Al Stone Recording Sessions, Day 7

Seven down, three more to go...

We tackle a ballad we wrote and demoed back in Allen’s cabin.  I’d even call it a power ballad, which is a cringe-inducing description for some, but given there’s a framed picture of Phil Collins in my house I’m predictably way into it.  I have a beating heart, after all.  

But, kinda like yesterday, the song doesn’t sound like it belongs on the record.  We all love the demo, and when a demo’s good it can be difficult letting go, but the song's anemic compared to previous hyper-confident tracks and the arrangement needs tweaking.  We start jamming, and eventually I discover a neat little three-note arpeggio line over each of the verse chords, which Swatty doubles on piano.  Now there’s an ache and a melancholy we all love, and everything falls into place pretty quickly.   Music's cool, folks.  

The existing melody and lyrics don’t work over the new instrumental, so Jamie begins guiding Allen through singer stuff and I step outside for some good ol’ fashioned off into the distance staring.  It’s cold today, and I’m underdressed in my free Lagunitas hooded sweatshirt, but I welcome a few minutes to myself and the aroma from Martin’s BBQ next door transforming me into a drooling fool. 

I’m anticipating a chill evening of Jamie manipulating synthesizers and my overdubbing a few strum-a-lum-a-ding-dong parts.  I’m already six cups of coffee deep, so I’ll be rushing.  If you’re reading this Eddie, you’re an infinitely gifted engineer and I apologize.  

Al Stone Recording Sessions, Day 6

Day 6 of 10!

The first half of yesterday's fun and smooth, laying down overdubs on a largely programmed tune, creating a sorta updated Paul Simon's Graceland jam.  Jamie calls it Cleveland meets Nigeria, which sounds weird but is actually spot-on.  I’m happy there’s cool guitar on this record.  You know, not the twinkly, over-done neo-soul/white guy blues stuff, but actual badass guitar, the kinda shit I can picture my teenage self nerding out over.  I’m grateful Jamie’s given me the greenlight to play how I play.   

The second half of yesterday's our first kinda sorta roadblock.  We’re recording the basic tracks for a more John Mayer Continuum vibe song.  I really dig it, and we play well, but it’s not quite there.  Something’s missing.  Jamie’s not thrilled.  We almost call it a night, but I’m like no, come on fellas, let’s have fun.  We're doing awesome work, let’s make it weird, let’s make it us.  

Jamie takes over and goes full mad scientist.  The track’s slowed way down, and Swatty and I record some playfully meandering pentatonic noodles.  When brought up to the original tempo, the result’s crystalline, harp-like, cascading atmospheric trippiness.  It’s exciting and new.  Swatty lays down a few tasty weedly-wees on the Moog, and all of a sudden the song sounds like it belongs on the record.  Still pop, still radio vibes, but us rather than a blindfolded, pin-the-tale-on-the-donkey attempt at songwriting.  

Everyone’s pushing their comfort zones, and no one’s mad at it.  Three more basics to cut, then three full days of overdubs.  

Al Stone Recording Sessions, Day 5

We’re really hitting our stride in the studio.  Yesterday, we re-worked a demo that sounded sorta lounge crooner/jazz hands-y into a David Bowie meets George Michael feel-good jam.  Shimmering 12 string acoustic, tripped out bass and synth, and did we add a second drum set?  Why yes, yes we did.  It’s my favorite track so far.  Or favourite, depending on what side your steering wheel's on.  

Jamie’s an intuitive dude, and he’s created a work environment that’s beautifully egalitarian.  Everyone’s contributing with zero ego.  When a band's successful, the tendency's to pass out gold stars and toast your collective genius with mid-level champagne.  A giant pitfall for groups who are lucky enough to stay in the game’s an inability to recognize when it’s time to evolve. 

Like I mentioned a couple posts ago, we’ve been smelling each others’ feet for a long time.  Honestly, we're complacent.  This record's not only sonically invigorating, it feels, well, right, because it’s all of us in the room building the record exactly how we build the live show.  We’re even wearing our production rehearsal tracksuits.  

I’m writing this an hour or so before the rest of the crew arrives.  Today’s going to be a long one, but there’s magic in the air.

