Plenty of Things (1999)
[out of print]
-
Background
-
Liner Notes
-
Lyrics
Originally intended to be the next installment in a then-steady series of Growing Up w/ Stu projects, 1999’s Plenty of Things marked the beginning of the solo catalogue that Bodie Dennis never particularly wanted.
“I just caved in to all the advice I was getting from management and colleagues.”, says Dennis. “Everyone was so adamant that I should be marketed as an individual rather than the head of some collective with a weird name. But to me, it was so obviously a Stu album. Always was. And sadly, not a very good one either.”
He explains.
“I was on such a steep curve, trying to truly learn absolutely everything about record production…. the arrangements, engineering, mixing, graphic design for layout and packaging, plus legal and publishing… with all of that on my shoulders, something had to give, and clearly it was the writing. And my delivery.”
Hearing this assessment, one hardly needs to wonder why Plenty of Things was taken out of circulation ages ago. But truth be told, Dennis would never have released it at all if he had obeyed his instincts.
“I honestly wanted to just shelf it and get right back to work on the next one. Maybe see what I could do after a fresh start. Then at the last minute I was convinced, not only to put it out anyway, but to put my own name on the cover to boot… In hindsight, I was probably right about the whole thing. Just too young and impressionable to stick to my guns.”
All this being said, the project does have its occasional bright moments, and even a few fans who would champion and defend it staunchly. They might point to the occasional flashes of instrumental prowess that fly by throughout the program, and indeed the Latin-inspired instrumental ‘Poco Desea’ is a wonderfully redeeming feature all by itself. Toss in some other nuggets of intrigue, like a rework of ‘Glide’ from the eponymous Growing Up w/ Stu EP, and you begin to see why Plenty of Things has its following. The author still isn’t among those ranks, but he does take pride in it as a technical accomplishment, and as a necessary step in his progress as an artist.
“There was a phrase I always repeated at that time… ‘determined to exceed the supposed limitations of my gear’… I was referring to my quirky old equipment, and I think I did manage that much. My mastering engineer, for one. He couldn’t believe it was recorded on only seven tracks of quarter-inch tape [the eighth track being sacrificed for a SMPTE code stripe that synchronized MIDI devices to the reel-to-reel deck.] His reaction was probably the thing that made me realize I’d pulled it off. So, I guess this project gave me two things. One, something sub-par to react against, which is a hell of a motivator, and two, it armed me with some serious chops as a recording engineer, and that’s still paying huge dividends now.”
So is he softening his stance on Plenty of Things’s banishment?
“I don’t know. Maybe. Recently I’ve been thinking it might be time to quietly make it available again. If only as a marker of my progress since then. I have so much other stuff out there at this point, so it might be encouraging for others to see how much you can grow if you keep putting the work in. And also to restate how failure is just part of the recipe.”
He continues.
“It used to really embarrass me that I had to work so hard to achieve anything of quality, but now I take a huge amount pride in that. I’m not one of those lucky ones for whom everything comes easily. I’ve had to really push myself to get to anything remotely decent, but after Plenty of Things I buckled down. There’s no secret to this stuff, it’s just a matter of focus and hard work. I think my progress since this first swing demonstrates that pretty well.”
– September, 2024
Larry Craig: drums, yelping, foot odor.
Bodie Dennis: bass & vocals; electric and acoustic guitars, piano, keyboards, sequencing, drum programs, percussion, sampling, technologically-induced headaches, other noises.
John Lundin: "supposed" drums on 'Lot Forgone', conga on 'Poco Desea'.
Produced, Engineered and Mixed by Bodie Dennis from 7/98 to 12/99 at BeeDee Sound Labs in Flagstaff, AZ.
Additional Recording, Editing and Mixing at Lost Dog Productions, also in Flagstaff.
Mastered by Roger Siebel at S.A.E., Phoenix, AZ.
All music and lyrics by Bodie Dennis
Cover, Office in a Small City, by Edward Hopper,
courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, George A. Hearn Fund, 1953. (53.183)
Photograph © 1989 Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, NY.
Cranberry Lake Bridge photo by Eric Dennis.
All additional photography from the Stu archive.
Album Concept and design by Stuart Hatter at NSE.
For Best Results: You may achieve a sensation similar to that of making professional records by dowsing yourself in witch hazel, sticking your head between the rungs of a rusty, wrought-iron fence, and instructing friends to throw rocks at your face. Optimal volume is approximately 138 SPL. Always wait 1 hour after eating.
