The Ballad of Big Country, Pt. 2

“You ever heard of Cinderella?”

This is literally the last thing I ever expected Big Country to ask me, so much so that I’m concerned for my safety. I mean, where could he possibly be going with this? Is he talking about the 80’s hair metal band? Big Country’s on par with Yoda when it comes to sage-yet-awkwardly-worded life coaching, but the man was bragging the other day about making stew from roadkill: I can’t imagine a fanciful story about unjust oppression and triumphant reward playing into his narrative. Or maybe it does, like, REALLY does, and BC’s about to peel back layers of his pickled-in-moonshine onion, laying to waste stereotypes promoted by my lefty-democrat bubble. Whatever the case, my last sip of coffee spills from my agape mouth as the reality sinks in that I actually have to answer this question. 

Yes. Yes, I have heard of Cinderella, I reply with every ounce of musterable courage.

“Shit, I know ain’t no Cinderella from Tennessee.”

In this, Big Country’s correct. The earliest variant of the Cinderella story can be traced back to Ancient Greece, with the most popular version published by the Brothers Grimm (German dudes) in the 1800’s. I only know this because when your 6’4”, likely criminal, clearly bat-shit nuts hillbilly neighbor - who’s wearing overalls with no shirt in 20 degree weather - asks if you’re familiar with a children’s story, well, that’s the Universe telling you to Wake the Fuck Up. There’s something here, ya ding-dong, and you're missing it. So, you better believe I Wikipedia’d the shit outta Cinderella. 

Anyway.

Why? Why wouldn’t Cinderella be from Tennessee?

“Shit, flip flops are the glass slippers of the South.”

This one’s clearly been in the chamber for a while - god knows why - and Big Country, guffawing maniacally, drops his chipped coffee mug, as if dropping the mic.

I’m left questioning everything, a shell of a man, like the remains of a lobster dinner.  

High-Fiving Distance

I wake up early in the morning. Not because I’m a go-getter particularly, or someone whose life goals include power walking down trendy Brooklyn streets, buried in a smartphone, ostensibly killing it. Counterintuitively, I’ve become an early riser so I can stay out late and catch as much live music as possible.

I usually “work” from around 6am-3pm: practicing, writing songs, articles and essays, falling even further behind on correspondence - essentially anything and everything that highlights my never having had a real job. I usually write a halfway decent tune or collection of passably readable sentences before the world around me wakes up, so right out of the gate it’s a pretty solid day - I take care of myself first, thereby moving through the world more peacefully and circumnavigating the wrath of our reptilian overlords. After that, I generally bounce around doing human being stuff, replenishing creative reserves and seeking inspiration.  

In Nashville, the first round of shows kick off at 6pm, which is a beautiful thing, especially for an ear-fatigued road warrior like myself- if you're feeling delicate, you can catch two sets of legitimately world class music and be in bed by 10pm. More often than not I’m out later, usually much later, bouncing around between three or four venues. Last night began at the 5 Spot in East Nashville, exceptional spoken word and hip-hop by The Black Son, Rashad the Poet and The Realist Person. It’s beautiful, challenging art. The crowd’s collective comfort level’s clearly pushed, and the less stalwart disappear outside for unneeded smoke breaks and social media fixes. But most of us are enthralled. I come-to an hour and a half later, feeling lifted.  My neglected Jamison on the rocks's now pond water, but I down it in one gulp, years of touring and attendant poverty having conditioned me to never, under any circumstances, leave a wounded soldier.

Before the night’s through, I’ve taken in some bluegrass and, as a palate cleanser, black metal. I forgot my ear plugs, which would’ve come in handy towards the end of the night, and my ears are ringing perilously during the ride home. But I kinda need that - there’s something cathartic and nostalgic about music absolutely kicking the ever-loving shit out of me. I like that teenage Trevor’s always within high-fiving distance.  

Tonight, I’ll be back at the 5 Spot for Sunday Night Soul. Curated by my bro Jason Eskridge, it's always a special night, and the band is EXTREMELY capable. I often play, but this time around I think I’ll chill with a cheap domestic lager. Music’s at 7pm.  