Al Stone Recording Sessions, Day 4

Jamie Lidell is a weirdo, and I mean that as the highest character endorsement.  He’s free, a genuine mad scientist, nerdily content concocting away while singing along with robotic blips and bloops from ancient synthesizers.

We’ll be playing and, in my opinion, my guitar sounds a bit safe, kinda same-y.  Turns out, in the control room, Jamie’s run my signal through some dilapidated tape machine and my guitar actually sounds like fucking Godzilla.  There’s been many a stank face during play back, which warms my heart.

Jamie also gives spot-on but satisfyingly British criticism.  We’ll do a take, and he'll be in the control room, gloriously bespectacled and disheveled, aggressively scratching his head. 

“Trevor...it’s a bit clever, innit?” 

He’s the only person who’s ever asked me to sound more like I’m in the Ramones while playing Al Stone Band material.  I can’t tell you how happy this makes me.  

We're doing good work, folks!  

Al Stone Recording Sessions, Day 3

Long day yesterday.  Good, very productive, but long.  How many tunes are in the bag now?  Seven?  Nine?

The thing about recording without a click track and headphones is every take counts.  It’s not a case of ok, we’re focusing on bass and drums, so I’m going to find parts and fine tune until it’s time for overdubs.  How we’re working is a unique balance of ultimate chill and crazy pressure. 

We’re recording everything, and I mean EVERYTHING, and I want to sound good every take because when Jason’s crushing and Swatty’s channeling Mr. Wonder and Tyler’s grooving like a so-and-so and Allen’s embodying Dio and Al Greene with a crazy, sexy, vaguely unsettling kinda mojo, I don’t want to be the assclown who keeps missing the G chord.  And we’re playing the equivalent of maybe five or six shows in a row (with pizza breaks).  So, yeah.  

But it’s inspiring.  Yesterday, we reworked a demo that needed LOTS of love into this gnarly Black Keys/disco vibe which is so unsettlingly cool I want to dance and shoegaze simultaneously.  Jamie Lidell’s got my guitar sounding like a chain smoking buzzsaw.  This record’s new, which is exactly what we need.  Sure, the songs are new, but more so the whole approach is the opposite of what’s become our normal.  

We've been smelling each other's feet for a bunch of years now.  These sessions are just the kick in the ass we need.  

Al Stone Recording Sessions, Day 2

Fantastic first day at Sound Emporium yesterday!  

First days can be weird.  For example, we’ve never worked with Jamie Lidell: will his brand of eccentricity play nice with ours?  The engineers are veterans of modern country sessions: will their surviver mode professional detachment harsh the mellow?  First days are normally spent breaking the ice, getting sounds and hanging out.  Us?  We show up, stock the fridge with cheap domestic lager and kinda just start recording.  

The way we’re making this record’s so exciting.  No click track.  No headphones, even.  Just us, set up in a circle, recording live.  Any musician knows this makes the process about as difficult as it gets, theoretically.  But it’s so much fun- total garage band vibes- and an inspiring vote of confidence from Jamie Lidell: look, you guys are great.  Just play.  

When you see a band (at least a good one, anyway) that’s been together for a loooooong time, you notice shared smiles, glances that hint at inside jokes, and neat synchronous sparks that only happen when you know a person’s playing better than your own.  It’s those little things that leave you feeling lifted.  I can’t tell you how many times someone’s come up to me after a show and said “wow, that was great, I love how much fun you guys have up there!”  I’m so happy we’re finally, FINALLY capturing that on record.  We’re just set up in a circle, making music, being pals.  

Ok, back to work...

Al Stone Recording Sessions, Day 1

Ok, we’re here.  Sound Emporium in Nashville.  Allen Stone and the Electric Mayhem featuring Tyler Carroll, Record Numero 3.  

We’re bringing 18 tunes to the studio.  I think eight or so are better than anything we’ve ever done.  Two are timeless.  And there are a handful that need serious massaging, which is normal but annoying.

But this is why Day 1’s exciting!  Right now, Sound Emporium’s just a vibey room filled with cased up guitars, dusty amps and one bespectacled hipster musician (hi).  But I know music lives in each of those guitars, and every amp will hum into life riffs and melodies as yet undiscovered.  It's up to me to find them, and challenge accepted.

