Decadence Beyond Measure

Another great thing about living in Nashville’s you’re guaranteed a night in your own bed about halfway through a long tour. It does wonders for the soul, and given how many horrified responses I received after my tour showers post, you’ll be happy knowing I took several real showers today, with actual water and everything. Decadence beyond measure.

As I’m writing this in my living room, excited to continue the tour and with bus call a few hours away, I’m thinking about the zero to one hundred back to zero energetic rollercoaster we touring musicians know well, and how vital it is carrying the positive momentum from a successful tour over into civilian life. At the end of every run, there’s the classic holy shit moment of wait, hold on, is this it? Benmont Tench, keyboardist for Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, said he came off every tour convinced they’d never work again, and if freaking Benmont Tench felt that way then I don’t begrudge myself a spot of self-indulgence. 

It’s important trusting the good mojo we’re putting out there will pull equally neat whatnots and weirdos into our orbit, and in this spirit I’m focusing on staying present and celebrating an awesome tour, confidant that, on balance, I’m not assing the whole thing up, and next moves will reveal themselves in time.

Thank You, Music City

I’m writing this in the green room of the Cannery Ballroom in Nashville TN, my adopted hometown. The show’s sold out, which feels good on any night, but especially in a city where I’ve experienced so much transformation.

I’ve lived in Music City for about three years, and I’m in a markedly different place than when my 2003 Toyota Corrolla first limped down Broadway. As musicians, it’s easy getting bogged down by the usual distractions - why isn’t my record selling, I wish there were more people at the shows, the list goes on - and sometimes it’s important pressing pause and simply asking “who was I then, and who am I now?” 

In Seattle, I was bored, with myself and the band, ready for a change but ignoring every sign the universe threw at me. In Nashville, I’m cultivating a working relationship with my inner demons, creating work I’m proud of, and meeting the high standard I’ve set for myself. The daily minutia of being an artist can be discouraging, of course, but I’m able now to smile at the person I see in the mirror.

Thank you, Nashville, for welcoming me, providing space to grow, and giving my dormant confidence permission to take the wheel. 

Tour Showers

I’m writing this from Charleston, SC, hilariously juxtaposed against cadets from the Citadel as I’m walking back from Walgreens, having acquired wet wipes for what’s affectionately known as a “tour shower,” an unfortunate and all-too-common scenario where there’s no actual shower, and one’s nether regions don’t wash themselves...

The cadets are clipping along on their daily 10k, clean shaven and buzz cut, slaloming around parked cars and wheezing tourists, and for a moment I envy their day’s structure, the familiar refrain creeping in of am I working hard enough, have I worked hard enough, and maybe it’s too late for me, whatever that means.

But my emo inner monologue falls to the wayside as I settle into a booth at Rarebit, a Moscow Mule and good book in hand. Day drinking, one of life’s profound treasures, I imagine’s frowned upon at the Citadel, and the thousand or so fans lining up outside the Music Farm remind me how privilaged I am to wander this peculiar road.

Margaritaville

There’s something about Florida bringing out my infatuation with avant-rock band Sigur Ros, ‘cause here I am again, writing this in my bunk, the oppressive autumnal Ft Lauderdale humidity thousands of miles away as my imagination teleports me high above Icelandic fjords, or at least somewhere where “Margaritaville” isn’t wafting out of a celebrity chef themed outpost featuring twenty dollar quesadillas.

I’ve been hard on Florida these past several days, and I acknowledge that my judging the Land of the Disco Loudout’s similar to shitting on Nashville having only shot Jägermeister on Broadway. There has to be more to this place than poisonous nocturnal animals, vicious retirees, and brown note inducing throb courtesy of DJ Chad McAsshole. If there’re any native Floridians reading this, please send recommendations, sincerely - I need my relationship with our 27th state readjusted.

Oh, and here’s a link to the Sigur Ros song I’m listening to currently.

Comrades in Arms

I’m writing this in my bunk, with Allen warming up his voice in the front lounge and the neighborhood of Ybor City in Tampa, FL bracing for imminent debauchery courtesy of tourists hammered on Fireball, on the hunt for hastily rolled cigars. I’m listening to Sigur Ros through fancy noise canceling headphones, but today’s one of those days where you can’t quite steal a moment for yourself, and Jonsi’s soaring falsetto’s only hammering home that broods of feral chickens await outside rather than gorgeous Icelandic vistas. 

I’m feeling the tour grind pretty hard today, probably due to these goddamn disco loud outs moving everything up a couple hours, more than enough to disrupt self-care rituals, compounded with the indignation that we’re evidently lower on the totem pole than some dingus with a laptop entertaining small time coke dealers. But, as I mentioned yesterday, the fans are out in force, a visit from Al Stone and friends long overdue, and I’m grateful for the chemistry we’ve built as a band and crew - I may feel out of sorts, but a truly bad night’s impossible thanks to my comrades in arms.

Disco Loadout in the Sunshine State

Florida’s an interesting place to play a show, if you even bother making the trip. 

