Don't Say I Never Give You Anything.

Upon my return from Guatemala to Los Angeles in the summer of 2003, Jeff Gregory and I immediately began work on a follow-up to our 2000 LP The Skies Are Filled with Information. We plunged right into the endeavor without any pretext, architecture, or even an imagined trajectory. We’d both since accumulated a fairly dense back catalog of songs, and went about the task of selecting what we felt might be a decent collection of appropriately-paired tunes, making demos and preliminary recordings as we went along. We ultimately decided on a considerably shorter album, and settled on ten songs: seven songs of my own, and three of Jeff’s. As our earlier efforts (the LP and following EP) were of a decidedly electronic character, we naturally began by collecting our organically-penned compositions and translating them into a variety of possible synthetic backdrops; essentially, programming patterned chord and rhythm structures that corresponded to the original strumming and tinkering, just as we did with our first LP. It took at least a year before we recognized that the old methodologies were not at all accommodating of the songs themselves.

So we then elected to start from scratch and make a properly-organic record. We enlisted long-time pal and collaborator Cory Flanagan on drums, and he performed beautifully. The synthetic element was relegated to at least a marginal role on this record; little flourishes of synth here and there. And of course the strings are canned; I am without the resources or the discipline to contract chamber ensembles. Everything else is pure: the upright Steinway is played throughout by myself and by Jeff. He and I of course shared guitar and vocal duties, and friends Jeremy Kerner, Jeff Phelps, and Matt Shane lent contributions of guitar and toy piano here and there. Hushdrop John San Juan may or may not be in there somewhere as well.

To make a rather long story short, what you’re about to hear ought rightly to be thought of as the three-year labor of two distinct records: the finished product was preceded by a full-length, awkwardly-danceable electronic abortion.

It was a long, difficult process; at the time, Jeff and I were simultaneously lending our efforts to running a record label. I’d get out of class everyday at 12:35 and take the subway to Jeff’s studio in The Valley, and we’d work most days ‘til midnight or so. Often, Jeff and Lawren would kindly lend me their couch for the night, as recording was always attended by a great deal of Tecate and Jack Daniel’s. The evening would almost necessarily terminate in a cloud of marijuana smoke, frozen pizzas and ZZ Top, and while exhausting, it was always fun. If upon first listen the record presents itself as a relatively stripped-down, minimal sort of photograph, it’s only because we spent such a great deal of time and effort arguing and omitting superfluities.

I suppose there is some requisite element of hubris involved in this sort of post; but I feel that this record is worthy of at least a bit of consideration. And it's been a long time coming. After making several records with a host of bands, it’s the first that occasioned in me a little sigh; it’s the record I’d always wanted to make. I felt I’d finally struck a long-sought balance of complexity and simplicity, between harmony and dissonance, hard vs. soft, and all the rest of it. Lyrically, while imperfect, I do feel that it represents something of a graduation. Not much of it makes me cringe, which, as a lyricist, is about as much as one might pray for. And the production is exquisitely sharp. Jeff insists it’s the best record he’s ever made, and this is, y’know, the dude who made much of Corvette Summer.

So anyway, here is Holding Hands With Prince Vacuum, in it’s entirety, for your scrutiny, criticism, and hopefully, for your enjoyment.

The Prints of Whales

42

Hand of Evil

Olly Olly Oxygen Free

Different Plane

Running Backward Fast

M is for Memory

Observation Alters

Invisible Soldiers

No Such Thing