Monarch Review, Pt. 1

I’m contributing a three-part series to the Monarch Review, a cool Seattle-based literary and arts magazine, sharing my thoughts on the Allen Stone recording process. If you’re curious, check out part one here. 

I’ve shared some thoughts about the sessions via this newsletter - overly caffeinated, largely sleep deprived thoughts (the best kind) - but I’m going into greater detail with Monarch and have a much clearer sense of what the whole thing’s meant to me, now that the dust’s settled.

Believe it or not, I’m really trying to improve as a writer. In the MOAT - a reader gave this thing an acronym, I’ve officially arrived! - I essentially write how I talk, which is “unintentionally aloof” according to a good buddy. One of the great joys of getting essays published is working with editors, and Jake Uitti at Monarch’s an extremely gifted one. He absolutely tore my first draft to shreds. Very correctly, he pointed out when I was being overly familiar (Al Pal? Really?), lazy (you say you’re excited, but SHOW ME) and out of touch (no one double spaces after sentences anymore). 

And I love it. A life in the arts is sometimes like putting messages in bottles, stranded on a desert island, and hoping someone will find one of your bottles, open it, read it, and put something in a bottle that will wash its way back to you: appreciation, money, maybe even love. Most of the time, these bottles go unreturned, and it’s easy believing no one’s listening, reading, or cares at all. So, when the opportunity comes up not only to have someone read your writing, but go over it with a fine-toothed comb and point out, in glorious detail, when you’re being an asshole, well, to your pal Trevor that’s a goddamn dream come true. 

I hope you enjoy the piece, and thank you all for following along. There’re kinda a lot of you now. More Big Country stories coming your way, he’s been on a role.   

Swift Kicks

The recording sessions for the next Allen Stone Band record wrapped a few days ago and here I am, back in the real world. Didn't I join a band to avoid this kinda thing? Anyway. Maybe it's the calm before the storm, anticipating the record's release, or my throwing myself into a bunch of new projects that's got me off balance, but these last few days have been a bit of a tight rope walk. And that's ok, there're good songs to be found here, and I'm writing this literally as the sun's rising on a new day.

Before the Allen Stone Band found its feet, I fronted a rock trio. We were pretty good. A few record companies bought us meals, and one guy in particular bought us very expensive meals. He suggested we make a bunch of changes to pretty much everything, and we did because he said he’d sign us and give us a Ton of Money. We put lots of time and effort into making those changes, and the music suffered, but that's ok because, you know, a Ton of Money. Then the guy lost his job and no one at the label returned our calls. 

I took it personally. Clearly, I sucked and had no business being invited to the party, much less showing up. My apartment became a pizza box obstacle course for a couple months, and I questioned the universe and higher powers responsible in all the ways 22 year olds do. 

But I still had my guitar and my songs, and I still had a few months’ rent in the bank. Brushing pizza crumbs off my regrettably patchy beard, I decided in the future I wasn’t going to sacrifice my art just for the money. If I do that, and don’t get the money, I’ve got nothing. If I do work I’m proud of, and don’t get the money, at least I have the work. 

Every once in a while, I forget this rule, or disregard it anyway, and each and every time the universe's given me a swift kick to the happy sacks.  

So, these days, I'm all about the party coming to me. I don't look good in the musical equivalent of pointy shoes, anyway.  

Second Guessing's a Good Thing

I really enjoy writing this newsletter every morning. 

I’d originally intended this to be a daily accountability exercise, existing on my laptop, for my eyes only. Maybe I’d read through at the end of the year and get a better sense of where I’d come from and where I’m going. Posting online, much less encouraging people to subscribe, never occurred to me until it was pointed out I'm unphased looking like a buffoon in public. 

Which is true. I think this is a reaction to my early 20’s, where I lost years of my professional life to over-thinking. Sounds melodramatic maybe, but for a long time I just didn’t put anything out. I was afraid of failing. If you’d asked me, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you what “failing” meant exactly, or success for that matter. 

What I tell young artists now is second guessing’s a good thing, you’d be a sociopath if you didn’t doubt yourself. You second guess because you care, about making good art, about protecting your heart. That’s so important. It’s precisely because you care that the world needs your voice. You're not an asshole! Hooray! So, share your art. You can’t put out song thirty without first releasing song one. And it’ll be fine. See? No one’s bitten your head off, called you a fraud, dragged your name through the mud. Share your art.

