Delicious Salads, Plaid Shirts, Brian Wilsons, and Bison

The first music I ever connected with, consciously, in my life, was The Beach Boys. I was in Elementary School at the time—perhaps 4th grade? Regardless, their music moved me in a way that I can’t quite capture in words. So, I showed my appreciation by making an arrangement of one of their songs.

As an adult, I can only marvel at the wonderment of Brian Wilson, and how marvelous it feels to sing something so gorgeous and perfectly crafted from top to bottom. Like nature: balanced and beautiful.

Last year, while I was on tour in Idaho/Wisconsin, I filmed a bison, as I was eating a salad by my car, in the Old Faithful parking lot of Yellowstone National Park. I posted it later that night to my Mike Vitale music page, and forgot about it.

I logged on a few days later, and was shocked to see that this silly bison video went viral. I received nearly one million views in the course of a few days. Comments. Lots of comments. Pretty wild. It seemed that most the activity around that video was fueled by vitriol… people telling me how stupid I was or how dumb the person in front of me was. You know. That sort of thing.

This video I shared with you now, doesn’t have any bison in it, as far as I can gather. It does feature me wearing a plaid shirt I regret buying.

However, I might be mistaken. Perhaps I could proclaim with some small amount of pride, that this video is in fact very much like a bison walking through a parking lot, towards a forest, only to be lost from the eyes and ears of human spectators once again, on its way to who knows where, for who knows what.

That would be whimsical—and perhaps that is the stuff that delicious salads, plaid shirts, Brian Wilsons, and bison even, are made of.

SOCIAL MEDIA

TOUR SCHEDULE

Mark Twain | A New Single August 18th 2023

Samuel Langhorne Clemens

My next single is being released on August 18th on this year of our Lord, 2023. It is probably the most convoluted story I have ever told—perhaps beside The Incredible Shrinking Brain—but we will save the later for a different day.

Mark Twain. It’s a brilliant pen name for Samuel Langhorne Clemens. It’s riverboat slang. It was also the pen name of another riverboat pilot who wrote for a Riverboat Almanac. Samuel Clemens stole the idea from him. He admits to this notion in his book entitled “Life on the Mississippi.”

Regardless, it is a brilliant pen name if you examine it for what it is and what it represents. Mark Twain is a measurement of depth. Sounding boats and sounding poles were used by those navigating the murky waters of a muddy river that we are all familiar with as American Citizens: the Mississippi River. It has no rocky foundation to its deepest depths. It is a muddy river. It constantly changes in depths and sizes naturally due to this proclivity endowed to rivers of such quality. However, because of this—it is dangerous. A riverboat can easily run ashore, or find the unwelcome sand of a shoal, if not constantly checking the depth of the river using sounding boats and sounding poles. This is where the notion of marks and numbers come from. These depths would be shouted by those using the sounding poles, to measure depth, to those listening for their instruction as they piloted the vessel.

The Mississippi River in Hannibal, Missouri

Mark Twain means two fathoms deep. It is the cut-off between dangerous and safe passage. Mark Twain is the shallowest depth in which a riverboat may pass without peril or hazard. Mark Twain is the convergence of safe and dangerous; it is the point in which these two opposing outcomes meet.

Moving forward with this as a title—I found a curious story regarding Samuel Langhorne Clemens and Halley’s Comet:

Halley's Comet appeared in the sky when Mark Twain was born in 1835. The comet moves in a seventy-five or seventy-six-year orbit, and, as it neared Earth once again in the year 1909, Twain said,

I came in with Halley's Comet... It is coming again ... and I expect to go out with it... The Almighty has said, no doubt: 'Now here are these two unaccountable freaks; they came in together, they must go out together.'

Hannibal, Missouri. Samuel Langhorne Clemen’s Childhood Home

Sure enough, he died on April 21, 1910, just as the comet made its next pass within sight of Earth.

I was born on April 21st 1979. That has no relevance to this story, and I’m sure it is quite coincidental.

