SNEAK PEAK:
First tune, “Years Ago” from Calico King’s album is currently being mixed. Here’s an introduction to the track laid down by Tyler and Murr on 6/15/17

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#extradirty
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@calicokingcodex-blog
SNEAK PEAK:
First tune, “Years Ago” from Calico King’s album is currently being mixed. Here’s an introduction to the track laid down by Tyler and Murr on 6/15/17
Represent.
Fuck. After talking all this shit about the current state of hip hop, and trashing literally everything that has anything remotely to do with the “Trap” sub genre, I caved. This is my attempt at a trap beat– I tried to make something commercial (not really for Calico King to play or perform, but just to see if I could do it) And, despite trying really hard with cheesy 1/32 hi-hat in the drum loops, I failed. I walked in to a trap, and this beat sounds like I walked in to a trap house, and got my ass beat the hell out of it. It’s all a learning curve.
This tune is probably my favorite original by Alex Goins. It’s one of those tunes that had me saying, “god damn, I wish I wrote this” But the fact is, only Alex could of wrote this piece. The song employs all of his strongest songwriting technique; The music relies on a unique, hypnotic lick that I never get tired of hearing. There’s a ping pong match of crescendo and resolve balanced by an obscene level of control over his own vocal dynamics.
The lyrics are a fascinating rebellion against anyone who confronts the legitimacy of young “love” Whoever he is speaking to in this song I can’t say for sure (I have theories) but what he says can range from criticism, to a condescending defense, to almost frantic moments where he legitimizes the nature of love via inner dialogue. Lastly, the narration sort of ends with some personal creeds, reminding himself to remember to keep on top of the essential things a man’s life boils down to do. The lyrics and music create a perfect atmosphere; a vibe that is tense, paranoid, yet sincere and introspective.
This is one of many songs Al has in his in his catalog. He breaks it out on special occasions, never wanting it to sound played out. As I said in an earlier post, don’t ever sleep on that boy AG’s songwriting. Especially after you hear this masterful. personal favorite of mine. He recorded this in Belgium with a band he founded/fronted called Bye Bye Bluebird. These lyrics and chords capture that unsettled feeling everyone faces when defending a love, contemplating the nature of love, and meditating on the self.
Much love to all- TY
Back in 2009, Alex and I were both back in Austin for the holiday. We spent most of the trip with our families but managed to get a few practices in. The clock was winding down for when AG had to go back to Belgium, and I had to get back to Boulder. We found a last minute studio in Manor the second to last day we were in town, and booked a 9:00 am session. That day also happened to be the same day that our dear friend Nick Stiler’s mother’s funeral was taking place. She was a dynamite woman, who had been so kind to me and Alex and encouraged what we were doing from the very first time Nick brought us over. We decided to do the session as fast as we could then haul ass back down to south Ausitn to make sure we didn’t miss the service, which luckily we didn’t.
I wrote this song in Colorado, and this is pretty biographical and accurate for how this particular summer looked. The original way I played it was thick with chords, long, and drawn out. I sent a recording and a chord chart to Alex via email to see what we could do with it. Alex took the song in a completely different direction. His take was more upbeat (which is a nice juxtaposition to the emotionally draining lyrics) and all of sudden, a the song that was very somber, borderline depressing, was a hopeful song about overcoming some sad elements.
Whichever version, the song itself is about holding on through a hard time. The way I wrote the music acknowledged this, yet it did nothing to change it. In a weird way, Alex’s take engages the content better than I had, because his version captured just the right amount of melancholy, with out letting the message of forward movement become lost by slow, overly epic music verses. This is the way we play this song now, and when we do play it, i’m reminded of another reason why I’m lucky to have a fellow songwriter critique drafts. I say big shout to AG for singing this so early that morning, and letting me play on that 12 string which I had no business playing on. In any case, we found a way to make it.
It’s called “Hold on” and yes there are some sad elements that take place in this song, but please focus on the message of the chorus– light always comes after the dark.
