Dave is smoking, fiddling with his tuning but not using a tuner, which doesn’t surprise me at all. I have always felt like- I could be wrong, but I don’t know- I have always felt like tuning the guitar to some kind of crisp perfection was a little too ‘the man’ for my brother. I mean, I’ve seen him play guitars so far out of tune that the discordance being born from the air around his pink face dripping nicotine/whiskey sweat was like some kind of beautiful infection being hacked into your bare arms and neck and shoulder blades with a machete that must sever and pop and sink deep through skin/muscle/and bone with the violent quickness of one tribe attacking another for reasons that have, by that point, been almost forgotten entirely.
Man, o man. Your words. Your poetry. Your guts and thoughts and heart and SOUL on the page (or on the screen as it were, being 2021 and all). Love that you share yourself with us every week. Look forward to it and revel and smile and THINK and imagine being wherever (that killing field with you and Arle somewhere near Gettysburg or that rehearsal space with you and Dave) you take us this week. I could go on and on, explaining that I’m a musician as well, well not a MUSICIAN, not really. I play guitar and sing and have written a bunch of songs in my time that only a small handful of people have ever bothered to listen to, but I’m not really a musician, per se. I’m a rock’n roller. My wife is a musician. She plays French horn and can sight read Beethoven and Mozart. Me, I bang away—A, D, E—and pride myself on being able to passably play “Here Comes The Sun”, though I don’t think I’ll ever master “Blackbird”. I could tell you how one of my favourite pieces of music is that majestic, melancholy intro Dave plays on the slower version of “Muskie Moon”, and that when, during sound check the night you and I chatted for a few minutes in the downstairs room of Virgil’s in NYC, my heart leapt when he played a verse of that one. I couldn’t tell you if it was in tune—but it was that glitter-painted Les Paul—but it was perfect. I could tell you that turning 50 was no big deal for me. I still felt and looked pretty good. I got divorced at 50 and embarked on what would be a four year relationship with my old high school girlfriend. It was self-indulgent and doomed to fail. But it reinvigorated me. I dive headfirst back into making music and found it equally invigorating. My creativity — such as it is — flourished and I created at a pace that still surprises me. 60, which I hit about a year and a half ago, kind of knocked me sideways. I still feel relatively good, but those crows feet are deeper and the hairline keeps retreating and it ain’t so easy to drop those extra ten pounds. I’ve remarried. And she’s my love. Creative and smart af and always sure to traverse that fabled “road less traveled”. But I’m aware of my own mortality now. It’s out there somewhere over the horizon, but I can see the faint glow like the light in the east before sunrise. It ain’t here, but it’s coming. I’m a grandfather now. Grandpa. And while I don’t necessarily FEEL like a grandpa, that doesn’t obviate the fact. My thoughts ramble (like this) and I ruminate. But I also remember hearing those rough kids from Philly twenty years ago and how that music still brings joy and gives me a jolt and inspires awe and respect and “shit, how’d they think of that chord/lyric/phrasing?”
“When the moon comes up a-risin' like a giant pizelle” Are you fucking kidding, man? Sheer fucking poetry.
Wish I could be there with you all in December, but life dictates I can’t make Philly this year. I know you guys are gonna blow the roof off the joint and I KNOW the folks who’ll be there will happily trade a few bucks for your music. Read ya next week. Write on!
Al, I really appreciate that coming from you. You're a poet of the highest order/ one I have mad respect for. So thank you for taking the time to make my day.
Funny this: How do you convince another human being to give you their money in exchange for your music?
Maybe the beauty is in the not knowing. In the mystery. Because I can easily name a slew of people who will insist that you take their money if only, just please, play a show. Drop a record.
Another gem, Serge. I may be in New York for that weekend and if I am I already told people that I'm taking a train down to Philly to catch y'all at UA. Been too long, man. Take care.
Wow. Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever read anything so soul baring—in a good way—about being in a band and being a husband and father and the exhilaration and angst of it all. One of your best.
Thanks so much, Taryn. That means so much to me. I see you liking my essays each week and it makes me really proud. That's a nice thing to do for a stranger. So thank you so much. :)
Serge I can tell you who us the best band on the planet. Marah. Hands down. In tune, out of tune, who gives a damn. We feel the passion from you night after night. Doesn't matter if it is 50 people or 500, your band ALWAYS delivers and we love it.
