The story behind Freudian Slip (new album)

Click here to purchase my new album, “Freudian Slip,” now available (Amazon, iTunes, our record company direct, etc.).

Whereas blogging is all about the immediacy of the medium (literally and figuratively), writing, recording, and releasing an album is a long process whereby the initial inspiration is transformed through a complex and articulated series of steps to final track — composition, demo, recording, overdubs, editing, mixing, mastering, printing, distribution etc.

In January 2011, when I wrote and recorded the first demo of “Freudian Slip,” which became the title track of the new CD, I had just returned from Houston where I had learned that Cousin Marty had been diagnosed with bladder cancer. If you’ve been following along here at my blog, you know the avuncular role he’s played in my life since I moved to Texas nearly three years ago: not only has he embraced me with the warmth of a long-lost and newfound cousin, but he’s also shared with me his gusto for all things enogastronomic.

Growing up a teenager in La Jolla, California, I didn’t have much of a relationship with father Zane, Marty’s first cousin: a classically trained Freudian psychoanalist, Zane was estranged from our family after an inquiry revealed that he’d been having sexual relations with his patients: an egregious and bourgeois transgression that began before I was born and that emerged publicly when I was eleven years old — a family catastrophe that received brutal coverage in the local and national media.

Finding and forging a relationship with Marty was like being given a second chance to have a father, someone who rejoiced in my successes and shared the burdens of my challenges in building a new life here in Texas with Tracie P, whom he adores.

When I found out that Marty was ill, I became depressed and stressed by the anxiety (a bitter twist of fate?) that I would lose this happy relation so shortly after it had been born. Marty had already brought so much joy into my life and thankfully he beat his cancer with flying colors. But at the time, the prognosis was uncertain and I selfishly let my fear express itself in a dark song I called “Freudian Soup” (the title of the earliest version).

When I sent it to my writing partner, Céline Dijon (my good friend and sister I never had, Verena Wiesendanger), she set about writing the lyrics as a dialogue between Zane and the woman who most famously sued him, changing the title to “Freudian Slip,” acte manqué in French.

Today, when I listen to the track, nearly a year later, the cathartic drum fill that opens the song (by Julien Galner of the Paris-based band Château Marmont), chills still run down my spine.

All but the vocals for this track were recorded in my studio in Austin. The arpeggiated harpsichord is the very same one from the original demo.

When he finished mixing the record this summer, Jean-Luc Retard (Dan Crane, the third element in our writing troika, my bandmate and friend since 1998) suggested that we call the album “Freudian Slip.”

Thanks for listening and for reading and thanks for the support… It means the world to me…

Here’s the video for the new single, “J’en Ai Marre (Had Enough)”, a song that Céline and I wrote about bullying:

The Story of Baby P So Far…

As beautiful as Italy is, as fascinating the conversations, as delicious the meals, as breath-taking the wines… it’s really hard to be away from home right now. I miss Tracie and Baby P so much… On the plane across the Atlantic, I made this video to soothe my lonesomeness and homesick blues while I’m here. “The Story of Baby P So Far (to be continued)”… I hope you enjoy it as much as I do and thanks for letting me share it with you… Buona visione!

And on the subject of family matters…

A taste of Manischewitz for Rosh Hashanah — 11 percent alcohol, mevushal (i.e., cooked so that the wine remains kosher even if handled by non-Jews), “specially sweetened” wine, “containing not less than 51 percent Concord” grapes — inspired me to write a nostalgic post for the Houston Press on Friday, “Manischewitz, a Kiddush Cup Full of Memories.”

Happy New Year, everyone. Thanks for reading.

When a song makes you cry (leaving for Italy again)

Driving back from seeing a client in Houston this week, John Denver’s “Leaving on a Jetplane” came on in one of my mixes and I just couldn’t hold back the tears. I knew that in a few days I’d be packing my bags and leaving again, heading back to Italy.

As we head into the last trimester of our pregnancy, it’s just so hard to say goodbye to Tracie and Baby P. (I was only supposed to be away for a week but the trip was extended when the Nonino family asked me to lead a group of celebrity mixologists on a cocktail tour of Friuli and Milan.)

This year has been a happy one for us, with our healthy pregnancy, business going well, and family and friends here in Texas who support and love us. Becoming close with all my long-lost Texas cousins has been such a blessing for me. The other day at Rosh Hashanah lunch, I told the Rosenbergs how much it means to me and they all just smiled and said, “that’s what Texans do.”

