September 11th thoughts... Remember, I think many of them...

Annual September 11th thoughts and musings...

Like many Americans this weekend, I've been reflecting heavily on what happened 15 years ago and what it means to me; not in a selfish way, just in a personal sense as the events, like for most, are still vividly present, and always will be, in my mind.  I'm certain we all will, at some point, think back to where we were, what we were doing, what we felt, what we thought, how we held and supported those around us, how we tried to make sense of what we were seeing and experiencing, how we prayed for those in New York City living through this nightmare, but mostly, we were trying to figure out just how much this would help propel the career of a one Mr. Ryan Adams based on THIS.  OK, that last part was a joke, sort of.  Besides that, there are always a few things I can't help but be reminded of when September 11th rolls around.  Without irony (looking at you Hipsters), I'd like to say that I love my America, just like all those lame Country songs boldly proclaim while simultaneously giving off the impression they exist solely to capitalize on the sentiment rather than to present and celebrate it.  I truly feel blessed to live in this great nation, and though it has its FAULTS, I don't need fucking Donald Trump to make it "great again."  And, it's fucking offensive for him to say that it isn't great and he's the only fucking one who can do anything about it.  So, with that, Fuck Trump 2016 and here's my thoughts that I think:

Music

The main thing I can't help but feel grateful for is the fact that I live in a country which not only allows, but also encourages, me to create, perform, record and release music of my own creation.  Now, I realize that America is not the only country to give its artists carte blanche but I won't ever forget the conversations I had with a woman named Ling I met in Seattle.  Ling was born and raised in China for the first 30 years of her life.  When she was young, she had an aunt and uncle of hers move to the United States, New York City to be exact, and she had always hoped to someday join them.  By her 30th birthday, she and her parents had saved enough money for her to go.  She arrived in New York wide-eyed and was dead-set on taking it all in.  At the time, I had never been to New York but was dreaming of moving there.  I asked her a lot of questions about the City and her experiences living there.  For instance, what was her favorite thing to do?  Go to Broadway shows, plays or live music performances, was her response.  She marveled at the diversity of subject matter and the celebration of art she saw.  She spoke of her homeland and how restricted it all was there.  No piece of music, art, performance, etc. was allowed to be presented publicly without governmental consent.  It was all strictly censored and monitored.  Most music was nationalistic in nature, as were the plays and musicals.  She even told me of a close family friend who was arrested after displaying a painting in a gallery without permission and then refusing to destroy it.  That's what she came from.  I can't even imagine how fucking mind-blowing New York City and its troves of art must have been to her.  She mentioned, many times, how it felt like she was living in a dream.  She said she could've spent a lifetime just taking it all in, and that she was trying her best to do so.  She lived in a tiny apartment and was frugal as fuck so she could spend all her extra money on going to the symphony and to art museums and Rock N' Roll shows (which she didn't actually like but was in love with the idea of).  It was inspiring to hear her talk of how much she loved America and how wonderful she felt it was.  Whenever I think of Ling and the conversations I had with her, I feel so blessed.  Here I am, some schmuck from a tiny town, population 3500, in Southeastern Wisconsin (Horicon, WI for those keeping score at home), who has been able to play my music at hundreds and hundreds of shows across this great country and back.  My whole life has been shaped and influenced by something that not everyone even gets to enjoy.  I can't imagine what my life would look like if it were not for music.  I don't think I'd even have one anymore, to be honest.  I think about that a lot, and about the men and women who volunteer to defend that privilege on my behalf...

The Armed Forces

I don't think many people understand just how close I was to joining the Army.  I was too young to join immediately after the attacks on September 11th, 2001 and after waiting the additional 4 years, I was, by that time, no longer in support of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.  I had a lot of friends who were a few years older than I who went and served their country.  When they came back, very few weren't greatly affected by what they had seen.  After a few cocktails, we would get snippets of what it was like over there.  I had a few friends who loved it and were destined to be in the military for life but most were happy to come home unharmed; although, only physically.  When they left Horicon to serve, I was jealous.  When they arrived home, I was grateful because they were OK (physically, at least) and for what they had done.  I ofttimes wonder how I would've done as a soldier.  I think I would've done a good job but I don't know how I would've handled things.  Mentally, I think I could've compartmentalized the violence I saw, and possibly participated in (thanks Asperger's!), but I also know that the hardest thing in the world for me to do is something I don't believe in.  If I had been sent to Iraq instead of hunting Osama in Afghanistan, I would have definitely had a hard time with it.  Ultimately, I think I made the right decision but it's not hard to imagine my "Alternate 1985" in which I enlist and have an entirely different life's story.  

