MI7®

POP ©2009. Well, the song started out on the darker side, but somewhow got highjacked along the way by the delectable Mrs Q; once again, you guessed it ... looking for her Big Stick ... Oh dear. Mr. M, the fabulous MINDMOVIE filling in on the banjo, once again. Nice!

Mr & Mrs Q are about to go out for a night on the town. Calamitous News: Mrs Q loses her BIG STICK, and only one man, one lone hombre can save the world this time ... yes, you've guessed it, Artie Q is that man! (Mr Q to his Mrs Q.) Join this whacky fun couple while they go searching for that pesky missing stick. Will they find it? Will they end up reunited as a loving couple or will it be a war of the roses stand off? Will their CFO (the charming Chief Feline Officer, Felix, the big orange tabby cat) find it for them? Find out once and for all, exactly what the Big Stick is, upon which Mrs Q so fondly dotes. Goodness, too much excitement! Follow the exciting shenanigans of Mr & Mrs Q in BIG STICK, coming to a cd player/web site near you, NOW!

A song about a mother and her son ... oh yeah, and childhood. Rough mix.

Yo, Boys & Girls! Well, 'es only gone and done it, ain't he? The Master of the Mind Manipulation, The (un)Scrupulous Subjugator of Subconscious Suggestion, SUBLIMINAL has done a Mind F**k on me and subverted the course of normal remix procedure by eliciting a bunch of vocal samples from me (while I was sleeping!) and produced a fab remix of my song BELIEF, called A COMFORTING SOLUTION ... OR DID HE??? Maybe I sent them of my own free will; you know, asked him to do it in the first place. "Hmm ..." See ...? That's what 'appens when you get involved with a top notch spoon bending psychic like SUBLIMINAL/TRIPLE M/THE MOUSE MANIPULATOR FROM THE LOWLANDS. Anyway, enough of my nonsense, check out A COMFORTING SOLUTION and let him know what you think. Thank you, Michel. Nice!

Aah yes, as any seasoned campaigner will tell you, Love, is a double edged sword. So be careful what you wish for, boys & girls, as undoubtedly it will appear ... just not quite in the guise you expected. Ain't that always the way! Anyway, if you want your very own digital copy of The Monster to have, hold, and hum along to, go here ... ARTIE Q/BEAUTIFUL MONSTER or here, ITUNES

"THE BIRTHING" on MyMi7COLLABS page. All details, notes, & lyrics posted there. Check out the wonderful musical world of MR. AMBASSADOR, here. (MINDMOVIE)

HERE. The Aerial Architect behind the fab combo AERONAUT, Jef De Corte, offered up "Dreams Are Buried Here" music files for me to mess with and see what came about. Musically, we wanted to see how Jef's music worked with beats. His original piece was at 70 bpm, which was just a little slow for a kind of hip hop groove I was toying with, so I upped the revs to 90 bpm, and it just felt right. He offered me his music as midi files, but I wanted those unmistakably beautiful Aeronaut sounds (not just the notes he played/the way he played them), so I decided to work with his pre-recorded sound files at the new speed. I had already done some voice work for one of Jef's DREAMS series, and was fascinated by his lyrical theme: The unrealized hopes & dreams of those whose lives are cut short, way before their time. Jef's initial idea was the tragic loss of children, but I was strangely driven to the stories of young men or women who give their service to their country in a time of war. In a nutshell, I wanted to make it a 1st World War "Saving Private Ryan" scenario, but the vernacular is hardly of the 1920's. Oh, well. So, vocal melodies established themselves first with the line: Falling down/Getting up and falling down ... The rest just fell into place. Hope you like it. RTQ

for me, is Naked. And the music is pretty wonderful, too. From the movie, that is, not the trailer. In fact, the use of cellos in the film is reminiscent of the way that Mi7's audiotechnica sometimes uses them, with a wonderfully melancholy feel.

