My Touring Mantra

Over the next few shows I traveled with the band north-east. We headed up slowly towards New York, which would be our first real time off. 

Relax. Walk. Stretch. Eat.  

The others had places to stay. Well almost all the others. I stayed on a bus, which is much creepier when no one else is on it.

I had time to find a comic shop. Shave. And think a little.


For me the performances had become a series of ups and downs. Not the guys or the music. We just hit some stage craziness. Every night seemed like something new was thrown at us. Feedback loops. Low-end wonkiness echoing across the stage, making everyone think the bass was out of tune, I still maintain I was on but you know... 

There were times when we hit a real groove, and times when we were on the verge of completely falling off the rails, and that was beautiful and exciting edge to walk. 

I remember so many shows looking at our drummer Fred, who has the most stone cold serious face for drumming ever, and there was such intensity in his eyes when he played, and never knowing if he was angry or extremely focused or what. His eyes are like stone. Nailing every beat. But stone. 

And there was me. Trying to get a laugh. Trying to break his character. I'd slide up next to him in-between the songs and say, "Never stop smiling." 

Somewhere between that first time I said it, to now, it has became my touring mantra. 

It's not literal... I take it to just mean: keep your composure. Let the show go on. 

Maybe it's always been my underlining philosophy.

The main speakers shut off

- Never stop smiling

 Radio stations start playing through an amp

- Never stop smiling

Band members (unnamed) not appearing on stage

- Never stop smiling

Fights

- Never stop smiling

Musicians competing in a volume arm-race for loudest amp

- Never stop smiling

Fights

- Never stop smiling

 Divas desperate for the spotlight

- Never stop smiling

Someone drank more than they should

- Never stop smiling

Someone drank not enough

- Never stop smiling

Fights

- Never stop smiling

It sounds crazy. 

Maybe a little denial-ist. But that's missing the point. 

To perform on stage is to live a show. I exist like a character in a play exists. Or a TV show. There is me. And there is me on stage.

And I have a purpose. Something bigger than myself. Bigger than a fight I had on the phone. Bigger than my hunger pains from missing lunch. Bigger than pain from blisters on my hands or the trigger finger that kicks in every random show.

Most of the time, the problems, the stuff that is happening and so immediate and feels like the world is falling apart, goes unnoticed by the audience. WE are the only ones who see that. 

Who feel that. And if you let those things get to you, and you wear those problems than the crowd feels it. They can smell the trouble.

With this band, we always were able to tame it back. 

To hit a near-disaster and escape. 

I have seen so many shows where the band is just devoured by their own self-doubt. Ask me sometime about the time I saw The Darkness play at Stubb's in Austin.

So I hiked through Williamsburg, checking out the stores and food and people, and avoiding going back to the empty buss. Missing my little man and my wife. 


And the people around me with faces like, "Who's this long, tall Texan walking around? Doing nothing but smiling. He never stops smiling."

-rene

the grey sounds

a hollowness in me.

i am the vibration. the echo. 

bouncing through the city. alone

My Writing Practice

"She's not... She's not the love... not the love... you'd ever leave..."

I paced the room several times last night, feeling this burning anxiety running through my body. Like I was about to jump out of my own skin. Like my mind didn't want be in here anymore. And maybe if I kept moving, I could out run it, or shake it out of my system, or something. Change. And wrapped in that feeling were the words. A story that was starting. Maybe a song? This is how it begins.

Disjointed. 

Angular. 

The sounds falling against each other and pushing away. It's like trying to find the matching pieces to a puzzle. There is something here. Something that is trying to define itself. Fragments of rhythms.

"She's not... She's not the love... not the love... you'd ever leave?"

"What?" Rachel called to me softly from the bedroom, barely making it to the living room,"Sounded like you said something."

"No," I muttered, "Just... thinking..." my voice dropping off as I kept circling a track around the sofa.

"not the love... you'd ever leave. You can't da-da-dum, good memories..."

Just ideas that aren't growing. 

