Nice Teslas

I’m sitting in CTS headquarters, and we’ve just wrapped tracking for a famous person whose named I’m not allowed to disclose, but rest assured their Tesla’s very nice.

I hope we become a massive band in our own right, but we're carving out a nice lil niche for ourselves as a production team, and as Gideon and Gabe argue over which guitar parts get reversed and how long the trail on the vocoder delay should be, I’m drinking a peanut butter stout, listening to my doubled acoustic guitars ping-pong around the room, curious where my meandering career takes me next. 

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Deadlines

I’m writing this in between vocal takes at the Climb The Sky headquarters in Gallatin, TN, aka Gideon and Gabe’s studio. I’ve successfully procrastinated in writing lyrics to this particular song until, well, now, which is impressive given I’ve mumble rapped the tune live twice. 

But deadlines are a beautiful thing, and in a departure from my usual fine tooth combing, I’m challenging myself to free associate, jotting down whatever lyrics come to mind as the instrumental’s pounding through my headphones.

It’s fun. I’m reminded that many of my favorite lyrics - the entire Nevermind album, for example - are made up of nonsensical-yet-poignant gambols with the truth, and maybe I’ve been trying a little too hard lately.

Remember Us

THE YOUNG DEAD SOLDIERS DO NOT SPEAK

Archibald McLeish

The young dead soldiers do not speak.

Nevertheless they are heard in the still houses: who has not heard them?

They have a silence that speaks for them at night and when the clock counts.

They say, We were young. We have died. Remember us.

They say, We have done what we could but until it is finished it is not done.

They say, We have given our lives but until it is finished no one can know what our lives gave.

They say, Our deaths are not ours: they are yours: they will mean what you make them.

They say, Whether our lives and our deaths were for peace and a new hope or for nothing we cannot say: it is you who must say this.

They say, We leave you our deaths: give them their meaning: give them an end to the war and a true peace: give them a victory that ends the war and a peace afterwards: give them their meaning.

We were young, they say. We have died. Remember us.

Jimmy Buffet Approved

I hope all of you are spending Memorial Day weekend relaxing in some Jimmy Buffet approved locale. 

Tragically, I am not, though I am uncharacteristically ahead of the game preparing for the upcoming Train/Goo Goo Dolls/Allen Stone Electric Ensemble tour and, in theory, have Parrot themed shirts waiting for me in Spokane. Small victories.

Anyway, I took some time this afternoon to dig into a podcast with Tim Ferriss and Kevin Systrom, co-founder of Instagram. 

I, like all of us, have a love/hate relationship with social media, but it was interesting learning about Instagram’s origin story, acquisition by our benevolent overlords, aka Facebook, and Systrom’s philosophies regarding entrepreneurship and autodidactism. 


 

Mosaic Brainchild

Each day of the creative process resembles a puzzle piece - sorta whacky looking out of context, but gradually revealing the mosaic brainchild as they’re connected.

The key is not to dismiss a particular puzzle piece because it isn’t pleasing, in and of itself.

One writing session might feel like the most cattywampus and disheartening couple hours of putting pen to paper - and if you stopped there, things would, in fact, stink.

But persevering gets you to the next day, which gets you to the day after that, and before you know it, there’re no more pieces to fit into place.

Tequila Over Ice

During this time of year in Nashville, when it’s not yet stiflingly humid and the breeze is just enough to disrupt the immaculately quaffed, it’s impossible to be truly productive, so rather than fight the inevitable, I sit here, mustard-stained shirt and billowing shorts and all, sharing my unfounded judgement of the gainfully employed with several thousand dedicated readers. 

Days like today aren’t meant for Gary V style hustle porn. Days like today are meant for sipping tequila over ice and daydreaming, and when that gets boring, maybe writing for a bit, and when that gets boring, maybe reading for a bit, all the while replenishing said tequila over ice until the mosquitoes rear their irksome proboscises. Somehow, work gets done, and I’m about as far removed from the actuarial sciences as possible. 

Some days, I doubt every decision I’ve ever made. But not today, and on the occasions when there’s a break in the proverbial clouds, it feels good celebrating the road less traveled. 

