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.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
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
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
Saturday, August 22, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
EpicRoadtrip '09: Preface
Those that follow my Twitter or Facebook page know that I went on an EpicRoadtrip this July. Of course the roadtrip deserves some coverage on my blog, but due to its sheer Epicness it was bound to be an enormous post, so I have decided to divide it into sections. This is the first.
My relationship with the Damnwells began in late 2006. I had been chasing the rabbit through BMG hopping from one band to another following their influences until I found something that grabbed me. I believe the exact hop was Son Volt to Old 97’s to the Damnwells, but it has been several years, so I am not confident of that. The album was Air Stereo, and I was clicking buy as soon as I heard the a cappella opening of “I’ve Got You.”
Oddly I do not consider myself to be a musician, although I can play the guitar. Some 13 years after I first picked it up I still rarely know what I am playing. I call myself a singer/songwriter/poet, so what I want in a band are good lyrics and great vocals because that is what I relate to, what I feel I bring to my projects. Alex Drezen brings bushels of both (3 points for the alliteration) to the Damnwells.
In his MySpace blog Alex said,
The Damnwells has always been about my songs with extremely talented musicians and producers collaborating. The personnel have changed, but the essence—one of this week’s vocabulary words for the 7th graders I teach—remains the same.
Maybe that was another subconscious link for me as EKe, Whiskey Daydream, and the Frontline have all been about my songs with extremely talented musicians and producers collaborating.
My obsession intensified when I was going up to play a show in Iowa City in 2008. Ya know how you get a CD, spin it into silence, and then shelve it for a while? Well that happened with Air Stereo, I was buying lots of new music at the time, and it was hard to give it all equal consideration while rotating in familiar friends; but, as I was gearing up for the roadtrip, I dusted it off, and it ended up providing the soundtrack to some of the best moments of that trip. It was my first solo roatrip without a band or buddies in tow, and in the open planes of Illinois and Iowa, lyrics like this had a profound affect on me:
Contract killers cannot find me
I’m at home when I’m with you
No matter where I am
(from Shiny Bruises)
Air Stereo is a great disc from start to finish, but the song that made the biggest impact on me was “God Bless America” powerful and poignant with thoughtful lyrics that expose the good and the bad:
Oh how I loved you, it’s true.
Your skylines and coalmines
And your strippers, too
Do you ever miss me?
‘Cause baby I miss you.
The mountains and prairies
To the prisons and malls
I’ve got a bible and a Barbie doll
God bless America and her Kodachrome flag
From purple mountains majesty
To the streets of Bagdad
Whatever the etymology of the Damnwells entering my language is, as soon as Air Stereo entered my dash it became a permanent part of my lexicon. It is the phrase that first jumps off my tongue when people ask what band they should check out or what I am listening to these days. Damien Rice gets love from college radio, Death Cab for Cutie got their shot on the O.C. and became MTV Darlings, Glen Hansard wowed the world in Once. The Damnwells are best band I can think of that you are probably not listening to and you should be because I cannot think of another band that would cause me to tackle a 4 day 6 state roadtrip.
Stay tuned for future posts: EpicRoadtrip: The Soundtrack; EpicRoadtrip: Traveling with a Foodie; and, EpicRoadtrip: All Things Considered. It may take me a couple weeks to get to them all, but be confident that they are coming.
In keeping with my assumptions, I am offering a completely unrelated poem, but I read it tonight at the Open Mic I host, so it is fresh on my mind…Enjoy!
Diversity of Human Form
I watch amazed at the diversity of human form
Slopebacks with asses tucked under like scolded dog
Archbacks with breasts making entrance before face or hair
One tired
One perceived innocence
And broken down bodies fighting stairs
eyes looking forward, upward, with so much behind them
But youth, youth looks downward, backward
shyly tucking hair behind ears when caught
And me, oppressing peglegged chair
thankful its wooden seat had died years before it held me
belly entering an embrace before arms or lips hello kiss
Funny how we hide/accentuate our flaws/features
Me
tent like shirt draped over gut
hoping it remains unnoticed
Archback
Oxford pulled taunt across lower back
making more noticeable her gifts
Slopeback
tucked in shirt
trying to provide differentiation between vertebrae and coccyx
Brokendown bodies
indifferent
having outlived the game
finally accepting reality
My relationship with the Damnwells began in late 2006. I had been chasing the rabbit through BMG hopping from one band to another following their influences until I found something that grabbed me. I believe the exact hop was Son Volt to Old 97’s to the Damnwells, but it has been several years, so I am not confident of that. The album was Air Stereo, and I was clicking buy as soon as I heard the a cappella opening of “I’ve Got You.”
