TomFlannery.com

I don’t know if I have ADD or not. It’s a relatively new term. Attention Deficit Disorder. They used to just call you “fucked up” and be done with it. These days they want everything to be treated with a pill….and before they can prescribe a pill they need to name names.

Whatever. I get bored easy. I don’t mind saying it. I hate to repeat myself. I write songs mostly. It’s pretty much the only thing I’m good at. I’ve written hundreds of them. Mostly just for me to sing with a lone guitar. But sometimes (like my record “Teen Angst and the Green Flannel“) I’m wanting them loud. Sometimes I’m telling stories and sometimes I just pining for something or someone that ain’t mine. Sometimes I got something specific to say, and sometimes I’m not sure what I’m saying until I say it. But the truth is I’m much happier with a guitar in my hand than without one.

Kris Kehr is a friend of mine. Musicians aren’t normal. We move around a lot and aren’t very good at day to day things like keeping in touch. So the fact that Kris and I have seen each other probably 3 times in 13 years isn’t that big a deal. We drop each other notes and listen to each others songs and sometimes are in the same zip code at the same time and sing some songs together. We’ve got some things in common.  He’s a monster talent with a minimal ego….a Neil Young and Dylan freak who can pick up a broom and make music out of it. He’s also a brand new father with a heart of gold. Sleep deprived, in other words. Perfect pickings.

We’ve decided to write some songs together. And make a record. There’s no rules or timeline. We just agreed that it sounded like a good idea and started exchanging ideas. He sends me lyrics. I send him lyrics. He puts mine to music. I put his to music. We each have little recording studios in our basements. I send him demos. He sends me demos. In the meantime he’s incredibly busy with other things and so am I. But we make time for each other because that’s what friends do. Music is in his blood. It’s what makes up my veins. The fact that each of us has to deal with other things is a bit of a nuisance, but bills must be paid and all that stuff.

One of the songs we’ve co-written is called “Daddy’s Old Guitar” and Kris has already made it part of his solo shows. Kehr has a repertoire of about a million songs so to crack his set list ain’t easy. I’m proud of it.

Neither of us has any idea where this ride is gonna take us. We may write 10 songs. We may write 50. We may talk daily. We may talk once every 6 months. We live 90 miles away from each other. I’ve got 2 daughters to his one. The days of jumping in the car and conversing the old fashioned way are long gone. In truth we’re both old but won’t admit it. We’re both a little weary but that ain’t nothing a distortion pedal or a great hook can’t hold at bay….at least for a while. He’s a Deadhead. I’m a Drive-By Truckers devotee. We both passionately believe that if music can’t fix what ails you than what ails you ain’t worth fixing.

You got a better idea about how guitar players should spend their spare time, I’m all ears.

In a bit…

–tf

I think about my late father a lot. Every few years I re-read Roger Kahn’s “The Boys of Summer”. It makes me smile.

Kahn’s book is in the baseball section of stores. But it’s so much more.

It’s the story of fathers and sons…..of newspapers and newspapermen, of living with staggering gifts when you’re young, and seeing those gifts disappear before you reach middle-age. Thus, it;’s a story of aging, gracefully perhaps, but often flat out against your will.

It was my Dad’s favorite book. The Brooklyn Dodger’s were his favorite team. Pee Wee Reese was his favorite player. As I type these words I’m wearing my vintage Brooklyn cap and my Pee Wee dark gray away jersey. I’m thinking of Ebbets Field and Flatbush Avenue and Billy Cox at third base trapping grounders between his small glove and the dirt, like a man trapping a bug. I’m thinking of Snider desperately trying to hang in there against southpaws. I’m thinking of the peculiar genius of manager Charlie Dressen inspiring his troops in the 8th inning….”keep it close, I’ll think of something”. He often would, Oh but these Dodgers drove Charlie mad some days…”I wish they wuz all Reese’s and Robinson’s” is how he summed it up.

Jackie. The only man who could have done what he did. As much a pioneer as Martin Luther King. Just happened to be the most exciting ballplayer who ever lived. Could beat you with his bat, his glove, his legs, his mouth, or his fists. And he did it all while facing down America’s original sin. Died young. Hair turned white. His burden killed him in the end. But he opened the door, and it can never be closed. He belongs on the side of a mountain.

