"Not Exactly a Turkey Shoot or "The making of All Three Volumes of Gavage"

     It always starts with self-expression.   I know now that it never did have all that much to do with strings or chords or tires or gasoline or girls or amps or clubs, theaters, accommodations , drugs, ego, politics, art or money.  It was what it was and it was nothing and at the same time it was everything to us and it would only happen once.  It began with the self-expression and the self was nothing, a blank sheet of paper.  So the expression would be initially a matter of writing on that blank sheet of paper.  It had to be written down.

     And it was going to be a respite and a retreat from the band and the politics and the electric guitars and the strings, chords, gas, girls, etc.  It was to be a solo effort of acoustic guitar songs rendered as starkly and minimally as "Nebraska" or at least "The Big Nowhere."  And so we began recording acoustic guitar tracks for new songs; a lot of new songs, eventually around fifty. 

     This was already a problem.  Two discs previously we had released a limited edition three volume collection ("Panopticon") and followed it up with another dozen new songs ("Maintain Radio Silence").  The quantity of music was more than our dwindling fan base of hard core fans needed (or desired).  Nor, it must be said, was it a quantity our people would even be able to digest; it probably could not be done.

     It was all too much and now again we were preparing a too-large collection.  The listener would have to be force fed such a meal like a duck or goose being fattened for slaughter and the harvesting of its delicious liver.  This old French agricultural method, known as 'gavage' gave the recording its title no less crucially than its procedural template, its art scheme and its overall theme of happiness and death.  This force feeding is to be released in gross, but, sequentially at intervals of our own determination.  The three volumes will each feature nine new songs along with more than a few bonus tracks.  The problem with putting out too much material was solved.  Welcome to the gavage.  We hope you brought your appetite. 

     Not to worry, there were more problems on the horizon, problems of much more intricacy and peril.

     First, the recorder on which the material was started had been sold with unfinished tracks still in its hard drive and only backup copies upon which to rely.   The nervousness and shakiness of completing another hugely ambitious project (even stripped down to acoustic guitar and voice) began to intimidate.  The recorder was repurchased, leftover tracks intact.  Sigh of relief.  Work can continue.

     It nevertheless became necessary for Paul to physically take the recorder home -- away from studio and computer (No Robots Allowed) -- to finish pounding out thirty or so backing tracks in the sacred vortex of his personal Holy Sepulcher positioned betwixt and between the trinity of bookshelf, television and the sleeping Leigh, ashtray and vodka close at hand.  A full month with the machine and the feeding procedure was properly progressing.

     When various Kentucky-based friends expressed interest in playing on the recordings another small problem emerged: What about the naked, raw, solo minimalism that was to be the project's call sign?  If even a bit of augmentation via overdub crept into the songs then the purity of purpose would be gone, yet who wanted to turn away the prodigious talents offered by these sincere would-be collaborators? 

     Paul's solution was to warn the lot of them:

                    "I don't know where all this fucking enthusiasm is coming from.  You guys kill me.  Look, there's a lot of stuff to work on here, surely we can find some songs you can add to.  Matter of fact, let's be even more democratic than that.  I'll deliver all the acoustic guide tracks and any or all vocals.  You fools can overdub until your hearts are content.  Use tambourines and chanting monks.  Bring on the mandolins and the handclaps and the backing vocals and the fucking kudzu or whatever that Turkish monstrosity is called that Joee plays.  Don't skimp on the street dweller who plays harmonica.  Do what you like, my dears.  Have at it.  Have a glockenspiel played by the ghosts of twenty Roman gladiators.  Anyone own an oud or a zither?  Just remember. I'M the one who is gonna decide if and/or where all this shit is gonna go.  And if I don't like it, it gets mixed out.  I mean ALL the way out.  Remember, this was supposed to be a quiet acoustic record.  Bear it in mind."

     So now we've got a crew and they are all good musicians and they are all beaver-like in their industry (if not their anatomy) at accompaniment, arranging, engineering and all the rest.  The songs, though (my children!) were being played with and upon by others.  The kids were being taken to places and shown things their father would have never endorsed.  Chips were falling, as they may.  The recordings (as they always, ALWAYS do) were taking on lives of their own.  By the time mixing had begun it was clear this was a band recording in spite of the mutual isolation enjoyed (or not) by the individual musicians as they did their work.  There was a concern that we had produced mere folk rock, not enough weirdness, nothing startling in its originality.  Nor would many asses be called to the dance floor by this music.  Themes were emerging, though, and, properly grouped, this bulk load of songs was showing potential.  Given the quality of the material it was hard not to be put in mind of the heroin-testing chemist in "The French Connection" who deadpans "If the rest of the stuff is this good you'll be dealing off this load for three years."  A drunken calm presided which then ushered in a fearsome shitstorm that all but prevented the completion of the gavage.

     The medical part of this story, while crushingly depressing, was probably instrumental in pushing the recordings to their conclusion.  A sense of urgency obtained each and every session of painting, mixing, mastering and editing.  What happened was:  A breakaway chunk of landmass the size of a grapefruit was expectorated through Paul's throat along with a pint of blackish blood, thin wafers of torn tissue, a pair of blue sneakers, semi-digested almonds, old bicycle tires, lids from soda cans and one (ONE!) live fish.  The fish was thought to be a smelt.  Emergency surgery was required for a jobless, witless, penniless, insurance-free patient.  The hospital staff took it in stride.  The show must go on, after all.  After nearly a month of intubation and physical therapy Paul was released from the hospital only to watch things get worse.

     Leigh, the namesake of our label (Farnsley Recordings) broke down six days after Paul's discharge.  The details are hazy and too numerous to mention.  In short order she had a seizure, a shutdown of the heart and a stoppage of oxygen to the brain.  She was dead.  There was no pulse and no brain activity.  The EMS defibrillators brought her back to life.  The next weeks saw her slipping in and out of consciousness and coma.  She chewed at and obstructed the battalion of tubes that had been inserted down her throat.  Eventually the tubes were replaced by a tracheostomy tube in a surgery marked by extraordinary loss of blood and she slipped into coma number three. 

     Once Leigh adjusted to the tracheostomy tube her progress was noticeable.  A feeding tube (which Leigh later pulled out a few times) was also employed much to Miss F's consternation.  Eventually she began to eat and to talk, sometimes lucidly, sometimes not.  Sometimes she was higher than a barking cat.  Sometimes she was angry or depressed or just tired.  At the time of this writing she has regained about half of her previous mental and physical faculties.  One blunt doctor said she should have died and used the word miracle in describing her recovery thus far.  As all of this was occurring Jason and Paul were continuing to mix, master, EQ and layout the disc's graphic art.  Together we finished volume one amidst absolute medical chaos.  At the time of this writing volume two was nearing completion.  The number of people assisting us  is large and most of them will receive little more in return for their efforts than a sincere thank you.  These volumes are dedicated to Leigh, of course, but also to each and every one of our steadfast partisans ('specially you musicianers!). 

     And so, when all are heard, the songs on the full "Gavage" will be about sex and death, which is to say money and medicine, which is to say Cash and Dope.  Any love that may be fleetingly felt must properly be seen as a testament to the benevolence and good character of the listener him- or herself.

This will be the last newsletter.  From now on all relevant developments, including live performance dates and locations will be posted (and updated regularly) at <www.paulkweathermen.com>.  You are here now, unless this was passed to you by a friend, which we encourage.  Copy and send to a friend. 

Replicate, Mutate, Recombine.

Godspeed.              

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