Indie Venues

Today, iconic Nashville venue Douglas Corner announced it won’t be reopening. 

Like every musician, I wouldn’t be doing what I’m doing today without independent venues. My most important professional and personal relationships were forged on small stages the world over, and if I listed all the angels in human form who took chances on me and Al Stone and the myriad other fine primates with whom I’ve been day drunk, this newsletter would stretch from here to the moon.

According to NIVA (National Independent Venue Association), if concerts don’t resume in 2020 - and there’s a strong likelihood this will be the case - as many as 90% of America’s indie venues could close permanently. 

Click the link below to send a letter to your legislator (it took me 30 seconds) about financial assistance for independent venues. 

https://www.nivassoc.org

Retrospect

I’m listening to “Retrospect” by Ari Herstand.

Ari’s a friend, and it’s wonderful seeing him share art again.

Ari is, quite literally, the man with the plan. Many of you have read How To Make It In The New Music Business, his fantastic book, or subscribe to Ari’s Take, his fantastic blog, or signed up for his (again) fantastic academy. If you haven’t, you should check out all three.

Creativity is a deeply personal thing, and within his success lending perspective to others and sharing his mind so generously, it’s about goddamn time his heart takes center stage.

Congrats on a stellar release, brother.

Realism

I spend a solid chunk of each day messing around on Logic and Final Cut Pro, building short songs around bits of music people send me. 

It’s far from the virtuosity of Jacob Collier’s IHarmU series (which is, I’m sure unintentionally, a very metal name), but I’m staying out of trouble.

How it’s helping me:

Social Media No Longer Convinces Me I Stink

I post one of these mini-tunes each week and interact with social media for however long it takes to upload. The dopamine reset’s long overdue. 

Curtailing Doom Scrolling

Less time on social media means less time on my phone generally, which means less time being inundated by wanton click bait, our president’s incompetence, and that pesky feeling I’m the butt of some cruel joke courtesy of a capricious, long-ignored god.

An Approaching Middle Aged Dog Can Learn New Tricks 

“Just remember,” a friend told me, “you’ll never be as good at this as a young person.” Not the most welcome dose of realism, and while accurate, I’m glad I tend not to listen to doses of realism, welcome or otherwise. 

Tweed

The first fireflies of the year made an appearance tonight, unoffended by my talking to myself as campfire flames lept and spat from damp wood.

Time is marching on, and while spelling “why me, you bastard of a god” in macaroni night after night on my kitchen counter was supposed to quell said marching, it continues undeterred.

Pre-COVID, I believed making good art ameliorates the general malaise of the unknown, and whatever crippling disappointment I experience will be the result of romantic underachievement rather than not sharing what I create.  

Currently? I believe making good art ameliorates the general malaise of the unknown, and whatever crippling disappointment I experience will be the result of romantic underachievement rather than not sharing what I create.  

I’m still the same unflappable tweedy jackass, and I don’t imagine that will change.  

Pyromaniacs

I’m pretty sure I’ve already shared this photo, but here it is again, Till Lindemann from Rammstein and Chris Martin from Coldplay, fans of each other’s bands and real-life friends.

If there can be harmony between adult contemporary balladeers and pyromaniac industrial metal frontmen, then goddammit what excuse does any of us have?

Dig what you dig, make good art, and try not to be an asshole.

Rain

I was asked today to draw a picture of how I was feeling. 

I drew a steaming pile of feces, with a trail of z’s leading upward, indicating the steaming pile of feces was tired. Then it started to rain.

But it was a gentle rain, a soothing, pitter-pattering sort of invitation to realize whatever you achieve in life, whatever baubles you accumulate or triumphs you trumpet or failures you lament, when all that nonsense is devoured by the passage of time, all that will be left of you is what was in your heart. 

I stood in the rain for a while, and gave myself permission to be ok. 

Getting Better

I’ve spent the past four and a half hours getting the balance between clown horn, chainsaw, and pig grunts just right, so they might be combined as one confounding track and layered on top of the snare for, I guess, a more impactful sound?

I dunno. I’ve heated and reheated my coffee three times in between fits of giddiness and despondency, so I must be onto something. 

These past few months have been defined by conundrum after meltdown after reluctant acceptance, but whatever it is that I’m doing - and I’d be hard pressed to articulate exactly what that is - I’m getting better.

Petals for Armor

Today in Nashville, a semi truck spilled 40k pounds of mac and cheese on I-24. It was the greatest traffic jam of my life. 

And during said traffic jam, I deep dove into Haley Williams’ new solo record, Petals for Armor.

I love love LOVE Paramore, and Haley Williams is one of my favorite singers, so not surprisingly this record made me almost as happy as the crunch of dried comfort food beneath my tires. 

Taylor York, Paramore’s guitarist, crushes the production, and I think the reason that band’s stuck around for so long and continues to get better is because each member does other stuff at a crazy ninja high level. 

For lovers of all things angsty pop, this record’s for you, and if Kraft Dinner’s hard to come by, now you know why.

Be A Person

I’m settling into writing today’s MoaT and have no idea what I’m going to write about.

This is not an inspiring first line. But there’s a point, or at least I’ll attempt to make one. 

On good days, I carve out about 20-25mins of uninterrupted MoaT writing time. During that time, I can stare into space, curse my lack of talent, whatever it might be, provided it’s not flat earth YouTube rabbit holes. For that 20-25mins, I’m in non-negotiable service of the MoaT.

Which really is how all creativity should look. It’s not about the result, not really anyway, but rather sitting down and actually giving a rat’s ass. It’s about intention.

In a world of omni-distraction and, right now, a global freaking pandemic, there’s every excuse not to do a thing, and by choosing to do said thing, it’s a victory against the amorphous hoard.

