We played a great show with Sean Lennon at Higher Ground, in Burlington, VT—our send off/tour opener-- Thursday night, 6/28. It was a festive room, full of friends and fans. I've been wanting to play HG for a while now, and supporting Sean was a great way to have that happen.

It had been a long time since I'd seen Sean. Catching up with him before the show, we quickly hit on details that summarize great change: work, home, loves and losses, deaths and births. He has a dapper style these days, one that goes well with his controlled, charming, honest discourse. Playing our first show of the tour with him was serendipitous, a momentous send off that will inspire us across the country and back.

7/1/07

Charles, JJ and I drove out of Montpelier, VT at 7:30am, Friday morning, stopped in Woodstock, NY to drop a car, drove out of Woodstock in our trio assemblage at 12:30pm, pulled into NYC at 2:30, hit tunnel traffic, picked up misc gear at Mother West at 3pm, and packed Charles out of his hole-in-the wall apt at 5pm. Charles did the impossible to make it all fit. Our things became parts of an intricate puzzle. We are now separated from our underwear-- and that favorite sweatshirt-- until LA, where we dump ¾ of our load. On the other side of the Holland tunnel rusting factories crumble into sizzling marsh ponds—the beauty of old world human infestation. Jonathan Richmond, shed your tears.

We drove until 1:20am the next day, pulled off I-81 in Staunton, VA 100 miles north of Roanoake, paid $78 for 3 ½ hours of fume-full sleep and woke feeling like $26 bucks each. Charles screamed strange and incomprehensible things when the penitentiary styled wake-up call sounded in our stinky room. In the end, the hot showers made us feel like we got our money's worth. Our destination was the Farmers market in Knoxville, TN., and we had to high tail it if we wanted to make it by 11am, load in time. On our way out of Staunton's roadside motel gauntlet. we saw an aphorism glowing yellow like a cheap church-group markee, under a weathered Walmart sign: "Worry is the interest paid by those that borrow trouble".

Knoxville Farmers Market, the oasis in the park square between the sky scraping banks of downtown: Fresh garlic, flutes, jalapeño corn bread and kids smacking through fountain spouts in-- depending on age-- their Sunday bests, or birthday suits. The market was the perfect place to try our hand at a paired down arrangement—the one JJ and Charles and I have planned for this tour. It was also surprisingly profitable for us, something that always makes the rest of the day more relaxed. It was really hot, another first that we'll have to get used to, as we're driving through the hottest parts of the country in mid July. Good thing I picked up a magical fedora in Woodstock to shade my memory from the omnipresent fire in the sky.

We met up with my partner's Aunt and Uncle for lunch. She's a genius bio engineer, he's a retired big project plumber who now orchestrates for Habitat For Humanity—quite the power couple. She's currently working on a cooling system for a 12 billion dollar state of the art fusion power plant in Southern France. This power plant fuses molecules rather than splits them apart, so little, too no waste occurs in the process, with no danger of melt down. They rode in on their motorcycles for the show, and as they re-dressed for the ride home they explained the futility in our current approach to environmental policy and energy conservation. I started to get swallowed by the hopelessness inherent in today's environment crisis, until she started up her sexy, mid-sized Triumph, smiled and said "don't worry, I'm working on it, we'll fix things up before long".


7/2/07

We're on our way back to Knoxville this morning, after being in Nashville for two nights. we're slated to play The Blue Plate Special (WDVX)at 12pm, a live radio performance with a studio audience. I'm writing in the van, while Charles swings and swerves us, careens and carousels us through the three hour mountain pass between these queen cities of American music history.

While in Nashville, we've been staying with Joe Doyle, one of Charles' old college buddies from Berkleee School Of Music. Joe is a songwriter and has written hits for the likes of Alabama and Reba Macintire. True to the legend, everyone down here in the south has been very welcoming and gracious. Joe and his wife Lisa gave us a place to reset our clocks and recharge. Finding a place to really sleep is something we all take for granted. Joe and Lisa live on a small mountain all their own, with a pack of rescued dogs. They have a sanctuary to themselves, and they use it well. Thanks to them for all they shared, and their subtle supports, which will be gratefully remembered.

Last night we played the Five Spot, on the East side of Nashville. We shared the bill with Georgian singer songwriter Angel Snow, a pretty lady with wide eyes and voice full of golden mournfulness. She let us choose which slot we wanted, as we were the act traveling the greater distance. We chose first, and played to rather full house. Each show we've played on this tour has proved to raise the quality of our playing another notch. The Five Spot was no exception. I was able to introduce more of a discourse with the audience in between the songs, but the songs themselves were furthering this discourse—the songs and the discussions of the songs become an arc over which the people in the room walk, bewildered by how they feel on an unexpected journey.

Today we brought last night's discoveries to the Blue Plate (WDVX), and had yet another brilliant time. This was my first live radio performance and I thoroughly enjoyed it—JJ and Charles seemed to enjoy themselves as well, and played more cleanly, pertinently and inspired than ever before.

After the show a man in Coke Bottle bottom glasses approached me, asking (more like confirming) if I write ballads, as if he were making sure he had the right man. I said I did, he agreed, I was confused. He then pulled out a collection of photocopies about a century old heroine whom he explained never got the recognition she deserved. I could see where he was going with this, and I liked it. He was very passionate about the importance of this "angel" (as he began to refer to her) getting the tribute she was due. He kept saying no one knew of her, no one in the library, no one anywhere. I stopped after he began to skip on the same line—"no one any where"—and asked him for his contact info. At this request he grabbed my arm and looked me in the eye: "No one's ever asked me for that before". I hope I don't disappoint him.

These days I'm thinking about how to answer the dreaded question, "so, what's your music like, what do you do?" I've noticed it's the toughest question a young artist can field. I've found it such an important and large question that I've started an MFA program to officiate my exploration.

I write poems and lyrics that attempt to distinguish the value inherent in the lives and details of its subjects. I try to write chord progressions that act like stages for the words in the song to present their case. I deliver my pieces with conviction, and with as much respect and consideration for my audience a possible. I'm not trying to scare my audience, or confront them, and I'm not satisfied with the idea of leaving them unmet, unaddressed, or without new views of how our souls can rise to the surface and speak for us.

I'm getting closer to understanding my context. Today? Folk Soul Singer with a pension for prosey explanations.