Here we are, still debating whether or not the plague is a politically-motivated hoax and whether or not people of color are… yaknow, people. This was not the 2020 Gene Roddenberry promised us. I suppose as long as we don’t get the future Galactica 1980 promised us, we’ll call it even.

Since I refuse to fall into the clickbaity “10 Things You Can Do In Lockdown” style of posting, why don’t we share one thing we’re doing with ourselves these days? (No, not that, pervert.) I’ll start: In a word, my answer is simplification.

Burning Man People

I’ve always felt that there are two kinds of people out there: Checklist people and Burning Man people. I’m solidly one of the former, tho a lot of my friends are in the latter literal camp. Those friends function well amid chaos– impulse driven, right-brained, free-spirited. I’ve seen people flourish amid fluid guidelines and plans.

Not me.

I am the man with a thousand Google Keep notes, all of them pinned. I have checklists for my checklists. The routine comforts me where it might make one of the Burners feel trapped. So, as you can probably guess, the chaos of the past four years and the concentrated chaos of the past four months has thrown me off at a visceral level.

I want my Federation future– ordered, peaceful, respectful, fact-based, scientific, clean. This Galactica future– chaotic, survivalist, unequal, and reactionary –just makes my neck tense.

Generating The Procedure

I’ve mentioned before that art and creation, to me, is all an effort to solve some big equation. Taking that concept a step further, how about this: It’s more satisfying to me to tinker with the procedure that creates the art than it is to tinker with the art itself.

Lemme back that up a bit… Every song I release is like a lump of clay that has to be molded into a sculpture. Rather than get my hands dirty squishing the clay itself, I’m far more inclined to machine some kind of mold. Technical, procedural, not “this doesn’t look right so I’ll adjust it a little.” There’s something satisfying about a process that just works. Reliably. Repeatedly.

I don’t want a hit song that’s accidental, I want it to be the result of a method. As with everything else, I want the system to create positive results every time. And if the results don’t work, it’s better to fix the system than just patch up the problem areas.

Less Is More

To that end, I’ve been trying to cut the chaos from my life. As a self-employed artist, every morning is chaos if you don’t have a procedure. Every morning I stare at my screen with a sense of “what the fuck do I do now?”

Okay, so… that’s probably how most of you feel as well. But most of you have a boss that can answer that question to some degree or another.

Right now I am working on the Procedure of My Life. Identifying bad habits, inefficiencies, and time-wasters, and eliminating them. More than anything else, I’m trying to distill the strongest spirits from the chaotic mash of my daily routine.

It’s the same hard lesson I’ve been learning for twenty years now in music: Less is fucking more. Life is poetry; the more you can say in fewer words, the more effective you will become. Fewer steps, fewer instruments, fewer moving parts. Clean, well-let LCARS control panels, not Galactica’s sea of buttons and switches.

Einstein knew a simple equation was the ultimate goal, maybe that’s why he was a genius.

If this pandemic has given me nothing else, it’s an opportunity to reorganize and prioritize and work on the procedure that drives my life. It’s time to fix the system and stop reacting to symptoms. So while I’m busy reprogramming Bird One, what are you doing?

There we are on stage B, setting up for Bandthro, a big multi-artist supergroup thing, when my turn comes up to run through a couple tunes. Most of the convention’s 5,000+ attendees are at stage A watching the dance competition, so it’s quiet in our corner of the hotel.

It took a while for the A/V crew to get any signal coming out of my mic, so I sat there patiently repeating the usual “test… test… test…” until I had to alleviate the boredom. Since most of us musicians turn into juvenile delinquents during sound check (I’m looking at YOU, Pepper), that quickly evolved into :

testicles… testicles… testicles…

Finally, we got signal in the monitors and mains, ran through my songs with the band, and all was well.

Unbeknownst to any of us at stage B, the mic was live the entire time at stage A. Remember the thousands of people watching costumed dancers battle it out? This is what they saw and heard:

#Testicles #TFF2020 pic.twitter.com/iZS53VkrSY

— Red レッド・キツ (@Red_Kitsu) March 1, 2020

I’ve been performing at Furry conventions for over 13 years now. There are a LOT OF PEOPLE in that room who recognize my voice. Within seconds, my twitter feed is on fire.

(Side note: The voice of the A/V guy Oddy, who is my mastering engineer and friend, wasn’t blaming the judges… he was correct in that the sound was coming from one of their mic frequencies.)

