Into The Sun
A few hundred feet above Palm Canyon, the silence begins to sink in.
I first noticed the stillness as I woke from a night of deep, dreamless sleep. There were songs in my head, and songs in the trees. Just outside my window, chirps and warbles of every aviary denomination sang praise to the early morning.
High above the canyon, my heartbeat settled from a strenuous climb, my breath returned to normal, I hear only a faint rustle of wind, and the distant rumbling of water through rocks.
I have always loved a good road trip. When I was nine-years-old, my father drove my brother and me from Chicago to Denver. In the back seat of a brown station wagon, a fire for the wide open spaces, and the great expanses of this enormous country, was lit.
Years later, I would load my red Nissan Sentra with just a sleeping bag, some canned goods, and my guitar, and point myself towards San Diego. In the 8,553 miles that elapsed that summer, through the vast plains of North Dakota, the brick-colored canyons of Arizona, through Telluride, Santa Fe, and Graceland, I grew to appreciate the drone of the tires, the rush of the wind, and the forward progress they represented.
And the quiet, without, and within.
This adventure, then, returns me to those days. Between deadlines, events, cities, and airports, I stole away to the desert. There are surprises here. There is the surprise of a great, empty canyon never explored. There is the surprise of water flowing amidst barren, arid earth. And there is surprise in the gifts that quiet bestow.
As I descend through the creeping shadows, tiny lizards scurry along the trail. Morning doves flutter from the cactus. Heat radiates from every massive boulder. And soon I have returned to earth, salt on my skin, songs in my heart.
Permanent Vacation
There’s something about the desert…
There’s something about the desert that keeps me coming back.
I first visited Palm Springs in 1997, just a few weeks after moving to New York City. I was dating a woman who worked in Joshua Tree National Park, and spent a few days camping there. (I ended up turning the trip into my first post-collegiate freelance article for Swing Magazine, “Lines In The Sand: Young Biologists Save The Threatened Desert Tortoise.”)
But there’s something about the desert that keeps me coming back to make music.
I recorded the “Happy, Not Happy EP” in Palm Springs in 1998 (don’t look for it; it’s out of print). I mixed “Crash Site” there in 2001 (in fact, this blog was started in ernest then).
So in the middle of all of the Grammy hullabaloo, I stole away to Palm Springs. I packed my guitar, my laptop, a decent mic, swim trunks and flip-flops. And apparently, that was enough.
I wrote five songs in less than forty-eight hours. Before long, they will reach you as, “The Desert Star EP.”
The first to come was “Boomtown.” I was trying to capture the feeling of first arriving in Los Angeles. Kids come here with dreams. I know about dreams. And I know about thinking you might find them somewhere other than wherever you are. So I was imagining Axl Rose getting off the bus in the “Welcome To The Jungle” video. And I was thinking about Justin stepping off the bus from Kansas.
Lights so bright here
There’s no night here
There’s no place to call my own
The second was “Flirting With Disaster.” The film of the same title was fresh in my mind thanks to Hertz renting me a silver Taurus. The concept was fresh in my mind thanks to this relentlessly paced life of mine. I strung together a pretty catchy chorus while I was running Saturday morning.
You’re flirting with disaster
You’re always on the run
Your heart is beating faster, on and on and on
You need a permanent vacation
On the far side of the sun
Three days of inspiration, on and on and on
The third was “Angels In The Atmosphere.” I kicked the title around in my head as I drove east on The Ten. Angels have been on my mind all year. Well, I think I may finally have found a place for ‘em. And being that I watched “Angels In America” Friday night, and I was in a place where angels probably dwell, well, it came pretty easily.
There are angels in the atmosphere
And the sky opens up when they’re near
And the air grows heavy with the light
And you say, “Glory, I’m alive”
The fourth was “Rainmaker.” I’m not sure why the word was in my head, but there it was. I was thinking about how we invest each other with powers we don’t know we have. And how that can be disappointing.
Bring me rain
Let it wash me away
Bring me rain
Make me clay
I can’t leave and I can’t stay
Rainmaker wash me away
The fifth was “Carmelita.” There’s a street in Palm Springs by the same name. It got me thinking of a street in Beverly Hills by the same name. I’ve run on both, and thought both times, ‘Hmmm, good name for a song.’
She’ll keep you safe
And keep you warm
She¹ll stay awake
Through the thunderstorm
And when day breaks
She shield you from
The blinding light
Of the prying sun
So I wrote five songs in less than forty-eight hours (plus two others I like a little less that may or may not make it into the light). They’re all different. “Boomtown” sounds frenzied. “Flirting” sounds chaotic, all quick changes and minor keys. “Carmelita” sounds patient and sad here, have a listen).
A guitar, and open mind, and a whole bunch of sun can go a long way.
Helter Skelter
Three friends meet for dinner. They converge well after sundown at El Coyote, a kitschy Mexican joint smack in the middle of Hollywood, California. In the dusty haze of 1969, Sharon Tate ate her last meal there.
They are three men, all in their early thirties, with less hair, perhaps, and more girth, for certain, than they when they first met. They are three men who once dreamt of bigger things: director, poet, rock star.
There are miles and years between them, but on an unseasonably cool Thursday night in February, an unwitting wind leads them to the corner of Beverly and Fuller to share a basket of chips, a few unsalted margaritas, and some talk.
“Dude, I don’t own a fucking thing.”
“You’ve got a lot of intellectual property.”
“Which is worth exactly $57 a month.”
Laughter.
“You’re the only guy I know who goes to the gym on a Friday night.”
“I love the gym on Friday night. There’s no pressure. You don’t have to be in a hurry.”
The sound of ice cubes against glass.
“Will I always be remembered as the drunk guy who slammed into the kitchen cabinet?”
“Will I always be remembered as the guy who said he could never love a woman with flabby arms?”
Lita, their slightly mustached waitress, delivers another round. The talk resumes.
“The only time you ever called me was when you had girl trouble.”
One pauses. One stares. The other stirs his drink. In the intervening moment, they notice that the restaurant has emptied, and grown silent.
“I’m doing the best I can, man.”
Architect Frank Lloyd Wright said that “The continent tilts to the southwest and everything loose slides into Los Angeles.”
We are on the edge of a continent.
Welcome To The Jungle
When I saw Godsmack front man Sully Erna walking out of The Rainbow, I knew I had arrived.
I am comfortably ensconced in room 322 of La Montrose Hotel in West Hollywood. The Roxy is just two blocks north. The Viper Room is not much further. It’s all very L.A., in an Axl Rose sort of way.
I am here on business. I wore a brown corduroy sport coat to The Rainbow, which, there in the shadow of CC Deville and Dimebag Darrell, is pretty uncool. But then, that’s how I ride.
I am in Los Angeles covering The Grammy Awards for the next eight days, punctuated by what I hope to be a restful weekend in Palm Springs. If I weren’t so tired, I’d be more excited.
I was excited, though, when my young colleague Rich and I stepped out of The Rainbow and looked west. There, hanging over Sunset, straight out of the Paramount Pictures prop department, was a giant, golden crescent moon.
Say what you will about the hours, the pace, and the miles, but the day job does afford me an occasional slice of heaven.
