- (A Demonology) pt 2

Slowly.

So slow it didn't seem like such a big deal at first - I cut one rope, then the next.

Never really knowing how many I had left. Just a desire to remove.

I'll take an aside here to say, I know I'm talking about a lot of abstracts and metaphors here. Stay with me.

>>> cut/cut/cut

I thought the only way I could learn to be a better person was to remove the excess. 

Slice and hack away at outdated beliefs. Superstitions. 

Anything that didn't serve me to be better. Anything that held me back from progressing as a thinker. As a writer. As a person. Anything that clouded my judgment had to go. 

The more I cut, the more I kept finding. 

Always, layered underneath, these old undesired parts of my character hiding away. What did I believe that wasn't inherited from some past belief or circumstance of history? What did Rene really care about? What do I believe in?  What do I want to be? My life seemed to be false understandings masquerading as Truths, until I began to believe there wasn't anything left of me that was real.

But those old ropes were my safety. The links to my family, history, city, state, country, god, dreams, masculinity, and self. Whatever perspective held me down also used to be an old comfort. They gave me answers to questions I couldn't know. They made me feel secure in this infinite mystery of existence. Protected me from the fear of ignorance, even if by giving me a different ignorance instead.

I wish, mostly in my weaker moments, that I could turn back to those old comforts, but I can't. 

I know.  

I learned how dangerous it is to put a knife to an old belief. 

There is no way back. Imagine trying to re-believe in Santa.

When you sever yourself from a tie like family or religion, or masculinity, there is no way to re-thread it. They become cut forever. Having been proven to be brittle. Frayed. Devoid of old power.

And the magic of those bindings are equal parts safety and danger. Some of us protected by it. Some strangled. Because their power is in fear. Without them I became alone to face my fears of the unknown, my fears of humanity and existence alone. 

And the more we have to fear, the more we need and the more necessary those bindings become. Clinging tighter to something that felt real but is daily slipping.

...

So to my nights (if you are following from the last post) when my mind is buzzing in thoughts and sleep won't come and the dark room seems filled with my memories. And I want to reach for past comforts, but dead prayers don't get answered.

There is an out. Understanding is the knife. The knife is freedom. Yes, there is fear in my freedom. What do I cling to when drift is stormy and the path is dark? When I have nothing but my own voice to answer to? But fear doesn't have to be bad.

You can drift. If you want.

I know. I learned.

So I try to imagine a quiet.

I imagine floating above myself. Free of sound. Free of smell. Free of taste. Only seeing the bed below and the body I've come through the world with and float higher into the night air looking down on the smallness of that bed and the shadow of person left lying.

For a long time it might seem that I am floating in the empty dark, but further still in this meditation, are all the stars and planets. All moving alone like me in to the infinite dark.

Somewhere in that strange dark imagining. There is music. There are words. There is mystery and answers. Cold, sterile, beautiful answers.

Answers that come from no-where. 

Thoughts that bubble and fade.

Everything is

alone

together 

in this natural, terrifying beauty.

-rene

ps. as always like, share, subscribe and if you want to talk you can reach me on this blog, youtube, facebook and twitter. Also my new website ReneTheWriter.

- (A Demonology) pt 1

I have these nights every few weeks.

Bad nights when sleep went come. Even as the heavy weight of exhaustion sits on my mind. Pushing my eyes half-closed. The feeling of falling into the bed hitting like waves. Sleep seems so close.

But the waves wash back, and the eyes never fully fall, and the dreamy mind is busy making a thousand thoughts from all my days past. Rising like ghosts from the dark fissures of my brain.

It has to do with anxiety...

If I think about it too much, everything gets tighter, my body starts to tingle with the lack of oxygen, my heart constantly jolts awake every time I start to drift too close to sleep. And it makes me think about it more. And the more I think, the tighter everything gets.

When I was really young. I'd have these nights and my young mind took this feeling for fear and panic. My mother would lie with me.  Slowly running her fingers thru my hair. Her hands always felt cool. I remember her gentle fingers like a breeze. And her chest. 

The long, slow breaths she would take,as I buried my face against her, telling me to match her.

-In. She'd whisper and start at the crown of my head drawing back thru my thick unkempt tangles, as we breathed together. Her fingers gently flew out of my hair and returned to the top.

-Out. And again her cool fingers brushed thru me. And slowly the jitters would cease. My mind would stay with her. My air would open. And I could breath. And I could fall.

The bad nights still come. I've only grown heavier with ghosts. My mother is now one of them. A face to visit me on sleepless nights. 

Sometimes I can close my eyes and breath with her.

Sometimes.

But I have learned other ways to deal with the bad nights, since then.

Writing is one.

If you can't tell, tonight is a bad night...

One thing about these nights, I know I should sleep. My body is begging for it. I know. 

But.

Ghosts need exorcising.

Maybe I'll work my way thru them. Maybe this will be my book of demonology. Maybe I'll write and write. And cleanse my heart. 

And there won't be any bad nights. And there won't be anything left to haunt me. And I will breathe. And my heart will be light. And sleep will be beautiful.

If only I believed in such things. Still won't hurt to clean out demons you don't believe in... right? It never hurts to write.

I haven't blogged cause I needed a refocus. And now I think I know. Perfect in the time of think pieces. Start some medicinal writing as well as updates as I get closer to my book.

-rene

ps. as always like, share, subscribe and if you want to talk you can reach me on this blog, youtube, facebook and twitter. Also my new website ReneTheWriter.

