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.

Ruby Thursday (The 4th of July)

I've seen 6 different types of road kill between Austin, TX and Chicago, IL. A dog, an owl, a deer (and a doe, for chrissake), a raccoon, a skunk, and an armadillo. Man kill beast. Kill beast good.

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Previous 4ths, I've been adamant about listening to The Band in honor of America's birthday. Of course, I am aware that 4/5ths of the group is Canadian but Levon Helm was American enough to overcompensate for the rest of them. And really, their songs express the American mindset with more depth and emotion than most other "American" rock and roll bands. Neil Young manages the same trick somehow. Since I was on foreign territory this 4th - at my girlfriend's maternal family gathering: the Barbee Family 4th of July Extravaganza at Grampa John and Gramma Katheryne's House - I didn't press it. I did manage to sneak in "I Shall Be Released (Live)" off my computer in the morning. God Bless YouTube.S.A.

The Barbee Partee was a quintessential slice of Americana. We played baseball, we ate steak, we sang "God Bless America" while the crazy uncles lit off fireworks. It was joyful, pure and a damn fine reminder of the diverse type of people this country produces - even in the confines of a single family. A personal highlight: Uncle Mike, who wore a cowboy hat, sunglasses (regardless of shade cover, especially inside) and a collared shirt designed with the stars and stripes. He cooked the steak. And told the jokes. And mocked my inability to throw a frisbee.

At the end of the night, since I had no desire to seek out a 4th of July open mic, I was happy to get the chance to play some sing-alongs with the family. Ariel - my girlfriend and my invitation to the Partee - and her sister, Grace, and I started off with "Ruby Tuesday." The family is incredibly musical (Ariel's cousin, Sam, is a sort of savant when it comes to the guitar and has a pretty impressive basement studio at home. He's 16) and when we hit that chorus the whole room shouted it out. "Mirrors" by Justin Timberlake followed, but petered out in the bridge. I stumbled through "If I Fell" by The Beatles but the room carried the tune better than I ever could. Finally, Ariel's father Aron led the group in "I've Just Seen A Face" and Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Proud Mary." I had actually learned the CCR song last week, just in case I felt I needed a 'MERICAN song for the 4th of July. Aron beat me to it, sang it wonderfully, played it well and got everybody "rolling" by the end of it. It was the perfect closer and I would have never had the guts to pull it out. Nice job, Aron.

As I was shaking hands and saying my thank-yous on the way out, Uncle Mike gripped my hand a little too tight and said, "We we're going to have you sleep in the gun room." Nervous laughter. He let go of my hand and took out a hunting knife and started picking under his finger nails. He continued, "just to show you what kind of family we are."

"Loud and clear," I said back to Uncle Mike, smiling. I've got an Uncle Mike, too. I've seen this act work on my cousin's boyfriends from the city. I'm a little too country to get frightened by 4-inch blade.

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I said my goodbyes to Ariel and her family this morning and left for Chicago. She has red hair now. I'm quite fond of it. And her, too. If you haven't yet heard her singing voice you should listen to song below (or this Kanye West cover):

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You ever heard of a Lemon Shake-Up? They are incredible. Sugary lemon drank. Mm mmm.

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Tomorrow: CHI-CITY MANE.

Long Drive With Too Much To Think About

When I'm in danger of falling asleep, I'll do this thing where I manually scan the radio stations for Daft Punk's "Get Lucky." I'll usually catch it within 10 minutes or so. Then, when it ends, I keep turning the dial until I get lucky once more. Some times I can carry it across three different stations before it ends. I can't get sick of it. It's too good.

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I got on the road in Ft. Worth at 8:30 AM yesterday. I arrived in Peoria, Illinois at 10:30 PM. 14 hours on the road. WTF, The Zombies, LIFE, Joni Mitchell and Mere Christianity kept me going. And three cups of coffee. And Shockers candy.

