Oh, Colorado

For whatever reason, the MoaT didn’t go out yesterday. I wrote it, and posted it in the usual way, but MailChimp evidently didn’t hold up their end of the bargain. That said, given a skydiver’s primary parachute malfunctions, on average, once in every thousand jumps, having an email hiccup once in every 500’s not too shabby.

Anyway, the gist of yesterday’s post - I’m in the Front Range of Colorado, it’s staggeringly beautiful, and thank you to my friend and former Al Stone compatriot Greg Ehrlich for always encouraging me to “book a ticket and just go.”

I’m becoming more conscious of burnout, and thanks to my never having had a real job and Google Flights, an impromptu restorative weekend trip’s a worthy mission, should I chose to accept it.

And so, here I am, surrounded by outdoor enthusiasts in puffy jackets drinking cappuccinos. I’m recognized by a dude in a Motet shirt, who begins playing air guitar at me.

“Where’s Swaaaaatttttttty?!” he asks, with the enthusiasm of a veteran psychedelic adventurer.

“In Portland,” I say. 

”NOOOOOOOO!” he says, pounding his fists against an imaginary desk. “THAT’S FUCKED UP!”

He wanders off. I return to phone scrolling. 

Oh, Colorado.

Hot Springs

My friend and former Al Stone bandmate Greg Ehrlich‘s always encouraging me to “book a ticket and just go,” and that’s what I’ve done. After a successful debut show with the new band, I’ve seized upon a couple free days to subdue temporarily my omnipresent wanderlust, grabbing a last minute ticket to Denver, CO. I’m writing this after a therapeutic soak in a hot springs, sleepy and content.

It’s amazing what a change of scenery can do, and despite pea soup fog thwarting my planned outdoor adventures, I feel the familiar excitement building, knowing that songs, lots and lots of songs, are on their way. 

The Front Range is a special place. Today, I’m reminded to slow down, and appreciate impossibly beautiful things.

Do Nothing, or Write

When it’s time for creative work, I only have one rule: I can sit here and write, I can sit here and do nothing, but I can’t sit here and do just anything.

Doing nothing is fantastic. The desk in my office faces a window looking onto the backyard, and I’ve frittered away many an hour daydreaming, watching squirrels fighting over nuts, or generally staring into space, all of which are A-OK because, eventually, doing nothing gets a touch dull. Writing’s far more entertaining, and since I’m sitting here anyway, I may as well go fishing for a tune.

Or not. Getting up and walking away after a solid mind wander is one of life’s great treasures.

But what I’m absolutely not allowed to do is scroll absentmindedly through Instagram, or FaceTime tour manager extraordinaire Ryan “Bear” Drozd, or watch Rick and Morty. All I’m allowed to do is absolutely nothing, or write.

Dave Grohl Says It Best

Make music with your friends and play live.

After Climb The Sky’s first show on Saturday, I wrote this sentence on the dry erase board in my office and plan on leaving it there until the ink dries. 

Nothing feels better. Nothing really comes close. And, in this kabuki theater of an industry, there isn’t a more bulletproof strategy, not just for success, but for getting yourself out of bed and, in the company of chirping, dinural friends, putting pen to paper.

I could go on, but, as usual, Dave Grohl says it best.

Brazen Unprofessionalism

Liz Hopkins from Delta Rae sat in during the inaugural Climb The Sky show, and this is us all smiley and fun-having, covering Tom Petty’s “You Wreck Me.” Shorty after this photo was taken, I started inexpertly karate kicking while whacking the crash symbol with my picking hand, hooting and hollering and otherwise perplexing drummer Gabe Klein, who’s unaccustomed to such brazen unprofessionalism. ‘Twas a good night.

Climb The Sky

…and the new band’s first show was SO. MUCH. FUN. The club was packed, and several MoaT readers made flatteringly long drives to catch our set, which was unexpected (obviously) and beyond cool (also, obviously). 

I’ve never wanted to be a solo artist. Singing songs I’ve written, in a band with my friends, has been a dream since I was a kid, and I’ve found it here in Nashville. I didn’t move here expecting to find it, and honestly kinda thought that ship had sailed - turns out, it’s been waiting for me in a freaking landlocked red state. Life is weird.

