Thoughts From 39,000

Last month I got a emotionally heavy. Getting those feelings off my mind is good though. I need that every now and again. Like a sad song, these thoughts can build inside of me and need to be processed out even when I'm in a good mood.

And life has been good for me. Though for you guys it might look slow, I don't know if I've ever been this productive before. 

Right now I'm on a flight back home from LA. Cramped up in the middle seat between a sleeping wife, she's is the best part of this, and a large guy who never learned how to share or not invade personal space. Best not to look towards the aisle... Then there's the window. The sky. The miles of desert between Texas and California.

After exploring the city; traveling without working is one of bigger life goals; meeting new people, amazingly talented people my brothers and I are so excited to be working with; the beach; the freak-show; a really great recording studio; it's been unbelievable.

So I'm in the air. Going over it in my mind. Holding on to it. Listening to the engine. 

Dreaming...

---

Of days when we traveled in a used conversion van. Four captains chairs. Little beige mini-blinds on the windows. Rope lights everywhere.

I was 21 and hungry for everything.

We'd loaded up with the four musicians, suitcases, and gear, cutting up IH-35.

"What's comin' up?"

It was getting hard to stay sitting for so long. "Could use a stretch," I added.

I was eager to get to Ohio, Dan and his studio; but after switching my weight back and forth for the last four hours as I switched between each leg falling asleep, and I needed out.

We were only a jump northeast of Dallas into Arkansas at a small convenience store; I stepped out of the van for the first time since we left San Antonio. And already in a different world. Hope.

It wasn't exactly what I imagined leaving Texas would look like, but it was a start.

New horizon. New trees. New air bursting in my lungs pushing me to the edge between life and dream for a nobody from nowhere. I had spent years as an invisible. Wanting. Waiting. Sometimes my childhood felt like a slow fall to death. Knowing the world was busting with life happening everywhere else. And I only had to find it. But I was stuck.

---

"Would you like anything?" The hostess whispered over the belly of my sleeping neighbor.

She was in her late 40's, well dressed with a floral scarf around her neck like this was a jet off a Mad Men ad.

"Diet Coke," I said automatically. It's my junk. My vice.

"More crackers," Rachel said softly to me, still with her eyes closed.

"And more crackers," I passed down the message.

The hostess slashed a couple tick marks on her paper then moved across the aisle.

Rachel shifted her head gently against my shoulder.

Maybe because it was our first trip, or maybe because it was so strange, but I remember this rest stop well.  Better than the hundreds since that I couldn't tell you a thing about.

---

"Hmm," the lady behind the counter looked me over as the bell rang over the gas station door. 

I nodded politely. 

"You look exotic," she said without pause or hesitation. Somewhere between surprise and apathy. 

I didn't know how to answer her with anything other than a smile and another polite nod. A real Texan.

The lady kept an eye on me from behind the counter, as an orange and black calico bounced out from around her feet, rounding the lotto ticket display, cutting thru my legs, and down a small row of protein bars to the back of the store..

I followed heading towards the refrigerators.

"Where you from?... You look different."

"San Antonio," I answered checking back over my shoulder with a quick look at her. She was still staring at me. 

I could feel her examining everything about me, detached and scientific. I felt naked. I felt embarrassed.

I tried to keep focused. Sprite. Coke. Mountain Dew. But that feeling of her eyes just burned the back of my neck.

My heart jumped when I felt a light touch brush against my leg, but it was just the cat. Pushing it's face into my jeans. Wrapping its tail around the other leg.

"She don't like nobody around here," the cashier yelled at me.

The cat sat down to watch me too. It's eyes frozen on my face.

I could hear the lady shuffling behind the counter, "She must think your different."

"Maybe she's a Texan too," I laughed but I don't think she found any humor in it.

The women's stare turned from cold to angry, "wouldn't surprise me."

She rang me up quietly.

Coke. Trail mix. Money.

The cat ran back behind the counter as someone else came in.

She held the change above my hand, "born in Texas?"

"Yeah," I had my palm open. Waiting.

Her eyes looked me over back and forth, "nah, you look too exotic." She said finally dropping the coins.


---

"Here you are Sir," the softness in the hostess' voice pulls me out of Arkansas and into the air. She's holding the drink out to me and searching her tray for Rachel's crackers.

"Hey, coffee too," my sleeping neighbor butts in. His voice cutting low against her ear as she reaches over to hand us the bag.

The hostess flinches for a second then holding back her anger, she softly says, "A hello first," and she does it so gently, and with a sweet laugh too, the man doesn't even notice the poison behind it. 

He mumbles something between a grunt and a hello.

She's calm but her eyes were ready to kill, "and welcome back Sir. Would you like me to get you something?"

The man smiles unashamedly, "Yeah... coffee."

The hostess flashes a brilliantly white smile and flips around towards the back of train. 

