Carlos Vela's Number 11

One of these days, flying BNA-LAX direct will be an option due to this “fame and fortune” I’ve heard so much about, but until then it’s a familiar refrain: I’m writing this from the Dallas/Ft Worth International Airport.

Mexico’s playing South Korea in the World Cup, and the International Terminal’s buzzing - football fans from all over the world, overwhelmingly in support of Mexico, huddle around every available glowing surface, gasping, laughing and exchanging high-fives, while exasperated gate agents beg everyone to please, pretty please, get on the (expletive deleted) plane, there’s already an airport-wide delay because people won’t get on the (expletive deleted) plane and there’ll be in-flight updates, they promise. 

I’m glued to the tube at Tingin’s “Irish” Pub and Restaurant, also cheering like a maniac for our neighbors to the south. A young couple from Mexico City slide into the booth next to mine - they painted their faces before going through security (as did half the terminal) and hey, would I like a Mexico jersey? It’s ok, they brought extras. I’m now clinking glasses with my new airport buddies, rocking Carlos Vela’s number 11. 

I realize that Ryan “Bear” Drozd will be annoyed if I don’t actually, you know, show up in Los Angeles, so I reluctantly head to my gate just in time for “final call for passenger Larkin…” I give the jersey to a passing father and son - I feel like that’s its purpose, bringing joy to the travel weary. Maybe it’ll make the rounds at DFW and lift spirits for days to come. 

Portraits

Behold, the greatest representation ever of the Al Stone band's tour manager/FOH engineer, Ryan "Bear" Drozd.

There's a story behind this portrait, which I don't know. What I do know is it's the current lock screen on my phone, so that whenever I'm feeling mistrustful of this cruel, arbitrary world, Ryan "Bear" Drozd's piercing gaze, betraying his near-omniscience, hammers home an elegant, inexorable truth: just as I'll never jump as high as Michael Jordan, I'll never be as cool as Ryan "Bear" Drozd. Know your place, the universe tells me, which is laying metaphorical rose petals at the Great Man's feet.

He's also beet red while reading this, which is the whole point. See you tomorrow, Bear! 

If There's Darkness

Some have pointed out it’s been a couple weeks since the last one take video - scheduling’s conspired against me lately but I’ll be back on the usual routine next week. In the meantime, I posted another clip on Instagram from the EP I released a little while back, Free From Me. Tara Lawson, a brilliant visual artist and dear friend, sketched this neat image while listening to “If There’s Darkness,” the first track off said EP - I really like it and figured I’d share.

I love playing guitar in the Al Stone band. I love writing this every day. I love talking with interesting people. But writing songs and sharing them is my favorite, and I'm excited to continue doing so at an obnoxious and, arguably, inadvisable rate. 

Walla Walla Guitar Company

I recently took possession of this beauty, courtesy of the Walla Walla Guitar Company.

That's right: there're ninja level luthiers in my home town of Walla Walla, WA.

When we moved to town in the mid 90's, half of downtown was boarded up. Tumbleweeds would literally, well, tumble down Main Street. Now? There's modern art downtown. Tumbling requires slaloming around tourists from Seattle and Portland, bound for tasting rooms and artisanal cheese shops. There's even a hipster cupcake shop and (gasp) a SUSHI JOINT. 

I feel privileged to have grown up in Walla Walla. It will always be the small farming town I love - that it's increasingly a haven for artists and endearing weirdos makes perfect sense, as anyone from there can attest. The influx of money from the wine business and accompanying tourism's a mixed bag, but an obvious upside's the Wa-Duece becoming a viable place for dreamers to set up shop. 

Thanks Ken, Terry, and Nate. You guys are fighting the good fight. I can't wait to put this gorgeous instrument through the paces.

Episode 7

Episode 7 of Trevor Larkin Talks and Listens is live!

My guest this week's Austin James, a Nashville based singer/songwriter who performs under the name The Slow Drag. He makes his living live streaming, a world I know next to nothing about - it's inspiring how many avenues there are for musicians with an entrepreneurial bent to get their art out there. Austin's an insightful, funny guy, and effortlessly cool in the seated position - it was a pleasure chatting with him.  

