SNS preview: The Road of Diminishing Returns

I got to the venue – Picasso’s in Elizabethtown, Kentucky – about ninety minutes early, and had time to collect my thoughts while I waited for the girl I was billed with.  Her name was Kathleen Roy – she was a talented singer and writer, and we were a good match…she seems to have gotten out of the business, as I did a few cursory web searches and couldn’t find any mention of her.  We were playing both shows together on a co-bill arrangement…neither of us were opening or headlining, it was two sets of equal length, split between the two of us.  As such, we split the proceeds equally as well, but I’d soon learn that I needn’t have concerned myself with that particular topic.

The Picasso’s show had maybe a dozen or so people in the audience – Kathleen had never heard me before, and she was sincerely effusive with her praise, and was full of assurances that the show the next night in Louisville would probably have a LOT more people, and she couldn’t wait to play with me again tomorrow and we said our goodbyes.  I packed up my stuff, and – for the first time that entire trip, it occurred to me that I hadn’t given a single thought to where I was supposed to be staying for this run.  I hadn’t brought it up with Matt once in the time we’d planned the run, and it hadn’t come up in conversation at any point…and now, here I sat in Elizabethtown with no real bead on a place to stay.

Now this wouldn’t have really been an issue in other, more temperate times of year – and I’d slept in the van before, and I wasn’t above sleeping in the van again.  I’d packed well, after all – I had a sleeping bag that stayed in the van at all times, and I had this hooded sweater that I called “Derek” (because it was very much like one that my old manager used to wear all the time – I bought it for that reason on another road trip with Matt and Michelle at a truck stop maybe a year before).  I had the same green army coat that I’d been wearing for years and a few changes of clothes, and I was packed for the trip, so I wasn’t worried about being prepared…but it was fucking COLD at night, let me tell ya.

Leaving Elizabethtown, I hadn’t really given any thought to how far it was from Louisville – and now, it’s kind of comical to think about – but I thought there’d be a rest stop somewhere along the interstate between E-town and Louisville, not realizing that it was barely up the road.  As such, I got to Louisville before finding a place to pull over and sleep – so I’d already arrived in town and needed to find a place to put myself for the night.  I got off the exit for Bardstown Road and started scoping out spots along the route until I saw a cluster of blue lights in the distance in front of me.  My first thought was that it was either an accident or a DUI checkpoint, and I wanted no part of either possibility.  I pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store and circled around back – I backed the van into the parking spot adjacent to the dumpster (it felt important to conceal my “yankee license plates” at the time) and locked it down – then I crawled into the back and pulled “Derek” up right around my neck and zipped the sleeping bag up to the top and dozed off to sleep in pretty short order.  It was probably a little earlier than I’d planned on going to sleep, but I had nothing else to do, so I slept until I woke up to the sound of traffic and general bustling outside the windows of the van.  I tried to sleep through it, but it just wasn’t happening.  If it had been May, I’d have happily slept until noon, but the cold wouldn’t allow for it.

I woke up and started the car – I knew that the expectation that it would heat up was futile at best, so I started up the street until I found an open McDonald’s.  I pulled into the parking lot and went inside to eat something and thaw out for a bit.  I had my backpack with me, so I pulled out my journal and wrote for a while – I ended up going out to the car and coming back in through the side door with my bag and sneaking into the mens’ room to wash up, brush my teeth, and change clothes for the day.  

I had a lot…A LOT…of time to kill between then and the gig.  I read most of “Message in a Bottle”, which Heidi had loaned me before I left…I spent well over an hour at Guitar Emporium, I went up and down Bardstown looking for bookstores and record shops, but I didn’t want to stray too far from familiar territory.  Again, this was pre-GPS, pre-cellphone…and I didn’t want to get lost or have to grope my way back to the gig.  It was a relatively relaxing day of doing nothing, although I regretted not having told my brother Jimmy that I was going to be close.  If I’d known that I was going to have this much time on my hands, I’d have made the effort to track him down, but I thought I’d have been on a straight shot north from Elizabethtown to home from the end of the first show.  Rookie mistake.

The show that night at Twice Told was one of the best shows I’d played in the past two or three years prior to that – it wasn’t a huge crowd, but it was a great crowd.  My voice was in pretty great form, and I’d gotten great reviews from the folks at both gigs, and I was assured that I’d be welcome to return anytime I wanted – which was a big part of the point of doing the shows in the first place…getting my foot in the door and making an impression.  

There’s a political element to forging one’s way through this forest, and I had known this for some time, having played the game locally in Philadelphia – but if I had notions of expanding my base and following my John Gorka blueprint, I had to start working outward.  And this pair of shows had accomplished that – I had return commitments, and it was within the realm of possibility to add venues in Nashville or Cincinnati or elsewhere the next time around.  That’s how the donuts get made, y’know.

I left the show in good spirits with plans to drive as long as I could to try and heat up the inside of the van before I pulled over to sleep – the way I saw it, I figured the warmer I could get it, the longer it’d take for the cold outside to push it out.

I drove for a couple hours and found a rest stop where it felt safe to park and sleep…it was well past midnight at this point, so I figured that it’d warm up a bit when the sun came out – so I was probably looking at six hours or so of real cold before it warmed up a bit, and I felt pretty sure that I could sleep through that like the professional that I was.

I slipped on a second shirt, a long-sleeved henley pullover and put Derek on over the top of it and slid down into the sleeping bag and zipped it all the way up so that the only thing sticking out of it was my face – and hunkered down to get some sleep for the rest of the drive back.

I don’t remember falling asleep – it must’ve been quick.

At some point in the middle of the night, I slipped into a dream…I was outside, and there was a stage – it wasn’t a traditional bandshell, but similar.  There was backline and gear set up on it, and I knew that I was supposed to be playing, somehow.  

Prior to this dream, in real life, Matt and Marlene had been negotiating with an indie label (Palmetto) to sign me – they had an amazing female singer/songwriter named Mindy Jostyn on the label, and I think Matt thought they needed a male contemporary that they could promote and potentially pair up for touring – or at least that’s how they pitched it.

At any rate, this show I was apparently playing in this dream was supposed to be something of a live performance preview of songs from the new record that was coming out on Palmetto – and I was seeing the craziest combination of souls in this outdoor park, gathering for this show.  Steve Wellner was there with his trademark smile, Tom Del Colle from Grape Street was cooking on a grill, a couple of guys I knew from high school were milling about on the grass – my Navy buddy from Iceland, Jay Smalley was there – but all standing somewhat spaced out on the grass, looking in my direction with contented smiles on their faces.

The band was Todd and Bob Stirner on guitar, Lee Shusterman on keys, Garry Lee on bass and Ronny Crawford on drums – every one my first pick if I were able to put together the band of my dreams.  Jayda and Dylan were there with their mom and her new boyfriend, and…

…it was almost as if my subconscious brain had selected a “greatest hits” playlist of sorts to parade past me in this apparition.

So as we’re doing a line check and I’m looking out at this field full of happy, supportive faces and I see a sandy-haired girl wearing denim overalls and a white T-shirt walking across the grass towards the stage and I know immediately who it is.

I take my guitar off and put it on a stand behind me and step down and take maybe ten or fifteen paces in her direction until we’re standing right in front of one another.

She looks directly into my eyes and reaches up to touch my face and she says:

“Tom – just because I couldn’t love you the way you wanted doesn’t mean I didn’t love you.”

I must have awakened at that very moment, because I don’t remember anything from the dream after that.

When I woke up, it was daylight – sunlight was shining in through the windows and I was staring up at the roof of the van absorbing what I’d just heard in my head in this dream I’d had.  As I was waking up, I hadn’t quite left my brain just yet.

“Just because I couldn’t love you the way you wanted doesn’t mean I didn’t love you.”

I didn’t realize how cold I was until I noticed how strange the tears felt on my face – I’d slept until nearly ten o’clock, and…contrary to my assumption from the night before, it had not warmed up when the sun came up.

In fact, most of my face was numb from the cold – there was no real difference in the temperature outside or inside the van at this point, as I’d managed to sleep for nearly ten hours somehow.  But over the course of that ten hour period, the only heat that remained in the van was what I’d barely managed to trap inside the sleeping bag with me – and that wasn’t much.  

That morning, before I started the van to head home, I had to scrape frost from the inside of the windows.  I’d never considered the possibility of that being necessary under any circumstance, but sure enough…I guess the condensation from my breath over the course of a ten hour slumber had created enough moisture in the air to frost the windows from the inside.

Not just a light coating, either…I actually had to use the scraper that I usually used for clearing the outside of the windows on both sides of the windshield before I was able to pull out of the rest stop to start the drive home.   After I finished scraping, I checked the oil and added another two quarts before starting the engine to let the van warm up for a moment while I tried to regain the feeling in my extremities so I could actually drive…again, I’m not someone with a propensity for the cold, but I was freezing that morning.  

The only other times I can remember being that cold was waking up in our house before I was in my teens – when the only source of heat we had in the house was a wood stove that had long since burned down to embers overnight.  My mom would get out of bed before us every morning to start the fire again before she’d wake us and get us up to get ready for school, but the wood stove was often no match for the cold that had settled in overnight.  When I got up, I’d grab my clothes and run to stand next to the stove and get dressed while standing as close to it as I could to try to stay warm.

The drive home wasn’t unlike those winter mornings getting ready for school – it never really got warm…or if it did, I wasn’t able to feel it.  In fact, I don’t think I warmed up until I got back to my penthouse on North Fifth Street and got myself and my guitar inside.  I remember my feet feeling strange when I got out of the van, because it had been so long since they’d touched anything that wasn’t the floorboard.  

Now, you know by now how I felt about my little nest above North Fifth Street – it was home to me at this point, and it was mine…the first place I’d lived that I could truly say that about.  But when I got home from this particular weekend’s shows, I don’t know that I’d ever been so glad to walk up those three flights of stairs and unlock that door to step inside my place.  MY place.  I was glad to be home in a way that felt like equal parts relief and contentment.

I took off my road clothes and took the longest, hottest shower I’ve probably ever taken – I turned on the television in the bedroom after I got out and put on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, and laid down on the bed tucked into the corner of the back room and let my attention drift from the dialogue from the TV to the delight I felt in actually being warm again for the first time in what felt like days.

It was Sunday – it wasn’t particularly late, and I’d slept pretty long the night before finishing the drive home, but I was drained.  I had come home from two marginally successful gigs with less money than I’d left home with, and I’d been thinking about all of this for the entire days’ drive and apparently, I wasn’t finished mulling it over yet.

I was staring down the barrel at 34 years old and I was beginning to feel the earth shift beneath my feet a little bit.

I’d had almost two years to cobble together a followup to my 1997 record, and I had…nothing.

(OK, maybe not nothing – but nothing I’d been as excited about as I’d been when I’d assembled this crew of believers to start working on that record…and no, it’s not fair to compare them, any more than it’s fair to compare your children with that kind of expectation, but…that weekend, it had started to sink in that I was ill-equipped to follow up that record.)

I had songs.  I had songs I liked, even.  But I think that the experience of making Mutual Angels with Steve had…well, it had kinda ruined me.  It’s not as though the door at Longview was closed to me, but I think that when someone (in this case, someone in Steve’s position) decides to invest their time and talent alongside your time and talent to create something, they expect you to be as excited about the prospects of your joint creation as they are, and I will never accept that I didn’t disappoint Steve on that level.  Steve stood next to me as we made that record, he believed in that record, and he was proud of that record, and – it came out and my life imploded and I took my eye off the ball.

When the summer of 1997 happened in the manner it did, Derek did the best he could to try and create a space for both that record and for me as an artist within the sphere of where I lived and worked, but I wasn’t present for it.  I didn’t have my heart in it, as I was distracted by the things going on in my life.  But I got another shot, when Matt came along and was every bit as motivated as Derek had been coming out of the gate, but again – other things in my life demanded my time and attention and I didn’t live up to the work I needed to do to give it the same amount of effort that the people around me were putting into it.

If you’re reading this, you likely know me on some level outside my capacity as a long-winded autobiographer, and you already know that there was never any real follow-up to Our Mutual Angels – there have been records in the years since, but they’ve largely been homemade efforts, and in the years after this particular weekend run of shows, my attention shifted largely away from songwriting to other pursuits.

I don’t recall the exact date, but at some point Steve Wellner evaporated into thin air.  For a while, no one knew what happened to him or what became of the studio – he turned up some years later, happy and healthy and living in Southern California with a great gig as an engineer and is doing quite well.

When I was touring with Marshall Tucker Band in 2013, we were playing a show in Woodland Hills, CA and I reached out to Steve to let him know that I was in town – he came to the show and we got a chance to go sit at the bar at our hotel and talk at length for the first time since he’d left Philadelphia, and…to call it a catharsis still feels as though I’m selling it short.

I got to thank him properly, at last, for the work he’d done on that record, for his belief in me as an artist, and for the sacrifice he’d made to give birth to it.  He was gracious and complimentary and convinced me – maybe for the first time – that it was as much a labor of love for him as it had been for me.  I told him how much I regretted that I hadn’t been as present as I should’ve been in the aftermath of the record, and that I felt like I let him down, but he told me that he completely understood – he’d been present for the emotional turmoil that fueled the creation of the record as well as the fallout, and he was a firsthand witness to what had taken place in my life in those years, and he got it – and he told me that he bore me no grudges about any of it and that he was glad to have been a part of it, and…

…and I don’t know that the words are available to me right now to tell you how that felt.

It was like having a regret that you’ve carried around for years liquidated and washed away.

I hadn’t seen Steve in almost fifteen years by then, and it was as if no time had passed when we saw each other that night…and I think the thing I took away from that encounter was the notion that maybe there was a reason that Mutual Angels was a one-time thing.  I couldn’t have made that record with anyone else, and I would’ve measured anything I did after that with the template that I’d created in my relationship with Steve, and I’m not sure if anyone else would’ve lived up to it.

Now, I’ve done hundreds and hundreds of sessions in the time since that record, and I’ve forged some great relationships with producers and engineers in studios all over the place in that time.  I consider myself a pretty flexible guy in the studio and I can work with just about anyone…

…on other people’s music.

Whether I could ever make another record like Our Mutual Angels with anyone other than Steve?

Well, I know what the answer to that question has been for nearly a quarter century.  I guess it could be said that the jury is still out, but whatever might come next, in terms of a Tom Hampton record of all original compositions – it’ll be apples and oranges to the work I did with Steve.

As I lay in bed after that road trip, though – back in February of 1999 – I hadn’t fully processed this yet.  I still had some work to do and I needed to be gently led in another direction.

I needed a creative vacation – a distraction of sorts.  And I’d soon figure out what that looked like.

…another auld lang syne

I feel like I’ve been researching this book for a year…largely because – well, because I’ve been researching this book for a year.

This week has been “open every document on all your old hard drives” week, and I’ve found some great stuff…a song I forgot that I’d written, a handful of saved AIM conversations with old friends, and…this article that I saved from the days after Dan Fogelberg’s passing in 2007.

A great story loves to be told, and this is a great story.


At Woodruff High School, Jill Anderson had a typical teen romance: on-again/off-again with the same boy over several years.

He’d write a lot of poetry and share his insights with Jill. But as they went to separate colleges, things cooled off. They tried to stay in touch, but he moved out West and she headed to Chicago.

And that might’ve been the sum of a sweet memory, if not for a chance reunion one Christmas Eve at a Peoria convenience story – one music fans know well.

Jill’s old boyfriend was Dan Fogelberg, who memorialized their convenience-store encounter in “Same Old Lang Syne.” Since the song’s release in 1980, Peoria – as well as the rest of his fans worldwide – has wondered about the “old lover” referenced in the song. Fogelberg never would say, and only a handful of people knew the ex-girlfriend’s identify.