TY
Sometimes I’ll write some lyrics with another songwriter or band’s songs stuck in my head, and I’ll write lines that emulate the cadence of a particular tune. When I initially wrote this I was trying to make something that sounded like some 70′s pop rock. I won’t flatter myself and say Jackson Browne or JD Souther, but something in that sub genre. For a first take, and limited experience with harmonies, I like what came out. However I recorded bass and guitar on some dull strings, so the tuning fell somewhere in between an Eb and an E, which meant I couldn’t really layer it with piano like I would have liked. If I can shorten it, and get Alex to sing the harmonies with me, I may take another run at it while we’re laying down the album. It might not play in to the narrative (or maybe it does–maybe this is some exposition and backstory on the Ace of Hearts and his character) but if it can get tracked with some soul/depth, it could most certainly show back up.
TY
Bukowski gets the trophy for finding the most beauty in a often hideous world.
Talk to them.
(Composed at 4800 S. 1st St, Unit 216 on May 18th-May 19th from 11PM-4AM)
Early this morning I got very lucky and had one of the rare occasions were writing or composing something from start to completion, is completely painless. Still unmixed/unmastered, but if you need to funk up your day, I got you covered. This is fairly upbeat (85 bpm) and every instrument has good modulation but it never gets too tough, or too distorted. Funk. This cut is Funked up, just some good old fashion dirty funking for people who funk hard. Do not press unless you’re down to funk. However, if you don’t funk with this funk shit, press play and funk yourself, hard. Signing off now, before I lose all my motherfunkin’ respectability.
When I found out my bro AG was coming back to the states, I started to send him every shitty music file I had on deck. He plays it a bit cooler than I do, so in my inbox, there were 2 or 3 of his gems. I’m 95% positive he recorded this in a 4x4 bathroom at his residence in Antwerp. This always fun to play, and we still break this out in various manifestations. Great example of Al’s dexterity/adaptability on vocal delivery, his ability to intrigue with voice and acoustic guitar, and from a lyrical stand point, it’s a beautiful still life portrait, taken from his mind and reanimated.
This tune has a very good chance of being laid down in our upcoming session, and i think it very well should be. Pour some Belgian beer out, you can’t go wrong with Duvel, or Trappist ales. Enjoy!
Calico King is made up of 3 dudes born just about a mile or so north of 4th and Lavaca, where this photo was taken. Playing music isn’t easy. Fuck. People might think it’s not a lot to manage, but that’s ok. Any job has it’s potential side effects. The life we chose guarantees very little success but gold backs spending days trying to balance two, even three sources of income, thankless audiences, late hours, endless promotion, endless tasks to be done, and the pending fear that your worst nightmare is real and you spent years doing something that is devoid of real value. To that bitch and moan attitude, I say, “Fuck, no!” This city is made up of an endless jukebox of bars, clubs, and saloons totally over saturated with live music. It’s my distinct honor and pleasure to add to that chaos. Like any band, success that translates to money or comforts is a very pleasant dream, and certainly not to be blatantly passed up on if offered. But as a proud, grateful son of this skyline - I say to any and everybody in the 512- Calico is a band that plays for you, and we will play with full hearts until we go deaf or all fingers fall off. Those are small sacrifices we make to spend time performing in one of the world’s most vibrant live music scenes.
I like to take pictures of the city, from any elevated vantage if I end up down town. I play with crazy filters on Photo Shop until the picture looks like a still life of the imagery on the page. They remind me that I play, record, write, write about, listen to, eat, sleep, shit and fuck music. I get to do that with my best friends, and then share what we make from the live music capital of the world.