One of my best friends is an ex-Marine.  He came to this country from Scotland and enlisted to become a citizen.  Like most Marines, he was eventually called to action overseas.  I can't imagine what he experienced.  I've never explicitly asked much about it because I don't think I really want to know.  I can say though, that I feel like he's more of an American citizen than I am because of his service.  I have so much respect for what he's done for our country, and conversely, he has so much respect for what I do as a musician.  We both see the opposite as something we could never be, but trust me, his decision was much harder.  After all, ANYONE CAN PLAY GUITAR...

New York City

When I think of September 11th and what that date means to me, I'm always instantly reminded of two stories from my time in New York.  I moved there in 2006, so these stories are from 5 years later, but the attacks are still very fresh in everyone's minds.  It's so hard to imagine what the people living there at the time went through.  It was unlike anything that had happened to our country for 60 years.  Obviously, I don't have the same connection to that day as those New Yorkers, but twice I felt as though I at least understood some of what they went through.

Tale #1

I had been in New York for about six months and things were going well.  I worked at the Office Depot in Times Square (my 5th different Office Depot store.  I owe Office Depot a lot for allowing me to have a job wherever I decided to move, all across the country) which was pretty fucking cool.  I had a great group of friends, had a good grasp of the geography of the City and was starting to feel like a real New Yorker.  Life was pretty fucking awesome, for once.  That's when I got a small taste of what the events of September 11th had done to the greatest city in the history of mankind.

We were a good 4 or 5 blocks away, on 41st and Broadway, but we both heard and felt it.  The ground shook and there was the sound of a dull explosion.  Immediately we could hear the screams.  Without thinking, many of us ran outside to see what was happening.  When I got over to 6th Ave., I could see the crowds of people streaming through Bryant Park.  You could tell by the way the were running, scattering like buckshot, that they were running away from something but didn't know exactly where to go.  Then I heard another someone shout the word "bomb" and quickly turned to join the crowds.  I made it back to the store and found our buddy Kenny, who worked at the Staples a couple blocks from Grand Central, standing there in the doorway.  He was visibly shaken and hyper beyond belief.  The adrenaline had taken over his body and he couldn't stop moving.  He was talking a mile a minute and we could hardly understand what he was saying.  All any of us heard come out of his mouth was the word "bomb" and then we all started to panic a bit more.  We asked why he came here.  "I don't know," he said, "It was the only place I could think of after I started running."  We went downstairs.  Our Office Depot was a two-story building, the bottom of which was technically a basement, which felt safer to us.  We went to the TV display section and flipped on the news.  The police had cordoned off the streets around Grand Central and the bomb squads were searching the area.  We saw lots of images of dogs sniffing around and people in ridiculous padded uniforms that might protect you from a paintball attack but not a bomb.  A million things raced through our brains but I could tell right away that there was this sense of terrifying familiarity with what was going on.  "It's happening again!" someone shouted, which only enhanced the feeling of dread spreading throughout the room.

My boss and I ran upstairs to help pull people off the street into the store; neither one of us knowing if that was any safer for them, but the streets were a fucking mess and at least no one would get trampled in here.  After a while, things started to calm down.  All of the sudden, the streets turned from a madhouse to a ghost town, without a soul in sight.  I was glad of that.  I went back downstairs where everyone was crowded in front of the TV's which were on full volume.  Everyone was silent.  Whenever a small group would start to build themselves into a fervor, they would be told to quiet down.  Everyone's rapt attention was to be kept on the screens.  Every once in a while you'd hear a "What did they just say?" followed by a "Hey, shhh," followed by a hushed recap of what had just been reported.  After what seemed like an hour, but could've been a matter of minutes, they finally revealed what we had been waiting to hear:  what caused the explosions and whether or not it was terrorists.  It turns out it was not terrorists at all, it was the fault of the terrifically old plumbing and sewage system in the City.  An old water pipe had burst and exploded through the pavement.  There was no bomb, the water had been shut off in that area and there was nothing more to be worried about.