The band’s called Climb The Sky. Consider following us here (@climbtheskyband on Instagram, just in case the link doesn’t work). You can also listen to and buy some music, if you’d like. We’ll be adding more socials, etc in the coming weeks. 

Gabe, Gid, and I are all about not forcing CTS into becoming something it’s not ready for or meant to be - the plan’s to release singles and videos all the time, play shows as much as we can, and, as David Lee Roth puts it, go where the light shines.

I’m still processing the show itself, will share more tomorrow…

Gonzo Journalism

On social media recently, I posted a picture of Steven J “Bluto” Libby and myself in genie pants, our leisure wear of choice on the road circa 2014. I was in need of a chuckle today and found this gem in the archives. When not on stage, this was my uniform for the better part of fourteen months, a called strike three with the ladies, but I’d argue James Bond would’ve been a fan, had he A) actually existed or B) taken up gonzo journalism.

Ephemeral Woods

The picture below was taken at Sound Emporium in Nashville back in February(ish) of last year. I’m singing Coldplay, alone to myself in the main tracking room of Studio A, entirely for juvenile amusement, knowing that producer Jamie Lidell’s libel to poke his head around the corner and ask, “what in the bloody hell are you singing that rubbish for?”

Those sessions feel like a long time ago because, well, they were. Making music with labels and managers etcetera, just like anything else, is a double-edged sword. The plus sides - access and clout and all that - necessarily require there being more cooks in the kitchen, varyingly distracted and enthusiastic cooks, and a couple years can go by before a record sees the light of day. 

In this line of work, a couple years is an eternity. Things are perpetually shifting within the business, and from the musician side, so much life’s condensed into such short periods of time that your January 1st self’s guaranteed to be unrecognizable to the, ideally, more cultured specimen at year’s end. Did we even make this record? The guy wearing maroon pants sure did, but he’s long gone.

I’d just started writing the MoaT back then, and I’m grateful for it’s providing a trail of pebbles through increasingly ephemeral woods, back to the person I used to be. 

Genie Pants

With backline tech/stage manager extraordinaire, Steven J “Bluto” Libby, circa 2014. You’re right to be envious of our genie pants.

The band was still loading gear then, and it was the highlight of my night taking orders from Bluto and Bear, ideally not making a mess of their unmatched Tetrising. At the time, my relationship with the road was, to put it charitably, complicated - my previous life, one where I was comfortably ensconced in secure digs with a woman who loved me, was a year or so in the rearview mirror, and the idea of going home, such as it was, didn’t rate highly.

So, I kept moving. Tours ran into each other, and downtime was spent on couches, in hotels, and sleeping upright in vehicles requiring boarding passes. I was self-soothing through movement, not yet ready to confront the myriad changes in my life and what they meant. 

Thing are now, in all ways, better. I love touring - every aspect of it, every job, permutation of a job, or haphazard flailing that passes as a job. Everything about life on the road’s preposterous, and as a dude who’s just smart enough to convince himself he’s got answers, being thrust into an environment where precious little makes sense is an invitation to set aside the tweed jacket and punk rock my soul into euphoria.

A Single Rose

January/February of 2013. The Allen Stone Electric Ensemble’s playing a show at the Red Mountain Ski resort in Western Canada. As you might guess from the photo below, I don’t remember much about our performance and, to my shame, don’t remember much about quite a few things during this time. I was entering a chapter of “forced change” as it was put to me recently, and processing via the time honored traditions of drinking too much and carousing just enough to be gossip worthy. As much as I’ve ever been a dickhead in my life, it was then. And I still own that shirt.

I’m lucky - the part of my brain that endorses face drug benders in Reno never got switched on, and being raised in a fastidious household meant anything other than perfect grammar and balancing peas on the backs of forks was unthinkable (Never scoop! What are we? Barbarians?!). Going off the rails, such as it was, was more tame than most Sadie Hawkins dances.

But it’s a time I’m grateful for. At the proverbial fork in the road, I wobbled down the bedimmed path just far enough to realize what lurked around the next bend, course correcting, as any self-respecting man who folds his underpants would, toward the part of myself that wonders if she, you know, REALLY likes me, with a single rose trembling in hand.

