Call of the Spring

I don’t remember any dialogue from the day, but it was spring 2009. Late February, maybe early March. I had taken the SAT in Belleville that morning in an attempt to score better than my ACT score, which had been OK but not good enough for scholarships. 

After the test, I drove back to Highland to my new girlfriend’s house. Her name was Janie, but she went by her middle name, Brooke. We’d been dating for a couple months at that point, and we were each other’s first serious relationship as seniors in high school.

We decided to take her dog, Oliver, on a walk to the nearby VFW, which had baseball fields. Earlier in my childhood, I played close to 100 baseball games on those diamonds, and I watched 100 more. But at that time of the year, they hadn’t been touched throughout the winter, and they hadn’t been prepped for the upcoming summer games. That day, we were just interested in a place to let Oliver run free while still being confined by fences.

We sat down in the outfield. Oliver moseyed. We talked. Maybe we kissed. Most of the grass was still dormant, waiting for more sun before would explode with uncontainable growth. But the smell of spring was in the air, and by that I mean the smell of decay. Organic matter breaking down and adding to the rich soil. The smell of decaying vegetation might not seem romantic or exciting, but without it, there is no spring. No new life.

She was wearing low rise jeans a Sprite t-shirt. It was in style in 2009, but that style of t-shirt would look ridiculously small in 2021. When she reclined on our picnic blanket, there wasn’t enough material to cover her stomach. I didn’t mind, and I’m sure she didn’t either. The sun’s rays were getting stronger every day, and our pale skin wanted every second of sun exposure it could get.

Call of the Spring is a love song. It tells the story of two young lovers, and it parallels the story of humans’ love for spring and sunshine and rebirth after a long, punishing winter. 

Mighty Miss

I was a really good journaler when I was in high school. Really good. I wrote poetry every night, recapped my day, ranted, raved, confessed, etc. Really bared my soul to those pages.

But here’s the thing about when you REALLY bare your soul, especially as an angst-ridden teen — those words should never see the light of day. EVER. I held onto them into adulthood, but they were a liability in my mind. And I didn’t have a paper shredder.

So I burned them. 

And it felt great.

Their purpose was fulfilled as soon as I filled each book. I remembered the lyrics that I wanted to, I got off my chest what I needed to get off my chest, and I processed the thoughts that I needed to process. There was no reason to keep them. And if I didn’t get rid of them, someone would eventually find them. So when they were reduced to ash, I felt measurably lighter.

I burned them next to the Mississinewa River one afternoon. And several years later, I went mushroom hunting in the nearby timber, and when I was done, I filmed an OP-1 video on the river bank. That OP-1 jam became the bones of Mighty Miss, and the liberating experience of burning my journals became the lyrics.

There’s no big story behind the outro and saxophone solo, other than the fact that it sounds super cool. 

Maternal Warmth of Family

I occasionally wake up with a tune in my head. It’s not very often, but it happens from time to time. I almost always forget it by the time I am up and out of bed. Sometimes I remember them, but when I try to put the melody to music, it falls apart.

Maternal Warmth of Family is the only time it’s ever worked out.

We had just moved into the RV. In fact, I think we were still in our first week of RV life. We were camping at what would end up being our favorite hometown spot. I woke up to a hot, muggy RV and there was a melody in my head. I grabbed my OP-1, and the chords came easy.

Fast forward four months, and the song was really starting to take shape while we were in Florida. We had been ill with a nasty virus for a couple weeks, which caused us to extend our stay at a RV park.

We had a cool spot in the back loop. We were surrounded by Spanish moss-covered oaks, palmettos, and retiree neighbors. The illness we had came in cycles of fever, so on my non-feverish days, I was working through Maternal Warmth of Family.

It’s a song about family, as the title implies. I wrote it from a spectator’s point of view, recalling some dysfunctional family ties that have caused pain for a dear friend of mine. Pain, but not necessarily distance. Even when family is painful, it’s still family. Even when you know it’s an empty invitation, it’s still inviting.

Once the song was written and had taken shape, I realized it wasn’t as specific as I originally thought. I have a specific relationship in mind when I hear it, but I think the cycle of being hurt by the hand that feeds you, forgiving, and working up the courage to love alongside the hurt… that applies to a lot of families. 