All love to the 512
TYLER R SHELTON AKA T-Y AKA THE ACE OF HEARTS
This song means well. This song is like the pilot episode of TV show that looked really cool or seemed like it would do well, but was canceled after it aired. I laid down the instrumental one day after making the choice to pay “homage”/straight up steal a couple parts of Velvet Underground’s “Sweet Jane” and Black Crows “Wiser for the Time” I had no lyrics, only the melody for the chorus and a clever agenda. Me and Alex met at a La Quinta near the Airport, and before we started writing lyrics I told him my plan: Make the song about a relationship conflict, where all the lyrics (except for the last line) come out very vague, non-abrasive, maybe even forgettable. My plan was to write lines that didn’t much imagery, leaving any active listener totally comfortable for the duration of the song. Hell, they might even say the interaction between the male and female in this song is kinda sweet: Until the very last line. On the last line, I insisted we finish it by planting an image in the listener that was raw and violent--perhaps as a satire of some of the darker undertones a lot of my songs have, or just to get any kind of rise out of the listener. I wanted to M. Night Shamyalan their asses, and clever as I thought it was, the lyrics we wrote through out the verses ended up to bland, and we might of held on to this one if we had worked at the verses and revised it a bit. So here’s a lo-fi recording of a song that was meant to wither away in a computer recycle bin. I will say, with our first days in the studio coming up on the 29th of May, our album may borrow a bit from this tune during a break down or interlude. The chorus (which is my favorite part) is redeemable if sang with fuller harmonies, and if I can get AG on board with it, this isn’t the last of “Put Down the Knife”
God bless you all,
T-Y
To any nice Rappers, Emcees, B-Boys, Freestyle Savants, Old School DJ’s, and Hip-Hop Revivalists-
Do you need Free Beats? Contact me about your project. Most of these instrumentals sound like they were cryogenically frozen in 1998, but all mutts need a loving home and a responsible owner. Fuck Trap beats at $500 a sync, do your wallet a favor and rescue one of these oddballs!
THE STORY OF VICTOR CALDERON
With a leather briefcase of money reflecting off his sunglasses, the new King of Calico slammed the trunk in satisfaction.
He was called Victor Calderon. His rap sheet would tell you that he was a pimp, shylock, and narcotics trafficker. His tax statement would classify him as a lucrative oil man, a landlord, a store owner. But he would cooly dismiss these titles. If prompted, he liked to tell people he was just a washed up gangster from 5th ward, Houston-town. He liked to say, “I caught a share of breaks, but I’m small time.” But in his heart, he was a true bastard of free market; an equal opportunity carnivore. He had holdings (both legitimate and nefarious) in most of the major cities of the southwest– El Paso/Juarez, Tulsa, Austin/San Antonio, Sante Fe, Denver, Las Vegas, and as far west as Los Angeles. In L.A. his stake was small– just a faint whisper. He owned a gentlemen’s club, where he spent his time micro-managing heart-robbed concubines. His most recent recruit was easily his most vulnerable: A failed ballet dancer called, “Sage” Her eyes had true, classic beauty, but a nomadic, dope-sick lifestyle had started to fade them into something joyless. She signed on to dance at Calderon’s place, on the sole condition that she was only expected to dance. Calderon gave her his word before he left L.A.– telling her to “stay strong” in his absence.
He know she would soon be broken. The initial resistance and kick back she put fourth would tire out. It wasn’t long and she began to sell off parts of her self to vicious appetites and dirty wallets. Victor was delighted. His experience knew that she would now be soft in his hands, soft like butterfly wings in his fingertips. After months on the stage, Victor called from Las Vegas and told her she was to be relieved the next day. To calm her fury he quoted the numbers of her paycheck and promised her furlough.
“I know you’re tired of this. I’m tired of it too. But you’re going to walk out of there with some money. You’re coming back to Texas, to my spots. It’s time you rest for the next month. It’s my first order of business. I’ll be by tomorrow, stay strong.
But there would be an unforeseen delay that turned one night in to 6 months .
He was two hours outside of L.A. when he steered his Lincoln off of Route 66 for gas. He had caught Route 66 via Arizona, to make the drive more peaceful. In the raw warmth of desert air, he felt most at home.
