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.

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.

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.

I’ll be writing about our recent tour of Europe in several parts. This is part 5.

Memorizing Mountains

We arrived in Savoniero at 4 in the afternoon to find a crew of stagehands making their final adjustments to a rack of lights that hovered above a large stage. Savoniero is a small hamlet high in the mountains, one of several towns that make up the municipality of Palagano, which boasts a population of roughly 2,500 people. The view from the stage was incredible, with greens and browns from mother natures’ vast palate of color playing out in the fields and farms below us. I assumed that, unless I should get the chance to play at Red Rocks in Colorado, this surely would be the most scenic setting in which I would ever have the pleasure of performing. The stage was positioned along the far side of a tennis court that was undoubtedly the largest, flattest portion of land for miles.

Upon arrival we were greeted by hosts eager to let us sample the local wine, and we did so thankfully. It was a dark purple liquid that was served cold, and it’s ample dose of carbonation helped to make it an incredibly refreshing (and dangerous, I thought) beverage. After sound check, we were ushered into a building where several varieties of fresh pasta awaited us. After an incredible meal, Rodney and I spent the rest of the afternoon getting to know some of the locals, and Holly spent the downtime walking the narrow streets of the picturesque village. As the sun began to set, scores of people arrived at the concert grounds. Parking was scarce, and the nearby residents put up home made parking signs, squeezing 5-10 cars into their little driveways and yards. Vehicles began to line the road leading up to the village, as well as the road leading towards the mountaintop above. Darkness descended, and as we took the stage we were shocked to look out over a crowd that was nearly 4,000 strong. Where they had come from I didn’t know, but I was glad they were here.

Rodney and I began our set, and the audience, with its lust for music on full display, greeted each song with a raucous mix of cheers and whistles. A video screen behind us displayed our faces on a larger than life scale (a treatment I wasn’t prepared to see—as I looked over my shoulder during one of my songs, I nearly forgot the words when I saw the display) and lights the color of the wine we had been enjoying danced across the stage to the beat of the music. It was a monumental night for each of us. Yet again, our music had found an appreciative audience some 5,000 miles from where it came. The feeling of gratitude I had for each person that stood in front of us was as big as the mountain we were standing upon. Finishing the show, we met with hundreds of happy and enthusiastic people. They offered us wine, congratulatory handshakes, and jovial slaps on the back. Later that night, I wrote of the crowd in my notebook.

There must be friendship in the wine,

or wine in the friendship. Either way,

I’ll take it.

Our night finished, we headed up to the very top of the mountain to the chateau where we were spending the night. It’s rustic rooms and balconies offered a priceless view of Savoniero and the majestic valley below, now dotted with the tiny yellow lights of midnight. Our hosts were kind enough to send us back with several bottles of their now favored wine, and we put the finishing touches on our day sitting in the cool mountain breeze drinking and talking about the incredible places this tour had taken us.

The sun rose, and we rubbed the sleep out of our eyes with incredible scenery and strong espresso. In an hour we would head back down the mountain, through Savoniero, and back into Modena to catch yet another train. For now, we were content with saying nothing and letting the espresso do it’s job. We sat in silence, and I supposed that like me, the others were trying to memorize the view hanging before us like a master painting. I’ve experienced more than my fair share of wonderful things in these 29 years of life, and I wanted to make sure that the view I had on this particular morning was one that I would never forget.

We headed back down the mountain, passing first the tennis courts, and then through several tiny hamlets on our way to the train station. We bid our hosts farewell and promised to return, if only to spend a few days on top of that incredible mountain to write songs and share stories. The train chugged into the station, and we boarded it, stowing our gear where we could. With a three-hour trip to San Marino ahead of us, we settled into our seats. Telling jokes, and taking in the scenery, I thought it unfair that someone who makes his living on the aural side of the fence should be treated to such visual beauty. Without my eyes, I supposed that I wouldn’t have the fodder for the songs that I write, and I let the feeling of undeserved luxury pass by me like the vineyards beyond my window.