Jill, now Jill Greulich of Missouri, feels she can finally share the story.

“It’s a memory that I cherish,” she says.

She says she had kept publicly mum because Fogelberg was such a private person.

“It wasn’t about me. It was about Dan. It was Dan’s song,” Jill says.

Further, though she and Fogelberg only rarely had communicated over the past quarter-century, she feared that her talking about the song somehow might cause trouble in his marriage. But in the aftermath of his death – he passed away of prostate cancer Sunday at age 56 – she has been sharing her secret with old friends in Peoria.

“I don’t want this to overshadow Dan,” Jill says. “When I heard the news that he died, I was very sad.”

She and Fogelberg were part of the Woodruff Class of ’69. They would date for long stretches, break up, then get back together.

Often, they would head to Grandview Drive, take in the vistas and listen to the likes of Joni Mitchell and Crosby, Stills & Nash. Fogelberg often would pen poetry, some of which he gave to Jill.

“I still have some of those in a drawer at home,” she says.

After high school, Fogelberg went to the University of Illinois in Urbana to study theater, while Jill attended Western Illinois University to major in elementary education. They stayed in touch, even continuing to date for a while. But the romance ended for good when he left the U of I early to head to Colorado and pursue his music career.

After graduating college, Jill relocated to the Chicago area, where she worked as an elementary teacher and flight attendant. Not long after college, she married a man from that area, and her connection to Fogelberg faded to memories.

But on Christmas Eve 1975, Jill and her husband visited her parents, who still lived in the Woodruff district. Also at the home were some friends of the family.

During the gathering, Jill’s mother asked her to run out for egg nog. Jill drove off in search of an open store.

Meanwhile, a few blocks away, a similar scenario was playing out at the Fogelberg home, where Dan Fogelberg was visiting family for the holiday. They needed whipping cream to make Irish coffees, so Fogelberg volunteered to go search for some.

By happenstance and because almost every other business on the East Bluff was closed, Jill and Fogelberg both ended up at the Convenient store at the top of Abington Hill, at Frye Avenue and Prospect Road. She got there first, and Fogelberg noticed her shortly after arriving.

They bought a six pack, sipped beer in her car and gabbed away. “We had some laughs,” Jill recalls.

As two hours flew by, Jill’s family and friends grew worried.

“We were like, ‘Where is she?'” says a laughing Eileen Couri of Peoria, one of the friends at the gathering that night.

When Jill returned, she simply explained that she had run into Fogelberg, and the two had caught up with each other. No big deal.

Five years later, Jill was driving to work in Chicago. She had on the radio, and a new song popped on. First, she thought, “That sounds like Dan.”

Then she listened to the lyrics, about two former lovers who have a chance encounter at a store. “Oh my gosh!” she told herself. “That really happened!”

They would not discuss “Same Old Lang Syne” until years later, during a conversation backstage at a Fogelberg concert. Two parts of the song are inaccurate. Blame Fogelberg’s poetic license.

Jill does not have blue eyes, but green. In fact, when they dated, Fogelberg called her “Sweet Jilleen Green Eyes” – a combination of her full first name and his twisting of a song title by Crosby, Stills & Nash.

Fogelberg explained that he took the easy way out for “Same Old Lang Syne.” As he told Jill, “Blue is easier to rhyme than green.”

Also, her then-husband was not an architect but a physical-education teacher. Jill doubts Fogelberg knew what her husband did for a living. She thinks Fogelberg probably just thought “architect” sounded right for the song.

But those are minor details. The heart of the song hangs on its most chilling line: “She would have liked to say she loved the man, but she didn’t like to lie.”

Still, even decades later, she declines to discuss that line of the tune.

“I think that’s probably too personal,” she says.

But the song had no impact on her marriage. By the time of its release, she had divorced.

“Somebody said he waited until I was divorced to release the song, but I don’t know if that’s true,” Jill says.

In 1980, the same year of the song’s release, Jill married Chicago-area native Jim Greulich. Eventually, they would move to a St. Louis suburb, where she now teaches second grade.

A few of her school associates have known her secret about the song. So has Fogelberg’s mother, who still lives in Peoria and exchanges Christmas cards with Jill.

This week, Jill sent e-mails to a few old pals in Peoria, lifting the lid off the “Same Old Lang Syne” mystery. One of the e-mail recipients was Wendy Blickenstaff, a Woodruff classmate of Jill’s and Fogelberg’s.

“I had a big suspicion” it was Jill, says Blickenstaff, now the head counselor at the school. “I’m happy for her. It’s really cool. … That’s a memory that she treasures.”

Jill agrees. Yet her memories of Dan Fogelberg stretch far beyond “Same Old Lang Syne.”

“I’ll always have a place in my heart for Dan,” she says. ” … Dan would be a very special person to me, even without the song.”

Chapter Preview – Connoisseur of Worst Case Scenarios

Nashville looks different to a teenage Opryland theme park visitor than it did to a 30 year old folk singer – when I lived in Tennessee as a kid, the thought of going to Nashville as a pro musician had never even crossed my mind.  What was I going to do, play in Conway Twitty’s band?  My first sights were set on being a drummer, but as I evolved and took up songwriting, the thought of this place wandered even further from my mind.  I never felt a kinship to Nashville in those years.  Now, though, we found ourselves in the deepest throes of what Steve Earle has called “The Great Credibility Scare” – a period in Nashville’s history that found artists and labels stretching the very boundaries of what could be called Country music, signing acts like him, Mary Chapin Carpenter, Kevin Welch, Lee Roy Parnell, and a host of other artists who would never in a million years fit the mold of a “hat act”.

And – because it needs to be said and confessed – I never would’ve come to Nashville that year if Matt and Michelle hadn’t set the whole thing up and convinced me to come along.

Once it was in ink and we’d committed to it, though – the prospect took on a degree of excitement.  I was actually looking forward to seeing what things looked like from the “boots on the ground” perspective and getting a closer look.  We’d booked a couple of shows in town, including a writers’ round at a place called Big River (it sat all the way at the end of Lower Broadway where Acme Feed and Seed lives today), and an in-store live performance at Tower Records.

Travelling with Michelle was fine, as long as the wheels of the car were moving.  When the car stopped, she got to be a bit of a handful.  After we’d first arrived in town, she spotted a ring at a shop that she passed over at first – and then suffered an absolutely debilitating case of buyers’ remorse that found us actually going back to the shop so that she could buy the ring she’d passed over the first time.

There are a lot of details that time has managed to blur over the years, and one of them is the name of the woman that we stayed with while we were in Nashville – she was a friend of Matt and Michelle’s, really sweet – Matt and Michelle took the guest room, and she offered me the choice of the couch or sleeping with her.  It was completely innocent at first, or at least that’s what I said to myself to rationalize the notion of sleeping with this woman I’d just met…and she was lovely.  I’ve thought about her a number of times since moving to Nashville six years ago, and sadly, I don’t think I’d recognize her if I were to pass her in the produce aisle at Kroger.

Our first night in town, we had tickets to the Ryman Auditorium to see a band called Jars of Clay, who were recording a live concert video that night.

Now, I don’t know if you’re familiar with Jars of Clay, I don’t know if you have an opinion of Jars of Clay, but that show – that night – was somewhat otherworldly to my eyes and ears.  I had never heard of them, and every song was brand new to me, and I was an instant fan.  I had taken a single seat a few rows over from Matt and Michelle for the sake of logistics, and I was somewhat grateful to be able to sit there and let this music wash over me by myself with no forced interaction with anyone else…

…until I felt Matt tap me on the shoulder about two thirds of the way through the show.

“Hey, man – I’m sorry, but I think we’re gonna have to go.”

I looked up at him and he looked both distressed and slightly panicked – I didn’t ask any questions, I just got up and followed him up the aisle to the exit, where a sobbing Michelle was waiting on the other side.

Michelle had gone to the bathroom and had taken off her new ring to wash her hands, and had walked out of the bathroom without it – and she lost her shit.

Thankfully, someone turned the ring in to the box office and the breakdown eventually subsided and we were able to collect ourselves and move on.

Another early stop after arriving in town was the office of NSAI headquarters – Nashville Songwriters’ Association (International).  They’re an advocacy and networking organization for songwriters with an influential reach into the Nashville community, and into just about every community in the US and beyond with a significant music scene that has a songwriting element present among them.  In town, they offered writing rooms, office space and internet access for their members, and in those days – internet access meant the availability of an analog phone line.  As such, they were a godsend for Matt, who practically lived on his laptop.

While we were there, I did the thing that I did in every city I found myself in, even for a fleeting moment – I grabbed a copy of the local free weekly (in this case, the Nashville Scene)and started flipping through it.  In the listings for live music in that weeks’ Scene, I went to check the Bluebird Cafe itinerary for the week.

“Dammit!” I said, out loud, surprising even myself.

“What?” Matt answered.

“I was just looking at the Bluebird listings…we just missed a round at the Bluebird with Rusty Young from Poco – by two days!”

Matt, being the expert networker and politician that he was, took the story from there and explained to the folks in the office that Rusty had written one of the songs on my album, and that we were on the road and likely wouldn’t have made the show even if we’d known about it.  He was just making conversation, really – there hadn’t been an outburst, I hadn’t made a scene, and I wasn’t irate or emotional about it…and after having brought it up, I immediately pivoted to another round at the Bluebird that we should take in while we’re there with Jeff Hanna from the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, Marcus Hummon, and Matraca Berg – I knew Marcus’ recording of a song called Bless The Broken Road from a Musician magazine compilation that I’d picked up long before the trip, and I’d heard Matraca’s songs on TNN…Jeff was just Jeff from the Dirt Band – I later found out that he and Matraca were husband and wife, and that Jeff was a co-writer on Bless the Broken Road – so it all made sense.

So, we missed Rusty – bummer.  But this show would be a good introduction to Nashville for all of us, I thought.

While I continued to peruse the paper, the receptionist came over and handed me a Post-It note that read:

Rusty Young (615) xxx-xxxx

“I just got off the phone with him, and he asked you to give him a call.”

Now – let’s just pause here, for a minute, and think about what just happened.

The receptionist had been a party to this conversation just a few minutes prior, and she took it upon herself to pick up the phone and call Rusty.  I’m left to assume that she told him that there was some guy named Tom Hampton in their lobby who had mentioned having recorded one of his songs…and Rusty had told her to give me his phone number.

Now, whatever you might think about Nashville, know this:

That’s never, ever, ever gonna happen in New York or Los Angeles.  Not in a million years.

That was the beginning of the reshaping of my attitude towards Nashville.

And yeah, you’d better believe I called him – said hello, we caught up a bit, I told him that I was in town for a couple of shows.  He asked where, and I told him that we were doing a writers’ round on Lower Broadway, but that I was doing an in-store at Tower Records the next day.  I didn’t invite him outright, but yet he asked what time the show was, and he told me he’d be there.

At this point, I had been playing in front of crowds ranging from a handful of folks to upwards of a thousand for roughly ten years or so, and I felt as though I was past the point of something like stage fright or butterflies.  I had seen bar fights, power outages, fires, floods – once you’ve seen a dude bleeding all over the floor in the middle of a song, it’s easy to assume that there isn’t much that would rattle you.

Now, though, I was about to play a show with a hero in the audience.  And yes, I’d opened a show for them a couple years prior, but there are a number of important distinctions between these two situations – most headlining acts never hear a note played from the stage before they step onto the stage themselves.  

The guys from Poco actually have a great story that they used to tell at shows about all the bands that had opened for them who went on to have successful careers, and talked about this comedian who came out in a white suit playing banjo with an arrow through his head…and they all agreed that there was just NO WAY this guy was ever gonna make it.  (It was Steve Martin, and of course they were wrong.)  It’s also worth noting that some of the only live shows that the upstart Buckingham-Nicks duo played before joining Fleetwood Mac were opening for…Poco.  

The only real reason to take a gig opening for another artist is to play to their audience and hope that some degree of cross-pollination takes place – that some of their fans will also become your fans.  Of course, there’s a fantasy that evolves early on when we daydream about playing on the same stages as the bands we idolize, forging friendships with our heroes and winning their approval…maybe they’ll like my music and, who knows?  Maybe they’ll invite me up to sit in or something and we’ll all hang out backstage and…sure, it makes for a great movie, but real life doesn’t often lend credulity to the fantasy.   There’s seldom anything more than a cursory greeting exchanged between the opener and the headliner.

(EDITOR’S NOTE: I know, I know…just pretend you don’t know the rest of the story and keep reading, OK?)

Still, I’d gotten acquainted with the band some years back and – while I didn’t necessarily think of myself as much more than an acquaintance, they knew who I was…and that, in and of itself, felt significant to me.  Heroes had been a big deal to me from the beginning.  But the thought of actually getting to know them to the extent that they remember your name, or that one of them would extend their phone number to you, and then to learn that they think enough of you to take the time to come hear you play?

I can’t speak for anyone else, but it was a big fucking deal to me.

So, you’d better believe that when I got off the phone with Rusty, I went upstairs to the cubicle where the public computers were and jumped onto AOL to see if Jon was online – I couldn’t wait to tell him what had happened.

Well, sure enough, I found his screen name in the Instant Messenger window when I signed on (Jon was a graphic illustrator, and he worked from home – so he was online all the time) – but before I could send him a message, an IM window opened on my screen:

Jongeorg:  Hey!  I was going to email you!

Hamptontom:  Dude, you’re never gonna believe this

Jongeorg:  You want to go first or should I

Hamptontom:  You go first…no way will yours be bigger than mine

Jongeorg:  OK

Jongeorg:  I talked to George Grantham, and he’s coming to your Tower Records show 

Hamptontom:  HOLY SHIT

Jongeorg:  Right?

Jongeorg:  What did you want to tell me?

Hamptontom:  Well, here’s a plot twist for you – there’ll be two Poco members at my show tomorrow

I proceeded to tell Jon about the encounter with Rusty via Instant Messenger – but now I needed to process this additional information, because I was still wrapping my head around the notion of Rusty being at the show at the moment I learned that George was coming – and I’d never met George before.

There was another layer of potential drama that occurred to me as I was processing all this.

There had been a reunion of the original five members of the band in 1989 that resulted in an album on MCA and a short tour that was rumored to have ended in somewhat contentious waters.  Richie had jumped ship first, then Randy – and everyone ended up splintering again by the end.  

The version of the band that I’d seen that day in Pittsburgh six years prior was Rusty and Paul Cotton with a pair of players they’d picked up in the interim…and of course, it had certainly dawned on me that there might’ve been a reason why George hadn’t continued on with the band after the reunion tour – personal or otherwise.  Certainly, I didn’t know any of them well enough to be privy to any inside information – and for all I knew, there may have been some bad blood between Rusty and George that rose out of the aftermath of that tour.  I was immediately concerned that they’d think they were being set up to arrive in the same room at the same time as some sort of fanboy matchmaker operation, and they’d both leave angry at having been set up to bump into each other.

This is the thing I invented in my head, anyway – I had become a true connoisseur of worst case scenarios, and I’d cooked up a doozy for myself this time.  By the time of the show, I had worked myself up into a bit of a lather – to the point that I’d have actually been relieved if one or the other hadn’t made it to the show.

So I was standing on the stage, playing one of my songs, and I saw them both at almost the same time – Rusty came in through the door next to the counter, and I saw George walking up through the classical music aisle.  They saw each other at roughly the same time and started walking towards one another and met in a bear hug in the middle of the store, and I felt twenty pounds of stress evaporate and leave my body in that moment.

I had an interview to record after my set, but I took a minute to greet them both after the show and set up a lunch date with George before we left town at a Mexican restaurant he liked before saying goodbye to the two of them.  I did the interview and took some time to get to know a friend of Michelle’s named Tiger, a guitarist in town who was as much of a Poco fan as I was, and we got ready to leave for the Bluebird after the show.

