A tough and rugged, well-worn hard-shell Samsonite is my primary suitcase. It isn’t very big. In fact, the pride I have about its size wouldn’t fit inside it if it was tangible. I love that its compact and can support me for months on the road, keeping shoes, books, and all around general tour stuff that one acquires, separate from my dirty laundry while at the same time keeping my hats protected. Mary Poppin’s purse ain’t got nothing on my bruised and battered overnight bag. But the case itself, with the stories it could tell, doesn’t deserve all the credit. It’s a thing of beauty yes, but like a guitar, the art lie in how you use it.
Traveling through Japan years ago I learned to use a luggage strap to ensure my bag remained closed en route. In the old days it was not uncommon to find one’s bag on the carousel spewing laundry or missing a few items. One time my case didn’t EVER arrive on the carousel and it was 14 months before we found it. 14 months!! Fortunately I’d just done laundry before it went missing. AND my roommate had gifted me a satchel of lavender to keep things fresh inside. When I opened the lost arc-ish time capsule of a case, all my items were there, pressed, clean and folded, and smelling oh so flowery.
This is tour in a nutshell. Or hardshell rather. Playing music often gets the glory, but tour is really about moving people and all of their stuff. Lots of stuff.
The word TOUR is best defined as a voyage. And when I hear the word voyage I can’t help but associate it with magic, or some kind of heroic or brave adventure; navigating high seas, dodging monsters, castle anthrax, etc. But for us the musicians, we have it easy. We have our suitcases and our backpacks, our books and our breakfast buffets. We’re on deck smiling, waving and playing shuffleboard while THE CREW is below deck keeping the engine running. People stop me daily and say, you must be tired, or they ask me, how do you do it? The real question is How do THEY do it?
When our crew arrived in Korea a few days ago, they hit the ground running. First they connect with the shipping container that brought our gear over from the US. Then they get it unloaded into the venues, assembling everything; stage, lights, PA, instruments, all of it – by mid day, just in time for some well oiled musicians to leisurely stroll in and tinker with it. Then they work the show, making sure all the lights, sound and equipment operates properly, in alignment with the musicians desires and the crowd reactions. THEN, they tear it all down, pack it all up and drive it to the next gig, with a SMILE.
How do they do it? How do they work 10 times as many hours as the band and get such little credit? It must be the coffee. Last night I bashed my guitar tech in the face during a blackout between songs. I didn’t see he was standing as close to me as he was and when I took my guitar off, the headstock went right into his headstock. If it were me, I would’ve needed a time out after that. But to him it’s just another battle scar; just another badge of honor.
So how do they do it? The smile might be the giveaway. After all the sleep deprivation, the packing – unpacking – and repacking of trucks, the wiring and rewiring of electricity and sound, and not to mention the musician requests to change the whole set up – how do they keep smiling though it all, day in and day out? Easy. They’re bat shit crazy.
The answer is in their love of putting on a show. The way a director sits behind the camera, so too do the crew hang tight in the wings bringing the shows to the masses. You don’t see Steven Spielberg acting in his own films, but for those two and half hours, he’s been right behind you.
I am grateful for my hardworking crew and all the blood, sweat and beers they sacrifice for us.
See them in action, the real men in black, this summer in a city near you.
On June 3rd my grandmother turned 83. I went home to VA to see her. I brought her a plant, some berries, and introduced her to my girlfriend. She was reclined in an easy chair the whole time we were there, drifting in and out of what looked like pleasant little midday naps. Being an expert of the snooze alarm myself, I imagine she feels wonderful allowing her body to expand into dream upon layered dream. As she continuously awoke, she’d add something to the conversation that not everyone in the room could understand, but to no dismay. She’s 83 and long retired, living peacefully between ours and her own dream-world. “That’s cute the way she’s dancing in that fire,” She’d say. And we’d agree, somewhat jealous that we couldn’t see the majesty that she’d come to view.
