Joyously Nihilistic

Ok, one final post about Anthony Bourdain. His love of music, especially 70’s era NYC punk, is well documented, and I’ve been blasting on repeat some of his personal favorites.

Everything by…

Richard Hell and the Voidoids

The Stooges

The New York Dolls

Dead Boys

The Ramones

Patti Smith

As well as…

"Anemone," The Brian Jonestown Massacre

"Pusherman," Curtis Mayfield

"What's Going On," Marvin Gaye

"Do the Strand," Roxy Music

"Chinese Rocks," Johnny Thunders and The Heartbreakers 

Joyously nihilistic, proudly sloppy, equal parts sorrowful and triumphant. Just like the man.

Feeling Good

These past few days have been tough. Many in my community are talking about their own mental health struggles, which is important and necessary. We’re all people, none of us perfect, and all of us have some sort of relationship with the black dog of depression.

I can’t speak to Anthony Bourdain’s demons, but I know mine all too well. I’ll spare you the gory details - it’s enough sharing that managing my mental health’s my number one priority - by far - and has been since my early 20’s.

I always carry with me a copy of Feeling Good by Dr. David D. Burns. I highly recommend this book for anybody. When I was younger, I worked through literally every page with CBT counselors - nowadays, it’s more about using specific exercises to recalibrate when I feel myself on shaky ground. 

Like I said, I highly recommend Feeling Good for anybody. Powerful stuff contained therein. 

Anthony Bourdain, Pt 1

I read Kitchen Confidential back in 2010 during a particularly low point in my life, the only time I’ve contemplated quitting music. My flight out of SeaTac was delayed just long enough to stop by the Hudson Booksellers, and for whatever reason I picked up Bourdain’s memoir.

I devoured Kitchen Confidential in a day, re-read it five or six times that month. For where I was at, Bourdain's tone was spot on: darkly humorous, equal parts cynical and idealistic, irreverent and respectful. Above all, it was honest. He’d fucked up a lot. I, in my mind, had also fucked up a lot (though not with heroin and, in actuality, not really at all). His life hadn’t followed the script he'd hoped for, and neither had mine. But his story was captivating, and shared with disarming eloquence.

Kitchen Confidential inspired me to write myself into my own narrative. I'd tried achieving some facsimile of conventional success with dismal results - maybe just being my bizarre, off-kilter self was enough and, in fact, the whole point?

I Won't Be Angry At Love

Another 1 take video for ya!

Here’s a song of mine called “I Won’t Be Angry At Love.” In a perfect world, I enjoy 2-3 hours of uninterrupted time first thing in the morning where I hack and scratch away until a song takes shape. That is, like I say, in a perfect world. I used to beat myself up for not getting the full amount of time in, thinking it was due to failure in time management and prioritization rather than, you know, life. Nowadays, older and wiser, I appreciate the beauty of going fishing - sitting down as the day exhales, casting a line out into the universe, and seeing if a melody bites.

A few days ago, I did just that, and the result’s this tune, written in about 15 mins while sitting on my couch at 11pm, wondering what the hell it is I’m doing. I still have no idea (thankfully), but I like this song.  

Here's a link to the video, and lyrics below…

I used to think I was special

I know better now

more than I’d ever hoped to

in my fantasy, calm and settled

I know better now

more than I’d ever hoped to

I won’t be angry at love

even though it has broken me inside

I won’t be angry at love

‘cause where else will my heart and soul confide

I’d never seen truth be chosen

I know better now, more than I’d ever hoped to

in a moment where time is frozen

I know better now, more than I’d ever hoped to

I won’t be angry at love

even though it has broken me inside

I won’t be angry at love

‘cause where else will my heart and soul confide

There was once laughter

angels in snow

now where will I go

when all that I know is buried here

CMA Fest!

It’s CMA (Country Music Association) week in Nashville, which is a big deal ‘round these parts. My path through the industry’s been paved by soul music (which is still weird to me), so I suppose it makes sense my network not over-lapping with the country world. It’s surprisingly easy circumnavigating recording sessions involving truck-based lyrics, which I'm ok with this on balance, but I don't like knowing there's a large, mostly autonomous branch of the music biz I have zero connection with.

