Terri Hendrix Blog/GoatNotes
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Wednesday, December 09, 2009
House of Rock - Corpus
Casey, my friend from the Executive Surf Club, bought this old building and is turning a hard core rock club into an eclectic venue. Hanging from the ceiling, are his very own handcrafted lights made out of guitars and drum heads. Talk about a good guy. I've worked with him for years and years. We had a blast here. the sound was good. My friends showed up. It was a perfect night. If you go to Corpus you have to stop in and see him. It's on 511 Starr Street. Tell him I said hello.
Rev. Fred hosted the night. He was pretty amazing. His voice and songs. How many artist's will I hear in my lifetime that are this great and don't have a recording of themselves. It haunts me friends. This guy was fantastic.
Well, that's it. I gotta feed the dogs. Sorry about the typos. I ain't gonna spell check. Tkahns rof yer supert.
Happy Holidays,
Terri
Urban Campfires December 4th and 5th
Working with Janet from this organization was a blast. And the volunteers were real sweet too. We raised much needed donations for the food bank and it was a success. I'm pictured with Z-Man and his Momma. Lloyd and myself are smitten with this kiddo. He made our night.
We did two nights and they were both a blast. The Lions Field Activity Center in San Antonio is a cool building. They run some great activities there. This weekend they'll have the Uke jam. I'm thinking noise won't be an issue with the Ukes (smile).
Oh, I gotta add that Saturday night we ate at the Pig Stand. It's a funky old diner with a fantastic reputation. I'm not sure if eating so much was a great idea right before showtime, but I'd always wanted to eat there and it was a less than a mile from where we played! You see it was a goal. I'm certain a New Year's resolution will be to return.
Recording, The Studio, My Dad, Side Effects
This month has been something of a blur. We started the month out in the studio, at a place called The Zone. It's located on the outskirts of Dripping Springs. The people that work there are easy going and relaxed. When I'm in an atmosphere like that, it's best for me to get the tracks I want down. I've been writing this record in my head for many many months now. I can't play the songs live just yet, but I'm looking forward to being able to do so. I have most of January off to wrap this record up and get the songs under my skin so to speak in a live setting.
DOSAGE: take two tablets every six hours for joint pain.
SIDE EFFECTS: This drug may cause joint pain, nausea, head-ache, or shortness of breath. You may also experience muscle aches, rapid heartbeat, and ringing in the ears. If you feel faint, call your doctor. Do not consume alcohol while taking this pill; likewise, avoid red meat, shellfish, and vegetables. O.K. foods: flounder. Under no circumstances eat yak. Men can expect painful urination while sitting, especially if the penis is caught between the toilet seat and the bowl. Projectile vomiting is common in thirty per cent of users-sorry, fifty per cent. If you undergo disorienting nausea accompanied by migraine and raspy breathing, double the dosage. Leg cramps are to be expected; one knee-buckler per day is normal. Bowel movements may become frequent-in fact, every ten minutes. If bowel movements become greater than twelve per hour, consult your doctor, or any doctor, or just anyone who will speak to you. You may find yourself becoming lost or vague; this would be a good time to write a screenplay. Do not pilot a plane, unless you are among the ten per cent of users who experience "spontaneous test-pilot knowledge." If your hair begins to smell like burning tires, move away from any buildings or populated areas, and apply tincture of iodine to the head until you no longer hear what could be taken for a "countdown." May cause stigmata in Mexicans. If a fungus starts to grow between your eyebrows, call the Guinness Book of World Records. May induce a tendency to compulsively repeat the phrase "no can do." This drug may cause visions of the Virgin Mary to appear in treetops. If this happens, open a souvenir shop. There