The studio’s quiet, but soon the Gang of Assholes arrive.  Jay will play something cool and Swatty will go weedly wee and Tyler will make a bass face and I’ll FaceTime our tour manager Ryan “Bear” Drozd and play a guitar solo at him.  It'll be less trance-like state of elevated consciousness and more hacking wildly in the general direction of the ol' music piñata: aka what we do best.  

On Day 1, there’s a hint of a record, the Task at Hand.  On Day 10, we’ll have the next chapter in the Allen Stone Fencing Collective.  We’ll have “it.”  

I don't know how we'll get there, but it’s gonna be fun finding out.  Sunglasses emoji.

Snoozeville

It's fall of 2012 during our first bus tour, and I will not vomit at the radio promo event in Birmingham.  Oh, the parade of double whiskies last night sure seemed like a good idea and that 4am burrito tasted suspect, but I’m a professional goddammit, a veteran of gastro-intestinal discomfort brought on by imbecilic food choices and I WILL NOT VOMIT AT THE RADIO PROMO EVENT IN BIRMINGHAM.

And I don't, but I sure feel like death.  At least I’m not being interviewed: our singer's barely hanging on, his eyes as shiny and glazed as a freshly zambonied hockey rink.  In between songs, I duck out into the hallway just in case All Things Must Go and catch my reflection in a framed Maroon 5 poster.  I’m wearing a cardigan.  I shouldn't be around people.  

We play “Sleep.”  I’m tasked with half of the call-and-response in the bridge, which Allen Stone Band fans know well.  Count sheep!  Drink whiskaaaaaay!  I sound less thespian and more brain-starved zombie.  The station folks are professional to a fault, heaping upon us unwarranted praise while we’re hoping our breath doesn’t smell too horrifically like a frat party.  

There’s a time in every touring musician’s career when the candle comes to life and says ok, no more of this burning at both ends bullshit.  It's usually not a rock bottom thing, more so a wake up call, and here I am, sitting on the street corner, head in my hands, aware this can’t happen again.  

And it hasn't.  These days, on the road, I'm the wake up early and do yoga guy.  I ride my bike and tour art galleries and shit.  I'm that douche.   Save for a celebratory tequila shot before we head out on stage, I don't drink on tour.  I know, right?!  Snoozeville.  I don't admit these things to Big Country.  

As artists, we define ourselves by our otherness.  Sometimes, the most satisfyingly contrarian f-you's being the bright and chipper asshole with a green juice.  

Beautiful Things

My neighbor Big Country and I are hanging out by the fence, as we do most mornings.  It’s cold: the steam from my coffee's fogging up my glasses, and this makes Big Country laugh.  He’s in a t-shirt and overalls, barely flinching in the ten degree weather.

We’re talking about music, or at least I’m pretty sure that’s what we’re talking about.  With Big Country, you only grab, at best, one out of of every three words, so it’s often a “I’m reading one line below where I should at the eye exam” kind of situation.  Uhhhhhhhhhh, is that an M?  Wait, what, Q?!

Big Country’s “talm bout” this and that, pausing here and there to hawk chew into this Tennessee Titans cup.  I've never discussed music with my enigmatic neighbor, largely because, aside from calling out requests for Rhinestone Cowboy from his porch, BC's never really been super engaged with what I do for a living.  And that's fine:  I am, after all, a fedora-wearing weirdo, and Big Country's more than likely a criminal.  There's an unspoken understanding between us that our conversations, while wide-ranging and entertaining, won't stray too far from neutral territory.  

That said, I ask Big Country how he feels about music.  He glances at his dog (aptly named Little Country) and the American flag hanging undisturbed above his garage- things that carry meaning, things he loves.  

“Shit Trevor,” he declares, “the world needs more beautiful things.”

With that, BC farts loudly, scratches his belly and heads back inside his house which he never heats (in his words, why spend money on bullshit?).  

I’m thankful for my clearly insane, redneck buddha of a neighbor.  When I moved to Nashville, I expected certain things- incredible music, blisteringly spicy fried chicken, Brooklyn transplants scowling from behind cash registers at hipster coffeeshops, etc- but I never imagined my most edifying conversations would be with a maniacal moon shine distiller.  

Wisdom is everywhere, provided we’re open to receiving it.  

Where It All Started...

The fellas arrive in Nashville tomorrow to begin work on the next Al Stone record, and I'm in a nostalgic mood. 

