Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere (Home Again)

5,000 miles, $420 in gas, 69 hours in the car, 10 open mics, 20 well whiskeys, 3 couches, 2 blow-up mattresses, 2 packs of cigarettes, 2 sets of cousins, 6 generous old friends, 2 generous new friends, 3 original songs, one Bob Dylan cover.

And I'm back where I started. So what?

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My last open mic of the trip was happening at Salt Lake Roasting Company. The barista who I spoke to earlier in the day told me it usually started between 7:30 and 8:00. Not wanting to show up too late and get a crappy spot on the list, I left dinner with my cousin, her husband and her two adorable children and walked in to the two story coffee shop at 7:30.

The guy who hosts it, Larry, hadn't showed up yet. He didn't show up until after 8:00. This was fine, whatever. The hosts at these open mics usually only do it so they can play their own material in front of the crowd. Most hosts open the show and some, like Larry, will play throughout the night, whenever the crowd is a decent size. This isn't bad necessarily, it takes a lot of effort and commitment to put these together week after week and if they want to play their songs then, by all means. However, it does highlight one of the worst aspects of these open mics: Nobody's listening.

Most of the "audience" at an open mic is made up of performers waiting for their 5 minutes. And performers are often fidgety and wrapped up in their own thoughts before they go on, myself included. They're thinking about what songs they're going to play, thinking about the lyrics, the chords, the fingering patterns, whether anybody will like any of it, and should I piss first? They're certainly not paying attention to whatever is happening on stage at any given moment. On stage, this looks like an audience of bored, nervous schizophrenics.

This narcissism is self-defeating. There's no community. There's no back-and-forth. Each person goes up to sing their songs and can't listen, can't absorb anybody else's material. That's why the most common compliment heard at these things is "great job" or "great stuff." "Great" is the new "good." It's become meaningless.

Any sort of acknowledgement of another performer on the part of the audience is usually based in a comparison. "Am I better than this?" This is wrong-headed because a lot of the acts are vastly different, at least in my experience. Sure, there's a folk-y, country-y through-line through most of the sets (and this is why I felt isolated pretty much every night) but I've seen a cellist/ukelele combo, ethereal vocals set to jazz chords, twelve string Dylan-esque epic tales, and more. Still, the audience (when it's entirely performers, which, again, is quite often) can't break out of their own insecure headspace to enjoy any of the craziness happening on stage.

I know and understand this disconnect because I am the biggest offender. I get wrapped up thinking about what songs I'm going to play, looking up the lyrics to covers I'm going to do on my phone, and judging myself against every one else up on the stage. It's self-centered, petty and horrible.

And it's this sort of mindset that makes these open mics such depressing, insular affairs. The regulars are usually introduced with tired, feigned enthusiasm and the newcomers with morbid curiosity. Chicago was the half-exception to this. Talented, unique performers with caring, supportive hosts. There was a groundswell there. Artists supporting each other, putting on shows and open mics across town, everybody inviting each other to perform at each others' shows. I heard a couple of WTF's with Marc Maron where comedians talked about scenes growing out of this sort of communal collaboration. They would meet kindred spirits out at open mics, they would then start their own open mic (at any bar or restaurant who would have them), until eventually there was an open mic every night of the week, and they would all invite each other to perform. It became self-less. It became collaborative. It became fun.

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After Larry (and his banjo player)'s second set Thursday night, I heard him lean over to his buddy and say, "they all look bored. We should do something different." They brought a girl up, who's apparently in their band, and sang three more songs. I'd put their name here, I remember it because he said it 5 times before and after each song, but I wasn't really into it. For chrissakes, after all the bullshit I wrote above I'm not going to fall into that petty, jealous trap. It's good folk. The girl could really sing. Bird In The Trees. There. I'm really self-conscious and awkward about self-promotion. I'm trying to get better. Have you seen my business card?

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I left after Bird In The Trees set. I wanted to hang with my family. I was already upset for having to leave dinner early, and miss out on more time with those amazing kids. By the time I got to their house their kids were asleep. That bummed me out, too. Once again I chose to spend time in a room of unengaged, insecure strangers rather than with people I actually loved and cared about - who reciprocated those feelings, not with applause, but with hugs and smiles and laughter and conversation. 

