I still love this music, though — in some ways — 2011 may have been one of my least-musical ever; singing “Twinkle, Twinkle” to Maggie notwithstanding, I recorded just one song (“Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas”), played only two shows (Martin Rivas’ Backscratch Session and the fifth and final “Holiday Benefit”), and attended just one concert (Jay-Z and Kanye West at MSG). But it still means everything to me.

As always, though, there were a few songs that saved my life. They enabled me to power through the finish, and push through the tough stuff. They lifted my spirits. They moved me.

Here they are, my Top Ten Songs Of 2011.

10) Hate To See You Like This, Fountains Of Wayne – Chris Collingwood and Adam Schlesinger are best known for kitschy confections like “Stacy’s Mom” and “Radiation Vibe.” “Hate To See You Like This,” though, picks up where “Troubled Times” and “The Senator’s Daughter” left off — plaintive, beautiful, sad — but rockin’.

9) Shell Game, Bright Eyes – Conor Oberst tends to be too-obtuse and un-melodic for me, but this synth-pop rocker propelled me for many, many miles of what may be my final marathon season. “We’ll be everything we wanna’ be / Everyone on the count of three / Altogether now.”

8) Every Day Is Yours To Win, REM – Even before I knew “Collapse Into Now” was REM’s last record, I was dubious; where some said it was the band’s best since “Automatic For The People,” “Collapse” struck me as uneven, dashed-off, and derivative. Above all, it was Michael Stipe’s lyric that left me cold. Nonetheless, “Discoverer,” “All The Best,” and “Uberlin” won me me over on energy alone. But it was one early, heart-broken morning drive to JFK that cemented this one for me. “Every day is new again, every day is yours to win. That’s how heroes are made.” (See also: “REM: Life & How To Live It.”)

7) Gone Gone Gone, Bryan Dunn – For a few days this fall, I listened to this one on repeat, over and over and over. It builds effortlessly from a harmonium and backbeat to a pad of vocals and strumming guitars. And when the banjitar and bass kick in after the first chorus, it’s really on. “So polite and insincere / Nothing whispered in your ear / Who said you could disappear for so long?” A beautiful, lush racket from an immensely talented local musician — and pal.

6) In Your Head, Casey Shea – If “Gone, Gone, Gone” builds like a dust storm across the arid Texas plains, “In Your Head” hits like a swirling, gale-force hurricane. This is pure rock radio gold from Brooklyn’s finest. It provided the force to get me through more than one dark day. (See also: “Casey Shea’s New LP Gets “In Your Head.”)

5) American Dreams, Andy Wagner – The balls! When I first scanned the liner notes on my cousin’s third LP, I couldn’t believe the first track’s title, “American Dreams.” It’s a massive subject, ambitious terrain reserved for our most revered rock poets: Dylan, Springsteen, Mellencamp, and … Wagner? Kid pulls it off in spades: the soaring, dense landscape, the pedal steel, and the poetry. “There are places we were never meant to see / There will always be mystery / Imaginary times we’ll be chasing the rest of our lives.” My cousin.

4) A Hopeful Transmission / Don’t Let It Break Your Heart, Coldplay – This is music for emergence, for climbing from the bowels of the city, fighting through the crowd, and breaking into the light. This is transcendent, arm-swirling, Jesus-posing, stadium-stomping rock. Worked for me.

3) No Church In The Wild, The Throne – There’s nothing in the DNA of this middle-age, middle-manager from middle-America that warrants me an ounce of swagger, but the floor tom-fueled guitar loop in “No Church” makes me walk different. Makes me think this town is mine for 4:33, anyway.

2) Walk, Foo Fighters – “Wasting Light” was the soundtrack to the fast and furious parts of 2011; propulsive, aggressive, dense, hooky and melodic, it gave me what I needed to power through these crowded, hostile streets, and . “Walk” gave me something more, though: it’s nostalgic, it’s thoughtful, it’s seeking something, and moving towards it. (See also: “Learning To Walk Again.”)

