L-A-X! L-A-X!

I’m sitting at Prism Coffee in K-Town, killing time before my flight back to Nashville. An angry bluetooth headphone guy sits across from me, a stereotypical thirty-something tech start-up kinda dude clearly Adderalled to the gils.

“Ok fine, so I guess I’m on blast for everything. I GUESS I’M ON BLAST FOR EVERYTHING.” He abruptly shifts gears, pleading, “YOU STAY RIGHT THERE! RIGHT THERE, YOU HEAR ME!”

I don't know this guy's deal, but I do know that innocent men rarely wear sunglasses indoors, or that much cologne. This exchange would be exponentially more alarming in say, Des Moines, but this is LA, the land of the Adderall Douchebag, and as I’m bouncing in a Lyft towards the Worst Airport in America, my attention shifts to not vomiting all over myself and I forget about the angry bluetooth headphone guy.  

My Lyft driver’s also classic LA, which is to say he’s hyper-aggressive while having no idea where he’s going, so by the time we arrive at LAX’s Terminal 4 we’ve explored every Inglewood backroad at ludicrous speeds and I’ve found and lost faith in God probably a dozen times. I collapse out of the Ford Focus unconvinced of the afterlife but overjoyed I’ll soon revive my beleagured corpus at the California Pizza Kitchen.

Medicore pizza on my mind, I’m walking and doing dumb phone stuff, which means I bump into a couple embracing and whispering sweet nothings. I look up to apologize and, holy shit, it’s the angry bluetooth headphone guy! No lie, it’s the same dude from the coffeeshop, and the woman in his arms presumably is the one putting him on blast. Did he actually race to the airport to catch her before her flight? Are they reconciling, like, right now? Am I witnessing an LA miracle?

I feel myself wanting to chant “L-A-X! L-A-X!” but I’m informed by a helpful business traveler that, “hey asshole, the line’s moving.” As I’m shuffling closer towards my guitar being mishandled, I’m thinking there’s hope in even the most broken of places. Here’s to you, angry bluetooth headphone guy. You're alright, I guess.  

Donna and Zane King

It’s a couple years ago and I’m new in Nashville. I’m back from another leg of the Never Ending Tour, hungover, feeling sorry for myself. There’s no food in the fridge, a lone mustard bottle standing guard over rotten eggs, and I self-sooth the way most vagabond hipsters do - pay outlandish prices for hipster tacos.

I slip past the host stand at Bar Taco and find an unoccupied bar stool, opting for limeade and tearing my cocktail napkin into tiny pieces of travel fatigue and existential dread. I’m not looking for conversation, but a smiling woman in her fifties sits next to me and observes “you must be a musician.” She says my Lagunitas hoodie gives it away.     

Her name’s Donna. She’s a successful songwriter in town and her husband’s a well-regarded steel player. She patiently nods along with my Story So Far, sensing it to be the well rehearsed small talk it is. Zane, her husband, mentions in a low-key Arkansas drawl he’s heard of my band. We settle into a familiar guitar nerd rapport while Donna surreptitiously picks up the tab. In subsequent dinners, they’ve never let me pay, despite my repeatedly insisting.

And so a life-long friendship’s born. Donna and Zane King, ladies and gentleman! Her chili’s revived me numerous times post-tour, and his pool sharking’s repossessed left over per diem more than I’d care admitting. Donna and I’ve written several songs together that are truly beautiful, and they’re the first people who made Nashville feel like home.

So, when in doubt, go out. Be detached and generally emo, but not so much that a smile goes unnoticed or a helping hand unclasped. We are all lost from time to time, then mercifully directed back on track by an unassuming angel’s nudge. 

Medicinal Cocktails

I’m mercifully back home in Music City, having survived another round against the benignly monikered portal to Hell that is the Los Angeles International Airport. I mean, it’s the major airport in the second largest city in America, and there’s exposed wiring, like, everywhere. Right at perfect kid grabbing height. Jesus Christ.

Anyway, that’s a post for another day. While not as sick as I was a few days ago, I am in fact still sick, which means it's a perfect 20 outta 20 for the month of March. So, I’m shutting it down for the rest of the week at least, gonna binge some shows and not leave the goddamn house until I feel like I can leap tall buildings in a single bound.

A friend suggested I try this medicinal cocktail, which I’ve been drinking throughout the day.: lemon, fresh ginger, tumeric, black pepper and cocnut oil.

I gotta say, it's really tasty. The lemon is a straight shot of vitamin C. Ginger supports the immune system and aids digestion, and Tumeric’s an anti-inflammatory (the black pepper activates it). Coconut oil is an anti-fungal amoung many other things, and I just like the taste.

R&R's hard for me, but desperately needed. Any other suggestions for tasty home remedies? Or TV shows to watch, for that matter? 

Day Jobs

It’s been an eventful ten days or so, many zany happenings and benign fever-induced hallucinations, but before diving into the highlights I’d like to share a recent conversation I enjoyed with a friend here in LA. She’s been struggling recently she says, forced to work at a restaurant again, feeling like a failure. If only she could play music full-time!

Firstly, there’s zero shame, ZERO, in working a day job. In fact, I encourage it. Trust me, there’s no quicker route to disillusionment than cranking out wedding gig after wedding gig, casino date after casino date, your energetic and creative reserves rapidly depleting, wondering where it all went wrong. All this, just to say you’re playing music full-time.

I never ask people what they do for a living. It doesn’t interest me, and I find those who are overly eager in sharing this information to be, well, douchebags. To me, there’s zero difference between slinging drinks, bussing tables or playing in the Allen Stone Band. The goal is making great art. Provided you're doing that, you're on the righteous path.  