Another pipe would burst nearby later that summer but hardly anyone cared.  It was old hat by then.  As soon as we heard it, someone quipped, "Probably another one of those old fucking pipes," and that was that.  But I won't soon forget the all-too-familiar fear and panic I saw when that first pipe burst.  

Tale #2:

When I moved to New York, I was broke as fuck.  I was lucky because my buddy, A.J. (or Austin, as he preferred to be called as an adult, though I always called him "A.J." the same way he always called me "Brad") had a lot more money saved up than I, as he had moved back to Horicon (he previously moved to San Francisco with me after Jake backed out do to his cardiac ablation surgery.  That ablation was fuckin' everything up...) to work, save money and try and fuck this chick he'd wanted to bang since High School.  I think he was successful though he was always coy about it, which, conversely, made me think he somehow never got there.  Either way, while he was back, he and his dad met this guy, Michael, at a car show in Chicago.  A.J.'s dad made custom parts for Porsches.  Michael just so happened to live on Staten Island.  After talking for a while with A.J. and his dad, he agreed to put us up while we got our shit together in New York.  I can't thank him enough as I don't think we would've been able to move to New York without him agreeing to put up a couple kids in his basement for a few weeks.

Michael and his family were some of the nicest people I've ever met in my whole life.  They were so generous towards us and were like a TV-version of a New York/Italian family, in the best possible sense.  They cared deeply for one another, and even for us, who they had agreed to put up sight unseen.  And, of course, both Michael and his wife were terrific cooks.  I can't thank them enough for how kind and giving they were.  Part of me wished I could just stay with them, but after a couple weeks of getting our work situations figured out and then finding an apartment we actually could afford, we were ready to move out.  Michael offered to give us the extra mattresses we had been sleeping on while staying in their basement and to deliver them to our new place.  We happily obliged.

I'll never forget the drive we made that night.  We loaded up Michael's SUV with the mattresses and what little A.J. and I had brought with us to New York, a couple of duffle bags full of clothes and a guitar, and headed across the Verrazano.  Michael told us how he used to drive this route everyday when he was firefighter; he was now retired.  He worked in the Red Hook/Gowanus area.  He said how happy he was that we had found a place in the City, as he mostly knew Brooklyn before the current wave of gentrification had taken place and he didn't want two young kids from a small town in Wisconsin living there.  As we drove, he pointed out a few landmarks and picked out his old firehouse.  As we drove north, he grew silent.  After a short while, we could see the Brooklyn Bridge.

Back at the house before we left, when he told us he would take us across it, his wife was sort of taken aback.  A sullen look came across her face as she said to Michael, "Are you sure?"  It was an odd moment that A.J. and I clearly didn't understand, but there was no explanation offered.  Michael nodded and off we went.

With the bridge coming better into view, Michael broke the silence that had taken over the car.  He said, "I haven't been back over this bridge since that day..."  He took a long pause.  "I'll never forget the scene," he said, "cars were backed up and everyone was in a panic to get out of the City.  The other side of the bridge was a nightmare but our side, the road we're on now, was wide-open.  No one was heading into the City.  No one had any idea what the fuck was going on.  All we could see was the panicked people trying to get away, the towers which were, by then, smoking and the dust.  The closer we got, the worse the dust got.  The first building had already gone down by the time we got there.  It was just people screaming, covered head to toe in dust.  Then, the second one came down.  I lost some good friends that day.  We were all just so scared..."

We drove in silence the rest of the way.  Neither A.J. nor I knew what to say.  What could we say?  We had no way of knowing how he must have felt at that moment, reliving that day.  We found out later that after September 11th, 2001 the family always drove up to Jersey City and through the Holland Tunnel to get to the City, though it added an extra 30 or so minutes to their trip.  The whole family had explicitly avoided the Brooklyn Bridge for years.  Taking that drive with Michael really made me realize and appreciate what was given and sacrificed that day by all those brave men and women of the FDNY.  It's impossible not to tear up when I think back on Michael's words that night...