Perhaps my years of laboring in the sweaty honkytonks of the southwest had made me deserving of this rich experience… but I was not alone in my efforts. I sat in my seat wishing I could treat my friends to this experience. Surely everyone deserves this kind of adventure—at least once in their lives.

My moment of contemplation slipped away, and I found myself selfishly planning a return trip in my head. I smiled and closed my eyes, allowing the motion of the train car to rock me to sleep.

I’ll be writing about our recent tour of Europe in several parts. This is part 4.

Clouds and Fog

The Huns were making their way across Italy, leaving behind them a trail of death and destruction. No town in their path was left untouched, no defender left alive. As word of their gruesome acts spread out across the land, thousands of people fled from their ancestral homes in hopes of escaping the horrible fate that surely awaited them at the hands of these merciless invaders. They passed through Modena on their way to seek haven in the higher elevations of the Apennine Mountains, bringing with them their harrowing tales. Once it became clear that the Huns were indeed headed for Modena, a meeting was held to discuss several plans of action: should they stay and fight, join the others in exodus, or pray for protection? After days of debates, a decision was made, and the people of Modena began to gather in the towns’ churches and monasteries. They would pray to God for guidance, and they would pray to Saint Germinianus for protection.

Germinianus had long been the patron saint of Modena, and for generations local people had honored him in prayer and action. In return, Germinianus had blessed the region with fertile fields and protected its people from harm.

And so, they prayed.

As the Huns neared Modena, a blanket of dense fog began to wash over the area. It was so thick that it reportedly seeped under doors and through loose windows. Hands could not be seen in front of faces, and travel became utterly impossible. The Huns, seeing this cloud of fog before them, maneuvered around its edges, and pressed onward, searching for their next conquest. Two days later, with the town safe from its certain destruction and the Huns miles away, the fog dissipated as quickly as it appeared.

It had been a miracle, and Modena had been spared. Saint Germinianus had again extended his favor over the town and it’s people. To this day, he remains the patron saint of Modena.

“Man, that’s an incredible story!”

“Yes, it’s one that I’ve heard for a very long time.”

Countless stories like this had been shared throughout the early morning hours over our small feast on the top of the mountain, each one of them entertaining. We were sitting in the lap of hospitality, surrounded by new friends, fantastic food, and incredible wine. The memories of the 785 were quickly fading into oblivion. This was the formal introduction to Italy I had been searching for. The nearly full moon had cast its pale light across the land surrounding Christians’ home, making the terrain seem more mystical than real. Candlelight danced across the tabletop, flickering wildly with each chorus of laughter and standing motionless and bright during each solitary tale. It was like the set of a movie… except it was real.

The sky to the east began to show familiar signs of life, and we watched as the blanket of stars above our head began to march its way westward. We said our goodnights, and headed back down the mountain towards the hotel to turn in before we had lost what little was left of the darkness.

In the morning, Holly and I walked to the grocery store across the street to pick up a few things. We talked about the incredible wine we shared last night, and how strange it was to be in a familiar store (in layout and goods) in so unfamiliar a land. We returned to the hotel and prepared for our day. It would take a 20-minute drive through the Italian countryside, and a 45-minute drive high into the mountains to the reach the site of our show that night. We loaded our gear into Christian’s car and hit the road, windows rolled down, panoramic views stretched out before us. As we climbed our way up the rocky terrain, we neared closer to the clouds. Any closer, I thought, and we’d be directly in them. We ended our drive at the site of our show, which sat high atop a mountain, but well below the clouds.

There would be no need for clouds or fog today… we weren’t here to pillage.

Just to play.

I’ll be writing about our recent tour of Europe in several parts. This is part 2.

