevard, right next to Crown Hill Cemetery.
By an odd coincidence, a good friend of mine who had killed himself in High School was buried there. I had attended his memorial, but couldn't bring myself to attend the burial. Thus, I didn't know where he was buried until some time after I moved into the house on Wadsworth.
In between moving my gear into the house and getting to know my new roommate, I was on the phone constantly with my best friend John. A bass player I had been in a couple of bands with already, he was a year younger, so he was just beginning his senior year of High School. Somehow, he had gotten wind of a local band that needed a bass player, and he needed me to drive him to one of their gigs. John had a driver's license. What he lacked was a car.
"So tell me about the band," I asked. Of course I wanted John to get a gig, but the bottom line was that I was more interested in getting one myself.
Knowing immediately my motive in discovering more about "his" opportunity, he responded with "Well, they're called Strider, and they don't have a keyboard player."
The casual observer would think that was a door-closer, but I couldn't help but think that they must really need a keyboard player. How could you possibly have a band in the new decade without one? I was perfect for the job - no one to compare to, I had only to prove myself.
"What's the name mean?"
"It's a character from Lord of the Rings. They're playing Saturday at Loretto Heights, you wanna go?" The translation of course was "You wanna take me?"
"Sure, let's do it," I responded faux-enthusiastically.
Loretto Heights is a small college that was having a meet-and-greet for the new students, with a metal band called Strider playing the main stage. The main stage consisted of a couple of choir risers stacked on top of each other on the main lawn with no lighting and no canopy, during an afternoon that seemed unusually warm for September in Colorado.
These guys were the real deal to me. All of them had long hair, they had real guitars, real Marshall amps, a soundman, and to a college puke who had never been in a band that played Blue Oyster Cult, they were awesome. They were loud, they knew the tunes much better than the bands I had been in, and most importantly, they had the rock 'n roll attitude. I was speechless as I listened to them pound through AC/DC, April Wine, UFO, Tommy Bolan, and many others I didn't even recognize.
Holy Hell! There was so much power in what they were doing! Not just volume (though there was definitely that), but a palpable force of nature that was being channeled through them. I felt energized listening to them, like something was being unleashed within me. Something that had been waiting for years to get out, and only made itself known when I was listening to music as loud as I could stand it through headphones. I felt like I could listen for hours, but when they finally went on break, I did notice that my ears were starting to ring. I didn't care. I was all about the ringing.
"Hey, I'm Michael." came a friendly, forceful voice, directed at John. "Did I talk to you on the phone?" He shook John's hand with the biggest forearm I had ever seen in real life. It was much larger than it should have been for the rest of his body. I would learn later that he had been a professional arm wrestler sometime in the past.
"Yeah, I'm John. This is Craig, he drove me here."
Michael glossed over the ridiculousness of the statement by asking us what we thought of the band. We practically fell over ourselves inside, but we didn't want to appear too fawning or anxious, so we just said "You guys sound great!" In unison. Idiots.
This was my destiny. I could FEEL it! Nothing could stop me from forcing myself upon the Strider organization, and bringing their sound to a whole new level with my talent and attitude. I was on my way, finally, after five years of practicing, hoping, dreaming. I was about to make it!
"All right! Thanks for coming out. Well, this is our last gig. We're breaking up."
Monday, June 28, 2010
Monday, June 14, 2010
New Website Up and Running
After much wailing and gnashing of teeth, the www.craigpatterson.com website is up and running. Whee!
The main purpose is to try to bring together the many disparate projects I've always got going on. Remnants of them are in various locations around the Web, but it always seems haphazard. craigpatterson.com will be a central point that can be referred to at any given time, to see what's happening in my current world.
For quite some time, the only endeavor I had on the Web was the record label, PME Records. It could, and can, be found at www.pmerecords.com. At one point there was a MySpace page also devoted to the label, but MySpace had become such a digital ghetto by the middle of 2009 that it no longer seemed worthwhile.
The projects fall into several categories: Images, films, music, video, and this blog. Within those categories are several subcategories. The music projects, for example, are composed of the label, my own recordings, and licenseable music from Easter Island. All of those are accessible from the main page of craigpatterson.com.
The same is true of the films, which are in various stages of pre and post production. Descriptions of the three films I and my team are working on are reachable from the main page, so I won't go into them here.
Video clips are licenseable from a British company called Pond5, and the entire range is just a click away from the main page. There are other clips as well, posted on YouTube. These other clips include clips that won't be available on Pond5 (because they're being saved for a longer film). Trailers and interviews will be uploaded as they become available.
Images are also licenseable, from a separate company called Alamy. You can also license directly from the main page at craigpatterson.com, though the functionality to fully monetize that portion has not yet been delivered by our developer. He's not that easy to work with, and he has other projects that often take up his time, so sometimes he gets cranky when asked to rewrite the web page. As if you hadn't guessed, I'm the developer.