A friend of mine, who also keeps up a daily email newsletter, recently sent out his 1000th post. 1000 days in a row. Wild. Where will I be after day 1000?

I’m grateful for this humble little newsletter, keeping me present, engaged, evolving, and receptive to beautiful things.

The Ballad of Big Country, Part 1 of Infinity

I'm enjoying my first chat with Big Country in a couple weeks. The Allen Stone sessions have been all-consuming, and I’ve missed my lunatic neighbor’s endearingly offensive wisdom.    

BC knows I’ve been hunkered down making this record and says I look, “as happy as a dead pig in the sunshine.” I’m assuming this is good, though I’m pretty sure BC’s Irished up his coffee. The mental image of my porcine counterpart joyfully decomposing in the luminous morn doesn’t inspire confidence.

I like to think I'm a reasonably engaging sorta swine, but BC really only talks to me because I'm a captive audience. When you're a maniac and have no one to manic at, life becomes a disagreeable state of affairs and, in a pinch, any hipster'll do.

My favorite BC moments are when I’m boring him. My neighbor’s not big on wasted time (few geniuses are) and his malcontent’s seldom betrayed subtly. Big Country possesses this Santa-Clause-on-meth style guffaw, laughing directly in my face when it's time for a subject change, and today's conversation's evidently a real snoozer.

“BWAHAHAHA!"

The air, now redolent of chewing tobacco, is eerily still, anticipating the Great Man's edict. 

“I don’t like routines. Care for superstitions even less.” 

Ok, out of nowhere, but I play along.

"What's wrong with superstitions?" I ask. 

“They say rabbit’s feet are lucky. Well, what happened to the rabbit?”

With that, the conversation’s over. Satisfied he's put me in my place, BC resumes attending to his drying overalls.

There are few truly legendary humans in this world, and I’m proud I share a fence with one of them.  

Husky Puppies

It’s my first official day back in reality, post the Allen Stone Total Emersion Experience, and I'm not a fan. I mean, everything’s fine, it’s just been two years since we’ve hopped on the bus and been a real band. As my degenerate gambler buddies put it, I miss the action. So I’m thinking about happy things, hence a picture of me with a bunch of husky puppies.  

I made a trip to the Yukon a few years back and had the privilege of mushing around with these incredible animals. It doesn’t look like it, but it’s unseasonably warm, a balmy 25 degrees, and we have to pull the sleds over multiple times because dogs are overheating. Their ideal temperature, I’m told, is about -15, and I’m currently fortifying myself with a little whiskey just recalling that fact. 

I love the Northern Territories: there’s something oddly calming about looking to your left and realizing there’s zero civilization for three thousand miles. Perennial things shine here.  

I’m smiling on account of the pooches but, if I’m honest, this picture’s a little bittersweet.  I’m newly single here, profoundly confused, and about to enter my voluntarily homeless phase, which lasts basically up until landing in Nashville.  I spend the better part of a year just running, using the band's schedule as an excuse never to really look at myself in the mirror.  I’m grateful for that time, though.  It’s brought me here and, cheesy as it sounds, I’m proud of the person I’ve become.

But enough of that.  LOOK AT THESE PUPPIES!!!!

EAGLES!!!!!!!

EAGLES!!!!!!!!

I’m bracing for retaliation as Tom Brady colludes with our reptilian overlords, but I have plenty of canned food and booze so go ahead and try starving me out.  

What a game!  Entertaining, the most combined yards in NFL playoff history, and who doesn’t love an underdog?  This is great for the game, a changing of the guard, and I’m stoked for Nick Foles- a player who’s been thrown under the bus time and time again, a journeyman QB now Superbowl MVP.  The guy's earned it, and god knows how much money he'll ask for, and likely get, next season.  Almost zero chance he’ll stay in Philly.  

