Forrestt Williams dot com

She had always religiously locked her bike. She was so adamant about it that her habit was borderline annoying.

One night she stayed at my house and forgot to lock it up. The ONE time she didn’t lock it. I don’t know what happened, did she just forget, was it safer here than at her house? I don’t know, but in the middle of the night, she jumped out of bed.

“My Bike!”

“What?” I said, groggily,

“Quick, go check my bike!”

We jumped up and went outside and her bike was gone. I went inside to put on some clothes real quick and ran back out in my boxers and a t-shirt. I was half asleep, so I don’t know what I was thinking, like I could catch a bicycling thief on my feet. And he was already blocks away.

“Dammit!”

We sat down and recounted the events. What woke her up was the bell on her blue and white beach cruiser. She couldn’t miss that sound. That was probably them leaving the porch in a hurry and slamming the bike down on the ground to get on it and ride away, making the bell inadvertendly ring.

Nothing is more frustrating than something like this happening under your nose while you are sleeping literally feet away. The scenario of what I would do if I had enough time to catch the guy played out in my head several times, and it wasn’t pretty. The different angles I would approach as I flew through the air to knock him off the bike, the different things I would do once he was on the ground.

But none of that matters now, he’s gone. With one of my girlfriends most prized posessions, her beach cruiser, which she rode everywhere.

“I loved that bike.”

She said under her breath.

Outside Lands concert, Friday August 22nd. Radiohead, Beck, Manu Chau and 60,000 people in Golden Gate Park, San Francisco.

Fortunately for us, Cara’s good friend Leilanie (le-lawn-nee) lives in the Mission district. She’s such a sweetheart that she took the bus with us to show us where we need to transfer to get to golden gate park for the show. We got off the train and she pointed at the the train approaching across the street.

“That’s your bus! You gotta catch that!” in her cute little Filipino accent.

“Okay,” As we ran across the street, “We’ll see you tonight!”

We approached just as it came to a stop and saw that we weren’t the only ones trying to get on the muni. The doors opened and people literally tumbled out. It was madness how many people fit in that little thing. How many clowns can fit in a train car?
We waited for the next one, same thing. We passed up three trains before we decided to try and catch a cab with some random girls from Madrid to no avail. We figure that every one and their brother is taking a cab to the show so we go back to the train stop. After two more go by we see our opening and we muscled our way in. It was ‘hold your breath’ time in order to get the doors to close. I remember thinking as the train inched it’s way slowly up a steep San Francisco hill, “I wonder if this thing is rated for this many people?”. I didn’t even have to hold the bar because I couldn’t have fallen if I tried.
“Do you know where to get off?” Cara asks. “No. Hey, do you know where to get off?”
Random person: “No, I just figure I’ll get off where everyone else gets off.”

Fair enough.

We get off the bus and follow the crowd in the direction of the park. The farther along we get, the more people it seem there were. We walked, and walked, and walked some more. We finally made it to the entrance and at this point it was pure insanity. So many people! We left Leilanie’s place at 4:30 and didn’t make it inside the show until 6ish.

First thing’s first, find the beer booth. The ID check line alone was tremendous. Fortunately it was near the stage that ‘The Dynamites’ were playing. Then, the length of the beer line forced us to buy two beers each for strategic purposes. Had I owned more hands….

We got a hot dog and a pretzel, unfurled our beach towel and watched Manu Chau play their high energy set. They were loud, fast, and way more punk rock than their album had led me to believe. The Spanish vocals and loud wicked guitar tones mixed with high trumpet blasts and furious drums whipped the crowd into lather. Good times.

We high tailed it over to see Beck after that, just in time to hear “Loser”. We danced along, looking for a place hang out in the crowd but it was ridiculous. The stage was too low and we couldn’t even see the tops of the drums. We snaked around the crowd and made our way up a hill on stage left to catch a vantage point. It was a weak little stage with so-so sound quality, not what we were expecting for an artist like Beck. No video monitors either, which was a bummer when there’s that many people. We enjoyed his set though, his band was kickin and they played the classics, “Two Turntables” and “Devil’s Haircut” as well as a bunch of stuff off the new album.