My cousin had to go to sleep soon after I arrived; it was her first week at a new job. My cousin's husband and I went to the back yard and sat under his summertime cabana and talked music. Marin (check out these incredible YouTube playlists he's created) is a goddamn music history fiend. I told him that I was tired of hearing Mumford & Sons-style folk-pop that's ineffectual and spineless, and that I just wanted to play rock and roll music. We talked about Joe Strummer for a while and he went into Joe Strummer's history: his time as a teddy boy, pub rock, the 101ers, his later years with the Mescaleros. Then we talked about Spaceman 3, Brian Eno and Brinsley Schwarz. Anything you bring up, Marin can run with it and point you in 10 different directions. His kids are going to grow up so damn cool. Or as he put it - referring to his son, Kanno, "Kanno's going to be such a right wing nazi because of all the weird stuff I've subjected him to." I hope I'm around enough to witness it all go down.

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I smoked my last cigarette with Marin. I spent $13 on a pack in Chicago and the next day watched the documentary on DEATH where one of the brothers died of lung cancer before the band was rediscovered recently. I've got to cut some of this stuff out of my system so I can focus and get shit done. No time to waste. No time at all.

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I raced home across 4 states on Friday to get back into the arms of someone I loved. I'm not sure what all this meant or if it was even worth the gas money and time spent going insane alone in my car but I will say it felt good to be home. Not Blythe-home but home face-to-face with someone I cared deeply, profoundly about. And who cared about me, too. (at least for a while - we're breaking up in two weeks when she moves away to grad school) I travelled around half the country seeking affirmation in applause from strangers. I found it most affectionately, most satisfyingly in the arms of a girl with (newly) red hair and brown eyes.

My luck's about to run out.

Blessed and ready to rock and roll anew,

-Darn

SLC Recall

Only had an 8 1/2 hour drive yesterday. Straight through the Rockies and into the Utah desert. It was amazing to watch the landscape change as drastically as it did.

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I arrived in Salt Lake City in the evening and decided to skip an open mic in order to go to a baseball game with my family. The Salt Lake City Bees were playing the Las Vegas 51s. (?) I sat there and kind of zoned out as my cousin brought me a two large beers. My aunt had started up conversations with all the various groups surrounding us: a scout for the Mets and Angels (he does both?), a couple from Switzerland on a road trip and a few mormon families.

The Swiss couple had not been to a baseball game before and my aunt delighted herself in illuminating all the little details, which only served to confuse them. The scout would chip in occasionally - begrudgingly - to clarify a particular rule or strategy. They were a very amiable couple. This was their second road trip in the U.S., the first was spent in California and Arizona. We were all at a loss when, in the middle of the 8th inning, three people (interns?) in ridiculous costumes (pizza, ice cream and hot dog) started a foot race around the field. The ice cream took the early lead, as the pizza fell behind. But with tortoise-like focus, the hot dog crossed the finish line first. It was a proud day for America.

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Later that night I hung out with my cousin, Amy. She's 31 and a riot. She has a lot of manic energy but tempers it with real warmth and joy. We talked quite openly about some of the addictive qualities of our family, and how those tendencies have affected our generation. Her younger brother died a couple years ago (8 years ago, if I care to do the math) of an overdose. It was a mixture of pain medication, since he was recovering from a near-fatal car crash, and alcohol. He died a week short of his 21st birthday.

I've always looked up to this side of my family. Aaron, the aforementioned brother, was a young hero to me and helped guide me along in my interest in Science Fiction and... dinosaurs. We talked about Star Wars a lot and watched Jurassic Park on repeat during the summer. When I saw fireflies in Peoria and Chicago just a few days ago I was immediately reminded of the first time I saw fireflies. It was when my family and I were visiting Aaron and his family on the east coast. My dad pulled over the car, at my mother's insistence, and my brother and sister and I hopped out to get a closer look. My brother started chasing them and my sister cautiously followed. I hung back, just watching them. I think Aaron and Amy were there, too. Along with Donna, my aunt. I felt awkward because of how commonplace the phenomenon seemed to Aaron, yet how bizarre and surreal it seemed to me. If I wasn't so caught up in my head at the time, I would've joined my brother and sister. But I stood on the side of the road: observing.