The first Allen Stone song I learned was Your Eyes.  Oh, oh, oh, your eeeeyyyyyyyes.  If you’d told me I’d be playing that song for drunk Japanese salarymen at Blue Note Tokyo a year or so down the road, I’d have legitimately laughed in your face.

I’m often asked how I met Allen, and the honest answer’s I didn’t give the whole thing much thought.  I mean, how could I?  I was going through an unfortunate kinda-sorta Justin Beiber-y bowl cut phase, and Allen was rocking oversized sweaters.  The keyboard player at the time routinely produced fresh biscuits from his jacket pocket and rambled about Harry Potter conspiracy theories (“that’s why it rains so much in Seattle, Harry Potter’s too popular.  It’s WITCHCRAFT!”).  

There was a first meeting, obviously, and it occurred over a plate of nachos at the Matador in Ballard.  

We talked shop.  “Shop,” such as it was, consisted of Allen acknowledging that, yes, there were shows in California, and he'd recently jury rigged a Play Station setup in his van.  Tiger Woods Golf, I was assured, would be an option.  I was in, right?  Allen and I knew each other a little bit from the scene and the Unaware video was picking up steam.  It was exciting, watching the view count jump by a few thousand everyday, but I was skeptical we’d have an audience outside Seattle.  

In those first weeks, I’d discover that Heavenly Donuts in Redding, CA is the biggest misnomer in America.  And, yes, it was in fact human urine on the sheets at the Shasta Lodge (we’d stay there multiple times).  We were a rag tag bunch of miscreants, and I’d purchased a bright blue collared shirt for the occasion.  

If professional touring can be likened to immaculately crafted pop mega-hits, we were on some free-jazz shit.

And now, well, here I am.  Embracing a new chapter in Nashville and about to be three records deep with the Al project.  The music biz sure is an odd and circuitous road.  But I'm still standing, still here, and of that I'm most proud.  

An Ode to Vans

Any touring musician will tell you the van’s a sacred place.  An oasis of calm in a turbulent sea of alcohol fueled faux pax, it’s where you retreat when a fan really, REALLY wants to meet Allen.  After soundcheck, overwhelmed by green room dick art (a very real thing), it’s where you huddle for comfort.  When a room at the Days Inn may as well be a suite at the St. Regis, it’s where you sleep. 

I’ve developed emotional attachments to two vehicles in my life, both vans.  And death traps, if I’m honest.

The first van the Al Stone band toured in was a blue Ford E 150.  Someone was tasked nightly with sleeping in the van to “protect the gear,” aka avoid the clown car situation that’s piling an entire band into a single roach infested motel room.  I volunteered to “protect the gear” many times. 

All things considered, the blue Ford was pretty comfortable.  You could, for example, lie down behind the back seats on a kinda sorta makeshift platform.  I fondly recall being extremely sick on our first tour through Canada, keeled over on said platform, and letting loose awe-inspiring farts.  The incident, called “Sick Trev,” lives in infamy as the most offensive ass-related moment in the band’s history.  But I digress.  

The second van we toured in was a Dodge Sprinter, purchased from the Worst Ramada in the History of the World.  You could stand up in it, and there was enough room in between the seats and sliding door for someone to repurpose my yoga mat as a mattress.  Sprinters are typically diesel, which saves a ton of money, and we were now officially tall enough to be regularly banned due to high winds from highway driving in Wyoming.  A meth-addled semi driver clipped our Dodge Sprinter at a truck stop in Iowa, and I remember Jason chasing after him and thinking he might actually catch up.

My combined mileage total in these vehicles easily tops 400,000.  Through their windows, I saw America for the first time.  When we formed the band, things took off quickly-  first gig, June 2011, Conan O’Brien, October that same year.  We were largely strangers when we piled into the blue Ford.  Jumping off the Dodge Sprinter for the last time, we were brothers. 

Thoughts on Procrastination, Pt. 2

I’m sitting in bed and sipping coffee from my bedside coffeemaker (literally one of the best decisions I’ve ever made).  Ever-so-slightly hung chowder, I’m watching Charles Barkley argue with Shaq on YouTube.  While entertaining, I’m beginning to feel the all-too-familiar pang of “man I should really be doing, you know, an actual thing.”  I figure it’s apt sharing another tactic I use for combating procrastination.