We cut our Beck experience short in order to make it to the Radiohead stage in time to get a somewhat decent spot. The stadium-sized stage that they were about to play on was fitting for a band of their caliber. Here’s a band who hasn’t had a hit single in the US charts EVER, and 60,000 people show up to see them play. It spoke hope to me about the state of our culture and the music industry, both of which I had been so distrustful in the recent past.

There were three stages of speakers; the main stage with it’s 5 story high line arrays and tremendous video displays, the second line of time-delayed speakers located about one football field back, and then another line of time-delayed speakers well beyond the first. When I first caught glimpse of those I knew we had better get a decent spot early or there would be no chance at all. We ended up in a good spot, we could actually SEE them on stage, as opposed to 30,000 or so people who could only watch the video monitors, and we were in front of all the time-delayed speakers and very near the front of house mixing position, ensuring we had near optimum sound quality. And it was well worth it.

The sound was phenomenal, but the light show was even better. I’ve never been to a Pink Floyd concert, but I’ve been told it’s on that level. Synchronized perfectly with the music.

However, at one point early in the show, the entire sound system stopped. And I mean stopped completely. They play with in ear monitors, and we were far enough back that when the system cut out, not a sound could be heard from even on stage amps. You could see their confused look on the video monitors as they kept playing right along until the sound came back on, abruptly, over one minute later.

“Hey, I think somebody put beer in the plug. Stop putting beer in the plug!” Said Thom Yorke, jokingly.

Unfortunately it happened again three songs later. The crowd was a bit irate. I remember shouting, “I paid a hundred bucks for this!” One would expect professional sound for those kind of ticket prices.

Excluding those mishaps, Radiohead performed beyond my expectations. I had read and heard from friends that their live show was spectacular, but in my usual skeptical self, I had to see it myself to believe it. After listening to them for a long time, and being quite familiar with their music, I had developed a false idea that their studio albums, with all these great sonic textures and sounds, had been created specifically in the studio. They sound accidental most of the time, but strangely seemed to fit. They re-create those sounds live and with passion. Truly a wonder of orchestrated texture and sonic chaos. I guess that’s part of the genius of what they do, composing with sound.

After the nearly overwhelming experience, we slowly made our way towards the exit. We walked for what seemed like four days before we were out of Golden Gate park, and at this point exhausted. We consulted our map and looked at where we were. The closest neighborhood we were familiar with was Hait street, so we walked there from the park, a distance of about 20 blocks. We found an Irish bar there called Martin Mack’s. Coming from a smaller town, it’s funny when there’s actual Irish people in the Irish bar, not used to that. So I ordered a Jameson’s and a beer, and found a place to freakin sit. Great vibe in that place, and a good place to chill after being on our feet for so long.

After that we decided to try and hail a cab to take us back to Leilanie’s place. We were bad at that game. Not only were there 60,000 people wandering the streets of San Francisco thinking the same thing, but we didn’t even know how to in the first place. I kept trying to hail cabs that had people in it, not knowing I was supposed to look for the “TAXI” light. Silly small town boy.

We gave up after about 30 or 40 minutes and started walking. The map we had was a muni map, so it wasn’t exactly exact as far as streets go. It looked like it was close on the map, but we realized after walking some distance that only 1 out of every 6 or 8 streets were listed on the map. At the corner of Divisadero and Castro we got pretty tired and sat down on the sidewalk, a little buzzed, exhausted and overwhelmed. We didn’t know exactly how far we had left to go and my feet getting angry at me.

Just then I glanced up and saw a stray cab with her “TAXI” light on across the street. I jumped up and ran to it with my hat in my hand, waving it around like a maniac.

We got in and the old cab lady spoke to us with a grizzled smoker’s voice. “You guys are in the wrong neighborhood to be catching a cab. I was here for a pickup, but no one came outside. You’re super lucky.”

“Well direct us to the nearest casino, It’s my lucky day!”

She put on the Jazz radio station and hauled ass through the hills of the city. I thought for a second that she was driving a little out of control, but then I remembered. That’s what this girl does for a living. She didn’t even look like she was paying attention, she was literally turning her head towards us in the back seat and chatting away as she nearly ran red lights and almost clipped pedestrians. It was a good ride.

It was a perfect way to cap the evening. That and the bottle of red we capped before passing out.

Times are tough right? And this thing not only gets 36 mpg on the freeway, and it’s a 2007 model, AND it fits all my music gear in the back! I’m pretty freakin stoked right now.

