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 and neither does the woman he left her for. Later in the evening, he records our organ player’s voicemail greeting.

Before he records our organ player's voicemail greeting, I disappoint Metal Chris, twice. We are, he informs me, mere steps from the Red Light District, and here’s the thing about a transvestite: she KNOWS, and for god's sake let her show 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 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, I'm in what might be referred to as a "pickle." 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. 

Los Angeles

Los Angeles! I’ve been here so many times now I can get around without the GPS, which is arguably sad but also reassuring. 

I’ve enjoyed a privilaged relationship with this city. I’ve never lived here and always been in town for a reason - gig, recording session, TV appearance, general industry schmooze fest - so I’ve avoided the infamous rat-race that chews up and spits out many an Angeleno. I’m typically flown here on someone else's dime, put up in a fancy hotel and driven around in black cars, happily letting middle-aged industry dudes in converse flex their company amex. My douche armor’s thick these days, and I’m not oblivious to how good I’ve got it.

LA's role in the industry's changed a lot over the past decade. Nowadays, you can build a healthy career anywhere there's an internet connection - big music industry's now an anachronism, which makes LA more palatable from a biz perspective, almost adorable rather than intimidating. This also means I gotta cash in on these free meals while I can haha.  

I’m only in town for a couple days this time around, a few meetings but mostly looking forward to catching up with old friends while not being “on the clock.” Even without lobster showing up unordered at my table, I like this town. Spotting douchebags in LA's about as difficult as catching trout in a stocked lake. You'll be fine. Eat a taco and go on a hike.

I’m often asked “LA or NYC,”  to which I respond, “yes.” It's an arrogant question, anyway. Nashville’s home for now, but I’m grateful for the kick in the tucus visiting the City of Angles invites - it's an exciting place.

Gumbo Unplugged

Every once in a while you encounter art that makes you rethink everything.

With 2017's Gumbo, PJ Morton released one of the coolest R&B records of the past, well, forever, and incredibly his live reimagining's even better, Gumbo Unplugged. Accompanied by a 22-piece orchestra, PJ's songs, arrangements, and the entire band's musicality's motivated me to take a long overdue look in the mirror artistically. I'll be learning every tune, lick, inflection and generally questioning everything about my life.

You can find Gumbo Unplugged anywhere you find records these days, but I HIGHLY recommend setting aside 40mins and watching the live film, an uninterrupted one-take performance of the entire record for a couple dozen lucky fans at Power Station Studios on January 26, 2017. Here's the link.

That something this good's been out for over a year and I'm only now catching on's inspired me to be more proactive about seeking out new art from anywhere and everywhere. Inspiration overload.

Getting Back On Track

Consistent readers (thanks so much, sincerely) may have noticed that Wednesday’s come and gone without a one mic, one take video. I got super sick and lost my voice, so my streak of consecutive weeks posting an original song's broken after a whole, well, two. 

A younger me would’ve beaten myself up and likely abandoned the project entirely. I mean, I've FAILED! What’s the point of doing something if you can’t pull it off 100% of the time?

Thankfully, I’m older now, marginally wiser, and realize that life happens. You get sick. Travel can be crazy. Family comes first. If you miss a workout, does this mean you resign yourself to becoming a fat bastard? Of course not. You chalk it up to life and move forward.

I mean, we're so fortunate that life happens. That you're you at all and not an earthworm or, worse yet, a member of Phish, is pretty miraculous. Embracing this one-in-seven-billion good luck seems like the way to go. I’m learning that being disciplined is actually all about getting back on track and refining your approach so that remaining on track's easier. So, I’m going to enjoy this corporate date with the Allen band, a couple chill days in LA, a solo show in postcard-worthy Central California wine country, and then it’s back to the Nashville grind with fresh perspective and lessons learned.

We artists are insidiously crafty when it comes to convincing ourselves we’re less-than. Let’s all strive to create, share and be courageous, all the while embracing life as a generally awesome state of affairs. 

