drew kennedy,

A few days ago I acquired a new record player / am/fm console stereo system.

Well, new is a relative word, I guess…. It’s new to me.

It’s a 1963 RCA Victrola. It’s about 5 feet long, 3 1/2 feet high, and 3 feet wide, with a flip top protecting the turntable and tuner.

It’s heavy– solid oak I think.

It’s got a bevy of old tubes in the back, and the design screams “early 60’s.”

The records spin a little fast, so I have to nudge a sock gently against the side of the platter to slow it down– you know, so Waylon sounds a little more like Waylon and a little less like, well, Willie. It’s not too bad, but if you’ve heard a song a million times a certain way, it’s always a little nicer to hear it that way when you listen to it for the 1,000,001th time. The radio is killer– it’s a manual knob tuner, so I can dial it in perfectly. I hate digital tuners… sometimes the best sound lives right in between the two numbers… anyway, there is this super high tech gizmo in it that lets you know when you’re honing into the best signal– a window with a bar of blue light on either side of it… and as you get closer to the perfect tuning, the two bars creep towards the center of the window. If the station is fairly local, you can almost get them to touch before they start backing down again, letting you know that you just passed the sweet spot. It’s not perfect, but I think that’s why I like it.

It’s got all sorts of knobs and lights… there’s this sweet green light that shines from behind one of the speakers (the speakers, by the way, are housed behind wooden lattice and avocado green burlap, all held within this enormous beast of a thing) that lets you know she’s up and running.

Sometimes a station that was coming in crystal clear for the last 20 minutes will fade into a staticky oblivion… and you won’t be able to find it again until you turn the radio off, let it rest, and then turn it back on again. After about 45-50 minutes of continuous play, the bass starts to break up, which I assume is a result of the tubes heating up a little too much in the back… so you have to turn it off for a half hour or so to let it cool down.

Like I said, it’s not perfect… but I think that’s why I like it so much.

This thing is a remnant of a time when music played more of a central role in peoples lives. I don’t mean to say that people don’t listen to music as much anymore…. I see people walking around everywhere with their earbuds in, so they’re probably listening to music more now than they ever did before. What I mean by “central” is that this thing is, quite literally, a piece of furniture… not a small one, either. It had to hold a prominent space in a home. Not only that, but listening to music required more effort than it does now. I can set my ipod on random and not hear the same song twice for four or five straight days. With a record, you’re lucky to get 6 songs on one side before you have to get up and flip it over.

I like the idea that you have to work a little bit to listen to what you want, whether it be on vinyl or over the airwaves. I don’t know why I like the idea itself… the ease of putting a playlist together on a digital music player is incredibly handy… maybe it’s the notion that the average listener had to put a little effort into listening… flipping records over, adjusting the tuning. As a creator of music, I can tell you that while it’s extraordinarily fun to do, it’s a little more like flipping over records than it is creating a playlist.

I can’t get this picture out of my head– a family sitting in their living room together, listening to music, figuring out whose turn it was to flip the record over… or maybe it was always the job of one person– the real music lover of the bunch, who didn’t trust anyone else to take care of that fragile slab of vinyl in the same way that they would.

The point is, this vessel of music held a prominent spot in the house. It was finicky, and it was a bit inconvenient. The music creator in me wishes it was still that way sometimes.

I was glad to move some furniture into our guest bedroom so that I could place this thing in our living room, the most used room in our house. I was glad Holly was as excited about it as I was.

And, I was glad to give music more of an honored spot in our home. Even someone like me, who makes music for a living, can fall prey to the ease of its storage, in a device in my pocket–out of sight, out of mind.

Don’t forget that you can download my live acoustic record, Alone, But Not Lonely for free. You can listen to it without having to flip anything over… but you do have to click here to get it.

Now if you’ll excuse me, the bass register on my 1963 RCA Victrola is getting a little fuzzy… time to give those old tubes a rest.

You can purchase your handmade, signed and numbered, limited edition copy of Alone, But Not Lonely

through Lone Star Music by clicking here . Info on the free download coming SOON!

On Thursday, March 11th, I’ll be turning thirty.

It’s really not that big of a deal. It would be if this were Medieval Britain: turning thirty would mean that I was about ready to kick the bucket. Thanks to the advancement of sanitation, medicine, education, and overall personal cleanliness, however, this is no longer the case.

It also means that I’ve successfully managed to avoid that weird “27″ thing that got Hendrix and Joplin and Morrison… but those guys were all already famous, so I had a feeling it wouldn’t really apply to me.

Oh, yeah, and that whole die at the age of 29 in the back of a caddy thing that Hank Williams pulled off… I managed to skip out on that one, too. Again, he had that famous thing going on, but he also had that drink a bottle of whiskey a day thing going on, too… that was an easy one to miss.