1) The Great Unknown, The Damnwells – From start to finish, “No One Listens To The Band Anymore” is a masterpiece. It’s deep and simple, smart and sensitive. It’s moves you forward, and moves you inside. “The Great Unknown” is the standout: pensive, wistful, and uncertain, with a huge, bleeding heart. “I will drive you home / Though we’re both drunk and stoned / Just for the stars and speeding red cars / Into the great unknown.”

And click here for details on the last four years of “A Holiday Benefit” fun!

From his early NYC days straight off the express bus from Music City, to his oversized, undefeated Undisputed Heavyweights shows, to his understated, overwhelmingly-beautiful Sundown.

I’ve roped him into all four “A Holiday Benefit records (our fifth and final effort bows December 14th at Rockwood Music Hall II), my “Forever Young” benefit LP (in which his angelic vocals float like billowing clouds above “Golden Slumbers”), and even the soundtrack to my documentary “Mister Rogers & Me” (in which Mr. Shea’s “Love Is Here To Stay” plays a crucial role).

Casey’s a friend. I’m a fan. And now this, his most-sonically confident and lyrically confessional record yet, “In Your Head”: stadium-sized, radio-friendly and more-than ready for primetime.

And so, in celebration of this amazing new recording (“buy it here now!), and tonight’s sure-to-be triumphant Rockwood Music Hall II (free!) record release is a brief Q&A with the man. Do read on…

Benjamin Wagner: The record sounds lush, deep, and rock solid. Where did you track? With whom? Solo songwriting? With the band? Collaborators?

Casey Shea: We started recording with Chris Cubeta at Galuminum Foil last May. The good thing was that I was just about to release “Love is Here To Stay,” so there was no real rush. I had the luxury of recording and letting it sit for a couple of months and coming back with fresh ears at the beginning of this year. By then, there were a couple of new songs, and I thought they’d be good fits for the album. My bass player, Matt Basile, had just done some recording with MotherFeather at Metrosonic and had a good experience cutting live tracks, so we did a few tracks there.

For the most part, the tracking was done with the guys I had been playing with for a couple of years. Matt Basile on bass, Gilber Gilmore on guitar, Nicholas Webber on piano. Drums were done by three different guys, Aaron Steele, Sarab Singh, and Josh Dion. There was a rotating cast of characters including Tony Maceli, Chris Cubeta, Wes Hutchinson, Bryan Trenis and Len Monachello (who now plays keys in the band) who came in to fill in bits and bobs all over. So yeah, I surrounded myself with a lot of great players!

Songs came from everywhere. Some solo, some co-writes with various friends/bandmates, and one written entirely by Matt Basile. I had a ton of songs, but these were (in my opinion) the best.

BW: What did each of you (you, band, producer) bring to the production in terms of source, inspiration, ideas?

CS: The band had been playing and rehearsing a ton all throughout last year, and that’s where the arrangements really stemmed from. I usually came in with a song or something I was working on, and we’d mess around with it. It’s great working with people you trust and respect, cause you can bring in a song, just let go a bit, and end up with something completely new and fresh.

Cubeta was really good getting sounds, especially on the guitar and vocal end. And it was also just was nice to have an outside perspective on things ranging from vocal takes to guitar parts to drum grooves, to
arrangements. He’s a great musician and songwriter, and all around good guy, so it was nice to have someone like him to work with.

BW: Explain the confidence to you and your band’s performance. You’re solid as a rock. “In Your Head” is Madison Square Garden-sized.

CS: Well I’m glad that comes across. I think a lot of it comes from just playing a lot over the past couple of years and all being at a point where we were ready to go into the studio and DESTROY! Ha!

BW: You played dozens of solo acoustic shows in the US and UK in the last few months. What, if any, bearing did that time have on you? Your music? The album?

CS: I guess the big thing about those tours was that they were just me and a guitar… nothing to hide behind, completely exposed. In a way it was very freeing, cause I could do anything. Play whatever song I wanted, stop in the middle of a song, make jokes, whatever.

