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no room for hipsters

the occupation of Ashley and Levon

Grandmother's organ in the trophy room, Tazewell, VA

Let me set the scene for this one.  Ashley was working out the end of her two week notice last December as a nanny for a family in Chesapeake, VA. My landscaping had already slowed to a halt.  We were living with an artist we had met at the oceanfront and making plans to head to Mexico.

organ collection in Virginia Beach rehearsal space

It was also during my bi annual convictions that grad school might be the answer to the career difficulties I have known.  Could be sound wisdom, however it’s never the same graduate work that initiates the fits.  I remedy them with good books and long walks to see if they stick.  This time I was convinced that we should go back to New York where I would study Economics and Ashley any Art program of her choosing.  Economics?  Why, to underpin future essays on land, labor, and capital and their prospects in the hands of the hipster.  Economics is a science that expounds the tendencies in contemporary culture, which should interest the artist dealing with implications of aesthetics or the musician trying to make money from a peculiar industry that “shares” but leaves the artist out of the sharing.

an old ebay shot of my sold wurly

My reservations of generation hipster are clear in “uncle pete’s clock”, song 2 of 14.  Ashley had reservations of her own about the likelihood we could take on the city again, this time with tuitions to NYU, Columbia, or the like.  Instead, I opted for long walks to the Chesapeake library and spent her two week notice there.  On one of those walks home, stimulated by Liaquat Ahamed’s “Lords of Finance: The Bankers Who Broke the World,” I began to write this song.  It’s rowdy, untitled, shrewd, and the blues.  Major blues, not minor, which means it isn’t sad, only patterned so that something can easily be said.

two tier keyboard stand. for sale

The guitar and vocals were tracked at once by an overhead microphone.  The organ, wurly and piano are all out of my Nord.  The electric bass is the keyboard through a midi patch.  The acoustic is my pawnshop Conrad.  The song was mostly done on the hill in Tazewell, VA.

The working title may be, “please delete me from forwarded political emails of any sort,” but that’s a bit lengthy.


at the Boot in Ghent district, Norfolk, VA. Photo by Dustin Addair


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