Where The Priests Are All Millionaires

Another 1 mic, 1 take video for ya! 

For the artists reading this who deal with self-doubt (ie all of us), I have to be honest- I wasn’t going to post this video. I didn’t nail the performance and was all up in my head about it. Thankfully, Trey McDermott (my friend and videographer for this project) called me out. “Fuck you man, I really like this take, and take your own fucking advice. Aren’t you the guy posting about learning as you go, ‘you gotta post song four in order to get to song thirty,’ and all that bullshit? Put it out, asshole. PUT IT OUT!” 

He’s absolutely right, of course. Fellow over-thinkers, these are EXACTLY the type of people you want on your team. And, again of course, the performance is growing on me. On Monday, April 9, 2018, this is how the song came out, and I dig the time capsule aspect. That’s the whole point of this project, after all - letting go of perfection and just, well, sharing the moment.

I’ve never played “Where the Priests Are All Millionaires” live and, emboldened by this video project, I’ll debut it in Chicago on Friday. 

When in doubt, put it out, my friends. Here's a link to the video. 

WHERE THE PRIESTS ARE ALL MILLIONAIRES

I’m gonna shout from mountaintops

far way from days counting cop cars and curious stares

where the priests are all millionaires

you won’t show up in tabloid news

no secrets here to air out

just loosen your wedding band

what’s left to understand?

the corner bar needs another mid-life martyr  

You’d better make like a stranger

keep us out of danger

don’t stick around for us kids

we’re gonna learn how to make up

learn how to break up

in a life not defined by your sins

Silence is never golden

when out of your lungs is stolen

the air that you need to sing

by the swing of a coward king

you court and extort in tandem

I know we won’t feel abandoned

the now justifies the why

for a blue and unbroken sky

it’s not too late, you can leave and make us stronger

You’d better make like a stranger

keep us out of danger

don’t stick around for us kids

we’re gonna learn how to make up

learn how to break up

in a life not defined by your sins

the distant light in the tunnel’s bright

for us kids

We’ll forgive and outgrow  

but nights will get lonely out on your own

we’ll send addresses to write to

agree to not fight you over the phone

you’re a figure of speech in our eloquent freedom 

now leave us alone

So I’m gonna shout from mountaintops

tie a bow ‘round where you’re not

as you’re learning to live alone

Grit

I was asked recently in an interview what I consider to be my most important artistic tool. That anyone would ask me anything's still hilarious to me. 

I wanted to give a cool answer, or at least a hipster one. I dunno, something like morning meditation connects me to a higher consciousness where anthropomorphic reptilian creatures use healing crystals as ice cubes. I'm kinda into that, actually. Nailed it. Post over. 

Instead, I gave my honest answer, which is decidedly less drum circle friendly.

An artist’s reality isn’t what most would consider fun. Sorry if that's bubble-bursting. Playing to sold-out crowds is fun, and so is careening across the country in a tour bus/pirate ship playing Halo and drinking lemon drops (don't judge me). But this isn't being an artist. A more apt description's dealing with every imaginable permutation of self-doubt, all while hovering around the poverty line with well-intentioned, conventionally successful family members encouraging us to go back to school.

My most important artistic tool is grit, combined I suppose with not giving a fuck. If you're able to wake up every morning and greet a blank sheet of paper with a smile even when your imagination’s encased in cement, or handle friend after friend getting their break before you and still remain pleasant company, or trust success after years of rejection and abject poverty, you deserve a knighthood. But you earn karmic ninja status by showing up everyday, rain or shine. Only then will a life of Hagendaz and liposuction be yours!

New Allen Stone Music!

The first single off the upcoming Allen Stone album’s out today! It’s a song called “Brown Eyed Lover” and available everywhere (here’s a link, just in case).

