Seeed (yes, with three e's)

The picture below was taken in 2013 in Dortmund, Germany.  It’s my birthday. 

I’m throwing up in my mouth slightly reliving the post show celebrations.  I recall conga lines and arm wrestling Russian crew dudes- their prison tattoos clearly visible- emboldened by rum and cokes and champagne.  Never mix those two.  Our tour manager mercifully’s carrying anti-nausea medication prescribed to chemo patients.  

And so begins an incredible two week run with the biggest band in Germany.

Earlier that day, I emerge from my bunk to Big News- they have a juicer in catering.  A JUICER!  And we’re parked next to an arena!  In typical music biz fashion, the details are a little murky as to what we’ve signed up for.  Turns out, we’re opening for a band called Seeed (yes, with three e’s).  Who?  I assumed we’d be first of three on a club bill but, hey, here we are, and evidently there's a juicer.  

The first person from Seeed’s camp I meet is their production manager.  Apparently, they sell out stadiums throughout Germany, Austria and Switzerland.  Tonight’s show will be small, he tells me.  Only ten thousand.  And their fans show up for the opener.  Oh, and they’re usually hostile.  The last opener quit. 

Great.

Seeed’s running their new show for radio contest winners, and would I like to check it out?  I’m still convinced we’re actually booked at a beer hall town the road.  Inside the empty arena, an 11 piece hip-hop/reggae/pop/jazz band is practicing dance moves and busting each other’s balls in rapid-fire German. A contest winner's literally weeping with joy.  

Where am I, what’s going on, and where the hell’s that juicer?

I hadn’t realized just how large the music world really is.  As an American, we’re taught that success in the US is the mountaintop.  Here’s a band I’d never heard of, popular in only a few countries, playing to tens of thousands.  They're writing music that would send most A&R folks running.  And they CRUSH. 

As artists, there’s constant pressure to game the system and jump on bandwagons.  Seeed reminds me that it’s a great big world, and inspired artistry always finds a home.  

Goals

Someone asked me yesterday if I actually plan on keeping the Mind of a Trevor going.  So, this morning, I’m thinking about goals.  

Current behaviors are a reflection of our current identity.  What you do is a mirror image of the type of person you think you are.

A breakthrough for me was shifting my goals from performance and appearance to identity based.  

“I’m going to run a half marathon” or “I’m losing 20 pounds” are performance and appearance goals, and they’re awesome.  But how many times have we set similar goals, only to have our year defined by the number of empty potato chip bags rather than miles logged?  

Performance and appearance goals are great if you already have a sustainable routine- without one, you’re destined to carb binge.  So, what’s missing?

In my opinion, a little reverse engineering.  

“I’m going to maintain a daily email newsletter for 2018” is a neat performance goal.  Yay!  Good for me!  But, when I think about a year-long challenge, with zero skipped days and subscribers actually reading, etc, it gets intimidating.  The over-thinking floodgates open.  Eventually, I’ll skip a day, because who really cares, right?  A skipped day becomes a skipped week, then month and, eventually, I’m a person who didn’t do the thing I said I was going to do.  That carries over into everything else, whether consciously or unconsciously.  I’ve been that guy a whole lot, and it stinks.

So, I shifted my focus to an identity based goal.  

I’m the type of person who wakes up early and writes everyday.  

I can wrap my head around that.  I’m just the guy who does the thing.  Emboldened by this new identity, I can develop habit.  I mean, the action’s in the description- wake up early and write.  Zero ambiguity.  

Simple.  Not easy, but simple.  And simple's key.  

For 2018, I’m the guy who wakes up early and writes everyday.

I’m thankful for:

-Herbie Hancock

The man’s a genius.  I’ve been binging on the Headhunters lately.

-Spellcheck

I’m a man of many strengths, but spelling simply isn’t one of them.  Been knocked out in the first round of every spelling bee in my life.  

-Broken, Beat and Scarred by Metallica

An under-appreciated tune off the Death Magnetic record.  Check it out.

January 9!  Here we go!

Breakthroughs

Our rickety tour bus barely makes it up the meandering mountain road as we approach the Bilboa BBK Festival in Spain.  I remember thinking, well, if there was ever a place for our brakes to give out, sending us careening down the sheer cliff to our spectacular death, you could do far worse.  The Biscay province of Spain is inspiringly beautiful.  It’s 360 degree postcard vibes, as if the Colorado front range took a beach vacation.  I feel lucky.  Music’s taken me here.

Somehow, our Port-a-Potty on wheels lurches into the bus parking area, and we’re cheerfully escorted to our dressing room.  At festivals, there’s a certain leveling of the playing field- our dressing room’s next door to Phoenix’s, for example- and, for a day or two, you feel like maybe you’re invited to the party.  Just don’t try sitting next to Joe Bonamassa.  But that’s another story.

