All musicians know that green room walls festooned with cartoon phalluses, conspiracy theories and creatively profane epithets is as classically American as drowning in student loan debt. So, when you encounter green room art that's edifying as opposed to spiritually gangrenous, it's worth sharing.
I was looking through old photos today and came across this shot from three or four years ago. Rules to live by, truly.
Consistent readers know there are four primary focuses that make up my “brand,” such as it is: writing this thing everyday, solo tunes, the TLTL podcast, and playing guitar in the Allen Stone Electric Experience.
This approach, depending on who you ask, is dumb, evidently so much so that I’m often asked about generalization vs specialization. People don’t use those terms, but I do because I wear glasses and am re-reading Dune.
Generalization means diversity.
Pros:
-You’re better prepared for the euphoric peaks and brutal valleys that define this line of work. A more generalized artist can experience downturns to some of their products and still keep on truckin’ with more successful offerings, which in turn can drive traffic to the rest of the business.
Cons:
-The logistics of keeping multiple businesses on track can be harrowing. There’s also the “huh?” factor - generalized artists are more apt to get the “I just don’t get it” treatment, usually coupled with the assumption their art isn’t as good because, shit, how could it be? That guy over there’s going all-in, after all.
Which brings us to specialization.
Pros:
-Sweat relief, just one thing to focus on! And people in this business like saying, “Oh, so-and-so, she’s the person who does X,” so specialist have a higher perceived value.
Cons:
-Putting your eggs in one basket, while easy to understand, is also risky. Tour flops? Record’s not selling? T-shirts get devoured by gremlins? By specializing, your livelihood comes from one place, and there’s less security - if the well dries up, you’re screwed.
Clearly, I’m no expert. Ultimately, it comes down to authenticity, and a career in the arts is a lunatic endeavor at the best of times - regardless of career approach, it’s important we celebrate and support each other, and continue building a community of crazy ninja badasses.
Episode 12 of Trevor Larkin Talks and Listens is live!
I met Stevie Rees on a weekend run with Dwight Yoakam. I was struck, obviously, by his absurd musicianship, and his low-key ninja/buddha insightfulness revealed itself as I gained his trust via fried chicken. Sharing the stage was a joy, and he’s a freaking legend, which you’ll soon discover.
Amazing conversations are nourishing in so many ways, and the podcast’s helped me approach songwriting with fresh perspective. I put the one take videos on hold for a while because, after weeks of being graciously invited into people’s worlds, I realized some new lyrics were bullshit. I mean, nice poems, well constructed and all that, but out of synch with my current real estate in the universe. It can be a beautiful thing, selecting all, pressing delete and starting over, an invitation for honestly to take center stage.
I’m sitting at a picnic table in front of the Frothy Monkey on 12 South, writing this on my phone as I mingle incognito with tourists and bachelorette parties. Little do they know they’re in the presence of hipster R&B semi-celebrity, one with idiopathic scoliosis no less.
It’s warm rather than sweltering, mercifully not humid, and I’m luxuriating in what easily could've been a shitty day. Trevor Larkin Talks and Listens builds into my week addictively nourishing conversations, and today’s with J Human (a fantastic soul singer/songwriter) was one of my favorites - it elevated me out of an overly-caffieanted funk and inspired the finishing of lyrics I’d initially dismissed but am now really stoked on.
I’m acutely aware of the tiny ripple I make in the proverbial pond, but I promised myself I’d write this thing everyday, and I have. I promised myself I’d focus on my own music in earnest, and I have. I promised myself I’d share honest conversations about subjects that challenge and inspire me, and I have.
Where I rank in the echelon of nomadic, bespectled dreamers with crooked spines, well, that’s up to a presumably underachievering deity. But I feel better about myself than ever, and I know that counts for something.
I woke up this morning feeling envious, because I'm a musician, and everything around us exists to make us feel like we suck and shouldn't try at all, ever.
There’re two types of envy I experience - malicious and benign. Malicious envy's transparently awful, but isn’t it fun, talking shit and inventing whacky conspiracy theories? Clearly, other’s success is a personal affront, and oh sweet relief, I finally can blame my own inaction on some self-conjured boogieman.
Benign envy, on the other hand, is my friend. It’s normal, feeling a pang of something when you see a buddy holding up devil horns in front of ten thousand people. I don’t try to fight it, but rather harness that pang as motivation - to get in the gym when I’d rather shovel Cheetos into my face, to fine-tune lyrics, to write this newsletter.