Speaking of Philly, it brings me great joy when teams win championships from cities where people are guaranteed to celebrate by lighting shit on fire.  I was in Seattle when the Seahawks won the big game, and hipsters kinda sorta danced in the street, as much as one can wearing skinny jeans, and craft beer's lack-luster fuel for wanton vandalism.  No such issues in Philly, and I wanted to kiss the collective population right on the mouth.  It took me a few trips to wrap my head around the great city of Philadelphia, but now it’s one of my favorite tour stops.

I’m listening through dailies from the Sound Emporium sessions, and even these rough mixes sound amazing.  Can’t wait to hear what Jamie does over the next few weeks, left to his own devices.  He’ll no doubt go fully bonkers.  Star Trek level nerd shit.  What will our reptilian overlords think?

Here's a picture of me singing about my feelings in between takes.  A whole lotta that coming your way over the next few months.  

Ass-Chinned Sociopaths

Happy Super Bowl Sunday, everyone! 

I’ll be gorging myself on nuclear-hot chicken wings, rooting for the upstart Philadelphia Eagles and comeback kid Nick Foles against the cheating scoundrels that are the New England Patriots, helmed by ass-chinned sociopath Tom Brady.  I should really be a sports writer, right?  Did I pass the test?

I’m a huge sports fan, and truth be told I have a soft spot for Boston sports across the board.  I have family and went to college there, and I’ve always resonated with Boston's equal parts tweediness and grit.  But Tom Brady’s not from Boston, he’s from San Fucking Mateo, and he doesn’t eat strawberries, and if there’s a clearer example of a reptilian overlord in a skin suit you’re going to have to show me.  Ok, this is going off the rails.  Should be a good game, and I’m watching with a bunch of Pats fans who are already hammered.  Very on-brand, Boston sports fans, I approve.  

Fun night last night at Analog, the new venue at the Hutton Hotel in Nashville.  Al Pal played a solo acoustic set, with myself and Jamie Lidell joining him for a handful of numbers.  We debuted some new jams- Taste of You, Lay it Down, and I’ll Give You Blue- and the response was amazing.  It was a sympathetic crowd of contest winners and die-hard fans, granted, and the drinks were free, but I’ve played more than a few gigs where that’s resulted in furniture being hurled on stage, so I’d call it a win. 

I’m still feeling the affects of twelve 16 hour days in a row being pummeled by Jason’s drums, so I’m being gentle with myself today.  The jacuzzi tub last night was most excellent.  Started re-reading the Foundation Series by Isaac Asimov, one of my favorite Sci-Fi series and a perfect introduction to the genre for those of you who don’t constantly adjust their glasses.

FOOTBALL!!!!!!!!!!!

....And That's A Wrap!

10 days, 16 songs, 10,000 gallons of coffee.  It’s going to take me a day or two gathering my thoughts, and I’ll be gushing about Ty, Jay, Al, Swat, Zack, Eddie and Jamie for the next several posts.  Consider yourself warned.  

But, today, I’m experiencing the all-too-familiar post tour/session come down.  Every musician reading this knows what I’m talking about. 

Everything we do in the Al Stone Band’s kinda a lot.  Crazy energetic exchanges, marathon shows, intense travel and generally being all up ons 24/7.  It’s difficult, crash landing back home after all that looniness.  I used to experience gnarly depression post tour, walking up and down grocery store aisles all zombie-like, shoveling ketchup into my shopping cart and lamenting the lack of pyrotechnics while starting my Corolla.  After a few too many Howard Hughesian moments, I realized I needed to soften my landing back into reality.  Now, after every tour (or crazy recording session, in this case), I treat myself to a stay-cation.  A couple more nights with higher thread count sheets, a few more plates of hipster food and generally experiencing my hometown as a lucky traveler might.  After 48 hours or so, I’m ready to fully decrescendo, buy new pots and pans from Costco and maybe a hat (not from Costco).

I’ll be posted up at an undisclosed hipster hotel for the next few nights, reading, writing, listening to music, luxuriating in a jacuzzi tub and, if I’m feeling decadent, eating some mini-bar gummy bears.  Lots of cool shows worth checking out, too.  I’m grateful to be doing the thing, whatever the thing is exactly, 'cause the thing won’t thing itself, after all. 