Mind you, I’m not trying to put myself in the same category as these people, I’m just looking at numbers here. Numbers and music.

Thirty really isn’t anything other than an age with a zero at the end of it. Those are supposed to be “milestone” ages. To me, after 21, the next milestone age is 35, when I can run for President.

Which I will not be doing.

I just like knowing that I could.

In the end, I guess I did fall prey to the whole milestone thing, and so a couple of months ago I decided I’d do something special for it.

It’s more for you than it is for me, though.

My friends over at Lone Star Music will be helping me out with this, and I’m pretty excited about it.

Starting some time on March 11th, you’ll be able to download my first ever live acoustic album, Alone, But Not Lonely for free. You punch in your email address, and BOOM, you’ve got a live album. It’ll be as easy as that.

We’re also printing up 300 limited edition albums, with artwork hand made entirely by my personal Artist-in-Residence, Holly. That’s the cover up there. It’s a print. We’re hand making all of them, individually numbering them as the come out (so that means if you get #78, it really was the 78th one we did), and signing them. They’ll be available through Lone Star Music, and with me on the road. Once they’re gone, they’re gone. No more will be made. The download will still be available, though.

And the recording?

I think it’s a pretty excellent one. 6 new songs, 6 old songs, and a bunch of the stories behind them. This is a pretty fair representation of what you’d get if you came to an acoustic show of mine, I think. And that’s why I wanted to do this– it doesn’t cost you anything to pick it up, and if you like what you hear, I’d really love to see you at a show. I know people are busy… I know times are tight… I know some people just don’t go out of their way to see new artists, or pick up new records. I’m trying to eliminate all of that for you. I don’t want you to have an excuse to NOT check out my stuff… I want this to be as easy as possible for you. If you like what you hear, come see me at a show, pick up a copy of my last studio record, An Audio Guide To Cross Country Travel, tell a friend where they can download the album….

And if you don’t dig what you hear, at least it didn’t cost you anything.

I think that’s fair.

So, at thirty, I give you… me.

In true Artist-As-An-Egomaniac form, perhaps.

But really, I’m just trying to be nice.

The track listing:

Cincinnati

AM Radio

St. Abilene

Tending Bar By The Tracks At Midnight In Tupelo, Mississippi

The Last Waltz

Caroline

We’ve All Got Our Marks To Make

A Picture of You

Rolling Around In The Bed

Room # 27

A Cold Goodnight

Vapor Trails

I’ll pass along the info once we’re ready to roll on the 11th.

I hope you’ll enjoy it!

This is a photo blog of my recent trip that took me from New Braunfels, to New York, to New Braunfels for two shows over the course of about 48 hours.

I woke up on Monday morning, February 15th, at 4:30 am. It’s an hour that is usually seen by those in my line of work on the back end– perhaps at the conclusion of a late night– rather than on the front end, as I was seeing it. It was dark and it was cold. I took a quick shower, made some coffee, and was in the van headed to the San Antonio airport by 5. I was carrying with me my guitar and a small bag, so I was able to skip the baggage process altogether and make my way directly through security when I arrived.

We pushed back from our gate at 6:30, and I caught some quick z’s on the short flight over to Houston. I had a 30 minute layover, and then boarded my next flight to La Guardia. After completing the crossword puzzle in the back of the Continental magazine (it’s what all the rock stars do while flying, trust me) I caught a few more z’s and then awoke to see a snowy landscape a few thousand feet below me.

I landed at La Guardia at 1 PM and hopped into a cab. The ride from the airport to Midtown Manhattan was about 12 miles as the crow flies… more like 15 as the cabbie drives. If you’ve never experienced New York from the back seat of a cab, I highly suggest it. It’s like you’re watching someone play a video game… and you’re in it. In this particular version of the game it is apparently possible to earn bonus points with every use of the cab’s horn. My driver used the horn as if he was editing expletives from his thought process– at every turn a bad driver or wayward pedestrian that would have otherwise earned a more colored word from the depths of the english language– earned a trumpetous salute from my man behind the wheel. I started counting after the first couple of blows, and lost track around number 30. It was entertaining, to say the least, and his bonus points were many. We crossed the Queensboro Bridge, from which I could see Manhattan standing tall through the iron support tresses, high above Roosevelt Island. First a left onto Lexington, then a right onto 55th street, and eventually a stop in front of the Shoreham Hotel. I checked in, enjoyed a complimentary glass of champagne (this was clearly not the same treatment a person of my social stature receives at the kind of hotels in which I usually stay, so I enjoyed it), and I hit the street in search of that ubiquitous form of sustainable goodness– the corner vended hot dog.