This song, that I am releasing August 18th, tells the story of Halley’s Comet and our Sun. It also, can stand for something completely different. It can be representative. Metaphor. Hyperbolic. Whatever the case may be: I am proud of its words and music and to be releasing it as I hear it in my head. It is a tip of my hat to someone I admire and a love letter of sorts to a romantic idea. I can’t help but be carried away by the trade winds of whimsy. I prefer it, as I can’t imagine life without my creativity to put wind in my sails in the first place.

For you.

May we all be friends and find the beauty in one another, no matter how difficult or easy that proves to be, ultimately. Perhaps—perhaps there are intrinsic links that bind us all to one another, if not just within the matter which makes everything, the gravitational forces caused by mass and its manipulation of spacetime, and the loosely understood physics of such.

You can pre-save the song at this link:

PRE-SAVE LINK

SOCIAL MEDIA LINKS

UPCOMING TOUR DATES

Chattanooga, Tennessee Show August 6th at JMac's

Chattanooga, Tennessee Friends, I am back at JMac's this Sunday August 6th playing music I wrote at 7pm. It's a private show and tickets just went on sale today at this link for $10:

https://ticketstripe.com/Mike_Vitale_Aug_6

In case you don't remember me...

Short Bio:

Imaginary astronaut and singer/songwriter Mike Vitale has decided to punch holes in his own analogy to create stars as a backdrop for his latest inner-space journey DESERT DOGS—an album he is fullishly releasing, one single at a time, throughout 2023 and early 2024, in order to continually inundate both suspecting and unsuspecting bystanders with troubadourian exploits of waxing and waning pandemic meanderings, mental flatulence, stories—what have yous—carefully laid over predetermined blocks of music. What am I trying to say in third-person? Witness this monkey, playing music he wrote, with his imagination. Can I get a witness?

UPCOMING TOUR DATES

Who Is Mike Vitale?

Mike Vitale (Photo Courtesy of Monika Lightstone Photography)

I spent hours yesterday updating this website. Good golly, there is so much that needs to be updated. Who would have thoughts its such a busy job updating when you are busy updating simply creating and living life without talking about the fact that one is creating or living life? Here is my latest bio update. One more serious, and a second—less serious:

Mike Vitale is a singer-songwriter based out of Los Angeles, CA. He is currently out touring the United States in support of a full length album called φ: 12 new songs written by Vitale over the course of the past several years, as well as 11 new singles he is releasing over the course of 2023, that will eventually lead to a complete 12 song album called DESERT DOGS.

The third single from DESERT DOGS was released on May 27th 2023 and is entitled "Coyote." It's a tip of the hat to the great cowboy country writers of the 1940's and 1950’s, to Mark Twain (quite possibly one of the funniest people I have ever read), and to the end of a long pandemic—finally being able to appreciate the fact that I can tour again, and to count the many blessings of good health and the freedom to roam that which has never been explored by me. I am so very lucky. We are all so very lucky to live in such a beautiful country full of natural splendor.

The fourth single from this record is being released Friday July 7th. Capturing the feeling of deep attraction when seeing a beauty across the bar from the narrator, "Drunk on Your Mystique" is a summer vibe, frothing with the energy and excitement behind a crush on a total stranger. It's music and lyrics convey the Caribbean local and estuary of a port city where people are free to indulge in the fantasy and reverie of romantic whimsy. I plan to play this song all over the U.S. on my tour that starts this week and to promote on socials and playlists.

DESERT DOGS is immediately available as a BANDCAMP download to anyone who would like to contribute to Mike’s 2023 tours through his GoFundMe page: https://gofund.me/e6dcc0b9

LESS SERIOUS?

Mike Vitale is a Singer-Songwriter/producer/forward-slash enthusiast, based out of Los Angeles, CA. Eagle Rock to be precise (come by for a cup of coffee with him). When not preoccupied with speaking in third-person about music related stuff, he enjoys short walks on long beaches with his two border collies, Border and Collie. He is certain that this sentence is useless, but also doesn’t believe in absolutes. The dogs may or may not be fictional. All the other stuff is probably true, especially if it involves putting one word in front of another while simultaneously singing those words over-predetermined blocks of music. Totally his idea (don’t steal it).