Go Thank Yourself: John Lundin (ditt jävla svin!) and "Dr." Dre, Tiga, Kumu, Lard and the Second boys, Joe Sorren, Matt Hall, Jonathan Day, Kate "The Great" Hupp, Stickman (weirdo), Jugger, Gary Jensen, Mark "The Knuckle" Sloan and family, our grey-eyed Athena, "Generic" Tinnirello, Ralph Duke, "Butros Butros" Mikey and his fucking TV, Cristina Cameli, Jonny Z at the Flagstuff Trader, Tom and Jerry at The Music Den, Bobby Dubois, Judith Consentino, Mike Lerose, Doc Gradone, Mom, Ron, Eric, Gagee, Baba et man entiere folle famille, Zippy the chimp with the red pants on, El Niño, The Magic Rat, all manufacturers of fine gin, the ol' 4077, and, invariably, anyone else who feels particularly forgotten.
Boatloads of extra-cool thanks in 30-ton containers go to: Vinny and Joe Constantine for all of the heated debates, keen insight, rallying affirmations and kind friendship. you did not owe me to be so helpful. Cheers! -Bd
© 1999 Bodie Dennis (BMI).
All rights reserved. Used by permission.
All lyrics by Bodie Dennis. Used by permission.
Plenty of Things
I’ve got plenty of things on my mind
Plenty of punches from behind
Have never failed to take their toll
Upon the ethics I may hold.
Chips on my shoulders and thorns to bleed my sides
All concealed by gladrags and the shades that shield my eyes
I’ve got plenty of foolish plans
Plenty of self-imposed demands
And all the fools on which I carve
Get their attention less they starve.
Intrepid flyers crashing through the heart of town.
To set their spirits upright they’ll have to turn things upside down.
I never worry. Why should I worry?
I saw what it did to you.
I never worry. Why should I worry?
I’ve got Plenty of solemn rapport.
Plenty of cynics to ignore
As the intoxicating smell
Destroys the rose on my lapel.
Ice hits the glasses like a florid barmaid’s bell
And my drink is bitter as all the saints in hell
I never worry. Why should I worry?
I saw what it did to you.
I never worry. Why should I worry?
[Bridge]
Amused, I watch the nine-to-fives
Take their cheapest shots.
They’d rather be happy than right any day
The trouble is they’re not.
But within the smoke I hold my fire.
My senses make their start;
The search for someone appreciative of
The way I wear my heart.
I’ve got plenty of things on my mind.
Plenty of things so unrefined
It offers such a potent lure.
I can be wrong and still be sure.
Watching the drunkards in their steaming dance of lies
Unaware of the water but swimming for their lives.
I never worry. Why should I worry?
I saw what it did to you.
I never worry. Why should I worry?
The Waiting Game
Waiting for a sharp advance but the clock has stopped.
Waiting patiently for the other shoe to drop.
Waiting for a frame of mind
To justify your state for fear that you may try.
Another way to lose a day
All to play the waiting game.
Creeping hands waiting for a sharp advance
To call your name from the same old same
In the waiting game.
Taking time to think about the time it takes.
A fortune equal to what your caution demonstrates.
And when the blame is all but gone, the past comsumes all care
And your sadness can go on.
Words to say thoughts astray
Still you play the waiting game.
Ticking off sitting home and getting soft
Within constraints of the same old same
In the waiting game.
[Bridge]
It’s been teasing me.
A sad matter of chronology
That drives a world to wake up and be.
Is it any crime
To give yourself the benefit of time?
I can put my patience on the line?
Waiting for a sharp advance but the clock has stopped.
Waiting patiently for the other shoe to drop.
And while your reason overrules,
It only ever serves as reason for the fool.
Another way to lose a day
All to play the waiting game.
Ticking off sitting home and getting soft
Within constraints of the same old same
In the waiting game.
Strong Arms
We can navigate rivers,
If we harness the wind,
Pump electric hearts,
As our turbines spin.
We can fire our engines,
If we ignite and explode.
Flesh and spirits poised,
Set to carry our load.
Strong arms hanging at my sides,
Can move the sun about the sky.
Strong arms always where the action lies.
We can always find something,
If there isn’t a void.
For it can not be made,
Nor can it be destroyed.
We can change its direction,
If we take the controls.
At the helm of our ship,
Freely shaping our souls.
Strong arms hanging at my sides,
Can move the sun about the sky.
Strong arms always where the action lies.
Strong arms like the moon can shine,
And wax and wane, and move the tides.
Strong arms never fall to their own pride.
And when the reaction starts,
I work the valves within my heart.
I fuel my weary starving arms.
Strong arms hanging at my sides,
Can move the sun about the sky.
Strong arms always where the action lies.
Strong arms like the moon can shine,
And wax and wane, and move the tides.