Tyler wrote the main riff in classic Ty Carroll fashion - ready with disclaimers about it being super lame and we totally don’t have to use it guys followed by our losing our goddamn minds on account of the awesomeness. This happened in the studio all the time, too. An overly-caffeinated Jamie Lidell would say “hmmm, this needs a riff, right chaps?” followed by all eyes locking on Tyler, already offering monosyllabic deferments (ummm, jeez, gosh, mmmm, etc). We’d retreat to the lounge, refortify on LaCroix, and return to Tyler grunt-singing approvingly along with a Tony Iommi-worthy masterpiece. He’s good at riffs, ladies and gentlemen.

Swatty and I fleshed out the chord changes. Not much to report here. We were probably wearing jazz hats. J offered clutch arrangement notes - hits, groove changes, shortening sections, vital stuff - and Allen wrote the melody and lyrics in one sitting.

“Brown Eyed Lover” came together easily at a time when we needed stuff to come together easily. Radius was a hit with fans but fell short in the major-label-specific ways many readers understand all too well. Our chapter with Capitol Records was short lived, and thankfully we emerged relatively unscathed, but everything’d become cumbersome and sorta directionless. Had these writing sessions been unproductive, I honestly believe it would’ve been the end of the project. 

But here we are! New music and a new chapter unfolding. It’ll be a while until the record comes out, but expect a few more singles in the coming months. 

Do You

“I’m not very good at networking” is something I hear all the time, and I get it. I used to think this about myself - as an introvert, not rolling into a scene like Ari Gold means we have no business being there, right?

Shaquille O’Neil is 7’1”, 320 Ibs. No one’s asking the dude to tackle the floor routine at the Olympic trials. The guy’s humungous, and therefore asked to do humungous guy things. It's not a Rubik's Cube. 

Making authentic connections is what opens doors. If you’re extroverted, well, bully for you! Have fun shaking hands and kissing babies. Introverts tend to vilify over-the-top types, and we shouldn't. Aside from being the necessary life of the party, extroverts make great business partners- we all need someone willing to kick down a door or two. Don't blame them for your romantic under achievements in high school. That's on you, Trevor.  

If you’re low-key, be low-key. That’s my vibe. I’m the guy at the back of the room, enjoying the show but not so far from the exit that I can’t duck out when I reach my limit. I catch up with friends and end up meeting all kinds of people - I’m not hiding - but I typically don’t leave my safe zone, thereby avoiding the “producers” rocking beanies and sleeve tattoos. I’m not on a Spotify playlist, so they have no interest in me anyway. It’s a win-win. 

Do you. You’re doing great. I don’t know a million people in this business, but my network’s strong, filled with life-long friends and kindred spirits. Anyone can grab a phone number, but few get their calls returned.  

Zac Clark Is A Legend

My buddy Zac Clark just released the first single off his upcoming record, Meet Me When The Moon Gets Full. It’s really good. You should listen to it.

I met Zac when our bands supported OAR during their 2013 Summer Tour (Zac’s “day job” is playing keys and singing BGVs with Andrew McMahon In The Wilderness). What immediately struck me about Zac was his willingness to be present - comfortable in any conversation, curious, stoked to be in the world. He is also transparently a legend, his hair/hat/beard combo suggesting a 20-something hipster Gandalf. Zac Clark possesses an effortless swagger born out of years of traveling, and there isn't a room he doesn’t elevate.  

His music is exactly what you’d except from such a legend - confident, inclusive, nuanced and timeless. Very happy for my friend. Be sure to catch him on tour this Spring on the Pen and Piano Tour with Andrew McMahon, Allen Stone (solo unfortunately, you’ll have to wait until the Fall for the full experience) and Bobby Oxblood. They’re all good pals, and it’s gonna be a great show.

Adverbs

A journalist acquaintance recently tore my writing to shreds. The depth of his disdain was inspiring, if I’m honest.

“It’s lazy writing, Trevor” he said, “Way too many adverbs. Zero respect for your readers.” He then went on to describe my prose as “insignificant.” Sick burn, bro.

Now, this guy’s a garden-variety asshole, so I take his critique with multiple grains of salt. But I do concede his having a point, albeit a heavy-handed one. I’m not the most economical writer, and embracing the "write how you talk” ethos means I sound like a douche a whole lot. 