TOUR DATES

What are Dreams?

My actual dreams. Yes, I have aspirations—and I am doing my very best to will those into existence: from thought to actuality. But I also dream, and I remember these dreams that I have at night while I sleep. I don’t always remember them, but I do quite often, especially when sleeping flat on my back, with my spine aligned.

I’ve been keeping a dream journal. I started journaling entries of my dream content sometime before the pandemic—it was around the time that I moved to Los Angeles. I think it has been one of the most profound experiences of my life trying to derive meaning from them.

I started reading a lot of Carl Gustav Jung last year, and with a bit of guidance in terms of his theories on how to interpret my own dreams, it has been incredible what I have found. Profound. It is changing my life as well as my outlook on it. I’d love to share some of these dreams with you at some point, in a one on one conversation. I have always enjoyed personal conversations with people. Perhaps I will have the privilege of getting to know you under those circumstances one of these days. In equal measure though, I am so busy with all my aspirations (ironically), that talking about my dreams one on one with a person is a rare privilege for me (should the individual have interest in such subjects) so forgive me if that never happens.

I have turned some of these dreams into art pieces. They become songs or even short works of writing that I share on my Patreon page and on my website. Here is an example of one.

As a beautiful article in Time Magazine pointed out, “Modern psychologists and neurologists, armed with imaging equipment including PET scans and MRIs, have taken things to a deeper and more technical level, speculating that dreaming is the brain’s way of dumping excess data, consolidating important information, keeping us alert to danger and more.”

This may also be true. Stranger yet still: all of these notions could be true.

Regardless of your current outlook on dreams: a vast majority of the population have the exact same type of dreams: flying, teeth falling out, being back in school taking an exam, driving a car, being chased by animals, being naked in a public space in front of people, not wearing pants, and so forth.

I find Jung’s theory for this correlation, to be the most interesting of the lot. He speculates that the portions of the brain responsible for dreaming predate written language and deals and communicates in symbols. A portion of our cerebral cortex, called Wernicke's area and Broca’s area (slightly behind and in front of the ears, approximately), is responsible for language: the use of language and the comprehension of it. The cerebral cortex, from which these two regions are a part of, are the most recent evolutionary addition to our brain structure.

Jung’s theory continues that the older portions of the brain, such as the cerebral cortex, the hippocampus, the limbic system, the amygdala, and so forth, provide us with a symbolic and emotional compensatory monologue—a monologue without words: symbols and metaphors using memories and the rich construct of human experience that we all contain in an area called the collective unconscious. Think of the collective unconscious as something akin to—instinct—yet different and unique. It is a collection, a pool of symbols and meaning and archetypes throughout our continued development as a species.

However, his largest contribution was the idea of compensation—that our dreams are often (but not always) compensatory to our conscious waking life. He illustrates this notion, often, in many of his essays, using experiences with his clients. For the sake of brevity, I will use one such experience that can be found in this article: (https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC4217604/)

“Jung was seeing a patient, who was a highly intelligent woman. Jung’s analysis with her dream went well at first, but after a while he got stuck with the interpretation and noticed a shallowness in the dialogue with the analysand. Jung decided to communicate this to the patient. He then had a dream the night before he was to meet with her again. The dream is as follows:

I was walking down a highway through a valley in late-afternoon sunlight. To my right was a steep hill. At its top stood a castle, and on the highest tower there was a woman sitting on a kind of balustrade. In order to see her properly, I had to bend my head far back. I awoke with a crick in the back of my neck. Even in the dream I had recognized the woman as my patient.

The interpretation of the dream was immediate and crystal clear to Jung: if in the dream he had to look up at the woman, his analysand, then in waking life Jung had probably been looking down on her both intellectually and morally, as according to Jung, ‘“dreams are, after all, compensations for the conscious attitude”’. Jung shared his dream and interpretation of it with the patient and it produced an immediate positive change in the effect of her treatment thereafter.”

