Case Studies

King of the Road #6: When the Dust Settles

There’s an old proverb that says “all is fair in love and war”. Now I never stepped on a battlefield during wartime, fired a gun at another or been shot at so I cannot speak to the latter, but the former I have known as truth. Blinded by the glare of love, I have done things in my life that have defied any sort of logic and derailed me from the intended course I’d been following. Not for one minute have I ever regretted any of it. One such case was my first West Coast tour.

A year prior to embarking on said tour, I had met a beautiful girl at my best friend’s wedding. Her name was Cindy and we hit it off right away. At the time she was enrolled in a graduate program at the University of California, San Francisco. We talked for most of the night and when the wedding was over we promised to keep in touch. So off we went, back to our respected sides of the country, her in the West and me in the East.

In the months that followed Cindy and I’s friendship grew. Thoughts of her vacated my mind frequently. We spoke often and in a conversation one night I mentioned that I had really wanted to tour the West Coast. Being the caring and clever person that she was, Cindy proposed a plan where I would fly over during her spring break and she would drive me up the coast, stopping at shows along the way. Overcome with excitement, I feverishly booked myself a week long stretch of shows ending in Washington State.

A few months later I arrived out west with my guitar and a duffle bag nervously awaiting the journey that lay ahead. Cindy met me at the airport with her tiny two-seater Mazda Miata convertible and thus our trek north began. Because the trunk was too small to house my guitar, we were forced to strap it on top of the trunk with bungee cords. Amazingly it survived the entire trip.

As we traveled along State Route 1 up the Pacific coastline, I was in awe of the alien landscape. The winding road curled along the cliffs while the waters of the great Pacific crashed on the shoreline below. The weather was nearly perfect. Hardly ever was there a cloud in the sky to block the sun that beamed on the faces of the two wide-eyed travelers whose hearts were beating out of their chest. For that week we lived in our own little fantasy world. At night we would find little dingy roadside motels to stay in and cheap food to eat. Oh, how I wanted to freeze time and relive those days over and over again for eternity.

We passed through places I had only read about in books. As we approached Monterey we entered the Salinas Valley where Steinbeck had written the greatest novels of our country and told the American story with more guts and truth than anyone ever had. Periodically the highway would jet inland and we’d pass through barren fields once worked by migrant farmers, now seared from recent wildfires. If you looked closely you could see the budding plant life, rearing its head through the ash to begin the cycle over again. Further north the colossal trees of the Redwood Forest towered over us like gentle giants granting passage to what lay ahead. And then there was the sheer beauty of the Oregon Coast where massive stumps of trees cut down lifetimes ago now protruded from the water like mighty serpents petrified in mid breech.

One of the greatest gifts of tour is seeing old friends who had moved to different parts of the country. Such was the case in Takoma, Washington where I got to hang with my childhood friend, Pat. He had moved out west a few years earlier and when he heard I was playing nearby, made the two hour trip with a few friends. Growing up, Pat was like a brother to me. We played in our first band together, discovered punk rock together, sipped our first beer together and were more or less inseparable during our most formidable years. There in Takoma, Pat and I sat at a table by a window at the venue catching up and talking about old times. What a special treat it was to see my good friend. Unfortunately, that would be the last time I would ever see him alive.

I’ve relived that last visit with Pat in my head many times since his passing; the nuances of his speech, his signature chugging laugh, the way his face lit up when he smiled. A few months before his passing he’d invited me to come to New Hampshire where he was living at the time. I told him I’d have to take a raincheck as I was recording an album and really couldn’t get away. The last thing he asked me was for some new band recommendations to listen to, something we’ve shared with each other for most our lives. What I wouldn’t give to drop everything there and then and go visit my old friend, play records and talk about life one last time. Together we’d broken down in cars on the side of highways, got our asses kicked by men much bigger than us, moshed to some amazing bands at VFW halls and learned about sucking the marrow out of life. Great friends are hard to come by and Pat was one of the best.

When we had reached our furthest point north, Cindy and I drove back to her campus in San Francisco. Though she still had nearly two years left in her program, we fell madly in love and were inseparable for a good stretch of time to follow. Whenever Cindy had breaks from school she would hop on a plane and come meet me on tour and we would enter back into our fantasy world, like two fugitives on the run, totally disconnected from the outside world. But like so often is the case, life took Cindy and I in two different directions and the relationship eventually ended.

