Sleep

…and one final jet lag inspired post, this one, ironically, about sleep.

Matthew Walker is a professor of neuroscience at UC Berkeley, the Berkeley most people assume I went to (I don’t bother correcting them). His book, Why We Sleep, is an international best seller, which, to my shame, I haven’t read, but I recently listened to his podcast with Joe Rogan. 

Say what you will about Joe Rogan and his meatheadish tendencies, but the dude has some fascinating people on his show and, in this case, lets the guest steer the ship. 

There’s so much about sleep we’re not taught, and sleep machismo dominates our workaholic society. I came away from this interview dismayed by how little I knew, but eager to entertain said dismay after 7-9 solid hours of shuteye. 

Where Were You

More beautiful rediscovers courtesy of jet lag! 

There’re lots of great guitar players, but very few who’ve cultivated a truly unique voice on the instrument, and fewer still who’ve conjured a magic so deep that imitators are few and far between.

Jeff Beck is just such a sorcerer, and on top of his musical genius, he’s a bit of a bastard, which I love. 

I’m mesmerized by this performance every time. The Live at Ronnie Scott’s version’s also killer, but there’s something about the rawness and vulnerability captured here.

It’s inspiration to continue chasing the timorous-yet-sparkling music in my head

I Can Change

I’m embracing the jet lag like a champion and deep diving into some quality tunes. I love this song by my pals in Lake Street Dive. Their confidence to state the truth without equivocation always inspires, and Rachael Price is one of my favorite singers. She and Bridget wrote a classic.

Rivendell

This morning, I was in Rivendell, and now, I’m watching fireflies dance in the Tennessee twilight, marveling at how distant and impossible one place feels against the other.

And yet, here I am, back again, embracing jet lag like an old friend, scheming how life might continue taking me brazenly around the world.

But, for now, sleep. Like the dead. For the next 12 hours.

More thoughts on the trip tomorrow, from a decidedly less soupy and loopy brain... 

Back to Work

It’s eye crushingly early in the departure lounge of the Wellington International Airport, which evidently also doubles as a sleep apnea research facility. I’m flying back to Nashville today, and not entirely thrilled at the prospect.

Would that I could hang out indefinitely in variously accented, international hubs of intrigue, and as I’m writing this it occurs to me, hey, why not? Never having had a real job lends itself to head scratching lifestyle choices, and why am I trying something as stupid as getting a new band off the ground anyway? Better to hang out here, herd sheep, and drift into anonymity, right? 

Perhaps sadly, that’s not in the cards. Reality’s a subjective thing, and that I’m heading back to it means only that it’s up to me how things take shape. I like that. 

Rights of Passage

Last full day in NZ, and thankfully the band’s popular here because I can’t wait to come back.

I’m struck by the similarities between NZ and Iceland, two places I instantly fell in love with. Both islands, isolated, fiercely proud, gifted with millennia-old lore. Small, but with seemingly infinite, grand, and deeply wild country, the backdrops for reimagined tales of fantastical heroism.

And both with gnarly-yet-delicious seafood delicacies, rights of passage for wide-eyed off-islanders, that even staunch meat and potatoes enthusiasts from impossible places like Connecticut wolf down with near-orgasmic delight.

The sign of a good trip’s when you leave questioning everything, and this has been one of the best, and most necessary, in a long time. 

Word To The Wise

After a couple day bout with food poisoning, I’m back and primed and ready for Lord of the Rings tourism! Word to the wise: when staying on a rural New Zealand farm, replete with sheep, horses, and any number of enthusiastically defecating creatures, don’t eat unwashed fruit you find on the ground. 

Anyway. Wellington is a truly remarkable place, windswept, rugged, and instantly and effortlessly charming. The NZ fanbase is predominantly Maori, and we’ve been welcomed with a warmth I’ve been told’s unusual, and inundated with generosity of all sorts. In Auckland, we played our largest headlining show outside of the US and, almost by accident, we’ve discovered the Al Stone band’s second home.

The world’s a big ol’ confounding bit of, some would say, flat nonsense, and regardless of the insanity levels of those I meet along the way, I’m happy to be right there on the front lines with them, just as befuddling in my own forsaking-soy-lattes kinda way.

Play Live

Today, we’re playing a speakeasy in Wellington, NZ, and everyone at the venue’s amazing and the promoter’s amazing and both shows are sold out and I seriously might never come back on account of this place being stunningly beautiful, think a Polynesian Victoria, BC.