Man, o man. Your words. Your poetry. Your guts and thoughts and heart and SOUL on the page (or on the screen as it were, being 2021 and all). Love that you share yourself with us every week. Look forward to it and revel and smile and THINK and imagine being wherever (that killing field with you and Arle somewhere near Gettysburg or that rehearsal space with you and Dave) you take us this week. I could go on and on, explaining that I’m a musician as well, well not a MUSICIAN, not really. I play guitar and sing and have written a bunch of songs in my time that only a small handful of people have ever bothered to listen to, but I’m not really a musician, per se. I’m a rock’n roller. My wife is a musician. She plays French horn and can sight read Beethoven and Mozart. Me, I bang away—A, D, E—and pride myself on being able to passably play “Here Comes The Sun”, though I don’t think I’ll ever master “Blackbird”. I could tell you how one of my favourite pieces of music is that majestic, melancholy intro Dave plays on the slower version of “Muskie Moon”, and that when, during sound check the night you and I chatted for a few minutes in the downstairs room of Virgil’s in NYC, my heart leapt when he played a verse of that one. I couldn’t tell you if it was in tune—but it was that glitter-painted Les Paul—but it was perfect. I could tell you that turning 50 was no big deal for me. I still felt and looked pretty good. I got divorced at 50 and embarked on what would be a four year relationship with my old high school girlfriend. It was self-indulgent and doomed to fail. But it reinvigorated me. I dive headfirst back into making music and found it equally invigorating. My creativity — such as it is — flourished and I created at a pace that still surprises me. 60, which I hit about a year and a half ago, kind of knocked me sideways. I still feel relatively good, but those crows feet are deeper and the hairline keeps retreating and it ain’t so easy to drop those extra ten pounds. I’ve remarried. And she’s my love. Creative and smart af and always sure to traverse that fabled “road less traveled”. But I’m aware of my own mortality now. It’s out there somewhere over the horizon, but I can see the faint glow like the light in the east before sunrise. It ain’t here, but it’s coming. I’m a grandfather now. Grandpa. And while I don’t necessarily FEEL like a grandpa, that doesn’t obviate the fact. My thoughts ramble (like this) and I ruminate. But I also remember hearing those rough kids from Philly twenty years ago and how that music still brings joy and gives me a jolt and inspires awe and respect and “shit, how’d they think of that chord/lyric/phrasing?”
“When the moon comes up a-risin' like a giant pizelle” Are you fucking kidding, man? Sheer fucking poetry.
Wish I could be there with you all in December, but life dictates I can’t make Philly this year. I know you guys are gonna blow the roof off the joint and I KNOW the folks who’ll be there will happily trade a few bucks for your music. Read ya next week. Write on!
Tom, I really love your comments when you leave them. Please don't stop. They make me smile. They're inspiring. As are you.
The feeling is mutual, my friend. 😊
👍🏼
Beautiful. This one moved me to tears. I love it when you write about music and your kids and you hit this one out of the park. LOve,
Al, I really appreciate that coming from you. You're a poet of the highest order/ one I have mad respect for. So thank you for taking the time to make my day.
This is my favorite essay yet.
So what if you're out of tune?
Funny this: How do you convince another human being to give you their money in exchange for your music?
Maybe the beauty is in the not knowing. In the mystery. Because I can easily name a slew of people who will insist that you take their money if only, just please, play a show. Drop a record.
Another gem, Serge. I may be in New York for that weekend and if I am I already told people that I'm taking a train down to Philly to catch y'all at UA. Been too long, man. Take care.
Thanks a lot, James. Safe travels.
Wow. Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever read anything so soul baring—in a good way—about being in a band and being a husband and father and the exhilaration and angst of it all. One of your best.
Thanks so much, Taryn. That means so much to me. I see you liking my essays each week and it makes me really proud. That's a nice thing to do for a stranger. So thank you so much. :)
Keep writing at this level & I’ll keep reading!
Serge I can tell you who us the best band on the planet. Marah. Hands down. In tune, out of tune, who gives a damn. We feel the passion from you night after night. Doesn't matter if it is 50 people or 500, your band ALWAYS delivers and we love it.