The But-Rebuttal Method

I mean, it's just fun saying "But Rebuttal." 

Anyway.  When we think about doing something productive, it’s easy giving ourselves excuses in the form of buts.  I dunno, something like, say:

“I could go for a run, but…” 

-I’m just too tired

-I’m feeling lazy

-I’m not in the mood, etc

Standard stuff.  However, if we challenge this thinking with a But Rebuttal (Jesus Christ, I'm still eight years old), the tone shifts entirely.

“I could go for a run, but I’m not in the mood”

     -I’ll feel more into it once I get started, and afterwards I’ll feel amazing

“But running takes a long time”

     -I can always run a shorter distance today

“But I’m too tired”

     -Just do a little bit and rest

“But I’d rather rest now and watch Netflix”

     -I can, but I’ll feel like a giant sack of crap, and deciding not to run will hang over my head all day

“But I’m just a lazy person”

     -That can’t be true- I’ve run on numerous occasions in the past

Just keep going until you’re out of excuses.  If you're anything like me, this can sometimes take a while, but I'm eventually always able to drag my ass out the door.   

Doing stuff can be overwhelming, sure, but I find doing something- almost anything- is better than doing nothing.  That said, hey, I’ve written this post, and I’m out of coffee.  Time to hang out by the fence with Big Country.

Happy January 19th, everybody!

Claire de Lune

I’m taking a trip down memory lane, scrolling through old photos.  Debussey’s Claire de Lune's whispering sanguinely in the background.  It can be challenging sometimes, writing to music.  With each crescendo, I’m no longer me, but rather some super hero, trusted with greater purpose beyond singing about his feelings.  

Khatia Buniatishvili is the pianist, and her performance is effortless.  There’s a chasm greater than the Grand Canyon separating a very good player (like myself) and world class soloists like Khatia Buniatishvili.  That kind of tunnel-visioned dedication's simply more than most intellects are capable, and people who genuinely practice ten hours a day and don’t come out coke-addled maniacs who deeply resent their well-intentioned yet domineering parents are unicorn-in-the-witness-protection-program level rare.  

I stopped writing just now for a full five minutes, closing my eyes, taking in each expertly depressed key and barely audible squeak from the damper pedal.  I was going to write about family.  Inspired by a picture of my cousin and me sipping whiskey gingers on the tour bus, I was going to make fun of my hat, compliment my cousin’s smile and express gratitude for music allowing me to travel to far flung corners of the world and knock back cocktails with variously accented Larkins.  And I will.  Tomorrow, maybe.  But now, in this moment, a frigid and muddled day's giving way to a crystalline evening, and I'm relaxing into that fortifying sorta happy-sad we artists love. 

Regardless of where my career takes me, or whatever twists and turns life invites, I'm glad I'll always find solace in music.  It hasn't steered me wrong yet.  

My Friend Big Country

I have a neighbor, and his name is Big Country.  

Clad in overalls and a mesh Budlight cap, Big Country encourages me to play "real hillbilly music" and not slip any of that “vegan shit” under the fence for his dog.  I'm not vegan and, last I checked, left over bacon wouldn't grace Gwyneth Paltrow's $1000 designer plate but hey, I agree with Big Country on this one.  So, no vegan shit for the pooch.  

I like Big Country.  Most mornings, I brew some coffee and head outside, invariably met by BC drying his clothes on the fence.  We talk about life.  I don’t bring up Trump and he doesn’t hold against me that I’m yet another privileged, converse wearing hipster with thick rimmed glasses moving into his neighborhood.   

This past Wednesday morning, Big Country asks me if I believe in God.  I decide to be honest.  Well, I say, I believe in kindness and that nobody has the monopoly on good ideas.  If that’s God, ok, but I don’t think that’s the whole story.  Big Country smiles closed-lipped, takes a sip from his oversized Tennessee Titans cup and squints at me, his crows feet revealing a life spent working long hours outdoors.  Trevor, he says, my dad’s sick.  You’re a good kid.  Pray for my dad.  I’m pretty sure God’ll hear ya.

So, that night, I pray for Big Country’s dad.  I sit in my living room and allow my mind to wander towards who I imagine BC’s dad to be- surrounded by grandkids chasing fireflies, their laughter easing his labored breathing, willing his withered legs to dance miraculously along with the music of his youth.  I imagine Alzheimer’s grip loosening, freeing a gifted raconteur to slalom through memories in triumphant lucidity.  