The crowd in Auckland was so loud at times that they drowned out the PA - it’s been a while since the Allen Stone universe has experienced something so enchanting and visceral, and it took me back to 2012, when there was a special mojo propelling the band, and times were, if not simpler, certainly more focused - find the fans, pile in the van, and play live.

That’s what this band does best, and hopefully this trip’s inspiration to retrace our steps, embrace our strengths, and quit trying to beat the house.

Auckland!

It’s nice and autumnal here in Auckland, New Zealand, and I spent this morning in appropriate hipster fashion, munching on breakfast sushi, slurping down flat whites, and lamenting my subpar cardiovascular fitness while trundling along gently undulating downtown streets. People are friendly, and there’s a big needle in space that dominates an otherwise understated skyline. I like it here. 

Tonight, we play the largest ever Allen Stone Electric Mayhem Feel Good Ensemble show in Oceania, right around two thousand Aucklanders, all sing-alongy and otherwise exuberant. My comfy little house in Nashville feels every bit of 12,965 km away, and I’m tempted to have my neighbor Big Country kick down the door, erect a big ol’ sign out front that says “Take Everything,” and maybe, just maybe, your friend Trevor never comes back, content to fold into Australasia, living off of Vegemite and the promise of new adventures. 

The Art of Asking

Here’s the book I’m currently reading. Challenging, illuminating, deeply spiritual, refreshingly pragmatic, and so very awesomely punk rock. I can’t recommend it highly enough for artists, certainly, but really for anyone who finds it tricky offering and accepting a helping hand.

Commendable Frolicking

One of the many nice things about touring Australia’s you’re never at a loss for beatific perches on which to write a daily email newsletter, and this early AM’s no exception. 

The scene on the beach is equal parts surfer types, tanned and fit and shredding the gnar, and jet lagged musician types, ghostly pale and with handles made for loving and half-heartedly frolicking in the surf, despite a deep distrust of daylight in general. In a satisfying “I don’t know what to do with my hands” moment, a noteworthy blues musician’s standing in the sand in combat boots, his handler gently suggesting that maybe putting his hand in the water would be ok, and I’m tempted to skip today’s festival set and people watch until my hunger for Tim Tams overwhelms.

But, tragically, I’m back in my hotel room, restringing my guitar, disappointed by my commitment to professionalism, but happy that our tour manager Ryan “Bear” Drozd is snoring on the couch, blissful and carefree, dreaming no doubt of a world devoid of man-children incapable of locating the catering tent.

Made-Up Places

Before the VIP meet and greet yesterday, as said VIPs began shuffling in, I decided to sit at the front of the stage and chat with whomever felt like ambling up. It was nice - about a dozen people lined the barricade, and we shot the breeze about guitars, Iron Maiden, and impossible, made-up places like Nashville, Tennessee. 

I tend not to go out after shows - after a couple hours of wall-of-sound dance party, a quiet place where nothing can harm me, aka the hotel room, is just the thing for a sensitive soul. But I miss hanging with fans, and one-on-one, before the club’s littered with plastic cups and post-show mania’s in full swing, I feel connected to the spirit of the thing I helped build.

Imperfect Slices

It’s a beautiful morning in Brisbane, and I’m writing this on my phone, instant coffee coursing through my veins, feet propped up on a janky lanai table. Here it is, or rather here I am, in real time. Premium content!

It’s fifteen minutes until lobby call, and re-purposing little quarter hour chunks of time away from aimless scrolling and in the service of self-reflection’s what being on tour’s all about.

The jet lag’s more-or-less subsided, and while my brain remains largely filled with jumbled, sleepy non sequiturs, sitting here and pecking away in my “do not disturb” fortress of solitude, mini-bar ransacked and every towel used, fills me with peaceful thoughts.

Mine’s an imperfect slice of the pie, but I’ll take it.

Upright Basses

The Allen Stone Electric Mayhem Ensemble played to our largest ever Australian crowd last night at the Metro Theatre in Sydney, and as I’m writing this while in line at the oversized baggage drop off point, waiting for an impossible amount of upright basses to confuse the airport staff and, inevitably, jam the luggage conveyer belt, I’m grateful for music, where it’s taken me, and what I continue to learn.

Book A Ticket

“A Scotsman, a South African, and an American walk into a bar in Australia” sounds like the setup for an awful joke, but in my case it’s just another family gathering. As I’m writing this, the Sydney Opera House is shimmering against a cloudless, sapphire sky, and whatever clichéd, Bob-Seger-road-warrior stuff’s out the window - I’m in one of the world’s great cities, variously accented Larkins laid waste to a local drinking hole last night, and music paid for the ticket. It’s a good day, and another sold out show tonight will make it even better.