I disappear for an hour or so, bouncing around the festival, taking pictures, gorging myself on chorizo.  You know, getting “show ready.”  When I arrive back, it’s relayed to us there’s been a mix up: we’re on the bill, just no one bothered assigning us a stage.  Whoops.  But don’t worry, there’s an opening in the EDM tent during the afternoon, we can slot you in there!

Great.  A soul band.  In the EDM tent.  During the afternoon.

We show up, and the attendance is predictably anemic for the poor noon-1pm DJ.  He signs off, the couple dozen people hanging around scatter in search of face drugs, and we start playing.  For 10 people.

A couple songs in, I see people working their iPhones, and soon there're 50 or so new faces.  Then a hundred.  Then two.  Half way through our set, people are literally running down the hill, climbing over barriers, dancing and smiling and clapping and, boom, the tent’s packed.  From ten to a few thousand in 45 minutes.  

There’re a handful of moments I can point to and say ok, this was it, this justifies my not pursuing the actuarial sciences.  I'm looking forward to sharing them.  

Music continues to inspire, confound and challenge me in ways I never imagined.

I’m thankful for-

-My friends

Living these experiences with brothers/sisters in arms makes my life immeasurably full.

-These experiences inspiring me to take more chances

I wouldn’t be releasing my own music, writing this, or co-hosting the Not Famous Podcast if it weren’t for experiences like the one above.  

-This breakfast crepe

-Sunrise crepe with bacon at Red Bicycle.  Go get it.

January 8!  It’s me!

Thoughts on Making Tough Calls

This morning, a Maya Angelou quote comes to mind:

I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.

I was chatting with a friend yesterday who’s found himself in an all-too-familiar situation: his career’s picking up and his manager, a long time buddy, is out of his depth.  My friend’s tried everything, and his manager just can’t keep up.  He knows he’s got to let him go but is afraid he’ll lose a friend in the process. 

This is a tricky situation, no two ways about it, but you absolutely have to sit down, look that person in the eyes and tell them what’s up.  Will they be upset?  Sure, that’s almost guaranteed.  Will they say things in the heat of the moment they’ll regret?  Very possible.  It’s also likely, I told my friend, that your manager knows he’s out of his depth and will appreciate your honest assessment.  He may even be relieved.  

However it goes down in the moment, it’ll be just that- in the moment, and fairly quickly moved on from.  If you don’t let him go now with transparency and compassion, what results is infinity worse than temporary discomfort- communication breakdown, leading to people connecting dots they have no business connecting, which leads to humiliation, resentment and a whole lot of bridges burned.  

I’ve seen this happen so many times, and it’s stupid.  It makes me angry.  

We artists are typically bad at this kind of thing.  Firing people sucks.  But it’s exponentially worse creating an environment where people feel less-than.  It's said that time heals all wounds, but not that one.  

I’m thankful for:

-not being a big Vampire Weekend fan

I’m surrounded by hipsters at the Red Bicycle and, I dunno, for some reason I’m just kinda stoked that I don’t dig that band.  

-sitting down and writing this thing

I really didn’t want to.  It’s Sunday, I bargained, and isn’t this supposed to be a day of rest, etc?  But I’m here, and it feels good.

-the cappuccinos at Red Bicycle being a full dollar cheaper than Pinewood Social

Hipster commerce is a frustrating thing sometimes.  But don’t worry, both the Red Bicycle and Pinewood Social are staffed by Brooklyn transplants, so the ironic, distressed sweatshirt game’s strong.

January 7!  YES!

Thoughts on Patience

We’ve officially been given the green light to record the next Allen Stone album! 

We’ll be posting up at Sound Emporium here in Nashville for a couple of weeks end of this month.  It’s been a LOOOOONG time since the band’s released new music, and I hope my unnecessary use of all caps and extra letters conveys an accurate excitement level.  After all, you can’t see me doing my happy dance (arhythmic pelvic thrusting, FYI).  

It’s a wonderful thing, having the music industry machine working on your behalf, with the obvious result being more people in the room and opinions flying around.  We’re all delicate emotional flowers goddamnit, and we (read, I) need nurturing.  I always tell young musicians that if management and label say something’s going to take a month, expect six.  And this has been every bit the case with our record. 

The thing is, if you’re signed or thinking of signing with a label, booking agent, manager, etc, your thing doesn’t really get off the ground unless everyone’s on the same page.  Your manager could be genius, but if the label’s kicking rocks at the project, well, there’s no project.  Your booking agent could be a gem, but if the manager’s routinely disappearing on coke benders, that’s…um…suboptimal.  

It’s hard work lining up the right team.  My experience with management and labels has been good across the board, thankfully.  But people are people- we all move at different paces, communicate uniquely and only push forward when we’re ready.  It’s not surprising, then, that a few dozen people take more time than, say, one.  Meaning you, you sonofabitch.  

