A Return to a New Old House

The Great Plotnik arrived home last night, so dead tired and emotionally wrung out that he could barely appreciate what World Headquarters looks like now, with the old aluminum siding gone and the borders of the Victorian trim that once adorned the house now exposed. After five and a half days (shall we count the hours and minutes?) of working with his old partner Mr. Wave, Plottie has come home feeling like his house looks, threadbare and needing a few new coats of paint.



Not to make more of it than it is, but although Plotnik had actually dropped his coffee cup in the trash by mistake and was trying to reach in to remove it, a closer reading of the shot calls up the true metaphor of the entire week. Plot knew he would be descending into Hell but hadn't remembered how hot it is down there.



Not that there weren't a lot of fun moments. The musicians all came over to hang around, including Philosopher Phunque himself, Brother Virgil, posing with a smiling Plottie and Wave. Also, Bobby Cochrane, phenomenal guitar player, posed with Leigh Robbins, the studio owner's wife, who sang backups as well as prepared chocolate chip muffins and generally helped to keep things loose.



Zach Morse, the bass player, is going to be a star. Keep your ears open for this guy.



Here's the gorgeous little Butterfly Wurlitzer electric piano. Think of Ray Charles's famous piano riff on 'What'd I Say?'



The bench to the Yamaha Grand was only two feet from Plotnik's bed. And the rack of accordions and African instruments. And the rack of the most pristine guitars.






Franklin, Tennessee is a beautiful place, half an hour South of Nashville. It's a bit plastic for Plotnik, with everyone living in gated communities with gated ponds and gated freaking ducks, but if you want a large house to put your recording studio in, you can certainly get one.




The absolute best part of the trip was meeting Brian, on the right, and Austin on the left.



While Plotnik was asking himself the obvious question: "Why are all my old collaborators always control freaks who eventually drive me insane?", he couldn't give it too much thought because of Brian and Austin. Both these guys have had in their young lives enough misfortune and misery to put Plottie to shame for every second he gives up to his own pitiful boo hoo hoos. Brian has been confined to a wheel chair since he was 17, but you would never know it except for the wheels. Austin's body was burned so badly at 19 that he was in a coma for several days and emerged months later, after many ghastly and painful skin grafts, with a serious morphine addiction. Both men not only don't complain, EVER, but laugh about life. "Patience," they each say. That's what they learned. Plottie really ought to listen closer.

The unanswered question is: Is there a finished product? Plotnik doesn't know. It's almost done, he guesses. The Wave will finish it himself in Aspen next week, unless he thinks of something else he wants to try. The songs are beautiful, and they are done for sure. Plot has been promised a finished CD by next week or so.

Will we have biscuits and gravy? Or just biscuits? Or just gravy? Plotnik doesn't really know. Right now, he doesn't much care. He needs sleep.