Al Stone Recording Sessions, Day 10

Last day at Sound Emporium!  It’s already chaotic, with camera crews running around and the last minute panic setting in of oh shit, the label’s brought in a goddamn camera crew and we still have a ton of overdubs to lay down.  We’ve necessarily had to change the studio’s entire footprint to accommodate the video stuff, which is fine I guess, but it’s an irritating disruption and I’ve excused myself so that I might write this in a throne.  All this said, there’s a cool buzz in the room- we know we’ve made a really, really, really good record, and we’re excited.  

Because there’s a camera crew, everyone’s ditched their tracksuits in favor of attire you’d maybe actually wear in public, and our time of hunkering down all nerdy-like making blip-bloop noises is officially over.  I was just chatting with Jamie about how we’ll miss these sessions: it’s been fantastic, with lifelong friends made and similarly fashion-challenged comrades embraced.  One more 16 hour day to go. 

We did real good.  Thanks for being patient, the new music’s worth the wait.  I promise. 

Al Stone Recording Sessions, Day 9

Second to last day of tracking!  I originally wrote "penultimate," then realized I've been listening to too much Rush on my way to the studio.

I’m going to miss this routine: showing up early, writing this thing and relaxing into the potential energy of a space that’ll soon explode with creativity and, like, heady vibes bro.

There’s a let down after making a record.  After all the hours spent together reigniting the chemistry, all you want to do’s get back on the road and share the new music RIGHT NOW.  But it doesn’t work like that.  If you’re lucky enough having an engaged label/management team, you necessarily have to pass them the ball, and how long were they waiting on us?  A year?  The reality is this record’s not coming out for a little while.  

And that’s ok.  I’m happy letting the industry hive mind do their thing, and I’ve learned over my seven (!) years in this band that if everyone’s not just as excited as you are then you’re dead in the water.  Better to be patient, explore different creative outlets and fold into the background, Clark Kent style, until it’s time to Put the Band Back Together.  These songs are the best we've ever done, and we owe them that respect.     

It’s interesting how my perspective’s shifted.  The music industry’s changing so much and, these days, I’m grateful for my little slice of the pie.  I’m proud of the music we’ve created here at Sound Emporium- it’s hands down the best Al Stone Band record to date- and it’ll be time when it’s time.  Until then, I’m excited for my own music, writing, podcasting, and seeing where this gloriously nebulous artist life takes me. 

Smooches from the A room!

Al Stone Recording Sessions, Day 8

Overdub time!  

Like I mentioned, this record’s got a lot more cool guitar shit on it, which is to say riffs: gargantuan, mosh pit-opening, devil horn-raising wahoooooooo moments.  Ok, I might be overstating things, but holy smokes am I having fun!  Overdubs for me consist of hey, should we double that cool part with an octave fuzz?  Yes?  Ok, let’s double that cool part with an octave fuzz.  Then I drink more coffee.  

There’s not a ton of noodly white-guy-blues happening (when it’s there, it stands out and actually sounds cool) and most of the textural stuff’s being tasked to kooky synthesizers and bizarro studio gizmos.  I’m digging the direction.  Swatty and I will break off today for a sectional and see if there’s ear candy to be found, and I think we’re tackling talkbox overdubs which will be siiiiiiiick, but the real challenge for me’s balancing my caffeine vs. food intake so I don’t start raving like a jittery lunatic at our assistant engineer, Zack.  

All in all, I’m feeling pretty good.  Ordered some neat books, wearing clean-ish pants and probably won’t order a salad for lunch but will definitely talk about ordering a salad for lunch. 

Al Stone Recording Sessions, Day 7

Seven down, three more to go...

We tackle a ballad we wrote and demoed back in Allen’s cabin.  I’d even call it a power ballad, which is a cringe-inducing description for some, but given there’s a framed picture of Phil Collins in my house I’m predictably way into it.  I have a beating heart, after all.  

But, kinda like yesterday, the song doesn’t sound like it belongs on the record.  We all love the demo, and when a demo’s good it can be difficult letting go, but the song's anemic compared to previous hyper-confident tracks and the arrangement needs tweaking.  We start jamming, and eventually I discover a neat little three-note arpeggio line over each of the verse chords, which Swatty doubles on piano.  Now there’s an ache and a melancholy we all love, and everything falls into place pretty quickly.   Music's cool, folks.  

