I’m Presenting at the Minneapolis Music Census Report Launch

I'll be involved and presenting at the Minneapolis Music Census reports launch at the Women's Club of Minneapolis. Come on down if your schedule permits. I care about the scene here and I hope to share some meaningful insights and to get info from my fellow panelists.

Here’s a huge photo of me I bet that’s helpful. 

The End of Shortcuts - Directions to a MaLLy Show

There’s no shortcuts in the Twin Cities anymore. Google Maps ruined that. Maybe social media ruined it too. No shortcuts, just secret paths. Last night I had the opportunity to take two iconic secret path routes on my way to and from the best rap show I’ve seen this year. If you live in the Twin Cities and you have a soul and a working set of ears you’ve been rooting for MaLLy for years. He’s a beyond proficient rapper with an immense dedication to professional presentation. He’s made many solid LPs, some which I’ve played bass on. But none of them stuck to my ribs. I would put them on when they came out, admire the craft and rarely revisit. His new record “The Sweetest of It All” is different and the release party for that album was really special. There’s no shortcuts in the Twin Cities and every inch of MaLLy’s journey is essential to this release.

One of MaLLy’s lyrics-turned-tagline is “unapologetically nappy”. There’s nothing Minnesota seems to love more than the apologetically nappy. Being unambiguously Black is far from career suicide here, but it wrongly closes twice as many doors as it may open. There’s no shortcuts, but there’s a secret path. MaLLy has his email list out at all his shows even the low key ones. He played with Heiruspecs two summers ago at Icehouse. ‘Twas a vinyl release for Heiruspecs, a decidedly low-key affair. But he had that email list out and I shit you not the morning after the show, before I had even flipped the pancakes for my up-bright-and-early daughters, he texted me asking for me to decipher one of the email addresses he got in case I recognized it. Hard work is embodied in the details. I love a master stroke, I love brilliance, but the infrastructure to share your brilliance relies on your dedication to your email list and to your craft. Especially if you are in a city where the coverage is limited and skews hipster.

If you can talk to directly to your fans, if you can talk directly from your life, if you tell your stories on your terms than the idea of being apologetic is just theater. MaLLy is Black and he had an email list full of people bouncing at Icehouse last night. One of the most dance positive fans was a portly white dude named Doug who was the entirety of the front row. He had an unfathomable wingspan. One lopsided dance move would bring him from stage left to stage right in a nanosecond. Nobody seemed more surprised by this wingspan than Doug himself. How do I know his name is Doug? He came up to me real close and said “my name is Doug”. I said “nice to meet you Doug” but did not volunteer my name. Doug stood there for a moment as we both wondered if there was a next step and if so what it was.

There are no shortcuts in the Twin Cities anymore and last night I didn’t need any. Before MaLLy’s show I went to a rehearsal dinner in Saint Paul for a wedding I’m officiating. After the mother of the groom poured out the last third of the Lagunitas IPA I had been drinking cause it was sitting on a random table while I used the bathroom, I sucked down two thirds of a Coors Light in a weird futuristic milk bottle and pointed towards Icehouse from Saint Paul. When coming off 94 West at the Hennepin/Lyndale exit and favoring Hennepin North I see no serious benefit time-wise to taking that first turn onto Dell Place and then on to Groveland off of the exit but it’s what I’ve done for twenty years if I’m going to Nicollet. And I’m in no hurry to get to Icehouse. One flyer says doors at 8. The ticket says 9. It’s 8:51. I’ve got plenty of time. But when I turn on Groveland it’s a wealth of shortcut memories. My girlfriend Anna taught me the shortcut in high school when she did all the driving. It was the cool way to get to Little T’s. It was so cool I’d use it inefficiently to get to the Electric Fetus. Take Groveland and I’ll go past the only church I’ve ever played a funeral it, I go past the therapist I went to briefly before she unannouncedly raised her prices and only told me after the session was done, what the fuck, past DeVon and Seana’s weird ass apartment I used to wait in front of for half hours at a time waiting for D for gigs. Past Andrea Swensson’s house where the staff of the Current started to understand that it would be necessary to unionize on account of a variety of fuckeries happening at the station. Past the place called Big E’s that Heiruspecs played a very strange show at in 2003. Past Nicollet Franklin. That’s where Acadia used to be. I saw a production of Glengarry Glen Ross there. Now it’s a Cajun Boiling. Sidebar: It’s wild to think about Acadia. Moved out of Nicollet Franklin. Moved to the West Bank. Regrouped. A city bus runs into it and busts the whole thing up. Elite veggie burger at Acadia.

Back to Franklin/Nicollet. There used to be a Superamerica where there also used to be a CVS. And there used to be a Starbucks across the street. I drive past the old Twin/Tone building at 25th and Nicollet. I always hope that in some wildly deep game of six degrees of Twin Cities music scene separation it would come in handy that my very first day of work for No Alternative records in the winter of 2000 was helping Kim Randall move out of Twin/Tone. The place was empty, a shell of what it was in the 80s, but it had been the nerve center of a very important chapter in underground American music.

There’s no shortcuts in the Twin Cities. I learned how to write press releases and keep good relationships with the press from Kim Randall’s apartment in Uptown that I helped her move her office into. The secret path was being able to iron out a press release before a lot of my peers. But, a press release’s potential is still limited by the press’s appetite for a given artist or event. We live in a city that will spill more ink on Dessa having a new line of alfalfa sprouted tortillas than on MaLLy having a new record. They both have nice press releases. I love them both deeply. If there was a knob I could turn that skewed the coverage more towards new records and less towards alfalfa sprouted tortillas I would. Sometimes I think when I’m doing the best at my life’s work I am very much turning that knob. Let’s be real. There’s no knob. There’s no shortcuts. But there is a secret path. I’m in a basketball-centric text group with some friends, one of the members is a bonafide 25-years-in-the-game-career-performer-artist and he said “I know good journalism when I see it”. I can’t recall a piece of writing about artist curated alfalfa sprouted tortillas that stuck with me, that stuck to my ribs. But I remember interviews, podcast episodes, reviews and yes even blurbs that hit me, that were worthy of discussion, that mattered in the discourse. The secret path is doing the work, listening to the record, going to the show and not copy and pasting someone else’s hard work. I know good music coverage when I see it, and I know good music coverage when I do it, and I’m trying to do it.

Even with my questionably efficient shortcut I have arrived at the MaLLy show profoundly earlier than I’d like to. There’s no shortcuts to an old person rap show. I’m in line at Icehouse and the two women in front of me are discussing planter fasciitis and the number it did on their running routine. The first conversation I have in the venue is with Terrell from Radio Pocho on KFAI and he confirmed my scheduling mistakes: DJ just Nine just started his set. I could’ve drank that whole metal milk bottle Coors at the rehearsal dinner party. But actually, getting to an old person rap show early is part of the program. Part of the experience. Part of the routine is the hilariously inaccurate set times. Your feet should be a little sore the next day. The ad hoc hosting should be provided by the performers. It is a wildly more communal vibe than the jazz, rock or classical things I see. The performers of next week are the attendees of this week. Medium Zach is on stage and he shouts out a couple of his people who are in the crowd. I am with my people. I don’t want to be with them just for 110 minutes while MaLLy performs. I want to be with them for the changeovers, the “hey remember when we” stories. I talk To Elliot Looney and a different man named Doug who has been a merchandising icon for years. Probably eighty people in the building at this point and two are named Doug. We are at a 2% Doug rating which seems very high. I would also like to seem very high so I go outside and smoke. Back with Elliot and Doug. Sharing stories. Some of the big national artists that Doug works for will sell 80,000 of a single t-shirt design on a tour. I can’t even understand that. How many t-shirts has Heiruspecs ever sold? Is it two thousand? I think it could be two thousand. I have no idea. It’s not 80,000.

I am at an old persons’ hip hop show definitively. One breakdancer is at the corner of the stage dressed like a business casual breakdancer. Medium Zach’s opening set is more Tortoise than Z-Trip this go-round. The breakdancer is attempting to get started but Zach has taken a slow tempo groove and pushed some of the instruments so far behind the beat I am questioning where the one is. So is Zach. So is the breakdancer. When I take a break I learn from the manager of Icehouse that said breakdancer is a high powered downtown Minneapolis attorney. The breakdancer is an attorney. I am at an old person’s hip-hop show.

The important part of the night isn’t the funny part. The important part doesn’t make a fit for the essay I’m writing. The important part is that after seeing every shortcut measured and announced on Google maps I saw an artist on stage who is allergic to shortcuts. I saw an artist who is many LPs deep into a career that has come with equal parts ups and downs and yet at this comparatively late stage in his career he is making the best work of his career. It’s not what I expected. After an artist has made 3-4 albums it is unlikely for them to move 15% or more towards better or worse. MaLLy’s new record is full of great decisions, small nuances, inspired production. My favorite song is Summers on the Southside. Production by Last Word. Two, count ‘em two, great guitar solos from Jeremy Yvilsaker.

It’s a painting. It’s a portrait. I wouldn’t change a thing. I wouldn’t skip a step, I wouldn’t trim a hi-hat. I’d never take a shortcut when the secret path brings me here.

10 Year Anniversary of “Too Big To Fail” by the Twinkie Jiggles Broken Orchestra

I’m Twinkie Jiggles. I don’t use the moniker as much anymore but I spent a few blissful years of my life where I was almost equally likely to be called Twinkie rather than Sean. A long time ago the dude who did the booking at Barrio in Lowertown wanted to book my group Big Trouble but none of the dudes wanted to do it so I started my own band. I called it the Twinkie Jiggles Broken Orchestra and we set off playing a tremendous amount of lightly attended restauranty type gigs for $150-$250. Barbette, Red Stag, Sauce, Barrio (just the once, weren’t a big hit) et cetera. I was doing this in the midst of one of the biggest estuaries in my life: heavy responsibilities for Trivia Mafia, a receding role at McNally Smith but still working there, Heiruspecs is active, Dessa is crazy active, my first live-in girlfriend relationship is ending, my relationship with my now wife is starting, radio is just starting for me with me dipping my toes in at the Current. It’s all happening and I don’t know what is really going to stick. A bunch of things that feel settled in my life at 43 do not feel resolved at 33. And I’m spending a lot of time trying to make this happen while sitting in a van with the Dessa band careening across the country with questionable access to the internet.

