MIKE ERRICO HOLIDAY SHOW

Thursday, December 17, 2009
Joe's Pub
425 Lafayette St., NYC, NY
9:30 PM || $20
Tickets: 212-967-7555 or click here to order online.
Dinner Reservations: 212-539-8778

Directions: Click here.

A highlight of Errico's touring calendar, the annual Holiday Show returns to Joe's Pub, featuring favorites from across his discography as well as new and unreleased material. In keeping with a long-standing Holiday Show tradition, Mike will distribute gifts, known to the loyal as "Holiday Omens," to the audience. Recipients will be invited to interpret the Omens' personal significance in the coming year. Hilarious, poignant or cautionary, the Omens have proven to be alarmingly accurate.

"The Holiday Show is my favorite--it allows me to connect with my fans, many whom have been with me for a long time," Mike says. "Not only do I get to reach back for some older material, but I've really enjoyed rolling out new stuff, and of course, there's nothing more gratifying than playing a song and hearing people singing along."

NEW VIDEOS

"Everybody Knows"
Unreleased track, recorded live at the Zipper Theater, NYC, Dec. 16, 2008
Link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GWOJntxFs88

Mike Errico covering "Lights," by Journey
Filmed live at the Floating House Concert, Sausalito, CA, Aug. 27, 2009
Link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z-n3KSxd8SM

See all videos at the official Mike Errico YouTube channel: http://www.youtube.com/Tallboy7Vids

MUSIC

Download and share, or click TWEET to automatically post on Twitter:

Count to Ten - Unreleased, co-written with Angie Pollock

1000 Miles - Unreleased solo arrangement

TALLBOY 8 - The next entry in Mike's "Tallboy" series, Tallboy 8 is a collection of seven live recordings selected from two sold-out Holiday Shows at Joe's Pub, NYC (12/17/07) and made available as a sincere thank-you to fans for years of continued support.

Ever Since - Original home demo

1000 Miles - Album version, from Pictures of the Big Vacation

Daylight (Remix) - Unavailable on CD

STORIES

The Heckle
"The gas station attendant, college-aged with oily black fingertips, looked up from the pump. 'You know, that's where Cindy Crawford went to school.' He raised his eyebrows, implying that perhaps less meteoric, slightly irregular beauties might still be wandering the campus..."(read more)

Surprise
"A woman's voice began leaving a message. 'Um, hi, is this Mike Errico? The musician? I hope so. Anyway, if it is, my name is Olga Terlman, and I'd like to talk to you about hiring you for a private party…'"(read more)

Light Show
"He looked at the guitars, then at me and growled, 'You in a rock band?' I looked around. 'Uh, yeah.' He flicked his cigarette and walked around the back of his pickup. I thought, this is a strange way to die..." (read more)

ON THE WEB

Mike Errico official site: http://www.errico.com

Available at: The Official Mike Errico Store || iTunes || Emusic.com

Also at: Facebook || Twitter || MySpace || Last.fm || Pandora || ILike || MOG

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our Light, not our Darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightening about shrinking so that other people won't feel unsure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It is not just in some of us; it is in everyone. As we let our own Light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.   -- Marianne Williamson

Gettin pwned sux

http://xayni.com/sA85r.html

By Mike Errico

I leaned out the driver-side window and asked for directions to Northwestern University. The gas station attendant, a college-aged guy with oily black fingertips, looked up from the pump.

"You know, that's where Cindy Crawford went to school." He raised his eyebrows, implying that perhaps less meteoric, slightly irregular beauties might still be wandering the campus.

"Really. What did she study there?"

He stared at me. "I don't know. I heard she quit after first quarter." He slowed down, as if to ease a language barrier. "To be a model."

* * * * * *

I followed the arrows under a sidewalk-chalked announcement, with my name misspelled, to the Student Activities Center. The sky threatened snow, and winter trees scratched at it with leafless limbs. I was tired and smelled bad. Sweat had dried in white salt trails that sloped along my black shirt and jeans.

A squat, sparkly blonde trotted towards me, holding her hand out with a cheerleader's precision.

"Hi! I'm going to have to go, but it's great to see you. Welcome! The stage is through those doors, past the McDonald's. Starbucks is free to twenty dollars. Here's your check. OK? OK. I have to go now. Have a great show!"

"Thanks," I said, to her back. A disheveled student walked past me with a bent penis drawn on his forehead in black Magic Marker.

A raised, semi-circular stage was tucked into a pin-lit side room of the Activities Center. Students were scattered at tables, their textbooks open to blocks of highlighted paragraphs. A local soundman sucked on a toothpick and nodded at me.

On stage, the spotlights were hospital-white and blinding, meant for lectures. I winced like a soft creature pried from the shell of its truck for the purposes of study. An exit sign over the back door outlined bodies in urgent red.

