A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Lies

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Photography is, at its essence, preserving a moment that has never happened before, and never will happen again. This is particularly undeniable in the realm of photojournalism. And that's why Reuters' publication of Adnan Hajj's altered photos of the Israeli-Lebanese conflict are reprehensible.

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One of the photos in question shows smoke rising from Beirut after an Israeli bombing raid. Lots of smoke. The other depicts an Israeli F-16 firing three missiles at an unspecified target. Very dramatic. They're the sort of photographs that rip at the soul. There's just one small problem--they're not exactly real.

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Hajj, for whatever motive, decided his photo of the bombing aftermath lacked the drama he wanted to convey--the reality of that one moment he had captured wasn't cinematic enough. And a mediocre shot of an Israeli plane firing a defensive flare, even shot through a fast telephoto lens, wasn't very provocative, either. He did , therefore, what any mediocre hack photographer would do: he photoshop'd the hell out of them and hoped nobody would notice.

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Reuters, at least their global photo editor, Tom Szlukovenyi, didn't notice. More likely, though, the news agency didn't care. After all, Beirut beneath a blanket of thick, oily black smoke depicts the horrors of war much more dramatically than a poorly composed picture that shows only a single bomb blast on the horizon clearly. Perhaps in their arrogance and rush to beat their competitors in ratings and, by extension, ad dollars, Reuters thought nobody would notice.

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But people did notice. Over the weekend, the Internet, particularly political bloggers, made Abnan Hajj something of a Web celebrity. Google him and you'll find a cornucopia of sources that have posted the before and after renditions of the above described items.

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Reuters unceremoniously pulled all 920 of Hajj's photos, most of which were sports shots, from its files Sunday, excluding them from future sales. Szlukovenyi issued a statement typical of those with their hand caught in the cookie jar, absolving themselves of culpability and reiterating the old "zero tolerance policy" saw.

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There is a larger issue that looms here, though, and it is infinitely more important than any short-sighted, self-serving political agendas, be it from a photographer who may or may not be sympathetic to Hezbollah, or pro-Israeli websites or news agencies slanting stories to either the left or the right. The issue here revolves around trust and responsibility--all else is superfluous.

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It's impossible to not slant the news--to say it's 35 degrees outside is fact--to say it's very cold is slanting that fact. That being said, it's ludicrous to refer to news outlets as "the liberal media." The media is what it is, and it's composed of a multitude of viewpoints, some vehement and some conciliatory, all beholden to who's buttering their bread.

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The Hajj affair goes beyond the pale in its sensationalism of what is already a situation of potentially apocalyptic proportions. In times like these, it is not only incumbent upon journalists to accurately inform the public, it is essential to maintaining the Fourth Estate's credibility. Altered photos do not tell the truth--they only give credence to conspiracy theories.

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A picture is indeed worth a thousand words--or a thousand lies. The realities of war speak eloquently of horror and tragedy without embellishing them through photo manipulation.

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Pure Reason Revolution:

Guerillas of the Surreal

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I don't sleep a lot-- in fact, I average four, maybe five hours a night. Seven hours is sleeping in for me. Don't get me wrong--I would love something beyond a ten minute"power nap" (another one of those pre-fab labels whose meaning completely eludes me), but the constraints of American time-sense--not to mention that pesky 24-hour solar cycle-- make that next to impossible. I'm not whining. I'm just saying.

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There's a plus side though--sleep deprivation, when utilized properly, can be an extremely effective creative tool. Once you've blurred the lines between dream and wakefulness, reality takes on a different hue. At least, that's what I keep telling myself.

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On their debut album, The Dark Third, Pure Reason Revolution nimbly traverses such territories in a work that clearly establishes them as the new prog movement's best and brightest hope. What places this British quintet at the forefront of the neo progs is their uncanny ability to translate seventies progressive rock to a language relevant to the 21st century. They've managed this by drawing on contemporary influences such as Radiohead and Nirvana and tracing them back to what influenced those bands--Yes, Led Zeppelin and, of course, Pink Floyd. The result is an album that both pays homage to those influences, and transcends them.

