It's the Little Things...

It has been a while since I blogged. I commend those that are able to do weekly or daily posts. Apparently, I do not have the time management skills that they have, or I recognize my life, despite being a rockstar (hahaha), is relatively boring: wake-up, workout, work, come home, play music, sleep…repeat. Maybe it is that I lack the ability or desire to make the mundane interesting…maybe I am building a fortress of excuses around me and none of them really matter. What matters is, I haven’t been blogging, but I am now.

Last night was the debut performance for my new band, So Much Closer. I don’t really have any intentions on rehashing the show…there will be picks on Facebook and a YouTube video. At the end of the day, it was a gig something I have been doing since 1996. The fact that it was with a new band that has tons of potential certainly heightened my level of excitement, but as I reflect back, all my mind remembers is what we need to fix. The curse of every musician I believe: our stage volume is out of control…we are using amps to compete with Patrick’s drumming when we should be using the house sound. Unfortunately Swans’s amp cannot keep up with Chris’ and pushing mine to that level causes me to lose the clean tone of the Clara. The one song I didn’t start took off like a jet fueled GTI and lost its natural groove in the process, instead it sounded like a train wreck of beats and big vocals. Other than that there were only slight hiccups where someone lost the 1 or introduced a new chord. All and all, probably 35 minutes of tightness and 5 of what just happened.



What I really wanted to talk about was the venue, odd name that caused more questions than I care to deal with when promoting a show, but the coolest venue I have played in a LONG time, The Library. Now, outside of the Firebird, which we are working on, and a few blues clubs, I am pretty confident that I have played every room in St. Louis, not to mention I have some road time as reference. The Library is not awesome because it has the best sound in the world (although it was stellar) or because the stage is the biggest and newest (it is not).
The Library is awesome because the little things and their staff.

Everybody there seemed equally excited to see the show, like they were there for the show too, like they took a job there not because they needed a job but because they wanted to be around live ORIGINAL music. So many times the employees at music venues make me feel like just another tip, particularly the slicker/prettier venues. Sure they may be rocking the look, exposed tats, a piercing or two, but they do not bleed and sweat for music. From Porsche behind the bar to Todd at the door to Sheri who booked it to Tom (from JTS Audio) running sound, everyone was totally cool.

Now the little stuff, they had a back stage! And, it was organized for bands. You could tell the people working there had done this before. So many venues I have played, the stage is an after thought, even the Old Rock House which is totally amazing and probably has the best stage/sound in town, did not think about load-in and storage. There is nowhere but the stage to put bags, cases, coats, etc. Plus back stage The Library had Fruit and Vegetable trays for us. The only other venue I have played at that did that was The Pageant, just the coolest sentiment. Even though girlfriends of the band probably ate more of it than we did, it showed total appreciation for what we do, and that…that means everything to me.

So what has the Library done by doing this? Earned loyalty, and not just as a musician but as a patron. If I am looking for something to do on a Friday or Saturday, guess where I am going to look first, The Library. When I book a show there, I am going to promote it like Kid Rock promoted shows back in Detroit. When it comes time for me to do a CD release party, guess where I am going to try to book first? The Library is the correct answer. Off Broadway used to be this venue for me when Connie owned it and Jen was behind the bar, but now I cannot even get Steve to return an e-mail…so Library, you got my support, the support of my band, and everybody we brought loved it, so they will be back!

Bad High-School Poetry

It has been kind of a weird week for me. Like most people I have a few different versions of myself, but for the most part Poet/Musician Eric is the Supreme Ruler of me. I have given him that title because there appears to be very little democracy in the decision making process, like Homeowner Eric thinks there are tons of things he could do with tax return money, but he has yet to win that debate, seems every year there is an amp that Poet/Musician Eric must have or he has to go in to the studio or needs a new guitar because there is a tonal gap with the 7 he currently has.

This week was Work Eric’s week. I do not intend to discuss work in this blog for a few reasons, but primarily because Work Eric is quiet possibly the weakest of the Erics. He may be a bit stronger than Homeowner Eric, but still nothing compared to Poet/Musician Eric or Friend Eric or Family Eric; however, his importance is not diminished on the tribal counsel and all versions of Eric are appreciative that his contributions provide them freedom, but he kind of just does what he has to, not really what he wants to. He is driven by a combination of fear and desire to succeed. The deal was he was really busy this week, which caused everybody else to take a break from their normal functions, except Workout Eric, Workout Eric never alters his routine.

Alright now that everyone officially thinks I have lost it, let’s talk songwriting. I had an opportunity to sit down and write yesterday, which is a rarity for me due to the chaos that I keep for a schedule, but Saturday afternoon offered a perfect window to get something accomplished. I had a chord progression I had been toying with for a few weeks and a line that I wanted to work in to a song, just needed the time to tie them together. The line is “Traffic Stopping Stunning” (maybe it is more of a label than a line). It is something I coined while I was in Birmingham on my Southeast Swing tour and saw the most amazingly attractive girl at a show I was playing at Marty’s. So I took that, ensconced it in a warm blanket of shyness, and this is what came out.

I Don’t Know Your Name

(Verse 1)
Silent energy between distant eyes
My mind drafts stories of us tonight

(Verse 2)
I play the rescuer, you the enslaved queen
Destroy armies just to set you free

(Verse 3)
Then you’ll play the flower and I’ll be the bee
Sip from your nectar to quench my need

(Chorus)
You’re traffic stopping stunning
But you don’t even know my name
You’re traffic stopping stunning
But I don’t even know your name

(Verse 4)
Tantric crescendo as we close the gap
I’m staring at you, but you’re looking past

(Verse 5)
Crafted stories escape my mind
Hope blue sky falls to moonlight wine

(Verse 6)
I would have held you 10,000 days
but intense pressure left no words to say

(Chorus)

(Bridge)
All these years of quiet fears
Guess I am still the same
In this hour, I’ve lost my power
Because I don’t know your name

As you can tell, I do not really follow a standard songwriting format Verse/Chorus/Verse/Chorus/Bridge/Chorus, and that is okay. I do not claim to write country or pop, so if I bend the rules so be it. The issue that I have and why I rarely share lyrics is they are never as good as poetry. When I sit down to write a song, rather than to just write, I will innately structure the words to fit the tune. When performed everything seems fine, but on paper, if you are reading the words, they are just not that good. To me, very few song lyrics can hold their own on the page, maybe Waits, Dylan and Morrison, but outside of that they all sound like bad high-school poetry.

I suppose that is really all I have this week. I’ve been very focused on getting everything in place for So Much Closer, getting assistance with Logo creation from Stephanie, launching all necessary pages: Facebook, MySpace, and a FanBridge page so you can join the e-mail list. I also put together an ArtistData account, which I am still learning how to use effectively, and the CafePress site will be up once the logo is complete.
Here is the first draft of the logo:



Lastly we started talking with Abi Robins from Morning Bird Records about joining their collective. There is a lot of potential there to help out the scene and get some much needed support for out of town shows. And that really is it. Hope everyone has a good week...Eric

Days I Will Never Forget [Morgan Page]

I think if you asked the majority of my friends they would say I hate clubs, and I probably wouldn’t deny it, but that is not entirely true. What I dislike is the bullshit that accompanies clubs, the Too Cool Crew that lines outside walls, mean mugging people with puffed pathetic chests, as they tip up dangling bottles of domestic, held loosely between their index finger and thumb...the prostitots putting their pure petals on display for all to ogle at, more interested in being scene than the underground scene...the inevitable chaos of those that cannot control consumption milling about like wayward atoms in super conductor, colliding into each other and disrupting the energy of those that are living for the beat.