This Foolhardy Path

A career in music makes you appreciative of how goddamn lucky you are to be doing things like in the picture below. You also appreciate impermanence - it is, in fact, miraculous, playing G-C-D for a living, and it won't last forever. Nothing does. This band was never supposed to happen. On paper, it doesn't make a lick of sense. Obstacles we've overcome, and there've been many, have derailed groups far more talented. Others far less so have catapulted to stardom, much to the flattering dismay of diehard fans.

I cherish this business's sphinx-like enigma - I really wouldn't have it any other way. That I'm this well suited to life in a glorified lunatic asylum is a badge of honor I wear proudly, even if it mostly terrifies potential romantic partners. I'm grateful for every kooky, knuckle-headed, baffling decision that's led me down this foolhardy path. I'd have made a shitty actuary, anyway.  

On Balance, I'm Not A Capricious Asshole

Maybe it’s low-grade Berklee PTSD, or that the Al Stone band moves in musician-y circles, or a childhood filled with British television’s made me perma-sardonic: for whatever reason, I’m very good at being self-critical, especially about my guitar playing.

My attitude’s much improved these days, but every now and again it hits me - my chops could be better, my ears more musical, gear way cooler. I’d be useless giving a guitar clinic, I tell myself, unless people wanted to hear dick jokes. Again, the dreaded Imposter Syndrome - surely someone will find me out. 

But then gigs like last night's happen, where the Al Stone Electric Ensemble plays in front of a bunch of people and, with zero rehearsal, lays waste to the joint. I took some guitar solos. They weren’t great. It didn’t matter. The band’s what’s special, it’s what people pay to see, and I’m one fifth of the undeniable chemistry. It’s not the thing, it’s not us, without me. 

My intent isn't to self-aggrandize, it’s just what we musicians do is insane. Perpetual self-inflicted physical and emotional abuse, just to write "Cheeseburger In Paradise"? It’s important realizing we are, just in general, so much more. I guarantee my dexterity within the pentatonic scale didn’t fill up my passport with stamps. I tend not to fart in other’s company. My dick jokes are, in fact, superb. On balance, I’m not a capricious asshole. These traits don’t get likes on Instagram, but they've opened up a world I’d only dreamed of.

NPR Donors

Chicago! Chi-town! The Windy City! The Second City!

I love this town. It helps that it’s about as nice as days get in this part of the world, and the aromas wafting from food trucks near our dressing room dare me to stray from my strict-ish diet and decimate my colon with tubular meats and blindingly strong beer. I’m caffeinated to a counter-productive degree, have sweated through two metal shirts, and I’ve exchanged deep-dive Cubs trivia with the police officer manning the artist entrance. It’s a good day, my friends.

I’ve never had a bad time in Chicago. Last January, I fondly recall a power-walking finance type stopping to regard a snowman, proclaiming it a douchebag. In 2012, former keyboard player and current legend Mark Sampson literally jumped out of a moving vehicle to talk to the “future Mrs. Sampson.” Despite his Evel Knievel-worthy stunt, the woman was unimpressed. Her loss. Even O’Hare, one the universally regarded worst airports in America, doesn’t bother me. LAX actively tries to electrocute you, after all.

Tonight, we’ll play soul music for a few thousand inebriated, high-spirited NPR donors, and I couldn’t be happier.

I'm Leaving On A Jet Plane

…and I’ll be back Sunday afternoon. That was the original lyric. Not a lot of people know that.

I’m flying up to Chicago today on account of the Al Stone Traveling Hootenanny headlining the Taste of Randolph festival. In the early days, packing for tours and one-offs was an ordeal. What if I encounter X? I’ll pack Y just in case. But what about Z?! Before you know it, you’re carting around two gigantic bags of bullshit, ostensibly prepared for anything but destined to become the asshole redistributing their pack at check in. 

I’m older and wiser these days. Acutely aware that airports bring out the worst in people, my goal’s being a goddamn ninja, moving quickly and silently, without leaving a trace. Was I there at all? Minimal human contact coupled with inexorable politeness cures a multitude of travel woes.

By federal law, for example, I’m allowed to take my guitar on the airplane. I do not take my guitar on the airplane. I’ve endured too many sneers from entitled business travelers and whack jobs with “emotional support” animals. Better to board with just my backpack and settle into a good book. My flight case is built like a tank, the axe will be fine.  

