New Jersey's reason to believe

It was long after midnight that I came upon him, sitting in the dunes of the Seaside Heights beach, wearing the flannel jacket I’d let him borrow some time during the infamous occasion known to high school seniors as "prom weekend."

He was (and is) one of my closest friends, and we had gone down the Shore to celebrate the ultimate mile-marker of freedom that was graduation.

As expected, the three-day party had gotten way out of hand, and ironically both of us had sought quiet respite by the ocean for that final night. Although I can’t remember what we talked about, we lingered on that sand for hours, drinking beer, smoking cigarettes, and staring out at the surf that lends a raucous soundtrack to every minute of every day down there.

Ten years later, in the wake of the most ferocious storm in state history, Governor Christie said it best: that Shore of our youth, with the memories of so many lazy days and long, wild New Jersey nights, is now gone.

The boardwalk has been annihilated, the amusement-park rides lay in cold, watery ruin, and the dancing carnival lights have been extinguished.

It didn't stop there, of course. The destruction isn’t limited to that lovely stretch of coastline, and even those of us who have sat on mile-long gas lines only to return to homes that lack heat, electricity, water, or phones are lucky when compared with those whose houses were destroyed by the thousands of trees felled by Sandy’s wrath.

Bad though it may be, the shock is wearing off. It’s time to remember that all is not lost and that the comments from individuals hinting that although the Shore will be rebuilt, it "will never be the same," simply have no place here.

We must remember, always remember, that we are from New Jersey. Yes, we may be bloodied and bruised, but then again, we’re used to that. We live in the shadow of the most spectacular city on earth, and we are the eternal pariahs because of it. While New York has always sparkled and gleamed, we grew up in that dark jungleland across the river filled with the outcasts and broken heroes.

Our rough-and-tumble cities, lying under highways and lit by flickering street lights, are ridiculed, our accents are (inaccurately) mocked, and the ever-unfunny "What exit?" joke is constantly uttered by the lips of the idiotic, but still we endure, because all those years of abuse have infused in us a distinctive fighting spirit that lets us face down any challenge, great or small, all the while saying with bared teeth, "Go ahead. Try it."

Yeah, we know that the Shore was never the cleanest, or nicest, or most refined set of beaches in the country, but then we’ve never been the cleanest, nicest, or most refined set of people.

We’ve had that chip on our shoulder since the start, and our darlings, from Jim Braddock and Frank Sinatra to Bruce Willis and The Boss, have always been the underdogs, the mavericks, the ones who were never supposed to win but did anyway — and did it with style.

There are few states as mangled, but as tenacious and gritty, as New Jersey, and few places whose citizens will never stop the fight even when it seems the bleeding just won’t stop.

Make no mistake: we will need to muster every bit of that grit, every drop of resolve, to recover from this, but we must remember who we are and where we come from. Although our homes may be buried under sand and trees and water, we will get up off the pavement once again, as we always have, in spite of the world’s best efforts to lay us low.

Long ago, while facing a different sort of calamity, Winston Churchill famously said, "If you’re going through hell, keep going." Seventy years later, and it doesn’t matter whether that hell is standing alone against the perpetual darkness of fascism, or rebuilding your shattered life in the wake of a natural disaster, we must keep going.

There is no question that we will rebuild, or that New Jersey, like Great Britain, will prove that the most desperate moments in our hardscrabble lives often lead to our finest hours and greatest triumphs.

We will be back. We will be better. And you can count on it.

http://www.northjersey.com/news/177802661_New_Jersey_s_reason_to_believe.html

Why the flag should never be lowered to half mast for Whitney Houston

By Steve Janoski

“Crack is cheap…I make too much money to ever smoke crack.”

Yes, we all remember what Whitney Houston said in her now-infamous 2002 TV interview with Diane Sawyer.

At that time, there was suspicion about the famous singer’s drug abuse, but over the years, her battles with drug-addiction became well-chronicled, and many people (such as me) suspect that her demise two weeks ago had everything to do with it.

But in New Jersey, stuff like that doesn’t matter, especially to Governor Chris Christie, who officially decreed last Friday that, by executive order, the American flag would be lowered to half-staff in commemoration of the Newark native’s mysterious death.

Christie has come under intense criticism for this, but, according to Suburban Trends’ sister paper The Record, he’s defended his position by saying that Houston was a “cultural icon” that belongs in the same category in NJ music history as Frank Sinatra or Bruce Springsteen.

Her accomplishments, he said, are “a great source of pride for the people of the state.”

He did the same thing when Bruce Springsteen’s saxophone player Clarence Clemons died last June, but that move didn’t generate the same fire, perhaps because Clemons was never known for the erratic behavior and drug abuse that Houston became synonymous with over the past decade.

