Move Diligently

It’s been a strange year so far. 

Granted, we’re only five weeks in, so there’s time for course correction, but I hope that doesn’t happen. It’s like my neighbor Big Country diving into Reptilian conspiracy theories when we first met - strange, and vaguely terrifying, but the lunacy is the highlight of my day, and each day without it feels hollow.

I’ve been absorbed in writing and recordings songs, and the hugeness of getting a new project off the ground. It’s feels good, hunkering down and creating, my life turning into to a long-running battle between me and a blank page, between me and what happens next. 

Thankfully, writing this newsletter for 403 straight days has brought out a doggedness I’m proud of, and having answers, or even pursuing them, feels inauthentic. Better to put my head down and move diligently through a world that seems brighter when you’ve created something that wasn’t there before.

Ecstatically Lost

I received a good amount of playful flack after referencing Guy Berryman from Coldplay the other day, but it’s encouraging how many readers are taking his Synchro Sunday idea to heart and making the time to listen to, if not an entire album, at least some amount of music with headphones, or through decent speakers, and really digging in. 

It’s inspiring what you pick up on. For example, I’ve listened to “Something” by the Beatles countless times, but I’ve never zeroed in on Ringo’s drums, and low and behold the groove during the bridge is a revelation. 

In Radiohead’s “There There,” Jonny Greenwood plays this gnarly, barely audible farty guitar line that I’ve missed for seventeen freaking years, and I couldn’t help but laugh out loud, eliciting dagger-like stares from industrious hipsters designing websites at the next table.

I’m lucky to be involved with music at a level where there are managers and booking agents and labels and all that, and fan as I am of well-intentioned and occasionally edifying adderall-fueled rants, it’s easy getting bogged down with stuff that has nothing to do with music. Shutting out the world, closing my eyes, and getting ecstatically lost for three and half minutes does wonders for the soul. 

Know Your Vans

For the past week or so, I’ve experimented with writing the MoaT at the end of the day, thinking it’d be a nice way of tying the bow on an inevitably smooth and inspiring romp through the bouncy castle of delights that is professional degeneracy.

My days are long, and filled with equal parts self-assuredness and blithering idiocy, so I’m usually tired right about now and not in the best state to be sharing thoughts publicly. So, back to morning writing it is.

Thankfully, I have talented friends like Tommy Siegel to carry me through these brain dead moments, and his hilarious daily cartoons bring me joy every single dang time.

Hieroglyphics

Songwriters, I encourage you to document everything. Record it, notate it, etch it into hieroglyphics, really whatever.

It might feel like a waste of time, spending four hours banging your head against the wall, tearfully pleading to whatever higher power will listen to please, PLEASE give you a “Let It Be.” But oh no my friends. Because the day will come, like it did for me today, when you get to use a riff you wrote fifteen freaking years ago in a brand new song that’s actually two songs, written five years apart, stitched together, and you’ll perform a happy dance that’s entirely improvised and, mercifully, not captured on any video you’re aware of.  

And you’ll play that song for and with friends, and they’ll like it, and you’ll resist the temptation to tranq dart the one who reaches for the accordion, initially out of respect for their having brought Chick-fil-A to the session, and later because said accordion actually sounds pretty damn good.  

And you’ll listen to the voice memo on your drive home, marveling at how you can’t imagine your life without something that didn’t exist just a few hours prior.

Synchro Sunday

Every Sunday for the next twelve weeks, at 8pm UK time, Guy Berryman from Coldplay is picking an album from his collection and listening to it from beginning to end. He’s calling it Synchro Sunday and encouraging people to listen to the same album at the same time, creating a group listening session and appreciating an album in it’s entirety, which in many cases was the artist’s intention.

Say what you will about Coldplay, and insert whatever jokes curry favor with the editors at Pitchfork, but I think this is a cool idea, and I’ll be following along. The first record’s “Abbey Road” by the Beatles - not a deep cut by any stretch but such a beautiful and nuanced album, worthy of uninterrupted headphone time. 

Follow along on Instagram at @guyberryman.

Ok, now back to the Super Bowl, where it’s 3-3 as I’m writing this and the chicken wing-fueled groans from the next room are borderline orgasmic.