So Many Pages To My Story, A Voice

There are so many pages to my story I'm not ready to write. So many places I can't go. It's like cleaning out an attic; I started with a few easy to reach places, simple stories. Then someday I'll work my way to the darker, bug infested corners looming at the edges my mind. Waiting for their time. And then there are some memories, some pages, no matter how difficult they feel, that refuse to remain unwritten.

It came to me yesterday like a whisper. While I was listening to the rain during the late-night quiet of my house after my wife and son had fallen asleep; another time, another late-night emptiness when I was on a tour bus.

We were parked outside of a club waiting to start a drive out of middle America. 

After the show, and a drink and a shower, I was nestled in the corner of our front lounge trying to cool down. Sweat was still forming on my neck from the fury of the performance. If you saw me on that tour you'd know I was working things out on stage. Music is therapy, it's personal. 

I was half-listening to the in and outs of the bus while sending my girlfriend Rachel a text to see if she was still awake at 2:30 on a Tuesday, then flipped my old Nokia closed.

"I hope you're ready to settle in," our tour manager came grinning in to the bus with a bottle of bourbon in one hand and a case of food in another like he had just robbed the place, "this is gonna be a long one."

"What?!"

"How long?"

There were several groans from the bunks, as my phone buzzed in my hand.

"Two days," He laughed, "Two full glorious days of driving. And I'll be in my bunk for all of it... Away from all you mother f***rs."

"I think we can survive," Abe said and pulled out some of the food from the food box, and started stocking the fridge: chips, smoked sausages, cheeses, fruit, you name it.

The whole tour had been an obsession with food and what we could get put on the rider. In a few days we will place an obscene order to have In'n'Out burger waiting for us. If you think Jack White's guacamole is crazy, you haven't seen a Hacienda/Fast Five rider. l think I put on 20 pounds by the end of it all.

For the next hour, people came on and off, for a bit Dan came in and DJ'd soul music off his Iphone next to me in the front lounge. Jaime brought in a case of Stella, and I stole a bottle out of it as he walked by. 

Several songs and half a beer passed while I texted Rachel about my day. How I'd made an emergency trip to a guitar store for strings and ended up wasting the afternoon in a bookstore reading a collection of haiku's and nearly missed sound check. How I had found another restaurant in my unending quest to find the best Pad Thai in the country.

Then she asked me how I'm feeling, and I paused for a minute, finished my beer. The Stella had left a ring of condensation on my leg. I knew what she was getting at, but all I could answer was OK. I went for another beer, wondering if I should've said more. Things were OK with the music, the shows, the band, the traveling, everything but me. And Rachel knew it. She'd been there for everything. For me. And she's infinitely understanding about my shortness. 

This tour, this memory, comes only a few months after my mom had passed away. And I hadn't processed it. I was still feeling my way through the surprise of it all. The emptiness that came to me at night when I laid awake thinking about death in a way I never had before. The quick joy of waking up in the morning, before I remembered the life I was now waking up to. This story is out of sequence for you, I know that, but the months before this tour, they're still up in the attic somewhere, waiting for another day.


Instead of pushing me to talk about it, Rachel starts telling me about home, her school, and all the things I was missing on the road. How she got a new job and was thinking of moving downtown to be closer to school. How her cat got revenge on her roommates lack of affection by throwing up on her bed, and how she needed to pay for the dry cleaning.

 - Wouldn't it be great to move in together? I mean if I were your 
roommate?

 - And you could come home from the road to "our" house... I like the sound of that

- It would make it so much easier

- Easier?

- Every time I left I mean

-

- It'd be easier to leave if I was with you all the time at home.

- I don't know if it's easier, but it would be better

- I like that

- So?

- So?

- Do you want to?

The bus pulled off with a jerk from the breaks, that woke me up from the screen.  I looked up from my phone for the first time in a while. The music had stopped, a lot of the guys had moved to the back lounge or had headed off to sleep in the rows of bunks that separated the lounges. And I was down another beer down.

"Hey Rene, we're hanging in the back if you want to come?" Our lighting guy Mike asked me from the fridge as he was heading back with a armful of drinks.

"Maybe," I said and felt the phone buzz again, "in a sec," but when I looked down the phone was turning off. And in that last second I saw the battery signal flash empty, dead, as the screen jumped to black, and Rachel's last text hung unanswered between us. "Do you want to?"

Why didn't you answer quicker? She's gonna think your scared. That you were just talking when you said you wanted to be her roommate. That it was all just a daydream. 

I felt a sudden emptiness move over me. Maybe embarrassment?Maybe exhaustion? It was a long day. I don't know why I still get nervous over things like that. 

I went to my bunk and checked my day bag, looking for the charger. Nothing. I flipped out everything inside onto the tiny mattress. Nothing. I felt around my pillow, and under my sheets to see if I had lost it some how, but I knew. I knew it was lost. I might have left it at the club. Or maybe it's with the gear somewhere. I might have thrown it in my bass case.

Sh**. 

I slowly put everything back into the bag. I could hear the other guys in the back lounge. Guys with Iphones, and longer battery life, and cables that don't match mine. I could only think about Rachel and our conversation and the tired emptiness and suddenly didn't feel like hanging out. 

I'll buy a new charger, and reach her tomorrow. Tell her what happened. Tell her I love the idea of moving in together. And I'll apologize and she'll understand cause she is great like that... I hope. I took off my socks, shoes, shirt, and jeans. Climbed into my bunk, and shut the curtain behind me. 

Sh**.

The rocking of the bus was more intense that night. I don't know how long I was laying in the dark, feeling the constant back and forth, shaking me down to my stomach. 