I scarfed down the dog, in all of its spicy mustardy goodness, while waking the three blocks to Central Park. As I was waiting to cross the street, I thought about asking a local if he knew of any secret, rarely seen portions of the park I should seek out– you can never go wrong with local knowledge, and he obviously knew the area well– but he was too busy eating lunch and feeding pigeons. I decided to remain silent, as did he, and instead crossed the street. The park was fantastic… especially fantastic on this, a day of full sunshine and blue skies. Snow covered the ground. The air was brisk, but refreshing. The edges of the park are bordered by the tallest of tall buildings, and seeing them through the leafless trees almost creates a sort of man-made frame of concrete, brick, and glass that perfectly encapsulates the large tract of mother nature that so famously occupies the very heart of Manhattan.

First, I walked past The Pond, across it’s bridge, and stopped at Wolfman Rink to take in the sights. Hundreds of people, young and old alike, were skating counter clockwise around the large white sheet of ice. Music was playing just loud enough so that the only other audible sounds of their entertainment was the laughter that accompanied each fall suffered, or each trick completed. There was, I thought, perhaps no more care free spot on the island than this, the rink in front of me. I sat on a bench for half of an hour, watching and listening, and then decided to head over towards Strawberry Fields, the memorial area dedicated to John Lennon. I was in New York for a musical engagement, so the pilgrimage only seemed right. I walked past the Central Park Carousel, along the 65th Street Transverse, hung a right onto West Drive, and took a left into the Strawberry Fields area. I looked up at The Dakota, the building in which Lennon lived, and in front of which he was so tragically killed, through the bright red underbrush of Strawberry Fields, and then walked over to the Imagine mosaic. It’s a peaceful little spot that makes for excellent people watching as musicians, tourists, and city dwellers alike inhabit the area in semi-silent timbre. Having paid my respects, and collected my fill of observation, I took a left, past the mosaic, and headed down Central Park West.

I passed Tavern On The Green (not to be confused with our own New Braunfels institution, Tavern In The Gruene, which playfully gleans its name from this famous, currently closed, institution of a restaurant) and cut back into the park, passing one of the more cold shouldered city residents I would meet. I took a few minutes on a park bench for some architecturally inspired reflection, and then decided to make my way to Columbus Circle. I passed the circle and headed down Broadway, where I grabbed another delicious hot dog for some warmth and company (at $1.50 each, they’re really the most budget friendly option for on-the-go dining while in the city, and even if it is a bit cliche, I challenge you to find a better tasting hot dog, anywhere) and ate it while weaving my way through the increasing foot traffic of 4 PM Manhattan. I took a left onto 55th, and headed back to the hotel for a shower and a few minutes of downtime before I had to head out to my show.

(yes, the complimentary robe that you can see laying on the edge of the bed was comfortable).

At 5:30 I grabbed my guitar and set out for the mile and a half walk to O’Flaherty’s Ale House for the show. I took my first left onto 6th Avenue. 5 blocks later, I was walking directly under the Radio City Music Hall sign. Three guys around my age were walking just behind me, with two of them holding NBC Studio bags, clearly playing the part of the visiting friends with the third acting as a tour guide, pointing things out to the left and right. He mentioned an upcoming Elvis Costello show, and then mentioned a “new guy, Hayes Carll, from Texas, I think,” and suggested that they see him when he comes to town.

I have to admit, I thought about the possibility that one day there might be a few friends walking in that very spot, talking about going to see one of my shows, and how cool it was that I would hear a familiar name like Hayes’s while walking through this monstrosity of a city. It’s a small world in spite of how large it seems– and it seems especially large in Manhattan.

I passed Rockafeller Center, walked 4 more blocks, and took a right onto 46th, where Times Square rose to meet me. I thought about how lucky I was to be walking through the “center of the universe” on my way to a show… I wasn’t just going to a Broadway show, or a comedy routine… I was going to perform my show. I imagined what it would feel like to be an actor in one of those famous musicals or less-famous off-Broadway numbers, walking to a performance, knowing that you truly are a part of what makes this place so… so where to be. I was just there for the night, and I still felt pretty good about it. I would think that being there permanently, with a career in the performing arts, would be pretty fantastic. The last time I was in Times Square was New Years Eve on 1999, and it was just as over-the-top and vibrant as I remembered.

I got to O’Flaherty’s a little after six and met a friend of mine, Erin, and her boyfriend Jim. It was good to see a familiar face– one who grew up where Holly and I did, and who has visited us in New Braunfels. It’s easy to feel anonymous in such a large place, and meeting a friend made the trip feel a little more personable. No one I passed on my travels that day knew me from any other nameless face that they themselves were passing, and it felt welcoming to see a face I recognized. The show kicked off at 7. I played, followed by Sheila Marshall and her husband, Scott. More familiar faces arrived, since this show was a part of an event for a business expo in the city, and our host, the owner of a Dallas based company, had brought us in to add a little local flair. I enjoyed the Guinness, I enjoyed the Jameson, and I enjoyed the night of music and fun. I also enjoyed getting to see my friend Kevin McNulty. If you enjoy Trivial Pursuit as I do (of course, right?) then you have McNulty to thank. He’s the original guy behind the game, which is pretty cool in my book. The evening wound down, we said our goodbyes, and I took to the street with my guitar on my back.