A Great Song

I love this song. Perfect music for a gently melancholic evening.

It is, just a heads up, a Coldplay song, which for some isn’t welcome news, but maybe give it a listen anyway.

I first heard this song while huddled in some corner of the Los Angeles International Airport, longing for any of the number of things the Los Angeles International Airport cannot provide. There, sat between a Cinnabon and California Pizza Kitchen, resigned to my fate with commendably stiff upper lip, I was gifted a text from a friend. 

“This song sounds like something you’d be into,” she says. “Probably. I don’t know. Please don’t hate me.”

I do not hate you, dear friend. This is a great song. Thank you.

A Good Time

My most recent video collage, featuring Al Stone comrade Griffin Wright on drums, is my favorite so far, check it out if you’d like.

I haven’t posted a ton on YouTube, which didn’t concern me until it was brought to my attention that I was conspicuously absent from the platform, and said attention bringer found that perplexing to the point of being offensive.

So, given my Achilles heel is aiming to please anyone with childhood traumas masked by belligerence, I am now posting a ton on YouTube.

And these collages are fun. There’s guitar stuff if you want guitar stuff, and for those who know me only as the stage left guy with Allen Stone, here I am singing and arranging and writing and splicing single frames of conspiracy theory propaganda into lazily-yet-exuberantly edited videos.

It is, by every conceivable definition, a good time.

Dizzyingly New

When I moved to Nashville, I did so somewhat impulsively, and knew that while debatably I wasn’t an asshole, beyond that it was anyone’s guess. 

I was intimidated when I first got here, but also excited, that I’d soon have my grocery store and my bar and my myriad favorites with various routes to get there. In time, what was dizzyingly new would feel like home.

I keep my move here in mind during this gleeful chapter of underemployment. However unprecedented these times might be, by simply showing up and creating, by confronting every obstacle with the confidence that comes with making something that wasn’t there before, the next steps will reveal themselves, like they always have.

Run Wild

A picture, I’ve heard, is worth a thousand words. Well, this one’s worth at least three.

Big Kitty Energy, my friends.

Having never had a real job, I’m minimally concerned that it’s Friday, but for some of you I imagine it’s cause for celebration.

Go to town, you beautiful maniacs. I mean, don’t, stay at home, but let your imagination amble unencumbered through welcome memories.

Cozy Darkness

I’m standing in my backyard, attempting to reflect in the cozy darkness about life, the universe and everything, while cicadas are screeching, frogs and/or toads are croaking like loony toons mid-torture, and I’m mouthing to some higher power see, LOOK, the world’s thrust into chaos and nature goddamn agrees, blah blah blah over-caffeinated gibberish.

And nature does agree. Humans, required as we are to watch UFO documentaries in solitude and not fly to tropical destinations in which we are not welcome, are assing things up way less lately. The world continues to turn, far healthier and happier with our diminished footprint.

My utter, blissful insignificance fills me with welcome serenity, and I return to making bleep-bloop noises.

Patience

I attempted to cut my own hair today. It did not go well. Jesus, did it ever not go well.

But I’m going to continue making and sharing art, just in a mirrorless environment for the foreseeable future.

And thank you to everyone who has offered condolences regarding the Allen Stone Building Balance Tour cancellation. It’s 100% the right call, and I’m glad Al and management let fans know sooner rather than later.

Let’s all move gently through the world right now.

MusiCares

For those who are curious how they can support the arts during these crazy times, consider donating to the MusiCares COVID-19 Relief Fund. 

MusicCares assists industry pros in times of dire financial need, and they’re making one-time payments of $1000 to those who are currently out of work due to the coronavirus. Given this is essentially all of us, they are severely underfunded.

A thousand bucks is make-or-break money for most musicians. I have several friends who were able to keep a roof over their heads thanks to this fund. It’d be a shame seeing it fall by the wayside.

For a limited time, Spotify will match your donation 100%, so this is a great opportunity to reallocate some latte money.

My Future Self

One of the perks, I guess, of writing a daily newsletter during a global pandemic is composing myself at least long enough to string a few hundred words together. 

What should I do? 

What’s going to happen? 

I ask myself these questions a lot. But I will be ok. It will be ok. 

If I’m honest, I don’t want to believe that. I’m angry. Change is inevitable, sure, but not yet, and not like this. 

But here we are. And as much as the world’s conspiring to convince us otherwise, there’s good all around us, if we trust it. There are people who will help.

Knowing me, the wiser and no doubt more handsome future me will read this back and encourage his current-past/then-present self to breath. Because it has, in fact, turned out just fine.

So here I am, breathing, cursing that smug, salt-and-pepper’d bastard for being right. 

Stay Small

There are times for dreams coming true and there are times for appreciating what our myriad setbacks teach us, and then are times, like this one, when the big picture bromide-y bullshit gets in the way of the fact that we just need to live to fight another day.

Stay small for a while. I’m right there with you.

Paths

On the same day the project I’m best known for released a video where I fingerpick jazz chords, I gleefully wrote and recorded caveman riffs over samples of farm animals and laser beams while adopting the character of a preacher leading a satanic choir. Music’s multifaceted alchemy never ceases to amaze. 

Someone asked me today how I’m doing. I’m doing ok. Which isn’t to say I’m not paralyzed from time to time by the enormity of the forced change my life and career are undertaking, but I’m fine - safe and, at the moment, pleasantly buzzed on rough wine.

But I need music, now more than ever, to exorcise whatever lingering doubts besiege undiscovered paths.

Discoveries

I learned a new word today. It is a Welsh word.

Hiraeth, n.: homesickness for a home to which you cannot return.

I’ve been searching for a word that encapsulates these surreal times, and I think I may have found it.