The valley’s bravado had put him into a trance, and he wandered around dazed for 15 miles. He pulled in to gas station, and caught his bearings. After a look at the road map, he was sure that he was in one of the two sun burnt towns outside of Barstow. He wondered what kind of bad things went on in a town like this. He watched the road for a while, his senses grew keen. The familiar, savage hunger took over him. It was the same hunger of a starved coyote in heat, surrounded by gentle dogs.
Victor was born a bad seed, and he become a bad man. Prison, the ghetto, and summers in the country had fostered an ability to swindle most people. Though some country folk were too guarded to fall for his gab, they were exceptions: he knew how to hustle a small town. It was custom to scout new towns, and while he walked down Main st. an uncanny brilliance began to shoot through his eyes. Numbers and margins danced around his head as he appraised foreclosed silver mines, worn copper mills, perpetually unfolding derricks– typical real estate licks. Clearly there was money here, yet no signs of obvious dirt. So back at his car, he decided that this deaf-mute town called Calico must be a clean hold out. Some towns on the map simply don’t break bread with the devil. He started to the highway when his eyes caught something. He took his shades off. There was a house in his sight that stood out.
Then he saw some traffic head towards it, and he noted the time of day. The house was about a mile out of Calico, just past the town. It was beyond an arched bridge that crossed a veiny, deep, jet-black river. Another rogue truck honked and drove by, loaded with young men in collared shirts. This gave him more than a hunch. He followed behind the caravan and crept down the main artery of Calico. His eyes remained stolen by the shadowed mansion perched at the end of the boulevard.
And It would be at this quiet brothel that Victor would learn the inner workings of the town. He got comfortable and threw money around like empty promises. He was always scouting for who held real juice in this yellow ghost town. 2 hours west, Sage was dying inside. Each night, she danced in the dark, praying and hoping for mercy, while the man who could give it was ingratiating himself with the people of Calico. He had moved up the hierarchy. Like a chess master using pawns, he used the Madam and lowly miners for introductions to the sheriff, the sheriff for the land owners. After some time, he was properly introduced to Calico’s 1%, The Five Dukes.
The Dukes oversaw all action and vice in east San Bernardino county. They talked business with Calderon, always walking away impressed. Their operation was known as the Victorville Co-op at high noon, and as Southside Assassins by midnight. Over decades, they had stockpiled a small fortune, property deeds and a cache of arms. They generated revenue by monopolizing narcotics, refusing the escorts from neighboring cities, and keeping outside influence out of their business. The most violent it ever got was if a young boy was roughed up for petty gambling debts or someone commit insurance fraud to cover a vig. One night a Duke bragged about this, and Victor showed that man his prison tattoos in a play to silently seal his dominance. He said, “these are the scars from another life, ya know? Bad scars, I hate them. But they’ll always be on me”.
They were buying in to him more, day by day. Calderon’s temper stayed cool like a well trained Doberman waiting to bite. Then one night, he was fully in. Calderon was a regular, the unofficial 6th duke. He spent a month building more trust and rapport. Each night he grinned as they obliviously laughed at his anecdotes, laughing to their grave. They were like blindfolded fools waltzing in a shack with a rattle snake.
Like any real confidence man, Calderon’s mouth could harm you more than his trigger finger. Behind his mouth was a calculated mind of boundless apathetic greed. You couldn’t stop this kind of evil: The madam and the fallen angels of the cat house were wise enough to remain weary and fear him. For the most part, they kept distant. Yet fear still couldn’t fully relieve them from the power and intrigue of his mystique, it couldn’t sequester years of filling heads with just the right words at the right time..
And The Dukes fell victim much easier. Calderon carried himself savagely intimidating and masculine, but spoke his peace with a city slick vocabulary. It proved to always allow him an advantage. After five months, the time came when that advantage materialized in to real upper hand. That upper hand was the perfect pitch to the dukes. The Pitch was a crime of opportunity, a set up which he advertised and sold after hearing them weigh out the risks of robbing a bank. They argued pros and cons over poker.