Bud Light & Bug Spray

At first glance, the album title might seem to reference my kids, but it’s me. I’m the kiddo.

This album is a reconnection with my childhood. It’s the music that took shape in the RV season of our life. Oh! Right. If you’re just tuning in, my family and I traveled full-time in a renovated RV from September 2019 until December 2020. The process moved us from Indianapolis to Flagstaff, AZ.

When we were on the road, I compared the new things to the things I knew. Landscape, accents, food, weather, you name it. I was using my previous experience to map out my new experience. And my hometown in southwestern Illinois was “north” on my figurative compass.

Then add in the fact that I was watching my girls grow up with the United States as their backyard. Different experiences every day. Different states every week. Different regions every month. I found myself wondering how these experiences would shape their personalities, and how my childhood shaped mine.

Bud Light & Bug Spray is a reflection on my childhood experiences. Bud Light because it was the go-to beer that I saw adults enjoying as a kid, and it would end up being my first beer. Bug spray because, well, I spent a ton of time outside as a kid, and bug spray is a must in the Midwest. 

Bud Light and bug spray might be a off-putting sensory experience for you, and I understand that. But to me, that combo is a time-traveling potion, bringing me back to my dad’s softball games, church picnics, graduation parties, and homecomings.

You undoubtedly have palpable memories from your childhood. They’re probably not grandiose, either. One of my friends once wrote some amazing lyrics about his grandfather several years ago — The smell of his cigarette smoke and the sound of shuffling cards. So simple, yet so much meaning packed into that memory. 

Bud Light, bug spray, humid nights, cicadas buzzing, outdoor seating, fishing, the Cardinals on KMOX… these are really memorable sensory experiences from my childhood. I’m excited to ask my daughters about theirs when they’re older.

Brotherhood

Your experience could be very different. But when I was younger, I had no shortage of close male friendships. Teammates, bandmates, roommates, classmates, neighborhood friends… There were plenty, and we were thick as thieves. 

I am married with children now. And yes, those relationships ARE more valuable than a friendship with a teammate or bandmate. They’re sacred, and I don’t think friendships are designed to be more important than the relationship with spouses or children. BUT that doesn’t mean friendships don’t matter. They matter a great deal. And in my late twenties, I was feeling the loneliness that comes when those friendships atrophy. It seemed sudden.

I also felt hopeless that those kinds of friendships would never exist again. I hope I’m wrong, but I don’t see how they could realistically return until later in life. 

When this song was being mixed, I told Lucas Winkler (@32sevenaudio) that it was OK for the mix to a be a little crowded and sloppy. I said I wanted it to sound “like a big party of sad rock’n’roll millennials.”

Would I trade my marriage or my children for the friendships I had in high school and college? Hell no. But am I allowed to miss those friendships and look back on them with a kind of bittersweet nostalgia? Yes, I am. And I do.

Post Rock Guitar

I showed up in new track shoes (after removing the spikes). I thought they were the coolest, and I felt super fast. Plus, I was attending a rock show in my neighborhood, so I could walk there and break them in.

When I showed up, an older, cooler kid took a jab at the shoes. I realized the room was full of Vans and Converse. I was embarrassed. 

One of my friends played a solo set wearing a cool Sufjan Stevens t-shirt. I think he’d just seen Sufjan tour on “Illinoise” a few days earlier.

I can’t remember the other bands that played EXCEPT one. Wembly Shadwell. I sat right in front of their lead guitarist, who played a Les Paul and did really amazing things with his Line 6 DL4 pedal. There were no vocals in their set, which was a continuous instrumental jam. Loud, beautiful, dramatic, chaotic. It changed me. Under the influence of absolutely nothing, I was SURE they were conducting magic before my eyes.

I connected with them on MySpace after the show. I invited them to play at my first show on my 16th birthday, which they did. And over the coming months, I would drive to their college campus with friends to attend their shows and buy their new releases. 