I closed my eyes and left back to Texas. Imagining what it would be like to move-in with Rachel. Imagining what it would be like to come home to her after a tour and how amazing that made me feel. And home, how different it was. The emptiness there. 

I could hear music from the back lounge and people shuffling around outside my curtain. I heard talking and someone walking past hitting my curtain with their shoulder. And the deep, earthy smell came creeping in to my bunk mixed in with it all. The smell that the guys were having a real good time.

Now we are at the real part of the story, the memory that came to me in the late hour's of last night. The shining glimmer tucked in the corner of my mind that was calling to me. Wanting to be dusted off and written. 

It was then in this half-dream state, where I knew I was still on the bus but my mind was in a dream. I could feel the pillow under my head. My body becoming light as if I was hovering and the rocking of the bus had stopped completely. Everything was still as I lay floating in my bunk. My eyelids too heavy to open. My body unable to move. I was feeling it all and nothing at once. 

Then the sound of a tape machine clicked on. I heard the electric hum and the reels begin to turn. The tape hissed as it passed over the heads of the player. And then the voice I hadn't heard in so long, speaking to me as if it was no big deal to hear from my mother. 

- So... Rene... is this getting serious?

- I don't know... haven't really thought about it.

- You've been spending so much time with her. You've had to have thought about it. The future? Grandchildren?

- I mean, it's good, we have a lot of fun... it's different... different than any other girl I've been with.

- And having fun's all you care about?

- NO, of course not... I mean... well you've met her too, what do you think?

- It doesn't matter what I think... I'm not the one that wants to marry her, you're the only one who can know. 

-

- No matter what... be happy. You understand? 

- I know mom.

- Happiness... it's not something you find, it's not something that comes to you. You make it. You work at it everyday... It's so precious... All this, my sickness I see what it was all worth to me. The anger. The fights. They are never worth the time. Never worth your time.

- I

... Make it Rene and don't let anyone take it from you. Life's too short for that... too short to spend trying to fight your way through it. Love... Love has to come from you first. Do you understand? 

-

- Rene? Rene?   

Memories From A Show... The Self Known

"Don't you have anything for us?"

Sitting around Dante's living room, lit by the glow of the t.v. on mute, while Abe paced back and forth on a call with a local promoter, we waited for an answer. I was nervous, watching the ceiling fan circle, wanting good news.

"Ok," he said.

Another pause.

"Ok..."

Shows were tough for us from the start. We were too soft for most of the metal and punk clubs, too young and clean looking, too nice for modern rock. 'But what do you do other than be yourself?'

"No, we don't scream..." Abe sounded a little defeated. This wasn't the first time we had to describe our sound by all the things we weren't, "well, we move around, but... no, not thrashing..." it didn't sound like it was going well.

Then another, "Ok," and I had to get out of the room.
  
Kitchen, drink, pace the floor, check the fridge again, nothing, pace... Finally I decided to wait at the table. Dante always kept this place so darkly lit, it was hard not to be a little restless, 'This was probably going to end with us playing in front of a row of Mohawks and leather jackets, giving disappointing looks as we tried to harmonize on a cover of a Beach Boy tune out of a busted speaker.'

I wasn't expecting for us to find a spot easily, but I was hoping there was a someplace in town for us. '

How did other bands do it? Where do you go? It can't all be built on people you know? Asking them to our shows one at a time?'

We had heard good things about Austin, but it would still be a few years before we would get there. We weren't even that serious about playing, just wanted to have a night with people like us.

'They had to be out there, San Antonio was a big city.'
  
"Get back in here," Jaime called from the living room.

I walked back as Abe was furiously writing on a notepad. "We got it, I think it might be a good one this time."  

...

They looked like dad's more than musicians. Mid-thirties, clothes understated, hair and beards disheveled, they mostly kept to themselves, even on-stage, either because they were weary from the 15+ hours of flights or just by nature.

They weren't the cliché, sex-chasing, ego-blimp style people that usually fill out portrayals of rock acts, They were the blood and flesh style of real working musicians. Not the old guys around town who've been playing the same five clubs for years. Not teenagers who borrowed a family van to sell their burned demos to neighboring cities. These were real world traveling artists... everything I wanted our band to be, and at the time, they were the closest I had ever been to it.

Collectively known as Augie March, named after the acclaimed novel by Saul Bellow, they mix melodic and lyrical inventiveness with cross-genre fundamentals that would be comparable to Radiohead if you replace the heavy electronics with a roots music fetish. They recently released a new album Havens Dumb that I can't wait to check out. Hope you keep an open ear for it too.

We were poorly rehearsed and loud, something we picked up trying not to get killed by other punk and metal bands we had to play with, but filled with the blind determination of a young band. We didn't know how bad we were at the time, we we're just happy to be on the show, playing with like minded people.

We loaded our gear off the stage, down into the back alley behind the tour buses, and back into our cars, trying our best to stay out of the way of the professionals as they loaded their gear on to the stage.

Plugging in guitars, turning on amps, they gave us a quick thumbs up and great job, all the pleasantries. Then in a moment of great honesty, their keyboardist pulled me aside with some advice. 

Though at the time I didn't fully understand how good. I was sweating, out of breath, trying to hear through a ringing in my ears. So I'll tell you now what he told me:

"Lock yourselves in the studio, and write, write, write...
find your voice. It takes time but you got to do it."

He'd left me stunned, nothing to say but a quick "Thanks," as they cleared out of the room. I grabbed a beer out of a backstage ice chest and found a dark corner on the staircase where I could hide my under-agedness and watch the show.

The audience was mostly just arriving, having missed our set, they were drifting around the room, some getting drinks, some talking, a few were looking at the stage. The house lights faded away, and the drummer smiled and turned to his band. 