Bouncy Castles of Self-Doubt

It’s been about a month since the Allen Stone sessions wrapped at Sound Emporium, and I’m listening back to rough mixes. They sound really good. A lot can happen leading up to a record’s release, now’s the time when label and management start weighing in, but I’m quietly confident - before any Industry can flex in a meaningful way, the music's gotta be kickass, and we got that part right. But it's strange. Listening back to the new material, I know I’m playing guitar, I know I co-wrote those songs, but it’s not me, in a way. Maybe I’ve grown callused over the years. I'm not jaded I don't think, but I've undeniably Seen Too Much. I don't expect the worst from people necessarily but I'm not surprised or unprepared when it rears its ugly head. This is a tough business. 

Since the sessions wrapped, I’ve more or less returned to my usual routine of being an unknown schmuck, a beautifully risk-free reality where pushing comfort zones and making good art’s all that matters. Where am I going, how can I get there and who will I be at the end of it? Exciting rather than overwhelming questions. So, it’s back to rice and beans, touring in my Toyota Corrolla and challenging myself to just GO - wherever the wind takes me, a song waves hello or the best utility cheeseburgers are grilled.  

I think I’ve realized that the guy I trust’s the disheveled cretin writing this at the Red Bicycle, free Lagunitas hoodie gloriously mustard stained, three cappuccinos deep in a bouncy castle of self-doubt. I like this guy. The gimp playing in front of hundreds of thousands in Hyde Park, smiling back at me via social media in photoshopped, black and white headshots? Not so sure about him. What’s he done, other than put gummy bears on the rider? I guess I’m still trying to figure that out.  

Ugly Sweaters

In a “just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in” kinda way, there’s snow on the ground again in Nashville. After a couple months of ping-ponging between 70 and 15 degrees, I’m desperately ready for fireside Moscow Mules. Good thing I’m taking off tomorrow for the tropical paradise that is the American midwest. Sigh.

One upside I suppose of the garbage weather is I’m back in my favorite sweater - much like a summer day in Ireland, it's green, ill-fitting and vaguely uncomfortable. I also wore this sweater when Allen and I performed for the US Ambassador to France. 

This was several years ago in Paris, and we didn’t actually know we were performing for the US Ambassador to France. Had we known, we presumably wouldn’t have stayed out all night drinking absinthe like it was the end of the world. Allen and I stumble back to the hotel around 7am, arm in arm, exuberantly singing Blink-182, and are met by our cheery European label rep and a Crossfit enthusiast in a bespoke black suit. You guys ready? Umm, yeah, ok, sure, but what with our reeking of Parisian misadventure and all, maybe we can change really quickly and...

Rabid fire french punctuated by pointing at an invisible watch tells me my request's been denied. Coffee’s thrust in our general direction and we’re whisked away, unshowered and disheveled, past Notre Dame, the Arc de Triomphe and eventually through metal detectors at the US Freaking Embassy. 

We are, evidently, giving a masterclass of sorts for international students - could we play a few tunes and have Allen do a Q&A? The friendly embassy staff seems to empathize with our current state (they probably frequent the same absinthe bar) and mercifully escort us undisturbed through the black tie brunch, stopping only to stuff our faces with macaroons. 

We play the show and don’t embarrass ourselves too badly, I don't think. The Ambassador genuinely enjoys himself. It’s not everyday, after all, he’s entertained by two rejects from the Muppets, and he even offers a knowing wink - high level diplomats are no strangers to PG-13 jubilance and hijinx, after all. 

The Crossfit enthusiast in a bespoke black suit ushers us into a waiting Bentley. Where would we like to go? Within a half hour, we’re back at the absinthe bar, raising glasses to our never having had real jobs. 

Ryan "Bear" Drozd

Virtually everyday, I FaceTime our Tour Manager/Front of House engineer, Ryan “Bear” Drozd. 