And Pee Wee. The southerner who grew up with racism ingrained in his DNA. But Pee Wee was a strong man, and strong men could flush out such things with their own common decency. And so one day on the field deep in the south, with Robinson being subjected to the most vile abuse small minds could muster, Pee Wee wanders over to second base and puts his arm around Jackie, his friend. The southern boys went crazy….calling Pee Wee “nigger lover” and worse. But that was that. A turning point. Robinson wasn’t alone anymore.

I don’t think there were 2 baseball men my Dad admired more than Jackie and Pee Wee. And my Dad loved Brooklyn. Talked to me about those afternoons, when for 65 cents you could sit in the grandstand and watch Furillo throw from deep right field to third base……with no bounce. The ball on a line….like a 300 foot fastball. Or Campy hit the ball a mile with that squat, weightlifter’s body that seemed impervious to….well anything. Rex Barney on the mound. He might throw a no hitter and strike out 10 or last 2 innings and walk 6. It was said he pitched like the plate was high and outside. But it was said he could throw as fast as Feller too.

I know why he loved the Dodgers. I know why he loved Kahn’s classic book. My father was the most decent man I knew. He was my Pee Wee. My Jackie.

And I’ll never stop missing him…

In a bit..

–tf

There’s always been a part of me that enjoys reading about baseball more than actually watching baseball. I’ve got stacks of baseball books. Everything from the history of the Brooklyn Dodgers to an exhausting 300 page tome written about a single game (Good game though….the 75 World Series classic when Fisk hit the home run to end it in the wee wee hours). I’ve read every word Roger Angell and Roger Kahn have ever scribbled. Great writers both, their talents so undeniable they would have undoubtedly been literary giants regardless of what they chose to write about. The fact that both men chose baseball says a lot about how epically human and endlessly fascinating the game is. (If the 2 Roger’s don’t wind up in the Hall of Fame I’ll be stunned, although Gil Hodges isn’t in so there’s no accounting for taste)

Yet there’s part of the game itself that sometimes seems almost too leisurely. Your eyes can start to glaze over watching batters stepping in and out of the box, dressing and undressing themselves between every pitch, which is thrown by a pitcher who feels the need to step off the rubber and rub the ball like an un-hatched egg every 60 seconds. Long gone are the days of the 2 hour game. Long gone are the days of a pitcher finishing what he started. Long gone are the days when a guy would hit a home run and simply put his head down and run the bases, as opposed to admiring his own handiwork as if he’s never seen anything like it. Ever. Long gone are the days when a pitcher could throw inside without some .220 hitter taking umbrage and charging the mound. Long gone are the days you could buy a beer and a hotdog for less than the cost of a new hardcover novel. Three hour games are common. Four hour games are not that rare. Baseball players only need to worry about playing baseball. The rest of us have work in the morning.

Plus there’s always the sneaking suspicion that what you’re watching has been chemically altered. The greatest ballplayer I ever saw was Barry Bonds. Then we all discovered we weren’t really watching Barry Bonds at all. And they all came tumbling down. McGwire. Sosa. Clemens. Rafael Palmeiro and his infamous wagging finger. Now everyone is a suspect.

But still we come back. We somehow convince ourselves that it won’t happen again, or that it’s not still happening now. Or both. Or maybe we just don’t care. Hell, wasn’t that McGwire/Sosa duel heartwarming stuff? Didn’t watching Clemens throw harder at 40 than he did at 20 make you feel like a lazy ass? How many gym memberships did Roger inspire? Who remembers the 2011 National League MVP anyway?