My neighbor is back into his fully laid back and slumped position. A real throaty wind sound is gurgling in his mouth right now as I'm typing this.

Thankfully we will be landing soon. And I'll have another week before I take off to New Orleans to start a tour. Cutting north up to New York, looping back west through Canada, south along the mid-west and ending back in Arkansas.

It feels like I've been here before so many times. But each time I leave I have no idea what to expect. No idea what'll be at the end of this flight. Or waiting for me in Arkansas. New air. New people. New horizons.

-rene

Elysian Fields Part 1

Elysian Fields Pt. 1

I rolled over, checked my phone and found a text from Brian. I was lying on the bed in my jeans. Listening to the fan. The other guys were out at a movie, so I wasn't expecting to hear from anyone.

After spending the evening in the hotel watching TV, ordering pizza, sleeping, and listening to the rain I had collected this heavy jittery-ness in my chest like I needed to move. Like I had to get out. Like I had to get into something.

-you make it in yet?

Good guy. Musician. Sarcastic and smart. He was like the kid you looked up to in high school for being so cool, for being above the system. He seemed to have an answer for everything. Like he had just experienced it before you. Older than me but kind and encouraging to younger bands. I forgot he lived here, last I saw him he was going promotion work in Boston.

-got in last night... what's up?

I got out of bed slowly. Opened the heavy curtain up to the steel sky, the empty wet roads, and these heavy grey cube buildings. And for a second I felt like getting back in bed when my phone beeped again.

-playing an early show at Elysian Fields. Put you on if you want?

The road. The pillow. I ran my fingers across my chest exhaling a deep sigh feeling the movement under my fingers.

-give me 30

It really took me a couple of seconds to get moving. Working out the cracks in neck, hunting out the cleanest shirt in my duffel.

I washed my face with one of the little hotel soaps, moved my hair around into place, and fished out a pair of salmon red chucks from under the bed. 

Elevator. 

Lobby.

Once I was outside I was hit with the cool air, the clouded dissipated sun, the instantaneous rush of life. Walking in the full breath of the city I quickly paced seven blocks cutting through alley's and side-streets. Flocking among the buildings, the street lights, the clouds, a small herd of  wild urban calico's and the occasional car.

Finally I stood in the doorway. And for a second, I wondered if I was in the wrong place.

Music was playing. Lights were low. But no people. No one was even watching the door to even find out I was on the guest list. 

I checked the address Brian had given me again. 

- I'm here

The club was dressed in typical post-punk fashion.

There are a lot of clubs like this over the country. Black walls scattered with local art and posters. Heavy red curtains. Air like sweat and candles. A few small café tables. All trying to cover up years of graffiti and abuse. 

- Green room... left of stage

I walked myself over passing the bartender as he came out of the bathroom. And felt a little mixture of relived and guilty that I wasn't playing tonight.

"Just that time of year." "School just got out." "School just started." "Everyone's working." "Everyone's on vacation." "Bad night." "Games on." One of a million excuses for why people won't come out to a show. And they are all valid in their own way I guess, but at the end of the day if people don't come out it's cause they weren't motivated to. By the band, by the club, by the promotion, all of it combines into a tangled mess of blame failing to attract an audience. But those things don't need to be said to anyone there, not before the show, and especially when it isn't my night to fail.  Some people make a point to complain but all there is to do is roll with it.

"It's not so bad," I lied, while fighting to get comfortable at the edge of a maroon futon. Too dirty to lean back on, but the edge was wrecked by the metal support bar underneath. 

Brian dug through his backpack ignoring me.

"The night's young."

"Yeaaaah...." Brian dropped his voice an octave into a gravely roll of disappointment. "It's only a Saturday, can't expect too much."

I opened a couple PBR's from the cardboard box at my feet. Put one for Brian on the table. At least they were cold.

"I got this down the street," he lifted a vinyl I'd never see before. 

A faded psych, purple collage jumble of faces, shapes, and words looking like a b-level Axis Bold As Love. Brian always toured with a portable vinyl player set up in the corner of his dressing room. 

"Nice store. I used to go all the time when I was touring... ummm," He took a drink. Closed his eyes. Holding the moment.

"When I was in Philly... working this little shop. Half my pay was in cash. Half in vinyl... That's how bad I am," his mind wandered away as he pulled the vinyl out of the sleeve, set it on the table, "I have to stop myself from blowing all this... ya know... Won't eat tomorrow."

He gently placed the needle down, with more care than I've ever seen from him, "but... love is wax," and a smile broke under his long stringy fallen hair, narrow nose, and tired eyes.

"You doing alright Brian?"

Brian stayed looking at the record. Watching it turn a little too long, "Yeah. Just not sleeping much."

And I knew that. Sleep and touring just never mix, but this felt different. The way he hung his words. The way he seemed to be down.