The Lonely Accordion

The next morning we packed up our things, loaded them into Nina’s car, and headed back to Hannover’s central train station. We had a few hours to spare before we needed to hit the tracks, so we decided to visit Nina’s place of employment, Staatstheater Hannover. Getting a first hand tour of a beautiful opera house is a breathtaking thing, and while it’s not a stage I am likely ever to cross with guitar in hand, I still enjoyed getting a glimpse into the inner workings of a musical company. The building was an interesting mix of classical architecture and post-war reconstruction (at least to my highly untrained eye… that’s the way it felt to me) and I enjoyed the chance to look around. After the tour, Nina took us to the station and walked us to our platform. We said our goodbyes, and she headed back to her office leaving three American vagabonds feeling as if they got a one of a kind look into the city she calls home. She’s a truly special friend that (at this point) I only get to see every 10 years or so. I hoped the next few shows would go well, if only for the fact that we could book more dates in Germany, and we could hang out with Nina again. Our train pulled into the station, we stepped on, grabbed a seat, and set out for Hamburg.

Train- Riding backwards- strange. Neck hurts.

Seems I’d rather see what’s coming than

I would what I’ve already passed.

Hamburg is a vibrant port city situated on the Elbe River. The centerpiece of its downtown area, the Town Hall of Hamburg (Hamburger Rathaus), is an elegant neo-renaissance style building with a copper roof that has been stained green with the oxidization of time. The courtyard in front of the building plays host to a number of merchants peddling art, jewelry, food, and drink. Street musicians dot the area, playing for tips. One particular woman, a slight blond playing the accordion, caught our attention. The square was sunny—full of people of every shape and size creating a happy mix of pedestrian traffic. Her music, however, was an interesting contrast to the visual scene. It was hauntingly lonesome and beautiful. Dressed elegantly with black pants, a flowing lacy shirt, and black high heels, she wore dark sunglasses that added to the mystery of her music. I thought it was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard. It made me sad, and it made me thoughtful. More importantly to her (I assume), it made me reach into my pocket and toss some coins into her accordion case.

Holly, Rodney and I sat on steps leading down to the river, watching swans and ducks dart to and from breadcrumbs tossed into the water. The afternoon sun sank lower behind the tall steeple of a nearby church, and we walked through town, heading back to our hotel, stopping at the local fish market for a drink. A band was playing nearby, and as we got closer, we recognized the unmistakable sounds of a Billy Ray Cyrus song. We stopped and listened—a look of confused amusement on our faces. It seemed, as the lone Americans in the area, that we were the only ones that found the performance to be humorous. Perhaps this boded well for our style of music finding a home in Germany, since the people around us seemed to genuinely like the song… Then again, perhaps it didn’t.

Back at the hotel, we showered and changed. I found the address of the venue we were playing that night in the phone book and gave it to a taxi driver that was waiting for us at the bottom of the hotel steps. He dropped us off 20 minutes later at the club, but something seemed wrong… surely, this wasn’t the spot. We walked inside, and asked if there was live music being played here tonight. The woman behind the bar told us in broken English that there wasn’t. Puzzled, I asked the lone man inside of the building if this was Astra Stube. He spoke no English, but seemed to understand what we were asking. He said that it wasn’t, but held out his finger in a universal symbol that said, “wait a minute.” Pulling out his cell phone, he called several friends, none of whom could offer us any assistance. We were at the wrong club, in an unfamiliar city, with no idea of where to go. Just as we were trying to formulate a game plan, a man walked in. The helpful German asked him a question, and he looked up at us, saying, “you’re looking for Astra Stube?”

“Yes,” I said, “do you know where it is?”

“It’s a very famous music place. If you have patience, I will be back with my car in 10 minutes and I will take you there.”

Crisis averted. The man, who later told us he worked in the international shipping business, and had lived for several years in the United States, loaded us into his car, gave us a quick tour of the area, and dropped us off in front of Astra Stube. We thanked him and invited him to come to the show. He said he would try and make it, and bid us farewell.