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Aaron's favorite movie was Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. One of my last memories of him is watching that movie at his grandparents house the summer before he died. I had seen it a couple of times before and it had become an obsession of mine. I had no idea Aaron had a similar relationship to it. I convinced my sister to watch it with us. The three of us gathered around a tiny old television and watched it in quiet reverence as our family went in and out, grabbing beer from the fridge or chips from the cupboard. My sister fell asleep half way through. I wonder if she's ever seen the end.

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Myself, My Brother, My Sister

When Amy and I got back to my aunt's house 20 minutes north of Salt Lake City, we played pool and Amy recalled a few more things. She and her sister, Loren, were apparently pool sharks when they were in their teens, hustling older men in New Jersey pool halls. Amy also reminded me of a story I remember quite vividly of my father punishing my brother at a pool party.

I must have been 10 or so, but it was my younger brother's birthday. We were all playing in the back yard, in and around the pool. My brother, pale to the point of translucence and wearing only his swim trunks, took a basketball, ran up to my sister (our younger sister) and, with two hands, raised the ball above his head and then threw it straight in her face. Amy says she remembers the my sister flew backwards at the impact. I remember her crying, screaming when my mother came and took her inside. My dad, calm but bubbling over with anger, got the ball and lowered himself on one knee. He beckoned my brother over. Even on one knee, my dad was a foot taller than my brother. My brother approached slowly, not knowing what the punishment would be, but afraid of it nonetheless. My dad grabbed his arm and told him to stand there. He then took the ball and, with one hand balanced it in front of my brother's face. There was a moment when my brother realized what was about to happen and he cringed. Then, WHAM! My dad bounced the ball right into his face.

When Amy was telling me this story last night I was literally rolling on the floor laughing. (or ROFL-ing, for the uninitiated) I was crying and rolling back and forth with my knees in my chest. I remembered it all so clearly. It was like I was watching it in grainy VHS in my head.

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Tomorrow: The Final Open Mic.

On The Road Again... And Again... And Again...

15 hours in the car. I left at 8:00 AM Chicago time. I got to Denver a little after 10:00 Mountain Man Time. The drive wasn't the worst I've done (TEXAS! he screams shaking his fist) but it wasn't easy either. I spent the time listening to Keith Richards, trimming the longer hairs off my face, listening to Comeback Kid, texting (I know this is illegal and dangerous not to mention stupid but I was booooored), and listening to WTF and Comedy Bang Bang and Paul F. Tompkins. He's really funny. Much funnier than whatever it was I was trying to do last night.

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Iowa is gorgeous. Rolling green fields and absolutely beautiful farm houses. Sure some of them looked to be in disarray but that didn't diminish their beauty in my eyes.

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An image sticks out to me of a gaggle of bros pulled off to the side of the interstate, all peering quizzically into the hood of their car, scratching their heads. One of them stumbles around, phone raised towards the heavens, searching in the sky for God, signal, anything, something.

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The open mic at the Meadowlark in Denver was a boy's club. I don't mean that in the sense that it was comprised entirely of males but that it felt a little unwelcoming to outsiders. I will admit that at this point I had just driven 15 hours, I was wearing a farmer's hat and probably looked like hell. Maybe my appearance was unwelcoming. Maybe I AM unwelcoming.

The acts were good, though easily pidgin-holed: (am I getting bitter?) A Glen Hansard-type from Scotland may have been my favorite. Strong, powerful voice and good folk-pop ditties; a guy who made extensive use of a loop pedal, who also referred to himself as "The Wolf"; a guy and gal (father and daughter?) 1920's jazz-pop combo. The daughter sang really low and nervously. The father did some very show-off-y stuff on the keys so good for him.

I went on last. The guy before me ended his set but breaking a string and just walking off stage and right out of the bar. The place had emptied out. The people running it were hanging out in the back drinking so I just set up my own mic and guitar. There were a few couples on dates sitting at the bar. There was a group of people who recently moved to Denver who stood up and watched me and danced drunkenly to my Frank Ocean cover. They were very supportive but also very drunk. I'll take it where I can get it, I guess.

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I try and keep my conversation on stage to a minimum. I want to talk about Ghost Island and how my friends and I are trying to set up a recording oasis down on the Colorado river, but I also know that nobody cares. Whenever I open up my mouth between songs my brain starts yelling at me: "NOBODY'S LISTENING! NOBODY CARES! NOBODY'S LISTENING! NOBODY CARES!" It gets louder and louder until I finally shut up and play a song.