I know, I know, I know ... I know it's not music, but it is audio, it is mine, and it was requested ... and who am I to deny the democratic will of my public? Friends, Romans—"All right, all right RT, calm down now. Calm down." Anyway, here without further ado, I give you MTM

At CD Baby or IndieRhythm.com I can't believe it, Boys & Girls. It's here. Or, rather, there and there. I owe a Huge Thank You to Mi7—the web site and it's supportive community members—Amazing. Thank you so much. "Hmh ..." Strange. Strange, how love and support are to be found in the most unlikely places. And, when you're not looking. RT

"Boys & Girls. Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water, he's back and he's pissed!—JESUS 2/Revenge of the Olive Skinned (well, let's say a shade darker than white, sort of, well, sort of olive-y really) Christian Dude ... This time it's PAYBACK!!! Coming to local theatres near you, soon."—Oh, sorry, wrong review! "Boys & Girls—The Man, The Legend, The Dude you know as MINDMOVIE has come down from his lofty perch to collaborate with a mere commoner. Yes, FutureDude has girded his loins, sucked up his pride, held his nose, even, and wreaked his prodigious musical mindmovie talent on the paltry offerings of one, Artie Q, and guided the said outcome to a higher art form ..." All Right, All Right, enough of this nonsense! Mr. Ambassador (MINDMOVIE) has collaborated with Artie Q and David S Woods and together they have come up with ON THE BEACH We like it. Hope you do, too. RTQ

Music Across Borders: Thank you, Mi7. Here it is, boys & girls, my first collaboration with an Mi7 artist; I give you, the very wonderful, Audiotechnica (http://community2.mi7.com/profile/7728) "Der-Dah!" If you have come this far, dear Mi7 reader, then allow me to indulge further, a little background to this combined effort. Audiotechnica (whose work I have admired for a while) asked me if I had any vocal files “laying around, collecting dust.” Well, I’m finishing up a cd of new stuff, and really wanted to update an old song of mine, but didn’t know how to go about it, so that it would (somewhat) fit in with the new tracks. (The original version of this song, Rain, was completed over ten years ago; you can hear and see the video of this track on my bio.) So, I pulled the vocal off this version; actually, I re-recorded them because the original files were really bad quality, and then sent lead, backing vocal, and guide keyboard files (mp3 format) to Audiotechnica via the internet. At this point, AT had not heard the original version; the only point of reference for him were the files I sent. Well, he did a sterling job of reworking the chord sequence in the chorus and gave it a more minor feel. Great keyboards, bass playing, and a whole host of different beats were produced by him, isolated, and sent back to me to mess about with. A good friend (Laurence Whiteley, UK guitarist and music producer) was staying with me, and suggested a bass note and string arrangement for the chorus and chant section. "Hey presto," it came together—only after endless tweakings, though. Obviously, I could not have produced this without Audiotechnica and Laurence’s work, however it is my mix down version you hear on this page. Who knows, maybe Audiotechnica will produce his own tweaking. But, I believe this to be a joint effort by the three of us. I am very pleased with the outcome; it is a lot more of a mature version and fits better with the current crop of tracks of mine. Well done, boys!

I would like to wish everyone a Merry Christmas, especially Friends, for your words and encouragement; you have nurtured my soul and confidence. Also, much gratitude to Mi7 for this fantastic forum; it brought me back into the musical fold, again, for I had lost my way and turned my back on making music. A little over a year ago, for some strange passing fancy, I bought a copy of REASON. Suddenly emails galore from some entity called Mi7 wanted me to upload songs in a contest. "What songs?" thought I, "I have no songs." Mine belonged to a bygone era. So I bought a microphone and recorded new ones. A year and twelve tracks later, with more bubbling under, I re-discovered a part of me I thought was languishing, never to be revived. 
Thank you, Mi7 and Friends. Happy New Year, may you all re-discover something beautiful, you thought to be over. You just never know. RTQ

Hey, Now! Some folk have complained about the format of excerpts from my book, here on the very wonderful Mi7 blog feature. And that the lack of spaces between the words make it difficult to read, and therefore, follow. Well, Dear Mi7'ers, that's because this is a blog, and not really intended for the completely self serving promotional use for which I am using it. Mi7 has given me an opportunity, and I am somewhat misusing it. So, I have remedy: if you wish to view/download/listen to chapters, in the manner in which they should be experienced, go to ARTIE Q’s BOOK PAGE Praise be to Mi7—I Lurves my Mi7! artie q