Now, it’s possible that ole’ Chris has some sort of affinity for Houston’s music — maybe one of her songs was his wedding song, or he just enjoys karaoke-ing to “I Wanna’ Dance With Somebody” at his neighborhood bar on a Saturday night.

But regardless of where his love for Whitney comes from, the fact that he doesn’t understand that lowering the flag for a musician — any musician at all — cheapens and degrades the significance of that momentous accolade, is a shame.

The American flag is no mere piece of rag — it is the emblem of a nation born out of the greatest ideas of the Age of Enlightenment and forged in the furnaces of war. Every piece of it drips in symbolism, and for many a man over the course of the past 250 years, that fluttering banner was the last thing they saw before their lives escaped them.

To lower that flag to half-mast is to say that collectively, this nation is giving a heartfelt tipping of the hat, a fond adieu, to one of its greatest citizens, to someone who idealizes what it means to be an American.

It’s an honor that is nearly unparalleled, and should be reserved for soldiers, cops, and former or current politicians who gave either their lives, or a part of them, in the service of this country and its people.

The flag is not a toy or prop to be lowered every time someone with a modicum of talent passes away, especially when that someone was a drug-addled diva that set the worst possible example for those who admired her, and appears to have squandered whatever talent she had left before departing in true celebrity fashion — alone in a hotel room amongst bottles of prescription drugs.

To treat it as such is to do the greatest of disservices to those brave men and women that have, as Lincoln said, “laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.”

And personally, I would rather see that flag stay at half-mast until every single World War II veteran is dead than ever see it lowered again for someone like Whitney Houston.

Email: janoski@northjersey.com

http://www.northjersey.com/news/140104843_Lowering_the_flag_for_Houston__We_have_a_problem___.html

Singer/songwriter James Maddock to play Ringwood Public Library

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

BY STEVE JANOSKI

Ten years ago, the world seemed like it was at James Maddock's feet.

He was the frontman for the band Wood, who had just released their debut album "Songs from Stamford Hill." One song was even included on the first "Dawson's Creek" compilation album — something that, 10 years ago, nearly guaranteed success.
The band toured with Paula Cole and Train, and seemed poised to break out.

And then…they were never heard from again.

Ten years later, however, Maddock is back. He's formed a new band, and released his first solo album in 2010 called "Sunrise on Avenue C."

Now, 48 year-old self-described "melodic folky singer/songwriter guy" will be bringing his raspy vocals and catchy guitar licks to theRingwood Public Library as a part of their New Legacy concert series on Sunday, March 13, at 2 p.m.

'Out in the wilderness'

The past decade has been an eventful one for Maddock, even if he's been somewhat out of the public eye.

After a failed attempt at Wood's sophomore album, the band was dropped from Columbia records, who had put out their debut; what could be called a wandering period ensued.

Maddock moved from London to New York.

"I was bored of London," says Maddock. "All my friends got married and had kids and London was a dead place to me…everyone moved on, and I was writing and playing and singing still."

Maddock says that the city that never sleeps is an exciting place to be because, as opposed to other cities, there's the feeling of "being a part of a musical community" that stems from seeing the same people at different gigs and being able to form friendships with likeminded people.

"I never had that in London. I felt very isolated," he says.

When he figured out that he couldn't' afford to live in the city, he moved to Texas, where he found himself renovating a house in Austin while still writing and playing gigs where he could.

"I was kind of out in the wilderness a little bit," he says.

Eventually however, New York's magnetic pull reeled the musician back in.

He formed a band with former Spin Doctors drummer Aaron Comess, bassist Drew Mortali, keyboardist Oli Rockberger, and guitarist John Shannon, and says last year's "Sunrise on Avenue C" is a sort of collection of songs that have been written over the past eight years.

Although New York certainly seeps through the character of the songs, Maddock says that his music isn't geocentric, and the album is not a concept album; his self-deprecating humor shines when he states that he's "not clever enough" to write a decent song, then write another about the same subject.

But still, he admits that "every writer that comes to New York has to write about New York somehow," and the album's title track reflects the experience of moving to the city.

Even though he was raised in England and still has the accent to prove it, Maddock says that he's gravitated to more American sounds from the second he picked up his grandfather's ukulele at the age of 4, and lists guitarists like the Allman Brothers' Dicky Betts and Neil Young as his inspirations..

As far as songwriting goes, Maddock says that he's always looked at people like Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen (who his gruff vocals are sometimes compared to) and Jackson Browne as heroes.

When he's asked if he enjoyed the writing process, however, he says that he thinks himself "pretty slow" at the craft, which he calls deceptively simple, and yet some of his songs take years upon years to complete.

"If you can play a few chords, sing a few melodies…it's very simple. But what's magical is to make something great, make something that lasts," he says.