With a deep breath Augie March seemed to turn off the world. The club, the audience, all the shit life gives you before you get on stage, it all vanished. Even when they had trouble with the vocals not being heard, even though the audience tilted between interested, confused, amazed, and bewildered, the music came through.

I was moved.

A wonderful understated performance. None of the musicians tried to steal the show. They put the songs first. The music first. The message. They weren't performing, they were translating. Some musicians are entertainers, actors, or fashion guides, but these guys were interpreters. And I felt it. The show was about giving something, not expressible by words alone.

If you ask me about that night, I don't remember any wild antics, or people in the audience. I don't remember clothes or haircuts, or what I ate... But I remember the songs. I remember the way I felt, straining to hear lyrics. I remember watching the fluidity of the drummers snare work. I remember the fullness of the bass as it resonated through the room. I remember the organ swirl. I remember the depth.

Over the next few weeks, I thought about that show a lot. During rehearsals. During long, quiet drives out to my job as a writing instructor. During classes. It hung in my head. I listened to the album repeatedly. I talked about it with the band, what it meant to see that. The mood infected me. It became a part of the way I listened to music, the way I played, the way I wanted to be as a musician.

My brothers and I are on the first steps of a new phase of our career. And my mind went back to that moment this week. That seventeen-year-old me, who had his life unexpectedly changed by a band. The seeds were planted, and there was no looking back... This week we are rehearsing a new set, and I'm thinking about what I want to share. To that kid, side-stage. Listening for the first time.




-rené



 

On thousand tongue branches

a great expression of the self known saying, 

"be more concerned with the strength of your roots

then the style of your leaves."

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Bar-flys, Broken Strings, and The Best Of 'em

"I've seen'em... all of'em... right here," the boulder of a man never closed his mouth. When he wasn't talking he was breathing, but always a big open hole for words to come out and beer to go in. 

His lips were too thin to be seen under his two day salt and pepper. At once mesmerizing and hard to look at. Three thick busted fingers pushed against the bar with every one of his words, "I didn't even hav'ta leave... I live," his eyes seemed to drift apart like they couldn't decide where to look as he pointed first to the door then to the back wall, "I live, down the street... Just walk here and see the best, best shows, you could imagine... the best. Ya ever play somewhere like this 'ene?"

I didn't know what to tell him... I had, I mean I've played historic places, I've played bigger places, I've played nicer looking places, and smaller, uglier ones too. It was another stop. But you can't break a guys story like that, you just can't. He stands his life on his stories, we all do.

"...never man. This place is pretty great. Should be a good show."

"No, 'ene," I don't know if it was the beer or just the fact that he couldn't pronounce Rene completely, but it was kinda endearing, "this place is the best."

...

I couldn't imagine the best shows being in Minneapolis. Nothing against the city, just never imagined it. 

The stage was much smaller than clubs that hold half the number of people. Maybe it was all our stuff, but it seemed small even before we loaded in. It looked impossibly small when I was standing at the front of house looking at all the amps, guitars, two drums, congas, a giant open triangle, and the lights: 

These giant metal flower shaped lights, towered over our gear, blasting down waves of heat. We'd started the tour with two lines of l.e.d.'s, but high-powered lights mixed with a high-volume band had more than few audience members passing out during our sets; so somewhere along the way we picked up these giant flower shaped meat warmers, and I was sweating buckets every night, but at least they looked great, and the fainting stopped.

The rest of my band was off in the city; I finished an afternoon drink, paid my tab, and left my new friend to go explore the stage. I had seen this club in videos, but everything looks better on television. In person, there was no room to walk. I couldn't believe this was the same stage so many big names had played before. This was the same place the bar-fly came to night after night to see music.

And there amidst a tangle of wires, was my corner of it. My amp. My bass. My Mic. My moment. A slice of time where I would share apart of this. My chance to make a mark. 'How was I going to do anything worth seeing in this small space?' I could already feel this stage was going to affect me, and it didn't feel good.

That's me,  all blurry on the right trying not to fall*

A few feet off the stage from me was an old monitor console that looked like it had been through every single show, all of them manned by this same guy who was just as beat up. 

He was thinner than the bar fly. His long ponytail was white and streaked with black. His blue eyes circled by rings of milky grey. He carried a cigarette behind his ear, ready for his break, and his favorite tool, a roll of black gaff on his belt.

He moved quickly back and forth across the stage with a quick two-note whistle/wheeze every three steps. Without a second thought, he went about plugging in cables, positioning speakers around our gear, taping down loose wires. Never talking, especially to me, except for the occasionally grumble into his walkie-talkie.

The older crews don't really talk to the younger bands. They're some of the toughest critics, having seen too many shows to be fooled by cheap gimmicks and fads, it's not easy to impress the older guys. I can't blame them. It's also one of the biggest compliments to have one of them say they dug your set.

....

When it came time to play, I was on the side of the stage waiting to go on. Warming up my fingers, practicing a few bass runs,  watching the opening act. Maybe it was a little bit of adrenaline, or the drinks, or maybe it was a trick of the lights, but the club started looking a little different to me. This didn't look like the same empty club I saw early today. For one thing, I hadn't noticed how tall the stage was. I had only seen it as narrow and cluttered. Now that the crowd had filled in to just shy of capacity, and they were pushed together, right below stage level, I could see how they saw the show. They were all too low to see the mess of cables and power outlets, they only saw musicians, well us above our shins, the faces, the gear, the lights.