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While I would hesitate to label The Dark Third a "concept" album, its title alludes to that part of life that is spent in the subliterate world of dream state. As such, it flits between idioms and musical time frames without regard to obvious references. This is most apparent on the almost twelve minute long "The Bright Ambassadors." The title itself being a reference to a line in Pink Floyd's Meddle, the track intros in a Fairport Convention meets Evanescence groove, transmutes into a melodic moment of strings and synths, evolves into a literary refrain reminiscent of William S. Burroughs as translated by Pink Floyd and lopes into a Fleetwood Mac harmony interlude before shredding into a bass and drums- driven climax that echoes Led Zeppelin's Coda days. In lesser hands, the resultant piece would have been chaos, but Pure Reason Revolution pull it all together seamlessly.

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Much of the reason The Dark Third succeeds has to do with the vocal interplay between Jon Courtney and Chloe Alper, who serve as the focal point of the band. They counterpoint each other so effectively that the actual lyrics become secondary to the inherent power of the tune. The tunes, though, ultimately make the album--Andrew Courtney's drums accentuate every phrase and James Dobson's synths, coupled with Jamie Wilcox's guitar riffs, imbue every song with a power that is at once both ethereal and firmly grounded in the elements of rock.

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It's August as I write this, so I think it's safe to start passing out "best of" nominations for 2006. I was skeptical concerning Pure Reason Revolution when I first heard about them, what with all the hype about them being the next Pink Floyd. Jaded critic that I am, I thought I would dismiss them as "Pink Floyd: the next generation." In one way, I was right--they are that. They've picked up the mantle that Syd Barrett absentmindedly tossed aside one day. But they have done more than that--they have picked up where he left off, passed it around to others who shared his vision in one way or another, absorbed their scents and created something familiar yet dangerously new.

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What Pure Reason Revolution has done with The Dark Third is nothing short of revolutionary. By delving into the roots of their roots and updating those roots, they have validated rock and roll in a way not heard of since Green Day's American Idiot.

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The Dark Third is easily the best rock album I've heard this year. And Pure Reason Revolution is far and away the best rock band to emerge in 2006.

When Phish Landed on Coney Island

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On a rainy day in June 2004, the members of Phish got together for a jam session and invited 20,000 of their closest friends to listen. At least, that's the impression one is left with after viewing Phish Live in Brooklyn (or listening to the CD version.) Filmed at Coney Island's Keyspan Park, this release beautifully documents what is ostensibly one of Phish's final performances.

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In a career spanning over twenty years, with virtually no personnel changes, Phish never broke the Top Twenty in record sales, yet enjoyed mega status as a touring band. Their grassroots approach to self-promotion and their interaction with their fanbase led to inevitable comparisons to the Grateful Dead. Indeed, after Jerry Garcia's death in 1995, Phish seemed poised to be the heir apparent to the Grateful Dead's legacy, at least on that level.

Musically, though, the similarities between the two are scant. While both drew on diverse influences, Phish, by and large, leaned more towards an improvisational jazz approach whereas the Grateful Dead took a more folksy route.

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All such comparisons aside, Phish is certainly one of the all-time great jam bands, and indisputably the best to emerge on the national scene in the nineties. Phish Live in Brooklyn proves that in no uncertain terms. Directed by Eli Tishberg, this is concert filmmaking at its best-- a straightforward, but lovingly rendered rendition of the event without the usual interview intercuts and such that distract from the experience. Of course, it doesn't hurt that it rained through most of the concert, providing for some nice special effects.

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Cinematography and the fortunate events of nature do not a concert make, obviously--they can only serve to record the event. Ultimately, it all hinges on the performance. Here, Phish does a remarkable job of engaging their live audience and, by extension, the home viewer like. In a two-set concert that lasts over three hours, the band performs an eclectic selection of songs spanning their two decade career. With Trey Anastosio's loopy guitar style serving as the unifying motif throughout the show, Phish turn twenty-one songs into what amounts to one long, but infinitely satisfying jam.

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This is a concert bereft of histrionics--even the lighting effects by "fifth member" Chris Kuroda are subdued, serving to embellish the music's emotions. While Anastosio's guitar is prominent throughout, the entire band shines as well. Bassist Mike Gordon, with his bobblehead timing, trades licks formidably against the guitar phrasings on "Free." Page McConnel's keyboards accentuate each song with an extra layer of phrasing, and Jon Fishman's percussion unnerringly guides each tune.