A lot of time to think, a lot of time to stress, a lot of time to write and the inspiration of being around young writers out of McNally who are kicking ass, seeing the work that Dessa and Dustin are putting in surrounding Dessa’s albums, wanting to be involved, not knowing how to get involved. I believe the music that is dominating my life is Dawes, Frank Ocean, Aesop Rock, Future Islands, Bahamas, Joni Mitchell. These are all sort of guesses but my head is full with the idea that dense lyrics can be sung, not by me, but they can be sung. For a short period of time I live in a condo that has a piano in it. It’s right next to my bedroom. I wake up and play it and as a I play it more, more songs come out. And I start to be drawn to the piano. When I’m at Rachel’s parents house in Fargo I sat down and wrote “Hi, My Name is Ana” while the family was out of the house for I don’t know. . .one hour? Two? My fingers never felt better on a piano but those couple months. I don’t know how to get it back. I’ve got a piano now but it’s in the playroom. It’s covered in papers, paints, receipts, dolls, bath toys. It isn’t calling my name.

The Twinkie Jiggles Broken Orchestra gigs started feeling great. Joey Van Phillips on drums, DeVon Gray on keyboard, Ashley Gold on vocals. That’s the nucleus. It’s great when Chastity sang with, great when Linnea sang, when McGlone played drums, when Patrick played guitar and keyboards. But the nucleus is Joey, DeVon and Ashley. I think we had fun times. No one really came. We ate dinner, We played these songs and we started going into studios and recording. I at some point convinced myself that this record I’m talking about broke even, but it’s hard for me to believe that. Right now I’m listening to the song “Sister’s Wine”. DeVon on keys. Graham O’Brien on drums and Chastity on vocals. I’m on bass. Scott Agster played trombone, can’t remember the name of the beautiful man who played saxophone. I think it’s Bobby playing guitar. I think this song is great. I don’t need to be humble if I think the shit stands up to me.

At the writing level I wasn’t trying to make sense out of my life, I was trying to make it into a superhero’s story. It’s what inspired me to call it “Too Big to Fail”. It’s what inspired me to be rather awkwardly sex forward. If I put my professor glasses on I’ll say I wanted to assert my full humanity as a fat man who could be heartbroken, arrogant, fragile, confident, fictional, realistic and everything in between. The way it makes more sense to me is I wanted to write the stories where even where I’m the loser I’m still the hero. I wrote a bunch of songs about my struggles with my ex (Perfectly Enamored, Free Change, Easy Enough). I wrote largely fictional songs that still kind of sounded alcohol fueled and edgy (Fat Jodie, Cigarettes, Sister’s Wine). I covered a Sleater-Kinney song I used to play with my first serious girlfriend. I would play drums and she would sing and play guitar. Some of the funnest moments of my life. Play Sleater-Kinney, listen to Sade, go to Lifetime Fitness and eat at Pizza Luce. God damn it that was great.

I’m proud of this record. Some days I think about getting the band back out of retirement to play them. It would be different. It might not be worth dusting off. But I wanted to at least write about it, and remember the remembering. When the anniversaries come up for these releases in my life I both want to remember the album and also remember what I thought about them years later.

The release party was great, did it at the Icehouse. I remember being gassed up because Lizzo came out. 1000% guarantee that her and her coterie hung in the back and were far from hanging on every note we played, but still felt good that the jam was cool enough that the coolest person at that moment in the scene decided to hold court in the back of that particular room. We debuted the song Achilles at the show which I still feel is the best song that I’ve been exclusively responsible for writing.

In the end it was radio and trivia that came to dominate my working life. Still plenty of music, but a different relationship, a different angle. But I listen to this record and I want to liberate that piano from the playroom detritus and find out what’s under my fingers now.

The Music Tells You - There’s No Freedom In Freedom

I went to Bennington College my freshman year. I had a great year but I was ready to get Heiruspecs going so I left after that first year. Dorm advisor at Fells Hall freshman year was named Bryn Mooser. From Maine. He’s turned out to live kind of a Hollywood life but back in the year 2000 he was a very attractive alto sax player who had the misfortune of knowing he was very attractive. He was an incredibly fun dude to be around as an eighteen year old. I played in his junior concert which was called. . .wait for it. . .get ready. . .you can’t make this shit up. . .America. I think there was maybe five chords in the whole show. Plenty of headbands and wardrobe discussions. Lots of drummers. A lot of TVs playing art school shit. It was ambitious, and frankly more enthralling than seeing a more talented musician play it safe over eight songs from the Real Book. I was an impressionable sponge and Bryn was full of ideas, advice, album recommendations, and more. I’m grateful for that year I got to be around him. He turned me on to a movie from 1992 from Branford Marsalis called “The Music Tells You”. Watching that video I was so fascinated with Branford Marsalis. Honest to a fault, arrogant to a T, and seemed earnestly excited about making music and disillusioned with the things surrounding making music.

We watched the movie together and I was stuck on the scene, clipped above, where he says “the music tells you” when explaining the stricture of improvising, the stricture of writing and of collaborating. Artistic expression to me is about limiting potential choices and then finding remarkable opportunities within those choices. Practice in the largest sense of the word is cultivating a vast arsenal of skills to deploy when a potential choice that requires one of those skills is available. ProTools, the most advanced multitrack recording software in the world, is a creative godsend but it clouds some into thinking that limiting potential choices isn’t part of artistic expression. Spotify’s business practices and the major labels’ complicity in obscuring them is a cancer on the music industry, but it also clouds people into believing that any song can go after another song. That every song looks the same. That every song is best measured by the amount of people who have listened to it since the dawning of streaming.

I prefer thinking of music like a war of inches in trench warfare with groundbreaking artists forging yards ahead and permitting others to benefit from those gains and fill in the missing pieces. The music told Ornette Coleman and Charlie Haden that something else was available when improvising after a melody. There was more that could be up for grabs in real-time. But I do believe the music told them that. I believe that the music called for a larger canvas and they painted on it. In breaking old rules they made new rules. Same year that Bryn Mooser from paragraph one showed me the Branford Marsalis documentary I took counterpoint from a composer named Stephen Siegel. The king of counterpoint was a writer named Palestrina from the Renaissance. What’s counterpoint? Take a melody and with a set of pretty demanding rules navigate an additional three independently moving voices to supplement the melody. I hemmed and hawed my way to what would’ve been a C if I hadn’t gone to Bennington where they didn’t have grades but I gained a lot. I do believe the music told Palestrina something. He formalized these rules and I do believe in the hands of many teachers the rules are taught like unmoving policies bound for eternal truth. I don’t believe that’s what music tells you. Music is not black and white, but it’s not a free for all. Even “free” music is not a free-for-all. Free-for-alls are terrible. Terrible. The music tells me that your free-for-all is just a jerk fest for your three favorite scales. Or it tells me that it has become too demanding or rote to listen to the rules inside of music; it has become more expedient to pretend that there are no rules even though you know it to not be true. And if someone is following Palestrina’s rules from a cool half a millennium ago with no innovation then I have doubts that you are letting the music tell you anything, you are just painting within the lines. There is a merit to learning counterpoint that I barely appreciated as a freshman in college. There is a merit to transcribing solos and melodies that I am finally embracing, far too late for it to have an appreciable impact on my career, but blissfully early for it to have an impact on my musicality and my soul.

The music tells you on the radio too. I believe a good radio person should be in the business of stretching and breaking those rules only if they are also a student of those rules. I believe that the path to creating great radio involves listening to great radio. In fact, I believe it involves listening to the radio period. Different shows, different formats. Different hosts. Different cities. There are plenty of Palestrinas in the radio industry clinging unexplainably to a set of rules that don’t make sense or that fortify and codify things that are best left in the past. I’ve been in radio just over ten years and I’ve heard of program directors talking about not playing two black artists in a row, not playing more than three songs from women fronted projects in an hour. These ideas are immediately reprehensible but they are also outdated. It is a disrespect to your current audience and your potential audience. It is enshrining a hierarchy that throttles the digestible output of talented artists who aren’t white men. The music didn’t tell those programmers that. I don’t even think their gut told them that. It’s a play-it-safe strategy that perpetuates our worsts. Our AI, our legacy media and our habits enshrine the long-established hierarchies in our world. Through practice, through listening, through imagination I aspire to cultivate an arsenal of skills that will make decisions from what is available. And I know great radio is available that adheres to none of the stupid rules. And the more I practice, the more is available.

My brother Steve, fellow musician and writer, has been firing on all cylinders in Big Trouble, the band we play in together. He’s been writing, practicing, videotaping, designing and doing it with an enthusiasm I am amazed he has mustered this deep into his years. The big record isn’t coming. The honeymoon is over. But he’s reaching out to schedule a rehearsal and sending around the flyer. He added a keyboard/sampler/synthesizer into his rig in the past handful of practices and gigs and it’s been a mixed bag by his own accounting. I have a distrust of gadgets that is LOUDLY amplified in my feelings about Steve having gadgets. Steve has been a gadget guy since he was born and I’ve been a “fuck it, I’ll make it work with your hand-me-downs let me try it” guy since just as long. So I look at these new technologies under a different light than if another bandmate might do it. But after the gig we talked about the need to try, to expand, to push. It doesn’t have to be gadgetry, but without a push from somewhere we’d miss out on so much musical expression. Years ago Steve bought a pitch shifter pedal and I will still jokingly point to that pedal and say “that’s the pedal that broke up Big Trouble”. We’d be playing restaurant gigs with tentative support at best from the booking person that a two guitar quartet could cater to the dinner and cocktail crowd that might be coming in. Steve soundchecking the pitch shifter through the VOX AC30 at above full volume forty minutes before downbeat wasn’t making my booking job any easier. But, we do need these new technologies to push us to see what we can do with the music. We need to be pushed into finding out what of this new technology can be used while always letting the music tell us.