I do this for three reasons. One, he actually picks up, which is remarkable, given he’s from a generation where most would rather gouge out their own eyeballs than speak to another human being in real time. Two, he tolerates many unbroken minutes of my rambling nonsensically, periodically interjecting “Trev, you’re doing real good,” while continuing to cook dinner, clean his living room or advance a tour, often all three simultaneously. Three, he is a Great Man, a treasure trove of resplendency and general inspiration.

I have a feeble, artsy-fartsy brain, rendered ineffective by years of drinking herbal tea and sitting cross-legged. When I’m scrambling eggs, I require complete sensory deprivation apart from the spitting of a butter-slicked pan, and any suggestion of multitasking reduces me to a pile of skinny jeans and fedoras next to the vinyl collection at Barista Parlor. I am, simply put, a disgrace.

Ryan “Bear” Drozd, on the other hand, is infinitely capable, and I’m not just throwing that around. He’s the perfect touring professional. Sure, TSA’s searched his bag and found unopened cans of Chef Boyardee, but the man can play every instrument, tech each station, is a world-class monitor engineer and legitimately the best front-of-house guy in the game, not to mention a dapper dresser, gifted raconteur and can drink a Siberian grandmother under the table. When the tour bus breaks down, he knows how to fix it. When my pedal board dies, he knows how to fix it. When I’m ordering the “wrong kind of pizza pie,” well, he knows how to fix that, too (Ryan “Bear” Drozd lives in New Haven and understands such things). Touring’s too easy for the man, honestly - sometimes I feel like he puts himself in the weeds just to fight his way back out, proving to the world that, compared to Ryan "Bear" Drozd, Superman’s just Clark Kent in tights. 

When the right guy's in charge, touring’s a joy. And I would put Ryan “Bear” Drozd in charge of virtually anything. I’ll be seeing the Great Man on Friday, and this makes me happy. Here we are, rejoicing in front of a ramen shop in Los Angeles.  

The Ballad of Big Country, pt. 3

I’m standing by the fence with Big Country on a dreary Monday morning. We’re both pretty bummed out. Years of living in Seattle taught me everything I need to know about Seasonal Affective Disorder, and Big Country’s dealing with his by way of alcoholism (very popular) and edifying me as to how to properly run a night club in Puerto Rico (unorthodox, yet effective). 

Bleary-eyed and reeking of Tennessee whiskey - not the kind immortalized by Chris Stapleton, but the borderline gasoline shit that’ll strip the paint off a battleship - Big Country’s yammering on about his ex brother-in-law, evidently also the former proprietor of the night club in Puerto Rico. "If his brains were dynamite, he couldn’t blow his nose,” BC claims, which is satisfyingly both elucidating and confusing. Does Big Country have an ex brother-in-law? If so, what're the chances he knows where Puerto Rico is, much less ran a night club there? 

There’re so many questions and even more I’m missing because I’m admittedly not paying very close attention. I’m dealing with my Seasonal Affective Disorder in classic Pacific Northwesterner style -  overly-caffienated existential crisis. Big Country, to his credit and my surprise, notices this and puts his being a maniac momentarily on the back burner. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Oh nothing,” I say, “just wondering if I’m a giant asshole.” I’m knowingly leaving the door wide open for Big Country to lay on me one of his epic witticisms, which will surely lift my spirts.  

Instead, my redneck Buddha of a neighbor looks off into the matrix with a furrowed brow, as if counting shingles on a distant roof.

“Shit, I don’t know much about you Trevor, and I reckon I never will. But I know the world’s better with you in it.”

And with that, it all makes sense, my path to Nirvana: I'll prove Big Country right.   

Working While Sick

A student asked me recently how to get back into practicing after a long break, and I suggested he try a technique I use for when I’m sick and have deadlines to meet - in fact, I’ve been pretty sick over these past few days and used this technique to keep up with the Mind of a Trevor. When you’re shivering with a fever in a Best Western in Dothan AL, unable to focus on anything for more than a few minutes before hallucinated pink unicorns enter your peripheral, a little compassionate discipline goes a long way.