I adjusted the mic stand, rested my left leg on my volume pedal, and bent my right slightly, as if preparing to pounce. This had become my stance, arrived at unconsciously, like a baseball player in the batter's box. Recent shows burned in my quadriceps and back, and I realized that I'm only happy when I'm sore.

The guitar strings were right where I liked them, without the treble-sting of a fresh pair, but still a show or two away from dulling. My groove had deepened from the repetition of touring, and my hands slid confidently into chord shapes. The small screws holding the guitar's electronics in place had corroded like boat hardware from sweat dripping off my face, and I daydreamed about sailing on a clear day, with bright sun flashing off the Long Island Sound, the pull of steady wind and the lap of waves against the wooden hull. My voice was warm, and I played with it. Curious people wandered in.

Fall through the water
The hole in the water
Fall through the water
Into the cool green
Of a brand new dream

I improvised a vocal lick, but before deciding if I liked it, I heard it sung back to the stage in a harsh, mocking baritone. The room became unsettled.

I began an upbeat, accessible song to feel the audience out. During breaths in between melody lines, the previous line was parroted sarcastically back at me. I let it go, figuring that an ignored child eventually stops ranting, but with every song, the heckler grew bolder. A friend joined him, adding a jagged harmony line and yodels that cracked randomly from low tenor to soprano. It was playground-savage, like bullies taunting a weakling. Waa, waa waa, go cwy to your mohh-mmy.

I tried to size the two men by listening to the resonance in their bodies as they squalled along, now returning to choruses from previous songs while I tuned my guitar and teed up the next one. They sounded huge, and my mind sharpened as if I had just walked down the wrong dark alley. I was at every disadvantage. I had no team to back me up, and the persistent ache of that fact now bloomed into physical fear. I had an audience between us, but they were unreliable, like commuters deciding whether to rise up when a fight has broken out in a subway car. So far, no one had risen.

Meanwhile, my prized possessions were sitting on guitar stands behind me, two simple wooden boxes, calibrated to the millimeter with edges as thin as a quarter. I'd often wondered if they would survive me. I had a fragile mandolin that had been handed down to me. The owner, my great grandfather, was a player in Naples, Italy, and the instrument's fret board had scalloped under his fingers like an old marble staircase from years of folk songs. Rounded bands of wood along the body had separated like the slats of an abandoned barn, and I could see into the sound hole and straight through the instrument. It had been given to me with small ceremony, as if to contextualize me within the family. In return, I had placed my own eventual heirlooms onstage, undefended.

I'd never been in a fight. I didn't know how to fight, but I now prepared to learn on stage, in front of an audience. Even if I were to win, confrontation threatened loss in both missed performances and medical fees I would have to shoulder without health care. I wondered how I'd been so lucky for so long.

I finished the set at exactly the contracted length of time I was paid for, and as my sole act of revenge, left the guitar unmuted as I pulled the cord out, causing a loud electrical pop in the P.A. system that made the room flinch.

I put my guitar down on its stand, and heard chairs scrape against the floor. Two huge figures, silhouetted in the red of the exit sign, accelerated towards the stage and grew larger, the way sharks gain dimension as they rise to the surface of the water. A woman called out, terrified, "Cory, no! Paul! NO!"

I breathed heavily and balled my fists, unsure how to use them. The audience remained neutral. I stepped in front of my guitars.

"Please don't! Please!" the woman begged helplessly. The two men jumped onto the hollow stage platform with a deep, resonant thud and approached me, backlit, their faces in shadow. They were both well over six feet. I held off the urge to panic, and set my jaw.

They lumbered toward me with agitated footsteps, and suddenly flinched as if burned by the brightness of the spotlights on stage. Momentarily disoriented, they turned jerkily toward the audience, and I saw that they were both severely mentally disabled and smiling brightly. One began clapping while the other held out his hand to shake mine.

"P-p-p-retty voice, mister. You are a p-p-pretty voice."

They reached for me. We embraced.

The woman hopped noisily on stage and corralled them. "Cory, I told you to sit!"

"I know, but…so pretty music, Miss Debbie. I can't halp it!"

The guitars rattled on their stands as the four of us navigated the small stage.

"What do you say?"

They recited in sheepish unison, "So-r-r-ry."

Miss Debbie turned to me. "We apologize if we were a little loud in the back. Cory does like to sing along. Thank you for being so understanding. They also want to buy your CDs. Right, guys?"

"Y-y-ess. Pretty voice." Paul pulled at the crotch of his pants.

They smiled without filter and blinked directly into the spotlights, baffled by the joy and pain it brought simultaneously.

"We heard you from the dining hall," Miss Debbie said, "and they just wouldn't have it any other way. They had to see you sing."

"Ah, well," I said, slowly recovering.