Memories are a strange thing. We’d like to think that when the dust settles and the significant events and people in our lives are no longer available to us, we are rest assured that the memories will be there for us to hold always. However, not even memories can combat the deterioration of time. Memories are a shared experience, and when the people that we shared them with are no longer around then the memories begin to chip away. When the ones we shared them with are no longer living in this world then a valuable part of the memory dies. The greatest gifts in life are not for owning. As much as we want to grab them and keep them for ourselves, they can never be ours. All we can do is be thankful that the gods have blessed us with the opportunity to experience them for the time that we did. Be thankful that in all of the chaos of atoms whirling around the universe, somehow, someway, these people were brought into our lives. I’m not a very mystical person but I like to think that their introduction into our lives is not merely a random event in a chaotic universe. I believe that these people are bestowed upon us in order to usher us along to the next part of our journey. They are our trusty travel companions and shape our soul until at last we are ready and must move on to the next chapter of life. And perhaps in another lifetime we will be visited once again by our travel companions and although their faces and names will be unknown, our souls will remember and we shall feel a divine connection. The more time I spend on this earth the more I am approaching an understanding of love; an understanding I am quite certain I will never entirely grasp.

https://www.blackisthenewapstyle.com/2019/01/when-dust-settles.html?fbclid=IwAR0RPHzYZE4m7h1ymcL7g2x5aEo_M9mS_do-Bm-WAg8BJKQ8JczxGVwVlVw

Pre-Order “Roll the Dice” Today!

I am thrilled to announce that on February 15, 2019 we’ll be releasing a new EP called Roll the Dice on SoundEvolution Music!  Pre-order begins today and you can get your copy here!

“Roll the Dice” 7″ Vinyl Pre-order

“Roll the Dice” Digital Pre-order

 

King of the Road #5: Human Stupidity

King of the Road #5: Human Stupidity

King of the Road #4: A Long Way From Home

King of the Road #4: A Long Way From Home

https://www.blackisthenewapstyle.com/2018/10/a-long-way-from-home.html?fbclid=IwAR2aDaQznX7vVAeKsdLvkO__DSVmYi6JKrVH8sjt6ZPd0CDwy0k3Qs8Kvc4

It’s 3 a.m. in a small Savannah bungalow; there are seven still bodies scattered about, sleeping on the floor around you. The crew consists of your bandmates and Boston band Pile, a group which you’ve been close friends with for the past 10 years. For 14 shows down the East Coast you’ve been opening for them and it’s been one of the most incredible touring experiences to date. In the morning you will say farewell to them all; your bandmates will board a plane back to New York and Pile will head North while you continue on West. It will mark the beginning of a long journey, a pilgrimage that will take you across this sprawling country all the way to the Pacific Ocean and back around again to your home in New York City. The tour will take a little over a month to complete and you will do it all alone. In that time you will sit on the rim of the Grand Canyon, body surf on massive waves in the Pacific Ocean, grapple with inner demons on long drives, go longer than you ever had before without showering, travel the furthest from home you’ve ever been, and write some the best songs you’ve ever written. You’ll learn more about this country than you ever could in a book or a college course. But most of all you will learn about yourself and what kind of fabric you’re cut from.

You act tough on the first day. A defense mechanism to mask the fact that you are scared shitless to be there without your bandmates. As you run through your set on stage at an Alabama dive there’s a timidness about you, a lack of confidence in your song. You begin to doubt your abilities and whether or not the people in the audience enjoy your music. It’s quite simple, without confidence you cannot perform well no mattered how talented or skilled you may be.

That night you spread out your sleeping bag on the futon mattress that sits atop a wooden bunk which fits snugly in the back of the van. The van is lit by a Coleman camping lantern, the same lantern you once used when camping with your grandparents so long ago in Old Orchard Beach, Maine. Sipping on whiskey to calm the nerves, you question your ability to handle the long quest that lies ahead. You think back to a drunken late night conversation a few nights prior with a tour mate, where he pats you on the back and says, “I got to hand it to you buddy, you got more guts than I touring out there all on your own.” Perhaps I bit off more than I could chew. Are you crazy thinking you could keep it together for a month on the road all by yourself?

As you travel west, playing show after show you begin to sink into a rhythm. Shows begin to feel natural playing up there alone and the confidence you exhibited with a full band begins to enter into your solo performances. You begin to converse and tell stories from stage and slowly build the spirit necessary to perform proper on your own. In each city you meet new friends and the anxiety of being alone begins to wash away.