Here is what I love about them: dance, sweat induced euphoria, good friends having good times, the pulsation, BPMs that hit so hard they alter the rhythm of your heart, being lost in the moment.

It had been years since I had been to a “club” club, but this Saturday I had the opportunity to see the Grammy Nominated Morgan Page do his thing, and it was VIP all the way. My keeper (this keeper concept came out of an earlier post,I essentially have one good friend from every segment of my life) from High School, Jared, has bucked the system since we were 15, and it is finally paying off for him.



He is managing several extremely successful DJs and making a living at it. Morgan is his client, so Jared got me, and a few of my favorites, on the guest list.

Whitney and Noellen


Allyson


To be honest, the only reason I went there was to see Jared, and I thought it was cool that I could hook some friends up. By the time the night was over, the reason I was glad I was there was it reminded me of how much joy I find in dance, and how much I genuinely enjoy House/Techno/DnB. I mean, I am not going to play it in Saaby on my way to work, but when you want to lose yourself in movement and music, there is nothing better. It really was a great night, mean muggers kept to themselves, prostitos stumbled about, as they do, but the energy in Sol Lounge was infectious and Morgan was pulling our chords like a great Puppet Master. I had the pleasure of dancing with 5 amazing ladies (Allyson, Heidi, Megan, Noellen, and Whitney) and two of my best friends (Jeff and Jared) all night long. Other than playing a show, it really doesn’t get better than that for me.

Bad photo of the crew:


What I look like after 2 plus hours of dancing...ROUGH!!!

Even my shoulder was sweating...that is just wrong!

When I was younger and in the Navy I spent a lot of time at dance clubs. I wrote this piece after dancing ‘til dawn on Oahu.

Waikiki Waltz

Clouds waltz across an opaque sky
Waikiki wipes the sleepies from her eyes
Geisha girls scuffle by in bowed appreciation
Street lamps bloom at the stroke of 8pm
Conversations filled with the purity of summer romance
Jungle beats bounce your feet through its doors
Dancers groove to strobe light amplification
With sweaty confused eyes Puppet Master controls you
Sarah arrives with quarterly refreshments
Halo's appear hovering above angel heads
Manito kissed his child, sent her down on winged cloud
Robotic rhythm drives blood pulsation
Exhaustion slows mind, slows body
Manito's child vanishes, angels follow
Once pure streets now soiled with inebriation
Cool breezes walk tourists to hotels
At dawn Waikiki sleeps

Days I Will Never Forget [the Black Crowes]

There are days in your life that you will remember forever. I was fortunate enough to have 2 this week. The first was an All Access Pass to the Black Crowes at the Pageant. When the Crowes busted on to a thirsty music scene in 1990 with Shake Your Money Maker, I was an instant fan. They were accessible and offered the two qualities I look for most in a band, great vocals and good lyrics. Sadly I lost track of them after Amorica. I tried to search my mind for a reason why I would have let them slip from regular play, but I have no good excuse. I do know I started playing guitar in 1996 and my musical focus shifted quickly to singer/songwriters like Edwin McCain, David Wilcox, Dave Mathews, and Duncan Sheik. Still that is not an acceptable reason. When a friend from work approached me about going to the concert, I jumped at the chance.

The invitation was kind of odd because as we discussed the concert, he kept referencing VIP and getting back stage. Now, I have been a fan of music my whole life, I can still remember seeing Heart and Mister Mister with my mom and the Chicago Blues festivals when my little youth belly was full on hotdogs & funnel cakes and my ears were in love with the soulful sounds of life that were being emitted from the stage, but I have never been back stage (unless I was playing the show, of course). My friend is pretty high up in the company I work for, so I thought maybe that is how he rolled, like maybe he has some corporate pull or something. Honestly I didn’t know and didn’t care, we could have had GA tickets, and I would have been stoked. To see and hear Chris Robinson do his thing was all I needed.

The Monday before the show Tom rolled into my office and started talking about VIP seating and getting on the bus. The bus! Seeing a tour bus is a MAJOR fantasy of mine, not the Black Crowes bus specifically but any tour bus. So many of my dreams are wrapped up in that bus that I just want to see what my life could be like some day. At any rate, I had to get to the bottom of this. How were we getting all the special treatments? So, I asked. His reply, “You jerk…the drummer is my brother. You didn’t know?” No! Tom and I connected through music upon first introduction. He is also in a band and is an amazing, toneful, lead player. Tom’s son is also a skilled guitarist. We spent a lot of time discussing gear, our projects, and his son’s bands, but the topic of his brother never came up.

The concert was amazing. The Black Crowes can throw down with any band, stage presence that would make even the most committed girlfriend question whether or not the Robison brothers count as 1 or 2 on her freebie list. Chris’ voice broke through the thick jam progressions and grounded the audience in the reality that they were witnessing one of the great singers of our time. With the addition of Luther Dickinson on lead, the grooves were intense but well constructed. I never had a sense that they were just noodling. They were always moving the tune somewhere.



And Tom’s brother, Steve, was a monster behind the kit providing nice punctuated beats, and helping things stay in order while giving us some ear candy to appreciate.

As it turned out, I did not get to see the bus, but I did get to watch the show from the wing, meet Steve, Luther, and the keyboardist Adam MacDougall. More than I could ask for from any concert. Tom, if you are reading, thanks!!!


(Sorry for the photo quality, I was shooting with my phone)

Weeks in Rewind...

Life after Southeast Swing 2009 can only be described as chaotic. The week I got back was the final week/weekend for a major project at work. My schedule was all discombobulated. After some calculation I determined that I put in 66 hours between Friday and Monday, as a result there was no blog. The last week was all about getting back to my normal routine and putting the finishing touches on Roktoberfest Belated, more on that later but first I want to talk about Son Volt and Complexions.

As I indicated in this post One Fast Move, Son Volt is one of my top 5 bands. There is something completely genius and inspiring about Jay Farrar. His lyrics are grounded, rooted in the common, but extremely intelligent and poetic at the same time. Jay possesses this quiet calm on stage, as if the energy pouring into the song is so intense that it would be wasted on some showy performance. This was my 4th time seeing Son Volt, but the first time I got to expose newbs to their music. In tow was the It Burns bowling team; Warren (has previously be referenced in my blogs), Jeff (he has also been mentioned and was my road warrior for SE Swing), Stephanie (who you are familiar with from Epic Roadtrip ’09) and a newcomer to my blog Jen, also referred to as Jenertainment, for no other reason than she is a lot of fun.