A RELATIONSHIP IN DECLINE —Our relationship began to sour when he accused me of sleeping with one of his girlfriends. Utterly paranoid and silly really, as his manly choice in a mate could not have been further from my own. Plus, he was a friend. He had actively encouraged the friendship between the girl and I—independent of him being around—and this was his reaction! He seemed to be setting us up for some reason. I convinced him his conjecture was unfounded, but it began to dawn on me that his volatile temper could easily turn on ol’ Artie Boy. I may have been lucky, due to the fact that I simply hadn't got in the way ... until now, perhaps? I was further implicated in his turmoil. Mimicking my accent to a prospective one night stand had the poor girl believing he came from Britain. He’d made his move in my presence; it so came out of nowhere, without warning, that I almost laughed in his face. But he was serious. His attempt sounded ridiculous, a la Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins—“Awwlwoight, Moi Laidy”—a sort of halting 18th Century London chimney sweep dialect. Please! However, the flavor was there and unless you were a “somewhat anglophile,” you may not have known. Hard to believe I know, but she didn’t. In order not to embarrass him publicly, I went along with it. His motive in the deception ... to appear cultured, debonair? A British rocker, perhaps? Who knows? It was bizarre. I mean, it was not as if he had trouble bedding chicks on the strength of his looks and charm ... what kind of game was he playing? He called it “just a bit of fun.” But it wasn’t. Their liaison was ongoing, and the fun became a lie. I purposefully stayed out of the way, but got caught by shrapnel; she and I shared a table at one of his gigs. “When the two of you were in that band together in England—” “What?” “That band ... in England? The two of you.” Jesus, I gotta get outta this. I was a polite enabler allowing his poor behavior to continue; I had become part of the lie. Confronting him on this and issues of trust regularly, was “our dance” over the years, to which I would get no specific, honest, or even any response. With a bottle of wine under his belt, there’d be overt displays of caring and brotherly solidarity, and by the next day I’d find Mr. Pale Face “present but absent” again. A complete 180 that left me feeling woozy. It was all getting far too weird. All I can say is, at some point we draw the line—and I’d had enough. I was weary of policing his behavior and playing Substitute Daddy. I began distancing myself from him and his antics. I changed moving companies and was frequently “out” to his phone calls. We started to drift. ... A CONVERSATION WITH MR. RAGE (OR IS THAT SILENCE?) —I met his songwriting partner a few months after my decision to split and was surprised to learn they had gone their separate ways, too. I had seen him many times, but always in the presence of Flamenco Boy; here was an opportunity to get another side of the story. “First of all, I gotta know, dude. Who was Rage ... and who was Silence?” “C’mon man, you know what he was like. He was the name, Rage And Silence. He was rageful and then silent—absent/AWOL, missing in action. I’d leave four or five messages on his answering machine about a gig ... no response, nothing, like he’d fallen off the face of the planet. At the last moment he’d materialize without any explanation—all sullen and withdrawn—and I was like, who is this person?” “Yeah, I know exactly what you mean. Mr. Pale Face.” “Right. There was a time though, we were brothers—Brothers in Arms. I felt like it was me and him and the music against the world, and he had my back. Believe me, there’s no-one else who’d defend you more ... unfortunately, he was a deceitful person. He did not outright lie—he’d just leave out crucial pieces of information—and because it was not 100%, it felt like a lie. He was very clever at drawing you in, and once you’re in,” CLACK! he snapped his fingers, “very difficult to get out.” He was describing a carbon copy of my relationship with RnS. Amazing. It was like an al-anon meeting; co-dependents both of us, swapping victim notes. Like I said, polite enablers allowing poor behavior to continue. “I don’t like giving up easily, but it was too difficult. A very strange partnership. Magical when it worked, but that was because of the music. (We communicated perfectly through the music.) It was in our personal lives we had the problem. It was way up and then way too down, and there just wasn’t enough ‘up’ left. A man simply cannot live on ‘not enough up,’ Dude.” “Shame tho’. I loved your songs.” “Yeah well, what’re you gonna do?” His last remark caused me to look again at the man in front of me—so very different from the impish performer, singing his heart out on stage. I smiled vaguely at the image. “We split up and got back together a couple of times. The last time we tried to repair the damage, he was toasted and lecturing our new addition. A percussion player. Slurring words and trying to check himself ... I had a moment of clarity. I must have been blind all that time, but I was hanging on to my dream: I didn’t want the music to end. It took one simple incident for the light to go on and I realized he’d never ever change. (Unless he himself wanted to ... and that wasn’t gonna happen.) It was the final straw. This was it. Over. For all the momentum we had as an act, I didn’t have the energy for myself and his destructive ways