Brian Greene's Blog, page 2
September 8, 2024
New Short Story Collection “The Dark Blues in Sharp, Bright Colors”
The 10 stories in The Dark Blues in Sharp, Bright Colors follow characters at critical moments in their lives. A recent divorcee uneasily enters the online dating arena; a young boy has his first experiences with inner trauma when his family makes a a major geographical move; a bachelor reluctantly agrees to babysit his friend’s daughter and has an epiphany he couldn’t have expected; a college student with a working-class background becomes involved with a wealthy and spoiled woman and both are surprised by the relationship that develops between them; a single father struggles while trying to understand and cope with his teenage daughter’s mental health crisis. The stories show how the characters respond to these life-changing episodes and point to what might come next.
May 13, 2024
April 28, 2024
March 1, 2024
February 22, 2024
September 29, 2023
September 12, 2023
Short Story: "The Song That Never Died"
The Song That NeverDied
by Brian Greene
Bob Wilburn and I met each other in Richmond, Virginia, whenwe were both 23. I took over his position as a 30-hour-a-week clerk at a recordshop in the Fan district, after he’d moved on to the more lucrative professionof table waiting. A few weeks after I started working in the store, when this dudecame in and began talking to one of my co-workers, I knew it had to be this Bobguy I’d been hearing so much about. The Bob who had sex with his girlfriend inthe stock room during business hours. The Bob who liked to trip on LSD whileworking the counter at the shop. The Bob who, any time anybody talked abouthim, they smiled and laughed.
Bob looked like a dopey cowboy. 5’10, skinny, straight lightbrown hair worn short. Extremely pale skin, huge nose, lively brown eyes. Therewas a cartoony feel about him. He was like the living version of one of the rubbery“dependable bendable” toys I had when I was a kid. I knew I liked him before Iever heard him speak. And when we did speak, just after he’d finished chattingwith the other clerk, we hit it off right away. We liked a lot of the samemusic, whether it was ‘60s stuff like Love and The Kinks, punk and new wave erabands such as The Undertones and Wire, or groups that were active at the time,like The La’s and The Go-Betweens. We also laughed together. That firstconversation we had with each other was mostly us just laughing. I can’tremember what about. We were always laughing together.
I was learning to play the guitar then. Pretty mucheverybody I associated with at the time was figuring out how to play a musicalinstrument, or to make films, or to paint or sculpt, etc. Bob was also a noviceguitarist. But he had something that set him apart, artistically, from the restof us beginners. He already had a fully formed creative talent. Bob could singlike a soulful angel. His voice sounded a little like Gram Parsons, but thenhad its own unique Bob qualities. I loved listening to him sing.
We started playing music together. We’d be at his apartmentor mine with our acoustic guitars and some of my songbooks I was using to learnmy instrument. We’d get stoned and figure out how to play covers like ElvisCostello’s “Blame it on Cain,” David Bowie’s “Soul Love,” the Stones’ “NoExpectations,” Dylan’s “Desolation Row,” The Kinks’ “Lazy Afternoon,” etc.Sometimes Bob would just sing and other times he’d play the guitar along withme. When he strummed, at times I’d play single notes on the lower E string ofmy guitar, to create a sort of makeshift bass sound. We sometimes recorded ourselvesplaying, by simply putting a blank cassette in a boombox and hitting“play/record” then running through songs. Bob very often forgot lyrics orforgot when to come in with singing. We were both always stoned when playing. Bobhad eaten acid so many times. We’d just laugh when he messed up a song, then goright back to the beginning of it.
Eventually, Bob and I decided to try writing an originalsong. It was my idea. In playing around on my own, I’d come up with this guitarprogression I thought sounded pretty good. I’d learned how to play somebody’selse song – I can’t remember what one – and messed around with it by strummingin the same rhythm but reversing the order of the chords. When I did that, Irealized the rhythm needed to be altered a little to make it sound better. Ieventually felt a tickle in my brain that told me I had it right. I came upwith a different but similar progression that could work with a bridge orchorus. The whole of it had a kind of accidental flamenco feel.