So, relax.  As an artist, patience is a virtue.  You’ve written the best record in the world, own the most expensive leather jacket and are brimming with confidence and enthusiasm.  Hooray for you!  But keep that shit under control.  I don’t know, take up tennis or something.  Maybe start a daily newsletter, hypothetically.  Absolutely be a voice in the room, but if you’re fortunate enough to have a team working your project, let them be people.  Give them space to process, listen, and fall in love with your art.  When it’s time to go, really time, then you’ll GO and your life will never be the same.  But you need help pulling that off.  Don’t alienate your team by being an over eager douche.

I’m thankful for:

-Red Wine  

The cheap shit from Trader Joes, in particular.  I’m nothing if not classy.

-The Allen Stone Beanie I’m Currently Wearing

It’s cold.  I have big ears.

-Chicken Thighs

A third of the price of chicken breast, and WAY tastier.

January 6!  It’s a vibe, ya’ll!

Thoughts on Practicing

I was chatting with a student the other day about practicing.  

He’s struggling with a mental block- overwhelmed by all he feels he has to learn, coupled with a familiar perfectionism, he’s finding it difficult playing at all, much less making progress.  He’s paralyzed.  Do I ever come up against anything like this?

The answer is…yes.  More than I should probably admit.  But I’m human, we all are (unless a concerningly intelligent Bonobo’s reading this), and we give a shit about making good art.  We’re all trying our best.  I think it’s vital getting stuck in a rut from time to time.  Ruts, after all, are found on the path to somewhere.

I suggested he begin with positive association.  For example, I struggle getting up in the morning and would 1000% rather sleep til noon everyday.  So, I have a coffee maker next to my bed.  At 6:30am, the gurgling and sweet sweet glorious aroma of freshly brewing brain juice gently suggests maybe waking up might be in the cards.  I like coffee, and it’s right there, so I get up and enjoy a cup.  Since I’m up, I may as well, you know, start my day, or whatever it is normal people do.  I now genuinely look forward to the early AM.  

So, I said, try picking up the guitar while the morning coffee’s brewing.  Just pick it up, that’s all.  I’m anticipating that first shot of caffeine and, hey, I’m holding my guitar anyway, may as well move my fingers around.  Absentmindedly, no exercises, super low pressure.  Well, my fingers are moving, may as well play a song.  Shit, I played a song, lemme try running a scale.  You get the idea. 

Before you know it, maybe like 10 or 15 minutes have gone by.  Nice!  You’ve played guitar!  It was easy, and the coffee’s strong and tasty.  Put the guitar down.  Do it again tomorrow.  

Momentum, however humble, is exciting.  That 10 or 15mins of low-key strumming over morning coffee will, in no time at all, evolve into a focused 30 minute practice routine, which becomes an hour, etc.  And then tendonitis, so don’t go too crazy.

I’m thankful for:

-Bonobos and monkeys in general not being hyper intelligent

I’m just not ready for that bullshit.

-The fine folks at Pinewood Social turning the music down

People complain about Millennial’s attention spans.  Well, turn down the SPDS hipster song.  You try concentrating over that shit, Gramps.

-My friend Jarle Bernhoft being a funny dude

Check out his Instagram profile.  What a goddamn gem.  

January 5, ladies and gentlemen!

A Perfect Nerdborg

Hi!

I’ve never been much of a New Year’s resolution guy.  I’d like to think it’s because I’m the embodiment of human efficiency, a perfect nerd cyborg hybrid (nerdborg?) of Bill Gates and David Goggins.  

Sadly, no.  What’s closer to the truth is my high fructose corn syrup addiction, love affair with graphic novels and obsession with Lars Ulrich interviews on YouTube conspire to demolish any workflow or curiosity beyond determining whether it’s a Red Hot or Very Cherry Jelly Belly I’m eating.  Goddamn things look identical.  

Like many musicians, a main reason why I got into this business was so I wouldn’t have anything to do before 5pm.  “I’ve never had a real job” was a favorite sound bite for a long time, something I wore as a badge of honor along with billowing khakis and the Same H&M Hoodie Everyday.  

I’ve experienced some neat successes over the past several years- which is great, obviously- but a tragic side effect is having to drag my ass up in the morning and actually get shit done.  And here I am, at the Red Bicycle in Nashville TN, sipping a cappuccino at 7 o’clock in the morning, writing this thing.  It’s where I’ll be every morning unless I’m traveling, because I promised myself I’d write something everyday and don’t want to drop the ball- that part’s super important, the accountability. 

And you guys subscribed.  On the internet no less, where there are videos of puppies doing all manner of adorable shit.  Or Lars Ulrich interviews.  You have infinite access to anything, and you chose to follow me.  Thank you, sincerely.  

It’s not a resolution per se, but I’m making an effort to spend a few minutes every morning reflecting on three things I’m thankful for.  Rarely are they big things.  Rather, they’re fun, tiny details that keep me firmly planted in the present.  I’d like to share them with you each day.  Here goes…

Today, I’m thankful for:

-Cappuccino.  