It is a deeply fascinating rabbit hole of curiosities. However, please, “you don’t have to take my word for it,” as Lavar Burton would say.

CATCH ME PLAYING LIVE NEAR YOU

Singles Release Show at Hotel Cafe Main Stage on Friday August 26th

The Hotel Cafe Main Stage

Hey Everyone,

I’m proud to announce that the band and I will be playing our first big show of 2022 at the Hotel Cafe main stage on Friday August 26th in celebration of three new singles I will releasing here shortly.

I would be deeply deeply honored to be surrounded by friends to ring in these new songs, before I leave to tour the United States again throughout October and November of this year. The tour booking is coming along nicely by the way. Here the dates I have scheduled thus far:

I would be honored to have you at Hotel Cafe to celebrate all the hard work I have been pouring into my music and its production, but also all the touring, promotion, management and booking I have been doing. I would be so thrilled to be surrounded by the people I love, hopefully with love in their hearts for me as well.

-Mike

Bronco II

Bronco II

by Michael Patrick Vitale

I remember. You remember too. That one time. The memory you might be embarrassed by. The memory that could very well make you smile—if not blush as well, in the fraught of youthful naïveté—there might be a bit of shame mixed in there as well. A concoction of emotions that could very well string a few tears down a cheek, while recollecting—however, I do not think this is the intention of the memory. If anything, it was a deep lesson in a well of wisdom through mistakes hopefully never made again. I only had a few bruises—a few scratches on my back, and arms, and torso. I walked away with my life. I should be grateful. I should be on my hands and knees.

And I was that night, as I crawled from the indiscernible mangled confines of the cracked and destroyed windshield of a Bronco II that was totaled in the shape of a taco, along the side of a rural country road on the outskirts of my hometown of Visalia, California. I was just a kid. A kid who thought he knew it all, yet also had some small inkling that he was a fool—especially while on his hands in knees, crawling, in utter shock, through shattered glass, and dusty horizon of loose dirt sent arial by the bouncing spin, side-over-side of this Bronco II into an old oak tree, going Lord knows how fast. It made contact with that tree, so far up, it makes my stomach churn. The tree bark scrapped off, where the truck slid down the side of its wise and old trunk. It stood proudly, in the face of the ignorance of youth.

I was in the backseat. I didn’t have a seatbelt on. I was drunk. My friends were both intoxicated too. Coincidentally, both of those factors saved my life: being drunk, and having no seatbelt on. As the Bronco flipped side-over-side, I could feel myself bouncing from ceiling to seat, ceiling to seat, ceiling to seat… and I remained loose and an unconstricted bag of fleshy blood and water, from the alcohol, as if my friend did not just flip his car, swerving wildly and out of control, down this rural road that led away from his house—in pursuit of a pack of cigarettes no less. We were all out of cigarettes. We wanted cigarettes; we wanted to suck on the teat of nicotine like a bunch of stupid fucking infants.

My two friends who occupied the front seats, driving and as co-pilot—they had just dropped acid before we left. I opted out on that adventure on this occasion. I had done enough acid and mushrooms at that time in my life, albeit, in the humble pursuit of awareness in the spiritual. I did not require a spiritual journey that night. I had one well-enough without the assistance of psychedelics. That spiritual journey began with me rhythmically bouncing from seat to ceiling, for what seemed like an eternity. No seat belt. I survived.

We all survived. We all crawled out of the windshield, calling out for one another. Disoriented. Coughing from the dirt and debris. We all groggily walked back to his rural house, surrounded by orchards and farm land, to the driver’s parents’ house. They were out of town. We took advantage of this fact by sharing a fifth of Jack Daniels, and our thoughts and good company with one another, if I remember correctly. We might have smoked a few joints too. Loosened up our attitude. Became the warm campfire of friendship, providing heat for one another.

We got back to his house, and examined ourselves in the mirror of his lower bathroom in the downstairs quarter of his huge country house. I was in shock. My friends were in shock as well. There was some laughing and jubilee in the realization that we survived, with few things to remind us, aside from the damages inflicted on our persons. We showed each other these bruises and scratches. There was laughing involved, yes—but please take into account: we were all in shock—and that shock makes it difficult for me to remember much after this examination in the mirror of a downstairs bathroom.