No one person gets to be the arbiter of what it means to let the music tell you. I think with the new sampler/syth/keyboard doo-dad Steve is listening to the music, sorting out how to work it into the web of Palestrina-like rules that Big Trouble has concocted throughout the years. Where is their room to expand? What is available? What expands and what diminishes? In these musical pursuits I am on the conservative side and I need to be surrounded by a spectrum of perspectives on innovation. What could a more-mature-me do enthusiastically with the potential of Steve having a pitch shifter? I’m not certain, but I think I could’ve done a lot better than bellyaching about the volume during soundcheck.

In radio I don’t know where I land on the conservative/liberal continuum. I believe radio stations have a unique responsibility and freedom that comes from pursuing experiences 24 hours a day. A peer in radio talks about “the promise”. What is “the promise” when you turn on that station? Is the promise genre specific? Is the promise an ethos towards music that floats above genre? Is the promise an ethos towards presentation? Is the promise no promise at all? Is the promise that it’s a dice toss every ten minutes? I’m writing this four days before Halloween and “the promise” is such a strange combination of strong and weak around Halloween. I can accept the Monster Mash being played on almost every radio station on planet earth this week. But what is “the promise” surrounding Monster Mash? Is it the promise of being seasonally appropriate? Is it the promise of what sits next to the Monster Mash on the playlist?

I’d like to answer a question I can see a reader asking at this point:

—-

Dear Blowhard Bennington Sean,

Is it really all this complicated? Just play the music! So Steve got a pedal! Figure out what songs it sounds good on. Share your opinion and keep it moving. Stop acting like there are massive rule books lining the walls of every practice room and radio studio in the world. It’s music and you’re ruining it.

A Concerned Blog Reader

——

Thanks for writing ACBR. It is this complicated. It ends up being simple. At the best it sounds simple, but the people I respect think that under the hood can’t be pure simplicity. There is history, there are precedents. There are rules to break and rules to honor and a beautiful life with beautiful offerings for the world in caring a ton about this stuff and working it over in your head. There’ is a difference between someone who plays a D chord because it’s the only thing in their arsenal and a person who picked a D chord out of fifteen different options because it was ultimately the best option.
—-

What does a radio station promise on Halloween? Does it promise a detour? Does it promise a sincere seasonality that Spotify’s “Ghoulish Grooves” with an AI ghost and a turntable graphic simply can’t? What does a bluetooth speaker offer at a Halloween party? At the neighbor’s Halloween party on Saturday I had already clocked in a beautiful discussion about creative responsibilities with my brother post-gig and futilely fumed in the car at a radio station for not satisfying “the Halloween promise” as I wanted them to. I was tasked with bringing over a bluetooth speaker after the other one had run out of juice. I tried to dial in what might work for the group of assembled neighbors on Halloween. Queens of the Stone Age, Soundgarden, Screamin’ Jay Hawkins, Monster Mash, Whodini, Blue Öyster Cult (but I did Burnin’ for You for a little flex). I was ready to get some suggestions from others and to pepper in some more. I was letting the music tell me. I was following the spirit and trying to let the music help the great time. I HAD TO TAKE THE DOG AROUND ONE SINGLE CITY BLOCK BECAUSE HE WAS BEING AN ASSHOLE AND I RETURNED TO A LOSS OF CONTROL OF THE SPEAKER. My neighbor Blake ceded it to a man who listens to a Wall Street Journal podcast in the shower every morning. It was atrocious. He was starting podcast episodes. He was picking songs to purposely pick fights with certain people who he knew hated certain songs. He’s drunk, leaning back, an evil wizard who was both picking shit songs and then getting lost in emails/texts/facebook and not even tracking what is coming out of his cranked JBL. And when other attendees would discreetly turn down the speaker he’d indiscreetly turn that bad boy back up. The music tells you Andy! You aren’t listening but the music is telling you. It’s sacred. It’s sacred to share music. It’s sacred in a bluetooth speaker, it’s sacred on a stage, it’s sacred in your own playlist, it’s sacred in a booth at a radio station. It is not reserved for professionals; it greatly benefits from youthful indiscretion. It greatly benefits from seasoned veterans who have been making these choices for years. It greatly benefits from a drunk guy having a fun time in his garage, but you got to try and have fun. But if you don’t think it matters, if you don’t think it’s a gift, if you don’t think it’s a miracle you don’t belong to it, you aren’t Palestrina, you aren’t Ornette Coleman, you aren’t bending or breaking rules, you are out of the mix. I don’t think you’re listening to yourself. The music tells you. Listen. Even if the music tells you to play some wild off the wall shit that Bennington Sean McPherson turns his nose up at. . .listen to the music and I’ll believe you. I’m bringing a bigger speaker next year.

I Just Believe in Courtney Williams

I don’t believe in wrong or right,
I just believe in Courtney Williams.

I don’t believe in linear time,
I just believe in Courtney Williams.

I don’t believe in Loch Ness Monsters,
I just believe in Courtney Williams.

I don’t believe in Courtney Williams and other things,
I just believe in Courtney Williams.

I don’t believe in the importance of sleep,
I just believe in Courtney Williams.

I don’t believe you need to wait 45 minutes after you eat before you swim,
I just believe in Courtney Williams.

I don’t believe it’s important to be able to drive a manual transmission,
I just believe in Courtney Williams.

Shoulder Season

My brother Steve and I know something about driving between the Midwest and the East Coast. We were raised in Massachusetts but my Dad’s from Milwaukee, Mom’s from Chicago. Plenty of childhood roadtrips. And since we’ve been in Minnesota, lots of miles logged. Steve says when you pass Ashtabula, OH on your way towards PA the whole vibe changes from Midwest to East Coast immediately. Even with the limited amount of actual region-specific shit you see from I-90, there’s something very East Coast about the minute you enter Pennsylvania. The road signs, the age of the houses, the names of things, the proportion of house size to street size. There are close to intangible differences between the East Coast and the Midwest and a lot of it can just be sensed, if you know what to be looking for.

Just yesterday, Saturday October 5, 2024 in Minnesota, I got to see it change from summer to fall in about an hour’s time. It’s member drive at my workplace, Jazz88, so I spent 1p-4p sitting in my dark basement answering phone calls for donations. I walked out, still summer. Silus and Kelly from across the street were playing with their kids, Vikings jerseys on but still a summer feeling temperature. The sky looked summer. There wasn’t much wind to speak of. I drove over to pick up my kids who had been hanging at a friend’s house while I answered the phones. Stand out on the porch. Take the remainder of the snacks I brought over and chat for a minute. Still summer. Some extra glow to the world, felt almost artificial to be honest, but summer glow. The next stop was JS Coffee for a coffee for me and hot chocolates for the girls. Outside of the coffee shop I knew the season was changing. I both felt hot and felt like it was a mistake the girls didn’t have jackets on. It was kind of electric. The glow was there. The wind was blowing. Transitory.

My wife taught me the term shoulder season. It’s old folks farmer’s almanac talk for the period of time when a season is changing over to another season. And wow, I got to experience a short ass shoulder season across maybe thirty forty minutes sitting outside of JS. A strange breeze, a strangely quiet crowd of people, that strange feeling when things are out of sync and you know no writer has ever tried to describe this scene. No novel set in one of those 79 degree early October Saturdays just before the running of the marathon. It’s an undocumented eerie. Nothing amiss. Just nothing the opposite of amiss. . .nothing on point, nothing to a tee.

The girls consume their hot chocolates whipped cream first. The drink was out of season when we ordered it. It was even maybe out of season when S. spilled the entirety of hers on the pavement outside and Katie the barista was nice enough to make her another one no charge. Sidebar: I don’t love the term barista. But as this shoulder turns and the wind announces itself, it gusts instead of blows, the hot chocolates are becoming reasonable. Becoming downright fitting. There are hats I can start to wear again. Soups I can start to make again. Records that will sound better like Ghostface Killah’s Supreme Clientele, Nick Drake’s Bryter Layter and Cannonball Adderley’s Somethin’ Else. I can text Peter Solomon and invite him to this year’s Thanksgiving without him saying “it’s still summer shitbird”. Fall has arrived in seconds flat. The green leaves numbering their days, the tabs on my car asking me to make sure they are renewed on time for the first time in years, the warm cup of coffee laughing that I might’ve considered getting it iced just minutes ago. I will lose track of my gym shorts. I will find track of my gloves. I will find $6, a lighter, the end of a filtered joint and an over folded flyer in my jacket. I will watch the next chapter of the Timberwolves reach the Western Conference finals and beyond. If you know what you’re looking for you couldn’t miss it for a minute, it’s the Midwest and it’s fall.

Big Trouble at White Squirrel Saturday October 26 6-8

The boys are back in town and also never left town. Big Trouble is gracing the stage of The White Squirrel with our winning spirit and instrumental jams. I hope by October 26 you won’t be wishing we were playing outside. I’ve got too many nice sweaters for it to stay this warm. Since I’m putting it in my blog I know it’ll happen. . .I’m making a chart for the Waxahatchee song “Ruby Falls”.

Universal Truths

Here are little-known universal truths.