The most current image project, which will take years to fully develop, is timelapse night shots of various geological formations around the United States. These timelapses will then be put into video clips, showing the movement of the night sky in relation to the formations. Ultimately, they'll be put into a short film, and released to festivals, and also be available for sale. But the nature of the type of filming makes the process very time-consuming, and each clip can take weeks to prepare. So while each clip will be on YouTube as it's completed, the final result won't be available for quite some time.
The final piece of the puzzle, this blog, is a little harder to pin down. It may eventually become a memoir of my time in the music industry, or it may become a collection of short stories. Or perhaps a cookbook. There's really no way of knowing, until it's been around for much longer than it has.
It seems like I've spent a fair amount of space just describing the things that are up there, and yet there's so much more to each that I could go on and on. So why do all this?
I dunno. I guess I have to. I can't *not* do it. Don't be afraid to write, either via email or facebook, and let me know your thoughts on the site.
The main purpose is to try to bring together the many disparate projects I've always got going on. Remnants of them are in various locations around the Web, but it always seems haphazard. craigpatterson.com will be a central point that can be referred to at any given time, to see what's happening in my current world.
For quite some time, the only endeavor I had on the Web was the record label, PME Records. It could, and can, be found at www.pmerecords.com. At one point there was a MySpace page also devoted to the label, but MySpace had become such a digital ghetto by the middle of 2009 that it no longer seemed worthwhile.
The projects fall into several categories: Images, films, music, video, and this blog. Within those categories are several subcategories. The music projects, for example, are composed of the label, my own recordings, and licenseable music from Easter Island. All of those are accessible from the main page of craigpatterson.com.
The same is true of the films, which are in various stages of pre and post production. Descriptions of the three films I and my team are working on are reachable from the main page, so I won't go into them here.
Video clips are licenseable from a British company called Pond5, and the entire range is just a click away from the main page. There are other clips as well, posted on YouTube. These other clips include clips that won't be available on Pond5 (because they're being saved for a longer film). Trailers and interviews will be uploaded as they become available.
Images are also licenseable, from a separate company called Alamy. You can also license directly from the main page at craigpatterson.com, though the functionality to fully monetize that portion has not yet been delivered by our developer. He's not that easy to work with, and he has other projects that often take up his time, so sometimes he gets cranky when asked to rewrite the web page. As if you hadn't guessed, I'm the developer.
The most current image project, which will take years to fully develop, is timelapse night shots of various geological formations around the United States. These timelapses will then be put into video clips, showing the movement of the night sky in relation to the formations. Ultimately, they'll be put into a short film, and released to festivals, and also be available for sale. But the nature of the type of filming makes the process very time-consuming, and each clip can take weeks to prepare. So while each clip will be on YouTube as it's completed, the final result won't be available for quite some time.
The final piece of the puzzle, this blog, is a little harder to pin down. It may eventually become a memoir of my time in the music industry, or it may become a collection of short stories. Or perhaps a cookbook. There's really no way of knowing, until it's been around for much longer than it has.
It seems like I've spent a fair amount of space just describing the things that are up there, and yet there's so much more to each that I could go on and on. So why do all this?
I dunno. I guess I have to. I can't *not* do it. Don't be afraid to write, either via email or facebook, and let me know your thoughts on the site.
Monday, June 7, 2010
My Indoctrination To the Road
It was an exciting day, filled with promise. It was the first road trip for Stacey Blade, a metal band in the 80's, that had come from the ruins of another band called Strider. There had been more rehearsals than Lars Uhlrich would need for a Fanny Bryce revival, and we were finally ready to rock. For anyone, anywhere. A ramshackle basement-level club called The Operating Room would be our first out-of-towner. The guys who had been in Strider were familiar with the room, so they brought along bodyguards for the band, but the rest of us were mentally unprepared.
The O.R., as it was called, actually was a pretty happening place, at least for Laramie Wyoming. One thing people in Wyoming know how to do is drink. In the 80's Wyoming was just coming down from the twin booms of oil and coal exploration. There was still plenty of both, and plenty of jobs, but the huge money that was there in the 70's was starting to leave, and people could feel that the boom was starting to subside. That feeling, along with the typical party atmosphere of roughnecks, made for nightclub action that was not to be outdone. The murals at Pompeii seemed like the musings of a rank amateur next to the bars in Wyoming.
I was a mere lad of eighteen, hailing from small-town USA, and excited at the prospect of becoming a rock star. I was on my way, finally going out on the concert trail to meet the people I'd always heard about. But why did we need bodyguards?