Second, the club dropped a curtain down between acts, adding to the mood. Even though everyone knows what's going on behind the curtain, it does have a Wizard of Oz -ness, making the show feel powerful. Cause when the lights are dark, the crowd goes quiet, and slowly the curtain rises, its about to happen.

And that gets me amped. 

Suddenly I felt this was not just another show, but a moment. A moment for me. And for the kids who have never seen a show before. And the ones who were on dates with would-be lovers, or friends trying to find a good time. And the barfly, and the sound guy, and all the old guards who've seen it a million times before and still come hoping to be delighted and moved with something new and creative. It does still happen. 

All those thoughts were in my head when inch by inch the curtain was raised. And to my right was the worn face looking down at his monitor board, with a new cigarette tucked in behind his ears for after the show, giving me a thumbs up. 

Higher up it went, and there were the bright faced teens, the men and women with arms around each other, all fighting for a better view.

The curtain was almost at the top, and somewhere in the back I knew there was the wobbly-eyed boulder knocking back the last of his drink before turning to the stage to watch. To see this moment. 

I was ready. Everything is silent. The lights flash. Drums. Guitars. Our singer is off, and with a snap at the bottom of my right hand, my string breaks.

 

-rene





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Some Great Unconscious Radio Station Of Lost Melodies

There's a strange magic that appears in the treks of rolling endless highway; driving tunnels of expansive skies; following roadway lines like a meditative drone. Some beautiful delirium where deep seeded thoughts uproot in the mind with new-surfacing enchantment after hour 22. 

I've seen New Mexican desert sunrise, and it's worth a trip on it's own, I've seen the quick sprint of night racing up and down the hills of Kentucky while constellation's burst out like fireworks firing off the horizon. I've seen endless waves of both shores crashing on cool nights against the borders of our country, and in between all the countless miles, the miracle truck stops, the gas stations, and food joints supplying our journeys.

No musician starts out to be a truck driver, but it should be a subheading in the description. I am a musician, traveler, hauler of goods, loader and un-loader. That along with merch-slinger, salesman, entrepreneur, and insomniac just about describes what I do. 

Come to think of it there should be a way for people to understand what the life of musician is like when they start on this path so I will try: To put it straight, if you want anything else but music from being a musician than don't ever start. If you want fame, love, or money try another line of work.

Back to the small tasks and fevered inspirations.

"...Rene..." her voice is distant like a TV on in the next hotel room. I'm lying in the dark and one of the stiffest mattresses available. If you didn't think recreating the feeling of sleeping on a rock was possible on a bed, than you are not staying in the right over-night motels. "...Rene..."

I groan and roll face down on the pillow. It's not that I don't hear her, or don't want to answer, I'm just too tired to do anything but stare out the slit of light coming in from the wall sized window. Another great feature of motels is a giant window that opens to the parking lot. The curtain wouldn't close all the way and the yellow light from the parking lot is humming in, with a constant sizzle of electricity buzzing like cicadas. My eye is stuck on this light and its ethereal song, and I don't know why, or what I'm waiting for but I feel like it's in there, an answer to a dream, or a prayer... Maybe I was just trying to ignore the wheeze of a passed out drunk guitar player with a heavy snore... It was a very long night.

We'd played until one in the morning, loaded out by two, and drove an hour and a half out to the hotel. After food and TV it was nearly five when I finally stretched out on the bed, but sleep wasn't coming. I'm not good at turning off my brain like that. My heart still pumping energy to every corner of my body. I could hear the sounds of drums in my ears, or maybe it's the whoosh of blood? Da dum, da dum, da dum, da da dum. 

I stayed up reading until every word is blurred together in exhaustion. I was re-reading the same passage for the fifth and sixth times. My legs sore from being wrapped up in the van, my body sore from the loading gear, my throat sore from singing, and I finally pass out with an exhaustive grin on my face hidden under an open book, cause I'm still tingling inside with the roar of music and the hum of tires.

"Lobby Call in 15 ya hear?" With a slam of her fist on the door, her voice trails away down the hall presumably to check the band out of our rooms. I groan seeing that the clock reads seven a.m. I probably got all of half an hour of sleep. I might be able to sleep in the van if it's not too bumpy... I kid myself. My roommate's in the shower and the humidity only helps to bring out the smell of mold breeding into the carpet.

On Tuesday, April 29, 2014 7:55 PM, smokinreno <smokinreno@yahoo.com> wrote:

There's some strange magic that appears in the midnight rambles, the treks of rolling endless highway. Driving down tunnels of dark starless skies, following the yellow line like a endless meditative video-game drone.

Some beautiful delirium, where deep seeded thoughts unroot in the mind surfacing in terrifying enlightenment, emerges after hour 22. 

I've seen the New Mexican desert sunrise, and it's worth a trip on it's own, I've seen the quick sprint of night racing up and down the hills of Kentucky while constellation's burst out like fireworks firing off being the horizon. 

I manage to drag myself to the lobby alone, late, but not so bad that anyone would really notice. We're still waiting for the tour manager to pull the van around to the lobby.

Everyone's cloaked in sunglasses, a few are taking some breakfast from the lobby buffet. I've got my bag at my feet and I'm humming. Was it a song from last night? Was it from the other bands? We pile in, throwing my suitcase in the back on top of a pile of carefully Tetris-like piled gear, and find a seat on the middle bench.

The seat's cold, the window's cold, my body folds into a familiar spot as I close my eyes. Still humming this mysterious melody on repeat... It's playing on a horn, or is it an organ? It's dreamy and evasive. I can't put my finger near it much less hold it yet. If I try to think about it, the melody disappears, but if I try to sleep it comes back into the back of my mind. Spinning around like a looped vinyl unable to move forward in the song.

