apparitions

Considering how much time I’ve spent in Olympia and Seattle, its strange that I’ve never thought much about Kurt Cobain while there. I’ll admit to an incredible fascination with the guy. I dissect his life with the same mindset as when I read a classic novel. So many people have been impacted so much by the story, I need to concentrate and squeeze out all the meaning I can… I mean, he is a key component to the canon of American pop-culture. I would wager that his name is mentioned in bold type in the last chapter of newly printed history textbooks, that chapter that you never got to, but you snuck a peak at during a boring lecture. I take so much from learning about Cobain’s life and death, the depths of it, his condition and addiction, the way he sought out fame, and the way he rejected it, the way he was so calculated yet so unpredictably emotional, the weight he bears on my peers, and on my brother’s. That’s one guy, who only released a handful of songs.

One guy.

We were walking to find food after the show tonight, Will, Bryce and I. In complete earnestness, I began telling them that one of these days when we play Seattle, I’m going to go visit Cobain’s house, find the coffee shops that he frequented before his suicide…

Hearing myself speaking these words, I felt pretty creepy.

After finding an empty hole in the wall pan-Asian joint and eating in a complete silence of exhaustion, I let the two of them go ahead and slipped into a little coffee house. The place was slick and dim and modern, the barista had sleeves of tattoos, the coffee was thick and rich. It felt just like my preconceived notion of Seattle. I walked back into the drizzle and began up the hill towards the venue. I began to think to myself that this is the hipster, yuppie, yupster part of town, that 15 years ago it could have quite genuinely been frequented by grungy rockstars. Cobain must have walked up this very street at some point, stood and waited for the light to change on this very corner…

This notion gave me the shivers. I saw flashes of him leaning against a wall in the corner of my eye, smoking a cigarette outside a bar, ordering a meal through that restaurant window - conscious of the rain, of the headlights, of the people around him. Insecure and human. Maybe even inconspicuous. Maybe his presence wasn’t even turning heads or slowing traffic. I mean, I know I’ve played on stages that Nirvana played on a handful of times at least, I’m sure I’ve stood in a lot of places he stood in New York or LA – I’ve been aware of this, but these images were more visceral. It made me so uncomfortable to see the ghosts all around me doing normal and forgettable everyday things. He was shorter than I, had a smaller frame – but in my mind I always look upwards at him. My flesh crawls.

If you have grandchildren, theres really no need to hit on us.

Strange to be a voyeur on the nightly occurrences of a truck stop town dive bar. More ink and Mohawks amongst the cowboy hats than expected tonight.

What does it say about a place when the postcards for sale beside the front door are covered with a film of dust?

To the wonderful people that come see us play in Utah - I’m so sorry you had to witness me dragging that kid to the front of the club after our set in Provo last night. Hecklers are a tolerable annoyance but that little shit crossed the line by placing such a personal insult directly in my face like that. Trust that we were playing solely for you and cannot wait to come back and do it again in a less venomous environment. I actually had a really really good time playing our set and hanging after the show, but I couldn’t allow something like that to occur without repercussions. SLC has always been good to us, and we’ll be back soon! To the promoters and club owner, thanks for being so sweet about everything!

driving days

Thirteen hours or so in the van today as of yet. You go into the drive knowing what sort of beast it will be, so the point where you start to stir, get uneasy, need to get out and wander in some gas station aisle, is usually two or three hours from the destination. I’ll stand there between the chips and the candy, stroll along by the glass refrigerator cases, stare brainlessly at novelty statuettes of national monuments, racks of key chains bearing state names, reminding me that I’m in Nebraska or Ohio or Idaho or Arkansas. I’ll feel the glassy eyes of the gas station clerk upon me, let the gentle twinkle of the light radio seep in. When you fall asleep to the vibration and the sun setting and wake in darkness beside the pump, when you grope under the seat for your shoes and stumble inside, the florescent lights illuminate clear down to your soul. You are a tired confused creature upon the dissecting table. Eyes crusty with sleep, clothes thrown on inside out, shoes untied, apathetic just beyond self consciousness… everything in here is horrible for me, I don’t want this in my body… I could totally break my vegetarianism on that hot dog… I’m not really hungry anyway… look at this rack of county albums, I haven’t heard of any of this… orange juice, maybe orange juice will fill the void… gah, everyone is back in the van, fuck it… and we take off again.