The short version of what happened is that the two A/V crews didn’t realize they were using the same wireless frequencies for some of the mics. So while we heard nothing on stage B, my mic was tuned to the same frequency as one of the judges’ mics on stage A. Oops.

It gets better…

Because I had to take the stage again in half an hour (and because Furries are incredibly capable people), I had a #Testicles shirt made inside of ten minutes. Thanks to Andraconix for bringing her vinyl cutter and shirt press!

I wore that during my part of the show, and later it fetched $180 at the charity auction for CARE.

Within 24 hours, people started remixing…

I was able to work that little techno number into my party set Sunday night.

A Graceful Community

This could have gone very badly, but not all Furries jump straight to cancel culture. And for this, I am grateful.

The convention thought it was hilarious.The A/V crew thought it was hilarious (and they’re making sure they coordinate wireless rigs more carefully next time). People kept approaching me all weekend and, aside from just yelling “testicles” at me, telling me that the incident made their weekend.

Most importantly to me, the dancer (who placed third, btw) also thought it was hilarious. Truly an exercise in grace, and I’m thankful everyone took this little SNAFU well.

How was YOUR weekend?

Usually people say that as a means of politely begging forgiveness for their inability to maintain a relationship with no intention of actually following through. Right now, I need to follow through and catch you up on what’s been going on for nearly thirteen years now. It’s not an easy story for me to tell, but I promise there’s a happy ending. Grab a cup and let’s do this.

Depression, Addiction, and Cognitive Dissonance

Ignore the dramatic headline, I already told you there’s a happy ending.

I didn’t realize how addicted I’d become until maybe 2016. I suppose that’s normal; most addicts don’t jump head-first into dependency. It creeps up on you. Back in 2005 I wrote a lengthy song about addiction to caffeine and beer that seemed to resonate with some people, but I was never addicted to either. My drug was more pernicious. I’ve been mainlining the same publicly-accepted drug since I was a kid, in fact: Attention.

So when the podcast wave of 2005-2008 carried me to a magical land with no day job, I was ecstatic. Attention came easier than coke in Miami. The Furries also took me in as their star performer and, finally, I found myself touring the nation. Every time I looked out into a dark ballroom to see hundreds of people singing my songs back to me, I felt the kind of rush that makes addicts forget to eat or sleep. The peak of this attention— which we’ll lovingly refer to as “rock bottom” —was probably Anthrocon 2013.

Fuck, Runtt and I looked good on steadicam.

But that was the beginning of the crash. Podcasting and live streaming went from the hot new technology with a tight-knit community to everyday background noise. The Furry fandom got tired of seeing me and my amazing bald companion at every convention, but I wasn’t ready to let go. I had tasted that high and I wanted more.

From 2012 right up until 2017 I kept grasping for that attention-high only to have it dissolve in my fingertips. I tried everything I could think of– writing songs about trendy geek topics, spicing up the live shows with Sci-Fi themes, but no one outside a small core of followers seemed to know who I was any more. The high just couldn’t reach that 2013 peak, and I couldn’t face a future without all that glorious attention.

Fortunately the path downhill was paved with lyrics. My last foray into the world of piano rock emerged in June 2017. I’m still proud of Cognitive Dissonance, even if it reminds me of just how depressed I’d been for that half of the decade. Like most folks fighting their demons, it holds up a whimsical façade and a veneer of optimism, but everyone can see the darkness within.

Thank God I had a strong, steady man in my life all this time, I’m not sure how I would’ve fared without him.

It got to the point, near the end of 2017, when I just stopped booking shows. I stopped blogging and sending you emails. I would sit at my desk in the morning and stare at the screen with no clue what to do. Wasn’t I creative enough to make people pay attention any more? Wasn’t I good enough to be the center of attention again? Shit needed to change, and fast.

So we moved to Seattle, but that’s another story.

As I packed all of my belongings, I realized there was a lot I needed to throw out… first and foremost, my addiction to attention. But what would that leave me with? I had to redefine my identity in a way that was both healthy and sustainable. I had to ask myself a difficult question: Why did I get into this business in the first place?

An Apology to the Robot Army

People still ask me if I’m ever going to release another piano rock album. I know, if you’re reading this, it’s probably because you saw me on stage at a convention banging on a keyboard, not spinning turntables. The only answer I can give you is gonna sound like a copout: Maybe.