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From the opening "A Song I heard the Ocean Sing" to the closing classic "The Divided Sky," Live in Brooklyn is a testament to the power of the jam. If this concert does indeed herald the end of Phish, then they went out with guns blazing to the very last note. On the other hand, it may be that Live in Brooklyn documents the end of one cycle of Phish's career. They've even alluded that a reunion is not out of the question. Either way, it stands on its own as a great live performance. The DVD version is the way to go for home entertainment. For a purely aural experience, or when on the go, the CD shines as well. Either way, Phish Live in Brooklyn is worthy of more than a casual listen.

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How the Queen of Soul and the King of Sax Changed Rock Forever

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It's pretty much a given that you can't really love rock and roll without at least having a fundamental appreciation of soul--the roots of both are inextricably entwined. Still, throughout the 1950's and well into the sixties, the two traversed largely parallel paths. There were the rock charts and there were the R&B charts-- crossover hits were extremely rare on either side.

Blame it on record label marketing, not any kind of veiled racism. Bean counters have never been renowned as visionaries.

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Three nights in March 1971, at Bill Graham's Filmore West, made them open their eyes, though. San Francisco's famed venue played host to Aretha Franklin, backed by King Curtis and the Kingpins for three straight shows (March 5-7). The lines between rock and soul would be forever blurred.

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Two CDs from Rhino, appropriately titled Aretha Live at Filmore West and King Curtis Live at the Filmore West document those events in digitally remastered recordings so crisp the listener is aurally transported to those concerts. This is Aretha at her apex, belting out gospel-infused soul in her inimitable style. This is King Curtis, playing sax and fronting his dream team version of the Kingpins, as if there were no tomorrow.

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Aretha was already acknowledged as the "Queen of Soul", due in no small part to Jerry Wexler's tutelage since signing with Atlantic in 1966. King Curtis had a resume dating back to the fifties, and his sax stylings largely defined the instrument's role in in rock and roll. He was a musician's musician, though, and at that time, not a name generally equated with the rock scene. And while Aretha was an international star, most of the buzz surrounding her was generated from the R&B press.

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So it was with some trepidation that Wexler brought Aretha and King to the Filmore West. By his own account, he wasn't sure how an audience accustomed to acts like the Grateful Dead and the Jefferson Airplane would respond to what amounted to an all-out soul revue.

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He needn't have worried.

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Aretha Live at Filmore West hits the ground running with a revved-up performance of "Respect" and Lady Soul's promise to the largely "hippie" audience that they will "enjoy this performance as much as any you have had the occasion to see." She makes good on that guarantee, and then some, with her take on "Love the One You're With," as different from the Steven Stills original as midnight is to dawn. Aretha's greatest strength lies in her ability to completely redefine source material, and nowhere is that more apparent than her renditions of "Eleanor Rigby" and "Bridge Over Troubled Waters." Those two covers define the phrase, "it's not so much what you say as how you say it." And how she says it sends a shiver up the spine and a gut shot to the soul.

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But where Aretha Live at Filmore West shines most brightly is when she unabashedly returns to her gospel/blues roots--and it is here that she ultimately holds the audience captive. "Dr. Feelgood" begins as an earthy, blues-infused tune that stretches into an all-out revival for over four minutes, with the audience caught up in the spirit, "amen-ing" her every utterance. As it segues into "Spirit in the Dark," Aretha holds the crowd utterly under her sway. Like an A.M.E. preacher, she takes utmost advantage of the opportunity, unexpectedly bringing "the righteous reverend" Ray Charles to the stage to reprise the song. A spontaneous jam, the likes of which had never been heard, ensues. The electricity in that performance ranks as one of those "great moments" in the evolution of rock and roll.

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Aretha Live at Filmore West is an indispensable album for anybody remotely interested in the evolution of rock and roll, soul or pop music in general. This edition also includes outtakes and alternative mixes culled from those three nights, not included in previous issues of the album. This isn't just pop music history. It is soul at its very best.

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If Aretha's performances at the Filmore dispelled any doubts that soul could play to rock audiences, then a huge credit is due to her band, led by King Curtis. Besides providing an amazing backing to Aretha's vocals, he and his Kingpins served as her opening act. King Curtis Live at the Filmore West is a testament to the power inherent in unspoken vocabulary of instrumental music.