At some point, someone snaps. Not in an angry way, none of the emotion is ever really directed towards anyone or anything. Its an act of draining all those things that the van represses into the stratosphere - and often I’m the first one to go. If I’m driving, I start to wail along with whatever is pumping through the stereo, I’ll test Will or Joey with a quote from Spaceballs or Anchorman to see if they are ready to purge as well, I’ll start spewing to Bryce all of my master plans of the moment, rattle off bands that we need to tour with, see what he thinks about that and this and the other thing, inquire how many hours is it to the next city tomorrow, debate when we should get up…

Eventually we all snap, or at least three out of four, and the howling begins, a ridiculously awful pop song or a fucking mega-rock anthem finds its way onto the van speakers and the dashboard becomes a drum set, the road ahead becomes a cheering stadium. I’ll find myself upside down, socks sliding across the carpeted ceiling, my face pressed against some strange corner of a window, a space I’ve never explored. I’ll catch my reflection in it and just start laughing.

We lose concept of the gravity of things out here. Driving a thousand miles in a day, across state line after state line – that’s some heavy shit. We breeze through sprawling metropolises untouched, cross the Mississippi like it’s the LA River, give not a second look to State Capitols and NFL Stadiums. We are becoming just another blood cell in the great arteries of the American infrastructure.

Not to say that the passion is gone or even waning, just that the possibility of a good and healthy meal is at times as exhilarating as a shimmering lake or a cute little red farmhouse. All the senses must be fed. Above all, we’re getting along better as a unit than we have since we began touring. We didn’t bring a merch guy on this stretch – come say hi to me at the merch table, I’ll be working it most likely – so we’ve had no buffer between personalities, yet we are finding ourselves in consistently good natured moments with each other. I think we may just be losing our minds in unison. As we move deeper and deeper into the touring life, our needs are becoming more uniform, our catalogue of shared experiences is expanding, our personalities are morphing and moving to fit in with that of the rest of the band. We know when to give each other space, when someone needs to talk. Maybe we just understand each other better.

Hall of Fame

Bands get free entry in exchange for their CD at the Rock and Roll hall of Fame. It seemed like a decent enough way to spend our afternoon in Cleveland. A lot of it is a joke, and a lot of it was a rehashing of the same shit I’d seen in Seattle or New York, the very same memorabilia in glass cases, the same stuff I became enamored with when I found myself in a crash course in pop-musicology a few years back - but that shit is so inspiring, those performers and writers and musicians that we take the time to learn about and deconstruct and reconstruct- they are so worthy. It only becomes a joke as you get contemporary with it. The memorializing of the grunge era is the end for me. After Cobain’s suicide, it all seems silly . I think that’s because upon his death, music became a part of me, like I’d grown a new organ in my gut and it started pumping something new through my system–I remember it hazily on the news at nine years old, on the living room floor, Courtney’s blubbering recording of the suicide note, the crowd of hanging heads listening in the northwestern gray, my parents commenting that, oh that’s the singer that my brother likes… - That must have been it. The enormity of this guy, that he could have a real effect on people’s lives, on their souls, more than any leader or teacher that I’d encountered. I didn’t understand it then, but it must have got buried in me somewhere. From then on, everything that occurred within music occurred within me. So seeing exhibits showing artifacts from the bands I then became enamored by feels like a joke. Its like reading an article about yourself-- um… yeah, I mean that happened and I guess I did say that but I didn’t mean it that way, and why would anyone want to read this anyway?, it looked like that but it felt different and, and, and… but to someone else it must read differently-- It wasn’t long after Cobain’s suicide when I began stealing CDs from my brother’s room, he taught me to play Teen Spirit with power chords on his acoustic – it was the only thing I knew how to play for years… I looked for maybe ten minutes at every scratch and scuff in Cobain’s custom In Utero era Mustang, looks like the strings had never be changed since he played it, maybe he smashed it and replaced the neck, wonder if he had his hands on it the day of his suicide attempt in Rome…

…Otherwise, it was really good for us to see the highlights of all that led up to whatever the fuck we have going on today – reminders of Robert Johnson, Hank Williams, Lead Belly, Pete Seeger, Dylan, Beatles, Hendrix, Page and Plant, Costello, The Clash… and everything in between – that is so important to me and I’m glad we spent some time in there. You had to have some real goddamn talent and soul and heart back in the days before computers could fix bad pitch and tempo, before there was a network set up for unknown bands to tour and tour and tour – and history washes out the mediocre performers, the shitty songs. The test of time, its wonderful – I think I might just ignore what we have going on currently and wait to hear the abridged version in a couple years.

Anyway. The new stretch of tour we have begun has been wonderful so far. The Piebald guys and MC Chris are all really friendly and down to hang out. The crowds so far have been full of kind people which is always relieving. We’re just enjoying what comes with each day.

I used to be disgusted, now I try to be amused

On the final night of SXSW...