Country music - a genre encompassing everything from Florida Georgia Line to Jason Isbell - is as nuanced as any other, and it bugs me that I don’t know more. I’m in town for CMA week, which is a first, and anything that’s hacky, low-hanging fruit for my contemporaries piques my interest, so I figure I’ll do what comes naturally - put on a jazz hat and see what the whole thing’s about. 

Several friend’s bands are showcasing, but who else should I check out? What’re some cool vibes? Please, let me know - refreshingly, I'm largely flying blind.  

A Plausible Lie

I'm often asked what a typical day on the road looks like, and I'm tempted to paint the picture of a finely tuned, mosh-pit-inspiring machine, hyper-disciplined in its pursuit of perfection. In the absence of a plausible lie, I suppose honesty's the best policy. A typical day on the road, in reality, looks a lot like this... 

Episode 5

Trevor Larkin Talks and Listens Ep. 5 is live!

Rocky Block is a singer/songwriter, multi-instrumentalist, producer, and legend in the making. It's always an insightful and goofy rollercoaster ride chatting with him, and we had a blast shooting the breeze about maintaining perspective, garish trousers and, most importantly, staying Gojj. 

This podcast keeps me present and engaged in a healthy reality where candor and humor steer the ship. I'm grateful to my guests for inviting me into their worlds. 

Wanna subscribe or listen on iTunes? Here ya go.

Or watch the video? You betcha.

Whoopsy Daisies

Four years ago, I went through an ill-advised Western shirts phase. I'm not proud of it. Like many follies, it seemed like a good idea at the time. There’re hundreds of pictures online of my looking like a numbnuts, so I’ll save you the keystrokes. At least I was "feeling it," right?

One of the most important lessons the Al Stone project’s taught me is looking stupid’s ok, because looking stupid means you’re taking chances, and taking chances means you’re growing, and growth means you’ll just look stupid in a more elevated way, which is a bottomless treasure trove of gloriousness and nourishment.

As artists, we want our work to be taken seriously. We adjust the lighting just-so, wear just the right thing in just the right way, plot and plan until the proverbial cows come home. And that's fine, up to a point. I find inordinate comfort in realizing my life isn't "if A, then B, then C," but rather, "if A, then HOLY SHIT IT’S ALL FOR NOTHING WHY ME WHY THEM WHY ANYTHING EVER IN THE WORLD."

Better, I think, to try stuff, develop a thick skin, and learn as you go. 

Remembering Demba

Demba Nabe and I are two very different people. Demba, for example, is an uninhibited conduit of celestial energy and conversant in rabbinical mystic teachings, whereas I look like a guy who irons his underwear. But what’s the overused movie quote? “We’re not so different, you and I.” Demba’s probably not so nimble with Larry Bird trivia, but we shared some neat moments.

The Al band’s a few shows deep in our 2013 run with Seeed. I step out of their nightly post-show dressing room rave for some fresh air, sit along the loading dock and watch our tireless road crew load up semi truck after semi truck - I still marvel at what goes into making an arena show happen. I feel a tap on my shoulder, and Demba’s there, offering a joint the size of my arm, which I decline. Eying me suspiciously, he reaches into his Harem pants pocket, producing a lukewarm beer, which I accept. Demba puffs away exuberantly, I sip my beer, and we sit in silence for a while. It’s a beautiful thing, being able to sit with someone without saying a word.

Demba puts a hand on my shoulder. “I like your playing,” he says. “You have something inside of you that’s trying to get out. Let it.” He offers me his arm-sized joint one more time - sensing and finding amusing my Britishy preference to severe my own hand rather than offend anyone, ever - and literally moonwalks back inside the arena, hands weaving in and out of ganja smoke. 

I’m still processing that he’s gone. Demba was the genuine article, a beautiful maniac in every way. I’m lucky to have known him.

RIP, Demba

Yesterday, Demba Nabe, co-lead singer of German dancehall/reggae band Seeed, passed away. 