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Here, he augments the Kingpins with special guests Billy Preston and the legendary Memphis Horns. The resultant album is extraordinary, to put it mildly. Culled from the three nights performances, the tracks are nothing short of exhilarating. King Curtis was the greatest of rock and roll's saxmen, and he aptly demonstrates his talents here. From the classic "Soul Serenade" to his rendition of Procol Harem's "Whiter Shade of Pale," his tenor sax phrasings never falter. Even on "Whole Lotta Lovin" (an obvious choice for the flower child crowd) , his instrument takes on a voice of its own.

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There is an unintentional melancholy to this album. I mentioned at the beginning of this piece that King Curtis played as if there was no tomorrow. Sadly, for him there were very few tomorrows after this performance. King Curtis was stabbed to death five months later. His legend lives on.

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Aretha Live at Filmore West and King Curtis Live at the Filmore West are two albums that beautifully document a time when rock and soul were finally coming to grips that they shared the same lineage. The music that would follow relishes in that new-found identity to this day.

Blues Around the World Holds the Key to Global Peace

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Attempting to uncover that one moment that was the point at which the blues began is akin to defining the origin of the universe--it can't be done. Once you think you've finally nailed the answer, "but where did that come from?" becomes the immediate question, and once that question is answered, another question arises, and so on, until you fall back on faith, or go stark raving mad.

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The blues is one of those great mysteries that simply "always has been." Sure, as a recorded genre, it can be traced back to the 1920's American south, pioneered most notably by Robert Johnson and a few others, but its roots go far deeper than that. The blues is a universal voice that was born at the same time whatever evolved into the human spirit was born--it's an inherent part of our genetic makeup, indifferent to primordial migratory paths and the rise and fall of empires.

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The Putumayo compilation Blues Around The World eloquently illustrates this point in an album that encapsulates the universality of the blues. From Chicago to Zanzibar, the blues imprint has left its mark across the globe, as evidenced in these eleven songs by musicians ranging from Bonnie Raitt to Long-ge. Throughout it all, a sense of spritual triumph and celebration permeates the music, regardless of its origins.

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There are collaborations here that literally span the globe, and if some seem unlikely, they only serve to augment the appeal of the genre. Urban blues legend Taj Mahal teams with the Culture Musical Club of Zanzibar for a sultry, Arabic-infused rendition of the Mississippi-born classic "Catfish Blues." The band Unseen Guest provides a seamless fusion between Western and Eastern musical influences, specifically, Irish and Indian, with the easy, pulsating beat of "Listen My Son." Habib Koite of Mali provides a perfect counterpoint to Bonnie Raitt's slide guitar with his open plucking style.

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It is in the diversity of the individual performers represented here, however, that Blues Around the World shines most brightly. Artists from Brazil (Blues Etilicos) , the Sahara (Amar Sundy), Taiwan (Long-ge) and Spain (Jarabe De Palo) all offer a unique interpretation of what the blues mean to them individually, and by extension, to the global community. More importantly, perhaps, is that in these performances, we are compelled to recognize the unifying threads that bind us together as humans.

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If music is the universal language, then the blues is the dialect most widely spoken. All of the songs here attest to the common hopes and fears, loves and loathings we all share, regardless of the particular locale in which we live. The idiom that is the blues resides deeply in our collective unconsciousness, holding a promise of hope in moments of despair. The blues, at its essence, reminds us that no matter how bad things may be, they can only get better.

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Blues Around theWorld is that rarest of compilation albums-- a collection made all the more relevant by current events. Its message, unintentional though it may be, is we have more in common than we care to admit.

What We Whisper Is What You Should Hear

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Darkly ethereal, What We Whisper, the new release from Jeffrey Luck Lucas, paints an aural landscape littered with dashed dreams and bleak futures, populated with jaded protagonists who wear their world weariness like a favorite jacket--tattered memories they can't throw away no matter how much they'd like to. The pain of them is perversely comforting. "Tell me why you carry your tears like a melody," Lucas plaintively asks in "The Pills," knowing the answer is in fact, the question.

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The questions Lucas poses throughout What We Whisper have at their root the eternal conflict of humaniity's place in a world much larger than itself, and he grapples with them in a voice soaked in urban angst. This is not an album of anthemic platitudes--it's more akin to Tom Waits as channeled through Leonard Cohen. As such, it beckons the listener into an intricate web of choices that may have gone wrong but have nonetheless left the protagonist with no regrets. In Lucas's world, there are no necessarily good or bad things that happen, only experiences.