Set a timer for however long you feel like you can concentrate - a short interval, say 10 minutes. Work on what you need to during that time, and when the timer goes off, take a break for the same amount of time. Crazy simple, effective and infuriatingly obvious, as most crazy simple and effective things are. Working and resting for 10 minute intervals will help you stay focused for short amounts of time - realistically all you’re likely capable of at first - and you’re not tempted to “power through” when concentration lapses, which can actually be damaging if you haven't yet built the foundation of a strong work ethic or, like I mentioned, are hallucinating brightly colored mythical creatures.

In general, I'm working on being kind to myself becoming my new default. It's not something that comes naturally, but I'm getting there, slowly but surely.  

Enjoy Being Unknown

I was having a conversation with a musician buddy a few days ago about the frustrations of being an unknown artist. Everything's over saturated, so how the hell does anyone cut through or rise above these days? 

I suppose the Allen Stone project's successful, and I could point to our insane touring schedule, viral-ish videos and MANY lucky breaks along the way, but I know tons of bands with similar resumes who haven't enjoyed similar breakthroughs. So who knows? You can drive yourself nuts thinking about this kinda shit. I know I do.

The thing is, maybe a video goes viral, or a song takes off on Spotify or whatever - and that's great I guess - but like I mentioned in a previous post, what's most important and infinitely more sustainable's creating as nourishment and releasing uncompromisingly honest art, all the time. 

I realize I'm sounding a little hippy here, and that's fair enough. But I've seen the business get convoluted and outright dirty more times than I can count, and 100% of the time it's because the art's not steering the ship. When the art's not steering the ship, the vision's unclear, and therefore the label doesn't know what they're selling, management doesn't know how to schmooze, etc. Then people start talking about how you don't have enough instagram followers or some similar nonsense and you're dead in the water. 

When the vision's crystaline and the personality's are undeniable - ie when the art's in control - the right industry folks get behind the project, true fans are made and you have a career forever. And that takes time. So, be patient. Make sure the bills are paid, create and share unapologetically and enjoy cultivating your unique artistic voice free of extraneous bullshit. Trust me, it's worth it.   

Steve "Bluto" Libby

Below, you’ll see a picture of myself and Steve Libby, hereafter referred to as Bluto (his self-applied nickname).  

We’re wearing genie pants. You’re jealous, and I understand why- they are fantastic trousers.  However, they pale in comparison to the gloriously bearded man who fills them.  

Tour managing is, in my opinion, the toughest job in music. Countless hours of advancing, pre-production, massaging egos and navigating logistics so convoluted that Stephen Hawking would throw up his hands (if he were able) are met by spoiled band nitwits complaining they can’t find catering. Tour managing is hard, and it takes a special kind of badass to pull it off.  

Bluto is that badass. He’s a buddha, enforcer and raconteur of the highest order. Spend an evening at the bar with this man and you’ll never laugh so hard again in your life, or feel so welcome.  

I met Bluto years ago while he was playing bass in Tommy and the High Pilots, now Beta Play. He impressed me immediately with his gregariousness and maniacal work ethic. A decade of over night drives and hauling gear up and down stairs does one of two things to a person- A) they break, quit music and generally hate the world or B) cultivate infinite patience, humor and crystalline perspective. Bluto is the latter. On more occasions than I can count, he’s sat up with me until the wee hours talking about life, the universe and New England sports dynasties. He worked for us as a backline tech for a time and immediately took on two or three additional jobs without complaint. Bluto saw something needed doing and did it. I respect the hell out of that. 

Steve Libby is evidence that hard work really does pay off. Persistence is much more valuable than bravado. I know many wildly successful people whose lives will never be as full as mine simply because I've basked in this Great Man's countenance.

Ladies and gentlemen, learn from him. Be inspired by him. He will make you better. 

Tibetan Singing Bowls

As I’m driving through rural Alabama, I’m thinking about Tibetan Singing Bowls. You know, as you do on a road trip.  

