Bob Gaulke

I took a songwriting workshop with Martin Briley, a man who knows his way around a tune (“Salt in My Tears”). He stressed the importance of the vocal melody, citing I recall, a figure of 90% as a quantifiable amount of importance it has to the success of a tune. I wouldn’t really argue with that, thinking of all the earworms that have borrowed through my skull over the decades (If there’s a heaven, do we get that time back?).

I come from another planet; “Troubadour” where sense often takes precedence over sound in their eternal struggle. Things build up in me like static and can discharge at any time, often not even waiting for the killer melody to strike.

I got to write it out. When I’m feeling lonely, I post it. A bit of a focus group exercise on FaceCrack. For the last two years, Kiwi musician Andrew McLennan has been stalking my verse, sending me audio clips of him putting them to chords with …really strong melodies.

He knows how to work his voice. He knows how to work a melody. My words come back to me in new clothes, shaved, cologned, and ready to hit the town. I mostly don’t recognize them; they become ex-girlfriends after makeovers or cousins on my mom’s side of the family. 

Anyways, Andrew has a dream to come to see NYC. Hard to believe this thing I put on when I open the door has his attention, but I guess his place holds the same attraction for me. I meet the guy at the airport. I take him to my place. The night begins. He with guitar. Me with pen. It’s awkward to start. I feel at times he’s normalizing my stuff too much, but that’s the difference between youth and decades of failure. One learns to keep it in the holster.

An approach/process is created. He rounds out the rough edges. He shines. He cuts. He adds. He buffs. He polishes. Is it plastic surgery or engineering-it changes from case to case, but when he’s done, they sound like they’re his. He assures me they’re also mine. I squint and I see a resemblance. It’s nothing he would write. It’s nothing I would write.

Does it work? He sings in full head voice. He strums confidently. Almost everything is mid to fast tempo, reflecting the urgency and transience of two middle aged dudes in a Bronx night. Will it blend? F#ck around and Find out. 

With Covid still circulating, I wouldn’t blame you either if you weren’t too enthused about being in a crowded room of strangers just to hear some local music. 

Over the winter, I thought I’d write a short set that wouldn’t need much in the way of accompaniment that could give an audience a bit of what I’m about. I wound up writing 30 to get eight to fit together. I don’t know how far the carpentry analogy goes, but I definitely felt like I was putting song pieces together and looking for an overall fit in terms of moods, tone, subject matter, and style. As always, the biggest challenge is searching for the light in dark times and balancing the fluff with the meat. You’ll have to tell me if I succeeded. 

Recording acoustic guitar well in a noisy apartment’s not my thing and as I always try to use new voicings and modulations, you’ll have to forgive me if it took a bit of trickery to get these takes. I did practice my butt off a bit, and (mostly) these were done in short order. I hope to play them at some point at a coffee shop or club near you. 

“May I please have your attention?” is something as a teacher I say at least a dozen times a day. As an artist, it’s a constant question. 

June 26th (one last day of school before summer break), 2022.

-"Ohmyfatherfatherfather" from Obsessives (2019)

Pardon the narcissist, quoting himself. I wrote that a few years back for a song honoring my father’s passing. I still feel it, now that I’m twenty-seven times two. I feel relatively healthy most days, except for the obvious depression at the state of the world, but as I said then, “the rocknroll keeps me hallucinating”. 

As I mentioned in a previous post, I’ve got this little problem in that I’ve written and recorded more than forty unreleased albums. And I want them to exist. I’m no Prince; don’t ask me to play a solo. But I write. And I’ve written daily for years. I’ve got energy, a public school teacher’s salary, no car or children that I know of, and a modest belief in the quality of the work I’ve made. 

So, forgive me if I’m about to launch a very deluxe sort of pathetic cry for help. Martin Scian, the brilliant mixing engineer is willing to cut me a deal. The plan is to release one of these babies every month for the foreseeable future. There are some neat collaborations with some well-known names and lots of other weird things. What’s the goal? Just to raise my profile enough where I could conceivably tour on my vacations from work and maybe eventually break even. 

OK, so mini-albums for everyone. Starting now. 

Bob Gaulke 

May 8, 2022

(Photo: Jardim Botannico, Curitiba. By Fernanda Burgath)