Flowers

Just a short, simple offering on a busy day spent reconnecting with friends, nature, and the idea that, on balance, I’m really not such a calamitous bastard.

Believe

In addition to the MoaT, I keep a morning journal. It’s writing I don’t typically share, not because it’s controversial (though decidedly more profanity laden and therefore objectionable to my mother), I just like this newsletter not degenerating into a full-on Trevor therapy session.

That said, I thought I’d share today’s early AM thoughts. Picture me on a Japanese futon (I can’t suggest this highly enough for those with back problems), sipping instant coffee (I know, I know), and whatever else requiring parenthetical clarification.  

“Just go ahead and believe in it. Hope and believe it’s going to magically work out. Starting a band and putting out music is objectively insane, and that’s what’s so goddamn marvelous about it. It’s ok to have hoped for it and wanted it and it not working out. Better that than spending the next however long dwelling on any number of cynical things, that no one buys music or goes to shows or whatever, and never enjoying the moment while it’s happening. A creative life shouldn’t be about failure and broken promises. Defining it as such only denies me the experience of ever enjoying the thing that fills my heart.”

The Damn Thing

Last night’s Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness show was predictably awesome. I’m entering a bit of an ambiguous life chapter, and as I’m figuring out how to release music while keeping decades of insecurities at bay, it felt good being back in the controlled chaos of a busy show day, sipping mezcal with my friends, reminding myself that yes, this is what I know, and where I belong.  

It felt good recognizing the drawn looks after a heavy press day, the nervous energy as set time approaches, and having the good sense to say break a leg and watch the show from the audience rather than occupying valuable real estate side stage (managers, take note).

It felt good knowing how draining playing for two hours can be, that all you want post show is to stretch and drink water and pray to the road gods that it’s just a case of the sniffles and not Hand-foot-and-mouth disease. You love your friends, and love them even more for not hitting you with the “let’s hang!” text at midnight. 

To Andrew and team, and the myriad other bands and artists paying their bills on the road right now, stay safe out there, and keep doing the damn thing.

Maybe, You Know, Sleep

I’m excited to see my brothers in Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness tonight at Marathon in Nashville. Their new production’s amazing, the latest record’s stellar, and it’s inspiring watching Andrew and team leveling up the old fashioned way - releasing music consistently and playing shows that make sense.

I met Andrew in 2012 when Jack’s Mannequin took the Al Stone project on tour. He was humble, gracious, and a fucking riot of a human being, the perfect introduction to the big leagues, and when it became obvious that sweet baby jesus were we ever not in Kansas anymore, or at least not the Seamonster Lounge in Wallingford, Andrew was a patient mentor. 

Back in 2012, we were young (ish), green (very), and haphazardly charging in the general direction of something that felt like music. Lots of fun, but entirely unsustainable, and we would’ve burned out fast if not for Andrew and Co saying hey, maybe switch to club soda and, you know, sleep.

Reincarnation

One of life’s great joys is going out to eat solo. You’re seated before the parties of yuppies, grumbling all well-to-do and aloof while you slurp down tasty noodles in salty pork broth that make right everything in your benignly troubled world. 

Like all artists, I pride myself on living a life more or less devoid of actual responsibility, and whenever I’m yanked from my idyllic little bubble I tend to get discombobulated and doomsday-ish. So today, as I deal with rudimentary by any definition tasks that most high school kids are capable of handling, I self-sooth via porky, soupy deliciousness, thinking about how laughably easy my life is.

And when I think about how laughably easy my life is, I reflect on how getting out of my own way’s something I’m much better at these days, but perhaps my kind-yet-hyper-disciplined monastic vibe needs dialing back a notch, and as much as a walking top hat and monocle’s capable of cutting lose, I probably should. 

And then the thought of my “cutting lose,” ie reading in public with like a whiskey or something, makes me laugh out loud, and I dream of being reincarnated as a member of the year 2300’s Mötley Crüe.