Snow was falling across the city. It was 12:30 and the streets were decidedly less crowded. Walking through one of the biggest metropolitan areas in the world, with winter at my face, knowing that music had given me the opportunity to experience a quick trip like this to NYC was almost a zen like moment. Of course the Jameson could have been the incubator of the moment as well, but I’m not about to let that realization ruin my moment of reminiscence. I walked back through Times Square, to 6th, stopped to take a few pictures for this project along the jaunt, saw a famous word sculpted in a famous way, and then decided to duck into an Irish pub next to my hotel for a night cap.

I sat in the corner at the bar inside of the pub and watched as the bartender expertly juggled three different conversations with three separate patrons. One was a waiter, who had just gotten off of his shift at a nearby upscale restaurant. He was clearly upset with his take for the night:

“I swear, I would have gotten more out of tonight if I would have taken all of the money that I have in the bank, gave it to you, and let you kick me square in the junk. I mean, it’s a god damned porterhouse steak and a bottle of wine. He left me six dollars. SIX DOLLARS! And that wasn’t the worst of it!”

The bartender bought him a round for his pain and suffering.

“There is nothing wrong with this jersey. It’s a Phoenix Coyotes jersey. I just came here to watch the game and these guys want to beat me up over a Phoenix Coyotes jersey.”

The bartender (using the proper terminology) said that he thought the man’s sweater looked sharp.

“I thought New York was big, and then I got here. It’s huge. This is my first time here. I’m from Nebraska. It’s so alive here! I want to move here. This is how to live! I might never go home. I’m serious! Oh my god, oh my god, people would freak if I just stayed!”

The bartender welcomed her to town.

He came over to me, leaned in and said, “every night. I get this every night. One more?”

I accepted the offer, and had one more Guinness before walking next door. I hopped into the elevator, headed up to my room, and turned in for the night.

I woke up the next morning at 7, hopped into the shower, made it downstairs by 8 and caught a cab back to La Guardia. I grabbed a cup of coffee and a bagel, and then decided another cup was in order, so I grabbed two more bagels, figuring Holly wouldn’t mind one for breakfast the next day, and settled in to wait for my 10:30 flight. The 10:30 to Houston turned into the 11 to Houston, which boarded at 11, but didn’t push back from the gate until 11:30. I slept for most of the flight, waking up a few times to notice the landscape transition out of my window from snow-laden to familiar brown and green patchwork. I made it to Houston with 5 minutes to spare before my connector to San Antonio was supposed to leave, so I checked the gate number, and took off to the other side of the terminal at a dead sprint, convincing the gate agent upon my arrival of the importance of my being on the flight. She rushed me down the jet way, and we caught them just before they closed the door. I thanked her for helping me. I was San Antonio bound.

I landed in San Antonio at 3:45 and hopped into my van (saying hello to Porter, of course) and made it back to the house by 4:15. I took a quick shower, met Rodney, and drove over to Gruene Hall for our early 6:00 show. We met Holly and our friend Bryan for dinner at the Gristmill before hand, mowed through our meal, and were set up and running right on time. We played for 4 straight hours– 6-10 PM. The shows that I’ve been playing at Gruene Hall have been going exceptionally well as of late, and this one was just as packed as the others I have done. We had a good mix of people in the crowd. Regulars, tourists (I went from a tourist to a guy that lives in town and can call other people tourists when they visit, all in a few short hours), even a guy from Ireland that sat right up front, giving me the thumbs up when I apologized for forgetting that it was Fat Tuesday. For me, I said, once I hit January 2nd, my only thought is of my favorite holiday, Saint Patrick’s Day.

That’s him in the tan jacket.

We finished up the show, broke down our equipment, and headed home. Even though I was only gone for a little more than a day, the travel was pretty heavy, and the familiar confines of our little house in New Braunfels was exactly the comfortable haven I needed. I kissed Holly goodnight, and wrapped up another 48 hours in the life of me, a relatively unknown songwriter, who gets to see and do some pretty awesome things.

of a relatively unknown songwriter.

Give or take, of course. The 48 hours, I mean.

On Monday I’ll be winging it up to New York City for a show. The next day, I’ll be playing Gruene Hall. That’s a lot of travel for two shows. It’s pretty awesome, of course, that I get to do this for a living. I get to see things that I wouldn’t otherwise get to see– meet people that I wouldn’t usually get to meet. It will be exciting, and it will be exhausting… but that’s why they invented caffeine, right?