Being surrounded by talented, ambitious and happy people means you’re doing it right, and I remind myself that the world’s already getting their stories. It’s up to me to tell mine.
No one denies that feeling envy is unpleasant, or feeling envious leads us down paths we wish we hadn’t taken. Envy is frequently corrosive and destructive. And yet, I’ve grown to appreciate over the years that the right kind of envy can serve an important function - competition and improvement.
Greg Ehrlich, my former compatriot with Allen Stone, was a guest on the podcast today, and it was everything I hoped it'd be and more. Greg was and remains the heart and soul of the band, and it was so much fun passing the ball over to him and the myriad stories of which he's chief protagonist. They are, of course, amazing, which is why I'm grinning ear to ear like a dingus.
Greg and I've buffooned around together a whole lot over the years, and we discussed how our being insanely lucky's emboldening rather than anxiety inducing - the Allen band's success doesn't make a lick of sense, but, then again, what does? Given the whole thing's preposterous, to a borderline insulting degree, why not push back the curtain of that random ramen shop in Tokyo, take a chance on the anarchist ping-pong bar in Berlin, and sky dive with strangers in rural France? Somehow, life's dropped us off here, so less thinking, more doing and, above all, celebrating friends made along the way.
Thanks, Greg, for reaffirming why I've chosen this whacky life, and always inspiring me, in your words, to "book a ticket and just go." Should we all be so fortunate, having legendary maniacs in our lives.
Another one take video for ya! Here's a song I wrote called "Sister of Mercy," featuring my pals Phöenix Lazare and HOWND. Check it out, if you like. Lyrics below...
I’m the child who sings
about the truth in everything
about how it does not matter
and how we’ll never win
I don’t know where to begin
sister of mercy, change me
cover me up with your silence, head to toe
sister of mercy, hear me, humbly
I will never fly where you cannot go
I’m an avalanche in spring
except I have not learnt a thing
from this long and lonely winter
that’s being burned away
by the tricks this naive light will play
sister of mercy, change me
cover me up with your silence, head to toe
sister of mercy, hear me, humbly
I will never fly where you can not go
Yesterday was one of those days where I found myself falling back into familiar all-or-nothing thought patterns, which often happens when I’m sleep deprived and eating like an asshole, which I have been lately. I figured I’d share my process for working out of the muck.
First, I make a list of all the all-or-nothing thinking. Here’re a few recent gems:
When it comes to crippling self-doubt, why mess with the classics, right? After a few rounds of creative profanity, I counter with thoughts that are more in tune with reality:
For me, this process isn't about feeling instantly better, but rather allowing a few rays of sunlight to poke through the clouds, which can be all I need.
And I feel it’s important sharing. We’re in this together, after all.
I’m sitting in the shade at Cornelia Fort Airpark in Nashville, attempting to procrastinate but instead, for the first time in MoaT history, writing this on my phone.
We write on our phones everyday - texts, emails, searches etc - but longer form writing I feel’s less common. I’ve resisted up until now because I’ve needed the ritual and intention of setting aside time to write, but my schedule’s about to become full-on lunacy - this newsletter’s important to me, and I want writing always to feel like a treat rather than a chore.
So far, I'm into it. I like throwing together sentences from a park bench (where I'm sitting now), beach (hopefully soon), or green room with particularly spectacular dick art (guaranteed). Hopefully, writing on my phone here and there will help me appreciate, maybe even look forward to, the random pockets of time touring musicians know too well, the “you can’t leave, but there’s nothing to do” moments typically occupied by Instagram scrolling.
Episode 11 of Trevor Larkin Talks and Listens is live!
A solo artist and member of Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness, Zac Clark is a mensch, raconteur and musician of highest order. He’s one of my favorite people - the transition from supporting cast member to The Guy can be disorienting, and Zac's handling things with predictable grace and good humor.
This episode’s actually an unreleased conversation from the Not Famous Podcast, recorded a year ago to the day. It’s one of my and Jeremy’s favorite’s, and I’m excited to share it with you.
Zac’s currently out on his first headlining tour - I caught the show in Nashville and it’s fantastic. Experience and be elevated, my friends!
I’m privilaged to have several confidants in this business, people who are a little older, exponentially wiser, and offer much needed perspective whenever I’m being an asshole.
I was venting recently to one of them, all the usual bullshit we creative types fixate on. This particular confidant, think stereotypical Oxford professor in appearance and Tourettes-addled marine in preferred language, offered something that’ll stick with me for a long time.