Two hours fly by, the cities go too, and I wake up from a daze of staring out the window. I have no idea where we are but we are moving east. I roll out a snap in my neck. The radio is quietly talking the news to the front seat drivers. And the melody is still playing. Is it from the radio? A record I know? With heavy eyes I watch the trees streak by my window. One by one. House and field. Cows. Car after car. Over and over. There's something about repetitiveness that zones the brain out. Takes away from what is physically happening, and morphs monotony into a beautifully complete idea. Putting the brain on auto, let's the subconscious and all its imaginative ferocity come out to play.

It's my turn put more gas in the tank, and I'm huddled at the side of the van with my jacket collar high to block the wind. I hear the sloshing chug of gas as it pours into our empty tank like a pulsing snare, and the song in my head starts playing along. It's been hours and I haven't placed the tune yet. I'm starting to feel like it's an original conjuring of the sub-conscience singing out to me. Slowly words start to mold themselves, beats become syllables, words become phrases, and verses, and by the time I'm working on a chorus we are pulling into a back alley of a club for today's load in.

It'll be another several hours till I'm back at a hotel room, writing down the ideas that have been playing to me all day. At one side it feels unfair to say I wrote this, as much as I found this. I heard this, playing to me off some great unconscious radio station of lost melodies.  My mind slipped open, a crack emerged, and in came a song. I don't recommend exhaustion as a method for inspiration, but it is one way to get my mind to a quiet spot. Quiet enough where I am not thinking about creating, but only creating. Allowing myself to take in rather than push out. This is merely scenic driving through the frontier of creativity. Those empty highway roads waiting to be explored. Waiting to be found. Waiting for an ear to speak themselves into, for a mind willing to listen among the clutter of life surrounding us.

your hands like flowers 

talk in subtle ways

I'd love to be the hours

and fields where they play

-rene



The Beautiful Decay of Family Life

What is it like working with family?

I get this question a lot. The whole band does. It makes sense why people would want to ask. I imagine it's like a single child asking a friend what it's like to have siblings, or vice versa. And the answer is probably the same:

it's all I know... how else could it be?

That's usually my answer when I don't have time to elaborate, but that's only part of the answer and here I have time.

I have worked with other people outside of my family. Having had a few jobs other than music. I've been a teacher, a writing lab coach, a pizza maker, a waiter - the only time I've been fired so far...- a photography assistant among other odd jobs... did tile work, built a patio, etc.

All jobs with strangers and friends. I found in all my jobs a closeness bonding co-workers, whether or not I personally liked them. We spent hours grinding away together, doing our jobs, helping each other out. Sometimes competitively, sometimes cooperatively.

There are also the small moments, the lulls when daily conversation reveals more and more until you really start to know people.

But in all my other jobs, that closeness ended with my shift. With a punch-out-the-clock goodnight wave and  "see ya tomorrow," as the door closes at my tired feet.

With a band there is no end of shift. You are the band at every moment. An intense intimacy that could only be compared to a few life experiences. One of them being actual blood family, and military. On the road, at home, day in day out, there's always each other. There's only each other. And like every family, every band is different. Each with unique bonds, unique stories, unique dynamics. Forget what you think you know about the way bands operate.

I will give a secret, the image of the band you see in press or on-stage, "Lead" Members, "Support", who is in charge, who does the work, who takes the credit, is mostly a story pulled from strands of truth and woven into a web of quotable press releases and stereotypes. Don't believe it. Don't worry about it. Just listen. 

There are moments to bind together in the absolute machinery of compulsive searching, and a continual tension eating away at weak resolves of empty hearted hunters.

A knowing that goes beyond words. To feel what your band mates feel. To know what they will say before they say it. To intuit each other's playing. All of these are components of band relationships. All bands are families. Blood or no. You're in it together. And just like families, some survive, some divorce. For reasons only they know. They grow, together, apart. In the dynamic of all life. Every day. Every show. Every rehearsal. Every shared hotel room or long van ride. Every lunch stop. Every fight and laugh in the late-night, drunken re-birth. *

Sitting together after doors have closed. Gear packed. The unforgiving lights pushed off the last stragglers, and in the salty after-show sweat, sore-foot release; a night ending sigh and a cold beer. Words between soldiers. Re-affirming the fight, or a look like  death on our faces.  

I see it in other bands, not just mine. I can't speak for everyone, but I see it. The connections. All bands of siblings. Every other band cousins. It's love, wounded pride, surprise, disappointment, and all the beautiful decay of family life.

to be continued....

-rene

On a walk along the Cibolo

The Path. Bent legs extend across the green tides.
Life in-absentia.
Looking to the water for so long years grew under me.

River cut by generations of wakes. 
Weak leather souls worn down
Raised grass slid between my toes along The Gone Path.
Great white legs of the south lawn stood and left
While I wait for your return.
I want to walk you again.

*Image Source: http://www.mcapozzolijr.com/pictures/beacho.jpg

Let Me Go, The Insatiable Machine

morning paper, filled with nothing to say
silent paper or anything to look away
are you happy? if you are tell me so... or let me go
you're not silver, your tongue must be lead
it's not slipping, must be sleeping instead
are you happy, could you even begin? to let me in, let me go
Roaring quiet, so loud the neighbors can hear
Smoke intentions, so thick that nothing is clear,
are you happy? if you are tell me so, and let me go

A big part of being in a band is letting go. Above, I wrote the complete lyrics to illustrate what I let go for this song. The final version came from a change suggested by Dan, cutting down the words in order to fit the new vibe, and one I carried out. It wasn't easy to edit out half the story, but with the new tempo and feel of the song, it really was necessary.