That said, fucking RELAX. What’s wrong with modest self-indulgence and, god forbid, having a little fun? For example, the man is impotent is a perfectly serviceable phrase. The pertinent info’s easily digestible (poor bastard), and the reader’s allowed to fill in the narrative, thereby actively participating in the story. A-plus stuff.

But, how about this:

The man is ludicrously impotent

Is "ludicrously" necessary? I suppose not, but goddammit I love the mental image of this poor jackass staring down at his nether regions, shaking his fists at the sky and crying out, “Not again! THIS IS LUDICROUS!” 

Or, maybe:

The man is heroically impotent

Your imagination’s running wild, isn’t it?

I don’t really have a point, I realize, other than let’s all have fun - with music, language, and being generally decent SOBs. The cup is red, the sky is blue, and for the love of god let impotency be ludicrous.  

Stash

In a MOAT first, I’m about to gush about an app, a micro-investing app no less. It’s called Stash, and I can’t recommend it highly enough.

Investing's traditionally a walled garden for most artists, what with our lacking the mullah to, you know, pay rent and stuff. Consequently, anything involving money's an emotional trigger, so right out of the gate I feel like I need to say…

DON’T WORRY

All you need’s $5 to get started. Five whole bucks. Oh yes - sacrifice one hipster coffee and - hey presto - you’ve unleashed the mythical beast that is compound interest! 

Stash is an EXTREMELY user friendly mobile app that connects to your bank account. Each week (or month), you stash some cash away (ie save) and the app invests it for you in a portfolio of funds it puts together based on your investment interests. Again, relax - we’re talking beyond user friendly here. You can also invest in companies directly, and the app selects several solid, millennial-friendly crowd pleasers to choose from.

Here’s, in part, my current Stash portfolio:

I’m new to the app and still feeling my way through, so I opted to one-time buy several stocks and funds rather than set up weekly or monthly transfers. We artists typically don’t have a ton of disposable income, and Stash’s perfect for getting used to the market's rollercoaster ride without having too much skin in the game. It’s also ideal for swines like myself, willing to reallocate a few hundred bucks gathering dust in a conventional savings account. Fun money fund, baby! Cancun, here I come (eventually).

Stash makes saving and investing affordable for everyone, and with traditional safety nets going the way of the DoDo it's important we do what we can, however humble our means. 

One Take Wednesday!

It feels awesome getting One Take Wednesday up and running again after FINALLY kicking this nuclear flu.

I wrote “Saint In Simple Clothes” a few months back. I couldn’t tell you what it’s about exactly, but I like the title and the lyrics are fun to sing. Honestly, that’s all that matters - what the fuck does “Smells Like Teen Spirit” mean, anyway?

There're a couple bridges floating around for this song, and I decided to use what I’ve dubbed the Shadow Bridge. Listening back now, I think I’ll sub it out for the aptly monikered Power Bridge when I record full-band, but given the solo acoustic vibes I dig the ominous, add9-y-ness the Shadow Bridge invites.  

And that’s why I love this project - the goal isn’t perfection, but rather the real-time exploration of creativity and sharing with people who watch as much Dr. Who as I do.

Here’s a link to the video

SAINT IN SIMPLE CLOTHES

slow down, in and around a bittersweet insanity

I know now why I never lie in threes

'cause one out of two will always bring them to their knees

I hope you will never be like me

a new game, one in the same, I don't know what's here for me

my own name lives on in anonymity

unless I change, and misdirect the mystery

not everyone is lost who wanders

I believe in the broken hearted silence of a man

I know that he's owed more than a broken promise

doing the best he can

I believe there's a restless warrior hidden in our souls

eager to fight for what he knows is right

a saint in simple clothes

my shadow and me

do battle in dreams

slow down, in and around a bittersweet insanity

not everyone is lost who wanders

Spin Classes

I was hanging out with friends a few nights ago - properly adult friends with stable careers and sensible cars - and the conversation ping-ponged between public vs. private kindergarten, aggressive vs. conservative stocks, and something called “capital gains,” which is clearly made up. Eventually, it’s my turn to contribute, and I offer what I believe is necessary and edifying cultural commentary - there’s this talentless ass-clown named Tekashi69, a shitty DMX ripoff who looks like a snow cone with face tats, and his videos have like 150mm views. How does this happen?! Isn’t new media wild?! 