Also, I think playing in the band with such good musicians over the past few years made me a much better musician. Not that I consider myself much of a guitarist, but it had been a long time since I did the solo thing, and I had a comfort on stage throughout these tours that I did not have a few years ago.

BW: The album title says a lot, but your lyrics sound pensive (“Tossin and turnin”), thoughtful, maybe a little bit torn. What’s going on in your head? On those drives (“Gotta clear my mind”)?

CS: The writing of a lot of the songs on this album happened during a very uncertain period of my life. I had another band that had a very typical band/major label experience (wherein major label puts band into indefinite holding pattern). I came out of that not knowing what I was doing or what I was going to do with my life. There were a lot of sleepless nights, a lot of thinking, and a lot of doubt.

BW: I think that “getting out of one’s head” is the human condition, really, the dynamic that drives everything from yoga to heroine to rock ‘n roll. What’s in yours? What do you want out? What do you do to get there (or get away from there)?

CS: I’d probably say it’s the reason I write songs and create art. I am constantly searching for the deeper meaning of all of this. There is definitely something amazing and liberating about being on stage, but nothing is as meaningful as creating a piece of art that is timeless, that you’re proud of, and has the ability to touch other people.

BW: What’s next for the album? What’s the five year plan? Ten?

CS: We just released the album this week. We’ll keep pushing it out to anyone and everyone, and hopefully those people will like it enough to share it with their friends. We’ve got two videos in the works, so I’m really excited about that, and hopefully we’ll do some more touring this Winter and Spring to continue getting the word out.

As for 5 and 10 year plans, my goal is to be happy and make a decent enough living to support a family by making the kind of music I love. Is that so much to ask!?!

I was in the second row. Standing on my seat for two hours straight. Singing every word.

Indeed, R.E.M.’s 1988 Philadelphia Spectrum performance was mind blowing enough to derail everything that had come prior, and everything that would follow. The tale is well-worn. Heck, it’s baked into my biography.

“My big brother brought R.E.M.’s ‘Reckoning’ home from college which immediately woke me up and snapped me out of my Phil Collins stupor. Hearing ‘So. Central Rain’ for the first time changed everything.”

That hook! 12-string Rickenbacker. Tack piano. Heavy on floor tom. Melodic, propulsive bass line. Sharp counter melody. And the lyrics: at first obtuse (“Eastern to Mountain third party call / The lines are down / The wise man built his words up on the rocks / But I’m not bound to follow suit”), and then clarion clear. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Lyrics any sixteen-year-old could dig.

And that was all it took. Luckily, though, Chris brought home two R.E.M. albums: “Reckoning” and “Murmur.” They were more than records, they were worlds: kudzu-covered railroad trestles, eccentric neighbors, seven Chinese brothers. It was Little America, somewhere deeper, darker, more sinister and in equal turn illuminating than my Philadelphia suburbs. It was escape. It was inspiration.

It’s impossible to chronicle in any meaningful way (and against the crush of the news cycle) just how impactful Berry, Buck, Mills and Stipe were.

That tour stop — the “Work Tour” (lest anyone confuse it with the frivolity of, say, Mötley Crüe) in support their 1987′s LP “Document” (the band’s first with producer Scott Litt, and last for IRS Records) was my first rock show. 10,000 Maniacs opened. I wore the t-shirt to the PSATs the next morning.

“The One I Love” was the first song I learned on guitar. Its chords (EmGCD) form the basis for damn near my entire catalogue. I released a live version years later. That recording (“February 25, 2005″, a title inspired by the Uncle Tupelo record guitarist Peter Buck produced) remains my seventh most-downloaded song.

A 24-hour, 1,512-mile journey to Athens, Georgia, was my first road trip. Greg Lage and I listened to “Pilgrimage” every hour. We bought a few cassettes at Wuxtry Records, snapped photos of Walter’s BBQ, and turned around. “Jefferson, I think I’m lost,” indeed.

Michael was the first rock star I ever interviewed — twice. The first time, a phoner for The Syracuse Orangemen, I told him I had forty questions. “Chose your favorite,” he said making lunch plans under his breath. The second time, he offered me an America Spirit in Warner Bros. NYC HQ. I turned green, but held it together through the MTV Q&A (“Michael Stipe: Man On The Moon”).