Strong arms never fall to their own pride.
Glide
She glides into the light of moon,
A thousand wings unfold so soon.
And for a price
She glides into the light of moon.
You're sacrificed.
She glides into the light of moon.
She fills your lungs though you can't breathe.
Your instincts easy to deceive.
You claw the walls.
She fills your lungs though you can't breathe.
Your life is all.
She fills your lungs though you can't breathe.
Glide on. Glide on high.
Your life is stolen as your nerve ends die.
All systems warn you as your circuits fry.
Graceful. Onward glide.
You sold your mornings to the moon.
Reminded by a gliding tune.
A deadly vice.
You sold your mornings to the moon.
You've paid the price.
You sold your mornings to the moon.
Glide on. Glide on high.
Your life is stolen as your nerve ends die.
All systems warn you as your circuits fry.
Graceful. Onward glide.
Regarding Paphos
To wear the badge of an artisan
The burden of the hands
Represents the suffering
That the spirit can withstand
In pursuit of paradise
Raging and alone
The meeting place of high ideals
And the rawness of the stone
What does it bring?
The castle owns the king.
A lesser roof could bear the rain.
Behind bars
Or in a line of filthy cars
With no regard for staying sane.
As Human as audacity
The features are erased
The pros and cons can be contrived
With an altruistic face.
What does it bring?
The castle owns the king.
A lesser roof could bear the rain.
Behind bars
Or in a line of fucking cars
With no regard for staying sane.
Lot Forgone
With my flesh and spirits poised
My restraint conquers me.
As the sharp heavens call
I harbor complacency.
Hope is spared for a prize
At the bottom of my glass.
With my flesh and spirits poised.
Carried on aimless steps
All to scale starlit skies.
Full of wish to receive
Ambiguous replies.
Hope is spared for a key
To decipher her intent.
With my flesh and spirits poised.
My light casts a shadow upon fate.
There’s a moon in the haze
That ignites iron rails.
There’s a bridge on the tracks
Where all my instincts will fail.
Her kind words sadden smiles
As the cargo roars below.
With my flesh and spirits poised.
[Bridge]
Lot Forgone.
Runnin’ from inside with the lights left on.
Tooth and nail.
The fight to find if head or heart prevails.
No light without shadow at my side.
So while my hands keep the pace
And my pulse still endures
I retain all my worth
Which no one cares to afford.
I can dream, but I can’t be
If not confiding in my gin.
With my flesh and spirits poised.
I Feel Fine
My tarnished wire rims
Can hide my boring eyes.
While screaming, silent walls
Surround my whole disguise.
I drink until I see
Some part of what I used to be
But then, my empty stomach gets too weak.
When solace showed to me
How the mountains get you down
The silent evergreens
Never shone or turned to brown.
Pay it no mind.
I’ve grown accustomed to the pine skyline.
Don’t bother to ask. I feel fine.
Now with thunder underfoot
I ride a wind that howls.
Can you trap a summer storm
Underneath an iron cowl?
With a thirst for crime
I try to drive the whole world off my mind
And when I’m home alive. I feel fine.
[Bridge]
When venting doesn’t help
Make all the anger die,
You turn it on yourself
And begin to wrestle for your spine.
And when another suitor falls
For my own ancient love.
She beckons down to me
And awaits my boiling blood.
And her aura shines
When she asks of the effect this has on my mind.
Well, it don’t faze me at all. Darlin’, I feel fine.
Project Seek
In a masquerade of calmness
A brooding stake on chance
With eternity residing
Between her every glance.
As obsession turns to impulse,
Her graces unaware
Of the destiny that’s cradled
In the evening’s fragile air.
Desire’s fine serration
On a chiming ring of keys
To a reflex wrapped in chains
That still jitters at my knees.
A subtle gaze, then contact.
A quaking in my chest.
My dominion has assured me
That soon my nerves can rest.
A Dream of You
Chasing silhouettes
Through nighttime’s haunted sleep
My burning mind reveals
The memories I keep.
With your back to the world
The hardship you endured
Was far to plain for glory
And too ornate to cure.
Within that space
Your gumption would relent
So removed was I
From what was imminent.
No words exchanged
To bring closure to our scene.
Better justified
Was a faith I don’t believe.
Pitted with the night
And what demon’s work allows
Is it what bothered you then
That bothers me now?
Traces of myself
Unveil what you’d impart
Linking the tragic mold
And softening the heart.
Within that space
My bitterness relents
Supplanting you
With nothing to resent.
No words exchanged
To underscore my view
Hope is rectified
Within this dream of you.
© 1999 Bodie Dennis (BMI).
All rights reserved. Used by permission.