I go home twice a year; for the holidays and for my grandmother’s birthday. Those are the occasions when most of the immediate family comes together in one place. (Her birthday also boarders my Mom’s and my brother’s which adds even more celebration to the end of spring.)
This year, in addition to singing Happy Birthday, I got to sing in ways I never imagined I would thanks to the 30 year old School of Performing Arts in the Richmond Community (SPARC), one of the beneficiaries of my foundation. This year, SPARC created LIVE ART, an all-inclusive education and performance program that welcomed children of all talents and abilities to the stage.
“Every human being has needs that are unique and very, very special,” says Erin Thomas-Foley, LIVE ART creator and director. SPARC saw those needs were met, spending 20 weeks developing a full-on theatrical stage show integrating seasoned performers with children of all ages who are deaf, autistic, and differently-abled. It wasn’t a matter of finding talent as most kids with disabilities have talents that surpass those of an able-bodied person. The 5 month preparation was mostly about introducing these kids to a new way of expressing themselves; add a large audience, amplified music, and stage lighting. It was also about teaching many others sign language, as well as tolerance, and compassion.
Being the first of it’s kind that I know of, the show’s theme focused on music and arts from Virginia, therefore all the music was written and performed by VA songwriters, musicians and choreographers, etc. I was honored to play Live High with a big band and a choir; The Sunshine Song with a new piano arrangement by a new friend and colleague JC Wright, and Details In The Fabric while standing on a large clean canvas as actors threw paint around my feet before dancing all around on it, creating a beautiful image with our movements and emotions.
Photos by Martin Montgomery courtesy of SPARC.
I’d known for weeks what I’d get to do in the show, but it wasn’t until I attended rehearsal that morning that I realized how special my participation was. And I say that not in the way that suggests my being there must’ve been special for the kids. I’m saying my being there was special for me.
I’ve performed on a thousand stages and shared dressing rooms and curtain calls with legendary ensembles and superstars alike. But nowhere have I received the kind of grace and elation I did onstage with the actors, dancers, and musicians of LIVE ART.
During two of the numbers I thought to myself, honored, “This is exactly why I wrote these songs.”
The homecoming also gave me the opportunity to reconnect with those who’d inspired me along the way, particularly when I still lived in VA; acts like Jesse Harper and Daniel Clarke, two great musicians with whom I attended middle school who’ve gone on to become incredible songwriters and performers; legendary Hammond B3 player and songwriter Steve Bassett, a man I once attended a songwriting workshop when I was in my teens; NY Lighting Designer Joe Doran, whose smile I hadn’t seen since we were in a play together almost 20 years ago; Martin Montgomery, a filmmaker I’d shared stages with in college was documenting the experience and took all the attached photographs; and Susan Greenbaum, a Kansas City transplant to Richmond, VA the way I am to San Diego, has essentially become the voice of Richmond. And of course there were many others, friends, teachers, parents, you name it. It’s my home town after all.
There was also a moment backstage when myself and about 30 kids were waiting for our cues that I realized how little has changed in my life. Here I am almost 35 years old and I am doing exactly what I was doing when I was 15. I get to play music full time; emphasis on play. And that’s pretty cool.
Photo by Martin Montgomery, courtesy of SPARC.
Cleverly executed and well done, LIVE ART, a little bit theatre, a little bit rock concert, and a little bit cirque de soleil, was a show I won’t soon forget. It reawakened me to why I write songs and why it’s important to share and perform them. Myself and the entire company of more than 100 people circled up before the show, holding hands and setting an intention for greatness, casting out fear and allowing our nerves to just be. That special moment backstage didn’t have anything to do with ticket sales, fundraising, branding, or celebrity, factors that occasionally sneak into my adult life. The moment was pure heart, and for some, including myself, it was the moment acknowledging the biggest and most important show we may ever play in our lives.
My grandmother couldn’t attend the show, but I told her I take her onstage with me everywhere I go, which I do.
Learn more about SPARC and LIVE ART by visiting SparcOnline.Org and go hug your grandma if you can.