Consistency

This newsletter’s taught me a lot - that a lunatic, redneck neighbor can be an ally when properly mollified with edible marijuana products, I overuse adverbs, and consistency over intensity results in a hefty body of work without a single nervous breakdown!

Prior to starting the MoaT, my work habits were pretty much textbook dysfunctional - long hours, high stress, with precious little to show for it other than burnout. Over the course of writing something everyday for fifteen months, I’ve learned to trust daily micro accomplishments over bursts of idiocy masquerading as self-proclaimed genius. 

I stumbled upon this video today. I don’t know why Simon Sinek’s credited as the speaker, but the content’s spot on, a neat breakdown of why intensity’s glorified but, ultimately, damaging as a go-to. 

YouTube Comments

Every once in a while, when I’m needing a little pick-me-up, I catch up on Allen Stone YouTube comments. These are waters for infrequent toe dipping, but sometimes I can’t help myself.

For the most part, the Al Stone online world’s pretty chill, especially when it comes to yours truly. “I didn’t know John Mayer played guitar for Allen,” “Dude looks like John Mayer,” and “check out the JM wannabe” feature prominently, and I have to concede their accuracy, or at least being more flattering than “check out Steve Buscemi on guitar.”

Some comments are mean, and more than a few inspiringly bizarre, but that’s kinda what you’d expect, given the context. 

However, what surprised me today was reading the comments on Fred Wilson’s excellent Venture Capital newsletter, which I subscribe to and recommend, only to find the same sexually suggestive GIFs and lazily caustic conspiracy theory nonsense.

It is, I suppose, encouraging that someone finds a boomerang of a dog humping another dog cogent analysis of both their current portfolio and my guitar solos. That feels right to me, for some reason.

What’s discouraging is realizing nowhere’s safe from trolls, and everything we put out there’s fair game for flat earth nutsos, or at least someone who thinks they can do the thing better. 

If you’ve been receiving particularly vitriolic online bullshit lately, consider following Patton Oswalt’s example.  

From Battle

In response to my “Fire’s Still Burning” post from a couple days ago (link below), a reader sent this quote:

Academics get their content from curators. Curators get their content from creators. Creators get their content from battle.  

During today’s rehearsal for the new band’s show on Saturday, that last phrase in particular resonated. This whole being center stage thing’s a new pair of pants, and while I’m doing a decent job of not descending into over-analysis and unwarranted trepidation, I’m nervous in a kind of way I haven’t felt in years.

But as we settle into our groove, the muscle memory takes over, and I’m reminded that this is what I know, that it feels natural not because I am, in fact, a natural, but because of the thousands of shows in which I’ve sounded like an absolute asshole, the few thousand more in which I’ve sounded halfway passible, and the, like, seven I’d say I’ve objectively nailed.

If nothing else, I’ve been to battle, time and time again. And I’m going to enjoy to hell out of Saturday.

Contrarian Ways

I wrote a bit of a snarky post about SXSW the other day, and in serendipitous snark solidarity, my friend Tommy Siegel, via his daily cartoon project, made the exact same observations, right down to the freaking Doritos stage.

Thank you, Tommy, for being a genius, and making me feel marginally less guilty about my contrarian ways.

Fire's Still Burning

I spent a couple hours on the phone yesterday with a friend who was recently dropped, in notably Machiavellian fashion, by a major label.

Music is a gnarly business. We’re commoditizing the parts of ourselves about which we’re fiercely proud, that require inordinate vulnerability to coax from their hiding places, and expected to entrust them to largely unvetted people. 

That said, you won’t encounter anyone who’s successful who doesn’t have a few horror stories in their not-too-distant past. It’s sort of a right of passage.

The key is picking up the pieces, after an appropriate amount of fist shaking at the universe. Label dropped you? Fine. Release music however you want, and build fans that way. Label trying to sign you? Cool. Get to know the team. Ask LOTS of questions. Trusting people’s important, provided they’ve earned it. 

Cry, disparage, curse, trash whatever room you happen to be in, and question whether anything’s been worth it, ever. Do it again. Then, sit down with a guitar, write a song, and walk around for the rest of the day with a smug look of satisfaction on your face, knowing that the fire’s still burning, and always will be. 