may be an overwhelming impulse to shout out during a Catholic Mass, "I'm gonna w*p you wid da ugly stick!" You may feel a powerful sense of impending doom; this is because you are about to die. Men may experience impotence, but only during intercourse. Otherwise, a powerful erection will accompany your daily "walking-around time." Do not take this product if you are uneasy with lockjaw. Do not be near a ringing telephone that works at 900 MHz or you will be very dead, very fast. We are assuming you have had chicken pox. You also may experience a growing dissatisfaction with life along with a deep sense of melancholy-join the club! Do not be concerned if you arouse a few ticks from a Geiger counter. You might want to get a one-month trial subscription to Extreme Fighting. The hook shape of the pill will often cause it to become caught in the larynx. To remove, jam a finger down your throat while a friend holds your nose to prevent the pill from lodging in a nasal passage. Then throw yourself stomach first on the back portion of a chair. The expulsion of air should eject the pill out of the mouth, unless it goes into a sinus cavity, or the brain. WARNING: This drug may shorten your intestines by twenty-one feet. Has been known to cause birth defects in the user retroactively. Passing in front of TV may cause the screen to moiré. Women often feel a loss of libido, including a whole octave lowering of the voice, an increase in ankle hair, and perhaps the lowering of a testicle. If this happens, women should write a detailed description of their last three sexual encounters and mail it to me, Bob, Trailer Six, Fancyland Trailer Park, Encino, CA. Or E-mail me at hot-guy.com. Discontinue use immediately if you feel that your teeth are receiving radio broadcasts. You may experience "lumpy back" syndrome, but we are actively seeking a cure. Bloated fingertips on the heart-side hand are common. When finished with the dosage, be sure to allow plenty of "quiet time" in order to retrain the eye to move off stationary objects. Flotation devices at sea will become pointless, as the user of this drug will develop a stone-like body density; therefore, if thrown overboard, contact your doctor. (This product may contain one or more of the following: bungee cord, plankton, rubber, crack cocaine, pork bladders, aromatic oils, gunpowder, corn husk, glue, bee pollen, dung, English muffin, poached eggs, ham, Hollandaise sauce, crushed saxophone reeds.) Sensations of levitation are illusory, as is the sensation of having a "phantom" third arm. Users may experience certain inversions of language. Acceptable: "Hi, are how you?" Unacceptable: "The rain in Sprain slays blainly on the phsssst." Twenty minutes after taking the pills, you will feel an insatiable craving to take another dose. AVOID THIS WITH ALL YOUR POWER. It is advisable to have a friend handcuff you to a large kitchen appliance, ESPECIALLY ONE THAT WILL NOT FIT THROUGH THE DOORWAY TO WHERE THE PILLS ARE. You should also be out of reach of any weapon-like utensil with which you could threaten friends or family, who should also be briefed to not give you the pills, no matter how much you sweet-talk them.
* From The New Yorker, April 13, 1998.
My Dad had surgery on the 3rd where his shoulder was put back together. Several months ago, he knocked it all out of whack when he decided to go on a jog at let's say ... 10:30 in the evening. He promptly proceeded to trip and fall due to a pot hole. He then drove himself to the emergency room where they admitted him and put his shoulder back in place. They wanted to keep him. He snuck out of Brook Army Medical Center and drove himself home. Anyway, the surgery Thursday was a success. And there was no escaping this time. He had a driver! As for the metal and bullets that are still lodged in his shoulder from Vietnam? My Dad says, "He-eeeeelllll, they been in there since 'Nam and I see no problem with'em stayin' right where they are." Bullets and all, closin' in on 80 ... he's better. I can't type this without smiling.
Speak of the medical maladies ... enjoy this ...
Side Effects
By Steve MartinDOSAGE: take two tablets every six hours for joint pain.
