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
Monday, September 28, 2009
Saturday, September 19, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, September 7, 2009
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.
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.
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