Here’s To You
It was in the middle of rehearsal tonight when I thought to myself, ‘I am so fucking lucky.’
I landed in Des Moines at noon. Mike and Jason pulled up just as I walked out of baggage claim. They whisked me straight to lunch with the band at Royal Mile. Jason’s wife, Stephanie, and sometimes Nada guitarist, Travis Ballstadt, also showed up. Lunch was on the label, so I decided a few beers were in order. Somewhere around my third beer, and my third bite of a well-earned cheeseburger, I cracked a molar. I’m talking a soul-shattering “SNAP!” Everyone heard it. Stephanie and Charidy asked, “Are you ok?”
I wasn’t. My nerve was exposed. But I faked it. I finished my beer, the group dispersed, and thirty minutes later, I was in a Dr. Zisko’s dentist chair. By three o’clock, it was done. One vicodin, one shot of novacaine, and a fair dose of suction later, my molar was whole again. (In New York, I would still be waiting for an appointment.)
Back at Authentic Records Headquarters, Mike and Jason were making calls for radio adds, while I shipped copies of “Heartland.” We race across town for a live news hit on Channel 8, picked up a few growlers of beer from Racoon River Bar & Grille, then headed back to the office.
One by one, members of the Authentic Family showed up for rehearsal. Seems we’re performing, “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” for the finale of The Third Annual Nada Silent Night on Friday.
Now, you gotta understand that “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” was one of my my favorite songs. It was huge in the heyday of my MTV viewership. I’m talking sixth grade. Chris’ll tell ya all I did was come home from school, park myself on the couch, and watch MTV. It’s the song that started all of the benefit songs. It’s the only good one. So I’m excited to be performing it with these guys, even if singing about African famine in Iowa (or anywhere anymore)seems a bit weird. It’s a heck of a song. (And yes, I’ve insisted on performing Bono’s part.)
So we’re rehearsing in Authentic Records Headquarters. It’s a loft in downtown Des Moines (which, contrary to what you might think of Des Moines, is a downtown). The walls are red brick. There are are Christmas lights hanging from the rafters. A dozen of us are huddled around singing at the top of our lungs. Drummer Justin Klein is running late on account of a drum lesson, so I’ve assumed the throne, am holding down the groove, and leading everyone through the song (which I still know by heart). Jason and Stephanie’s son, Mitchell, is playing cowbell. It’s a beautiful din. And I think to myself, ‘I am so fucking lucky.’
A Better Son/Daughter
I feel a little like Greg hiding out from Mike and Carol.
I’ve spent the balance of Thanksgiving Weekend in the basement of my father’s Indianapolis home. I was bumped from the premiere rooms at the inn by my brother, his wife and son, Ethan, who took top priority. Which is fair. And fine with me. The basement is roughly twice the square footage of my New York City apartment. There’s a television with cable and a DVD player, two computers, a stationary bike, eliptical machine, and pull-out couch. Ok, so there are ducks on the wall. Whatever.
When I have ventured out — and it’s been rare and brief — I’ve been the classic fish out of water. We went to Circuit City to pick up an XM Satellite Radio this afternoon. It was so huge, so bright, and so full of stuff — digital pedometers, GPS, cameras, printers, flat panel tvs — my mouth literally fell agape. But what’s with these greeter dudes, saying hello as soon as we cross the threshhold? Leave us alone to consume already.
On the way home, we passed this ridiculous and absurd housing development. In the middle of this field, some 146 blocks north of Indianapolis (imagine a city with no lake, no river, no mountains — nothing), hundreds of “traditionally styled” homes have sprung up like wildly-colored weeds. But here’s the thing. The whole thing’s supposed to feel like some oldie-timey town. So there’s a town hall out of “Back To The Future,” apartments out of “Barry Lyndon,” and mis-matched homes ripped straight from “Spartacus,” “Deadwood,” and “Gangs Of New York” — just a few feet from one another! And not a tree in sight. Totally weird.
Chris, Jen and Ethan flew home this morning. Ethan’s toys are still scattered around the house. It’s quieter, and a little less fun. I’ve been hiding away down here all day. I’ve been watching movies (nothing good), reading (”Jarhead”), goofing around online (My Space — I asked Jenny Lewis and Ryan Adams to be my friends), rehearsing for next week, and even cranking out a new song (”What Was I Thinking?”).
