drew kennedy,

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.

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’ll be writing about our recent tour of Europe in several parts. This is part 1…. Obviously.

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.

Well, by the grace of God, German beer, and Italian wine… I made it home.

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’S when you know it’s hot.

I think I heard someone say that we’re in day 29 or so of consecutive 100 and up degree temperatures.

Texas in the summer.

This year, it’s extra strength.

July is starting to really pick up the pace– a bunch of shows leading up to our little trip across the pond. I’m really excited about the shows in Germany and Italy. The unknowns and uncertainties can be pretty interesting. I have no idea how the music will be received over there, but I’m pretty excited to find out.

In news that probably no one cares about other than me, the Phightin’ Phils have seemingly forgotten about their dismal showing during the month of June, and have since turned the corner, heading into the All Star break winning 9 of their last 10 games, affixing them firmly at the top of the division. When the Phillies are winning, I’m a happy man.

It’s looking like we’ll be pushing the release of An Audio Guide To Cross Country Travel back a couple of weeks. I’m just as anxious to get it out there as you hopefully are to hear it, so don’t think I’m doing this just to mess with you… an album release is a delicate thing, and with this one, I’m not even thinking about putting it out until all of the right pieces are in place. Once I can ensure that Audio Guide gets treated with the respect that I think it deserves, it’ll be all systems go!

So hang in there– I’ll have a new release date for you soon, and also, probably a sneak peak at the album artwork (which came out great!).

Stay cool out there, and support live music!

dk

For a lot of artists, the fun in regards to creating an album ends when they finally hear the finished product.

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

Hey there.

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

Hello there! I’m about to hit the road, bound for Oklahoma. Playing one of my favorite places tonight– The Wormy Dog Saloon. Rodney and I get to turn it right around tomorrow morning and head home. Not ideal routing, but it happens. I haven’t been to OKC for quite some time, so I’m looking forward to it.

Mississippi was an absolute blast. We shared a bill with The Josh Grider Trio and a really cool local bluegrassy band named The Dixie National. Our hosts, the McGuffie Family, who throw a”Pickin’ in the Pasture” party every year on their farm, know how to put together a great party. They also know how to make road weary musicians feel wanted and welcome, which is one of my favorite qualities in people (for obvious reasons).  I look forward to seeing them each chance I get. You don’t meet people that incredible very often, and I’m glad that I’ve become their friend.

Speaking of Josh, I got to listen to some of the rough mixes of his new album, and I’m happy to report that it’s top notch. It’s beyond top notch. It’s really really great, and I’m envious of his talent. I’ve got a record all ready to go, too, and I can’t wait for all of you to hear it. It’s a big step for me, I think. I have a good feeling about this one.

Just in case you haven’t noticed, I enjoy taking pictures with my less than excellent iphone camera and posting them on the site– it’s my little way of giving you a glimpse into life on the road. Check them out if you have time.

Headed north,

dk