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I tried to hit an open mic in St. Louis on the way. St. Louis was three hours away from my final destination, the Barbee Family outpost of Peoria, IL. Edwardsville, actually, is where I stopped. I read about a good open mic there on Wednesdays near the campus of USIE at a place called Stagger Inn. Ha. Unfortunately it didn't start until 9:00 and I arrived at 7:30. I ordered a burger and and sat at the bar with my book, The Brothers Karamazov, to try and feel out the place. Maybe I could play a bit before it officially starts and get out of there so I don't roll into Peoria too late.

But…

The bartender was a bigger, older guy with a huge beard and a brusque manner. Sitting with me at the bar was a group of middle aged guys, seemingly just off work and not yet ready to return home to their wife and kids. They were loud and talked about golf. There was also a table of blue collar 30-somethings talking avidly but in hushed tones. Shortly after I got my burger, a straight-from-work mother in a suit and her two of-age daughters sat down at the bar and ordered vodkas and campari.

I looked down the bar, around the rest of the room, I looked at the grizzled bartender. Nobody here wants to hear a damn thing I might have to say. And why should they? Why should I molest them with songs about living at home, violence in America, and 24 hour news networks. Who cares? And why do I want to subject them to my songs anyway? Why do I want to win the approval of a bunch of drunks in Edwardsville, IL? Really, why do I want to share this stuff with people… anywhere?

I don't know but I do. I didn't yesterday though. I thought about a girl. A girl who was 3 hours away who actually wanted to see me, wanted to hear me, wanted to kiss me. When I realized that, I left. Got in my car and drove. There'll be other open mics. Other rooms filled with (or more likely, empty of) disinterested people with more important things to worry about than a rudderless Southern California singer/songwriter. But, boy, did I recognize my luck last night. To have a girl excited to see you at the end of the road. And that I'm excited, dying to see. KV would kill me if I didn't acknowledge: "If this isn't nice, I don't know what is." 

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Tomorrow: AMERICADAY! And a bit of R&R in Peoria, IL.

Drive Friendly

Yesterday, in Zilker Park, James and I sit and sip Lone Star out of University of Texas koozies. A plethora of dogs pass by and jump all over us, sniffing out our Ruffles MAX Steak flavored chips. A whole slew of soccer games are happening all over the park. One game ends and as the players disperse, two shirtless dudes walk slowly towards the fold-up goal: one heavy set black man, the other a scrawny white guy. They shake hands and the black guy folds up the goal. Off they go. And so must we in order to get to the next open mic at Austin Alehouse. We finish our cans and say goodbye to the afternoon.

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College friend and fellow Cinema Schooler, Donna Hull, is supposed to meet us at the Alehouse. She's an Austin native and is going to UT in the fall to get her Master's in Screenwriting. It's been two years or more since I've seen her.

When James and I arrive at the bar, it's practically empty. In the back is the stage and I wander back there to sign up. I explain to the two guys sitting with the sign-up sheet that I'd like to go early, if at all possible, since I'll be driving to Ft. Worth after I'm done. They take the piss and give me 3 different names a piece and draw arrows on the sign-up sheet to indicate that I will be going first and foremost. They're drunk and having a good time and get sincere after a while. I don't mind it either way. A few of their friends join them and the group picture becomes more apparent. "Bros" in the most obvious sense: boisterous, buffed-up, drunk, fun-loving, brash good ol' boys.

One of the guys, Kevin, let's slip that they're all 4 days away from deployment to Afghanistan. They're part of an airborne medivac army unit and they joke about the fact that they hardly ever see combat. "We're not even supposed to fire our weapons unless our lives are in danger." Then there's a dick measuring contest about how good of a shot each of them are, even though they've never fired their weapons in combat (those that are returning to Afghanistan because most of them are on their first deployment).

These army boys decided to come to Austin since none of them wanted to go home before leaving and "saying a thousand goodbyes again and again." "So many goodbyes," Kevin says before grabbing my guitar and playing some Brand New on it.