EDM wasn’t that far of a leap for me, to be honest. The event that sparked my love for making music was a single night with a piece of gear that plugged into my digital piano. If you want to hear that story, let me know and I’ll spin up another blog post. Suffice it to say, however, that I probably should’ve gone into electronic music genres right from age 12. No matter what, I never ever should’ve dabbled in Christian pop (sorry, Mom). But I’ve already made a major genre-shift once before, and I needed to now.

I had to decide if I was going to die on the hill of piano-geek-rock or retool the factory to make a product that would actually sell.

(Spoiler: I did not, in fact, die.)

You see, part of the healing process was what I call “retooling the factory.” When a company makes a product (let’s say 8-track tape decks) and the world starts listening to cassettes, they have to decide what their product is going to be. Actually, to be more specific, they have to decide what their identity is going to be… an 8-track deck company, or an audiovisual gear company? I mean, there are always going to be 8-track enthusiasts, but do we cater to that niche or change our product? Why did we get into this business in the first place?

And here’s where we swing back around to that pesky attention addiction of mine. In this business, attention is both a drug and the primary source of income. What a fucking dilemma, huh?

On one hand, the need for attention is an unhealthy way to gauge one’s self-worth. On the other, it’s the primary indicator for how well a performing artist is doing.

It took a lot— a lot –of soul-searching to realize dance music could decouple my addiction from the real business necessity of growing my audience again. Switching my primary instrument from keys to turntables made it easier for me to get out of the way and let the music itself be the center of attention.

And Avian Invasion was born. You should go check him out… more on that at the end of this long-ass update.

So, for those of you asking if I’ll get back into piano rock… I want you to understand that I cherish you greatly. I love you. I want to make the music that made you happy back then, I really do. The hard business truth is that there simply weren’t enough people like you to keep me in business. More important than that, though, I am once again engaged in the creative process. I don’t think I’ve been this focused on making music since the early days of Matthew Ebel dot net

I won’t say that another piano rock album will never happen, but right now Avian Invasion is the only thing on my radar. The Bird, effectively saved my life. I hope you can appreciate that, at least.

Now What?

Here’s where you, a part of my beloved Robot Army, come in.

I need you to go and show your support for Avian Invasion. Remember, Bird One saved my life. Without him, I’d still be staring at that blank screen wondering why I even bother to try any more. Like Leeloo Dallas, he needs your love to survive, just as I always have. And I need him. Please go to avianinvasion.com right now and do… the usual stuff: Add him on Spotify, Like him on Facebook, etc. There are icons on the website and you know what they do.

Matthew Ebel will still be here, updating you on the behind-the-scenes side of things. If you want to peek behind the bird mask and explore this new frontier with me, I’ll try to share as much as I can with you. In fact, I’ll be spending the summer building my own recording studio from scratch, and this is where I’ll be sharing photos and videos and blogs about the experience.

Maybe this decade will be one to celebrate.

I haven’t been too active as myself lately, seeing as how my alter ego is signing record deals and actually getting some industry attention after just two short years. However, when I start receiving emails from fans about YouTube videos being taken down because they contain my music, that catches my attention. And not in a good way. So let me give you the latest, as far as I know it, on how not to piss off the YouTube robots.

For the record, I wholeheartedly support using my music as background to your videos. I think it’s awesome.

The Nickel Version of How This Works

I own all my own copyrights as Matthew Ebel Entertainment, but that doesn’t mean I’m the one tracking my intellectual property (or IP, in this case music). Because I distribute my songs and albums through CD Baby, they actually handle all of the royalty collection on my behalf. My job is to make music, their job is to manage things like YouTube’s shapeshifting policies.

Usually this means if you use my music in a video, you’ll get a notice saying CD Baby has claimed a portion of that video. Cool… your video stays up, I get a little ad revenue, everybody’s happy. Unless you dispute the claim for some reason— and believe me, I have seen some of the stupidest counter-claims since I became a YouTube partner:

• I found this song on the internet, so it’s copyright free.
• I’m not charging money to watch this video so you can’t claim it.
• This is my original song. (Yeah, plenty of people tried to claim “Everybody Needs A Ninja” was their IP and not mine.)

In most cases, you don’t need to do anything when you get a notice from YouTube and CD Baby, just don’t try to claim you own IP that you don’t. Your video will stay up and will sound as awesome as my corny songs can make it.

