I’m writing to you in this eleventh hour out of desperation. I would like to call a matter of great importance to your attention. My name is Jason and I am a fan of your music. Furthermore, I am a huge Heavy Metal fan. Although technically, I wouldn’t consider your works to be of that genre, I am borrowing, if not counting on your Hard Rock prowess for a particular reason. 

Let me explain.  I have two daughters. The eldest being seven years of age. She loves music. Albeit shitty, bubble gum, pop music, it is music nonetheless. This brings me to my point and in turn your mission.

I need her to like Heavy Metal. It’s not that I want her to like it. I literally need her to like it. It is such an intricate part of my DNA that it would be virtually impossible for me to live with her if she doesn’t find a substantial appreciation for it. Her Mother (My Wife) pretty much hates it, which makes it difficult for me to partake. Because there are four of us in the house, it is basically a numbers game. I need to tip the scale in my favor so to speak.

This is where you come in. I am using you and your melodic rock stylings as a musical conduit between my eldest spawn and Heavy Metal. I understand this is a tremendous bit of responsibility to heap onto you so late in the game but my plan must work. It has to work.

I’ve respected you since American Idol. Your rendition of Lionel Richie’s “Hello” was awe inspiring. Oh shit. Wait. Was that David Cook? Dammit. I have made a terrible mistake. This is not good. Fuck. Did you lose to Taylor Hicks that year? God Dammit. OK. I still need you to hook me up.

I’m coming to you in my darkest hour. I ask that you please try and muster your most worthy performance. In other words, please don’t suck it tonight. If you fail, may Jonas Brothers CD’s rain down upon you for all eternity.

Thank you for your immediate attention in this urgent matter.

Sincerely,

Jason

P.S. Don’t play that “Home” song. She hates it. It will fuck up everything.

Post Show…

Well done my friend. I think we got her…

outnumbered

B.Y.O.K.(tm) (Bring Your Own Kid): Family friendly music has progressed way beyond sing-alongs and clapping-the new generation of performers is out to rock your wee ones silly and keep you entertained in the process.  The 92YTribeca is offering a different tushy-kicking performance every Sunday at 11am through May!

For honestbaby readers if you put in the code: HONE at the time of purchase – it’s Buy One Get One Free!

Francis England is a new voice out of San Francisco, and her debut album Fascinating Creatures blends folk and indie influences to create a children’s album that the whole family can enjoy. If there was ever a Lilith Fair for 5 year olds, Frances England should be the headline act. The singer-songwriter brings a little bit of Sarah McLachlan and a little bit of Norah Jones, yet manages to create a sound that is distinctly her own. And while the songs may be about tricycles and picture books, England’s airy voice and sophisticated songwriting have definite adult appeal.

Where:  92YTribeca, 200 Hudson Street, New York, NY
When: Sunday, May 2, 2010
Price: $15.00

Put in the code: HONE for Buy One Get One Free!

Click here to buy your tickets!

Enter for a chance to win 2 tickets to a 92YTribeca family music event and a CD from a family music featured artist!

(We are giving away 8 tickets total.)

* Indicates required information

We both love to sing and perform.

For her 5th birthday, I bought her a microphone and an amplifier. She uses it all the time. We have guitars in the house, a piano, keyboards and all sorts of musical influences, that serve as a constant source of inspiration and encouragement.

The only thing that’s been slightly disappointing for me, from a selfish standpoint, is that our tastes in music seem to differ quite a lot.

I grew up loving all things Heavy Metal; Manowar, Scorpions, Metallica, Queensryche and anything else I was able to bang my head to. As I grew older, my musical tastes continued to expand.

Now, I can tolerate most anything, with the exception of all the crap that she likes; Hannah Montana, Ashley Tisdale, Jonas Brothers, Vanessa Hudgens and whatever else she blasts from that shitty, little CD / Clock Radio we put in her bedroom.

It’s as if Lucifer himself had a megaphone, standing at a podium of evil, spewing sounds of retched, demons, writhing about in agony, in a pit of fiery despair. Not coincidentally, these demons are all employed by Disney.

Sometimes, I feel like I’m just getting old and it’s a part of my transformation into a crotchety, old bag. All parents are meant to feel like their kid’s music is too loud and far inferior to what they grew up listening to. Right? My parents probably drove my grandparents crazy listening to the Beatles and Elvis. I drove them crazy listening to Manowar and Kiss. Now my kids will inevitably push me to the brink of insanity by wearing out the High School Musical 3 Soundtrack.