It’s after midnight. I’ve been tip-toeing around upstairs stealing beer and ice cream from the fridge. I’m watching “Clear & Present Danger” on AMC. It’s like high school. But not.
I’m ready for the rock.
Fever To Tell
My grandmother can die now. I mean, not that I’d want her to, but… well, you know.
I just did an interview with Kelsey Holm of The Waterloo Courier. I talked her ear off for damn near an hour. Despite the countless interviews I’ve conducted, or the few I’ve been the subject of, I still rambled. God only knows what I said.
Regardless, the result — photo and all — will appear in print some time between now and Saturday.
For years, my grandmother has sent me clippings from The Courier, and The Des Moines Register. Typically it’s been articles about my uncle (who recently retired as GM of a major cable news outlet), but recently it’s been articles about The Nadas that somehow mention me.
I think it’s sweet, and quaint, that she actually cuts articles out of the newspaper, slips them into an envelope, puts a stamp on them, and sends it clear to New York City (where, incidently, she hasn’t visted since 1971, though she never fails to ask me when I’m coming back to Iowa). As if the Internet didn’t exist. As if my inbox isn’t littered with URLs the moment they’re published.
But I appreciate it, and I understand it. Since music isn’t my sole occupation, there’s a terrific validation in receiving press. It’s a terrific remedy for my frequent feeling that I am a tree falling in an empty forest. It’s some sort of evidence that I exist beyond my own little digital realm.
Truth is, The Courier got one heck of a story. In the journalism racket, we’d call it a softball: slow, steady, and right over the plate. Saturday’s show at Smitty’s in Downtown Waterloo is Some Sort of a Homecoming (which, by the way, is what I’d have headline the story back when I wrote for The Saratogian, though I’m sure my editor would have found the U2 reference too obtuse).
In addition to the fact that I was born in Iowa, and that my parents are from Waterloo, there’s the whole patronage angle. Brian and Justin at Smitty’s pitched in a significant chunk of dough in support of “Heartland.” This show is their thank you.
In fact, this whole tour, this entire experience of coming home to Iowa as special guest if its Favorite Sons, feels like some sort of kharmic payback. It’s a little like when The Lakota sent their sons away from the village and say, “Don’t come back until you have a story to tell.”
I have a few.
Happier
Note to self: Never Go To Target Drunk.
It’s actually something a bad habit of mine here in the Midwest. Somehow, I always end up at a Target, or a Wal-Mart, or a Sam’s Club, with a few beers in me. Of course, there’s a super-store of some sort on just about every corner, so it’s not that difficult.
The guys — Dad, Chris, Ethan and I — had lunch at some bar and grille type place in a strip mall. I had a turkey burger and a few Bass Ales. What the heck, right? It’s vacation. And I’m not wasted or anything. But I feel good. I feel warm. All is well in Indiana.
Afterwards, Jen and I drive a few miles (it’s literally three turns from my dad’s place) to the Target. Actually, it’s more than a Target. It’s a Super Target.
I’ve got something of a list. I need some Hi-8 tape for the video camera. And I wanna pick up some rock clothes. That used to mean pleather pants and lamé shirts. Now it means jeans, t-shirts and velour jackets. And ever since I found that rockin ten dollar belt bucle at that Target in Des Moines, well…
So Jen and and I walk inside. The place is big. Super Target big. It’s like two New York City blocks. Seriously. The ceiling is way overhead, maybe twenty-five feet. There are thirty-five checkouts. THIRTY-FIVE. And it smells weird. Like fried food and popcorn. It’s all weirdly flourescent.
It takes me ten minutes in the electronics section to find Hi-8 tape. I pass bunches of kids playing video games. I pass a couple looking at iPod speakers. “You could use one of these up in the office,” he says. “But then we’ll need something else for downstairs.” I pass a store clerk telling some woman, “So this is the one with the mega-blaster.” I pass a dad and his son looking a cordless phones. He asks, “Is this 900 mHz? Or one gig?” And suddenly I get it. I am witnessing consumerism first hand! Peaple are all about buying things! This is what America does for fun! Debt be damned! And I’m stumbling blissfully down the aisles!