Holy smokes what a beverage.  I even like the acidic film a strong cap leaves in my mouth.  I’m that broken.

-This finely lacquered hipster table in the coffeeshop.  

To complete the picture, I’m wearing a fedora, thick rimmed glasses and Chuck Taylors.  Sigh.  Anyway, I dig this table, it looks like something a bleary eyed hipster should be slumped over, silently pecking away at a keyboard.  It brings balance to the Force.

-The employees, at work since 4am, misspelled “dishes” over the bus tub.  

“Dishs.”  Amazing.  

There’s a lot on my plate in the New Year, and this Mind of a Trevor project’s already centering me and providing focus first thing in the AM.  Thank you again for signing up early.  Like I said in yesterday’s post, if these daily blurbs inspire a discreet workplace chuckle, well, that’s inbox real estate well occupied.

Jan 4!  What a day!

The Mind of a Trevor

Happy 2018, folks!  

Today’s actually the perfect day to launch this daily email newsletter/blog- I’m feeling a little under the weather, travel weary (having just arrived back on the mainland a couple days ago), and generally pissed off by the EIGHTY DEGREE temperature change from the Big Island to Nashville.  I’ve spent most of December in flip-flops with Guava smeared all over my sunburned jowls, and now this?!  Anyway, this is exactly the kind of day I’d ordinarily invent some nonsense justification for how I’ve earned, after THREE WEEKS of vacation, the right to fritter away the day watching Lars Ulrich interviews on YouTube.  But oh no my friends, gone are those halcyon days.  Here I am, dosed up on Theraflu, pecking away at my laptop, getting this project underway.

I write everyday anyway so, I’ll be honest, this project isn’t as much of an undertaking as it may seem (sorry, feel free to unsubscribe if that’s a deal breaker haha).  In some form or another, writing’s how I keep my ol’ noggin’ on straight, and life always makes a hell of a lot more sense when whatever’s rattling around inside is out in the open.  

I’m actually really looking forward to this project.  I like the transparency and accountability.  Like most musicians, I love and overuse analogies, especially sports analogies, and it was put to me recently that you should think about any project like beating a team by four points every quarter.  It’s not sexy, glamorous, or highlight worthy but, by the end of the game, you’ve won by sixteen.  It’s a blow out.  When I look at the successes in my career, they’re all earned by slowly and methodically chipping away until I look up one day and, hey!, I’m playing a festival in France with Stevie Wonder.  HUH?!  How did that happen?   

That’s my goal here- consistency, attainability and not pulling my metaphorical hamstring two minutes in. 

Thanks again for subscribing, and I get it- this is daily thing, which is a lot, and I won’t be offended if you unsubscribe.  But I’m having a ton of fun writing this and, while I hope this is by no means a highlight of your day, if these posts inspire a discreet workplace chuckle, well, that’s inbox real estate well occupied.

January 3rd!  It's a great day!  Who knew?

Warming Up for 2018

It’s currently ten degrees in Nashville.  Seriously.  Ten goddamn degrees.  

Growing up in Walla Walla, when it was ten goddamn degrees, I’d sit in my room, fueled by romantic underachievement, and jam along with Metallica records.  It’s how I taught myself to play.  On this balls-cold ushering in of the New Year, it seems appropriate that I crank up Ride the Lightning and begin the journey towards getting my R&B fingers back into shredding shape.  

I’m noticing these days I’m actually able to lay back somewhat over stuff like this, which is thanks to the Al Stone band.  

Guitar’s fun, kids.

Sunsets

In the early stages of touring with Allen and the fellas, I took a lot of sunset photos.  We were On Our Way- anything was possible and everything seemed huge, hence my obsession, I imagine, with expansive, fire-red skies.  I remember feeling like the band was anointed.  I was naive, but magnificently so.  The issue isn't so much being naive, I realize now- in fact, when it comes to lunatic tasks like launching a band, it's a wonderful thing- but how you handle the inelegant landing back into reality can determine a whole hell of a lot.    

Now that the dust’s settled and the band’s experienced, along with our successes, several cliched set backs, I’ve noticed a shift in my curated photo diary.  More pictures, now, of me in silly hats, gazing earnestly into the Matrix.  Screen shots from fan profiles, immortalizing ill-advised tank top phases and preposterous cowboy themed stage attire.  Shows photos (literally staged photo ops) and promo pics.  It’s a business now, fun to be sure but an established Thing.  There are new dynamics, egos, politics and comrades in arms.  All of us have grown a bit more guarded and appropriately wearied, as one emerging from the trenches inevitably becomes.  We’ve seen a major label deal sour and new creative interests draw us in unique directions.  We’ve also seen a core fanbase stick by us.  After six years, I’m still standing.  I’m still here.