What I do remember is being upstairs in his bedroom, trying to fall asleep on his cushioned bamboo chair, contorted into the shape of a question mark, listening to my two friends on acid, as they concocted a story to tell my friends’ parents. To explain how things came to pass. To explain how three youths nearly died that night, by the hand of their own ignorance—while also omitting those pertinent facts, in favor of some judicious half-truths and lies—if not to both help me, but to also help themselves. I slowly began to sober up, and become annoyed by the chatter of their acid-peaked thoughts, and to feel the full and fool weight of my own decisions—and to forgo my fingers, for counting the many blessings that appendages would never account for, because I will never have enough of them.

I remember waking up at one point, and seeing my friend through my drowsy and sleep starved eyes; he was languidly and contemplatively staring out the window, as his Bronco II was lifted onto a flatbed truck—it was during the sunrise of the next day. The light of the new day reflected across his face. I think his mind was also, where my mind was, while I tried to sleep. What have I done?

Paul Simon on Creativity and Songwriting | The Subconscious Mind and Unconscious Contributions to Creativity

A while back, I had mentioned to you all that I feel that I sometimes write from the subconscious, and that I am not alone in that evaluation of my creative output. I went on to list a few artist names where I have heard or read them saying such in their own words.

And in all fairness, it is easy to say just about anything on this planet:

- I look great in this underwear.

- I'm a nice guy.

- I know what I am talking about

- I know what I am doing when I song write.

You name it. We as human beings can say anything: so it is important to cite our sources from time to time. So, as shown above: straight from the horse's mouth:

Paul Simon on Subconscious Writing: 29:44

Additionally, it is a different thing altogether though to be a student: and to not just be a student, but to realize that we are never a master. We are always the student. We have much to learn: always.

I have much to learn about songwriting, so I do research and I study. I have for years. I continue to.

I am a student. I love to learn.

We should treat each other as someone worth listening to—because I can guarantee you: no matter the individual, if you remain open, you will learn something from them: profound to the mundane.

I have a friend who's wife tells him that he is a shark.

What she means by that is, he must keep moving so that water flows through his creative gills, so that he may breath and stay alive. I understand what she means.

I too must constantly be moving, whether it is intellectually, creatively, physically, or any other type of movement you can think of, whether in the abstract sense or in the real real true true.

In one of the more poignant spots in this interview that took place in 1986, Mr. Simon talks about marketing—and how musicians primarily should be busy making music. It is unfortunate that in 2021, the trend of musicians is very much tilted towards marketing themselves. While there is nothing wrong with marketing per se, there is when it is 80% marketing and 20% self-reflection, creating, study, craft, practice, history, reading, poetry, listening, and so forth. We as artists must be mindful of this. If we do not remain mindful, we become out of balance—perhaps with ratios just described—but in other matters as well—some of which are far more detrimental, or any number of degrees proceeding such.

FOR SONGWRITERS, A FEW (but not exclusive) USEFUL TIMESTAMPS:

- 22:00 - Technique

- 22:38 - Interests and Technique

- 26:45 - 12 Notes of the Chromatic Scale

- 27:45 - Instruments and their Importance in Creativity

- 28:00 - Rhythmic Writing vs. Melodic Writing

- 29:44 - Subconscious Writing

Another book that I own that has been invaluable to me is "Songwriters on Songwriting" by Paul Zollo.

This whole interview is a blessing to watch, as is that book just mentioned. We learn from the kindness of those who share.

Lots of love y'all!

I'm heading to the store to pick up some gardening supplies.

- Mike

"Satin Doll" | Arrangement by Joe Pass

Boy oh boy. Am I a horrendous jazz musician. I’ve been trying to chip away at improving this deficiency over the past 10 years or so, but to be completely honest, I haven’t made much headway—and that’s okay: it’s just for the fun of it. It’s a hobby. Most of what I’ve been doing is trying to treat music as a language, and learning some of the lexicon of jazz musicians that I admire. This is the A Section of Satin Doll as arranged by Joe Pass. There is so much to playing jazz, and these are some small baby steps I’ve made.