any more ... I ... just ran out of steam.” Ultimately, he was relieved it was all over and was upbeat about future projects. We wished each other well and said good-bye. I watched him walk away and felt sad—I just ran out of steam. Hmm. It’s so difficult to build something bright, full of a wonderful energy; it is even more so, to leave when it has turned into an ugly can of worms. It takes a certain kind of strength to acknowledge that change. Most of us hang on till the death, because its the easier/familiar thing to do, and since our courage has deserted us. Last I heard, Flamenco Boy married a woman who fairly much fitted the required physical, emotional, and financial stereotype. She went to work; he stayed home, and cooked, cleaned, drank red wine, and played the guitar. ANALYSIS: He came from hard working blue collar parents in a tough mid-western city. His puritanical mother clearly played a part in the way he reacted to controlling women, later in life. No doubt her fervent guilt regarding sexual matters had an effect, too. He told me of a memory he had of her: On her knees praying over him, that he should be granted strength to resist temptation of the forbidden and dirty deed, until marriage—Hey-Zeus! When he came to LA, instead of returning to his old gig of giving guitar lessons, he got into selling naked pictures of himself to skin magazines. What else? There were veiled references to porno movies, in which his inferred participation was accompanied by a nod and a wink. He occasionally expressed an attraction for a transsexual in a film or magazine, and sported a dress code that revealed the bulge of his manliness (and I don’t mean his wallet) ... the male camel toe, all too frequently. His predilection for a shorn, boyish look in a woman was the antithesis to his visual of a smooth-jowled visage and flowing locks; hair, by the way, that was luxuriant and beautifully maintained, oft admired by women. At times, he would pull it back with a horseshoe headband in that peculiarly feminine manner. He was content with the role reversal of playing house husband to a woman with a career. He loved to cook and entertain and had a meticulous passion for cleaning. An interest that few heterosexual men (I’ve ever met) have for furnishings, fabric, and design was a bit of a red flag ... sexually repressed or extremely liberated? You decide, Dear Reader—I’m not saying a word! Mr. Pale Face, when present, reminded me of a wounded animal; one that is in a lot of pain and will lash out, but is fiercely protective when it’s own are threatened. He needed a lot of attention and support ... physically abused/emotionally neglected as a child? He joined gang life early on and was involved in extreme exchanges with rival factions. After a while he grew bored of these rituals, and aspired to a more evolved existence. He developed an appreciation for good food and wine; and read up on history, politics, art, and of course, music. He studied different styles: Eastern, Classical, Contemporary (Bluegrass, Jazz, Blues, RocknRoll, etc.) and blended them all with his manic and fragile personality. His ticket out of the whole mess—looks and a talent for the acoustic guitar. The final reason to leave came when his best friend died in his arms from a knife wound during a gang confrontation. He left for the romantic future that Hollywood could offer; the world would be his oyster ... he arrived in this city in the great rock n roll tradition—at the bus station, pretty much penniless, except for his beloved six string. He disowned everything and everybody (including family—Mom, Dad and brothers) that linked him to his past. This was the New World. Here, he could be anything he wanted and took full advantage. Towards the end of our friendship, my parents came to visit. We received an invitation to dine with him and his girlfriend. I was unsure whether to accept; I did not want to subject my folks to any of his nonsense. However, he insisted on meeting them. I sensed he would have been mortified had I declined. So I girded my loins and prepared my Dad to be on guard ... instead our man was the perfect host! A terrific meal (cooked by his own hand) with carefully picked wines, candle lit atmosphere, and music by Sinatra. He was accommodating, regarding the (in)famous British palate. (“Easy on the garlic, son”—a “warning” from Pa Q.) Flamenco was deferential to the unassuming couple who’d served their country in World War II, full of questions and thoughtful response regarding this turbulent period in history. The dinner was a high point of their visit here; everyone had a great time. My feelings about the evening were mixed. I was touched by the warmth he showed my folks, but as I joined in the spirit of the occasion I felt like a phony, knowing the whole cynical story. I regretted having expressed such reservations to my Dad (I felt like an ingrate), though was undeniably justified in doing so. Such a spread. You could say he played the dutiful son, and yet ... I remember the manager at work informing me of three letters he’d received from Flamenco’s Mother, all addressed to her boy c/o the company. RnS refused to accept them. A fourth was sent to the office direct, pleading for information as to the whereabouts of her son who'd been silent for many years. She was heartbroken. How she knew his work location, I don’t know, but it was the last known address she had. Definitely the soul of a Type B with some C characteristics.