I love this group of people, everyone unique but connected by a shared love of music, intelligence, whit, sarcasm, bowling, spicy food (hence the name, It Burns) and a desire to have fun whenever possible. Collectively everyone had a good time. I think Son Volt may have been a bit too Country for Jen and Warren, but Jeff, Steph, and I were completely awed by the performance. They were touring in support of American Central Dust which is their 6th album, but they played all the favorites, and Jay threw in a couple tunes from the One Fast Move or I am Gone CD. Highlight for me was probably “Cocaine and Ashes” because it is stark and powerful. We parted ways and I had a great drive home enjoying the Indian Summer in the Saab, top down of course. Oh yeah, I did have a pretty amazing Dirty Blonde there, as well.



Saturday, was the big Roktoberfest Belated day, but we are not there yet…Complexions . As you may or may not know, my ex-wife was a Modern Dancer. I met her in college after a Dance concert. I was always interested in dance, as I am interested in all the arts, but being married to a dancer definitely heightened my emotional attachment to dance, to its creation, the thoughts behind the movement, the sacrifices dancers make for their art, as well as my overall knowledge of dance. Alvin Ailey to Angela was like BB King to me. A couple years ago I had an opportunity to see the Alvin Ailey Company at the Fox, and I jumped at it. Though I have been divorced for several years, my respect for this incredible art form has not wavered. Saturday, Desmond Richardson’s company, Complexions Contemporary Ballet, was at the Touhill, and I could not miss that opportunity. Desmond was a protégé of Alvin Ailey and is quite possibly the best dancer alive. There were three acts to the show with multiple group pieces. His dancers were all amazing, especially Christina Dooling who is extremely captivating, but his solo has forever changed the way I will look at dance. There was more soul and emotion in the curl of his fingers than most people could produce doing a full piece. He is the Elvis of dance.

Finally, the 3rd Annual Roktoberfest (Belated), I started throwing this party when I had a roommate who was also a musician. The first two years were very gimmicky, resplendent with PBR, Camo cans, and Stag. In a sense we were poking fun at an often misguided hipster rock culture, while embracing the idea of rock at the same time. Roktoberfest was about drinking, food, and costumes, with inevitable jam sessions. This year I put the focus on the music. Sure there was a keg, but it was a keg of good beer, Boulevard Wheat! Hate me if you must, but I have a really good job, why should I subject my guests to crappy beer just because it is trendy?

For the past several months I have been practicing with a great group of musicians (Patrick Swan on MiniKorg/Trumpet/Guitar/Vocals, Chris Logan on Bass, and Patrick Enright on Drums) but because of work delays, Swan's wedding, Epic Roadtrip ‘09, and my SE Swing, the process has taken way longer than anyone of us were accustom to. We were all getting antsy and just needed to get in front of people to validate that what we have has value, but we knew we were not tight enough to book a venue, so we commenced on turning my living room into a fitting stage for the debut performance of So Much Closer. Our performance was not perfect, but it was VERY close. I’d say we are at about 85% and should be ready to start playing out in December.

So Much Closer:


Me doing my thing:


Now, since we had converted the living room to a club atmosphere, it seemed fitting to have a DJ, and luckily I happen to know the best Drum and Bass DJ in St. Louis, Dylan Thomas to the rescue. At one point my living room looked closer to a raging, pulsating, club, than it looked like a respite for the work weary.



It was the best Roktoberfest to date, kicking off at 8p and officially closing down at 4:55a after we got back from a much needed gravy run, and I sent my last tweet before crawling in bed. What made it great for me was not solely the So Much Closer performance or the amazing DnB by Dylan, but that several fragments from my world were forced to collide, and they all played nice with each other. It is great to have amazing friends…you all know who you are.

The Truth in this Sculpture

As you may or may not know, I have been roadtripping again. This time I was off to Columbus, GA to meet up with my dad for the World War II Ranger Reunion. Every year we run the "Hospitality Suite" (aka tend bar) for the old Veterans. My grandpa was an original Darby's Ranger, 1/B. It is our way of honoring his legacy. This year, since the reunion didn't begin until Wednesday, I opted to take a few extra days and play my way down there, so I did a show Monday in Starkville, MS. Tuesday I hit up Marty's in Birmingham, AL, and then Wednesday did a set at the Loft in Columbus. I have lots to say about this adventure, but I need time to construct my thoughts, and time, sadly, I do not have at the moment.

I did, however, want to share a poem I wrote while visiting the Birmingham Art Museum.

The Truth in this Sculpture

Surrounded by stoic souls
frozen by bronze cast
many years before he took his first breath
ponders garden emptiness
diagonal bricks
weathered and mossy
central ponds
black and white tile circles beneath filtered water
leaves settled on turquoise and lavender ceramic squares
mathematically placed and divisible by 2 to create his number
one greater than his number
he paces in the underbelly of Birmingham
seedy story of a city that pursued the great division of color
your fountain
his fountain
afraid to touch the very handle colored hands turned to drink the very same water
now hiding in the thick nappy weave of goatees
proving we are not so far removed
if they could have just seen the Rodin statue
as he sees it now
facially Caucasian but structure folkloric African
immense ape like hands attached to ground dragging arms
chest
thick-wide-powerful
like Silverback standing upright
pounding to display dominance
Martin did not pound chest
pounded pulpit
two streets over
where he rallied those that saw the truth in this sculpture
and the truth
the truth shall set you free
but the world hums
above-besides-below-between
never stopping
always go-go-going
ruining the tranquility of his moment
this moment
when solitude inspired clarity begs to be shared
Hello, Are you there? Are you listening?

It may take me a couple weeks, but I will recap the entire trip soon. Hope you enjoyed the poem. Oh and you can see some Video on my YouTube page, embedded videos are conveniently located to the right... :-)

Community

Thirteen years since I wrote my first song, and I still host/frequent Open Mics. I have actually been hosting the Open Mic at St. Charles Coffee House every Tuesday for just about two years now. I don't get paid anything for it, have nothing really to gain from playing 3 to 4 songs every Tuesday when I am sitting on over 4 hours of original material, but I do it. For some, I think this is a hard concept to embrace. I mean you’ve played the Pageant why would you subjugate yourself back to the ranks of Open Mic performer? Community.

In the scene that gave life to Eric the performing singer/songwriter, Open Mics were an essential step in your evolution. You could not book a gig until you had proven yourself on the Open Mic scene, of course recording was more expensive back then and very few people starting out had CDs. Now, kids are dropping discs before they have even worked a crowd. The problem is you can make a slurring drunk with a toothless lisp and no upper register sound good with the right studio tools. As a result, I think the performance level at our venues is inconsistent which results in smaller crowds because people are less willing to go out and see a band they have never heard of if they are not confident they are going to be good.

Wait…wait…I was two seconds away from a cliff jumping diatribe, and that was not the intent, today. Community.

