Location, Location, Locations

God damn it it’s important to be in places designed to be about the things you love. My 20s were parked firmly in the area where it was most efficient to go to where the shit you loved was. I love movies. Go to Home Video. I love instruments. Go to Willie’s American Guitars. I love recorded music. Go to a record store. I love making music. Go to your space and practice and write.
Now a lot of times you decide you love something and you search for a home for it on the web. Or you just hope that the thing you love comes across the identity-seeking graze of scrolling. I have gotten plenty of good experiences from that grazing, but no great ones. I fell back in love with things I used to love today by being in their physical presence.
I needed that affirmation of love. Staying creative, ambitious and enthusiastic about creative pursuits as futile as the ones I’m in requires recharging, requires fortification. When all you do is tell your dog “it” matters while you sit on your couch trying to finish up some piece of writing and you keep on dozing off I admit I get to wondering if it does actually matter. But today, I know “it” matters. The “it” is a life that is not a complete surrender to the algorithms, to the momentum towards doing what is easiest for your family and your immediate satisfaction. The “it” is purposely crafting a life that produces art, that fosters community, that helps things be better. I, like you, am surrounding by people who never gave a shit about “it”, stopped giving a shit about “it”, or harbor some bit of negative judgment for anyone who still cares about “it”. It’s a worthwhile fight.
This morning, after I made my signature pancakes and struggled through a walk with our rebellious pit bull foster Flex, the boys from Big Trouble came over for a rehearsal. Big Trouble plays once a month at White Squirrel (last Saturday of the month 6-8p). Big Trouble has been on a creative run that involves making new music almost every month. One rehearsal, one gig. New charts, charts we struggled with, songs we just want to revisit for whatever reason. Everyone sounds nice at rehearsal today. The guitars are brilliant, filled with clarity and tube warmth. Peter has his best snare on my house kit. The riveted secondary ride sounds beautiful. My bass amp hasn’t moved in years and it’s set up just perfect. I have new roundwounds on. There is an aesthetic joy in this band. There is a beauty to the sound. We dust off the Elliott Smith song Angeles. We finally find an arrangement that works for the bridge. We’ve been trying to make this song work for maybe a year and a half. Next up we work on a new original I wrote called 67 Ways to Leave Your Easel. Here’s the chart in case you want to play along at the next gig on January 24.

It turns out great. Tasty solos. Then we work on Waxahatchee’s Ruby Falls. This one has been a struggle spot. I transcribed the melody. My brother Steve got it more closer to the record. But me and my fingers were stuck in our ways and I struggled to make the transition. Her beautiful melody at times leaves some rhythmic uncertainty. Steve, who has been giving lessons and playing a bunch of music as of late, falls in and adjusts rapidly. Faster than I can. I figure it’s hopeless to make the decisions about the melody and firm them up in this one rehearsal. But here we are, getting it together. I love music and I am around fellow musicians. The room is filled with music, the room is filled with musicians. This is one of the ways I spend my life. This is one of the ways I fill my cup. This is one of the ways Peter, Steve and Josh also fill their cup. We wrap up the rehearsal and I rejoin my family.

My four year old N. took a risk on a toot in the tub and dropped a deuce. My wife Rachel is not super excited about the whole situation. I clean N. up while Rachel cleans the tub. A trade I’m happy to make. We play Mount Sean. It’s a game where N. steps across my spread out legs in a sitting position on her bed in order to “climb Mount Sean.” Then we head off to guitar lessons. I don’t want the guitar teacher to my house. I want to get guitar lessons at a spot where other kids get lessons. Location. Location. Locations. My seven year old S. drops down into a basement room filled with Beatles posters and peppered with Gary Clark Jr. posters and keeps on learning how to sight-read on the G, B and E strings. N. and I play upstairs, look at weird instruments, play around on the carpet and kill time. We join S. for the last ten minutes of her lesson and I love seeing her play with the teacher, laughing, learning. This is one of the ways we spend our Saturdays. During the lesson N. asks me to push my finger into her forehead. I am transported back to a video store from my childhood in Pownal, VT. I have one of the worst headaches of my life. My mom takes her hands and pushes my forehead and the back of my skull together. She then pushes the sides of my head together. I have never felt better. Better than Tylenol. Better than a cold glass of water on a hungover morning. I wonder if I am making N.’s head feel better than it ever will. I hope I am.

We drive to Caydence on the East Side of Saint Paul. Coffee, vinyl, live music. I am at a physical location for music lovers, for coffee lovers, for people who don’t want to do their things differently. S. looks at the impossible to sound out pastry kouign amann. You and me both. She orders one of those. N. gets a hot chocolate with whipped cream. Peter Goggin, Sophia Kaufmann, Nate Baker and some jazz musicians I don’t know are playing All of Me. No drummer. The percussion is a tap dancer. Rhythm is a dancer. Ashley Gonzalez.

I am in a city with jazz musicians who troop into the back of a record store and make beautiful music on a Saturday in January. I am here to consign records for Heiruspecs with my friend Niqui who I’ve known for years. She’s hung posters for Trivia Mafia. She’s been to a bunch of Heiruspecs shows. She’s worked hard for her community and she is a fixture here at Caydence. I drink a coffee, fill out consignment forms and put some records into the universe that I hope someone will buy and spend time with and enjoy and play for their friends.

I’m about to leave and I see Chris. I don’t know Chris’s last name. He played percussion in a band my friends were in in their early 20s called Latona’s Thirst. Chris is driving around putting up posters for his new band the Stone Arch Rivals. He is too old for this shit. I am too old for this shit. But we are here together, spending our Saturdays spreading the word about our art. Buying a coffee. Hanging a poster. Hearing a band. Browsing through records. Talking to a sax player. Fighting the algorithms. Visiting the locations. Filling our cup. The posters look good. They’re almost ready to put out a record. I return home, turn on Radio K. The genius DJ plays They Might Be Giants, Nirvana, Journey and Modest Mouse in one set. They rattle off all the famous Steve Smith’s in addition to Journey drummer Steve Smith. It is amazing radio. It is funny. Modest Mouse sounds amazing. My cup is brimming. I had to tell you about it.