What’s Changed?

Sometimes things get messy when YouTube moves faster than CD Baby can keep up. Lately, for example, they changed policies so that if you play more than one of my songs in a video, it considers it an “album video” or something to that effect. Apparently this changes how YouTube and CD Baby treat the video.

And, frankly, I don’t fully understand the interaction myself. All I know is that CD Baby has posted a lot of info about their interactions with YouTube on their site. A good place to start is this article about allowing people to use music in videos.

The IP world is a thicket of changing policies and regulations, but at the end of the day I want to make one thing clear: I am absolutely cool with your use of my music in your YouTube videos unless it’s a direct advertisement, political video, or offensive. If the YouTube overlords have changed something that CD Baby hasn’t ironed out yet, don’t hesitate to contact me and see if we can sort things out.

In General

Convention staffers are largely volunteers.

“Director of Programming/Events/Music/Dances/Etc.” may sound like an impressive title, but chances are it’s a software engineer who spends her after-hours time making a convention happen instead of playing video games. They do this for the love of the fandom. Treat them like you’re asking for a resource more scarce than gold: their time.

Don’t be a diva.

I mean, this is true whether you’re playing the Grand Ole Opry, a coffee house, or SDCC. We need a healthy amount of ego to survive as performers, but the real professionals are polite, patient, and accommodating with the folks working to make their show better.

To quote Wilm Pierson, VP at Complete Production Systems, Inc.:

It is good not to forget that the stagehands, designers and directors are artists and craftsman as well and want to make the show amazing, so be kind.

Booking

Email early, email often.

Sometimes it seems like convention programming is all thrown together a week before the event. It’s not. Even if I’ve played a convention several times, I ask my contact (usually the Director of Programming) when the best time to reach out for next year’s con will be. Some of them start work a week after the con ends, some begin the process at the six-month mark. No matter what, asking what’s convenient for someone else shows that you care about their sanity.

Be ready to explain your act in 1-3 sentences.

I know, you’ve got a story to tell. You’re amazing in so many ways. So’s every other act vying for limited stage time. Condense your pitch down to a line or two and you’re more likely to get a response. Then back it up with properly made booking materials.

Properly Made Booking Materials

The One-Sheet

A must-have for any booking process is the one-sheet. It’s your resumé/CV as a performer. This gives the programming lead a single page to peruse and pass around to their staff. The essential ingredients are:

• A clear, professionally-shot photo, preferably from a live show.
• Your act name. (Dear God, I wish I didn’t have to mention this, but I do.)
• What you do. Say it in a few words or less. “House/Trance DJ,” “Punk Rock Trio,” “Mos Eisley Belly Dance Troupe,” whatever.
• One-column bio. I’m not going to re-hash the bio-writing basics, you can find those all over the indie-musician websites.
• Links. Your website and social profiles. Chances are good the convention’s PR staff will copy/paste these links to their website and programming materials.
• Your demos. You should have at least a one-song studio demo posted and downloadable online. You’re better off with live concert video and audio so the programming staff can see and hear exactly what you do. Film a live performance in your garage if you have to.
• Link to your tech rider. More on the tech rider shortly.
• Booking contact info. Put the actual legal name of your act’s booking contact (most likely you if you’re reading this) in the footer along with an email address and phone number. Get a Google Voice number if you’re shy about handing out your info, just make sure you can be texted/called on-site during the convention.
• Venues you’ve played previously. (Optional, but recommended.) If you’re a new act, obviously this one’s gonna be tough. But if you’ve played some big shows– even two or three of them –it’s a good idea to list them on the one-sheet.

The Tech Rider

A “rider”is typically something attached to a larger contract, but in this sense it’s simply your technical info. Remember: in order to put you on stage, someone has to plug all your stuff into electricity and audio. “I’m just a solo singer/songwriter” doesn’t cut it. That could mean anything from simple acoustic guitar/vocal to a complicated looping pedal and backing track setup with a mess of inputs and power requirements.

Be very specific about your on-stage needs, and don’t fucking change them. Convention programming has to incorporate setup and teardown into their scheduling. Your set may only be 60 minutes, but if your setup jumps from 15 minutes to 30 because you added a guitarist the day before your show, you’re not making any friends.