I got a Facebook message on Wednesday from Whitney, an Open Mic Regular and budding Poet. She thought it would be cool to dress up for the 10/27 Open Mic. Now that is what I am talking about, someone from the community coming up with an idea to improve the community. Of course, I totally agreed. Spooktacular Open Mic is a great idea, but it could be a little difficult because I am out of town next week, so it is going to be up to the community to spread the message. Luckily, we are a very trendy Open Mic and are connected via Social Media, #StCCHOpenMic for you Twitters, myspace.com/stcchopenmic…I know I should have a Facebook fan page for it, but it seems redundant when most of the regulars are already on my friends list…someday, when I have time, I will break down and do that. So, I sent out a couple tweets and people are on board. What about folks that stumble into the coffeehouse, those that are not regulars, we need to get flyers made for them, but I am slammed and don’t have time to make one. What to do? Go to the community, I know Cara, Tom Dugan’s girlfriend, is a Graphics Designer (Tom is hosting in my absence, by the way), so I reach out to her, she is more than willing to do it, by the end of the day I have a flyer in hand (actually on an attachment, cyber talk doesn’t always lend itself to the dramatic). I was up at FedEx Office on Saturday morning and dropped off the flyers soon after.



If you were just thinking “Hmmm, the communal nature of Eric’s Open Mic is probably a metaphor for his social-political ideology” you were correct. For those that did not pick-up on it, let me be a little clearer. I want Universal Health Care and would gladly pay more to the community to ensure that every man, woman, and child had coverage. For those that do not want this, that think Health Care Reform is some how the first step in an Orwellian, Big Brotheresque, government take over, that stand on the corner of suburban streets with revolutionary banners threatening to dump tea and wage war, I ask where the hell is your humanity? I do not want big government. I am not pro-huge deficits, but I do want to know that if some little kid gets injured it is not going to bankrupt the single-mother that is raising her. That if something happens and I lose my job, I do not have to worry that a bout of H1N1 is going to find me in debt. Oh and if you are planted firmly on the religious right wondering WWJD, I’ve read the books and he would want universal health care, just sayin’.

Well there you have it…ah the power of the flashing cursor and a blank page. When I got up this morning I was just going to post a poem that I read last Tuesday because Whitney said she liked it. I guess I'll give you the poem now.

How my Heart Heard

Closed eyes to Duncan
so I could recall your head on my chest
my fingers skating on your skin

Dreamt of you
your tired eyes peaceful slumber
interrupted by cognition

Dreamt of all the things
I wanted to say

I wanted my Gray’s moment
wanted to stand on chair
hands to ceiling
pleading with you
to pick me
choose me
puff my silver back chest
so you could see my value

I didn’t
fearing I would
lose the moment
lose the silent sound
of life cyclically dancing
from your lungs to mine
of blue light
red hue
purple shimmer
of 9 holes and 90’s tights
of me wrapped around you in need

So I remain mute
allowing Duncan
to speak for me
And how I shed such tears but never cry
This is how I want her
And how I kiss her lips and taste goodbye
This is how I want her
Run from the moment
knowing I was too deep

Startled eyes
opened at 8
knowing it was too soon
drifted off
to dream of the
softness of your kiss

The Tale of T-Rex and the Sports Coat

There are a variety of euphemisms that can be used in place of fat. There is the fun and cutesy, Pleasantly Plump, but I ain’t that cute. I believe Thick is reserved for black women. Big Boned sounds good, but it does not explain my love handles or belly. Of course we have the ever popular Big and Beautiful, but frankly that just seems too desperate, like we are trying to convince the world that we can still be beautiful even though we are big. Although I agree with that statement, until Rubens makes a come back, I don’t think the world is going to listen. So, I use Big Boy. I am a Big Boy. This fact affects my life in many ways. It definitely finds its way into my poetry and music from time to time, and is always present at Christmas time.

Like most 35 year olds with a Master’s degree, a good job, a house, etc., I pretty much have everything I need. So, every Christmas this conversation occurs.

Mom: “Sweetie, what do want for Christmas, and I am not buying you CDs. I am tired of buying you CDs.”

Me: “Well, how about a DVD.”

Mom: “No…try again.”

Me: “Well, I could always use some clothes.”

This is not because I love clothes, more because I hate them and therefore rarely shop for them, as a result I could always use some new threads, as the holey undershirts and shredded skivvies will attest (okay it is not that bad, but they are worn).

Mom: “Okay, sounds good.”

It took me a few years to figure this out, but this is a horrible gift to give a Big Boy because the shit never fits. After trying on four shirts that look like a wetsuit when squeezed over the belly the emotions take a turn for the worst and the hatefest ensues. Before you know it, you are curled up in a ball with tears dried to your cheek and a slice of thick crust pepperoni and bacon consoling you. So I decided to get smart about it.

Mom: “Sweetie, what do want for Christmas, and I am not buying you CDs. I am tired of buying you CDs.”

Me: “Well, how about a DVD.”

Mom: “No…try again.”

Me: “Well, how about a gift card to the Big and Tall store (the need for clothes is still there, but this way I would be in control and could prevent the week of self-degradation)”

Innocent Pause

Mom: “But, you are just big, you’re not tall.”

Me: “Thanks mom. It is really big OR tall.”

Mom: “Well, sweetie, I am going to make a Short and Stout store.”

My mom meant no ill will by that statement. It was just her first experience with Big Boys-R-Us, and the reality is, she was right. The clothes at the Casual Male XL are really geared more towards tall people that are also big, rather than just Big Boys.

Flash forward to this week. I had a wedding to attend. Patrick, my musical chameleon from Pawnshop Testimonies, the Frontline, and now So Much Closer, got married last night, and I had a date to his wedding, not only a date, but a date with an extremely special girl, someone I have been pursuing for years…when you speak of me you will speak of my persistence.

I wanted to look cute for this event, hip, like all the thin 20 something hipsters at my office. I get this idea of sports coat, oxford, tie, and some nice dirty jeans, a look I wore for years when I was thinner and haunting the coffeehouses of San Diego. So, I busted out of work early one day to ensure I could get to the store on time. Casual Male XL knows they are our only real option, so there is no need for them to be accommodating with their hours. I rolled up in there ready to drop some serious coin on their ridiculously inflated prices and began the process. Two coats into it, and it was completely evident that while most of you are decedents of Chimpanzees, I evolved from the Tyrannosaurus Rex. Not one coat fit me. Not one. And I tried on every sports coat in there, even ones that I would never wear. Apparently with my shoulder to belly ratio I should also have arms that drag the ground. Seriously, there were times when I couldn’t even see my hands (Rachel, I promise if someone else was there to take photos, I would have shot them just for you). It was pathetic and saddening.

I went to the wedding sporting the standard Khakis, Blue Oxford, and Tie.


I know this is totally unrelated to the weight story, but it is about Christmas, and I wanted to stick to my poetry in every blog declaration.

Christmas in Arizona

The wind came in as jet wash
Cutting between Huachuca and Mule Mountain
The whistle and howl
Replaced by guttural growl
As if the underworld
Was trying to speak to the heavens
Tangled vines and thorns
Chase coyotes across common ground
While neighborhood dogs sound Centurion Alarms
Pacing fences with protector's strut and erect tails
Sinister clouds clothe a dawn sky
Like great cape of super hero menace
High Desert winter shower
Washes red dirt from exhausted buildings
Beat down by an oppressive sun
As the rains stop
Children emerge from deep dreams
Of sugar plum dances and wrapping paper
The wonder of twinkling lights
And bows reflected in innocent eyes
While parents pass out gifts
From Santa's workshop

Remember...remember...remember

A variety of events lead me to this ramble/poem (I will explain that a little later). First my friend Mel and I were chatting about poetry after the St. Charles Coffee House Open Mic (#StCCHOpenMic for my Tweeps). She was curious as to what style my poetry would be considered. I have never been good with labels for my poetry or music, not that I am above them, but I am unschooled in both, so it is hard to nail down a genre for either. I am creating both out of grace, out of passion. I am impelled to write and sing (not play the guitar; that is a labor of love, definitely not natural for me).