Crickets. The conversation inelegantly segues to comparing spin classes.

These types of exchanges used to bother me, because what the hell am I doing, really? After all these years, I still don't have an answer. But I do know that the accumulated uncertainties, rejections and upheavals that fuel an artist's lunatic, peripatetic existence add up to my being happy. Weird, right? Am I a free spirit? Benignly sociopathic? A glutton for punishment? Probably a little bit of all these, on a good day. So, hooray! Today, I'm happy, and ideally that carries over into tomorrow. Hopefully this gives a new song permission to peak from behind the cognitive cloud cover and wave hello.

And I probably should join a spin class.    

Building Balance

There's a song on the new Al band record called "Building Balance," a super apt sentiment for all of us lately.

When you’re involved in a bigger project, your identity necessarily becomes wrapped up in that world. As the dust’s settled over the past few years, all of us have landed in similar places - grateful for every opportunity, proud of contributing to something that brings joy to so many, but aware that our stories can only be told in part through this band.

The upward momentum of a successful project's beautiful chaos to be sure, and it's easy losing the forest for the trees. The Allen project's a big-hearted goofy dude singing soul tunes, supported by a troop of kooky, mis-matched hooligans. It shouldn’t be any more complicated than that, and I've been guilty of leveraging unfair expectations on the thing because, well, I wasn't really doing other stuff. I'm grateful, now, for appreciating no one outlet, professional or otherwise, needs to have all the answers. When Allen's fronting the band and being one of the best singers of our generation, my job's playing guitar super cool every night. So, that's what I do, and I'd like to think I pull it off. When it's time to hit the stage solo, singing about my feelings, I leave all expectations from the Allen universe in the front lounge of the tour bus- it's back to rice and beans, grinding it out and the exhilarating unknown. 

Right now, I'm feeling contentedly unaccomplished - a happy place for any relentlessly creative person -  and I'm excited to see how all my artistic outlets feed one another.  

Just Believing's Enough

Someone asked me recently how she could support her fiancé, a “struggling artist."

I get what she's trying to say, but it's important understanding that, as artists, it’s in our nature to struggle, or more aptly endure. It's kinda the whole gig.  

Maybe the struggle’s just discovering a usable idea, or building an audience that requires more than two hands to tally up. Maybe it's getting a comma in the bank account. If we're lucky, we never run out of challenges.  

Throughout it all, the work sustains us - huddled over desks, teeth chattering from too much burnt coffee, pouring our hearts out on paper and weaving melodies through elusive chord changes. We’ll work shitty jobs, live in near squaller, withstand rejection after rejection, staying true to ourselves through shifting trends and fickle attention spans. We’ll tolerate good ol’ fashioned assholes misjudging their fifteen minutes as the new way of the world. We're maniacs, all of us.

Just tell us you believe in us. That's it. Creating’s a lonely job, and knowing someone believes goes a long way. No long speeches necessary. Just believing’s enough. 

The Legend of Zack Pancoast

There’s a lot of buzz here in Nashville over the new Kacey Musgraves record, Golden Hour, and for good reason - it’s an outstanding record from top to bottom, encouragingly melancholy, and if you’re looking for a review the internet’s full of ‘em. Go nuts, but be sure to listen to the entire record first with headphones before landing in a particular hipster camp.