"Yoooou READY?" A boomy voice shot out from the doorway.

Brian was too busy looking at the vinyl sleeve to care about the new guy.

Black shirt, black jeans, black boots. Big boxy shoulders, square chin that seemed to land right into his chest, short blonde hair, light blue eyes. 

"Gonna be a f*** all night, am I right?" he shouted over the twangs of a fuzzy tele and a poppy snare, grabbing a beer for himself.

This time Brian looked up nervously, and gave an un-assuring introduction.

"Rene this is... Hunter," his voice went up at the end like it was half a question, "His band is playing soon."

"Hey man," we shook hands before Hunter pulled out his key ring, and slid a key between his middle and ring finger. 

Hunter gave a blank stare at me as he lifted his fist in the air and punched open the can, throwing beer down onto the green room carpet, laughing as landed in big splatters around his boots.

"It's gonna be something," Brian mumbled. But Hunter didn't hear that, he was half way through finishing the can in one go.

Beer ran down his chin as he tried to crush the can in his left hand. Holding it out towards Brian, he dropped the beer, kicked it weakly with the toe of his boot, and sent the can into a spin across the room, spraying everything before it pinged off the wall and landed behind Brian's record player.

"S***!" Brian yelled as he raced to clean up his record. 

"Oh Man!" Hunter yelled, "Got the record."

He didn't care. Couldn't care. It was in his face. Smiling as Brian tried frustratingly to clean up. 

"Rock and Roll! Right!?" Hunter looked at me and maybe, just maybe, I saw a slight hint that he went too far falling over his face. But he didn't apologize. 

I'm not good at fake talk. And I'm definitely not good at confrontation either. So I just kinda gave this face in between 'that was not cool,' and ,'I don't even know what to say.' 

There's another side to the business that some people say is almost as important if not equal to talent. And that's just being able to hang. Being able to work in this ecosystem of artists, business people, and audiences and not alienating all of them. I struggle with that, but Hunter, all the Hunters, make me look so good. 

"Here you go Brian," I pulled a bandanna from my back pocket and wiped up the record cover. It really wasn't bad. A few drops of beer over the plastic sleeve. Nothing that would hurt it, but I could feel this raw hatred radiating off of Brian. His hand shaking as he grabbed the bandanna.

"Not too bad," I said.

Brian fumbled to clean up the edge of his player. He mumbled something I honestly didn't hear. 

Hunter quietly grabbed another beer. "See you after the set... We can keep this going... Right? Just gonna go find my boys."

He was standing half out the door, "Right," he said one more time. 

Brian nervously fumbled into his shirt pocket, and pulled out a cigarette.

"Let's go," he said holding it between his lips. "I'm... let's go."

He had barely made it out the backdoor to the back alley before he turned around at me.

"What an! Ahhh!" Brian was frantic. His eyes just madly darting around the night. "I don't even know what I'm doing here."


Brian turned in circles, trying to light the cigarette, but unable to hold his hand steady. The door slammed behind me in a clash of metal.

This was more. More than Hunter being a jerk. More than an empty club. There was a fierceness in Brian's eyes. A panic. An anger cracking the surface of who he is. I'd never seen a man break before. I'd never seen a person shatter. And it is exactly that. Everything I knew of Brian. His being. His calmness. It was gone. Slipped apart at the seams.

"What is this supposed..." he stammered, "What am I going to do... here... and all the," he pointed into the club.

"I," I struggled to come up with some words to help him but I was stuck, "I... Brian."

Shoulders shrunk low. He was breathing fast and shallow. Turning to the wall. Folding in on himself, the alley, the darkest corner he could find. Like he wanted to turn into brick, and disappear.
"It's alright," I reached out to him putting my hand on his shoulder. At first he flipped away from me. Turned in a circle like a lost animal but he had no where to go. His eyes feeble fighting tears. "Brian," I grabbed both his shoulders, "It's ok."

"I don't want to,"

"You don't have to. This place. This show doesn't matter. You don't have to play a note."

Brian looked at me. Every part of him was working on breathing.
"But.."

"You don't have to Brian. You don't."

His breathing started to slow down. "It get's so hard."

"It doesn't have to be man." My heart sank for him. It still does. Maybe now I think I would tell him something different. But at the time I was over my head. We were both fighting to get back to the ground. Maybe I was part of the problem. Maybe he needed a better friend. But I was the only one there. And I did what I always do. Get back to the show. Get back to the music. "You don't have to. But you can if you want. You can play all this out. Right? You can do this."


to be continued...

-rene

Warped Wax, Where Did It Go

My love of listening, my growing appreciation of sound composition, started in San Antonio but flourished in Boerne. For that I am grateful to this city, my home. This story is the beginning of finding my home.

