I'm not patronizing you here, I'm protecting you. Move along. You aren't ready for this. Buy it for your unborn children. What are the chances you're going to understand the fierce softness and the soft ferocity? I wouldn't bet on you. And I like you.

Part Daniel Johnston, part Stravinsky, part Kurt Cobain, part Foggy Mountain Boys, Michael McDaeth breaks through all the frames of form and comes out the other side with something so odd, so brave, so beautiful and so irritating you won't know what to make of it. When it hits you, it may leave a mark i.e. I hope you don't bruise easily, i.e. I hope you don't cry easily, i.e. I hope you dig it. It's only one guy and only one guitar and one ill-used and slightly grumpy harmonica. How does it sound like a firestorm on Mars? Beats me. Beats me good. Go to mcdaeth.com and listen to "We're Anonymous" from Shine In Reverse. It'll ease you into it.

This is slam dancing for the soul. Hope you're insured. - picassobriefcase.com

Liner Notes - The Blank Album

How to Get Sponsored by Budweiser

It was a family reunion - folks from the mom's side of the family - unbearably happy - drinking - undeciding - fundamental - inward bearing - mostly. Around the campfire we were - in a field behind the house - an RV Park for a long weekend - Uncle Something stumbled up, "Let's have some music!" The old man squinted at me through the fire - I could tell what was on his mind - that devilish gleam meant something - always. The old man did not drink but once a year - he chose this night. He thought about my incessant playing - on a Buck Owens red white and blue all-American acoustic guitar - all the aggravation it gave him - watching his Bonanza: he wore tight fitting cowboy boots and demanded that his children be the boot jack; "Hey Mick!" Get yer ass over here and pull my boots off." He made you straddle his leg with your back turned and while you pulled from the heel he pushed off on your ass with his free leg. When the boot was about half to the end, he'd give you a good shove and send you on a header across the room, then he would laugh - pretend apologize - mock delightful - rub it in your face…

Now he was demanding that I play for the campfire crowd of relative strangers a song of my own selection. We knew what this meant - I didn't know any covers - I was Fourteen - I had a one track mind. I'd taken a couple lessons from a music store musician: he attempted to teach me Rock n Roll riffs by Zeppelin, Black Sabbath and Aerosmith. I'd spit them back differently and he would get all upset - insisting I buy a metronome - practice the scales. I quit taking lessons from the music store musician. I was working on my own tune by then Broken Roses was the title and it was awful but I thought it was one of the greats. The lyrics went something like: Broken roses, broken roses, I'm not upset about broken roses - broken roses, broken roses, I don't give a shit (crap - if I knew someone was listening) about broken roses… On and on it went like that while I pounded out various contortions on my smashed up out-of-tune guitar.

So the old man called me out with grunts and groans while the relative strangers colluded with whoops and hollers and ridiculous clamor. I was trapped - the old man was ecstatic - the mom looked worried - the sisters were glad it wasn't them. When I got up to go to the house everyone cheered and then the old man sang out, "Bring me back a beer from the fridge." I took my sweet ass time - went over my lyric sheet more than twice - tried to tune my tuneless guitar - grabbed a can of beer and dropped it on purpose - twice. I returned to the fire with my laminated plywood guitar and a medium gage plastic pick. I handed the old man his beer and he set it on the ground next to his lime green plastic lawn chair. My place by the fire was taken by skinny pimple cousin and it seemed everyone had forgotten about my performing for them anyway so I retreated to the outer ring and stood just out of the light. Within minutes a dull moment arrived and the old man yelled for me front and center saying. "Don't just stand there play the goddamn thing," Everyone agreed. I closed my eyes and laid into Broken Roses with all my might and mangled my way through a verse and a half before I snapped the G string. I stopped in mid swing - my eyes shot open - I glanced about - everyone was still frozen in the flames - the old man was about to release - I wound up and swung again and started screaming "Broken Strings Broken Strings I don't care about broken strings." Then I ended it in a five string flourish and everyone laughed and applauded. Except the old man who would have none of that good ending. "Put that goddamn thing away before somebody gets hurt. Had I known you were playing like that I'd have stopped buying you strings a long time ago." Everyone laughed at that as well - they were an equal opportunity audience - the old man was just warming up. He reached down for his beer and plucked it off the ground without even looking - he was looking at me - demon eyes smiling - ready aim fire - he held the beer on his knee and popped the tab - beer shot out all over him - everyone laughed - it was so goddamn beautiful - I can't even begin.

October 2005
m mcdaeth