Thank you to everyone on Patreon for your encouragement and support: https://www.patreon.com/mikevitalemusic


A Peculiar Growth... and a Mouse

A Peculiar Growth… and a Mouse

By Michael Patrick Vitale

I was in my quaint living room in Los Angeles, California. I have a beautiful fiddle leaf fig that occupies a space directly to the right of my work desk. However, its appearance was different than I normally remember it. It has been carefully manicured to have its main branch subdivide into several different shoots of branches, each with their own constellation of leaves. It is quite beautiful. It differers from the predominate majority of their variety that has a lone shoot, or trunk, which will continue to grow to the heavens, until it either buckles under its own weight, and begins to curve, or if a ceiling or otherwise, inhibits its upward expansion.

While I have tried to maintain the relative size of this tree by restricting its new growth, on this curious occasion, I noticed a peculiar new growth, that I had never noticed before. It resembled an oblong organic pod or tray running horizontal along the top. I had never noticed this before. It appeared to have a lid. I was curious beyond belief. I slowly began removing the organic lid. There was an overwhelmingly sticky bond between the lid and the organic tray; it resembled an adhesive viscous secretion of sort, as I pulled the lid away and back from the tray; this viscous material remained attached to both ends, the tray top and its constituent container, for lack of better words. Rather than remove the lid, I pushed it away, as one might do with the heavy top on a sarcophagus. While it was not a heavy lid, the secretions and absolute queerness of the entire growth on a fiddle leaf fig, creeped me out. So, I do not think I was eager to touch it a lot. I do not feel like that I was full of fear, but I most certainly felt on edge, as if, to be prepared for the unexpected.

What I found inside were two distinct things. It appeared to be a spiders nest as there were two or three sprawls of spiderwebs inside. Instantaneously, I felt as if this might be the home of the spider I was observing the other night. In addition to this, I also saw what looked to be a new miniature version of a fiddle leaf fig on the inside of this organic container.

Having inspected the contents, I pushed the lid back over the top of this organic tray of sorts, so as not to disturb the creatures or spiders living inside this peculiar organic case. I was overcome with a feeling of bewilderment by this whole ordeal, if not a bit of fear, perhaps as I appeared to be dealing with something previously unknown—in my home no less.

I look down on my floor, in front of the desk, to see a cute white mouse, with a rather elegant and appropriate tail. I am ashamed to admit that my initial feeling was that I needed to eradicate this rodent. It began to scurry off towards my bedroom. I had a reassured feeling that my cat would take care of the mouse.

Art as Seen From a Bed

I feel as if I am in a food court of a shopping mall, however, to be completely honest: I have no idea where I am, aside from sitting at a table, across from another human being. This human is a friend; I am visiting with a friend. He is a very talented guitar player. On a spectrum of deep friendship to acquaintance, I suppose we are closer to the later. We have never been typically close, however I certainly do not think of him as an enemy or someone that I hate—so he would best be described as a friend. I only mention this to help qualify my relationship with him.

He is a rather gifted musician—meant mainly in the sense that he has strived, and continuously worked to reach towards the stratosphere of excellence as an electric guitar player and performer. I do not recall our conversation in depth. I do know that it had to do with guitar and him taking a playful jab at himself, feeling as if he is using chorus all the time, as if it were by request or not a choice of his own doing. He sort of made a comparison to him feeling like Andy Summers from the rock band The Police. Chorus is an audio affect, a guitar effect that doubles a signal and offsets that second signal; in other words, it is a very quick delay, perceived by the human brain as a swirling and churning sound, thick and delightful. He said that he felt like he plays every song with his chorus pedal on.

This friend and I are not particularly close, as mentioned previously, so I ask if he would like to hang out for a longer duration; perhaps we can get to know one another better—become closer friends. I do not recall whether this was something that he found agreeable and enjoyable. I do however feel that he invited me over to one of his friend’s houses to hangout.