And a Fireglo Rickenbacker 360 — best appreciated (perhaps) on 2005′s “Heartland” LP — was my first electric guitar. I still have it (albeit under the bed).

The band’s tastes shaped mine. Through interviews (which I clipped and collected in a manila folder labeled “The REM Files”), collaborations and co-signs, I discovered innumerable artists, from The Velvet Underground to Flat Duo Jets, Chris Isaak to Lester Bangs, The Replacements, Wire, Mission Of Burma, Guadalcanal Diary, The dBs, and many, many more.

I covered them live thousands of times, from my first-ever live performance at Conestoga High School (“Finest Worksong”) to our frequent, attic-shaking college keggers (“It’s The End Of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)”, of course), to Arlene Grocery (“Second Guessing”), Mercury Lounge a few days after September 11 (“World Leader Pretend” dedicated to then-President George Bush) and Rockwood Music Hall last year (where I tacked a verse of “I Believe” to the top of “St. Anne (Of The Silence)”).

In fact, it was Jamie, Paul and my rough but passable run through “Driver 8″ in a dusty living room on Standart Street in Syracuse that birthed Smokey Junglefrog — and the rock ‘n roll fantasy (or delusion, depending) that followed.

Moreover, though, R.E.M. helped shape an aesthetic: call it expressive, art-house, minor-chord pop. It was a little darker, a little obscured, a little esoteric, but accessible. It was implicit, evocative. You had to work for it, connect the dots, parse the meaning. It’s evident from the cover of Smokey Junglefrog’s 1990 LP “Crumble” (a blurry, wiry light bulb) to 2011′s “Forever Young” (a blurry, bucolic close up of my infant daughter).

And it’s evident in the sound of every record I’ve ever made, from the random, abstract lyrics of (and use of parenthesis for) “Kathryn (Of A Thousand Faces)” to country feedback throughout “Crash Site” to the jangle-pop of “Giving Up The Ghost.”

More than influences, introductions and aesthetics, though, R.E.M. invited me into music. Before that iconic, eyeliner-smeared performance, I was just a fan. Standing there on my seat in the second row, enveloped in the sound, light and fury, I was hooked. I joined a band months later, went to college, bought a guitar, and set out to record my “Murmur,” and live my own sometimes esoteric, always expressive, art-house, minor-chord but mainstream pop life.

I’m still working on it.

* * *

Accelerate: A First Listen

Music Could Provide The Light You Cannot Resist

Hide & Seek: A Consideration Of REM & U2

The Place Where You Live

Favorite Things: Volume III

Michael Stipe: Man On The Moon

Back then, we mocked the families we served at Funland, checking out the young, hot, sunburned moms as we strapped their panicky toddlers into kiddie rides, and tearing down the straight-laced, khakied dads as we fleeced them for plush.

This week, I was that guy, navigating the boardwalk with a stroller and an armload of supplies. This week, I was in the backseat, nursing Maggie’s jittery, over-stimulated tears with a warm bottle as Maggie pointed us north.

It’s the circle of life.

I spent the summer of 1989 in Rehoboth. I was seventeen-years-old. It was my first time away from home. With my brother as my guide, the cuffs were off. I skimmed off the top at work, bought my first Grateful Dead sticker, and dabbled in drugs. I raced through backyards in the wee hours of morning, thieving from clotheslines and back porches. I passed out on the beach, and woke to the sound of gawking families.

It wasn’t all strum and dirge, though. The dorm above Funland was teaming with good guys from all over the place. We worked long, hard days that only wrapped when we’d swept every square foot of park. We had hoagies on Tuesdays, pizza on Fridays, and unlimited peanut, butter and jelly in between. And we spent off days in the waves, and nights strumming guitars, singing songs, and building pyramids from Natural Light cans.

And so, with last week’s full week off with the in-laws in nearby Greenville, Delaware, twenty-two years later, Abbi and I agreed to spend a few days in Rehoboth — Maggie’s first time at the beach.