Still, the history hooks us and won’t let go. I actually remember Willie Mays with the Mets. I grew up with Pete Rose and Johnny Bench and George Brett and Carl Yastremski and Bucky Dent breaking the hearts of New England in that one game play-off…..a game that I saw as a kid because it started in the late afternoon….TV ad revenue be damned. Imagine that? I nearly caught a Mike Schmidt home run ball in my first ever game, more thrilling because I was about 450 feet away in the upper deck of left field. In flight the ball looked as if it was shot out of a cannon.  I don’t think I’ve ever been more awed in my life. A few years later I saw Schmidt hit a fly ball that conked off the roof of the AstroDome. I was non-plussed. I’d been watching him bludgeon the houses on Waveland Avenue when he visited the Cubs and Wrigley field for a long time by then. These guys seemed capable of anything. So what if I got to meet Mike Schmidt after he retired (at a golf tournament….he could hit it a country mile by the way….but mostly crooked) and the guy turned out to be aloof and arrogant. Being in the heads of countless grown-up 10 years old might make one cranky after a while. Especially after surviving Philly fans.

What is it that I want from this game? What do they players owe me for my allegiance?

Fall is in the air. I’ve accumulated a summer’s worth of patience. It’s time to start watching baseball again.

In a bit…

–tf

Got a major project in the works. Stay tuned…..

My wedding gift to you! I wish you and Brandon love and happiness always.

Karissa

Hard to explain what you’re looking for
maybe somebody like your Dad
someone who’ll provide for you
the things you never had
someone you can go to
in the middle of the night
to hold you…stop your shaking
tell you it’s gonna be alright
Karissa you’re coming home

Hard to put your finger on
what being alone can do
to a heart that needs a home
and doesn’t have a clue
how it’s supposed to carry on
in an empty bed
no one there to share the dreams
stuck inside your head
Karissa you’re coming home

If you see her say hello
you’ll notice that big smile
like finding your favorite song
on both ends of the dial
Karissa you’re coming home

Wedding days..black and white
that sums it up real good
all the grey swept away
’till the naked eye can’t tell
that a match made in heaven
has got anything on this
one simple promise
sealed with a kis
Karissa you’re coming home

If you see her say hello
you’ll notice that big smile
like finding your favorite song
on both ends of the dial
Karissa you’re coming home
Karissa you’re coming home

Today is Memorial Day. Those who have died for this nation deserve more than one day, of course. In the hustle and bustle of daily life other things invade. Bills. Kids. Mortgages. Jobs. One day at a time. It’s not always easy. But we’re at least given a fighting chance. Lots of men and women died to make this so.

It’s not an even playing field by any means. That’s because our leaders have rarely been made of the same stuff as the soldiers they sometimes so cavalierly send off to battle. But that’s on us. We need to do better. Walk the rows of any cemetery today. See the flags erect in the breeze. Ask yourself. “Am I worthy of their sacrifice?”

We should pause every once in a while to remember. To reflect. And to whisper thanks.

My father did not go to war because he was colorblind. He used to joke that the Army was afraid he’d go running around shooting the wrong guys. Pop was such a gentle man I can’t even imagine him flying bomber missions like his brother Jim, or running for cover in London as German bombs fell all around him, like his brother Tom was forced to do. I was named after his brother, who one night had to drag a friend named Frank Burke back into a bomb shelter after Frank insisted on screaming at the overhead planes, “come down and fight like men you Nazi bastards!” Clearly this was a man who’d fit in with the Flannery clan, so Tom brought him home to meet the family after the war, and Frank promptly fell in love and married my Aunt Clare.

Dad was such a gentle man. But then so was Jim. And Tom. And Frank Burke. Yet they fought. They were needed and they went. They didn’t make a big fuss out of it. I can’t remember any of them even talking, much less bragging about what they’d done. They didn’t consider themselves special.

I do.

My Mom’s sister Frances remained single her whole life, despite countless marriage proposals (and more than a few diamond rings) from GIs who fell in love with her. She was an Army nurse who saw the horrors of war up-close. She saw what bullets and bombs do to mostly teenage kids. She was tough as nails and as soft as porcelein. She could swear like a sailor and soothe like a priest in the confessional. She was a dark haired beauty, 5 foot nothing, who was as brave as any man who ever stormed a fortified position. After the war she lived alone for the rest of her life. With her dogs. I don’t think she ever got over the things she’d seen. She loved all her boys. She could never make a choice when some begged for her hand. I don’t think she ever felt lonely. She never talked about the things she’d seen.