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All of this is played against a backdrop of not surprisingly minor chords reminiscent of a modern noir soundtrack. It's all delicately nuanced, accentuated by the occasional cello and haunting background vocals of Wendy Allen. Desmond Shea's production complements the instrumentation perfectly, endowing it with an aura that is at once otherwordly yet disturbingly familiar. And throughout it all, there is that voice-- soaked in whiskey and weary with the weight of memories, tortured yet at peace, compelling the listener to hear these tales.

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What We Whisper is a deceptively subtle work that requires the listener to actually listen. What Jeffrey Lee Lucas has done here has given us a tour of love and life as seen from fog-shrouded

alleys and dusty border towns that only exist in our darker dreams. It's a tour that's best appreciated at night, when one can feel the pangs of retrospection.

Midlake revisits Seventies Art Rock--

It's A Largely Pointless Trip

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I was a high school freshman when the seventies dawned, and change was in the air. I'm not talking about sociopolitical upheaval here--I'm talking what really matters in our daily life--namely, rock and roll.

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FM radio was just beginning to subvert the AM top forty format with a curious genre called "album rock." For the first time, we could sample "deep cuts" from hit albums with our own ears, rather than relying on reviews from Rolling Stone, Village Voice and Crawdaddy, before shelling out our hard-earned coke bottle money on the latest Monkees release. We were free at last.

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Or so we thought.

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Every revolution has its downside, and the repercussions of the FM revolution was that it gave credence to that most horrid of all mutants, art rock. In retrospect, we can lay the blame squarely on the scrawny shoulders of Pete Townsend and the Who's Tommy, the world's first (shudder) rock opera. And while Tommy was a noble experiment, it had the unintended effect of empowering every arthead in every college town in America (and Europe, I suppose) with the idea that Tolkien-inspired bad poetry and music theory classes could elevate their garage bands to art.

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The sleepy little college town of Denton, Texas was at that time to fusion jazz what Austin would become to outlaw C&W. It was a well-deserved reputation-- North Texas State University's

One O'Clock Lab Band even won a grammy for its jazz endeavors. The sad offshoot of that was that it also attracted every hippie who had ever strummed a guitar, blew a few notes into a recorder or read a few passages from Gravity's Rainbow. For a Texas hippie, Denton was Utopia.

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Fast forward three some-odd decades later. North Texas State is now the University of North Texas, and Denton is still a college town forty miles north of Dallas, and still is a haven for collegiates who consider their every breath a whiff of "art." Occasionally, something relevant emerges from this self-absorbed community. Midlake's sophomore effort, The Trials of Van Occupanther, however, is not such an item.

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Midlake's full-length debut, Bamnan and Silvercork, was a bit of a cult hit and earned them a European tour. That's really not surprising, given its ennui-laced eighties pop feel, even less surprising, given they were signed to Cocteau Twins alumnus Simon Raymonde's Bella Union label. Still, it was an admirable first effort. Sheesh, even Jason Lee (My Name Is Earl) jumped on the Midlake bandwagon.

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On The Trials of Van Occupanther, Midlake eschews synths in favor of an accoustic sound that harkens back to the pseudo-medieval strains of early seventies art rock. Think Jethro Tull's Minstrel in the Gallery meets Moody Blues' Every Good Boy Deserves Favour. And then recall how overblown the messages those albums tried to convey seem in retrospect.

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Ostensibly, The Trials of Van Occupanther chronicles a man's trek on a path of self discovery, which somehow parallels some sort of universal truth about mankind--at least, that's what I think it ostensibly does. The problem is, the lyrics are so shrouded in "meaning" they don't ever tell the story. There's a pacifist theme here, a quest for everlasting love there and a longing for a simpler lifestyle over there. In their quest to create art, Midlake neglected to tell their story compellingly.

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Musically, however, Midlake succeeds in creating a soundtrack for this mess of a tale. The band is undeniably tight, albeit a bit reliant on music school theory. It's to their credit that Midlake faithfully recreated that overwraught, hipper-than-thou fairy-tale world of early seventies art rock. It's also to their detriment.

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The Trials of Van Occupanther is a living example of "second album syndrome"--a valiant effort, but a little too much of an effort. I'm not giving up on them--yet. Midlake is a band to watch, regardless of this effort.

Hindsight is 20/20. Tunnel Vision... Not So Much

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I should have known better.