Having an international family means traditional gatherings are challenging. “Let’s have Christmas at Grandma’s” involves tens of thousands of dollars in airfare, and the Herculean task of coordinating a multi-continent slumber party tends to be met with a resounding “meh.” Luckily, this line of work allows me to see everyone about once a year, whether it’s Australia, South Africa, London, Singapore, or wherever the hell my weirdo tribe lands. It’s my favorite part of the job. 

And, as a musician, travel’s a reminder that if a certain scene’s hipness feels like a suffocating miasma of hopelessness, well, we live in a big ol’ beautiful world - if your tunes don’t resonate in Music City, maybe they will in Melbourne, or Munich, or Madrid. Book a ticket and find out.

Emotive Faces

The Stringed Instrument Emotive Face Tripod, courtesy of the Allen Stone Electric Ensemble in Melbourne, Victoria, Australia.

Buzzsaw Tone

Australian crowds are always awesome, and last night was no exception. Looking out onto a packed club in a country a VERY long way away from the nearest Waffle House never gets old.

But it was a wedge gig, and we are, in satisfying rock and/or roll fashion, terrifyingly loud on stage, so not only am I jet lagged and under-caffeinated at the time of writing, but also shell shocked, having been bludgeoned for the better part of two hours by cymbal crashes, synthesizer bleep-bloops, and a buzzsaw overdrive tone that would’ve made Lemmy from Motörhead proud. It’s taken a concerning amount of time to write 111 words, and I recognize an all-day-underpants-day when I see one.

At any rate, the point of today’s MoaT - check out our opener for this run, Louis Baker. A soul artist from Wellington, New Zealand, one of my new favorite singers, and a sweet heart of a human. Inspiring stuff. 

Up At Sparrows

I am, as they say here in Australia, “up at sparrows,” swimming in jet lag but happy as a clam, strolling along the streets of Melbourne near our hotel, early enough that go-getter types are jogging and yoga-ing and drinking soy-based caffeine-y things, and late enough that boozy, skinny-jean enthusiasts are staggering home. It’s sunny and lovely and we’re going to play soul music in front of a thousand or so people tonight.

Survival tip for touring musicians: if you want to do this for a living, sleep is like water. No amount of whiskey-soaked buffoonery’s worth waking up in a foreign country with a nuclear cold. Melbourne’s a fantastic city, but my days of staying out until the wee hours and tying one on are, for the most part, behind me, as is going full-Bourdain. I’m all about a morning constitutional, strong cup of coffee, a few pictures, then power nap and show mode time. I just saw how much they’re charging for tickets, and good lord do I ever owe it to the fans to play my ass off.

Traveler Bliss

I’m sitting across the aisle from the president of a reputable music program at a major university. We’ve met a few times, and such is the theater of air travel that we pretend not to recognize each and it’s totally fine.

I’ve just confirmed that I do, in fact, have a middle seat from LAX to Melbourne, in a row with a bassinet, which means 15 hours of potential close proximity baby crying and my channeling every ounce of musterable energy towards infinite patience. And, judging by the way he’s knocking back Jack and Diets, I’d wager a “how’s the weather” conversation with an acquaintance in a muppet t-shirt isn’t high on Señor Presidente’s list. 

So, we sit, staring straight ahead in seasoned traveler bliss, I, with fashion sense severely limiting my number of potential romantic partners, and him, with inspiring, go get ‘em spirit, embracing the opportunity to drink like it’s the end of the world. 

To my fellows travelers out there, be well, stay safe, and give your liver a break.

Cantankerous Mooncalf

I’m writing this on my comfortable couch in my comfortable little house, about to be en route to the least comfortable place on earth - the Los Angeles International Airport. 

In fact, when this hits your inboxes, I’ll still be at the Los Angeles International Airport, rocking back and forth in some dusty corner of the Tom Bradley International Terminal, deep in existential crisis.

My utter disgust towards the Los Angeles International Airport’s ameliorated somewhat by knowing I’m about to eat my body weight in Vegemite and Tim Tams, and if the port of exit to happy, dancing music fans in a different freaking hemisphere’s your lone source of acridity, well, you’re holding some damn fine cards, you cantankerous mooncalf.

Oh, and here’s a link to the new Climb The Sky video, an acoustic(ish) live performance of “Neverland” from Gid and Gabe’s studio.