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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Donna and Zane King

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

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

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

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

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

Medicinal Cocktails

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

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

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

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

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

Day Jobs

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

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

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

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

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

Performing While Sick

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

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

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

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

Jessica Childress

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

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

Be Inspired...

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

Go Smoke Beets

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

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

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

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

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

Reconnecting

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

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

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

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

Metal Chris

It’s fall of 2012 and our first time playing Hamburg, Germany. I’ve stuffed my face with Currywurst and am appropriately drunk, all before noon. Also before noon, I’ve endured our proudly alcoholic, aggressively pierced bus driver, Metal Chris, confessing in heavily accented English that his wife no longer loves him and neither does the woman he left her for. Later in the evening, he records our organ player’s voicemail greeting.

Before he records our organ player's voicemail greeting, I disappoint Metal Chris, twice. We are, he informs me, mere steps from the Red Light District, and here’s the thing about a transvestite: she KNOWS, and for god's sake let her show you.  

I decline. You’re a coward, says Metal Chris.

We play the show. This is where I disappoint Metal Chris for the second time. On this tour, each band member’s given a solo feature, and tonight’s gig isn’t a great one for me. I saw Modest Mouse a while back. Half way through their set, Isaac Brock stops singing, looks down at his hands and declares his guitar sounds like actual shit. That’s how I feel about our Hamburg show. 

Metal Chris is in the audience, a rare thing for a bus driver. Post show, he grabs me by the shoulders and looks me straight in the eyes. Metal Chris is not a beautiful man. He shakes his head, mockingly slowly. Coward, says Metal Chris. You’re a coward.  

Having played a mediocre guitar solo and declined sexual congress with a transvestite prostitute, I'm in what might be referred to as a "pickle." How does a jet lagged, cowardly American win back the favor of a belligerent, adulterous career drinker with a mythical creatures fetish? 

Chocolate, obviously. I break free from Metal Chris's disapproving gaze, fumble through my backpack and produce a snickers bar. For you, I tell Metal Chris, I’d deliver the world.

He laughs. You are not a coward after all, he assures me, but risk becoming fat. 

Los Angeles

Los Angeles! I’ve been here so many times now I can get around without the GPS, which is arguably sad but also reassuring. 

I’ve enjoyed a privilaged relationship with this city. I’ve never lived here and always been in town for a reason - gig, recording session, TV appearance, general industry schmooze fest - so I’ve avoided the infamous rat-race that chews up and spits out many an Angeleno. I’m typically flown here on someone else's dime, put up in a fancy hotel and driven around in black cars, happily letting middle-aged industry dudes in converse flex their company amex. My douche armor’s thick these days, and I’m not oblivious to how good I’ve got it.

LA's role in the industry's changed a lot over the past decade. Nowadays, you can build a healthy career anywhere there's an internet connection - big music industry's now an anachronism, which makes LA more palatable from a biz perspective, almost adorable rather than intimidating. This also means I gotta cash in on these free meals while I can haha.  

I’m only in town for a couple days this time around, a few meetings but mostly looking forward to catching up with old friends while not being “on the clock.” Even without lobster showing up unordered at my table, I like this town. Spotting douchebags in LA's about as difficult as catching trout in a stocked lake. You'll be fine. Eat a taco and go on a hike.

I’m often asked “LA or NYC,”  to which I respond, “yes.” It's an arrogant question, anyway. Nashville’s home for now, but I’m grateful for the kick in the tucus visiting the City of Angles invites - it's an exciting place.

Gumbo Unplugged

Every once in a while you encounter art that makes you rethink everything.

With 2017's Gumbo, PJ Morton released one of the coolest R&B records of the past, well, forever, and incredibly his live reimagining's even better, Gumbo Unplugged. Accompanied by a 22-piece orchestra, PJ's songs, arrangements, and the entire band's musicality's motivated me to take a long overdue look in the mirror artistically. I'll be learning every tune, lick, inflection and generally questioning everything about my life.

You can find Gumbo Unplugged anywhere you find records these days, but I HIGHLY recommend setting aside 40mins and watching the live film, an uninterrupted one-take performance of the entire record for a couple dozen lucky fans at Power Station Studios on January 26, 2017. Here's the link.

That something this good's been out for over a year and I'm only now catching on's inspired me to be more proactive about seeking out new art from anywhere and everywhere. Inspiration overload.

Getting Back On Track

Consistent readers (thanks so much, sincerely) may have noticed that Wednesday’s come and gone without a one mic, one take video. I got super sick and lost my voice, so my streak of consecutive weeks posting an original song's broken after a whole, well, two. 

A younger me would’ve beaten myself up and likely abandoned the project entirely. I mean, I've FAILED! What’s the point of doing something if you can’t pull it off 100% of the time?

Thankfully, I’m older now, marginally wiser, and realize that life happens. You get sick. Travel can be crazy. Family comes first. If you miss a workout, does this mean you resign yourself to becoming a fat bastard? Of course not. You chalk it up to life and move forward.

I mean, we're so fortunate that life happens. That you're you at all and not an earthworm or, worse yet, a member of Phish, is pretty miraculous. Embracing this one-in-seven-billion good luck seems like the way to go. I’m learning that being disciplined is actually all about getting back on track and refining your approach so that remaining on track's easier. So, I’m going to enjoy this corporate date with the Allen band, a couple chill days in LA, a solo show in postcard-worthy Central California wine country, and then it’s back to the Nashville grind with fresh perspective and lessons learned.

We artists are insidiously crafty when it comes to convincing ourselves we’re less-than. Let’s all strive to create, share and be courageous, all the while embracing life as a generally awesome state of affairs.