So, I’m going to take this opportunity to show you exactly what goes into a quick trip across the country and back for two shows– in pictures and words. From the 4 am Monday morning wake up call, to the end of the night on Tuesday at Gruene Hall, I’m going to document it and share it with you.

Just a heads up. Look for the post on Wednesday, February 17th.

South Central Texas has been pretty dry over the course of the last two years.

That may not sound very newsworthy to those of you who don’t call this area home– Texas? Dry? No way!

Here in New Braunfels, we rely on the graces of mother nature to support a large chunk of our economy. As the rivers flow, so flow the tourist dollars. Many of my friends run river-based businesses, so the heavy rainfall that has been present here over the last few months has been a blessing from the skies. While the precipitation has been needed, it’s still a little hard to clear the fog of morning from the brain when you wake up to a constant drizzle falling from the grey clouds overhead.

If mother nature hasn’t been much help in getting my blood pumping lately, at least the things going on around here have.

The recording of my acoustic show last Friday went really well. I’ve decided that I’m going to shoot for a release date of March 11th for the download and the limited edition CD. The fine folks over at Lone Star Music are going to be helping me with this, and I’m grateful that they’re just as excited about it as I am.

March 11th is a Thursday. I don’t know why indie artists feel a need to be beholden to the mysterious and age old tradition of Tuesday releases. That’s what the majors do, and we are not majors, thankfully. We’re independent. We get to do things on our own terms, and on our own dimes… so it only makes sense to me that we should try something a little different.

March 11th is also my 30th birthday, and it feels right that I should put out an album that reflects what so many of you have seen from me over these last 5-plus years that I’ve spent muddled in this, the music business, on that particular day. The download will be free– a little “thank you” from me to you, the people that have helped me to reach this somewhat remarkable, somewhat depressing (let’s be honest, letting go of your 20’s isn’t exactly high on anyone’s list of things to do) milestone. I’ll keep you posted as we march through the litany of things one must accomplish before a brand new baby of a record can be released unto the wild.

After all, you have to make sure it’s able to fend for itself out there in the great unknown. It’s just the responsible thing to do.

I guess the years can pass you by like mile markers along the highway. Before I know it, I’ll probably be passing one with a big, bright “40″ on it. I still feel like I’m 18, though, so I guess that’s all that really matters.

I’ve settled on a title for the album: Alone, But Not Lonely

It’s a good collection of songs from my past as well as from my future– I played 5 new songs in the set and I’m expecting to include all of them on the release.

Now, I just need to go over the tapes and see where we stand. I’m looking forward to the challenge.

There are a ton of dates on the calendar, so keep an eye out for me as I traverse the dusty, windswept roads of the Great American Southwest.

They’re more muddy than dusty, I guess, but I was going for imagery there, so please indulge me.

Over the next couple of months I’ll be playing all over Texas (as usual) as well as in New Mexico, Mississippi, and Tennessee. It’s a good thing I like to travel. Come out and say hello.

After all, if it wasn’t for you, there’d be no me.

If you’d like to help Rodney Hayden and I fill some dates on our tour out West in June/July for our newest leg of the now famous New American Voices tour, or if you’re interested in a House Concert (my favorite type of show!), feel free to shoot me an email by clicking here

I hope all is well with each and every one of you.

There it is, ladies and gentleman!

An Audio Guide To Cross Country Travel.

I know, I know, it’s a strange title… but strangely, I think it fits.

So, for your approval, I submit the record in its entirety. Click on that funny looking blue strip at the bottom of the page, sit back, and enjoy. If the spirit should move you, don’t hesitate to leave me a comment. I’d love to hear what you think about it. Any ideas for a single? Let us know. We haven’t made up our mind yet, and we’d love to have you help us decide. Hate it? Let us know that, too (though I hope with all of my being that you don’t!).

Soon (very soon!) you’ll be able to download the record from this very website… and then itunes (and it’s other less memorably named competitors)… and then you’ll be able to come and buy the album at a show. In the next several months, we’ll release a single to radio and the physical cd will be available for purchase in our online store.

I realize that this is a bit unorthodox… but that’s why I like it.

So sit down, make yourself comfortable, give the album a good spin. Help us decide what the single should be. Leave me a comment with your thoughts. I’m all ears!

If you like it, buy it! Come see a show!

If you don’t like it, then at least you got to hear the whole thing before you decided if you wanted to spend your hard earned money on my hard earned business.