FLAMENCO BOY: LEGENDARY SHENANIGANS—We didn’t work together much (he was a driver, as was I) but his antics were legendary. The stuff that after-dinner show-stopping yarns are made of. The management had a problem scheduling him. They said he was unreliable and tried to rein in his erratic work ethic, but he was an unbridled force that would not be corralled. He’d work two or three days, then disappear for a week or two. He’d reappear without any excuse, desperate for cash, and as moving companies are ever in need of competent drivers, they’d accept him back. Reluctantly though. He was engaging with the public and could pour on the charm, but would turn on a dime if they were rude or testy. He believed a firm hand was required when dealing with an unreasonable customer. There was the odd confrontation at the start of a job. Men or women: used to taking charge; not packed and ready to move; or a little too specific in their needs from a mover—he’d let them know immediately what to expect. If they complained, off he’d go. No discussion. Wouldn’t even start the job. I was called in more than once to cover a gig that Flamenco Boy had walked off. I began to recognize a pattern, here. As he hated the fact that he earned his living from moving, and not music, he did the bare-minimum to skate by. His needs were modest, and once he’d made his money for the month, he’d vanish. I suspected that if he’d given his word to work and then realized he’d already reached his existence quota, he’d get short tempered and resentful. The only reason he needed to walk off a job was if he took an instant dislike to the shipper, and no entreaties from the office could change his mind; however, Flamenco never pulled this stunt when funds were low. On an occasion when he'd decided to walk out on a “real bitch, Artie,” the news of possible conflict had been discussed by the packing crew from the day before. In the office, they’d described the woman as “demanding and unreasonable” ... maybe RnS was not the best candidate to move her? Management was in a tight spot: no one else available. So they crossed their fingers and hoped for the best. Things went badly from the outset—shipper and mover got into it first thing. She dove straight into complaining about minor details of the pack job. Said they’d do this/didn’t do that/me, me, me/wah, wah, wah! What she didn’t know was that Flamenco Boy had reached his target wage for the month. He was sporting his classic morning-after hue and was in no mood for protracted petty-wrangling. “Listen, I am not part of the packing crew ... that was yesterday. Today, I am here to move you. Now, do you want me to stay or leave? You decide. I really don’t care.” Normally, this stock response from our man cooled the heals of many a prickly pear. The chances of getting a replacement mover on-the-day is unlikely. So it shifts the balance of power to the mover and things calm down. Usually. Still in complaint mode however, she called in to bitch at the company. Flamenco received a call from the office urging calm, only to catch a remark of hers in the background. That was it—he’d had enough. He was being attacked on both sides now and just came unglued. “Don’t you fucking talk like that to me ... she’s a cunt ... a fucking stinking whore! ... no one tells me what to do ... NO ONE!” He was alternately shouting at her, then at the office via the telephone. He started hammering the phone up and down on it’s cradle. Up and Down. Then he held the phone by the mouthpiece, to get more leverage—more bang for his buck, you might say—and still screaming obscenities, began to renew his assault on the machine for a full ten seconds; his long hair rocking back and forth as he smashed it into oblivion. (His Oblivion.) Finally it all subsided, and everyone (movers and customer) was frozen, silent and shocked. Well, it is shocking when someone wigs out to the N’th degree in a relatively unprovoked manner. Flamenco Boy came-to holding the receiver (resplendent with dangling earpiece) and put it down gently. One finger remained on the phone and he paused, confused, as if considering: How did this come to be damaged. Hmh? ... and with a prissy flick of his head he sniffed, "OK, I'm off." The office had to mop up that mess, and I'm not sure what happened next. I only know that after repeated attempts to admonish his behavior, they were met with a nonplused mover who was unrepentant. "She deserved it," was all he would say. They put him on suspension, which suited him just fine—time off to play the guitar, drink red wine, and ... he’d made his money mark. Nice! I approached him afterwards. “So, dude. That’s what you call a firm hand when dealing with the public is it? Jesus!” He was looking away, leaning on elbows with a “quiet” finger on puckered lips, but his eyes flashed at me and smirked. There were other incidents, though not as extreme. One traffic occurrence saw him blocking a guy and his car in, with a 26' moving truck. Leaping like a gazelle