I wander over to the rock clothes section. (There really isn’t a rock clothes section, but Target tries to skew young and hip these days, and seems to have managed on about two out of every twenty-six racks). I find a brown velour jacket for $49.99. And it fits perfectly. (Well, it’s kinda boxy, but whatever; it’s forty-nine bucks). I also pick up a cool multi-color scarf.
But I’ve lost Jen completely. I wander the entire store in a daze. Twice. And I keep finding things I might need to buy. ‘Boxer shorts? Oooh, I could use some of these. Journey’s Greatest Hits? Hmmm. A cashmere sweater? Target sells cashmere!?!’
I see Jen way across the store. I exhale.
“I was afraid I was going to have to walk. And I have no idea how to get home.”
Please, Thank You
In New York City, the world really is just outside your window. This was especially so last night.
The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade musters on 81st Street. All of the floats — Dora The Explorer, Garfield The Cat, Kermit The Frog, Chicken Little, Mr. Potato Head — begin their trip to 34th Street just across the street.
Ethan, Chris, Jen, Abbi and I joined the throngs of New Yorkers circling the Natural History Museum to see The Great Inflation (as they call it), where all of the floats — netted and tethered to the concrete — were growing by the moment. Their colors were super-saturated beneath the great glare of the kleig lights.
Ethan was wide-eyed and thrilled. Between explaining to him the the whole thing was just a means to sell more stuff, and being bumped around by pushy Upper West Side parents, it was exciting, and fatiguing. Like the city itself.
At La Guardia this morning, Ethan squeeled at every take off.
“Fly high up in the sky! High up in the sky!”
I came to (thank you, Xanax) just prior to landing in Indiapolis. Looking down, the terrain had changed from crowded, chaotic urban neighborhoods, to perfectly squared miles of farmland. The Indiapolis skyline — obout the equivilent of one square block of Midtown — glistened way off to the south.
As we taxied to the gate, I thought to myself, ‘This could be the least exciting town in America. This could be the longest five days of the whole year.’ At which time I resolved to find the world outside my window right here in the middle of nowhere. Surely there’s something cool to do in Indianapolis. I’ve got five days to find out.
* * *
Meanwhile, it’s Thanksgiving again. And man oh man, what a radically different Thanksgiving from a year ago. It’s the year that made “Heartland.” It’s all there on tape: the heartbreak, the heartache, and stone-cold depression, and all sorts of time alone just trying to set myself straight. And it’s the year that friends old and new, near and far, gave me the greatest strength, support and joy.
And for all of that, I’m thankful.
Sick Of Myself
This is how sick I am.
I released “Heartland” last week. I released “The Rivington Sessions EP” in July. I released “February 25, 2005″ in, well, February. I released “Love & Other Indoor Games” exactly one year ago today.
And yet. And yet, and yet, and yet…
And yet there I was stepping onto the subway this morning when the title of my next CD popped into my head.
So, get this. I’ve played one show in support of “Heartland” and already I’m thinking about my next CD! I spoke with both Andrew and Matt of World Leader Pretend about it THE DAY AFTER I RELEASED “HEARTLAND”!!! I told them I wanted to record it with them in Chicago, and that I wanted it to be simple and acoustic. And yesterday, I told Nadas frontman and Authentic Records CEO Jason Walsmith via IM that a) it would be minimalist b) it would be released before November ‘06 and c) it would be on Authentic. (He agreed to all.)
No, I’m not going to tell you my title idea. I’ll spare you in the event it doesn’t stick. (Heck, I didn’t think “Heartland” would stick). But it’s perfect, and fits into the catalogue, and my general career arch.
Which prompts the question, “What career arch?” And makes the preceding six paragraphs kinda hilarious.
Why bother, right? Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful for you, my 500+ readers. And those of you in Team Heartland. And everyone who has purchased “Heartland” (if you haven’t yet, it’s only one little click away). Big time. But it’s not like a whole bunch of people are waiting around with baited breath. I could stop making records and almost no one would notice.