So, that's it.  I felt compelled today to express what I've been thinking about for the past week.  This day always weighs heavily on my mind and on my heart.  Oh yeah, and before I forget, GO PACK GO!!!

Everything isn't always the worst... Just sometimes...

Is life the worst?  And, if it is, how often?  Are we talking about all the fucking time?  Or just during the summer?  Who knows...  Let's explore...

One of the things that ofttimes gets lost in my rabbit hole-ian brain is the fact that most of the time life is pretty fucking awesome.  I'm one of those sad sort that seems to relish the opportunity to dwell on the negative minutiae of anything, however trivial.  It's easier, somehow, for my (Aspergian) brain to dwell on the one goddamn thing that drives me fucking mad, as opposed to, say, the ninety-nine other things that are perfectly fine.  After investing innumerable amounts of time, energy and focus into something, I can completely convince myself, and usually others, if for no other reason, as is often the case, than to just shut me the fuck up, that whatever thing I'm destined to destroy, like so many innocent planets in the Star Wars galaxy, is simply the most vile thing ever to be encountered and must be blown to smithereens at once.  It must cease to exist, fully and forever, and never be discussed in open forum so as to reawaken the loathsome beast inside me and unleash its fury, once again, upon its unsuspecting, and mostly uncaring, victims.  My poor girlfriend has undoubtedly heard all of my rants on numerous occasions, and whether she agrees with me or not, it's become her job to placate me regardless lest she wants the longform version (again) which usually includes trips to the computer, passages read from books, CD listens, etc. to prove my (by now, quite insane) point of view.  You can imagine, no doubt, how this can ruin even some of the best things in my life.

Let me give you an example so you can more fully be immersed in this experience.  I don't want people thinking that this is mostly related to grand political, artistic or ideological stands.  It's not.  Here's a real-life example that happened just last week.

My wonderful, absurdly intelligent, handsome, charming, caring and bespectacled brother recently came out to Portland, Oregon for a visit.  It was his third voyage in the past year, his second with his lovely girlfriend.  Obviously preferring the mild coastal climate and the delicious salmon, as many do, he relishes his trips to the Pacific Northwest.  And we are more than excited to host him, although he should probably just fucking move here for fuck's sake, but that's for another time.  One of the highlights of an excursion to Portland, a city bereft of fun, touristy-type things to do, the type of things found in places like New York City, San Francisco, Seattle, Chicago, etc., is a visit to Powell's Books.  Now, normally, I would not venture a trip there.  Powell's is one of those nightmarish, paralyzing kind of places for a person with Asperger's.  It's unimaginably large for a bookstore, crowded to the hilt with a large quantity of people of the genre I desperately try to avoid (read:  the most prevalent inhabitant of Portland, the "Hipster" or "anti-Hipster," or whatever the fuck they call themselves nowadays, I can't keep up) and I don't have the layout memorized so I wander aimlessly and can never fucking find anything until I get so pissed off by the people shopping, or just fucking standing around hanging out and generally being in the way, and by the fact that the organization of the books isn't laid out in any goddamn way that makes sense to me, that I just fucking leave and swear to never return.  So, that's where we were and I was actually having a pleasant time since I was just there to be there and not actually trying to find/buy anything.  My brother and his girlfriend, the "Kids" as I call them (they're so young still, at twenty-one and nineteen, respectively), were having fun being overwhelmed by the scene I just described, but in the way a normal person might drink it in and appreciate its uniqueness as a singular bookstore experience.

We were just about to bid "adieu" to Powell's, with the Kids making a final perusal of the Powell's-branded merchandise for a take home memento, when I, as I am wont to do, started looking over the clearance items and stumbled upon THIS.  Now, for those who aren't aware, "Breakfast of Champions" or "Goodbye Blue Monday" is more than likely my favorite novel ever.  I'm currently on my third copy, as I've worn out one altogether, with the pages falling out and shit, the second is currently beginning a life in a similar state, but not quite unreadable as of yet, and the third, still of the used variety, is wrapped in paper awaiting its turn.  In all of the years I've spent moving around this great country of ours, I've carried with me only a small handful of items, ever constant and essential.  They include:

- My gym bag from the 4th grade basketball team, inscribed with:  "Horicon Booster Club" and below that "Brad Wik," on the side pocket.  I always filled this with the clothes I deemed irreplaceable, of which I only retain one item:  my red Adidas gym shorts, with three black stripes down each side, Adidas-style, which I've had since the 7th grade.  I'm a big fan of pockets in shorts, which these have, and of shorts that reside somewhere between the short shorts of the 1970's and what have become of athletic shorts in recent times (read:  too long and baggy).  These shorts are of perfect construction and length, and I'll probably die with these shorts; to say nothing of the gym bag, which I'll never part with, unless it came to a death-match type situation with the next item...