Hitting New Orleans, Birmingham, Atlanta, and Charlotte consecutively is easy, but just getting in and out of the Sunshine State adds a couple of logistically prohibitive travel days, especially touring in a van - consequently, not a ton of shows happen down here, which means the venues are neglected (the moldy carpet fumes I’m breathing in are no doubt taking years off my life), and bands often deal with what’s called a “disco loadout,” a playful term for an infuriating scenario wherein you’re packing out your show while another’s loading in, usually some DJ/Cocaine Cowboy situation, a classic move pulled by greedy venues hoping to double their money with zero concern for crew safety or the fan experience. Tonight, we play at seven freaking thirty to accommodate a “single ladies night” at 10pm, which I can only imagine attracts the cream of the bachelorette crop here in Orlando.

All this to say, I dig playing shows in Florida, precisely because it’s a tough nut to crack, and the fans REALLY love seeing the band, and there’s never been a time where some act of god hasn’t almost derailed our beleaguered train (torrential downpours, in today’s case). Little about this line of work makes any sense, and it’s masochistically satisfying bringing the party to the one state in the union that makes even less. 

Orlando, Tampa and Ft Lauderdale, here we come!

 

Heart of Dixie

The last time I played a show in Mobile AL was in 2012, the year the Allen Stone Electric Ensemble left Seattle in a shitty Ford van and returned, 315 days later, in a tour bus, triumphant, but mostly bewildered by the all-consuming, exponential growth that rendered our previous lives unrecognizable.

In my song Free From Me, the “moment in Mobile” I wrote about doesn’t refer to infidelity, as most have assumed - way back in 2012, I took a post show wander, seeking respite from the drunken ruckus, eventually falling into one-sided conversation with a cluster of stars visible through wispy, autumnal clouds. “I have no idea what’s going on,” I say out loud, “and I’m scared.”

Six years seems like both an eternity and drop in the bucket - I remember vividly the homesickness and sheer exhaustion my celestial confidants witnessed that evening, but struggle recalling the version of myself who didn’t sleep like a baby to the whirring of wheels against pavement. It’s a beautiful evening in the Heart of Dixie - I think I’ll take a stroll, resplendent in my Parrothead approved shirt, and let my mind roll over the prismatic shards of a past life.

Rapturous Slurping

I’ve become a devout believer in doing absolutely nothing productive on days off, and today I’ve followed through with gusto. I’m wandering around the French Quarter in a preposterously oversized Hawaiian shirt, rapturously slurping the brains out of shrimp heads in between rounds of Tiki drinks (check out Beach Bum Berry’s Latitude 29, best Piña Colada of my life). Touring is physically and emotionally taxing, and I’ve learned to trust the restorative powers of buffoonery - thankfully, I’m among kindred spirits.

New Orleans is rough, dirty, and fiercely proud, with much of the good stuff hidden down nondescript alleyways and behind shuttered windows, unwelcoming without the right guide. And, of course, here I am, dressed like an ass, day drinking with the mid-western horde. But it’s a much needed day off, spirits are high, and sometimes you gotta eat your weight in hushpuppies and wash ‘em down with ironic cocktails. Sue me. 

And how can you not be grateful for friends like these? 

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Reader Question #2

What song would be on your “It Makes Me Happy” playlist?

I’ve been listening to friend’s bands lately, and I remember dancing exuberantly in my kitchen the first time I heard “A Long and Happy Life” by country band Delta Rae. I’m a sucker for gigantic choruses and a perfect road trip song, and this tune checks both boxes, not to mention one of my favorite drummers, Matt Chamberlin, plays on the track (you’ll recognize his iconic snare drum sound from “One Headlight” by the Wallflowers).

Delta Rae’s spearheading a movement in country music that’s compelling Music City, finally, to participate in the global sociopolitical conversation. I’m proud of and inspired by my friends, and highly recommend you check out their every Wednesday residency at the Basement in Nashville.

The Nature of Dreams

I’m writing this from the mezzanine at the House of Blues in Houston, enjoying Nick Waterhouse’s soundcheck. It’s about an hour before doors, and soon the venue will be quiet, mercifully so for the staff as they hurriedly prepare for the thousand or so punters already lined up around the block.

I usually take this time to meditate for a few minutes in the back of the venue, thinking about how many shows I’ve seen from this vantage point, wondering how a romantically underachieving dweeb earns a spot under neon lights.

I can confidently report that I still haven’t the faintest idea, but it gets me thinking about the nature of dreams - how someone might tell you they’re not real because they’re not made of matter, can’t erode and disperse in an unremarkable gust. But dreams are real. They’re made of viewpoints, images, stupid jokes, memories, and hopes both lost and newly discovered. They’re everything that makes us who we are.

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Bursts of Afflatus

I’m luxuriating on the steps outside of Emo’s in Austin TX, soaking up some Vitamin D on a gorgeous day.