If someone starts a speech with “I’m going to keep this brief” they are not.
If you are an adult at a zoo without children you are high.
If you still have a set of CDs in your driver side visor in your car and a colorful, fuzzy steering wheel cover you are a dynamo in the sack.
If your favorite apple is a Golden Delicious you are an AI who has been sent to kill someone, probably Senor Honeycrisp.
You have clogged a toilet before, everyone has.
From time to time you do snore a little.
Drum solos are better than bass solos.
Maxwell sounds better when played in New York City.
Low sounds better when played in Duluth.
Vanilla ice cream is better than chocolate ice cream.
Mobb Deep sounds better in cold weather and best in a hoodie in weather so cold you should be wearing a jacket too but you aren’t.
Vinyl doesn’t sound that much better, but it feels unbelievably better.
When you are a little “off” you will always feel at least slightly better after a glass of water.
The Summer Olympics are better than the Winter Olympics.
The guitar player should turn down a little.
Chaka Khan.
Cable was better when you had to remember what number the different channels were.
We’re all impressed you change your own oil but you don’t really save that much money Joe.
A trumpet is better than a saxophone. Saxophones are better than trumpets.
Generally the best seasons of all shows is the third and fourth season.
The best sausage pizza is better than the best pepperoni pizza, but if the worst sausage pizza is much worse than the worst pepperoni pizza.
Many people sing better after two drinks than stone sober. No one sings better after a six pack*.
Whenever somebody on foot says “it’s like four blocks away” it’s definitely at least six blocks away.
The intro to your song is too long, the outro is not long enough.

*credit to excellent producer Knol Tate on this take.

A Tiger Dancing at 20 with Two Whiskey Diet Cokes

Tomorrow marks 20 years from a truly momentous and memorable Tuesday. Tuesday is when records used to come out and September 28, 2004 marked the release of Heiruspecs’ A Tiger Dancing. I’m the bass player in Heiruspecs. I’ve been in Heiruspecs since I started it with Felix in 1997. The band has been the guiding force in my life for the entirety of my adult life.
Felix and I recently connected with Jay and Keith from Racket to discuss the history of the album. I also recently sat down and listened to the record in its entirety on vinyl which was an exhilarating experience. I can’t tell you the last time I pressed play on the record and I bet you the last time I listened to the whole thing was 20 years ago. I heard all the youthful optimism, brazen confidence, jocular humor, musical and lyrical virtuosity. And I could almost smell the Camel Lights I bought at the gas station that used to be called Old Colony but everyone called it HoneyBee at Washington and just a little south of Broadway. Pick up cigarettes, a coffee and take $20 out of the ATM every two days. That was the routine for a week in September of 2023 when we recorded. This was the only record I ever made with a job like schedule. Multiple days (I bet 4 days of tracking?). Show up the same time everyday. Do what needed doing that day. Started making a friendship with Joe Mabbott (engineer) that remains so strong to this day. We were working so hard but having so much fun. Such fond memories.

The narrative of Heiruspecs in general and of A Tiger Dancing in particular has to at some level be narrative of a beautiful failure. A group that at a young age sat briefly on the precipice of dare I say likely national level acclaim but never realized it. If I wasn’t in Heiruspecs that is the narrative that I would understand and accept. And I think in a journalistic way I have to agree that that is the sturdiest explanation. In that narrative there is still room for silver linings, for beautiful successes, for proud moments and for praiseworthy community building.

But let me know tell you about the two whiskey diet cokes at the Leaning Tower of Pizza with chicken wings, the Twins turning it around in the sixth against the Marlins and a gorgeous tall woman with big hips and mom jeans next to me drinking a Heineken poured into a glass with a straw and a pineapple juice on the side: we fucking won. This band served as a launching pad for other semi-failures! We helped get Dessa on the road! Remember Ela? (don’t answer that unless your answer is yes). Heiruspecs paid Trivia Mafia’s payroll for the first 10 months before we could get a bank to give Trivia Mafia checks! Big Trouble is an instrumental band that is the opposite of a juggernaut! Before they were Hippo Campus they were called Whistle Kid and they opened for us! These are small things. But you could be fooled while Willi Castro goes up to bat and the bartender tells another customer about Stevie Ray Vaughan crediting cocaine for his speed on the fretboard that everything is right in the world. You could tell 23 year old me driving down Hennepin that Tuesday after playing a packed in-store performance at Fifth Element and then hearing the album coming out of Wren Aigiki-Lander’s* car that in twenty years I’d have a wife, two beautiful children, a daily radio show, a hit trivia company and lift weights and do yoga. I’d have follow up questions for sure. I would be distressed by many of those follow up answers. But while I listen to Nipsey Hussle’s song “More or Less” driving up Grand Ave over at Fairview and there’s still a daytimey glow cause it’s early fall I’m sure that everything worked out. Sean you were right to buy those big merch bins before your show at Stone’s Throw in oEau Claire at Home Depot and try to make everything real professional about this A Tiger Dancing Tour which was categorically not professional. This band and this album matter to you and the people in your world and Nipsey matters to more people and he matters to you and Saint Paul is beautiful and you’ve spent your life driving between these two cities.

And Brian Oake once said he wished he had wanted to do more than just talk between songs on the radio but it was the only thing he ever really loved professionally and for him it works. And you think about just wanting to play shows, and talk between songs and pass out flyers. You think about Avon Barksdale on the Wire saying he’s just a gangster who wants his corners and if you turn Nipsey up loud enough you think you are too. You aren’t. And you turn it down when you turn off of Pascal onto your street because what if the babysitter and the kids are outside even though they should be starting bedtime. You brought the greatest cheesebread in Minnesota home from Leaning Tower of Pizza to bring to the neighbors across the street. In moments you’ll use the new roller you just bought at the Loon Smoke Shop which used to be the Loon Convenience store where a young Mike Mictlan filmed part of one of his only music videos.

And yes these things were all 20 years ago and I don’t really care what happened to John Munson forty years ago but I kinda do. And I sure hope that Kavyesh Kaviraj, Ricki Monique and Obi Original don’t care about this but maybe we all have to be stewards of our own legacies. Maybe you have to call it a failure, and maybe I can’t. Maybe I can’t call it a failure cause I turn up Nipsey a little bit louder once I realize the kids have started bedtime. And I walk out of the car that I drive cause my daddy had the same kind when I was in high school and shout out to the neighbors assembled on the porch that I’ve brought them the best cheesebread in Minnesota and let’s start the festivities.

*I’ll have you know that Wren was 27 years old at the time which was at the time the oldest cool hot person I had ever met.

Big Trouble at White Squirrel this Weekend

Autumn is here and Big Trouble is back inside. We are playing from 6-8 on Saturday. We have new songs, I have new bass strings and I think Big Trouble has never been clearer on who we are. I also promised I’d slap the bass on at least one song, which he will certainly regret by the fourth ballad I slap on. Also, on any song I don’t slap on. . .I’m slapping during his solo guaranteed. And thank you Steve, he helped me replace my bass strings which I was having an incredibly hard time doing. I hope you’ll come out to the show on Saturday!

Fiction: The Corkscrew

Out there, that far out, they didn’t get shit. No entertainment beyond what you can conjure up on a laptop screen on iffy internet. If you’re in the Kabul green zone, there’s basically a cineplex. There’s amenities. There’s USO sanctioned events. Third Eye Blind came. Some woman who won The Voice came. Comedians come. The Airmen of Note came twice. But out there, Khost Province. Nothing. Maybe a visit from a dignitary, a photo opp. But nothing that requires loudspeakers, requires a backline, requires real production. You’re just not bringing all of that equipment there. There’s safety concerns sure. But there’s also optics concerns. It’s a lot of equipment to bring to entertain a pretty small amount of troops. The place I helicoptered to that I want to tell you about, there’s maybe tops seventy-five enlisted there. Is Third Eye Blind gonna play to 75 people? Maybe in the UAE if someone in the audience is a prince. But not in Afghanistan. No. It isn’t even enough bodies for a great photo opp. But one time, they definitely got entertainment. More than Uncle Sam budgeted for if you ask me.

I’m a helicopter pilot. We transport the higher ups, the visitors, the specialized medics, the fancy folks to where they need to be in a timely fashion. If I do my job right, and I do, I’m not noticed. The general doesn’t step off the helicopter and do the just off the helicopter raised voice barking out “how bout that perky pilot, what a gem!!!!!”. The general just reads their papers, keeps their earplugs in and makes the meeting with time to spare. I’m not part of the conversation. I keep us as safe as can be and I get them where they need to go. I’ve had famous people, people you see on CNN, in my helicopter. I’ve exchanged a kind word with a dignitary a time or two but mostly. . .mostly just point A point B stuff.

The difference all happened at Point B, Khost. Point A, Kabul, was normal. The itinerary said we were taking the Philadelphia Eagles Cheerleading Squad by helicopter to the Khost province. Weird, right? Weird enough that I looked twice. It’s a small outpost to send a whole ass squad of any kind out there. Let alone a dance group that’s supposed to have thirty five people in total. That’s a production. Granted, no backline, no drumset, no bass amp. They don’t have a band, they don’t even really have a DJ. They’ve got some speakers and they’ve got some outfits. They have a DJ but he has one of those names where you know he’s not really a DJ, he’s with the squad and they let him DJ a bit. DJ Mitch I think. A guy who goes by DJ Mitch never fed his family just spinning records. DJ Mitch probably handled the cheerleaders outfits and sweet talked his way into bringing his laptop. He asked if he could add “show dj” to his e-signature and his boss said “absolutely not”. So it’s a full trip but it’s not like bringing One Eye Blind out there, let alone three. It’s cheerleaders, and I love to be crass, the most valuable asset is filling up those little bucket seats in the helicopter quite nicely.

They’ve got a clipboard lady. Most groups do. The clipboard lady is details oriented. You see a lady with a clipboard and I’d trust her to remember my social security number before I got to the dash. The clipboard lady is not the boss, but she can get you fired. The clipboard lady is not the boss, but she does tell the boss what to do. The clipboard lady from the Philadelphia Eagles cheerleading squad introduced herself and then the whole squad came into the helicopter. I don’t remember the clipboard lady’s name but I remember it felt like a serious name, like Madison or Cynthia or something. DJ Mitch, some random people in sweats and then about twenty-five fine ass cheerleaders nearly tripling the amount of makeup currently on the base. When the cheerleaders come in it is just an absolute parade of a level of physical attractiveness, perfume odors and kind-spiritedness that I had frankly forgotten existed. Sure they are jet-lagged. They are still fine as hell. All of ‘em. Watching a football game back home I might’ve said. . .hmm, I like that one in the third row with the brown hair and the big earrings. No choosing now. No favorites. Just glad to be on a helicopter with a squad of professional cheerleaders. It beats literally everything else I do.