onto the hood of the vehicle, he dared the driver to get out and face it like a man. All right, all right. I take that back—the extreme reference, that is. You (God forbid, Dear Reader) are in a small car, late for work. You do something silly to get by a moving van. I mean it’s big and slow and ... anyway, it’s over; you didn’t do it on purpose. No harm. No foul. SUDDENLY, the big truck pulls in front of you, at an angle, taking up two lanes of highway. Now you’re stuck. Out gets Tarzan with a shock of hair and he’s on the hood of your car. “ Oh my God, he’s on the—” “You have no fucking idea who you’re fucking dealing with ... get out ... GET OUT!” Another time, I was with him in the truck and he asked me to pull over, and disappeared. I found myself zoning out, hitting the seek button on the radio, looking across the road into a group of shops—stationery/liquor store/Oh look, a Thai place. I wonder if it's any good?—a bunch of random thoughts, really. On the other side of the street a man had gone into the paper store, vaulted the counter, and confronted an employee. He seemed to be threatening him with a series of finger-jabbing motions. Familiar locks were swaying as if giving prominence to certain words. The aggressor then grasped his victim by the shirt, hauled him forward and spat in his face ... for one tiny moment the world stood still. He held him close, eyeball to eyeball, allowing the employee to feel his rage, and thrust him back against a wall—dispatched in the contemptuous manner one would flick away a loathsome insect! Even at a distance I could see the guy was terrified. That was all it took. The man with the hair turned on his heel and marched out. Mission Accomplished. “You see Artie, the Art of the Threat is quite simple. Never threaten anyone. Beat ‘em to death, then dare them to do it again.” Stationery Guy had been mildly sexually harassing Flamenco’s girlfriend. So our man decided to pay dude a visit; I supposed he had just made good on his earlier maxim. Back in the truck it was a while before he spoke. He knew I suspected something was up, as I kept looking over, yet he just kept his gaze straight ahead. I couldn’t stand it any longer. “So ... did you beat him to death and dare him to do it again?” He took a deep breath. "Put it this way: I don't think he'll be coming back to the post office for a while.” A smile appeared on his lips, for a job considered well done. “Post Office! DUDE. I thought you said she was a stripper?” “Dat dat dat, ber-dat dat dat-daaat—Woooh!” We burst into our favorite song with the ferocity that he’d displayed moments earlier, and were still vocally-air-guitaring as we pulled into the yard at the end of the day. We got a lot of mileage out of that incident. While Flamenco Boy added a few inches to Stationery Guy’s collar size, I was informed of the corresponding audio, “I didn’t realize she had a boyfriend.” In time, I found myself acting out the stunned employee scenario and was able to work in Flamenco’s other classic: Get out and face it like a man. I tried them in a number of styles but inevitably returned to the original delivery. They were received with smirks and snickers, and the ritual became a term of endearment, even greeting between us. Strange, the things that bond us to others. I have to say, I was ambivalent regarding his violent behavior. All three incidents were unacceptable conduct; this time however, there was a certain rough justice to it. He may have gone too far, but was reacting to an injustice that was first dealt to him. I had a fleeting admiration for a man who’d take matters into his own hands in order to protect his own, and not hide behind the skirts of another. There’s something exhilarating about being with someone who appears not to conform to the same social constraints as the rest of us. It’s like hanging out with a Super Hero, though Flamenco Boy was more of a dark avenging vigilante. Nothing is out of bounds. You can do anything you like. Ultimately, its frightening. Unless the person has a just code of ethics, a clearly defined grasp of right and wrong, any act is justifiable. In light of these events, I’m not sure he did. It was possibly only a matter of time before something seriously fucked up would happen. I knew him through at least three girlfriends—androgynous types with short hair and common sense personalities. He was their beautiful idol whom they worshipped. After three months or so, when the best behavior act was dropped, they realized a sleek predator had been invited in to stay ... and it was too late. They were smitten and he would not move on till he was ready, and when he did, the place and the relationship was in a shambles. He would have unwarranted fits of rage and destroy doors, walls, and furniture. He was a parasite with a poor credit profile. His Chick MO was to move in on a woman that was already set up: place to live; nice car; good/secure job; all accounts and bills up to date, and in her name. (TO BE CONTINUED.)

