Today, I got an e-mail from Claymores drummer Sean O'keefe. Sean had been shopping at "Cheapo's" music here in Austin when he came across the album stuck in a bin; more than likely behind an old Clay Walker record. I suppose he waxed nostalgic and listened to the tunes. He picked "Short Ride" to send me. It's funny...I could not even remember the melody when I saw the song title in his e-mail. So I gave it a listen...

It's funny how musicians can never see the forest for the trees. That is why having a dependable, dedicated opinion while you are rising to rock stardom is critical. I never did see the intricacies in this particular tune. Upon my re-listen, I found it engaging as hell. If I had to do it over, I would definitely figure out how to get more punch out of the chorus. It seems a bit dead there to me. Perhaps it was our vocal harmony that killed it. Still, the rest of the tune holds its own.

Going back and listening to stuff I did in my twenties is a great exercise. Sure, the recording possibilities were limited. I could do everything on the Claymores album on my laptop now. I could tweak the vocals so they are in perfect pitch. I could probably even get that punch I mention above. But its good to know that I can do that now and will listen for opportunities to use these tools if I am ever in the middle of a song that is 85% perfect...like "Short Ride"!

Please go to the Songs page and download Short Ride and let me know what you think!

I have been sulking for days. I've been lost. Is this all there is? I am blessed in so many ways. But I've been empty lately. Desparate to fill a void that has grown larger and larger over the last few years, I have reached for anything and everything. Project after project gets started and never gets finished. I've tried to fill the void with fear, worry, hatred and anger. I've tried to fill the void with food, alchohol, smoke and football games. Yet it remains empty.

But today...today, something happened. I was in a meeting room decorated with gray walls and half-assed, utterly predictable jokes. I could actually feel hope fading away from me as I began to grow physically cold. I returned to my desk dejected and lifeless. What else could I do? Headphones. Mathew Sweet. "Come to Love". It's not one of my all-time-favorites by any stretch of the imagination. But there it was. And for some reason, I heard the lyrics for the first time.



I started crying. Matt, you bastard. I honestly believe God put this song at the top of my playlist. Unbelieveable. The change was so drastic, I can't hardly even sit here. I am coming out of my skin.  It's only been 30 minutes but I can't remember what I felt like before this inspiration overtook my soul. Call it what you will...I call it a damned miracle. Music has never let me down. It's what I'm good at. It's life itself. It's bigger than life. It's love. I will not let this fire go out. 

It's been a long time since I took two weeks off from work (not counting lay-offs or company implosions). It's also been a long time since I've been in the mountains. Well, I'm loadin' up the family in a damned rented mini-van and heading up to our family cabin next week. I'm takin' the baby-Taylor, my Macbook, spare hard drive and a condenser mic. We'll see. My goal is to come back with an album's worth of tunes. I have six or seven now (some of them are posted up here) that have never been tracked. When I'm ready, I'll call up the boys and go into the Compound. I'd put in a link, but I can't find their damed Website. Anyhow...The Compound is actually a studio in my neighbor Ken Tondre's house. Ken plays skins for Kevin Fowler.I figger making contacts over there couldn't hurt. Hell...I get frustrated walking by, hearing  drums inside and wondering who the hell is in there? What golden moments are goin' on? Fowler's daughter is also in my son's 1st grade class. Hell, you'd think I should know the guy by now. But...he's a busy man. Someday, I'd like to go shoot pigs with him.

Anyway, I've got to get re-inspired and I think this trip is gonna help. I really do.

Sometimes, a man just needs to look himself in the mirror and convince himself that he likes what he sees. I always had a problem with "Yows" for some reason. I mean, hell...it doesn't exactly roll off the tongue. All my life I have had to spell the damned thing for every bank teller, nurse at the doctor's office, teacher and coach who has uttered the words that make my skin boil: "Yost? er...Y, y Yo[ow!]s?" Even in college, my fraternity fucked up my name in the chapter directory when I was a pledge...so I'm still known as "Yeowns" to many. Dammit.

But...God gave me a name and I reckon he wants me to use it. Also, I figure that most folks that know me from way back might recognize it and take up passin' the word. Anyhow...that's my name, don't wear it out.