During the load in to the helicopter I hear someone else from the US Military tell clipboard lady that it’s going to be quite a production to get to Khost from Kabul. He doesn’t sugarcoat it. He’s trying to tell clipboard lady that this is not like a domestic flight from Philadelphia to Cleveland. The ride won’t always be smooth. But most importantly, he’s trying to throw all the highlighter he can muster onto the fact that the landing is going to be like nothing these cheerleaders have experienced before.

In a war zone helicopters have to land in a corkscrew. If a helicopter just lands all regular going straight down it’s an easy target. So instead we land in such a way that you are almost guaranteed to live and pretty close to guaranteed you are going to vomit out whatever came in last on your maiden corkscrew. Now look, there’s no amount of coaching for clipboard lady that is going to prevent her from puking when the helicopter starts the corkscrew. She pukes or she doesn’t. Same goes for all these gorgeous smelling cheerleaders. But there is some moral obligation to tell someone they’re almost definitely going to puke in a matter of hours. And of course there is preparation. If you think you’re going to puke you’ll grab a towel, a bag, maybe take off your show clothes. I say this all now to say that the US Military gave these cheerleaders some opportunity to be really prepared to puke. They didn’t take it. Was that poor training, poor communication? Perhaps it was an abiding sense that the entire squad of Philadelphia Eagles cheerleaders couldn’t all blow chunks in Afghanistan because it seems too bad to be true.

The real kicker was it proved to be a really peaceful trip. I’m not saying you’d mistake the conditions for business clas on Delta, but it was comparatively mellow. Not choppy. I think that lured clipboard lady and her charges into a false sense of security. A lot of headphones. A lot of selfies. A lot of small talk. A lot of reapplying makeup. Is it really going to turn into the Pie-Eating-Contest from Stand By Me when we approach the site? Not likely. So, yes, my co-pilot warns them: “we are heading into a corkscrew for our landing, be prepared for serious turbulence but don’t worry”. They didn’t worry. They didn’t steel themselves. They didn’t brace themselves. They kept on talking.

I know how to do a corkscrew. I’m not going to put any extra English on it for these cheerleaders. I do what I’m supposed to do and I do it right. This was a textbook corkscrew. Simple as that. And the first swings go well. Even with the cockpit dividing us I can hear the moment when the cheerleaders realize this is going to be a unique experience. It’s the sigh/scream/hold breath combo that perfectly communicates “oh fuck”. The next swing is a bit worse. From my vantage point I just hear the distant hum of confused and irritated people. The next swing is worse still. And then a pause. I can’t corkscrew quite yet, don’t have the angle. They think it’s over. And maybe that’s on me. Maybe that eased them into a false sense of security. That sense did not last long. They were quickly ushered into a very real sense of sickness. I heard polite moaning. It’s not a noise I bet you hear that often. But as a helicopter pilot you can hear people who are both thinking their entire intestine is about to pour out of their throat and thinking that they don’t want to be rude.

Polite moaning is always followed by discreet coughing and then about 65% of the time large vomming. The vomiting wasn’t unanimous. A solid two thirds of the cheerleaders were just fine. DJ Mitch was fine, headphones already balancing atop his shitty haircut ready to wow the very small assembled crowd at Khost. DJ Mitch and his steel constitution were ready to go. But that one third of the Philadelphia Eagles and clipboard lady were puking enough for everyone else. Not good. The kind of puking where you don’t see the reason in cleaning up anything until it’s all over. The cabin is getting hosed down. There are things that will be thrown away. The cabin will be hosed down ASAP. The cabin will be hosed down before DJ Mitch plugs his $900 laptop into the speakers they brought. I should not be laughing. I am laughing. My co-pilot is laughing. It’s quiet laughing, it’s looking at each other and trying not to laugh. But it’s just so much vomit. And when the actual skin turns gray the makeup looks all wrong. The crew is passing tissues, towels, waters. Clipboard lady has ceded any role of leadership. She’s in vom city and she won’t be managing a god damn thing until she’s a little cleaned up. Some ladies look like zombies, some look like cheerleaders who just puked.

Outside of the helicopter it’s a small crowd out there. Maybe 55 guys. A couple of them have brought Eagles jerseys with them. The odds of that all working out are hard to fathom. The odds of an Eagles jersey soon having vomit on it seem quite probable though. Tissues, bottled waters. Everyone is apologizing to everyone. I’m not. I flew the corkscrew. I followed orders. If that spells a gastrointestinal disaster for a squad of entertainers from the NFC that’s beyond me. DJ Mitch is the most show-most-go-on motherfucker I have ever witnessed. Talks to the staff, finds the electricity, is setting everything up in rapid speed. He’s passing out business cards like any cares about DJ Mitch. Hey Mitch? It’s gonna take these ladies a little while to get ready. You don’t have to do all that. The team in Khost gets the ladies to a latrine area. They clean up. They apologize. The sergeant from Khost apologizes. I don’t apologize. I flew the corkscrew. What exactly am I supposed to apologize about?

Me and the co-pilot and a couple of the other crew hose down the cabin. It’s easy. Ultimately it sounded worse than it was. But it did sound like death. It sounded like some Black Plague b-roll. But, we get the helicopter in working order. I look over at the stage. DJ Mitch has been playing jock jams for the last twenty minutes trying to get a group of soldiers who want to see cheerleaders to get excited about the latest single from Rick Ross. It isn’t working. DJ Mitch is the opposite of the MVP. I silently implore Mitch to read the room.

The clipboard lady walks out on the stage. She’s not holding the clipboard anymore and frankly she cleaned up well. She doesn’t look like she just threw up but she sure did. Mitch doesn’t even fade the music down right. It’s hard to hear her at first and then I just hear “Hello, hello, sorry for the delay soldiers! Do ya’ll know what a corkscrew landing is?”

The Drive to Connect

I have spent a lot of my life trying to connect with other people both as individuals, as fans of bands I play in, as listeners to radio stations. I also try to connect in smaller ways than that. I want to find consensus or understanding on great chicken wings, on under-appreciated songs from well known artists, I want to both have seen the same random thing on an episode of Blind Date from 23 years ago. I want to connect. I don’t pass out business cards to people while saying “let’s connect” because I’m not an asshole. But I do want to connect. I’ll be up front, I don’t want to necessarily connect on a completely even playing field. I can’t guarantee I want to read your blog, or listen to your CD, or tune into your radio station. The truth is I’ll usually give it a try, but if it’s not my cup of tea I’m not going to stay committed because we are connected. I want to connect and some of it is for ego related reasons. I feel great when people feel I’m great. That’s natural. And in general that drive has brought me to great places. A sense of pride in my performance, a sense of effort in creating a strong album knowing that some amount of people are actually going to check it out. When you try and do great things you often get to do a fair amount of pretty cool things along the way. Let’s have a quick sidebar:

Two nights ago I had the enviable task of listening to the test pressings of Heiruspecs’ A Tiger Dancing. It’s a record that turns twenty years old in ten days. Even though it feels awesome to listen to your own music on vinyl I was stressing in this particular situation. This is work that Heiruspecs recorded 21 years ago. It is no doubt the most commercially successful album I’ve ever been front and center on. I’m sure some of the records I’ve played bass on have sold some more copies, but A Tiger Dancing is likely the furthest reach I’ve ever had as a creative person. I was hoping that the master would be good, that the work would stand up to the test of time, that I could proudly endorse people spending some of their money to get a copy of this record. But before I even put the record on I had that happy/sad feeling that comes from being in your forties and feeling good about how you’ve spent the first half of your life but confused about how you’ll spend the second half. As I went to my little cubby to retrieve the records I just thought about test pressings in general. They are so fucking cool. The first time I ever got test pressings they were FedExed up to Bennington College at a cost of like $65 dollars because Heiruspecs was playing a show there and the record label needed our approval ASAP. WHAT? How cool is that? The records were so thick, felt like two 180 gram records glued together. They had the name of our manager on them. I still have em. They sounded great, I was so happy. I had to go find a turntable and give em a listen. I felt so. . .arrived, so optimistic about the trajectory. Hilariously I bet you that day I got those test pressings was maybe exactly 20 years ago from when I am writing.

I love the trappings of a life in music. I am not talking about the mountains of coke or the ability to treat women horribly and think you can get away with it because you are talented. Those are trappings I eschew. I am talking about the test pressings, the reviews of artwork, the printing of contracts for shows, the hanging of posters, the reading of magazines and the smoking of weed or cigarettes whilst a more talented person mixes your record. I sit and drink coffee with my best friend Martin most Sundays and whenever he says something like “just sent the masters in” or “I think we’ve landed on a good album cover” I remember how magical this pursuit is. But as I’m looking at these test pressings I remember how fleeting it is too. How many more test pressings do I get to pore over? How many more 9V batteries do I buy before I’m done playing gigs? It’s been a long run, but it’s still a fleeting run and when it ends is not purely up to me. It’s up to the family of musicians I play with. It’s up to the small but supportive audience different projects I’ve been in have been lucky enough to attract across the last twenty five years. It’s up to the needs of my kids, the needs of my own. It’s an honor to pursue a creative life, but it’s a tenuous honor.