Happy Mom’s Weekend to All the Mom’s and Mom’s to Be. Here’s one of my favorite songs about Mom’s written by Jude. I took some liberties on the lyrics and left out a few verses. I highly recommend hearing the original off of his album “No One Is Really Beautiful.” It’s stunning. Mona and I wanted to perform this song in front of the Eiffel Tower and/or by the Seine, but those places were too noisy and all we had to record with was our iPhone. Still, it’s the thought that counts. Just like when you made your mom a personalized card, damp and heavy with paste and popsicle sticks.
More than solar power. More than recycling. More than wind energy.
Because if we all started treating the people and things that we interact with every day with respect and compassion, the effects would ripple through every aspect of our lives, transforming society.”
The above is an excerpt from the Superforest Humanifesto, the only spirited doctrine I’ve ever fully believed in and followed. Superforest.Org is a positivity blog that focuses on poetry, music, sustainability, DIY culture, and kindness, and it deserves mention. Its archives are packed with great intentions, inventions, and stellar ideas; from how-to’s to enlightened TED talks.
Within the idea that a new world can be born from being kind comes internet odd man, Timothy De La Ghetto. Check him out in the ever-morphing Superforest of Los Angeles as he instigates drive-by compliments. Thanks for spreading the love Mr. Ghetto. I think you’re a pretty sweet dude.
“Evolution and all hopes for a better world rest in the fearlessness and open-hearted vision of people who embrace life.” ~John Lennon
The first time I ever got a flat tire on my bicycle it happened in front of Jr Seau’s house. It was last autumn on the day of the biggest swell to hit Oceanside in years. Jr’s house had taken a beating the night before; waves pushing sand into his garage door, crumpling it like a piece of tin foil. He and his buddies were busy in his driveway bagging sand to prepare for the next high tide. I’d driven over someone’s house key when my tire farted and squeeked like a balloon, dumbing down to a depressing flat. And I’d met Jr. a few times at music related events, so he welcomed me without a double take into his driveway to contemplate the changing the tube and survey the damage and rescue of his beach house. He and his buddies took a much deserved break for small talk after bagging what looked like 100 bags easy. We joked about paddling out in the giant surf but no one had the balls. It was 10’ closeout after 10’ closeout with a nasty current.
I’d never changed out a tube before. I’d seen it done a few times so I wasn’t going in blind. Still, Jr continually made fun of me trying and kept recommending I go to the bike shop. He and his buddies kept offering me beer and I obliged. It was warm out and the giant swell had attracted people to the beach like it was a holiday. It felt good to be there. Jr busted out his Ukulele and entertained us with strumming and humility. He was well-known in Oceanside for his Aloha nights, family and friend gatherings with food, music and debauchery. I was never able to attend, but hanging out in his driveway that afternoon on that sunny day gave me the experience I sought.
He was a funny and foolish man, and was also very, very kind. Aloha was his style. And Mahalo was his genuine attitude.
The last time I saw him was at Jitter’s, our local coffee shop. I was lucky to be a part of an unofficial ukulele club that spontaneously gathered there to strum over morning coffee and vegan pastries. Andy Powers had met me there to share a new Taylor Ukulele and he and I, along with Pops Gilley and Jr, went round and round improvising songs and reviving a few classics on our big sounding tiny instruments. Jr was a giant man who could pick his big smiley teeth with ukuleles if he wanted, but he held it ever so gently. He himself a big instrument with a tiny sound, hunched over the Uke, focused on his fingering.
He always listened to music and stories in awe; the sign of a curious mystic. I imagine Jr has gone on to a more mystical plane because somewhere in his heart he felt it was a higher calling. And I can’t be mad at him for that.
The reason it hurts so bad when someone passes away is because we lose the ability to tell them we love them.
He was a cool dude, a music lover, and a friend to many. A great sportsman and an all weather surfer who never wore a wetsuit in the winter. He will be missed greatly, and always remembered.