Oddly I do not consider myself to be a musician, although I can play the guitar. Some 13 years after I first picked it up I still rarely know what I am playing. I call myself a singer/songwriter/poet, so what I want in a band are good lyrics and great vocals because that is what I relate to, what I feel I bring to my projects. Alex Drezen brings bushels of both (3 points for the alliteration) to the Damnwells.
In his MySpace blog Alex said,
The Damnwells has always been about my songs with extremely talented musicians and producers collaborating. The personnel have changed, but the essence—one of this week’s vocabulary words for the 7th graders I teach—remains the same.
Maybe that was another subconscious link for me as EKe, Whiskey Daydream, and the Frontline have all been about my songs with extremely talented musicians and producers collaborating.
My obsession intensified when I was going up to play a show in Iowa City in 2008. Ya know how you get a CD, spin it into silence, and then shelve it for a while? Well that happened with Air Stereo, I was buying lots of new music at the time, and it was hard to give it all equal consideration while rotating in familiar friends; but, as I was gearing up for the roadtrip, I dusted it off, and it ended up providing the soundtrack to some of the best moments of that trip. It was my first solo roatrip without a band or buddies in tow, and in the open planes of Illinois and Iowa, lyrics like this had a profound affect on me:
Contract killers cannot find me
I’m at home when I’m with you
No matter where I am
(from Shiny Bruises)
Air Stereo is a great disc from start to finish, but the song that made the biggest impact on me was “God Bless America” powerful and poignant with thoughtful lyrics that expose the good and the bad:
Oh how I loved you, it’s true.
Your skylines and coalmines
And your strippers, too
Do you ever miss me?
‘Cause baby I miss you.
The mountains and prairies
To the prisons and malls
I’ve got a bible and a Barbie doll
God bless America and her Kodachrome flag
From purple mountains majesty
To the streets of Bagdad
Whatever the etymology of the Damnwells entering my language is, as soon as Air Stereo entered my dash it became a permanent part of my lexicon. It is the phrase that first jumps off my tongue when people ask what band they should check out or what I am listening to these days. Damien Rice gets love from college radio, Death Cab for Cutie got their shot on the O.C. and became MTV Darlings, Glen Hansard wowed the world in Once. The Damnwells are best band I can think of that you are probably not listening to and you should be because I cannot think of another band that would cause me to tackle a 4 day 6 state roadtrip.
Stay tuned for future posts: EpicRoadtrip: The Soundtrack; EpicRoadtrip: Traveling with a Foodie; and, EpicRoadtrip: All Things Considered. It may take me a couple weeks to get to them all, but be confident that they are coming.
In keeping with my assumptions, I am offering a completely unrelated poem, but I read it tonight at the Open Mic I host, so it is fresh on my mind…Enjoy!
Diversity of Human Form
I watch amazed at the diversity of human form
Slopebacks with asses tucked under like scolded dog
Archbacks with breasts making entrance before face or hair
One tired
One perceived innocence
And broken down bodies fighting stairs
eyes looking forward, upward, with so much behind them
But youth, youth looks downward, backward
shyly tucking hair behind ears when caught
And me, oppressing peglegged chair
thankful its wooden seat had died years before it held me
belly entering an embrace before arms or lips hello kiss
Funny how we hide/accentuate our flaws/features
Me
tent like shirt draped over gut
hoping it remains unnoticed
Archback
Oxford pulled taunt across lower back
making more noticeable her gifts
Slopeback
tucked in shirt
trying to provide differentiation between vertebrae and coccyx
Brokendown bodies
indifferent
having outlived the game
finally accepting reality
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