Though the story suffers, the stomp is stronger for it, a balance I was more than willing to maintain. Of course I am happy with the way it came out, the feel is heavy, and moves like a well oiled machine tearing up the road underneath. But a part of me will always miss the fullness of the story, not that the meaning can't be felt in the final version, and in fact, in its edited disjointed version- the feeling of poor communication is perhaps even better understood.

Let Me Go is about communication. A narrator who can't tell his own story clearly, would definitely have a hard time communicating. To me, it's interesting how other people can influence what we produce. I can't help but wonder what the Wasteland would be like without Pound's input? - more importantly does it matter?

The final statement is the released one, I have a demo with the original lyrics, but that is only an artifact of the process not the result.

*

I've always felt that honest collaboration makes the best music, and a band, any band, should be a mixture of the people, not the ideals of one. A lot of times I have to put myself aside and let others do what they do.  

Sometimes it's a difficult dance, because there are somethings worth fighting for, artistic touches that should be expressed- but honestly most things aren't.

I don't know if science or psychology can back me up on this: I feel like the creative process is a machine. Like any machine it requires fuel. I prefer to run off of life-experience, and study...books, movies, music.. but it can be fed by anything or anyone. It is an insatiable machine, always thirsty for any bit of life it can suck down. 

The brain collects, I have felt drained/empty but never full, which tells me that more is never enough. It even collects subconsciously. Everything and everyone we encounter is up for grabs- be careful of who and what you surround yourself with because your creativity will be affected. 

Having extra people to springboard off of, to work with, seems to be some of the most potent fuel available. Even if it is an unused idea, different opinions help rapidly evolve a project in ways unimaginable to only one creator. We start off heading in one direction and before I know it the wheel is out of my hands, we are miles off the beaten path and I'm trying to look out a window and find out if this is a good place to be or not.

It's a frightening feeling, one some people can't handle. That is part of what makes songwriting in a group setting so explosive and powerful. And maybe why a lot of our favorite songwriters are actually teams of songwriters - examples are everywhere.

As scary as it is though, I will keep putting my words in the hands of my collaborators, walking a line of individual pride and group identity.

Sometimes it feels like giving away children, though only in my imagination...I have no children as of yet. It all comes down to trust. Do I trust my own opinion? Do I trust my friends? My band mates? My ego will continue to scream from every inch, "it's wrong, it's all wrong!" and "No!" but after a bit, it will quiet down its tantrum and go back to it usual nonsense. Letting me hear what is really happening and make a good decision on whether or not I actually liked my own idea to begin with.


listen to Let Me Go

Nothing needs explaining; to slave my words is vain
with each thought straining to what eyes take plain.
Then what do I have to add, that hasn't yet been told
in every showing inch clad, by passions now embold'?
What texts could I fashion, to accent the clever look-
every intent compassion, Nature carefully put?
You too know me by cloth,
Truth is not easily disguised,
betrayed & caught in suit where I hide

-rene


* image from: http://electricliterature.com/blog/2011/06/28/those-are-pearls-that-were-his-ipad-review-of-the-waste-land-app/

Hound Dog, Sometimes a Lover

I think more about it now than I ever did when we met,
but I still won't call it regret
She named him Hound Dog, from the way he mopes,
his jaws on the floor, sniffin at the door, 
waiting for a feeling that's comin on the breeze as it blows

At the time the song was written, I had been dating my now-wife for four or five years. She owned/s a Basset Hound named Lucy who would howl every time I pulled into the driveway.  Lucy lived in her backyard and the only thing that kept her away from my car was an old wooden fence, I don't know how it lasted this long, that just about snapped in half every time she jumped against it. I never seen anyone so emotionally dependent and torn up by love than Lucy. She howled with sadness when we left on our dates, and howled with joy when I would bring her home. She lives every second like it would be her last, and isn't afraid to express how she feels about it. She is a dear soul, with a capacity for loyalty that we can all learn from. Her actions moved me. Her love made the story.

Had I known, when we started this, just where we'd land, how far we'd miss
well I still might be where I am, poor Hound Dog,
It's just the way it rolls...
He knew she was coming, he heard the engine running, and saw me bring her back
but it only hurts him more when she goes

One of my best sources on inspiration is a game where I try to imagine different scenarios happening to real people I know, and figuring out how I would feel about it. Like dreams, false stories of true people. Which make them real enough to me that I could believe it. If I lost a love...If I never found love...If I died... I get a lot of inspiration by playing this what if game. This one was about a love triangle. What if someone had the uncontrolled love of Lucy, but it was unrequited? What would they go through, how much it would hurt? That is the story of Hound Dog.

I want to say a little something about the music. Abe did a beautiful job on the chord arrangements. This is one of my favorite songs of ours. Has a total Burt Bacharach vibe, that I am mad about. The solo at the end, come on he nailed that. The bass line is also a blast to play. The whole thing is just a melody I can sing to. There have been a few moments where I listen back and say, did we just make that?...and Hound Dog is definitely one of them.

*

what the world needs now, more songwriters like Burt

The best stories have a hint of truth, or so I believe, because the true parts are what make it relatable. What I love about this song is how well it applies to other parts of my life. The girl character, the object of desire, doesn't need to be a person, it can be anything I want. Anything I am loving. Sometimes I am the other lover, sometimes I'm the Dog.