Puzzles

There’s something about a cloudless, eighty degree evening that makes the careening anvil of life sorta rubbery and unobjectionable, and so I find myself sipping tequila over ice and writing songs, for no reason other than connecting whatever melodies and chords might be into that sorta thing.

Lyrics aren’t coming yet, which is ok - when I force things, I get a tad self-indulgent with the ol’ diction, so I’m content slinging glorious gibberish until that one word, that one phrase, pops up for air. 

It can take hours, but I’m happy putting in the time, self-soothing through meandering creativity, giving myself permission to sit beneath whispering trees, to grieve, and trust that, when things are unfolding as they should, they’re emphatically puzzling. 

Warhol

Writing a daily email newsletter, or almost daily newsletter on account of food poisoning in New Zealand, is a tremendous exercise in accountability and consistency, but lately the MoaT’s been a bit of drag.

Maybe that’s a bad thing to admit to a dedicated readership, and know that I’m apologizing as profusely as is appropriate in a public place, surrounded by the immaculately bearded.

In moments like these, there’s an Andy Warhol quote I reference:  

“Either once only, or every day. If you do something once it’s exciting, and if you do it every day it’s exciting. But if you do it, say, twice or just almost every day, it’s not good anymore.”

I’ve read studies purporting that things acquire a degree of “specialness” when they’re done either every day or once in a blue moon. When it comes to creativity, the once in a blue moon thing tends not to work for me - “specialness” is replaced by crippling over-thought - but every day keeps the perfectionist gremlins at bay. 

And, ultimately, I’m dedicating a few minutes each day to mindfulness, which is the whole point.  



Where the Light Shines

The Allen Stone Electric Ensemble played a corporate event at the St Regis in Punta De Mita yesterday, and the client mentioned seeing us back in 2011 at the Independent in San Francisco, opening for Nikki Costa.

I remember that show well. It was, in fact, the very first show on our very first tour, and I wore a cookie-monster-blue button up shirt for the occasion (shudder).

We sounded exactly like what we were: a group of barely-acquaintances who piled into a van with zero plan. And while we were pretty much unlistenable, there was something visceral and punk rock about those early shows. They had heart.

And through the endearing blunders and innumerable fashion catastrophes, that heart transcended, ultimately paving our way to this beautiful place.

I’m grateful for the reminder to make good art, share fearlessly, and go where the light shines.

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Thank You Scientist

I’m procrastinating on a dreary, rain-soaked afternoon, watching Thank You Scientist on Audiotree Live. 

A YouTube commenter compares the band to “Snarky Puppy on cocaine,” which is pretty accurate, and at their show at the Exit/In last night, the number of Dream Theater and Coheed and Cambria t-shirts took me back to a wonderland of romantic underachievement, unironic double XL sweat shirts, and the glorious freedom unapologetic nerdom affords. 

Thank You Scientist are a great band. It’s A LOT of notes, but kicks ass, and they don’t take themselves too seriously. And I just love what they stand for - buddies who met at music college and stuck to their guns, never succumbing to the pressures of the mainstream music biz. 

It’s the Vulfpeck model, which all of us involved with labels and stuff are not-so-secretly jealous of, and a reminder that fans are out there, and no manager, A&R person, or ephemeral hype can make manifest the music in your heart. 

Building Blocks

At the beginning of this MOAT project, I wrote about identity based goals, how identifying as someone who writes a thousand words a day, say, potentially opens the door for anxiety and perceived failure, whereas being someone who simply puts pen to paper daily welcomes both productive and unproductive sessions as what they are - foundational building blocks, glorious in their imperfection and oh-so necessary.

It’s fun scrolling through past entries. Terse, sardonic commentary, intermingling with verbose and clumsy explorations of James Joyce inspired fantasies, and, every once in a while, kinda useful and heartfelt stuff. 

Since starting this project, I’m a better lyricist, better melody writer, and the gremlins in my head purr rather than snarl. I’ve lost weight. I can run non-pitiful distances. In professional situations where I wish we’d hurry up and pull our heads out of our collective ass, I’m able to channel patience rather than vitriol. 

This newsletter reminds me that tiny changes, over time, yield massive and, most importantly, sustainable results.

Tool!

Many of you know that Tool is one of my favorite bands, and they’ve been debuting new material during their current mini-tour (!).