We have so much to be thankful for but saying goodbye to “my girls” this morning nearly broke my heart… I love them so, so much…

All my bags are packed I’m ready to go
I’m standin’ here outside your door
I hate to wake you up to say goodbye
But the dawn is breakin’ it’s early morn
The taxi’s waitin’ he’s blowin’ his horn
Already I’m so lonesome I could die

So kiss me and smile for me
Tell me that you’ll wait for me
Hold me like you’ll never let me go
Cause I’m leavin’ on a jet plane
Don’t know when I’ll be back again
Oh babe, I hate to go

L’shanah tovah yall!

From Brooklyn (above), to Austin, to La Jolla, Tracie P and I wish you a happy and healthy new year!

Let’s hope it’s a good one, without any fear…

I’ll see you in a few days…

My gig at the World Trade Center, remembering September 11

Looking back on September 11, 2001, I know I am not the first to think of it as a catastrophic tragedy comparable to the Sack of Rome in the 16th century. But, today, as I reminisce about the gigs I played at The Greatest Bar on Earth — 1 World Trade Center, NY NY 10048, on the top floor of the north tower — I realize that, like the Sack of Rome, the tragedy of 9/11 marks a cultural watershed: it’s as if our frenetic quest to document our lives through digital images and information began after September 2001 (in the same way that art historians and literary scholars point to the Sack of Rome as a cultural turning point, when there was an overarching shift in our self-awareness).

And so I dug up some old photos and fliers from my pre-9/11 world when my band (above) was still called Les Sans Culottes (today Nous Non Plus).

Back then, we played at The Greatest Bar on Earth nearly once a month.

Remember the World Famous Pontani Sisters? We did a lot of shows there together, with the Pontanis on stage with us. “Wear go-go boots and a miniskirt and get in free!” That pretty much sums up the spirit of those days in New York. We played some wild shows back then.

Those were wild, fun years in my life, when I was still in my early thirties and had moved to NYC just a few years previously. Back then, my day gig was writing about wine for La Cucina Italiana. The band played roughly 50 gigs a year in NYC, where we had a great following. It was a super fun time (look at the other bands that were playing the Bowery Ballroom, above, where we often were the headliners). Seems like a lifetime ago now. It was…

On my September 11, I awoke in Brooklyn and learned that something had happened — although I didn’t know yet what — when I called a colleague in TriBeCa to confirm a 9 a.m. morning meeting. I didn’t have a TV back then. And so I tuned in NPR on WNYC on my Mac over the internet. As soon as what was happening sunk in, I picked up the phone and called my mother who was still sleeping in California, three hours behind NYC time.

“Mom, sorry to wake you.”

“That’s okay, honey.”

“Something’s happened in New York. Something bad. I’m not going to be able to call you later. But I’m calling to let you know that I’m okay.”

“Okay, honey. Thanks for calling.”

She hung up and fell back asleep. The whole world had changed.

By the end of the day, singed shards of paper, business documents, rained gently down on my neighborhood in Park Slope, fluttering as they fell back to earth. I’ll never forget that image.

I was very lucky that I didn’t head into the city that day. I would have been on the 2 or 3 train, passing under the WTC.

G-d bless all the people who suffered and lost and gave their lives that day.

Boudreaux’s Butt Paste and Boudain Shopping in Port Arthur, Texas

Here in Texas, everyone says that Boudreaux’s Butt Paste is the best. We’re only 6 months pregnant but we’ll be stocking up on butt paste pretty soon.

Crawfish boudain: if that ain’t country, I’ll kiss your ass.

Pork boudain. We also got some smoked boudain and some green onion pork sausage.

Folks around here are serious about their seasonings.

Impulse buy at checkout.

Nick’s Grocery: HIGHLY RECOMMENDED.

I fall in love again every time…

…I point my camera at her.

…even when it’s over sausage and sauer kraut kolaches at Hruška’s on Texas Hwy. 71.

Mamma and Baby P are healthy and happy and pregnancy cravings have evolved into “snack attacks” (as they are called in Parzen parlance) and Tracie P is more beautiful than ever.

I just keep falling in love over and over again…

Soave and summer farro salad make a bleak world seem brighter

Tracie P really outdid herself yesterday night for our dinner, making a gorgeous summer farro salad with fresh and lightly blanched vegetables and fruits and hard-boiled egg. It’s a good thing she did because by the time dinner rolled around at our house, I was depressed.

After reading the dismal news about Italy, the economy, the fall of Western Civilization, and the riots and looting in London (one of my favorite cities on earth), I couldn’t help but think about the last market crash in 2008 and the days that followed the tragedy of the Twin Towers in 2001. Those were tough times for the wine (and restaurant) industry and I hope they are not returning in the wake of the current crisis.