They weren’t a band for long, and from what I can tell, none of the members do much with music anymore either. But MAN, their art meant — and still means — a lot to me. And on another level, it’s inspiring to me as an artist to think of the impact they had on a kid from a couple towns over because of one show. If they meant so much to me, maybe I can impact someone at a show. Maybe my recordings can stick around in someone’s mind for more than a decade. 

It’s a noble cause. Sometimes, when I’m lucky, it’s greeted with lukewarm applause. And that’s fine. In fact, it’s better than “fine.”

Bloodhound

Our previous album, Little Flock, was deeply spiritual. Even the album title is a term Jesus used to refer to his followers. The sheep/shepherd metaphor blanketed most of the 11 tracks. 

Kiddo is less spiritual as a whole, which I think is representative of my faith walk since that album came out. It has felt a little more distant and a little less fertile. Anyway, Bloodhound is a spiritual tune, and the most aggressive rock song I’ve written in a long time.

It depicts Christ as a bloodhound, pursuing me. It explores the dichotomy of comfort and creepiness, being known *intimately* by the Creator of all. 

I remember tracking vocals for this song in Salt Lake CIty in June of 2020. We were camped on kind of a mountain top parking lot used for paragliding. We were in southern UT a day before, where it was over 100 degrees, but in Salt Lake, it was sleeting. I had just bought a new microphone, and I was testing it on out Bloodhound. It felt great to let loose and shout my way through the song. It was shortly after the murder of George Floyd. Peaceful protesters were being assaulted by cops. I was mad and felt helpless, so I blew off some steam during that recording session.

After the recording session, my voice was nearly gone. I couldn’t end up keeping the vocal take because the sound of sleet on the RV roof was pretty loud. But when it came time to do the final take, I tried to emulate the passion that I captured in that earlier take.

Sobbing Body

“Are we ever going to laugh again?”

Her words, not mine. And the answer is yes. We have laughed since the night that inspired this song.

It was very early in our RV saga. We were in Indiana because Brooke was a bridesmaid in a wedding. I don’t remember what the fight was about. But whatever it was ‘about,' it was really about something deeper. Brooke and I were both struggling with the new way of living in 240 square feet with a two-year-old and two-month-old. We were frustrated, tired, and scared. And it was being projected on the other person. Fun, right?

This night was a breaking point. The girls were asleep, and the discussion was going in circles. We couldn’t resolve “it” because “it” was a moving target. Finally, Brooke asked if this was ever going to get better. Would we ever get used to this way of life? We chose it… did we make a huge mistake? Are we EVER going to laugh again?

They were her words, but I had the exact same thoughts. 

I’m happy to report that it was just a season. The start of RV life was really rough. We had some of the most amazing adventures. Our family changed for the better in numerous good ways. But we had to fight through some really deep shit to get there. 

Sobbing Body is a song about re-connecting after a breaking point. About how you can miss someone when they’re right next to you. And about remembering to treat the main thing like it’s the main thing.

Submarine

The bickering was a constant simmer. The flare-up arguments came nearly every night. Then came a drink or two. Followed by chipping away at the to-do list until I began making sloppy mistakes. 

I’d go to bed, usually with paint in my hair, blisters on my hands, and a feeling of despair. I’d wake up the next morning to a breakfast of fizz stick and ibuprofen before repeating the day.

We were simultaneously moving out of our Carmel home into an RV that needed renovation. Our second daughter was just a couple weeks old. We were sick. We were beyond tired. Beyond stressed. It wasn’t a season of life I ever want to revisit.

It was in that season that I wrote the opening lines to Submarine. I could see my shortcomings, but I couldn’t seem to keep from playing into them. The song is the most honest critique of myself in that moment… the imposter syndrome, the workaholism, choosing self-destructive behavior, and the shame of all of them. 

The lyrics were easy to sing over an existing OP-1 jam, which I composed for a video montage of a visit to Shedd aquarium. That “marine life vibe” continues in this version. The “submarine sinking” is a depiction of a turtle.

When we finally got on the road in our RV, the second half of the song came about. Almost entirely instrumental, I didn’t want to add any more words what the first half offered. But I did want to push the drama: Strings, horns, and the best howl I could capture. 

Submarine is a tough song to release. I don’t want to revisit myself at my worst. But maybe you can relate.