When I lived in Seattle, I worked as a guitar instructor at an incredible shop called A Sharp Music Company. It was a sweet gig. I taught three days a week and made enough money to keep the lights on, so I was able to turn down bullshit gigs and focus on launching several spectacularly unsuccessful bands. I learned a lot. When the Allen project started picking up steam, A Sharp happily accommodated my loony schedule, and when the time came to jump on the Al train full-time in 2012 it was a stress-free transition. Had I felt the need to be a full-time performer right out of the gate, I doubt I’d have enjoyed the flexibility and financial stability to say yes to those early Allen tours when there was zero money. My life would undeniably look very different.

But the key is pushing yourself artistically all the time. Unrelentingly. When you're making great art, you care a whole lot less about how the lights stay on and a whole lot more about sharing your story with unfailing integrity. That's our gift to the world.

Performing While Sick

My streak of playing solo shows while sick remains unbroken! I’m nothing if not consistent.

Performing while sick is something every musician deals with. It’s easier when I’m just a guitar player - I can chill in the background, maybe two step a little and essentially disappear into parts I can play standing on my head. As a solo performer it’s harder, but my approach remains the same.

When I’m feeling under the weather during a gig, I never address it on mic. The thing is, people get it - everyone gets sick, and by offering a disclaimer you’re affectively saying, “Hey, that experience you thought you were gonna have? Nope. I’m taking that away from you.” People come to shows to be entertained, and that’s still our job, regardless of how congested we are. I remember catching a show by Daniel Johns (singer for Silverchair and a host of awesome solo projects) where he had a terrible case of laryngitis. He just went for it, vocal cracks and all, never addressing his being sick once. It was an inspired performance, exponentially more so because it was clear he was hurting but everyone still had permission to relax into the performance. 

So, I don’t say anything to the audience directly about my being sick, but I do have several cups of tea next to me. I find that sends a nice subliminal message of “Yeah, I’m under the weather, but it’s fine, let’s have a good time.” And, of course, we’re all capable of more than we think - I almost canceled my performance yesterday at Castoro Cellars but instead played four 45 minute sets. Take that, upper respiratory system!

Jessica Childress

My dear friend Jessica Childress put on an incredible performance last night at Castoro Cellars, supporting her recently released and obscenely good debut album, Days. Jess is easily one of my favorite people - brilliant, caustically hilarious and a winsome conversationalist. Along with Gavin DeGraw's drummer Mike Baker, also working for Greg on this event, I had the pleasure of taking a break from my line cook duties and joining Jess for a few tunes during her set - it warmed my heart experiencing her artistic growth first hand in front of a stunned crowd of unsuspecting R&B nerds.

Go to her website, listen to her music and be inspired.  

Be Inspired...

...by the Great Man himself, Greg Ehrlich. Today's insanely busy, what with staging the event and learning a bunch of music on the fly, but thankfully it really is true that a picture's worth a thousand words. So behold - What A Good Greg, in white tiger flannel, holding 10 pounds of goat's cheese. I've seen a lot of the world, and I can tell you definitely that it doesn't get much better.

Go Smoke Beets

As I’m writing this, my clothes smell like smoked beets and floor-to-ceiling windows reveal winterized grapevines decorating gently rolling hills, viridescent from recent spring showers. It’s going to be a good day.

Once a year, I pal around with former Al Stone compatriot Greg Ehrlich, working for him as a sous chef during Zinfest at Castoro Cellars in Paso Robles. It’s a great time, getting ordered around by Greg in his frantic element. I perform all the unglamorous tasks, ie stuff I can’t fuck up - in this case, smoking beats, grilling vegetables, searing off steaks and making an unholy amount of mashed potatoes. Like, so much you could fill a kiddie pool (my having just googled that phrase likely resulting in the FBI kicking down the door at any moment).

It’s hard work, long hours, and a perfect palette cleanser after the botoxed broken dream emporium that is Los Angeles. I’ll be jamming with Jessica Childress tomorrow evening, performing solo here on Saturday and, most significantly, the Udsen family (the winery’s proprietors) are great friends. 

I’m grateful that diverse interests have brought into my life innumerable kooky characters and generous spirits. I used to think being a jack-of-all-trades dude was a weakness, but it’s become clear over the past few years that, just like my ears are kinda dumbo-like, it’s in my DNA. It’s who I am, and by embracing it I'm happier now than I've ever been.  

I never thought “go smoke beets” would be life advice I’d ever give, but hey. As artists, we all get burned out, start questioning our worth and over-think ourselves into unrecognizeability. Take a break. It's ok. The muse will be there when you get back. Go smoke beets. 

Reconnecting

Yesterday was a busy day here in LA, meetings with folks in the Allen Stone camp and various hangs with legendary characters. 

It’s a tense time in Allen land. Not in a negative way - there’s just a whole lot going on. Our booking agent’s routing a major tour (!), management’s coordinating with the label about first and second singles (!), and the band’s, well, generally being fantastic.

Things are in the works ladies and gentlemen, and everyone’s so absorbed in their respective worlds that no one’s talking. And that's bad - people start connecting dots they have no business connecting, and before you know it there’s a ludicrous plot line running rampant, rife with conspiracy theories and all manner of unpleasant ballyhoo. Part of my reason for visiting LA’s so I can sit down with our team and be a human being in the room rather than a line in an email. Let’s drink some wine, reconnect and just slow everything down for a minute.

Releasing a record at this level’s an insanely involved process, and it was necessary for me to experience again first hand what everyone’s days look like and who’s doing what and why. We haven’t put out new music or toured in a major way in a long time, and I’ve grown disconnected from our team. I’m grateful for being able to look long-time colleagues in the eye and restore a little humanity to the craziness. 

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.