What is she? What is she to herself? What does she want? 

I lay down on the couch with these elusive ideas on me. This is all nothing. A Meditation for writing. My practice. Writing is raising the dead. Putting form to ghosts and vapors of ideas. Trying to fill them with weight. Trying to fill them with life. If they can't live and fell and act, in my mind, they will never survive in the world. 

Maybe that's why sometimes it feels like magic. A series of synapses firing in unison. Ideas from disparate lobes pushing together to make something. A color and a word. A feeling and texture. A taste and a sound. And they need to make her real.

"What is she?"

"Rene?"

"Yeah?"

"It sounds like your talking?" her voice is low, 
she is half in a dream already.

I'm keeping her awake. "Sorry babe..." and I sincerely am.

I have a habit of talking out loud when I write. Rachel says it's a creepy sounding voice, I don't know what it sounds like, I don't even realize that I'm doing it. I have a habit of staying up late. I have a habit of disappearing mentally from conversations. I have a habit of sleep paralysis. I have a habit of saying yes to everything. Of wanting to do too much. Of getting carried away. Of being too detached. I have a lot of bad habits. I guess I'm saying, I'm too lucky to have a wife that puts up with me.

I wanted a new song done by tonight. But that wasn't happening. And some how I got the idea that I was better off watching some Netflix than keeping this up.

And I did. Or started to.

I spent a good amount of time, feet propped up, shirtless, flipping through menu, checking my phone when I get an update from some social media thing. Not finding anything.Thinking of all the things I need to get done this week. Edit the podcast, finish a mix of a new Idyll Green song that will debut soon, start edits on a song we are recording, get back to my novel. And these are all swirling around me. 

I closed my eyes.

There, I saw the time we lay

in her room. When I learned 

she was a prism. We were tossed 

sheets and legs and the sun came in 

to catch her. She turned a vision 

on the walls. She danced 

like she was. So clear. 

So open. like everything could be 

                                               light

-rene 

Late-Night Drinking

I'm writing this a little late, and more than a little foggy in my head. This has not been a good week for sleep. Sorry to my wife for all my restlessness, but those things come in waves. Just the consequence of living for music.

The last two weeks have been non-stop, so I took yesterday evening with the guys and stayed out late-night drinking, having talks that were way to involved, books, writing, race, all those fuzzy speeches, that spill out of late-night podiums from pseudo-philosophers like myself.

It's too much I know. But I can't help it sometimes.

I can say being that guy is all terrible. A lot of good ideas come from venting. Pushing out all the weird ideas I carry and letting them go.

It was when I got home, the house completely quiet and dark except for the light over the sink, that I took a long breath. 

It was good.

I threw off my shoes. Made a snack of cheese, hummus and a slice of bread, not very creative but delicious none the less, and ate standing over the stove top, humming a song, and thinking this was a really good place to be. And I didn't just mean snack-wise.

The tracks with Larry are sounding amazing. We will be finishing the last song on Saturday, before the Mixing phase. 

Idyll Green is putting together a song to give away which will be out soon along with some really cool visual stuff. 

Tuesday night we recorded the first episode of the podcast that I think came out great, and I have a lot more to do. 

So much that it is intimidating. 

And exhausting. 

And fun. 

Through all of the work. This whole experience of collaborating, building, and creating Idyll Green has been one of the most fun projects that I have done in a long time. And that's a lot to be thankful for. 

And last night I found that, in the dark of my house. Alone. Tired. Content.



until next week



-rene



ps. as always like, share, subscribe and if you want to talk you can reach me on this blog, facebook and twitter

After New Orleans And The Stars

After New Orleans And The Stars


I was feeling buzzed after our set. Good. Lost in the delicate web of New Orleans; that kind of floating. Detaching me from everything.

It was my first show in this new group, and I made it through the first performance sober, though I wasn't completely loose yet. No disasters on my end. That's cause enough for a couple drinks to celebrate.

So I packed my bass up, cleared out my part of the stage for Jesse and went to our green room.