80's Pop Music meets Performance Art

The First Three Chapters of my book "Artie Q's Guide To Moving in LA" are available for download on ARTIE Q’s BOOK PAGE. Also, sample audio book files, too. (The whole audio book will be recorded, soon.) Or, just continue reading Chapter Three, here. I thought that this chapter would be the most appropriate to post @ Mi7, as the subject/character is a musician: "Imagine the guitar hero of Antonio Banderras’ El Marriachi, only with a blond mane, and there you have him ... an exotic creature." ENJOY, Mi7'ers! — A Novel by Artie Q ©2006 — I have long been fascinated by the actions of others. I believe insightful mileage can be gained by regarding what is done and disregarding what is said. Little did I realise the profession on which I embarked was to give me the opportunity to observe in great detail, behavior that was not only spectacularly bizarre and relentlessly mundane, but also in plentiful supply. My name is Artie Q and seventeen years ago I arrived in Los Angeles clutching a bag full of dreams and a catalogue of songs. I was in my late twenties still pursuing an elusive music career—“an imprisonable offence in the UK,” by the way. America, however, was open armed and open minded. I fell in love with the City of Angels immediately, and decided to stay. My music was hardly tearing up the town, and with the rent due and bills to py, I was forced to find work ... and LA’s Moving Industry provided an inexhaustible supply. I had come to take the music world by storm ... instead I became a mover. CHAPTER THREE: RAGE AND SILENCE. THE ARTIST— He was North Hollywood’s answer to Paco De Lucia, renowned flamenco guitarist. On stage, he would sit in the classical style: one foot raised to support his instrument; long blond hair falling sweaty in his face. He did not look at the audience, except perchance through the matted locks, as he raised a glass of wine to his lips. Had people glimpsed beneath the hair, they would have seen an expression that was both painful and ecstatic. Then again, people never saw. He neither spoke, nor sang one word during a performance. He hardly moved during a one hour set, other than hands and head shaking in time to the intense flourish of notes that were wrung from his guitar. Melodies, structured phrases, and improvised sections peppered each song with the very fiber of his soul. He was a talented player fusing an array of complex styles. He played with the heaviest strings, frequently out of stock/always on order. He struck them harder than most and routinely broke one (or more) per show. Every note mattered and he played like a madman—a Whirling Dervish without the motion, yet driven by that same frenzied energy—as if those were his last moments on earth. It was essential to be the best at all times and if he were to expire by the end of the song, if the audience’s only snapshot of him was that final hurrah, that would be enough. It was not until he stood that he revealed his build: tall, slim, yet muscular. Broad shoulders squeezed into a close fitting “matador’ jacket, pants pulled way up tight around a slender waist—giving him the look of a lot of leg and little body. Though there was a hint of something feminine (maybe the hair, the clothes that outlined every nook and cranny, or the overly poised and pursed-lipped manner in which he sat), he was regardless, a real hunk. Imagine the guitar hero of Antonio Banderras’ El Marriachi, only with a blond mane, and there you have him ... an exotic creature. This was indeed a contrast to the man standing beside him on stage also playing acoustic guitar (though in his case, singing and strumming basic chords). Here, was no gorgeous faced guitar-god. This man was small and compact with close cropped hair and a cheeky, winning way. He was easy in his communication with the audience and uninhibited in a bluesy-pop singing style. Rage & Silence, as they were called, would finish a show and invariably someone would approach with the consensus. “Oh, I see. You’re Rage, and ... wait a minute, let me guess ... you’re Silence. Right?” What few people knew, was that he was both Rage and Silence. The name of the act was coined by his songwriting partner after the two moods of El Virtuoso. Ironically, even our man (Mr. RnS) did not know the truth; he just thought it a great name. Rage & Silence, a perfect dichotomous visual of the two men. His two passions in life were on that stage: playing the guitar and drinking red wine. Vast amounts of red. And, while we're at it—white wine, beer, gin, vodka, whiskey, tequila, martini, liqueur ... in fact, anything alcoholic he could get his hands on. All and in any order, down the hatch. I have never seen anyone drink so many different types of alcohol during the course of an evening and still play a set of music relatively unaffected. Amazing. Especially so, as the next morning he had to go to work ... as