You play a Tibetan Singing Bowl by rubbing a mallet along the outside edge of the rim of the bowl. The bowl creates the space from which the sound is coaxed and held, but in terms of movement the sensation is one of going deep, made possible by the circling. Going in circles, then, isn’t a movement of going nowhere, but has instead a ritualistic quality, creating a certain kind of space and moment that emerges from the interaction of many vibrations, individual and collective. Sound not only seems to rise from the bowl, it expands, moves out, touches and surrounds the space within its reach.  

In those moments where the sheet of paper stays blank and the club’s empty, it’s important realizing that showing up everyday and creating is our circling, and thereby expanding, moving out and going deeper. In allowing ourselves to be soothed by this ritual rather than second guessing it, we inch closer to that Gladwellian tipping point and affect far more than we realize. 

Getting Older

Today’s my birthday! I’ve successfully balanced on the ol’ blue orb for another 365.

It’s been a pretty good run over these past few years as far as birthday locales go: onstage in an arena in Germany, exploring Singaporean hawkers centers, Pittsburgh (the clear favorite), and my new home - Nashville TN. This year, I’m taking an impromptu road trip down the I-65 to the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute - I’ve been meaning to go for a while now and it’s by all accounts a deeply moving experience. As I always do, I’ve got my one-man tent with me, and I imagine some hiking and camping near Chattanooga’s also in the cards.

I often quote comedian John Mulaney when talking about aging: I don’t look older, I just look worse. The picture below serves as proof positive, and this lingering cold’s creating just enough brain fog as to make epiphanies elusive (perhaps mercifully so). But as I’m writing this I’m thinking that if there is a fountain of youth, it’s in our minds - our creativity, curiosity, and the manifestation of both as love for the beautiful people in our lives. Provided we tap into these, life will always remain intoxicatingly prismatic.  

As I march triumphantly towards the inevitable, I’ve never been more open to giving and receiving love. For that, I’m immeasurably grateful.

Learn As You Go

I'm feeling a little under the weather today, so I'll save my Big Country story for later this week. For now, click here if you'd like to check out the second installment of my weekly songwriting project.

I've learned that when it comes to art, if something's uncomfortable it's highly likely you're on the right track. And I feel it's infinitely more healthy and productive putting stuff out and learning as you go rather than stubbornly waiting on perfection, which typically leaves me a wretched shell of myself. 

The "wretched shell" version of your friend Trevor is...umm...suboptimal, so I'm excited to hold myself accountable to releasing new music every week.  

Here're the lyrics...

Wake Up With the Sun

wake up with the sun

fall asleep with strangers

there is sickness in the noise

better get to know your neighbors

I have been lost

aim, and take my shot

you've got to get in to get out again

a window to the street

a morning agony unspoken

we've all got trophies on our feet

from a fate defined in consolation

I have been lost

aim, and take my shot

you've got to get in to get out again

I want to be broke and hungry

not going to waste away here, afraid of everything

I'll make complacency my agonized, voiceless, immaterial child

so wake up with the sun

I swear you are not in any danger

I have been lost

aim, and take my shot

you've got to get in to get out again

I'll make music with my friends

you've got to get in to get out again

Thank You

A bunch of friends are heading out on the road this week, and while I’m excited for them I can’t help suffering from serious FOMO. I mean, the last time I was on a tour bus was August of 2016. Twenty sixteen, for god’s sake. 

That said, I’m grateful for the past year and some change. I’ve launched exciting new projects, successfully grown vegetables and generally live more compassionately in the calm before the storm. But goddammit do I miss the road. It’ll be my turn soon enough, I know. 

Mostly, I’m just thankful for my friends: for being courageous, sharing their art and not becoming accountants, or becoming accountants, realizing the catastrophic implications and ditching that shit for gas station coffee and stale House of Blues nachos. To all my pals piling into vans, busses and planes - you're legends. The purpose of art, according to Pablo Picasso, is washing the dust of daily life off our souls, and our current situation just seems grimed with foulness. Thank you for sharing your stories, flying in the face of convention and generally kicking complacency square in the happy sacks. And you best believe I’m gonna double tap that selfie. 