“You’re original. And it’ll be your biggest weakness, until it’s your greatest strength.”
Let’s all endeavor to keep our heads down, stay the course, and create unrelentingly.
I’m writing this from the Seattle/Tacoma International Airport. I’ve been upgraded to first class on my flight to Nashville and figured I’d better write this now before indulging in a couple two-three complimentary cocktails and offering up a long-winded reptilian overlords post. At some point, Tom Brady will rip off his ill-fitting skin suit and sing, with disarming melodiousness, battle hymns from his home world.
I digress. Canada was great! Two festival dates under our belts, the Truck Stop Concert Series in Vancouver and Rock the Shores in Victoria. We’ve been playing together for so long now that a “bad” show’s not really in the cards. I had some gnarly technical issues during Rock the Shores - failed power supply, an overdrive pedal literally disintegrating during our set, thereby shorting out the entire board, and my having to jury rig a solution involving exposed live wires, all during the Canadian debut of “Brown Eyed Lover” in front of 10,000 people. But I was able to handle things with relative ice in my veins because I knew the band had my back, Bear’d adjust in FOH, and Tim’d tweak the ear mixes like a goddamn champion.
Chemistry’s a powerful thing. At this level, it’s a given everyone can play - it’s kinda the least important factor. There’s no fancy lick or aptitude on a particular console that substitutes years in the trenches together - guys who know your playing better than you do, can cover your tuchus, and like you well enough to mourn your death should the haphazard MacGyver bullshit go sideways.
When Tom Brady finally reveals his saurian self to a long-suspecting Bill Belichick, I hope this crew charges with me in the first wave of resistance.
Since posting the first picture of the Gypsy Guitar, my inbox’s been inundated with everything from hyper-technical questions to “bro, that guitar looks siiiiiiiiiiick.”
The guitar does, in fact, look sick, and I promised Ken and Nate at the Walla Walla Guitar Company a brutally honest assessment once I’d played the Gypsy on a gig, which I did for the first time last night in Vancouver BC.
I love my hometown and really, really, wanted the guitar to be amazing - it sounded great at the house, but touring with boutique instruments can be challenging. Bluntly put, they're often designed to look cool on the wall of a lawyer's office, falling hopelessly out of tune once the AC kicks on. My world is, in a word, different - hundreds of shows, disinterested airport baggage handlers, and my beating the daylights out of the thing with less deference than I’d show a chainsaw. I’ll sacrifice all manner of geek-tastic accoutrement as long as the goddamn thing stays in one piece.
I’m happy to report that not only does the Gypsy look like it belongs in a museum, it received an enthusiastic thumbs up from our FOH, Ryan “Bear” Drozd. I put it through the wringer last night - maniac bends and Ramones-worthy bludgeoning, all through a mediocre back lined amp - and the Gypsy sang like a freaking bird.
Thank you, Ken, Nate, Terry, and everyone at Walla Walla Guitar Company, for making a player’s instrument.
I’m writing this poolside at the opulent Sutton Hotel in downtown Vancouver BC. As touring musicians, we’re conditioned to think a can of Beefaroni in a van with functional-yet-moldy AC’s the height of luxury, so frequenting spots where a quinoa salad’s thirty bucks feels pleasantly unsettling. I’m grateful my misspent youth’s equipped me with fingers dextrous enough to make a day job as yet unexplored.
Our production manager, Tim Burke, is berobed, wearing sunglasses indoors, and insinuating he might embarrass me at the ping-pong table. He’s new to the team and doesn’t know, and it brings me great joy knowing that, soon, he will know, and I hope his thorough ass whooping won’t result in only kick drum in my mix. Worth the risk, that I might reign down tiny-balled fire and fury. By the time you read this, Tim, you’ll have recovered from being reduced to a quivering heap of false bravado, and we’ll be sharing beers as comrades again. Thank you - my ear mix is perfect.
Traveling with this crew’s special. Looking forward to doing a lot more of it in the coming months.
I love flying from Nashville to Los Angeles - there’s something about the juxtaposition of disparate walks of life, thrown together involuntarily in a metal tube occupying real estate somewhere between the nearest Starbucks and outer space.