The town car was pulling up the Hilton driveway when I flagged it down. The dark tinted passenger side window lowered and I leaned in to address the driver. “How much to the Airport La Quinta?... What?... Sixty-Nine bucks? Fuck that!” I stumbled on, oriented myself east. Clocks we’re moving their little hands past the four now and the streets were pretty vacant. I had been in a crowded suite with a bathtub full of Newcastle, stacks of American Spirits, writers, photographers, various industry day-jobbers, and some musicians – I’d had too much, had to get out. I pushed through an empty parking lot, across 5th street, waving at unlit taxis. Finally I stood at the corner of 6th and something, the same spot I caught a cab with Will the night before, I wasn’t nearly this inebriated then, but there were thousands of people around… I hadn’t quite enough in my pocket for the taxi, but I realized that only when we’d arrived at our hotel. The driver let out a deep sigh, the sort of sigh that only an immigrant working a night shift for nothing could muster at a drunken white American who just couldn’t afford it this moment. “Give me what you have and get out.”

This only occurred once I had accepted SXSW as the orgy it is. I’m accustomed to the comfort of a small attentive paying audience of genuine fans, not a moving, multiplying mass of distracted shareholders. I never fully participated and I’m lucky that the people we work closest with get a good night sleep, take meetings seriously, and smile. I stayed out of the hoards, sickened, on the side of it all with too much pride or too much shame. I heard no talk of art or meaning, I mostly heard conversations of fashion, of ego, of money. But I did meet some kind and genuine people, I did witness Pete Townsend, Rachel Fuller, and Martha Wainwright in a soul shattering musical moment, I did perform with that emotional vigor that I only can grace an audience with when they have backed me up against a wall – a whore performing for his pimps. And that’s the attitude. Too much. It was overwhelming for me, I must admit. It becomes clear to you how insignificant the artist is as an individual – there’s so many of you, and no matter how talented you are, the only real leverage you hold is that no one would be able to have a job where they can fill up an entire downtown section of a city with drinking, carousing, name-dropping, and music (I guess) if it weren’t for you and those like you. Someone to write it, someone to perform it – that’s all that is really necessary, but we all trek down to Austin to attempt to get some attention from those selling it. All of us that we know of, I mean, we never hear about those with too much pride or humility to reject it.

On Sunday, when the skinny jeans and sluts and name-droppers had cleared from the city, when the police barricades were lifted and cars moved freely down a somewhat scrubbed 6th street, when the thousands of band members had cleared from the stages of every bar, restaurant, or auditorium in town, we had a day off before heading to Ohio. I sat alone in a downtown park with my guitar and listened to the crows fighting in a nearby tree, saw families pass by college students passing by drifters. I brought my fifth and sixth meals that week from the enormous Austin Whole Foods and stayed for hours. Spring settled nicely into Texas, I wrote about love and sex and god and all those things that bring them together and keep them apart. I realized how much I love Austin, how much my hindsight of the last week was positive. My rejection of it brought me into the arms of some really smart, searching, and enjoyable people. My acceptance of it found me connecting with people that could benefit my career - and it got me nice and wasted. In retrospect, it was a good, necessary week at work.

the last few days...

I guess I was caught in the crossfire. I can’t recall much but it hurt pretty bad to pull the bullet out. It was protruding from the front of my belly, but had entered from the back. Flesh tore back as I wrestled it away from my intestines and, holding the thing in my hands, I shuddered at the magnitude of it all – the heavy piece of golden metal in my hand, the insides of me spilling from the wound. I was falling apart. I could see entire undigested meals, whole sandwiches pushing their way through my system. I really had to get to the hospital but there were so many errands to run, all these vague business transactions to make. I had to take care of it all before I could allow myself to be tended to…

Bryce woke me up. I asked what time it was. 11:30 - we were planning to leave a half hour ago. No rush he says, we have two days to get from Salt Lake to Austin. I peeled myself from the basement floor, slid apprehensively from my warm sleeping bag. The guys were ready to go, but I begged 20 minutes to make coffee and eat a bowl of cereal, shoot the shit with our beyond-generous hosts.

Now we are a couple minutes from Moab, Utah. The Rockies, capped in snow, lift up to our left and sheer cliffs of deep red rock surround us. It is desolate as any moment in America. I keep saying “Oh My God! Are you seeing this?” …Will nods but his eyes don’t stray from his iPod – something’s on his mind.

We saw a matinee and went bowling with a pitcher of 3.2% beer on our day off in Salt Lake City yesterday. The show the night before was wonderful, it was so nice to see so many supportive people come out to see us in a town we’ve only visited a few times.