It is, like I said, a great record, but what’s coolest for me is my pal and the assistant engineer on the upcoming Allen band record, Zack Pancoast, worked on Golden Hour. Zack Pancoast in one of the house engineers at Sound Emporium (my favorite studio in town), which means he’s been involved with every cool record that’s come out of Music City over the past few years. The man’s a ninja in converse, wielding his nerdiness with aplomb and effortless charisma. He’s one of those young, ambitious and gifted dudes who you know will be running this industry in ten years. I should’ve brought him a fruit basket or something during our sessions. 

Congrats, Zack, and the entire studio team - Golden Hour is an inspiring record. Kacey Musgraves and her band are fighting the good fight in Country music, and it’s awesome to behold. 

Embracing Absurdity

Touring isn’t about writing music or getting a side hustle off the ground - it’s all about the gig, staying healthy for the gig, kicking said gig squarely in the keister and moving onto the next town more-or-less in one piece. Even with tour buses, catering and other luxuries, being on the road’s about survival, and energy allocated away from that results in gnarly colds and generally soured dispositions.

Time off the road’s different. You’re actually sleeping and, I dunno, growing vegetables? In this world of relative predicability and consistent nutrient intake, writing a song a day’s a fine goal, as is getting that online store off the ground, etc. No longer in survival mode, time off the road’s best spent daydreaming, planning, and tackling things that require long and undisturbed chunks of time.

As artists, in our crazy highlight reel and FOMO fueled world, it’s easy thinking the grass is always greener. Yes, we’re on tour, but holy shit is this my life? I gotta do this that and the other thing, like, right now, before I’m 40, because life hits a brick wall at 40, right? Before you know it, the tour’s wrapped without your having made any professional contacts, eaten a single piece of Nashville hot chicken, and you’ve probably gotten the entire touring party sick.

Similarly, we all get itchy feet when we’re off the road for any amount of time over, say, fifteen minutes. We were busy before, but will we be busy again? Rather than focusing on creative outlets or business opportunities (ideally they’re one in the same) outside our main gig, we stew in under-furnished apartments, yearning for the tour bus bathroom’s acrid embrace. Before you know it, it’s time to hit the road again and you never got around to recording those solo tunes. 

Ours is a demanding and generally preposterous business, as anyone who’s experienced friends and family’s disheartening bewilderment can attest. It’s on us, then, to embrace the absurdity. The alternative's YouTube conspiracy theory rabbit holes and excessive carbohydrate intake, which admittedly doesn't sound too bad, but on balance I'd rather be kind to myself and content with where I'm at.  

Fast or Slow?

I participated in an industry panel a little while ago, and the discussion culminated in a rapid fire question round - you know, “Beatles or Stones,” “Fender or Gibson,” that kinda thing.

The final question, though, was pretty compelling:

Fast or slow? 

In telling fashion, I paused for a moment, mulled my answer over, and settled on “slow.” I was the only panelist to answer in this way, and I could hear recently filled Adderall prescriptions rattling in the designer handbags of flabbergasted go-getters. 

For the sake of those sweating profusely from socially acceptable amphetamine addiction, I elaborated:

I interpreted the question as “distracted versus intentional” because, as artists, that juxtaposition is far more apt to what we deal with every day. Busy - ie fast - is the new normal - for all intents and purposes, we all have demanding careers, family lives and diverse interests. If we want to create and share the best art possible, then, how do we make it happen?

The best art manifests when we take a moment to breath, quiet our minds and infuse lyrics, melodies and chords with the beautiful chaos of our lives. And that requires slowing down. That requires intention. Perhaps it’s best not vice gripping the utility out of every waking hour - ostensibly "crushing it" - and instead cultivating an environment where we can put forward our most holistic selves.

I doubt I’ll be asked back to this particular panel, but I was a force for good in the world, if only for an afternoon.

Astounding Improbabilities

I’m being gentle with myself today, no longer sick but still recovering from this month-long flu, so even though all the world’s problems are clearly mine to solve, today’s not the day. I’m allowing myself to be thankful - for not feeling like death, still writing this newsletter everyday, and generally being a whole lot better off than most. 