My Mom is a singer and filled the house with amazing music my entire life, every car ride featured silence and radio, minus outbursts from my sister, love you Twyla. Cleaning the house was not a chore, it was an opportunity to listen to great music at volumes that helped me to feel it. I listened to her singing the songs, and like any good son I joined in. So, I come by my voice naturally, and the music I create is a blend of everything I have heard my entire life and what natural skill I was born with.

Similarly, my father is a writer, so my pen has always been there. Unfortunately, I lack his desire to craft. I just want to paint pictures with words. Sometimes they are beautiful and intense, and sometimes they are more like cheesy post cards, but it is a natural form of expression for me.

I told Mel I wrote Free Verse and explained my style is derived by the fact that I am a musician and hear it in my head when I am writing it. I think there is a definite distinction there. Some writers see it, see the form, see the language scrawl across the page. I do not. I am not a visual person. I hear it in my head, hear what it would sound like if I read it, the pauses, the inflections, the meter shifts. The conversation ended with, “Well whatever it is I like it.” I thanked her, and asked her to send me a subject, and told her I would write something for next week. Sometimes it is good for me to force my pen…sometimes not. You’ll be able to decide later what this was. She sent: struggle, survival, and hope.

You’d think these topics would have an instant effect on me, but I think I view struggle as challenge and survival is innate, so I really wasn’t sure where I was going to go with them. Then I watched Fame this weekend. It was a very important show to me when I was a kid, it helped fortify my passion allowed me to dream. I sat down Saturday evening, about midnight, running on 3 hours of sleep from the night before, and this spilled out. Did it address her subject request; I hope. Is it one of my better poems; nope. Is it real and authentic; yep.

Remember

I remember the first time I wanted you
Fifth grade
Stale scent
Old walls
Clanking keys
Pure voices
External pressure non-existent
But internal
Desire
Drive
Dream
To hold
To touch
To feel
You were unobtainable
But
Desire
Drive
Dream
Was stoked
Flames roared through junior-high
Seventh grade
Shoe string strap
Hockey stick strum
"Suicide Solution" sung full throat
Trying to evoke you
Please you
Intoxicating embers carried me through high-school
Ratio of words spoken to sang
Resulted in nullification
And free hours when shorts chased skirts
Found me communing with sacred sheets
Desire
Drive
Dream
Controlled the rudder
Continued to steer
Through boot-camp to coffee shops
Through dingy smoke lit bars to shiny stages with large lights in eyes
Blinding
Left me feeling
Alone
Complete
Fulfilled
As your ghostly caress
Found me
Held me
Like you had 25 years before
And I still want you
But you…you remain
Nameless
Faceless
Shapeless
Nothing more than a construct of my
Desire
Drive
Dream

Never saw my home town until I stayed away to long…

Where do you live and Where are you from are two completely different questions to me, with different expectations, intent, and answers. I live in St. Peters, MO. I don’t even say St. Louis when asked. I feel like the burbs always take a beating, so I like to proudly rep my little Western oasis of convenience and more-for-the-money housing. Sure my neighbors are semi-hoosier, and I have gone out on my front porch to find a gutted dear laying legs up on a snow bank in their lawn, but I can see a 7/11 sign from the same porch, trading the bad for the good I suppose. Even though I have now lived here for longer than any other city, I still do not consider it where I am from. I lack some key St. Louisism, like I cannot be sized up by my high-school because Palm Desert High-School means very little to anyone in this city, although I once ran into a girl from my graduating class at a buddy’s wedding. With that goes the lack of community, which is truly the best thing about St. Louis. I remember when EKe and Whiskey Daydream were around we’d get booked on bills with local bands that would literally bring half their high-school class to every show they played, and these dudes were only like 2 or 3 years younger than we were. Having grown up somewhat nomadically, raised by a gypsy mother, I would kill for that kind of stability, those tenured friendships, that sense of support from people that saw you go from centipede to butterfly, but I do not have it. I draw from work relationships, amazing people whose calendars are already filled with family and friends.

Where I am from, for me, is where I became the person I am today, and that was San Diego. It had all the makings of a life altering sequence. I was in the Navy, truly alone without Mom or barking Sister shaping me. The city was vibrant and pedestrian, and the weather meant complete freedom to do anything any time. We were a band of misfits that probably should have never volunteered to defend our country.



We did our jobs proudly but bathed in the hours, days, weeks, of Liberty Call spent haunting ocean cities from Carlsbad to Imperial Beach. The majority of our time, the time that saw us being born beneath the intoxication of a caffeinated moon was spent in downtown San Diego between 7th and the Gaslamp district. Back then it was an organic city, lots of Mom & Pop cafes, restaurants, and bars. We’d see the same characters, daily, as we bounced between venues hitting up every open mic in town. It was when my voice was finally recognizable on the page.

As Tom Waits sang in “San Diego Serenade,” I never saw my home town until I stayed away to long. So a couple of years out of the Navy and one failed relationship behind me, I followed my buddy Warren back to the Midwest.


(Warren with my dad at Ten Mile House)

I never really saw myself as a Californian, moved there in 1989 from the burbs of Chicago, and for all its wonderful weather and diversity, it was plastic and shallow and judgmental, and I was more than willing to leave all that behind. Unfortunately, as the scales have balanced out, pros and cons shifted, I still miss it; so, I go back every couple of years.

In 2005 coming out of a divorce, I needed it like a baby needs its mother’s breast. So my buddy Jeff and I went back for a triangle tour of LA, Palm Desert, and San Diego.



I have always hated LA, but my buddy from high-school, Jared, lives there, and I needed to see him.



At the time my mom was still in the Desert and she was calling me home for Thanksgiving, and I cannot go to the West coast without going home to San Diego. Jeff and I have traveled together frequently. Our temperaments are complimentary. We come from the same socio-economic beginning and both managed to pull ourselves out. Plus, he is a sleeper, and I am not. Inevitably one our two days he is going to decide to sleep in, which affords me the freedom to roam alone, which is something that my pen and I need. This poem was written as I was posted up at a little café on 5th street near a Trolly station.

Diego

Returned to the womb
found her wild and nappy
barking obscenities into a brisk November

Her authentic shine
replaced by corporate facade
and an inability to establish eye contact

Sampled her flavors
experienced something familiar
in their sauces and textures

Her diverse appearances
varying shades and hues
still speak with intoxicating tongues

Left the womb, again
appreciating the life she gave me
and the me apart from her

You see the city changed, many of the places that I loved were overtaken by chains. What used to be a quaint coffeehouse where you could order a huge bowl of granola cereal for $1.50 was now a Starbucks offering a Mocha for 4 and a quarter and the same Marble Loaf that I can get in Missouri. It was a disappointing visit.