SIDE EFFECTS: This drug may cause joint pain, nausea, head-ache, or shortness of breath. You may also experience muscle aches, rapid heartbeat, and ringing in the ears. If you feel faint, call your doctor. Do not consume alcohol while taking this pill; likewise, avoid red meat, shellfish, and vegetables. O.K. foods: flounder. Under no circumstances eat yak. Men can expect painful urination while sitting, especially if the penis is caught between the toilet seat and the bowl. Projectile vomiting is common in thirty per cent of users-sorry, fifty per cent. If you undergo disorienting nausea accompanied by migraine and raspy breathing, double the dosage. Leg cramps are to be expected; one knee-buckler per day is normal. Bowel movements may become frequent-in fact, every ten minutes. If bowel movements become greater than twelve per hour, consult your doctor, or any doctor, or just anyone who will speak to you. You may find yourself becoming lost or vague; this would be a good time to write a screenplay. Do not pilot a plane, unless you are among the ten per cent of users who experience "spontaneous test-pilot knowledge." If your hair begins to smell like burning tires, move away from any buildings or populated areas, and apply tincture of iodine to the head until you no longer hear what could be taken for a "countdown." May cause stigmata in Mexicans. If a fungus starts to grow between your eyebrows, call the Guinness Book of World Records. May induce a tendency to compulsively repeat the phrase "no can do." This drug may cause visions of the Virgin Mary to appear in treetops. If this happens, open a souvenir shop. There may be an overwhelming impulse to shout out during a Catholic Mass, "I'm gonna w*p you wid da ugly stick!" You may feel a powerful sense of impending doom; this is because you are about to die. Men may experience impotence, but only during intercourse. Otherwise, a powerful erection will accompany your daily "walking-around time." Do not take this product if you are uneasy with lockjaw. Do not be near a ringing telephone that works at 900 MHz or you will be very dead, very fast. We are assuming you have had chicken pox. You also may experience a growing dissatisfaction with life along with a deep sense of melancholy-join the club! Do not be concerned if you arouse a few ticks from a Geiger counter. You might want to get a one-month trial subscription to Extreme Fighting. The hook shape of the pill will often cause it to become caught in the larynx. To remove, jam a finger down your throat while a friend holds your nose to prevent the pill from lodging in a nasal passage. Then throw yourself stomach first on the back portion of a chair. The expulsion of air should eject the pill out of the mouth, unless it goes into a sinus cavity, or the brain. WARNING: This drug may shorten your intestines by twenty-one feet. Has been known to cause birth defects in the user retroactively. Passing in front of TV may cause the screen to moiré. Women often feel a loss of libido, including a whole octave lowering of the voice, an increase in ankle hair, and perhaps the lowering of a testicle. If this happens, women should write a detailed description of their last three sexual encounters and mail it to me, Bob, Trailer Six, Fancyland Trailer Park, Encino, CA. Or E-mail me at hot-guy.com. Discontinue use immediately if you feel that your teeth are receiving radio broadcasts. You may experience "lumpy back" syndrome, but we are actively seeking a cure. Bloated fingertips on the heart-side hand are common. When finished with the dosage, be sure to allow plenty of "quiet time" in order to retrain the eye to move off stationary objects. Flotation devices at sea will become pointless, as the user of this drug will develop a stone-like body density; therefore, if thrown overboard, contact your doctor. (This product may contain one or more of the following: bungee cord, plankton, rubber, crack cocaine, pork bladders, aromatic oils, gunpowder, corn husk, glue, bee pollen, dung, English muffin, poached eggs, ham, Hollandaise sauce, crushed saxophone reeds.) Sensations of levitation are illusory, as is the sensation of having a "phantom" third arm. Users may experience certain inversions of language. Acceptable: "Hi, are how you?" Unacceptable: "The rain in Sprain slays blainly on the phsssst." Twenty minutes after taking the pills, you will feel an insatiable craving to take another dose. AVOID THIS WITH ALL YOUR POWER. It is advisable to have a friend handcuff you to a large kitchen appliance, ESPECIALLY ONE THAT WILL NOT FIT THROUGH THE DOORWAY TO WHERE THE PILLS ARE. You should also be out of reach of any weapon-like utensil with which you could threaten friends or family, who should also be briefed to not give you the pills, no matter how much you sweet-talk them.
* From The New Yorker, April 13, 1998.
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
December 2009 GoatNotes
Yes, this is a repeat. We've been in the studio and it's been occupying all my time. I hope you enjoy this!
************************************************
Hendrix December 09 GoatNotes
"But this boy, he's the real poet, because when he tries to put on paper what he's seen with his heart, he will believe deep down there are no good words for it, no words can do it, and at that moment he will have begun to write poetry."