Around the drums, past the house crew, the storage of mic stands and cables, through a narrow slit of doorway and an empty refrigerator to the room.

Not really a room, more of a long narrow hallway with a makeup counter/mirror with those giant yellow bulbs circling around, and a cheap couch filled with backpacks, laptops and trash, and in the corner most importantly a little 24 pack ice chest. Only heavy craft beers, IPA's and Mexican imports.

You should know by now I'm an unapologetic light beer drinking. And without a Lone Star, my next fall back is whiskey, which was also missing from our room. It's nice to be in charge of your own rider.

That's alright...

A cramped hallway right behind a loud rock band is not really a great place to chill, even though I love Heartless I also love my hearing. And after all the build up, the thinking, traveling, practice, now that the first show was done, I just wanted to breath a bit. Celebrate it for myself. 

So I left down a long service hallway of broken tables and spare chairs towards the front bar. The club had a front bar that was something like a Victorian Hotel decorated by Aerosmith with its velvety purple wallpaper, purposefully-musty antique mirrors, tasseled light fixtures, and dark oak everything.

Only a few people were hanging around the front bar, most were in the main room watching the show. I found a bar stool away from a small group and pretended to check my phone while I waited for a bartender to show up. From out the front window I saw a few of my band mates were having a smoke and chatting with people.  

I looked across the bar again... still no bartender but the couple at the end were looking at me and whispering. 

I put my head back in my phone and gave it a second before I looked up again... 

They're still looking at me. And they're smiling.

She's short. Blonde. A young twenties. Dressed in tight jeans, boots and an oversize boyfriend hoodie. He looked older. Fresh shave. Thinning hair with a slick leather jacket.

Where is that bartender? Maybe this place was a bad idea. I could go with the guys... Just need to order then go...

Then a beer slides up next to me.

"On us?" she said taking a stool next to me, "We bought too many." 

The older guy she was with was picking up his stuff to move closer.

"Can't even get one drink," I joked.

"What?"

"Never mind," I smiled and took the beer, "Thanks."

"We're having such a fun time tonight," She flipped her hair to the side with that smile again, as he brought over their drinks and stood behind her, "really liked the music. The way you guys played together."

"You guys were great," he lifted his glass.

We all drank.

Matt and Holly gave me proper introductions and told me some story of how they met at another bar down the street. The first band was great and the second was slow, and the third was a bore so they went out looking for another place with a "really great funk band" I think and then ended up here watching our set.

"How long have you been doing this?" Matt asked. He had a strong unblinking stare punctuated by his thick eyebrows.

"Touring?"

"Yeah. With this band."

I thought for a second about how much I felt like telling my story, "Been touring for a while but honestly this is my first show with these guys."

"I can't believe that," Holly leaned in close to my arm, "We thought... no. You all seemed so intuitive."

I took the last drink and the empty can clinked on the bar.

She reached over and shook my can, "Could you?" she asked Matt.

"No you don't have to," I jumped in.

Matt looked at me for a second, "Don't worry," he laughed and took all of our drinks, "I'll be right back." 

"The bar inside is better," she laughed as Matt went off to the bar in the next room.

"Is this one even open," I joked, wondering how long I wanted to stay here with Matt and Holly... wondering where the bartender was. She was telling me about her favorite show she had seen. And how she was just in love with everything about it. How she loves to talk with musicians afterwards.

"You guys are too nice," I started.

"Oh Matt?" she started then turned to look for him, "He's happy to do it. He's been buying for me all night. And we really like you."

"Me?... What?"

"Your band... And you."

"Didn't you say you just meet him? Matt?"

That sounded weird to me... Did it? Or is it a normal thing to just meet someone a go out together? I can be really bad at reading people. My wife is so intuitive with emotions, but my instincts are usually all over the map. I usually come off as cold, or aloof, when I'm busy thinking of a new story or lyrics in my head. It's not that I'm not interested, my head is just somewhere else. 

