Today and for the next few weeks we’ll be handing the reins over to poet-in-residence J.E. O’Leary, so he can tell the story of his band Trousers as he goes track-by-track through the band’s only release, 2004’s We Pitched a Hut and Called it Providence.

It took a long time for me to get this right. The song started with the bass riff that kicks off the song, but I was hearing the whole symphony in my head from the beginning. The version that ultimately got laid down on tape was – the best word I can come up with for it is correct. All the parts are there, the notes are there, the verses are in the right sequence, but something is missing. Listening to it now, the thing that’s missing is me.

When my girlfriend finally moved out in May 2002 I had the whole house to myself. I was alone all summer in the east end of Brooklyn. The few friends I did have were either in Manhattan, Long Island, or the Bronx. So I had a lot of time to myself I smoked weed and cigarettes and drank beer and played around with my four track. I jammed on C-Am forever. I did little fills each time. I was channeling something larger, something I wasn’t ready for. So I waited and waited. There was the first part. The second part was C, B, then descending to something else. I could hear it in my head but didn’t know where it was on the bass. I tried every note in the C scale, but none of them worked. Eventually I found it – A flat with an E over it. I remember how amazing it was to hear it, finally. I didn’t know why it worked – but it did. From there, I was able to get the third part – F – Am. Then resolved it back to C, where verses would come in. From there is came together pretty quickly. I added the verses and then by the time it got back to the F part, there would be a quiet part into a loud jam. It would be a real showstopper – a multi part epic ripe for long jams at the beginning and a fierce rock out at the end. The kind of song you could stretch out and have wild live versions.

After George and I jammed that first time, we started making plans to put a band together. Our first guitarist was named Tom. We spent about half the time working on his songs, and half working on mine. When I brought this unnamed song to the band, none of us had the musical vocabulary we needed to be able to describe the parts, so we ended up diagramming it out on big sheets of paper and hanging them up on the wall. Verse part one > Verse part two, etc. Everyone was into it. George named the song; at one point I was clarifying something on the chart and he stood with his hands on his hips looking sideways at it. “Es complicado,” he said. This is complicated.

As far as the band was concerned, we had a name – Sketch – and plans to add another element to the mix. I was pretty set on getting a cello player for some reason, but we did bring in a couple of keyboard players. One day we brought in a guy named Kartik. He had a huge 88 key Yamaha and serious chops. He was blowing us away. When it came time to do this song, we broke out the charts and hung them on the wall. When I was telling him the chords for the different sections, I brought up the mystery A flat chord. “I don’t know what this chord is, but it works,” I said. Kartik ran some scales and we went through the part. He squinted while he played. Then he landed on a chord that rang out. “Oh,” he said “It’s E7”. I didn’t understand how E7 could fit into a C major key (still don’t) but I was grateful to finally have an answer. Kartik didn’t work out (I think we all thought he was too good), but I’ll always remember him giving me that chord.

The recording is pretty close to how I heard it in my head, bass-wise. Re-listening now I think there could have been fewer runs, especially during the first part, but there were so many notes in there that I’d come up with, and I wanted to put as many down on tape as I could. The real stand out here is Becca’s cello part, absolutely perfect, especially her haunting sustained notes at 5:00 – 5:15 or so. I hate my voice here. It’s thin and weak as a result of being out all night and not getting any sleep – tossing and turning over a girl that I was infatuated with. This was someone I had known as a friend for a long time, it briefly turned into something more before she pulled back. We basically got to have one perfect day – a day that became its own song.

In the moment, I was devastated. It’s just too bad that the worst day for me just happened to be the day before we were recording vocals. I couldn’t hit notes. I was totally unfocused. The whole band was pissed, and rightfully so. The next day of recording went better, but we didn’t have time to re-do Complicado, only auto-tune some of the worst parts. It’s hard to listen to now, only because I still hear what I heard that summer when I was writing it in my Canarsie basement. It’s not a track about which I’m really able to give a fair judgement. Except to know that I could have, should have done better. And that’s not really the way you want to feel about anything you’ve done that was supposed to be important to you. So listening to it now just makes me melancholy.

But the song itself? One of the things I’m most proud of having written. Despite the tongue-in-cheek lyrics, I love the melodies, I love the arrangement, I love the “stop love” breakdown. It really brings back 2002-2003 to me – hanging out in Williamsburg with George, then heading back to Canarsie on the L, crushing on hipster girls who wouldn’t get off their cellphones, reading missed connections, hoping. I love the honesty of the lyric “I know you want to see the west as bad as I do”. I still hadn’t been out west yet, despite my lifelong obsession. There’s a double meaning in the lyric, for when paired with the next line, I’m then talking about west Brooklyn. It’s funny that there’s a Trousers connection to when I finally did get out west, as it was to visit Joey and Becca, who’d moved away. There’s a self fulfilling prophecy within all of us, I guess, if we just listen for long enough.