- Cynthia Rylant
View her entire piece at www.terrihendrix.com/poetry.html
************************************************
As a kid, I was always the first one up on Christmas morning. With the lights from the Christmas tree illuminating a path through the dark, I'd gingerly make my way towards my brother and sister's stockings, reach inside them, and steal most of their chocolate candy. I'd eat some right then and there, and stash the rest in my own stocking — after taking the candy I *didn't* like out of it and "regifting" it into my brother and sister's stockings. When finished, I'd fluff their stockings back up, making sure they were in the exact place on their hooks in which I'd found them. Having grown full from all the sweets, I'd burp (quietly!), make my way back to my room, hide a few chocolates under my pillow, and then go back to sleep.
It's really no surprise, then, that the first guitar I ever "owned" was in fact one that I stole from my sister, shortly after Christmas. I "borrowed" it, with green ribbon still tied around the handle of its shiny new case, from underneath her bed. Soon after, I was immersed in a Mel Bay songbook (found in her case), with the verses and guitar chords to tunes like "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" and "Skip to My Lou." My father soon joined in on the fun, and we'd howl through the chorus of "Little Brown Jug" with me hacking away at the chords. A few months later, at the age of 8 and after mastering the morbid classic "Tom Dooley," I played my first bar — well, barre chord, that is. As my fingers tried to strrrrrrretch into the F position, I created a shortcut instead (to spare the life of my index finger), and within another month turned myself into a three-chord wonder.
A few years later, I discovered it was easier to make up my own songs than remember the words to Willie Nelson's "Crazy" or John Denver's "Leaving on a Jet Plane." And that's how I ventured into songwriting. I'd take their guitar chords and substitute my words for theirs. My newfound "original" music sounded like theirs, but with our family dog Tiger as my sole audience, who was gonna notice? I dubbed my first self-perceived masterpiece "Bob-tailed Cat." There was an episode with a gun in it. That song raised eyebrows, but what really got the ol' family fired up was "Female Dog," which I wrote in my sister's honor. Upon its discovery, I soon found my lips wrapped around a bar of soap, my mother standing over me with her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face.
After that — my first bad review — I quit writing songs that could easily be found by others. With one arm draped protectively over my work, I began writing my musings down on multiple slips of paper. And then I stopped writing anything at all. Perhaps it was the insecurity of adolescence that did it, or the lack of an original melody, but that sudden beam of creativity which had turned my imagination to liquid and made words seem to pour out of my mind like a waterfall ... it went off like a light. In the dark, the words drew to a trickle and then to a complete stop. Having worn my eraser to a nub on the final lyrics of a chorus, one afternoon I cleaned up my wads of paper, closed my mind and my guitar case, and for the most part, wouldn't open either again until I was in my early 20s.
I was doing absolutely nothing when the creative juices started flowing again. In retrospect, maybe that's why they did. I'd become too busy to write. I began to edit myself, and before long, I no longer made the time to agonize over the rhyme. The child-like wonder of the whole process had been replaced with ... self-doubt.
When I'm involved in teaching a creative workshop, I often encounter other folks who wonder if their songs are any good, or who worry about how their songs compare with other people's songs. Sometimes they're just plain stuck. I remind them that every writer I've ever known that was brave enough to pick up a pen and/or a guitar has felt the same way. Writing takes practice, and whatever we bring to the table is unique unto us, but every writer at some point wrestles with self-doubt. And it's self-doubt (and over-confidence, too) that seeds the weeds that prevent songs from ever reaching sunshine. For me, I've found that the best way to cut through those weeds and find my way back to the light is to quit worrying about writing as an adult and approach it like I did as a kid, perched over my sister's guitar with stolen chocolate on my fingertips.
When you write like a kid, there's always something new to discover. There are ideas for songs everywhere. When I catch one, I call my cell phone and leave myself a message so I don't forget. To this day, largely due to the "Female Dog" incident of my childhood, I can't write an entire song on just one sheet of paper, so I don't even try. I write my thoughts on Post It's, napkins, airline barfbags (really), and if in a crunch, toilet paper. But I never throw any of my lyrics away, even if they don't seem any good at the time. If I get hung up on a line, I put parenthesis around it and move on. And on the days when I can't think of a melody, I still write to someone else's music. Upon the song's completion, I'll revisit the melody and come up with my own chords. They're all shortcuts that help me finish a song, just like the shortcuts I came up with as a kid when I was learning to make an F chord.