Maggie cried nearly the whole way, nodding off just miles from town — which looked nearly the same as I recalled: Thrasher’s, Dolly’s and Funland were preserved as if in amber. We unloaded onto scorching pavement, slathered her squirmy-appendages in SPF70, and marched towards the beach.

The air was thick and hot as stew, punctuated only by gentle, convection-oven breezes. The sand was atom bomb hot, just a few degrees shy of turning to glass. The narrow beach was crowded eight rows deep with umbrellas, chairs and assorted ephemera as far as the eye could see. We staked our claim, spread our umbrella, splayed our blankets, and set Maggie free. She struggled to right herself on the shifting sand, squinted into the sunny distance, then sat tranquilly scooping and dumping. Her cheeks were quickly crimson, her hair matted, her attention rapt by the bucket before her. And in the rare instances she strayed from the shadows and stepped into the sand, she quickly turned her sandalled-feet around.

I was dispatched in short order to fetch food and water. I trudged through the scorching sand, then strode the sweltering boards back-and-forth twice to meet my dear family’s culinary needs, eventually settling back onto my towel for a sandy hoagie punctuated by Maggie’s impatient, “Feed Me!” scream.

The highlight, of course, was our foray into the surf. The beach was steep, the tide was high, and the waves crowded with body surfers, and Nerf tossers, but we stood a while at the edge holding Maggie’s hands as she shrieked with delight at the approaching surf, them stamped in its shallow foam. Our courage buoyed, we waded into the waves. I held her close, my arms wrapped around her like tentacles. Her eyes grew wide like saucers with each approaching wave and she splashed and laughed and squealed with joy.

With the exception of forty-five Heavenly minutes at the Dogfish Head Brewery, a thirty-four minute 5k in excruciating heat, and those five, blissful, beautiful, memorable moments in the surf with my adorable, giggling, splashing, thrashing, thrilled daughter and loving, beaming wife, it was all logistics and lifting, stress and strain.

But that’s the thing my seventeen-year-old self would never, ever have believed. Despite the absence of sex, drugs or rock ‘n roll, and despite the sand and the sun, the schlepping and the sweating, the curbside-squabbles and boardwalk bench diaper changes, those few, precious moments were luminous. Those moments outshine all the tough stuff. Those moments are all the fun a man can wish for. Put together, they make a life worth living.

Giving Up The Ghost
One Day (by Lara Ewen)
Dear Elizabeth

Other than “A Holiday Benefit, Vol. IV” in December (where I performed two Christmas standards), and the “Forever Young” Benefit in October (ten cover songs), my last show was March 2010.

To even call it a rock show is bit of a misnomer: The Backscratch Sessions (Rockwood Music Hall 9p) is nine artists doing three songs each, one of which is a cover of one of the other eight performers. Great idea. Totally psyched. But three songs? Solo acoustic? Not a rock show.

And for better or worse, my guitar (my Martin DX15, that is; my Rickenbacher and Mitchell have been stowed away for years) has spent the better part of the last year in my closet. I’ve hauled it out a few times to play for Maggie, and she loves it, stares wide-eyed, and bangs on the strings, body and tuning mechanism. But the fact is, it’s impossible to really play with her around. And sadly, much of the motivation is gone.

See, I spent years writing songs about heartbreak, confusion, depression, melancholy, angst, anxiety, sadness, fear, delusion — I could go on. Songwriting proved therapeutic, cathartic, instructive. Making music was an essential salve, and critical tool for healing.

But it’s sunny on these days. I count my blessing, and cultivate a healthy sense of paranoia, but I won’t lie: I’m happy — ecstatic even — in this family of mine. Life is not easy, but it really is deep and simple.

And so approaching even two of my 130 or so songs from my 15 solo EPs and LPs is difficult; most of it doesn’t resonate, or make sense at this point in my life.

Plus, I don’t remember most of it. I had to browse my iTunes catalogue to remember my own song titles. No wonder Michael Stipe uses a teleprompter.