I had never been to the Bluebird – but once I had, I got it.  It was a tiny room in a strip mall that most people wouldn’t have noticed if they were driving out Hillsboro Pike for any other reason.  And yet, it had taken on legendary status over the years as a place where songwriters gravitated to show off their work.  

After the show, I managed to strike up a conversation with Matraca Berg – during which I executed a perfect example of my now somewhat commonplace Lindsey Buckingham Sad Trombone maneuvers.

What would that refer to, you ask?

A long time ago, I read in an interview about an encounter that Lindsey had with George Harrison when he met him for the first time – Lindsey was getting to meet someone he looked up to, and he had a ton of questions he wanted to ask him, but he led the volley with:

“Of all the great stuff you did when you were in the Beatles, where on earth did you come up with that amazing solo for Tax Man?”

George looked down at the floor and answered, “actually…Paul did that.”

I’ve executed similar versions of this same gaffe enough times that I’ve come to refer to it as having “Lindsey’d” someone.

For example – the first time I got to play with Dave Van Allen some years later, I told him how much I loved the pedal steel solo in the Last Train Home song Hendersonville – it was perfect, it was understated and melodic and I could hear it in my head without listening to the record…

Dave’s response:  “well, thanks…but that was Pete Finney on the record.”

Lindsey’d.

So that night at the Bluebird, I marched up to Matraca and told her how much I loved the song Easy to Tell from her Lying to the Moon album, how it was equal parts classic country and Roy Orbison rolled into one, and I thought it was one of her best songs…

“I’m glad you like it, but actually…Stephony Smith wrote that one.”

Lindsey’d again.

I actually committed a misdemeanor count of Third Degree “Lindsey’d” with Paul Cotton the night we met for the first time, when I asked him if he played the solo from Good Feeling To Know through a Leslie cabinet.  Paul’s reply?

“I have no idea!  I’ll have to listen to it sometime!”

I mean, it’s a gift – it’s not like this is something you can teach, folks.

I met George Grantham for lunch the next day and had some amazing Mexican food while we got to know one another – he was such a kind guy, and he had a lot of nice things to say about Our Mutual Angels, and believed that if the right person got their hands on it, Brand New Distance could be a number one country song.  We talked a little bit about the old days with the band, and I worked up the nerve to ask him…

“…listen, at some point, I have to start putting songs together for a follow-up to this record – if we can make it work, I’d love to have you play on it if you’d be interested…”

He didn’t even hesitate – he said that if we could figure it out logistically, he’d be happy to.

He’d been playing a bit around town with a band called Hoopla, and he gave me a copy of their CD at lunch, and we traded contact information before we parted ways – I still had one more show to play before we left town, a writers’ round with chairs for both Michelle and I at Big River on Lower Broadway.

Our round was somewhat uneventful, but I’d met a young songwriter from Texas that night named Terri Hendrix who was in town, and she asked if she could borrow my guitar for her round after ours was finished, and I happily obliged – I took advantage of the extra time to take a walk up the street and listen to the folks playing in some of the other rooms along the strip.

Now, admittedly, I had conjured this illusion in my head that – because of the sheer number of people who came to Nashville to try to run their stuff up the flagpole, that competition must be fierce and that you had to be exceptionally good to actually achieve gigging status in a town with so many great musicians in it.  I mean, that would have to be true, right?

Well, my walk up Lower Broad that night altered my perception considerably.

There was a place called the Gibson Guitar Cafe that had a girl at a piano who might’ve only started playing a few weeks prior to that night…another place had a guy in a cowboy outfit in the window, singing the line “Big Boss Man” over and over while he repeated a 12 bar blues riff on guitar – it was actually a little disheartening to see that open mike hackers could work their way onto stages in a town like this, where music was a cash crop.

Still, for my first trip to Nashville that wasn’t a flyover on my way back to my hometown – for my first actual professional trip to Nashville – I left town with a smile on my face as we headed back to Philadelphia.  I don’t know that I actually harbored any thoughts of moving to Nashville at that point, as my kids were still young and I wasn’t prepared to be that far away from them – and my own personal musical blueprint was still very much the John Gorka career path, and even though Nashville had been welcoming to him, I didn’t foresee a scenario where I found myself living there.

The three of us had stayed at my brothers’ house in Jackson for one night of the trip, and in Nashville for the rest – travelling with Michelle, I was learning, was going to take some getting used to.

On the way north, we stopped at a rest stop off I-65 somewhere in Kentucky that was absolutely massive – it was a food court AND a department store AND a gas station AND a rest stop, and it seemed like they had damn near anything and everything that anyone could have possibly wanted to eat, hot or cold, in one corner or another of this place.  Even though I’d been up and down the roads of my corner of the world for years now, I’d never seen anything quite like this place at the time.

So we gassed up the Caravan and pulled away from the pumps to go inside and find something to eat.  Matt and I went inside and made relatively quick decisions and came back out to the van to eat and wait for Michelle – who remained inside until well after I’d finished my food.

I asked Matt – do you want me to go in and check on her?  You think she’s ok?

We both decided that she was probably just poking around through souvenir T-shirts or something and that she’d be out when she was ready, so Matt finished his dinner as well while we waited and talked about what had happened on the trip.

Some twenty minutes later, Michelle emerged from this travellers’ Shangri-La, this oasis of every kind of food one could possibly yearn for in a roadside setting…

…with two hard boiled eggs and a bottle of water.

Indeed – some getting used to.

The Soft Ache and the Moon

Richard Edwards is operating on borrowed time.


By all rights, he should be coasting down the other side of the hill by now.


Most artists follow a long-established creative path – a short, early creative burst of self-discovery followed by a blissful (and usually brief) period of brilliance – which usually tapers into an autumn of sorts…brought on by complacency or a drought of ideas or inspiration.


Even for some of the best and brightest, this cycle can run its course in the span of a decade…for a lucky few, maybe an extra year or two. Longetivity is usually a side-effect, a result of the trappings of greatness – if you do something that shifts the ground beneath your feet, you get the bonus benefit of riding on your own coattails in the aftermath. Let’s not kid ourselves, though – no one who goes to see what’s left of Fleetwood Mac or the Rolling Stones is going to the show to hear any of the songs recorded in a year that didn’t start with the number nineteen.


Luck and talent will extend a window, and if you’re ready – something beautiful and unique will flow through you and into the world, and we’ll all be the better for it.

Richard Edwards’ window appears to have been open for an abnormally long time.

Richard found his voice while fronting the late, lamented Margot and the Nuclear So and So’s – the band made half a dozen albums (including two versions of the same record) between 2005 and their final album, Slingshot to Heaven, in 2014.


Slingshot was a harbinger of both triumph and disaster. The album itself was easily the crown jewel of the Margot years, tilting its hand at Edwards’ maturity as an artist, but he fell ill unexpectedly, and was sidelined in the middle of touring the record. He was diagnosed with C. Diff – a rare intestinal disease that nearly killed him. In the aftermath, his marriage crumbled and he found himself homeless, couch-surfing while trying to heal himself both physically and emotionally.


The record that ultimately became his solo debut, Lemon Cotton Candy Sunset, started to take shape amidst the chaos of his life in those days.


He’d later say, “Some records you make because it’s been a couple of years and you have some songs that you think are pretty good. Others burn a hole inside of you so hot that you’ll do anything to get them out. It’s these records over which you obsess — they make you crazy and you develop ulcers. They kill some people. Getting them right is more important than food or air. No sacrifice is too great when it comes to their completion.”


To say that they kill some people may sound melodramatic, but even a cursory look at Richard’s life during the time leading up to the moment that LCSS saw the light of day strips away any layers of pretension from such a statement. Emaciated from the aftermath of medical treatments and accompanying weight loss, devastated from the collapse of his marriage – “I spent hours repeating my daughter’s name until I fell asleep,” he said. “Finishing the record was this flashing light that kept me just far enough away from some waters I was getting too close to.”


It’s hard for most people to imagine that any artistic pursuit could possibly be worth what Edwards went through, in terms of extreme levels of every kind of pain known to man, to see this record through to fruition…but it’s not for those of us on the outside to decide such things.

Lemon Cotton Candy Sunset is a record for the ages. It’s loose in places and dreamy in others, and it’s as personal and vulnerable a record as you’ll ever hear – all the more so if you know even a skeletal version of the story of its creator.


In the midst of the turmoil leading up to the record, Edwards posted a long, detailed open letter of sorts on the Margot Facebook page that accompanied a demo recording of a song called Moonwrapped – the post later disappeared but the song lingered in the periphery, and ended up closing the album (later with an accompanying video). It’s one of those songs that leaves you suspended in a state of ache and tension that can only be followed by a moment of silence and contemplation – the perfect mile marker for the end of such a record.


There’s a lot of “Goodbye” in LCSS – there’s a lot of California in LCSS, too, as being on the West Coast became a safe harbor of sorts for Edwards during the completion of the record. Certainly, the pain is palpable, but Richard is somewhat philosophical about it. He later said that “it dawned on me that my purpose might be, if only in this moment, to be a faithful steward of this pain. To turn it into something worthy of its awful power and, in the process, take back some of what had been taken from me.”

It’s a record where you can hear the pain even in the fleshed-out, uptempo songs – but it rewards return visits unlike any record I can point to that’s been made in the past twenty years. I won’t bore you with a recitation of adjectives…I’ll simply tell you that this record will make you feel things you’d forgotten how to feel.

It’s that good.


And he made it years down the road from where he started.


His proverbial window was already open, and – in 2017, after over a dozen years of writing and recording, he’d made the best record he’d ever made.

Until now.

I had made myself a promise in early 2020, after it became apparent that this year was going to become the clusterfuck shitshow that it’s become, that I was going to try to honor a self-imposed moratorium on new music for a while. I’d just lean on stuff that I already had attached to other periods of my life while I rode out whatever would become of the Year of COVID. I didn’t want to unjustly attach any of the events of this Garbage Year to anything that I hadn’t heard before, because – it just didn’t seem fair to the art.


I think of my daughter whenever I hear Bright as Yellow by Innocence Mission. I think of my oldest son when I hear Watching the Wheels by Lennon, I think of standing on the roof of a parking garage in Philadelphia when I hear Long December by Counting Crows – I have an exhaustive list of this kind of thing, and music attaches itself to signposts in my life like barnacles on the hull of a ship, and I didn’t see anything about this period of my life that I wanted to sync to anything that I might like.


So that new Phoebe Bridgers record? It can wait. The new Isbell record? It can wait. The Father John Misty EP? Later.

The new Richard Edwards record – The Soft Ache and the Moon – not ready yet.


And I held out for a long time, I swear I did.


Until I didn’t.

I don’t recall specifically what broke my will – I suppose it was no different than an alcoholic breaking loose from the thin thread that tethered them to sobriety, in a way…at some point, I just clicked on the BandCamp link and listened without a thought to the consequences of what I was about to do.


And then I couldn’t get out of bed.

For a couple of days. Seriously. I got up to go to the bathroom, or to wander through the house and touch base with my wife and my son (who’s almost the same age as Richard’s daughter), but I just needed to be in a room with the door closed…no interruptions, no banter in the background…and I drifted back and forth between sleep and listening to this record for most of the weekend.

I mean – on a creative level, I don’t get it. This shouldn’t be happening.


Richard Edwards is fifteen years in. He should be getting bored by now.

He should be rehashing themes and ideas from prior records, taking the safe or the easy path from point A to point B…he should be at least leaning towards the notion of phoning it in.


That’s how it’s usually done, after all.


I’ve been chewing on this for a minute, and – other than the stories we all know already (Aretha Franklin’s CBS recordings prior to signing with Atlantic and finding her voice being the most well-known of them), I can’t think of anybody…ANYBODY…who’s made a record this compelling this far down their personal artistic path.

We get older. We become preoccupied…complacent, even.


If we become notorious, we become more focused on remaining notorious than remaining true to our art.


The Soft Ache and the Moon is a record borne from a wellspring of courage and vulnerability, and it dares you to try to listen to it casually.


It’ll sneak up on you – you can put it on in the car, sure…but you might miss your exit getting swallowed up in Better World a’ Coming or January and have to double back. You might find your head bobbing to Monkey or Cruel and Uncomplicated and getting lost in the cracks and textures between the layers of guitars and the space between the notes.


Sonically, it resides in the same neighborhood as Lemon Cotton Candy Sunset – thanks in part to ace musicians like Mike Bloom and Pete Thomas, but it’s hard to imagine these songs existing in alternate forms. The production is lush and colorful, the songs are masterfully crafted, and delivered with Edwards’ trademark plaintive, distinctive tenor.


I don’t think this record is for everybody. In fact, I’m glad it’s not for everybody.


This record is a treasure, to be shared among people who are capable of appreciating it for what it is, what is represents, what it will make you feel…whether you planned on feeling or not. These records represent a modern day parallel to the Big Star albums – they’re a common denominator between people who experience music in a specific way.


Don’t believe me? Just skip straight to the final two songs on the record.

Happy Christmas (the whole world has changed), followed by Velvet Ocean, Super Moon – continues Edwards’ penchant for closing his records with songs that dare you to add them to playlists, songs that refuse to be followed by anything but silence for a few minutes afterward.


For this record, closing with one emotional gut-punch was apparently deemed insufficient, so he settled on a one-two combination…to devastating effect.


I think that, in the case of some records, knowing an artists’ backstory adds a layer to our ability to appreciate those works on a musical level. Whether it’s Blue or Rumours or I’m Alive or Blood on the Tracks or any number of other records borne out of turmoil, knowing the lay of the land upon which those records were created adds a degree of impact.

In this case, there’s a layer of poignance to these songs that comes with knowing Richard’s story and even casually observing his journey over these past few years (we’re acquaintances – I would hesitate to call myself a friend, because I haven’t known him that long). Even if you’re a casual Instagram follower, I don’t know how you listen to Velvet Ocean, Super Moon without shedding a tear – knowing what he’s been through over the past half decade, “shedding a tear” would be getting off easy. (I think the kids these days call it “ugly crying”.)


In this record, I can hear his love for his daughter, his deep connection to Southern California, his nerdy obsession with classic movies (easter eggs ranging from name-dropping TCM in Better World a’Coming to the piano fills in the bridge on Monkey) – not knowing about these things doesn’t inhibit ones’ ability to appreciate the record, but they create a sense of familiarity between the artist and the listener when we see the bigger picture.


The universal gift of great art is that it’s created by someone who feels something intensely enough to use their skill to transform it into something that can be experienced by someone else who can feel it on a similar level. It’s the sharing of joy and sorrow in a transformational way on a level that allows us to connect through those shared experiences.


In this case, all those caveats apply – but it can also be said that it’s just a Fucking Great Record.


I’ve recovered sufficiently that I can listen to it while actually being productive…so I think I’m gonna be ok. I’ll definitely be better for having listened to it.


And…as it turns out, my fears were unfounded.


The songs on this record found and chose their own moments in my life to bind themselves to, completely independent of my own will.


Velvet Ocean, Super Moon lifts me out of the present and deposits me into an old, battleship grey chair in my apartment over Fifth Street in Reading after my first marriage crumbled, sitting alone in front of a drafting table next to the window over the street, working on a sketch of my daughter from a photograph.


Better World and January remind me of Philadelphia in wintertime, in another lost year in a prior millenium.


It’s almost as if the songs are somehow COVID-proof, and have decided instead to seek out their own niche in my head…as if I’d known them all my life.


There are a handful of records that I’ve tripped over in my life that I knew – the first time I heard them, even – that they were going to be with me for a long, long time. They’re a rag-tag, dissimilar bunch – from Son Volt’s Trace to Janis Ian’s Between the Lines to August and Everything After by Counting Crows…but none of those records have the continuity this album has, nor do they feel as timeless as Soft Ache does…this record is an instant companion, for me.


I can’t promise it will affect you as deeply as it affected me – in fact, I wouldn’t expect it to. But you’ll find something to love somewhere among the intimate, instantly familiar soundscape of this masterful record.

If nothing else, take heart in the fact that someone who’s almost two decades into this game is still willing to dig this deep, to reveal this much, and to give a shit about the actual art of making a great record while the rest of the fucking world is on fire.

since we’ve last spoken…

So, a quick update is perhaps in order…

As you may already know, my Facebook account was “disappeared” last week with zero warning and no mention of what my offending action might’ve been, and – the only means by which to appeal their decision was to upload a scan of my photo ID. At the time, I fell hard on the “oh, hell NO” side of that option, and said as much when I posted my first mention of it earlier this week.

I started poking about The Googles in the time since, and saw that apparently, this is a thing Facebook has done on a pretty regular basis, with regard to FB asking for identification of some sort during this appeal process…and someone suggested the notion of redacting the information on my license and uploading it with the photo intact.

That struck me as – at the very least, a nice middle finger to the process – so I black-lined everything on my license except my name and my photo and uploaded it via the provided link, and…within minutes, I had already gotten the notification that my account was disabled and the decision was final.

So, that being said, I’m not sure where that leaves my eleven year old Facebook account with over 3,000 friends and countless photos and diatribes and the like.

Now, just for the record – every photo I’ve ever posted on Facebook still lives in digital form on my fledgling home network server here, so the photos aren’t the loss that they might be for other folks who aren’t as meticulous about hoarding their data as I’ve been over the years…and honestly, I’m not so vain as to feel any real sense of loss that my last decades’ worth of ramblings provide any real value to social media, at large.

It’s the principle of the thing, though.

So I’m still examining my options, but I’ve largely resigned myself to the notion that the old FB account is gone.

Now, I have created a pseudonym account, and some of you know this already…I’ve been taking very tiny steps, as I don’t want to wave a giant red flag by “re-friending” everyone all at once or anything of that nature – and I’m not sure that I’ll bother to engage with FB that much, moving forward – save for managing the band’s Instagram and FB group.

I’ve largely been “over” the Facebook platform for some time, and I don’t think I’m alone…I’ve watched a lot of friends evaporate from the platform over the past year or so, and many of us who continued to use it for interaction purposes did so while holding our nose.

So in a sense, I suppose they’ve done me a favor – I have a book to finish, recording projects to focus on, interviews to film, plenty of shit to invest my time in, and less and less time to devote to them.

In the meantime, if you get a friend request from the guitar player from a fictitious band out of a Cameron Crowe movie, know that it’s not a total stranger…

rumours of my social media demise are…

so I woke up this morning to a notice from Mark Zuckerberg’s Anti-Social Media operation that my Facebook account has been “disabled”:

It vaguely referred to the notion of “violating community standards”…but, unlike prior times when I’ve had my peepee slapped by the folks at FB, this time there was no specific information whatsoever about what I did to offend the Facebook Gods.

I wrote a long post quite a while back that was received with similar disapproval…without quoting it word for word, it was a diatribe about how folks on the right would rail hypocritically about the debaucherous lack of character of various politicians on the left, but how it was completely acceptable when the person committing identical offenses was on their side of the political fence.


And yeah, it was written in my own particular brand of colorful language, and it wasn’t particularly kind to the folks I was skewering in the post…but it wasn’t exactly out of character. I had written similar posts before without any real consternation from the Powers That Be, but this time – 2017 or so – the Facebook Gods found themselves newly offended.

But, when I received a notice that the post was “flagged for violating community standards”, it quoted the post, and gave me the option of either appealing the decision (during which time the post would be hidden, pending appeal) or deleting the post. I appealed, of course, and eventually they said that the post would have to be taken down in order to restore my account to full functionality.


So…fuck it, I took it down.


Now, let’s clear the air about a couple of bullet points before we move forward.


Facebook is fucking GARBAGE.


We all know it. Go ahead and take a minute to search your heart if you need to…I’ll wait. I’m betting you’ll come to the same conclusion.


We all KNOW it’s garbage, and for a lot of us, we feel like we need to take a shower sometimes if we think too long about the notion of staying on the platform after watching it fall victim to bloat, to ridiculous invasions of privacy, to Big Brother-esque changes to the way the platform presents content on our timelines, and – year after year, continuing to fail to learn from The MySpace Lesson…becoming less user-friendly and considering themselves invincible. BUT – for some reason, we stay.


Why do we stay?

I can’t speak for everyone, but for me – Facebook is the sole medium I have available to me to remain connected to a certain group of people. There are a ton of friends that I’ve made over the years for whom Facebook has become the thread that holds us together.


So – I hold my nose and I log on multiple times a day so I can see what my friends are posting, how their families are doing, what trials and tribulations they’re dealing with at a given moment…y’know. Life Stuff.


But the whole Facebook Problem is never completely out of view.


Their refusal to police their content, to allow incendiary fake news posted by accounts managed by dubious operators, and to meet it all with an Alfred E. Neumann-esque shrug has been cumulatively infuriating…and many of us have been waiting, hoping, praying for something to rise up (much as FaceBook did when MySpace became trash) to replace it as a social media platform, but – crickets.


So we grind our teeth and we internally rationalize the continued use of the platform and – not unlike what it must feel like for people with actual integrity and empathy after a visit to WalMart – we ponder whether or not to take a shower to try and wash the unclean feeling from our skin on occasion when the shitty practices of the platform become too obvious to ignore.


But….damn, ALL those people. Musician buddies that I don’t see as often as I’d like. Friends who started out as fans that I’ve gotten to know over the years. Chinner and Mooy in California. Tommy Fitzgerald in Oregon. Old friends that I’ve loved forever, like Appleseed back in Philly, and new friends like Patrick in Tehachapi…it’s made it easier to maintain a single thread that runs in a ton of different directions.


But there are times that I feel dirty for staying.


This morning, though…Facebook may have made the decision for me.
Account disabled – OK. Sure. I figured I’d do the usual dance, appeal it, take a look at what post I’d made that must’ve pissed them off…


But – whatever the offending post was, Facebook wasn’t citing it. At all.

No notice of what I’d done, what I’d said, what I’d posted that had violated their unimpeachable “Community Standards” – which was a new twist.


I mean, it’s not like I’m Leland Sklar, and I’m an old hand at getting jacked up by the Facebook Ethics Counsel – it had only happened to me once before.


So, OK then…whatever. So I click on the “appeal” link, and that’s when the gravity of the situation began to sink in.


Facebook was asking me to upload a JPG of my Photo ID.


Yeah, read that again if you need to…they wanted a photo of my drivers’ license that, as they outlined on my screen, they would keep on file for anywhere from thirty days to ONE YEAR, at their discretion.


I didn’t pump the brakes…I slammed on the brakes and put my phone away and got in the shower to get ready for work.


Does this shit happen? How have I not heard of this being a thing before now?


Do these assholes actually think that I’m giving them a copy of my PHOTO ID for them to keep on file after literally YEARS of hearing stories about Facebook data breaches, Cambridge Analytica, and various other means by which they routinely give away the personal information of their users?


No. Fuck that.


There has to be a line somewhere. And I think they just drew it.


So – that said – barring some divine intervention, there’s not much chance I’ll be returning to Facebook, and…I’m not entirely sure how I feel about that yet. I’m still vacillating between the “anger” stage and – well, in this case, the approach of the “relief” stage.


I’ll have to make a concerted effort to find other ways to keep in touch with folks I won’t see on there anymore, but – truth be known, I already have alternate contact information for a great many of them, so it’s not as though I’ve lost my sole tether to a ton of folks.


It’ll take some navigating, but…there’s a lot more anger at the fact that the last thing I posted, the thing that so incensed the butthurt, uptight Facebook overlords was a short, two sentence status update that read “Remember back when it was OTHER countries that gassed their own people? Good times.”


If you can’t find consensus in that statement…if that somehow “violates your community standards” – then FUCK RIGHT OFF.


In the meantime, I’ll rage against the machine on a more appropriate platform for this particular, 2020 brand of political screeds and I’ll stand aside with a long stick and a bag of marshmallows and wait for the inevitable day when Facebook burns to the ground.


…because it’s coming.

The Troubador and the Thief

So we had a near-miss burglary attempt a couple of nights ago.

We had all been up late – but upstairs, we had finally gotten everyone into a darkened room to fall asleep by around 1am or so. But – a little after 2am, there was a knock on the bedroom door…my oldest son, Dylan, who lives in the basement apartment, came upstairs to tell us that his girlfriend had heard the back door open, and the two of them got up and opened the door that leads from their downstairs bedroom into the garage/studio area and saw the door cracked open. Dylan said that as soon as he came out into that part of the house, he heard the gate close outside in the yard – the gate that leads from the driveway/carport area into the backyard and ultimately to the door that opens directly into my home studio (which is barely a studio by even the most liberal standards, but it is what it is).

Dylan ran out into the studio carrying a wooden baton that he’d named after my beloved ex-mother in law (although he called it “grum’mum”, logically enough)…he walked out into the garage/studio space and yelled “speak the fuck up!” before running out into the yard and then the driveway. Oddly, the security light that hangs above the garage doors hadn’t come on when he opened the gate. The light is usually very sensitive – it often comes on when cars turn off the intersecting street just off our driveway – but it hadn’t come on in this instance. It is possible to walk up the driveway against the house and not trigger the lights, but it requires some pretty deliberate effort. He had a flashlight and canvassed the entire back yard, the driveway, and checked every direction up and down the streets, looking for any sign of movement…but didn’t see anyone.

He gave us a full report when he came upstairs, once he was sure that whoever might’ve tried to get in was well up the road by then…and it was pretty unsettling to think that some random meth-destrian had just inventoried the Overdub Nook and knew what I had in the garage at this point.

Needless to say, there wasn’t much possibility of going back to sleep after this…I went down and walked through the garage and studio with Dylan as he took me through the whole incident, step by step – he was pretty wound up at that point, and so was I. So – we locked everything down and I came upstairs and took a seat at my desk in the office. I wasn’t about to go back to sleep anytime soon, so I spent the remaining hours of the night editing video footage from a couple of Poco shows that my friend Jon had sent me. The sky started to lighten around 6am, and – as has been my penchant since I was a teenager – the moment the sun started to come up, I started to get tired…I finally fell asleep in the recliner in the living room for an hour or so before my phone started ringing and I had to log onto my “day gig laptop” and start tending to the days’ IT issues.

The knowledge that someone with less-than-amicable intentions has availed themselves of the opportunity to form a mental blueprint of the place where you live, where you work, where you eat and sleep, where you KEEP YOUR STUFF – it’s a perpetually unsettling feeling that takes a while to go away.

And it’s not the first time I’ve felt it.

There was, after all, this one other time.

Now, the story I’m about to tell you is one hundred percent true, start to finish, and I still have the paperwork to back it up…what with being the guy who keeps everything and all.

Return with me to a time, over 20 years ago, friends…

New Years’ Eve, 1997.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

My first marriage had broken up, and I had moved out of our house into an apartment that I was renting for $275.00 a month in 1997 dollars in the 200 block of North Fifth Street in Reading, PA – it was affordable and…after settling in, I kinda loved it.

It was a third floor walk-up in a row home halfway down a hill, a couple of blocks from the main thoroughfare through the center of town. It was an old, old house…probably built in the twenties, if I had to guess. The style of the woodwork, the staircase and banister, the window fixtures…it was a throwback to what Reading must’ve been like decades prior to the summer I moved into the top floor apartment over the course of a single weekend as my family was splintering.

The apartment itself was perfect – for one person.

The front door had two locks on it – a handle lock and a deadbolt – and the door to my apartment was similarly locked down, with two locks.

When you unlocked the door and walked in, the door opened into the main room that faced North Fifth Street, with two huge windows overlooking the street below.

There were only two rooms, plus a bathroom.


(Forgive my compulsion to get into the weeds in describing the apartment…it feels as though it’s important to give you an idea of the layout of the place. It was the first place I ever lived that was mine, all mine – my stuff hung on the walls, my choices in furniture, my choices in dishes, MINE…and it was a pretty intense period in my life.)


The front room that faced the street had a kitchen of sorts built into the wall that would’ve been on your right as you faced the windows…two accordion-fold doors opened to reveal a stove, a sink, a small refrigerator, and overhead cabinets – everything a newly-minted bachelor needed to fold sandwiches, make ramen noodles and boil eggs. If you weren’t actively engaged in the boiling of the water for the ramen (or the eggs), you could close the doors and the entire kitchen would magically disappear into the wall…along with your dirty dishes.

Facing the “kitchen”, a door to its left opened on the wall facing the street that led into the bathroom – tub, sink and shower. There was a (homemade) wall unit that I built on the other side of the windows that housed CD’s, books, a small TV, records, tapes…all manners of stuff that I’d brought into my new place, and I built a place to put it all. Planks, screws and brackets – boom. Done.

A wall separated the two rooms, with closets built on either side of said wall – I kept guitar cases in the closet in the front room, but the back closet was home to my clothes and a clip-on Nerf basketball hoop and backboard that provided endless entertainment to me and the kids when they’d come over (to the eternal disdain of the militant cat-lady second floor tenant).

The “back room” was a mirror image of the room in the front – with two windows that looked out over a makeshift backyard behind the building…one window – the one next to the bed – covered by the same lush green ivy that covered the entire back of the building, and the other adjacent to the fire escape – but both windows were painted shut. I had tried to open the fire escape window not long after I had moved into the apartment, because I had this romantic image in my head of sitting out on the fire escape, playing my guitar in the dark…but it wasn’t meant to be, because I couldn’t get the damned window open…and I lacked the necessary motivation to force the issue.

Once I’d moved in and settled, I called BerksCable to install cable service in my apartment, and they had to pry the window open – literally – in order to run the cable up the side of the building and drill a hole underneath the “fire escape window” to run the cable into the apartment in the back room so that the kids could watch TV when they were there.

I’ve felt varying degrees of affection for places I’ve lived since then, but that place – it was special. It was transitional, it was solace, it was home.

The girl that I thought I’d spend the remainder of my life with had come there to stay with me a couple of times, I wrote songs at the makeshift multi-purpose table in the middle of the “front room” that I bought in the parking lot of a gas station in Morgantown…these two rooms and a bath were the one constant in my life during a time when literally everything else about my life was in limbo as the earth continued to shift beneath my feet.

So, as 1997 came to a close, the company I worked for had a long holiday shutdown that encompassed the week between Christmas and New Years’ – but even with the company having been furloughed, I still needed to go into the office on New Years’ Eve to complete the month-end reports that had to be run manually from the office. There wasn’t a means to complete this process remotely back in those days, so I had to sit down at my desk in the office and run the reports manually from a UNIX terminal.

It was important, because the very act of running the reports initiated the internal system processes that closed out the production figures for the month, and – in this case, during this final month – the year as well. The reports had to be run in order to compile the numbers, so it was important that I get them done during the last day of the month (or year) in question.

So I went in to the office that day to run said reports – Wednesday, December 31st, 1997.

For whatever reason, I felt the need to call my home phone number and check my messages while I was at work…for those of you who might be too young to remember this particular drill, us old-timers used to have actual machines – standalone recorders with analog cassettes inside them – that functioned as “answering machines”. If you had one of these machines, one of the features they offered was the ability to call your own number and enter a numeric code that allowed you to check the messages left on the tape to see who had called you. This involved calling your own number, waiting for the tone, and hitting the “star” key, followed by the numeric security code that would then prompt your machine to play back the messages that had been left since you’d last checked them.

So, while I was in Morgantown at my day gig, running reports and printing out page after page of worthless paper, I decided to call home and check my messages…and yet, when I called, the phone continued to ring past the customary four rings at which point I’d normally enter my combination of keystrokes to retrieve my voicemails. I called again, and the phone again continued to ring past that point…on and on. No message greeting, no nothing.

So, clearly, this struck me as odd – but not as an emergency. I thought that perhaps there was something wrong with the tape, or the answering machine itself. Usually, my first thought at that stage of my life would’ve been that I’d neglected to pay the bill and my service had been suspended, but on the occasions when that was the case, there was a menacing three-note tone followed by a message that stated that “the number you have dialed has been temporarily disconnected or is no longer in service”. The absence of said message told me that this wasn’t the issue.


I filed the issue away in the back of my mind and completed the month-end and year-end reports required of me and made my way home to my third-floor Fortress of Solitude…parked the car and unlocked the front door of my building and climbed the flights of steps up to my penthouse. I put my key in the door and found that the door was unlocked, for some reason.


I suppose I was too naive or otherwise unaware of the potential red flags that this should have thrown at that point…because it should have been obvious that something was amiss, if I were to consider The Door and the Answering Machine issues in tandem with one another, but I hadn’t put it together – yet.

I opened the door and walked into the apartment, and the first thing I did was to step through the doors between the “front room” and the “back room” and look on the shelf where the answering machine would have been…only to spot the phone cables dangling off the shelf in the spot where the machine had been when I went to work that morning.


I did that usual dance of disbelief that most folks probably do when they find themselves in a situation like that and started looking around the room to survey my situation.

Here’s what I saw.

Immediately after noticing that the answering machine was gone, I cast my eyes around the apartment and saw that the windowshade that covered the window by the fire escape had been severely mangled – the burglar had come in from the fire escape through that window, the one that had been painted shut prior to the visit from the cable company. He had pried the locked window open from the outside and came in through the window from the fire escape – and, in the process of raising the window, had left a perfect set of eight fingerprints from both hands on the inside of the window frame. Once he had gotten into the apartment, the sky was the limit – or so one would think. There were guitars in the closet, a TV, a VCR, various other electronics – but instead of taking the high-dollar stuff, the thief left instead with my answering machine, a portable mini-cassette recorder that lived on the table in the front room, and a shitload of CD’s.

Now, about that wall unit in the front room…it ran the length of the room from the end of the closet all the way across that wall to the window that faced the street. But – even with my meticulous planning, I still had more CD’s than I’d allowed room for on the wall unit. So, the overflow from the wall unit lived in the windowsill of the window in the left corner that overlooked the street. In fact, that became the home of the stuff I listened to the most regularly, as it was within easy reach, next to my desk that sat between the two windows.

As such, those were the most accessible – and those were the ones that my unwelcome visitor took with him.

In retrospect, it appeared that he clearly passed over the more valuable but larger items for stuff that he could smuggle into a backpack or a bag of some sort and sneak out of the apartment without attracting too much attention to himself.

So, of course, I called the cops (upon reconnecting my phone to the cables that reached the outside world) and the patrol officers who showed up to investigate alerted an investigative unit to let them know that they thought they had a set of “live” fingerprints – after which point they had someone show up to dust the windowframe and retrieve said prints. The officers told me that this was a legitimately big deal, as this would place the owner of said fingerprints in the apartment. Many times, they told me, they might catch someone with stolen items, but that alone wasn’t enough to arrest someone for burglary, because possession of stolen property only meant that they had the stuff, not that they stole the stuff. The fingerprints, however, changed that.

So the police stuck around for a couple of hours – they assigned my case to a detective, whose business card they provided me with, and told me to call whenever I wanted an update, or in the case that anything else came to light that they should know.

Aside from the normal feelings that one would expect to encounter in this situation: the queasy, unsettling feeling that an unwelcome presence has walked through your home and helped themselves to your possessions, taken inventory of your stuff, and knows where to find you AND your stuff now – that was heavy enough, but there was the matter of having a newly uncovered Achilles Heel. I had a damaged back window that I needed to secure somehow. I had to think about this for a bit…how was I gonna pull this off?

It was late, and it was New Years’ Eve – and I assured myself that there’d be enough of a police presence on the streets to deter the guy from making a return appearance that night, so that was the story I told myself to get to sleep that night.

The next day was New Years’ Day – just about everything was closed, so I stayed close to home for the day. I called my landlord to let him know what had taken place, and he assured me that he’d have someone there to fix the window the next day (a Friday). I went through my CD collection and tried to figure out what was missing…I wasn’t really that attentive to what I had and what I didn’t have under normal circumstances, but in looking through what I had on the shelves, there were some definite omissions that I knew I’d had before my burglar had paid a visit…I wasn’t entirely sure what he’d taken, I only knew what was missing.

That Friday that followed…turned out to be a big day.

My landlord’s repair guy showed up early – he told me he’d need to replace the windowframe and re-align the locks so that the window functioned the way it did the day before the burglary, but in my mind – I had the unsettling notion that I was no safer with the restored status quo than I’d been to begin with. He assured me that he’d be back tomorrow with the parts and supplies he needed to make it right, but I felt like I needed to find a way to reinforce this past the point of whatever the status quo was…so after the handyman had finished up, I took a drive in to work and retrieved some wooden slats from the shipping area where our guys boxed up large rolls of paper for shipment. I took them back to the apartment and cut them to length with a hand saw and fit them to the exact length they needed to be to act as reinforcement between the top of the closed window frame and the top corner of the sliding window itself. Once they were in place, I drove two small nails into the wood in the top window frame to hold up the slats so they wouldn’t fall inward toward the center of the window for any reason.

I figured that, between the lock itself and the slats, that prying the window open would be nearly impossible with this particular modification.

Once I’d finished that, I felt like I could leave the apartment for a little longer than I’d been comfortable with prior to getting the window reinforced, so I parked conspicuously in front of the apartment (I figured it’d be best to have my car there in case whoever it was knew which car was mine) and took a walk down to Penn Street, a few blocks away, to canvass a couple of the pawn shops along that stretch of the street.

The first place I went was a store where I was already something of a regular – Pawn Plus, right off 5th and Penn Streets. The proprietor was a red-haired guy relatively close to my age named Randy – I didn’t bother to tell him why I was there…I just said hello and started perusing the CD’s.

The first thing my eyes fell upon when I started rooting through the discs were two “sampler” CD’s from Oasis – not the arrogant Gallagher brothers’ flash in the pan, but the CD manufacturing company that had done the printing and duplication for my Mutual Angels album.

In those days, I used to scrawl my initials near the center of CD’s that I’d bought, and sure enough, I opened them up and there was “tom” in my handwriting near the spindle hole in the disc.

BOOM! I had the bastard dead to rights!

I stood there for over half an hour, going through the CD’s on the shelves and stacking discs in my arms…Randy made a crack about how “somebody must’ve gotten a sweet Christmas bonus”, but I just smiled and kept going.

I harvested a stack of about twenty discs and went to the counter and spread them out, opened them up, and told Randy my story – in retrospect, this probably happened more often than I might’ve realized at the time. He sympathized, and…knowing that he was probably acting in the interest of keeping a regular customer…he got a plastic bag for me and sent me on my way. Thinking back on it, he was probably saving himself the trouble of inviting the police into an uncomfortable situation as much as he might’ve been interested in helping me out. I asked all the usual questions – “did he have anything else he was trying to sell?” “Do you remember anything about the guy?” – but he was just another dude in what had probably been a long line of guys who’d come in to sell stuff on New Year’s Eve, and he didn’t have much to offer in terms of additional details.

So I took my CD’s home, put them back in the windowsill where they’d come from, and settled in for the weekend, and barely left the apartment at all the entire time.

Monday came around – Charlie, the handyman, was due to come back on Monday and fix the window…and I had to go back to work.

I hadn’t heard a peep the entire weekend, and I hadn’t expected to – as I left lights on at night just to be safe. By Monday, I had managed to cultivate a bit of a false sense of security regarding the barriers I had put in place to keep the window closed, and hadn’t given much thought to the notion of going to work on Monday. I made a call to the detective working my case to let him know what had happened on Friday at Pawn Plus, which he noted in the case record. He mentioned that they had warrant jurisdiction over the stores’ records, and he’d try to stop by and have a conversation before resorting to getting a judge involved to see what he could find out.

Monday nights, I hosted the songwriters’ night at Grape Street Pub in Manayunk – as such, I left work and went home to get myself together to leave for Philadelphia that night. I did the customary walk up the steps to my apartment and put my keys in the door and…it was unlocked.


“Hmmm…” I thought. “Charlie must’ve left the door unlocked when he finished fixing the window.”

Nope.

I opened the unlocked door and walked in to find the windowshade trashed yet AGAIN, over the same window by the fire escape that the thief had come in before.

My presumably ingenious means of entry-proofing the window had left out one important scenario – the notion that, if the window was struck at the center just so, the slats would come loose and fall straight down, as opposed to collapsing inward.

Charlie hadn’t come back on Monday at all…but the burglar had.

He knew what he’d found in the apartment the first time, so of course, he had a pretty good idea of what would be there if he came back.

So, with a rare stroke of criminal genius rarely possessed by thieves, my burglar came back to my apartment just a few short days after he’d come the first time – and, instead of taking the high-dollar stuff he’d seen in the apartment the first time, he elected…in his wisdom…

…to return to the windowsill, where the CD’s had been stacked on his first visit…

…and he took the same CD’s he’d taken the first time.

The very ones I’d retrieved from Pawn Plus just days earlier.

Now, it should be mentioned at this point – Pawn Plus used those round Avery stick-on labels to categorize their used CD’s. Green was rock, yellow was country, pink was R&B/Hip-hop, et cetera…when I had retrieved the CD’s that had been stolen on his first raid, they had all been “categorized” with the Avery stick-on dots on the spines of the jewel cases.


I hadn’t bothered to remove them when I brought them home.

When the thief came back, the stickers were still on them.

So now, the CD’s were already marked with Pawn Plus’ category labels.

Of course, I called the police – again…then I called the club to let them know what had happened and that I might be a little late getting there that night. I waited for the officers to show up and gave them the report number from the prior break-in so they could correlate the two incidents, and they stuck around while I reinforced the window and locked the place down so I could leave for my gig.

I arrived at the Grape to a barrage of questions about what had happened…both break-ins had taken place in the time since I’d been there last, so I had a lot to tell.

In a crazy twist of serendipity, I ran into a buddy that I’d met there just a few weeks prior – my friend Michael Tolcher was coming back to town to make a record with a producer named Dave “Stiff” Johnson at Tongue n’Groove studios and needed a place to stay.

A place to stay, you say? Dude, I’ve got you. You can sleep at my place for as long as you like, brother, because I would LOVE to have someone around while I’m at work right now.

So “Tolch” came back to Reading with me that night, and I was – for a minute, at least – able to go to work with some degree of peace of mind, knowing that someone was there if anything else happened, if anyone else decided to pop in through the back window.

Still, I called off work the next day – told my boss what had happened the day before, and called my landlord to let him know that I’d had a return visit and that I didn’t think Charlie had been there on Monday, considering what had happened…he apologized and told me that he’d make sure he was there THAT DAY to get the window fixed.

While Tolch caught up on his sleep and listened for various knocks on the door, I took the familiar walk up the street to Pawn Plus, because…well, I had a hunch.

I walked in and caught Randy’s eye almost instantly.

“Hey, man – guess who came back today?”

“I think I have a pretty good idea, because he came back to see me, too.”

Yes, friends…what I’m about to tell you is true.

The dude came back to my apartment a second time, stole the same CD’s he took the first time, complete with Avery color-coded dots on the spines, and took them back to the same pawn shop to sell them to the same guy – AGAIN.

So Randy filled me in – yeah, he came in…yeah, he had a bunch of stuff. But Randy only bought a handful of them and sent him walking with the rest.

“SERIOUSLY!!?!?? You let him walk off with my stuff??”

“Dude, I already bought your shit once, and I’m already out that money…you don’t think I wasn’t gonna buy them a second time just so I could give them back to you AGAIN, do you?”

I had to admit, he had a point.

“BUT – I did get something you might be interested in over here, because…maybe you don’t know this…you have to have PHOTO ID to sell or pawn anything in the State of PA, so I had to see his photo ID to buy your stuff.”

He then reached under the desk and grabbed a piece of paper with a Xerox copy of a driver’s license and waved it in front of my face.

“I could get in serious trouble if I showed THIS PIECE OF PAPER to anybody…THIS PIECE OF PAPER RIGHT HERE – this is privileged information, after all, so you’re not supposed to see THIS PIECE OF PAPER….RIGHT HERE…”

He was literally holding the copy of the guys’ driver’s license maybe eight inches from my face: Reinaldo Rolon, 300 block of South Fourth Street, etc. – I didn’t make any observable motion that would indicate that I was memorizing what was on the page…I just said, “OK, so it’s OK for the cops to see that when they come by, right?”

“Already on it. That’s why the copy is under the desk.”

“Thanks, Randy. I just wish you hadn’t let him leave with the rest of my shit.”


“Hey, man…just so you know, I watched him walk right across the street to Borelli’s with the rest of your stuff, and he didn’t come out with it. You’re welcome.”

Borelli’s was part bodega, part pawn shop, part jewelry store – if you’ve ever lived in a city like Reading, you already know what I’m talking about.


I didn’t know the people at Borelli’s, never really went there, so when I went in to plead my case, they told me in no uncertain terms to take a hike, so – I walked out the door to find a pay phone and called the cops, read them all the case numbers, dropped my detective’s name, the whole nine yards.

Within fifteen minutes or so, a patrol car met me there on the sidewalk and we went into the store together and I watched them confiscate everything that Reinaldo had sold them earlier that day.

So now, at least, my stuff was in an evidence locker instead of sitting on a shelf in a pawn shop, waiting to be sold out from under me – and they had a pretty solid case against the guy.

If he ever turned up, that is.

As it turns out, I didn’t have to wait that long.

A few days went by – Tolch was a great hang and would’ve most certainly been an awesome roommate if he’d decided to stick around. We hung out with my kids, he came to their basketball games with me, we shot hoops in the apartment on the back room closet door, we busked on South Street in Philly…he was such a great guy and we became instant friends.

The Thursday night of the following week, we were sitting at the table in the front room when someone knocked on the door.

It was my neighbor from across the hall, a Latino guy named Davey Santana.

Davey wanted to use my phone.

He explained, in a rather frenetic manner, that someone had broken into his apartment and had taken his TV and VCR, and further stated that “if I find that motherfucker, I’m a gonna go back to jail.”

I told him yeah, come on in, go right ahead and call the cops and let me know when they get here, please…they were there relatively quickly, and when I heard the footsteps coming up the hall, I walked out to meet the officers.

Listen – please – DO NOT leave before coming to talk to me. I need to give you some information that’s directly pertinent to what’s happened here.”

The officers went next door to canvas Davey’s apartment and knocked on my door a few minutes later.

I stepped out into the hallway with the officers as Davey listened from his doorway.

I told them the whole story, with case numbers, names, dates, the whole nine yards, right up to the point where I fingered the suspect by name.

The minute I said the name “Reinaldo Rolon” within earshot of Davey, he erupted…totally lost his shit…and not just in a “I need to see your manager” tone. It was one of those Desi Arnaz half-English, half-Spanish freakouts he made famous in “I Love Lucy” that took a minute to absorb.

So, clearly there must be some backstory there.


As it turns out, Reinaldo and Davey had been in some form of rehab program together at some point, and when Davey got out, he went straight…got a job at a dairy plant and moved into his apartment, got up and went to work every day. When Reinaldo got out, he went to return to his old life, but his girl had kicked him out, he just hadn’t found out yet. So he showed up on Davey’s doorstep with all his stuff in tow looking for a place to crash. Apparently, at some point, it must have become obvious to Davey that rehab didn’t exactly “take” for Reinaldo, so Davey kicked him out as well, and that had been the last he’d seen of him – until he started coming in the windows of various apartments in the building.

The officers found all this information…well, interesting. They gave me an updated case number and said that they’d update my investigating officer’s record, but to call him in a couple of days and make sure that he had everything on file and up to date.

So, OK – the weekend was upon us, and it was the weekend that I’d have the kids – their mom was super-understanding about the situation and knew that I had someone staying with me, but we managed to make it fun. The Saturday of that weekend, we decided we were gonna take the kids to the movies – we had gone to Philadelphia to visit my producer, Steve (it was a social visit, as he and I were very close) and we were planning to go see “Titanic” after the visit, but it was sold out. We settled for a trip to the Manayunk Diner and returned home that night and walked up the stairs to the sight of two large black plastic garbage bags and a paper grocery bag sitting outside Davey’s door, and the sound of Univision blaring from inside his apartment.

I was SUPER curious…I knocked on the door and Davey answered. I said hello and asked him, “hey, man…did they find your stuff? I heard the TV…”

“No, no…television belong to my girlfriend.”

“Ah, gotcha…well, is this her stuff out here in the hall? Because with all the stuff that’s been happening…”


He stopped me mid-sentence.

“No, that shit belong to that motherfucker break into my apartment. I’m tellin’ you, I see that motherfucker, iss’ OVER.”

Davey began the not-so-slow descent back into the Ricky Ricardo dialogue from a few nights before as he closed the door behind him.

I stood there with Tolch and the kids in the foyer between Davey’s door and mine…we exchanged looks…and it was clear we both had the same thought at the same time.

We unlocked the door so the kids could come inside and we dragged the bags from the hallway into the apartment.

We left them untouched until I took the kids home later that night, and when we got back, we tore into the whole stash. The curiosity was killing me.

Michael and I tore into the stuff – there were tons of clothes, ranging from the usual range of T-shirts and pants to some pretty trendy matching denim outfits that were stylish among folks of Latin descent at the time with gold-threaded and embroidered oversized shirts and reeeeeally baggy shorts…without sounding any more judgemental than I probably already do, let’s just say that they were clothes that would make it difficult to disappear into a crowd.

He and I divided up the stuff that would fit, stuff that we would wear…and we actually managed to hold onto quite a bit of it, but there was some stuff that was rather – unique – that we had already hatched a separate plan for.

One of the matching denim outfits went on a hanger that I could hang on a hook on the outside of the back room closet door where it was plainly visible from the window at the fire escape.

Not being a cat burglar, I can’t really make too many assumptions about what might traverse the mind of a thief like that at any particular point in time…but I think that if I were attempting to force my way into someone’s apartment and saw MY OWN CLOTHES HANGING INSIDE, it might inspire some interesting trains of thought.

Moving on, then – the paper grocery bag was even more interesting.

It contained a couple dozen cassette tapes, some photos of what I would assume to be family – girlfriends, perhaps…and a hefty pile of paperwork that included parole violation notices, traffic citations, warrants – just about every form of mail that you don’t ever want to receive.

So we decided to finish rolling out the red carpet in the event that Reinaldo should ever decide to return for the hat trick.

In addition to hanging his clothes on the closet door, I removed the few remaining CD’s from the window that had become his “go to” spot and I replaced them with his own personal stash of cassettes, and also taped the photos from inside the bag to the glass in the window directly above them.

Between the cassettes and the photos, it almost looked like a little shrine of sorts.

At this point, I almost wanted him to come back for a third time.

Alas, it was not to be.

Apparently, he had been picked up not long after breaking into Davey’s apartment on some form of a domestic disturbance, and when the officers ran his name, the computer lit up like a casino slot machine. As such, he was remanded to custody in Berks County Prison on a literal buffet of charges.

When the detective called to tell me that he’d been arrested and bound over for trial with no bail, I told him that I wanted to be notified of his trial date.

I needed to be there.

I didn’t tell him why, but he obliged, and eventually I got a notice of his plea date and made a point to be there when he appeared, in person, before the judge to be bound over at his hearing.

And I got there early, so I could get a seat directly behind the bench.

So when they brought him in to appear, there I sat…

…behind the bench…

…wearing one of his matching denim short sets from the black garbage bag we’d found in the hallway.

I wish…oh, HOW I wish…that there’d been the kind of reaction that one would expect from something like that, but I was disappointed to find that he either didn’t see me or didn’t remember the outfit. Maybe it had been so long since he’d actually had it in his possession that it didn’t register that it belonged to him, I don’t know.

I had this moment in my head where he’d call me out for wearing his clothes and make some kind of a scene, but – it just wasn’t to be.

He ended up getting a combined four year sentence for multiple robbery counts, in addition to whatever his domestic charges were – he started serving his time in 1998, and by the time he was eligible for release I had moved, gotten married, and had put the whole thing behind me.

The total value of the stuff he’d stolen was negligible – he’d left my valuable stuff in favor of nickel and dime items, perhaps specifically to avoid higher charges when he ultimately got caught, I don’t know.

Tolcher stayed on for some time while he worked on his record, and ultimately went back to the Atlanta area – as with so many of my friends who travel the same road as me, we haven’t really done a great job of staying in touch…it’s part and parcel of how this life works, but I try to make a point of reaching out from time to time to check in and see how he’s doing.

And in the basement of my house here in East Nashville, tucked away in one of a mountain of Rubbermaid containers – I still have a pair of shirts that came from the depths of one of those black plastic garbage bags that ended up outside my apartment door all those years ago, in 1997 when I still lived in my magical bachelor penthouse in Reading, looking out over North Fifth Street…where I used to sit at my table and write songs or draw or scribble in my journal. I watched Mark McGwire break the home run record in that apartment. I mourned Michael Hedges’ death in that apartment. I slept listening to the rain on the ivy leaves outside my window in that apartment. Eventually, I met someone else and moved on – sooner than I should have, in retrospect, but hindsight is always 20/20.

But when I think of those days, Reinaldo is my go-to story.

So – for all I know – when Carley and Dylan heard the door open the other night, maybe it was Reinaldo – hoping to take a look through the mass of Rubbermaid containers on the wall to try and find his clothes…who knows?

Quarantine Insight

so here’s a little something I just realized…and I’m not sure why it took this long, honestly.

I am SUPREMELY QUALIFIED for this Shelter-In-Place dance.

I’m the least easily-bored person you have ever, or will ever meet. I have tons of outlets…I can be blissfully happy doing next to nothing. I can write, I can record in my home, I can watch the same documentaries over and over, I can listen to music, I can pick up the phone and call people – if I didn’t have to buy groceries on occasion, I could be perfectly content right here in this house for the rest of the year.

I have some musical projects that require varying degrees of collaboration, and it’s frustrating and disappointing that those are shelved for the time-being, but I’m also aware that a lot of people have it much worse than I do, and I try to keep that in perspective. Having outlets definitely helps.

But still, something about this has been wearing on me, and I think it just dawned on me.

Those of you who know me know that I don’t own a gun, I’ve never owned a gun, and I don’t understand the whole Viagra-like effect that owning guns has on some people.

I put guns in a box with a lot of other things – which is to say that my attitude towards them is that “if that’s your thing, that’s fine, as long as your thing doesn’t interfere with my thing“.

For me, that applies to motorcycles, smoking, XBOX and video games in general, that friggin’ British Baking Show (“you have thirty minutes to make a desert out of ramen noodles, this can of spackling compound, vanilla extract and some Odor Eaters, and it had better be delicious…” – yeah, miss me with that garbage.) – and I’ve always lumped guns into that box as well, although the degree to which guns seem to affect folks who don’t own them is HIGHLY debatable when the child you put on the school bus doesn’t come home again, ever.

I don’t own a gun for a very simple reason.

I refuse to live my life in fear.

I’m not gonna ever let myself become such a prisoner in society that I won’t go to the grocery store without packing heat. I just won’t do it. If I’m that scared of some imaginary threat that I can’t go buy food without worrying about The Enemy, then I’ve become paralyzed, and I just ain’t having that. If I happen to be standing in line at the checkout when some dude comes in and starts shooting, it’s gonna be chaos anyway, and if it’s my time to go, it’s my time to go.

I’ve managed to exist for half a century on this planet in a manner as to be free of that particular brand of paranoia, and my life has been immensely richer for it.

But NOW, though…

This goddamned virus has turned me into the very thing I’ve avoided becoming for my entire life.

Everyone is a suspect, everyone is a possible carrier, and every single person I encounter poses a potential threat. I look at people stumbling through the supermarket without a mask on and acting as if everything is hunkey-dorey and I occasionally indulge the fantasy of picking up a can of something and smacking them upside the head.

And while the assault fantasy is my own, this is the new normal now. We’re expected to think of everyone we encounter as a possible carrier, we’re expected to look at others with a blanket sense of mistrust, we’re expected to see every fellow human as infected until proven healthy.

And so I find myself succumbing to that same family of paranoia that I’ve found so distasteful all my life.

I’ve become the COVID-19 version of the dude who can’t go to Kroger without his 9MM on his belt.

And I hate it. I hate that this period of history has turned me into That Guy.

I talk to everybody – I’ve always tried to offer up some form of conversational anecdotes in lieu of a curt “hello” in social situations. I have a fond memory of going to Wegmans’ with an old girlfriend once and encountering a guy who was reading the back of a box containing gluten-free brownie mix and she gave him a glowing review of the brownies…at which time the guy said, “well…thanks so much for that unsolicited review“.

(Possibly the most suburban Philly thing anyone ever said in my presence, and it has lived on in countless retellings since.)

But now, I can’t be that guy anymore.

Whether I like it or not, I have to view the world through the same paranoid lens of the guy expecting to encounter some vague terrorist if he leaves the house to walk his dog, and that’s just not me.

But COVID demands that I become that guy as a means of survival.

And I think THAT’S the thing that’s been wearing on me the most amidst this mess.

I’m OK, friends.

I’m lucky, in some respects. I mean, we’ve gone from a three income household to a one income household, and we have the same struggles that other families do.

But I’m hoping this crippling fear subsides on the other side.

another check off the musical bucket list

If you know me, even casually, you’re probably aware of my lifelong love affair with Poco.

If you know me better than that, then perhaps you’re painfully aware…but they’re part of my DNA, they’re responsible for numerous rings at the center of my tree.

I missed out on them during the early days of the band – I heard the Legend album as a 12 year old kid with a clock radio he’d just gotten for Christmas, and the back catalog drifted into my life as I became more and more obsessed with music…and as I made the transition from music fan to musician, they were hugely influential.  The more I learned about music – how it worked, how songs were arranged, what got my attention and what didn’t – the more their music resonated with me. The stuff I’d first heard was just the tip of the iceberg…they’d done almost a dozen albums before then, and they had continued to make records since.

I made an album in 1990 and covered Poco’s Made of Stone on my very first release…later that year, I was in Pittsburgh and picked up a City Paper and saw an ad for a summer concert series in the city, and to my shock and surprise, one of the shows was Poco!  I had no idea that there was still a touring version of the band at this point, and…goddamn right, I was gonna drive to Pittsburgh to see Poco.

I was curious, though – who was in the band at this point?  There was no internet at the time, and the only way to find out was to get on the phone and start making calls…but I didn’t really get a clear answer from anyone I talked to.  But I’d really already made up my mind – I was gonna make the five hour drive and see this show, because my curiosity wouldn’t allow me not to go.

I got there and saw a pedal steel on the stage, so I figured that, at the very least, there was a steel player in the band – whether it would be Rusty Young or not was still an unknown factor.  But when the band emerged from the wings, I immediately recognized Rusty Young and Paul Cotton among the four guys who walked onto the stage. They opened with Days Gone By and went right into the title track from Legend, and I don’t think I moved a muscle during the entire show.  It started raining lightly at one point, but I don’t think I even noticed…the only evidence of it exists on the album cover from the Legend record that I brought with me for them to sign.

with Rusty and Paul on the night we met in 1991

I met Rusty and Paul for the first time after that show, almost thirty years ago, and it was the beginning of two of the longest friendships I’ve had.  I gave Rusty a copy of the album I’d made and told him that “…if I had ever given a remote thought to the fact that you might end up hearing this, I’d probably still be in the studio working on it.”  We crossed paths again about four years later when I opened for them at the Roxy Theater in Northampton, PA – the first of many times I’d share the stage with them over the years, as an opener or a special guest.  (AND – Rusty remembered me from when we’d met at the show in Pittsburgh those years before.)

There’s a much longer love story here that’ll eventually be told in its full, fanboy glory and in all manners of excruciating detail…there’s a pretty healthy chunk of it over here, if you’re inclined to revisit it at some point.

In the wake of our trip to Wildwood Springs Lodge late last year, I got a call from Jack Sundrud right after the new year with a completely unexpected proposition – Lex, their guitarist, was taking some time off for a surgical procedure soon…would I be interested in filling in for him with Poco while he recuperated?

I chuckled and said, “Dude…I’m surprised you actually need to ask me that question.”

Jack took that as a “yes”.

We ironed out the particulars with regard to timing and such – when Lex would be able to schedule his surgery, which dates would be involved…I got a couple of calls from Rick Alter, the manager, as we worked everything out from a scheduling standpoint, and soon we had a plan:  I’d join them for my first show at the Mayo Performing Arts Center in Morristown, NJ in late February. Prior to that, Jack and I (along with drummer Rick Lonow) would get together here in Nashville for a couple of run-throughs to make sure we were locked in, and then Rusty would come down to Nashville for a full run-through at SIR the weekend before my first show.

Needless to say, work on the memoir came to a screeching halt while I applied CPR to my atrophied guitar chops and got to work learning how to actually play these songs that had seeped into my DNA over the course of the majority of my life.

I had experienced this just a few years ago, when I spent almost two years on the road with Marshall Tucker Band – there were nights that I’d look down in vague disbelief at my hands when I’d play the intro of Fire On The Mountain on the pedal steel and marvel at the fact that it was actually ME playing this song that I’d known since I was a kid.

As I was re-familiarizing myself with some songs and learning others for the first time while I shook the rust off my guitar playing, it became apparent – in a way I hadn’t really considered before – exactly how much of an influence Paul Cotton had been on my guitar playing over the course of my life.  I’d always thought of Opie, Stills, Lindley, Cooder and Buddy Miller as being the framework of what I aimed for when I picked up a musical instrument…over the years, I had come to think of Paul more as a singer and songwriter than as a guitar player, but digging into these songs was something of a slap in the face.  

It took me exactly two passes to figure out the solo for Indian Summer – it was as if I knew it already.

Some of the other songs – Magnolia and Heart of the Night, among others in the set – felt as if I’d already been playing them all my life.  There was quite a bit of mandolin on my docket as well, including the first three or four songs in the long version of the set, but that didn’t need quite as much CPR as my guitar playing.

(I feel like it’s important to point out that I very nearly never get calls for guitar these days.  I’m a utility guy in the eyes of just about everybody, including myself, and I’m not only OK with that, I kinda love it.  So playing a lot of guitar was gonna require a workout regimen.)

I was working through some of the set and actually made an impromptu video to announce that I’d be playing the shows, and I used the intro riff from Indian Summer in the clip – and when I heard it in the video after I’d recorded it…it kinda froze me.  Yeah, clearly Paulie was a MUCH bigger string of my DNA than I’d acknowledged before.

Thanks, Paulie.  Love ya, man.

One of the things I said in the video was that “I haven’t told fifteen year old Tom about this yet, because I don’t know if he can handle it.

Tonight, I sat down to start writing this experience up, and I went through the photos I took during this run of dates to pick out which photos I’d use for the article…and I remembered a specific scene from Almost Famous when William goes back to his hotel room to finish his article, and he pulls out all the Polaroid photos he’d taken during his time on the bus with the band and rolls a blank piece of paper into the typewriter…and he takes a moment to flip through the Polaroids and relive what he’d only just put behind him.

I had a few moments on stage during this run when I’d close my eyes for a few moments and soak in the synchronicity of what was happening around me – but it didn’t feel as much like hero worship as an appreciation for my bandmates.  Indian Summer and Heart of the Night, in particular, were just a joy to play for me. Of course, that might’ve had something to do with the fact that I got to stand next to my absolute, bar none, favorite pedal steel player in the world – living or dead – and I got to listen to him play those songs WITH ME.  ON STAGE.

And then there was Magnolia.

We only played it twice during this run, and I stayed present both times.  To be certain, I gave myself permission to stand in the moment and let it soak into my DNA and appreciate it, but I didn’t let myself access too much of my own emotional perspective while we were on stage.

When I bought my Tascam 244 in 1984 in Iceland, Magnolia was one of the first songs I recorded as a cover when I was figuring out how songs worked.

When Paul had his health scare during the European tour and returned to the band, I went to see them in Lancaster, PA with America – and they played Magnolia as I sat there in the dark with tears streaming down my face when Paul played that song, because it wasn’t lost on me that I came very close to never hearing him play it again.

So Magnolia is a little bit of a hot button for me…but goddamn, it felt good to play it.

I guess what I’m saying is that tonight, while I’m typing, 15 year old Tom is processing what just took place.  It seems like a safe point in time to let him know what just happened.

Jack, Rick and I got together two consecutive days just before Valentines’ Day for our official run-throughs prior to rehearsing with Rusty that weekend, and the only real work was working out harmony parts – we ran the entire set, and it was pretty apparent by the end of the day that we could’ve probably pulled this off with just the one rehearsal.  Not to brag, but we nailed it. Not only that, but…our vocal blend was pretty damned awesome. The next day was even better, but – still, it was just the three of us, and we were missing a big piece of the puzzle. I was really looking forward to the SIR rehearsal with Rusty, because there were some specific elements that I wanted to work through with him.  In particular, there was a dual lead guitar line that I’d worked out from Call It Love that I was intent on nailing, but I couldn’t work on it without Rusty being there. So while I was certainly satisfied with how the rehearsals with the rhythm section had gone, I was still pretty stoked for the Rusty Rehearsal.

I was standing in the shower Saturday morning when I had a strange, oddly timed thought that I still don’t know how to process…

At that point in time, within a month, we’d lost HippieSteel icon Buddy Cage, songwriting great David Olney, and – perhaps most impactful to me, Neil Peart from Rush – maybe all that loss was still weighing on my psyche, I don’t know..I’m not sure, either way, why this occurred to me in the shower that morning, but I remember thinking…

…this band has been around for 50 years and I can’t think of anyone from the band, past or present, who isn’t still alive.  Nobody from Poco has died yet! How crazy is that?

Within the half hour, I got a text from Jack that Rusty was on the way to the ER, that he’d strained something and that there wouldn’t be a rehearsal on Sunday…and that there was “no word on shows yet.”

To say it scared the shit outta me is something of an understatement. 

I was far more worried about Rusty than the immediate fate of the shows, and feeling really unsettled about the fact that I’d had this stray thought in the shower one minute, and the next minute something terrible might have actually taken place.

Thankfully, Rusty turned out to be fine – he had a couple of things to address that he’s taking care of during the break, as we speak.  And I have to assume, because I never bothered to ask, that Jack must’ve assured him – based on our rehearsals – that there was no reason we wouldn’t be able to pull off the first two shows without an actual full band rehearsal…because they decided to keep the shows on the books.

So yeah, I was bummed about missing out on the rehearsal, but – I was too busy rooting for Rusty to be OK to think about it a whole lot.  I was ready, and I knew we’d be able to polish up the edges if we were actually keeping the shows on the schedule.

The first show at Mayo Performing Arts Center in Morristown was a triple bill with Pure Prairie League and Orleans, so our set for that show would be a shorter, 45 minute set…but the show the following night in Bay Shore, NY at the Boulton would be a full 90 minute set, with ALL the songs in it.

The plan was that we’d do a somewhat longer soundcheck for the first show and make sure we were dialed in for that set of songs, and get to Long Island early for the second show of the run and do a more detailed run-through of the songs that weren’t on the set the night before.

It was a huge vote of confidence in me, and I won’t ever forget it.

I had posted the video announcing that I’d be joining the band for a few shows a couple of weeks prior to the date of the first show, and got some immediate feedback from some of the Poconut family that I’d known for almost as long as I’ve known the band…a bunch of them had bought tickets to the show, so I knew ahead of time that I’d have some supportive friends in the room for my first ever show as a “member” (albeit a temporary one) of the band.

We left before sunrise the morning of the day before the first show, so we could take the scenic route up through Kentucky and West Virginia – and actually see the part that’s always in darkness when we return on that stretch of road.  It was certainly well after sundown when we got to the hotel and got checked in…and Danny sprawled out on the sofa to play games on his laptop while we watched TV for a bit before calling it a night.

Wendy and Danny came along for the first show – Wendy wanted to be there because she knew what a big deal it was for me, personally…Danny (not unlike Jayda and Dylan before him) was completely uninterested in what was happening around him, and entertained himself with games on his iPhone for the duration of our time at the venue.  He ended up dragging Wendy back to the hotel before the show even started, so neither of them were there for the actual show.

Danny into Infinity in the green room at Mayo, Morristown NJ

We’d gotten into town the night before and checked into the hotel, and I had gone shopping for supplies that afternoon before we went to soundcheck at the venue (I had just been in this town – Florham Park, NJ – less than a year ago, when I came for training for my day gig, and I’d stayed right up the road…and in a weird moment of coincidence, I heard Maggie Rogers’ song Leave the Light On in Walgreens’ when I was picking up groceries – a song I’d heard for the first time just a few months before, while staying in a hotel right up the road from where I was.)

guestbook at MPAC – first show
setlist for the first show

I’d never met any of the guys from Orleans, so they were an unknown quantity to me, but I’ve known the PPL guys for ages – they had a new guy onboard that I hadn’t met yet, but the rest of the band were old friends – founders Mike Reilly and John David Call, along with Donnie Lee Clark on guitar and Scott Thompson on drums.

waiting for the house lights to go down, Mayo Performing Arts Center, Morristown NJ

Pure Prairie League were another band that I’d caught on to quite some time after they rose to prominence.  I’d heard the Vince Gill-era version of the band before I’d become aware of their catalog, and there was a lot to absorb there.  I still remember finding a copy of their Bustin’ Out album in the TV lounge in the barracks in Iceland while I was in the Navy, and I must’ve listened to that album a thousand times.  (I covered Early Morning Riser from that record on an album I did in 2006.)

Poco in Morristown, NJ – 2.22.20

The first show was a little unsettled – and it wasn’t just me.  Everyone in the band felt it. We had a solid soundcheck, but it was one of those rooms where it felt like the sound from the amps and the wedges travelled roughly eight feet or so and just evaporated.  It’s a hard thing to describe, really…sometimes you just have to play the songs and make it work, and that first show felt a bit like that.

trading licks with Rusty on Opie’s Stratocaster, Morristown NJ

Not unlike sex, we all want our first time to be memorable and special and – well, for the vast majority of us, it’s not.  This show had turned out to be a little rough for reasons we didn’t really have control over, but…again, not unlike sex, when you’re with the right person, the first time isn’t likely to be the only time, so there’s the promise of the second, third, and fourth time to look forward to, and the notion that it’s going to get better and more comfortable.

I did have one thing that I’d planned for the first show that was important to me, and I made it happen.

When Opie died five years ago, he left a note on a piece of legal pad paper in the case of his Stratocaster, specifying that the guitar should find its way to me if anything ever happened to him.  In the time since I brought it home after he died, it’s spent its days at my house, in the case and unplayed. I hadn’t used it for the entire time it’s been in my possession…I had taken it out and played it on occasion when I wanted to feel close to my mentor, but I’d never used it on a gig or a session.

I love the slight grin on Rusty’s face in this shot.

But this felt like a good time to bring it out for the first time…so I did.

We got through the set without any scars or scratches – it wasn’t great, but we pulled it off.

We played early, but I stayed through the end of the night – Wendy and Danny had taken the car back to the hotel, but my friends Jon and Georgina Rosenbaum (who were running the merchandise table for Pure Prairie League) had offered to give me a ride back after the show earlier that night at dinner, and I took them up on it.  I helped Rusty and Mary load their car after the show and went back inside to hear the last of the Orleans set – they were playing a song called Juliet that I thought for some time to be a cover of Dixie Chicken…but goddamn, they were good. GOOD.

with Jon Rosenbaum and Mike Reilly from Pure Prairie League

I saw John David Call and Mike Reilly in the lobby after the show, and both of them were really happy to see me, and glad that I was out with the band for a bit…while the show wasn’t particularly noteworthy, the hang felt really, really good.  I was surrounded by friends, and there was an element of homecoming to the night that had little to do with the show, other than the fact that we were all there, together.

with John David Call of PPL – an enigma if ever there was one

The next day, we checked out and headed for Long Island – the drive was heavenly.  The sun was shining, we saw some amazing cars on the road during the drive, including a blue Lamborghini Huracan that Danny identified within seconds of looking up from the backseat.  I made a point to take Danny to Friendly’s right up the road from he venue (we don’t have Friendly’s down south, and I’ve heard rumblings that they’re going under, which is a goddamn shame).

We parked and unloaded – the band had played the venue before, and the soundman was truly great.  I didn’t know it until after the show, but we had very similar tastes in mid-80’s UK pop music…he was playing Marillion’s Misplaced Childhood album over the PA during load out, and I hadn’t heard that record in decades.  We started talking and I discovered that he was also a fan of Level 42 and some of the other bands I loved when I was stationed in Wales…it was a nice bonding moment.

Long Island set list, Boulton Center, Bayshore NY

We had gotten to the Boulton Center early, and because the crew was so on top of their game, we had a lot of time prior to doors to run through the set and tighten up the longer set that we were playing that night.  He turned up the monitors and left us to our own devices, and we got in the rehearsal that we’d missed that weekend before the first show right there on the stage, in front of a group of our friends that had come from hours away for the show.  I saw a few folks recording the soundcheck, but I haven’t seen any of that footage yet…but it felt good, to be sure.

It’s also important to mention that the day of the Boulton Center show was Rusty’s 74th birthday.

After our soundcheck, we all went upstairs for a short but spirited birthday hang with the assembled Poconuts – some folks who’d been at the show the night before, some folks that had been at WIldwood Springs that past October, and some folks that I’d known for over 20 years.

The assembled revelers for Rusty Young’s 74th birthday show, Bay Shore, NY

This was gonna be a good show.  I just knew it.

We came back downstairs to the backstage area and I changed clothes for the show.  As fate would have it, Rusty was pretty talkative…and somehow, we ended up talking about Cameron Crowe and the Almost Famous movie, and the fact that Poco was the first band Cameron went on the road with (I knew this, but Rusty didn’t), and how many experiences from that tour made it into the movie.  Rusty remembered Cameron being on the bus, and how much he idolized Richie and a few other memories from that time…and I looked over at Wendy as we were walking away to head onstage, and we made eye contact for a minute as we were all walking away. I’m pretty sure she knew exactly what I was thinking.

“…how the hell is this my life, now?”

The show, that night, in front of the perfect handful of fans and Poconuts, was sublime.

The first four songs were all mandolin songs, leading up to Call It Love – at which point I switched over to Opie’s Stratocaster…I still had it with me, so I used it.  We followed that with Indian Summer, which will likely remain my “is that really my hands playing this song?” memory from this run for eternity. We opened the second set with the first performance ever of Magnolia during my run – as well as a song Rusty wrote called Neil Young, which I used as an opportunity to do my best Neil impression on electric guitar when the time came – and there’s footage of Rusty saying out loud, “that’s hilarious!” after my solo…which was exactly what I was going for.

It was a truly great show, and while there were still a couple of things that needed a little smoothing, it was miles away from the performance we had turned in the night before, and it went a long way towards making all of us feel more comfortable.  Rusty told the crowd, “…one of the reasons Poco has lasted for over 50 years is because we’ve always had great musicians in the band – and tonight is no different!”

I went out and sat with the band at the merch table to sign autographs, shook every hand, and loaded out to head back to the hotel with Wendy and Danny – the hotel was kind of amazing.  I felt like I might’ve walked right past Dean Martin and Joey Bishop in the lounge on the way to the elevator.

waaaay down at the end of the hall there are two twin girls with big hair, waiting for the shuttle to the mall
the most badass Brady Bunch curtains in the world.
with the band and Jon Rosenbaum in Bay Shore, NY

We went upstairs, plugged in to recharge, and I poured adult beverages for Wendy and myself while I texted back and forth with Jon Rosenbaum for an hour or so…we were driving back to Nashville the next day, so I needed to shut off my brain sooner than later to get ready for the drive.

I’ve become somewhat notorious among my musical friends for my disdain for fly dates, but the next show was at the Gallo Center in Modesto, CA, and there really was no way NOT to fly for that one.  So I figured out a somewhat ingenious manner of getting all my necessities onto the plane and off we went. Rick had flown ahead of us because he was making a stop along the way, so this flight was Jack and myself.  Wendy and I picked Jack up on the way to the airport and he and I grabbed some breakfast at Noshville in the terminal after we checked our bags. Of course, I fell asleep not long after we boarded and dozed throughout most of the flight, and it was still daylight when we landed in Oakland – once we hit the ground and got checked into the hotel, Jack and I took a walk down the street from the hotel to the grab some In-N-Out Burger, and Rick ended up joining us soon after. 

I took advantage of the early landing to reach out to Stephen Barncard, on the off chance that he was in the area and up for a hang…we talked for a good long while, but he has moved out to Sebastopol since we last saw each other and was geographically out of the loop. I got a phone call from Tom Fitzgerald just a few minutes later, who told me that I might be meeting some friends of his at the show tomorrow night…after we finished eating, we headed back to the hotel and slept off the time zone difference.

preparing for the aftermath of the DoubleDouble at In-N-Out burger…
scene from an Oakland hotel room

The next day, when I came back to the room after breakfast, I got out my iPad and began recording a cover of John Moreland’s song Gospel – with notions of posting it on my YouTube channel if it turned out ok.  I’d played through it a couple of times and there was a knock on the door – and it was Rusty.

Turns out, he was in the room next door and heard me playing, so he came over with his 12 string acoustic to run through a few things – a new transition arrangement to get us from Rose of Cimarron into Good Feelin’ To Know, most specifically – and after we played for a while, he went back to his room, but he left behind some very kind words about the job I’d been doing, with emphasis on the vocals.

working through transitions with Rusty at the hotel in Oakland

That was really kind of him, and it meant a lot.

The show that night was in a great venue – it was another triple bill with the guys from Pure Prairie League and Orleans, and everyone seemed to be in pretty high spirits.  A jam erupted in one of the PPL dressing rooms after soundcheck that went on for a long time…Scott and Donnie from PPL, Chip, Brady, Fly and Lane from Orleans, and myself on mandolin representing the Poco guys.  I stopped playing for a bit to catch a video clip of the chaos for a minute, and went right back to work until I had to leave to step on stage.

Because Poco was playing first, I didn’t bother getting too comfortable on stage – I only had the two instruments to deal with, so I took both of them onto the stage and left them in their cases right next to my amp – that way, all I had to do when we were done was to toss a handful of cables and pedals into my bag and carry the cases off the stage with my bag over my shoulder.

When we’d finished our set, I went over to carry my stuff off and the Orleans guys had left a dollar in my mandolin case, in the same fashion as one might leave for a street performer – and we all laughed our asses off.  

Chip actually said to me after the set, “you’re starting to get comfortable, aren’t you?”

I had to admit that yeah, it was starting to feel really good.

onstage at the Gallo Center for the Arts in Modesto, CA
lots of photos of me from this tour with my pick in my mouth. cool, cool.

We made our way back to the motel and I took a short walk over to one of the nearby gas stations to grab a snack and learned in that moment that gas stations in Oakland don’t sell beer after 10pm on Saturdays, apparently – NOT what I’d expected to hear, but that was OK.  I was ready to sleep, anyway.

The next day, everybody seemed to be flying out of the same terminal, on the same flight back to Nashville.  Even John David Call, who was connecting to Columbus, was on our flight. JD and I had a great conversation in the terminal waiting area, and I got to know Chip from Orleans a little better, as well.  

Turns out, he and I were in the same boat – John Hall is returning to Orleans soon, and Chip will be out of a gig when he comes back.  The difference between his situation and mine is that I knew when I came onboard that I’d only be here for a little while, and I think Chip’s situation was expected to be more of a long-term thing.

That’s the nature of this life, though.  Any random gig that you play could well be your last, so it’s important to try to live in the moment and be grateful for whatever spot your shoes occupy on a given day.

I got home late Sunday night, and got up Monday morning and went to work, just like I typically do.

There was nothing typical about Monday night, though.

Needless to say, most of that week was spent largely distracted and preoccupied, and I didn’t take either of my instruments out of the case for the entire week.  Not because I was comfortable or settled, but because I was just completely absorbed in what my neighborhood had just gone through.

The next gig would be the final one for me – closing out this set of shows in Weirsdale, FL at the Orange Blossom Opry.

I’d never heard of the OBO, but they’ve carved out something special there – it’s a great room with a spacious stage, risers in back, curtain that opens into the kitchen.  They had a house band that played every show that was pretty great. They were almost all, to a man, Nashville veterans who’d “retired” to Florida to relax and wind down – including their leader, Bobby Randall.  I used to see Bobby on TNN years ago when he hosted several shows for the network – he’d been an original member of Sawyer Brown and had played in Confederate Railroad as well, among others. His first gig was playing steel guitar for Charlie Rich in 1978…he asked me if I wanted to come sit in with them on a couple songs, and seemed surprised when I agreed.  We’d eaten up most of their soundcheck time, and it seemed like the least I could do to offer an olive branch for eating up all the time before doors – so I played acoustic guitar on a pair of Eagles songs (I told Rusty before I went out that I felt like a traitor playing Eagles songs with another band while I was out with Poco, but he said “I won’t hear it from backstage, so we’ll just go with ‘don’t ask, don’t tell.”)

Green room at the Orange Blossom Opry, Weirsdale, FL

The Poco set that afternoon was a 70 minute affair, so there was no intermission, but we got a good long one in.  I knew it was the last one of the run, so it was a little bittersweet, but I wasn’t going to let that keep me from soaking it in and burning it into my brain.

All my favorites were in there – I played the harmony lead part along with Rusty at the end of his solo in Call It Love, we did Magnolia, Indian Summer, Heart of the Night, Rose of Cimarron, Kind Woman, Crazy Love…it was a pretty epic performance, if I say so myself.  The time we’d taken with the monitors during soundcheck paid off, I could hear everyone exactly the way I needed to. Rusty repeated his sentiment from a couple of weeks ago yet again, about how “today was no different” – so it dawned on me that his statement was probably a blanket statement about the band in 2020, and not as much of a compliment for me as I’d thought it was the first time he said it, but – there we all stood when he said it, so I’ll take my piece of the cake.  I’m good with it.

We closed with “Good Feelin’ to Know” and it was over, just as we were really starting to get truly comfortable with one another…but that’s how things go in this life.

Another stint at the merch table, meeting some Poconuts that I’d known online but had never met in person, signing autographs on T-shirts and bumper stickers, and…it was load-out time.

I packed Rusty’s steel to bring back to Nashville with me, as it needed a little TLC and I had a guy now, thanks to David Pinkston.

Mary wanted to go out to dinner, and we found a place called Eaton’s Beach barely a mile or so from the venue.  Rick was planning on going there anyway to meet up with a buddy, so he and his old bandmate Doc were there either way (Doc had been at the show, he played with Rick together in the Bellamy Brothers decades ago), and since it was my last night, I wasn’t about to sit it out.  

It was the perfect time of day, the weather was perfect (a bit cold for some of us, but you no doubt know already where I fall on that scale) and we got there long enough before the sun went down to have eaten dinner before the sun started sinking into the trees on the other side of the lake.  We drove back to Orlando (everyone was flying out of Orlando the next day, but I was driving…still, I had a room for the night) and Jack came down to my room to hang and watch TV for a bit (I plugged in the laptop and we watched the Tom Dowd documentary from some 20 years ago, which he seemed to enjoy) – Jack retired after that and I put something else on while I noodled for a bit in one of my notebooks before I went to sleep.

I made a point of going down for breakfast before I left, and ran into both Jack and Rusty – who again went out of his way to tell me what a great job I’d done.  I assured him that I was always a phone call away if he ever needed me, but I’m sure they’re ready to return to some semblance of normalcy soon.

There’s a lot of uncertainty around our collective livelihood right now as we’re trying to exist in the midst of a historic health crisis, and maybe none of us knows what “normal” is for the short term.  Just tonight, the NBA shuttered the remainder of the basketball season – schools and colleges are closing, the Viking Cruise line has cancelled all cruises for the next six weeks, and the NCAA tournament will apparently be played in empty arenas.  Here in Nashville, my neighborhood is still in splinters in a lot of areas, and the world feels as if it’s in the midst of a slow-cooking apocalypse.

I got to spend a few weeks playing in a band that I’ve loved for most of my life, alongside friends, and feeling for a little while that the world was normal, even as the crazy was escalating around us all.

I’m rooting for “normal” to make a comeback, but if those shows were the last shows I ever play, I’d be ok with that.

#NashvilleStrong

I had just come home from a west coast Poco show in Modesto, CA late the night before, and got up to go to work on Monday – so I was tired, but I stayed up in front of my computer screen writing anyway. Danny had been asleep for a couple hours already by then, and I was uploading photos from my phone onto my laptop and replying to messages. It had been raining, and there’d been quite a bit of lightning as I was considering calling it a night.


But when the alerts went off simultaneously on the phones, I picked mine up to see a tornado warning on my screen.


As I was opening Twitter to scan the Nashville Severe Weather account, I heard the siren go off – the one that blares on the first Saturday of every month at noon, the one that we’re all so collectively accustomed to ignoring.
But…the phone…the siren…and the ominous feed from Twitter were conspiring to relay a pretty sinister message.


Shit was about to get real.

I don’t know that we even debated going to the basement, I just said that I’d go get Danny out of bed…that might’ve been the comic highlight of the night: waking up a ten year old after midnight to tell him that we were going to the basement. He didn’t verbally ask if I’d been drinking, but the expression on his face as it sank in that I’d jolted him from a deep sleep to report to the basement in the middle of the night…that kinda said it in so many words.


When we went downstairs, Carley (Dylan’s girlfriend) was still awake as well – she actually had the window open in their basement apartment, and it was immediately creepy to me how still it was outside, considering what I’d observed for most of the night.


This was real. This was happening.


We were hiding in the basement underneath a tornado that was sweeping across our neighborhood, ripping houses open, depositing the splinters of houses it had already destroyed into other people’s yards, tearing open buildings, leaving dumpsters in the middle of the street, and ripping down electrical poles and tearing power lines loose and leaving them lying in the street.


My work phone began dinging with alerts of various network circuits around the city falling silent – most notably among them a job at ground zero of the tornados’ path in Germantown.


When the damage was done, some six hundred of those poles would fall to the ground (compared to less than 200 in the 1998 tornado), and a path of destruction from Bordeaux and Germantown, North Nashville across our East Nashville neighborhood and through FivePoints and literally right down Main Street – then east to Mount Juliet and off to Cookeville, where the death toll was highest.

Over two dozen people were dead, more physically injured…and even more left to pick up the pieces of what had been a relatively normal life on an average Monday night that was no different than most others – until it was.
Not yet knowing any of this, we came back upstairs to bed – all three of us in the master bedroom where we slept somewhat fitfully, drifting off and then waking up at the slightest sound or flash of light that might indicate that it wasn’t over yet – when the sun came up, our house on Rosebank Avenue, near Cornelia Fort Airpark, looked exactly as it would have on the first Tuesday of a given month – our trash cans were still standing upright and unmolested on the curb, waiting for pickup.


But less than a mile away, a lot of our neighbors had it much worse than we did.


My daughter Jayda, who was my hero long before any of this happened, was on the other end of the phone via text when everything took place on Monday night. But while we tried to sleep to prepare for the next day, Jayda assembled a bunch of her co-workers from Margot Cafe (one of the pillars of the Five Points neighborhood) and marched down there within an hour of the storm to assess the damage – and they stayed there for several hours, cleaning up debris and commisserating with their co-workers – and, in Jayda’s words, “walking around the streets in shock, feeling like we were in a war zone.”


Social media reacted quickly, as did Nashville – word spread to stay off the streets, to make room for emergency vehicles…when I fell asleep a few hours before, I had no real idea of the extent of the damage.

Not long after we crawled out of bed, the picture became much clearer…and quickly.


I got out of bed shortly after 7am, and came straight into my office and booted up my work laptop and logged onto the VPN so I could start assessing our situation – Wendy was scrolling through photos from her Facebook and Twitter feed, and the bleakness of the aftermath was already pretty apparent. The most public beating fell onto Five Points, home to Jayda’s Margot, Five Points Pizza, the bike shop, Fanny’s House of Music, Burger Up, Woodland Wine, and – heartbreakingly, the historic Woodland Sound Studios…the historic room where the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band recorded their landmark “Will The Circle Be Unbroken” album, among others. Woodland had suffered some extensive damage during the 1998 tornado, and there was litigation in the aftermath of that storm, over 20 years ago, that almost resulted in erasing its existence. But it was eventually resurrected by Gillian Welch and David Rawlings and was open and operational when this tornado swept through last week.


Woodland lost most of its roof in this tornado, but the building and its walls remained intact – and, in Jayda’s words, “Woodland probably saved the building where Margot stands…if that building wasn’t there, Margot might be gone.”


Both my work and personal phones got a serious workout – folks from all over the country were checking on us to make sure we were ok, and as we were reporting to everyone else that we’d survived intact, with no damage or injury, the news was beginning to come in from the neighborhood as to the extent of how badly our neighbors had been hit.

Survivor Guilt – it’s a thing.


I worked mostly from my desk on Tuesday, taking phone calls and going through the motions in something of a daze as I started monitoring the extent of what was happening only a mile or so up Rosebank Avenue or up Porter Road from where I was sitting.


The rest of the week, I ended up in the car – both going to the office and checking on jobsites to survey the extent of the damage. As of this writing, almost a week later, one of our sites is still without internet service and has resorted to using hotspots on their individual mobile phones to work. Still, folks are waiting for electricity, waiting for water – when the sun goes down, entire neighborhoods fall dark.

No streetlights, no traffic signals, no light emanating from the houses that line the streets. Just an eerie, unsettling quiet.


But the folks in these neighborhoods have outpaced the municipal tradesmen and utility workers in their work to restore their town.

Volunteers who’ve shown up in town have been driving up and down the streets of affected neighborhoods with messages scrawled on their vehicles, offering tools, chainsaws, food and water – streets have been cleared by the townsfolk while the authorities waited for municipal workers to get to some of the streets in outlying areas.


Jayda and her co-workers at Margot hosted a neighborhood cookout roughly 48 hours after the tornado came through – she’d been working almost straight through to help folks dig out from under the damage, and she was there that afternoon to help with getting set up for the event. I brought her Danny’s bass amp to use to play music through for the party, and she was a sight to behold – her eyes were tired, but she was a whirlwind. There were HUNDREDS of people in the street, standing and talking to one another in the midst of random wires and shards of glass, downed transformers and the tops of poles lying in the parking lot of the convenience store at one corner of the Five Points intersection that gives that part of the neighborhood its name.


I stayed long enough to say hello to some of the folks that I hadn’t seen since Thanksgiving and to behold the miracle of humanity that is Jayda’s Margot community – and what they were able to give to their neighbors, their customers, and their friends in a dark moment of collective vulnerability.


And this was ONE moment that I saw with my own two eyes, and there’s no doubt in my mind that this was repeated time and time again in the aftermath of a random tear in the fabric of mother nature only days ago.


This city has, out of necessity, built an emotional exoskeleton that has survived floods and tornadoes out of its own stubborn southern willpower.


Nashville rebuilt in 1998.


It rebuilt again in 2011.


It is rebuilding – yet again – as we speak.


I don’t know that living through this week has made Nashville “home” to me…I’ve come to somewhat uneasy terms with the fact that my own personal notion of “home” will likely elude me for the rest of my life at this point. I don’t say this from a place of sadness…I’m a wanderer. I was born this way, and it’s who I am.


But witnessing this has given me cause to feel part of something that’s bigger than me.


Exchanging texts, offering refrigerator space to musician buddies who live a few streets away, picking up and dropping off stuff for folks – it’s what I’ve been able to do between showing up for work, navigating jobsites, and finding my way home to hide from the world when the sun goes down.


Here’s what I’ve learned about myself in the midst of all this.


Watching footage of things like this on the news is a temporary shock in a way that probably only exists for generations of the past half century or so. We see footage on the evening news of a flood like Joplin, Missouri or a hurricane on the scale of Andrew or Katrina or good old Superstorm Sandy (which we lived through in the Philadelphia suburbs – I stayed up all night while Wendy and Danny slept to keep watch, and didn’t even hear the giant tree in our back yard in Havertown splinter and fall to the ground…some sentinel I am) – we see these things as they happen, and they vanish as our attention span banishes them to make room for the next thing that demands our attention.

We consider the death toll, we peruse the images and mourn the dead, we consider the factors around the event (in the case of something like 9/11 or the Boston Marathon bombing), but they seldom impact us personally in the same way that something like what’s taken place here, this week, will if it ever happens to you.


Why, you might ask?


How would it come to pass that something like the 9/11 bombings might be less impactful, less consequential than a tornado in a random southern town?


Because we live here.


Because this city is where we live and die, laugh and cry, live out the days of our lives.


The houses where we spent random afternoons are now broken.


There are landmarks that we drove by every day on the way to work or school or church that have been erased.


And there’s no commercial break, no remote to reach for to change the channel.


The Music City Cleaners building just off Rosa Parks? Very nearly leveled.


And it’ll still be shattered tomorrow when you drive past it.


And the next day…and the day after that.


And they may rebuild it, but it’s not coming back – not the way it was.


That’s where the real shock to our systems sets in.


Looking around us at the things we’re confronted with in these situations only serves to drive home the realization that everything around us sits on shifting sands.


In normal times, that can be easy to ignore…but in times of crisis, it’s impossible to ignore.


So – here we all sit, among the ruins of what existed only a few days ago, taking stock of our blessings and considering the basic notion of how fortunate we are to still be here, to be among those who are rebuilding as opposed to those who’ve lost so much more than we have.


But there are warriors and fighters among us who refuse to let us slip away, and Nashville is once again availing itself of the opportunity to lift one another up – and it’s a miracle to behold.


I was born and raised in Tennessee, and turned my back on it as a young man.


I went out into the world and set down roots elsewhere – I started a family a thousand miles from where I was born.


I reinvented myself and left this chapter out of the identity I created within my adopted circumstances.


But I sure am proud of this city tonight.