But in the grand scheme of things, it will become painfully obvious that The Beatles, Manowar and Zack Effron were all genius lyricists and musical trendsetters. What a sweet moment of irony that will be for some Musical Historian / Psychotherapist. Until then, it’s just a hideous cycle of doom.

Recently, I came up with a plan.

It’s actually quite brilliant in its simplicity, if not diabolical in its intent.

I came up with a way to trick my children into liking my music.

All I did was make them think that it was their choice.

You see, I have about 1000 old cd’s that are sitting in my basement. I haven’t touched them since I ripped them all to my Ipod. They’re all shelved neatly, in alphabetical order, in one of those gargantuan, black, faux wood, lazy susan style, cd racks. Remember those? My wife and I decorated our entire first apartment around that fucking monstrosity.

I’m sure those hideous pieces of functional furniture, were the sole motivation for Steve Jobs and his team of developers, when they were working countless hours, designing the prototype for the first Ipods.

Anyway, my kids are always asking me about those CD’s and they are constantly asking for my permission to play with them. I always say no, because it only leads to a giant mess for me to clean up.

That just makes them want it more.

But what if I were to find a way to control the mess?

What if I were able channel their curiosity and harness it for the greater good of me? It sounds like molecular science but it’s not.

It can be done.

It has been done.

THE PLAN

One night last week when I was getting my 7 year old ready for bed, as always, she asked me to put on some candy ass, demon music, for her to fall asleep to.

I said, “What would you like to hear baby?”

She said, “Can I listen to Corbin Bleu?”

I said, “Absolutely not. That’s not sleepy music. That’s shit for brains, dance music, sweetheart.”

OK, maybe I didn’t exactly say that but it’s what I was thinking.

But I did offer this suggestion…

“How about we go downstairs and I’ll let you pick out one new CD from Daddy’s CD rack?”

She sat straight up in bed.

“REALLY? I can pick out any CD I want?”

Knowing I have her right where I want her…

“Absolutely. Any CD you want.”

And that’s exactly what she did.

We spent about 15 minutes going through my collection, discussing all the different types of music there was to choose from, which ones were my favorite and what singers were alive or dead. She has some sort of obsession with dead artists and she thinks Janis Joplin is ugly. Who am I to disagree?

The amazing thing is that after all these years of trying to push my music on her, in the car or in the house, it finally came down to this. I gave her the opportunity to choose. Of course, it was a controlled group of selected material but it was a fair choice nonetheless.

Now every night, we go downstairs and spin the huge, black tower of ancient song. Round and round and round she goes. Where she stops, nobody knows.

INDIGO GIRLS – Strange Fire

OK, so it’s not a perfect system but it sure beats being Out-Numbered by Lucifer and his band of Disney Demons…

Another unsettling thing is that my daughter has her own CD collection. And the children’s music on these CD’s is filled with political ideology–I finally found the song she was looking for, and this is how it went.

Hey na-na, hey na-na. Hey na-na, hey na.
The Earth is our Mother,
We must take care of Her.
The Earth is our Mother.
We must take care of Her…

She’s two. Can you at least wait until she is five to indoctrinate her into the Democratic party? I know she’s headed that way–she is growing up in New York City. Just relax a little–you’ll get her in time.

I want to give her a little balance. My Manhattan born friends are all racked with insecurities and neurosis. I grew up in a very conservative home, and I turned out fine–perhaps there is something to that.

If you’ve ever read any parenting blogs or magazines, you’ve probably read about “helicopter parents”, parents who are constantly hovering over their children, trying to make sure their world is free from all danger and stress. I don’t want to be a helicopter parent. I see them everywhere–like the parents in Central Park. “Honey, watch out! The grass–it’s sharp!” That’s right. Sharp grass.

My mother used to tie me to a tree in the backyard. That way, I could play outside unsupervised. I would run around in a 15-foot circumference to the tree like a dog. I usually stayed taught at the end of the rope, but sometimes I would run around and around, eventually coiling myself tightly to the tree. I’m lucky there were no large birds-of-prey in Massachusetts–with the rope strung tightly around me I probably looked like one of those roulade roasts Alton Brown prepares on the Food Network. Eventually, a passerby would happen upon me and help me unwind. One day, my mother decided to let me off the leash. Her only instruction: “Don’t go in the street.” For a while, I went right back to the half moon shaped trench I had worn out in front of the tree, where I felt most at home. Then at some point I broke out on my own, completely forgetting my mothers dictate.