Thanks for stopping by, and I hope you enjoy the recorded version of the musical journey my life has been on over the past two years!

dk

The sun has not yet begun to make its way above the horizon, and the sound of a light rain is pitter pattering against my living room window. My most recent habit, which I acquired while I was in Italy a few months ago, is steaming its way through an espresso pot, filling the house with the familiar smell of flavorful alertness. Dogs sleep by my feet, sounding more content in their early hour slumber than ever could I. My father was the king of the pre-dawn during my youth– always awake before the rest of the house could even comprehend leaving the warm confines of our beds. I admit, I felt bad for him. I don’t know what it is that makes teenagers abhor the thought of an early wake up, I just know that such a sentiment is universally shared among the age group. These days, however, where once there were thoughts of sympathy now reside notions of reverence.

I find myself enjoying the order of the morning– darkness rising slowly to some sort of unfamiliar tint of color in the sky (a color unknown to sunsets), rising faster now to the color of an overcast afternoon, rising even faster to the first burst of sunshine as it dashes across the sky. Currently, we’re in the overcast afternoon portion of the morning. I’m waiting for the dash. Once it arrives, I will know that my morning is over. I have things to do, and I won’t be able to enjoy coffee or rub the sleep from my eyes carefree. My dad figured this out a long time ago, and told me that one day I’d figure it out, too. Once the sun is up, there are things to do that you have to do.

But the rain is still here. Perhaps the sun won’t be joining us today…

Maybe I’ll cross “Tuesday” off of the top of my list and write “Wednesday.”

Maybe I’ll go back to bed. Maybe I’ll…

Oh, there it is. It was a little late I guess. Now it’s official.

Good morning.

————-

I’ll have some new album news for you shortly. Thank you for being patient with me!

I spend a lot of time piloting a large 15 passenger van around the country for my job. It’s anonymously white, and my friends enjoy making fun of me for it.

“It’s a child molester van,” they say.

This kind of comment never fails in putting me on the defensive.

“It couldn’t be a child molester van,” I say, “it has windows.”

Such a response makes me feel as if I’m defending the van, and not myself. It’s been a good van, and it has handled its share of the workload without question or concern. It deserves respect, yet it almost always ends up on the receiving end of their stinging laughter. It’s a thankless job, being a fuel inefficient, boringly colored hunk of steel and rubber filled to the brim with stale smelling gear and cranky musicians. Often criticized and rarely praised, it somehow manages to retain a stiff upper lip when up against such unfair social stigmatism.

Playing music for a living can feel exactly like that sometimes.

The life of a musician has always required a massive amount of travel, and unless you’re one of those sheltered, financially comfortable musicians (whom I despise at 3 in the morning during a 4 hour drive, yet whom I constantly wish to be) sleeping in a fluffy bed in the back of a tour bus, the 15 passenger van is most likely your vehicle of choice. It’s not flashy, but it gets the job done.

The roads we travel all look the same— with their black asphalt backs and yellow spines baking underneath an unforgiving sun—and over time, even the landscape surrounding these well worn paths begin to look identical. Traveling down a trail of monotony can make a four-hour journey seem like it takes eight… Believe me when I tell you that it can suck the very soul from your being. This isn’t something that concerns me greatly—I usually have new music to listen to or interesting fodder for conversation to save me from boredom—but I worry about my van. To keep it from revolting against the duties it willfully undertakes with the asking of a key, and at the sacrifice of 30 or 40 minutes, I try to lead it down new and unfamiliar roads from time to time. I don’t like things in my life to get stagnant, and I assume the van doesn’t either.

I’m kidding myself, of course, since the van could probably care less. While it’s a highly evolved piece of machinery, I doubt it’s been able to put together many emotions at this point in its fossil fueled life, let alone the ability to reason and thus prefer one road over another.

This willful diversion off of a direct route between points A and B most often occurs when I’m searching for inspiration. A song can be found in the most unexpected of places and I occasionally try to expedite the writing process by putting myself in an unfamiliar setting. Once in a while this exercise will yield a little fleck of mental gold that I can mine for ideas. More often than not it simply gives me an excuse to get off of the interstate. Either way, I’m usually willing to ditch 30 minutes of a day on the road if the possibility of adventure exists.

You can take several different routes to San Angelo from Austin. The route that I had chosen on this particular day took me through Marble Falls, Llano, Brady, Eden, and then finally to San Angelo. I had traveled this way several times before, so my mind was free from directional thoughts and able to wander as I sped through the hill country. The speed limit on the road from Llano to Brady is an uninterrupted 70 miles an hour, save for a mile long stretch through the nearly uninhabited town of Pontotoc.

Most of the buildings in Pontotoc, made from local stone, had fallen into disrepair and with the exception of one small building close to the shoulder of the two-lane highway, the town looked utterly abandoned. As I surveyed the area, slowing to its posted 50 mile per hour speed limit, a sign standing six feet above the intersection of the highway and a dirt road caught my attention.

“College St.”

Then a second sign came into view by another dirt road.

“Commerce St.”