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What began as what I thought was a simple plea for some Blogcritics writers to steer away from blatantly racist language in regards to the crisis in the Middle East has become instead a platform to espouse those very views. In effect, it's evolved (or devolved) into a microcosmic vignette of a seething hatred that echoes the tensions of post WWI Europe.

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In a perverse way, I should feel vindicated, I suppose. For years, I've said that everybody has an agenda, and the more insidious that agenda, the more vehemently it is denied. A cynical viewpoint, perhaps--but a cynic, as Ambrose Bierce said, is only a romantic who's seen reality. And the reality is this: we're living in a world in which everyone's already made up their mind.

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We haven't learned from history's mistakes, and we're rushing headlong to repeat them. Don't think for one second I'm advocating pacifism here--it is a basic responsibility of every human being to destroy evil. The trick is in defining evil, and therein lies the barrier to reasoned argument.

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The Holocaust was evil. 9/11 was evil. Does that mean all Germans are evil? Does that mean all Muslims are evil? Of course not. Does that mean politicians and hatemongers from every spectrum are going to spin evil to rationalize their agendas? Almost certainly. Hitler had to be stopped, and he was--at least for a time. His spectre still haunts us, channeled as it is through any number of hate groups. Osama Bin Laden, on the other hand, still eludes us, but nonetheless serves as a convenient poster boy for some ill-defined war on terror.

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Let me share an anecdote with you. Days after 9/11, here in Dallas, a skinhead extremist walked into a convenience store and shot the owner to death. It wasn't a robbery-- nothing was stolen--it was "retaliation" against 9/11. The man he killed wasn't even Arabic--he was a Sikh, recently immigrated from India with a wife and infant child. That was irrelevant to the murderer, and even as he got the needle, he went to hell proclaiming his patriotism.

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I mention that only to illustrate how absurd our mindset has become, knowing that it will fall on deaf ears. We've forgotten that in America, our greatest strength lies in our diversity. On a daily basis, I work with Kurds, Mexicans, Iranians, Africans, Israelis, American Jews, Indonesians, Koreans--even Aussies. Guess what? Not a terrorist among the bunch.

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Call this a plea from a person known to advocate emotion in writing. I'm not pleading from a Neville Chamberlain vantage--I am foursquare for rooting out the bad guys and killing them on the spot. The Israelis are not the bad guys. Neither are the Lebanese. There are issues here that Americans don't fathom, and don't even attempt to understand. It's much easier to sit in air-conditioned comfort and scream "my side is right and your side is wrong!"

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Meanwhile, World War III has begun.

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Pass me another Bud, would ya?

How to Write Good

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Grabbed your attention, didn't I? You just had to know what was coming next, even though you already had set yourself as the author's superior. But you knew, deep inside, he had in actuality set you up to make you keep reading. That, my friends, is the secret of writing for publication. It's like this: writing-- more than music, more than painting, more than any of the so-called arts-- is the ultimate act of ego. We write for one reason (and you know in your heart of hearts this is true, so don't bother taking me to task about it) and that reason is we just absolutely know what we have to say is important, and by god, you damn well better listen.
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Here is what writing is all about: baring your soul naked for the world to see. What you're writing doesn't matter--if your soul's imprint isn't there, it will ring false--and your audience will know it straightaway. They're not idiots--after all, they do read and they're giving you a moment of their time to state your case. As a writer, you have a responsibility to make the most of that moment. You have to scream "fire!" at the outset--not explain the origins of fire. Ideally, you do this in the title itself--if not, you have two opening sentences at most to alert the reader that they have just booked passage on your ship, and there will be no turning back, come hell or high water. The reader has signed on for uncharted territory and it's your responsibility to deliver.

.That is the first lesson of writing well--"lesson", not "rule", because in order to communicate, you have to take what you know and realize that all the so-called rules you learned in journalism and creative writing classes were there only to give you a foundation--they were not meant as a stone tablet delivered from on high. There is nothing--and I mean nothing-- more boring than writing that adheres to textbook rules. It may impress your professors, family and friends, but trust me--it won't impress an editor.

To write well, you must plunge headfirst and unafraid into the abyss of the blank page, which, as Conrad noted, is the most terrifying realm of all for a writer. It's a stygian wasteland of random thoughts, all clawing for your attention while they point to this rule or that, each one taunting you and gnawing at your confidence. This is the moment of truth, the point where you shrug off all those self-imposed notions of the so-called creative process, gather your thoughts, take a deep breath and say to yourself, "There ain't nothin' to it but to do it."