Then last year I decided to head out to track down some friends I had lost contact with (Diane and Chris)



spend some time with another friend from high-school (Caroline)



and I wanted to play a show with my buddy Dave who was gigging with me when I was first starting.



Making these human connections was amazing, but the city…they city had lost its soul.

The Womb Revisited

Returned to the womb
found her new homogenized high-rise streets
lined with chains offering the same resolve

Intoxication

The city
bigger
better
brighter
when too numb to look at it

But I am sober
and I am disappointed
the hallowed stage of Johnny M’s
where I watched Bill Magee
pour his soul through six strings and tube amplification
now a Hard Rock that doesn’t offer music
just exploits its mystique

Walk shattered and soulless shiny streets
so much of me lost to revitalization
the desire to beautify what was already beautiful beneath the surface

But Café LuLu reminds me of what used to be
her tired pawnshop sofas dingy with Life’s little spills
still smell of smoke from when the city was free
her chalked menu
like a photograph
reminds me of when I haunted these streets
bouncing from the base station Gas Haus
to every Caffeine Chapel from the Convention Center to the danger zone
grabbing lonely microphone
to tell the world just how much love was trapped inside me and how much that hurt
reminded me of a time when the city lived beneath the surface
reminded me of a time when a band of 20 somethings believed art WAS life

Now
corporate decor permeates every pixel of my picture

The city saved me and I desperately want to save her
but she doesn’t want my salvation
having traded her spirit for paper emeralds long ago

Returned to the womb and realized she is no greener


I will always love San Diego, it's amazing weather and cultural diversity, but I miss the San Diego that gave birth to me.

One Fast Move

I was a horrible student until the second semester of my sophomore year. So much so that I believe the majority of teachers had written me off as a lost cause, not sure they ever saw through the pot cloud and my complete disdain for the high-school social structure that pushed me to the fringes. One of the ramifications of this behavior was the first “real” book I read was Ordinary People my Senior year of high-school. Not sure why that one held my attention, but it was the first book I can recall reading from beginning to end. I am such an auditory learner that I had always been able to survive by listening to the lecture. Plus most teachers/professors are so ego-centric that they are going to tell you what they think you need to know. It was really never about self-discovery or learning (was it?) more the artful skill of regurgitation. I mean why actually read a book when I could be skateboarding, right? Hmmmm…where was I going with this? Ah yes…

Because I generally end up doing things backwards, I have written as long as I can remember, wouldn’t finish reading a book, but I would bust out poem after poem trying to capture the head words or paint the world without brushes. Similarly, I had been performing as a singer/songwriter and fronting bands for 10 years before I learned to play a cover. So one day after giving a reading at a Gaslamp District coffeehouse in San Diego, this woman approached me to tell me I write like Kerouac—Now I am not going there with the discussion, I would never compare myself to him or any other actual writer, that is way too much praise. I just do what I do—Luckily, I was at least familiar with the name. I still remember Malaina talking to some dark haired kid about Kerouac in high-school. I looked intently and nodded appropriately trying to keep cred, but I didn’t know him from Dr. Seuss. At any rate, it bothered me that I would be compared to a writer that I had no knowledge of, luckily I was paling around with Scott Church. He had a copy of Subterraneans, and this started my obsession with reading. I was 19.

Like with music, I am very much a loyalist, so if I like one of your books, I will probably force myself to read everything you have written. I am STILL trying to catch up with Coupland. Never start an OCD obsession with a living writer…the fucker is just too prolific. I am staring at 3 I need to read on my bookcase right now, and I know there are at least 2 at work.



Kerouac had already passed when I found him, so I was able to make my way through all his works, on my time. For those wanting to jump in, I would not recommend starting with Subterraneans, he is a little ADHD in it, using hyphens to break thought and return to original thought. Start where he started, On the Road (Technically Town and the City was first, but I don’t think it was his true voice, he was being heavily influenced by Tom Wolfe at that point). Many say Big Sur is the pinnacle of Kerouac’s pen. It is not my favorite, I tend to lean towards Dharma Bums and Desolation Angels, but they are making a movie of Big Sur called, One Fast Move or I’m Gone: Kerouac’s Big Sur. And that is, almost, the whole point of this blog, just to let you know it can be pre-ordered HERE. Aren’t you glad you read my ramblings to get to that?



There is something else important to note about this film. The soundtrack is a collaboration between Ben Gibbard and Jay Farrar. If I were to list my Top 5 bands right now it would be: Damien Rice, the Damnwells, Death Cab for Cutie, Son Volt, and the Swell Season. For those that do not know Ben Gibbard is the frontman for Death Cab, and Jay Farrar is the frontman for Son Volt. Two of my favorite singer/songwriters coming together to create a CD USING Kerouac’s words, who is definitely one of my all time favorite authors. I imagine this feeling is similar to a regular entering the Bunny Ranch and learning a new shipment of Airforce Amy wanna-be's has just arrived, not totally sure as I have never been that guy, but I bet he would be as stoked as I am right now. When you pre-order the CD you get a free download of one of the tracks, and it is AMAZING!!!

In other, sort-of, related news, a really exciting fall/winter is upon us in the Lou’. Son Volt comes to the Pageant on November 6th, Desmond Richardson’s Complexions is at the Touhill on November 7th, and then the Swell Season is at the Pageant on December 4th. I already have tickets to all and have pre-ordered the DVD/CD combo.

That’s all…go experience some art.

Epic Roadtrip ’09: All Things Considered

When I started my Big Boy blog the intention was to discuss poetry and music, but I decided that the epicness of my July roadtrip required some coverage. At the time I did not realize it would take me a month and a half to make that happen. As a result, this post may be a little lackluster, but I need to finish what I started. Really only two things that need to be addressed here: 1) the Saab 2) my disillusionment.

I have been educated by a few sources that blogging is also about pictures. To be honest, I had never intended on including photos in this thing. My blog is supposed to be about writing and music, both of which should create the images for you…word pictures. However, the request was made for shots of Saaby, so here she is, 2003 9-3 Turbo Convertible.



It is funny the reaction people have when they find out I drive a Saab. The name evokes a unique response, like it is a fancy car or something. Not to diminish Saaby’s beauty, but she was purchased used and for under $15,000. I am not one of those guys that would drop $25,000 to $45,000 on a car. I just cannot do it. Being in a band has had me driving vans for the last 6 or 7 years, and I wanted a car that I wanted. While most high-schoolers were ogling Trans-Ams and Mustangs, I was secretly fascinated with the bulbous 80’s Saabs, and I have always wanted a convertible. So, when gas was $4 a gallon and filling up my Ford E150 Conversion Van was taking a sizeable bite out of my wallet, I broke down and got what I always wanted. Ideally I would have got something from the mid-80’s, but my inability to fix cars and my desire to have reliable transportation landed me on my 2003. That being said, I have since sold the conversion van because I was bandless, but I am on the cusp of having a solidified project and will probably trade the Saaby in on a nice Honda Odyssey…function before form for me, should that happen, I will let you all know.