The existing melody and lyrics don’t work over the new instrumental, so Jamie begins guiding Allen through singer stuff and I step outside for some good ol’ fashioned off into the distance staring.  It’s cold today, and I’m underdressed in my free Lagunitas hooded sweatshirt, but I welcome a few minutes to myself and the aroma from Martin’s BBQ next door transforming me into a drooling fool. 

I’m anticipating a chill evening of Jamie manipulating synthesizers and my overdubbing a few strum-a-lum-a-ding-dong parts.  I’m already six cups of coffee deep, so I’ll be rushing.  If you’re reading this Eddie, you’re an infinitely gifted engineer and I apologize.  

Al Stone Recording Sessions, Day 6

Day 6 of 10!

The first half of yesterday's fun and smooth, laying down overdubs on a largely programmed tune, creating a sorta updated Paul Simon's Graceland jam.  Jamie calls it Cleveland meets Nigeria, which sounds weird but is actually spot-on.  I’m happy there’s cool guitar on this record.  You know, not the twinkly, over-done neo-soul/white guy blues stuff, but actual badass guitar, the kinda shit I can picture my teenage self nerding out over.  I’m grateful Jamie’s given me the greenlight to play how I play.   

The second half of yesterday's our first kinda sorta roadblock.  We’re recording the basic tracks for a more John Mayer Continuum vibe song.  I really dig it, and we play well, but it’s not quite there.  Something’s missing.  Jamie’s not thrilled.  We almost call it a night, but I’m like no, come on fellas, let’s have fun.  We're doing awesome work, let’s make it weird, let’s make it us.  

Jamie takes over and goes full mad scientist.  The track’s slowed way down, and Swatty and I record some playfully meandering pentatonic noodles.  When brought up to the original tempo, the result’s crystalline, harp-like, cascading atmospheric trippiness.  It’s exciting and new.  Swatty lays down a few tasty weedly-wees on the Moog, and all of a sudden the song sounds like it belongs on the record.  Still pop, still radio vibes, but us rather than a blindfolded, pin-the-tale-on-the-donkey attempt at songwriting.  

Everyone’s pushing their comfort zones, and no one’s mad at it.  Three more basics to cut, then three full days of overdubs.  

Al Stone Recording Sessions, Day 5

We’re really hitting our stride in the studio.  Yesterday, we re-worked a demo that sounded sorta lounge crooner/jazz hands-y into a David Bowie meets George Michael feel-good jam.  Shimmering 12 string acoustic, tripped out bass and synth, and did we add a second drum set?  Why yes, yes we did.  It’s my favorite track so far.  Or favourite, depending on what side your steering wheel's on.  

Jamie’s an intuitive dude, and he’s created a work environment that’s beautifully egalitarian.  Everyone’s contributing with zero ego.  When a band's successful, the tendency's to pass out gold stars and toast your collective genius with mid-level champagne.  A giant pitfall for groups who are lucky enough to stay in the game’s an inability to recognize when it’s time to evolve. 

Like I mentioned a couple posts ago, we’ve been smelling each others’ feet for a long time.  Honestly, we're complacent.  This record's not only sonically invigorating, it feels, well, right, because it’s all of us in the room building the record exactly how we build the live show.  We’re even wearing our production rehearsal tracksuits.  

I’m writing this an hour or so before the rest of the crew arrives.  Today’s going to be a long one, but there’s magic in the air.

Al Stone Recording Sessions, Day 4

Jamie Lidell is a weirdo, and I mean that as the highest character endorsement.  He’s free, a genuine mad scientist, nerdily content concocting away while singing along with robotic blips and bloops from ancient synthesizers.

We’ll be playing and, in my opinion, my guitar sounds a bit safe, kinda same-y.  Turns out, in the control room, Jamie’s run my signal through some dilapidated tape machine and my guitar actually sounds like fucking Godzilla.  There’s been many a stank face during play back, which warms my heart.

Jamie also gives spot-on but satisfyingly British criticism.  We’ll do a take, and he'll be in the control room, gloriously bespectacled and disheveled, aggressively scratching his head. 

“Trevor...it’s a bit clever, innit?” 