The answer came the very first night, as a small fight broke out on the dance floor during the second set. By "small," I mean eight or ten people, lots of yelling, bottles flying, and blood spatters on various people, as well as on the floor. The club's bouncers eventually broke it all up and threw a ton of people out. Who started it? One of our bodyguards. His version was different, and was bolstered by the fact that his face and body were far bloodier than anyone else's. Nonetheless, he wasn't allowed back in. Ever. So he left the next morning for Denver, and we didn't see him until our next in-town gig.
After the melee and the next pretend-like-nothing-happened set were over, we repaired to the band house to revel in our new-found glory. In that period, it was commonplace for bands to travel constantly, and motel costs could add up fast. Add to that the club's realization that they never really knew where the bands were, and the logical conclusion was to rent a single house for all the bands to stay in. Some weren't all that bad. But the pairing of the club owner being a cheapskate, and most bands' penchant for destruction, meant that most bandhouses weren't places you'd want to spend more than ten minutes running through. Picture a junkyard of mobile homes, with a wall or two of each torn down, wet insulation exposed, kitchen fixtures torn out, and few, if any, working light bulbs. Now take two of those trailers and bolt them together. Voila. Band house.
Like the club, the O.R. band house was underground, and God help whomever it was that lived upstairs. It may have even been abandoned. We never bothered to find out. There was a multitude of bedrooms in this particular example, along with a very large common room that the uninitiated may have called a Living Room. Our singer, Ronald, had found some lovely young nymph who seemed very interested in him, and brought her back with us for some socialization. Ah, we must have talked for hours. Actually, we did. One by one, each of the band members would retire from the Living Room to their respective bedrooms, saying goodnight, or not, per their own preference. Eventually, after what seemed like a lifetime, it was just me, Ronald, and the nymph. Her name was Eve, and yes, that's her real name.
I'm not very good with names, and even after knowing someone for a year or more, I may not remember their actual name. It's nothing personal - I just have some kind of block in that portion of my brain. Someone can tell me their name, and literally one second later, I don't recall what name they gave. But I remember Eve.
That length of time that seemed like a lifetime to me, must have seemed even longer to Ronald, as well as to certain other band members. For it turns out that, even though there were many bedrooms, there weren't quite enough for all of us - six band members and two crew. (The bodyguards were wisely staying in a motel.) While I, in my small-town naivete, was socializing with our guest, the reality that escaped me was that I was in Ronald's bedroom, and he and Eve would certainly like to be using it as such. I should leave. But why would I do that? She's a guest - it's rude to go to bed while guests are still there, and after all, she may need some assistance getting back home. With everyone else in bed, and our singer not having a driver's license, I figured I would be needed. At some point.
Some conversation and laughter could be heard from one of the bedrooms, where our soundman, Brian, had drawn a couple of other members to confer. They called me in. Initially I refused. How rude that would be, to leave our guest! Why couldn't they come out to the Living Room? Desipte my protestations, they eventually convinced me to leave the Living Room, even if only for a moment.
They then explained to me, between their fits of apparently uncontrollable laughter, what was really going on. It actually took me quite a while to be convinced that I was in the wrong - probably fifteen or twenty minutes. They had never seen such a Gomer, and they let me know it. Even though I was trying to decide whether to be humiliated for me, for Eve, or furious at their lack of cooth, it was hard to be mad at a bunch of guys who are literally rolling on the floor trying to catch their breath.
Once I finally came out of the bedroom, it was instantly obvious that our doors were much thinner than we had assumed. Eve was in tears, and was definitely, absolutely, completely ready to leave. I think perhaps what sealed the deal, or anti-deal, as it were, was the fact that Ronald had come into the bedroom and was laughing with everyone else. I rather doubt that Eve took kindly to that.
I consider myself fortunate that the the next day he told me he wasn't upset with me at all, and that he'd just find someone else. It was simply no big deal. That was a great relief to me. I didn't want to rock the boat in a band of seasoned professionals that I had just joined, and I thought it was very big of him to be so understanding. Thank you Ronald, wherever you may be. I didn't understand, and I was wrong.
Ronald was the one who was to drive her home, even though no one trusted him with The Blademobile. I guess it was his duty - he had failed to make his bed, and now he had to not lie in it. So in a very uncomfortable conclusion to to an evening of hilarity for everyone else, Eve said some quick, stilted goodbyes. She looked more at the floor than any of us, then turned and walked out the door into the unforgiving, humiliating night.
But that was not to be my last encounter with Eve.
The O.R., as it was called, actually was a pretty happening place, at least for Laramie Wyoming. One thing people in Wyoming know how to do is drink. In the 80's Wyoming was just coming down from the twin booms of oil and coal exploration. There was still plenty of both, and plenty of jobs, but the huge money that was there in the 70's was starting to leave, and people could feel that the boom was starting to subside. That feeling, along with the typical party atmosphere of roughnecks, made for nightclub action that was not to be outdone. The murals at Pompeii seemed like the musings of a rank amateur next to the bars in Wyoming.