My mother came out on the porch when she heard a car horn honking. I was sitting in the middle of the street, there was a big Chrysler in front of me, and the driver was leaning out the window making a “shoo!” gesture with his hands. This apparently callous behavior by the driver was entirely unremarkable–it was the 1970’s and children were by and large seen as pests, not America’s most precious resource. As my mother tells it, upon seeing her, I walked up on the porch where she was standing arms akimbo in the doorway, and passed by her into the house. I returned moments later with the rope and harness and handed it to her.

My mother likes to tell this story, with that image of me handing back my leash as the punch line, an example of my precocious nature. But as a parent now, I think the more illuminating part of the story is the earlier part–in the setup. In taking me off the leash, my mother was willing to role the dice, and see if I lived to tell about it. You can hardly accuse her of being a helicopter. But there was a lesson to be learned: I would not again go in the street.

What if the experiment did not end well? What if my mother stepped outside to find me lying on the road with a Michelin tire tread across my forehead? What then? Well, there would be a silk purse from that sow’s ear as well: she had five kids, and the other four would learn a valuable lesson. You can bet that at my funeral, as my little casket was being lowered into the earth, my mother would turn to my brothers and sisters and say, “Do you see what happens when you go out in the street?”

Bottom line is, this non-interventionist method worked. I turned out fine, as did my siblings. I would like to emulate my parents today, but I can’t completely resist the culture at large–after all, this is a world in which gangly pre-teens still have to ride in car seats. (Have you seen these Baby Hughey-like monsters, riding down the highway strapped into a tiny booster, playing Doom on their Sony PSP? The boy has five o’clock shadow–let him use a seatbelt.)

So I put the song on the CD, and even sang along with it, doing the hand gestures with my daughter.

Hey na-na, hey na-na. Hey na-na, hey na.
The Earth is our Mother,
We must take care of Her.
The Earth is our Mother.
We must take care of Her…

But I want to give her an alternative to the indoctrination. I know she’s not going to be raised as I was, but I want to make sure she gets a little balance in her life. So I wrote this, and I read it to her before she goes to bed.

Dear Agnes,
The Earth is not your real mother. Mommy is. You know Mommy… she’s the one who feeds you, and gets you dressed, and cleans up your throw up? If you vomit on Mother Earth, it just sits there.

Mother Earth is also completely indifferent to your suffering. Just imagine if you were alone in the woods, and you came upon a Hyena. Would Mother Earth rise up between you and the hyena to protect you? No. Mother Earth would sit and watch as the hyena ate you. What about Mother Earth’s friends, The Trees? Would they be willing to help? No. They would stand idly by, their boughs blowing in the breeze, as if this were the most pleasant thing that they had ever seen. “Look–a little girl being devoured by a hyena… Sure is windy today.

But your real Mommy and Daddy won’t let that happen. That’s why we’re here. To protect you from her–Mother Nature. Just imagine if Daddy didn’t build a house on her to keep you safe? Or go out and hunt pheasant everyday to feed you? Or dig underground for fossil fuels to keep you warm? …None of which Daddy actually does–but he’s somewhere in the chain of command. Goodnight Moon.

So balance, I believe, is the key. Perhaps I’ll be able to strike a happy medium–go along with the rest of the world, but offer some resistance. I may not be constantly hovering in my helicopter, but I’ll be there. More like one of those golf cart security guards that do laps around the parking lot at the mall. I’ll keep a look out as best I can, and if I miss something, I’ll be around again in twenty minutes.

Afterbirth Stories

Click here to buy the book!

Driving in the car with my two daughters. My wife is at the Salon, again. We are on a mission. French Toast and Bacon at the Diner.

I have Black Sabbath playing in the CD player. I love Black Sabbath but it is obvious that my daughters do not share this passion with their Father.

Out-Numbered (Singing in Ozzy Falsetto)- “Nobody will ever let you know. When you ask the reasons why”

3 Yr Old – “You’re the best singer in the whole world Daddy.”

Out-Numbered – “Thank you sweetheart.” (Continue singing) “They just tell you that you’re on your own. Fill your head all full of lies…”

7 Yr Old – “No he’s not. He’s the worst singer in the whole world.”

Out-Numbered – “That’s not nice baby.” (Singing louder) “Where can you run to.
What more can you do. No more tomorrow. Life is killing you.”