Today and for the next few weeks we’ll be handing the reins over to poet-in-residence J.E. O’Leary, so he can tell the story of his band Trousers as he goes track-by-track through the band’s only release, 2004’s We Pitched a Hut and Called it Providence.

The first time I ever played music in front of a crowd, it went about as badly as it could have possibly gone. I was playing with my first band, a jam band called IT, at legendary NYC venue CBGBs at one of their Sunday night showcases. As a huge fan of the CBGBs scene in the 70s and bands like the Ramones, Talking Heads, Patti Smith, Lou Reed, I had hyped up the gig in my own head past the point of any realistic expectations. However, literally four measures into the first song, I popped a bass string for the first time in my life. I didn’t even realize what was happening at first; I’d never broken a bass string in almost ten years of playing. The string just kind of disappeared under my fingers. Once I put it together, I panicked, as I didn’t even know if I had extra strings and my gig bag wasn’t even onstage. I ran off the stage and frantically tried to find my gig bag in a sea of identical black gig bags. The band meanwhile, just started improving on the main riff of the song (an E blues). Eventually I did find it, and it had my extra strings. I put it on as fast as I could and got back onstage. The rest of the show (for me) was a mess, finding myself out of tune more than not. At one point while I was tuning, I couldn’t get it, and Nolan, the guitar player, had to come over and tune it for me. It was a pretty embarrassing spectacle, even more so given the stakes I’d given it, along with the fact I felt I’d let the band down. We didn’t get asked back, and were broken up less than two months later anyway. So by any standards, it was a disappointment.

Despite all the craziness however, it was unbelievably fun. We had a bunch of friends show up, smoked blunts in the basement, partied at the bar, and brought the whole circus back to Nolan’s Brooklyn apartment where we smoked and drank and played music all night. I had my acoustic bass there (I would end up moving in pretty soon, but am unsure if I was already in by that point) and we just spent the night jamming, reading poetry, smoking weed, and getting drunk. Any bad feelings from fucking up the gig were a million miles away. Everyone was having a blast. At one point, I started playing this bassline, based around an Am scale, just up and down. Kinda funky, kinda dirty. I looked over at our keyboard player, Daryl, and he was deep into a vibe, singing something. When I listened closer, I could make it out. “It hurts me… it hurts me more… it hurts me… it hurts me more…”

A few years later, when George and I jammed for the first time at his loft on North 6th street, we were mostly just improvising, feeling each other out. I was never the kind of guy that knew a lot of covers, so we were kind of wanting for material. At some point I busted this riff out and we worked on it. I had the lyrics – we’d never really turned it into a formal song, mostly because the band broke up, but I loved the riff/lyric combo, and it was easy to play & sing at the same time, so it was one piece that was always in my repertoire. So it was kind of natural that it would be a song. I always wanted to keep it fast and short, and real simple, some kind of cross between Violent Femmes and the Ramones. Two verses, a cello solo, a guitar solo, and a third verse and that was it. It clocks in at 2:22, but it always seemed long even at that.

I never liked the third verse. I couldn’t decide between the lyrics we eventually ended up with and my alternate version:

It hurts us, it hurts us more than them
It hurts us, oh, and it will ever end
It hurts us, oh it hurts us more than them
It hurts us, oh hurts us more than them

lost third verse

That would perhaps be more natural after “It hurts me more than you” and “It hurts you more than me”, the two lyrics that start the first two, but I think I was going for more of an edge at that point, and chose what you hear on the album. Reflecting back on it, it seems pretty clear that I chose poorly.

There’s not a lot to say about the recorded version. There’s a nice reverb on the cello, and I have some nice bass figures under the guitar solo. But it is what it is. And to my knowledge it’s maybe the only song from the IT era that survive in some official recorded form. I did solo acoustic versions of our songs “The Ballad of Bubbe and Zayde” and “Breath of Life” a handful of times, and I still know the basslines to most of the songs, including Nolan’s ” Pimpin’ “, the song on which my A string flew out from under my fingers at CBGBs all those years ago. But as a recorded song, it stands alone. I don’t think it was ever going to capture the manic raw energy of those Brooklyn years, but how could it? I mean, check out this completely spaced out version from a 1999 rehearsal:

Or the insane “Where the fuck am I?” energy from this version from the one time we played in Maine, at a place called The Wharf (4/24/2000 according to the tape):

Perhaps some things are best viewed from a distance.