Inside of the venue, we were relieved to find our international team of musicians starting sound check and drinking beer. They were happy that we had made it, and we talked about the previous nights show, as well as the crowd we were hoping to see that night. Astra Stube is a small room, located directly beneath a train overpass on the corner of two busy streets. It made me feel as if I was in Chicago (a German speaking Chicago, anyway) and I liked the vibe of the place. As show time neared, the room began to fill up. By the time I hit the stage at 10:30, it was completely packed. I played my set, and each song was met with the same attentiveness that I had experienced the night before. I felt completely gratified as I walked off of the stage. Surprisingly, the first person I saw by the bar was the friendly stranger that had given us a ride earlier that afternoon. He complimented the set and bought us each a drink. An hour later, Rodney played a great set, the other artists finished out the night, and we took a cab back to our hotel—this time without ending up at the wrong place. Two shows down, two resounding successes.

The next morning we awoke, and headed out to find some lunch. We were in the mood for some traditional German fare, and we thankfully found it a mile away from our hotel. The meal was perfect, and we spent the rest of the afternoon exploring downtown Hamburg. That night, we managed to find our next venue, Freundlich + Kompitent without incident. We sound checked, ate dinner at a quaint Italian restaurant down the street, and talked about our day. A couple sat down at the table next to us sporting cowboy hats, so we introduced ourselves. They lived in town and had come to see our show. We quickly made friends with the pair, and spent the rest of the night talking about music. Its universal language had again come through, and we had once more found common conversational ground 5,000 miles from home. The show wrapped up, and we said goodbye to the other musicians. It was our last performance with them before we headed to Italy the next day. We all traded cd’s and wished each other well. Our new cowboy-hat-wearing friends loaded us into their car and dropped us off in front of our hotel. With a heartfelt “yee haw,” they left us standing on the curb and sped away into the early morning hours of the Hamburg night. We retired to our beds, and I closed my eyes, thankful for all of the friends we had made so far on our adventure. And with the beautifully lonely sound of the accordion player from the square waltzing through my head, I closed my eyes on our last night in Germany.

Thanks, Bernoulli.

When I was 10 years old, I learned something from a man at the Please Touch Museum in Philadelphia. He held a strip of paper under his bottom lip, and blew across the top of it. The paper, seemingly that of the magical variety, lifted itself upwards towards the current of air streaming from the man’s mouth. I clearly remember thinking that this was a trick—that such a thing was impossible. Those of us watching this were then handed our own strips of paper.

“Now you try,” the man said.

I did. I blew as hard as I could and the paper lifted up towards my nose. I continued to blow, and stared at the paper, cross-eyed, over the bridge of my nose.

“This isn’t magic. This is Bernoulli’s Principle.”

I’ve never been an expert in fluid dynamics. Not at 10, and not now, at 29. Bernoulli, a Dutch mathematician who in 1739 published his idea that objects move in the direction of decreased pressure, had managed to leave an impression on me some 208 years after his death. For some reason, that demonstration popped into my mind every time I looked at a plane… and this particular plane was a monstrous Boeing 777. I was about to board it in Memphis, and I hoped that Bernoulli wasn’t going to fail me somewhere over the Atlantic on my way to Amsterdam.

Myself, my wife Holly, Rodney Hayden, and a full load of passengers touched down in Amsterdam at 11:00 AM on August 2^nd, and while I couldn’t speak for any of them, my faith in Bernoulli and his principle was once more reassured. We set off in search of coffee and Heineken to celebrate our arrival across the pond. The feeling of adventure coursing through my veins helped to curb that of the jet lag nipping at my heels. This was my second trip to Europe, but my first as a performing musician, and I was ready to test the unknown. After we tossed down our drinks we boarded a plane bound for Hamburg, Germany. From the airport in Hamburg, we took a train to Hannover. Sitting across the aisle from a girl and her dog, I found myself impressed with both Germany’s public transportation system and the calm nature of this canine traveler. His name was Yoshi. I felt it was only right that I remember the name of the first dog I had ever seen on a train, and I wrote it down in my notebook:

Train- bound for Hannover- sitting next to a dog named

Yoshi. Impressed with both train and dog.