2007 Nissan Versa. Under 12 thousand dollars.

Word.

That’s how I introduce myself now. It’s a preemptive measure to keep people from saying, “Like Gump?”. You wouldn’t believe how many people say that to me. for the first 5 years or so I just brushed it off, but It’s gotten so old now that I literally have to introduce myself in way that manipulates peoples train of thought to keep them from making predictable movie references and inconsiderate remarks.

This all started a while back at a party, and I was enjoying myself in the company of good friends and beautiful women. An unknown person (to me) arrived and the introductions were made. The rounds came around to me and I said,”My name is Forrestt,” and he said the expected response, “Like Forrestt Gump?”. Immediately one of the women in our group jumped in and said, “No, like Forrestt Fire!”. That comment stuck with me ever since. It drew a bunch of grins and comments, “Oooh, he’s on fire!”, and the like. Perfect!

So now I pretty much use that line EVERY time I introduce myself. Just the other day however, I refrained from using it because I was playing a jazz gig at a somewhat snooty wine tasting room. I walked in and the lady in charge looked at me, dressed in all black, and said,

“You must be in the band.”

“Yes, my name is Forrestt.”

I thought I should not use my line, because this was a classy joint, right?

Not so.

“Oh, like Forrestt Gump?”

“No, like, uhm, Just Forrestt thank you very much.”

I was so disappointed. The one time I didn’t use my line, thinking I was dealing with a sophisticated woman, the uncultivated reply flew out of her mouth like reflex.

So the moral of this story? I’m not quite sure, but I figured this out; I try not to underestimate people, but I never, ever OVER estimate people.

I hear color first. I can relate certain sounds with color schemes and emotions. I can easily close my eyes and feel the music’s overall impression and relate it to some particular hue in my brain.

Sometimes it will be a nostalgic feeling. Sound can make me remember exactly where I was when I first heard that song. I will remember the place I was sitting, the colors around me, the temperature, and sometimes even the smell.

And I can listen to the actual notes. I can listen to the chord progression and tonal movement. The way the extensions of jazzy chords make real chords sound wrong. The often laughable use of modulation. I hear the soloist playing around the key center to achieve tension and resolution within his solo. The always predictable, yet surprisingly effective use of the blues scale. The straight foreword and sometimes cheesy tonality of the major scale. I love hearing my favorite tonality, the sound of a raised seventh on a minor scale.

Don’t forget the beat. Frequently, that’s all I hear. The rhythmic cadence of a simple folk song, or the heavy pulse of electronic drums in hip-hop. The swing of the jazz drummer dictating time to the rest of the band or the head bobbing sound of fast metal blast beats. Most of the time, if I can nod my head to it whole-heartedly, I like it.

Or, if I listen close, I can hear the tones, in extreme detail. The squeak of a poorly-lubricated spring on a bass drum pedal. The spring reverb unit in a vintage guitar amp sounding like a Midwestern lightning storm. The single coil pickups in a beat-up old Stratocaster humming their own tune in the background. The metallic tines loosely inside a Fender Rhodes electric piano. The clunk of the bass string hitting the fret board. The poor fidelity of a cheap digital effects processor.

I realize, of course, that these particular details are only available to the refined ear. These sounds are available to me because I am a musician who has studied and reproduced these sounds, tones and notes time and time again. I feel very fortunate that music means so much more for me than something to pass the time while driving.

My friend Cara doesn’t hear any of this. She hears a song and either likes it or doesn’t. She can sing along with most popular songs and likes most music that I play for her. But she hears what was noticeably absent from my list above; the story. Granted, she can listen to the lyrics and extrapolate the story line, but even deeper than that, she can follow a plot through an instrumental song. I’ve listened to her imagine an entire scene with three main characters play out like a soap opera to an instrumental song that I had written. Which was something I didn’t even intend, but was a pleasure to hear.

Is this what makes art, and music in particular, so appealing to the average person? Is it as simple as this? It appears that everyone will interpret each song differently and attach their feelings and experiences to every piece. This makes listening to music a uniquely personal experience that is entirely their own, yet still accessible to others.

So we can listen to a song together, yet we feel entirely different emotions contained in the music. And we can still share our enjoyment with one another.

Even though she has no idea how deep my love for music is. For the sake of our relationship, I think I’ll keep it that way.

Forrestt Williams
6.18.07