Sometimes songs get stuck (or I get stuck in songs) not for lack of creativity or other mental blocks, but simply because the songs aren't ready to be songs yet. Sometimes songs sit unfinished for years. But if a song's *meant* to be a song, sooner or later (sometimes *much* later), it all falls into place. Within time, whatever kinks there may be (like lines not folding within the measures correctly) turn the sand within the oyster into a pearl, or ... an appetizer for what's to come. I often round up my most stubborn unfinished tunes and marry them to each other. I make them live together for awhile, and if they get along, vows are exchanged. Sometimes the union produces kids, and that's when I'll get a theme for a record started.
As for subject matter, for me, I like M&M's with my popcorn. It's a mixture of the Yin and Yang, light and dark, bitter (or salty) and sweet — and anything that reads well, speaks personal truth, or that could be framed within a portrait that makes a song speak to me.
"Is there magic to it?" I've been asked. I guess the answer would be yes. It's a lot like the holidays. Songs wave hello and good-bye like the season. They come as gifts and open up our hearts to see things we only felt in our souls. Some twinkle like Christmas lights. Some ring out like carols for all to sing along too. And yes, some stink up the house like burnt sugar cookies, or are received with as much enthusiasm as socks or fruitcakes. But the wonder of it all is that there's an endless supply of them, waiting in each of our hearts to be written.
Happy Trails,
Terri Hendrix
(C)(P) THM Music December 2005
www.terrihendrix.com
Terri Hendrix
Wilory Records
PO BOX 2340
San Marcos, TX 78667
phone 512-353-2536
Subscribe to once a month GoatNotes
www.terrihendrix.com
************************************************
Hendrix December 09 GoatNotes
"But this boy, he's the real poet, because when he tries to put on paper what he's seen with his heart, he will believe deep down there are no good words for it, no words can do it, and at that moment he will have begun to write poetry."
- Cynthia Rylant
View her entire piece at www.terrihendrix.com/poetry.html
************************************************
As a kid, I was always the first one up on Christmas morning. With the lights from the Christmas tree illuminating a path through the dark, I'd gingerly make my way towards my brother and sister's stockings, reach inside them, and steal most of their chocolate candy. I'd eat some right then and there, and stash the rest in my own stocking — after taking the candy I *didn't* like out of it and "regifting" it into my brother and sister's stockings. When finished, I'd fluff their stockings back up, making sure they were in the exact place on their hooks in which I'd found them. Having grown full from all the sweets, I'd burp (quietly!), make my way back to my room, hide a few chocolates under my pillow, and then go back to sleep.
It's really no surprise, then, that the first guitar I ever "owned" was in fact one that I stole from my sister, shortly after Christmas. I "borrowed" it, with green ribbon still tied around the handle of its shiny new case, from underneath her bed. Soon after, I was immersed in a Mel Bay songbook (found in her case), with the verses and guitar chords to tunes like "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" and "Skip to My Lou." My father soon joined in on the fun, and we'd howl through the chorus of "Little Brown Jug" with me hacking away at the chords. A few months later, at the age of 8 and after mastering the morbid classic "Tom Dooley," I played my first bar — well, barre chord, that is. As my fingers tried to strrrrrrretch into the F position, I created a shortcut instead (to spare the life of my index finger), and within another month turned myself into a three-chord wonder.
A few years later, I discovered it was easier to make up my own songs than remember the words to Willie Nelson's "Crazy" or John Denver's "Leaving on a Jet Plane." And that's how I ventured into songwriting. I'd take their guitar chords and substitute my words for theirs. My newfound "original" music sounded like theirs, but with our family dog Tiger as my sole audience, who was gonna notice? I dubbed my first self-perceived masterpiece "Bob-tailed Cat." There was an episode with a gun in it. That song raised eyebrows, but what really got the ol' family fired up was "Female Dog," which I wrote in my sister's honor. Upon its discovery, I soon found my lips wrapped around a bar of soap, my mother standing over me with her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face.