Mom’s brother Donald was 15. He told recruiters he was a little older and they believed him. He was sent to the Philippines and was soon captured by the Japanese. He spent the entire war in the hell that was a Japanese POW camp. The things he endured are almost unspeakable. An actual photograph, tracked down by my Dad after the war, survives. Taken by the Red Cross, it shows Donald with the other prisoners. He’s easy to spot. He’s the only boy surrounded by dozens of grizzled men. He looks like a mascot. The picture fills me with wonder, and then horror.

Over the years details of the tortures my Uncle suffered leaked out, though never from him. He never spoke of his ordeal. Not even to his own children. He came home from war a man not to be trifled with, but I’m told he went into war a boy not to be trifled with! He somehow lived a full, entirely decent life. Loving husband, father, and grandfather. He’s now in his 90s. The eyes still sparkle. Though his body has begun to break down he’s still in there. The kind of man they don’t really make anymore. I can’t think of him without being proud that I share the same blood.

A simple thank you on this one day seems woefully insufficient. But I’ll say if anyway.

Thank you.

“The Greatest Generation”. Used in any other context it would sound hokey. Like being subject to one of those “when I was our age” speeches.

Tom Brokaw coined it I believe. Brokaw was inspired to write his book of that title after hearing about and then meeting Gino Merli, who of course is one of our own. Gino’s heroics that long ago night in Belgium would make Hollywood director’s blush. You read about them, and you expect a giant colossus to emerge from the wings. What you get instead is a 140 pound kid who should have been in high school. There he was instead, in a strange country surrounded by the bodies of his friends, single-handedly fighting off wave after wave of German attacks until reinforcements arrived. When it was over his first request was to go to mass, so he could pray for the souls of the men he’d killed. They don’t make Gino Merli’s anymore. He received his congressional medal of honor from President Truman, then came home to Peckville to graduate high school.

My Dad was a good friend of Gino’s. I never got to meet him. But I did meet his wife and family….and I’m a better person because of it. I wrote a play called “The Last Thoughtsof Gino Meri” that has been performed over 100 times to more than 20,000 people. Most had never heard of Gino Merli. I hope some of them are thinking of him today. Like I am.

The soldiers of this nation have always done their duty. The duty of the rest of us is to ensure that the sacrifices they’ve made in the past, along with those we’ll ask of them in the future, will not be in vain. More will die. More will go off to fight as one person and come home as another, not quite whole. How a nation treats its soldiers, both dead and living, says a lot about the kind of nation it is.

Be worthy. Earn this.

In a bit..

–tf

I play music in bars. It’s an interesting way to spend evenings.

I’m not a road warrior by any means, but I play when I can where I can. I’ve played upper-crust places and joints that have seen better days. I’ve played for good wages and I’ve played for no wages. I’ve played for 150 people and I’ve played to one person who was eating a cheeseburger and watching golf on TV…..a TV that was above my head so I pretended he was intently listening. I’ve played solo acoustic, I’ve played in duos, and I’ve played full band shows. I’ve been told I was too loud. I’ve been told I wasn’t loud enough. More times than I can count guys would come up to me while I was singing a song and ask questions like “dude, where’s the bathroom?” Sometimes you’re the windshield and sometimes you’re the bug.

Most of the time people aren’t listening, because they are not at the bar to hear you. They are at the bar to drink. You are the equivalent of the music that is piped into elevators. To the layperson this sounds pretty bad. I mean, why bother playing at all if that’s the case? Well, playing music is fun for one thing. Musicians play for themselves all the time. We get to go out in public and play and get paid for it? People who listen are a bonus.

And they are out there.

I don’t care how jaded you are. When you’re singing “The Weight” for the 400th time, and suddenly the guy at the bar you thought had passed out lifts his head and starts singing “Take a load off Anniiiiiie!!”, and then half the place is trying the 3 part harmony at the end of the chorus, it doesn’t get much better than that. It’s hard to explain. We’re up there singing, and we’re watching you. Are you mouthing the words? Are you tapping your foot? Is your head bobbing up and down? If you are, we see you. You make our nights.