All Along

Just wrapping up a full day in the studio with the Klein bros, working on new tunes and plotting and planning for the future. Today, I’ll offer simply that making music should be fun, it should be effortless, and it should be empowering. If it’s not, it means you’re making music with the wrong people, and that’s ok. The right ones are out there, just as eager to find you as you are them, and when you do finally meet, you’ll release every set back had a purpose, and you’ll thank them for guiding you to where you were meant to be all along.

Ska Music

I keep this Post-it Note in my laptop, a gift from tour manager Ryan “Bear” Drozd during last fall’s tour. 

Ska music is happy-go-lucky sorta suburban-y pop/punk with horns. Ska music fans will no doubt take umbrage with this description, fans like Bear, who listens to ska music while buried in his laptop, doing the job of seven people. 

Whenever I’d notice his eyes becoming coal black with rage, or exasperated sighs interspersed with profanity outnumbering sips of water, I’d check in. “Ska Music?” I’d ask. “Ska music” he’d reply. 

Ska music, in Allen Stone parlance, became the consolatory battle cry while tackling all things asinine and tedious, and reconciling one’s self to putting one’s head down and getting shit done. Sound check delayed because the house crew’s tripping balls? Ska music. Bus breaks down? Ska music. Amp blows a fuse minutes before our set in NYC? Ska music. Always followed by a shrug of the shoulders and shot of the good stuff. 

There are certain things that don’t warrant belaboring over - even if you did stumble upon a meaning, it’d be half-assed and underwhelming, kinda like the “pyro” I was promised at the WE Day event in Seattle a couple years back. One single freaking sparkler. In an arena. 

Sometimes, it’s best to hunker down and power through, especially if it sucks, and I’m grateful for the daily reminder. 

Widdly-Wah Stuff

Every morning, I sit down with the guitar for about 30 minutes. I’m usually listening to a podcast or otherwise letting my mind wander, but I like checking in first thing - how does the instrument feel in my hands, and maybe go fishing for a cool lick or two as the first cup of coffee kicks in.

I’m carrying a lot of tension right now, in my forearms, picking hand, and lower back, and in addition to a couple hours a day of instenso stretcho yoga (that’s the technical term, right?), I’m trying to play as relaxed as possible, focusing on closing my eyes, breathing deeply, and slowing down.

As a recovering shred dude, my security blanket’s fleet-of-fingy widdly-wah stuff, which is great for Instagram videos but precious little else. Voluntarily limiting myself to simple rhythmic motifs and unhurried melodies is a weight lifted, and it’s encouraging noticing intentionality returning to my playing as opposed to “well, it’s another show, I guess I’ll do the thing that makes people take out their phones.”

Counterbalance

Sharing songs, for me at least, is pretty emotionally draining, so the day after releasing new music I typically go dark(ish) - emails can wait, no staring at screens (except to write this, of course), and for the love of whatever you find holy in this world NO FUCKING SOCIAL MEDIA. Instead, I like surrounding myself with good people (going to the Ripe show again tonight) and getting stuck into some quality reading, always fiction, the more absurd and fantastical the better. Courageously baring one’s soul isn’t efficaciously counterbalanced by Tim Ferriss injecting stem cells into his genitals.

A nice number of people bought “Neverland” today and yesterday. Thank you. If you like, you can check it out here. I donated my share of the proceeds to MusiCares, an organization that helps music people in times of need, and will continue doing so. It’s a humble offering, but makes me happy.

Neverland is Out!

The first single of the year, “Neverland,” is out today!

It’ll be available everywhere in a week or two, but consider giving it a first listen and spending one single hard-earned dollar through my Bandcamp profile.

Bandcamp’s business model is transparent and artist friendly, and it’s a great way of directly supporting independent musicians.

The first song of many! Enjoy, spread the word, and crank it up LOUD.

And shout out once again to Calamity Sam for the stellar artwork.