Seattle was a quick fling, hot as hell on stage, Mike from State Radio burst up there during Dead Cliché and pretty much ruined it – it was amazing, nothing mattered after that, made the rest of the show so fun to play. We left for our overnight drive immediately after the show…

… And I was pretty out of it in Portland. Didn’t allow myself much sleep the night before. I'd been sort of getting sick for a bit and not taking good care of myself. I was enjoying my life thoroughly though. I don't know which is more important. Its sort of a long term vs. short term thing. I was exhausted all day and wandered down Hawthorne in that northwestern mist that always veils the city. I was looking for a cup of coffee but passed by a branch of Powell's books. I went in to get a new copy of Tropic of Cancer (I joined a book club on Spin.com with some other music-people and I chose that as the club's next read. Look for news on that soon) but realized that I had entered a newly published author's bookreading. He was clearly on his first tour for his first book. I got in just in time to see him finish reading an excerpt and field some questions. I enjoyed seeing someone in a position like ours, a reflection of us in another industry. He was putting himself out there in an unfamiliar town, in front of unfamiliar people, at the mercy of a huge corporation that allows him to earn his living with his art, that has the potential to put him on bookshelves in houses across the country but could pull the plug at any time - that book is in the store, but if no one's heard of it, no one buys it. He knows he should be speaking to more than a handful of people (give or take the shuffle of randoms like myself and the kid with the sketeboard next to me). He knows that but I’m certain he understands that he, himself, is not an institution yet - he is clearly working hard and taking this very seriously - he will listen to every person who wants his ear, shake every hand. He is honored to sign your book. He tells himself that this is all one step in the journey, that he should feel lucky to be at this point, he makes sure that everyone knows he is not taking this for granted and realizes that those people don't know how hard he slaved on this book, how he has struggled for years and years. He is a little scared. He doesn't understand why people are anxious to talk to him.

Certainly this is all a means to an end, but everyday itself should be a satisfying little end. I returned to the venue with such a perspective.

This is a scene, not any other bullshit

I didn’t think it was real. I mean real in a lasting way. Naturally, it would fray at the edges and eventually come apart completely in time because no one but me and a few others really cared about it right? When we started having Tuesday Night Band Night in Oakland a year and a half ago, it peaked in a couple weeks. I mean everyone I knew vaguely through music was packed into Radio that night, you couldn’t move - but a few weeks later it was just Ash and I. I figured somewhere that I’d lose everyone when I went out on the road, but I always come back and they’re there, or they’re gone now, but they come back and I’m there. We share something that keeps us closer than I thought friendship could bring you at this age. The only competition in our scene is healthy, keeping us on top of our game, trying to write and play the best we can. We keep each other afloat in rough waters and lift each other up when opportunity is there.

Walking down Divisidero this morning, I wait to cross the street beside two small stray children fighting as obvious siblings. I get my first smile of the day with their classic back and forth, “shut up! stop copying me!” Heels clicking on the sidewalk approach from behind and pass by realized as a woman dressed for the office in a skirt, grays and blacks. Everything about her is fresh and pulled tight. I see her juxtaposed to me in a ghastly storefront reflection. These clothes fit better yesterday. I follow her into a Starbucks, counting the hours I slept – four or five? but was it real sleep? Can I count the twenty minutes I spent walking here? I downed a free sample of some sweet new latte as I waited for my coffee. I found my car and fought my way to the freeway. Opposing the commute, the lanes were spread empty and wide in front of me. I feel heroic crossing the bridge at this time of day, the steel beams and pillars passing in rhythm on either side, long shafts of sunlight, the bay reflecting the sky in a triumphant blue - I hear trumpets, I feel the earth move, I turn off the radio and sing.

Ryan and Mike - Mike’s legs are loose and rubbery under the weight of his thin frame. He moves about the sidewalk like a squid in an aquarium. In an endless and unobstructed field, without the gravity, he would appear graceful, his movements marvelous and unintentional. But in a world of walls and parking meters, storefronts, and tables and other people, his grace is denied. He hugs you like a blanket, he curses nothing, he recites to you all of his blessings. Ryan knows this is the best part and that’s his secret. He isn’t way back there or way up ahead, he’s right here, always right here. He knows it and he takes advantage of knowing. The rest of us, we understand but we don’t know. Ryan is confident in this. He takes care of Mike and brings him in with him. They push each other, they don’t think about where they will sleep, they’ll share the carpet in the hallway of a house of a stranger. They have become brothers and I have a great love for them. You probably don’t know them yet, but you will – everyone will – in a short matter of time.