(On this topic….it’s no wonder musicians who achieve sudden fame so often go batshit. To go from scanning the bar searching for someone singing along….to instant adulation? If your head ain’t anchored to your neck with pikes from the start, it’s probably inevitable you’ll turn into a self-absorbed jerk.)

There’s lots of folks who live life hard who settle into bar stools for hours at a time. They’re this way because the day is a grind. It’s long and it’s tiring and it’s not glamorous. They’ve got no picket fence to come home to. I don’t want to get all Working Class Hero here….but that’s just reality. There’s some rough looking folks out in our local watering holes. And god bless them all.

They’re the backbone of the operation. The young 20 somethings with the golf shirts who drink too many light beers and yell for “Free Bird” all night long are so common I don’t think most musicians even notice them any more. Or at least, this group all starts to look the same. Traveling in packs, the girls dressed way too nice for a place that has a hole the size of a head in the bathroom door. The guys with their cropped hair and golf tans, trying to look tough but being careful not to antagonize the guy at the bar with the chain hanging from his wallet spilling shots down the front of his Harley Davidson t-shirt. Every night in every bar, there’s sort of an un-easy truce between the regulars and the interlopers. It’s very interesting to observe.

Some of the places I’ve played have reputations of being “rough”.  “Oh, that’s a rough bar”. We’ve all heard that one. I’m sure the reputations are hard-earned and well deserved. But, as goes is most places, you won’t find trouble if you’re not looking for it. Musicians never look for trouble. We just arrive, set-up, and play. In all my time out there I’ve been treated fine. Bartenders. Waitresses. The regulars. They just seem to take musicians under their wing. Treat the gig with respect and you’ll get a fair-shake all around. That’s more than I can say for the folks I have to deal with when I leave the bars. You can’t buy class. If you think you’re too good for a bar, the place probably doesn’t want you in the first place.

That being said, it ain’t always pleasant. At a recent show a girl who should not have been wearing a thong wore a thong and sat at the end of the bar, in my sight line. That threw a wrench in a few songs. Later on a guy visited the men’s room, which was about 6 feet from my location, and dropped something so nasty in there I got dizzy. This was after the girl ran into the ladies room saying she had to vomit, and promptly vomited. She had threatened to do so at the bar itself, but the bartender merely pointed an index finger at her and said “don’t you dare do it!”. An impressive display of authority. Which reminds me of the night the drunk girl kept invading the microphone to sing along, until the bartender had enough and actually tackled her during a final stage rush. Athleticism of this sort you rarely see anywhere, much less at 1:30am.

So that’s that I guess. Just felt like getting this out there. The next Friday or Saturday night you crash early, take a moment and think of the music being laid down in bars near and far (real music by real live people) and the folks that music was created for.

In a bit..

–tf

I remember my first guitar. I found it in the Papershop. I think I was 20 or so. The guy selling it lived on some side street in Olyphant barely wide enough to navigate (even though it wasn’t a one way) in an apartment roughly the size of a closet. The guitar itself was a ghastly Ovation knock-off with one of those round backs that made it look like a canoe paddle. It was fairly obvious the guy was selling it either to pay for his next meal or his next fix. I sorta felt guilty, but managed to get over it, especially since I just handed him a hard earned $100 I wasn’t going to be able to buy beer with.

The face of the guitar was some sort of plastic and after a few weeks of my customized bashing it cracked like a windshield getting hit by a rock. But it had a killer pick-up in it and stayed in tune for weeks on end. I played it so much I’d gash my finger open and the blood would spray all over the edges of the sound-hole, making it look like I dabbled in impressionism. I had no idea how to play “properly”, and after all these years I’m pretty sure I still don’t. Pretty proud of that actually.

Recently somebody asked me how I learned to play and I quite innocently and without any hesitation said “I listened to ‘Magic Bus’ over and over.” I thought that’s how everybody did it. Lessons? Wha? While everybody in my classes were out being sociable and lying about sex, I was siting in my bedroom learning the Bo Diddley beat, which is the cornerstone to whatever comes next. I you can go E to A…or A to D, and people move this way and that way despite themselves, then not only are you a guitarist my friend, you are an entertainer who will no longer be forced to lie about sex. You can now get asses out of seats and you don’t have to run with a ball and be swarmed by multiple neanderthals with no necks to do so. Nope. All you need to do is what the men don’t know but the little girls understand. Six strings. Three chords. And the truth as you see it. It ain’t gonna make you rich, but it’ll keep you so busy that you’ll barely notice. Except when your starving.