Luckily, I get to lean on someone else’s song. It’s supposed to be a surprise, but I’ll tell you this much: I know her, and it’s a great song.

Not that I’m not going to alter it until it’s nearly unrecognizable; I am. I’m making it heartbreaking, confusing, and depressing by slowing it down, deleting full lines and adding new ones. Still, I think she’ll like it. I do.

Fact is, I’m coming out of retirement tonight, and it can go one of two ways. Maybe I’ll make more time for songwriting, and try to find a way to write songs from the perspective of a 40-year-old that isn’t lame. Or maybe my guitar’ll go back in the closet and pop out a few times a year. Or maybe both. Difficult to say.

Two things are certain.

My twenty-year music career (from Neoteric Youth to Smokey Junglefrog to Benjamin Wagner Deluxe to… this) led to Abbi and which led to Maggie and the invention of everything else all of which means way, way, WAY more than any record deal or Grammy Award ever could.

And I’ll end like I always do, with the prettiest, most-plaintive and moving version of “Dear Elizabeth” I can muster. Because some twenty-five years after my first rock show (1987 Conestoga High School Talent Show), I still have something to say.

A baby’s shriek is a difficult sound, to be sure. Still, all I can think is, ‘Lighten up lady; you were a baby once too.’

Shriek or not, the sight (and sound) of a baby is enough to tear at my heartstrings.

I left Maggie and Abbi at 7:06 am. I won’t return until roughly the same time next Tuesday, June 7th — Maggie’s first birthday.

There was just enough time this morning to wake Maggie, change her diaper, and sprint for the door for my nine o’clock flight.

She woke up singing quietly to herself, lay patiently for her change, and held her own bottle. Abbi walked her to the door, I stole a kiss (she delivers on our kiss requests about 2% of the time, making each one sweeter still), and grabbed my bags.

I looked back one last instant as I reached for the doorknob and froze. Maggie’s lips flattened, and closed. She squinted her eyes a bit, tilted her head almost imperceptibly, and smiled a tiny, confused smile as if to say, ‘Where are you going? We were having such a nice weekend.’

And we were.

Abbi, Maggie and I spent nearly every second together. We went to Central Park a whopping three times, and St. Catherine’s twice. Maggie played in her first sandbox (tentatively), ran her first 5k (well, in our new jogging stroller), chased bubbles barefoot, and swung on innumerable swingsets.

Even the mundane felt magical. At Home Depot, she walked wide-eyed down the football field-aisles, stood flummuxed, windblown by a massive fan, and charmed nearly every employee in the place with her determined waddle, gleaming blue eyes and infectious smile.

Friends of ours, a younger couple, visited us for lunch Saturday. He’s a young rock star. She’s a tv producer. They’ve been married a few years and are probably beginning the careful, deliberate conversations that end (ideally) with a new life.

Abbi laughed as I told them both how massively recalibrating parenthood has been. Everything that I thought mattered — rock shows, record deals, late nights — had been immediately replaced by something — someone — that really mattered.

Every step is a miracle. Every gesture is a gift. And every smile is a revelation.

I am finally free (largely, not entirely) of myself; it really is all about her, and all about us.

Which only makes leaving that much more painful. I spent the entire ride to JFK (well set-designed by Whomever Is In Charge Of The Universe with fog, gray sky, and black sheets of rain) listening to REM’s “Every Day Is Yours To Win,” the band’s recent update to its maudlin chestnut, “Everybody Hurts.” The gently arpeggiated guitar lulled me into a deeper melancholy still.

Here I am, now, landed and checked-in some 2,800 miles west of my precious daughter. The sun is coming up on Tuesday, and the only consolation is an iPhone full of photos, the promise of iChat, the fact that time passes, and the knowledge that her song is in my heart on infinite repeat.

Of course, Rockwood’s been my home turf since founder Ken Rockwood (the Professor half of one-time Bar/None recording artists, Professor & Maryann) first swiched on the PA in 2005. The room’s knows for Ken’s careful curation, fierce intimacy, excellent sound, and well-considered wine list. Amongst performers, it’s know as one of very few places in the city where you’re not treated like lunch meat.