I’m thankful for where music has taken me. Here I am in Bali, in between Australian and European tours a couple years ago. Before entering the seaside temple, you must first be cleansed (hence the wet hipster fedora) and blessed (the flower and rice). As artists, when the stars begin aligning for the first time, I think we all struggle with a certain amount of Imposter Syndrome - so used to slogging through the mud, we regard any sort of cleared path as a fraudulent golden ticket, and it took me years to trust that the rug wasn’t about to be yanked out from under me. These days, I still deal with my fair share of existential dread, but it’s mollified somewhat by my appreciating the astounding improbability that I’m me at all and not, say, one of those creepy hairless cats.

I’m grateful when times are good, endure when they’re bad, and when preposterously lucky circumstance allows, cheers the setting Balinese sun to my miraculous, non-feline-being existence.

Jude Law And I Are Not Societal Equals

Jude Law and I are not societal equals. 

In any other circumstance, my standing this close to Naomi Campell would result in her thick-necked Chechnyan security guards directing underlings to “release the hounds.” 

Every once in a while, my job bellyflops me unceremoniously into the land the of the 1%, and after stuffing my face full of shrimp cocktail I’ve found it’s best making a hasty exit before it’s revealed that I don’t own, well, anything, much less the latest Tesla.

In this particular case, it’s myself, the aforementioned Jude Law and Naomi Campell, The Guy from One Direction and their respective security details, standing in a line, arms over shoulders, swaying along with classic after classic at the Stevie Wonder show in Hyde Park. On this evening in London, each of us is transported to our respective happy places where these songs comprise the soundtrack of irreplaceably magical things. 

The Allen band played earlier in the evening, which is why I’m hilariously juxtaposed against people who moisturize regularly, but the thing about great art is it levels the playing field. It doesn’t matter if you’re, hypothetically, a mostly broke, entirely unknown musician just trying to punch his way underwater, or a global superstar - when we heard Superstition for the first time, it changed us. Great art makes us realize that, regardless of tax bracket, societally pressured gluten intolerance or whether you’re motoring triumphantly from A to B in a brand new Mercedes or limping between less fashionable letters in a fifteen year old Corolla, we’re all ultimately the same - we want to love, be loved and feel like we’re contributing to something greater than ourselves. 

Jude Law and I are not societal equals, but Stevie Wonder renders us both childlike and unencumbered. There's hope for us, yet.  

Choices

“Stevie Wonder is cool” is the least controversial statement ever written. There ya go, I’ve done it. You were curious why you subscribe to this newsletter? Well, now you know. 

With the Allen project, we've had the pleasure of sharing the bill with Stevie three times, the first of which being in a literal Roman amphitheater in Southern France. What a life changing experience that was. I mean, it’s a list as long as my arm all the ways that sharing a bill with Stevie Wonder is life changing, but what stands out the most as I’m writing this is how he made time for EVERYBODY. He was the first one at soundcheck. Management delayed doors because they literally couldn’t get Stevie off the stage - he was having too much fun, assing around with his pals, jamming through classic after classic, improvising chord changes for his freaking VOCAL WARM-UP that would be career defining discoveries for most songwriters.  

After the show, a nearly four hour extravaganza, Stevie hung backstage for another two at least, shaking every hand, posing for every picture, never once raising his voice or betraying an ounce of resentment. He wanted to be there, and you were important. Genuinely.   

Arguably the greatest living songwriter and inarguably the transcendent voice of our time is also the nicest and most patient artist I’ve ever met. I’ve never met Paul McCartney, the one living legend I’d put as Stevie’s equal, but I’ve heard it’s the same vibe. These guys are two of the most significant figures of the 20th century, as famous as human beings get, and they’ve both made a conscious choice to, well, be cool. And it really is a conscious choice, because I’ve seen first hand just how bananas Stevie Wonder’s day-to-day is and, let me tell you, even if you’re gifted with the disposition of Buddha on quaaludes, there’s more than enough going on to make you want to light catering on fire.