I grabbed three CDs I'd stacked along the edge of the stage by my mailing-list binder.

"Please, you don't have to pay for these."

"Oh, we won't hear of it. And we'd like your autograph, too. Wouldn't we, guys?" Miss Debbie pulled Cory away from my guitars by his belt loop. She handed me cash.

"Keep the change. Really."

She had a sad smile that seemed rescued from tragedy. Her lips curled upwards willfully, as if retrained.

"Thanks," I said. "For what you do, I mean. It's important work."

"Oh," she brushed off the sudden attention. "Thank you. What you do is important. You heard them. They loved it." She patted Cory and Paul on the shoulder. "C'mon, you two crooners. Let's go home and listen to some pretty singing."

"Pretty!"

Miss Debbie shepherded Cory and Paul out into the Students Center, all three singing abstractions of my melodies as they passed by the McDonald's. I sat down on the edge of the stage, gazing at the remaining students, engrossed again in their highlighted textbooks. The soundman had disappeared.

Mike Errico official site: http://www.errico.com

Available at: The Official Mike Errico Store || iTunes || Emusic.com

Also at: Facebook || Twitter || MySpace || Imeem || Last.fm || Pandora || ILike || MOG

Oh, man, I used to love these guys!

Thanks to those who made it last night, or watched the live stream of the show. It was all as crazy as it looked, until the NYPD showed up and shut it down.

I just wish New Yorkers understood Bloody Marys the way they do in New Orleans.

Oh well.

November 11, 2009
Arlene's Grocery
95 Stanton St, NYC, NY
7:00 PM || $8
w/The Sketches
info: (212) 358-1633

Photos from last Moonwork show, w/ Jim Gaffigan, Aasif Mandvi, Tom Shillue, Claudia Cogan, Leo Allen (credit: Anya Garrett)

CLICK HERE

Apparently, the eagerly-awaited collaboration between Dave Grohl (Nirvana, Foo Fighters), Josh Homme (Queens of the Stone Age, Eagles of Death Metal) and John Paul Jones (Led Zeppelin, and... friggin' Led Zeppelin) has leaked onto the Internetz. In response, the band is streaming the entire thing on YouTube. So, if you are as curious as I was about what these three warhorses would sound like chained to one another, well, here ya go.

Listen: http://www.youtube.com/user/themcrookedvultures?blend=1&ob=4

The self-titled debut will officially release on November 17th and one track, "Mind Eraser, No Chaser," is now available as a free iTunes download.

PRESS RELEASE:

In response to the leak of Them Crooked Vultures' album, the band has made the unprecedented decision to stream the record in its entirety beginning with first track "No One Loves Me & Neither Do I" http://bit.ly/stream_tcv

Them Crooked Vultures' self-titled debut album is due out November 17 in the United States and Canada on DGC/Interscope Records. Its release has been preceded by first single "New Fang" currently streaming at http://www.myspace.com/crookedvultures and "Mind Eraser, No Chaser" now available as a free iTunes download. Them Crooked Vultures recently announced its first ever shows in California and the Pacific Northwest: November 17 at the Wiltern Theater in Los Angeles, November 19 at the Fox Theater in Oakland, November 21 at the Paramount Theater in Seattle, and November 22 at the Roseland Theater in Portland.The dates expand an itinerary that already includes a December tour of the UK and Europe and January dates in Australia and New Zealand.

Mike Errico official site: http://www.errico.com

Also at: Facebook || Twitter || MySpace || Imeem ||  ILike || MOG

2009 MIKE ERRICO HOLIDAY SHOW

Thursday, December 17, 2009
Joe's Pub
425 Lafayette St., NYC, NY
9:30 PM || $20
Tickets: 212-967-7555 or click here to order online.
Dinner Reservations: 212-539-8778

Directions: Click here.

A highlight of Errico's touring calendar, the annual Holiday Show returns to Joe's Pub, featuring favorites from across his discography as well as new and unreleased material. In keeping with a long-standing Holiday Show tradition, Mike will distribute gifts, known to the loyal as "Holiday Omens," to the audience. Recipients will be invited to interpret the Omens' personal significance in the coming year. Hilarious, poignant or cautionary, the Omens have proven to be alarmingly accurate.

"The Holiday Show is my favorite--it allows me to connect with my fans, many whom have been with me for a long time," Mike says. "Not only do I get to reach back for some older material, but I've really enjoyed rolling out new stuff, and of course, there's nothing more gratifying than playing a song and hearing people singing along."

On the Web:

Facebook || Twitter || MySpace || Imeem || Last.fm || Pandora || ILike || MOG

Busted.
 

Mike Errico official site: http://www.errico.com

Also at: Facebook || Twitter || MySpace || Imeem || Last.fm || Pandora || ILike || MOG