As a result, the place is brimming with bona fide talent, folks who’ve parlayed Rockwood’s stage for other and larger ones, but always returned like spawning salmon. Folks like Amber Rubarth, Ingrid Michaelson, Ian Axel and Bess Rogers. And folks like Rachel Platten.

Rachel’s voice is sweet, clean and pure — like Kate Bush and Tori Amos with a dash of Swedish synth-pop. Her songs are fundamentally Millennial: well-realized, self-aware, optimistic and laced with big beats and tiny blips. Her new album, “Be Here,” topped iTunes when it was release last month.

Couldn’t have happened to a better person.

* * *

BW: Tell me about the album’s title, “Be Here.” Very Zen.

RP: Yes indeed. It’s a little reminder to myself to be present, to be in the moment, and be conscious and grateful for all that transpires. The lyrics on this record all resonate with this idea so it seemed like a good overarching “pull it altogether” theme for the album.

BW: What’s your songwriting process? Melody first? Key phrases? Beats?

RP: Melody first almost always… I wait until the last possible moment to bring it to my keyboard or guitar, because I feel then you become limited by what you hear. When it’s in your head it’s still unformed and can go anywhere. Lyrics last. Once in a while I try to mimic some Rhazel beat (from the Roots) and then a beat will lead me first… but usually melody.

BW: I find you AND your music remarkably up, optimistic, bright, bubbly. How do you pull it off amidst the noise, choise, and general cynicism of New York City?

RP: I don’t know that I pull it off..I mean…. I do try though! First of all, I’m rarely in New York City these days, so maybe being on the road and traveling helps. But, I work very hard at being optimistic, I do a lot of yoga, meditate a lot, and try to constantly remind myself to be grateful for all of this. We are so blessed to be living the way we do, in the time we do. The fact that I get to make music and bring it to people is just incredible to me. I truly feel so lucky and I’m so glad it comes off in the music.

BW: Bono’s got a great lyric (based on the philosopher, Pascal), about “Looking for to fill that God-shaped hole.” It speaks to that existential thing that’s missing in most of us, and what how we seek to fill it. What’s yours?

RP: Oh man, what a question. I seek and sometimes find spirituality in music, in yoga, in meditation, in good conversations, in laughter, in being on the road. I find it especially in Touring these days. I of course feel that emptiness sometimes too, but that is just the ego, trying to make noise so it can get our attention. When I hear my mind getting very loud and mean to me, I try to shake myself out of it. I am also a self help book junkie. So lame, I know ;) I especially love Eckhart Tolle’s Power of Now and Julia Cameron’s the Artist’s Way. These are my little bibles.

BW: You worked with some huge producers on this record. What did they bring to your songs?

RP: I think that at it’s best, the record sounds “big”….and that was my aim. I wanted not just a hip sound or a trendy stylized sound but one that was instantly universally appealing so that people could appreciate it across age, gender, ethnic lines. It was ambitious, and I think that working with these guys helped me get closer to achieving that.

BW: What with your YouTube duets with Nick Howard, and Martin Rivas, and your gorgeous duet with Alex Wong for our “Holiday Benefit, Vol. 4,” you’re quite the collaborator. Who’s next? Who’s your dream?

RP: My dream collaborator is Jack White. I love that man, the way he plays, the way he writes, he’s just in the purest sense of the term, a rock star. I also am a big fan of a producer I met recently Kevin Agounas who has produced for Edward Sharpe, Cold War Kids and some other peeps I respect a lot. I hope to get to work with him on a project sometime.

BW: How’s life on the road? What’s the single most-inspiring thing you’ve experienced?

RP: Oh man, this year has been such a dream come true. I’ve been on the road pretty much nonstop since last April, and we’ve seen and experienced so much, it’s such a hard thing to take out one experience from the bunch. But I can tell you that we are in Buffalo right now for a couple of shows up here and we went to see Niagara Falls today. Holy crap, I felt so small… have you seen that yet? It’s so beautiful and inspiring. We now have a goal to check all the rest of the 6 wonders off our bucket list.