Victor chimed in, and asked a series of loaded questions. Once he was sure just how pathetic their actual trigger time was, and sure that they had no cartel ties, he stuck in his fangs. Victor knew their power was grandfathered in, and their wealth was rat holed. He told them how much money he made on his first robbery. Wide eyed, they asked Victor if it was worth it.
Victor pretended to deliberate, knowing they were hooked. “ I like you boys, and I normally wouldn’t do this, but ya’ll have shown me well and hospitable. Robbing a bank depends on a schematic, a blueprint. In houston, I could hawk a print for 1/2 a million, but I’d consider selling you boys a heist”
They jumped on it, and Calderon put the price tag of $40,000 a head on it (a small investment for a half million dollar score) He guaranteed the strength of the heist by offering his cut of the heist up front The dukes rejected as an absurd notion ”Victor you’ve shown yourself a real man of brass and nobility, we trust you” Victor continued to sell, “Well, the least I can do is drive get away.” obliterating any fraction of suspicion.
A week before the heist, Calderon made his next move. Over bourbon and beige white cocaine, he calmly suggested they prepare wills to be safe. He said, “A bank robbery is a bank robbery. There is always risk in this” The Dukes ears perched. “Go on” ...
“You wouldn’t want your family’s mineral rights or the holdings in the mine to go to the state, now? would you, Chuck?”
“And George, what would happen to your wife and kids if you took a bullet? Do you have all that oil protected?”
This would make Victor’s time in calico a life long pay check. The Dukes bought it, the poor fools. They weren’t ready. They just weren’t prepared for this kind of slick. They agreed to let Victor handle all of their legal paper work, and send it to his “ big shots” in L.A.
The day of the robbery, the men looked sick as they drove out. They rolled in to Barstow, armed with mac-11′s, a Beneli Shotgun and a couple snub nose revolvers. Before walking out, the dukes bowed and began to pray in the car; praying for their families, their safety, and thanking God for the chance. The men said “Amen” and ran out towards the bank. Calderon watched as they dry heaved onward, choking on fear, yet remaining determined.
As planned, they stormed the front door, masks on, and scanned the lobby with their barrels. It took them three seconds to notice the 3 man posse of state troopers–Three crooked badges that Mr. Calderon kept on payroll. In vicious rapid fire, The Co-op was struck down by the gun. The thunderstorm of bullets chopped them down, until they fell. After the hot slugs officially ended the reign of these kings of Calico, Calderon drove back to town, directly. He headed for his room at the brothel, and finalized the dukes’ wills, signing his name on their deeds and holdings, right as word of the botched robbery arrived back at the Brothel..
That night was to be his last night in Calico. He had one last task, a cherry on top before he left back to L.A. He made his first phone call to Sage since he left. He let her know he’d be in by the next morning. She sounded despondent; years older than when he left. Meanwhile, the working girls downstairs mourned--some sobbing the loss of their fathers, uncles, and lovers. Tears fell down their cheeks into stiff drinks. Calderon bobbed and weaved in and out of their grief, preparing the car with his belongings, avoiding eye contact with them.
Yet The Madam eyed him with fearless hatred. She swigged her bourbon down, and called down for her only son, (a young man called “Kid”)
“Do mother a favor and run down to Bill Curtis’s for a minute. Go play records on his jukebox until I call” The Kid asked no questions, he knew enough not to. The madam resolved that he didn’t need to see this reptile, Calderon, while he choke to death on the rat poison she stirred in his drink.
With her son gone, she walked up to Calderon, fighting back rage. She was holding his beverage and eyed the rattle snake that he is, daydreaming that she could tell him “You fucking snake. I heard your phone calls. I know what you did.” She shook out the fantasy and approached wearing a strait face.
He looked at the beverage feverishly, noting the first drink in 6 months with melted ice in it. He decided to finish his last job a bit early. So he declined on the drink, complimented the madam’s hair, and put his pistol on her. A capitalist must always seize easy money. She wanted to cry but the words fell out in a throaty whimper “ You’ve taken enough from us”
She splashed the whiskey in his face, and Calderon momentarily lost sight. He pulled the trigger, shooting on reflex. The impact blew the Madam four feet back to a love seat in the den. She was still alive and crawled off while a blinded Calderon stammered out the door. He fell, but couldn’t help but laugh. He wiped the liquid off with a bandana, spitting out everything that came close to his mouth. His vision returned within seconds, and after his initial shock, he blew a kiss towards the front door, and tipped his hat down to the red wooded bed house.