- My Martin D-15 acoustic guitar.  It's constructed of solid mahogany, from the neck to the sides to the top and back.  It's beautiful to look at and has such a distinct sound as compared to most acoustic guitars; the majority of which are constructed with spruce top and rosewood sides.  It is my most prized earthly possession and I would risk death, forging forth into a fiery apartment, at the expense of possible deformation, to save my guitar's life.  Only my guitar, girlfriend and cat are worthy of such a distinction.

- The nine CD's listed HERE

- Lastly, and perhaps most profoundly, the following seven books:

1.  "Breakfast of Champions" or "Goodbye Blue Monday" by Kurt Vonnegut
2.  "Franny and Zooey" by J.D. Salinger
3.  "Leaves of Grass" by Walt Whitman
4.  "Cash" by Johnny Cash
5.  "Bound for Glory (book)" by Woody Guthrie
6.  "Chronicles Volume One" by Bob Dylan
7.  "On the Road" by Jack Kerouac

So, of the nineteen items (counting the shorts, which I'm currently wearing, coincidentally, not "ironically" Alanis.  Fucking learn the difference) I carried with me across the United States of America and back, and then back again, as it were, "Breakfast of Champions" was one of my most beloved.  The only book I own that could possibly rival "Breakfast of Champions" in reads is "Weirdos from Another Planet!" the Calvin and Hobbes collection.  But even that would be a stretch, to say the least.  So, to sum up this point, I would say that I was ecstatic to find a coffee mug with the "Breakfast of Champions" logo on it.  I was so excited that even from this store which exemplified the very existence of the "Hipster" culture, I was decidedly forced to buy this coffee mug and be happy about it.  And I was, for a while, at least...

I was so happy I decided, with my girlfriend as a guide, of course, to go look for some additional books to buy.  Normally, I would never subject myself to such torture, which I've previously described fully, but I felt so inspired by my Kurt Vonnegut mug that I sallied forth with a hitherto unknown sense of bravery in regards to Powell's.  I found a used copy of "As I Lay Dying" that I wished to own as well.  As we made our way back to the registers, I felt a twinge of what I call "Hipster-guilt," which is, of course, the Catholic reaction to doing anything which might be described as "Hipster-shit."  Buying a Vonnegut-inspired coffee mug and a used copy of "As I Lay Dying," complete with analysis and commentary, could most definitely be defined as "Hipster-shit."  But, then again, there's the other side of me that reacts violently to the fact that hipsters seem to claim things I love, whether ironically or not.  So, the anti-Hipster part of me fires up and wants to do things doubly as a result of how those cocksuckers tray and make me feel bad about enjoying some piece of art.  How dare those pieces of shit make me feel bad about myself.  I'm the one they should bow to, those cunts.  I'm the one they don't even know they're stealing from mercilessly.  They should be defined by me, not the other way around...  Needless to say, I bought the fucking mug.  Fuck those Hipsters...

I'm sure by this point you're wondering "what's the point of all this?"  "What does this have to do with you dwelling on the minutiae of things?"  Well, goddammit, you needn't be so impatient, you fuckers.  I'm getting there.  Not every truth can be found in less than a thousand words.