But as Tracie P reminded me, no matter what happens, we’ll have each other and we’ll have Baby P when she arrives later this year. And for the first time in my life, as bleak as the world seems right now, my anxiety about the future is assuaged by Tracie P’s wonderful smile and her warm embrace — and a little girl growing inside her.

And as bad as things may look, we all found joy and solace in some of the simplest pleasure in life: a bright summer dish and a bright, fresh bottling of Garganega by Suavia.

We were also joined last night by Alfonso, who was in Austin on business. And it was great to be together, just the three four of us…

After dinner, we settled into the living room and watched Pasolini’s Decameron on Netflix streaming. And I think all of us thanked our lucky stars for the small pleasures that life delivers…

Here’s one of the most beautiful sequences from the film… Buona visione

BBQ Capital of Texas THE WORLD: Lockhart

To call Lockhart, Texas the bbq capital of the world is simply insufficient in describing its role in the gastronomic state of world bbq affairs.

Lockhart is a true Mecca — by antonomasia — the ultimate and supreme destination for bbq, where the German-Texan tradition of dry rub smoked meats has not only been institutionalized but has become a true religion.

And Kreuz Market is the bbq religion’s pontiff and its most pure expression: no forks, no napkins… just butcher paper, paper towels on the tables, and plastic knives to cut through the tender bounty and plastic spoons for the sides. And most importantly: no sauce… Housemade hot sauce (in the style of Tabasco, to give you the idea) is sufficient to add the desired kick to this perfectly seasoned meat.

That’s cousin Ben in the photo above. He, cousin Marc, Marc’s children cousins Jessica and Jacob, Cousin Marty and I headed down to Lockhart early yesterday morning for a ‘cue crawl.

We did also make it to Black’s, where cousin Jessica took this excellent photo of the signature beef rib using my camera.

There are three destinations for bbq in Lockhart — Black’s, Kreuz, and Smitty’s. They are highly competitive, steeped in familial rivalry and intrigue, and each with its own particular and peculiar nuances and idiosyncratic signatures.

One man’s poison is another man’s meat. However much the families of Lockhart feud and vie with one another to claim the title of best in a village of champions, our family was surrounded by other happy families who come together everyday united by a common cause — great food…

Buona domenica, yall!

A first-kiss wine…

From the department of “somehow, some way, I just keep on getting to drink funky-assed wines like every single day”…

The incipit of last night’s flight — the overture, the prologue — was a deceivingly humble bottle of 1997 Bourgogne blanc by Leroy. Friend and collector Michael Byington (environmental consultant by day) was in Austin on business and we met up at the happy hour at Trio (half-priced by the glass, appetizer menu, and free valet parking!). While I had brought a bottle to share as well, ubi major, minor cessat: his flight was so impressive that I tucked mine in my wine bag and just stuck around and enjoyed the incredible ride.

Not only did the Leroy reward us with nuanced dried fruit and chalky minerality, vibrant acidity and a slight unctuous mouthefeel that made it pair brilliantly with the steak tartare (ingeniously served with kren by chef Todd Duplechan)…

It also brought to mind a special moment in my love affair with Tracie P: nearly three years ago, when we were still in a long-distance romance, I brought a bottle of 1997 Leroy in my checked baggage to Austin. Then, the glow of our new love was wrapped around us tightly (and still is as Tracie P carries la piccola Parzen, as at least one friend on the Facebook called her), and every wine we tasted together was a new adventure. The 97 Leroy was perhaps the first “intellectual” bottle we shared and an unforgettable moment when our palates came together like lovers floating in a painting by Chagall. As soon as the wine touched my lips, I was transported to that moment and could see Tracie P before me, her blue eyes twinkling, her golden hair shining, and her lips inviting me to taste… Aroma and flavor have such remarkably potent mnemonic power… And this wine was a window onto one of the happiest and most thrilling moments of my life.

Michael had generously reached deep into his cellar before traveling down to Austin… Next, we opened a bottle of 1998 La Bernardine by Chapoutier. Crunchy red earth, chewy flavors of game and underbrush, ripe red fruit…

The 1990 Château Pavie was in fantastic shape… I couldn’t help but think of what Houston wine writer Dale Robertson had said to me the night before: to drink a wine too old can be a felony, but to drink too young is only a misdemeanor.

Bright, red and berry fruit, ethereal sand and pebbles, a powerful lightness and delicate muscularity. (Does anyone recognize the Petrarchan themes in this post?)

We made it an early night because I wanted to get home to Tracie P. Michael insisted that I take the last glass of the Leroy home. We tasted it together once I arrived… and we floated like lovers in a painting by Chagall…