He’s the only person who’s ever asked me to sound more like I’m in the Ramones while playing Al Stone Band material.  I can’t tell you how happy this makes me.  

We're doing good work, folks!  

Al Stone Recording Sessions, Day 3

Long day yesterday.  Good, very productive, but long.  How many tunes are in the bag now?  Seven?  Nine?

The thing about recording without a click track and headphones is every take counts.  It’s not a case of ok, we’re focusing on bass and drums, so I’m going to find parts and fine tune until it’s time for overdubs.  How we’re working is a unique balance of ultimate chill and crazy pressure. 

We’re recording everything, and I mean EVERYTHING, and I want to sound good every take because when Jason’s crushing and Swatty’s channeling Mr. Wonder and Tyler’s grooving like a so-and-so and Allen’s embodying Dio and Al Greene with a crazy, sexy, vaguely unsettling kinda mojo, I don’t want to be the assclown who keeps missing the G chord.  And we’re playing the equivalent of maybe five or six shows in a row (with pizza breaks).  So, yeah.  

But it’s inspiring.  Yesterday, we reworked a demo that needed LOTS of love into this gnarly Black Keys/disco vibe which is so unsettlingly cool I want to dance and shoegaze simultaneously.  Jamie Lidell’s got my guitar sounding like a chain smoking buzzsaw.  This record’s new, which is exactly what we need.  Sure, the songs are new, but more so the whole approach is the opposite of what’s become our normal.  

We've been smelling each other's feet for a bunch of years now.  These sessions are just the kick in the ass we need.  

Al Stone Recording Sessions, Day 2

Fantastic first day at Sound Emporium yesterday!  

First days can be weird.  For example, we’ve never worked with Jamie Lidell: will his brand of eccentricity play nice with ours?  The engineers are veterans of modern country sessions: will their surviver mode professional detachment harsh the mellow?  First days are normally spent breaking the ice, getting sounds and hanging out.  Us?  We show up, stock the fridge with cheap domestic lager and kinda just start recording.  

The way we’re making this record’s so exciting.  No click track.  No headphones, even.  Just us, set up in a circle, recording live.  Any musician knows this makes the process about as difficult as it gets, theoretically.  But it’s so much fun- total garage band vibes- and an inspiring vote of confidence from Jamie Lidell: look, you guys are great.  Just play.  

When you see a band (at least a good one, anyway) that’s been together for a loooooong time, you notice shared smiles, glances that hint at inside jokes, and neat synchronous sparks that only happen when you know a person’s playing better than your own.  It’s those little things that leave you feeling lifted.  I can’t tell you how many times someone’s come up to me after a show and said “wow, that was great, I love how much fun you guys have up there!”  I’m so happy we’re finally, FINALLY capturing that on record.  We’re just set up in a circle, making music, being pals.  

Ok, back to work...

Al Stone Recording Sessions, Day 1

Ok, we’re here.  Sound Emporium in Nashville.  Allen Stone and the Electric Mayhem featuring Tyler Carroll, Record Numero 3.  

We’re bringing 18 tunes to the studio.  I think eight or so are better than anything we’ve ever done.  Two are timeless.  And there are a handful that need serious massaging, which is normal but annoying.

But this is why Day 1’s exciting!  Right now, Sound Emporium’s just a vibey room filled with cased up guitars, dusty amps and one bespectacled hipster musician (hi).  But I know music lives in each of those guitars, and every amp will hum into life riffs and melodies as yet undiscovered.  It's up to me to find them, and challenge accepted.

The studio’s quiet, but soon the Gang of Assholes arrive.  Jay will play something cool and Swatty will go weedly wee and Tyler will make a bass face and I’ll FaceTime our tour manager Ryan “Bear” Drozd and play a guitar solo at him.  It'll be less trance-like state of elevated consciousness and more hacking wildly in the general direction of the ol' music piñata: aka what we do best.  

On Day 1, there’s a hint of a record, the Task at Hand.  On Day 10, we’ll have the next chapter in the Allen Stone Fencing Collective.  We’ll have “it.”  

I don't know how we'll get there, but it’s gonna be fun finding out.  Sunglasses emoji.