For the uninitiated, Tool hasn’t released a record since 2006, and their fanbase is, to put it lightly, rabid, so this is big news.

I’ve impressed myself twice this week by resisting temptation to ignore my adult(ish) responsibilities and check out their shows in Birmingham and Louisville at objectively ludicrous expense.

Provided Adam Jones doesn’t garrote Maynard James Keenan with the E string of his guitar, I assume they’ll tour in the fall, and you bet your ass I’ll be there, head banging along to dirges in 7/8 about sacred geometry. 

Getting Endorsements

I’m often asked how to develop relationships with gear companies, etc.

In my experience, it’s an “if you build it, they will come” scenario. Mesa Boogie, for example, approached the band back in 2012 at the Outside Lands Festival in San Francisco - they dug the set and signed us then and there. D’Addario became interested only after numerous sold out shows in LA, and we weren’t on the the head of A&R at Dunlop’s radar until he caught a Bay Area show.

There was, at no point, a strategy, or even a semblance of a game plan - we just did cool shit and, eventually, people took notice. 

So - frustratingly, I know - it’s a long game, but that’s a blessing in disguise. It’s in your best interest to build your thing to a point where it’s undeniable, and on your terms, and it’s in their best interest to partner with artists they believe in. Building to a tipping point’s the only way the two paths meaningfully intertwine. 

Solidarity

I’m attempting to write this while “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” by Pink Floyd’s playing at the Red Bicycle, specifically the intro, wherein not-yet-chubby David Gilmore, at the height of his understated, Britishy powers, plays perhaps the perfect guitar solo. Maybe I should drop acid after all, and embrace a megalomaniacal Roger Waters as the cantankerous brother he is. 

This song has everything I love - obscure lyrics about psychedelic adventurers , not-jazz sax solos, and a rock shuffle into a classic fadeout. Erstwhile songwriters, if there’s ever a formula for success, this is it, or at least a formula for pleasing an unknown musician with scoliosis.

The playlist’s just shifted to the Grateful Dead. I’m as big a John Mayer fan as you’ll find, but he’s perpetrated an egregious crime - making the Grateful Dead popular amongst generations not yet embracing golf and proctology exams - and for that, I’ll in no way make a scene if I’m ever fortunate enough to meet the man, but I feel it’s important sharing that I don’t care for the Grateful Dead, and if you don’t either, consider solidarity voiced. 

Guitar Thoughts

I’m gearing up to teach a few online lessons and figured I’d share a quick thought on approaching the guitar.

Whatever’s fueling the fire in the moment - a riff, solo, melody, whatever - I’m a big fan of reverse engineering the awesomeness. For example, learning “Run Like Hell” by Pink Floyd gives you an understanding of the song, which is great, but not necessarily a deeper understanding of the instrument. The how’s there, but not the why. 

But by practicing triad inversions, the building blocks of the main riff, you not only get the tune, but also a nifty roadmap that’s applicable to everything. 

Now, you can play the song in multiple keys, say, or in a different register, or different position on the neck, or, most importantly, come up with your own thing. You’re in possession of a creative tool, rather than just a lick, primed and ready for Instagram.

TLTL Podcast

The Trevor Larkin Talks and Listens podcast is back! Well, almost, new episodes starting next week.

After being a guest on a few podcasts recently, I was reminded how much I enjoy talking with interesting people and putting it on the internet. That said, it was important stepping away for a while. 

I’m a relentlessly creative person, one who needs multiple outlets to stay sane, but after the Allen Stone tour last fall, I realized I seemed to be doing everything except the thing I wanted most - to make loud rock music with my friends.

So, the podcast went on hold, Climb The Sky was formed, and now that we’re settled into our video and single every month routine, I’m inspired to share some conversations again.

The podcast’s returning to an audio-only format. It was fun adding video, but the show felt most like “me” on the road, with just a couple mics and my trusty Zoom H6. Whenever a camera’s involved, people inevitably slip into show mode - myself included - and I want to capture something more honest and spontaneous.

I hope you enjoy listening as much as I’m enjoying making them, or conversing, or whatever the hell it is I’m doing, which, thankfully, I hardly ever know.