On a desolate highway somewhere between Oklahoma and New Mexico you drive. The street is lit by the massive feed manufacturing plants that dominate the land every few miles. It’s 3 a.m. and the only other vehicles on the road are tractor-trailer trucks bombing down the wide open interstate, abiding to their nocturnal schedule as not to be slowed by the amateur daytime drivers. As you catch a glimpse of the night sky you realize that you have never seen the stars shine so bright. It’s the farthest you’ve ever been from home and you’re there all alone. A voice comes over you and says, “Yes! This is what you are chasing, seize it!” Your arms steer the wheel so that the van slows to the shoulder of the road. You get out and lay on the cool gravel of an embankment by the roadside and look up at the blazing speckled sky. The ground rumbles from the colossal trucks barreling by. The beauty of the moment is overwhelming and you hope that somehow, someway, you can hold onto the memory forever. As you look over the vast, alien landscape you wonder, “How did I end up here?” and begin to laugh a maniacal laugh when you consider the absurdity of it all. It starts with a crazy idea, a fantasy, a childhood dream that you can’t quite shake and it pushes you off into a desolate divide, expanse and unforgiving that changes the very ground upon which you walk.

All hail the sacred radio! Without it the lonesome traveler would surely go mad. Western states are massive, much larger than those of the east and often require long drives from show to show, sometimes 10 hours a day. You spin the wheel on your old trusty Apple iPod. Atop the snowy mountains of Oregon the hypnotic gallop of the Velvet Underground keeps you chugging. Across the great plains of West Texas Skip James’ eerie wail fills your soul with inspiration. Through the deserts of Arizona the raw power of the Stooges keeps you from nodding off. On a breathtaking stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway, windows down, the distorted overtones of Social Distortion fuse with the sound of the outside wind passing by. You play a game to keep your mind occupied, where upon entering a new city or state you put on a band that has any sort of significance or relation to that place. In Duluth, you play Dylan. Chicago, you put on Howlin’ Wolf. In Nebraska you play Springsteen… and so on and so forth.

At some point halfway through the tour, you begin to take notice that strangers treat you differently when you are touring alone than when touring with a band. People are more generous, more willing to take you in and accept you amongst their clan. At a show in Houston, TX a woman and her husband befriend you and insist upon getting you a hotel room for the night where you can get a much needed shower because as the kind hearted woman points out, “Someone who plays such nice music shouldn’t smell so bad”. At a Santa Fe Brewery the manager of the venue takes you back to his home where him and his lady make you dinner at 2 a.m. and give you a gift in the morning, a book called Navaho Expedition that they thought you’d like based off a conversation the night prior. In Flagstaff a college professor sits at a bar with you after your set and expresses his appreciation for your music and as the conversation ends, hands you a key to his cottage which he insists you stay at for the night. Throughout this great country the cultures, dialect and terrain differ greatly, but the quality of kindness is very much the same.

On a warm summer day in June you arrive back home. You park the van on your block like you had so many times before, and as you walk the steps to your home you notice that something has changed. It’s not in the way the apartment building looks or smells or feels. No, for the change was not one that occurred in the external material world. It occurred deep down within. Over the next few weeks you would be filled with a great frustration due to your inability to communicate all you had experienced on your journey. You’d go on similar solo tours multiple times in the coming years but none would ever match the impact and importance of that first one. Out there on your own you had learned of the true nature of fear. You had watched it go head to head in the ring against guts and courage and over and over again you watched as fear was toppled.

King of the Road #3: Cherished Moments

http://www.blackisthenewapstyle.com/2018/09/cherished-moments.html

And so it goes, there are times when you are chugging along in your carefree world when all of a sudden, from out of the blue, life throws a grenade on the road you’re traveling; tossing you to the shoulder like a helpless ragdoll, and debris and smoke make the path ahead impossible to follow. It’s in these moments, amongst the chaos and confusion, that you reach out hoping to find a hand to grasp – something or someone to show you the way.

The band and I cruised southbound down I-95. We had played New Hampshire the night before and were headed to our next show in Massachusetts where I was born and raised. The previous day I had gotten bad news. My mom had called to tell me that my nana’s health was declining and that she was in Hospice care. She had been in and out of the hospital for some time now due to a bad heart, and she had taken a turn for the worse. My mom suggested that instead of crashing on friends’ couches while back in town, that Ed, Moses and I (the band) stay at my nana’s apartment in a subsidized senior living center right outside Boston since it would be empty for the time being. I agreed that would be best.

Our show that night was incredible. The place was packed; a crowd consisting of family, lifelong friends and strangers alike. I saw folks I hadn’t seen in years and it warmed my heart. Hell, even some of the older guys I used to work construction with years ago in Boston came out. There’s nothing better than sharing a night of music, drinking and hanging late into the night with people you love. We drove back late, singing to songs on the radio.