I excitedly brought the mug home, proud of my find.  As you would with any store bought item related to food consumption, I washed the mug to ready it for the following morn.  The next morning I awoke, excited yet tentative, as I had to push my Green Bay Packers mugs to the side to enjoy my morning cup of Joe in this new vessel I had obtained.  It's hard for me to make even the most simple of changes, like a different coffee mug, in my life.  It's stupid and I realize it's stupid, but that doesn't make it any easier.  But I wanted this.  I wanted to make this new mug work.  I poured in the milk, as anyone who drinks coffee regularly knows, adding the milk before the coffee ensures that it is mixed thoroughly without dirtying up a spoon.  As I was pouring in the milk I saw it.  The small bump that would henceforth haunt my coffee drinking days.  It was merely a tiny defect in the production process, no larger than a grain of sand but it was there.  And, from the moment I knew it was there, I couldn't neglect its presence.  I'm right-handed and when I'm holding the mug in the drinking position the bump is facing towards me on the inside the cup.  Now, my lip cannot feel it while drinking that delicious, warm elixir.  It doesn't actually affect my morning caffeine experience, but I know it's there and that's enough for me.  It sometimes has ruined my morning.  It doesn't actually affect anything, but it does.  And, since I love the mug's design so much, I'm tempted to order another one online.  I know that the tiny imperfection will forever bother me, so I may have to pony up for a second.  The original mug was perfect in every way except it had an extremely minor imperfection that I know I will probably never move past.  I now might have to pay full price, plus the clearance price, for a mug (well, two mugs) because I can't accept a tiny imperfection, which didn't actually change or mean anything, and just go about my business.  A perfectly good mug was ruined by my affixing on that which was uneventful and I could not change.  Nonetheless, I'll dream of the day when I stop being so cheap and just order the damn second mug; this one unmarred and beholden of my lips to drink from...

All of this to say that sometimes life is the worst.  But most of the time it is not.  And the greatest example of this is Music.  As fucked up as life is on a day to day basis, Music is the one thing that can alleviate the pain enough for me to continue on, strong and full of zest, or with something close to a full dose of zest.  Well, to be honest, quite often the bare minimum of zest, but zest nonetheless.  Now, to be sure, there is a large part of me pissed off beyond what anyone could possibly classify as "normal" about the current state of my most beloved Music, whether that be mainstream Rock N' Roll, alternative Rock, indie Rock, folk Rock, pop Rock, straight up Folk, country-tinged Folk, alt Country, Americana, singer-songwriter, or any of the other bullshit ways people now describe music that used to fit into three categories:  Rock, Pop, Independent.  My anger is expounded upon and illustrated thoroughly HERE and HERE.  It's easy to take stock, as I did, of the newer wave of artists and subsequently tear them apart.  If I were at least ten years older than I am, it would make perfect sense for me to begrudge these youngsters and their lack of talent and dearth of quality material.  It would be much more understandable for me to hate them and for them, in turn, to discount my opinion citing the age gap and how I "just don't get it."  But, unfortunately, I am in the same age range of these little pissants.  I am not quite old enough yet to tell these same Hipster artists/fucks to "Get off my lawn!"

Given this pathetic state of the thing I love so dearly, Music, it would be easy to go one of three ways:

1.  To withdraw into my own little world, more so than I already do, and fill my ears with nothing but Springsteen, Dylan, Stones, Petty, Joel, etc. and pretend people stopped making music many years ago and that is all which has survived and we should cherish it as such.  I would not waste any more time or energy on new music, hell, I wouldn't even acknowledge it still exists as an art form.

2.  To slowly start to distance myself from the thing I loved for so long.  To fill my days watching baseball and football and basketball.  To give up hope completely that things will ever turn around for Music and move on with my life, ingesting Music only passively as I go about my sad, remaining days, full of remembrances to a love that once was, but shall never be again.

3.  Hunting down every copy of every album ever made by Mumford and Sons, the Lumineers, the Head and the Heart, Fun., Twenty-One Pilots, Grouplove, the list goes on... and destroying them, thoroughly and cathartically, to rid the world of them.  Next would be finding every article, blog, twitter, email, text, interview, podcast, etc. and deleting or destroying those as well.  Only the vague memories of them would be left, as that would be un-erasable physically, but those would die off with this generation, a maximum of 80 or so years from now, removing them from history completely.

Number three sounds like too much work, so options one or two are the more likely of the bunch.  Instead, I choose option four (or option Favre as I call it):

4.  To delve deeper into the wonderful history of Music and uncover more of the countless bands and albums I still haven't yet found.  One lifetime isn't enough to enjoy it all, so I should relish what I have discovered and cherish the memories it's given me.  In fact, right now, which isn't "right now" for you in the same sense as it is to me, I should give thanks to a few records that pulled me through some tough times.  Here's the actual proof that life isn't always the worst.  Just sometimes...