Seeed is a beautiful band, miraculous even - a multi-cultural, eleven piece dancehall/reggae group from Berlin who sell out stadiums. If ever there’s an embodiment of the current artistic renaissance and inclusive spirit in Germany, it’s Seeed. In 2013, we opened for them for about two weeks, playing packed arenas, getting our asses handed to us in ping-pong, exuberantly dancing along with trance jams during nightly post-show dressing room raves. Everyone was patient, inclusive, and entertained by our inadvertent American-ness. 

Demba was the most enigmatic of the bunch, quietly standing in a corner one minute, the next six inches from your face, regaling you, in immaculate, rapid-fire English, with anecdotes from his years spent homeless in Toyko. He was a savant, alarmingly articulate in arcane subjects, his gentle charisma perfectly complimenting fellow lead singers Peter Fox and Frank Dalle. After our sets, he’d offer a nod, barely noticeable, which we were told was the height of praise and rarely given. To a young band finding their feet, it meant everything.  

I spent this morning reaching out to members of the band and crew. They’re having a rough time. Maybe, on their behalf, call a loved one or friend today and, I dunno, just let them know you’re there. That goes a lot further than we realize.

Here’s a link to Seeed’s set from Lollapalooza in Berlin, 2015. What a band.

Tired of Losing

Another 1 take video for ya! 

Here's a tune of mine called "Tired of Losing." Watch the video, if you like. Lyrics below...

the symptoms will fall away in time
’til then, I will live alone
and I heard every world you said
I still don’t know the half of it

I’m ready for change
I’m tired of losing
I’m ready for second chances
no new romances

I’m ready to turn the page
no longer a prisoner to your hypocrite smile
eager to act my age and grow stronger
you tantrum like a petulant child

I’m ready for change
I’m tired of losing
I’m ready for second chances
no new romances

when I was afloat, you were my anchor
now you’re drowning a friend

Nebulous Crustaceans

It made me so happy having Greg Ehrlich back in the band for BottleRock. He’s crushing the game at a fancy merch company these days, cashing regular pay checks and sleeping eight hours a night, the rat bastard. He's right where he needs to be, I know, but goddammit do I miss the Great Man.

Greg’s the heart and soul of the band, always was and will be. Throughout our BottleRock set, I’d look over at Greg stank-facing triumphantly and remember back to 2013 when, during a day off in Dusseldorf, he and I posted up at a posh beer garden, singing exuberantly while knocking back about 20 lagers each with German salarymen similarly pickling their livers. Or scarfing down nebulous crustaceans at a dingy Balinese food shack in 2015, flicking cockroaches off bottles of luke-warm Coke, stray cats negotiating shrilly at our feet for table scraps. Or that time at the Gorge, opening for the Dave Matthew’s Band, when Greg and Jay posed for this picture.

For years, Greg Ehrlich, Brent Rusinow and Mark Sampson graced the Allen Stone project with their talent and hilarity. They gifted indelible memories. It's preposterous how lucky I am to call them brothers-in-arms, and I wish them every triumph in their new chapters. I promise I'll keep fighting the good fight, Peter Pan-ing around, in search of less nebulous crustaceans.   

Murderous Cyborgs

Episode 4 of Trevor Larkin Talks and Listens is live, a fun Q&A session with the podcast’s producer/videographer, Trey McDermott. It’s a stellar chat, check it out.

BottleRock was a blast, btw. It’s awesome catching up with friends (the Lake Street Dive crew, this time around), and if you can’t get down at a Bruno Mars gig, well, you're clearly a murderous cyborg. Such a concentrated talent pool's inspiring, and my big take away's that I’ve been coasting. More aptly, I’ve been doing a good job following through - writing this everyday, the weekly one take videos, and now the podcast - but the simple act of doing the things I said I was going to do isn’t enough. I feel like what used to be my max effort’s now, like, 65%. Hopefully that’s evolution, or maybe I wasn’t pushing hard enough in the first place. 

Either way, moving forward, I’m placing a premium on focus. Step 1) my goddamn telephone. Just because my phone’s going off like a rigged carnival game doesn’t mean anything’s actually happening. As of today, the ol’ pocket computer makes no audible noise. I keep it face down so I can’t see the screen light up. When I install new apps, I disable notifications. Life will go on if I don’t respond to texts immediately. Rediscovering comfort in silence and focus needs to happen. 