All this said, I miss those sunset photos.  At what point does wonder give way to self-seriousness?  That I’m aware enough to ask the question means I’m capable of making some changes and, with luck, stumbling upon an answer.  

An Ode to Moose and Sheep Dogs

I love Canada.  They’re playing Neil Young at an uncomfortable volume in the Vault coffeeshop here in Nanaimo and I enjoyed a moose stew for lunch.  The coffee’s strong, the sun’s out and I’m going fishing in an hour.  

We haven’t played in Canada for over a year and it felt great entertaining the fine folks at the Philips Backyard Weekender in Victoria a few days ago.  What a cool festival- small, accessible and fun.  We played right after a Canadian mariachi band which, while buzzed on local Pilsner, is just about the most delightful thing there is.  Later that evening, in a misguided effort to combat my dad bod, I find myself in a hipster vegetarian establishment.  I recognize a harmonized guitar line from one of my favorite Canadian bands, the Sheep Dogs, buzzing through the cafe’s underpowered speakers- they opened for us for a week last year, sweet hearted road warriors to a man, unknown in the States and down to log some serious van miles.  Just a few kilometers across the imaginary line, the Sheep Dogs are everywhere, more popular here than we are in the US.  The world’s a big place.  Good music always finds a home.

Tomorrow I hop on a sea plane over to Vancouver then back stateside for a show with Swatkins and the Positive Agenda.  I’m thankful for this quick trip into the Great White North.  I’ve been hunkered down in Music City for a while, slowly growing innocuously more bizarre, and it feels good getting my travel legs back.  Travel reminds me that monotony equals creative atrophy.  Spending nothing but time and taking nothing but pictures makes me happy.  I’ll always grow more bizarre, and I’m content doing so fueled on moose ass and Kokanee. 

This Bacon's Terrible

"This bacon's terrible!" declares the man sitting across from me at the Frothy Monkey.  This has nothing to do with this post other than it just happened and I couldn't come up with a title.  So, thanks angry bearded man.  Dude digs pork.

We’re being put up in a mansion in the Hollywood Hills, one owned by a company that synthesizes high fructose corn syrup and horse hoof into a palatable tooth rottener.  Knowing we’d be staying here, I’ve packed light, leaving ample room for 50 or so packets of obesity fuel.  What did Oscar Wilde say?  Everything in moderation, including moderation?  

The picture that sparks this memory is one of me sitting in this mansion, fedora’d and bespectacled, playing an ostentatious, USA-themed piano.  Red, white and blue, baby.  Part of the gig for bands staying at the Fructose Fortress is advertising your presence without giving up its super-duper secretive location, hashtag blessed etc, and this is my offering.  I’m not opposed to ostentation here and there, and I like candy. 

Post photo op, Jason’s shooting pool, Allen’s flying his drone and I’m in a sugar induced coma in the hot tub, glass of whiskey in one hand, cigar in the other.  It’s in moments like these I reflect on the fact that many friends my age are married with easily describable jobs and young families.  I'm in a hot tub, in my underpants, ashtray filled with gummy candy and a nice whiskey buzz preventing the one percent from harshing my mellow.  It’ll come as no surprise that I’m single.  I don’t own much- a few guitars, couple amps, a handful of clothes.  Inspired by back health and generally not having stuff, I ditched my bed, preferring instead a thin mat on the floor and a couple pillows.  You’d think that I’m about to launch into a tirade against the Man, the Industrialized Food Complex and see I’m already boring you.  I live a simple, uncluttered life and, in decluttering, I have more space for others. 

This blog’s actually been the catalyst for my downsizing.  On a recent, particularly dreary afternoon, I shut my laptop in disgust, declaring to my empty living room that I sucked, was totally useless and there's no point even finishing this sentence.  So, I started taking things to Goodwill.  Seemed like a good idea at the time.  I started with my closet, donating clothes I hadn’t worn in years, then moved on to the garage, sorting through bric-a-brac that’d inexplicably made the cross country trip from Seattle to Nashville.  8 hrs later, I realized I could now pack everything I owned into my Toyota Corrolla and not even fill it half way.  It was time to retackle that blog post.  You're reading it now.  

For whatever reason, I’m living a kooky, Peter Pan lifestyle that seems to invite two perspectives.  One, I can search for holes, things I’m lacking, hopelessly comparing myself to friends buying homes on fat Amazon salaries.  Two, I can own my situation to an almost comical degree.  Get rid of everything.  Travel on a dime.  Talk to everyone.  Take nothing but pictures, spend nothing but time, trust I’ll become one with the Force eventually.  Guess which one I've chosen.  

I wrote a lyric recently- “I may be lonely but, when it’s time, I’ll let that go.”  For now, it’s me.  My shitty back, my foibles, but also my curiosity, my open-mindedness. 

I’m where I need to be.  When it’s time for a tiny Trevor perhaps or an infinitely patient woman convinces me to buy a bed, I trust I’ll have arrived there right on time. 