Waltzing Gremlins

Today marks the 439th day in a row I’ve written something via the MoaT.

Some posts have been objectively good. Others, sorta medium good. Some, especially more recently in my opinion, haven’t been that great. 

And yes, such is the nature of doing something everyday - you win some, you lose some, blah blah blah etc. I don’t beat myself up, not too badly anyway. 

That said, it’s interesting using the MoaT as a barometer for where I’m at. For example, I’m writing this about a half hour before the newsletter auto sends, which objectively isn’t the best timing if readable, substantive prose is the goal. My favorite time to write the MoaT is in the morning, when I’m most creative and focused. Why didn’t I write this morning, or the previous five? I’ve had the time. What’s distracting me? 

Writing the MoaT provides a daily opportunity to check in with myself, agenda free. Some days, like today, I don’t like what I find.

But just as I’ve committed to chucking a couple hundred words each day into the judgement-free embrace of the internet, so too shall I address every Gremlin as it waltzes, uninvited, into the party, armed with uncomfortable truths.

Kooky Politics

I’m driving southeast on 24 towards Chattanooga, tendrils of cloud whispering and winding through matchstick trees, stretching in an unbroken blanket over undulating countryside. I have a couple days free, and the thought of getting the hell out of dodge for 24 hours fills me with a giddiness that fellow travelers know well.

Chattanooga’s been called the “Portland of the South,” which anyone who’s been to both knows is grossly inaccurate. But it is raining, and you’re likely to encounter people requesting hemp milk, so I suppose it’s not entirely without merit. My original objective of going rock climbing’s thwarted on account of the rain, so I’ll instead spend tomorrow brewerie hopping, finishing songs, and reminding myself that when the path seems hidden, or generally impenetrable, that is, on balance, a good thing - otherwise, any old asshole could find it.

Travel’s nourishing. Things that were once nebulous and frustrating are drawn into sharper focus - the verse really should go like THIS after all, the chorus should go like THAT, and she’s just not that into you and that’s ok because you like your interests and bizarro life and being benignly confounding’s just fine thank you very much.

And, it’s a reminder that your reality’s so much more than one place, one social circle, or one industry’s kooky politics. The world’s a big place, multi-faceted and nuanced, not unlike your subtle evolution within it. 

Talented Swines

As artists, we should endeavor to collaborate with people who remind us that being the most talented swine in the room is the enemy of growth, catastrophically boring, and must be avoided at all costs.

Working with Gideon and Gabe Klein is kicking my ass in all the best ways, inspiring me to write from a place of previously untapped vulnerability. I’m digging deeper than I ever have.

I’m so happy this new band’s becoming such an important part of my life. 

Oasis of Calm

This past week’s been challenging when it’s come to writing the MoaT. I’m pretty burned out at the moment and just haven’t felt like it, and knowing there’s an engaged readership on the receiving end of my inelegant ramblings doesn’t help. 

But I haven’t skipped a day yet.

I’m reminded that the process of doing a thing is almost always more revelatory than the finished product.

That it’s ok entertaining every variation on a theme as to why something shouldn’t get done, letting self-doubt take up the majority of your creative real estate in the process (like it has for me tonight), then doing the thing anyway.

That being an engaged, creative human requires unique and unerring vulnerability, and doing the thing you say you’re going to do is an oasis of calm in a disquiet world. 

Naturally

Allen Stone fans, rejoice! 

We’ve been playing “Naturally” live for over three years, and it’s finally, officially, out in the world.

I’m especially stoked that Al and the label decided to use our live recording from Studio X in Seattle - the vibe that day was magical, and it was awesome contributing to the legacy of such a historic room shortly before it was forced to close its doors permanently. Changing times can be bittersweet.

”Naturally” is very much the brainchild of Swatty and Allen. The band added the bridge and a few arrangement suggestions, but the tune was basically finished before it was brought to us. Our pals Evan Oberla and Alphonso Horne wrote some epic horn parts and, hey presto, a song is born!

The falling diatonic chords, ala Unaware (Allen), and the gentle homage to classic soul (Swat) feels quintessentially Al Stone band to me, hardening back to the 2012/2013 years of invincibility and infinite potential. 

It’s available everywhere music’s streamed, and check out the video on YouTube.