Kevin's from outside Boston and the rest of his gang (most of them from Detroit area) start throwing around a terrible Departed-inspired Boston accent.

Time to start. I do my set. It's fine. Just as I start my second song I feel my phone ring in my pocket. It's Donna. I answer it, on mic, and re-direct her since she's showed up at the wrong bar. She walks in during my third song, a Jenny Lewis cover, "Rise Up With Fists," and sits right up front. I close with "Orion's Utility Belt" and, perhaps for the first time, remember all the words. Improvement.

Before I take off, I go up to Kevin and shake his hand. "Nice meeting you, man," I tell him, "and good luck over there." The euphemism feels phony. Just say Afghanistan, you jerk. He laughs and shakes his head. "I have just as much chance of dying as you do. Statistic-ic… Stastical… Sta-tis-tic-all-ly." He was on his second bloody mary. And they were on their second bar, after they got kicked out of the first one. Good on 'em.

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This morning I woke up in my cousin's house in Ft. Worth. My cousin's 11-year-old boy made me scrambled eggs. We should all be so lucky.

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Today: 13 hour race to Peoria, IL to see a pretty little (tall) lady with red hair. Hopefully I can catch an open mic in St. Louis, too.

Austin Double Time

I slept, or tried to sleep, under the constant hum of a swamp cooler last night. I was mildly successful. It was loud. I shouldn't complain though. Jesus, be grateful, you bastard.

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Two days. 1,200 miles. 20 hours. Texas. What's amazing is that I drove the same amount of hours today as yesterday but today I drove in only one state. Tejas, conchetumadre. And what a drive! 8 of the 10 hours were spent in heavy rain; I felt my car slip and slide a couple of times. Still, I survived the dreary, uninteresting, grey-covered day. And arrived in Austin 15 minutes before my first open mic of the trip.

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NeWorlDeli Open Mic occurs every Monday at 6:00 pm in Austin and is currently hosted by the duo John Hudson & Jackie James, who open the show every week. They had a Buckingham-Nicks vibe going on (minus the sexual tension) and I told them so (minus the "minus the sexual tension" part).

Once Hudson-James finished (with The Beatles' "Don't Let Me Down" I might add), I got up in front of the crowd of 7 (John & Jackie, sound guy, guy-waiting-to-play #1 & #2, guy just there(?), and my dear friend from college/ex-bandmate, James T. Meiser) and played my songs. I played a Beatles cover, too: "I'm So Tired." My guitar was out of tune and I tried to salvage it but after two songs I ended up borrowing John's headstock tuner to clean it up. I finished my set with some pitchy chorus-ing on "Orion's Utility Belt."

The whole set was sloppy, nervous. But I got through it. Huzzah. James and I stuck around to listen to a couple of the other performers. Most notably, Ron Kewin played a set of Americana-Folk about his dog and the end - as he saw it - of America. "The Force may be with us / But the odds are against us." Oh, also, one of his songs featured a kazoo solo. And for the song about his dog Annie (and her "fat fanny") he had John and Jackie and another woman (pictured) come up and sing harmonies. It was a pretty picture. We should all be so lucky.

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But wait! There's more! James and I found another open mic in Downtown Austin. This bar had a bigger crowd, with a similar level of disinterest. So the sun went down and I went on again. I managed to not stare solely at my fingers as they forged familiar chords on the neck of my guitar. (chords I knew - I know - well enough to perform in my sleep) I even noticed, out of the corner of my eye, a woman bobbing along to two of my tunes. I tried out a Frank Ocean cover ("Thinking About You") on the younger, uh, "hipper" crowd but started too fast and, well, that song is hard to pull off. Even so, I felt more comfortable. I know these songs. I like these songs. I just got to not screw them up.