Except me. I’d totally lose my shit. Crazy as the last month has been (and it has been crazy; I’ve only shared the half of it), I love making records. I love how a fist full of songs can encapsulate a year. I love collaborating with other musicians. I love album art and liner notes. And I love being busy.
So… so I have a potential title for my next album. My eleventh. And you’ll dig it, trust me. And you’ll dig how it sounds. Especially those of you (Hello, mom and dad!) who say I should play quieter stuff.
But there’s plenty to do first. Like tour in support of “Heartland.” As you are no doubt aware, I fly to Iowa on Tuesday morning (11/29), and play with The Nadas Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, then solo on Saturday. I’m back with my band in New York at a cool new venue called Fat Baby on Tuesday night (12/6).
It’s a whirlwind. I like it that way.
Come Pick Me Up
It’s easy to hate the city on mornings like this.
My morning run was gross. I was ill equipped in shorts, a windbreaker, and baseball cap. The wind blew right through me. It was relentless. And wet. I ran headlong into the wind and rain. Worse, the entire sprint to the park was hampered by poorly timed traffic lights, dogs on long leashes, and meandering commuters.
Central Park, though, was gorgeous. The wet concrete was luminous. There was a carpet of fallen leaves, all yellows and oranges. Below it, the green lawn still shine through.
The commute, though, was atrocious as ever. I lacked an umbrella, but thought, ‘The trees will keep me dry.’ No such luck. They’re bare. The subway, as always, requires a remarkable sense of humor: the long faces, the pushing, and prodding. Augustana’s “Wasteland” and the new Rolling Stone got me through.
By the time I got to the office, I was already over everything. So I reached for some comfort food.
I slipped U2’s “Vertigo ‘05 Live” into the DVD player, and turned it up. Then I opened my “Elizabethtown” book, and read the inscription as I have a dozen times before…
To Benjamin
Who made us feel more than understood… and who took the E-town ride with us in the greatest of ways… Thank you for your questions, your words and your booster-rocket of support.
We hail you!
Cameron
Like a well-worn sweater, some tea and a scone, I was warm again. And pointed myself towards another Tuesday.
When November Comes
Everything was still. The frost was sparkling in the morning sun. I could see my breath.
I wedged myself behind the wheel of my mom’s little red sports car, and sped off to the local coffee shop. I love to drive the old roads. They’re quiet, and scarcely-traveled, and wind and roll through my hometown like a carnival ride.
I lived in Berwyn, Pennsylvania, from the time I was 11 to 17-years old. The social politics of high school notwithstanding, it was a beautiful place to grow up. The streets were all back roads. They were narrow and slow, topped by a canopy of leaves. The sky stretched for miles.
I rolled down the window on the drive home from the coffee shop. The bare trees and frost were ample evidence that autumn had fallen. The clouds were thin high. The air was crisp.
I was cradling a medium house blend in my left hand, and shifting and steering with my right, when I spotted a mirage in the road. A huge, old maple tree was shedding its leaves like rain. All of its neighbors were bare, but this tree was reaching over the pavement and shaking off its summer coat right there before my eyes. It looked like it was crying huge, orange, floating tears.
It just takes me a few days to grow restless in the stillness of the suburbs. I relaxed just a little bit as I pulled back into the city: the wide avenues, the lights, the rush. Still, bracing myself this morning for the whirlwind of the holidays, I miss that tree.
This Moment
I’m going home.
Chris’ best friend Keith’s father died in his sleep Wednesday morning. So we’re catching a train to Philly in a few hours. There’s a family visitation this afternoon. I expect to be at the local tavern, Casey’s, eating one of their famous roast beef sandwiches and washing it down with a Yuengling by this evening.
In addition to being Kieth’s dad, Bill Mekenney was a surrogate father to my brother. My father made every attempt to be present despite my parent’s divorce, and the distance between Philadelphia and Indianapolis. And he did a great job. But sometimes, in the day-to-day, another elder male stepped in. Dr. Mekenney spoke to Chris and Keith more than once about parties, and girls. He took them hunting and fishing. He helped bridge the gap between Chris’ Midwestern childhood, and Northeaster adolescence.