200 miles of foreign landscape whipped by us at breakneck speed, and before we knew it we had arrived—weary but excited. My friend Nina, who had been an exchange student at my high school, and whom I visited on my last trip to Europe 10 years prior, greeted us at the station and drove us to her apartment in the heart of the city. Downtown Hannover was beautiful—a clean and interesting mix of modern architecture amongst pre-American-Revolution period buildings that sparkled in the night. After unloading our gear at her place, we walked the quiet Sunday night streets as she gave us a quick tour. As we closed out our long day of travel sitting on the banks of Lake Maschsee, we wondered how the German crowds would receive our music the next day, and if there would even be a crowd to accept or dismiss us at all.

We set off for the Blooming Bar in Gottingen, an hour away, driving 140 mph on the Autobahn after spending the afternoon walking through the Herrenhausen Gardens and its neighboring park, taking in the sights and sounds of our first full day in Germany. Touring an unfamiliar land was fun, but we were here to test out a new and foreign market, so it was a good feeling to know we were headed for a show. We anticipated a good turn out, but that’s what we do in this line of work… If you don’t convince yourself that you’ll have someone to play for, it makes it a lot harder to get through the day. I wrote of my anticipation—the first and possibly only words I will ever write while in a car traveling at such a high rate of speed:

Car- Autobahn- Expecting a good crowd tonight in

Gottingen, if only for the other musicians on the bill.

Driving faster than I care to think about.

Gottingen is a quaint college town of 30,000 inhabitants, most of whom are students. At the very least, surely we had that fact going for us. If a group of folk singers from Germany had showed up in my college town, I supposed that I would go and check them out for at least the sake of curiosity. Plus, it was a Monday. What else is there to do on a Monday? It’s this particular kind of positive thinking (or delusion) that keeps a musician going, both at home, and as I now discovered, abroad.

The Blooming Bar was nestled between two buildings. An open-air patio overlooking a nearly empty river was at the entrance, and a small inside bar area with seats and couches was directly to the right. The place had a cool and welcoming vibe—the kind of place I’d frequent if it were here in New Braunfels. We were the first of the musicians to arrive, and as we walked into the room, Rodney pointed out two people dressed in matching western shirts and cowboy hats. We introduced ourselves and discovered that the father and son had taken a train all day from Berlin for our show. They produced our cd’s for us to sign and bought us each a beer. We agreed that, if nothing else, their presence more than warranted our journey. The music business changes on a daily basis, but if there is one constant, it is the feeling of gratification a musician gets when meeting fans that travel great distances to hear music that they truly appreciate. It’s nice to know that you’re not the only people out on the road heading for a show. It’s even nicer when it’s your first show in Germany.

The rest of the musicians arrived within the hour. These next three shows were all a part of a songwriter showcase tour that occurs several times throughout the year across Germany, and this leg featured players from Iceland, Germany, Italy, and Australia. All of them proved to be incredibly talented and kind people, and they welcomed us into the fold for the next three days with open arms. Much to our relief, the room filled up, and as the show began, I noticed that the attentiveness of the audience rivaled that of some of the best listening rooms in the States. Each artist played their set, and each was met with the appreciation that they deserved. Our gamble was paying off—Germany had come through. Rodney and I each played separate sets and then spent the rest of the night talking with new fans. We headed home, again at 140 mph, and ended the night at Nina’s apartment with a nightcap. Day one was a considerable success, and as I drifted off to sleep, I thought about the day… it seemed that no matter what language you speak at home, you’re never really a stranger in a foreign land when you have music by your side.

I’m currently working on a recount of the trip for you… so stay tuned, I’ll post it once it’s finished.

Until then, I just thought I’d drop by to say hello.

“hello.”

That fun picks up again when the release date rolls around, and an artist finally gets to share his blood, sweat, and recorded tears with the rest of the world.

In my case, however, the fun has only started.