We found ourselves in a room. A room that looked unfamiliar to me, yet somewhat familiar.. It felt like a drug dealer’s room. But to be honest, I do not recall any discernible evidence of this notion within the room, aside from the general feeling of that association. Besides, what does a typical drug dealer room look like, anyway? At any rate, all three of us were sitting on the floor. Two friendly dogs arrived at some point in time. The other two people in the room sort of took a backseat in my mind; they became part of the peripheral. My attention was very focused on the dogs. They were quite playful and enjoyable to be around. I played with both of them on the floor. Wrestling around in good horseplay for a period of time. They were big dogs. They could be aggressive, but they weren’t. They very much enjoyed my company, and I enjoyed theirs.

Having tired of this activity, I retreated back to sitting position on the floor close to the bed, and noticed that my host’s bed had a beautiful piece of artwork that started directly above his bed’s headboard, and sprawled upwards, in a secondary and third canvas, onto his ceiling. It was one continuous piece of art. I remember swirls of oranges and yellows. Very atmospheric, brush strokes that swirled and collided and coincided with one another as if it were currents of color—not a portrait of an image as far as I could tell. More abstract in that sense. There were words on it, or something that appeared to be words—but in all honesty, it was indiscernible to me as a language with any meaning behind it. It came across as a beautiful piece of art and if it spoke, it said something beautiful that my eyes appreciated. I thought it were clever that it was something my host, and myself by extension, could appreciate from say, where I sat, but also as something he could appreciate while lying in bed.

There were thoughts of Chicago and wondering when it begins to snow there.

A Hotel Room Inside My Head

Painting by Edward Hopper

A Hotel Room Inside My Head

By Michael Patrick Vitale

There is a hotel room inside my head. It does not demand attention of its own adornments. It is not flashy, and because of this, its occupants might not spare their attention towards whether or not there is a mini bar, or a large television with multiple channels, a well-upholstered couch, the finest of wallpaper, or the most elegant of lighting apparatus and lamps and other assorted furniture. None of these things are the focal point for me, at the very least. I can’t speak for everyone else present—well, I suppose I could, but I will not out of my own misguided principle. I am there for music.

There is a concert to be had by everyone present at this event, in a hotel room, inside my head. A very intimate concert. In fact, I am one of the artists scheduled to perform on this very lovely day, in a hotel room, inside my head. I never do perform though. Nor does the headliner. The very first artist, a duo, is scheduled to perform. They are the only people who actually play any music, and they do so, criss-cross applesauce from the humble elevation of carpeted floor, adjacent and in front of a King-sized bed. They play music that is inspired and unique and quirky and endearing. It speaks of their heart and soul, and everyone present can feel this. I recognize and admire all of these traits from my perch on top of the bed, in the hotel room inside my head.

The person next to me on the bed, is the headliner. She was not pleased to find out that this act was playing. She was unfamiliar with them. I assured her of their talent and merit, yet she remained skeptical—that is, until they began to play their music. They changed her mind. She told me so, sitting next me, on a King-sized bed, in a hotel room, inside my head.

To be completely honest, I am surprised that she agreed to play—let alone that she is even present, in this hotel room inside my head. She is quite talented. She also can’t stand my presence. Under normal circumstances—let us say, outside of a hotel room inside my head—she would avoid all contact with me. It is not my place to say that such feelings are unwarranted, either.

Once upon a time, I sent her a song I wrote, thinking that it might belong to her. I was mistaken, apparently. Perhaps she misunderstood the lyrics. Perhaps I misunderstood the song. I remain open to the idea that sharing the song, with her, was a complete mistake. Things probably would have been better left unsaid, and unsent. Thinking about it in some sort of equal measure of pragmatism and ——————————, what is a human being aside from a collection of choices? Regardless, here we are now, on a King-sized bed, watching a concert, in a hotel room, inside my head.