On the western edge of town, the speed limit went back to 70, and I set the cruise control at 75. I continued on my journey, but my mind stayed locked on those two street signs, now a mile behind me. The idea of an unpaved and commerceless Commerce Street, and likewise a collegeless College Street was both funny and sad at the same time. Clearly the founding fathers of Pontotoc had big expectations of this place when they arrived, and they named their streets accordingly. Something had obviously thwarted their good intentions, and I imagined a railroad choosing to bypass this place or an unforgiving drought had probably been the culprit. Bad luck had left unrealized dreams in its wake.

The rocky buildings and street signs were left behind to crumble and rust, standing as a reminder of the pioneering spirit that swept through this area of Texas as people headed west in search of a life of their own. I was also headed west, hoping to discover a large crowd waiting for me in San Angelo. My destination had managed to avoid a Pontotocian fate, but the ghost town I had just passed through reminded me that the fate of my own pioneering musical endeavor was yet to be determined.

I’ve tried in vain to write a song about Pontotoc, or at the very least it’s two hopeful streets, but nothing has ever materialized.

Sometimes a back road adventure can lead to a song. Sometimes it can make you think about where you’re going and where you’ve been. And sometimes, it can remind you that just having a good plan isn’t always enough.

Sometimes you need a little luck.

I’ve been writing about our recent tour of Europe in several parts. This is the final installment.

The Long Way Home

Great adventures always seem to come with great costs, and with a day and a half left in our trip we were about to settle our debts. Payment would come in the form of travel—an extensive day and a half journey to Paris, where an Air France 777 would be waiting to take us home.

First, we hopped a train in Rimini for a 4-hour express trip back to the central station in Milan. Still gun shy from our ride on the curséd train number 785, I decided to pony up the extra Euros for a first class cabin. At the ticket window, I discovered that the difference in price between first class and general seating was minimal, and I cursed my luck for not having learned that helpful fact until the end of our travels. Holly and I had a six-person cabin to ourselves and we took full advantage of the extra space, stretching out our long legs to give them a much-needed break. We passed through Modena, and I watched our home base in Italy zip by us to the right. The sun was setting behind the mountains that just a few days prior had served as our welcome wagon to this wonderful country.

We arrived in Milan as the last minutes of daylight were retiring for the day and settled in for a two-hour wait for our next train. We were bound for Dijon Ville, France, and while fellow international traveler and compadre Matt Skinner told me that the trip was a scenic one, we would be making the journey under cover of darkness. Our train pulled up to its platform, and we boarded car 86. Since this was an overnight train, we found our compartment to be a departure from those on any of the trains we had previously taken. 6 beds, stacked 3 to a side extended from the walls to the left and right. The set up was not too different from what you would find on your average tour bus, minus the handy privacy curtains that surround each self-contained bunk… That, and the fact that on a tour bus one usually has the luxury of traveling with familiar people. Holly and I took our assigned bunks on the second level of each side and spread out the neatly wrapped sheets and pillow provided for our comfort. 4 complete strangers took their assigned bunks in the tiny space with us (the compartment was no bigger than a large walk in closet) and the lights went out as the train pulled away from the station.

I found sleeping difficult– we were on a tight schedule and I was afraid of missing our stop. I stared out of the large picture window at my feet with bleary eyes and watched the lights of the countryside pass by us. Three hours passed, and I began to see boats moored to docks along the southern edge of Lake Geneva 30 or 40 feet below the tracks. Rain started to fall, welcoming us to Switzerland. We arrived in Dijon at 6:30 AM and waited for our connecting train to Charles De Gaulle. The sun began to rise behind the thick cloud cover as the rain subsided. France was exactly as I had imagined it as a high school kid sitting in a classroom taking lessons in the language—rainy and overcast. The 7:00 AM train took us directly to the airport, and we checked our luggage and hustled to the gate just in time to board the Houston bound jet. We found our seats and prepared for the final leg of our journey back home to the United States.

With the help of friends both new and old, we had somehow managed to complete a 12-day whirlwind trip through Germany, Italy, San Marino, Switzerland, and now France. As I settled in for the 10-hour flight, I thought of everyone who made our trip memorable. Nina, who had opened her apartment to Holly, Rodney, and I, and who had sacrificed the last remaining days of her vacation to show us around her home city and take us to and from our show in Gottingen. Sebastian and his father, who took a train all the way from Berlin to catch our show. The kind strangers who helped us find our first gig in Hamburg. The couple that made it out to our second show in Hamburg and gave us a ride back to our hotel. The talented musicians with whom we shared the stages in Germany. Christian, Simona, and Max in Italy. Gianluca and Francesca. The countless fans who came to our shows. And of course, the dreaded train number 785. All of the people, places, and things that had made this trip so memorable—for better or for worse (in the case of that damned train)—danced through my head. We were truly blessed, and in more ways than I could count.

The plane taxied down the runway, and with Holly already fast asleep, I hoped that once again Bernoulli wouldn’t let us down.