On the way out of town, he pulled in to the gas station. He filled canisters up with gasoline, lighter fluid, and put a drum of kerosene in the passenger seat. He sang under his breath headed back to the mansion.
The night was quiet in Calico, and the jet black river moved downstream with mild stillness. The moon shined down pale gray and in the deafening silence, Calderon furiously doused the parameter of the mansion. Once every drop fell on to the property he stuck switch blades in to the dead bolts of each possible exit. He lined the kerosene from the entrance to the yard, and lit a cigar.
Inside fallen angels tried to keep the Madam alive with hymns and fumbled prayers. They bandaged her up, clueless that they were now trapped in with her. Calderon flicked his cigar on the line and the mansion caught. Fire ignited and cracked the red wood planks. The shout of embers bursting drowned out faintly muffled screams of the women and the kind Madam.
As the beams began to lose their footing, Calderon drove back towards Main, still humming under his breath. He crossed over the bridge of River Calico, watching the devil in his rear view send him winks and nods of approval from the blaze. On the way out of town he noticed the Madam’s bastard son charging up hill. “The mother fucking Kid.” He saw tears had swollen the boys face as he darted passed, heading straight to where his mother was falling away in to a dead white ash. He slowed down the Lincoln, and debated shooting the Kid from Calico. But by the time his revolver was unholstered, he had vanished across river.
Back at the same gas station he had drove in to 6 months prior, he walked back to his trunk to make sure everything was there: the property deeds, mineral and oil rights, holdings/investments in the central industries of Calico town, and all the extra cash he managed to siphon during his tenure at Calico. With a leather briefcase of money reflecting off his sunglasses, the new King of Calico slammed the trunk in satisfaction. At the stroke of midnight, he began the two hour drive back to Los Angeles.
Epilogue
The kid from Calico, just 17 at the time, stood at the edge of town, watching a this fire burn and burn down the walls he was born and raised in. He turned his head back to town, searching for Victor. There was nothing but some dust. Dust and a speck of fleeting white coming from his Texas plates and tail lights which tinkered off back towards Route 66. Back where the son of a bitch came. He turned his head back to look at his home. It hurt to do so. Ashes swirled in the wind, and through the dry air. His eyes stung and the harsh smell of fire burned through his nostrils. He stared at the flames for minutes, his eyes getting lost in the dancing heat. As time passed, the Kid swore he saw the Devil’s face materialize. It stayed and offered him wild dreams; revenge, money, women, talent, anything a boy in that empty state could use. The kid blinked away, and instead, looked towards the sky. As the fire fell out, the Kid began to speak out. He laid out the new terms of war. A war which he now vowed to wage against God.
CHARACTER PROFILE: VICTOR CALDERON ARREST RECORD. PART-1
EXCERPT FROM VICTOR CALDERÒN’S BLACK BOOK, DATED THE DAY OF ARREST-
woke up
in central booking- at a station.
hassled by these federal agents. They thought I was,
insane when I said there’s no deals to be made and
NO DICE NO APPEALS.
what you offer me,
is not temptation, TO ME, real time
shooter from the Calico Basin
Lives, BLEEDS and may have killed in H-town,
or on the Austin streets
until handcuffs were fastened cautiously. Now, it’s the
STILL of rolling morning- but is MY TIME OBSOLETE?
their Alibis, deceit: keep me filled with shallow pride and the will
to cheat they FAITH and defy these
allegories on repeat. so this morning
I just to rise to my feet.
is SOMETHING waiting for ME? on the otherside
of pale gray bars, will it absolve or will it all just seize?
purgatory is never disguised by debris
can they SEE US OUT DESERTED?
pulled over in middle of the street
I Told APD, ‘I got another story, but there is no lies
on the sheet.”