Something about her and her story was putting my instincts off. She was sweet. The whole time just talking about themselves and music. They were fans. And for Matt's age and size he seemed pretty harmless. But the more I thought about it the weirder it seemed. Why are they hanging out with each other? With me? Why are they here?

Holly looked down at the bar, "He's celebrating something I think."

"And you?"

"I'm just going with the night. See where it goes. Not everyone has a plan Rene..."

"Fair enough."

"What are you going to do? The mysterious musician. Traveling."

"Getting ready for the next town I guess." Out of the window I see my band walk back into the bar.

Holly dipped her shoulder into mine, "You're on a bus then?"

"Yeah. And I think I've got to,"

"That's so exciting. I can't imagine what that must be like. Don't pretend like it isn't great."

"It's pretty great. I wouldn't complain."

Matt came back from the second bar with another beer for me, and two drinks and three shots saying, "We've got to!"

And I'm smiling but all I'm thinking is: shots are gonna hurt me tomorrow... ugh... Just the one.

He stands right in between where Holly and I are sitting.

We all drink.

It was strong, syrupy and cheap. The kind that puts a chill down my back.

Holly whispered something to Matt. He puts on hand on the back of my chair as he leans into hear. And Holly gives me a gentle kick me with her foot. Then it swings away and comes back.

That little hold. This is weird. 

"Guys it's been really nice," I pointed to the band that was heading back stage, "I've got to get back."

They looked at each other as I took the beer.

Matt threw out a "maybe we will see you later?" and handed me the napkin that was under the beer.

And before that could go on any more, I went back down the hallway to catch up with the guys. They were already gone.

It took me a second before I thought, what just happened? Everything about it... why did he hand me that napkin? And the look he had... and how she kicked me, that could've been an accident but it lingered.

That's when I saw what Matt had written on the bottom of the napkin.

Before you leave 

(504) ***-****

- Matt and Holly

That kinda stunned me. I opened the beer and threw away the napkin. Then took a second in that service hallway collecting myself.

I could hear the band playing, and the guys laughing in the green room ahead. I saw the lights from the front bar coming into the hallway behind me. I thought of the dark street we were on, and the city around us, and the miles of highway that connect here to the next city and all the way back home. And all the people that were around and all the different things they were doing. And the night that covered it all. And the stars.

-rene



Hangover Lunches / 605 Miles From Home Pt 2

605 Miles From Home pt 2

We'd made it into the diner only seconds before it really began to pour. In a few minutes the rain filled the street, overwhelmed the gutter and crept over the sidewalk.

Normally I love a flash flood. Maybe because it's a very South Texas thing to go from a beautiful day to 10 minutes of intense rain. The crack of an Earth-shaking, chest pounding thunder and the way lightning spreads out wild illuminated fingers through the sky. So primordial and anciently terrifying, touching down into some instinct part of me. And then nothing. As if it never was.

That day, my stomach was having too rough time to enjoy any of it. 

A mixture of travel exhaustion and late-night drinking had me queasy. Making the storm feel unsettling instead of romantically melancholy. And looking through the menu of a New Orleans greasy spoon wasn't helping either.

I think I would have just gone somewhere else had it not been so torrential at the moment.

The place looked like some weird version of Al's Diner. Our server, paper hat, apron and all, was going down our line of bar-stools collecting drink orders on his notepad.

I was being indecisive. My eyes couldn't even find where to start. The menu was looking like a blur of black letters, red lines, and poorly lit photos of unappetizing food.

He started with the others, "What I get you man?"

He had a voice 15 dbs too loud for my head. He was energized, enthusiastic, and trying hard to be friendly. I guess to cover the fact that he was a fighter. Intimidating in size and height. Cauliflower ear. Knuckles flat as a board. Left eye brow scar. Speech slurred and spacey. He easily weighed something around, 2 and 1/2 musicians combined.

"Coffee."

"Coffee."

Damn that went fast. My turn.

"My man, coffee like your friends?"

"Uh... no..." I could feel my stomach knot, and the weird feeling of having to swallow when there's nothing there, "Diet Coke."