Update from the Stonerverse

Getting started is the hardest part.  Diligent musicians as we are, we’re usually still tasting the toothpaste at a gentleman’s noon, and that second pot of coffee’s perfect fuel for GTA rampage missions.  Naturally, those Bastards Must Pay. 

Adolescent bloodlust satiated, it’s time for lunch.  On this day, lunch consists of a banana, ice cream and the guilt from appreciating a surplus of corn syrup and potassium does not a hit record make.  But we do eventually settle into the project studio, fire up some amps and begin tossing ideas around.  The surrounding evergreens, perennial overseers of our lakeside retreat, rustle an underscore of judgement through a brisk, reluctantly summery breeze.  Get to work, Meat Sacks.  

We’re writing songs, everybody.  Good ones, lots of them, and they’re coming easily.  Our process has been kinda sorta under wraps, but I’m telling you now that the next chapter of Allen Stone and His Merry Men is well underway.  We’ve got two solid record’s worth of material and we’re super stoked.  It’s a 100% collaboration within the band and you can hear each member's unique creative voice in every tune.  The vibe’s eclectic and, for those of you who’ve seen a show, sounds very much like us.  One final writing session to be on the safe side and we’ll have it.  I think we already do.  

It’s an exciting feeling, knowing in your gut there’s something magical being made.  

We're just five friends, two pooches and one infinitely patient Aussie angel in a cabin somewhere deep in the heart of Bigfoot country, trying our best to be real good.  

Thank you all for being patient.  It’s worth it, I promise. 

Tour Bus Ramblings

It’s dark.  Tenebrous, aphotic, no natural light whatsoever.  It’s the easiest thing, spending your whole morning in womb-like inky blackness, but not this guy.  Up and at ‘em.  

I’m usually the first guy up in our band.  All this means is I’m the first one hit by the farts, foot oder and general foulness bunk ally’s been incubating for the past eight hours.  It’s formidable- even Oscar the Grouch is reaching for the Fabreeze- and I’m quickly navigating the discarded shoe obstacle course towards the relative oasis of the front lounge.

We’ve been blessed with very good bus drivers over the years- maniacs to a man, but smooth and steady on the road.  But pizza boxes, half empty beer cans and bags of Cheetos don’t possess gravity defying powers, and we’re in a moving metal tube after all.  I spend a few minutes picking things up, wet wiping exposed surfaces, and I fire up the Keurig.  It’s monotone whirring lulls me from my somnolence as I…wow, this thing got off the rails pretty quick.  This is a goddamn tour bus, not Geoffery fucking Chaucer.   

Writing’s a funny thing.  I’ve always enjoyed it, and getting my mind out on paper's always felt as natural as playing guitar or crafting tunes.  Am I a good writer?  Subjective, but probably not especially, no.  I write how I talk, though I know I’d be throat punched if I tossed around “aphotic” at the Crying Wolf- even East Nashvillians aren’t that Emo.  

This is the type of BS I mull over while sipping lukewarm Keurig juice in the front lounge.  We’re bouncing along, a few hours out from the venue, and I don’t feel like reading, playing Halo or contemplating the amount of Chef Boyardee in the cupboard above me- I just want to sit here, feel a bit sorry for myself and think about the road not traveled toward the actuarial sciences.  

Here I am.  I love this, it’s what’s I know, no longer my new normal but state of being.  A grown man, smart, capable, careening down some midwestern highway on a pirate ship filled with lost boys, a ship on which I can’t defecate.  That’s bus rule numero uno.  Ask the driver to stop, hot bag if you must, but under no circumstance does one defoul the onboard crapper.  It’s for liquid and show only.

Ok, this is getting real dumb.  Maybe it’s time for some Halo, after all.  

Checkered Shirts

I've been a full time touring musician for just over five years now.  For some, that's an eternity but, for me, it feels like a drop in the bucket.  It’s amazing how many things I’ve already forgotten.  In my shaking the memory tree and seeing what falls out, this blog’s become a welcome companion.

I’m scrolling through my Instagram feed and notice I wore recently the same checkered shirt I wore on February 2, 2013 in Rossland BC.  We played a gig there, presumably.  I don’t know why wearing the same shirt four years apart’s struck me as noteworthy.  I mean, inarguably I need more shirts.  I suppose I can’t help comparing myself to the (slightly) younger man in that photo.

Four years ago, I’m newly single, nominally killing it but building the tracks just ahead of the train.  A few days ago, that same shirt adorned the dad bod of an older, calmer schmuck lending advice to several up-and-coming Nashville musicians.  These up-and-coming Nashville musicians speak with the same hurried enthusiasm and unchallenged optimism I remember so vividly, one that traveling's made more measured.  I listen, forehead wrinkling in concentration, realizing that, somehow, I’ve become a guy who Knows Stuff. 