I played my creation for Bob during one of our musichangouts. He nodded enthusiastically and soon started humming a vocal melody.He told me to just keep playing it over and over while he worked out how hecould sing over it. He put together some lyrics. Before I left his apartment twoor three hours later, we had a working demo of the song recorded onto acassette via Bob’s boombox.
The lyrics didn’t tell a story per se. Bob put them togetherby randomly combining lines from various stream-of-consciousness poems and otherjottings he kept in a composition notebook. Kind of a William S. Burroughscut-up process. Yet despite the haphazard way they were formed, the words tothe song spoke of something – a particular kind of emotional atmosphere, itnothing else. One stanza I especially liked went:
Non-property, scattered head/Blushing over my bendedknees/I was crying for Marisol/I knew that song would never die
The chorus lyrics were:
Now before the crashing sea/Manhead, you’re my priest
We decided to call it “Manhead.”
There was a rock and roll clothing shop right across thestreet from the record store where I worked. I was friendly with a guy namedCharlie, who was the co-owner along with his girlfriend. The place was more ofa hangout than a busy retail establishment. I never saw anybody buy much of theleather jackets, vintage band T-Shirts, and such they offered. But there werealways plenty of warm bodies in the shop, most of them containing people whowere in local bands. Also, Charlie was a barber and sometimes gave peoplehaircuts from inside the store. He offered to make my hair look like KeithRichards’ circa 1966, but I opted stick with my non-descript do.
I brought a tape of Bob’s and my recordings into the storeone day, asked Charlie if I could play it on the stereo in there. He let theSon House song that was playing finish, then popped in my cassette. I feltnervous as it played. There were seven or eight others in the store at themoment, a few of them people who played in bands that I thought were great. Nobodypaid much attention through my and Bob’s versions of “Blame it on Cain,” GramParsons’s “She,” or “No Expectations.” But by the second verse of “Manhead,”the atmosphere in the place changed. People stopped milling about and chattingwith one another. They stopped to listen. A few walked closer to the stereo. Mynervousness morphed into a relieved energy. When the song was over, one guy whowas a guitarist in surf and rockabilly bands looked at me and said, “That’s yours?”A girl who played bass in an act that sounded like Exile on Main StreetStones exclaimed, “What I like is it doesn’t sound like anything else. It’slike it came from a different century. Can we hear it again?”
Charlie was friends with a guy who ran a Richmond recordingstudio. Local bands cut demos and sometimes albums there. The guy also had hisown record label, and it so happened that at the time he was putting togethertracks for a compilation album of songs recorded there. It would be a showcaseof both his studio and local talent. Charlie thought “Manhead” would make agood addition to the compilation, introduced us to his friend and played himour boombox version of the song. He liked it right away and booked us to comein and get it down professionally. We went in on a late Saturday morning anddid what we needed to do within 90 minutes or so. I got the guitar parts downin two takes. Bob’s vocals took a little longer, because he kept forgetting tocome in or out with his singing at the right times. But he ultimately got itright. We never put any percussion or bass on the track, but a guitarist whowas hanging around the studio added some subtle lead parts in places that hadno vocals. Bob and I left the studio each with a tape of the recording. Thealbum was expected to be released within a few months. We had to come up with aband name for our song and went with The Harry Rags, after a Kinks song we bothliked.
I wore out my tape copy of the song. When the compilation album came out, it gotreviewed in one of Richmond’s much-read weekly arts and culture magazines. Thereviewer wrote of “Manhead”:
“The most memorable song on the album is also the mostcurious one. “Manhead,” by a duo who call themselves The Harry Rags (Kinksreference), is a timeless, surreal ballad driven by sweeping, Spanish-flavoredacoustic guitar and arrestingly rich singing. It manages to be both melancholyand trippy. It’s like a Dadaist’s musical tale of existential longing. Who areThe Harry Rags and what is a manhead? This song is unique and it’s gorgeous.”