Pavement - Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain

This was a record that, like most, found me in High School.  Obviously, not when it initially was released but roughly ten years later.  There was something about it that I didn't quite understand but had always intrigued me.  It wasn't like the other nine CD's listed HERE.  There was a sadness, a desperation, a longing which existed as a part and apart from the music.  It created an aura that didn't actually exist at any time other than when the record was playing.  And I would come to need it.  A couple years out of High School, I moved to New York City.  I had long since left the comforts of Horicon, WI and was coming off stints in San Francisco and Seattle.  I was truly a traveling troubadour, complete with acoustic guitar and harmonica rack accessories.  I was hopelessly obsessed with becoming a folk singer, a very ill-conceived master plan, I must admit.  Armed with troves of Carter Family and Woody Guthrie tunes, plus dozens of my own creations, I was going to singlehandedly reanimate 1962 in the Village.  I truly believed that.  Seriously.  Me and about a thousand other girls and boys, who would all soon be devastatingly disappointed.  If you care, I go into more detail on this subject, HERE and HERE.

After having this dream so thoroughly destroyed, I briefly gave up music altogether.  After all, I didn't know how to write non-Folk lyrics or music.  I had spent years learning the nuance and intricacies of that genre and was unprepared to start over.  For six months, I didn't even touch a guitar.  I didn't sing, I didn't write; I had no inclination to continue forth on my path in music.  And that wasn't easy at all for me to accept.  I felt so lost and confused.  I had nothing else to fall back on.  I skipped college to pursue life as a folk-singer. I left my family and friends for this; for nothing.  But, in spite of giving up on playing music, I never stopped listening to music.  I couldn't.  All those mornings I sat slumped on the "L" train heading to work, aimless in life, ashamed of my failure, I would put on my headphones and play "Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain."  There was something so comforting in escaping into the worlds created by "Elevate Me Later," "Cut Your Hair," "Gold Soundz," "Range Life" or, the coup d'etat, "Fillmore Jive" and how it fucking wrecks me every time with those unbelievably beautifully fucked-up guitar solos.  I can't tell you how many times, in a moment of weakness, I reminded myself "Hey, you gotta pay your dues before you pay the rent."  It became a sort of mantra during the harder times to remind myself that nothing comes easy or without sacrifice.  And it most certainly does not.  Or, at least not for me...

Ryan Adams - Rock N Roll

So, I'm well aware of the shit this record takes, especially in lieu of the rest of the Ryan Adams catalogue.  Trust me, I've seen plenty of reviews like THIS or THIS  or THIS over the years.  Almost all of my friends have laughed at me after hearing that I actually like this record.  Hell, you might even be laughing right now but I'm serious.  "Rock N Roll" was the first Ryan Adams record I bought.  Yes, I had heard "New York, New York" but was relatively unimpressed.  It was a good song but kind of fucked me off, though I couldn't describe why.  "Rock N Roll" put off the same vibe as the "Big Balls" version of AC/DC did:  we're here to fucking rock and have some fucking fun, so fuck you if you don't like it.  It's a vibe similarly displayed on Ryan & the Cardinals' "III/IV" album.  I mean, come on, who doesn't love THIS SHIT!  Anyways, this was one of the first "Independent" albums I ever bought.  Ryan's flippant attitude toward standardized songwriting, recording, singles, etc. was so goddamn exciting.  He was, and wasn't, complying to the rules of being a signed, commercial artist.  "Rock N Roll" was, along with Modest Mouse's "The Lonesome Crowded West," my first glimpse into a world where the artists got to do whatever the fuck they wanted and the labels supported them, so long as there was money to be made.  It was the conception of the idea, in my feeble teenage brain, that in creating music you can do whatever the fuck you want as long as it was good and you could sell it.  It was a dangerous thought and would shape my views on the creation of music going forward.