3 Yr Old – “No. He’s the best singer!”

7 Yr Old – “No! He’s the worst singer and the person singing on the radio is even worse.”

Out-Numbered – “Now stop that! Ozzy is the best singer of all-time and I’m a very good singer too.”

(Making the radio louder and singing louder.)

Out-Numbered – “Dreams turn to nightmares. Heaven turns to hell. Burned out confusion. Nothing more to tell.”

7 Yr Old – “He’s terrible. He sounds like a girl and you can’t even understand what he’s saying.”

Out-Numbered – “Let me ask you a question. Does he sound like any other singer you’ve ever heard?”

7 Yr Old – “No. He’s annoying. Like you.”

Out-Numbered – “That’s my point.”

7 Yr Old – “What? That you’re annoying?”

Out-Numbered – “No, Dufus. That Ozzy is totally different than anybody else and that’s why he’s the greatest singer ever.”

(Making the radio even louder and singing even louder. Trying to be annoying.)

Out-Numbered – “Sabbath Bloody Sabbath. Nothing more to do.”

3 Yr Old – “I like OZBY, Daddy.”

7 Yr Old – “It’s OZZY dummy.”

(Screaming over the music)

3 Yr Old – “I’m not a dummy. You’re a dummy!”

7 Yr Old – “YOU ARE!”

3 Yr Old – “YOU ARE!!!”

Out-Numbered – (Singing) “Living just for dying. Dying just for you. Yeah!”

7 Yr Old – “I HATE YOU!”

3 Yr Old – “I HATE YOU!”

Out-Numbered – “I WILL PULL THIS CAR OVER RIGHT NOW!!! Just as soon as this song is over…”

(Turning it up one more notch…)

7 Yr Old & 3 Yr Old – (Screaming inaudibly behind a wall of Black Sabbath.)

I bet you Ozzy never felt Out-Numbered. He would have bit their little heads off…

Released on singer and band mastermind, Ashley Albert’s own Pluckypea Records, the collection features The Jimmies’ songs, music videos, a 45-minute live concert, karaoke sing-a-longs, a bonus live CD and a “Film 101” behind-the-scenes documentary on how the videos were made.  Trying Funny Stuff captures The Jimmies’ signature blend of sophisticated imagery, laugh-out-loud humor and subtle lessons (like how to sneeze into your arm, set a tadpole free and layer in the wintertime).

The Jimmies will make available nationally for the first time their Parents’ Choice and Oppenheim Toy Portfolio Award-winning debut CD, Make Your Own Someday. The critically acclaimed album—which was initially distributed out of Albert’s living room—garnered national visibility as it hit #1 twice on Sirius/XM Radio’s kids’ music chart and earned the band spots performing at Lollapalooza and Austin City Limits Festival in 2008.

It’s been three years since The Jimmies accidentally began, when someone tried to hire Albert’s non-existent kindie-rock band. Instead of coming clean, Albert tried her hand at songwriting and flew down to Miami to produce the album with her dad and uncle—veteran record producers, Howard and Ron Albert—at their studio, Audio Vision. She then returned to New York, found a band, started dreaming up videos with Trying Funny Stuff director/co-producer, Michael Slavens, bought a bubble gun and a groundhog puppet and never looked back.

FACEBOOK GIVEAWAY: Win your own Trying Funny Stuff DVD and bonus CD on the honestbaby fan page .  We will be giving away two copies this week!

Go to Disney’s Baby Einstein Website to find out how to get your money back, or trade in for a book or CD of your choice. We have no bone to pick with the Baby Einstein videos as entertainment, our kids loved them, but don’t love the deceptive advertising.  It’s nice that they’re making up for it.

I met up with a girlfriend of mine this past Thursday, a fellow mom with a toddler. In the course of catching up, she mentioned that DJ Lance Rock and Brobee from Noggin’s Yo Gabba Gabba! were to be at a show at 11:00am that Saturday at Riverside Park and 72nd Street in Manhattan.

Though I had known about it for some time, it would have been difficult and expensive. So my husband and I decided to pass. When that Tuesday arrived, I still felt the excitement in the air even though I didn’t get to go. I sat through a meeting that evening, wondering what song The Killers were playing on that perfect September day. The day afterwards, I quizzed a coworker who had gone (being the young, unattached guy he is, going to the show for him was easy), asking him which songs they opened and closed with and what he liked the best. All in all, I wished I could have been there.

I was immediately excited at the prospect of going. And then she mentioned it was free and I could no longer contain my excitement, causing several heads to turn at the adjacent tables of our restaurant. It was settled: I was going to take my two year-old daughter to see DJ Lance Rock, and she was going to flip.