 

I don't think it would come as a surprise for me to say, Boerne is not in a cutting-edge city like New York, Chicago, L.A., London, The list goes on... I'm not taking about the people in the city but the lifestyle of the city itself. Boerne's pride is history, tradition, and nostalgia. A time machine, rose-glassed look at the best parts of our past.

You might think it is not the place for someone who wants to be forward-thinking artist. Who wants to be a rejectionist. Who wants to jump off cliffs of creativity without a care to where to land. And while I was younger, in high school, eager to begin my life, I thought like that. But like a lot of my adolescent beliefs I was wrong.

It was on one of these adolescent days, with nothing to do but walk and dream of far distant Americas and the adventures I was sure to have, that I entered into an antique store.

 

I'd been coming to main street for years with my parents, both avid antique lovers, probably one reason why we moved here, but I never paid attention to what was inside.


Usually I waited, moaned, rolled eyes and was difficult. That day I was on my own, shopping for me, and uniquely interested in finding something. Music. But not the music available at Best Buy or Target. Also it's worth a note to say, I was too young to shop online, no credit card, and too young to drive to Austin or any trendier record shops. I was looking for music I hadn't heard before. Tired of the radio, feeling rebellious, I was lured by the charm of rock'n'roll and finding it the cheapest way I could.

To my great teenage delight I found a crate of vinyl hidden under a table, containing a strange array of music I'd never heard or seen before.

These were not perfect by any means, nor collector pieces. They were dirty: covers torn, stained, and ripped, records scratched and dusty. Some in the completely wrong sleeves. Lots of oddballs, Ping-Pong percussion* anyone?

"What do you want for these?" I asked not trying to sound too interested.

The old man at the counter scrunched his nose so much it lifted the glasses an inch as he examined the crate I was pointing at with my sneaker.

 

"What do you want them for?" He laughed to himself, a joke I still hear shopping today: "Do you even know what those are?"

He went on to explain how they were his son's records: mostly from the early seventies, he'd left them at home when he went to college, never picked them up, and they'd sat under this very table for a year or two. He took $10, all I had in my wallet - goodbye lunch tomorrow, for the whole crate.

It took me a while to figure out how to put my father's system together. We had used it when I was younger, but since we moved a few years earlier, the turntable, stereo, and speakers were boxed and stored in different places. Cables and plugs had to be hunted.

Next came a thorough cleaning of every disk, as well as a total examination of every record cover and sleeve.  I was most attracted to The Who and The Beach Boys, a few country records, and a best of Dion and the Belmont's which proved to be phenomenal.

 

I'd like to pause from this story to mention:


This boy and his new found treasure trove worked very hard to get his vinyl sounding great. I'm not one to romanticize the pops and cracks, lack of high and low end, or the eerie warble of warped wax. Those artifacts which some find charming actually bug me because although a part of the experience they are not part of the music. I also do not enjoy people who talk during movies at the theater. But there's an atmosphere and quality in vinyl that's only now being matched. A liveliness, a magic, bred into the medium, which is why it is my favorite format for listening.

  
Early downloads, napster, mp3, CD's, tape cassettes, even the first iPods paled in comparison. And once I heard the difference, it was undeniably better. I couldn't go back. There was a universe of warm, inviting comfort in vinyl. I also didn't care much for the artwork, not that the artwork wasn't beautiful, I was just interested more in the songs within, and soon found out that a quality record inside a torn or distressed sleeve would go for considerably cheaper than any new music.

 

Back to my story.

Finally I had the records cleaned and began listening one by one. Unknowingly I'd planted the seeds of my future, and the toe path of that journey came was in this sleepy city.

 

Boerne, gave me the music education I couldn't get in bigger cities. It was affordable though the selection was erratic, sometimes strange, but always unique. So much great music waiting to be found, and it was all hidden away down the street in dusty bins and slopped shelves, piled on floors and underneath porcelain figurines.

 

Now that I've traveled, now that I've seen shopping center after shopping center with the same stores and restaurants offering the same experiences without any regional individuality, I can appreciate my home so much more.

Small towns and their oddball beauty can only be felt once in a specific time and a specific place. It's precious. I love it. I was lucky enough to be open to new surroundings, even if they were hidden in old packages.

 

 

Where did it go?

My fury of noise                    
       

pitched pain

subtle lulls
 

Tear and tempo                       
       
once so sure

in blood, an bone
 

Crying they found me             
              

when low, very low

life had pushed

I'd looked back                        

only once
but where did it go?

 -rene



*image source: https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-dsGis1BnHkzN8SCuf-sY_0xDB5Q-WL_-hhKUHkzCk5u1rTl-mDB5tKXccFrgiClBpMBgsK1hrJ-e8tVJ5h5c0H_y0Y4s10dBo_7_Zg2gic-iK8MUi1lJDYy_nlAuoMeGttpOPMwGIB8/s1600/sagle_ping_pong.jpg