We’re in the process of getting our ducks in a row– lining up talented people with all sorts of different musical backgrounds to begin doing what they do best: making sure the music can be heard by everyone with an open ear. This includes people who line up press interviews, artists to create album artwork, radio professionals who get singles out to stations, and a whole host of other things. They’re all good at what they do, and I’ve been having a good time getting the ball rolling. We’re still quite a distance away from release day, but I can see it out there on the horizon. I have to squint a little, and block the sun a bit (no easy task in south Texas), but nonetheless, I’m just starting to be able to make it out.

This is a big deal for me. In my opinion, An Audio Guide To Cross Country Travel will be a huge step. It’s chock full of songs that I’m proud of, and it sounds like a dream. It’s hard to reign in my enthusiasm– I almost wish it were coming out tomorrow– PR be damned– just so all of you can hear it– but I know that what we have to do takes time. We’re going to make sure we do it right.

Still, I wake up every morning feeling like a kid about ready to go open his presents on Christmas Day.

I also go to sleep as if it were Christmas Eve, so if you were anything like I was as a kid, you know that going to sleep is the hard part.

In other news, Rodney Hayden and I had a great string of shows last week. We did a lot of driving (DFW to San Antonio to DFW), but it was worth it. Thanks to everyone that came out to Overtime, Billy D’s, and The All Good Cafe. It really is a blessing to get to share music, night after night, with an artist as talented as Rodney. I hope you all have been enjoying it as much as I have.

We’ve got a slow week on our hands, but that’s ok. The aforementioned record stuff is taking up a lot of time, and I’m happy that I get to focus on the task that lies ahead.

On a side note, I’ve been taking a bunch of pictures on the road– none of which really have anything to do with music– just shots from the ol’ iphone of things that look interesting to me. Check them out if you’re bored.

dk

I’ve been patiently awaiting the delivery (albeit a digital delivery) of the mastered version of Audio Guide for my review. Admittedly, patience and I know very little about each other, so we’ve been taking some time this morning to get formal introductions out of the way.

Who am I kidding, I’ve been so anxious to get my ears on this thing that I stretched out my run this morning an extra couple of miles in the hopes that it’d curb my impatience. It didn’t work, but that’s ok. Part of my goal behind this new site is to keep you guys in the loop about the recording process, from studio to release, and I guess my anxiety is as big a part as the rest of it. With the help of compadre Matt Powell, and studio wizard Britton Beisenherz, we were able to pull in some top notch players and put together what I believe to be a really remarkable album. Now that we’re about to reach the final step in the physical recording process– the completion of the master– it’s almost time for us to start looking toward the next step: marketing.

I know much more about music than I do marketing, so some of it will be out of my hands, to say the least. While letting go of something so important to you is a little nerve wracking, it is a necessity. We’ve got some really cool ideas in the works already, and I’ll be back to share them with you when we get a little closer to rolling them out to the launching pad. What I can tell you is that I’m excited. Really excited. More excited than I’ve been about anything in my musical career. I think those of you that have been tuned into me and my music can probably tell. I’ve never been too adept at hiding my excitement about things. Especially this thing, so I’m not even going to try.

Speaking of studio work, Josh Grider played some of his new album for me recently, and I have to say it’s utterly incredible. Josh and I have always stayed pretty close when it comes to our musical adventures, and for some reason, our steps have always seemed to fall in line when it has come to pushing our careers forward. I’m really going to enjoy watching this next album push Josh in the right direction– a record as solid as his will only help to put him head and shoulders above a lot of our musical competition out there. That should come as no surprise to anyone– he’s really one of the best things going out there.

In other news, Rodney Hayden and I continue to push The New American Voices tour into places relatively unknown for us. We’ll be heading off for shows in Germany and Italy soon, as well as a show at the Old Quarter Acoustic Cafe in Galveston on July 31st, the day before we wing our way over the pond. I’ve been wanting to get into a room as venerable as that for a long time, and I’m excited that it’s on the horizon. Touring with Rodney has been nothing short of a superb experience. I think our music is very complimentary on stage.

Well, back to pacing. It shouldn’t be long now!

dk