An elderly Tennessean on his first-ever flight is wheezing and twanging like an untuned banjo as he espouses conspiracy theories, the “gumn’t” this and “talm bout” that. He’s eyed incredulously by an LA finance type, impossibly awkward in his designer suit, as if a rolled carpet were reluctantly ambulant. Crew dudes are CrossFitting pelican cases into overhead compartments, nervously speculating whether this flight will unlock that coveted Gold status. And me - sleep deprived, but fortified by enough nuclear-strong French Press to pass as respectable company, typing this in my four inches of available space. But even the indignity of modern travel’s kinda awesome - BNA to LAX in three and a half hours, after all, even though I’m pretty sure the guy next to me’s watching porn.
Sammy Hagar, the Great Poet of Our Time, once sang “there’s a time and place for everything, for everyone.” There surely is.
Then again, he also sang “hey hey, hey, hey, MAS TEQUILA,” which of course means we must take life’s absurdities as we would our agave booze - with grains of salt.
A friend sent me this "article" recently. Allen has eighty-two of several things - moldy-on-the-inside hats, for example, or nightly exuberant high fives with Steveland Swatkins - but millions of dollars ain't one of 'em. Trust me, your friend Trevor would be frolicking in an Olympic sized pool filled with jelly beans if that were the case.
It's a badge of honor, I suppose, achieving click-bait-worthy levels of a thing, and I love the inspiringly lazy title of "People with Money." As a fan of preposterousness, this makes me chuckle, which is most welcome as I'm setting my alarm for 3am, which of course is also preposterous.
Trevor Larkin Talks and Listens #10 - Wooks, Forklifts, and Giant Pumpkins w/ Nick Bearden is live!
Nick Bearden is a bassist, songwriter, and multi-instrumentalist with Jamestown Revival. He also owns and operates Retro Lab Recording Studio in Nashville, TN.
This morning, I came across Nobel laureate Thomas Mann’s superb crystallization of the writing process. “A writer,” said Mann, “is a person for whom writing is more difficult than for other people.”
I find this definition liberating. If you, like me, have abandoned innumerable projects, left potential masterworks smoldering in the wreckage of what might have been, or regretfully assumed you’re not creative because of how insanely hard the process can be…well, perhaps now’s the time to try again, in the knowledge that your finding the experience so grindingly horrible means you might be the real deal after all.
There are, of course, "easy" days, when songs seemingly fall from the heavens or whatever bullshit guys like Scott Stapp say. But it’s infinitely more realistic, and therefore productive, appreciating that conceiving of and finishing a good song, record, novel - whatever, really - is ragingly and absurdly difficult, and you’re therefore a fucking superhuman deserving of multiple ice cream sundaes.
Today, let’s cut ourselves some slack and appreciate that, if it were easy, any ol’ douche’d be cranking out “Let It Be.” Thanks for fighting the good fight. I’m off to grab some ice cream.
Atypically for The Mind of a Trevor, I’m writing this in my office, underscored by rider mowers, yipping pooches, and my hillbilly neighbors drag racing motorcycles. This is Tennessee, after all.
I love traveling more than anything, and I’m grateful my livelihood takes me to all corners of the world. Through travel, one can’t help but embrace the kaleidoscopic nature of things, and I’m a better creator and, I’d like to think anyway, less of a douchebag because of it. The last better part of a decade's been defined by hurriedly packed suitcases, airport Cinnabon and the attendant gastrointestinal discomfort, and meh-at-best guitar solos. I’m lucky.
I’ve worked hard at making Nashville feel like home, and I can say with pride that I no longer need the GPS to get around. Come mid-September, I’ll be away from Music City for the rest of the year, and as my neighbor Big Country’s drying his clothes with a leaf blower, a cheap cigar dangling from lips resembling weathered yams, I’m feeling an unfamiliar pang for a professional nomad - I’m going to miss this place.
I met Zac Clark back in 2013 - we summited Bro Mountain together along with our bandmates in Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness and Allen Stone, opening for OAR on what's still the most fun tour I've ever been a part of.
I met Zac's bandmates Mikey the Kid and Bob Oxblood in 2012 - they played bass and guitar respectively in Jack's Mannequin, the first big band to take us Al Stone misfits out on the road.
Collectively, they're a mighty artistic force, and I'm beyond stoked they're collaborating on Zac Clark's summer run. I caught their show last night in Nashville and was grinning ear-to-ear the entire night. Think effortless, Laurel Canyon-inspired melodies meets 70's era NYC punk swagger.
Do everything in your power, legal or otherwise, to catch this tour, for the love of whatever higher power floats your boat.