Also, “I played this show last year so they know my setup” doesn’t cut it either. Convention staff fluctuates. They also work with lots of acts besides yours, possibly at multiple conventions. Even if you handed them the same tech rider last year, give them the tech rider this year too.

I keep my tech rider as simple as possible. Simple = less headache for the A/V crew = better chances of being invited back. The most important parts are the Stage Plot and Channel List.

Stage Plot(s)

A clear drawing of what the stage will look like during your act. This lets the A/V crew spring into action with minimal on-stage confusion during setup. You might have a few options (as I do) for large, medium, and small stages. Give them all to the A/V crew and let them decide what will work for the real estate they’ve got. The important parts are:

• Where everyone will stand on stage
• Where your equipment (amps, keyboards, drums, props, tables, stands) will sit
• Where the house’s equipment (if any) will sit– things like mic stands, amps, monitors, etc.
• Where you need power (how many outlets and, if possible, what kind of current your gear draws)
• Where you need audio (and make sure you specify XLR, TRS, phono, etc., even if it’s also covered in your channel list)

Remember that not all stages are the same size. If you need to be exactly ten feet away from your bassist, put it in writing but be ready to adjust your setup if the stage is small.

Channel List

Your exact, unchanging input/output needs. I cannot stress how important this is. The A/V crew has no idea whether you want to mic an amp or go direct. They may have different drum mic capabilities than your garage setup. Again, it’s not a bad idea to have several options for various A/V setups; I’ve played shows with 64-channel digital mixers and 4-channel amp heads. Be prepared for the full gamut of house gear.

For each of your input/output options, be sure to list the following:

• What type of physical connection (XLR Male, 1/4″ TRS, RCA stereo, etc.)
• Mono or Stereo
• A brief description of the input/output type (i.e. “Lead vocal mic”, “Backing tracks line out”, “In-ear monitor feed from house”)

I run all my on-stage outputs through my own mixer and feed the house an 8-channel XLR snake. This tends to make A/V crews very happy since it’s predictable and all the hookups are in one spot.

Also, like I said before, don’t fucking change your input/output scheme after you’ve been booked. It’s really not cool.

Other Requirements

Your estimated setup/strike times will help programming work you into the schedule flow, but you must be flexible. And the shorter the time requirements, the better. You want to be treated like a professional? Act like one. Run setup and strike drills on your own time in your own rehearsal space. Figure out what gear and steps you can eliminate to make the process faster. Be ready to delegate tasks to volunteers (i.e. “coil those cables” or “unplug everything from that amp and take it backstage”).

Your goal is to make your setup and strike processes look like a NASCAR pit crew in action.

The tech rider is where you can easily rule yourself out as a performing guest. Yeah, a green room stocked with beer and caviar might be nice, but you’re not going to get it. At conventions, chances are good you won’t even get a green room at all. Keep your requirements to the bare-ass minimum– it’s better for you in the long run anyway.

Programming Info

Aside from your show, you can probably lead or participate in panels and events. Offer up a menu of options for the programming staff with short descriptions they can drop directly into their con books. Most cons need good programming, and leading a few panels helps raise your visibility with the attendees. I typically host a three-part series on turning your art into a business, something a LOT of attendees appreciate.

You should also have multiple lengths of bio available: The feature-length bio for the convention’s website or con book, the paragraph-length bio for blog posts and panel info, and a tweet-length bio for social media posts and the mini-schedule.

At The Convention

So you’ve gotten the gig, you’re checked into the hotel, and you’ve washed the airplane funk from your body. Now what?

Survey the Battlefield

Get to know the convention space early. An unfamiliar hotel can feel like a rabbit warren, which is the last thing you want to be stuck in when you’re late for your own show. Figure out where attendee-only areas are and always keep your badge displayed. Look at ingress/egress options before the place gets crowded– can you avoid elevator lines by taking the stairs? One year at FWA I descended 18 flights of stairs because the hotel’s elevators were slammed and I had a panel to lead in ten minutes.

I also like to survey the venue I’ll be performing in before things get busy. Check out the stage size, the lighting, access to the backstage area, possible merch table locations, etc. Go shake hands with the A/V crew and thank them in advance for their work. Remember: your show is in their hands. Keep them happy. I typically will chat with them for five or ten minutes while they’re setting up, then GTFO so they can do their jobs.