I suppose I’m relecting on all this because, as artists, we all have choices - to embrace change within our industry, to feel pride for simply having sat down to write, to acknowledge how unicorn-rare it is that there’s a tour bus for which we can forget the door code. And we can choose not to beat ourselves up for having a day where it all falls apart and we feel like quitting.

We can choose to believe in ourselves and our art. We're all worth it.

More Lucky Than Tough

I've spent the entire month of March traveling with the flu, never having adequate recovery time and generally being reckless with my physical health. I went to the hospital a couple days ago for some IV rehydration therapy, and the doctor was astounded by everything I've pulled off recently, impressed I think by my performing as sick as I was but also admonishing me for being out in public in the first place. I've been way sicker than I've allowed myself to acknowledge - it turns out I've put myself in some borderline dangerous situations and easily could've wound up in the hospital with more serious complications. I've been more lucky than tough. 

The upside of being this sick is I've taken several long, hard looks in the mirror, and I'm recommitted to a healthy diet, consistent fitness regimen and general "health first" mentality. I come from the kinda punk rock ethos of throwing nebulous exuberance at a thing, confident I'll eventually wear the thing down. This is good when you're in the early stages of your touring career for example, eating bologna out of the packaging and "showering" in a rest stop sink, but not so great when a little common sense is all that's needed to keep you out of the goddamn hospital.

I'm excited to see how healthier decisions will impact my creativity. It's all about making good art after all, and I feel myself entering a prolific chapter.  

Mike Hicks

I can tell it’s almost time to end my self-imposed quarantine - my mind’s starting to explore truly asinine insecurties. For example, in high school I used to be able to dunk a basketball. Like, in a game. I can no longer dunk a basketball (I'm pretty sure I pulled a hamstring just writing this sentence) and last night this was genuinley keeping me up. I eventually settled on opening for Stevie Wonder as an acceptable exchange for losing some hops, so life's not all bad. It is, I think, time to be around other people.

Which is fortutous, because tomorrow night’s Sunday Night Soul features my incredibly talented pal Mike Hicks. Mike’s day job is playing keys for Rascal Flatts, which is one hell of a day job, and he’s truly a renaissance man - a soul dude through-and-through, one of the most gifted keyboardists on the scene and an inspired poet. Mike’s schedule is, to put it lightly, demanding - he doesn't play solo often, and I jump at every opportunity to catch him doing his thing with his band. Tomorrow night’s going to be special, and I encourage all Nashvillians to swing through the 5 Spot and check out the Master in action. You'll never want to practice more in your life. Music's at 6pm.

Stick to Your Schedule

I’m sitting in my house under self-imposed quarentine, having been sick for the entire month of March and committed to not doing a goddamn thing until I’m 100%. Being sick for a solid month’s obviously annoying, and for me unusual, so I’m taking this opportunity to turn the microscope inward and see what needs improving. In being Woody Allen-level frail these past few weeks, what’re my body and mind trying to tell me?

I’m reflecting on my tendancy to work myself into an unproductive heap of uselessness. Like I mentioned in a previous post, obsession for me’s an ill-fitting pair of trousers. Rather than inspiring me to greater artistic heights and Mt Olympus levels of desireability to the opposite sex, I’m typically reduced to a weeping shell of a man, about as creativly mertititious as a particularly uninpsired banana slug. But what I am intrigued by, and what seems to work for me, is compassionate disclipine, and today I’m thinking about sticking to one’s schedule, even in small ways.

This ressonates especially while sick. Don’t have enough time (or aren’t well enough) to do a full workout? Take a walk. Don’t have enough time to write an article? Write a paragraph. Don’t have enought time to do yoga? Take ten seconds to breath. Individually, these each feel pretty insignificant, but it’s the cumulative impact of always sticking to your schedule that carry’s one over into long-term success. And, in my current state, there’s still plenty of time and energy left over for sleeping, binging Futurama and making Greg’s chicken soup (recipe to be shared in a future post). 

Life happens, but find a way to stick to your schedule, no matter how humble.