Sidebar Done: I don’t think seeking out approval and connection is unhealthy. I think the healthiest form of this behavior is very flat hierarchically. It feels very good for my soul to pursue friendships with my neighbors, with my co-workers, with random ass people. I believe you’d agree with that for your life. Making friends, having friends, spending time together, these things make us healthier. Wanting that connection and pursuing it are pretty reasonable pursuits. I also believe that seeking out those connections in the manner that was available to me in the 1990s and early 2000s was relatively safe and beneficial. I want to connect with audiences so I pass out flyers, I send out press releases, I go to shows by other artists and try to connect, try to establish some community. I want to have friends so I get phone numbers, host parties, call people, remember people, explore new social settings. And as I pursue the lofty and praiseworthy goal of being connected I do cool things along the way: I listen to test pressings, I go to concerts, I put up posters, I work on mixing a record, I play basketball, I go camping with random people, I strike up a conversation with the weird pizza delivery guy at the coffeeshop. At every turn that I’m trying to fill my cup socially I am filling my cup in other ways. I’m filling my cup of knowledge. I’m filling my cup of new experiences. I’m filling my cup with good things. But now there is the shortcut of social media and as it has slowly built itself to invade almost anything you do. Are you playing basketball? Are you picking up extra players on social media? Are you going to a show? Better tell everyone you are going to a show! You are seeking out a worthwhile thing, connection and maybe receipt of connection, receipt of being bonded. But to pursue that you are letting social media to just pour onto every surface of your life. That’s well documented. But I don’t think you are getting the residual skills and experiences you want by trying to get that social connection off of social media. You aren’t playing basketball, you aren’t learning about movies, you aren’t starting a band. If you are using social media s a vehicle to launch real life magic, more power to you. It’s magical for that. Inside of social media is the greatest flyer passing out system in the world. But it is landlocked, surrounded with an infrastructure meant to make you hate yourself and buy someone else’s shit. You want connection and your are suffocated with insufficiency. You are suffocated with what you think is the news of the day including the dumb news your real life friends combine. But that’s just a shell. The feed is actually aiming to make you stuck there. The feed is designed to make you miss that pick up basketball game and to wallow.

I try to build pathways around the algorithm. I hope when I mention my blog on my social media it pulls one or two people off of a place designed to maximize engagement and dollars into a place designed to maximize depth and connection. I want you to read this blog and do something more awesome with your day. Maybe it’s listen to a record. Maybe it’s go to a yoga class. Maybe it’s a concert. Maybe you cook a delicious ass recipe. I don’t need you to stay here forever.

My dad used to tell me that the planners had thought that Mall of America would create a huge network of other retail around the mall. But actually, the first stuff to sprout up by MOA was hotels cause they had all the retail covered! People needed to crash. When I heard about social media I rightfully thought it was going to make reaching people easier; you could remind your friend in Sioux Falls more easily that your band was coming through. But at some point it isn’t a network for the real world. . .it’s a network for itself. And it creates it’s own language, it’s own hierarchy, it’s own reward system. You came in to play basketball and you leave wondering why everyone hates you. And you didn’t even break a sweat. I think seeking out connection is wildly important. I think making those connections is even more important. And I think Facebook is a wildly easy tool for seeking out connection and is absolute garbage for delivering. It’s an easy tool for the wrong job.

My Deep And Awkward Love for the Juan Epstein Podcast

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                                  L to R: Peter Rosenberg, Cipha Sounds

Juan Epstein was the first hip-hop podcast ever. I got turned on to it by Medium Zach in maybe 2009 or 2010. Juan Epstein is a duo show consisting of Peter Rosenberg, a broadcaster in music and sports and Cipha Sounds, a broadcaster who also has a career as a comedian and to a lesser extent as a live DJ. I knew Cipha Sounds from him mixing the pre-release promo for Talib Kweli and Hi-Tek’s Reflection Eternal (I think he also gets shouted out on the record). I didn’t know much about podcasts but hearing these two radio personalities from NYC chop it up very casually and very behind the scenes was exactly what I needed in my life at that time. I was just getting into being on the radio myself and it was exactly what I wanted to hear: two of the morning show hosts cracking the mic at about 9:30am after finishing the morning show and just talking, complaining, gossiping with a rotating cast of other staff from the station (Hot 97).

I love a well-produced podcast with perfect sounders, transitions topics and a top-flight staff working behind the scenes as much as the next porky white guy in his forties who subscribes to the New Yorker but for me it does not beat that unscripted love and energy I have for a personality-driven podcast. I have now been with Juan Epstein’s ups and downs for 15 years. Although they both have admirable careers, they’ve spent more time nursing their wounds and wondering what could’ve been than celebrating what is working for them. But isn’t that human nature? I am drawn to understanding their struggles. Cipha Sounds was fired with very little notice some months after a really reprehensible joke at the expense of Haitians. It was stupid as shit but understanding the fallout and the career changes made for great radio. Cipha Sounds hasn’t attained the heights he envisioned for himself as a comedian and he feels like he can almost sniff the heights he could’ve reach as a music industry professional. Peter Rosenberg is uncomfortably over employed with multiple radio shifts a week but he still sees a level he hasn’t hit yet in what he can offer as a broadcaster or more. They both regret many choices they made at different forks in the road. Recently, they had a frank and still funny talk about Cipha Sounds’ struggles with overeating. Peter Rosenberg has sounded off about the knee jerk complaints from listeners who barely know his output but judge an out of place soundbite and he’s been forthright about his culpability in his divorce.

I struggle to recommend to the Juan Ep podcast to random people who aren’t familiar. There is so much history there. And so much of what I love about it is is my investment I’ve made in these personalities who are in a similar line of work to the one I’m in. The larger appeal for Juan Ep is no doubt their particular brand of hip-hop coverage. They bring in icons from earlier eras of the music and ask perfect questions. The questions are perfect because they blend nerdyness with the courage to ask a question that might be a feather-ruffler if it didn’t come from a duo who command so much respect inside of hip-hop. For me, it is the comparative filterlessness of the whole thing that is the biggest appeal. They seem to be genuinely frustrated with their “producer” a fair amount of the time. They seem to be genuinely frustrated with each other. In the last couple weeks the normally apolitical Cipha Sounds has been dipping his toe into the MAGA pool. I hate that cause it is not my politics but I love the conflict, the tension. I am amazed at how candidly these two speak about their misgivings at their dayjobs as radio hosts. And Peter Rosenberg tends to share a considerable amount about his life outside of work as well. It makes for moments of hard fought humor. Humor that relies upon pain, upon history and upon a shared love of hip-hop combined with a shared estrangement from it as Cipha, Rosenberg and myself all go deep into middle agedness.

I grew up with these men. Warts and all. I track my successes with theirs, I track my failures with theirs. I feel invested in their stories. Sometimes they get dumb-comment-people in their Patreon complaining about how far the show can stray from hip-hop from time to time. It’s the least of my worries because I am here for the hosts and their journey. Of course I love hip-hop and I am so glad it is at the center of this podcast, but what keeps me glued to the feed is the sloppiness, the humanness, the honesty and the humor. If you are already a fan and you want to talk about the show, I’d love to do that, to my knowledge the only people I know of in MN who listen are me, Medium Zach and Felix. But I’m sure there’s more. If you are looking for a new podcast and you are ready to take some time to get to know the hosts, I’d strongly recommend the reward of really diving in deep into the Juan Ep universe. I don’t think it can be easily enjoyed from time to time. It’s something to stay pretty focused on, that’s where you reap the reward of feeling like you really know these hosts. But if you do, you’ve just made two very real, very endearing, very annoying friends. It is truly beautiful.

Michael Grady’s Pure

Announcer and media personality Michael Grady

Do you know about Michael Grady? He joined the Timberwolves broadcast team a couple years ago and improved the quality I’d comfortably say three fold which is in an unbelievable achievement in the broadcast world. I’m sure there are other ingredients in the recipe, but the man comes ready to do TV everyday. I steal that compliment from my guy Bill DeVille from the Current. He would always compliment Mark Wheat to me by saying “that guy walks in everyday ready to do a radio show”. And it’s a real ass compliment. Some people come in shaky, they come in half-hearted. I don’t care if we are playing the Charlotte Hornets at midnight in Liverpool, Michael Grady is ready to deliver. So before I actually start my whole connection to the man. . .thank you Michael. You have made my basketball fandom so much more enjoyable.

One thing Grady says when someone sinks a clean shot is simply “pure”. I don’t think it’s Grady’s most well-known tagline but it’s the one that sticks with me. Seeing Anthony Edwards go up almost unexpectedly for a long two and the ball just jumps into the basket like it’s a California King the ball’s been waiting to dive into all day and then Grady just says “pure”. It is part of the rhythm of the broadcast, of the game and now of my life. This image of purity to me feels aligned not with cleanliness or holiness but with clarity, with focus, with intention. As I walk through my life I struggle to stay focused on the pure things. I struggle to not fall for the distractions that pull me off my path. These distractions might be petty schoolyard gossip bullshit that I’ve always been too old for, reading far down on the Instagram feed only to feel less productive, attending to my own distracted mind instead of engaging with my kids. None of these actions feel great at the time, I am drawn to them for someone reason, but I am repulsed by them because they are not pure. Michael Grady is now part of the soundtrack of the good moments in my life, the moments where my actions are aligning with my intentions.

McPherson is up early to do his morning exercises and pack S.’s lunch before the rest of the family wakes up. Pure
Sean has scheduled the music for Jazz88 out to next Thursday and he’s now finally reviewing the charts to see what other stations are playing. From the logo, pure
McPherson is making time to clean his desk and set up the scene for the day before he makes his list. Pure
McPherson has again elected to turn on Diners, Dives and Drive-Ins on TV while primarily cycling between headlines on New York Times and scrolling Instagram. It Rims Out
McPherson addresses the hardest things on his list right out the gate and doesn’t leave them until after all the things he’s excited about. That’s pure Jim

As the Timberwolves season approaches I am legitimately giddy to spend eight months hanging out with the broadcast crew and already dreading the headache that it will be to get the games here at home thanks to the cluster that is Bally’s. I also want to give a shoutout to my co-worker Jedidiah Jones who handles the in-arena announcing for the Wolves. Though he recently stepped away from his full-time position at Jazz88 he’s still in the mix for special programs et cetera.