A few years ago, when I realized it was time for a new chapter, I seriously considered Austin, so much so that I impulsively began heading south just outside of Omaha for a couple hundred miles before redirecting towards Music City. At any rate, I love it here - the food, climate, live music, even the world’s most physically fit sociopath, Lance Armstrong. And sweet merciful god, several palettes of Yerba Matte just arrived, which coupled with the recently gifted espresso machine should keep our bus lively with maniacal bursts of quasi afflatus. Afflatus, incidentally, is a fantastic word, meaning divine inspiration but sounding like a calamitous post-burrito incident. You’re welcome.

Anyway, I’m in a good mood today. I’m adjusting to the noon-3am schedule, figuring out where to fit in workouts, meditation, and writing time (just before soundcheck, typically), and generally dialing back ambition in favor of self-care. It’s at right around this point - two weeks into the tour - where you start drinking a little less, sleeping a little more, and understanding that, holy shit, there’re like forty more shows left and, unless I want to end up a raving lunatic, best to slow things down.

Calamity Sam

My friend Calamity Sam is an incredible illustrator and graphic designer, and she was gracious enough to create this awesome dot drawing inspired by a song I’m releasing next month called “Neverland.” I’m stoked to feature more of her drawings as I’m putting new music out into the world. Hooray for talented friends!

I don’t really have a game plan for these new songs per se - it just feels like time, and embracing that feels right. Will be posting clips and more fun stuff soon…

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Sandpaper Underpants

On any given day, I look like someone who finds the missionary position too racy. 

I mean, take right now, as I’m writing this in an oversized flat cap, drinking a cappuccino chased with fizzy water, sitting upright to a degree that you’d assume I’m wearing sandpaper underpants. I’d like to think surprisingly, but knowing it’s decidedly unsurprising, I wasn’t a hit with the ladies in high school. When asked to be the guitar guy at the party, I’d play Bach, furrowed brow and all, looking up after a lackluster interpretation of Bourreé in E minor to find the room correctly deserted in favor of the dance party next door. 

My musical preferences at the time were instrumental shred guitar, progressive metal, death metal and, when feeling delicate, thrash metal. The guitar was an athletic event, something to be conquered, a neat outlet for adolescent anxiety but one that exaggerated my essentially being made of tweed. It’s taken me years to allow the ticking of the metronome to fade into the background - in the words of Grand Master Yoda, to unlearn what I have learned. 

Last night in San Antonio, I wore an ill-fitting Hawaiian shirt on a stage engulfed in giant paper flowers. I missed my entry into the second pre-chorus of Upside because I was blowing kisses to our production manager in monitor world. Laying down the burden of self-seriousness has been this chapter of my life’s greatest gift and, for better or worse, I’ve accepted that sandpaper underpants suit me. For Johnny Depp, it’s scarves, leather jackets, and questionable fiscal decisions. Me? Sandpaper goddamn underpants. Oh well.  

Reader Question #1

A reader sent in a series of questions the other day (thank you!), and I figured I’d take a stab at answering a few.

-What’s a song/lyric that’s so beautiful it rips you open and makes you cry?

Inspired by our recent stop in Tucson, Paul Simon’s Graceland’s been on my mind:

She comes back to tell me she's gone 

As if I didn't know that 

As if I didn't know my own bed 

As if I'd never noticed 

The way she brushed her hair from her forehead 

I remember hearing Graceland for the first time in my single digits, far too young to have experienced lost or unrequited love first hand, but somehow appreciating the inevitability of something familiar fading into the background, from a scream to a whisper, then to nothing at all.

Nowadays, as a seasoned ne’er-do-well, I’m grateful for having loved deeply enough to be lost in the wilderness, indebted to both the snarling beasts encountered therein and fellow nomads radiating outward, knowing that feeling and being lost are two entirely different things.

Episode 23 - Bernhoft

Episode 23 of the podcast features my good friend and mentor, the urbane, charmingly eccentric Scandinavian raconteur and musical virtuoso, Bernhoft!

Jarle’s a Grammy-nominated singer/songwriter/multi-instrumentalist/producer and, for whatever reason, finds me pleasant company. We had the chance to catch up for a few minutes backstage before his set at the Taft Theater in Cincinnati a few weeks back. A stellar conversation with a legendary human, and be sure to check out his latest record, Humanoid, featuring The Fashion Bruises.

Here’s the episode!

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Gleeful Cadence

After a series of theater dates (and a few theatres), we played a small club in Tucson last night, and it was such a joy.

Within high fiving distance from me and Swatty, a middle school aged girl enjoying her first concert can’t help but dance out of sheer exuberance, intermittently staring up at Allen in disbelief. I want to jump off stage and reaffirm that, yes, a grown human being can, and arguably should, be that ridiculous. Across from Tyler, a forty-something in 2012-era Allen Stone schwag sings along with every song, full-on belly laughing when not visibly teary eyed. I give him a big hug post show, and a handful of guitar picks to the young girl, now dancing to her own gleeful cadence. 

It feels like we’re finally on tour - just the band, crew, and diehard fans, all riding the wave in real time, together.