For those that do not know my story, I grew up singing in choir. While I was in the Navy my pen developed, and I performed relentlessly at poetry open mics in the San Diego area. In 1996 picked up the guitar and merged my passions. Since 1996 I have been performing as a singer/songwriter and have had several bands, Eric Ketzer experiment (EKe, 2002-2005), Whiskey Daydream (2005-2007), Pawnshop Testimonies (2007-current; it is more of a recording project now with my friend Rob Woerther), the Frontline (2007-2008), and now I have a project in the works called So Much Closer, which is kind of EKe-esque with a thick dose of Indy rock thrown in. Although I have done regional touring, released 5 independent CDs, participated in lots of battles of the bands, etc., I have never been close to a deal. To my knowledge a record label exec has never even come to a show…I’ve just never been in that position. To be honest, I’ve never even had a good draw, so why would they. I mean there were a few packed CD release parties, but not a consistent draw at local venues. I’ve had so many internal arguments about this…was I playing out too much…was I in the wrong city…maybe I am just horrible and I had too many yes people around me telling me I was good so I believed them…whatever the case, my lack of experience has created a sense of disillusionment. In my eyes, when you sign a deal, that is it, tour busses and packed venues. For the Damnwells, this was not the case.

The Damnwells had signed to a label, which subsequently dropped them, but they had distribution, they had a way to reach a musician in Missouri that was hungry for a fresh sound and amazing lyrics. I am completely in awe of this band, so I assumed the rest of the world was too. Unfortunately, the rest of the world seems to be neglecting them. The first night we saw them play was in Nashville at a place called the Basement. I cannot remember the last time I played a club that small. I mean it literally was a basement, picture the underside of medium sized ranch, all blacked out and dingy, small stage with low level ceiling, exposed stone and brick, dank and musty, a walk out to a smoking area, a couple bathrooms, and a tiny corner bar. Yet one of my top 5 bands was on stage. The whole night I was torn between the excitement of being so close to them and the disappointment that America has let them down. If they were some craptastic band of 17 year olds with surface level lyrics, over processed guitars, and shiny packaging, they’d be packing a mid-sized venue and getting tons of radio time.



The next night in Bham was a bit better. Workplay was a great venue, a venue I would be stoked to play, but still much smaller than venues I have played.



Not to toot my own horn, but I have had the opportunity to play the Pageant and the Sheldon, and I am nobody.



So how is it that I band with distribution, that was signed, is not packing large venues…what does one have to do to make it…what? Am I so off the norm that I no longer relate to the median voice of society, someone please help me understand why everyone in America has not downloaded their most recent CD, for FREE!!! Please.

**Note** Except for the shot of me at the Pageant, all photo credits go to Ironstef, at least someone knew the blogging rules.

EpicRoadtrip: Traveling with a Foodie

As should be evident now, I am no stranger to the roadtrip, as a musician, as a son of a gypsy, and a man that just loves some time behind the wheel with an amazing collection of music in the dash, roadtrips have always been one of my favorite things. Until EpicRoadtrip ’09 food had never really been a focus of the journey, inevitably there would be a neon sign squawking burgers or bacon when your belly growled, and we’d pull over to fill the tank. This time, traveling with Stephanie, food Blogger extraordinaire, food was not only a focal point, it actually guided our schedule.

One of the things that I enjoyed most about traveling with a foodie was every meal presented a photo op. To this point, I had only taken pictures of my food twice, once last summer when I went home to San Diego and had an amazing plate of Mexican food sitting before me, and once last Christmas when my Aunt Dantina showed me how to make her sauce, and then my mom constructed the most amazing lasagna I have ever had. Do not let the Ketzer fool you, I may look all Germanic, four inches away from Arian, but I was raised by a Zaio, and have always embraced my Italian heritage. That lasagna ended up being very significant because it was the last time my Aunt DT made sauce. She had been battling cancer for quite some time, and she left us a couple weeks later. [Wipes tears…takes deep breath…presses on]



I think Steph did a great job of recapping all the food we ate in her blog Ironstef. Rather than duplicate that, I am only going to talk about 3 of the meals. There is no way I could write this without mentioning the Hot Chicken in Tennessee.

Hi! My name is Eric and I am a hot food addict. There are 5 acceptable taste sensations: Sweet, Sour, Savory, Salty, and Bitter. Note, heat was not listed there because heat does not interact with a taste receptor. Heat triggers Substance P, which is a neuropeptide that acts as a neurotransmitter and alters the excitability of the pain responsive neurons. This in turn releases endorphins, hence the addictive properties, much like a runner’s high. Yeah! 5 points for reading a blog written by someone with a Psych major and a serious brain fascination. When we arrived in Nashville our first stop was Prince’s HOT Chicken. Steph ordered up the Medium, and I manned up and went with Extra Hot.

I think my addiction to hot food began while I was in the Navy. They would serve up the most disgustingly bland stuff on the Mess Deck, but there were always trays of jalapenos on the salad bar. So, I’d take one bite of slop and one bite of jalapeno, and the two would balance each other out. When I got my paper and was freed from the Nav, I was introduced to Tapatio by some friends in college, and from there the quest to go even hotter began. No matter what I am eating, Indian, Thai, Vietnamese, or Hot Chicken, I am going to ask for it extra hot. Nothing to this point had prepared me for what I was about to ingest.



If you follow my twitter, you may recall a tweet where I was contemplating whether or not you could die from eating hot food. That was not me being Twitter funny. That was me realizing I was in a battle and was in jeopardy of losing it. The chicken itself was tender and juicy with a nice crust, but the heat was just oppressive. The sweat shower was wide open, nose was a leaky faucet, lips had a sunburn chap going, and there were moments when the heat actually took my breath. This was some seriously HOT Chicken. But, I took it down. Not only did I battle the heat, I battled the fact that I do not like to eat meat off the bone, too carnivorous for me, and this was a straight-up breast quarter, bones and all. I will say, although I won the battle, ultimately, the chicken won the war, as it stayed with me all night. My belly did not stop burning until the next morning when I woke up. If I was carrying any stomach viruses I assure you they are dead now.

The next two meals for me happened in Memphis. Spending the last two Christmases in Hereford, AZ with my mom, niece, 2 dogs, 4 cats, her horse, and a whole lot of nothing to do, I became mildly addicted to the Food Network. That and HGTV are her stations of choice and she rules the remote. One of my favorite shows on the Food Network is Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives (Triple D). When we set out on the EpicRoadtrip, Steph and I decided that hitting some Triple D approved joints was a must. Our first an only opportunity came in Memphis, Uncle Lou’s. Uncle Lou has become famous for created a sauce called, Sweet Spicy Love which amounts to honey, hot sauce, and some secret seasonings. And he is embracing the fame.



I had been sampling complex foods for the last few days, so I decided it was time to go with something simple, and it doesn’t get much simpler than a fried bologna sandwich; however, when you get it at Uncle Lou’s they call it round steak. I think this photo explains why.



It was delicious, had some nice char on it, a tasty dose of Sweet Spicy Love sauce, and the mustard and slaw were perfect toppings.