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Denver is cool. I almost turned into oncoming traffic this morning because I didn't realize that EVERY STREET IS A ONE-WAY. Also, this coffee shop doesn't have wifi (huh?) so I won't be posting this until later today.

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I'm staying with friend of a friend, Kevin Ripley, and his brother, Brian, who I know through my dear bud, Matt Schley. (He's in Japan right now and taking some amazing photos on his instagram: Mosk_) Kevin welcomed me into his place with open arms, King of The Hill on Netflix and a homebrew Hefeweizen. Kevin has been homebrewing for a while and won a competition recently and will be making his first commercial brew with Scott Brewing Co. later this month. The guy knows his stuff. Between the beer and the conversation I forgot about how tired I was from the drive and how disappointed I was with the open mic that night. Beer: It makes the pain go away.

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I called my aunt in Salt Lake City to let her know I was going to be getting in tomorrow in the evening. She invited me to stay for more than a couple of days but I politely declined. "I've been driving too much. And I'm homesick," I told her.

"Homesick? For Blythe? No. There must be a girl there."

I love my SLC family. I texted Ariel later in the night, "It's hard to be on the road when you have an Ariel at home."

Am I cut out for the road? Am I cut out for anything? Do I have to cut it all up myself?

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Tomorrow: I cut through the Rockies and rest with family in Salt Lake City, UT. Mo-Town U.S.A.

Second City Comedy Into The Wee Hours Of The Morning

Another day, another dollar. Just kidding. There is no money involved in playing open mics across the country.

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I played two open mics today. The first one was at Uncommon Ground and was music-centric. I opened in order to give myself enough time to get to the second open mic. I played two songs ("Orion's Utility Belt" and "Volveré") and... it felt good. After last night I feel like I'm getting a hang of playing these songs. Truth be told it was watching John Kimler last night that revealed the trick. I've got to enjoy myself. And I did.

MUSIC!

The other performers were excellent. Chicago is really spectacular and lousy with talented people. One of the guys, Ross, a really young kid, played some Dylan-esque originals that were really great. Another girl played with a cellist and did some heartbreaking material. She was in a leg cast because she's a dancer and after a routine during Chicago's Pride week, she slipped on a spilt drink and dislocated her leg. Anyways, she had a great voice and the cellist was phenomenal.

I took off shortly after that in order to get to the second event: A comedy open mic!

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Andrew and I decided earlier in the day that we would do a comedy open mic. We worked on our material, timed it, and said, "why not?" We prepared five minutes and showed up 15 minutes early to sign up.

Schubas was packed. And we found our way into what we thought was a line. When 9:00 came, the line... formed? Whatever it was we ended up in the back of it. And, after Andrew, I was the very last person to sign up to the 40 person list. Huzzah!

This guy was one of the hosts and he was funny:

OKCComedy Presents: Derek Smith - watch more funny videos

And then, we waited. At first, the room was alive and the comedy was good. But after two hours... after three hours... after FOUR HOURS... there was no energy left. And the room was practically empty. But I went up and did my four minutes. And it went okay! I had fun at least. My favorite joke went something like this:

I'm in a somewhat volatile living situation right now. I'm living with a couple. And they're really needy and obsessive-compulsive... (adjusts some drinks on the table) Sorry that was bothering me. They're always telling me to turn my music down, clean my room, get a job... And they fight a lot. I always feel like it might have something to do with me. I'm certainly not making it easier. Whenever I hear them fighting it always ends the same: "HE'S YOUR SON, TOO, GREG." ...I live with my parents, in case that wasn't obvious.

COMEDY!

At this point it was 1:45 in the morning and there were 5 people in the room including Andrew and his girlfriend, Abby. There was some laughter. But at 2:00 in the morning it's hard to discern between pity and genuine enjoyment.

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Tomorrow: 15 HOURS ON THE ROAD TO DENVER. Goodness, I'm tired.

DEATH & The Night Life

In the afternoon, Andrew and I went to see a documentary called A Band Called Death. It's about three black brothers in Detroit who, in 1973, started a rock and roll band called, ahem, DEATH. Their music is loud, fast and HARD AS, and predates a lot of the "punk" sound coming out of New York a few years later. They were offered a contract by Arista Records - through Clive Davis - under one condition: they be open to changing the name. At the eldest brother's insistence, they refused. That's punk rock.