In addition to being Kieth’s dad, and a surrogate father to my brother, Dr. Mekenney was the local Boy Scout Troop leader. I gave Scouts a shot, but all those merit badges felt too much like school. I just wanted to go camping. But Boy Scouts meant a lot to Chris and Kieth. They were Order of the Arrow. (Apparently, this was a big deal.) I remember sitting in the back seat of Mr. Mekenney’s station wagon on my one camping trip with the Scouts. I remember him in the rear view mirror. His focus was sharp. His pupils were wide. His eyes sparkled.
In addition to being Kieth’s dad, a surrogate father to my brother, and the local Boy Scout Troop leader, Dr. Mekenney was the local vet. He kept our beloved Springer spaniel, Alfie, alive. (She, in turn, kept us alive.) When we were vulnerable in her periodic sicknesses, he was warm, comforting, and reassuring. When it was time to put her to sleep, she died in his arms.
Dr. Mekenney’s passing touched me a bit more deeply than I might have expected. I found out between a flurry of meetings on Wednesday. I closed my door, turned my chair towards the window, looked out at the clouds, and cried. His death touched me a bit more deeply than I might have expected, I think, because I knew my friend, Keith, was hurting. And it reminded me that my father will die someday, and so will I.
I bumped into a bunch of colleagues at some bar on Houston and Attorney after Andrew’s show Wednesday night. A mulletted MTV.com designer named Tim and I somehow stumbled (drunkenly) onto the subject of happiness.
“People think happiness is some kind of plateau,” he said, gesturing wildly. “They work and work and work for their two weeks, and their Golden Years, but they’re missing the point. It’s not a plateau. It’s moments, man. Moments.”
It was two o’clock, and I was a little buzzed, but I remember nodding furiously.
Walking home last night, I had The Damnwells’ “Kiss Catastrophe” playing in my left ear, and Abbi laughing on the cell phone in my right ear. I was singing in harmony with both the song, and the laughter, and suddenly I felt like I was floating. I thought, “There’s a moment.”
Walking to work this morning, I had Rufus Wainwright’s “11:11″ playing. At the instant he sang, “Woke up this morning and something was burning / Realized that everything really does happen in Manhattan,” a hook and ladder fire engine came roaring down Amsterdam. And I thought, “There’s a moment.”
This might be one now.
Show Me
It’s two o’ one a.m. when my cousin Andrew says, “Wait a sec, let’s save this shot ’til it really counts.”
He steps away to speak with Perry, World Leader Pretend’s Warner Bros. A&R rep. I wait by the bar with Katia and Liz.
“OK, let’s do it,” he says.
The Petron does not go down smoothly. Some of it dribbles down my chin. I suck on the lime, then dabble my face with a napkin.
“We’re going to Rick’s Strip Bar on 33d between Fifth and Sixth,” he says. “You comin’?”
I tell him my one story about my six minutes at Scores.
“No thanks. You’re on your own.”
It’s ten eighteen when I walk into Sin-e. The band is already performing. Andrew is pounding furiously on his keyboard. Sweat is flying, illuminated by the spotlight. His face contorts, at once angry and joyful. Matt coaxes dramatic wails from his Fender. Alex shuffles and pops in front of the bass amp. Keith pauses between lyrics, mouth agape. When not chewing on his tongue, Arthur stares intently into the audience.
Afterwards, when he is done greeting his adoring female public, I hug Andrew.
“I’m so proud of you,” I say.
It’s nearly three o’ clock when I stumble into Ray’s Famous Pizza on 84th and Columbus. For the second night in a row, I order a slice of brocolli and cheese pizza and a beer for dinner. Over The Rhine front woman Karin Bergquist tells me, “Let me be the voice inside your head / Listen to me whisper / We can sleep when we’re dead.”
It’s two o’ seven when I pour Katia, Liz, and Andrew in a cab.
“I’ll call you in two days and tell you what happens,” he says. “Two days!” Then he disappears.
I walk west on Houston listening to The Who’s “Eminence Front.” I remember the time Andrew, Christofer and I attempted to summit New York’s highest peak, Mount Marcy, with little more than a canteen of water and a twelve-pack of Strohs. Andrew was fifteen at the time. For the duration of the excrutiating two-day hike he asked, “Are we there yet?”
“We’re always almost there, Andy,” I said.
We still are.