This may sound idiotic, but lyrically, this album taught me a lot.  I don't dwell too much on the specifics, although some of the phrases spoke to me immensely, both then and now.  I remember listening to this album with my mother on a getting-ready-for-school shopping trip when I was sixteen, and she couldn't help but comment upon hearing the line "It's all a bunch of shit, and there's nothing to do around here.  It's totally fucked up.  I'm totally fucked up.  Wish you were here..." that this album sounds a lot like me.  I took immense pride in that as I flipped through the liner notes and played it cool, trying not to express the excitement I felt in being, even vaguely, lumped in with a one Mr. David Ryan Adams.  I realize that the lyrics on this record aren't his finest, but I learned that, even if you're taking a piss, being honest and true to yourself was the only way to go in regards to the words you decide to put forth unto the world to represent you.  It was "Rock N Roll" that convinced me that anything I do must be one hundred percent honest and true to form, whatever that form may be, regardless of the audience, critics, etc.  Art must be truthful, even in its untruthfulness, as this record showed, for it to truly resonate with anyone.  The audiences are much smarter than artists sometimes imagine them to be,  and they deserve our truest and best efforts.  They know the difference and although the music-consuming public isn't on its game right now, it'll find its way back home.  It always does.  And good music will be waiting, grateful of its return...

Sun Kil Moon - Ghosts of the Great Highway

For years, I kept a second acoustic guitar, tuned to the open tuning featured on "Glenn Tipton," around just so I could play that song.  It sounds silly to have a second guitar at the ready for one fucking song, but that's how much I loved that song and this album.  This record carried me through two separate, yet equally difficult, transitional times in my life:  my leaving home and my first real breakup.  Back towards the tail end of when Sony Walkman CD players were the preferred way to listen to music on the go, this was one of the two CD's (the Arcade Fire's "Funeral" being the other) I carried with me at all times when I would go for my nightly walk down E. Johnson St. in Madison, WI.  I would walk down E. Johnson til I hit Tenney Park, cut through the park and then head back up Sherman to Gorham and back home.  Or, equally as often, I would reverse that trip so I could walk along Lake Mendota on the way down to the park.  It was something I did nearly every single night during the year I lived on E. Johnson St.  Sometimes I would walk it almost obligatorily and be home within an hour.  Other times, I might find myself wandering for hours, without a particular destination, unable to return to the apartment shared with three other guys, including two other former Horicon-ites.  The insomnia, which I still sometimes suffer from, started here.  There were nights I wouldn't return home until almost dawn.  I didn't, and still don't, know what causes this but it still happens; although, less frequently, thank God, as it's much harder for me to make it to work the next day after two hours of sleep than it used to be.  I spent many a night on the verge on anxiety attacks only to be soothed by Mark Kozelek's deep, sexy voice and his wondrous compositions.  Mark is also the reason I moved to San Francisco, but that's a story for another day...

The second life-changing event I was able to successfully endure with the help of "Ghosts of the Great Highway" was my first real-life breakup.  Not a bullshit High School or Middle School breakup, but the real deal.  A full-on, we both said "I love you" as an adult, kind of deal.  Being fair to history, this was never a relationship that stood much of an honest chance at working out long-term, but it was exactly the kind of thing that two lonely, depressed, horny adult-kids needed.  I had no clue to the extent of which she was lonely and depressed, to say nothing of horny, which I would find out, in spectacular fashion no less, later on.  Which brings me back to this album, "Glenn Tipton" in particular.  The final verse of this song could have been written for me and *****.  It's tragic and damning and not particularly kind to either character, but that's often how life goes; at least, it was in our case.  I too "found her letters that said so many things that really hurt me bad."  I can never un-read the things I read and she can never un-write the things she wrote, but it's better that it happened the way it did.  I'm glad I found out what I did, and I'm sure she's happier now, however her life has turned out.  I know I am.  Sometimes things just work themselves out and sometimes records have songs about these events years before they happen to you.  It's like I've said for years, everything I do has been done many times before and it's endlessly comforting to hear people sing songs about it.  It always makes me feel so much less alone, and that, to me, is the greatest gift that Music can give...

So, there you go.  There's a little (more than you wanted) insight into my brain and thoughts on a Saturday night after a few bourbons.  Does anyone know if the Brewers won tonight?  Fuck, I'm tired...  OK, if you say so, self, one more...