I sometimes wonder how I look to musicians early in their careers.  I'd like to think I'm this sage, Splinter from the Ninja Turtles kinda figure.  Maybe I'm a cautionary tale.  When you're 21, turning 30's about the most terrifying thing there is, and when 3-0 rears its ugly head there's no way you'll be blithering on like this dingus, right?  

It's at this point I realize I'm writing this in my underpants.  I'm happy about this, and I've worked hard for the honor.  I've paid my dues.  So, aspiring artists, enthusiastic craftspeople, practice, work, write, any number of verbs that require my using additional commas but, for the love of god, do so in your skivvies.  That's when you know a Grammy's imminent.  

Leather Clad Proctologists

Fueled by Kambucha, organic kale and legal cannabis, Allen Stone and His Merry Men inspire dance parties the world over.  This is a good thing, and we’re good at it.  We are, however, weirdos, and not the endearing kind to leather-clad proctologists, say.  “Unaware” is an unlikely feature on the Golf Channel or Fox and Friends, and I have a feeling this biker convention we're booked to play with OAR isn't going to go so well.  

I’m asked frequently how I handle hostile audiences.  First of all, do you, don’t over think things.  I mean, they hired you.  Secondly, make a set list and stick to it.  Read the room but, again, do you.  If you’re, hypothetically, a soul band known for singing soul music, do that- now isn’t the time for rambling non sequiturs or bombing at the Radisson.  If you’re contracted for an hour and fifteen, put 75 minutes worth of tunes on the set list, grit your teeth, power through and say “thanks for having us.”  Get off stage, collect the check, chug a beer.  You’ve earned it.

In this case, we aren’t actually booked for the biker convention per se- OAR is, and we’re piggy backing on their bill.  The promoters, and certainly audience, genuinely have no idea who we are and are authentically concerned when we produce a mic stand covered with plastic flowers.

We panic.  Our first song’s an ill-advised audible (best not leading with a ballad), followed by cryptic hand signals from our singer that we gather mean “jam.”  Which we do, but not in the southern-rock kinda guitarmony way that would’ve gone down well with our Trumpy audience.  We weren't booed I don't think, but dagger-like stares are a potent heckle. 

Experience teaches you that some shows are there so you can get to the next one, and if you treat them as such you’ll likely have a decent time.  Be a pro, take your lumps and move on.  And always, ALWAYS decorate mic stands with plastic flowers.   

Somber Vegas

I’m in my Justin Bieber-y kinda sorta bowl cut phase, wearing a bright blue sweater, H&M scarf and truck stop sunglasses indoors.  It’s 2012, at the Flamingo Hotel on the Vegas Strip, and I’m being filmed literally singing the praises of our former keyboardist, who’s passed out in the hallway.  Our singer, who passed out like a champ at 7pm, has puked and rallied and is ready for anything.  Anything, in this case, involves impromptu attempted cloth lines, giggling fits and solo missions for vodka Red Bulls.  

It’s our first time in Vegas as a band, and we’re excited.  The gig’s officially full time (we’re really doing it, Mom!) and we’re given permission to fire up the van and GO.  Show after show, one off after one off, obliterated truck stop restroom after obliterated truck stop restroom.

There’s no way of appreciating the fatigue and homesickness this kind of schedule invites until you’re fully in it.  Later that summer, I'd experience my first “oh shit oh shit what’s going on” moment.  There was, of course, no processing time before the road gobbled us back up, and I absent-mindedly drifted away from my previous life and the people in it.  The dust would settle 300+ shows later and I’d find myself somewhere, well, different.  

Our former keyboardist's now rallied and we’re puffing on cigars, exuberantly annoying fellow Strip stumblers.  He splits off in search of a strip club and I’m left on my own.  Under a somber moon, the noisy street washed in neon, I’m just a kid in an ill-fitting sweater with a lousy haircut, about as invincible as paper in a fire. 

I'm Wearing a Checkered Shirt. It's a Lovely Day for a Checkered Shirt.

It’s summer of 2012 and Greg Ehrlich and I are sitting on the patio of a packed hipster eatery.  I’m probably having eggs benedict.  A few minutes into our man date, my skull’s grazed by a fast-moving metal projectile.

I know how the above sentence reads- sadly, on Manhattan Beach, trust fund money discourages badass, James Bond-style gun play.  Turns out, the cafe’s awning's exploded, sending parts every which way, one of which kisses my cranium and clanks to rest about ten yards down the road.  I'm lucky- being hit squarely in the back of the head, experts tell me, isn't good.  I'm looking forward to a glorious old age involving drooling and non-sensical diatribes, no need ushering in that chapter prematurely.  

The cafe management handles themselves with the utmost grace, apologizing profusely and comping our meal, and Greg and I enjoy a tasty brunch.   We leave a sizable tip.  It’s what you do.  Besides, no one at the restaurant's at fault and I’m fine.  As we get up, some botoxed catastrophe of a woman stops me, baffled and enraged in the kind of way only someone who’s never worked for a living can be.  