Kindness, I imagine he tells me, has a way of leaving something behind, something you don’t notice until the main event’s passed on, like the sweet kiss of cedar smoke on your clothes. 

Conan, 2011

It’s October 2011, and the Allen Stone Band’s playing “Unaware” on Conan O’Brien.  It’s our first national TV spot, and I’m so nervous I black out on-air.  But that’s ok, because I also look homeless.  I’m wearing billowing Levi’s and an Iron Maiden t-shirt.  As we’re escorted to stage, the journalist traveling with us insists I wear his over-sized suit jacket.  He’s taken pity on me.  

You should really check it out.  Both our performance and the jacket. 

If I’m honest, we all look like we’ve wandered onto the soundstage accidentally.  We’ve been a band for, what, four months at this point?  We’re green.  As green as Kermit the Frog singing “It’s Not Easy Being Green.”

But there’s something powerful about our performance on Conan almost seven (!) years ago.  

I’d say we were unprepared, but that’s unkind- in order to be unprepared, there has to be some sort of reference point, which of course we didn’t have.  We’re a band that makes deals with God every morning that our van sputters into life.  The week prior, we’d played in San Louis Obispo to five people.  That’s including the bartender and doorman.  National TV?  Really?  

That’s like Giselle saying she’s had enough of Tom Brady’s dimpled chin and wants to leave it all behind and start a new life with yours truly.  Zero reference point.  You either run for the hills, or put on some deodorant and try your best.  

It’s precisely because we have no idea what we're doing that makes our performance that day special.  Preparing, and therefore overthinking, wasn’t an option, so we just put on some deodorant and tried our best.  We winged it.  And, honestly, we captured a vibe we haven't corralled since.  

As artists, 100% of us are prone to overthinking.  Experiences like the one above remind me that, at some point, we have to throw ourselves out there.  Rolling with the punches really isn’t that bad.  Often, it’s the most enjoyable part of the whole deal.  AND, Conan has a popcorn maker in the green room.

But if Giselle actually comes calling, run for the hills.  Unless you want a life of obscure moisturizers and not eating strawberries. 

Quick Thoughts on a Busy Monday

I’m having a happily busy day, bouncing around from meeting to meeting, and I’ve finally found a couple minutes to write while waiting on a sandwich.  

I'm grateful for this daily newsletter- today's bananas, and I ordinarily wouldn't have taken time to breath and nourish myself.  Thank you all for subscribing and holding me accountable.    

If you’re lucky, you have lots of busy days filled with edifying conversations and inspiring challenges.  On days like these, it’s that much more important pausing the game for a moment and taking stock of the little things.  

I’m thankful for:

-Becoming better at asking for help.  

Being an independent artist can be isolating.  With limited time and even tighter budgets, we end up doing a lot on our own.  It’s easy forgetting we exist in a community of like minded people facing similar challenges.  I know I’m eager to lend an ear, offer advice and extend a helping hand, regardless of the financial reward- all you have to do is ask.  It’s tempting, and even a bit romantic, believing we operate best in a vacuum but, objectively, the realty couldn’t be further from the truth.  I’m learning to trust friends and embrace my community more completely.

-Wanting to ask questions. 

There’s so much about which I’m curious and know precious little.  Rather than being ashamed or intimidated by this, I’m trying to listen more and move patiently in the world.  I’m focusing on little things.  For example, making an effort, rather than nodding along in conversation, to mention if I don’t know that band, song, author, movie, or whatever it might be.  I want to learn.

-Not having twins.  

Holy smokes, the couple next to me at the Frothy Monkey’s having a hard time.  I’m gonna buy their coffees.

I’m a work in progress, but I’m trying my best.  Thanks for taking this journey with me.  

January 15!  Hooray!

Not Famous Podcast

Excited to announce that the Not Famous Podcast rides again!  

Well, almost.  New weekly episodes starting in February.

Some background:

The Not Famous Podcast is a long-form conversation show hosted by myself and good bud Jeremy Hatcher.  With independent creatives, we discuss art, music and the role fame plays in our culture.  