Travel safe, my friends.

Ross Livermore is Better Than You (and Me)

I arrived back in Nashville yesterday having been on the road playing solo acoustic sets with my good bud Ross Livermore. Ross is the first person I met in Nashville, and we became fast friends, bonding over New England sports and a shared love of American prog-metal legends Dream Theater. He also happens to be one of the best pure vocalists I’ve ever heard. Click on over to experience all things My Good Bud (I had the pleasure of writing his bio and playing guitar on his most recent record).

Ross is a force for good in the world. He cares about doing things right. He’s patient, meticulous and genuinely loves the craft of songwriting. This is a critical distinction. Playing in front of thousands of people is easy. Making bus call’s also really, really, embarrassingly easy. No one’s ever had to dig deep at catering. What’s difficult is waking up every morning, staring at a blank sheet of paper, quieting those pesky inner demons with a potent combo of nuclear-strong espresso and being fresh outta fucks, and just, well, beginning. Every single day, without fail, chipping away at the ol’ chunk of granite until in resembles a naked Italian dude. But, you know, musically. Wow. Sorry, Ross, and sorry Michelangelo.

Anyway, people in my line of work typically lose their hearts because they shy away from the kind of unglamorous work that exposes weaknesses and forces prolonged eye contact with the person in the mirror. Ross is the hardest working human being I know, and entirely unafraid.

This short run’s been inspiring - just the kick in the keister I needed. Ross's onto something special. Thanks for having me, my friend. Let's do it again.  

My Aim is True

Ross Livermore and I are playing at Coda in the Tremont district of Cleveland OH, and our opener’s an incredibly talented singer named Collin Miller. He’s young, hungry, and beyond stoked to be on the bill. Grinning ear-to-ear and nervously vice gripping my hand, he says he's a huge Allen Stone Band fan, saw us at the Grog Shop twice and holy shit that time Swatty went weedly-wee and you went widdly-wah over Voodoo. I hope he digs my strum-a-lum-a-ding-dong singer/songwriter alter ego even a tenth as much.

Collin’s a gifted songwriter and truly special singer, and I thoroughly enjoy his set. Predictably, all his friends show up during the last song, and he’s clearly bummed, hoping I think to have rolled out the red carpet for Ross and me. As he’s wrapping cables, I jump up on stage and ask if he knows any Allen tunes. 

“Sure,” he says, “I cover Unaware and Voodoo.”

“Awesome! Look, your friends just got here, so stay put, we’re playing those songs, like, right now. And then I’m keeping you up here for a couple of my tunes. Sound good?”

And so Collin Miller, eyes closed, delivers an earnest and pitch-perfect rendition of Allen Stone's most popular song with the guitar player he saw go widdly-wah that one time at the Grog Shop. The room’s alive with camera phones now, and as we launch into Voodoo I warn both him and the crowd that someone’s taking a long, LONG solo, and it ain’t gonna be me. Collin shreds the gnar capably, even catching the re-harm curveball I throw at him during the outro, and leaves the stage to thunderous applause. His dad’s visibly tearing up in the audience. 

As artists, we seldom know what we’re doing in this crazy world, but every once in a while get one right. And that can carry us for a good long while. 

My heart's full today. Thank you, Collin. And thank you, Cleveland.   

Pro Tips

Pro tip: if you’re a musician on tour and passing through the fine city of Cleveland OH, you get free admission into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Just show them your laminate, gig poster, anything that proves you’re on the road, and you’re good to go. Maybe slide them a couple pieces of merch, too. I’m surprised how few musicians take advantage of this - the museum’s remarkable, and each time I visit I pick up on something new.  