I’ll be writing about our recent tour of Europe in several parts. This is part 6.

My Summer Home in San Marino

We arrived at the train station in Rimini at 3 PM and met with Francesca and Gianluca, part of the crew responsible for the show that night, and with our gear loaded into Francesca’s car we took off towards San Marino. The streets of Rimini were cluttered with bicycles and motorcycles, and I was glad that I wasn’t the one driving. Dodging two-wheeled travelers was best left to the experts, and Francesca was definitely an expert. She explained to us that San Marino was not a city in Italy, but an independent country with a population of around 30,000 people. It sits close to the coastline, yet it’s a completely landlocked nation, surrounded by the Italian countryside. I found it interesting that we crossed the boarder into this tiny country without notice—no checkpoints, no signs, no inspection of passport. I liked the notion of moving freely from country to country without being subjected to the endless formalities that international travel often requires.

Our hotel was within walking distance of the concert grounds, and as I waited for the others to unpack their things I sat on my bed leafing through the official tourist guide to the area. San Marino, I learned, is actually the oldest sovereign nation in the world (founded in 301 AD) and it had managed to avoid being swallowed up in one of the many military conflicts that have occurred since it’s inception. Napoleon once offered to extend San Marino’s territory during his conquest of Europe after befriending one of the countries regents, and Abraham Lincoln was made an honorary citizen after he issued his Emancipation Proclamation.

(As a history nerd, these kinds of things have always caught my interest, so forgive me for the recitation of facts. I can’t help it.)

The thought of being in an area that was smaller than my own current place of residence (a medium sized town in Texas), yet had managed to remain free and independent as a country for over 1,708 years was exciting to me. I subconsciously added an extra nod of respect to each native San Marinan I met. This was a place where the little guy had somehow survived for hundreds of years, and I couldn’t help but draw a parallel connection with my own independent music career (the difference in longevity, diplomacy, and civilization aside, of course).

The coastline was visible in the distance from the festival grounds—a line of hazy blue butting up against a golden row of beaches and buildings. Flags from San Marino, Italy, and America stood at attention in the warm breeze. To my left, high on a hilltop, stood the outlines of a castle. I joked with Holly that it was nice to be playing so close to our summer home, gesturing towards the stone silhouette in the distance, and she smiled and rolled her eyes.

Darkness arrived, and we geared up for our show. It was the first year for this particular festival, and the organizers had cautiously expected a crowd in the 100-200 person range. By the time we hit the stage, there were easily 500 people crammed into the little area, and when we had finished I guessed the number to be closer to 700. Playing music in front the crowds in both Italy and Germany was exhilarating. Each night had a sense of newness to it—as if it were the first gigs we had ever played. The kind of reception we received night after night was enough to recharge batteries left somewhat drained from the day in, day out grind of the music business. Recharged for a year.

People like Christian and Max had put in hours of planning and preparation for these shows. Gianluca and Francesca the same. Fans like Matt– a diehard, tattooed country music lover– had made the trip from Savoniero to San Marino with the enthusiasm of ten men. These people truly cared about our music, and the truly cared about us.

The show wrapped, and we spent the next hour talking with our new friends. On our way back to the hotel, we stopped at a café for drinks and a late night snack. The menu had a distinctly American flare to it, and even though I was in the land of pasta and wine, a little taste of home did my weary body well. With windows open wide and a costal breeze whipping in and out of our room, we turned in for the night.

The next morning our crew of rag tag musicians and promoters hopped into two cars and headed for the castle I had pointed to the day before. This was the very heart of San Marino, and we would spend our last afternoon in San Marino wandering it’s ancient cobblestone streets and marveling at the beautiful view from such a high elevation. The castle was only accessible by a system of gondolas, and the trip to and from the mountaintop was worth the 4 euro round trip fare. As we ascended, the tiny country laid itself out before our eyes. A minute later, the doors opened and we found ourselves in a bustling micro city. Stone buildings upon stone streets offered food and trinkets. Ornately dressed military guards stood in front of the small capitol building. A memorial fountain gushed strands of crystal clear water from which people drank and washed their face. Holly and I (with limited packing space during our trip) chose this spot to purchase a souvenir of our first jaunt to Europe, and we bought a small painting from a street side artist. It was as if we had stepped back in time without sacrificing the comforts of modern man. I loved it, and I didn’t want to leave.

Sadly, it was time to say goodbye to our new friends, and we did so reluctantly. We exchanged hugs and waives, and began to make our way back to the gondolas. Holly and I, now alone, promised each other that we would find a way to return and spend a night in this romantic place. I made her shake on it. We boarded the gondola and watched as San Marino rose to meet our feet. Stepping through the doors, we took one last look up at the castle above, and then made our way back to the train station in Rimini.