I started havingvisions of what The Harry Rags could be. We’d write more original songs. We’dadd a bass player and drummer and maybe a lead guitarist to fill out our sound.We’d put a live set together. Build a following there in Richmond, then spreadout and become a regional and then a national phenomenon. Get a record deal ona mid-major label and make albums . . .
We needed more originals. I kept coming up with chordprogressions and bringing them to Bob, hoping we could work together to developthem into songs, a la “Manhead.” But Bob could never remember his lyrics orvocal melodies from one practice session to the next. And the sessions wererare, because most of the time Bob didn’t show, or was too far gone on LSD tobe able to focus on music. Or he’d say how about if we go for a drink at thisbar first, then go to his apartment to play; then five or seven people who knewBob happened into the bar and joined us, and soon the possibility of a HarryRags practice was out the window. Then Bob started dating a girl andsimultaneously got something going on the side with her sister. He said to meone day, “I’m just too emotional to write songs right now, man. Maybewhen things settle down a little.” I figured there was probably no better timeto write songs than when one was “so emotional.” But Bob asbandmate/co-songwriter was unreachable then.
One weeknight evening, Bob suddenly showed up at the recordshop. He had on a white button-down shirt and black pants – his waiter gear. Helooked shaken, ashen.
“I need to talk to you. man. I don’t know what’s happening.”His voice sounded like it was talking from someplace far away. I’d had my shareof panic attacks and Bob presently looked how I felt when enduring mine. I ledus away from the counter area and to a corner of the store, where nobody was.
“I was waiting on these four people. Two couples. Theyordered shrimp cocktails for their appetizers. And, man, I don’t know. I wentto the kitchen to get the shrimp cocktails and I just couldn’t do it. I keptpicturing them as apes. I couldn’t bring shrimp cocktails to four apes. I justwalked out of the place through the back door and came here.”
I let a pause happen. I looked at Bob’s scared face. Then Isaid, “I wonder if they’re still waiting for their shrimp cocktails.”
Bob looked at me searchingly, like he had to probe inside myhead to understand the meaning of what I’d just said to him. Then he burst intolaughter. I laughed with him. Then a customer needed my help, and Bob exitedthe shop while I waited on the person.
The next time I talked to Bob was about five days later. Hecalled me at my apartment on a Saturday morning.
“I’m going back home for a while, man. To Roanoke. I justneed a little break from things. I can stay at my parents’ house and I can workin my dad’s furniture shop. This way, I’ll be able to put away a little money.”
I thought to myself, The Harry Rags. They recorded onesong and were never heard from again. I also thought, I wonder if thetwo sisters will miss him.
Roughly 18 months after that phone chat with Bob, I was in adifferent record shop in the city. I wasn’t working at the other one anymore. Ihadn’t talked to Bob in all this time. Right after I walked into that store, astaff person put on the compilation that had the Harry Rags song. It was thefourth track. When it played, you could feel something change in the store.Before “Manhead” came on, the music was just another part of the room, likefurniture that nobody really noticed. But when our song played, a lot of peoplestopped flipping through records and CDs and T-Shirts and listened intently.Many looked in the direction of the stereo, or up at speakers. People stoppedchatting with each other. The song ended, and by the time the next one was intoits second verse, everybody went back to not paying much attention to the musiccoming through the store’s system.
I decided I wanted to talk to Bob. Maybe he’d worked outwhatever he needed to work out by going back home. Maybe I could get him tocome back to Richmond and we could revive The Harry Rags. I tracked down hisfamily’s phone number in Roanoke. His mom, who seemed like she wanted to tellme to not bother contacting her son, reluctantly gave me a different number Icould use to reach him. When I got Bob on the phone, he filled me in, in hisusual disarmingly candid way, on what had been going on in his life.
“I got into smoking crack, man. Please tell me you’ve neverused that shit. Biggest mistake I ever made. This place where I’m living now iskind of like a halfway house for substance abusers. I think I’m getting better,but I don’t know.