It’s cool gawking at the memorabilia, of course: holy shit, that’s Geddy Lee’s Fender Jazz Bass! Otis Redding’s ornate leather pants! Elvis’s jock strap! (Ok, I made the last one up). I dunno, maybe it’s because I’m through town playing solo and not in the relatively luxurious hipster cocoon of the Allen band, but my take away from the Hall of Fame this time around’s a general sense of why not? Why not be daring, courageous and the giver of exactly zero fucks? All the legends enshrined here, regardless of generation and genre, have in common that glorious desire to proffer middle digits, and why can’t I channel my frustrations, feelings of inadequacy and pent-up nerd energy into the most unapologetically honest art possible? I mean, I can do that, right? Surely I can. We all can, if we give ourselves permission. It doesn't have to be perfect to be beautiful, after all.

Which leads me to another pro tip: Leonard Cohen's already said it, and said it better.

"There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in."

Trevor Larkin and Ross Livermore Take Ohio!

I’m writing this from the luxurious Best Western in middle-of-nowhere Ohio. The first show of the Trevor Larkin/Ross Livermore Take Ohio tour’s in the books, thanks so much to Natalie’s in Columbus for having us!

In the Allen band, I’m on stage with four of the best musicians in the world, and we know each other’s playing better than we know our own. Many of our fans have seen us dozens of times. It’s a very supportive environment, one I’m obviously very grateful for, but the past half decade's essentially been playing two hour singalongs fueled by gummy bears and scotch. Complacency can set in in if you’re not careful. 

Up here on stage at Natalie’s, it’s just me, an acoustic guitar and songs nobody’s heard. I recognize some diehard Al Stone fans in the audience, but it’s largely thanks to Natalie’s built-in crowd that seats are filled. Up until recently, my songs have existed in a tight orbit around a handful of close friends, and I remind myself that tonight will be the first time these folks have heard my music. One of the joys of embarking on a new project’s the almost prospector-like belief in the potential. I’m not afraid of fucking up or coming across as a dingus (I do these things professionally, after all) - I genuinely have no idea how these songs are going to land, and I’m excited.

A few tunes in, people seem to be enjoying it. They’re checking their phones less, leaning in a little more, and as disconcerting as the gentleman in the front’s unbroken eye contact might be, I know it’s because he’s listening, and it compels me to close my eyes and disappear inside my head for a quick check-in. My voice is unique and developing, but I’m more-or-less hitting notes and quasi-musically dancing around the ones I don’t. Sweet, I’ll take it. A woman's shooting an iPhone video of my song about escaping from a cult. What does that mean? 

All in all, the set feels like a newborn fawn taking its first steps - initially awkward, but quickly figuring things out in an adorably innocent way. Most people compliment my being funny, which I suppose is a good thing, but I hope they like the songs, too. The sound guy offers me a cold stout and says, “hey, you host the Not Famous Podcast, right?”

This solo Trevor thing's a new pair of pants, but I'm thinking it might fit ok.  

Fireflies

I’m sitting in a lawn chair outside David Arms gallery in Leiper's Fork, a funky village about 30 minutes south of Nashville with more antique shops and private art galleries than people. The vibe's a little one-percenty, what with Justin Timberlake and Chris Stapleton living just down the road, but the scenery's postcard worthy - rolling hills dotted with Oak, dogwood and maple trees - and I often stop through town when I'm feeling a great batch of songs are just out of reach. There's a calming stillness here.

Fortunately, there're options in Leiper's Fork other than spending a thousand dollars on luggage, and I'm enjoying a cheeseburger from Puckett’s Grocery on Main Street and chuckling, having heard a Duck Dynasty-looking fifty-something declare "I’m gonna call the Doobie Brothers gospel just so we can play their music on a Sunday." The fireflies are emerging. They’re only active between twilight and dusk, and the entire town's suddenly alive in luminescence, an undulating sea of soft flickering neon. It’s hypnotic, and I find myself counting my breaths up to ten, inhaling and exhaling slowly, gently meditating in the semidarkness. 

I didn't write a song today, didn't touch a guitar, but in this moment, under a blushing celestial canopy, ensconced in the ebb and flow of mother nature, I'm right were I need to be, and I feel my creativity slowly waking up from its deep sleep.