a mover. “The movers are here. Movers!” And that was where I met him. THE MOVER— I know it was brutal for him playing a gig the night before, doing what he felt was a true calling (performing and drinking) and then moving furniture the next day. A rude awakening. He cut a particular figure at work, too. He’d never wear shorts or the company T, but favored a thick hooded sweat shirt and pants, even in temperatures of 100∞+. The sweat shirt principle was a triple whammy: Long punishing workdays—sometimes with the hood down/boxing style—would refresh the body and soul (“Clean out the toxins from the night before, Artie.”); the workout helped keep the figure svelte and toned; in addition, he feared the effects of sun damage to his lilly white skin. For those areas the sweats did not cover, he applied a sun block/moisturizer generously to guard face and hands. To further protect his #1 concern, a pair of durable gauntlets were used on the harsh aspects of a move (dirty patio furniture, plants, garden paraphernalia, garage misc., truck ramps, etc.). Practical, though a tad pretentious ... had the gauntlets been worn by a knight preparing to joust, they would have been only slightly out of place because of the material, certainly not because of the look. He believed the glove-ware/hoody ensemble to be just the ticket for any moving gig/any climate; to a 3rd Party, he would have appeared simply overdressed and hot. RnS would never eat on a job, even if the customer bought lunch, choosing to wait for a healthy evening meal. He drank only distilled water from a gallon jug and on occasion would buy a malt beer at lunchtime. (I suspect to keep the jitters at bay.) He was in trouble at the start of a job, once—hands trembling and face pale, shining with a heavy glaze ... a skinful of booze? An overdose of moisturizing cream? Well, both actually. Add to the mix a heavy-lidded “look right through you” stare and a splash of sweat on the top lip, shake vigorously and voila: a present but absent demeanor that was downright scary. Hey, Pale Face. Anyone home? Hellooooo ...? He was a vain man (way more so than most) and had embarked on the electrolysis-style removal of facial hair, but ran out of money an inch above his Adam’s apple. That morning saw him silent and vacant as the remaining tell tale line of whiskers started to inch their way forward, as if screaming what about me? for another $1,000 to finish the job. We pulled up in front of the House of the Day; I could see he was struggling. “Why don’t you let me go through the paperwork with the customer? Get yourself sorted.” I was in the truck when he returned, a little later. He shuffled to the side (where panels allow furniture to be tied down) and rested forehead against wood. “So ... everything, cool?” I supposed I was waiting for an answer. I wasn’t quite sure. I tried to look but couldn’t see; anything could be going on behind the hair. There was a quiet knocking sound ... he was rocking back and forth against the panel. I waited half-smiling, expecting a funny line or something. Then I noticed the mandatory paper bag. This was a first—drinking on the trucks. “I see you got yourself something a little stronger than Starbucks, dude.” “That’ll wake you up in the mornin’, boys.” In a voice so low, he mouthed a favorite line from the movies. Gradually, the contents of the brown bag returned him to the land of functioning and “reporting for duty.” On reflection, it should have been one of the many cautionary signs to give a wide birth to our developing friendship. * Over the years I socialized with him outside the work environment. I supported his musical endeavors, as he did mine. He played on a couple of my recorded tracks; I watched him perform live. I made fun of his mannered playing style: choosing to sit like the flamenco masters, rather than stand. “Hey, Flamenco Boy.” “Techno Man ... Wassup?” I liked him when he wasn’t the “wild-eyed absentee of the morning after.” He could be witty, playful, almost tender. He was a generous host to friends when he had the dough, and though his work schedule was sketchy, credit shot, and cash flow always an issue—he was never without a glass of wine. (Almost always red.) He respected my opinion and seemed to like me. I found out how much after a particular night of drunken revelry. "I'd take a bullet for you, man.” I was bemused at the sudden change of pace; I wasn’t even sure I’d heard him right. But I did. I looked over for the visual and as quickly as the emotion had come, it disappeared in a trice, as if embarrassed at letting his guard down ... or something. Hmm? It was an uncommonly candid moment, and in time I came to understand the significance of the terms he’d used—a flash back to a surprisingly violent past that plagued his dreams, turned them into nightmares, and jolted him awake in a cold sweat. Open mouthed and silent-shrieking. (TO BE CONTINUED.)