The following is a serious recollection of facts containing subtle attitude that does not
degrade the continuity of the facts themselves. This does not apply to the title of this article. I, Jamey Blaze, am not dead at the current time, the date of this article’s release.
degrade the continuity of the facts themselves. This does not apply to the title of this article. I, Jamey Blaze, am not dead at the current time, the date of this article’s release.
I, Jamey Jean Blaze was born James Marshall Pattison on January 26, 1989 in Antioch, CA.
I saw porn on the balcony of a second story apartment I was living, in the year 1994.
My parents had separated that year. I was five. My mom’s new boyfriend at the time was
fairly tweaked out on drugs as he slowly chased us around the house
punching through a hanging potted plant, spreading dirt all over the floor.
I sense, only now, it was a bit odd for a plant to be hanging over a dinner table
where a chandelier might have hung instead.
The separation of my parents at the age of five eventually led to St. George, Utah
with my second grandma Linda. Both my grandmother’s names are Linda.
Both my grandfather’s names are James. Grandma Linda (who we called Grandma Utah)
almost won custody of my sister Steph and I. I imagine the conditions for my
mom to regain custody were to clean up, have a job, have a car or some shit.
As for my dad, I assume that my mom’s custody triumph was not necessarily his triumph.
Every two weeks or so, we would go to my dad’s apartment in Concord, California.
I saw porn on the balcony of a second story apartment I was living, in the year 1994.
My parents had separated that year. I was five. My mom’s new boyfriend at the time was
fairly tweaked out on drugs as he slowly chased us around the house
punching through a hanging potted plant, spreading dirt all over the floor.
I sense, only now, it was a bit odd for a plant to be hanging over a dinner table
where a chandelier might have hung instead.
The separation of my parents at the age of five eventually led to St. George, Utah
with my second grandma Linda. Both my grandmother’s names are Linda.
Both my grandfather’s names are James. Grandma Linda (who we called Grandma Utah)
almost won custody of my sister Steph and I. I imagine the conditions for my
mom to regain custody were to clean up, have a job, have a car or some shit.
As for my dad, I assume that my mom’s custody triumph was not necessarily his triumph.
Every two weeks or so, we would go to my dad’s apartment in Concord, California.
He tried teaching my sister and I guitar on this beat up acoustic. “TNT” by AC/DC.
He succeeded. Though, she gave up quickly after that. She had more important nine year old
priorities on her mind during her weekend stay with dad (eating). Can you blame her? We were living in the year 1999.
You know what I always say, “Gotta have my Pops. Shelly would watch me eat
my other cereal and say, ‘Hey, Mikey! I think he likes it!'”.
He succeeded. Though, she gave up quickly after that. She had more important nine year old
priorities on her mind during her weekend stay with dad (eating). Can you blame her? We were living in the year 1999.
You know what I always say, “Gotta have my Pops. Shelly would watch me eat
my other cereal and say, ‘Hey, Mikey! I think he likes it!'”.
Pardon – tangent.
Anyways, that first lesson was over in thirty minutes.
I’m not sure if it was the second lesson or not, but they ramped up in length
after that. My dad seemed to like moving. Each year he was in a different apartment.
One in Martinez, another one in Concord, one near downtown Antioch, another one in Antioch…
Being in different apartments gave different scenery for the guitar lessons. Nice.
Those guitar lessons were work but I didn’t think of them that way.
I love my dad and his approval has always been a work of passion.
Other than that, my autistic ass had long been prowling instinctively for an activity
to build upon, a concept to fuck up, a skill to devour.
Check off my guitar story, now what. Oh, I was originally acquainted
to electronic music production through my mom’s Alesis SR-16 drum machine a few years before that.
My mom would practice riffing on her ‘P’ or ‘J’ bass to the thing.
She had a microphone laying around. She would tell me to pick it up
every time I remember walking in. I grew accustomed to doing my own bullshit form of scat singing
and telling childish stories. It made my mom laugh once or twice.
I started recording a few years after I started playing guitar. Windows Sound Recorder.
Eventually I thought to multi-track with Windows Sound Recorder using several open copies of the application,
jotting down the numerical offsets and sequentially cutting each file before permanently merging them together
with no future option of mixing. But that’s Sound Recorder. I made some creepy, stupid tracks and debuted them to my uncle Pete on a few different trips in his truck. He was nice enough to say it was the kind of material
that would accumulate a cult following. I must have been thirteen or fourteen years old by that time, making it either 2002 or 2003.
Anyways, that first lesson was over in thirty minutes.
I’m not sure if it was the second lesson or not, but they ramped up in length
after that. My dad seemed to like moving. Each year he was in a different apartment.
One in Martinez, another one in Concord, one near downtown Antioch, another one in Antioch…
Being in different apartments gave different scenery for the guitar lessons. Nice.
Those guitar lessons were work but I didn’t think of them that way.
I love my dad and his approval has always been a work of passion.
Other than that, my autistic ass had long been prowling instinctively for an activity
to build upon, a concept to fuck up, a skill to devour.
Check off my guitar story, now what. Oh, I was originally acquainted
to electronic music production through my mom’s Alesis SR-16 drum machine a few years before that.
My mom would practice riffing on her ‘P’ or ‘J’ bass to the thing.
She had a microphone laying around. She would tell me to pick it up
every time I remember walking in. I grew accustomed to doing my own bullshit form of scat singing
and telling childish stories. It made my mom laugh once or twice.
I started recording a few years after I started playing guitar. Windows Sound Recorder.
Eventually I thought to multi-track with Windows Sound Recorder using several open copies of the application,
jotting down the numerical offsets and sequentially cutting each file before permanently merging them together
with no future option of mixing. But that’s Sound Recorder. I made some creepy, stupid tracks and debuted them to my uncle Pete on a few different trips in his truck. He was nice enough to say it was the kind of material
that would accumulate a cult following. I must have been thirteen or fourteen years old by that time, making it either 2002 or 2003.
I didn’t have a overall name for my production at the time.
I didn’t care about a project name much so I called it the most despicably and hilariously dry project name that
came to mind first: Jam-Town. Most of my first Jam-Town stuff was produced with Windows Sound Recorder.
At first I just wanted to jot down my ideas and put it under the name Jam-Town.
It quickly became more and more dramatic. The recordings became real pieces of shit that could fit together as a
cohesive album of shit. Well, not quite yet. But by the time I was declaring a distinction of what a
Jam- Town album was, it had become a form of shitty art.
I didn’t care about a project name much so I called it the most despicably and hilariously dry project name that
came to mind first: Jam-Town. Most of my first Jam-Town stuff was produced with Windows Sound Recorder.
At first I just wanted to jot down my ideas and put it under the name Jam-Town.
It quickly became more and more dramatic. The recordings became real pieces of shit that could fit together as a
cohesive album of shit. Well, not quite yet. But by the time I was declaring a distinction of what a
Jam- Town album was, it had become a form of shitty art.
Vantana Row 