I wanted to be Dylan. Not very original I’m afraid, but I learned “Girl From the North Country” and pretty soon I was taping a harmonica to a bent wire hanger and putting it around my head like a hangman’s noose….trying and trying to figure out why it sounded so dreadful no matter what I tried. At the time I didn’t realize that harps came in separate keys, so I was trying to play a song in one key with the harp tuned to another. And at the time “tuning” wasn’t the fancy white-collar playanoteuntilthegreenlightblips thingie it is today. I used to hum “Johnny B Goode” to myself and tune my A string to the note in my head. You young punks have it easy.

I also used to walk to school uphill both ways in blinding snow storms. More on that another time.

Playing nothing but a bad guitar for years gives you an extra appreciation for good guitars. Or even decent ones. I eventually bought an off the rack Takamine from Giannetta’s Music in Scranton for $650, a guitar I still use for solo gigs because it sounds tolerable and my heart would not be broken if some drunk tripped over something and fell on it. I bought a Takamine because I saw a picture of Pete Townshend playing one, although I’m pretty sure his cost more than mine. If it’s good enough for Pete I figured, it’s good enough for me. Of course as soon as I bought the Tak my man switched back to Gibson Jumbos….the contrary little English poof.

After falling in love with all things Woody Guthrie I bought a raggedly old used Epiphone for $175 because I heard Woody “borrowed” one from Burl Ives and “forgot” to return it. As soon as I got it I stuck a “This Machine Kills Fascists” sticker on the face and became even more of a raging leftist. The guitar sounded thin and reedy, like something you might have picked up at Sugarman’s back in the day if you managed to talk yourself out of the $25 ukelele. But the Epiphone stayed with me until my nephew “borrowed” it a few years back and has thus far “forgot” to return it. I’m proud to say that some of my best songs were written with that guitar. And much of my politics, which went from FDR’s new deal to Mother Jones, Eugene Debs, and whomever Pete Seeger managed to get blacklisted from….migrated about as far to the left as a man can go without popping up in secret government files.

On my 40th birthday I finally got a world class guitar….a Townshendian Gibson Jumbo imported from Toronto that I won’t dare take to gigs for fear that some drunk might trip and fall into it. It plays like a dream and makes me feel like I’m wearing a plate of armor when I strap it on. I’d steal this guitar from Burl Ives and forget to return it. It rocks hard and can sing me to sleep. When I die I’d like to be buried with this guitar….even if I’m still paying on it.

Unless I can talk my friend Lorne Clarke out of his custom made $3000 monstrosity that melts my fingers and sounds like a panzer corps on steroids. He let me use it to record once (my 3rd record, the all-acoustic “Drinking With Nick Drake” was all Lorne’s guitar)….and when I rather carelessly leaned it against the wall and it nearly fell over I thought he was going to snap my neck with his hands….which happen to be the size of garbage can lids. He told me that if he died he’d leave me the guitar in his will, and ever since has been worried that I might try to kill him.

Now, can I tell you about my first piano?

In a bit..

–tf

Lots going on. Finally have a moment to take a deep breath. They’ve been in short supply lately.

I’ve been pushing two records. “Teen Angst and the Green Flannel” with my band The Shillelaghs. And my solo acoustic record that I recorded at home called “Love and Streets”. I’m proud of both. One is loud and one is quiet. Other than that, it’s still me and a guitar and pen (or, increasingly, a piano that I can’t really play but love to tinker on). Music remains my lifeline. Over these last few months I’ve lived on a rotating diet of sounds as diverse as The Who, Steve Earle, Brendan Benson, Lunasa, The Gourds, and various Andrew McMahon bands. And that was just yesterday. My Ipod, one of the industrial strength jobs they don’t make anymore, is currently half filled. With 20,000 songs. Losing it would send me searching for drugs that haven’t been invented yet.