The musical act who was playing their original music, concludes, and they are no longer in the room. However, this notion did not become apparent to me immediately. I was startled to find that my father turned on the television, in the hotel room inside my head. I had no idea there was a television. I had no idea that my father was present. What an entrance! It was an impressive use of show me don’t tell me (bravo!). I politely insist that there is a concert in progress, and that perhaps he should turn the television off. He complies to my request without a word of disagreement or disgust.

While my attention was diverted on father’s insistence to find suitable entertainment in the realm of the two-dimensional, my headlining act, disappeared as well. She was nowhere to be seen. In her stead, two dear and talented friends arrive, and begin unpacking their guitars in order to play. I am thrilled to see both of them, although, admittedly, I am closer to one of the musicians—more so than the other—and frankly, I am surprised to see the more familiar of the two, as he no longer lives anywhere near to me. But then again, what do I know of time and distance and possibility, when it comes to an intimate folk concert in a hotel room, inside my head.

Nonetheless, I greet him with a long and sincere hug to display my deep gratitude for his company. As he unpacks his guitar from its case, I stand from the bed, and walk towards the adjacent area, the stage, if you will, where the previous performers had sat and expressed themselves. I suddenly notice that the arrival of my two performer friends were accompanied in more than equal measure by a large group of strangers, scattered across the space that could be described as the hotel room inside my head. Their presence is not unwelcome. An audience is always appreciated, especially for a concert, regardless of whether or not it is, within a hotel room, inside my head.

I reorient myself towards my friend, who is attending to his instrument, with his back facing me. His hair has greyed substantially since I last saw him several years ago; it would be best described as a distinguished look of salt and pepper coloring, at ear’s length. I mention that “I am so surprised to see you,” to which he replies, “I am moving back here. My house has turned into quite the money pit.” I am pleased to hear of his return, but saddened by his housing woes. I am also just beginning to realize that he is setting up to perform—this is slightly troubling, as I was not expecting his presence to begin with. After all, we have a full bill of performers for the evening, and furthermore: I have no clue where the headliner is. She has all but vanished.

A quick perusing of the hotel room inside my head shows no sign of her presence. I check outside for her, within the confines of the rear and empty parking lot adjacent to the hotel room inside my head. The parking lot is surrounded and secluded within the perimeter of several tall and some yet even taller still buildings and cityscape; and the parking lot, adjacent to the hotel room? It too is inside my head. It is the parking lot inside my head. It is empty, if we do not count me, as I am standing there. Alone. Alone with my uncertainty.

ϕ by Mike Vitale | Digital Release of Full Album on September 21st 2021

Hey Friends, I'm proud to announce that my new album will be released to all the digital streaming platforms this summer on Tuesday September 21st 2021. The album is called ϕ (phi).

If you are a Spotify user, here is a pre-save link for the new album. Supposedly, having people pre-save the album and the singles, is very helpful for getting onto Spotify playlists, which would be a boon to its reach to new ears, so to speak—so I would be honored to have you do that, should your kind heart be so inclined:

PHI
https://distrokid.com/hyperfollow/mikevitale/phi

Here is the official release schedule for every single as well as the titles being released as singles.

Tuesday August 17th 2021 - TIME MACHINE
https://distrokid.com/hyperfollow/mikevitale/time-machine

Tuesday August 24th 2021 - YOUNGER DAYS
https://distrokid.com/hyperfollow/mikevitale/younger-days

Tuesday August 31st 2021 - EMPTY CIRCLE
https://distrokid.com/hyperfollow/mikevitale/empty-circle

Tuesday September 7th 2021 - HOME
https://distrokid.com/hyperfollow/mikevitale/home

Tuesday September 14th 2021 - GONE
https://distrokid.com/hyperfollow/mikevitale/gone

Tuesday September 21st 2021 - ϕ (phi - FULL ALBUM)
https://distrokid.com/hyperfollow/mikevitale/phi

SUNDAY September 26th 2021 - FULL BAND ALBUM RELEASE SHOW at Alex's Bar in Long Beach, CA at 8pm (more details coming soon—this is bonus info for the folks kind enough to read this far into my post; thank you for caring and for loving and supporting me).