Confirm Your Timing With A/V

Programming may have worked you into specific time slots, but in the end it’s the A/V crew who control your destiny. Find a time when they’re not too busy (late morning to early afternoon is typical) and go over your schedule timing with them.

In some cases, they may prefer a setup/sound check time that’s hours before your actual show. Take this opportunity. If the convention’s running a digital sound board and lighting controller, they can dial in your mix and monitor levels while everyone else is still getting breakfast and just recall the settings later. You might even be able to leave your gear setup on stage or ready-to-deploy backstage, saving steps when it’s go time.

That being said, remember that the A/V crew needs sleep and food just like everyone else. If there’s late-night programming like dances or movies, they may have been working until 5 A.M. The fact that they’re not back at the mixing board by 9 A.M. doesn’t mean they’re lazy. If half the crew vanishes during your setup time, they may be emptying their bladders and stuffing food into their faces for fifteen minutes before going back to work.

SHOW UP EARLY.

Show up early. No, seriously, catch the last half of the act before yours. Maybe the whole act. Something may have blown up, leaving you with half the available audio inputs. Your backstage gear may have been moved because it was blocking a stage egress point. You never know what you may need to unfuck at the last minute. Or, rarely, a miracle may have occurred and the preceding act may have ended early, allowing you to set up at a leisurely pace. You never know.

Most of all, appearing backstage 30 seconds before your call time stresses the stage manager the fuck out. Eat your dinner at 4pm like a baby boomer and get your ass to the stage long before your call time and you’ll have a happy crew ready to pour their hearts into making you look good.

And that’s why you show up early.

Show.

Up.

Early.

Don’t Expect Anything

As I said earlier, you probably won’t have a green room. Warm up in your hotel room before heading down to the stage. Be prepared to go on without a sound check if the preceding event runs 90 minutes past its time slot (I’m looking at YOU, every fursuit dance competition). Let the convention staff be apologetic and show them nothing but grace. Nothing ever goes according to plan; how you handle unexpected changes is how the staff will remember you. Treat them well and they’ll try to make your show better next year (and, most importantly, there will be a next year).

Actually, that’s not true at all. I’ve been very loud, just in the confines of my new studio. Writing, plotting, scheming even. Mostly trying to figure out where to go after my last rock album, Cognitive Dissonance. How to approach the music scene in my new home, Seattle.

The time for secrecy is finally over.

If you’re part of my Officer’s Club or seen any of my recent concerts, you know I’ve been trying my hand at dance music. It’s been an educational 12-18 months to say the least. The journey has humbled me and focused me like never before. And here, at the end of it, I present a new beginning…

Coming Soon: Children of the Stars

Just last night I got the finalized version of a new EP from my mastering engineer, Keith^*. It’s a six-song continuous mix I’m calling Children of the Stars. And it sounds fooking amazing. Seriously, Keith has outdone himself on this one. I wrote, produced, and mixed it… but Keith made it sound like Daft Punk meets Above & Beyond.

After CogDis’ exploration of depression, uncertainty, and conflict, this EP reflects the positive, optimistic outlook I’ve discovered since I began this transition. It’s a work devoted to unlocking the beauty in yourself and the others you encounter. I’ll have more details to share as we get closer to the release date, but believe me when I say this is a solid half hour of good vibes.

The sound is a departure from the albums I’ve released in the past. The genre is progressive house, not piano rock or singer-songwriter. It’s mostly instrumental (though half the songs have vocals, I’m only singing on two). You can (and should) dance to the full length of the album, at any volume.

A Whole New Sound, A Whole New Act

If you looked at the (tentative) album cover, you may have noticed my name’s not on it. Good eye.

While transitioning to a new genre, I’ve struggled with the decision to keep my name or go with a new act name. On one hand, I don’t want to abandon all the goodwill and momentum I’ve developed over the past two decades as Matthew Ebel. On the other, a sudden genre shift like this would be confusing as hell for new fans. In the end, it came down to some key factors:

• Algorithms: When a new fan wants to listen to my dance music, I don’t want Spotify throwing Everybody Needs A Robot or It’s Raining Bankers into the mix. It’s profoundly bad business sense, but more importantly it’ll pull listeners out of the moment and force them to fuck with their playlists instead of just listening. That’s an unforgivable sin as an artist.
• The Business™: With this new sound and new album, I intend to go after record labels, managers, and agents again. I’d all but given up after years of trying led nowhere… but this is a fresh start for me. Just as I don’t want listeners coming across material they don’t want, I absolutely don’t want to tell businesspeople about my new dance act and have to navigate them through two decades of piano rock. Most of them barely have the patience to listen to 45 seconds of a demo, let alone try and unravel a badly-organized brand. And if I’m going to survive this business much longer, I need real industry help. I can’t do this alone any more.