But keep posting pics of your adorable puppies. I'll see 'em eventually. I'm not, after all, a murderous cyborg.  

Garish Trousers

I'm back at DFW again, en route to Nashville from Napa, tired but not delirious post-BottleRock, having enjoyed many a glass of fermented grape juice but keeping things disappointingly PG. Being a sensible young man in his 30's makes for lack-luster newsletter reading, and a festival recap can wait 'til my fragile soul's enjoyed eight hours sleep. So, instead, here's a shot of my man crush Brandon Flowers - the Killers are festival mainstays and headlined BottleRock the day before we arrived. That suit, ladies and gentlemen. I have lots to learn about rock stardom. Step 1 - garish trousers. Really, that should be Step 1 for anything.

Bits of Glow Stick

Thanks for indulging my being (hopefully) entertainingly cantankerous yesterday, just a touch of travel fatigue coupled with one too many snarls from TSA agents. 

Here I am! In Napa…well, I suppose Fairfield, CA more accurately, writing this just before hopping on an early shuttle to BottleRock. Whenever possible, I like showing up with our crew, usually an hour or two before the festival opens, just to experience the calm before the storm, maybe walk the grounds before they’re covered in biodegradable cups and bits of glow stick. Caught up in the whirlwind of multitudinous backstage schmooze, it can be difficult connecting with everything that goes into putting an event like BottleRock together, and it’s important I appreciate what everyone’s job is, what their day looks like and, in turn, how I can make their life a little easier. 

Usually, this means staying out of people’s way, but every once in a while I sneak a “how does this work?” or something in there. Learning about light rigging’s interesting, yes, but more so I appreciate my perspective being fine tuned. A successful festival’s every bit a symbiotic relationship, and if my part’s cranking up terrifyingly loud and beating the ever-loving dickens out of a guitar, well, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Somehow, I've conned the universe into allowing me to wear a hat and smile at keyboard players for a living, and I want to do right by everyone working their asses off in real trades. I mean, if my car breaks down, I can play Stairway to Heave at it, and that's about it.

Our set’s being live streamed tonight at 6:45pm PST, check out BottleRock’s website. 

DFW

I’m writing this from the international terminal at the Dallas/Ft Worth International Airport. I’m not flying anywhere exotic, unless you count the tofu-fueled lefty weirdos in San Francisco exotic, but I do always head to the international terminal whenever connecting through DFW, which is all the time. 

It angers me how well I know this airport. Today, as I’m bumping along in the Skylink en route to said international terminal, I say out loud to no one in particular, “Jesus Christ, I know this goddamn airport better than the place I’m legally obligated to serve jury duty.” I hate that I know the grilled salmon at Wolfgang Puck’s money grab in Terminal D’s the best on offer. I hate that I know the international terminal’s exponentially more chill than its domestic counterparts, which is why I’m here, writing this thing, at the same fucking powering station, the same stool in fact, where I always sit, twice a month (on average) for the past however many years. I hate that I’m so transparently privilaged and officially THAT asshole - sipping a five dollar coffee while fingers that’ve never known real work tappity-tap one percenter lamentations into unnessary existence. Sigh. 

But I do like what’s in my current line of sight - 7 Eleven. How does the saying go? High fructose corn syrup hath charms to soothe the savage beast? Guy Fieri said that, I think.  

Anyway. BottleRock Festival tomorrow in Napa, first big rock show in a while. Looking forward to enjoying a little vino and having Ryan "Bear" Drozd tell me what to do.  

Come Say Hi

I came across this shot the other day from our first time playing Berlin (Germany, not New Hampshire). January-ish 2013. Shoutout to Sister Sparrow and the Dirty Birds for being stellar humans and designing artsy-yet-wearable merch.