And you write. Those first words fall onto the page trepiditiously, as a babe taking its first uncertain steps. And you see those words and realize you have just given birth to something that never existed before this moment. The terror that was the blank page has fallen victim to the higher force of a confidence that had lain dormant moments before. Those few words that you birthed are the core of your universe, and it is a universe over which you hold sway. You have, in effect, become God.

In an infinite set of possibilities, universes are equally apt to thrive or wither of their own doing, wholly dependent on how they reconcile those possibilities within their boundaries. That said, those boundaries are limited by the imagination of the universe's creator. For your universe to thrive, you must take those first stumbling words and nurture them with every ounce (or however it's measured) of your soul, with no apologies and no regrets.

How you build your universe (and it can be anything from a critique to a novel) is dependent on your personality. Some writers build their realms strategically, discarding draft after draft until they have exhausted all feasible strategies and are forced to either publish or discard their work, never to be seen again. Those writers wrangle with the demons of art. Others, myself included, write from the gut and shoot from the hip, as if everything is on deadline, and justify first draft publishing as the essence of emotion. These writers don't fret over art, they wrestle the demons of immediacy..

Your personal habits are of no consequence. All that matters is that you transport your reader into those squiggly lines and dots that somehow congeal into a universe they've never visited. You do this by employing skullduggery and chicanery and any other devious methods at your disposal to lure them into the thrill ride of their lives. The title of your piece, or at least the first sentence, absolutely must have that effect. Otherwise, your would-be audience will wander to the next universe.

I realize that writers are fragile creatures, by and large, and resultantly, by and large, they don't get published. Why? Firstly, they state the obvious. For instance, the phrase "in my opinion" should be stricken from the English language. Unless you're a robot, anything you write is your opinion. Don't belate the obvious. I could go on and on here, but this is the absolute worst creative writing cliche ever perpetuated on the human race. Under no circumstances, even under threat of death, ever use that phrase.

Secondly, far too many writers (or painters or musicians or what have you) set themselves up as artists from the outset. I cannot emphasize this enough: you are not, by virtue of saying so, creating art. You are writing and attempting to gain recognition--nothing more. You are no different from a house painter when you bottom line it. To paraphrase Margot Fontaine, taking oneself seriously is disastrous, taking one's work seriously is essential. History will decide whether your ramblings mattered in the scheme of things.You are way too closely involved to declare yourself an artist.

Finally, writers who don't get published don't understand the business of getting published. You have to understand that publications, no matter how lofty their mission statement may be, exist to sell advertising. That doesn't mean you whore yourself out to get published--unless, of course, you're a copywriter, but that's a completely different story. What it does mean, however, is you write from your heart whatever it is you write, without looking back, and then seek out a market that is sympatico with your vision.

This isn't theory--it's reality. To write, and to get your writing read, you have to be willing to descend from the godhood of creation to the melancholy of being a hired gun. Is it writing well? That depends on how you load your words.

The Wishlist:

Life's Design of Mind

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Call it an occupational hazard, I suppose. When you write about music, you find you have a whole group of New Best Friends and an ever-growing collection of demo discs from bands who, for the most part, will never go any further in their music careers. I still have what they called tapes in the 1980's from local "new wave" bands who went on to pursue brilliant careers in retail management, banking and law. It wasn't that they were terrible musicians-- they just didn't understand that jamming and recording are seperate entities.

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Every once in a very great while, when going through your one-offs, you stumble upon a disc that demands you pay attention. The freshman effort from the Dallas-based Wishlist, Life's Design of Mind, is such a disc. Produced by Casey Diiorio ( Bowling For Soup), this five-song EP is piano-driven pop balladry reminiscent of Keane, or Coldplay in their lighter moments. Even on a casual listen, you immediately realize that the Wishlist has no agenda beyond delivering a well-crafted package of romantic reminisces.

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That in no way implies that Life's Design of Mind falls victim to schmaltz-- quite the opposite. Despite its somewhat unwieldly title, this debut is artful without being artsy in its decidedly urban vignettes of coffee shop-flavored romantic angst. What bandmates Kevin Layne (vocals, piano), Alex Hastings (guitar), Rich Williams (bass) and Jonny Mack (drums) have done here is encapsulate the uncertainty and promise of love and commitment in a quintet of hook-laden tunes. It's date music with an edge.

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