Right now I’m going to grab a shower and head in to work to share some new music with the morning show host and the program director. Pure

The Farewell To Summer: Big Trouble on Saturday at The White Squirrel

The school supplies will be feverishly purchased at 9:31pm at Target on Monday night, but the summer is almost over already. And on Saturday you rally against it. You party like it 2009. And you start your evening with a visit to the White Squirrel between 6 and 8pm to enjoy Big Trouble.

A Writer

I am, at my most fundamentally, a writer. It was the first identity I tried on and loved. I was told I was a boy, told I was a McPherson, told I was from Massachusetts, told I was white. But the first thing I told anyone was that I was a writer. I wrote a six page double spaced story in second grade called The Quest for Life and I sold it for ten cents a copy to the other kids. It was primarily the plot of a game called KingsQuest. I didn’t know I was a writer when I started writing it. I hadn’t written a one page story I was proud of. But something about putting my hands on WordPerfect every afternoon after school felt right. It didn’t feel easy, but it felt resonant.

My life has been about finding ways to “write” without being alone. Me and Brad Schroeter started Fungle Toxins when I was in sixth grade. A punk band with words to our songs but no singer. Me and Brad knew the words, but we agreed that neither of us were qualified to sing them. I played guitar, I wrote the words. We agreed on the words but we never sang them.

I came to music as a writer. I was more fascinated by creation than duplication. The first order of magic is in the song, not the band. I landed as a bass player. Rightfully so. I am, at my second most fundamentally, a bass player. Perhaps even moreso than a musician. I feel a kinship to the role of the instrument, to the spirit of the instrument, to the personality of the players. There is some sort of resolvable, welcome tension between being a writer and a bassist. Like being a gardener and a demolition worker. Bass is a blue collar instrument. And that goes for McCartney, Mingus, Pastorius, Pettiford, Weymouth, Barrett and every other great. We are supports, we are foundations, we are musical infrastructure. If we exhibit the highest forms of style, of decoration and of freedom while being the infrastructure we are golden gods and godesses. If we exhibit the highest forms of style, of decoration and of freedom while not contributing to the infrastructure we are trumpets.

I came to trivia as a writer. I was more fascinated by camaraderie than by facts. Trivia being questions that demand answers seemed like an ultimate complete protein. How many times have I heard artists say that the role of the artist is to “ask questions not provide answers”? Circa a bajillion. Part of me thinks and has always thought “what a half assed job you espresso drinking shitbag” when I hear that line. I appreciate the truth in the line, but it presumes that there is some other line of work where in their long interview sections they say “the job of the ice cream store clerk is to answer the questions that the espresso drinking shitbag artist has asked”. No, not true. You, artist, you are uniquely qualified to answer the question because you wrote the question. I don’t mean you are the only one qualified, I don’t even mean you are the best qualified. I mean you are uniquely qualified. And if you take that off your job description definitionally I think you are kind of a shit.

Let’s be fair. The great writers of the world don’t ask trivia questions. I am now envisioning Friedrich Nietzsche working bar trivia sucking down a couple weisses off of his $20 tab and saying “Round 2, Question 4: When you stare into the abyss, what does the abyss do? Again, question 2, round four. If you stare in the abyss, what does the abyss do?”

I have been more rewarded in life asking questions there are answers to. Trivia, interviews, random would-you-rather questions. Building a conversation has been more rewarding than fashioning myself a star. Ultimately, as an artist I don’t believe my role is to ask questions. My role is to make art that asks questions. But I don’t feel the clear clarion call of an artist. In the journey that has to do with work I feel the push and pull of an entertainer, a host, a bass player, a songwriter, a curator. But, below all of these, deeper than most anything in me, I am a writer. And as I willfully pushed down my writing ambitions in junior high to make room for music, to write songs at home and play songs in Jon Baker’s basement in Lanesboro, I thought it might bubble up again, later. Maybe I didn’t think it would bubble up sitting on the second floor of paradise at First and Rittenhouse in Bayfield, Wisconsin on my seventh straight summer vacationing on this corner. But it has. And I am in Paradise a fifty-yard dash from Lake Superior. I am a writer.

You are what you do everyday. That means that there are many things we all might moonlight as doing but we haven’t actually “stuck our dick in”. It’s a crass way of saying it, but it’s the way I’ve heard the work described for decades by creators of all stripes and all genders. I’ve done the music work everyday. I spent a time doing the songwriting work everyday but I regret to say that some of my early successes as a songwriter clouded my ability to believe the work ethic had to tighten up. I’ve done the trivia work everyday. I’ve done the radio work everyday. And by virtue of this blog I’ve started to do the writing work everyday. But I’m ready to tighten shit up.

This summer I worked with a student intern at Jazz88 from South High named Laelah and she is a gifted writer and a tremendously gifted young person. She wrote a bunch of small reviews for Jazz88 and I was sad that I couldn’t line edit her writing. I couldn’t give her the sentence structure guidance I bet she’s getting from her teachers at South. I took it to my awesome writer committee of Chuck Terhark, Martin Devaney and my brother Steve McPherson. These men are all awesome writers and we spend some of the downtime of our life in a long text conversation talking about all sorts of miscellany. They pointed out that there is no better activity for learning to write than reading. I simultaneously agreed and rolled my eyes. I read a lot. But I had stopped reading like a writer. I had stopped looking at the handiwork of a writer with the reverence that I use when I listen to a bass player, when I play another company’s trivia night. But on this vacation, here in Bayfield, Wisconsin in the quasi-wicker deck chair I sit in now I engaged in some ancient-to-me process I remember doing as a kid. I saw a sentence, and I put my thumb near it. I worked it over in my head. I said it out loud with my mouth closed. I looked at a how it felt and I let it burn into my memory, into my writing muscles, into my craft. The writer is Jessamyn Ward and I’m reading her because Rachel and I agreed to pick off some of the fiction from the New York Times list of Greatest Books of the 21st Century that we haven’t gotten to. I don’t know much about this woman but the book is amazing so far. It’s called Salvage the Bones. Here’s the sentence:

By the time the meat is done cooking, has turned brown and small with as many hard edges as a jewel, the boys have come.

I don’t know how to explain it’s excellence, but I’m not sure you need me to. You know it’s excellent. And I know I’m a writer.

The Country Cabin Crapper Companion

I made an awesome magazine. The Country Cabin Crapper Companion. Artwork by @stephtupper, Best of Twin Cities by me, The Best Record Released Every Year between 1959-2009 by me, Power Loon article by @kylematteson, awesome recipes, 100 Cabin Questions and playful interviews with @charlie.parr, @_omgigi_ , @abywolf, @laplantica, @derushaj, @mmyykkvibes @useful_noise. I'm really proud of this here magazine and I hope you pick up a copy and enjoy it. I wanted to sell it right here on Squarespace, but they want me to pay more for the website to do that. I already pay like $117 a year and I don’t want to pay more. So for now, I’m going to be mainly giving them away if I see you. If you really want one venmo @twinkiejiggles $10 and then email me (s@heiruspecs.com) your mailing address and I’ll send it it you. If you live outside of the US venmo me a bit more.

I’ll also have them at the merch table at the Heiruspecs Summer Classic on Saturday August 17. $5 on their own. Free if you buy Heiruspecs merch.

I Appeared on the Brian Oake Show

Got to connect with a long time radio friend Brian Oake and join his podcast. Thanks for having me back. We talked about my new zine (more on that later when I have shipping supplies), the Heiruspecs Summer Classic, my radio journey to Jazz88 and more. Give it a listen and thanks to Brian and Sean for having me and for connecting with local musicians and hosting these conversations.

Three Views of a Secret

2024

——

I have spent, charitably, 50 hours of my life in a tent. Maybe 95% of those hours, in blissful campy sleep. I’ve spent very few waking hours in a tent. Just those waking hours you spend in a tent wondering if you really want to get up and pee in the morning. This weekend we were in the storms in cabin country Wisconsin. Saturday night, Solon Springs. The rain starts up around 5:30pm. We are finishing up a lightly stressful pizza dinner at the town bar in anticipation of a rainy night. I pull up the car to spare the kids the rain only for the kids to take for-fucking-ever to actually get into the car. Back to the cabin.

Our two kids are watching an ipad on a porch. The 15 or so neighbors from Saint Paul we are with are mostly gathered in a small cabin room with couples tag teaming one another to handle the start of children’s bedtimes. Our kids go to bed later than most. Rachel goes into the tent for a little break that I know will be a long break. The storm’s going. I am sitting in the couch next to my kids and I’m listening to “Bad Luck Blue Eyes Goodbye” by the Black Crowes in my headphones trying to decide if the drinks I had at the town bar are having any impact and also trying to decide if this is the greatest Black Crowes song of all time. I am also thinking about those artists, movies and other offerings of culture that played a disproportionately big role in my upbringing compared to other families. The Black Crowes. The movie Liar Liar. The TV show Twin Peaks. The Allman Brothers. Two rock bands you have never heard of I guarantee it: The Hatters and Reef. I am now encouraging you to listen to “Bad Luck Blue Eyes Goodbye” by the Black Crowes.

I have spent, charitably, until August 3, 2024, zero hours in a tent during a rainstorm. The family uses a green Coleman Skydome. It was selected for its ease of assembly and goddammit the satisfaction I derive from setting up the tent even though it is easy to assemble. I was not on a “yeah I can set up a tent” path in life and having shoved myself onto that path I smile from ear to bug-bitten ear admiring the cover I have created for my children in the rugged wilderness of the mowed grass next to Silus and Kelly’s cabin. I did not know that as rain hits a tent the beads of rain dance and move in orchestrated improvisation much like they would on my parent’s Chevy Nova on rides home from Pittsfield, Massachusetts. The rainfly and the tent in a taut bounce to keep the rain away from the people. The rain shakes the tent gently, the wind shakes the tent violently. My two daughters barter, cajole and acquiesce their way to an understanding of who gets what glow-sticks. With the exchange complete between the two of them I imagine some part of their attention also goes to the beating Mondrian painting that dances above our eyes. The sleep slowly rolls over both of them largely in rhythm with the storm rolling past us. Their bodies move less, their breaths more rhythmic, their glowsticks lazily sliding out of their loosened fists now shining inside their sleeping bags.