After parking the van in the lot, we quietly slipped in the back door of the high-rise apartment building, hoping not to wake any of the elderly tenants as they slept. When morning came, I left the band behind and went to visit with my nana at the Hospice center. On the way, my stomach was in knots as I wondered the condition I would find her in. My mother met me at the entrance and led me to my nana’s room where my cousins, uncles and aunts were all gathered. Nana was in bad shape, and it tore me apart to see her that way. For the next few hours we all sat around our great matriarch, sharing family memories. She could hardly talk but I’d like to think that there in that room, on that day, that she was content and at peace – surrounded by her family which she loved so very much.

As I drove back to the apartment, I was overwhelmed with sadness. I knew that the end was near for my sweet Nana, and I was scared of what life would be like without her. I wondered if she was frightened to die. I wondered if she was ready to pass on. But most of all I wondered how I could possibly say goodbye to a loved one I had shared so much of my life with. I drove back as the sun was setting over the Boston skyline. I tried to hold back tears as I walked the steps to my nana’s 5th floor apartment. As I approached the door I heard an odd grunting sound. Confused I opened the door to find my bandmates, Ed and Moses, having a push-up competition there on the floor of Nana’s living room. They immediately paused when they saw me and we all fell to the ground in laughter. It was really nice to have my bandmates there with me. It felt right. We’d been touring all summer together and our bond had grown strong. If any of you are musicians in a touring band, then you know what it’s like. There’s rarely a moment in the course of a day when you aren’t with your crew. You eat together, sleep together, drive together and play together. You become a family of sorts, a tribe, a twisted caravan and the love is real.

That night, the band and I went out with a few of my closest friends who I have known most of my life. We got really drunk and it helped dampen the sadness for some time.

Early the next morning while the band slept, I opened my nana’s bedroom door, a room I had declared off limits when we arrived, and sat on her bed beside folded linens. I looked at the mementos all around. The pictures of her cherished grandkids that lined the wall, the dresser that had once sat in her bedroom, the cupboard that had housed the dishware in the kitchen of her Medford home where she had raised five children with her beloved husband, the framed American flag the government had given for my papa’s service in World War II, a black and white photograph taken on her wedding day by her bedside. Was this how life was? You accumulate all this beauty that means more than words could ever describe, only to one day be stripped of it all, never to see or experience them again? The tears flowed down my face as the ghosts of old memories haunted my mind.

I decided that I needed to stay in Boston another day. Thankfully the band agreed. That afternoon I returned to visit my nana. The halls of the hospice facility were serene and peaceful but also emitted a sense of impending doom. I sat with Nana and held her hand while she slept. We sat together alone in silence, as I searched for the words to say goodbye. That was to be the last time I would ever see her.

Amongst all the trivial components of life, I’m certain that the greatest currency we shall ever find is the love we share with family and friends. Although the deepest and most sacred places in life we must travel alone, we go there supported and upheld by the love we have been given from those closest to us. Whether it be a 10 hour drive in a van through the Midwest, a feast on Christmas Eve with relatives all around, a walk in the park on a crisp fall day or a sleepless night in June with your best friends, we must remember to be present in those special moments and cherish them for what they are, for there will be a day when you will be old and feeble and all you will have are the memories to relive.

King of the Road #2: The Power of Kindness

http://www.blackisthenewapstyle.com/2018/08/the-power-of-kindness.html

Tour can be a battle. It can tear you down and beat you up. But just when you think you’ve had enough, when you think that you are completely lost in this world and cannot endure any more the universe sends you a sign and your faith is restored. I have been doing this for a long time now; I’ve been all over the country, coast to coast, to nearly every state, and every time I go out I am reassured by our humanity. The kindness and generosity by which I am shown by complete strangers is incredible. I’ve often thought about why this is. Am I just a lucky guy and happen to stumble upon the kindest people on the planet? I doubt it. Perhaps I am an amazing performer and simply bring out the best in people? Not very likely. I believe it’s the effect that music has on people.

It was fall; my favorite season to tour. The band had played with me down the east coast for three weeks and then went back home, so I was on my own for the remainder of dates. The route I followed had brought me along the perimeter of the country for about a month, living and sleeping out of my van, playing shows nearly every night, slowly making my way back east.