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Later in the day we went out for another double open mic. The first stop was the Gallery Cabaret. Entering the bar, America's Got Talent was playing on a large HD television and the sound was the only thing heard in the bar. There were people there, more than a few. But the bartender, an older, skinny cowboy with a big beard, jeans, a cowboy hat and hand full of assorted skull and "badass" type rings. The smell was harsh and distinct. Like a whole mess of Lysol was used to cover up what the bar normally smelled like, which was probably vomit, shit and regret.

I signed up to go second but no one else signed up for the first slot so I went first. It went fine. The line in wasn't working properly so my guitar was quiet in the mix. Going first is difficult. You're kind of responsible for setting the tone and I was just nervous. There was also this woman towards the front who was spitfire drunk. Her whole personality strikingly resembled Pamela Adlon, particularly her character from Louis C.K.'s Louie. She even looked like her. It was uncanny.

What followed after me was a very diverse set of Chicago locals and travelers. This Mexican guitarist/singer/harmonica player named Vijente played some old Mexican classics (that I had never heard). There was a kind of corny (albeit talented) ukelele player who did a charming version of "Georgia On My Mind." There was this young woman from Atlanta who was up in Chicago to play a wedding (someone saw a cover song she put up on YouTube and asked her to come up and play it for them). And the closer was this local manic-pixie-dream-girl who played some schizophrenic pop/dance stuff on a loop pedal. Here's a video of her performing on the Gallery Cabaret stage actually.

After this the Pamela Adlon-type brought up her boyfriend, whom she was fighting with, and they fought their way through what was supposed to be a cover of the Rolling Stones' "Let's Spend The Night Together." I left at this point to make a phone call home.

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The next open mic was at Bucktown Pub and was hosted by a mustachioed 6'6" dude by the name of John Kimler. He opened the show with some really good "last call" bar tunes, including: Tom Waits' "The Heart of Saturday Night" and Bob Dylan and The Band's … Balzac, I can't remember. Anyway, it was damn good. The highlight of the night for me came when this guy Josh played Bruce Springsteen's "Atlantic City" (one of my favorite songs OF ALL TIME) accompanied by a local trumpet player, Paul. It took my breath away. And the way Paul filled the gaps with his muted trumpet was subtle and haunting.

I went up fifth this time and stuck out amongst the all-male folk-y guitarist-singers that preceded me. And it went… really well. I felt comfortable. I felt like I was playing to the right crowd. After John's Waits and Dylan stuff and Josh's "Atlantic City," I felt like I might have something to add to the conversation. I threw in a cover of Dylan's "I Shall Be Released" and John sang along from behind the mixer. I was pitchy throughout (I couldn't decide between the higher register and lower even though I know how I do it - start low and end up high - but gah it was sloppy) but the final verse and chorus were solid. I closed this set with "Volveré" (at Andrew's recommendation) and I think I'm going to do that from now on. I wanted to start my set with that because I feel like it's a good attention grabber. But it may be better to close with it since it closes so strong. You know, the part where I threaten to kill a few people.

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Tomorrow: A COMEDY open mic?! How bad of an idea is that!?


BONUS: Here's video I shot of Vigente. The woman you hear talking is the spiritual twin of Pamela Adlon:

Art and the Creator (A Story of Failure)

Chicago is an amazing place. And the pizza! Mon Dieu! It's also got the largest population of Polish people outside of Poland. So the Felski in me feels right at home among these pale, podgy people.

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The afternoon was spent in the Art Institute of Chicago where there is a beautiful collection of French Impressionism (among thousands of other things). I was struck by some of the obsessive work of Claude Monet, who, apart from his water lilies, also did repetitive studies of certain french cathedrals and - most impressively in the Chicago collection - stacks of wheat. He painted these stacks of wheat over and over again during different seasons and different times of day. It's an incredible achievement and the results are beautiful, but it hints of insanity. Or extreme dedication to one's artform. To do the same thing over and over again with subtle changes... I also experienced some strange nostalgia as I've seen several different pieces from this series in Paris and New York. Memories drenched in awe. Blah blah blah.