The last meal I will mention was one of the unplanned stops. We had been looking for a good southern breakfast in Birmingham, and were directed to a Waffle House…a what? This actually initiated a minor Facebook war when Waffle House devotees thought I was dissing their palace, but I was not. What I was trying to express was the best restaurant in any town, or the restaurant that is suggested when an out of towner is looking for a recommendation, should never be a chain. Before heading back to St. Louis Steph popped open the Mac, and found Bob’s Barksdale Restaurant. I am a simple man with simple tastes, and I LOVE me some breakfast food. So, this was my favorite dinning experience of the trip. We bellied up to a cramped counter in a dingy little dive, and were served up some amazing food: bacon omelet with grits, some hash browns, and the southern staple biscuits and gravy, the perfect ending meal to a truly EpicRoadtrip.



I felt like I gypped you last time by not including a poem, so here is “Man Made Finger,” written in an attempt to provide a visual of the many bridges we crossed.

Man made fingers
Stretch towards heaven
Fold in prayer

Laser lights of lives in transit
A waterfall of reds and yellows
Christmas’
Kissing Easter’s Peep
Forming Halloween’s jack-o-lantern smile

Above
Birdless
Midnight sky
Descends
At eye sight’s edge
Clouds feather horizon near

This moment a Trinity of Material, Motion, and Miracle

Material the Son
Born into this world to provide passage
Carrier of souls, receiver of prayers

Motion the Great Ghost
Trails of energy felt more than seen
Omnipresent chill giver, breath stealer

Miracle the Father
Provider of Physical Laws
Creator of motion and material

EpicRoadtrip: Soundtrack

There are a few key elements to making a standard, long, exhausting, drawn out, numbing, roadtrip epic. First, you have to have a good travel buddy, having the famed food blogger, graphic designer, Stephanie Tolle, in tow; I got a big check mark there. Second, you HAVE to have Combos. They are essential roadtrip eats; they provide necessary sustenance, and their ridiculous saltiness helps to avoid multiple potty breaks. Before heading out we picked up some Nacho Cheese Pretzel and Jalapeno Tortilla Combos, another big check there. Several states must be crossed, we were hitting 6 in 4 days. So, that was also a check mark. Finally, you have to create a good soundtrack for the voyage. With a music obsessed driver behind the wheel, you know we are getting a check mark there.

I knew Stephanie was not as familiar with the Damnwells as I was, so we kicked off the drive with Air Stereo. As you will remember, this was the album that got me addicted to them. Since they were the driving force behind the journey, it seemed a fitting starting point. The sun had not yet supplied its warming rays, but the top was down, and we were on our way. As “Accidental Man” kicked in I could tell Stephanie was excited. “Golden Days” and “Louisville” were a couple other standouts from that disc, songs that got elicited comments from Steph.

By now we were deep into Illinois about to cross into Kentucky, and it was time to change up discs. I went with a roatrip standard, Transatlanticism by Death Cab for Cutie. We are both huge DCFC fans, and the album is amazing from start to finish. It is the kind of CD you can leave in the dash all weekend, and never tire of it, which is a good thing because somewhere in the thick Kentucky humidity my co-pilot decided to put me on auto-pilot and nap out. The way she was positioned prevented clean access to the glove compartment, so as it kicked back in with “This is the New Year” my manic grew. Hunkered down like Cassidy on a Benzedrine high, it was me, the road, great music, and my thoughts. Transatlanticism provides so many great lyrics to contemplate, to force hidden feelings:

From Tiny Vessels:

This is the moment that you know
That you told her that you loved her but you don't.
You touch her skin and then you think
That she is beautiful but she don't mean a thing to me.
Yeah, she is beautiful but she don't mean a thing to me.

Having been in that moment, it instantly recalls an oppressive feeling of emptiness, like you want to love that person, but for some reason you cannot. That confusion is dark and hollow, offering no escape or self-revelation, only intrapersonal theories you create to rationalize and avoid the emergence of debilitating cognitive dissonance.

The album also evokes more tender emotions. There is an 8 measure break in “Transatlanicism” where Ben relentlessly repeats, “I need you so much closer.” And, I have been there too, physically and emotionally, that sense that you just cannot get close enough, even though you are on top of them, inside of them.

As we crossed into Tennessee, sleeping beauty woke up, and I grabbed Armaghetto by Conglomerate, an album most of you have never heard but is hugely responsible for the kind of artist I have become. Conglomerate was a San Diego band that was signed to Cargo. While I was still living there, I went to every show I could. The band was fronted by singer/songwriter Steve Harris. His raw emotion, amazingly powerful vocals, and intense lyrics are the only conscious influence I have ever had. If you have seen me perform and heard me go big with a vocal line like on “Been Down,” you can thank Steve for that. This was probably the most manic stage of the drive, 4 or 5 hours into it and restless, but with one of my all time favorite albums in the dash, I was in rare form. Steph’s one comment, “Whoa, these guys are intense.” I never clarified if she liked them or not.

Setting the arrival mood for the first destination in an Epic Roadtrip is pivotal. As we approached Nashville, with giddy child like eyes and a huge southern grin, I reached for the dash and slid in some Dierks Bentley. I believe there were several moments of disbelief from Ms. Steph as I sung every song at the top of my lungs. She had this look about her that said “Why am I being subjected to this modern country crap, and how the hell does Eric know all these songs.” As a lover of music, I do not discriminate against genre (That is not totally true, anything hairband related leaves me feeling disgusting and abused, like my ears have just been raped by over processed guitar tones, fluffy candy coated lyrics, and vocals that constantly have me questioning, is this a boy or a girl) or popularity or mainstreamness, and as far as Modern Country goes, Dierks is the best.

The treks from Nashville to Birmingham and Birmingham to Memphis were a little unstable. We took some detours, and were relying on Florence Beatrice Garmin (FloB) to guide us, so the soundtrack took a back seat to the sweetly annoying sound of FloB telling me to turn left in 200 hundred feet…turn left now…you missed the turn you idiot…what are you going to do now…now I am lost…etc.



I was also very focused on the clouds because we tried to have the top down as much as possible, but you never know when a storm is going to spring up in the Southeast. Thankfully we avoided several, one by like 200 ft. It was a 4 lane cross to get to an exit, but I made it happen. There was also a section in Mississippi where the skies unleashed a rain that had me driving by instinct and prayer because there were no visuals left.

Heading up 55 from Memphis to St. Louis was filled with reflection, so the soundtrack became background to head words. As we hit 270, we put in One Last Century, which is the Damnwells newest CD, the CD that they were touring to support. It seemed to me the only natural way to conclude the EpicRoadtrip. My great friend and musical soulmate, Rob Woerther, compared this CD to Fort Recovery by Centro-Matic, which is high praise. They sound nothing similar, but they are both pinnacles of achievement, like greatest hits albums without pulling from several older CDs. The opening tune on One Last Century is the beautiful ballad called “Sountrack” that provides a powerful thought provoking chorus:

She wants you
She needs you
A soundtrack to bleed to
But can you shut up long enough to fall in love

She wants you
She needs you
A hurricane to leave through
But can you shut up long enough to fall in love

Soundtrack was also the most memorable moment from each show we saw. I am including a LINK to the video Stephanie shot in Bham.

So as it began it ended. The Damnwells opened up the road and let us know we had returned safely home.