I miss just, well, hanging. As a band gets bigger, there’re more barriers between you and the audience. Theaters have a different layout than clubs, and by the time I’ve decompressed for a few minutes, the crowd’s already emptied into the lobby, funneled by venue staff towards the merch booth and (more significantly) the bar. And, I gotta be honest, backstage is sweet. There’s free booze (!), showers with stellar water pressure, gummy candy and a whole lotta well-earned quiet. I've probably already changed into my robe.   

But I’m hyper conscious of slipping into tour zombie mode - the same shit every day, leading to homesickness and burnout. It's an insidious deal, but I'm a more wily swine these days. I’m beyond lucky to live the surreal life I do, and getting back into the habit of meeting as many fans as possible feels right. I miss the energy, conversations and perspective.

So, come say hi, I'd love to meet you.  

Stranded On An Island

Another 1 take video for ya!

Ross Livermore sang BGV's on the studio version of Stranded On An Island, so when he stopped by for a podcast it seemed appropriate I put him on the spot and have him belt out some high notes. After this take, Ross's comment was "well, that was a lose one," which really is the whole point.

I hope you guys enjoy these songs and performances, and the strides I'm making in overcoming perfectionism and do-nothingism are profound. It's funny how the tiniest thing can be the catalyst for so much positive change in one's life. I'm super stoked on a whole lot right now, which is a big statement from a kid raised on Black Adder and steamed vegetables.  

The studio version features Grammy-worthy production by Jeremy Hatcher and Griffin Wright's Dave Grohl-esque drum ferociousness. Check it out here.

Here's a link to the video, and lyrics below...

Stranded on an island where I’m taught to behave like
a spoiled little rich kid with the cash to obey
mother and her ashtray dying slow in the porch light
daddy and his bottle rot alone in their grave

and I know, now, what it is
I see the movement coming down
and I don’t want to go

you’d give a little guidance if I’d just learn to listen
maybe ‘cause you’re tone deaf to the song in my soul
I never thought to ask you why I’m left here to linger
I’m never going to follow, I’ll never go where you go

and I know, now, what it is
I see the movement coming down
and I don’t want to go

slow down, moon lit wanderer, won’t you please break me out
slow down, fly no further, please come break me out

Distracted Driving

On my way to the trusty Red Bicycle to write today’s newsletter, I was run off the road and into a drainage ditch by a driver who veered into oncoming traffic. I’m totally fine, my trusty 2003 Toyota Corolla’s just peachy, and I suppose to their credit the driver stopped to see if I was alright. I’m so, so, sorry, she said. I was texting my friend.

Again, I’m totally fine. If anything, it’s made me appreciate how many times I’ve been that person, glancing at a text, changing songs on Spotify, realizing I’ve driven for blocks without really paying attention. We’ve all been there.

As satisfying as it is thinking I’m some influential world figure, I am, in fact, just some schmo. There’s nothing happening in my life that requires checking my phone while driving, and even if there arguably were, those assholes can wait 15 minutes. And track three on Joy Division’s first record’s plenty ok. No need to skip it. Just drive the damn car. 

For the foreseeable future, my phone's remaining in my pocket when I’m behind the wheel. I encourage everyone to do the same.  

Doom

I spent a few months in my youth playing Wordtris on Super Nintendo. Needless to say, video games didn’t stick and consequently aren’t my go-to when it comes to new music. But a friend turned me onto the Doom video game soundtrack recently, and it's BRUTAL. Crank up BFG Division. Devil horns times a thousand. And I know bespectacled ol’ me throwing around 20 Ib dumbells to music from a first-person shooter isn’t exactly Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, but the soundtrack's my current gym playlist (for what that's worth).

Here's a link to a presentation by Doom composer, Mick Gordon. I know next to nothing about advanced production techniques and found the talk fascinating, a neat peak behind the curtain into a musical world I’m only peripherally connected to.

There’s also plenty of entry level geekdom (I'm inspired to mess around with signal chains and bowed guitar, for example) and valuable insight on optimizing one's creative environment. And, of course, it's ripe with nerd-gasmic fun. The maniac embedded “666” and pentagrams into the soundtrack’s spectrograph, for god’s sake.

Anyway, this has been a fun compliment to my working up Allen Stone material for BottleRock. Enjoy!