It was a weekday in Cleveland, OH at a venue adjacent to the baseball stadium where the Indians play. After parking the van, I stood in the street looking up at the massive stadium in amazement. It felt comforting to be there at the ballfield. It reminded me of my past and the role baseball had played in my upbringing. During my teenage years I had played ball quite competitively and I’d say was responsible for teaching me many of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned in life. It was through the great game that I learned about self-discipline, sacrifice, how to function as a team and how practice was the key to achieving your goals. I may have learned about how to craft a killer riff from the likes of Black Sabbath and Led Zeppelin, or how to construct a well written song from Dylan, but it was the principles and values I learned through baseball that shaped how I operate my music career most and still carry them with me everyday.

As I loaded my gear into the venue a homeless man approached me.

“Hey pal, can you spare some change?”

“Sorry,” I replied. “I’m broke man.”

Then he asked, “Why are you loading this stuff in there? Are you a musician?”

“Yes, I’m playing a show there tonight.”

For the next 20 or 30 minutes we talked about music and the tour. I then cut our conversation short, and told him it was time for soundcheck and I had to go.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll be there later for your show. You better be good.”

When show time rolled around there were probably 20 or so people up by the stage area ready for the music to start. Up at the front of the stage was a tip jar. Venues will do this as a way for musicians to make additional money on top of what they make from the venue and is usually an indicator that you will not be paid much from the bar. As I rolled through my set, about three songs in, I noticed the homeless guy from earlier had walked in. I must admit I was shocked to actually see him there. After watching from the back for a few songs, he made his way through the crowd to the front of the stage. Looking down at the ground, he stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled $5 bill and put it in the tip bucket and receded back into the crowd.

After I was done playing I looked for him everywhere but he was nowhere to be found. I was a bit choked up by the whole situation. Here was a guy who could barely afford the necessities of life and he, for whatever reason, felt compelled to give me the little money he had. I was truly touched. Time and time again I’m reminded how it’s the ones who have the least who are willing to give the most. Sure, $5 isn’t that much. Heck it’s hardly enough to buy a beer at the bar but I can tell you it was the most valuable $5 I ever made.

Music has this ability to plunge deep into the depths of our soul and reveal a love and beauty which we may not even know still exists in us. Joe Schmoe may be a total jerk at his miserable job at Smith’s Insurance Agency but when he gets to the bar and sees a band up there on stage playing music, he is transformed. All the day’s baggage and bullshit melts away and he is brought back to youth. He’s brought back to that time where he and his buddies on the block started a band, polished off a whole case of Pepsi in Johnny Derango’s parent’s basement, and wrote their first song by morning. Or perhaps it was that first time he fell in love – when he quit his job and moved cross-country to be with Jenny Francis because he was so madly in love with her that he thought he would die of grief if he couldn’t be next to her always. Whatever it may be, music has the capacity to tap into that sacred place in our hearts where we have felt the marrow of life the most. Those memories and feelings live inside our soul and music has the capacity to pry open the rusty gates and let them soar, if even for only 30 seconds.

Whoever that guy was who put that $5 in my tip jar, I want to say thanks man. Not sure where you are now or what you have gotten yourself into or if you are even still alive. I hope you are. Either way, on that day, in that small bar in Cleveland, you were the best of who we are. You showed me what I needed to see and taught me what I needed to be taught at a time when I desperately needed it. But for some reason, I am pretty sure you already knew that.

King of the Road: Tour Stories from Radiator King

Honored to of been asked to contribute tour stories to a new series for Black is the New AP Style. Here’s my first installment for King of the Road!

http://www.blackisthenewapstyle.com/2018/07/dingy-bars-broken-people-and-uncertain.html

 

Van Life: Radiator King

New feature coming at you all the way from the United Kingdom! Shout out to AmericanaUK for featuring me on their series Van Life where we chatted about tour and 10 of my all-time favorite albums. Check it out!

Van Life: Radiator King

Radiator King to Play Live on IndiSpotlight TV!

It is with great pleasure to announce that we will be playing on IndiSpotlight Live tomorrow, June 7th! Due to the recent success of the “Guns You Pawned” video, the folks at IndiMusic TV have invited us to play on their series along with The Dirty Rollers and Carolyn Marie will be live streamed at 8pm EST on https://indimusic.tv/ and all available providers. Thank you IndiMusic TV for this opportunity! Tune in!

“So Long (Charlie)” Video Premieres at PopMatters!

Well, it’s finally here!  PopMatters shares the world premiere of the “So Long (Charlie)” music video! I’m really, really proud of what we made here, check it out!

“PUNK-FUELED AMERICANA ARTIST RADIATOR KING TAKES US BACK TO A POST-WORLD WAR II AMERICA IN HIS COMPELLING NEW MUSIC VIDEO, ‘SO LONG (CHARLIE)’.”- PopMatters

https://www.popmatters.com/radiator-king-2571564326.html