Ben was bartending. He makes sure everyone is alright. He has huge heart, it swells when he can take care of you. I don’t know whose vacant bed I slept in but he brought me to it. He has showed me my fair share of places to lay my head. When we try to sing Jawbreaker we only sing invisible harmonies, there’s no lead and it sounds like shit probably. Spinal Tap is playing on mute. Cigarettes are piling up. I’m in this room and that room. He has his girl there. She is giving too, she knows that everyone else is on the other side of love and does what she can. Loneliness is just as indefinable as love. It is merely the void of love. The thing to understand is that you cant fill all the empty space of loneliness at one given time. Different loves come into your life at different times and the shape of your loneliness changes. It expands and contracts. We are stagnant, everything changes around us, brings out different shades of our personalities.

Brett was there, but he was talking to some people I didn’t know, though he did give me a ride at some point, smacking the dashboard at every downbeat of American Girl, singing- screaming along. Brett has a strange confidence, a great interest in people. He can genuinely talk to anyone. He can tear them apart, he can provide a brash wisdom, he can burden you and take your burdens. He left at some point in the night.

These are my boys – or at least a few elements of them. None of this is forced. We’ll all be playing a show together at SXSW and someday we’ll all tour together, obliviously tearing city after city limb from limb – We’ll have the best intentions but something will get out of hand. It always does.

I forgot how hard it is to find internet on the road.

Working Backwards from 3pm, 2/26

Passing over the Rockies… Its annoyingly still in the van – a concentrated sort of still, like we’re in a classroom during a test. It got a little scary for a second there over Vail Pass. A vehicle like ours is more vulnerable than most in icy situations, especially while descending steep grades in high winds and snowfall. Now on the other side of the range it is once again sunny, and great cliffs are rising on either side of us as we twist our way back west.

Some of our friends brought us this awesome statue of a hand giving the thumbs up last night. They also rolled up their shirtsleeves to unveil the very first STN tattoos! – Our hummingbird logo and the red bird from the cover of charmingly awkward, in full color. I get approached every now and then to design tattoos for people I know, but I think these are the first pieces of my art that have been realized in ink and skin. Quite the compliment. …later on, standing outside the venue, joking around, we all decided to adhere the thumbs up to the hood. Now it is leading us towards Vegas.

Last night we played at Colorado State University in Boulder. Nice big college auditorium filled with people, a good sound system, full stage lighting and a smoke machine that, despite the best intentions, just made everyone cough. The show was scheduled for Saturday, but a blizzard closed I-70 and we checked into a Holiday Inn Express with State Radio at the last open truckstop on the highway – Colby, Kansas. Colby consists of two hotels, a few fastfood restaurants, a truckstop with a starbucks and a couple steakhouses. We stayed in our room watching the Back To The Future trilogy, playing dominos, poker, and wandering aimlessly around the internet while high winds kept the snowfall horizontal until darkness fell and it finally passed. Will and I walked out of the hotel and found the streets and parking lots completely sheeted in ice. Opting not to drive on such slick roads to get dinner, we figured we’d just take the opportunity to bundle up and walk across the closed freeway. Unfortunately a patrol car edged out of the darkness as we ascended the embankment, wielding its blinding searchlight at us. We got the point and made our way under the overpass and across a snow covered lawn, the frozen blades squishing delightfully beneath our feet.



That morning, I had awoken on the interstate to the van shaking unnervingly in the wind. We were powering towards the storm and I could sense that we wouldn’t make it. The show at the Bottleneck in Lawrence the night before had knocked the wind out of me, there had been so much leading up to it – so much driving, so much pre-tour anticipation, in addition to a couple drinks on a stomach I forgot was empty. After loading out our gear, I laid in the back bench of the van and made a phone call that reminded me once again of how few real and good people exist in this world. I took in a great breath, filling my heart and lungs with an overwhelming pity for those that are human through and through, those that thrive in a climate of genuine kindness and love, that are forced to live in a habitat polluted with creatures that seek only to take advantage of such noble and vulnerable attributes. I released the breath and felt a surprising relief come over me. Rain pelted the roof in a soothing rhythm and I fell into a beautiful sleep.

I’m sorry we had to drop off the Tempe AZ show scheduled for tonight, but it would have been too risky to try to make it all the way there considering the way the weather has been acting. I’m getting a very clear understanding of why we were advised not to tour until late February. In any other season, you take for granted the ability to get from one show to the next without braving serious delays or sketchy situations. I’ve said this before and I’ll continue to say it: No show ever is important enough to risk our lives for. We can be of better service to the disappointed if we reschedule and keep our bodies intact.