“Are you fucking serious?” she moans.  “You left a tip?!  I can’t believe it!”  Her husband, similarly botoxed and tanned in the kind of way only someone who’s never worked for a living can be, doesn't look up from his phone.  

It’s worth noting several bloody mary’s are comped along with our meal and I’m feeling mischievous.  I stare at her for a few seconds and declare, “I’m wearing a checkered shirt.  It's a lovely day for a checkered shirt.”  The look on her face is worth a thousand words, squared.  I walk away.  

The moral of this story?  There isn't one.  Just, please, always tip your server.  And, even if you’re born rich, work.  Do something, anything really.  And, for the love of christ, age gracefully.  You're not fooling anybody, and what's so bad about not being dead?  

Ned

I’m at Fido again.  Nashville's a lovely place this time of year and it’s a gorgeous evening, the sky an unspoiled canvas of deepening blues and pomegranite pinks.  I’m reflecting on how much time I spend in coffee shops, ruminating on the nature of this and that.  Tonight, it’s mostly “that”- that coffee shop in Seattle, just up the block from my old apartment where, in my previous life, I’d hunker down and put my thoughts on paper.  

One particularly dreary afternoon, I'm recalling, I create a composite character inspired by recent events- a gig played literally to zero people, my recently broken up band and a roommate cooking fish in the microwave.  I call him Ned.  Ned, I write, is a real piece of shit.  I bet that son of a bitch rocks loafers without socks.  Ned antagonizes clowns at the circus, knowing kids will be scarred for life.  Ned, that unspeakable, reeking pile of human garbage, is vegan but happily sports a leather man purse, that hypocrite douche.  This goes on for a while.  

Ned, I eventually reveal, is ticklish.  Oh, he doesn’t like to admit it but, if you land a solid tickle, Ned will squeal like a piglet.  Ned doesn’t talk about it much, but his neighbor’s elderly and he walks her dog on the days when her hip’s acting up.  Ned knows that the server at his favorite diner is a single parent who works two jobs.  He tips $100.  This goes on for a while.

It may seem like a silly exercise but, over the course of 500 words, Ned transforms from a narcissistic troll into a guy just trying to do the right thing.  I don't like him, but I no longer want to push him into oncoming traffic.  I'll sit with him I guess, listen for a while.  It seems like there's more to Ned's story.  

On this rainy afternoon in Seattle, I'm feeling like nothing and going nowhere.  Anger is easy and comfortable.  Maybe there’s another way?

Maybe.  

The Ballad of Metal Chris

It’s fall of 2012 and our first time playing Hamburg, Germany.  I’ve stuffed my face with Currywurst and am appropriately drunk, all before noon.  Also before noon, I’ve endured our proudly alcoholic, aggressively pierced bus driver, Metal Chris, confessing in heavily accented English that his wife no longer loves him, neither does the woman he left her for.  I can drink more than you, he says, because I have hate in my heart.  Later in the evening, he records our organ player Greg’s voicemail greeting.  

Before he records Greg’s voicemail greeting, I disappoint Metal Chris, twice.  The first way I disappointment Metal Chris is by, as he puts it, displaying an American reluctance regarding stimulation (Metal Chris is German, but his english easily is better than mine).  We are, he informs me, mere steps from the Red Light District, and here’s the thing about transvestites- she’s a woman now, and she KNOWS.  Oh, she KNOWS and, trust me, let her teach you.  

I decline.  You’re a coward, says Metal Chris.

We play the show.  This is where I disappoint Metal Chris for the second time.  On this tour, each band member’s given a solo feature, and tonight’s gig isn’t a great one for me.  I saw Modest Mouse a while back.  Half way through their set, Isaac Brock stops singing, looks down at his hands and declares his guitar sounds like actual shit.  That’s how I feel about our Hamburg show. 

Metal Chris is in the audience, a rare thing for a bus driver.  Post show, he grabs me by the shoulders and looks me straight in the eyes.  Metal Chris is not a beautiful man.  He looks, in his own words, like a feral Unicorn's nightmare (his english is, again, excellent).    He shakes his head, mockingly slowly.  Coward, says Metal Chris.  You’re a coward.  

Having played a mediocre guitar solo and declined sexual congress with a transvestite prostitute, it becomes clear to me I must Regain Metal Chris’s Trust.  How does a jet lagged, cowardly American win back the favor of a belligerent, adulterous career drinker with a mythical creatures fetish? 

Chocolate, obviously.  I break free from Metal Chris's disapproving gaze, fumble through my backpack and produce a snickers bar.  For you, I tell Metal Chris, I’d deliver the world.  He laughs.  You are not a coward after all, he assures me, but risk becoming fat.  I’ve never felt so validated.