The highlight came when James went up after me. First, he sang his Christmas song "Wake Me Up Next Year" and summer-fied it, replacing the "It's Christmas Time" refrain with "It's summer time." He acknowledged this switcharoo in the middle of the song. He closed with an old Clue Jr. song, "No Place." I played it on guitar while he played some accompaniment on a tiny Casio keyboard. It was a delight and you can listen to it here: 

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Yesterday morning I left Blythe, CA. Three states and one helluva rainstorm later, and I'm playing music with one of the best singer/songwriters I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. We should all be so lucky.

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Tomorrow: More Austin, one more mic, and maybe - just maybe - another college reunion.

Jesus Walks / Desert Stops

After I sat my coffee in the cupholder of my car I thought I might as well. Church didn't start for another hour. I'll just pop in and grab the notes and be on my way. The old in-and-out. When I showed up and asked for the notes on this week's lecture I was met with awkward pleasantries and shy mutterings that led into a sincere, warm hug from the pastor.

"We don't have notes this week. We're watching a video," he says with a smile.

"Oh," I said.

"But we'll be back in the gospel of Luke next week. All about Jesus again."

"Great! I love that guy. But I'm going on a road trip and won't be back for two weeks so…"

"Next week's notes will be online," the pastor's son said while tuning his guitar.

"Where are you headed?" the pastor inquired.

"Chicago. By way of Austin. I'm headed to El Paso today."

"That's a long drive," the pastor's son kept his focus on his headstock.

"And who's accompanying you on this journey?"

"Me, myself, and I," I grinned dopily.

I made my leave politely and quickly after that and said I'd check in with them in a few weeks.

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The kind of people that pull over into the median of the freeway in each state I crossed today were curious. The freeway was always the 10, the people were never the same. In Arizona, in the middle of Phoenix under an overpass, a taxi driver sat on the back of his van facing oncoming traffic eating a sandwich. In New Mexico, a family sprawled out to - I can only assume - stretch their legs. And finally, in Texas, a young couple argues emphatically at each other, motioning from their halted car to the heavens and back again.

No open mics in El Paso tonight. The show will have to start tomorrow in Austin. Fitting, I suppose, since I'll be arriving in cut-off shorts and a button-down dress shirt. I should slide into their midst without much fanfare.

I've found a bed in El Paso with friend-of-a-friend, Derek Cormell. He's working in El Paso with his uncle at an evangelical youth outreach program called "Wayside Teens." Derek just recently graduated from the Dreamcenter program in Los Angeles and is excited about the prospect of working with teenagers in El Paso as a, kind of, Christian role model. (my words) The space itself is really impressive/moving. A stage for theatrics/performances, there's a kitchen with meals supplied and tendered by youth volunteers, a study room, two (count 'em TWO) pool tables and a foosball table. It's a haven, a heaven, a very welcoming, beautiful place.

Derek and I eventually wind up on the topic of faith and I spit my usual lines about Jesus being "way cool" and questioning the importance of faith if the actions line up with the example Jesus set… It is a line. I'm no better than a bro in a bar asking a attractive blond if it "hurt when (she) fell?" Derek assures me that I'm "on a path." Then he tells me C.S. Lewis was an outspoken atheist before some G.K. Chesterton turned him around. Had I known this and forgotten it? It surprised me nonetheless. "Did you know 80% of teenagers who grew up with faith in high school end up abandoning it by their Junior year of college?" Derek asks. I had, in fact. Just last week.

To counter-balance the faith talk that seems to be circling me is in my car stereo. Keith Richards' Life narrated by Johnny Depp is a romp. Full of insight and depth I - shallowly - assumed didn't, nay, couldn't exist there. I've also packed my phonePod full of punk and trash. Bad Religion, The Descendents and Trash Talk flew me across the barren New Mexico desert. And some horribly hilarious jokes from Anthony Jeselnik.

As far as Sundays go, it was decently reverent.

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Tomorrow: Austin, Texas and my first open mic. (after 10 more hours of punk, stand-up and Life [narrated by Johnny Depp])