“Have you been playing any music? I got into a band aroundhere with these younger guys and this one girl. They want to sound like Oasis.It was going pretty good but the girl is the girlfriend of one of the guys, andsomething started happening between her and me. Her boyfriend found out andthey threw me out of the band.
“I had a girlfriend for a while. She’s an artist. But wesplit up. I got with a prostitute a couple weeks ago. She stole my wallet afterwe did it.”
It was about eight years after that phone chat with Bob whenI heard from a journalist writing for the same Richmond weekly that ran thereview of the local music compilation with “Manhead” on it. She was writing apiece about some of the legendary and mythical music that had been made in thecity over the decades. She learned about “Manhead” and wanted to get the storyof the song and the band that seemed to vanish from the universe afterrecording it. She tracked me down online and we met at a café. We talked aboutThe Harry Rags and our song for a half hour or so, then spent the next three orfour hours telling each other parts of our life stories. We were married withina year.
Just last week I played “Manhead” for our 18-year-olddaughter. She’d heard it before and knew the story of the role it played inbringing her mom and I together. But this time she listened to the song in amore intent way than she had before. She plays guitar now, is in a band withtwo friends. She said, “Wow, he could really sing. And that’s you playingthe rhythm guitar? The song is so good.” We were in the car, hadlistened to the song on a CD version of the Richmond compilation. My daughter said,“Tell me again why you guys didn’t make more music together.” I put one hand onmy chin while continuing to steer with the other. I noticed a haggard homelessman standing on a street corner just ahead. I knew if we got stopped at thelight at that intersection, he’d approach us and ask for money. I wondered ifBob was in a state like his now. I said to my daughter, “I’ll tell you thatstory sometime.”
My daughter’s band is working up a cover version of“Manhead.”
February 20, 2023
January 18, 2023
December 1, 2022
Writing Highlights of 2020s So Far
Three years into the 2020s, here are some of the highlights from my writing output in this new decade:
Short Fiction
I don't write as much short fiction as I once did, but the occasional story still pops out. Two of my short fiction pieces, "Sphinx" and "An Awakening," were published by the Jerry Jazz Musician webzine over the last few years, and I posted my most recent story, "Try Again," to my blog.
Pieces on Visual Arts
Writing about the visual arts is still a relatively new experience for me. It's an area I want to continue to explore. In the 2020s I've written artist profile pieces on sculptor Juliette Clovis and painter/illustrator Riikka Sormunen for Widewalls magazine, and one on installation artist Jeeyoung Lee for the It's Psychedelic Baby blog. I also contributed a post on an exhibit of Man Ray's photography and filmmaking to Widewalls.
link to Riikka Sormunen piece
Page-to-Screen Pieces
I have a long history of writing pieces that look at a novel and a film made from it, getting into the backstories of each version and comparing and contrasting the two. Recently I wrote one such piece for a special noir issue of Film International magazine, on John Trinian's 1960 crime novel The Big Grab and the 1963 film made from it, Any Number Can Win. I also penned a page-to-screen piece on Malcolm Braly's 1967 prison novel On the Yard and the same-named 1978 film, for Macmillan's Criminal Element blog.
link to Film Int TOC (scroll to 19.3)
link to piece on Malcolm Braly's On the Yard
Pieces on Books and Authors
Over the last three years I've done author pieces on French noir specialist Pascal Garner for Crime Reads, Hank Lopez's 1969 novel Afro-6 for a print anthology of essays on radical science fiction published by PM Press, an appreciation of Leonora Carrington's writing for Widewalls, and two book introductions for Stark House Press.
link to Pascal Garnier post
link to publisher's listing of radical sci fi anthology
link to Leonora Carrington piece
link to publisher's listing of Carter Brown book
link to publisher's listing of John Trinian book
Pieces on Films
In the last few years, the two film articles on which I've most enjoyed working are appreciations of Samuel Fuller's 1953 thriller Pickup on South Street and Dev Anand's 1971 Bollywood cult classic Hare Rama Hare Krishna.
link to Pickup on South Street post
link to Hare Rama Hare Krishna post