And so… my dance material will be released under a new name: Avian Invasion

Like it? It’s a bit of a pun, I know, but it ticks all the right boxes for me: It can be lighthearted, serious, moody, or downright comical. There’s fantasy and sci-fi wrapped into it, which means I still get to wear cool costumes on stage. I also already own the URL, Twitter, Facebook Page, and so on. Right now I’m working on the logo and nameplate that will sit above that album title.

Honestly, this part is more exciting for me than I’d anticipated. After twenty years of trying to define myself as a singer/songwriter, I get to start from scratch with a clear goal and clear style in mind. If anything, Avian Invasion is the product of everything we’ve been through together as a Robot Army. This is the next step for all of us.

It means I’ll be reverting my website back to a more rock-oriented focus, probably releasing more High Orbit albums in the future, and shifting the dance stuff onto the new web properties. Don’t worry, things like the Officer’s Club aren’t going away- in fact, my Officers are more important than ever now. They’ve been keeping me sane, giving me critical feedback, and listening to advance releases that may not hit Spotify or your ears for another year or two. They’re way ahead of this curve, and I’m so thankful to have them on board.

I hope you’ll stay with me too… it’s gonna be a hell of a fun ride. And I can’t wait to share this new EP with you. Stay tuned…

*Some of you may know Keith as “0ddj0b,” or simply as Oddy. He’s the Furry fandom’s indispensable front-of-house engineer, a hell of a DJ, and a dog. He’s also been my consultant, mentor, and friend through a particularly trying journey to a new genre. You could call me a fan of Oddy. You should be too!

Where most of us trade in finite things like food, money, or sweat, these people apparently go for something far more precious. Gold sits in piles everywhere, but moments are as difficult to contain as a fart. It amazes me that something so transformative as a moment of ecstasy or terror can simply disappear if not cared for. Imagine if your car vaporized the instant you stopped thinking about it.

No wonder these people prize moments above all else.

Even the definition is nebulous at best. Assuming the passage of time is constant, no two beings package a moment into the same sized box. The content of the moment doesn’t even dictate its length– a boring lecture or looking down from the summit could both feel like eternity. In any case, these people found a way to package moments and sell them and consume them like chocolates.

In fact, they have constructed quite the economy around moments. The product of being someone and somewhere else, temporarily, briefly, is apparently quite lucrative. Of course there are the predictable products: Parents holding their newborn offspring, athletes crossing that line first, warriors being carried on a victory parade, et cetera. Good moments are easy to find, and expensive.

But I was surprised to learn the breadth of the market. Adrenaline junkies seek out anything from traumatic injuries to sadistic moments of terror. Whatever gets the vascular muscle pumping once the more pleasant moments lose their effectiveness. An entire black market exists for moments of hatred and paranoia. Usually these are bought by political operatives and religious fanatics, though they go to great lengths to keep their purchases off the record. Apparently these moments can be weaponized, but I didn’t want to learn any more about all that.

The catalog of orgasms was quite interesting.

I tried trading in moments once, but my ship wasn’t equipped to hold these things. Apparently handling them requires a degree of skill I wasn’t prepared for. I’m told anyone can learn, but you have to actually condition yourself first. To contain a moment and actually transport (or transform) yourself takes minor amounts of focus, an open mind, and a willingness to change. Skills most of us let atrophy as soon as we hit puberty.

Oh well. It would have made for some great schwag to go out with my next album. I guess shirts will have to suffice.

For the past several months— since even before I released Cognitive Dissonance —I have toiled to break through a wall between me and the world of EDM production. What started as inspiration tugging at the back of my brain has blossomed into an obsession; I don’t want to just make adequate music, I want to kill it. I have been so consumed by this project that I haven’t blogged or sent an email in two months.

Sorry about that, I missed you.

Back To The Beginning

Some of my fans and Officers have asked me about this new focus on EDM. After all, I just spent a decade rocking the geek stages across the US (and even once in Canada). Why change genres? Why go through all the trouble, potentially losing fans and momentum in the process?