I could barely sleep Friday night; I was brimming with so much excitement. By the time my alarm went off on Saturday morning, I was already awake. I went in to get my daughter, pulled her out of her crib and told her we were going to a party in the park to see DJ Lance Rock and Brobee. She beamed, and made me do the intro to Yo Gabba Gabba! about ten times. We got dressed and hurried out the door. We ate our egg sandwiches on the subway ride down to the park. I pushed the stroller with such force and zest that I took several pedestrians by storm. I smiled and apologized politely but deep down I didn’t care — I didn’t want my daughter to miss one minute of this show.

We arrived to an empty stage and tons of parents and kids surrounding it, anxiously waiting for the show to start. Luckily, I found some empty spectator benches a few feet back and set up camp. Then music started and suddenly, there he was: DJ Lance Rock live and in person … very tall, very thin and very orange. My daughter looked at him so intensely I think she forgot to smile. She was so focused she could have been summoning The Force, Jedi-style. DJ Lance danced all around the stage and did a number of great songs, and when Brobee joined him it made everything complete. I stood there holding my daughter in my arms, standing up on the top bleacher to make sure she could see everything. My arm burned to be relieved of the weight of her, but nothing could have made me put her down … I would have held her all day so she could catch every moment. Finally, when DJ Lance had to say goodbye, we waved and wished them well and they went on their way.

The joy I felt brought me to tears, and I had to stop myself from balling my eyes out in front of everyone. I was ecstatic… we had done it! I had managed to bring my daughter to this show at the last minute and she had seen DJ Lance Rock in person! She seriously adores this man so much; she barely talks about Elmo anymore. He is the superstar of her world at the moment, and we had seen him live together. I was filled with so much happiness and such a sense of accomplishment that I could offer her this special occasion — it was a true sense of euphoria I can still tap into when recalling this memory.

I don’t know if my girl really understood the difference between seeing DJ Lance Rock and Brobee in the park and seeing them “on Tee-Bee” as she calls it. But I do know that I she talked about seeing Yo Gabba Gabba! in the park for days afterwards. And I know the significance of it, and the joy I felt in giving her this concert experience. Although I had really hoped to see The Killers earlier in September, there was never a doubt in my mind that I would be anywhere but Riverside Park and 72nd Street at 11:00am last Saturday. As soon as I heard about Yo Gabba Gabba!, it was a given.

So, instead of waving a lighter in the air, my daughter and I waved our hands to “Wiggle Wiggle Wiggle Go!” And instead of asking The Killers question “Are we human, or are we dancer?” … I pumped my fist into the air to “Let’s Get The Sillies Out!” The truth is that I had a great time at the Yo Gabba Gabba! show too. I danced and sang and left there horse and happy-tired, just like I used to leave my rock concerts. I was buzzed from the music and had the lyrics in my head all day.

I don’t want to say goodbye to my rock concerts and I don’t think I have to completely. I will still squeeze them in from time to time, but I’ve realized that these shows for my daughter will also be in my life and make me just as happy, just in a completely different way. Perhaps music is music, and appreciating the experience of it is really what it’s all about. If so, rock on!

betterwaymoms

“a film of my favorite group rocking the famed Jalopy Theater here in Brooklyn while our craziest New York friends sing and dance with gusto. There’s also a bonus CD of four new late night recordings which I made in the cool of some recent summer evenings.”

Dan Zanes has always been interested in singing along with people, people everywhere. Which brings us to his mission, if you can call it a mission: Zanes is introducing his musical friends to his neighborhood friends and then showing everybody not just that they, yes, can play together but that they can also feel pretty good while doing so.

Retail price is $15.00.  Buy it now!

2. “I love you, you love me…” Actually ANYTHING that big purple blimp has to say makes me want to cut my veins with a very dull knife.

3. “The wheels on the bus”

4. “99 bottles…” Did anybody EVER sing this all the way till the end? If “yes”, how is the looney bin treating you?

5. “It’s small world after all”. This song should be in every David Lynch movie. Every. Single. One.

6. “If you’re happy and you know it”

7. “The sun will come out…tomorrow”

8. “mmm bop” There might be an unsolved homicide story in the 90s caused by this song.

9. “The chicken dance”. Only good at cooperate events when used as a blackmail tool later.

10. “I am a little tea pot”. They said “pot”. Hee hee hee.

Top10mama