Starting in April 2017, Jeremy and I produced 33 episodes in six months, learning as we went, each one better than the last.  The show built a neat cult following and became a catalyst for so much positive change in our lives.  

When Jeremy got a gig in LA with Rick Rubin last fall, we decided to put the show on hold until balance to the Force was restored.  Now, we’re rested, ready and excited to fire things back up!  

The timing for Not Famous was perfect.  In 2017, the Allen Stone crew spent most of January and February writing music for the next record, with the expectation of going into the studio in April.  The album got pushed back, Al took a solo tour with Hall and Oates and, all of sudden, I was staring at an empty calendar.  I was enjoying the ride of a lifetime with the band, but I hadn’t carved out a lane that was uniquely mine. 

Friends suggested I start a podcast, which was intimidating.  I was afraid I’d sound like an idiot (about which I'm less concerned, given that literally anyone can be elected leader of the free world, it turns out, and nut shot videos still reign supreme on YouTube).  Eventually, as I do with most things, I bounced the idea off Jeremy.  In a calming matter-of-factness only he can pull off, he said ok, we’ll start on Tuesday, then.  End of discussion.  

Nothing feels better than sharing your voice- literally, in this case- with the world and being heard.  We have a blast with Not Famous, and I'm confident you'll enjoy listening as much as we enjoy making it.

You can subscribe on iTunes, or click here.  

January 14!  Let's goooooooooo!

Thoughts on Procrastination

Procrastination, folks.  Oh yes!  Everyone deals with it.  As artists, we’re especially prone.  Our livelihood, after all, depends on our being emotionally vulnerable and open to daily criticism (if not hourly, thanks to social media).  Who wouldn't want to sit out a few rounds?  

In procrastination’s mildest form, you may put off doing a few annoying chores.  Thing is, procrastination’s a sneaky SOB- it may start super low key but, over time, as your lack of motivation intensifies, virtually any activity appears so difficult that you’re overwhelmed by the urge to do nothing.  Because you accomplish very little, you feel worse and worse.  Sadly, we often don’t recognize we’re trapped, and this situation can go on for weeks, months, even years.

So many artists suffer in silence with this kind of thing, not wanting to appear less-than.  It’s heart breaking, and I’d like to dedicate the next several posts of the Mind of a Trevor to strategies I’ve used to combat Do-Nothingism.

Strategy 1- Create an Antiprocrastination Sheet

Say you’re avoiding a particular task because you predict it’ll be too difficult and unrewarding.   Using an Antiprocrastination Sheet, you’re able to test your negative predictions.  

-In the first column, write down the task in question.  If it’s kinda big and overwhelming, break it down into small steps, with each one taking at most about 15 mins to complete.  

-In the second column, write down how difficult you predict each step of the task will be, on a scale of 0-100.  If you imagine the task will be easy, keep it low, 10-20, say.  If you predict crazy ninja difficulty status, go high, 80-90.  

-In the next, write down how satisfying and rewarding you predict each step will be, 0-100

-Once you’ve recorded these predictions, complete the first step of the task.  After you’ve completed each step, record how difficult it actually turned out to be, as well as the amount of pleasure gained from doing it.  Record this info in the last two columns, again using 0-100.  

Here’s a recent Antiprocrastination Sheet of mine:

Task:  Writing a long, annoying business email (broken down into small steps)

Activity                        Predicted            Predicted            Actual            Actual

                                   Difficulty             Satisfaction        Difficulty     Satisfaction

1. Outline email               90                        10                       10                  60

2. Write rough draft        90                         10                       10                  80

3. Edit final draft             80                        10                        10                  85

4. Send email                  60                         20                        5                  90

As you can see, I predict that writing the email’s going to suck big time.  After recording my pessimistic predictions, I’m curious to see if it’ll be as tedious and stupid as I think.  To my great surprise, I find writing the email’s really not all that bad- kinda easy, in fact.  Inspired by this small victory, I finally wash the goddamn dishes.

Looking forward to sharing more strategies with you!  Let's help each other and be human beings together.    

Travel, Travel and Travel Some More

“Are you tired of touring?” is a question I get often, and the answer’s no.  I think that’s because I don’t tour so much as I travel.  

What's the difference?  Well, here’s a typical tour day for most- limp out of the hotel room/bus/van, stare zombie-like at an iPhone screen, hit up the Chipotle near the venue, play the gig, drink free booze and pass out after not brushing your teeth.  