I don’t do this full time. I wish I did but…..well…..bills are a bitch and seem to arrive no matter how many songs I write. I was thrown into turmoil at the end of 2012. A single phone call. From my place of employment. Seems my services were no longer required. After 12 years. Cold blooded really. Four days before Xmas. The presents were already purchased. I’m almost ashamed to say that some of them were returned. So that was that. Suddenly, in one day….that was that. I could sleep in the next day. And the next. And the next. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go. I threw myself at the mercy of the commonwealth of Pennsylvania, fired up the web browser, and hit the job boards, typing with my fingers crossed. What I found was not promising. Out of work 46 year olds are not in great demand. At the end of the first day we had cancelled our cable and regular phones, got rid of luxuries like Netflix and Rolling Stone and Time Magazine subscriptions, and talked ourselves into calling a visit to Pizza Hut a “night out”.

I was scared. For a while I retreated. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. And I didn’t want anybody talking to me. I looked forward to washing and folding clothes. Making the beds. I spent long nights buried in books. And there was always the music. But it was the music of others. I couldn’t write a note. You have this romantic notion that, if suddenly you had all this time on your hands, you could sit down and write the great American novel, or Nebraska II. I’d sit at the kitchen table late at night with my lyric notebook open to a blank page. And….nothing. When I’d finally slink off to bed, it was still blank. My guitar was still in its case. I’d always been able to write my way through (or at least around) something that was bugging me. Now the pen was dry and the strings were getting rusty. The lid on the piano remained closed.

I had to do something. I don’t know many people. I’m not very outgoing, so it was uncomfortable to say the least. But I reached out to the one group of folks I felt comfortable with. Musicians and those who support them. Without going into details I’ll just say that guys like John Quinn, Thomas Tell, Vinnie Archer, Wiggy Wegleski, Eddie Appnel, Don Surace, Jackson V, Aaron Condida, Shawn Z, Kris Kehr….when I called they called me back. And they offered support…sometimes just lending a late night ear. And I’ll never forget it. There’s something about communities like this. You don’t need to beg or plead. You don’t need to pass any sort of cool test. It reminds me of the code of Mariners. No matter what….if somebody on the water is in trouble, you reverse course and stream towards them. Guitar players are kinda the same way. And even better, they sometimes bring beer with them.

These days my head is clearing. I’ve managed to find a new day job (thanks to a “leap of faith” from a good friend). To quote Springsteen, “it ain’t gonna make me rich”, but it’s a job and I’m lucky to work with some good folks. Someday I may even figure out what I’m doing and earn my nickels. Until then I can only hope they put up with the old guy with the Ipod who still can’t find his way around the building.

The music is trickier. It’s still not coming. I lay awake at night and the ideas are there. They’re percolating. But I’m having trouble focusing. Maybe it’s nerves. Maybe it’s fatigue. Maybe my last two records emptied the tank. I wouldn’t mind being known as the guy who wrote those songs, but I still feel the urge to write better ones. Nobody ever sits down and thinks “I’m gonna write some songs that are almost as good as the ones I wrote last year”. Last night I sat down at the piano and picked out a tune. It sounded nice. But I didn’t follow it. There were too many roads and I was afraid I was gonna pick the wrong one. Nothing good is gonna come out of feeling that way.

But I know soon I’m gonna choose. And that fills me with some sort of hope. And maybe a bit of wonder….which is the one thing good music has always filled me with.

I see what’s going on around me. Fear is everywhere. It backs folks into a corner…..and all they can do then is lash out. We look for people and things to blame….and usually get it wrong. We’re bombarded with so much propaganda sometimes it’s the truth that manages to sound absurd. We trip and fall and look for the person who stuck their leg out. Sometimes we can stumble all on our own. Sometimes we can only find the problem by looking in the fucking mirror.

I don’t want somebody to catch me when I fall. I just want somebody who’ll grab my hand and help me get back up. And if you want that, the best advice I can give you is to learn to play the guitar.

In a bit…

–tf