Neverland

I’m finally breaking out of here

I can’t go back to their secrets and silence

‘cause to sing’s the currency of kings

and I don’t owe a thing to anyone

made crystal clear when I was young

there’s no heart or home with hopeless romantics

play it coy, we’re all misfits in the noise

believe that there’s a voice when there is none

who is left?

pray for us here in Neverland

the dream is all on fire

don’t know my way around here anymore

pray for us here in Neverland

a fool with try to break a diamond heart’s mistake

my waking dream’s to disappear

become the rumor whispered when no one is around

stronger lost than found

bound and then unwound in sheltered sun

who is left?

pray for us here in Neverland

the dream is all on fire

don’t know my way around here anymore

pray for us here in Neverland

a fool with try to break a diamond heart’s mistake

Reworked for Chicago

Playing live’s an ephemeral thing - what doesn’t land in Cleveland can easily be reworked for Chicago. Nothing’s locked, nothing’s settled, and the show’s free to evolve over the course of weeks and months until, in last fall’s case, a soul/funk band closes out their tour covering Rage Against the Machine, fronted by a tour manager in a rainbow suit.

Making records, or singles in my case, you actually have to make decisions with a degree of finality, knowing there’s a 100% likelihood you’ll listen back and think dammit, I missed it, but it’s too late, it’s in the internet’s clumsy hands now, and I’d best get down to the business of crying myself to sleep in my cold, lonely bed, without romantic companionship or the faintest suggestion that’s even a possibility.

So it can be grim releasing new music, but this time around, while the absence of romantic companionship rings painfully true, I’m feeling pretty good about my place in the world.

First single of many comes out tomorrow.

Mysterious World

Ok ok, so I know this is like the third hastily scraped together picture post in a row, but the truth is I’m having trouble gathering my thoughts because I’m so excited. It’s the wild kind of excitement I remember as a teenager when I learned about pinch harmonics, or the first time seeing myself on national TV, that suddenly there’s a whole new vibrant and mysterious world. Frankly, I didn’t know I had it in me.

I mentioned in a previous post how falling back in love with myself as an artist’s taken time. Years, in fact. And there are any number of injurious rabbit holes my overactive mind would love sending me down right now, skipping hand in hand with timorousness and self-abasement.

But I remind myself I’m writing this while pacing around my house, knowing I won’t be able to sleep for hours, because new music, my music, is about to be heard. By people, no less! People who, for the most part, have no idea I do this kind of thing. People who don’t know I have it in me.

Mastering

This is me at the mastering desk at Independent Mastering in Nashville. I’m not actually doing anything, but I’m sure happy to be there, listening as these songs take their final triumphant steps into the world. Very excited. More to come... 

Soy Lattes

In an effort to become less of a luddite douche, I’ve been dabbling in photo/video editing. 

Let’s be clear - I have zero natural talent for the visual arts. Even my stick figures are a disgrace. But my goal isn’t to get good at photo/video editing per se - that’d be boring, anyone can get good at a thing - but rather remain steadfastly terrible while enjoying the hell out of myself. 

Take today’s offering, via the Enlight Photofox app. I was in line at a hipster establishment, which meant I had time to kill, so I found the dumbest photo currently on my phone - me in a pineapple robe - and dove into layering and tracing and cartooning while the twelve people in front of me bemoaned the frothiness of their soy lattes.

About twenty minutes later, I had this.

It is, of course, not great, but invited a good chuckle, which is just what the start of my day needed.

Trust

Since 2012, I’ve essentially been on the move - shitty vans, slightly nicer vans, tour busses, planes, even a ship or two. I hit the ground running and didn’t look back, unceremoniously dumping my previous life without giving much thought to where I’d end up. 

That felt right at the time, and on balance it probably was, throwing myself head on into the maelstrom of unknown, instinctively realizing that if I stopped to think, the magic would somehow quiver and tendril out into nothingness, like ice on a hot sidewalk, and I wouldn’t find myself, almost seven years later, playing Rage Against the Machine with a man in a rainbow suit. 

I am ostensibly wiser now, certainly older. Seasoned, let’s call it. No longer quite the wily vagabond, Nashville’s home, so much so that I even bought cacti (a big step). And yet 2012 me feels alarmingly close. Maybe the naiveté’s nostalgic. Or perhaps it’s that I’m redirecting towards a path I tried so hard to navigate back in the day, and failed.

Or, maybe, it’s a whisper from my younger self by way of the universe, saying thank you for not fucking it all up. You’re to be trusted now. So, pick up where you left off, and keep going.