He laughed, "I gotcha. I gotcha. This guy needs me to turn down the lights!"

Ugh.

He yelled it, but I don't think anyone noticed. Over the pan-slapping , yelling, and sizzling of the fry cooks, conversation was light. Partly because of my state, though I wasn't the only one feeling off, and partly because I was still finding my way into the group.

Fred was looking for the best Vegetarian option that wasn't another omelet like we had only a few hours before we went to sleep, and Dave was getting menu recommendations.

I halfheartedly debated what meal was least likely to come back up between a burger and the house special (a piled on mountain of a sandwich recommended to Dave by our waiter) while my mind wandered off about this.

It'd been a while since I played with completely new people. It'd been a while since I had been thrown in to socialize with completely new people.

A new band.

How weird it is to start one.  How hard it is to find people I like, much less play with, or start a business together with. Besides musical chemistry, which is rare and difficult enough to find, you need to be able to hang with the members.

All day. Every day. For months. For years. Again and again. Without driving each other crazy. All focused. All giving more than should be asked. All willing to sacrifice again and again.

My brothers and I have been through so much I don't think you could find a tighter band. We don't always agree, and it isn't perfect or easy, but we have a way of finding a compromise. Of fighting it out and moving on.

My drink came. A lukewarm can and one of those cheap, thick plastic cups that still felt hot like it was pulled out of the dishwasher filled with crushed ice.  I like that I know the cup is freshly clean but the heat makes for a weird taste. At least I had the ice.

Two men came into the restaurant. Shoes sloshing and umbrellas dripping by the door.

"Got tired of waiting outside?" The server yelled at them, "Might as well grab a drink my man. I'll getcha."

"It just won't stop," They laughed, grabbed a bar-stool a few spaces down from us, and started on about the weather as the server did his same loud routine for the new customers.

I turned to Fred, "What you decide?"

"Omelet," he sighed.

"Goin' for two," I laughed as he shrugged. Fred tossed me a what-about-you look. "Ugh... hamburger I guess? I dunno."

I think I burned through two glasses of water and a diet coke before I even ordered.

And the rain fell harder.

And the smells of grease and meat came from the kitchen.

And the sounds of the two new customers ordering. And the server still yelling. And the cooks laughing and dropping pans.

And all my thoughts spinning.

The first show was that night. 

The real fire.

Being thrown into a new band, with its own history and methods, I was still finding my boundaries and my place. 

Rehearsals. 

Drinking.

Late night Jazz bars and omelets. 

Hangover Lunches.

All bringing us a little closer.

But that night will make it happen or not. The music can make us. And it doesn't matter who we are or what we were. On stage we are together forced to make something happen or fail trying. 
 
And just like that, the rain stopped.

-rene

605 Miles From Home pt. 1

605 Miles From Home 

I'm at the end of the tour. Hovering just under 4 weeks out. In Little Rock. 

The other musicians are in and out of a hotel day room. Showering. Resting. Calling loved ones at home. Lounging on the bus. Getting ready for tomorrow's flights. Everyone's a little edgy, a little somber, and more than a little hungry.

I've spent the afternoon on a walk around town with our drummer Fred and Lindsay, after a big lunch of course. Pretty much how it's been everyday, except that today is a mix of excitement, melancholy, and homesick desperation. Last days are heavy.

Sam, the guitar tech and all around great guy, is setting up gear on stage. After lunch we had load-in, which is why I'm taking a breather, I won't have something to do until sound-check in a few hours.

The driver Sean is working on the bus. The generator has been tricky for the last few days, but it was able to make it to the lot behind the club overlooking the Arkansas River. Nothing as bad as when the brakes went out in Montreal almost making Heartless late for a festival in Toronto. That's just par for the course, when you put that many miles on anything, the small things start to give out. 

Walking, sitting, waiting, and writing. Thinking about everything that's happened to me on this run. Wild thoughts. Strange dreams and epiphanies. A string of days where everything felt dark. Nihilistic comedy. Jubilant performances. 