BW: Ok, speed round. Favorite color?

RP: Blue

BW: Ice cream flavor?

RP: Mint chocolate Chip

BW: Movie quote?

RP: “Anchorman” is my number one favorite. “What? You pooped in the refrigerator? And you ate the whole… wheel of cheese? How’d you do that? Heck, I’m not even mad; that’s amazing.”

BW: Song?

RP: “One” by U2.

BW: Cheese?

RP: Goat cheese from farmers market in Union Square.

BW: There’s an elephant on your album cover and in some random press pics. What’s with that?

RP: When I was little my parents asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up and I said “I want to travel to Africa to save the elephants.” I said this for years until my teacher told me it wasn’t a viable career (I still don’t forgive her).
Anyway, I’m also very into yoga and have read a lot about Buddhism to dive deeper into my practice. I found out one of the most revered God’s is Ganesh (a man with an elephant head), lord of success and destroyer of obstacles. Powerful shit! I dug the idea and thought it was an excellent logo given my early obsession with elephants. So there ya go.

Rachel’s hitting the road with Bess Rogers this summer. Do yourself a favor: be there; the stages are only getting bigger.

The sky was unwaveringly blue, shot through with bleached-lemon sunlight, all framed by the piercing, green canopy of a long-slumbering Central Park.  A cool breeze blew from the northwest, scattering pollen like snowflakes on a blanket of fresh grass.

In the middle of it all, my eleven-month-old daughter walked, twirled, stumbled, collapsed, sat and giggled. She studied each blade of grass, each fallen leaf like it was her first.

Because it was.

Abbi and I’d returned from our first, brief vacation without our precious cargo scarcely twenty-four hours prior.  And while our four days and three nights in paradise (well, close: Turks & Caicos) were memorable and meaningful (we dove with dozens of reef sharks, blew through twice as many many Turk’s Head Lagers, resolved our Fifth Annual Los Ochos Locos Internacional competition in a draw and laughed at our numerous obscure, absurd inside jokes), we spent an inordinate amount of time talking about Maggie and — through the genius of iPhone — watching her numerous YouTube videos.

I read just two books there: Haruki Murakami’s “What I Talk About When I Talk About Running” (no explanation necessary) and Dr. Margaret J. Meeker’s “Strong Fathers, Strong Daughters,” a ten-point, self-help book that elevated my already heightened sense of paternal responsibility (I said she wouldn’t date until she’s thirty less than twelve hours into her beautiful, little life) to uncomfortable levels through alarming statistics and first-person medical and psychological observation.

Not that I needed a doctor to raise the stakes. No matter how many guys warned me how great fatherhood would be, no one prepared me for how massively transformative it is. So many things I thought were important — rock shows, movies, beers with pals, even running — have genuinely, authentically and comprehensively been replaced by the singular desire to spend time with Maggie. There is no sweeter sound than her laughter, and no greater sight than her smile. Ergo our trip to the park.

And it happened so quickly. Standing there in the Tuesday afternoon, I marveled that — in just a few short months — I’d gone from taking cautious, infrequent and almost-instantaneous solo trips with Maggie to this: lunch in the park, neither harried nor hurried, patient and blissful than I could ever have imagined.

Not that it was easy.  I watched her every move, senses tingling like a lioness in the wild.  I explained away danger (“That’s traffic, Maggie. It’s very dangerous and can hurt you very badly.” “That’s for looking and touching only, honey, not eating.”)  ”Let’s stay away from Harry and his friends, honey; they’re big boys.”) as if she understood.  

Maggie clung tight to my pinky — just enough reassurance for both of us — racing to and fro across the field, looking up at me periodically with big, wide eyes and a wider, two-tooth grin.  

Later, I spun her around and around above me head, shafts of sunlight backlighting her billowing, blonde hair.  Her laughter rose above the cacophony of passing cabs and buses, helicopters, planes and pedestrians.  Her fierce-blue eyes shimmered from behind her delicious cheeks and fixed on me absolutely confident in my grasp.