To be honest, I needed a reinvention. At age 12 I’d already been a piano player for seven years, but my interest waned. What lit that spark up was the discovery of music tech— MIDI devices, synthesizers, sequencers, etc. I was a pre-teen nerd spending his time producing digital music when the other kids were earning merit badges.

I want to play in that sandbox again.

The Equation

The truth about dance music is that it’s more science than art. Art can be messy. Rock and roll can be messy (see also: Hendrix, Zepplin, White). But EDM is so tightly-compressed and high-intensity there’s no wiggle room. It’s a precision instrument driven by technology, much like a Yamaha race bike.

Good EDM production is like a formula, an equation that must be solved. Certain parts must add up for it to really work. There are multiple ways to solve this equation, but they all have to add up the same: Energetic, inspiring, consistent in quality from earbuds to outdoor festival mains. It’s like a puzzle that re-configures itself every time you begin a new song. And it encourages you to create your own tools to solve it.

It’s a challenge that has inspired me for months now: I’m chasing down this equation and I will solve it.

FOCUS

I haven’t felt this inspired since I worked on Goodbye Planet Earth back in 2007. Once again I find myself locked in my Composition Lab watching weeks go by as I come ever-closer to something unique and beautiful. I’ve got lab assistants, thanks to my Officer’s Club and friends like Oddy with years of EDM production, DJ-ing, and front-of-house engineering under his belt.

When I come up for air again, I’ll have something wonderful to share. (Of course, you can always become part of the research team by joining the Officer’s Club, they get all these new tracks as prototypes!)

I’d been working (secretly) on an all-new, all-dance show for months. Yes, while I was working on Cognitive Dissonance, I was also cooking up a whole new batch of house/trance EDM stuff in my lab. For the record: I don’t think I ever wanna work on two albums at the same time ever again.

Anyhoo, I got to unleash this dance set at Anthrocon at the beginning of July… and holy cow, did you folks seem to like it. I can’t remember the last time I felt quite as nervous before stepping on stage: This was a whole new tech setup, a new style, and unlike most of my shows for the past few years, I was all alone up there. Just me and the keys and a laptop.

And a ton of dancing animals at the foot of the stage.

For those that are wondering, yes I got a live recording of the show (audio and video). I’m currently working on a release for The Officer’s Club, possibly even my first actual live album release later this year. I do also intend to release a studio version of the new and remixed songs so the DJ’s will have something to play with.

But for now, I’m taking a bit of a break and making a mai tai before I make more plans. With any luck, next year will be even bigger and better.

And no, I’m not just talking about the fact that you wouldn’t hear it explode in space. You’re already aware of that bit of CogDis, right? Right?

Instruments of Destruction

It’s the age-old trope of the most powerful weapon in the galaxy: The Planet-Killer. The giant weapon that’s no small moon. Project Genesis. Unicron. Even that trilithium torpedo from Star Trek VII works as a star-killer. Like global thermonuclear war in debate classes, the Planet-Killer is the universal boogeyman that sci-fi writers trot out as their ultimate threat. Difficult to engineer, expensive, and worth starting an interstellar war to obtain.

Except, in all of these sci-fi worlds, planet killers are everywhere. There’s one in literally every episode of every series of the Star Trek franchise. Han Solo owned one. Serenity had far more destructive power than River Tam at its disposal.

Think about it: If you could accelerate any object at or even near the speed of light, you could tear any Earth-like planet in half. Call Neil DeGrasse Tyson to back me up on this, but the physics should be obvious if you think about it. The amount of kinetic energy stored in something as small as a bowling ball traveling at C is likely enough to tear our sun in half, let alone our little blue marble.

Set the cruise control for warp 9 and point the Enterprise at Florida. Tell me the impact wouldn’t annihilate all life on Earth.

Willing Suspension

I’m sorry if I’ve now ruined half the great sci-fi movie plots. If it makes you feel any better, those stories are usually about the madmen seeking the ultimate weapon than the nature of the weapon itself. And seeking an ultimate weapon that’s literally less powerful than the engine of the ship they’re using to find it should prove just how mad that villain really is.

But, back to philosophy, this is why we willingly suspend our disbelief when we watch movies. This is why we live with cognitive dissonance every day. Without that intentional separation of beliefs and facts, some parts of life would truly suck. Explosions in space would make no noise.

I, for one, would rather hear a satisfying boom.