"Like 'All you need is love,'" he says, referencing the famous Beatles track. "How'd they do it? I don't know… it's a fantastic mystery. There's no rhyme or reason."

That's the thing about being a songwriter, Maddock said — you have to "live it."

"It's not like a hobby. You have to be it. You are it. I've been it all my life, and I couldn't do anything else," he says. Even at its worst, though, songwriting isn't work — it's "avoiding work," he says with a chuckle.

New album in the works

Maddock has been hard at avoiding work all week, recording intensely at the legendary Sear Sound Recording Studio in Manhattan, which has hosted everyone from Paul McCartney to Steely Dan, in preparation for a new album which might be out in June.

The album is being paid for by a relatively new Pledgemusic.com, which allows fans to donate to their favorite artists to raise money for albums — gone are the days where a record label not only took most of the album's profits, but also owned the music.

"This affords (the artist) to pay the rent…instead of making five cents off each album, you're making six or seven dollars," he said.

This lets a career musician like Maddock keep on playing for as long as he can.

He's looking forward to bringing his show to Ringwood, and says that he can't stand when musicians don't give 100 percent when playing a smaller venue like the library.

"I give everything I've got, all the time, whether it's a big place or small place," he says.

For more information about the show, go to the library's website ringwoodlibrary.org or call 973-962-6256.

E-mail: janoski@northjersey.com

http://www.northjersey.com/arts_entertainment/117713568_The_sun_rises_for_acoustic_rocker.html?c=y&page=1

Where have all the rockers gone?

Wednesday, April 7
By Steve Janoski

Lynyrd Skynyrd, Bruce Springsteen, Metallica, AC/DC, Guns N’ Roses, the Doors, Motley Crue, Buckcherry.

They didn’t begin modern rock n’ roll, but they’ve kept it going through its toddler years of the 1960s and have kept it rolling since, bringing this hard, swaggering style of music to the masses by playing show after show for year after year, paying their dues and rising to fame.

And that’s the one thing that they, along with most other rock bands that have “made it,” share: they all started somewhere.

It was in some guitarist’s parents’ basement in Los Angeles or Freehold or Jacksonville that they got together.

They progressed, as we’ve seen so many times in “Behind the Music” fashion. They played in smoke-choked, dimly-lit bars, sold their brand to swaying, drunken crowds who, at least at first, didn’t care that they were there.

They lived in roach-filled apartments, drove for miles to play gigs, and kept on playing until they got so damned tight that you knew they were in it for the long haul, live or die. And eventually, they got “noticed.”

At least, this was the formula back then. Now? I’m not so sure.

In my carousing across New Jersey’s nightlife, I’ve come to believe that there just isn’t anybody playing their own guitar-driven, gut-busting, fight-starting rock n’ roll anymore. It’s become a “scene” of lowly cover band after lowly cover band, playing the same Rolling Stones and Billy Idol cover songs before their huge finale of “Sweet Home Alabama” rolls out.

C’mon. Really?

I’m not sure why this has all gone down the way it has. There are less venues to play than there used to be, but that’s not a reason that long-haired 17-year-olds should lay down their guitars, take their torn Maiden t-shirts off, and start going to school.

There are definitely enough places for these cover bands to play — they seem to find where I’m at every Friday night, so I don’t know why it couldn’t be an original band instead, or even a band that plays original songs at least half of the time.

I’ve never been in a band myself, but I’d imagine that there’s a kind of special feeling that happens when four or five guys get together and create a new song that they play for the first time and say to themselves, “Damn…that was good.”

It’s probably a way better feeling when they play that song out in public the first few times, and get a reception from the crowd that shakes the rafters and knocks beers off the table — I suspect that’s why musicians get into the whole thing in the first place.

There’s a clip on YouTube that I found recently of AC/DC performing their song “Whole Lotta’ Rosie” live in 1978 at what looks to be a small club in England.

The people are packed tightly together like toothbrush bristles, while onstage a shirtless, tattooed Bon Scott howls on the microphone while Angus Young races around headbanging and kicking and tearing through solo after solo, captivating his rollicking audience of reckless youths and the thing is just the embodiment of wild energy and passion, of fire!

Somewhere, sometime, that band played to an empty bar when they began; maybe they thought about just playing covers on the weekends when someone told them that they weren’t any good.

But they forged ahead… and look where it got them.

I hope the kids today are doing the same, because without them, rock n’ roll will soon die off, and the only things playing at bars will be the same half-hearted Skynyrd covers or the whiny songs from the bartender’s iPod.

Until then, though, I keep hoping that every bar I walk into, the next Bon Scott is nervously getting ready to walk onstage for the first time, tapping his fingers and shaking his leg, waiting to hear what the crowd will say about his band’s set.

To those about to rock: we’re all waiting for you.