Just before I get the pure bliss of seeing springtime in North America bloom in a blur through the bus windows, singin for you all with Andrew McMahon, Allen Stone and Bob Oxblood, I have one of many beginnings from my new record to share with you. It's a song that, like much of the record...
At the tail end of what would’ve been merely my latest lengthy bout of glorified homelessness, chasing someone else’s song around the world and writing as I often do from an airplane in flight, a woman who seemed to have been drunk for days decided to ask if I was going home, and I decided that I didn’t know.
This morning in Iowa I awoke to a box full of records falling to the floor with a thud as my summer home turned a corner made for more nimble vessels. Sound seems to shake me from various states of sleep no matter the position of the sun or the aperture of my eyelids, these days.
Today I am a strange spiral, sitting in a Phoenix hotel lobby sipping strong coffee and staring off into space. With my Silver Lake square on Sunset suddenly stripped of all the trappings of home and my brown baby grand, keeper of so many secrets and stirrer of so many spirits, on its way to its next adventure, I find myself spinning, gathering speed, ready to slingshot into a future beyond speculation.