I was a mere lad of eighteen, hailing from small-town USA, and excited at the prospect of becoming a rock star. I was on my way, finally going out on the concert trail to meet the people I'd always heard about. But why did we need bodyguards?
The answer came the very first night, as a small fight broke out on the dance floor during the second set. By "small," I mean eight or ten people, lots of yelling, bottles flying, and blood spatters on various people, as well as on the floor. The club's bouncers eventually broke it all up and threw a ton of people out. Who started it? One of our bodyguards. His version was different, and was bolstered by the fact that his face and body were far bloodier than anyone else's. Nonetheless, he wasn't allowed back in. Ever. So he left the next morning for Denver, and we didn't see him until our next in-town gig.
After the melee and the next pretend-like-nothing-happened set were over, we repaired to the band house to revel in our new-found glory. In that period, it was commonplace for bands to travel constantly, and motel costs could add up fast. Add to that the club's realization that they never really knew where the bands were, and the logical conclusion was to rent a single house for all the bands to stay in. Some weren't all that bad. But the pairing of the club owner being a cheapskate, and most bands' penchant for destruction, meant that most bandhouses weren't places you'd want to spend more than ten minutes running through. Picture a junkyard of mobile homes, with a wall or two of each torn down, wet insulation exposed, kitchen fixtures torn out, and few, if any, working light bulbs. Now take two of those trailers and bolt them together. Voila. Band house.
Like the club, the O.R. band house was underground, and God help whomever it was that lived upstairs. It may have even been abandoned. We never bothered to find out. There was a multitude of bedrooms in this particular example, along with a very large common room that the uninitiated may have called a Living Room. Our singer, Ronald, had found some lovely young nymph who seemed very interested in him, and brought her back with us for some socialization. Ah, we must have talked for hours. Actually, we did. One by one, each of the band members would retire from the Living Room to their respective bedrooms, saying goodnight, or not, per their own preference. Eventually, after what seemed like a lifetime, it was just me, Ronald, and the nymph. Her name was Eve, and yes, that's her real name.
I'm not very good with names, and even after knowing someone for a year or more, I may not remember their actual name. It's nothing personal - I just have some kind of block in that portion of my brain. Someone can tell me their name, and literally one second later, I don't recall what name they gave. But I remember Eve.
That length of time that seemed like a lifetime to me, must have seemed even longer to Ronald, as well as to certain other band members. For it turns out that, even though there were many bedrooms, there weren't quite enough for all of us - six band members and two crew. (The bodyguards were wisely staying in a motel.) While I, in my small-town naivete, was socializing with our guest, the reality that escaped me was that I was in Ronald's bedroom, and he and Eve would certainly like to be using it as such. I should leave. But why would I do that? She's a guest - it's rude to go to bed while guests are still there, and after all, she may need some assistance getting back home. With everyone else in bed, and our singer not having a driver's license, I figured I would be needed. At some point.
Some conversation and laughter could be heard from one of the bedrooms, where our soundman, Brian, had drawn a couple of other members to confer. They called me in. Initially I refused. How rude that would be, to leave our guest! Why couldn't they come out to the Living Room? Desipte my protestations, they eventually convinced me to leave the Living Room, even if only for a moment.
They then explained to me, between their fits of apparently uncontrollable laughter, what was really going on. It actually took me quite a while to be convinced that I was in the wrong - probably fifteen or twenty minutes. They had never seen such a Gomer, and they let me know it. Even though I was trying to decide whether to be humiliated for me, for Eve, or furious at their lack of cooth, it was hard to be mad at a bunch of guys who are literally rolling on the floor trying to catch their breath.
Once I finally came out of the bedroom, it was instantly obvious that our doors were much thinner than we had assumed. Eve was in tears, and was definitely, absolutely, completely ready to leave. I think perhaps what sealed the deal, or anti-deal, as it were, was the fact that Ronald had come into the bedroom and was laughing with everyone else. I rather doubt that Eve took kindly to that.
I consider myself fortunate that the the next day he told me he wasn't upset with me at all, and that he'd just find someone else. It was simply no big deal. That was a great relief to me. I didn't want to rock the boat in a band of seasoned professionals that I had just joined, and I thought it was very big of him to be so understanding. Thank you Ronald, wherever you may be. I didn't understand, and I was wrong.
Ronald was the one who was to drive her home, even though no one trusted him with The Blademobile. I guess it was his duty - he had failed to make his bed, and now he had to not lie in it. So in a very uncomfortable conclusion to to an evening of hilarity for everyone else, Eve said some quick, stilted goodbyes. She looked more at the floor than any of us, then turned and walked out the door into the unforgiving, humiliating night.
But that was not to be my last encounter with Eve.
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