AM I LEFT TO PLEA? the jury
starts to sniffing out their meet &
starts to stitching up the cleats. But I don’t blame,
everyone hurts, and this slow jazz -cold cash city scaoe is bittersweet
Vivid is the prison time? am I already defeated.
...there is nothing to offer the Travis county DA, and the precinct.
I’d RATHE BE BURIED- If my people can’t
eat. Fuck, yes, I ride on southside, distinct-
company of bandits, some ramblers, cheaters and a has-been
thief. C’est la vie. dirty money handlers that most will
not see. Lord
CAN YOU SEE that im here cause yesterday
my car swerving on a midnight creep
on lamar
trunk dirty filled with Sinoloa sleet.
They found a throwaway Beretta
buried underneath the seat
no mercy pulled over by the heat.
But as I sit on the iron seat, and wait for the fire squad,
IS THERE SOMETHING WAITING FOR ME,
GOD, Send me a wink or nod.
-CALDERON
William James Murray IV aka Jamie aka Billy James is one of my favorite people on the planet. Jamie is a strong bass player, who actually got on stage before any of us had. He put his craft down in college (except to jam a bit with me or Psychoacoustics when we could) and in his defense, the dude has a strong professional life. At one point I was unsure if he wanted to play fully or could handle the added stress of playing music for nothing. I never doubted what he could do if his heart was in it. Even when he was most docile, he was always sending over licks on the guitar, he was always down for a solo jam, and he was wanting to find a way to get back in to it some how. Ultimately there was a way for him to be do this, and in the years he’s actively played bass and kicked in content, he’s turned in to a musician with strong chops, and a unique approach to a highly over looked instrument.
When Alex moved back and started jamming with me, Murray wanted in, and started to show up weekly. He was well acquainted with what I was trying to do as far as story is concerned, and snapped on the idea of blending a narrative and album in the digital age.
Trivia: He was the third vote when we decided on Calico King instead of Kings of Calico. His contributions are insurmountable, both as a bassist, composer, and as a companion. When Jamie gets in the zone and has something for the song, he’ll lobby for it, relentlessly. Usually what he is lobbying is very strong and it becomes hard to deny that it shouldn’t be adopted. The rehearsal footage and video below is a Jamie Murray creation, and is a prime example of how a bassline in 6/8 waltz time, recorded dry over a samsung cell mic, can still motivate 4 strong music makers to learn it. That’s all Murr. In fact, We believed in the style of it so much, we even debuted it at Speakeasy before Alex and I had even finished any words past the first verse. Al does work and digs deep to keep the intensity level up, but with this tune slated to be key on the album, expect a beautiful, gut wrenching track when it’s done. much love- Ty
Hip hop has always been something I have a strong passion for. I can’t speak for this saturation of this garbage on the radio (and I’ve honestly tried to find something good about it) but I can speak on 80′s/90′s rap with absolute affection. Rap songs were the first type of songs I ever wrote, so even now my delivery is affected by lines with a dense, multi-syllabic end rhyme scheme. The content I write about is often very much “faux gangster” There’s no better release than saying “Motherfucker” on a freestyle. So we obviously knew our album would need to have some hip hop, or at least some instrumentals that were made in house, that I could go nuts on, and Al could do damage control with a gorgeous hook..
But I’ve never really made hip hop instrumentals, and until I started fucking with all these drum samples, I couldn’t tell you the first thing about making a hip hop beat. This cut was one of the first instrumentals that I started and actually finished. It uses some samples (loops for drums and strings) but the keys and guitar are analog, and it’s a task trying to find a balance between automation and just digging out your own bass or drum patterns.
PS. This didn’t end up so much a hip hop beat. It’s more like a really heavy, sad soundtrack to an american express commercial. Yet following this one, expect to hear some boom bap style shit, even a trap beat, God have mercy. Peace and Love -TY