———-

2012

In my experience the tense conversations on tours never happen during the hours of easy driving between major and minor population centers. The conversations about publishing percentages, about who needs to help more with merch, about whether we can play an encore when only fourteen people come to our shows. . .those all happen amidst turns, the fighting happening in tandem with Siri reading take a right on Douglas, then continue straight on Douglas. One such argument came up in the Dessa band in regards to the ownership of sounds. The ownership of patches that Dustin, our amazing guitar player and keyboard player used in the studio and on stage. He played a tremendous role in both imitating sounds that had been acquired by other means on Dessa records and on creating his own sounds for new Dessa material.

So that’s the question. If Dustin subs out a gig, if Dustin quits, if Dustin gets fired. . .does the schmo who replaces him get those files? Does he get those patches or is the new schmo at square one? Dustin rightfully feels a level of ownership and identity over these patches. For some of the songs, it might be the hardest, most impactful work any of us in the band had done on the song. On the other hand, what about the Three Musketeersiness of all of this? If Dustin has to go play another gig or go to a wedding, isn’t the classy thing to send the patches over to schmo one so that they don’t have to spend hours crafting them for one sub gig? Continue straight to go on Hwy 12, then, stay in the right lane. But, how Three Musketeersy is the band at this point? Dessa’s making music with other producers, Dessa’s making music on her synthesizer, she’s restless. The writing is not on the wall, but the pen is out and the wall is there. Are we hired hands or are we in it for the long haul? Once they are shared with the schmo, what prevents you from saving them and using them after you fire me? Silence. Not even Siri is talking.

I want to be the peace keeper but there isn’t a needed peace to find. The argument is largely hypothetical. I don’t believe there is a gig we are subbing Dustin out for. I am a side person in the Dessa band. But I have been a bandleader a lot longer. My allegiance is to the advancement of the music with little patience for increasing the difficulty of advancing the music due to concerns of intellectual property. But I am not stupid enough to think that I am right, I just know where my allegiance lies. I say to Dustin “I haven’t been in the position to have a sound I felt strongly enough about to want compensation for it or to keep it for myself”. Without malice and without pause Dustin says “that’s right, cause you haven’t worked hard enough on a sound to feel ownership of it”. He’s right and it hurts. It hurts because when people say “you haven’t worked hard enough” it strikes a resonance in me, a harmony with the 24/7 screaming soundtrack of “you haven’t worked hard enough” already blasting through my head. I eat, sleep, work hard and think I don’t work hard enough. Those are my activities. Dustin just did the out loud on it. And it hurts. But I don’t have that perspective and I don’t have that experience. He’s right and fuck it hurts.

I didn’t understand, given Dustin’s level of sweat equity dumped into these patches, what his bargaining position could be. Dustin was right, I can’t speak as somebody who has put in that time. I can speak from my position, but it isn’t Dustin’s. I am working this story from 2012 into my campaign to not go back to one on one therapy. I had a strong year of therapy, I got through a lot of shit. I replaced it with yoga. I want to stay with yoga. But I feel under-appreciated in the grand majority of my relationships and Rachel and the couple’s counselor think there is work to be done there. Work to address my chronic feelings of not being appreciated enough. I don’t feel that Rachel sees what I do to keep our family thriving, especially in these years where she is stretched thin with grad school. I don’t feel that Heiruspecs understands how much work remains for me even if we don’t play that many shows. Rachel doesn’t know what it is to be me in this family. The gentlemen in Heiruspecs don’t know what it is to be me in our family. And I don’t know what it is to be them. I don’t know what Rachel or Peter or DeVon feels unappreciated about. I know my struggle. I know my pain points. I know the sweat equity I put in. I am not in charge of making the people I love understand it. We aren’t always in this together. It’s not three musketeers. It’s six guys. It sucks. It’s a marriage where your contributions feel invisible, feel ephemeral, feel negotiable. Why do I need to have someone else validate it? Dustin knew he had busted his ass to make these sounds, he was willing to hold his sounds hostage to have things work on his terms. Am I a leader or just a worker bee? Do I lead others in a meaningful way or do I just eat the shit others won’t? Am I one musketeer? Does that sound fun to you?

—-

2024

Today is my mother’s birthday. She’s been dead seventeen years. My relationship with her has gotten worse since her death. And it’s gotten worse in the last three years. The therapy I have done has been largely focused on my childhood years. Am I on my one musketeer program in adulthood because that was the comfortable way to get love from my family? I remember my parents rejoicing when I learned how to make them coffee in the morning, when I learned how to do laundry in the sixth grade, when I told my Dad I would happily be part of a book he wanted to write about how great our relationship was. The youngest child. I’ll play rhythm guitar Steve, no problem! Oh, you’re playing rhythm guitar? I’ll buy a bass! I’m just along for the ride and I’m also the road. One musketeer.

When I say my relationship with my mom has gotten worse I mean it’s gotten thicker, it’s gotten realer. There is more to it. There is more there. I understand our relationship differently. I was 25 when she died. I wasn’t really grown. I certainly wasn’t looking back much at the time. I wasn’t a dad. I wasn’t a grown man. I wasn’t a work in progress. I wasn’t working. I was a young man living. And now the good times we had are tainted, the always bad times look worse. Today I went to the bench they have for my Mom at Macalester, where my Dad was the President during one of the happiest stretches of her life. I sat at the bench and felt my body vibrate a little. I slowed down. I almost fell asleep. I wanted a security guard to walk up and ask me what I was doing here and I wanted to tell him that this is my Mom’s bench and I wanted him to read the plaque. The plaque for my mom said she had a genuine curiosity in everyone she met. That’s very correct Mr. Plaque writer. I know she loved me. I don’t believe she knew how to raise me. I don’t believe she knew how to care for me and how to give me the structure I needed to thrive. I don’t think she had that in her quiver, or if she did I don’t think she had the energy to call it up.

I leave the bench and walk to the President’s Mansion, the first place I lived in Minnesota. 1750 Summit Ave. Big ass khaki brick house. I drive past it sometimes just in regular life. But today I approach it on foot. I look at the alley. Just really one memory from the alley. A phone argument with DeVon from Heiruspecs as he was telling me he was going to miss the rehearsal the rest of us were all set up for. DeVon said “now if I understand correctly, you got laid last night, so I really don’t want you to be an asshole after I tell you this. I am not running late, I am not coming at all.” One musketeer.

I walk past the house up and down but don’t want to linger there, lest I scare the folks who live there now. The little driveway. I pulled the first Heiruspecs trailer up that driveway full of our gear all on my own after our first tour but I shit my pants about halfway up the incline. We had driven basically straight from Cleveland and I thought I’d wheel up about 700 pounds before hitting the commode. So instead of triumphantly walking in to the house and bragging about our week and a half long tour I frantically ran downstairs and tried to get the shit all cleaned off before I saw my parents and my aunt.

I then walk back to my car but I do the walk on Summit, not Grand. A couple steps in I realize I’ll go to a place I’ve never revisited before on foot. The Macalester Alumni House on Grand. It’s right near Great River Junior High which used to be called Ramsey. It was there, as my Dad was doing a round of meetings for his new job and Mom and I were shopping for high schools that she proposes that she and I get a divorce. I’m in ninth grade, we are fighting, and she says that we can’t seem to get along and we should just stay out of each other’s way. Worst moment of my life. We had watched Apollo 13 in the Alumni House the night before. I loved it, but even at the time I could feel the movie melting in with my memory of Mom suggesting that we would be well-served to stay out of each other’s way. Tonight I look out on the little extra parking strip of Summit where it happened, sitting in a rental car. Is that the worst thing that has ever happened on this little square of planet earth? Maybe somebody starved there in an unforgiving winter in 1837. Maybe someone got shot and died right there. I don’t have the data, but it’s possible a Mom proposing a divorce with her ninth grade son is the worst thing to happen in the parking space right outside of the Macalester alumni house. I turn the corner, great memories. Heiruspecs did the Battle of the Bands right here at Grand Old Day probably 1997 or 1998. Kicked ass, got second place. I think Curious Yellow got first. I remember walking around here, dreaming about kissing Christina Gosling on the mouth, thinking the high placement in the Battle of the Bands was bound to help my odds. I am back to Grand. I unnecessarily unlock my car from across Grand. I look at the bench. I’ve done the circle. 17 years you’ve been gone Mom. And I love you. I see you differently, I have lived so much life. I understand how much life you were robbed of. 60 seems so old to somebody whose 25. Today you’d be 77. A different person. I don’t know what we would have worked out. I don’t know what would have stayed unaddressed. You always had an appetite to talk. I’ll always wonder how you remember those times? Does your soul still negotiate with them? Are you at rest? The family that are still here aren’t really talkers like you and I are. When it’s in the rearview it’s gone. You and I are different from them and we are different from each other. I don’t think I’ll ever get to know who you are, cause I didn’t know who I was when you died. I am one musketeer. And I am your baby. And I can love you. And I can forgive you. And I don’t want a divorce.

I Appeared on the Show Some Kinda Fun

I had the honor of appearing on “Some Kinda Fun” recently. It can be an uphill battle covering a local music scene. At times it can feel like you’ll get more attention for your small handful of mistakes than you’ll get for your bushel full of slam dunks. Well, in my humble opinion Some Kinda Fun does it right and I’m glad they shared their platform so I could talk about the upcoming Heiruspecs Summer Classic and more. Check it out (my interview is at 33 minutes FYI)!