After that — my first bad review — I quit writing songs that could easily be found by others. With one arm draped protectively over my work, I began writing my musings down on multiple slips of paper. And then I stopped writing anything at all. Perhaps it was the insecurity of adolescence that did it, or the lack of an original melody, but that sudden beam of creativity which had turned my imagination to liquid and made words seem to pour out of my mind like a waterfall ... it went off like a light. In the dark, the words drew to a trickle and then to a complete stop. Having worn my eraser to a nub on the final lyrics of a chorus, one afternoon I cleaned up my wads of paper, closed my mind and my guitar case, and for the most part, wouldn't open either again until I was in my early 20s.
I was doing absolutely nothing when the creative juices started flowing again. In retrospect, maybe that's why they did. I'd become too busy to write. I began to edit myself, and before long, I no longer made the time to agonize over the rhyme. The child-like wonder of the whole process had been replaced with ... self-doubt.
When I'm involved in teaching a creative workshop, I often encounter other folks who wonder if their songs are any good, or who worry about how their songs compare with other people's songs. Sometimes they're just plain stuck. I remind them that every writer I've ever known that was brave enough to pick up a pen and/or a guitar has felt the same way. Writing takes practice, and whatever we bring to the table is unique unto us, but every writer at some point wrestles with self-doubt. And it's self-doubt (and over-confidence, too) that seeds the weeds that prevent songs from ever reaching sunshine. For me, I've found that the best way to cut through those weeds and find my way back to the light is to quit worrying about writing as an adult and approach it like I did as a kid, perched over my sister's guitar with stolen chocolate on my fingertips.
When you write like a kid, there's always something new to discover. There are ideas for songs everywhere. When I catch one, I call my cell phone and leave myself a message so I don't forget. To this day, largely due to the "Female Dog" incident of my childhood, I can't write an entire song on just one sheet of paper, so I don't even try. I write my thoughts on Post It's, napkins, airline barfbags (really), and if in a crunch, toilet paper. But I never throw any of my lyrics away, even if they don't seem any good at the time. If I get hung up on a line, I put parenthesis around it and move on. And on the days when I can't think of a melody, I still write to someone else's music. Upon the song's completion, I'll revisit the melody and come up with my own chords. They're all shortcuts that help me finish a song, just like the shortcuts I came up with as a kid when I was learning to make an F chord.
Sometimes songs get stuck (or I get stuck in songs) not for lack of creativity or other mental blocks, but simply because the songs aren't ready to be songs yet. Sometimes songs sit unfinished for years. But if a song's *meant* to be a song, sooner or later (sometimes *much* later), it all falls into place. Within time, whatever kinks there may be (like lines not folding within the measures correctly) turn the sand within the oyster into a pearl, or ... an appetizer for what's to come. I often round up my most stubborn unfinished tunes and marry them to each other. I make them live together for awhile, and if they get along, vows are exchanged. Sometimes the union produces kids, and that's when I'll get a theme for a record started.
As for subject matter, for me, I like M&M's with my popcorn. It's a mixture of the Yin and Yang, light and dark, bitter (or salty) and sweet — and anything that reads well, speaks personal truth, or that could be framed within a portrait that makes a song speak to me.
"Is there magic to it?" I've been asked. I guess the answer would be yes. It's a lot like the holidays. Songs wave hello and good-bye like the season. They come as gifts and open up our hearts to see things we only felt in our souls. Some twinkle like Christmas lights. Some ring out like carols for all to sing along too. And yes, some stink up the house like burnt sugar cookies, or are received with as much enthusiasm as socks or fruitcakes. But the wonder of it all is that there's an endless supply of them, waiting in each of our hearts to be written.
Happy Trails,
Terri Hendrix
(C)(P) THM Music December 2005
www.terrihendrix.com
Terri Hendrix
Wilory Records
PO BOX 2340
San Marcos, TX 78667
phone 512-353-2536
Subscribe to once a month GoatNotes
www.terrihendrix.com
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