My fly board (aka the pedal board I use for one-offs) has five things on it - tuner, clean boost, overdrive, some kind of oscillating effect (usually a Univibe), and a delay. It takes up less space than a footlong sub. I’m not the Edge.  

I pack, like, three t-shirts and two pairs of pants. My show cloths are counted in that number. If for some reason I need more shit, I buy it and donate it afterwards. Rarely does the band travel to outer Mongolia - in a pinch, there’re always decent shopping options around. 

Fellow travelers - it’s an empowering feeling, performing cartwheels out of O’Hare, blissful and unencumbered. I highly recommend it.  

Create for the Sake of Creating

A while ago, I collaborated with producer/engineer extraordinaire Jeremy Hatcher and released solo music for the first time in years. We made melodic, intentional and, most importantly, LOUD rock and roll. I fucking loved it. Trevor Larkin the singer/songwriter was officially a thing, and that was enough. As a chronic over thinker, is was oddly ok just handing the reigns over to the universe, trusting it'd make sense when the time was right. I happily returned to Allen Stone land and the songs, just as happily, quietly existed.

A few people streamed them, a few more dropped a couple bucks on iTunes, and, eventually, I began receiving messages here and there - would I be interested in a short run vinyl pressing? Could we put All That I Want in rotation? I'm happy these songs are finding their humble way.

Big melodies and even bigger guitars - does it get any better? Check the songs out, if you like. I posted the solo section from All That I Want on Instagram, too. 

Savoring Silence

I found this picture the other day, taken at my favorite coffeehouse in Port Townsend, WA, a place I'd escape to every once in a while post-tour. My life at the time was changing frenetically, and I hadn't yet embraced the universe as a generally agreeable referee, so you'd often find me ruminating in a corner somewhere, yearning for erstwhile comforts or at least something that made sense. 

I'm less emo these days, but I do spend an hour or so each day just thinking - sitting, still and quiet, giving my imagination free rein. I enjoy looking within my mind. It's how I recharge, and I like all the whacky crap rummaging around in there. I'm gloriously bereft of answers - that kinda thing's way above my paygrade - and savoring silence before boarding the pirate ship again seems like the right thing.  

The Dawn Chorus

I woke up obscenely early this morning, like 3am early, various neuroses swinging recklessly along the monkey bars of my mind. Nowadays, I welcome preposterous, unyielding moments - there’s something that needs addressing. I have precious little time for over thinking these days, so whatever life throws at me I tackle head on. This is a good thing. 3am coffee it is.

I’m sitting in my yard in the pitch black, nocturnal varmints still rustling in the bushes. I read an article about everybody’s go-to thespian Mark Wahlberg, how he wakes up at 3am everyday. I get it - it’ll be the equivalent of a full work day before anyone in my orbit’s tasting the toothpaste. The space is welcome. 

I feel acutely the imposter syndrome I’ve written about before - it’s good now, but someone surely will find me out, right? In letting this kind of thing steer the ship, pedestrian business becomes Shaq shooting free throws. Here I am, hucking up brick after somnolent brick in my weedy yard, entertaining every “what if” imaginable, all while Marky Mark’s doing bicep curls in West LA. It is, like I say, preposterous.   

I value occasionally folding in on myself  - it doesn’t mean I’m fucking up or someone’s Machiavellian plot’s unfolding, only that there’s imbalance, and a little fine tuning never hurt anyone.

The birds are exuberant in their dawn chorus, and I allow myself a grateful smile. I'm still here, fighting the good fight. Breath in, breath out…

Episode 6

Episode 6 of Trevor Larkin Talks and Listens is live!

Grady Block is a drummer and songwriter based in Nashville, TN. He, like his brother Rocky, is one of the most gifted musicians I've ever shared the stage with. The conversation's a rollicking journey through all things stony and profound(ish), immediately going off the rails and, in a good way, never quite finding its way home. 

Here’re some text messages I received this morning from producer Trey McDermott regarding today's episode:

"Ohh fuck yes dude"

"I feel so fortunate to have been part of this in any way."

"Fucking gold. It's just 90% road stories and it's the best."

When Trey's excited, you know it's good.  

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.