And now. 


A handful of giant fist-sized crickets passing by my head. A grandmother pushing two toddlers in a stroller. And I listen to the river.

There are a million little things I could tell you about: strange people, inside jokes, tensions and arguments... the dark stuff makes for easy stories... but I'll try to write something about Gratitude, a word rarely used in this business. Though it might take me a second to get there.

I feel it's important. Cause I feel really grateful. Now on this bench. Writing to you. So close to home. And from day one, from the moment I had landed in New Orleans... or actually a little after that.

"Thanks for flying with us."

I nodded back weakly, not because the flight was bad, I'm just not a morning person.

I was getting an unusual amount of hospitality from the attendants. I'm not used to First Class. And the only reason I'm there is because of some fluke about the number of bags I can carry and how much musical instruments it was cheaper for me to fly first class. Anyways... It was 9 in the morning and I already had enough snacks and diet coke to last me till lunch, but that still doesn't mean I was ready to talk to people.

'Baggage claim's next on my list," I think turning on my phone, following the heard off of the plane. 

'Baggage claim,' and as my phone loads up the regular amount of programs and updates, I get an email from Mgmt. I read it as I collect my bags ahead of everyone else: one of the perks of first class.

Rene. You'll be landing first. The guys should be a couple of hours behind. It'll probably be easier for you to wait at the airport until they arrive. Then you can go to the rehearsal together.

'Only a couple of hours at the New Orleans airport...' I think passing the last restaurants and shops, heading through security.

And now it's too late to go back.

The waiting area for rentals and taxis is small. Real small. Two vending machines and an empty help desk, a rack of pamphlets... and no where good to kill 2 hours.

And soon I'm waiting outside on the smoking bench, with my gear and bag, next to a fifty something women burning through a second cigarette.

"You get kicked out?" She asked.

"What?" I was in to much of a daze to understand her. Till she points at all my things with a deep violet polished finger. "You got a lot of stuff hun... looks like you got kicked out of your apartment."

"No... I'm playing tomorrow," I said kicking my bass case, but she starts laughing, deep and husky.

'She's messing with me.'

"I know, I know hun," she laughs more then turned away. Taking another drag. Leaving me feeling strange.

Should I leave? Where would I go? Does she want to talk or just tell me that joke? That was a joke, right?

Then she snubs out the butt under a heel, and sits next to me, "Who ya wanting for?"

"The rest of my group."

"By yourself?... hmm."

"Yeah,"

"Why ain't they here? The rest of your band? Shouldn't a band be together?"

"They are... uh... coming from New York, I think,"

"You don't know?"

"I've never played with these guys before," I said trying to explain this situation. But I don't know how interested she really is. 

She's getting to the end of the smoke, "But you're playing tomorrow?"

"That's right..."

She says something else but it was lost in the roar of a bus pulling away from the stop, and I don't really feel like asking her to repeat.

She starts looking through her Iphone with one hand. Grabs the cigarette pack off the bench between us and without another word, walks away.

There's a weird moment when I'm alone. And I notice a breeze hadn't come by in a while. And I notice New Orleans is warm. But not the kinda warm that I have in Texas. The air is heavy and wet. The warmth is hovering all over me. I could feel it sitting in my chest. Why hadn't I noticed this before?

I try to distract myself. Pulling out my phone. Playing a quick game. Then check my emails as a new group of passengers comes thru.

I look over the schedule.

Show after show.

Only a few days off.

Why hadn't I noticed this?

And all I can think of thru the woman and her cigarettes: Everything's different.

The people unloading from planes. Grabbing their bags. Getting into taxis. New Orleans: Everything's different.

And I think about the last bus tour I did. The smallness of a bus bunk. Buses are small: Everything's different.

My family back at home. My son. My wife. Everything's different.

I've got a month on a bus with a band of guys I don't know. Everything's different and anything could happen.

Then my phone buzzed.

-Rene. We landed. Where are you?

To be cont...

-rene