Sound good to you?  Me neither.  So, I do none of these (except play the gig).  I get out and see the town, explore, get lost.  I travel.  

Travel highlights what already's within you.  Enjoy people?  Well, you’re in luck- people are, it turns out, everywhere.  Dig exotic cuisine, or at the very least a Chicago style hot dog?  Go nuts!  More significantly, if you’re a person who remains fluid, flexible and good natured in the face of delays, multi-faceted absurdities and people being good ol’ fashioned assholes, chances are the open road will treat you fine.  

If you prefer the company of Netflix over exchanging pleasantries with a stranger, well, travel’s gonna eventually wear you down.  “I just have to sleep in my own bed” isn’t a professional traveler characteristic.   Nothing wrong with being a homebody, by the way.  Who doesn't like growing vegetables and enjoying a low likelihood of hosting a monkey parasite?

I’m odd.  I enjoy being home, sure, but if I’m not traveling in some description after about a week I genuinely feel like I’m letting myself down.  I’m lucky- I can sling a hastily packed bag over my shoulder, book a ticket and just GO.  Few are able to pull that off, and I don’t take my good fortune for granted.  Life won’t always be like this, and I’m not worried about the greener grass on the other side.  The grass is plenty green in Iceland, and I’m going to experience it first hand.  

For anyone who’s new to touring, traveling a ton and feeling burnt, or generally stuck in a rut, here’re a couple things I do that changed the game:

-Rather than Yelp something for lunch, ask somebody. 

People love talking about where they’re from, and this simple ice breaker almost always leads to additional recommendations.  

-Read a work of fiction set in the place you’re going. 

The good stuff, I’ve found, manifests more readily through stories than Trip Advisor.  It's also made long flights something I look forward to. 

”All cities are the same" is bullshit.  Don't become that guy.  

Travel.  Travel, travel and travel some more.  Especially in these bizarre and unstable times, experiencing people and places first hand is a valuable currency.  Chances are I'll bump into you somewhere out there.  First beer's on me.  

Smoky Amps

We’re playing a gig in London a couple years ago, and I’m having a rough night.  The backline (the on-stage equipment- amps, drums, keyboards etc) has been put “through the trenches,” as our cheerful and vaguely criminal promoter puts it.  More accurately, my amp’s held together by duct tape.  

Throughout the show, each of us experiences blow ups, intermittent power drops, electric shocks, and the combination of jet lag and one too many pints of the black stuff the night before makes me want to punch Santa Claus in the face.  Yes, it’s so bad that I want to will a fictional character into existence for the sole purpose of inflicting upon him physical harm.  

In between exasperated glances at our production manager, who’s dealing with his own technical issues, and singing waaaaaay off mic as to not be shocked into unrecognizablity, I notice a young couple in the front row dancing, singing every word and sweetly kissing in between verses.  They’re blissfully unaware of whatever technical issues are happening on stage- this is just a great night out.  I realize that the worst thing I can do, despite threats of involuntary electroshock treatment, is pull these people out of their moment.  

Really, the show’s about this couple, and everyone else who generously paid real money for a ticket.  It’s 100% easier not doing a thing than doing a thing, and these people chose to see us.  Suddenly, my duct taped amp sounding like a farting baboon’s funny rather than professionally embarrassing.  I take out my in-ears, share high fives with the front row and begin dancing.  Badly.  The smoke from my beleaguered amp’s highlighting constellations of dust inside the stage lighting, and I appreciate how lucky I am to be here, making music with my friends and for these beautiful people.

We performers have rough nights.  Any number of things can go wrong at any time, and it’s easy losing the forest for the trees.  No one will remember, or even notice, a shitty amp, but they’ll certainly remember the smile on your face, or your throwing a tantrum on stage.  It’s on us as musicians to takes ourselves out of our heads and appreciate the gig from the audience's perspective.

I’m thankful for:

-Well, perspective

That writing this every morning allows me to reflect on where I’ve been and what I’ve learned along the way.

-Small victories

Focusing on doing little things every single day rather than chasing orgasmic, earth-shattering career wins.  

-Zakk Wylde

Dude uses industrial chain as a guitar strap.

January 11!  It’s real good.