Lately I haven't been wanting for much. Just the usual: health, security, greater success for the band, immortality etc... all the things that seem to wax and wane their favors with me. Some days they seem so close I feel I am right there with them, some days leave me feeling like I am behind the gate. Wishing. Hoping they will come to me. It all seems so foolish from a distance. But when you really desire something you can't have, it is overwhelming, it is blinding, it is instinctual.

I think I've gotten better. I know desire=suffering, but it is almost impossible to not feel it. To not want. I can't eradicate the feeling. The best I can do, the best I can hope for... I'll always be human I'll always have my instincts to possess... is having awareness of my desires, and hopefully that can pull me off of the fence. Wake me up. Move me back to being happy with my moments.   

I thought about calling you

had my fingers against the numbers.

They knew where to go,

I didn't have to look.

Yesterday was filled by countless words

I needed to give. Countless thoughts

about where we could go, and so many adjectives,

but I gave it a day and a night.

As the call belled in my receiver,

I found it had all escaped me.

-rene

*house is not a home

Pilot In The Sky, Out of the Unknowing

I won't give you up
somehow I've taken more than you'll allow
when I think about it, I can't live without it
destiny don't matter much
just an end no man can touch
pilot in the sky
reflecting light

Lennon once described God as "a concept by which we measure our pain." I have a different view of it. If you were to make God a concept, some keep it a fact and that's ok too, I think the concept would be a complete measure of all things and experiences, pain, happiness, boredom... Sometimes I rely on faith, when things seem bad, and in that sense I understand Lennon's statement, but God doesn't have to be relegated to only our hardships. It can be if we want included in the best part of our lives, the mundane parts too. So I would say God is a concept through which we measure life. If you believe in God, and if you don't too, God could be the totality of all things, in which there is nothing that is not under its umbrella, so there would be truly no division. All God, No God same thing, a name, a reflection.

I think here I should mention, that Pilot In The Sky, was a group write. We came up with the chorus in the studio. Everyone shouting out ideas. It really is a group Hacienda + Dan song. So I can not give you a definitive story of it's writing process, each member will have a different prospective of it's origins and meanings, and this is more about what Pilot means to me today. Also I will mention that group writing is a lot of fun, though sometimes trying. I think there are a lot of moments where you can hear different personalities really pop out. Abe did an amazing piano performance through out the song, and Jaime's drums are so tasteful. Myself, for the most part, tried to keep my bass simple and out of the way. Dante's vocal performance is very unique and full of character, and if I remember correctly Dan is providing a very psychedelic ambiance on the wah-wah guitar. Overall it is the song we spent the most time on. Trying to get the feel right, and it is oozing with vibe.

God and religion are touchy subjects for me. They are, to be honest, ones I don't completely feel comfortable writing about. As part of my make-no-stance attitude of rock music, I feel its best to leave those topics to other artists. I don't think there is any shortage of religious based music in the world and Pilot in The Sky isn't by any means a religious song, but just a song that could be interpreted that way.

Recently I have had a lot of change in my life, and it has led me to a state of constant contemplation, so that is the way I'm reading this song. I imagine everyone has periods of intense ups and downs, people seem to be very dramatic creatures, so I won't say that my life is unique in this, pardon me while I keep vague, but the intensity of my feelings do not seem to be part of the average daily experience. By far the most intense change being the loss of my mother who passed away a few years ago. This change forced me to look at the world differently, look at myself differently. I began questioning a lot of the beliefs I had. I feel a lot better having gone through my personal interrogation, and those questions crept up into the writing of this album. So though I didn't start out or intend to talk about some things, they ended up coming out of me. I think Shakedown is by far the most spiritual album we done, and I am happy with that. 

I've always been a little bit skeptical of religion, partly from experience and partly from my love of science. I would consider myself a skeptic about most things, and I consider a line about Destiny with that sort of distance: don't matter much, just an end no man can touch. If something like destiny/planning existed, than there is no escaping it, so why worry? If it doesn't, we still know- well as far as we know, things only happen one way and it's unchangeable. No one can go back and change the past, to add to John Lennon's list of "don't believes" I add: Time travel. The future is made concrete by the present, out of all the choices there is one course of action taken. So plan/no-plan happen with the same result. To believe or not only changes how I perceive the events. Am I in charge? Am I capable of acting? Or am I destined?

check out the starz commercial with Pilot...

These are all really exciting questions and ones I will continue to think about till the day I am no longer able to at all. The chorus speaks to me because it is the way I view the world. A lot of questions, no answers but punched-up with a healthy dose of determinism. No matter what way I look at it, I think it all comes down to our actions. How we live and how it affects others. God/No-God, Fate/No-Fate comes to a personal belief, but it's the actions of those beliefs that create the consequences of our lives. I'd love to know how you guys feel...

Pilot is one of many vague-morphing songs. A song I know is telling me something, even if I can't quite put my finger on it. The lyrics are as searching as I am. I will come back to it in a few years, months, days and have a different outlook, and I think that's beautiful. Maybe that is the greatest thing about music and religion. In the mystery, out of the unknowing, everything is possible. Anyone can project on to it, and pull from of it innumerable meanings. I try to understand something, and find out the only thing to really understand is myself.

in a worn out two-room shack on empty floors,
I think of you

in vast supermarket lines of  tedious measure,
I think of you

in deepest suburban holes of sterile nothing, where I think the saintly would not go

you were already there

waiting in runoff alleys, desperation corners and pavements clawed with jagged nails,
I think of you

in smiles covered in cellophane-sheen like high-rise towers and super complexes,
I think of you

where i found there is no such thing as an empty inhalation,
to know I'm never not taking

you were already there



-rene


PS. I've always been more of a My Sweet Lord guy: