New York, New York, New York (Part 2)

I’m writing (again) from an airport gate.  I’m drowsy and drained, waiting to board my flight to Memphis, and the bottom of my jeans are wet.  The bottom of my jeans have stayed wet since I landed Thursday, the unhappy byproduct of some weekend “nor’easter.”  What is a nor’easter?  Something that blows Chicago-on-steroids winds and keeps your clothes damp.  New York had a cold this weekend; it was gray and seemed angry.  But this morning is clear and sunny and cool when the breeze comes.  It’s perfect now, and I’m leaving.

In My Ear(buds):
Stereophonics, “Since I Told You It’s Over.”
Seemingly every song on this album (You Gotta Go There To Come Back) combines a somber verse with an oddly uplifting chorus.  For me, they all connect. 

Billy Bragg & Wilco, “Remember the Mountain Bed.”
Every time you think you have Woody Guthrie pegged, he blindsides you.  Proof yet again that Guthrie wasn’t just a master lyricist; he was a poet.

Delta Spirit, “Bushwick Blues.”
Brooklyn in my ears, Brooklyn on my mind.

Pearl Jam, “All Those Yesterdays.”
A song that should be sad, but somehow isn’t. 

Favorite Show Moment:
Getting to debut a brand new song, “Never In Love.”  As with this big new batch of songs I’m finishing, it’s not 100% done.  But there’s three reasons I always love playing a new song out for the first time:

1) You don’t know what’s working (and what isn’t) until it’s live.  Something weird happens to a song between rehearsal the show--it takes on its own life.  The same thing you felt comfortable doing in practice suddenly becomes unnatural.  Lines run too long.  Lyrics feel cumbersome to sing.  Live, in the moment, in front of a crowd, the song has a way of working its own kinks out.

2) The audience is always right.  If they like it, they’ll tell you.  If something’s working, they’ll show you.  It’s a great, unspoken dialogue.  All I have to do is sing and listen.

3) There’s no better way to spice up a set.  As much as I love playing songs off the first three albums, the experience of performing them gets familiar over time.  But with a new song, anything can happen.  It’s fresh, and exciting, and you don’t know when you start where you’ll end up.  I love that feeling.

I hope to post a live video of “Never In Love” in the next day or so--check the site for an update.  In the meantime, thanks again to the NY crowds for being so cool and receptive to new things.  It’s a joy playing for y’all.

Favorite Non-Show Moment:
Coming through security in LaGuardia, my guitar case had to be inspected.  I carry a small bottle of guitar polish with me, and I guess they wanted to check it out.  But the guy who went through the bag introduced himself, told me he’s played guitar for thirty years, and talked to me about how airports don’t handle instruments as well as they should.  He asked if I’d learned the hard way not to check a guitar (meaning it almost always gets damaged either in inspection or in transit), and I told him, yes, actually I have learned that the hard way.

I thought I was the only one who was wildly protective of my instrument, and anxious when I travel with it, and nervous when folks at the airport inevitably handle it.  It was great to deal with someone who understood, and went out of his way to help. 

Least Favorite Non-Show Moment:
For the year I lived in NYC, I never really had any subway problems.  Trains arrived on time and took me where I meant to go.  Now, between new trains, schedule changes, re-routes and weekend schedules for maintenance/etc., I don’t know how to get anywhere.  It took me between one hour and three days to get from Columbia to downtown.  At one point I thought I was in an epic poem.  A badly lit, subterranean, wildly unglamorous epic poem. 

In the Rearview:
New York (again). 

I think something’s wrong with me.  When people live somewhere, then move away, then come visit, they usually feel a familiarity of place.  They emotionally reconnect to that place, picking up where they left off.  Familiar sites, sounds, and smells trigger a gale wind of memories.  Nostalgia abounds.  They remember the old times while experiencing the new times and feel at home again.  It all comes back.

But something’s wrong with me.  I don’t do this.  Don’t get me wrong--I adore New York, look forward to visiting, and relish my time here.  But I don’t pick up where I left off.  It’s not the next chapter of a larger novel.  Each stay here is its own isolated short story, independent of the last.  Walking around the East Village, passing familiar haunts, I don’t feel, “there’s my bar,” or “there’s our place.”  There’s no ownership of New York, at least not for me.  There’s no owning it at all.  It’s just a mad majestic jewel that stands before you, exists without you, laughs alongside you, and you take it as it comes.  So, I take it as it comes, never feeling that feeling of “mine.”  New York’s never been mine; that’s partly why I love it.

Up Ahead:
Memphis (again).  I’m going home to a little white house in midtown, and I’m going to write some songs.  My front porch is sitting there in the sun, the chairs empty, the place familiar, comfortable, smiling at me.  It’s been perfect weather in Memphis for almost a month now.  There is no nor’easter.

New York, New York, New York (Part 1)

I'm coming to you live from Park Slope, Brooklyn, New York, New York, New York, NEW YORK!  (It's worth saying four times--that's how glad I am to be here.)

For those who haven't been (or are still trying to map out the elusive, amorphous geography of greater Brooklyn), Park Slope is a highly residential region that's full of brownstones, baby strollers, and tweed.  It's very "Huxtablesque."  It's imminently snuggly.  I'm here staying with some gracious friends and so glad to be back.  As I type, I've got morning joe, "English Girls Approximately" humming along, and I sit one room away from a basket of apples recently picked from an upstate orchard.  It's one of those gloriously balanced days where no heat or AC is needed.  Crack a window--God's got the thermostat.

This whole scene reeks of high autumn.  If you're asking yourself, "is Chris wearing an unnecessary sweater right now," hi, I'm Chris, and we haven't met yet.

Don't believe me?  Here I am!

Anyway, I'm stoked to be back in NYC.  Since moving in June, I've certainly missed it: the frenetic pace, the crazy sports fans, the offbeat and unfiltered humor of New Yorkers, the idyllic hole in the wall you pass a thousand times and finally walk into...the wealth of possibility.  That's always been the power and mystery of New York to me: what's next.  For someone like me, always hungry for a surprise, it's a daily source of excitement.  What's next?  You never know.

Well, sometimes you do, at least a little.  Last night I played the first of three shows in three nights: Pete's Candy Store (Brooklyn), Cafe Vivaldi (the Village--TONIGHT!), Postcrypt (Columbia--Saturday).  For the sake of time and space, let's break the rest of this blog down in itemized fashion:

In My Ear(bud):
As you might expect, I made a playlist for this trip filled with new favorites, fall classics, and New York-specific gems.  Here are a few goodies:

1) Counting Crows, "Hard Candy."  No clue why, save residual fall associations with this title track and a stray Long Island reference.  I've had Hard Candy the album on constant repeat for the last few weeks.  It's unrepentant pop, which is the only kind for me.  Eight years later, it's still a favorite listen.

2) Simon & Garfunkel, "Bleecker Street."  Assist from Mad Men.

3) Belle & Sebastian, "I Didn't See It Coming."  Still diving into this brand new album, but Track 1 cozily hits the spot.

I also asked for some of your NY Playlist picks.  Here are a few from your earbuds:

1) Bruce Springsteen, "New York City Serenade."  Somehow, epic and understated at once.

2) Sammy Davis, Jr. "New York's My Home."  Bustling, melodic, infectious.  Like all the big band, Rat Pack classics, it doesn't just occupy a certain mood or style: it defines it. 

3) Ella Fitzgerald, "Autumn In New York."  Six of the most romantic minutes you'll find on tape.

The Taxi Driver Test (A New Theory):
New Yorkers argue on how long you have to live here to be official.  I don't know about all of that.  But last night I found my own rubric:

You can tell how long someone's lived in NYC by what they're willing to talk about in front of a cab driver.

For example, tawdry, unfiltered sex tales = a NY veteran.  We'll say Level 7 of 10.  Me?  I treat cab drivers with a bizarre level of deference, and filter my backseat conversations accordingly.  As if, for 20 minutes, this guy is the judge and jury of my life and/or has my family on speed-dial. "I need to get juice at the grocery store" and "looks like rain."  I never graduated from Level 2.  Here's the full breakdown:

Level 1: Sit in icy, awkward silence.
Level 2: Rudimentary, generic small talk.  "Wow, look at that building."  "Tonight was fun."
Level 3: Swearing.  "Wow, look at that f*cking building."
Level 4: Candid, interpersonal dialogue.  "Susan was being weird tonight."  "I think Tony likes Melissa."
Level 5: Confessions.  "Just between you and me [and the driver, who doesn't count???], I'm in love with Susan."
Level 6: Inanity/dirty jokes.  "That statue looks exactly like [fill in person's private parts].  Ohmygod, I'm [fill in mind-altered state] right now!  I should definitely call [person]"
Level 7: Sex.  "The sex with Todd isn't very good."  "I wish Susan would incorporate pancakes into our lovemaking."
Level 8: Politics.  "I'm voting for [politician here] and anyone who doesn't is an idiot!"  "Todd creeps me out--he's probably a terrorist."
Level 9: Therapy/Crying.  "[Sobbing] I need to call my mom.  I guess I'm just DESPERATE FOR HER APPROVAL, LIKE MY THERAPIST SAYS!" 
Level 10: You personally know the cab driver.

Favorite Part of Last Night:
Introducing "Memphis Queen" and hearing that some folks in the crowd were from Memphis.  I swear, Memphians are like Pittsburgh Steelers fans: there are way more of them outside the city than in it.  They get around.  Very fun crowd last night at Pete's and, as always, some fantastic bands playing.

Another Favorite Thing From Last Night:
Hearing a first-hand account of French-Canadian circuses, as told by a band of great French musicians who have past circus experience.  Evidently French circuses are really dark, and really impressive. Get down!

Ugh, as I type this, some crazy construction has started outside my window.  Substitute the fall idyll from an hour ago with a hellish din.  It's like I'm sitting inside a chainsaw.  New York giveth, New York taketh away. 

Check back tomorrow for another post, pictures, and some video coming soon!

Until then,
CM

A Little Big News: I'm Moving (Again!)

As promised, now that the tour's wrapped and I've got a little layoff, I wanted to share some good news with you.

I'm moving!  Yep, again.

In June, I moved out of my apartment in NYC and in the next month I'll move back to my hometown of Memphis, TN!  I'm excited, anxious, slightly nostalgic, and a little sweaty.  

Now...why?  And what does this mean?

Why:
1) First, I've loved my time in New York.  It's an amazing place, and moving there was an important step.  I developed crucial new business relationships and came to know tons of talented artists.  Also, the city itself greatly impacted my songwriting.  So much so that...

2) I have a lot of new songs.  Like, a metric buttload of new songs that I can't wait to share with you.  Also...

3) Performing has become a different thing to me.  I used to enjoy it, but now I want to do it all the time; it used to be fun, but now it's vital.  So...

4) The question became: what's the best way to be the best possible artist I can, and share as much music with you as possible?  How can I afford to get back in the studio, keep making new albums, and keep touring at the rate I want? 

At that point, I realized that New York wasn't the best long-term HQ for me.  I couldn't afford to stay there while making new albums and touring at a high rate; some young artists can afford that, but I can't.  As much as I've personally enjoyed New York, moving is the right call. 

What It Means:
Professionally, this move will allow me to be a better artist.  My number one priority is sharing as much music with you as possible, both with new albums and steady touring.  Having a less expensive homebase allows me to get in the studio soon, and to hit the road regularly.  I'm already booking my fall tour and planning the next record.  In the next year, I look forward to releasing at least one new album and touring the entire country (and beyond!).  All of that's already in the works, and all it's possible because of my new (old) home. 

Personally, I cannot wait to be closer to my family, my good friends, my favorite places, and some of the best local music in the country.  Of course, I've loved my time in NY, will miss it, and will look forward to frequent shows there in the future.  But I'm very excited to start this next chapter, and to have such an amazing homebase in Memphis.

I'm sure I'll have plenty to say later about New York--what it meant to live there, what I'll miss about it, etc.  I'm sure I'll have plenty to say about my new life in Memphis, why it's always been home, and what it means to be a part of that music community, etc.

For now, I'm too tired, excited, anxious, and a little too sweaty to put anything into perspective.  I can't wait to get settled into my new (old) home.  And I can't wait to see my last one again.

Hold on, I'm coming
CM

Upalooza, Volume 7: Go

Hello, Philadelphia! 

Er, Ardmore.  Or maybe Bryn Mawr.  I'm not sure where I am, but I'm almost positive it's Pennsylvania.  I paid somewhere between two and fifty dollars on the Jersey turnpike getting here.  So, I won't lie to you, Philly: this better be good.  Thankfully we're off to a great start: sunny skies, a friendly Starbucks, and Bryn Mawr sounds like a Star Wars city. 


While I kill time before rocking the Mainline tonight, let's recap NYC's highs, mediums, and subterranean lows.

NYC Favorite Moment:
This right here.  I've never driven to the city before, much less entered from Jersey, so the whole "park-and-ferry" experience was brand new to me.  At 4PM Sunday--after a long day of driving--I finally parked at Weehawken's Port Imperial, toted my bags through the heat, boarded the ferry, and boom!  There she was.  Right where I left her. 

Maybe it was just fatigue from a long week of traveling, maybe I'd missed New York, maybe I was excited for the show and anxious to see friends, maybe I was high on Jersey fever (catch it!)--either way, that skyline never looked so good. 

Other Favorite Moment (I know "favorite" doesn't work this way):
Playing a benefit concert for Nashville flood relief in Brooklyn meant, for a night anyway, NY's Tennessee contingent came out in full force.  First, it was great to see so many people raising money for Nashville.  But second, it was a nice dosage of home far away from home.  Just a really fun night.

NYC Least Favorite Moment:
Getting from that ferry to my friend's place in Brooklyn took another three failed subway rides, two cab rides, and cumulative two hours in the heat and rain.  If I was spent at 4PM, I was officially useless at 6.  I aged a year in those two hours, and (I think) grew a beard.  Fine, mustache.  Fine, stubble.

Unfun.

Road Weirdness:
Post-show bowling.  For the folks outside NY, Brooklyn Bowl is a new-ish venue in Brooklyn that's half swank music hall, half campy bowling alley.  The venue's really remarkable (awesome sound, cool staff, nice atmosphere, etc.)--but I caught myself trying to pick up spares minutes after I finished my own set and thought, "this is a little bizarre."  When you hear the phrase "Lane 9 wants some CDs," you know it'll be a good night.

And to answer your question, I bowled somewhere between a four and a four-hundred.

More Road Weirdness/Funsies:
I camped out at the Park Slope Starbucks on Monday to catch up on email, per usual.  I put my headphones in, pulled up some Tom Petty, hit shuffle, and got to work.  About an hour (alright, three hours) later, I felt a tap on the shoulder: a woman stood next to me, arm in arm with a woman in scrubs (i.e., her nurse).  The woman said, "you like Tom Petty?"  Forgetting that I was listening to Petty at that moment, I gave her a puzzled, "yes...?"  She smiled, and said, "I heard your headphones and wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed it--he's my favorite.  Have a great day."

In case anyone was wondering, Tom Petty crosses all divides/heals all wounds/takes all cakes. 

In the Rearview:
New Yawk.  Typically, having time to kill in New York is one of my favorite things.  But in the last week I got used to the "drive six hours, play a show, wake up, do it again" daily routine.  Having a few days to stop and settle in New York was fun, but it kinda slowed my momentum.  Turns out I'm a fan of "one-show-one-state-per-day" schedules.  Turns out I love "breakneck paces." 

Holy hell--I just realized something.  Combine the "grueling pace" preference and my "meager" rations, and I know what this trip has become: the Oregon Trail.  The video game, that is.  I'm playing as myself in a real life, musical, East-coast version of the Oregon Trail.  If I shoot twelve buffalo, ford a river, and get typhoid, the circle will be complete.

Up Ahead:
Philly tonight, DC after, then on to God's country.  I've hit my northern-most point.  From here, it's all south-bound.  Which is to say, it's all downhill.

Oh so swiftly,
CM

Upalooza, Volume 6: Pushing Paint

We're coming to you live from Park Slope, Brooklyn, home of Huxtable brownstones, baby strollers, jort cutoffs a gogo, muzzled lapdogs, and enough snuggly vibes to make me wish it was December.

Alas, it's mid-July, and I'm finally planted for a few days back in New York.  And boy howdy, it feels great.  Maybe it's the awesome weather (what I call "awesome" most people call "sub-Saharan-hot").  Maybe it's the distinct, "football's not THAT far away" feeling I woke up with this morning.  Maybe it's just being back in a familiar place with ample time.  Maybe it's the insane amounts of caffeine sprinting through my veins.  Whatever--it's great to be back.

This morning I had the opportunity to go through my pictures from the road thus far, and thought I'd pass along some favorites.  If one is worth a thousand words, then this slideshow is worth at least a few hundred.  I'm not sure.  I've never been great at math.

Enjoy!  And if you have any from the road, send them my way: chris@chrismilam.com.

The Gregory Uhlmann Trio!

These fellas played after me in Chicago, and easily made my day.  Imagine you're me: you're tired, you've driven all day, you're in one of your favorite cities, you just finished a set, and you can't tell if the night's winding down or starting up.  Now three teenage jazz stars play everything from Joni Mitchell to their own gorgeous compositions.  You hear that baleful sax, the rattling drums, that smooth Telecaster, all three listening to each other more than themselves, bouncing around and reacting, filling the room, putting the perfect cap on the day, putting my whole world to bed.  Lights out, Chicago. 

Tailor-made CM bandana, courtesy of Grand Rapids!

Supernice and creative folks in Michigan. 

I stopped off right after I crossed into Canada, because I wanted to look around, greet the locals, receive my complimentary polar bear and case of LaBatt, etc. 

Instead, I found a kids' golf camp at a sleepy public course.  I know what you're thinking, and the answer is no, they weren't putting with hockey sticks.

And back into America--specifically, New York.  For what it's worth, the Canadian border officials are way scarier than their American counterparts. 

In Canada, I answered 25 questions about who I am and what I'm doing here.  In America, the guy asked what Arkansas was like and inspected my trunk for illicit Fruit Roll-Ups. 

Both ordeals ran much faster/more smoothly than I anticipated.  I have a heightened appreciation for border officials now, which is to say, "I now realize border officials exist, and appreciate them." 

But seriously, hands off the Fruit Roll-Ups.

 Sunset in Buffalo. 

I kept taking pictures like this, because so many residential areas in the city look a lot like idyllic middle-class Americana, circa 1953.  Oak-lined streets, white two-story houses, window boxes and perfectly square front lawns, little old women watering flowers, dogs barking (always one street away), etc. 

I half-expected a visit from the milkman.

You read that right, folks: Roast Beef Sundae.

My friend took me to the Taste of Buffalo food festival on Saturday, where you could sample a lot of local restaurants, walk around, enjoy the weather, and watch America inch ever-closer to its impending national coronary. 

But I'll be honest: if I gotta go, I'd rather die of a Roast Beef Sundae heart-attack than, you know, old age. 

Weird statues by Lake Erie.

And that buffalo's strange, too.  Ba-dum-CHA!

I took the scenic route through Western New York, which is to say "Google Maps directed me on some highways rather than interstates."

Supposedly this shaved 17 minutes off my trip.  In reality, it was just an excuse to drive through some really pretty country in the early morning hours, listen to the Allman Brothers, and yell "howdy, neighbor!" at people who don't know me.

At one point I stopped for gas at an Exxon and asked where the "olde pie shoppe" was.

Home again, home again! 

The view from "kinda-Jersey," crossing into midtown from Weehawken.  I was one of three people on this particular ferry, which made me feel 1) slightly guilty and 2) really awesome. 

Also, I kept imagining Lost scenarios if this ferry somehow ended up in the South Pacific.  The other two passengers didn't speak English, so I kept thinking weirdness like, "I hope he's a doctor," and "they'd better know how to fish," and, "why are they on the lam?" etc.  Meanwhile, I'm traveling with a guitar and Chuck Taylors, so I'm obviously Charlie, the drug-addled, non-contributing Artiste of this ship.  Well no, NO I'M NOT.  And I'm not going out that way.

I was happy to get off that ferry. 

Even happier to be home...for a few days, anyway.

The colors blend,
CM

P.S. SHAMELESS PLUG ALERT: I know, I know, but it's important to me.  Tomorrow's show in Brooklyn is a benefit for Nashville flood relief.  If you can make it, please do.  If you can't, tell a friend.  If you live elsewhere, consider making a donation.

Event info here.
Tickets/donations here.

Brooklyn Bowl
July 13, doors at 6PM, music soonafter
Chris Milam (I'm first), Dive Bar Dukes, and The Weight.
***ADMISSION IS FREE!  Donations are obviously encouraged and greatly appreciated.  Please come out for some music and a great cause.

Making a Scene

Ladies and gentlemen, dogs and cats, interlopers and cybermen: meet Michael.

Michael is a graduate student at Buffalo, where he studies people. Specifically, he studies migration, cities, geography, satellites, and (I believe) the history of lasers. I'm not sure. He's also the Blother (blog-author) of the Urban Complex, where he discusses how our cities work, how they don't work, how they might change to meet 21st century demands, and what lasers have to do with all of this (again, I might be making the lasers up). He's a smart fellow. In fact, he's a Fellow fellow, which I think involves a scholarship, high academic honors, and powdered wigs.

But I know Michael a different way: he was the guitarist and songwriter of my first band (we had many names, but my favorite was "Styrofoam Giraffe"). Back in high school, Michael and I formed a band and gigged around the Memphis suburbs like Hanson with buzzcuts. I would never tell him this now, except indirectly and with a modicum of ridicule, but Mike set the bar for every guitarist I've worked with since, as a musician, bandmate, and friend. I've always suffered the "artistic type" badly, because Mike's living proof that talented people don't need to be difficult people. I learned that from him early, and have carried it with me since. He's a great guy.

So, when he recently asked me to write "something" about New York and/or Nashville for the Urban Complex, I agreed. Of course, I know nothing about city development, human migration patterns, and/or lasers. I know the shortest route to ice cream wherever I am--that's the extent of my urban expertise. Still, I thought "I'm (fairly) urban and (potentially) complex. I can do this!"

And then a Mailbag question gave me my topic, like an email from the heavens (angels use Yahoo, by the way): "Hey Chris, what's the difference between a show in New York and a show somewhere else, say Nashville?"

Eureka!

Of course, the differences (and the reasons for those differences) are many and varied. But perhaps the biggest difference is also the most relevant to the Urban Complex: New York's layout affects its music scene in a unique and (I believe) positive way.

The first thing I noticed going to shows in New York (and playing my own) was how crowded all the rooms were. Every noteworthy venue was full most nights, rain or shine, early or late, seemingly regardless of the bill. Even open mics were well-attended by seemingly non-partisan crowds. This wasn't happening because New York crowds love music more than anywhere else (although they are great, active, engaged fans). Established venues in town have a built-in audience--regulars that come to have some drinks, hear music, and generally "check it out" on a nightly basis. Elsewhere (e.g., Nashville), artists have a crowd, but the room doesn't; your audience is generally whomever you bring.

There are many explanations for this, but I'll give three:

1) Population/density. The more people are in a city, the more crowded its places will be. Also, the sun is hot and puppies are cute.

2) Driving culture. This is the big one. Though New York has every mode of transportation in abundance (excepting rickshaws), it's primarily a walking culture. Rather than drive five minutes to Kroger, you walk five seconds to the bodega. Rather than drive to your favorite strip of restaurants/bars in town, you walk to your favorite block and hop around. While living in the city encourages real exploration, day-to-day life is about walking around the autonomous micro-city that is your neighborhood. Of course, you should leave your neighborhood; but (depending on where you work) you might not have to.

So, walking three minutes to your favorite restaurant/bar could double as a trip to hear some free music. If you live in the Lower East Side (and seemingly nine billion people do), you're likely a stone's throw from Rockwood, the Living Room, Mercury Lounge, Arlene's, and Pianos, to name a very few. If you live just a few blocks north, add in the Bowery, Webster Hall, Joe's Pub, Bitter End, Kenny's, and dozens more. In total, I'm talking about a 20-block radius. I personally live in the East Village (slightly further) and can easily walk to all of these venues. It's one of the reasons I picked this neighborhood--quick accessibility to a lot of music.

In other words, you don't have to "make a night" of seeing a concert at a destination across town; you can just swing by and check it out. And a ton of people do this.

Now, this isn't unique to New York--art districts in other cities make it easy for some locals to walk to venues. This typically happens only in our most populous (and most densely populated) cities, like Chicago and San Francisco. But it is different from cities like Nashville and Memphis, which have a smaller population, a sprawling city plan, and dominant driving culture. Which leads me to...

3) Really, an offshoot of #2: college-kid accessibility. Young people are obviously the lifeblood of any local music scene, specifically anyone from 16-30. In a small town without a local college, venues are geared toward high school students. In some bigger towns without a nearby college, venues target the twenty-something crowd. But for college-towns and college-heavy cities like Nashville and New York, undergrads are a huge percentage of the concert-going public. They're also the ideal audience: they're more open and independent in their tastes than high school kids, generally have disposable income, and have more free nights (and less responsibilities) than the post-grad crowd. Hence, collegians are vital to the activity and success of their local music scene.

But Nashville's music venues aren't readily available to its many colleges (Vanderbilt, Belmont, Lipscomb, Fisk, TSU, and MTSU in Murfreesboro). Sure, fans go to concerts in town--Nashville's a great city for music and the fans there are active. But, again, the issue is accessibility. If I went to NYU, I could walk to the Bitter End in the same time that a trip to the library took at Vanderbilt. What's more, Nashville's venues are staunchly 21+, whereas NYC rooms seem slightly--cough, cough--more lax. They know their location, and they know their audience.

So, while both cities have amazing fans, it's simply easier for those fans to find music in New York. That's been the greatest difference for me, gigging as a nascent artist in the city: the crowd's not just who I bring. Anyone can impulsively decide to walk five minutes, drop by the right open mic at the right room at the right time, play two songs, and potentially walk away with forty new fans. It's endlessly fun and rewarding from the artist's perspective.

Still, I'd sell a leg right now for a week on I-40 with Ruby.

So, you know, pros and cons.

But what do you think? Is this changing as more cities become less driving-dominant? Is your city developing more autonomous walking neighborhoods (Nashville, for example, has experimented with this over the last decade with mixed results)? Is your favorite venue in town within walking distance? And, if it is, would you actually walk there?

Hit up the Urban Complex and be sure to leave some comments, love, and/or lasers.

(And big props to Mike. Stay tuned for the Styrofoam Giraffe reunion tour.)

January Mailbag

What do coffee beans, Wes Anderson, meta-blogging, scarves, and "sad bastard music" have in common? January's Mailbag!

Turns out all of you had plenty on your mind this month. So, as we reach winter's halfway point, I figured now's as good a time as ever to take some spring cleaning to Ye Ole Mailbag.

Let's get after these issues and more in the January's Mailbag.

(As always, these are questions from actual readers. If you'd like to send one in, just drop me a line! chris@chrismilam.com)

Hey Chris, you travel a bit. What are some of your favorite spots across the country? --Mark, Brooklyn
Great question. The good news is that I do get to travel to a lot of places. The bad news is that I usually don't get to spend much time in those places. So, while I'm there, I usually stay close to "home" and don't get as experimental as I'd like. If you ask me my favorite coffee houses, diners, and music venues, that's easy. If you want to know what Texas town has the rowdiest rodeo, or where to find great laser tag in the Midwest, I'm woefully unprepared.

So...

Favorite Coffee Shops/Cafes
Mudspot, New York
It's very near my place, it's cozy, the coffee's excellent, it's quiet enough during the week that you can read/work, it's loud enough (with their music playing and typical clientele) that you can socialize and not worry about people hearing your conversation. The real tipping point, however, is the music. They've seemingly hacked into my iTunes. Last time I went, I was there for 2 hours, and heard the entirety of Help, Rubber Soul, and Exile On Main Street. In terms of playing what I like/want to hear, they're batting an impossible 0.979 average. They've officially surpassed the previous mark held by the Greenhouse in Nashville, which played My Morning Jacket's Z and Pearl Jam's Yield back-to-back the first time I was there. Props to Greenhouse for picking slightly more obscure/rewarding albums; points deducted because both have one decidedly "awkward-to-hear-in-a-bar" song ("Into the Woods" and "Push Me/Pull Me").

Novel Cafe, Los Angeles
The whole Larchmont strip gets a nod here, but my single favorite spot in LA is the Novel Cafe. Just a great place to kill five hours--low-key, great menu, good people-watching, excellent service. If you're in no rush, they're in no rush. Very fond memories here from my last trip to LA.

Uncommon Ground, Chicago
UG also doubles as one of Chicago's coolest music venues, and one I hope to revisit soon. It's one of those places that just keeps going--room after room of local art, intimate tables, great service. Last time I was there, I had to park nearly a mile away and fought the Chicago winter winds all the way to the front door, hauling a guitar and box of merchandise. I kid you not: three waitresses immediately grabbed me, seated me by a fire, brought me multiple hot beverages, and offered me (somehow) extra scarves. It's one of the warmest places on earth.

Greyfriar's, Chattanooga
Centrally-located, good coffee, a mixed and decidedly weird crowd, and laissez-faire service. Sometimes, that's all you need in the Noog.

Best Steak
Mastro's, LA. My friend Jay ordered everything like he'd been a million times. I said, "you're not even looking at a menu, you've never been here before...what gives?" He just shook his head and plowed through a seafood tower. Later, in his car, I found a Frommers guide to Los Angeles under the passenger seat. I flipped to Mastro's entry, curious to see what Frommer had to say about the meal I'd just enjoyed. Turns out Frommer recommends literally every item Jay ordered. In other words, he ordered exclusively off the Frommers guide.

Also, the steak's awesome.

Best Mexican
El Palenque, Nashville. I can't vouch for anything on the menu except their chicken mole, because that's all I order, all I will order, and all I ever dream about.

Best BBQ
Central BBQ, Memphis. It really depends on what item you're craving, but if you told me I could only have one type of BBQ in the world right now, I'd get a full rack of wet ribs from Central and not think twice. Ask me again in an hour, though--I'm fickle.

Best Wings
DBo's, Memphis (the original on Kirby). Runner-up: Wing Stop in Ft. Payne, Alabama. Wing Stop is semi-franchised, but the Ft. Payne location is special: their cajun wings are totally different than the ones I've found elsewhere. Also, they're endorsed by Troy Aikman.

Miscelleni
Irish Pubs: I can't narrow this down, but I will say that an Irish pub owned and operated by actual Irish people is automatically 3000% better. In my experience, these are easier to find in NYC, Chicago, and (oddly) small towns in the South.

Happy Hour: Again, this is impossible to pick. Quick tangent: the best places to have a cheap drink with a friend are always--always, always--college towns in cold climates. I don't say this because I'm a college kid, or because I'm spending happy hour with college kids. I say this as an outside observer: there is no place on earth that sells cheaper beverages than a college bar in a quiet and primarily cold locale. Arizona State, Florida, and other warm-weather huge colleges top the "Party School" rankings every year, but from what I've seen, nobody is "partying" harder than a kid at, say, Virginia Tech. Why? Because February's brutal in Blacksburg, and you can buy a cask of moonshine for ten cents and a ball of yarn.

These are the things I feel you need to know.

(What am I missing? What are some of your favorite spots across the country? Hit up the comments and let me know!)

Hi Chris! Which is your absolute favourite movie, ever? --Helena, Sweden
Awesome question, and bonus points for the European spelling of "favorite." I've always preferred that spelling. In honor of Helena, Sweden, and worldly phonics, I'm using alternate spellings for words like "favourite" and "colour" for the duration of this answer.

I'll break this question down into sub-categories, then give a gun-to-my-head answer for all-time favourite.

Category 1: Best Movies I've Ever Seen
These are movies I love, own, watch often, recognize their influence, and admire greatly. For whatever reason, they don't resonate as deeply as another movie of their genre might.

Sometimes there's a gap between the "best" thing and your favourite thing: Michael Jordan was the best basketball player, but Magic Johnson was always my favourite; Sgt. Pepper or Revolver are likely the "better" Beatles records, but my favourite is Help. And so on...

The three best movies I've ever seen, in no particular order:
The Godfather
The Godfather II
Casablanca

These are also on the short list for all-time favourite. For the AFI snobs out there, I've never seen Citizen Kane, and have maybe seen 40 of the "Top 100." I do, however, OWN a copy of Baywatch: Hawaiian Wedding.

Favorite Dramas Since 1990:
American Beauty
Tombstone
Quiz Show
Pulp Fiction
Fargo
Good Will Hunting
The Dark Knight
The Departed
The Usual Suspects

Favorite Comedies (or, "Non-Dramas" if that's easier) Since 1990:
High Fidelity
Rushmore
Royal Tenenbaums
Love Actually
Almost Famous
Oceans 11 (remake)
Jerry Maguire
Swingers
***Anchorman (my favorite of the silly comedies like Old School, Superbad, etc.)

Favorite Dramas Pre-1990:
The Godfather
The Godfather II
Casablanca
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
Cool Hand Luke

Favorite Comedies (or, "Non-Dramas" if that's easier) Pre-1990:
The Apartment
The Graduate

Now, I'm 99% certain I have some unforgivable omissions. Still, glancing at my library, and off the top of my head, that's the list of semi-finalists. Now, the Finalists!

Finalists
The Graduate
High Fidelity
Royal Tenenbaums
American Beauty
Casablanca
The Apartment

Unsurprisingly, my favourites lean toward the less dramatic movies, and those with (relatively) happy endings. These are also the movies I find myself re-watching the most. I always find a new favourite line, a new favourite moment (now I'm just piling on the "favourites"), or identify with a new character in unexpected ways. They continue to surprise me, amaze me, and deeply resonate, no matter how many times I've seen them.

But there can only winner.

So, my gun-t0-the-head pick for All-Time Favourite is the same after heavy deliberation as it was when I first read the question:

The Pick:
Royal Tenenbaums

Everything--from its conception, writing, acting, directing, and execution--is so effortlessly brilliant that, ten years later, I still can't quite believe how good it is. In its easy perfection I can only compare it to a modern-day Shakespeare comedy. For me, it's operating at that level. Almost every moment is inspired, heartening, and vital. It's been hugely influential in terms of its directorial style and comic voice. It's always engaging, fresh, immediate, and occasionally breath-taking. I've written many times about Royal Tenenbaums, so I'll leave it at this: it's the closest thing to a perfect movie I've ever seen, and no movie resonates more with me personally.

(What's your all-time favourite movie? Or, "favorite," if you prefer.)

Chris, I'm about to flip the script on you! I'm about to give you a dose of your own medicine! You ready??? "You are going out tonight. You are going out to do whatever it is you would like to do for a fun night of festivity and frivolity. This can include anything from vandalizing mailboxes to playing lacrosse to finishing a jigsaw puzzle. You get to assemble your posse for the night. You can pick ANY FOUR MEN OR ANY FOUR WOMEN on the planet, friends, celebrities, athletes, etc. Who is in your entourage and why?" One of your own Fan of the Month questions turned against you! Boom! How does it feel?!? --Jason, Atlanta
I have tasted my own medicine, and it is bitter. Bitter indeed. Well-played, Jason.

In fact, I've gotten a few emails to this affect, asking me the same questions I ask each Fan of the Month. I picked Jason's, however, because it's my personal favorite.

Many Fan of the Month fans have selected friends, spouses, and family members. I understand their reasoning: they're nice people, they appreciate their loved ones, and want to have fun with the people they know best. On paper, this makes sense. On paper, I totally agree.

On paper, though, you wouldn't have the option of hanging out with Pele, or Queen Elizabeth, or Carrot Top. And that's why I'm not picking anyone I know for my posse: I can do that anyway. I can hang out with my family or friends in real life. Why would I do this in a fantasy-world answer?

This is me, taking the people I love the most totally for granted for the purposes of a ridiculous question.

A few ground rules for the selection:
1) I'm not picking any women for the posse. Here's why: if there are three guys and one girl at a table, what happens? Those three guys talk to that one girl. She's the topic of conversation, and she's the center of attention; she is, essentially, the party. This happens every time; it's normal behavior, and is frequently fun. But the goal here is to have the best possible time, right? So why not pick four guys that will attract all kinds of people (women, men, celebrities, athletes, politicians, despots, etc.) to us. It's an issue of keeping the focus outward rather than inward.

2) No other musicians of my general age and type. Again, the goal is to bring people into our party. I want to have limitless options; if I know what I bring to the table, why double up? Also, who likes hanging out with twenty-something musicians? Not me--they're the worst.

3) Again, diversity is key. If you pick three older famous actors, and one of them is George Clooney, you're signing up for trouble. Previously towering egos will be bruised as Clooney out-Clooneys them all night, and you'll end up with a sad posse and drowned sorrows.

4) Chemistry is key. You want different types of guys in the posse, but you also need to keep in mind how they would fictitiously get along. I bet Bill Russell is cool, and I bet Prince Harry is cool, but I doubt they'd have much to say to each other. These things matter.

5) Finally, "crazy" is fine, but "insane" is not. We want to have the best possible time; this means outlandish, unconventional behavior can be appropriate. Crimes against humanity, jail sentences, and life-altering trauma are buzzkills. If you can't bet your own life on this person's behavior, don't pick him. In other words, Lamar Odom is fine; Ron Artest is not.

(Also, can you tell by now that my posse's going to Vegas?)

With that in mind, here's my 4 (in no particular order):
1) Chad OchoCinco. For 8 million reasons, but here are a few:
a) If Twitter is any indication (and he's on it 24/7, so it would have to be), he never stops having fun. Ever.
b) If there was a Nobel prize for "talking trash," he would win it every year, then demand its name be changed to OchoCinco.
c) He brings the sports-world into our party (athlete friends, fans, etc.)
d) He never drinks, so we can travel safely.
e) He's hilarious.

2) John Slattery. Better known as "Roger Sterling" in Mad Men, I'm really basing this pick off the reputations of his characters (middle-aged booze-hounds and womanizers), and his episode commentaries with Jon Hamm, in which they're off-the-cuff, smart, incisively funny, and (possibly) drunk. He's automatically the posse's elder statesman, its unspoken leader, its most experienced member, and maybe its biggest cad. In my mind, he brings "Clooney-things" to the table without any of the Clooney-fuss.

3) Andre 3000. Because he's the coolest human alive today, period. I do worry that he's a bit of an X-factor (he might disappear an hour into the night, only to resurface in Norway), but whatever. He's Andre 3000. If he's in the room, there is no ceiling.

4) Jimmy Kimmel. Hear me out. I rarely watch Kimmel's show, and I can't call myself a Kimmel super-fan. But every great posse needs a mediator: someone who blends personalities, keeps everyone together, keeps conversation flowing, facilitates jokes, is up for anything, never takes things off the table, brings some things to the table, is funny but not showy, is likable but not "the star," and (above all) relishes that role. That, combined with Kimmel's reputation as one of Hollywood's nicest--and, subsequently, most popular and well-connected--stars makes him a natural choice. He is, essentially, the host of the evening.

What we're lacking: muscle. We don't have the obligatory "guy who can take absolutely anyone in a fight in case there's trouble." Hopefully, we don't run into the cast of Jersey Shore.

Almost made the cut: Will Ferrell, Aziz Ansari, Rece Davis, Charles Barkley, Jon Hamm, Bill Simmons, Bill Clinton, Brad Pitt, Paul Rudd, Shaq, Alton from the Real World Las Vegas.

And, finally...

You posted Songs for February last year and said that you were ending with Songs for January this year. I call shenanigans--you can't quit the playlist! Give us at least a few NEW Songs for February this year, please. --Michelle, Austin
Deal.

In lieu of a full-fledged Monthly Playlist, here are ten good songs for February 2010, the darkest, deepest, dreariest 28 days of the year:

Wilco, "Sunken Treasure"
Every moment of this song feels weighed down by some intangible, immovable force. It's not the sound of someone giving up; it's the sound that comes next.

Bruce Springsteen, "Streets of Philadelphia"
Philadelphia connection aside, this is truly one of Bruce's best songs. Of all The Boss's songs that grapple with desperation, loneliness, heartache, and "night-time-wanderings," this one resonates the most with me.

Elliot Smith, "Everything Means Nothing To Me" By itself, one of Smith's prettiest melodies and most honest lyrics. Heard alongside "Everything Reminds Me of Her," it's heart-breaking.

Bob Dylan, "Make You Feel My Love"
The closest Old Bob gets to crooning. Some of Dylan's finest songs come from a place of ill-fated determination. Like in "Can You Please Crawl Out Your Window," "Lay, Lady, Lay," "Honey, Just Allow Me One More Chance," "Don't Think Twice, It's Alright," and so many others, you can hear a broken heart underneath the bravado.

R.E.M., "Tongue"
One of the weirdest on an album full of bizarre love-songs (Monster), it's also sweet, winning, gorgeous, and a sliver of sunlight in the grayest month.

Josh Ritter, "Best For the Best"
A remarkable, tight little lyric, but most fitting for its calm exterior hiding a well of bitterness. Noticing a trend?

Uncle Tupelo, "Black Eye"
Jeff Tweedy makes his second appearance as Uncle Tupelo's finger-picked ballad just feels like winter. Something about that dark, spare guitar tone feels inherently wintry to me.

Lucero, "Fistful of Tears"
Reverb-soaked keyboards can sound like February, too. Arguably their most bathetic song (and never a favorite of mine), it's still gorgeous, and season-appropriate.

Foo Fighters, "February Stars"
What's more amazing: this song itself, or the fact that I left it off last year's list?

The Killers, "Goodnight, Travel Well"
I remember reading a Radiohead interview where one of the members said he wished they could've re-done "Climbing Up the Walls." He felt, of everything on OK Computer, it was the one moment where they took the song to an extreme; they "over-did it." If "Climbing Up the Walls" overdoes "dark, scary, haunting, atmospheric tidal waves," then "Goodnight, Travel Well" re-defines "it." A powerful, frightening, and desperate monster of a song that you don't want to revisit. Just like February.

And there you have it! At least a Songs for February snack to enjoy. What are your Songs for February?

Until next time, Mailbaggers!

Goodnight, and travel well.
CM

LA Diary, Part 4 (Up In the Air)

Friday, Jan 15, 3:25PM
I’m on Larchmont street, which is kind of like Hillsboro Village in Nashville, if Hillsboro Village only had franchised coffee shops, and all of them were next door to each other. It might be the caffeine capital of the world. It might be the best.

No, it’s definitely the best, because I just saw The Red-Headed-Woman-From-Old School-ER. I want to ask her if she keeps up with Omar Epps. I want to tell her that I never watched the show after they killed his character. I want to tell her a great many things, but type this sentence instead.

Friday, Jan 15, 3:58PM
While playing guitar and singing in my friend’s apartment, I hear a strange noise. I stop playing and listen. I think I hear singing and faint drumming (like someone banging on a kitchen counter) somewhere below me, but I can’t be sure. Maybe it's someone next door watching Behind the Music.

Friday, Jan 15, 5:59PM
I’m due at the Hotel Cafe by 6:30, and I’m leaving from an apartment one mile from the venue. In theory, thirty-one minutes is enough time to travel one mile. In theory.

In actuality, I witness the type of traffic jam that can only be described as “foreign,” the kind of hardly-controlled chaos you see on the Travel Channel when the host visits Egypt. It’s enough to make a man crazy. It’s enough to make anyone forsake driving. It’s enough to make my gracious pilot swear like a longshoreman. Thankfully, it’s not enough to make me late.

The Hotel Cafe is a venue that has become nationally renowned in the past several years, due to the breakthrough of so many LA-based singer/songwriters (Cary Brothers, Joshua Radin, Sara Bareilles, etc.). At first, it was the venue of choice because it’s an extremely well-run and artist-friendly venue with amazing sound and a great, intimate vibe. Soon after, the Hotel Cafe started booking its own nationwide tours featuring its most prominent regulars, putting out compilations, and becoming a star in its own right.

With good reason.

The space is remarkable: low lighting, reds and browns, oak and brass, open sightlines. It's big enough to host a real party, but built for natural intimacy. It’s also achieved the highest status that any mid-sized venue can attain: it’s such a great environment, and has such a proven track record of talent booking, people just come regardless of who’s playing each night. There’s always a crowd.

These are my favorite places to play.

I’m on in one hour.

Friday, Jan 15, 8:52PM
To call the sound in this room “great” is to call Usain Bolt “quick.” It's no coincidence that my favorite venues are the venues with best sound; there is no overstating how much this matters to a performer onstage. Lots of venues can swing decent sound in the main room, but can't replicate it onstage. Blame it on bad acoustics, inexperienced sound guys, worse equipment, or anything else. But when the sound guy gets it, and the room has wonderful natural acoustics, an artist never wants to leave.

I never want to leave.

Eventually, I will. I did stop playing when I was supposed to. Although there was a point where I wondered what would happen if I refused to stop playing. Do they have security? Could I take them? Would the audience appreciate a singer/songwriter who finishes his set with an acoustic version of “Stairway to Heaven,” and a barfight?

But I’m not leaving just yet. I’m not leaving yet because Steve Reynolds is playing something that can best be described as “indescribably Celtic,” and “wholly gorgeous,” as his accompanying guitarist makes noises that come from somewhere and someplace far away. And now a bearded, hooded guy from the crowd jumps onstage and joins him on the next chorus, singing high harmony on a vocal mic that (of course) was ready for him, and now I’m thinking, “my God, that guy’s got some vocal power on some really high notes,” and now I’m realizing, “that’s Cary Brothers,” and now I’m not going anywhere, ever.

Friday, Jan 15, 10:17PM
I think I just signed a development deal with a German label. You're reading the new Hasselhoff.

Friday, January 15, 11:44PM
Riding bitch in a new best friend’s sedan, crammed in the back like high schoolers, Kelly Clarkson on blast. Sometime, someday, in the very near future, the jetlag and time difference and adrenaline and caffeine will all add up and I’ll collapse. My muscles will relax as if on tranquilizers, my eyes will lower like lead curtains, and I’ll dream for hours. I'll rest, eventually.

But not yet. Every time of night feels young. There are new best friends to see, and music to blast. I’ve got plenty in the tank, and one more night.

Saturday, January 16, 8:27AM
If someone came into this room right now and demanded I swim five miles, or fight a tiger, or talk to Tom Brokaw, I think I could do it. I’ve had no coffee, and I’m wired. Is this what it’s like to be well-rested?

If so, I might move to LA.

I hear someone’s TV downstairs. I hear cars on North Rossmore like wave after wave. The city is moving, but slowly. Dogs abound. Strollers meet sidewalk. And I want to play another concert, right now, for anyone.

Saturday, January 16, 12:01PM
I keep seeing places I recognize from The Hills. I don’t know whether I should love this fact, or be ashamed of myself. In the spirit of compromise, I announce to the car every Hills-noteworthy sight I recognize, and explain with a zealot’s fervor why Laguna Beach was one of my favorite television series of all-time, and why I’ll always have residual love for its offspring.

Look, Milk!

For such a granola town, there sure are a lot of chicken-n-waffles and mac-and-cheese options around here. Even LA-ers love their comfort food. Everyone needs a hug.

Saturday, January 16, 1:08PM
Two older gentlemen downstairs ask me if I was the one singing yesterday. I say, "yes sir, did I disturb you?" "Oh no, we were playing along!"

So that was the Behind the Music at 3:58 yesterday: my new band of kitchenette-drumming Hungarians.

Rock!

Saturday, January 16, 2:14PM
I’m at the Arclight, about to see Up In the Air with a friend. Arclight, for those of you unaware (like me, four minutes ago) is like a movie theater on steroids. It’s not so much a fancy version of a normal movie theater; it’s like if Steven Spielberg made his home theater bigger, and open to the public. It almost feels like a cathedral to cinema, if cathedrals were shiny and sold gourmet popcorn. The staff here has all the warmth, hustle, and shared knowledge of museum employees. There are fourteen theaters, all huge, immaculate, sparsely populated, and filled with uberplush, royal blue reclining chairs. I’ve never seen armrests this big.

Of course, Hollywood’s a movie town. It stands to reason that they take their movie-going experience seriously. Nashville pays similar respect to its country music venues except those preserve history rather than honor modernity (replace "uberplush reclining chairs" with "prehistoric wooden benches").

Anyway, I'm excited. I can’t remember the last time I saw a movie in the theaters. When did Nell come out?

Saturday, Jan 16, 5:09PM
Up In the Air is somewhere between “really solid” and “completely awesome.” After one viewing, I’ll call it “borderline great.”

As my Brother mentioned, it’s slightly weird that this might win Best Picture, but Wonderboys was a relative afterthought upon its release. They occupy a similar stylistic space, explore some similar themes, and have a comparable scope.

The lesson, as always: Clooney’s still Clooney. And you’re not.

Of course, what’s really to be learned from Up In the Air is that I’m a woefully inefficient traveler. Pros pack with joyless, military precision. My suitcase looks like someone once packed it well, stuck a badger inside, and let it fight its way out.

And I always, ALWAYS forget my toothbrush. Nobody has bought more toothbrushes than I have.

Saturday, Jan 16, 8:11PM
I’m sitting at the gate at LAX. It's dark, and everything is quiet. Nothing is on TV, there is no musak. Everyone’s anticipating a dim, long flight against the earth’s pull, back to the right coast. Everyone looks asleep with their eyes open.

Then, they're jolted back to reality:

A crowd of recently landed travelers come down the concourse, and suddenly a yell comes from security. “Stop!” Three security officials immediately instruct the coming crowd to stop moving. One person literally scratches their nose and is reprimanded: “Stop moving.” Everyone stays still, frozen in confused horror. I have no idea what’s happening, but for some reason grip my guitar case like a weapon. Just as quickly, the same voice booms from the security checkpoint: “Okay!” Everyone moves again. People finish their sentence. A little dog barks from inside its carrying case. Something--and nothing--never happened.

This reminds me: they’re incredibly thorough at LAX. Nobody thought twice about the contents of my guitar case in JFK, but Rose’s body bag got the full cavity search here. The woman even asked why I had a 9-volt battery.

“Because the guitar is electric-acoustic.”

“Why do you have three of them, then?”

“Because batteries die, and when they do, I love to replace them. I’m cruelly unsentimental about my batteries’ deaths.”

“Where are you going tonight?”

“On a plane. And that plane is going to New York.”

“And is New York home?”


I think about this question: Memphis has always been home. Sometimes Blacksburg, Virginia--the place I was born--feels like home. When I visit relatives in West Virginia, or North Carolina, or anywhere, I typically feel at home. New York is where I live, and what I love.

And then I realize that she’s not asking existentially; she’s asking because I could be taking the red-eye to New York for nefarious purposes, my undies chock full of bombs, my gig bag loaded with wildly explosive 9-volt batteries.

“New York is home.”

She zips up the gig bag. “You’re free to go.”

And then I realize: I’m headed home.

Saturday, Jan 16, Suspended In Time PM
The red-eye back to New York. I’m back in seat 22, which (again) is somehow positioned near the front of the plane. Now I’m couched between two American girls, rather than anchoring two Swolish girls. One of them smells like she went out with Lucille 3 last night. The other can best be described as “hippie chic.”

There’s a 34% chance as I type this that either of them could see it.

As a matter of fact, this whole plane smells like hippie. Which, I think, means “Bermuda grass, Indian food, and sadness.” Everyone's eyes are glossed over. Even the flight attendant mails in her pre-flight performance with a Deion-Sanders-playing-for-the-Redskins level of indifference.

It’s Saturday night, people! It’s the red eye from LA to NYC! There have to be at least three semi-famous people in first class! Maybe even the Red-Headed-Woman-From-Old-School-ER! Maybe she's splitting a split of bubbly with Omar Epps! We should be celebrating. We should be dancing in the aisles.

Somewhere behind me, a man snores.

This plane feels less like an airborne club and more like a DMV.

Sunday, Jan 17, Suspended In Time AM
The wireless on this plane is busted. The televisions on this plane are busted. There is so little to do that the woman across the aisle has taken up origami. She’s making what is either a flower, or a crown, or the biggest pick-a-color-pick-a-number game of all time. If it’s the third option, I want to sit next to her. I want to play that game. Anything is better than sleep.

I listen to the BS Report. I listen to Memphis Sports Live ("like it or not, the most influential sports talk radio show in Memphis"). I listen to the Thrills, hoping to hear some sun. It's either 10PM or 4AM, or anywhere in between. It's been night forever. The Thrills sing about Santa Cruz, and I'm somewhere over Ohio. I turn off the music and hear the recycled air hissing. In my mind, it's June; in my most recent memories, I'm in an endlessly bright place. But here and now, I'm flying over the night, and over the winter, and I can't get warm.

Sunday, Jan 17, 6:01AM
Back in the back of a big yellow taxi, heading home to the East Village. The sun hasn't peeked out on the horizon yet, but the sky's shifted to a navy blue. It's warm enough outside (38 degrees) that the driver has his window cracked. It feels sub-zero to me.

Just over a year ago, I was in a cab at sunrise. I was heading to JFK, back to Nashville. I knew I was moving from Nashville, and was deciding between New York or Los Angeles. I had just spent a weekend in New York, playing a record release party, seeing old friends, falling in love with a new place, and feeling homesick for a place I couldn't point to. The car wound its way through its desolate path to the airport, the sun broke the sky wide open, and I realized that New York wasn't a scary place at all, that it was a place I needed to see again, and soon. Several months later, I moved here.

Now, coming home from JFK at sunrise, after playing a record release party in a different city. I spent three days seeing old friends, loving a new place, living this snapshot of a life I very nearly chose, and feeling homesick for a place I can point to, like the red dot on the Delta "flight-tracker" monitor. Like the little circle in lower Manhattan on the cab's backseat screen, a tiny fixed place I'm always moving toward, however slowly. I've spent all night racing forward in time, against the earth's rotation. Half a world away, the sun and moon raced, chasing to meet me in some unknown tomorrow. And now I'm minutes from my little red dot, and the time has flown without me knowing. It is tomorrow. The earth still moves, despite me, and I'm finally tired.

The sun isn't up yet, but the sky's ready.

Brooklyn, Take Me In

Subtitle: Haunted and Hogtied by the Avetts

I've gotten some questions about the avalanche of good music released recently (from Green Day, Pearl Jam, Monsters of Folk, now Lucero, etc.). Don't worry: I'll cover them all very shortly (Mailbag teaser!). Suffice it to say that sometimes--through time, effort, hunger, drive, and opportunity--you find good music.

Sometimes, the good music finds you.

Such was the case with "I And Love And You," the title-track to the new Avett Brothers record. I'd long heard good things about the Avett's but hadn't ever heard anything by the Avett's; through a lapse of judgment or sheer stubborn laziness I never pursued them myself. When I heard their major label debut would be produced by Rick "I Should Be Knighted By Now, Or Something" Rubin, my ears perked up. When I heard a snippet of a sleeper track in my friend's living room, I noted the production and hustled home to pack. The Avett Brothers were setting me up--jab, jab, jab--for the knockout right cross and I, as usual, was oblivious.

Three days later, I sat in my family's living room, having just left Nashville and about to fly to New York. I turned on Letterman because I always watch Letterman when I'm in Arkansas. Back home, I watch my TiVo-ed programs around talk-show time, but I have no TiVo-ed programs in Arkansas. So I watch Letterman happily and wonder why I don't do this every night in every city.

Suddenly, there were the Avett Brothers, here to perform "I And Love And You" off I And Love And You. For a guy on the eve of his to New York, hours removed from a long and heady drive from Nashville, it was like Letterman was broadcast from inside my unconscious. I really wondered if I was dreaming.

I can now safely recommend the entire album, which is consistently solid, always listenable, and periodically great. But "I And Love And You" is a remarkable song that chased me down, grabbed my heels, tripped me up, and swallowed me whole.

Sometimes the music finds you. I never stood a chance.

The Avett Brothers, "I And Love And You"


So what music have you found this fall? And what music has found you?

Tell the ones who need to know,
CM