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I didn't make it to the open mic. For dinner, my friends and I went to Lou Malnati's for some delicious deep dish pizza. The wait was over an hour and we still had to get my guitar from their apartment. But the pizza was worth it. My God, the pizza was worth it. We left the apartment half an hour before the open mic was set to start. Walking and singing as I warmed up, Andrew and I reminisced about drunkenly singing Grizzly Bear's "Knife" while stumbling through downtown Los Angeles. We argue about the other's ability to harmonize. I played Neutral Milk Hotel's "King of Carrot Flowers Pt. 1" and yelled out the closing melody. The people wandering through the streets paid no mind. As well they should.

We arrived 10 minutes before the show was supposed to start. They were full up. There was actually a crowd of people there. I could've actually played in front of an audience! They were young people, too! Interested people! Curious people! I curse myself and wallow in self-loathing for about an hour. Eventually I liquor myself up enough to forget about it. Two shots of malort and you'll stop whining about anything. And start whining about everything.

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This is something I told Andrew, after the malort and a tall whiskey from the well:

God is an artist. He's THE creator, right? Well, just like any other artist, He's needy, narcissistic. He needs affirmation. And because He's all alone up there He needs affirmation about his work from the creation itself: us. That's why you're supposed to praise Him and give thanks. He wants His ego stroked! He wants a pat on the back: "Good work, God! You did great." And I can give him props for some of the work he did in nature, but humanity? I don't know, man. I don't know... I think he's got some 'SPLAININ' TO DOOO.

Everything eventually turns in to a television reference. It's inevitable. Ideas free of allusion hang in the air too long and I get nervous, scared. I got to bring it back down. Laugh at it in some small way. It's kind of pathetic, I suppose.

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Tomorrow: The Hangover Pt. 1-4 and I finally make it to an open mic with a crowd. (One hopes)

Yeezus City

I listened to Kanye West's new album, YEESUZ, twice on the way into Chicago to get into that Chi-City state of mind. "New Slaves" is a particularly stunning cut. LISTEN:

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Chicago. This was the main destination of the trip. A couple of my college friends have relocated here in the last couple of years and I wanted to see them and see the city again. The road so far has been packed with friends and family and warm welcomes and good times. Chicago is the apex and my last stop with friends to stay with before the long road to Salt Lake City. I started to get overwhelmed by the amount of driving ahead of me. But then I remembered I'm in Chicago seeing some of my best friends and I should just not worry about that other stuff right now.

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I couldn't find really any open mics in Chicago on Fridays so what I ended up going to was God's Garage, a Christian outreach center in West Chicago. They have an open mic on Fridays and the website claims that they'll even burn you a CD of your performance. I called beforehand to make sure it was still on and the preacher, Rocky, assured me they were up and running.

"How many people do you have on the list for tonight?" I inquired.

"… Well, none right now but just come on down!"

Andrew, my college buddy and Chicago fiend, decided to accompany me on the outing and I'm glad he did because if he didn't I would have just played to Rocky and his cat, Hobbes.

The set went fine, I guess, but who can really attribute any sort of critique to a show that's played before your friend, the host of the open mic and his cat. Rocky was a nice guy and explained that he hosted the open mic because he was getting tired of going out to bars on Friday nights to drink and listen to music. He wanted a place for music with less pressure to consume alcohol. He claimed that they have had some really good nights where a lot of people show up and then others where, and he gestured around the empty room. After every song I played he would hit play on this knock-off iPod mini and canned applause would weakly pour out the speakers. It was kind of sad, the whole thing, but not really any more depressing than any of the other open mics.

Rocky invited us out to his church on Sunday, Jesus People, in North Chicago. It's a real rock and roll church, he tells us. He is not turned off by our admission of atheism and even admits that even though he tries to do this to stay sober on Fridays he'll likely go out drinking tomorrow night. He also explains that the whole point of God's Garage is to accept anybody and everybody, regardless of whether they're religious or not. He recalls going to certain churches or community groups and feeling judged and unwelcome. God's Garage is a place removed from that cynicism. It's a place for music, first and foremost, and secondly a place for christians to come together. This guy gets it, I thought to myself.

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Tomorrow: NO SHAME THEATER Open Mic where I get 5 minutes before the hook yanks me off stage.